The trouble with fan mail

Since writing my thought provoking article, “The trouble with Bermuda”, TTB has been inundated with responses. Yes, dear readers, TTB is happy to announce that people do in fact still think. And some of them don’t care much for the thoughts of TTB ! So in the interest of absolute impartiality I have chronicled some of the responses I have received and have endeavoured to answer them sincerely. (Hence the “yours sincerely” at the end of my letters!)I thought that I would start off with some fan mail:

Dear Turquoise Bag

I was so excited to read your “Bermuda triangle” theory! I have been searching for a way to explain this interesting phenomenon where a man floats into a woman’s life, starts a friendship, sends off some mixed signals and then leaves her for a hot girl in a pink bikini. And this is it! I have advised all of my friends to read your article and to make sure any “Bermudas” (that’s what we have started calling such useless, flaky men) are voted off the island. Please keep writing your nuggets of gold.

Kind regards
Your number 1 Fan

Dear Number 1 Fan

Thank you for your fan mail. It was lovely to in fact get some fan mail and not a pink slip costing me 300 Raant. Keep up the good work in improving your “Bermuradar”. (A Bermuradar is just what I call the ability to detect men you so aptly call, “Bermudas”. Kind of reminds me of Barracudas. But I digress…) I really do appreciate the excellent PR work you are doing for my blog!

Yours sincerely
The Turquoise Bag

You might be thinking what the trouble is with getting fan mail? Well, there isn’t any trouble! Nope, there really isn’t anything wrong with getting fan mail! It’s fantastic! However, hate mail is not quite as much fun so next we’re hitting the good, the bad and the ugly. And I think it’s always better to get ugly over and done with. (The Ugly Duckling proved this a good theory.) Please have a peek at my next blog entry.

The trouble with horses, graves and town planning

Awhile ago The Turqoise Bag told us of her homelessness. She is happy to announce that she has moved to the leafy suburb of Kenilworth. Yes, Kenilworth. TTB had many reservations about this move. For a start what bag would want to move to a street called “Wargrave”. South Africa has a major crime problem and that really is tempting fate, wouldn’t you say? She also felt that a suburb that sounds like it was named after a “kennel”, was probably also a bit dodgy. However, in a wave of thankfulness (and well, yes, destitution) she moved in with two other, lovely handbags and found herself in Kenilworth.

Upon her move, the first thing she noticed was that the roads were, well, a tad on the narrow side. So driving up and down the various “alleys” in Kenilworth resulted in more of a weave than an actual drive. (You know, in a straight line without any cars parked in the way of your automobile) No matter though, this daily weave has definitely improved her defensive driving skills. However, trouble struck as soon as one of SA's most glamorous events came to town: The J&B Met. Now, TTB enjoys a bit of glamour. Actually, that's an understatement. She LOVES glamour. LIVES for glamour. I mean, she is a handbag after all and rare Korean Turquoise bag nogal!

But underneath all that glamour-loveen is also a great desire for efficiency. And let me tell you dahling, the parking at this do was far from efficient! Cause guess what? All 50 000 J&B Metters decided to park outside her house! So, at first TTB was a tad excited about all the lovely people from the Met gracing her humble street. She knew there was no chance of getting a peek at any of the rich and famous folks (because who was going to park in a street named Wargrave if VIP is your middle name?) but at the very least she would set her eyes on some haute couture. So she pulled out the binocs papa manbag gave to her and hung her tiny little turquoise behind out the window to get a good look at the passersby.

Dear readers, you will simply not believe this. Not one half decent outfit in sight. Not even a decent hand bag in sight. What has the world come to if people just don't dress up for The Met? She was especially surprised to find a few gentlemen and one or two ladies dressed in very similar blue clothes roaming the streets. Her first thoughts were, "Ag shame, these people thought they were getting designer outfits and boy did they get ripped off!" But all of a sudden one of these fashionably misguided fellows pulled out a pad of pink paper and stuck something on TTB's beautiful, new car. It was fan mail, for sure! She was so flattered that this lovely gentleman had come all this way to Wargrave Road to deliver his appreciation for the wit and beauty of The Turquoise Bag (and her new car) that she smiled and waved at him. He didn't smile back. "Lady, is this your car?" TTB nodded and said, "Isn't she beautiful?" Mr Fashionably Misguided said, "Uh, I doesn't know how beautiful this car is but I does know that it is parked illegally."

"What, are you talking about young man? This is my home. It's perfectly legal for me to park here," TTB said in her most scary, resolute voice that she could muster up. "Lady, I is not here to argue with you. If you don't move this car, that big blue tow truck is going to tow it away." TTB raced downstairs to save her beautiful car from this great injustice. She begged, she pleaded for Mr FM(not Frequency Modulation but Fashionably Misguided) to make the pink slip (that had turned out to be a fine of 300 Raant) and the tow truck go away. She eventually got angry, "Sir, where am I supposed to park my car? These roads are so narrow, they are like alleys. There is nowhere, but here, on the road for me to park! It's not my fault that there was such bad town planning and that all these houses are packed on top of each other and the roads aren't wide enough for all the cars. I mean, look at the name of this road! Wargrave! It was probably called that because they only made it wide enough for a horse cart pulling a coffin to come past!"

Mr FM eventually saw the logic in the argument explaining her predicament and called off the tow truck. He then proceeded to give TTB a long lecture about how it was a illegal to park on a curb and within 5 metres of an intersection. And what is a handbag to do if is she lives on a corner within 5 metres of an intersection? After this refresher course on the rules and regulations of parking, Mr FM turned to TTB and said, "I am sorry lady. We had to make an example out of you. Otherwise all these people going to see the horses would be parking anywhere and everywhere. Now, please park somewhere else." TTB turned to obey when Mr FM said, "Now, always remember lady, Cars is not things to play with!" TTB considered this piece of generous advice and thought ruefully: And neither is town planning!

The trouble with Bermuda

I believe that Bermuda is very beautiful place. Ian Fleming, creator and author of the James Bond books lived there and (I stand to be corrected) couldn’t help but set some of his books on this island. Bermuda of course is the natural habitat for intrigue, espionage and above all…passion! And since our dear James is such a hit with the ladies, passion is high on his priority list. Which brings me to the trouble with Bermuda...

I know this girl. Let’s call her Miss Girl. She’s pretty, intelligent and fun. She meets this guy. Let’s call him Mr. Guy. They start to hang out. He invites her to stuff. She invites him to dinner with friends. He texts her. She starts to pick up his vibe, if you know what I mean. Wink. Wink. She thinks that surely after all this texting and inviting out. I mean surely he MUST like her. After a few months of this more than-friends-but-less-than-dating, suddenly she just never hears from Mr. Guy anymore. No beep of the mobile. No invitation to drinks. And she wonders what went wrong? Well, the turquoise bag knows what went wrong. This “pseudo-friendship-relationship” ended up in a mysterious, dangerous place, I like to call "The Bermuda Triangle". And my dear, blog readers, make no mistake: NOTHING good ever comes from people hanging out in the Triangle.

The Turquoise Bag has sat through many a counseling session listening to girl after girl sobbing her heart out. Invariably each girl vehemently denies that she is lost in The Bermuda Triangle. “Not me” says she. And on she whimpers about how she believes that surely her Mr. Guy must be different and that he actually does like her, he just hasn’t plucked up the courage to say anything. The turquoise bag hands out tissues and then very gently breaks the news that any guy who likes any girl will say something or make some great show of his affection. (TTH doesn’t make a big deal about the major show of affection. Otherwise Miss Girl leaves the conversation looking for even the slightest sign that Mr. Guy is going to make a grand show of his undying love. You know, like smiling at her at the petrol station.)

Anyway, eventually after a few Mochachino’s, Miss Girl finally realizes that Mr Guy just isn’t that into her. (TTH gives her a copy of the DVD with the same name, a bar of Lindt and a box of Kleenex) But then she starts to ask, “Why?” “What did I do wrong?” “Am I not pretty enough?” “Am I too boring?” And well, maybe in some ways Mr Guy may well answer yes to one of those questions. But generally Miss Girl immediately looks in the wrong place for answers. The trouble is really Bermuda, you see. The second girls and guys head towards this undefined vacuum of friendship, hearts are lost at sea. More than that though, this Bermuda place isn’t much of a problem for Mr Guy. Nope, he’s having fun - chilling on the beach, getting a tan, drinking a brewski, eating a steak and enjoying the lovely Miss Girl’s company. All this while he’s checking out the rest of the talent on the beach. Miss Girl is just a fun person who he averts loneliness with – she’s available. (Bermuda isn’t much fun alone). Then one day, Miss-next-flavour-of-the-week-girl comes along. She’s new and interesting and also…very available. Mr Guy drops Miss Girl like a hot potato and she’s left sailing the seven blue seas of despair.

Mr Guy of course thinks he has done nothing wrong. After all, “We are just friends”. And happily he runs off with the latest Miss Girl and gives her a try for awhile. Texting, inviting, dinnering – you know the whole bang shoot. It’s all the fun and passion without any definition to the relationship. Miss Girl (like the well trained woman that she is) doesn’t ask any questions about what sort of scenario they’ve got going. After all, it’s Mr Guy’s role to make the first move! But soon the ecstasy of a dinner date here and a drinks date there starts to wear off and the confusion of this undefined relationship starts to weigh more and more on her. Very soon she’s at a coffee shop near you pouring out her soul to a handbag. Telling her of her feelings and despair at his taking so long to finally tell her what she already knows: Mr Guy loves her, surely he must! Cautiously, The Tuquoise Bag breaks the news to her, “Sounds like you’re in the Bermuda Triangle. It’s time to make him walk the plank. Vote him off the island. Tell him to hop off a tall building. ‘Cause unless he’s James Bond himself, it just isn’t worth it.”

The trouble with being unthankful

I was driving home from work today (well, my temporary home) and feeling sick and miserable. My bemoaned thoughts were filled with, "Oh my gosh, I have to go and shop for groceries at this time of day. There is going to be no parking" "This traffic is terrible, yip, there's going to be no parking." "I am SO tired of moving every few weeks. I want a home." "10 points to me: There IS no parking anywhere and yes, I am still homeless."

After buying some fruit and other Vitamin C-induced goodies, I drove past a man selling The Big Issue on the side of the road. I politely declined buying his magazine as he coughed and spluttered his way towards me. That's when it hit me: I may be a tad sick but at least I was visiting a doctor in the morning. This guy probably wouldn't be able to afford the health care I have become accustomed to, if he sold a few hundred of those magazines. I drove off and thought of his circumstances. I wondered whether he had a permanent place to live or if he was homeless, in the true sense of the word? I was thinking that my idea of homelessness - not having a permanent address but moving from one friend's house to the next - was probably very luxurious to what he was experiencing. As I parked my car in front of my temporary abode, I realised that I had just wasted half an hour being very unthankful. For a start, given the harsh economic times that the world is facing, I am so grateful that I have a job. This employment means that I can afford to buy groceries and luxuries such as fruit, fill my car with fuel and get from A to B (even in traffic!) and yes, if I have to pay for parking, I have 5 bucks for that too. It's true that being a nomad these last few months has not been fun. Living in a single place for longer than a few weeks has become a luxury that I never knew I had, once upon a time. Fortunately I have amazing friends and family who have come to my rescue and given me some amazing places to call home for a few weeks at a time.

I reckon thankfulness is something that works inverse relationship with privelege. The more priveleged we become, the less thankful we are for what we have. Thus, it's something that has to be worked at intentionally - we have to intentionally train our minds and hearts to be thankful. The by-products of a thankful heart are amazing: contentment in life's circumstances, an appreciation of the small blessings we have and an earnest empathy for those facing true hardship. Let's face it: if traffic and parking space are the biggest problems I am facing, life can't be that bad...

The trouble with White weddings

I am going to issue a disclaimer from the very start: I believe in the institution of marriage, wholeheartedly. So please don’t send me an e-mail about how you are so disappointed that you invited me to your wedding if I am such a hater of the union. I am not a marriagist (noun: one who hates marriage) However, I do have some grievances about weddings. Like you get sexists, racists and chauvinists, you also get weddingists (noun: one who hates weddings). I am NOT a weddingist either. I like seeing my friends get hitched. I like eating their food. I like dancing. I even like giving the happy couple a gift, very thoughtfully chosen from their registry. What I don’t like is the hanging around waiting for said couple to exhaust a 10 gig memory card by taking photo’s in black, white and colour while the starving guests fight each other for the last canapé. Nope, I don’t like that at all. This is one of the problems that the White wedding faces. Another issue is that of “keeping up with the Jones’s”. Weddings have become ridiculously expensive. Why? Well, Mr and Mrs A had a wedding with all the bells and whistles and therefore I must. Wedding planners, florists, caterers, Mr Venue owner and the likes see the opportunity to exploit and voila: one wedding a la expense coming up. Imagine if everyone had just stuck to the simple wedding? Florists, caterers, Mr Venue owner would have to charge competitive prices and Mrs Wedding Planner might be out of a job. Alas, not in this world of competitive weddings… For some other solutions we need only look in two directions: to the east and down south.

Korean weddings have a lot to recommend them. They are cheap (they cost the couple and their parents almost nothing) as everyone who comes to the wedding brings a monetary gift. The guests have to drop their gift into box as they enter the wedding and it is customary to write your name as well as how much money you are giving to the couple’s parents on the outside of the envelope. That means everyone gives a very decent amount of cash. The bride’s parents use this cash to pay for all the expenses of the wedding and on some occasions to give the couple some money towards starting their life together. The wedding is a one stop shop occasion. Brides go to “wedding houses”, that usually take the shape of a fairy tale castle, and are decked out in the most kitsch décor known to man. Brides can hire dresses there, have their photos taken by a professional photographer and get married in a very sweet chapel. All for the price of hiring the venue for 2 hour! All paid for by your guests! There is never a limitation on the number of guests that one can invite. Most wedding venues cater for about 400 – 800 guests. Guests come to the different parts of the ceremony – some come to the wedding, others only to the reception and this is based on the guest’s preference. Remember the wedding is essentially paying for itself so there’s no need to worry about guest lists and RSVP’s. That takes a whole lot of stress out of the occasion. Bet there aren’t many Korean bridezillas! And guess what: there’s no hanging around waiting for photos to be taken! The bride and groom have already had their picture taken in their hired kit a few days earlier. And don’t start with all that bad luck stuff, Korea has a very low divorce rate.

If that’s a little too eastern for your philosophy of weddings, you can always give the Aussie wedding a try. The wedding and reception are two separate occasions. They generally occur with a good a few hours break in between them. Guests are told when they are to report to the reception. This gives everyone a chance to make a trip to the pub or go out for some lunch – catch up with old friends and relatives while the bride and groom take pictures to their heart’s content. Means you really get to socialise with the people you enjoy at the wedding. Also should the happy couple decide to get married in SEA POINT and have their reception in STELLENBOSCH, you don’t have to race the 200 other guests to get a bite to eat, but can take a leisurely drive along the wine route to the reception. See a little of the countryside, have a coffee, have a little wine, perhaps some cheese? The result: relaxed guests, a relaxed bride and groom and much merriment – the very essence of the wedding. Advance Australia fair…

My next gripe is with the barbaric practise of throwing the bouquet at wedding receptions. The bride smiles knowing she’s off the market while her single friends cringe at the thought of having to reveal how very unattached they are by making their way to the centre of the dance floor. Really, can we not think of a better way to make all the single women feel more marriable (adjective: a lady or gentleman worth marrying) than the hope of catching a bunch of dying flowers? If one has to look into the history of this archaic practise one would remember that flowers were introduced at weddings because brides had a severe lack of soap and hot water in the heyday of the wedding. We have deodorant and perfume now. Perhaps the bride should throw a bottle of pheromone-induced perfume to the crowd? Methinks it could work wonders for the love life of the lucky lady who catches it.

Note to self: my new business should be an elite one stop wedding planning shop. Recruit an unknown male designer to design the dresses, a divorced mother of 2 to do the flowers and a Japanese Sushi chef for the catering. Don’t forget about the arty camera man with the 10 gig memory card. Oh and buy a wine farm for the venue. Charge exorbitant prices for everything. Guaranteed money spinner.

The trouble with turning 25

So, I have reached the ripe old age of 25 and have realised that if I have any hope of remaining hip, I need to start blogging. You know, leaving a legacy for my fans by recoding all the fabulous things that have happened to me in my first quarter century. Although I think it will really be more of a blog that focuses on the problems facing the world than about my memoirs. I might include some travel adventures (since those of you who waded through my marathon e-mails have requested more stories from the east). Mostly it will be about the things I object to and think you should object to as well. Whatever my nimble fingers pen I am bound by a code of ethics to speak the truth and nothing but the truth so you can count on that!