MissLeonie.com

These are butterfly bushes slowly conquering the wasteland next to my local convenience store. There are no words to describe how good it feels to get off the bus (just out of frame) after a long day and walk home past this wilderness. The building in the background is a library that, for reasons unknown although I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that it’s something to do with the level of literacy or interest in this neighbourhood, is never open. Initially, I wanted to upload this photo to Flickr in colour, but it didn’t work. There was too much colour. A rare, bright blue sky. Deep red brick. Purple flowers. Intensely green foliage. Somehow it obscured the structural chaos.

In the end, I realised the shapes were much more interesting. The industrial image of the library. The sprawling butterfly bushes. The sloping fence. The colour wasn’t adding to the picture, it was distracting. Now, I’m no expert in black and white, not at all, but I kind of like the look of this. There is something contradictory about displaying the chaos in easy-on-the-eyes shades of gray. And a bright pink butterfly, because I was secretly heartbroken to have to zap the purple out of the butterfly bushes.

The full version can be found on my Flickr page, or by clicking here.

The phone rings, but I’m busy on the computer and the number isn’t in my contacts list, so I decide to let it go. It tends to be my landlady roping me into things I honestly don’t have time for, and I have finally learnt my lesson. Politeness is overrated, people.

Then my phone beeps. Text message. “Hi there something with my lock I need ur help plz.” Signed, my housemate. Oh crap. I ignore a phone call for the first time in years and it’s my housemate who is trapped in his room. Nice one.

I go downstairs and ask him to pass his key under the door. The keys are on a key ring, so I end up going outside in my tracksuit bottoms and a pyjama top to take the keys he was dangling out of the window. He explains that the door locked itself as the door was shut and now it won’t open. I stick the key in the lock. The next key. The third and final key. The first key again. No luck. “Is it the silver key or one of the golden ones?” He has never actually locked his door before, so he doesn’t know. None of them will go into the lock. Damn.

I can’t get him out. He can’t get himself out. We manage to writhe open the door slightly, but part of the lock still catches and no amount of pressure applied most unceremoniously to the door makes a difference. I give up and give him our landlady’s phone number. She doesn’t pick up. I try some of the other numbers I have. Still nothing.

Just as I suggest he climbs out the window, my phone begins to ring. It’s the landlord. He suggests using a credit card, but all that does is bugger up the credit card. I ask my housemate if he wants a fork or something, and on the phone, the landlord says, “Knife!” Good idea. I grab a strong but old kitchen knife and he finally manages to force open the door.

Lessons learnt:

1. The owners of this house need to less of a cheapskate.
2. My brain doesn’t function in the morning.
3. Pick up the phone.

Currently, when I try to log into the admin page for my website, I get an ominous “Error establishing a database connection”. I hope that’s just the Internet’s way of telling me to get some work done already.

I wrote a reasonable chunk of dissertation yesterday, and some part of my brain is revolting against having to do it all over again. I sympathise with this part of my brain most emphatically, but my better judgment begs me to ignore it. My better judgment obviously isn’t very strong, because here I am, typing up a page in Word because Wordpress has shut the door.

I thought I’d show you the state my desk is currently in. A bunch of books, copied chapters, printed articles off JStor, dictionaries, a thesaurus, post-its and… booze. The bottle of honey rum is hiding behind the laptop. Rest assured, I am not an alcoholic. I just realised the bottle was only a fifth gone and it’s been here six months, in a student house. I don’t think they’ll let me graduate if it’s not gone before I move home. Plus, I felt a bit silly at the prospect of bringing a nearly full bottle of liquor back home in a few weeks. In light of limited luggage allowances, I have to drink it. Obviously. And I kept forgetting about the juice of ancient gods that is honey rum (ron miel) when it was sitting on a dresser on the other side of the room.

It’s not almost full anymore. And my dissertation file isn’t almost empty anymore. A coincidence?

I bought myself a pair of two-tone brown leather killer heels today. They are fabulous. Comfortable too. There is just one problem…

The heel on them is rather high, placing my legs at such an angle when I sit down that the bones in my arse are no longer in horizontal alignment with the seat, instead they poke into the desk chair in a most uncomfortable, diagonal fashion. These shoes give me so much extra length on my lower legs that my knees are higher than my hips and the whole thing is most unpleasant.

I could of course just take off the shoes. But they are beautiful, and new, and they will stay on my feet when I go to bed tonight. My bum hurts.

My first post on the Wordpress-powered blog contained a list of some of my least favourite things. It wasn’t by any means exhaustive, because that would be defy the genre of blogging and turn it into a novel, possibly the Encyclopaedia Britannica, but one of the things that was on there was the sadomasochistic act of tweezing one’s eyebrows. I seriously hate it. Mind you, I do understand the aesthetic perks; and from someone so clumsy she regularly hurts herself reasonably seriously and deals with it this may sound strange, but… it hurts. HURTS, you know?

I used to put it off for as long as I could, going for embarrassing semi-bushy brows in between tweezes that could be weeks apart. But not anymore! I invested in a Tweezerman tweezer the other day, and now spot well-kept brows. It is a revolution. I didn’t realise it could be so simple. That it didn’t have to inspire thoughts of never tweezing again and becoming a bushy cat lady instead.

It hurts less, and I figured I might as well yank hair out of my face in a war waged on follicles in style. Allure-approved, don’t you know?

These are the shards of my credit card.

I got a call from my mum a few days ago. The bank had sent me a letter (to my parents’ address - my mailing address in the Netherlands) to let me know that I would not be able to use my credit card since they had temporarily blocked it after discovering what they supsected to be fraud. I rang the fraud department of my bank and they listed the recent charges to my card. One after another, I said “Mhmm, yes, correct, yes, mmhmm, NO I DID NOT SPEND OVER €1400 AT AN APPLE STORE AT A MALL IN A RANDOM AMERICAN CITY! OR A SIMILAR AMOUNT AT BED, BATH & BEYOND?!”And so on, and so on. I could have been out of €5000 if my bank weren’t so on the money. The scary part is that I have no idea how whoever was trying to scam me got my credit card details.

The only thing I can think of is that it has something to do with Mobileworld, my mobile network. I used to do topups online, and noticed one day that I had been charged five times £10 (I later noticed that it had happened before as well, another £20). I rung the company, they asked me to send a copy of my credit card statement to verify that I had indeed been charged - the transactions had failed online and were listed as declined, so I never received airtime. I was supposed to receive an email back, which never happened. I’d called again the day before this whole credit card tango, asked what was going on, demanded a confirmation of sorts. The next day, I’d still not heard anything from crappy Mobileworld, but I had heard about this sudden surge of huge of transactions. What a coincidence. I called again, got quite upset with them, and explained that I could also go to the police for fraud. Even without the credit card business, the 70 pounds they owe me and are consistently failing to repay is enough.

Thank Christ my bank employ some savvy people. Thank Christ I have a low limit on my credit card. None of the transactions were successful, because the fraudulent scum were too greedy and went over the limit. Phew. Never a dull moment!

€1400 at Bed, Bath and Beyond? Just how dirty can you be?

I’m going to introduce this post by saying that I am extremely angry right now, and completely morally appalled, as well as sick to my stomach. This post will no doubt offend, but you know what? It can’t be more offensive than what’s happened to Stan Storimans, so you can deal with it.

Russia, today you lose the war of lies and the right to complain about unfair portrayal in the world media. You killed a Dutch cameraman, just doing his job. Do you think that’s just another rumour, another prejudiced lie? Have a look at the photo below the cut. You couldn’t talk yourself out of this one with all the deceitful tongues in the world.

He wasn’t in South-Ossetia, or Abkhazia. He was in Gori, Georgia, and your weapons killed him. You killed someone who was in Georgia trying to tell the world what was really going on, showing the world what he could see. He can’t do that anymore, because of you. You’ll have to make do with whatever media portrayal you receive now.

You are no longer just in South Ossetia or Abkhazia on a fake peace-keeping mission. You have crossed even further borders and are bombing and attacking Georgian towns like a big bully. Every promise you made “We are just here to keep the peace!” “We respect the integrity of the Georgian borders” “We are only helping out in South Ossetia” “Oh, and Abkhazi” “Oh, scratch that, we are invading a foreign country and we’re not going home until the Georgian army are back in their barracks.” - every promise you made you’ve broken subsequently. You betrayed the trust of those journalists trying to do everyone a favour by reporting the truth to the world. They thought they were safe, because you said they would be, because you said you would not invade Georgia, or bomb it. Why should anyone trust a word you say anymore? You have just proven everything, every judgment you deemed unfair and assumptuous. You’ve proven it all.

Tell me, can you look at the photo below (under the cut because it’s very disturbing) and tell me you are just and righteous? Does it break your heart and make you feel nauseous like it does with me? This is the (near) dead camera man, in the back of a car. This is his colleague, the presenter, clinging on to a dead man’s arm in a state of complete shock. Covered in blood. Traumatised. (more…)

And now for something completely different!

It’s also a subjective matter, but at least no one’s dying.

I bought myself Chloé’s new perfume! I bumped into one of those paper samples in magazines and fell in love with the scent. Embarrassing rubbing of the magazine against my wrists ensued, and by the end of the day, I was in love. Sometimes a girl just has to splurge. The next day, I set out to use a tester at the shops and let the actual scent develop on my skin for a while.

It’s rosy, but not overwhelmingly, nauseatingly so. It’s very light and delicate, but it still lasts forever. It’s loooovely.

I was asked to try Sarah Jessica Parker’s new Covet scent as well. One sniff of those perfume tester paper strips the promotion lady was holding and I’d made up my mind. Covet is not for me. Not at all.

Isn’t it amazing how instinctual our response to scents is?

I should probably explain why I felt like writing yesterday’s piece on the war in Georgia. There are several reasons. One, I fear the consequences of this war, and what it will mean to life in Europe (oil-wise, for starters) and life in the world. Russia’s conduct in Georgia and other countries’ response will have political implications on a worldwide scale. Either it has stopped what the rest of the world was too slow to stop, or it has crossed internationally acknowledged borders. Both possible truths have severe implications. Two, my boyfriend’s brother’s girlfriend Masha (see her blog here) is Russian and in Russia, which makes me curious and determined to see both sides. As I wrote before, this is not a war of people, it is is a war of power and governments, the victims of which are the dead and wounded in Georgia, be they Georgian or Russian. I’m interested in finding out what the news in Russia says.

My latest source of utmost amazement (and not in a good way): what’s the deal with these Russian warships in the Black Sea, which left from a Ukranian port? This has been confirmed by Ukranian authorities, which threatened not to let Russian war vessels return to its port because it didn’t want to be drawn into a military conflict, according to the BBC. South Ossetia isn’t even remotely close to the sea, but the other dissident Georgian region, Abkhazia, is. From where I’m standing, it looks a bit suspect. After all, one would hope Georgia would never be so stupid as to attack Russia via the Black Sea - simple number crunching (and the fact that the Georgian army have a grand total of 8 combat aircraft, compared to Russia’s 1809 (source: “Bodies are lying everywhere. It’s hell.” in: The Sunday Times, 10 August 2008) would define it as kamikaze. Why is Russia moving its ships out? Why did it sink a Georgian ship?

I guess the root question of all this is - why do Russia think they have a right to interfere with military force in a foreign country? Is there something we are not being told? In a comment to her post here, Masha mentions that Russia apparently appealed to the UN for help. I can’t say I’ve seen that mentioned in any of the articles I’ve read so far. This page on the BBC website lists some Russian opinions. I think their compassion is beautiful, but one comment astounded me: Natalia Vedeneeva from Central Russia says:

“It’s difficult to say who is right or wrong. Russia is defending its own citizens and it did try to persuade Georgia to stop. Russia was forced to start military action.”

This argument fails, because the only reason Russia claims to be defending its citizens on Georgian soil is because it handed out passports to the majority of citizens of South Ossetia. That’s not how it works in polite politics. That is not respecting internationally accepted borders. If these new Russian citizens don’t like it in South Ossetia, i.e. Georgia, they should go “home” to Mother Russia - surely it is implied that that is where their allegiance lies, if they call themselves Russians? If they want to live in Georgia, they’ll have to accept that they are Georgians, at least until such time as South Ossetia becomes an independent state. The international response to Kosovo has shown that the world is not opposed to regions breaking away to form their own country. Patience, not war or a demonstration of Russian power, could create Ossetia.

At the same time, if reports are true that the unprovoked Georgian army attacked Tskhinvali at night, killing hundreds, Russia is doing an in essence admirable thing. It is trying to save people. The issue is the execution. It would be a more ideal situation if international troops, further removed from the situation, could make up a peace-keeping force. There would be much less room for hot-headed responses on both sides, since both Russia and Georgia have something at stake here. That said, in this scenario time was most likely of the essence, meaning Russia moved in instead of waiting for international red tape to get its act together, in hopes of saving the lives that would otherwise be lost in the waiting line.

Either way, it’s turned into one big mess, with losses on both sides. I wish the cease fire would be accepted, so that politicians have time to screw their heads back on and have a civilised discussion about the future of South Ossetia, before it runs out of citizens.

This is a post I’ve been intending to write ever since I got back from my Italian holiday, I just never got around to it. I’ll keep things short and snappy, and brutally honest. Here goes:

• The Secret of Lost Things, Sheriday Hay. This is the story of an 18-year-old Tasmanian girl with nothing tying her to her island anymore. She packs her bags and leaves for New York, where she finds a job in one of the most peculiar second-hand bookshops I’ve ever read about. I picked this up for the cover, which suited the title well. It’s a different cover to the first edition, and perhaps less pretty, but it is mysterious alright. The blurb on the back sealed the deal; it exuded a love for books, book shops, stories. It also sounded like the kind of book one might disappear in, curled up in bed, only to emerge from the world of stories hours later, with a cold cup of tea on the bedside table. I really enjoyed this, it was an old-fashioned type of story telling that I miss in a lot of modern writing. The ending let the book down, though. It was too abrupt, too inconclusive, too inconsequential. The entire novel built up to what I expected to be a crescendo, only the crescendo consisted of someone softly playing a nose-flute in the background. The destiny was disappointing, a real shame, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that the journey was an enjoyable one.
• The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, Michael Chabon. Similar to my reading experience with Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, it took a while for the story to grab me. Once it did, though, that was that. I spent hours and hours and a couple of siestas reading this book in a hammock in Italy, quite possibly the least fitting surroundings for a book about the Jewish land of Sitka (Alaska), which is about to be returned to the native inhabitants, creating fear of another diaspora in its inhabitants. The story is built around the premise that the state of Israel did not succeed, after which the Jewish people were awarded Alaska instead. After sixty years, the lease is up. The story is hilarious yet tragic, as we read about Detective Landsman’s efforts to solve the case of a murdered man in the hotel he lives in, partly in an attempt to rekindle things with his ex-wife, who is also his boss. Things are never easy in Landsman’s life, and this is no exception. Completely different to Kavalier and Clay in terms of storyline and even genre, but every bit as enthralling. Recommended!
• On Chesil Beach, Ian McEwan. A novella detailing how two newlyweds end up in a hotel room by the sea, terrified of each other. I found neither of the main characters interesting, and as such, their history didn’t really affect me. It’s a confronting book, in the sense that it puts up a mirror for all that read it, ugliness reflected back at them. The problem is that this ugliness also makes the characters ultimately unlikeable. I know this book got many favourable reviews, but it didn’t do a thing for me. The last few chapters are brilliant, they contain a wisdom that will break your heart. Everything until then, I realise, was background information, but it’s a scene and character setting gone wild. Every anecdote reinforces what you think you know about the characters, there are no surprises. It would have been a brilliant (longish) short story, but it didn’t work as a novella.
• The Forgotten Garden, Kate Morton. Another book I bought due to its obvious appeal to escapism. Another mystery, with attempts to solve it played out in the life of three different women in different times. As much as I loved the storyline, I thought the language use was at times a little clichéd. The atmosphere of the story made up for this, though, and it’s descriptions are so vivid it’s almost like watching a movie. The story takes a while to start rolling, to get to the point where you care enough about the characters, and know almost nothing but just enough to want to work out more. Once it does, I forgot about language use altogether. It’s brilliant, albeit at times a little predictable, but never in an annoying way. You may guess a few twists and turns, but oftentimes, the why and how will surprise. It’s a fairytale for adults, which is fitting since the mystery is part-based on a book of fairytales that Nell, one of the women we follow, is found with as a little girl all on her own after getting off a boat in Maryborough, Australia, early 1900s. I stayed up way past bedtime a few nights in a row to cram some reading in. Recommended!

PS. I know there are other books I’ve read lately, but I can’t think of the titles and they’ve all travelled back to the Netherlands with my sister so a look at my bookcase is of no help. To be continued, I’d say!