Groot-Meisie-Broek(ie)

My groot-meisie-broekie, soos ek my broek(ie) gedoop het is ‘n broekie of regtig ‘n broek wat helemal die teenoorgestelde is van sê ‘n ‘sjoe-broekie’. ‘n Groot-meisie-broekie neem ongeveer 5-10 minute net om aan te kry soggens. Wanneer sy nou eers aan is, dan gaan dit effe beter met die af-en-op-trek van haar so gedurende die dag.

Jou dag, in baie aspekte, word tog beinvloed wanneer jy besluit om jou groot-meisie-broekie te dra. Ewe skielik neem kamer-verlaat nie meer net 5 minute nie. So met die af-en-op-trek van die groot-meisie-broekie, besluit jy na dag vier of vyf, jy gaan nou maar bieg en vir almal sê jy het besluit om te begin rook. Dit is of dit of mense begin dink jy het ‘n grooter probleempie. Enige iemand wat vir langer as 5 minute kamer-verlaat word dalk beskinder.

Niemand skinder oor rokers nie, maar ‘n potensieële geval van slegte blaas-infeksie kan die tonge dalk laat woeker.

Die feit bly staan dat ‘n groot-meisie-broekie jou ‘n goeie drie tot vier kilogram ligter kan laat voorkom. Ek het al baie gewonder … waar presies gaan alles wat jy ‘in-squash’ heen? Dis nou nie asof ons hol is binne en die vetjies ‘n oop gatjie vind en daar ‘settle’ vir die dag nie?? Die ‘challenge’ is ook natuurlik wanneer jy nou jou groot-meisie-broekie aan het, dan moet sy perfek sit orals en net hoog genoeg opgetrek word op die regte plekke, want min dinge lyk so eienaardig soos ‘n vrou wat ‘n stywe broek of kort rompie aan het en jy wonder jouself lam wat onder haar klere aangaan, want die boude is mooi styf, die bo-bene lyk heel ferm, maar die knieë lyk of ‘n slang haar gepik het en iemand ‘n rek om hulle (ja, altwee knieë) moes bind om te verhoed dat die gif hart toe gaan – nou pop daai knieë uit onder die pressure - net so onder die boobs bo die middel en lyk soos ‘n cupcake – enetjie wat goed gerys het! Ek staan een oggend by die huis so in my denim – sonder my groot-meisie-broekie aan en maak die knoop vas so onder my pensie. Natuurlik peul effe van die maag vetjies bo-uit en ek lyk regtig soos ‘n cupcake van agter af. Die boetie het my so een kyk gegee en gesê : “Sussa, daai denim van jou sit so styf, dit druk jou boude dat dit lyk soos ‘n cleavage.” Elke vrou mag dalk droom van ‘n cleavage, maar as dit is hoe jou boude van agter af lyk, dan is dit verseker tyd om te invest in ‘n groot-meisie-broekie.

Eerstens, sodra jy nou klaar gebad of gestort het, dan droog jy af en droog goed af, want buiten dat dit jou ‘n goeie klompie tyd gaan vat om jou groot-meisie-broekie aan te trek en reg op te trek, is sy stubborn wanneer dit kom by oor ‘n nat-lyfie gly. Sy hak-vas en weier om enigsens te beweeg en dan begin jy meer sweet, want jy ruk en pluk aan haar met moeite. Baie van die groot-meisie-broekies het klein plastiese detail oor die rek-gedeeltes en hulle moet juis vas-suig sodat sy nie rond beweeg onder jou klere nie. Dit gebeur darem nie te maklik nie, want wanneer sy eers aan is, lyk dit of iemand haar op jou lyf geverf het. Om haar af te kry na ‘n lang dag, waneer jy ook nou eers ‘n hol-sweetjie opgebou het, want sy is warm, dan lê jy plat op jou rug, haal diep asem, lig jou bene en boude in die lig, balanseer so half op jou hakke en elmboeë en trek haar af so stukkie-vir-stukkie. Gewonder hoe kry jy ‘n groot-meisie-broekie af? Met baie moeite en geduld! As jy ‘n nuwe groot-meisie-broekie vir elke dag sou kon bekostig, stel ek voor jy knip haar sommer van jou lyffie af!

Vrydagoggend vroeg vlieg ek en my ander helfte bietjie kaap toe. My groot-meisie-broekie gaan natuurlik saam, want ek kan op hierdie stadium doen met drie tot vier kilogram ligter lyk en voel - ek weet natuurlik nogsteeds nie waarheen my vetjies hulle-self verplaas nie -, maar dit is irrelevant – wat die oog nie sien en die oor nie hoor, maak die hart nie seer nie.

4:30 begin my alarm te skreeu en ek ruk myself orent, vlieg uit die bed uit en begin strek – sien, ‘n mens móēt strek as jy ‘n groot-meisie-broekie wil aantrek, want jy stoei om haar aan te kry. Regtig waar, die laaste ding wat ek wil hê is om te verduidelik aan enige iemand dat ek my rug uit potjie gekry het terwyl ek ‘n groot-meisie-broekie oor my agterstewe moes trek.

“Goeie môre Meneer, dit is Blom wat praat. Meneer, ek kom nie vanoggend werk toe nie. Meneer sien, ek lê huidiglik op my badkamer se vloer, so skuins voor die wit-troon en is werklik net gelukkig op hierdie stadium om my swart-bessie by te kan kom om Meneer te kan bel …. Hoekom lê ek op die vloer, vra Meneer? Wel, Meneer … ek het vergeet om te strek vanoggend voor ek my groot-meisie-broekie probeer aantrek het – met die stoei om haar aan te kry, tref haar rek my toe onder my linker bors, slaan die lug goed uit my longe uit en ek word later wakker met ‘n bloed-neus op my badkamer se koue vloer – uit asem uit! ‘n Groot-meisie-broekie Meneer? Uhm … ?”

My groot-meisie-broekie is behoorlik oor my agterstewe getrek en haar rek strek tot effe onder my buuste. My jean-pant gly mooi oor en jy kan sommer sien, hierie hanne van my weet van ‘n groot-meisie-broekie aantrek. Alles wat mens mos baie moet doen, raak mens beter mee.

Maar dis NIE die aantrek wat die probleem is NIE – dis daai UITTREK! ‘n Storie vir ‘n ander dag ….

Copyright © Flowerpowerdais Dec 2011

How Hot Is It?

For a split second we had a good feel of what winter is all about. Suddenly, it was warm and almost without warning, crazy hot. Are the seasons getting shorter and with it much colder and much hotter? Winter is no longer just cold … it can get freakishly cold and summer is no longer just warm … it is ‘watch my make-up literally melt off my face’ hot!

How hot is it really?

Nowadays many of us have air-conditioners at home and definitely in our cars or at least a roof-fan which remains on – day in and out. We can’t even entertain the thought of being outside for too long. We wear dry-fit clothing, balsam ourselves in anti-perspiration to the point that should we fall over and die, that guaranteed our arm-pits will without a shadow of a doubt, remain perfectly intact for at least another five years.

We wear sunglasses with UV protected lenses and factor 80 sunscreen. Imagine that? Factor 80 sunscreen – which resembles facepaint and takes a good amount of elbow grease to ensure it actually penetrates the epidermis. The problem though is, once you start perspiring, you’re so well glazed that your dermis and even your hypodermis gets so irritated that you soon suffer from irritated sweat pores or even angry dermal papilla.

But how do you stay cool and calm for that matter, when the sun and the heat seem to have a hidden agenda with you? It’s not a problem if you have an air-conditioning system at home, in your car and obviously at the office. You could literally run from one point to the next and instantly feel the coolness on your skin, but what IF suddenly, the air-conditioning of your car breaks down or run out of gas?

You’d have to rely on ‘Cave-Man-Aircon’ and open every window of your car and only be remotely happy when you’re on the move and you have a breeze coming through the windows. Until you stop and feel miserable all over again. Your air-conditioning is not working. You suddenly suffer from angry-skin-syndrome. You simply hate the guy in the car next to you – because you can see that his air-conditioning is actually working. The guy at the street corner who might occasionally get you to flip him a coin, now, looking at him with angry eyes, resembles a good candidate for grand theft auto – you want to knock him over and earn 10 points.

Calm down … it’s not that bad! I heard a rumour that the Voortrekkers didn’t have air-conditioning units either and frankly, I can’t imagine that the Queen had one in that fancy golden carriage of hers.

Enjoy the heat though … it’s a perfect time for pool-parties, ice cold beverages and when your unit in your vehicle is actually working to be that guy/gal who can smile and say whaz-up summer??

 

Copyright © FlowerPowerDais 2011

Who Am I?

I wanted a passport for my 16th birthday. I knew nobody who lived abroad, at that stage. My parents thought it somewhat strange. I had that passport for a few years, before I was finally able to use it. I travelled to the UK and didn’t quite enjoy London as much as I expected to. However, it was settled. The travel-bug bit me big time and since then, I have had ants in my pants. A short while after, I travelled to Thailand and it confirmed my passion for travel or at least planted a seed. Even though my bucket-list remains to be as long as my arm, at this stage of my life, I’m simply out of juice.

5years living in the Middle-East and 4years in Asia, I embarked on over 100 journeys abroad on what seem to be a never-ending routine of travel travel travel, seeking one adventure after the other. I never stopped to take a breath and wonder, where will all of this lead to? What would be the ultimate price to pay? Am I giving up a life-partner, probably some children, maybe a career? Granted, I was working at a large multi-national company, so building a career was something I did on the side.

I’m home again and I can finally look at myself in the mirror and not regret the decisions I have made. Some think I’m still young enough to now have the life I sort of gave up to be able to embark on the journeys and travel to the destinations I so longed to see. I think I’m still young enough, but would that really be something I want? I sometimes think that and often not. Faith is what carries me and what I spent most of my time reflecting on, trying to be still and be guided by what I believe is the Holy Spirit.

I’ve climbed mountains, bungy-jumped, worked at orphanages, learnt how to dive. I’ve backpacked, hiked, paraglided, hand-glided and seen the wonders of the world. I learnt how to speak foreign languages, did the salsa and picked up crazy bugs from water. I took up cooking courses, ate a grasshopper and have had my fair share of food-poisoning. I got baptised in the Middle-East, nearly bombed out of Lebanon and climbed Kilimanjaro with my brother, without our gear. It seems as if I’ve conquered my world of travel, yet I still long for certain things – I still want to see, do, feel and experience what is unknown to me. I am truly uncharacteristic calm, no ants in my pants and I have been home for nearly 10 months. I am not keen on going anywhere in a hurry. Does God have a different plan for me? Am I finally ready to challenge and conquer different endeavours, play a different role, be another part of who I am destined to be? I am a Christian, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a traveller, a cook and a writer. Am I ready to be Daisy the wife or the mother? Maybe?

I hardly recognise this new person, but I’m in love with the woman God has allowed me to become.

Copyright ©FlowerPowerDais 2011

Compassion

I often drive past individuals with boards, placards with their life-story it seems, on it (I call them ‘situational snap-shots’). I drive past and sometimes I’m touched, other times not so much. A few times, I’ve been moved to tears. Whether I’d like to admit it to myself or not. There is something so sad about this. With time, you become somewhat thick skinned and less sensitive, when something stares you in the face day in and out. I have not lived in South-Africa for many years and recently returned and everything is still the same, only worse, in certain ways. I try to have an extremely positive approach to everything I see. After all, I have seen worse. Today, the traffic light turned red and I stopped directly next to a young man who suffers from epileptic fits. I have spoken to him before. I had time to dig into my bag and pull out a R50 note. As I handed the note to him, he thanked me with a gratefulness I could sense was real – I looked into his eyes and saw his soul.

He told me I was the second person today to give him money and he was able to go home early. For some reason, as he walked away and he seemed truly happy to be able to leave early, I felt sad. I don’t know his true story, other than what his board says – and he is funny creative at times with a footnote last week, which read GO BOKKE and today it said WELL DONE BOKKE! I realized, just like you and I, he supports a team. Just like you and I, he has a mother, father, maybe a wife, a child and all he wants is a job, an opportunity, a second chance. He suffers from epileptic fits, but he’s willing to work. Nowadays even if you wanted to, it’s dangerous, I guess to simply stop somewhere, pick someone up and have them do a few things around the house, earning a few Rand. When both my partner and brother are home, I would ask someone literally from the streets, to help us at home.

Living abroad, it was easy somehow to support people of a different race and culture. Why is it so hard to look our own kind in the eyes and offer help? I look at the cars around me and they all look away. They seem to be looking at the clouds, the traffic, anywhere really, but at the guy with the board. I do understand though that it’s hard to give, because people argue that you have no idea where the money goes to or for what. I am starting a personal project. On a Saturday morning, I will make sandwiches – one loaf of bread. As I do my Saturday shopping, I will give sandwiches to those who seem hungry. I don’t want a thank you. I just want to hold on to that belief I have had for many years, that change is immediate and that one person can make a difference, however small! I want to believe that. I have to believe that. I do believe that …. With all my heart! Change is immediate and it starts with me!!

Copyright ©FlowerPowerDais 2011

Bad Hair Day

Change the song “If you had a bad day” to “If you had a bad hair day” and dedicate it to ‘bad hair days’ and to those who survive being around the women who have them. I’m a wash and go girl and sometimes when in a rush, I’m tempted to give the wash a skip and just go go go. I’d love to say though that that has never happened, but I’ve back-packed, climbed mountains and vaguely remember having had the stamina once upon a time, to pull an all-nighter and shower in a can just had to suffice.

I can’t resonate to women who get up as the Vampires of Transylvania go to sleep, to warm their curlers and prepare for a jackal-and-hyde transformation. Drawing a bath at 4am and reappearing at 6, waxed, rubbed, scrubbed, nipped, tucked and rolled in glitter is not my idea of a top 10 way to start your day. There better be candles, something cold and bubbly with eggs and bacon on the side or at least someone holding a lemon wedge in one hand and salt in another, to lure my toosh out of bed at 4am.

You’re either a wash-and-go-girl and likely a snooze-button-operator-expert or an early riser, which has absolutely nothing to do with catching a worm (something I’d consider if the worm was from Blue Agave and Mexican). An early riser would be darned if her husband or live-in-squeez found out she was not born with perfectly arched brows, natural curls, hair-less armpits and a perfectly waxed buttocks. If, by some stroke of misfortune you catch an early riser who might not have had time to pimp her look, you’re in trouble; everyone is in trouble!

The Municipality of Tshwane is a b*tch for daring to load-share, the newspaper guy, standing in the middle of the road, preventing her from changing lanes is an inconsidered zit on the forehead of society and the guy who serviced her vehicle last month is an absolute @sshole, for not making sure that the thingy-magick, next to the what-you-ma-call-it was properly tuned and by implication has something to do with her alarm-clock not going off. Everyone is to blame for her being deprived of her daily pimp.

The Brother and I recently relocated to Gauteng after our return from Asia. Interesting that I departed from Johannesburg International Airport as a South-African Citizen, born in Pretoria in the Northern Transvaal and returned home, arriving at the same Airport, now Oliver Thambo International, hopefully still a South-African Citizen, but Tshwane as the place of birth in the Gauteng Province. Taking about a heck of a transformation.

Unfamiliar with the various ways travelling to work and back, I decided to take a different route at a different hour every new morning in an attempt to find the perfect time and way to travel each day. My travel research results made it apparent that NO time was a good time in mornings to leave home for the office. Great news if you are one of those only working for the awesome fun of it.

Drivers travelling down road A, turning into road B queued up on the complete left side of road A, allowing motorists going straight, to pass. If you’ve never travelled down road A, the Groot Trek queuing on the left hand side, literally kilometres before the turn into road B, makes absolutely no sense. You might be driving straight down road A, towards road B, not falling into the queue and then suddenly realizes golly-gosh-bugger-shit, I have to be in that queue and in a desperate attempt, you pull the hoot-to-get-attention and then the please-with-a-crazy-ass-smile-let-me-in manoeuvre. It might not be as effective as getting out of your car, going down on your knees and beg for a gap would be, but hi-I’m-a-female-and-therefore-hopeless-at-operating-anything-with-an-engine generally works great. When you’ve successfully pulled the move off, be certain you immediately open your window and give the oh-gosh-you’re-so-awesome-thanks-a-ton-wave to thank the kind motorist who let you in or risk having the driver from jeepers-creepers on your tail for the next twenty kilometres, whose beating himself up for letting you in.

Monday morning and I decided to try a new route. I left home a happy-camper, turned into road A and from there drove slowly passed all the cars from the Groot Trek and at that stage had absolutely no idea what the queue was all about. I then hit that golly-gosh-bugger-shit moment! Thank goodness the traffic light turned red and all the traffic stopped, which gave me the perfect opportunity to do the hoot-to-get-attention, followed by the please-with-a-crazy-ass-smile-let-me-in.

My move fell on a daily pimp my look deprived woman. She didn’t even look up. All I got was the fall-into-the-queue-you-stupid-f@rt hand movement. I have to admit; that move looked well practised and she meant business. A different time and different place, the two of us could have nailed it as a 30-seconds team.

I had enough time to simply drive a little forward and stopped next to a I’m-a-man-and-don’t-care-much character, who actually appreciated my please-with-a-crazy-ass-smile-let-me-in move and I managed to get in two cars before Ms. daily pimp my look deprived. Tempted as I was, it was not the right time tell her, “it is NOT my fault you decided to go for the ‘mad-hatter’ look and now it’s screaming at your purple and orange top. Look on the bright side (not necessarily orange) … frustration turned your cheeks bright red and your eyes crazy-blue and NOW, thanks to me you might be able to pull the look off for the fancy-dress and scare all the Alice(s) in Wonderland”

Copyright © FlowerPowerDais 2011

Hoe koud is dit?

Soos 'n windkous die windrigting aandui en met die woede waarteen hy wapper, 'n goeie indikasie gee van die  'n spoed van voetsek waarteen 'n briesende windjie beweeg, so dui my beenhare wat deur my eie kouse saans van die koue groei dat die winter sterk oppad is. Een van die dae maak ek soos my oorle oupa en parkeer my tjorrie in die sitkamer sodat sy nie gedurende die nag een met die driveway vries nie. 

Dis nog nie behoorlik winter nie en met elke koue gril voel ek die beenhaartjies deur my wintervelletjie druk. Dit sal darem amazing wees as sekere funksies van mens se liggaam bietjie hibberneer in die winter. Ek het wraggies nie die krag vir skeer en baie ander dinge nie. Al, en ek bedoel al my ekstra energie spandeer ek aan my keuse van 'n wintersport - eet. Dis harde werk om 'n winter vetjie op te bou en die maer meisie binne warm te hou. So vinnig groei die lastige ou beenhaartjies met die koue dat hul DSTV sal kan opvang. Ek moet nou net 'n lekker yoga posisie in my tuin inneem en voila. Met so iets fluister ek maar, more is die liksensie en permit mense op my stoep ook.  

My eerste winter in elf jaar het afgeskop en ek oortref my eie kreatiwiteit wanneer dit kom by warm bly. Ek lewe vir my witwarm stort soggens en saans. Dis nou nie die mooiste ietsie om te sien wanneer my bloedrooi lyf, soos die van iemand met erg sonsteek uit die stort te voorskyn kom nie, maar ek het myself eendag so vinnig beloer en ek moet erken ek lyk wraggies maerder in rooi as klapper wit. 

Wanneer daai warm water my tref voel ek soos 'n weeskind vir 'n rukkie en staan myself en jammer kry. Dan voel ek weer hoe die lewe terug kruip en ek raak skoon cheeky en begin my een boud so swaai. Ek wil wil so 'n dans pogingtjie aanwend, want kyk om warm te kry is lekkkker. Sodra ek dan nie meer lyk soos Daisy van die Aarde nie, maar soos Rooi van die Son, dan draai ek vinnig die kraan toe en spring uit om so gou as moontlik droog en aangetrek te kom. Ek hol enige ou uit die pad uit om dan in die bed te kan kruip en net voor ek my voortande uitbibber, voel ek dam effe warm weer.

Dit verbaas my hoe baie ek kan eet in die winter. In die somer sal enige iets meer as 'n ontbyt, 'n lekker slaai vir middagete en dalk 'n vleisie vir aandete bietjie baie klink. In die winter klink ontbyt om 8uur en weer 10uur, gevolg deur middag ete 12uur en dalk weer 4uur, met aandete kort op die hakke 6uur en 'n lekker snack weer 8uur, asof ek myself probeer uithonger. Ek hoor myself se dat ek nog net 'n brood, sewe sakkies sop, geroomde spinasie, 'n worsbroodjie, 'n pasta slaai en vier stukkies hoender gehad het vir die hele middag en nie kan wag vir aandete nie. Waarheen gaan al die kos en energie? Ek is seker my beenhare het iets daarmee te doen?!

Ek is ook lus, soos die akkedis in my tuin om op 'n wintersoggend vir myself 'n klip te kry en my boude te bak totdat my binnestes borrel van die hitte en dan in my gatjie terug te kruip en te gaan slaap. As ek my akkedis so dophou, lyk dit ook nie of hy beenhaar probleme het nie. Gelukkige ding!

Dis koud. My yskas is te klein. My aptyt is te groot. My klere het gekrimp. My beenhare lyk soos 'n jurkie en dis nog nie eers behoorlik winter nie.

Copyright © FlowerPowerDais 2011

Rugby (Lady Rugga Blood Pumping Through My Veins)

Dubai Rugby 7's

A Little (or a lot in my case) of Lady Rugga blood pumping through my veins

A friend once told me : "Soccer is a gentlemen's game for thugs and Rugby is a thug's game for gentlemen". I'm not 100% certain where that leaves the actual fans. Well, thug or not, short of actually playing the game myself, I am an extremely passionate rugby supporter. I'm female and honestly, if it wasn't for the boobies, I might consider playing the game and can see myself as the Eighth 'Man', always last in the scrum, but first everywhere else. 

In rugby, I guess you kind of specialize in a certain position and you might be able to move from being a left winger to playing a right winger (#'s 11 and 14), but you can't exactly move from being an Eighth Man (#8) and become a Hook (#2) just because you've gained a little winter fat (the way I move from my skinny closet to my fat closet (I know I'm not the only female out there that does that). I am thus better off being the passionate female rugby fan I am, doing what I do best and support my teams and not complicate the simple game of rugby. There's a little bit (in my instance, a lot) of Lady Rugga (LR) in all of us ardent female rugby supporters.

So, I am female. I wear a size 5.5 shoe. I don't have a player history, details of which I can bore my fiends with (unless games in school, against the female teachers count or dating the captain of the 1st rugby team). I have more rugby jerseys (by far) than any other female I know. I'm a staunch Springbok supporter. Loftus is my homeground and the Bulls are my boys. 

I've been fortunate enough to be at the Dubai Rugby 7's in 2003, 2004, 2005 and 2006 (each time watching rugby for 3 days consecutively, the BlitzBokke). I proudly sport the South-African flag on my face and won face  in the crowed. In Dubai in December 2006, I sat in the rain for 14hours (from 9am to 11pm) amongst a handful of other supports, all dressed in black plastic bags, watching South-Africa stomp New Zealand. What seemed like an all 'all black' crowed soon became colourful, when soaking wet South-African supporters submerged from their all black rubbish bags, proudly showing off their green and gold jerseys (albeit completely drenched, covered in mud, with facepaint by then securely settled between my cleavage and my bellybutton) in support of the awesome BlitzBokke. 

Dubai Rugby 7's - Face in the Crowed

In 2004 The Bulls and The Stormers played in front of a 6,000 strong South-African crowed in the Middle East (Dubai). A dream came true when I met with all the players afterwards and were able to take pictures with The Bulls and The Stormers (a few of them, Springbok Players) and amongst them Victor Matfield, Breyton Paulse and Corne Krige. 

 

Dubai - Bulls vs. Stormers

Dubai - Bulls vs. Stormers

 

2007-2010, I supported the South-African teams (including the Vipers) in Singapore, during the Singapore Rugby 7's. The South African Protea Club arranged for a rugby dinner with the boys a couple of nights prior to the start of the tournament, a fantastic experience being able to meet with South-African players representing our country. 

Singapore Rugby 7's - South African Vipers

 

Singapore Rugby 7's - South African Vipers

Singapore Rugby 7's - South African Vipers    

I took up my seat on the infamous Hong Kong Rugby 7's South Stand in 2008 and again in 2010, in support of the BlitzBokke. You need to be an absolute fan with a lot of Lady Rugga blood flowing through your veins to be on the infamous Hong Kong Rugby 7's South Stand for 3 days consecutively from 9am to 9pm during the Hong Kong Rugby 7's.

Hong Kong Rugby 7's 

On a camping ground in Australia (Duras National Park) a bunch of Aussies were listening to commentary on a South-Africa/Australia game. I walked over for an introduction and an update and was promptly informed that "those damn South-Africans were at it again". By the smile on my face I got the "oh my gosh, you're South-African, aren't you?"

At a Rugby Match in Sydney, Australia

I've always loved watching rugby. I was my parents first child, my two brothers came later and I grew up with ardent rugby players and supporters. I have always had a lot of respect for the All Blacks and whilst residing in Asia, I often traveled to New Zealand and Australia and support a few of the local teams (The New Zealand Warriors and Hurricanes and the Australian Rugby League teams). My blood pumps Blue, Green and Gold though and I proudly sport my country's colours  (risking my life :)).  

My small rugby dream(s) are to watch a South-Africa/Australia game in Perth(fontein), where the majority of the supporters wear Green and Gold (Springbok Green and Gold and not the grass-burn green and mustard, Wallabies supporters of late refer to as Green and Gold ;), and to be at the South Africa, New Zealand, Australia and USA (Las Vegas) Rugby 7's. My big rugby dream has always been to watch a South-Africa (Springboks) / New Zealand (All Blacks) game in either South-Africa or New Zealand. All of these, actual dreams on my bucket list. 

RUGBY PLAYERS AND THEIR SUBSEQUENT ROLES THROUGH LADY RUGGA GLASSES :

It takes 15 well put together boys on each side (excluding the bench-warmers) to make things happen on the field. The first 8 players are the front row players (ruck players) and the last 7 are the back players (back line). The aim of the game is to score tries (as many as possible), which counts 5 points. A successful conversion (a kick) of a try, earns your team a further 2 points.

Numbers 1 and 3 are your props and number 2 is your hook (haker in Afrikaans, but NOT hooker in English - you're thinking of something/someone different).  Your front row players (Numbers 1-3) are often built like tree-trunks and these are the players who need to go down in the scrum first. 

Numbers 4 and 5, the locks are generally the tallest players (think Bakkies Botha and Victor Matfield, the Bulls' and Springboks' 'Airplane Speedcops'). They pack into the second row of the scrum and 'lock' in with the props and the hook, subsequently 'locking' the scrum. 

Numbers 6 and 7 are the flanks and number 8 is your eighth man (together they are the loose forwards). 

The back players consist of numbers 9 - 15, number 9 being your scrumhalf and the important link between the scrums and lineouts and the back players.


Number 10 is the fly half (this player often dictates the game). I can clearly remember my father often saying : "Naas Botha is a genius. That guy can read a game". Number 10 needs to kick darn well. There are a few good, well known Number 10s, including Daniel Carter. I'm yet to meet a female who does not know who Daniel Carter is and I've witnessed girls struggling between pervism and patriotism. 


The flyhalf receives the ball from his scrumhalf and from there the ball needs to get to your wings (Numbers 11 and 14) as soon as possible. Your wings are generally the fastest players on the field. Remember the 1995 Rugby World Cup and New Zealand's fast and strong Number 11,  Jonah (Tali) Lomu. He shaved Number 11 on his eyebrows, later got moved to the Number 15, full back position and this is where a Lady Rugga might feel sorry for him, because we know, growing back 'shaved' or 'plucked' eyebrows does not happen as fast as a wing can fly. 

Numbers 12 and 13 are the centres and they are the impact players, there to straighten the line of attack. When they receive the ball from the fly half, they too need to ensure that the ball gets to one of the fast wings, if possible. Number 15 is your full back and this player needs to cover a large part of the field and are thus required to be beautiful (think Percy Montgomery), but more importantly, fit, fast on his feet and an accurate kicker. 

Various kicks, scrums, lineouts and other technical bits like a late tackle, high tackle etc. makes rugby a very interesting game to watch (and play). 

INTERESTING BITS TO WATCH OUT FOR DURING THIS SEASON, IN THE OPINION OF A LADY RUGGA :

Morne Steyn is a favoured of mine and a very good fly half. With Butch James back on the scene after Bath's season ends, things (RWC Selection) might proof to be interesting. 

The Springboks are the defending champions and there seems to yet be a nation or a team more desperate for a win, than New Zealand's All Blacks. Ma'a Nonu, Collins (when he still played), Rodney So'oialo, former captain, Tana Umaga and current captain, Ritchie McCaw are a few of my personal favourites amongst the boys in black. I've seen Sonny Bill Williams in action for the Bulldogs in Australia, he then left for France, determined though to return to New Zealand to fulfill his dream and play for the All Blacks. Behold, he seems to be on track fulfilling that dream and I'm certain he's going to enjoy the world stage a Rugby World Cup has to offer, when he makes squad and represents his country, wearing the All Blacks jersey. That said, not even All Black's captain, Ritchie McCaw or Sonny Bill Williams for that matter, will have me struggling between pervism and patriotism when our boys in Green and Gold represents our nation, as the defending World Champions.  

Sporting legend, David Tua was a guest on Wheel of Fortune and he had to select a letter of the alphabet and a word which starts with that letter. He selected 'O'. 'O' for 'Orsum' of course. There you have it .... rugby well summed up - 'Orsum'!! 

Desperate for all things South African - Egypt

Supporting South-Africa from Singapore

Copyright © FlowerPowerDais 2011

Timor's Children - Victims of the Conflict (Part I : A HAPPY HOME)

Captain Budi Soehardi, a Singapore based pilot, on a relief drop in 1999 came across some of the smallest sufferers of the Timor conflict. The Orphans! Beyond the call of duty and even that of his already altruistic voyage, he felt responsible for the wellbeing of these young lives.

1859, Holland and Portugal sign a treaty. The treaty is amended in the late 1800’s.

In 1520, the Portuguese claimed West Timor and in 1640, she was settled by the Dutch East India Company. When the Company collapsed in the late 1700’s, West Timor is returned to Dutch rule. 1914 and the border between East and West Timor is finalized. It’s a small and historically eventful part of Timor Island, conquered by the Japanese in early 1942 and upon Indonesian independence became part of the new Republic of Indonesia.

Some of the nearly two million inhabitants of Kupang, West Timor’s largest town, are refugees from East Timor. Two thirds of the population is Catholic, some thirty percent Protestant and the remaining minority, Muslim. Very little hark back to Dutch or even Portuguese tenet and familiarity with Dutch is an ability which remained with the older generation. The national language is Indonesian although many inhabitants speak native languages.

Eleven years after Budi’s relief drop and his first encounter with a hand-full of the conflict’s victims and the family at Roslin Home in Kupang, is nearly 80 orphans strong!

Many of the orphans arrived at Roslin, only a couple of hours old and they know only this life. Budi and Peggy became papa and mama to these vulnerable kids, parents who dedicate their whole existence taking care of their 80 children.

We first learnt about Roslin and the orphans when my brother met Budi and Peggy’s older daughter in Singapore a couple of years ago.

We wanted to visit Roslin and felt excited about the journey to Kupang and meeting the orphans. In the days leading up to our trip, vivid images and anticipated moments kept playing out in my mind. I felt somewhat emotional, yet animated!

A short flight from Singapore took us to Jakarta and we spent the night. Jakarta, even though very familiar to me, had me staring out the window, gazing, absorbing and sucking it all up as if it was the first time I’ve seen any of her.

An incredible itch and an army of mosquitoes buzzing, to I think it was “another one bites the dust”, woke me and kept me in a state of semi-unconsciousness throughout the night. Arms and legs propelled involuntarily, just short of a successful lift-off and it felt like we found ourselves in a mosquito concentration camp, being kept awake and tortured. The skin on my arms and legs felt like an essay in brail.

The morning’s sweet tea without milk was warm and my thirst saw the bottom of the cup in seconds.

An early morning flight via Surabaya took us to Kupang. Albeit being West Timor’s largest town, she quite strikes me as a one-horse town or rather a “one 5m long conveyer belt town”. Passengers seemed accustomed to the airport’s shortcomings, congregating at the end of the 5m belt’s sudden end … a drop, literally!

A mutilated, three wheel luggage trolley (one of only 4 at the airport) begged for an oil transfusion and a wheel and handle donor. It barely held up the 30 meters from the conveyer belt to the carpark.

We meet Joel, an 18month old orphan. He’s all smiles with his big eyes and light brown curly hair and this friendly baby immediately transcends in my mind to a little angel.

It’s a short drive from the airport to the hotel Christati, which Budi and Peggy had built to accommodate visitors and all proceeds from the hotel is for Roslin’s benefit.

Around the corner from Christati is Roslin and it took us only a few minutes to reach the home. The outside veranda, full of little tables and chairs and small people, in the middle of their Bible lesson was our first introduction to Roslin Home.

They seemed genuinely excited and those first few moments, left me feeling humbled to the core. Often, throughout our stay I felt incredible gratitude! Each time little voices in accord, worshipped Jesus, expressing appreciation for everything they have, I felt my body shake, fighting the impending waterworks. My futile efforts often compelled me to walk away, giving in, as my soul wept.

Even though the Roslin family is a big family and inimitable in every way, the hustle and bustle of everyday life at Roslin, resembles that of a typical family in many ways.

How I anticipated this moment to be, meeting these orphans for the first time felt so different from what I had expected. Roslin is a home, not an orphanage. Whilst looking at the noticeably happy kids, I couldn’t begin to imagine what it took for these pious individuals who gave up their own lives to ensure that a loving home became an everyday reality for so many innocent kids.

The poignant first moments at Roslin and the instant humbleness I felt, will remain edged in my mind.

CNN Hero - Budi Soehardi

http://www.roslinorphanage.org/

Copyright © FlowerPowerDais 2010

Reference : Dates researched : Indonesia Travel Guide & Wikipedia

A Case of BPL [Bad Pick Up Line(s)] Part I [London]

You probably have to be freakishly creative nowadays to actually come up with a pick-up line or recital to get some serious attention time!?

At the receiving end of a bad pick up line [BPL] or experience, your butterflies might endure a somber case of fail to flutter, potentially rendering your enactment to friends, the only hysterical scrap about the incident. Much like a really bad tune though, some of them stick!

BPL experts can be found in pubs and clubs around the globe. Instead of disregarding a BPL, why do you intermittently feel enticed to politely respond? A reaction could possibly elicit mind numbing tête-à-tête and perhaps encourage the ménage de toi fantasy. If you insist on being courteous, put your drink down multi-tasking queen – like when eating ice-cream and climbing trees, you need both hands for a SOS [Stalker On the Scene] Gesticulation. 

A girlfriend recently endured a BPL experience in London's up market Hanbury Street. An attractive, mid-thirty something chap toddled towards her, complimented her on the fragrance of her perfume and instantaneously moved in for the premeditated kill, all in one suave stir. In an attempt to avert him, mid an otherwise unflawed 180° high-heel-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other- turn, Mr. Confident with my Own Smell, lift his arm up to air his own scent.

Her nose and really, almost her whole face got sucked into his fusty armpit resembling an almost animated sinking action, much like a baseball ball thrashing into a mitt at the speed of wtf?

Turned out Mr. Confident with my Own Smell's  iniquitous résumé, includes runner up Mr. I-Ran All The Way from I-Ran ...
Can You T[sm]ell ?



Copyright © FlowerPowerDais 2010

A Non-Biker's Guide [Falling Head Over Wheels ... ]

Bikers and Non-Bikers! Is it that simple?

If you're a recently seduced non-biker, now head over wheels in love, reach for the dummy guide, to somewhat smoothen the ride!

Rule number one of falling in love head over wheels ... Safety comes first! If you're the passenger, wear a sexy g-string. Bikers are generally extremely considerate and no biker would want to be responsible for a fellow biker or motorist at the rear, losing his focus because of his passenger's bad choice in frillies! If ever there is a day important enough for your over-shoulder-boulder-holder drapes to match your girly-skirting, then this is it. Long gone are the days when bikers and their passengers were associated only with tramp stamps and nasty leather 'tinnies'.

Coco Chanel might have thought that wearing gloves to any event other than a gala would be a serious fashion faux pas. She clearly did not have in mind an activity happening at 150kms/hr, where you’re holding on for dear life, desperately hoping that although you've found a keen interest in something rough and boyish; your French manicure outlives the awesomeness of the experience. Now is not the time to allow your mind to wander to the second drawer where you keep your granny's orange gloves with purple roses. They might have nearly outlived three generations because of sentimental value and they match your favourite Crimpolene tracksuit, but won’t last the distance in your biking courtship. Invest in proper gloves!

Wearing a helmet is fantastic. The thin shell and thick foam gadget gives cheekbones a natural lift. You can't help wanting to constantly lean over your biker's shoulder to admire your new face lift and practice your pout! The thin shell, thick foam gadget protects your brain if you fall and has a strap to keep it on if you fly through the air. Probably the only time you won't be tempted to admire yourself in the mirror!

A helmet with a tinted visor allows you to leave your porn star glasses [generally only good for keeping harmful rays well away from the tender skin underneath your eyes] at home. Opt for a light, silver, blue or rainbow tint to get that far-away biker look in your eyes, similar to that of someone searching for firewood.

Boots! Eventhough you might be tempted to wear your purple suede, knee-high, red sole Christian Louboutin boots ... don't! Cleaning suede is a bitch and ... Mr. Louboutin certainly didn't have biking in mind when he had his marketing team endorse the carton homes of his handcrafted masterpieces - boots for every occasion. Riding, mining and kick-starting jumbo jets permit you to wear boots with metal tips and only then are you exempted by the fashion police to do so. Enjoy the immunity!

A jacket does not have to have a snakehead logo on or be Hells Angels' endorsed to be worth the material the words are embroidered on. Gucci recently branched out and now design biking jackets. By the time you're done metal tip boot shopping, along with the soft shell, thick foam cheekbone lifter gadget [CLG], you’d probably know more about the safety and requirements of the 100% polyurethane jacket than any other non- or new-biker!

Once you're well shielded like a dragon hunter and resemble the human-version of Fort-Knox, you get onto the bike like you would, mounting a horse [if you don't know how ... reach for A Non-Rider's Guide [Falling Head Over Hooves ...]. Remember to sit close enough, hold on and enjoy the ride!


Copyright © FlowerPowerDais 2010

Roslin Home, West Timor