I told you that I’d get round to doing this title eventually (if you don’t remember this promise then may I invite you to peruse my back catalogue – definitely not a euphemism – to find the exciting trio that consisted of turn it on, turn it off and turn it on again? Here you will find my pledge to write this one) and now seems as good a time as any. Indeed, today strikes me as particularly appropriate given that, according to the hilarity of twitter anyway, today is national roadie day (please pretend that I’ve taken the obligatory stab at a 121212 joke here) and that we also had an electrician round earlier (the excitement never ends here in Rough Common).

Being able to plug stuff in is a skill that will certainly help you throughout your life. If you can learn to do it safely and efficiently then mark my words, you’ll go far my friend. Speaking of safety, that’s probably a relatively good place to start. A plug is a dangerous thing and you should be careful with it as it can deal untold pain, you know, if you step on it. There’s also the action of sticking it into the electricity bit, so again take care as if you do it incorrectly you could end up with egg on your face. Or rather, electrical current running through your body which is, admittedly, much worse. Happy plugging!

Bazalela ukuthola imali yeqolo: ucwaningo

Translated, this means:

They have kids to get welfare money: research

Now, apart from the obviousness of this headline, there’s an interesting bit of linguistics, and specifically metonymy.

iqolo is ‘the small of the back; the lumbar region’ – so imali yeqolo is small-of-the-back’s money (or lumbar money). It is so called because it is money paid when one is injured, or otherwise cannot work.

‘Lumbar-money’ or imali yeqolo is another way of describing umhlalaphansi (both retirement/pension as well as ‘welfare’ – literally ‘the-sitting-down-thing’).

Umhlalaphansi is also, naturally, a euphemism for loafing or  lounging about, and a word for a string-trap (since it sits flat).

Saya makin penasaran, saya coba buka beberapa kamus Bahasa Inggris standar seperti Oxford atau Merriam Webster. Kata “difable” tidak ditemukan. Kalau search di web pada website mereka akan keluar: “word not found. Did you mean disable?” Begitu pula di wikipedia versi english.

Selidik punya selidik, ternyata difable itu adalah singkatan dari differently-abled person. Dan ternyata ini adalah bentuk Eufimisme atau pelembutan kata dari kata yang lebih umum, yaitu “DISABLE” yang merujuk kepada para penyandang cacat. Sedikit riset di internet, different ability dipilih, katanya, bahasanya lebih halus dan lebih enak terdengar. Different Ability, katanya, lebih sopan dan lebih manusiawi daripada disable. 

Saya tidak tahu, siapa yang  memulai, tetapi dari hasil pencarian singkat, saya yakin ini “kerjaannya” orang Indonesia. Karena itu tadi, saya tidak menemukan di mana-mana kecuali dari referensi situs-situs Indonesia.

Bagi saya sendiri cukup aneh dan absurd, orang Indonesia mengadopsi bahasa asing dan agak sedikit “sotoy” merubahnya karena menganggap kata “disable” kurang halus. Siapa sih yang lebih tahu tentang halus/kasarnya bahasa Inggris? Orang Indonesia atau orang yang native-nya memang berbahasa Inggris?

Tapi nasi sudah menjadi lontong. Mungkin sekarang ini kata difabel sudah dibakukan dan sudah muncul di kamus standar bahasa Indonesia. Yang dibutuhkan sekarang adalah penjelasan resmi serta mempromosikan dan “memasarkannya” ke negara-negara lain (terutama yang berbahasa Inggris). Siapa tahu negara lain tergerak untuk merubah kata disable menjadi difable Daripada keadaan sekarang yang membuat dahi berkernyit dan bikin orang bersungut-sungut.

IT IS SCIENCE! (Or maybe not.)

So I read this article a couple months ago and I saved it because it was interesting (but also totally kind of vague) and also SCIENCE and it talked about “horny papillae” and come ON, we all love to discuss things like horny papillae, don’t we? It’s like it was MADE for discussion over here.

Also, if there’s science, I think, “oh, Andreas will be so proud of me, because SCIENCE.” I do so like to make my Science Fellow proud of me.

So according to this article, back in the ancient days of yore, our ancestors (wait, we all agree we came from monkeys, right? Can we agree on that? Because if we can’t…well, I worry about your sanity. I found this for Andreas the other day and I think it would benefit ALL OF US EVERY LAST ONE OF US.)

@heinakroon I found this. I think it is for you. twitter.com/lucysfootball/…

— Amy (@lucysfootball) November 21, 2012

ANYWAY, our ANCESTOR MONKEYS all had “horny papillae” on their penises. Yep. We’re totally talking about penises today. Only for a little while, though. I haven’t talked about penises OR sex lately and Ding Dong Joe’s getting all nervous I’ve forgotten about them.

Now, a lot of mammals still have these bumps. Guess what they’re for. NO GUESS.

You totally guessed for her pleasure, didn’t you? Like those terrible condoms that are lies lies lies? WRONG SALLY.

They are to make sex last LESS LONG. Yep. You read that right. Because in the animal kingdom, having Sting-style tantric sex ALL NIGHT LONG (all night) is not a good idea. You have to be doing other things. Like eating seeds and such. Or maybe other mammals or insects. Or fighting. There’s a lot of fighting in the animal kingdom, you know. Don’t you watch Animal Planet? Or Cops?

Even wee bebeh kittens fight!!!

But HUMANS evolved PAST our horny papillae so we could trip the light fandango or get our oil changed or play hide the sausage for HOURS. Or whatever euphemisms you might like, you can pick. It’s really your call. Or if you want, you can ask Ken, he’s in charge of euphemisms. He’ll find one for you if you want. I’m sure he’d be happy to. Guy loves a challenge.

I know, I know, this has very little to do with marriage or not-marriage or all the sex, doesn’t it? I’m GETTING there. The scenic route is the way I go, chickadees, EVERY SINGLE TIME. Except for when I don’t, I like to shake off the people tailing me sometimes.

Anyway, science-types say that the reason we don’t have these bumps and lumps is to make sex last LONGER and be more PLEASING for BOTH PARTIES (whoo, THANKS, science, except for that one time…no, let’s not talk about that right now, except for to say NO THANK YOU FOR THAT TIME SCIENCE SIGH) and therefore this led to monogamy.

Except then the article got all vague and was like “although maybe not.”

Listen, article. You need to take a STAND. You need to be BRAVE. You can’t be all wishy-washy, it’s EMBARRASSING.

I learned things from this article, like only 1 in 6 societies enforce monogamy as a rule. Really? This seems low. I guess I believe it. What choice do I have? I don’t know all the rules of the world. Also I learned that back in the DAY, you weren’t allowed to have a formal concubine, but you were allowed to have all the sex with your slaves as you wanted. Well! That seems fun for the slaves. In a not-at-all fun way.

I feel the slaves maybe had enough to do without having to worry about your needs as well, guys.

Then they talked to some sciency types who said ”There are a few species that are monogamous…the fat-tailed dwarf lemur. The Malagasy giant jumping rat. You’ve got to look in the nooks and crannies to find them, though.”

Hee, “nooks and crannies.” Also, I’d have to wonder if it’s in the name. Like, who’d want to sleep with a fat-tailed dwarf lemur, or a Malagasy giant jumping rat? No one. Also, don’t call animals fat. Call ‘em big-boned. It hurts their feelings to call them fat. They can’t help their genetics or if they like to eat all the snack cakes while watching Cheaters.

Stop negatively attacking my self-esteem, says the fat-tailed dwarf lemur. This one’s name is Petunia.

Then the article started talking about testes size. YEP! We’re talking about PENISES and also TESTICLES today. Apparently animals that  cheat a lot have HUGE BALLS. Heh. So as better to spread all the seed. Then the article says – I’m not even kidding, sorry, fellas – “And what about a man’s testes? They’re not so big and not so little. They’re just eh.” Aw! Guys! Apparently human testes are just EH! I feel bad for your testes. THEY ARE LOVELY, GUYS. Don’t let the article make you feel bad about your swimsuit areas. BAD ARTICLE BAD.

Mostly, what the article said was “we don’t know if humans used to be monogamous or polygamous. Because we have no way of knowing such things. We think humans are monogamISH. WE SAID ISH. And we are SCIENTISTS. So stuff that in your pipes and smoke it.”

This worries me. Why can’t the scientists figure this shit out? (P.S., Andreas says that scientists don’t like to say “YES!” or “NO!” because if they’re wrong they look like assholes. Well, he didn’t say THAT. He’s much less vulgar and more well-spoken than I am. THANK YOU ANDREAS!)

Here’s my thought. (What, you thought I’d let it go without giving you my very sciency thoughts? Andreas, you need to read this article and give your thoughts, by the way. I bet you do better than the scientists. You can even say penis and testes as much as you want, and it’s not even filthy. I KNOW! Isn’t this the best? Sure it is.)

I know some people are all “I could never love just one person!” and that’s awesome. I don’t judge. (Well, unless you don’t tell the person you’re currently WITH you feel this way. I don’t think cheating is cool. I have weird values about cheating. Don’t ask. It’s one of my weirdly puritanical things. Or maybe it’s one of my weirdly Wiccan things – you’re not supposed to harm anyone in the Wiccan faith. And cheating always harms someone. Or multiple someones. I don’t think it’s a good idea. I also think it’s sneaky. I hate sneakiness and I hate lying.)

Also if you’re not careful you’ll end up on this show and it’s SCANDALOUS, you guys.

But I’m very one-persony. If I’m in love with someone…that’s my person. I’m a baby duck who imprinted when I’m in love with someone, I’ll totally admit it. Mostly this might be because it doesn’t happen very often? And so when it does, that person is SPECIAL. Also, I fight it. I realize I’m falling for someone and I’m like “NOPE STOP THAT THIS WON’T END WELL!” but if it’s meant to be, my stupid heart wins out and then I’m in for trouble. Hoo, boy, am I. So if I went through ALL THAT why would I want to be with someone ELSE? That was a lot of work. A LOT of work.

Here’s me. Imprinting on a corgi, apparently.

So…I guess mostly I don’t understand polygamy? Because I don’t WANT to be with more than one person. I want ONE person. And hopefully that imaginary nebulous person would feel the same? I mean, that would be the goal, anyway? Also, I’m a (what? shock! awe!) very jealous person. I always thought that would be the worst part of being in a polygamous relationship. Wouldn’t you be so jealous of the other wives (or if you’re male, husbands?) Wouldn’t you think, “s/he looked at my sister wife/brother husband a little longer than s/he looked at me at dinner…does s/he like them better? WHY WHY WHY?” and then the whole thing would self-destruct?

Maybe most people aren’t as jealous as I am? What say you, readers, don’t you think you’d get so jealous if your husband was having sex with say 5 other women or something, or vice-versa sex-wise, men? Or am I out of my mind and old-fashioned and it would be awesome?

So…are we SUPPOSED to be monogamous? I don’t know. Probably not. I think we’re SUPPOSED to probably spread the seed all over and make a billion babies, right? That’s the way mammals work, isn’t it? Procreate? All you can? Like bunnies?

(This is mostly for Andreas because I know he loves this song as much as I do.)

I guess what you decide to do really boils down to how your heart works. And some of us have weird loyal clockwork hearts that latch onto one person and that’s it, we’re done; and some of us are more open to lots of love, I suppose. Either way’s cool with me, just, like I said, don’t hurt anyone.

So…in summation:

• horny papillae
• penis
• testes

You’re welcome, Ding Dong Joe. Don’t say I never gave you anything.

Since then I’ve moved into a more complex world of wiping, thanks to my not having showers as the grand scheme of bodily hygiene. (My shower is a glass enclosure over a tub, and it’s a big step into the shower — way too big for someone with a new hip implant . So it’s sponge baths and other workarounds.)

There are two needs here: anal wiping again, now to be managed without a shower cleanup; and general body washing (including rinsing and drying), which would ordinarily be done (in the absence of showering) with soap and a washcloth at a sink or basin, This stuff eventually gets a lot easier, but at the beginning the project is much like infant care or elder care, and the cleaning products needed are pretty much the same.

So off you go to shop for the products, only to discover that the two kinds of wiping are sometimes imperfectly distinguished. Probably this is partly the result of excessive modesty about toilet functions and partly a consequence of an enormous emphasis on softness in all sorts of wiping products (inluding facial tissue, under its many names).

For infant care, we have companies offering two large lines of products: diapers of many kinds (not my main concern here), and a variety of wipes. In the Kimberly-Clark Huggies® line (besides the diapers):

Huggies Natural Care® Wipes are the sensitive, gentle clean [note nouning] for new baby’s naturally-perfect skin. Improved softness with fewest added ingredients  – Aloe & Vitamin E  – Hypoallergenic, fragrance free and alcohol-free

Correspondingly, other sites (here for instance) offer (besides adult diapers) adult wipes, under a variety of names:

(personal) cleansing washcloths (not made of cloth), cleansing wipes, (disposable) adult wipes, washcloths (not made of cloth)

These are pretty clearly meant for general body washing (“best uses: daily cleaning”), but some could serve as well as well for anal cleaning; the ones identified as flushable certainly are.

I’ve moved to washcloths that are actually made of cloth and can wash at the sink with both hands, since I’m getting better and better at standing unsupported (so long as support is close by). I still can’t quite fathom the labels given to the different boxes of wipes, though.

and today in the Telegraph someone else has raised the issue http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/mother-tongue/9705046/Parenting-dilemma-from-willy-to-ootie-patootie-what-should-we-teach-children-to-call-their-private-parts.html

Little girl’s parts and what to call them.

I’ve been conducting an international survey that has given me answers (all from people I respect and admire, one a rock musician, one a top business exec in America, a few Dads, lots of mothers, my own mother and a senior consultant in pediatrics).

If I’d had a son I don’t think it would be such an issue … winkie, willy, penis …  seem fine to me and one is a bit of a ‘cute’ word, one is widely used and one is the ‘proper’ name … I know there are many others but if I’d had a boy then I’d probably have used willy and penis …

however … girls parts (outside and front) …

much harder … I asked my mother initially and she said very matter of factly, “everything below the waist is the bottom” (that maybe explains why I’ve never been sure!!!), then I asked my oldest friend, “vagina” she said, “no”, I answered, “that’s the inside bit”, “oh,” she replied, “bottom” … at least it wasn’t just me … this got me wondering which is where my ‘survey’ started:

So far I have been told that people use the following words with their daughters (or themselves),

Mary (3)

Pom Pom (2)

Frou Frou (1)

Fluffer (1)

Front Bottom (14)

Front Hind (6)

Forehind (2)

Fanny (in America this would be confusing as fanny really is what we Brits refer to as a bottom) (11)

Bits (25)

Parts (20)

Nether regions (bless an elderly friend) (1)

and one person said Vulva (which is technically correct) and someone else said “Oh you mean the pendulum”

My reaction to Pom Pom, Frou Frou and Fluffer was REALLY, you have got to be KIDDING ME (although that might have been slightly more inward than the “Ohhhhh” that I articulated), the hospital consultant suggested ‘fanny’ and American friends suggested ‘front’ and ‘forehind’ … so …

I’m still none the wiser, we just use the words bits and parts for the front, and bottom for the back … I guess as she gets older we’ll get more formal, I will certainly teach her the correct words and maybe one day she’ll coin a ‘pet name’ herself (apparently that is how my friend’s daughter’s parts became known as her Pom Pom).

I shall continue questioning people and let you know if anything else appears to be widely used for children … so far ‘bits’ ‘fanny’ and ‘front bottom’ seem to be the clear leaders…  obviously the important thing is that children grow up respecting their and other children’s bodies and not feeling shy or awkward and that their parents do too, they need to grow up understanding the special nature of their bodies, and their ‘private parts’ and that they are to be protected but that they are not embarrassing or something to be coy about at the same time… art and sculpture is a great way to get them used to nudity I reckon.  I wonder so often about the long term effect of all the things I do with Hope from day to day as she grows and this is yet another conundrum I’ve added to the list of things to wonder about. When we were in California, the 7 year old son of a friend helped me change Hope’s nappy / diaper one day (he has a younger brother and no sisters), when I took Hope’s nappy off he stood up and looked at me horrified and said, “She’s got no penis” … that made me smile although I did call his mother in later to explain after my attempt, “girls and boys are different” seemed to leave him perplexed. She came up with something similar and he looked even more confused and replied to her, “but yours is hairy” and so the endless explanations continued!!!

I’m not especially keen on euphemisms and I don’t like pet names but this particular dilemma has had me wondering. I also don’t like prudishness and think correct English is the best way to go, but the word ‘vulva’ somehow seems not quite right … That’s why a friend (with a son) forwarded me the Torygraph link earlier (I asked her way back in the summer and she said something about being glad she’d had a boy as I recall)! I hasten to say with all this I am considering the parenting dilemma regarding what to refer to with very young children and not what grown men and women may refer to that region as, that is a whole different area and not one I want to consider here.

This reminds of the “minced oaths” that parents once warned against: golly, gosh, and jeepers creepers all being veiled floutings of the Third Commandment. Although they’re euphemisms, they’re not vulgarities, but along with guarding against offense, they advertise thoughtlessness— which, to me, is the primary problem with euphemism.

Thinking stops when cursing starts. The f-word is the spoken equivalent of the note one hands to the teacher that reads, “The dog ate my homework.”

Mark Twain wrote somewhere that an author can quickly improve by substituting “damn” for each “very” in the submitted text. The editor would then delete every “damn,” and voila.

But a friend hit upon a delicious oath that I’m trying to popularize. He was driving west, in Amish country, saw a billboard, and exclaimed, “Sweet Lebanon Bologna!” It works in so many situations.

———————————————————————————————————————–

It’d be rather nice if I could suggest coffee / a pint / Chinese without you thinking I had dreadful nefarious motives in mind (I do not). With or without punt club, I don’t mind.

I still like your company and I’m terribly busy at work, so I don’t get to talk to you. Nobody else on the planet is as random. I think this notion is called ‘friends’ or something like that.

I solemnly promise that, should you wish to catch up:

a)      I will not drink wine and let myself or my scarf down on public transport. This seems important to stress.

b)      I will probably take the piss out of you a bit

c)       I will not drop any daft girly bombshells. Really. I won’t. I have an actual date on Friday. So that conversation never happened.

d)      There will be no misbehaviour. You’re not that irresistible ) I just like you for your welding and endless ability to talk about making stuff, and science.

e)      I will probably wonder how on earth you got hold of my ‘things to do’ list and are busy doing most of them without realising.

Also, if you’re not going skiing on the exact date of my party, you can come without fear of being enticed into my cupboard under the stairs and accosted by someone who looks a lot like your colleague, but is inexplicably not wearing a v-neck jumper or glasses, and so may not be completely recognisable (see point d). There will be lots of people there, and probably someone in there already.

Actually I could have achieved the sum of all of the above with three words: coffee, as friends? Oh well. I have amused myself, if not you, which is the main thing.

J—

————————————————————————————————————

a)      Splendid.

b)      Quite right too.

c)       Girly bombshells? That’s a barely veiled euphemism, right?

d)      It’s all bollocks.

e)      Ha.

—————————————————————————————————————

How the hell would ‘girly bombshells’ be a euphemism? Please elaborate.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Heh heh quite pleased with that reply. I know perfectly well what he means.

So there we are. Amused. Friends again. And slightly more sane again now.

Proverbs 23:7 says, “For as he thinks within himself,  so is he.”  Our thoughts are the clearest test of our character.  When compared with our actions and our speech, our thoughts are the hardest things to control.  Evil thoughts, impure desires and temptations are constantly knocking at the door of our minds.  We cannot always avoid them or shut them out, but we can keep from entertaining them and making them feel at home.  The best way to keep evil thoughts out, is to bring good thoughts into our minds.  What you and I read, look at, and listen to, will to a great extent determine our thoughts and our outlook.

The best way to keep evil ideas and worry out of our minds is to concentrate on things that are good and pure and beautiful.  The mind is not a blank slate, and is never totally at rest. Also, our thoughts are real and powerful, even though our thoughts cannot be seen, weighed, or measured.  In verse 8 the apostle Paul tells us in detail what things we ought to think about as Christians.  He gives us eight things to dwell upon.

I.  ”WHATEVER IS TRUE“

Dr. Walter Cavert reported a survey on worry that indicated that only 8 percent of the things people worried about were true concerns.  The other 92 percent were either imaginary, never happened, or involved things that the people had no control over.  In John 8:44 Jesus said that Satan  ”is a liar and the father of lies”.  Whenever we choose to believe an obvious lie, Satan takes over.  The word “true” means “real” instead of phony. It can also mean “unconcealed” or “undeniably true”. Two opposite examples of this kind of thinking are found in the New Testament.  Barnabas determined to sell his property and donate the money to the church in Jerusalem.  He responded to the leading of the Holy Spirit and did it.  Ananias, on the other hand, had thoughts of personal glory.  He said publicly that he would give all the money from the sale of a piece of property to the church at Jerusalem;  but then he only gave a portion of the money, kept the rest, and lied about it.  This attitude, and the actions that resulted, cost him and his wife their lives.  You can read about this in Acts chapter 5.

II.  ”WHATEVER IS HONORABLE“

The word means whatever is “worthy of respect” and “serious”, rather than trivial and unimportant things.  For example, while Moses was on the mountain, alone with God, and receiving God’s Law for his people, his brother Aaron was down in the valley having a party with the people of Israel,  and they worshiping a golden calf.  Later Aaron was ashamed.  God wants us to fill our minds with things that are serious and noble, rather than things that are of little or no value.

The apostle Paul also uses this word when speaking to the deacons and elders of the church in I Timothy 3.
He tells them to be honest and straightforward, not being gossipers nor slanderers. Paul is saying, “If it’s not true, don’t let it enter your mind.”

III.  ”WHATEVER IS JUST“

The apostle Paul is talking about focusing our thoughts on what is right rather than on what’s comfortable or what’s convenient.  For example, Joseph of Arimathea was a just man, concerned about doing the right thing.  He risked his life when he went and asked for the dead body of Jesus.  Taking the body of Jesus and burying Jesus in his own tomb was no easy task, and Joseph became an enemy of the Jews for doing it.  But it was the right thing to do and he did it.  Pontius Pilate, on the other hand, tried to avoid the decision he was faced with, and he tried every trick in the book.  But Jesus was still standing before him on trial for His life.  Pilate knew what was right, and he knew what would happen if he did it.  He chose what was convenient, washed his hands of the matter, and let the Jews put Jesus to death. Pilate went to his grave responsible for his thoughts and his actions. The word “just” here means “just in the eyes of God”, not merely in the eyes of men.

IV. “WHATEVER IS PURE“

This probably refers to moral purity. There will always be temptations to sexual impurity. There is so much in our world today that gets our minds focused on things that are immoral. In the Old Testament scriptures David and Uriah are good examples of these two opposite thought patterns. King David sent his men to war and went to bed himself. He saw his neighbor’s wife and went to bed with her while her husband was fighting the enemy. He got the woman pregnant and called the husband home on a phony excuse hoping he would go to bed with his wife, but his plan failed. David then got him drunk but he still wouldn’t go home to his wife. So he sent Uriah back to the battlefield with instructions that he be killed. All of this was the result of David’s dirty mind. Uriah, on the other hand, was pure and blameless. He couldn’t go home to his wife for even one night when the soldiers under his leadership were risking their lives on the battlefield. Even when David got him drunk, Uriah had more moral stability than David did when he was sober.

What do you do when impure thoughts and desires start to enter your mind? Do you open the door and invite them in, or do you shut the door and move away from them? God wants our minds to be uncontaminated by sin and always prepared to worship Him.

V. “WHATEVER IS LOVELY“

It means to think about things that promote brotherly love rather than conflict and disharmony. Many things happen to bring misunderstanding and conflict, and often these things happen because they are made to happen by people who want them to happen. They are miserable people, and they want to make other people miserable too. For example, Demetrius, the silversmith in Acts 19, was trying to stir up trouble for the apostle Paul and cause a riot at Ephesus, but the town clerk, whose name we don’t know (so we’ll call him “anonymous”), calmed the crowd. What are you – a Demetrius or an “anonymous”? Do your thoughts focus on peace with others or conflict?

VI “WHATEVER IS OF GOOD REPUTE“

We get the word “euphemism” for this Greek work.  It refers to what is praiseworthy, highly regarded, and of good reputation.  The word is used to describe Cornelius in Acts 10:22.  He was “well spoken of” by the entire nation of the Jews.  Are we focusing on the good things we see in others, or do we dwell on their faults and shortcomings?

The following is a powerful lesson learned about negative thinking.  In 1892, John Hyde boarded a ship in New York harbor and set out for India.  His goal was to proclaim the gospel to people who had not heard about Jesus.  During the next 20 years he earned the nickname “praying Hyde” because he often spend hours and even many days in prayer for the salvation of nonbelievers and the renewal of Christ’s followers.  On one occasion, Hyde was upset about the spiritual coldness of a pastor, so he began to pray, “O Father, you know how cold -”  But it was as if a finger stopped his lips from uttering the man’s name.  Hyde was horrified when he realized that he had judged the man harshly.  He confessed his critical spirit and then determined not to focus on the shortcomings of others but to see them as individuals whom God loves.  Let’s not be faultfinders in our thoughts, words, and prayers.

VII. “IF THERE IS ANY EXCELLENCE“

The word means “helpful”,  not critical. It also means “goodness” and “uprightness”. When Nehemiah and Ezra were trying to rebuild Jerusalem, Tobiah and Sanballat found fault with everything that was done. In contrast, in Mark 5, when Jesus healed the demon possessed person, this man went through ten cities giving a helpful message to all who would listen, and great blessing resulted. What a wonderful demonstration of his joy and appreciation!

VIII. “IF THERE IS ANYTHING “WORTHY OF PRAISE”

This means thinking about the positive side rather than the negative side of a situation. When the twelve spies were sent out to look over the promised land and give their report, Joshua and Caleb gave a positive report and believed that God would give them the victory. The other ten spies saw some large problems and wanted to forget the whole thing. They disobeyed God’s command to conquer the land which He had already given to them. The result was that God allowed only Joshua and Caleb, from their generation, to enter the promised land.

As a thought enters your mind, ask yourself the question:  ”Would God praise me for that thought?” Then ask yourself:  ” Do I want my thoughts to  be worthy of His praise?

CONCLUSION:

These eight categories of thought can be found in their clearest form in the Bible , the Word of God, and also in the Person of the Lord Jesus Christ as He is described in God’s Word.  The apostle Paul says, “consider these things” –  memorize them, meditate on them, let your mind be constantly occupied them.  Remember, we are in a battle against the ways of the world, the lusts of the flesh, and the temptations of Satan, and that battle is won or lost in our minds.  We give in first in our minds.  We sin first in our minds.  As II Corinthians 10:5 says, “We are destroying speculations and every lofty thing raised up against the knowledge of God, and we are taking every thought captive to the obedience of Christ.  Enjoy the victory as you fill  your mind with the things God desires, and leave no room for the things he forbids.  ”Good thinking, my friends!”

I love SheWho. Like.  Soooo much.  She wasn’t overly nice to me when I was new, but she showed up at a few Saturdays, and once I broke the ice she turned out to be the coolest mofo ever.

1. She’s hilarious
2. You can talk to SheWho about anything, she will always listen and never judge
3. She’s fucking amazing at derby
4. She has the endurance of a robot
5. She treats everyone equally
6. She goes to every practice, on time/early

Etc.  I started following SheWho around like a puppy dog.  I would sit by her, I would skate with her, I would do drills with her, and when I couldn’t do the footwork, I would get behind her and strait up copy her.

And then she “terminated her membership with RMRG.”  Talk about a dysphemism.  We all know a euphemism is a happy word in place of one that’s upsetting.  ”I need to use the powder room” rather than “I need to take a massive dump.”  SheWho, on the other hand, didn’t “retire,” she “terminated her membership with.”  *Sigh.* I cried that night.  Literally.  I may have been (ok I was) a little (completely) drunk (wasted.)  But still. Sad day.

So after she quit, I posted a Help Wanted ad on my Facebook for a SheWho replacement.  Everyone liked it and giggled and haha’d it.  But I was serious, people.  I don’t fuck around.  Who am I going to follow now?  I’d tried following Rad Die, but it seemed to weird her out.  Gaygan and Sweets are awesome, but I’m still a ‘lil aloof with them.  Q didn’t jam (and is now gone–though she let me copy/follow her til I figured out backwards crossovers.)  Same for Ann Drogyny–er–Bob Loblaw.

So I was sad.  And a ‘lil depressed.  And I couldn’t figure out where to sit at practice, or who to stalk, and it took some adjusting.  That was August.  And I was freaking out about maintaining my Contender status.  Then I did.  No time for a sigh of relief, because we had an upcoming DRD bout and a travel bout to Sacramento.  I was going to do everything in my power to beat those glittery chicas (no offense intended–I say that endearingly.)  I did.  And we lost by, what, 4?  Same for Sacramento.  I did–and we won by 9!  And then I was a jamming machine for Sacred City, which was good, since Pippi was injured and our other main jammers exhausted from the night before.  Then we came home.

And I still don’t have a SheWho.  Anytime I think I’m close to finding one, I realize their practice attendance is not as good as mine, so they’re out.  Despite how amazing they are, for whatever reason, I take my practices seriously and I can’t have better attendance than my SheWho.  So now what?  It’s the “Off Season.”  I reflected on the past weeks/months.  Wow.  I have been really self-absorbed.  Derby-wise.  But…  I mean… I was trying to stay on Contenders, right?  I’m nobody, I’m not important, I’m just somebody who barely made Contenders twice.  So that’s fine, right?

And then I sorta looked at the big picture.  A year ago.  Last November.  I transferred to the Rocky Mountain Rollergirls from the Castle Rock ‘n Rollers.  I worshipped those girls.  Alice, SheWho, Pepa, Toxie, Q, Die, Nona, Lops, Pippi, Batty, etc, etc, etc.  I remember Nona pulling me aside one day to help me fix my derby stance, which had totally fucked up my back.  Coolest thing ever.

So… even if I’m just me.  Just barely a Contender…  I’m not.  In the scheme of things.  To the rest of the league, to the newbies, to the girls who’ve been here since December and haven’t quite Skills Tested yet.  I’m a Contender.  Period.  So.  I’ve been doing a disservice to those girls by being so self-absorbed, even if I don’t think what I have to say matters.  And then I realized–and this was a mind-fuck–I’ve become my own SheWho.  (This is where I sound like a total cock.)  There are so, so, so many girls to look up to on RMRG.  But nobody comes close to SheWho’s attendance.  Except me.  And I don’t even come close in numbers cuz SheWho had the added commitment of Fight Club practices.  (2 extra/ week.)

Now, granted, SheWho is way fucking cooler than me in my opinion.  But.  I think some people seem to think I’m pretty cool.  For whatever reason.  Maybe because I talk about dumps and booze on here all the time, who knows.  Maybe they’ve lost their minds (likely.)  So…  if I look at how much I worship SheWho, and, well.  Let’s say one person out there thinks I’m even half as cool as I think SheWho is…  and I’m all aloof and practicing my own shit.  Well that makes me about 10000x as much a cock as calling myself my own Who does.  So.  My goal til January 1: focus on others instead of myself.  Be more helpful to newer girls.  Be welcoming to transfers.  Etc.

You’d think this would be easy, right?  It’s not.  I feel so completely out of my element and douchey.  Fuck.  Last Sunday, we only had 6 skaters.  6 awesome skaters.  Who took over?  This girl.  Monday: Die was teaching bridging, and we split into two groups.  Who took over the second group? (The one Die wasn’t supervising?)  This girl.  I’m not trying to take over.  I’m not trying to be bossy.  I don’t think I know everything and I know I’m not the best skater and have sooo much room to grow.  It’s just…  we haven’t seen FC much lately, and when we do, it’s at Sundays.  No one else is stepping up and someone has to.  And if I’m truly focusing on helping others improve…  maybe I should be stepping up a little?  I don’t know.  It feels so weird to me.

And last night.  Five transfers being evaluated, and again, the newer skaters are more noticeable b/c FC is on a break (which is great–this time is a great time to focus on improving one’s own skills.)  I couldn’t figure out how to not be a douche in the three-wall drill.  As a jammer.  I am completely average as a jammer.  But with new girls who haven’t been exposed to the techniques we’ve been practicing lately…  I slid right though.  Again and again.  I was just trying to work on a bit of footwork, looking for holes, etc, while they did the wall.  But they asked me to you know.  Go through less.  Be less douchey. (They didn’t say that, that’s my own add-on.)  So then I skated left, right, left.  Which seemed less douchey for that drill, but in another situation might be douchey?  I just don’t know.

Lastly… there’s like.  Committees that need heading and some BOD positions and we need a Conts. Captain.  I don’t really want to do any of those things.  I don’t think I’m the right person to do any of those things.  But maybe I will.  We’ll see.

I have very few classroom horror stories from my college days. Of course I remember a lot of petty behavior, some arguable decisions, and I witnessed at least one case of genuine abuse to a classmate, …okay two. But it was pretty rare that I personally felt any significant discomfort as a result of anything the teachers did in the classroom.

My statistics textbook took a Hell of a beating, but that’s a different issue. I liked that teacher. I just hated statistics.

But there was one really awful lecture that I remember in detail. Lucky you, dear reader, because I am going to share the misery.

It was my last semester in college and I was finishing up the credits for a second major, linguistics. In those days, the linguistics program at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas was interdisciplinary. So, I had taken plenty of classes in linguistic anthropology, sociolingistics, psycholinguistics, logic, philosophy of language, etc. …all really great stuff! I enjoyed every minute of it. But that did leave one really huge gap in the knowledge that a guy graduating with a degree in linguistics ought to have. I hadn’t yet taken a full course in grammar. I didn’t even need it to graduate, at least according to the degree requirements, but that didn’t sit right with me. How could I graduate with a degree in this subject without the benefit of a full course in grammar? I’d heard good things about the lady who taught grammar in the English Department, and so I signed up and prepared to get down and dirty in the realm of syntax.

I knew something was wrong when I found a middle-aged man standing at the head of the classroom on the first day. I do remember his name, but let’s just call him Mr. H. Mr. H. passed out index cards and asked all of us to fill in some personal information while he explained that the usual instructor was on sabbatical that semester. He would be teaching the grammar classes.

Okay.

For the next few minutes everything seemed pretty standard. No red flags went up as Mr. H. reviewed the syllabus, and I felt pretty confident I was going to learn a lot in his class. I grew even more pleased when he explained that he would sometimes venture outside the narrow bounds of grammar to discuss other aspects of language use.

It was as though he had promised to have strippers pass candy out during class.

I couldn’t wait for some of those discussions. Luckily I didn’t have to, as Mr. H. proudly announced his first slightly-off-topic lecture for the semester. He wanted to talk about euphemisms.

I was a happy guy.

He began by telling the story of his first job, working in a mom&pop grocery store somewhere in Texas. Mr. H. talked about the time some yankee had come in and asked for some jalapenos, (pronouncing the ‘j’ about like you would ‘jam’). His reply, as Mr. H. explained it was; “Sir I believe the Spanish call them jalapenos (pronouncing the ‘j’ like the ‘h’ in ham).” He then proceeded to explain that this was a terrible thing to do and that no-one should ever make fun of the way anyone else speaks, ever.

I wasn’t entirely sure that he had described an act of mockery, but that was a detail I could easily overlook. On the main point,  the man was preaching to the choir as far as I was concerned. I was really glad I had signed up for the class.

And that’s when things took a bad turn.

Within just a couple minutes of announcing this principle that one shouldn’t make fun of other people’s speech, Mr. H. began to tell us all about the decline of the English language as a result of recent trends. Mr. H. was quite concern that folks had begun to water the English language down with a variety of euphemisms. It was a terrible situation as our great medium of communication had been harmed a great deal by this trend.

Mr. H. had quite a few examples, but the first one that I can remember was the term ‘African-American’. Mind you, this was 1990 and the battles over political correctness were picking up steam fast. This topic had not yet run its full course in the public sphere; it hadn’t yet bored everyone to tears. My classmates sat on the edge of their seats while Mr. H. proceeded to explain that he had nothing but love for all God’s people, but he didn’t believe in calling people by the wrong word. You had to call people what they were, not what they weren’t. I sat back just a little disappointed and waited for Mr. H. to explain that ‘black’ was the proper name for the people in question.

Instead he proceeded to tell the class that ‘negro’ was what ‘they’ were and that was what folks ought to call them. I sat back up. He had at least surprised me. I had to give him that, but did I hear the man right?

Had I heard correctly. Was he actually skipping right past the common usage to rescue a sordid vocabulary choice out of a distant era?  I listened on as Mr. H. insisted that he meant no disrespect by this term and that it had no insulting implications. ‘Negro” was the right word and nothing else would do. Those using the term ‘African-American’ were engaged in a full-scale assault on the English language, and she suffered terribly at their abusive treatment.

The rest of the class ate this message up. I mean they loved it! For my own part, I dropped right out of that choir he was preaching to.

My concern wasn’t entirely with the politics at hand. I was never fully on board with the PC approach to vocabulary, and I could think of reasonable concerns about a lot of the verbal practices at hand. But Mr. H. wasn’t producing reasonable arguments. In fact, he was demonstrating a level naïveté that I didn’t expect from someone who was about to teach a class in descriptive linguistics. Objections were crowding their way into my thoughts in such numbers I feared my mind might burst if I listened anymore.

- Mr. H’s assertion that there was a right word for this or any other topic and that anything else was poor use stood out like a sore thumb. By ‘sore thumb, I mean a completely unsupported premise. Worse than that; this assumption flew in the face of pretty much everything lexicographers had to say about the subject. Words had multiple meanings, and topics could be referred to in a variety of different ways. You could argue pros and cons of different word choices, but Mr. H. just insisted there was a right word and the public wasn’t using it anymore. This was a bit like discovering your geography teacher was a flat earther.

- ‘Negro’? Seriously, ‘Negro’?

- Details aside, declensionist narratives about the state of a given language are tired and damned lame. Untold prophets have warned about the decline of English, each with a different sin on their minds, and each cherry-picking the evidence with all the shame of a child stealing fruit from a neighbors tree. In this case, there was the additional absurdity that Mr. H. wanted us to feel for the abuse of the English language even as he minimized concerns about the abuse of actual people. This was personification with an agenda, and that agenda had little room for concerns about folks who really could feel the effects of abuse.

- I really couldn’t square the entire theme of the lecture with the lesson Mr. H. had drawn from his first example. Were we not making fun of the way some folks talked? I suppose he was suggestijng that advocates of politically correct speech were making fun of others, but he had gone well past correcting that and right into the realm of mocking their own vocabulary preferences.

- A bit depends on the presentation, but the notion that words like ‘African American’ are euphemisms contains at least one really ugly implication. If a euphemism is a word that makes something ugly sound better than it is, and that did seem to be the way Mr. H. defined it, then what did that say about his thoughts about the people this term was applied to? Was he not suggesting that the right word really did convey something bad. He denied this of course, but that really seemed to be the station to which his particular train of thought had been headed.

All of these thoughts and others crowded into my head and screamed for me to let them out. I couldn’t believe I was hearing this crap from a guy who studied language for a living.

I looked around and I saw over 20 students falling in love with this man.

It’s okay, I thought. I’m here for the lessons on grammar. This doesn’t have to matter. Who knows. Maybe, Mr. H. will respond well to challenging opinions. Should I say something now and see how he responds? But where to start? I thought about whether or not to field an objection as I just sat there and took in the horror show.

The straw that broke this camels back came when Mr. H. took up the use of the term ‘gay’.

Yep. He was against it.

Mr. H. told us that he would never use that word. He went on to explain that he would never condemn a man for being what God made him, but he believed in calling people what they really were. I thought surely that he was going to tell us the proper term was ‘homosexuals’.

But no.

What these people were, Mr. H. informed us was ‘faggots’.

No other word would do.

And Mr. H.’s fan club fell over themselves to show their appreciation for this point. It was quite the surreal experience for me, watching my classmates nod and stare lovingly at this performance. I thought surely I would soon be sick.

At this point, I felt like Mr. H. had enough rope. If I couldn’t hang him with it, I should at least be able to reign in the message a bit. And anyway, I really needed to see how he would respond to disagreement. So, up went my hand. Mr. H. called on me. And I proceeded to ask him if he didn’t think it more appropriate to consider ‘faggot’ a dysphemism (in retrospect, I should have just said ‘insult’). I went on to ask if he didn’t think the English language was growing new insults at about the same pace that it was growing euphemisms, or if he had specific reasons for thinking the one trend was outpacing the other. I think I managed to keep a respectful tone, but I definitely expressed my disagreement.

And the class grew silent.

The man literally scowled at me. In falling tones, Mr. H. asked me for my name. He then proceeded to dig the pile of index cards from the beginning of class out of his shirt pocket and slowly flip through the until he found mine. He then studied my card for a minute or two, all of this in utter silence. No-one said anything.

With a heavy sigh, Mr. H. finally placed the cards back in his pocket and looked back at me. “What I am truing to say is…” He then proceeded to restate his general thesis that English had been watered down through excessive euphemisms. He did this without responding to any of my points at all. It was amazing. There was no reference to anything I had just said, no answers whatsoever to my questions. No counterarguments. Nothing!

Mr. H. then asked me if that message was okay with me.

After a brief pause, I said ‘yes’.

By ‘yes’ I meant that I would be graduating without the benefit of a full course in grammar.

I try and avoid going to Christian barbecues because I tend to use the exclamation, ‘Jesus’, quite a lot in general conversation, in fact, I reckon the term, ‘Jesus quite a lot’ sounds even better than just plain, ‘Jesus’.

For example, if you accidentally hit your thumb with a hammer, it’d be much more satisfying to exclaim, “JESUS QUITE A LOT!!” Rather than just plain, “JESUS!”

Some people yell, ‘God’, when they accidentally hurt themselves but I’m guessing Jesus himself would just yell, “DAD!” Or, “ME…QUITE A LOT!”

The good thing about Christian barbecues is they’re full of Christians so even if you accidentally blaspheme you are forgiven and not judged. I don’t really say, ‘Jesus’, coz it’s evolved over the years to the point I’m now really saying, ‘Joy-zuss’ coz I don’t want to offend people, even though everyone knows what it means.

Some Christians will use other euphemisms, for example, ‘Jesus Christ’, will be changed to ‘Gee Wizz’ and instead of exclaiming, ‘God Damn’, they’ll say, ‘Gosh Darn’. The thing is, we all know what they’re really saying anyway, so if they think, by changing a few letters-around, they’re going to escape being sent to hell for eternity, they just might find themselves sent to Hull for eturnatree.

The point is, if you’re going to blaspheme then you might as well blaspheme full-on instead of using a thinly veiled euphemism that means exactly the same thing. However, if you are going to try and cover up offensive terms, we may as well introduce some new and obvious euphemisms for other well-used derogatory terms, such as the self explanatory, Mother-Flicker, Flick-Face and Cork-Stacker.

I don’t think you’d hear those terms at a Christian barbecue but, if you did, there’d be Romans involved and it’d be the Christians being barbecued.

In a future blog I’ll be writing about, Ron. L. Hubbard, founder of, Scientology, a man who understood that many people are inclined to worship false idols and interpret books, such as the bible, literally. With this knowledge he set-out to make-up his own book, from which he made a lot of gosh darn money, and, now, when his followers accidentally hit their thumbs with hammers, you can hear them exclaim loudly, “Ron Darn !!”

PS: This blog was written while tree-loppers were sawing down a giant tree in my neighbour’s backyard and the gosh darn noise was a real mother flicker but they’ve finished stacking corks now and have flicked off.

That’s my blog for the day.

If you judge me negatively for writing this blog and believe I’ll be sent to hell, well, I’ll see you there for being un-Christian.

Remember…a sense of humour is a true gift and if you don’t use it, that is a true sin.

Stay positive coz the only other option is negative…

Over & Out of it

vicplume.com

Still amazed that Katla had so readily accepted her lunch invitation, Anouk looked at the kitchen clock for the fourth time in five minutes. Katla didn’t strike her as the type of person to be late, but then, she didn’t know that much about her. She stepped back and studied the lunch spread, mentally checking her list. Ciabatta, warm from the oven. Vegetarian salad, with a separate plate of smoked salmon and smoked chicken. Another plate with cold cuts and slices of cheese. Tea pot rinsed and ready for boiling water. Percolator on the stove, filled with water and coffee…

Newk and Baaba sat outside on the kitchen window sill, disgruntled at being banned from the kitchen, but Anouk didn’t know how Katla would react to the cats. And their tendency to steal food at every opportunity. Better to leave them outside for the time being.

She sighed. Maybe she should’ve suggested lunch at a café instead. Too late now. The memory of Katla’s predatory gaze gliding over her skin brought back the goose bumps. Anouk rubbed her arms. Bram, reticent as always, steered away from the topic of his mysterious new girlfriend whenever Anouk mentioned her. And Zeph described her appearance as ordinary.

Ordinary…

Although Katla did her utmost to appear inconspicuous, only casual observers would overlook those vibrant eyes and that cruel mouth. Like one of those Gustav Klimt women—coolly observant, detached and slightly hostile. The thought sent shivers through her bruised spine.

Five minutes past one.

Well, either Katla wasn’t punctual, or she thought being on time was impolite.

She felt a bit queasy and looked out the kitchen window. Newk and Baaba pawed at the smooth glass and meowed, though the drizzling rain didn’t touch the window sill.

She needed to pee.

She looked at the clock. Six past one.

Anouk hurried down the hallway to the toilet, pulled up her dress and sat down.

The doorbell rang.

Fuckfuckfuck.

The urge to pee was unstoppable. She wadded up toilet paper while she urinated.

The bell rang again.

Fuuuuuuuck. Pleasepleaseplease. Don’t be impatient.

Quickly she wiped herself, flushed the toilet, and was about to storm to the front door when she realised that she had not washed her hands. The bell rang for a third time as she rinsed her hands and took the towel with her to the front door.

Katla combed her fingers through her tousled hair, probably from the motorcycle helmet in her hand. Behind her, a battered XT350 motorcycle was parked on the sidewalk. Her bright blue eyes glittered with amusement, as if she could guess why Anouk was late to the door. “Hallo.”

“Let me take that.” Anouk took her helmet and stepped back into the hallway. “Please come in.”

Katla entered in an aura of cold damp air and wet leather, closed the door behind her with one hand and touched Anouk’s shoulder with her other hand as she kissed her softly on both cheeks. Flustered Anouk felt the blood rise to her face, but Katla didn’t notice and strolled down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Smells good. Did you bake bread?”

“Ciabatta,” Anouk replied, grateful the hallway was dimly lit. She returned the towel to the toilet and followed Katla to the kitchen, where she put her helmet down on a chair.

“What would you like to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee would be great.”

Katla shrugged out of her jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. Underneath she wore a maroon blouse from rough silk, with cut-outs that left her muscular sun-kissed shoulders bare.

She turned to the window and finger-waved at Newk and Baaba. “Your cats don’t look happy.”

Anouk busied herself at the stove, hoping the warmth of her oven would provide an alibi for her flushed cheeks.

“They’d eat our lunch if they have half a chance, so I opted to leave them outside. At least until you arrived. You mind if I let them in again?”

“Not at all.” Katla grinned. “I’m prepared to fight any cat for my lunch.”

Newk and Baaba stormed inside and wrapped themselves around Katla’s long leather-clad legs. As she reached down to stroke their fur, Anouk stole a glance into her blouse showing just a bit of cleavage. Her small high breasts were cupped in a frilly Chantelle bra, not a Marlies Dekkers as she had expected. As Katla straightened Anouk turned back to the stove to grab the percolator. “Cream, sugar?”

“Black. Thanks.” Katla took a sip from the hot coffee. “Lovely cats. Siamese?”

“Yes. You have cats?”

“No cats. A macaw.”

“Ah, yes, Zeph told me.”

Katla’s impossibly blue eyes fixed on her. “Zeph told you?”

Shit.

“He takes care of my cats when I’m away.” Anouk smiled back uncertainly. “He told me he’d taken care of your macaw, when you were, uh, you know. Hurt.”

“Hurt. What a wonderful euphemism.” Katla looked around the table. “This salad is vegetarian?”

“I put the salmon and the chicken separate, so you could choose.”

“That’s considerate.” She took one-third of the salad and added salmon. “I’m not vegetarian, though. In fact, I’m mostly carnivore. You made this dressing yourself?”

Anouk nodded.

“You’re not shy, are you?” Katla tilted her head. “Or are you afraid of more faux passes?”

“You make me nervous.”

“Because I got hurt?”

If that’s what you’d like to think. Anouk shrugged. “Well, yes.”

“I rarely get hurt.” Katla rubbed her thigh. “Last time was a mistake.”

“What you might call ‘an occupational hazard’?”

“No. What you might call ‘a mistake’. And the matter was rectified.”

“Rectified?”

“The person who hurt me is no longer in a position to hurt anyone.” Katla gave her a predatory smile. “Retired, you might say.”

“But you walk with a limp.”

“Which is better than not walking at all.”

“Mistake or not, if you’d had another job, you wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“Wishful thinking is an exercise in futility.” Katla spooned some salad in her mouth and chewed enthusiastically. “You’re not worried about me, are you?”

“I’m concerned about Bram. If you can get hurt, so can he. By association.”

“By association? How close would this association have to be to become perilous?”

“I don’t know. That’s what worries me.”

“Well, don’t worry. I don’t take Bram to work.”

Anouk tilted her head. “What is your work?”

“I’m a businesswoman.”

“You’re not an ordinary businesswoman, Katla. Ordinary businesswomen don’t tend to get… hurt.”

“You can say the word. Shot. I got shot.”

“Why did you get shot?”

“Because someone made a mistake. Like I said before, I rarely get injured on the job.”

Anouk chewed slowly. “So what is it that you do? Exactly?”

“I’m a corporate troubleshooter.”

“That’s not exactly specific.”

“That’s about as specific as I can be.” Katla made herself a sandwich. “The corporations I work for wouldn’t want me to go into detail to someone without the proper security clearances.”

“Say I’d want to hire you. Hypothetically.”

“If you want to discuss hypotheses, I can give you a theoretical answer.”

“Let’s say, I’m a corporation and I have problems with the competition.”

Katla chewed her sandwich. “You have to be more specific. Security problems? Or is their product commercially more viable?”

“What can you do in that case?”

“If the product is more viable? Shift the balance.”

Anouk tilted her head. “How?”

“By making the competitor’s product less viable.”

“I understand that, but how would you proceed?”

“Clients rarely ask specifics. Results are all that matter.”

“Seriously? Why? Because you do illegal things?”

Katla pursed her lips. “Not necessarily illegal, but involvement might taint a corporation’s reputation. I rarely report what I do. Or even specify invoices.”

“So you have a free hand?”

“Nobody really wants to know what I do, as long as I get results.”

“How do you get a job like that?”

Katla shrugged. “How did you become a sculptor?”

“I always wanted to create, and that’s my medium.”

“You can be creative in more ways than one. I’m creative in finding solutions to other people’s problems.”

“Like opening my door?” Anouk asked. “Without keys?”

Katla gazed at her, her eyes inscrutable. “Bram had a key.”

“You opened the door, not Bram. And I overheard him say you did it quicker than with a key, so I know you didn’t use one.”

“I picked your lock.” Katla shrugged. “So?”

“That’s illegal.”

“Not for me.” Katla fished a wallet from her coat and showed her an ID card. “See?”

“Locksmith?” She studied the card. “I can’t tell if this is real or not.”

“It’ll stand up to official scrutiny.”

Anouk shook her head. “Lockpicking isn’t part of a locksmith’s curriculum.”

Amusement glittered in the cool blue eyes. “How would you know?”

“Because they drill out the lock if you lose your key…” Anouk held up her hand. “Wait, they replace the lock so they can charge more money?”

“Replacing the cylinder also reinforces the client’s false sense of security,” Katla replied. “Makes them think not even a locksmith can pass their locks without power tools.”

“But it’s not more difficult?”

“Depends on the lock.” Katla fished in her jacket again, took out a leather case and opened the flaps to reveal an array of delicate steel instruments that reminded Anouk of dentist equipment. From her bag she took an ordinary portable toolkit with a folding set of pliers and several screwdrivers and placed it next to the opened case with the picks. “These tools open seventy-five percent of all locks. Including yours.”

Anouk studied the picks. “These are only available to locksmiths, right?”

“Those are high quality picks, but starter sets are commercially available. If you have the money, you can buy all the equipment you need.”

“But, even if I bought these tools, I wouldn’t know how to use them.”

“I can teach you in an hour, but proficiency takes practice. And you have to train regularly to keep up your skill.”

Anouk poured a generous amount of sugar in her cappuccino and stirred until the foam disappeared. “You always carry this equipment with you?”

“Sure,” Katla replied. “Why not?”

“You have that card, but wouldn’t it be illegal to carry burglary equipment?”

“Burglars carry glass cutters, metal wire, and suction cups. Lockpicks are not illegal to carry. It’s illegal to use them without authorisation, but Bram authorised me to open your door.”

“You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Katla stuck her tools away. “Does that surprise you?”

“Not really. You don’t strike me as someone who leaves a lot to chance.”

“Neither are you, judging by this wonderful spread.”

Anouk smiled and took some salad, while she watched her eat. Katla studied the sculpture in the garden, the metal beak dipping into the pond and rising, the huge bird slowly revolving with water dripping from the beak.

“I saw something similar to your sculpture in Boston, in a private Zen garden.”

“At Christopher Melling’s house? That’s one of mine, yes.”

“Melling. That’s it. Wow, that is impressive.”

Anouk smiled. “Thanks. I hope it’s still there.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Melling died and his house was sold. I don’t know if the new owner is into Zen.”

Katla pursed her lips. “Melling died?”

“Yes, real tragic. Autoerotic asphyxiation gone awry.”

“Melling didn’t strike me as a kinky guy. But then, neither did that Australian singer.”

“From INXS?” Anouk took another sandwich. “I guess you never know. It’s a shame, Melling was so close to becoming the next Frank Gehry.”

“But you must be famous too, if you sold work to Melling.”

“I sold about two pieces in America, one in Dubai, two in Europe, and eight in Asia.”

“Dubai?” Katla’s eyes widened. “You’re Nouk?”

“My agent advised me to shorten my name, so my brand would be more unique.”

“You made the Whirling Dervish.”

“Yes. I had to rebuild it three times, because the fine sand screwed up the works.”

“I love the Dervish. I watched it for over an hour.”

Anouk blushed. “Glad you liked it.”

“I had no idea.”

“What were you doing in Dubai? Working?”

Katla held out her cup. “Do you have another coffee for me?”

“Sure.” Anouk poured her another cup from the percolator. “Work-related?”

Katla looked at her sculpture in the garden. “The Dervish is more elaborate. This one is more like the one in Melling’s garden.”

“Melling bought a sculpture from my early collection. The Dervish had more input by the client.”

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

Anouk pursed her lips. “It was frustrating. I’m not a designer, I’m an artist.”

“Rich people expect things to be done their way.”

“I didn’t care for that. Clients can choose from what I’m making or have made, but I’m not allowing anyone input in my work anymore.”

Katla spooned some more salad on her plate. “So what are you working on now?”

“I can show you later.” Anouk looked at a drop of salad dressing in the corner of her mouth. A delicious ripple of pleasure and anticipation made her hands tremble and her mouth dry. “I’d love to hear what you think about it.”

Katla’s tongue snaked across her lips and removed the tantalizing drop of salad dressing. “The pleasure is all mine.”

If you like this fragment from my work in progress, check my ‘About’ page for a link to Reprobate – A Katla Novel, the first novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series. You can download a sample with the first few chapters for free from Amazon, or the whole novel (113,000 words or 380 pages) for only $4.99. If you follow my blog, you will be notified about the exact publication date of Peccadillo – A Katla Novel. And, of course, be able to read more fragments and snippets from the work in progress. If you’d like to become a beta reader for the Amsterdam Assassin Series, email Martyn V. Halm at katlasieltjes@yahoo.com and put ‘beta reader’ in the subject line. Thanks for your support.

Carrying on from where he left in Animal Farm (a satire on Russian Revolution), he presents a cold and chilling vision of a dystopian society where surely enough nobody wants to live in. A disturbing picture of the future is portrayed euphemistically in gory details.

The future presented speaks of a world of fear and treachery and torment which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. It’s not based on love and justice but on forgery where history is continuously rewritten, by the government, Big Brother, which is in ultimate control. George Orwell uses a perfect combination of irony and euphemism to highlight day-to-day falsification of the past, which were carried out by the Ministry of Truth and the work of repression and espionage carried out by the Ministry of Love.

People lived in such a hostile society that nobody dared to speak above a whisper as they were under surveillance 24X7. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one subject to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Winston Smith was one such fellow who had the fire in his belly and goes against Big Brother by having his own thoughts and a love affair, both of which were inevitable to hide.

Winston bears not only the physical torture of Big Brother’s law force but also the battle within his own head, whether to stand his ground or give in. Just like Animal Farm, this astounding novel clings to the memory of every reader. It even goes one step ahead and forces them to think rather ‘doublethink’ in order to understand ‘WHY’ rather than ‘HOW’ something is happening in their vicinity.

Cut to online profile photos and what to put up…well, I put up my usual suspects but since my hair has grown out a bit more, I put up some more recent ones, including one of me, smiling like I just got out of jail, holding a bucket of apples.

Why do I speak at length about my apples you ask? Perhaps it’s because a guy decided to message me about them. Oh wait. No, he didn’t. Instead he asked me for one of my peaches.

But really? My peaches? Is that a flirty, naughty euphemism? Today is NOT the day buddy. And they’re not fucking peaches.

The best bit…besides the fact they LOOK like apples, I even wrote a caption indicating my love of the pictured APPLES.

Idiot. A blind idiot. His one positive trait – within my preferred age range.

(And yes, I’m still in a pissy mood)

NEXT!!!