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My life – SO not trending at the moment…

September 11, 2012

Welcome to So. Not. Superwoman, the blog! I’ve been threatening to get this going for some time now. Mind you, it’s been so long that the Universe decided to give me a get-the-fuck-on-with-it incentive in the form of a freelance work drought from hell. You can stare at the mountain and do affirmations and have coffee only so many times before it starts boring the bejayzus out of you and you start looking for something to write. Especially if you’re a writer.

Let me introduce myself: My name is Mads. I am 47 years old, under-groomed and overweight, happily involved but unmarried, and childless unless you count our two cats as children (I do. They’re a lot cheaper than the hairless variety. And they don’t cop a squall in the supermarket aisle when you’re trying to buy your meat-and-veg for the week).

For the past few years, my life has been a series of WTF moments. I think it happens to a lot of people in this age bracket (mid-forties onwards, up until the day you realise you’re going to die anyway and you might as well enjoy the rest of this rollercoaster ride). We reach a stage where life starts tossing us challenges which has us whipping our heads to and fro like meerkats on cocaine. We end up being deeply confused – and often highly amused – by the world we’re forced to live in. And it slowly starts dawning on us that we haven’t really made the grade (that is if you use a conventional yardstick to measure our so-called “success”, or lack of it – read wealth, status, good grooming, nice kids, nice car, nice house). And that, quite frankly, it doesn’t really matter.

After years of working my ass off and trying to do the done thing, I am at the height of my WTF stage. I look at a lot of my well-groomed peers with their well-scrubbed children, pillars-of-society husbands and well-polished MPV’s in the driveway and I think… WTF? Until three years ago, I was still driving the car I drove as a student. I now drive a clapped-out red Nissan which is pushing 30. It boasts a door that hangs and that often needs to be shouldered shut, brights that don’t work, and an exhaust that bellows like a Death Metal band’s frontman and emanates an enormous POOF! of smoke every time I drive off, leaving the competition spluttering and coughing in my wake. .

I live in a small Victorian semi with my man, The Boyf and our two cats. He is an artist and I am a writer. We are flailing mid-recession and panicking ourselves silly over moolah.

Over the past few years, I have acquired way too much flesh on my ass and midriff. I live in a few pairs of previously loose pants, which are currently straining to contain my carb- and hormone-induced muffin top. I have the nasty habit of having a bowl of oats at three in the morning when I can’t sleep (hence the muffin top). I am a bad cook as well as a lazy one. I can roast a mean pan of veg, make a nice ratatouille and a fire-breathing chakalaka and a middling chicken curry, but beyond that, there isn’t much else in my culinary repertoire.

I have no washing machine, tumble dryer or dishwasher. In summer, I do most of my manageable laundry by hand. I still sleep on the same bed I slept on shortly after finishing my studies. It’s hollow on one side, thanks to all the years I spent being single. The Boyf and I take turns to sleep in the Great Rift Valley – which means it’s either me or him with the sore back in the mornings. No, it doesn’t help turning it anymore.

In a world where things are trending on Twitter, and there’s a new meme every week, and it’s possible to unfriend somebody – where “unfriend” has actually become a WORD – I am more than just a bit overwhelmed. I look at the fashions in women’s mags and I think: fuggggllyyyyy. I still suffer from the black-and-brown hangover I’ve had since I was in my mid-twenties and I believe in mixing and matching the “right” colours. I can spell “Louboutin”, but, unlike Kim and SJP and JLo, I can’t afford him. I prefer sensible flatties anyway, even though I’m heterosexual.

I have never kissed a girl like Katy Perry because it’s the in thing to do and I never will, because girls don’t have morning stubble – at least not on their faces (one hopes). I like men with either short hair or very long hair, not those peering wimpishly from underneath peepot fringes or sporting Indie jag cuts or whatever the fuck they’re called. Young men I find confusing and almost effeminate these days. I am a girl of the eighties! Men had shoulders (or, at least, shoulder pads)! Ghastly mullets or testosterone-fuelled crew cuts! They were masculine!  These days you have to take a peek into somebody’s undershorts to make sure what exactly you’re dealing with.

I think Lady Gaga is certifiable (in a nice kind of way) and I think Rihanna is a silly little slut who needs to be in therapy for still pining for the bastard who rearranged her face. I think Angelina Jolie is a child-collecting husband-stealing psycho bitch and I think Brad Pitt is a wanker. I am not a hipster or a quirkster or a member of the fash pack – in most trendoids’ eyes I’m probably just a boring menopausal cow.

In short, I have failed in both the Superwoman stakes (no marriage, kids, nice house and car). And I have failed in the trendoid stakes (I am definitely NOT trending anywhere). But know what? I actually don’t give a proverbial, as I’m pretty content with my life, WTF moments and all. (although, more money would be very fucking welcome, thank you Universe…) I am – *drummmrollll* – So. Not. Superwoman! SNS for short. Or how about SoNoSu? (that’s pretty trendy! I think…)

But I do have an opinion on everything out there, and do I plan to share those with you…

Just a warning – I tend to speak my mind pretty bluntly, I don’t subscribe to any formal religion, I don’t think the mom-dad-kids option is the only one out there for fulfillment and I have no issue with swearing. If you don’t like me taking the piss out of everything and everybody or throwing the occasional fuck or twat at you, don’t read SNS. I might just offend you. And that’s not my purpose…

I simply want you to laugh at the blinding absurdity of the lives we lead. In the end, we’re really not that important, that cute or that powerful. Quite frankly, as the “rulers” of Planet Earth, we’re actually a really funny and sometimes downright ridiculous species. Even Queen Elizabeth II takes a crap every day. Even though it probably takes her a very long time…

I’ll try and churn out one SNS per week. And I would love your opinion too – good or bad. You can send me an email on If you like my scribbles, share the link with your friends on Facebook and if they like it, get them to send me friend requests. Facebook, I can manage. Twitter, I’m slowly circling at the moment…


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