You've probably heard the saying that all daughters eventually become their mothers. Well, I think my transformation's begun. My flatmate and I went grocery shopping this week, and came across a bog roll bargain. Even though we have no space to store 18 rolls of loo paper (I really like books and shoes, remember), we bought them anyway. As we were calculating what a bargain we stumbled upon (it's me, so there was actual stumbling...lots of it), I said to my flatmate, "I feel like my mother".

Like many South Africans all of my mother's bulk buys come from Makro. All Makro means to me is the giant walk-in fridge. That's the only reason I ever go there. In case you didn't understand how awesome Makro is, let me say it again: YOU CAN WALK INTO A FRIDGE! My mother, however, does not just go to Makro to stand in the fridge and stare at the abundance of milkshake. She actually buys stuff, and sometimes in bulk.

So yes, I now buy in bulk. I buy shitloads of toilet paper. I can't think of anything more grown-up and bourgeois. Does this mean that I am no longer the awkward, inept almost adult? No. I think I'm at some sort of middle ground between stumbling home at 3am with strangers and discussing why Woolworths' milk is better than Spar's, but why Spar's fresh bread is better than Woolworths'. 

Here's why:

I somehow managed to (over)cook everything except the burgers. Although, I didn't burn supper for once. Also, when I removed the burgers, the oven tan lines looked like glasses.

That observation, however, sounds suspiciously like something a hipster would say. In order to combat this I must do something acceptably mainstream. I'm thinking of listening to Adele while wearing Crocs. Excuse me as I sing along to Set Fire to the Rain while attempting to not actually set fire to anything...

I'm a klutz. The kind that smears cappuccino foam all over her forehead and then tries to lick it off. In public. Due to my perennial state of clumsiness, I do not take responsibility for the 715 km journey between my home and university. Instead, I sit back at a slightly uncomfortable 90 degree angle and occasionally engage in awkward small talk while a pilot shuttles me back and forth. For the past three years this system's worked pretty well. That changed yesterday.

After an hour and a half of flying we got to Port Elizabeth. We approached the runway and tried to land. We flew back up. We tried to land. We flew back up. We tried to land. We flew back up. I'm quite used to driving in circles because I have no sense of direction, but this was the first time I'd ever flown in circles. Eventually our pilot announced that we would fly 20 minutes back to East London, because we were going to run out of fuel. As we flew from one coastal city to another, I was sure we were going to run out of fuel, plummet into the sea and die. In my mind flying to East London would surely consume more fuel than trying to land till kingdom come. Also, I hadn't read the safety brochure or listened to the safety announcements. My laziness was going to kill me. I should've listened to my mother all of the times she scolded me for being lazy. Of course, I had no one to express all of this to because the guy next to me slept the entire time. Seriously. The entire time! He didn't even open an eye for the announcements, dozed through the turbulence and ignored his box of plane food (as a student I place great importance on free food so this really disturbed me).

Turns out I didn't have to cram the safety info on the brochure as we plunged into the sea.Source

Despite being convinced of my imminent death for a few seconds, I was slightly excited (Ok, I was actually really excited). Nothing like this had ever happened to me. My worst flight experience was when the airline forgot to give me a vegetarian meal (I know - first world problems). For a few minutes it was exciting, but by the time we got to East London it was just inconvenient. I'd missed my bus back to Grahamstown, and we weren't allowed off the plane. And, apparently refueling a plane takes even longer than topping up your tank at 5pm on a weekday. 

Eventually we fueled up and arrived in PE two and a half hours later than scheduled. The worst part? There were jocks on the plane. Lots of them. Before we even left Durban they were planning on going to the PE airport bar to "smash a few beers" as they waited for their bus to Grahamstown. Their response to the delay was, "Ah okes, let's just get pissed". I would choose Snakes on a Plane a thousand times over Jocks on a Plane (either the movie or the actual event - they're equally terrible, but nowhere near the terrifying experience of being stuck on a plane with jocks for almost four hours). 

My life is now jock-free and I'm safely at home. Accidents, however, are still rife. I arrived home to a cracked windscreen. Oh well, I did at least get a vegetarian meal on the flight this time...

Today I got into a fight with a large man. A bigot, in fact. 

The t-shirt in question.

I was standing in a queue at a local pizza place, waiting to place my order. My brother mentioned that the man alongside me didn't like my t-shirt. So, I looked over at him. "You should be worried about your own country - what about the farmers?" he said. He twisted his mouth downwards as his fleshy face reddened. He was clearly angry at my display of empathy and solidarity. "It's about human rights," I replied in an attempt to show him how fundamental the denial that Palestinians suffer is. "You should sort out your own religion first," he commanded. I had never met this man before. He didn't even know my name, let alone what religion I practice or whether I am an atheist. 

Again, I attempted to explain that my support of Palestine had nothing to do with religion. Empathy for my fellow human beings, and recognising that the Israeli occupation of Palestine and its treatment of Palestinians is despicable does not require a belief in a god. I had barely finished my first sentence when he asserted that Muslim men treat "their" (yes, he actually used that pronoun) women terribly. Has this man never been out in society? Patriarchy is not exclusively Muslim - as his choice of pronoun illustrated.

A few minutes went by and he walked back past me to collect his pizza. On his way out he demanded, "You must change your shirt" (indeed, he failed to recognise his hypocrisy for a second time). The woman behind the till told me not to worry, and twirled her index finger at the side of her head to indicate that this man was just crazy. I wasn't going to do anything. I'd listened to him and I attempted to talk to him in a civil, calm manner but he was not interested. I tried to be the "bigger person" but in the face of such ignorance and contempt for humanity, I simply could not contain my anger any longer.

 It was the type of anger where your face swells with emotion and the tears just burst out of you. I followed the man to his car. I started to tell him that he had no right to tell me what to do, or what to wear. And, that his lack of empathy was based on ignorance. I also tried to draw a comparison between what Palestinians face and apartheid South Africa. He didn't hear me. He shouted at me, and I shouted back. However, he definitely did not want to engage in any sort of discussion. He clambered into his car as quickly as he could, and let the windows down so he could scream at me as he drove off. "Report me to Rajbansi," he said as he drove away - thereby displaying both his racism and political ignorance.

This was my first direct experience with bigotry as an adult. After spending two weeks observing "third spaces" (places such as cafes and bus stops where citizens have meaningful, democratic conversations) I discovered that most "third spaces" don't live up to theory. On the whole, engaging conversation was conspicuously absent in the  "third spaces" that I observed. These spaces were fractured. They illustrated the fragmentation of South African society, on a social as well as a political level. For me this incident was certainly not an example of a healthy political conversation. The man in question had no interest in engaging in a discussion. People disagree all the time, but there is nothing valuable in attacking someone for their beliefs without listening to their justification for it. On top of that, this man just made assumptions about me. I was wrong and he was right on the basis of these assumptions. I completely understand his need to want to sort out the issues that obviously linger in South Africa, but if this is the way that citizens attempt to engage with each other then these problems will always persist.

On the other hand, other customers at the pizza place and some staff came over to check if I was ok (I was full-on bawling by the time I returned). And, this was despite a few ungracious comments I'd made at the end of the altercation (I pretty much lost it after the Rajbansi remark and called the man "a racist little bitch" and a "fucking bigot" as he drove away).

Ten hours after this happened I'm still angry. I just hope that the incident affected the man just as much as it affected me, and he did some research in an attempt to understand my position. If not (and I highly doubt that he'll read this, but you never know), here's an open invitation to a proper conversation. Because, we sure as hell need more those.

Chuck Norris counted to infinity - twice. Chuck Norris sleeps with a nightlight - not because he's afraid of the dark, but because the dark's afraid of him. Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.

Source

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I think I might be Chuck Norris (almost). I stopped a revolving door.

My friend and I were in the revolving door at our university library, and by some miracle of inevitable bad luck that's always sitting my shoulder waiting for the most (in)opportune moment to strike, the door just stopped. As it turns out, it was my fault. Oops.

I couldn't decide which segment I wanted to be in (it's an important decision, ok), and as the segment ahead of me almost disappeared, I decided that I wanted to be in that one. In I leapt. Unfortunately, half of my bag and scarf decided that they wanted to be in the next segment. I didn't realise this until the door stopped and my bag almost suffocated me.

Naturally, I panicked. I'd broken the door - to the library. Now nobody could get in. Everyone was going to fail. Nobody would get an education. South Africa would be robbed of its future intellectuals, and it was all my fault. Also, I was trapped in a door. I would never sky-dive, do the Inca Trail or own a Mr Bean-type Mini. I was going to die in a revolving door in a library.

Thank goodness for friends. As I mourned the loss of my and South Africa's future, in between awkwardly smiling at other people who were now stuck because of me, my friend Abbey (who should clearly be an engineer or firefighter or something) calmly suggested that we push the door until the wall separating the two segments was at the entrance of the door. We did this. And, it worked. South Africa's future was saved - thanks to Abbey!

I hate winter and I hate wearing shoes. I do like whining, though. Unfortunately, I usually have to choose between bare feet and staying warm. At this time of the year, particularly in occasionally Arctic Grahamstown, I pick staying warm (and by warm I mean alive). So, I decided to buy some slippers.

If I was going to wear shoes all the time, even inside, they were going to have to be a rather kick-ass pair of pantoffels (that's Afrikaans for slippers - isn't it just one of the greatest words of all time).

When I saw these, I had to get them:

These are the only pigs I'll put on my feet.

While I was paying for them at the counter, the lady next to me asked if they were kids' or adults' slippers. Did she not see me paying for them myself...with money that I got out of my own wallet, which had a driver's licence with my face on it? Of course they were adult slippers!

If "grown-up" slippers are not permitted to be farmyard/superhero/Spongebob themed, then I refuse to grow up. Ptsh, don't tell me what to wear people...my shoes are not an accurate gauge of my maturity and general incompetence at adult life.

As we've discovered, I'm a rather distracted driver. Successful adults, however, take road safety seriously. With this in mind, I made sure that Dandelion buckled up before we headed anywhere. 

In an attempt to be a responsible driver, I insisted that Dandelion wear a seatbelt.

Fortunately, there are others in Grahamstown who recognise the importance of road safety.

This gentleman is clearly succeeding as an adult - he knows that you have to fill up before a long drive.

Besides being safety conscious, grown-ups should also be well-read. So, off I went to the library.

Maybe donkeys aren't as dim-witted as we thought.

It seems that wherever I go to in order to fulfill my goal of becoming a successful adult, there're always donkeys there. Does that mean they're more accomplished grown-ups than I am? Perhaps...or maybe all successful adults are just asses.

I have a new life plan. Let's see how long this one lasts (the last one was concocted less than 24 hours ago). Generally, these plans are just variations on each other - less "I want to be a ballerina" versus"Marine biology is my calling", and more should I do a fourth-year of journalism studies, or an honours degree in politics?

For some reason I've had a very uncertain week. It might be because my brother's starting to apply to universities and the conversations I've had with him make me doubt my present and future. Or, perhaps it's because I'm getting to the end of my university degree, and this just happens to everyone. The only thing that I can be certain about is that I expected adulthood to deliver on the assurance front. 

Aren't age and certainty directly proportional (look at me getting me high school science out for you guys)? I genuinely thought that the older I got, the more certain I'd be about life. It seems that I've gotten it the wrong way around. Either adulthood leads to uncertainty, or I'm doing this adult thing wrong (it could be either - someone let me know please). 

I feel as if the only person who understands this problem is Hannah Horvath. This is problematic because she's a fictional character...or maybe it's ok on account of Lena Dunham's exceptional writing (I've been watching a lot of series this week due to the ridiculous amount of work that I have). Actually, Descartes probably relates to being flooded with doubt (yeah, that's how unclear I feel). 

As a writer, I know that this post needs a conclusion, but I'm not quite sure how to end it (see what I did there), so here's a video that a fellow Writing and Editing student suggested that's relevant to my general lack of confidence this week:

P.S. This post was written straight after I showered, still wrapped in a towel, because we all know what happens in showers...clear and distinct perceptions!

As if Hannah Horvath couldn't get any more relatable, she came up with this beaut of a one-liner (in response to Marnie's particularly mature order to "grow up"):

"Excuse me, I am grown up. That's why I cooked all this food!"

Preach.

Source

Clearly then, I'm a grown-up too (well more in the way that Hannah is I guess, except minus the weird, possibly sociopathic, ex-boyfriend, e-book deal and kick-ass tattoos). Yeah, I'm a bit jealous that she has those things (excluding the strange ex-boyfriend of course). 

Why yes, I did make this vegan cottage pie all by myself (didn't even have to phone my mum for help). 

Basically, I made this. It looked amazing. It tasted pretty good too. Ergo, I am an adult. Thank you Hannah Horvath for that epiphany.

Blood was spilled in our kitchen last night. Surprisingly, the incident did not involve peeling or chopping vegetables. Unsurprisingly, it involved me.

Calm down, it wasn't that kind of blood-related incident.    Source:http://www.killerfilm.com/articles/read/scream-4s-mask-maker-spilling-beans-about-movie-37542 

I did not open the door for a strange person in a mask. Nor did I investigate the strange sounds outside, which only exaggerated the eerie atmosphere created by the constant rain. Also, my flatmate and I were not having a pillow fight in our underwear before said blood was spilled.

The blood-spilling was actually rather uninteresting and meagre (sorry Tarentino fans). While getting the scissors out of the drawer in order to open up a packet of sun-dried tomatoes, I slammed my finger in the drawer. A good chunk of skin peeled off my finger. There was a bit of blood. See, not that eventful.

In stereotypical youthful optimism I'd like to point out that, while my finger is pretty gross-looking at the moment, I did end up with some amazing pasta.

Those red-bits are sun-dried tomotoes - not blood.

Just as I thought I was maturing into a cooking, cleaning (I did ALL the dishes last night), shoe-wearing, Shakespeare-quoting adult, a gang of apparently adolescent thoughts infiltrated my head. 

My immediate reaction to this was, "No he didn't - he has 20-odd children".

And then, my philosophy lecturer decided to say "Kant" with an American accent in order to avoid saying "cunt". I found it rather amusing and even puerile that he would imitate a foreign accent just for a single name. But, he then called Kant "ballsy", and I couldn't help but chuckle at the oxymoron.

Kant jokes are just too easy.

Source: http://stickyembraces.tumblr.com/post/20139415818/replacing-kants-name-with-its-vulgar-homophone

Source: http://kapitalisten.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/kant-touch.jpg?w=490

Source:http://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc7/430481_324009584322921_352033579_n.jpg

Source:http://i.qkme.me/3r58ki.jpg

This isn't a Kant joke, but we were discussing Zeno's paradox earlier today, so I decided it was relevant. Source:http://25.media.tumblr.com/8db873595c3738178d03ea9cd378b407/tumblr_mh9fo2WO4V1qzoanto1_400.pngchildish

 But soft! What light through yonder breaks? It is some hope, and successful adulthood is the sun. Arise, fair sun!

By Shakespeare's beard, the sun seems to be rising. Granted, it's just peering over the horizon, but my "grown-up"attempts seem to be more Horatio than Bottom. Although, the sun only seems to be rising in the kitchen. My flatmate's rather thrilled at that thought - she no longer has to eat bland, burnt food. Who knows, maybe she won't have to supervise me in the kitchen anymore...

I reached the peak of my culinary excellence last night when I made chickpea and butternut curry, and puris (puris are a type of fried Indian bread). My flatmate and a friend who joined us for supper agreed that the meal was positively delicious. 

Double, double toil and trouble. Miraculously, this tasted nothing like eye of newt or toe of frog.

Technically puris are meant to be round, but I'm sure there must be a culinary version of poetic licence that I can appeal to.

For sooth, I am no Nigella Lawson. I was somewhat hesitant about mixing butter and flour together with my hands (that's the beginning of making dough - yeah I'm smart like that now), but eventually started enjoying it. It reminded me of play-dough. Alas, I had to stop short of colouring it green and making dinosaurs - I'm trying to be more Horatio than Bottom, remember? Instead of brontosauruses, I had to roll the dough out flat. This meant I needed a rolling-pin. I didn't have a rolling-pin. 

A little improvisation led to me using the cardboard tube that cling wrap is winded over. Judging by my mother's roar of laughter when I told her, I assume that this wasn't a particularly "grown-up" thing to do. I did say the sun was just peeking over the horizon.

Evidence of my creative recycling. 

I had a brief respite from my attempts at adulthood for the past two weeks as I was home for the holidays. For me, this means no laundry, no cooking and a general regression to a slothful teenage existence. Unfortunately, I'm back in the land of responsibilities and apparent Arctic weather (i.e. Grahamstown). I decided to make myself pizza for supper last night (yeah, I cook sometimes - hello thriving adult). 

So, I went off to the supermarket to buy my pizza-making ingredients. When I got back home and started unpacking I realised that I'd bought all of the toppings for my pizza, but had forgotten to buy the actual pizza. Maybe successful adulthood isn't as close as I thought and I'll have to put the last line of the previous paragraph down to youthful optimism (apparently optimism decreases with youth). Of course, I had to go back and buy pizza bases. 

As my youthful optimism decrees, I shall focus on the positives of this experience. I didn't burn anything and I did remember to buy the toppings at least. And, all of this resulted in an edible pizza!

It's not that attractive and it wasn't downright delectable, but it wasn't completely unpalatable and that's quite an achievement for me.

I'm as surprised as my mother that I made an edible dinner.

As my cooking is more comedy than cuisine, I went in search of a pre-cooked lunch on Monday afternoon.

What's a "bagget"?

This discovery provided an epiphany on adulthood. Disclaimer: I didn't actually buy this because, firstly I'm a vegetarian and secondly, I would never buy something that's spelt wrong (I'm one of those grammar snobs). I assumed that this was meant to say "baguette" and not "bagget" (unless that's a thing). That's right - adults with actual jobs and probably more adult things like mortgages and appointments can't spell. This gave me great satisfaction. I'm not the only one failing at adulthood! Heck, maybe there isn't even such a thing as a "successful" adult.

I was at home for the past two weeks and I got to do my favourite thing in the world - spend time with my dog! I am indeed a crazy dog lady. Everyone should be as enamoured with their pets as their pets are with them. This is a fact regardless of age.

I'm a bit of a pushover when it comes to my puppy. 

This wisdom-filled coaster appeared beneath my coconut hot chocolate last week and made me smile almost as much as Rani makes me smile.

As a result, I have decided to share some amazing Rani moments.

Young Rani proving that wrinkles are cute and beautiful - take that cosmetics companies!

My kryptonite - the puppy head tilt.

Sorry Hugh Jackman, this arse is definitely cuter than yours.

Watch out Serena Williams!

Rani is a feminist - she refuses to let patriarchy dictate how women should dress. Don't even think of referring to her as a "bitch".

Everyone's in agreement that bulldogs make the worst guard dogs; they're simply too friendly. Rani guards only one thing - the kitchen (she peers down from the top of the stairs to make sure that there actually is food involved before she makes her way down).

I think this is my mother's way of telling me that she misses me - she dressed Rani up in my school jersey and basher. 

And, in conclusion, a quote that anyone who's been covered in more dog hair and slobber than any actual dogs will wholeheartedly agree with:

"There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face." ~ Ben Williams