Anyone need a watchman?

Yesterday I was interviewing with a media company for a position that will remain nameless. I like to think of myself as a cool guy. I don’t get flustered. Such illusions can be shattered the moment you get past the first minute of a job interview. It’s like realizing you’re on a sinking ship and bailing water for dear life. .

“What three adjectives do you believe would best describe you,” the interviewer asked.

“Strong… creative… and excellent,” I said, feeling as if I had not only dodged a bullet, I had done it with incredible grace.

“Good,” the interviewer said. “What do those words mean to you?”

At this point those cliché tiny beads of perspiration began to form on my forehead. I thought I just had to come up with the words. Now I had to justify them. The first thought on “strong” was to challenge him to arm wrestle, but I quickly put that out of my mind. Not that it’s a bad kind of strength, but if I won, the interviewer might resent me, and if I lost, he might think I was too wussy to work for the company.

“Strong,” I said. “I have strengths… um… I know what I’m good at and I know how to focus myself on that to make the most of my strengths.”

My feet were wet, but the boat was afloat. One even gave me an out on “creative,” saying it was a self-defining word. I wasn’t about to let him get away with that. I was going to prove myself. I was going to define it with deftness and aplomb.

“I am oriented on making things. Creative in the manner of enjoying and revelling in the act of creation… imaginatively.”

At this point, I was neck deep and I barely realized it. I think I had actually been scooping up buckets of water and dumping them back into my boat. It must have been artic water too, the cold of it rushing up my spinal column and numbing my brain. Yet, with some reserve of strength, I was able to pick up the signal flare gun… and put it to my head.

“Excellent… well excellence is my goal, my credo, a principle by which I live. I will settle for nothing less.”

“So,” he said, “you’re not excellent?”

 

“Huh?”

“You said it’s your goal. So you’re not excellent yet.”
My knuckle grew red on the trigger.

“No… I mean, yes I am excellent, but excellence isn’t a permanent state, a concrete goal. I’m not just going to wake up one day ‘hey, I’m excellent, what’s next?’ Even though I’m already excellent, I have to keep on trying to be excellent because if I stop trying I’ll stop being, so it’s still a goal. See?”

“No.”

At this point I felt like saying
“Yeah, well I’ve seen the work this company has done, and the work I’ve done kick your butt. You need me.”

Anyhow, to make a really long interview (or at least it seemed long) short, they said they’ll call me. I’d say I’m not holding my breath, but somewhere during that interview the water got up over my head, so I am holding my breath, but I’m not holding it for them. See? I’m holding it because… ah, screw it. Anyone need a watchman?

Prost(r)ated

I have finally come to truly appreciate the female hatred for the speculum, all because of a doctor’s finger.

I haven’t been in for a physical examination in a year. Why? Because the last time I was in, the doctor stuck his finger in my butt. I had a potential prostate infection and he had to check the prostate. And the only way to do that is with a rubber glove, a dollop of greasy stuff, and a poke in that most sensitive of areas.

You think you know all the qualities to look for in a doctor. A degree from a good med school, a residency in a good hospital, recommendations from other patients, participation in your insurance plan… But before my prostate exam, I never realized that another important quality in a doctor is small fingers.

Unfortunately, misfortune struck last week. I was having immense pain. I went to the doctor and he confirmed my worst fears. A possible prostate infection. At that point, I was almost cursing God, “why couldn’t it have been VD?” Of course, with my sexual history, the doctor ruled out VD right quick as it’s been so long that parts of me would have started falling off by now if that was the case. And so, before I could get my prescription for antibiotics, I was required to drop trousers and bend over the table.

Do I recommend that all men eventually get their prostate checked? Yes. It could save your life. But, as many women will tell you guys, there’s no way you can look cool with your pants around your ankles. Then add to it the embarrassment of being bent over a table like a shower scene in a bad prison movie.

And the scary thing is that I just have more exams to look forward to in the future. But the good news is, prostate cancer is on the most wanted list for killing men over the age of 50, not me. I still got a looooong way to go. And, if what I hear from older men is any indication, it only gets worse with age. You move from a doctor’s finger to a camera. Luckily it’s no Nikon 50mm lens, but as far as I know, it makes you wish for the good old days of the finger. Man, get your prostate checked, but check your dignity at the door.

As long as the belly is full……

I don’t cook. Out of choice. Meaning that if my life depended on it, I could whip up a perfectly decent meal, but I haven’t in years and I’m not intending on breaking the record any time soon.

I used to fancy myself as something of a gourmet cook, until my ex-Zulu girl put me in my place by declaring: “Phuti (gentleman) Your food was okay, but it was never great or anything. Now your homeboy Kim , he is an outstanding cook.” Ouch. Bitch.

That did more than just hurt kiasi…Well it shattered my massive Kao ego. But I still ventured into the kitchen ever so often, and then Nosipho, the girl next door rid me of that little ego left by always suggesting how I could “better” my skills every time she came to my flat for a meal . So I realized that instead of making my loved ones suffer any further, I would simply stop pretending to be a great chef and do away with cooking altogether.
So what do I eat? Delis are my great enemies. I never visit a fast food joint although there are tons of places to choose from. Pap (ugali) and beef from Pick N Pay chain Stores are simply my favourite. My local Pick N Pay is within walking distance of my local liquor store which is also a walking distance from my flat, and I try to support the liquor joint as well, for all that it’s damaging my kidneys, but I do try to drink very little, and make it worth it when I do.

This is where my relationship with the ladies at the Pick N Pay Kitchen section comes into play. Those ladies can cook, and God bless every single one of them, because ever so often I really do appreciate a delicious meal cooked by someone I know by name, and not by brand. They now know me well. I come in with stories of how the Kenyan Pap (ugali) is superior in quality and mass compared to what they have in SA. I Keep on suggesting how we can work together to improve the SA Pap , The vibe goes on and on vile ati I will offer them free Ugali spinning lessons taken somewhere in my flat.

But So far none has shown interest in visiting my flat. Tough lack.

Today being Friday, the thigh rush is on- God don’t lead me into temptations …just deliver me from this winter – am going back Pick N Pay, to those ladies, with a story of how am an accomplished gourmet cook, how I would unleash a four dish meal were it not for my tight work schedule. How I can do a mean Jack Daniels chicken, and my unique southern style grits and fried chicken are like nothing they’ve ever had. I just pray that eventually nitaangukia some nice Xhosa ass to warm my winter blues

Honestly, my idea of cooking eggs is to stick them in a bowl, season with salt and pepper and microwave for about a minute or simply deep fry them. Don’t judge , it tastes fine to me.
If really trying to impress some SA girl(ladies home are smarter), I just heat the ready-made garlic bread in the oven before hand for the place to smell like cooking. The true measure of a wonderful host is providing great food and company. Whose pot that food comes from is irrelevant. As long as the belly is full, who cares?

And just before you think I’m a serious degenerate, which may or may not be true, just consider that I’m not alone in this. As I was typing this, a lady friend in Cape town emailed a service here that will provide you with an affordable daily meal at a cost of R200 per week (five days). For R400 you get two meals per day. Drum roll. Here’s the best bit – they’ll deliver it to your door!
God is there after all!