My dear friend Pamu, artist, wise woman guru and mentor extraordinaire, recently translated the acronym of FOMO for me. I know I was born in a cave but this is about keeping up with the times, people. Thank god, then, for my guru. (Fear Of Missing Out, just in case you didn’t know either. Don't be shy.) As I’ve grown older and older and older (and older), you’d imagine one would've grown out of this mind state, grown up, a little bit. Clearly (and horrifyingly) it seems this is not the case here…Someone (someone who I really like and wished they liked me as much) threw a party last night and invited everyone on the hill except me. I know I shouldn’t feel left out or offended (I have lectured myself incessantly since last night. Sternly, I’ll have you know.) but truly, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I must be uncannily lucky or protected by a host of angelic beings because, oh besties, if the Universe is as responsive as I believe it to be, I should be way up shit creek.
You see, since finding out everyone was going except me, I have hatched such wicked, colourful and intricate plans of revenge, I fear to commit them to paper. They involve goats and/or pigs and scrolls with messages inside, firecrackers, much fanfare and Maasai herdsmen. The thing is, I probably wouldn’t have gone but it’s always nice to be remembered. I'm blaming this on being sent to boarding school at the tender age of 5 (which has obviously stunted my emotional intelligence. gulp. gulp.)...where the birthday girls would stand in the quadrangle before dinner and read out the names of all the lucky invited people who would sit at the table on the stage and get to eat chocolate log cake and sweets before chapel. The entire year would center around The Birthday List. Any slight misdemeanor would result in a curt and brutal: "Right. That's it. I. Am. Crossing. You. Off. My. Birthday. List." It was never very final and the lists would change endlessly - on and off like a lighthouse. Still. With childish hope brimming in your five year old throat, it was crushing not to be called out.
So, my dear and loyal readers, I have spent today, this windblown, dusty white Sunday, in splendid isolation, drumming up ship loads of forgiveness and letting the heat burn away my bizarre and unworldly revenge plans. Far too complicated anyway. Instead, I donned my running shoes and headed for a walk out about on t' hill with the express purpose of taking photographs for you. It was really too hot for running and too early for gin.
Here they are...
You: Oh god please no…Really? Reeeeally?
Me (purposefully ignoring any signs of protest as is my way): Here is my dog. The one who survived the cobra bites? Remember?
Here are the horses.
Here are some rather beautiful bougainvillea. How can Damian hate them?
You (gaunt): Sigh....
Me: Here are acacia flowers which look like pom poms and mean it will rain. ha ha.
Here is a road, which might look interesting, enticing, to anyone with an imagination.
Here is a massive cactus.
And here, oh patient ones, is Felix!
He’s the early birthday present for last born. Two of the dogs are in love and utterly devoted to this little fella…The bitch, on the other hand, is pointedly ignoring him and all stiff legged. Mama Paka, the cat, is absolutely livid and would eat him for dinner if she could.
We are smitten.
FOMO be banished. You can win some but not all.
So there you are.
PS: is it better to be forgotten or purposefully not invited?
I'm just sayin'.. jeez.
Kitchen Board: Sunday 20 Jan 2013: (dust storms starting...)
toodely toot y'all. you're on the birthday list for sure. bisous X.X.X. chocolate log ones...x yeah. j