Sunday, October 25, 2009

Our little sunshines

This joke pretty much sums up what my one godchild slash niece, Elske or just plain Elly, is like:

A little boy got on the bus, sat next to a man reading a book, and noticed he had his collar on backwards. The little boy asked why he wore his collar backwards.
The man, who was a priest, said, 'I am a Father.'
The little boy replied, 'My Daddy doesn't wear his collar like that.'
The priest looked up from his book and answered: ''I am the Father of many.'
The boy said: ''My Dad has 4 boys, 4 girls and two grandchildren and he doesn't wear his collar that way!'

The priest, getting impatient, said: 'I am the Father of hundreds,' and went back to reading his book. The little boy sat quietly thinking for a while, then leaned over and said: "Maybe you should wear a condom and put your pants on backwards instead of your collar."

My niece, E, is turning 5 this December and I wish every day that she would never grow up, kind of like Peter Pan but without the package to worry about when wearing tights. If you want an honest opinion, ask a four year old. You might not always like what you hear (yes, I know I should never have bought those white pants in the first place, hippo hips), but it's never meant in a vindictive way:

"It's nice hugging you, Ladytruth; you're soft like a marshmallow."

I might be a curvy marshmallow, but at least I get the hugs and you don't anorexic aunt Mary.

E doesn't mind if you play with her hair and whatever she has in her lunch box, you can be sure to at least get half of it. Plus she knows where Mother (who looks after her during the day until my sister picks her up after work) keeps the cookie stash. Bonus. She's like a puppy: always happy to see me, but without the licking. More sanitary.

I know, however, that as soon as she comes home requesting a Hannah Montana backpack which looks just like the other girls' at school, it's over. The corruption has started and it'll be good bye butterfly kisses.

I know this because it happened to my six year old niece, N; my brother's little angel/devil when no one's looking. My mom and I blame the kids at school, but we know that's just silly. We're just sad about our eldest Peter Pan exchanging her green tights for a pink tutu. And Hannah Montana backpack.

We can't keep them sheltered under the blanket of protection and love and affection all the time. They need to experience the world for themselves, they need to explore and learn and yes, there will be times when they'll cry, but we'll be there with the Kleenex factory right behind us. We'll be there when Jean-Michael pushes them off the swing and run away leaving them alone in the sand; we'll be there when they ride their bikes with the pink and blue ribbons without the safety wheels for the first time; we'll be there when they blushingly admit they like the blond boy who draws pretty pictures. We'll be there.

I love my nieces slash godchildren. But sometimes it's nice giving them back to their parents when the day's over.

N (on the right): Man, my party blows.
E (stuffing her face on the left): At least the food's good.

E rocking the Minnie Mouse ears.

This post was inspired after reading about otherworldlyone's beautiful little Hannah

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Sing, sing a song

Things have been going well on the dating front so far. It's nice having someone hold your hand while you wait in line for your take out order to be called. It's nice having someone run your bath water and then take your dogs for a walk while you relax in a cloud of peaceful bubble bath. My phone is the popular cell in town vibrating more than some other equipment in my drawer. And when Mom looks at me, all she does is smile. Happy day.

But I'm new to all the couple lingo and behaviour. Whenever we go to a BBQ with friends and their girlfriends I now have to help the girls make salads and listen to them complain about being with their boyfriends for seven minutes and not having a ring on the finger yet. Thanks for nothing, Beyoncé ; instead of putting a ring on it why don't you just put a sock in it?

Chris just smiled when I told him about the crazies and said I'm more than welcome to hang with the guys around the fire, drinking beer and talking about football. I could do that. The closest I came to chopping an onion was when I leaned forward to look at Gordon Ramsey's nails while he did it on the television.

And all the questions are just killing me.

"So you guys have a favorite restaurant with a favorite table? And you always get served by your favorite waiter? Isn't it just the best walking into a place and getting recognised by the staff?"

Yes, almost like jail I presume.

"What about your names for each other? I call Steven 'Wonderboy'. Get it? Steven? Stevie Wonder?"

I'm sure 'Wonderboy' wishes he had the power to become deaf and blind. Maybe that would scare you away.

And my favorite:

"What is your song?"

When you don't have an answer to this question, they look at you as though you're at a comic convention and failed to identify Logan as Wolverine. It's like sacrilege.

The problem is that Chris and I have very different taste when it comes to music. When you browse through the Cds in his car you'll find Nirvana, Foo Fighters, RHCP and Pearl Jam. When you shuffle through my iPod you'll be listening to a mixture of Alanis Morissette, The Killers, One Republic, The Frames and Elisa.

Songs aren't just songs to me. Their like friends. The words bring you comfort when you need it most laying on your bed crying as though the world is going to end right that second; sometimes they make you feel happy and crazy and lifts the mood in the room to blazing hot temperatures. They inspire you, they calm you, they speak the words you sometimes cannot find yourself.

When I hear a certain song or two my whole body turns into one big goose bump. Like my first car accident. Fergie's Big girls don't cry was playing when the guy hit me WHAM! on the passenger side skipping the stop sign one Tuesday morning. It's like I told Dan: there wasn't much crying going on. I think the Everybody was kung-fu fighting would've been more appropriate as I haven't seen that much fist pumping since the political riots in the 80's.

Needless to say we still don't have a song. But then again: you're also not suppose to burp or fart or curse in front of each other in the first week of dating so maybe we're doing things differently than the norm. This way life is a little more interesting.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

The apple is finally ripe

The first time we met he looked at me and said in his yet to be manly voice:

"Hi, I'm Chris. Pleased to meet you."

His name could've been Dick; I was just so happy to see a friendly face that could speak. We were 14 and just started high school. Add to the fact that my family had recently moved to this town and you have a recipe for desperately seeking acceptance and fitting in. Isn't that what all 14 year olds want? To be part of the group. I was new and didn't fit in. I didn't belong anywhere. Except with Chris.

He didn't mind my unflattering uniform, my awkward movements to hide my boobs from drooling boys (I didn't know any better back then), my love for all feminist and strong female writers while we both shared a hatred for our pimpled faces. He quit playing rugby and football during breaks with the boys to sit with me in the shade of the oak tree and share sandwiches. He'd eat the one half of my peanut butter and syrup and I his tuna and onion. After a while we discovered the onion wasn't such a good call as one can only hold a fart for so long.

Year after year we would hold our breath hoping to be in the same class again and was never disappointed. Year after year we'd find a way to sit next to each other; ways that often included bribing others with lunch money. We could've been brilliant politicians.

I would cry on his shoulder when a crush didn't want to return the courtesy and he'd make me feel better by threatening to rearrange the boy's face. Whenever the girl who was the 'love of his life' didn't return the favor, I'd comfort him with bad impressions of Girls just wanna have fun (replacing the girls with boys) by Cyndi Lauper and I wanna rock and roll all night by Kiss. He preferred the latter. I'm not sure why.

And now it feels like we have come full circle. It had to be now and not last week or last month or last year. The time wasn't right. We weren't right.
Our first official date was on Friday night. It felt strange to dress up for my best friend, but Mary hasn't claimed her little lamb yet and it went rabid when he gave me a lingering kiss at the door. Our hands found each other like the ocean finds the beach and it felt ... good.

At least there was no struggle finding appropriate subjects to talk about during supper and my usual I just have to go powder my nose excuse while I sat in the bathroom for about eleven minutes reading blogs was laid to rest for the night.

I think this was the first successful date Mom hasn't sent me on.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Forget about the Oscars, Emmy and Grammy Awards: it's the Truthy's today.

Award ceremonies happen every once in a while here at happily AFTER ever. And when it does, I like to go big. I've been the recipient of a few rewards as of late and what better reason for handing these lovelies out than it being the middle of the week and people needing a bit of a kick to get through the day.

Buckle up, here we go.

AlphaButtonpusher and Otherworldlyone proved that great minds really do think alike when both gave me this interesting and fun award. If you need a quick pick-me-up these girls are the perfect medicine. Different topics and styles of writing, both addictive in their own unique way.

The rules for this award are as follow:

1. Answer the questions below using only one word
2. Thank the blogger who gave it to you
3. Pass it on to 6 of your favorite bloggers

Without further ado:

1. Where is your cell phone? Close

2. Your hair? Blond

3. Your mother? Confidant

4. Your father? Difficult

5. Your favorite food? Mom's macaroni and cheese (you try saying that in one word, okay!)

6. Your dream last night? Tiring

7. Your favorite drink? JackD

8. Your dream/goal? Published

9. What room are you in? Bedroom

10. Your hobby? High maintenance (it takes time to perfect and yes, I'm cheating. Again.)

11. Your fear? Dark

12. Where do you want to be in six years? Earth

13. Where were you last night? Dreams

14. Something that you aren't? Rich

15. Muffins? Heart

16. Wish list item? Worldpeace ;)

17. Where did you grow up? House

18. Last thing you did? Bath

19. What are you wearing? PJ

20. Your TV? Big

21. Your pets? Priceless

22. Friends? Love

23. Your life? Alright

24. Your mood? Stable

25. Missing someone? Monique

26. Vehicle? Quasimodo

27. Something you're not wearing? Make-up

28. Your favorite store? All

29. Your favorite color? Pink

30. When was the last time you laughed? Morning

31. Last time you cried? Saturday

32. Your best friend? Forever

33. One place that I go to over and over? Kitchen

34. One person who emails me regularly? Frenchie

35. Favorite place to eat? Mom's

I'd like to give this award to:


The next award is from f8hasit. This gorgeous lady is fierce, brave and funny. Being a single mother doesn't stop her from living an amazing life and reading about her experiences saves me many trips to the library in search of interesting material

The award is to 'honor those who write from the heart'. That in itself is quite a compliment. I know many of you have this award already, but for those of us who haven't received this one yet the rules state that I should tell you 10 things about myself you don't already know and then pass it on to 10 bloggers of note.

1. When I was seven I almost drowned.

2. I always take a bath or shower with the bathroom door open.

3. Growing up I read all my brother's love letters that were locked away in a drawer and kept my mom informed on what was happening in that department because teenage boys can be so secretive. I was a lock picker extraordinaire.

4. I don't wear any jewelry other than earrings and my watch.

5. I grow orchids in my study. It's the easiest plant I have ever grown as I water it once every ten days and just watch it blossom into gorgeous pieces of art. Yes, I am aware of the fact that there's a granny hidden beneath these voluptuous layers of skin.

6. I only have black and pink shoes in my closet.

7. Whenever I'm nervous or bored I chew my pinky nails.

8. I have never been away from home for more than three weeks.

9. My tonsils had to be taken out when I was 20. It felt like there was a dragon trapped in my throat for five days. Great diet, though.

10. Roses are overrated. My favorite flowers are daisies.

The 10 recipients of the Honest Scrap award (and if you already have this one, just bow graciously and put it on your mantelpiece twice) are:


Josefine tagged me in a meme the other day stating the following: create 5 categories each containing 5 favorite items of said category but without necessarily being listed in any particular order. Then tag 5 people to do the same.

Confusing? Nah, just hop over to her blog and her humor and great outlook on life will cure any of those thoughts.

I decided to combine the Honest Scrap Award and this meme because I'm lazy and I know you are ADD and can't sit still for more than four minutes and thirty five seconds. That means I listed my ten favorite random things already and now for the rest:

5 favorite items I can't go without:
1. socks
2. contact lenses
3. fridge
4. hair dryer
5. petrol (these boots definitely weren't made for walking considering their price tag)

5 favorite characters in a television series:
1. Tony Sopprano (The Soppranos)
2. Lorelai Gilmore (Gilmore Girls)
3. Dean Winchester (Supernatural)
4. Castle (Castle)
5. Izzy Stevens (Grey's Anatomy)

5 things I will not likely be caught doing (this is a little variation on the favorite theme):
1. picking my nose in public (social status killer)
2. going to a Jonas Brothers concert
3. wearing a Man Utd shirt
4. eating avocado
5. having a drink right out of the bottle. One word: syphilis-of-the-mouth.

The 5 people who I'd like to do the 5 favorite things meme are:


The next award is from my favorite boys Matthew and Dan. Matthew recently moved-blog, but the writing is still brilliant and I'm still envious. You'll never be able to read Dan's blog without some kind of smile and don't be surprised when you find yourself unable to stay away from his archives. Both these men's brains should be preserved and studied.

And the award goes to:

I was in a giving mood.

Kasabiangirl made my day with this great award. Just reading or hearing someone say they like your blog makes you feel kind of worthy and wanted. I hope the following recipients will feel the same way:


AlpHaButtonpusher gave me this wonderfully French award which I really love. Doesn't everything just sound better in French? Passing this on to:


There you go. Give yourself a big round of applause; I would, but I can't feel my fingers anymore. Enjoy these awards and remember to spread the love.

Monday, October 5, 2009

There is a lamb in my chest. Is that normal?

Date #4 happened on Friday evening, but it was over before you could say 'quickie'. The gentleman insisted we go to a club for our little rendezvous, but didn't count on Chris being there as well. The two of them were about as pleased to meet each other as a Liverpool and a Chelsea supporter were at passing each other in the street. Without the spitting, of course. But there was a stun gun.

And a walkie talkie. I bloody kid you not. It looked like a brick hanging from his belt and it did that screeching noise ever so often.

I felt like I was in a postmodern war movie gone wrong with the club as backdrop. I even considered asking the DJ to 'pump up the volume, dude' as people were starting to look at us funny. There is the reputation to think of, being single and all.

The reason for the gun and back to the future communication's device was the lad's occupation. He's a cop. Luckily he couldn't stay long as he was on call and I don't know who breathed a louder sigh of relief between Chris and I. Robocop hopped on his bicycle (budget cuts, he said) and sped off into the night to fight felons. That was the first time I was actually grateful for living in the Country of Crime.

We didn't stay long after Robocop left to save the world on a bicycle as we had to get up early the next morning for the arts festival. I've been dragging him to this festival for the past five years now because he's the only person who just can't say no to me and the torture of culture.

We watched this terribly sad play about a lady in her fifties realising how life has passed her by while she was busy raising kids and cooking dinner for an ungrateful husband every evening for 35 years. It reminded me so much of someone I know very well and I couldn't help but cry a little. I felt Chris's hand slip into mine. And it felt right.

He drove me home that evening like he always does, but somehow something changed. We changed. He's not the skinny boy with the pimples anymore and I'm not the girl with the long hair and glasses anymore. For the first time we didn't feel the need to talk so much; we just sat there and enjoyed the quiet and the presence of this new and unfamiliar feeling.

The last time I felt this way, it ended badly. My heart felt as though it was torn from my chest and trampled on by a wildebeest stampede similar to the one in The Lion King. The urge to yell Mufasa was present too at the time. That day I thought I had lost something that would never be mine again; my innocence, my faith in people with weeners and that crazy little thing called love.

When Chris said goodbye, he gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek. I haven't felt a more affectionate, caring, tender kiss quite like that one and Mary's galloping little lamb found its way into my chest. But I quickly pulled its little leash as Chris broke up with that girlfriend about two weeks ago. It had nothing to do with the talk I had with her and the promise of a foot so far up her ass that she'll have athlete's throat for the rest of her life if she didn't stop cheating on him. After all, I do know the prime spot for the best athlete's foot in the country: a student hostel.

I've fallen behind on fulfilling my meme duties and acknowledging as well as handing out some lovely awards from equally lovely bloggers. This will be done on Wednesday, if not tomorrow. Until then I'm off to write an official report on date #4 to Mom. In honor of Robocop and his amazingly big walkie talkie.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

A memory of a lost friend and snow in sunny South Africa?

She pushes against the door and it swings open slowly, silently, predictably. The quietly cold smell inside is how she had imagined it would be and she tries to brush off the feeling of turning around and running away with a shrug.

The lady at the reception desk personifies the feeling of the room with her tired and outdated attitude as she hands over a clipboard with paper work. It is quite a list for such a short stay, she thinks by herself while she completes the forms robot-like.

She has a burning urge to wash her hands, but doesn't want to leave her seat. Maybe, if she sits here quietly she'll go unnoticed and this day will pass like the one before and the one before that. Maybe then she'll just disappear as each hour follows the next until eternity. She wants to stay in this chair.

A hand touches her shoulder. She looks up. The lady in the blue scrubs has an expressionless face, but she has amazing green eyes. Like the mieliefields back home on the farm. There is a flash of impatience from the lady and she gets up slowly. This is really going to happen. If only she wasn't so alone. After this day in this hour, this minute she will never be the same again. They say there is always the feeling of something missing. She'll probably get used to it; what could be worse than the feeling of not being loved in return anyway?

"Everything went well. Just take this prescription and if you feel any discomfort or sudden bleeding come back immediately."

That's all there is to it, really. A pill for sorrow, a pill for heartache, a pill for emptiness. If all these pills were combined, would they take away all life's pain for good? Science might be the answer to all life's miseries, she smiles wryly as she thinks of him.

The water tastes bitter; she imagined it differently and it could have been. If only she wasn't so alone.

My front yard looking like an ice rink

Moving on to other things. Snow in September in South Africa? Marvellous, some of you might say. It's not snow, but hail and it's not marvellous, it's bloody awful! Never again will I be singing I'm dreaming of a white Christmas whilst stirring a pot of fudge whilst sweating like an overweight hippo in the desert. This side of the planet is known for its blazing sun and beautiful beaches which usually means pleasant weather. This was anything but pleasant.

Looks like a cotton wool factory launched its opening in my backyard

My once beautiful spring garden now looks like the battlefield of an angry golfer using hail as a cheap substitute for golf balls and I was not amused by the fact that His Royal Demanding and Her Comfortable Highness refused to walk on what looks like Frosty's diarrhea, let alone get to their business which means I had to use a tray as a kind of shovel to clear a patch of grass in the middle of the night.

Her Royal Highness: high on sleep and comfort

Does he LOOK amused to you?

At least that saves me a trip to a winter wonderland somewhere abroad in the future. Can we get three hurrays for money saving tips, Mother Nature style.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Can you hear the weddingbells?

If you do, you probably suffer from a concussion and have to go to the emergency room immediately.

I went on my third compulsory-by-mother date on Friday evening. And although I kinda feel like an old, desperate cow being auctioned off to the first and most equally desperate bidder, I still see it as an occasion to introduce this side of the world to Fabulousity by Fashion.

Now men don't usually notice details. When they open the grocery cupboard all they see are shelves with items that will eventually find their way to their rumbling stomach and preferably not prepared by themselves, but and equally rumbling female.

When women open the grocery cupboard, we turn into those scanners at a till: we spot all. We even notice spices that are arranged in alphabetical order and our hands become like the tongue of a frog that has spotted a delicious fly: snatch and grab. Quick. Simple. Easy.

This is usually the reason for men saying:

"You look nice"

or if they're really daring:

"That dress brings out the color of your eyes."

Really? I must be having a serious case of pink eyes then and will join you with the concussion in the emergency room stat.

That's why I was so surprised when Date #3 got up, took my hand and said:

"A woman who can wear those Louis Vuitton shoes without it wearing her deserves a standing ovation."

Right there and then I knew this evening would be as unforgettable as the Madonna and Britney kiss. Just in a PG way.

Clint and I hit if off from the word "Chanel" and it felt like we'd been friends since our womb-days. We even dared karaoke and got a bit carried away with Time of my life by doing that last dance from Dirty Dancing as an ode to Patrick Swayze (whom we both loved and adored).

Except for that last lift. Please, that would just be social suicide.

I suspected Clint was gay from the start and he admitted and embraced that fact straight away. We talked about how his parents were in total denial of this. Being from a strict Protestant Afrikaans family (they even have the farm to go with the family history) it's not hard to believe that his parents would turn a blind eye to the fact that their son would much rather be out on a Friday night with his sweet and understanding partner of eight years than singing the duet of My endless love with an equally frustrated new lady friend.

When I asked him why he doesn't just tell them the truth, he said with a far off look:

"I can't hurt them like that. They are proud people; proud to the extent of cutting their right arm off if it were to go against what they believe. They have been so good to me and telling them would break their hearts. I simply don't have the courage yet."

Just to make sure Clint was really gay and not just faking it like this one guy I knew that would always come to our hostel pretending to be gay just so he could sneak a peak of our naked bums via the keyhole of the bathroom door, I asked Clint when we got back from the stage and sat down at our table:

"Would you like to touch my boobs?"

He smiled, took a sip of his drink and said:

"If I had any desire to fondle boobs, I'd pinch my own or Shane's (the sweet, understanding partner of eight years). But if it'll make you feel better, I'll grab your ass when we go sing All the single ladies."

He truly knows the way to a woman's self esteem.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Go shawty, it's your birfday

Dear Dad

Happy 65th birthday today. You don't look a day older than the first time I saw you forty years ago. I remember that moment quite distinctly. I was testing my amazing lung capacity when I saw the nun who delivered me, but when you held me in your arms for the very first time and I saw that tear run down your cheek in slow motion I knew we'd be alright.

You were the one who taught me the wonder of great Afrikaans poetry at the tender age of seven when you recited Vergewe en vergeet (forgive and forget) by Totius from a collection of poems with yellow, tired pages. My friends were busy with reading four word sentences while I was being introduced to a world of literature that still amazes me to this day. Thanks to you I had bragging rights since I was a natural blond.

I would like to thank you for building a pool at our old house. Two of my best childhood memories were made in that pool and no, you perverts, I was an innocent child back then who's main concern was staying up to watch Rescue 911.

The one memory involved a boy (don't look so shocked) three years older than me. Our parents were friends and would visit each other every weekend. When you are 12 and a boy is 15, he is a god. Usually when boys go to high school they start thinking that themselves, but not this one. We'd go swimming in our pool on a Sunday evening with the stars being our only light and he'd talk to me like my opinion actually mattered. Love is hard, okay, and puppy love even more so. I always punched him (you hurt the ones you love) and the one time I even winded him. He tried to brush it off, but I think he was just trying to be macho and maintain the godly-composure. He was my first love and I would always remember the way he made me feel. If it wasn't for that pool, Dad, I would never have had those incredible moments with that boy.

Thank you for always singing so loud in church that even the deaf lady three rows in front of us turned her head. This taught me that you should do what you love no matter what other people might think of it. And thank you for supporting me when I went to varsity and studied literature when everyone else played judge Judy; thank you for paying everything off so I could start my life debt free. I have never taken you working from 5am to 10pm for granted when I see how my friends struggle. That is the greatest gift you have ever given me.

Thank you for always giving my brother a crack when he teased me and said I was adopted. If there were another person with a temper like ours walking around, the world would be a dangerous place, you proclaimed. We don't have tempers, Dad, we just know what we want.

And now, on your 65th birthday, you should look back upon your life with a smile because you've been doing pretty good so far. I hope the next 65 will exceed all your expectations and that we'd be there to share every step with you. Besides, you need some kind of chaos in your life to keep things interesting, right?

Your grateful and loving daughter.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Tea for two?

So we didn't have tea. The second date and I, but at least this time I could order a Screaming Multiple Orgasm without having to go to confession afterwards.

The date wore a suit to our, well, date. Now I only know two kinds of men who wear suits to work: creepy funeral parlour people and male prostitutes.

Of course he was neither. My mother organised him for me after all and I doubt she would let a technical detail like what the candidate does for a living slip by her prude and conservative radar. If my mother's radar could be compared to anything, let's just say the Titanic would never have sunk on her sharp watch.

The date was an attorney. He was, unfortunately, not any kind of attorney. He was a divorce attorney. I had to smile at the irony of this whole situation.

Every time he said 'marriage' I felt obligated to boo! like the crowd at the MTV awards with the mere mention of ol' Kanye's name.

He's 30, never been married (BIG surprise) and wants someone he could grow old with. That is just code for fix-the-holes-in-my-socks-and-while-you're-up-pass-me-the-remote-because-the-game-is-starting-soon.

I might have paid more attention to his sincere attempts at making a real connection if I didn't have hiccups. As in THE hiccups. I had been running around all day and breakfast came and gone like Elizabeth Taylor's first marriage. So did lunch. When I don't eat all day, something happens with my insides and I start getting these crazy hiccups. Let's just say it wasn't the ideal way to start a date.

You try having a serious conversation about your work, life and where you see yourself in ten years (the normal dating material) while the woman sitting across from you croaks every nine seconds like there's a frog in her body the size of King Kong judging by the sound of the hiccup. It went something like this:

Eli Stone (that's the only decent, nice attorney I know):
"I've met many women in my line of work. Bitter, hard, sometimes insane women, but none like yo -"

Ladytruth: "CROAK!!!!"
(whilst smiling sweetly and concentrating on not spitting out her drink. Too much humiliation can't be good for the brain.)

Eli Stone: (a little frown appears, but still smiling as though he's a first grade teacher looking at a freaky kid with six pony tails on her head and a missing tooth)

Ladytruth: (trying to save the situation and her dignity)
"You know, I've never met a divorce attorney before. I bet you've never be screwed CROAK!!!"

Eli Stone (the little frown is upgraded to big brother Frown like the principal looking irritated with the girl who punched a boy for bullying her friend because he has nerdy glasses and freckles)
"Are you sure you're alright? Shouldn't I scare you or something to make them stop?"

Not even IT could scare the hiccups away at that stage. Not even the thought of me spanking his funky monkey could make the hiccups go away. I'd probably have a huge croak and end up phoning his parents from the emergency room thanks to a 'freaky accident'. Damn hiccups.

Needless to say, we didn't have dessert.

On our way home, Chris just smiled when I complained about the disaster that was the date.

"That bad, huh?" he asked and I could only nod with utter and great disappointment. Eli Stone had a really cute bum.

Then again, he is a divorce attorney and if we were to get married he might just go all crazy on me one day with:

"Go to the kitchen and cook me some supper, woman, or I'll sue you and take half of your closet AND the dogs,"

and then I might just have to kill him to get rid of those silly demands.

I guess all that's left to say is:


Thursday, September 17, 2009

A funeral, a robbery and an update on the next date

My best (girl)friend's mom had been very sick for quite some time and passed away last Wednesday. Needless to say, my friend's world fell apart. I went to see her as often as I could as we live about an hour and a half from each other, all the while wishing I could do more than her laundry, attempt at cooking a decent, edible meal and supply tissues ever so often.

The funeral was on Monday and we arrived at the church about an hour early. Monique wanted to be alone for a while to say her last goodbyes and we (Chris went with me) drove around for a bit. The service was suppose to start at 11:00 when the preacher came in and told us to please be patient as there had been an incident at the family's house and the service would commence as soon as they arrived.

The 'incident' he referred to was a robbery at Monique's dad's house. Only Monique and her father stayed behind at the church when the rest of the family went home to grab a few things and to get the rest of the people who were still at the house. They were held at gun point while four robbers took all the purses, jewelry and car keys. My friend's cousin said angrily to the one masked man:

"We're on our way to my aunt's funeral. Can't you just let us go so we can pay our respects!"

to which he replied:

"I'd be more worried about my own funeral if I were you."

How's that for shutting up an angry woman.

I asked my friend how she was doing and she replied:

"I'm alright, thanks. Everyone that comes up to me sharing their condolences do so by slipping a Prozac in my hand."

I could think of worse things to get at a funeral. Like sinus from all the flowers.

She was just sad that a day which was meant for the final farewell of a loved one was now tainted by the stain of an (unnecessary) crime. There weren't many family after the service because they all ran around giving statements to the police and worrying about their valuables.

We just keep our heads down day to day, clutching our handbags and pray for the best.

Oh! And as for the ten men in ten weeks-order from my mother: I have to go on the next one tonight. She said it'd be a good thing to get my mind of depressing issues in our country and in our hearts. Hopefully the date is a comedian.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

One down, nine to go

I went on my first of ten dates tonight. But I didn't go alone. In this day and age where books are being written about the wonder of the serial killer, I took some back up in the person of my best (guy) friend, Chris. As punishment for him being related to that woman who came up with the idea in the first place and encouraged my mother to such an extent that she even seems very excited about it.

My mother was told in no uncertain terms what MY terms of engagement would entail: no giving out my phone number to any man, no mention of my home address (why make it easier for stalkers and peeping toms) and she had to give me money in case the date "forgot" his wallet.

What? Don't give me that look! I'm not going to waste my hard earned cash on my mother's version of an arranged marriage.

Chris had strict orders: no leaving without me in the car sitting right next to him, no funny faces during the whole episode (he had to sit at a table close by so he could keep an eye out for any funny business from the person of interest) and the only break of any kind would be that of an arm or leg when the guy starts thinking he's Deuce Bigalo.

Mom wanted me to pin a red rose to my dress, but I told her that the 1950's were over. Done. Gone. Just like many girl's dream about becoming a princess like Diana. She sure opened a few eyes to the royal side of life. Besides, the red would clash with my pink dress and if the date were to remember anything about this night, I would at least like him to remember me in style.

As soon as I walked into the restaurant, I saw a tallish man with a jacket get up from his table. He walked over to where I was standing and immediately won some brownie points. I hate it when people wave. If you want to throw your hands in the air like an idiot who doesn't care, go to a rugby game for crying out loud and join the Mexican wave. By not acting like a drunk manic the date was now only at negative 20. Good start.

He introduced himself as Andre and I confirmed my not so hidden identity. I actually wanted to go as Ladytruth, but my mom looked at me funny and asked what stupid pseudonym that was. Go figure.

Andre was average. And that was okay as it exceeded all my expectations. Anyone not resembling Ben Stiller with piercings in all kinds of awkward places was a bonus in my book. He was not as tall as Shaquille O'Neal or as short as a hobbit. At this point I was thinking maybe my mother has been hiding her friends' sons from me for no good reason.

Andre put his hand under my elbow to steer me to our table. Pretty old school, but at least he wasn't grabbing my ass. Another sigh of relief; probably from Chris's side of the room too as I don't think he has much experience in the bouncer department.

We started talking and it seemed as though things were going pretty well. He didn't spray saliva all over me when he spoke and he even laughed at some of my remarks. I might just keep him around for my self esteem, this considerate and kind fellow.

I should've known it was too good to be true when the waiter came over and I ordered a cocktail. Andre asked for a glass of water. What a person drink says a lot about him. Also what a person does for a living.

Andre: "So how do you keep busy?"

LadyTruth: "Apart from conquering the world one man at a time these days? Nothing too strenuous. How about you?"

Andre: "I just got back from Zambia doing missionary work. I'm now busy applying to churches here in becoming a full time preacher."

At first mentioning the word missionary made me smile (he seemed like the type) until my slow, cocktailed brain cells put the word in context. The boring, first idea that popped to mind seemed not so repulsive after thinking about it for a while.

Could you imagine me as a preacher's wife? You can? Congratulations on your amazing imagination. Organising Bible study for people who are so pretentious they have season tickets to heaven already? Pass, thank you. I grew up in a strict, Christian home and I still go to church on Sundays. I just don't attend the extra gatherings any more because there's more life in a crematorium. Poor, kind Andre would be criticised all day and night about his wife and her worldly ways.

I even felt guilty sipping my cocktail after that. I kept censoring my language to try and not be my usual obscene self. But it was as good as putting a giraffe in a crocodile suit: it just felt uncomfortable. To make things worse, I kept hearing Bette Midler's From a distance in my mind and got stuck on the part that goes: "God is watching us." In this case it was from not such a great distance.

Before I ruined the whole evening, I lied and told Andre I had to go because I needed to do some laundry at home.

Chris kept singing Joy to the world all the way back to my place. He was just begging for a kick in the knee. Then my mother phoned. When I thanked her for not telling me Andre's occupation, she said I was the one who told her I wasn't interested in what the men did for a living.

"Besides, it's a minor detail. What a man earns can't be compared to how much love he can hold in his heart and a man of God will give you a whole lot of loving."

"Eeeuw, Mother!"

I'm now doing laundry because I felt bad lying to a preacher. I guess Mom's dream of sitting in the front row of church is disappearing like wrinkles after botox as I'm typing. Can't help but wonder who person of interest number 2 will be, but just the mere thought makes me weary.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Don't ever stop and smell the roses

I fell into a rose bush yesterday. Not one of my proudest moments. Well, if you consider the fact that this was actually a big bush and that I was the one able to nurture it to that amazing size while all the other plants in my garden have died a miserable death, then I guess it could be considered a proud day.

But I feel irritated today. Maybe the thorns from the rose bush gave off some toxic chemical in my bloodstream or maybe it's just my mother and her latest Cupid-attempt. I have a strong suspicion it might be the latter.

While I was busy licking cleaning my wounds, my parents came over to visit, followed an hour or so later by a few of my friends. It's like Sunday at the Salvation Army at my house, but I suppose the neigbors are thinking more along the lines of Alcoholics Not So Anonymous thanks to the friends being a little rowdy at times.

Upon seeing the cuts on my legs and arms everyone insisted on knowing what had happened. I tried to keep my explanation as simple as possible because my mom would use anything as an excuse to get me back home again. Or lecture me about the other big "problem" in my life. Both a bit embarrassing in front of the friends who are firm believers in blackmailing.

"This would never have happened if there was a man around to take care of you," Mom starts her free therapy session.

Like a man would cure me from my clumsiness. Maybe that's the cure for Aids?

"And you're not getting any younger, LT."

She never fails to disappoint with her predictability.

"Wine gets better with age," I try to save some of my reputation and dignity.

"So does mould on bread," a loyal friend comes to my rescue. What have I done to deserve these kind, considerate, caring people?

I could see this was boring the daylight out of my dad who got up to check on the damage done to the rose bush. I longed to follow him, but Mom's next words forced me back to my chair.

"The cork goes rotten after a while, love, and then the wine is pretty darn useless, but I spoke to Chris's mom about the situation and she says you don't have enough options. You should meet new people and not just hang around so much with your regular friends. They're not marriage material anyway," and she gets up to pour us some juice under loud protest.

It doesn't help arguing with my mother. I will only end up with a throbbing headache to match the pain in my legs. It wasn't a pleasant prospect on a Sunday night.

"So what did Starsky and Hutch decide?" Dad asks when he returned from his inspection.

"If you're referring to my friend and I," Mom was not amused, "we thought of introducing LT to ten men in ten weeks."

She stood back with folded arms looking like she had just found the answer to saggy boobs without the pain of plastic surgery.

"That's a brilliant idea, Mrs. Truth !" my other trusty friend exclaimed. "That will really spice up her sex-"

At this point I got up at a speed Usain Bolt could only dream of achieving to slap the big mouth on his back before he could complete that potentially fatal sentence. Surely we all have some things we don't want our parents to find out until we're about ... eh ... seventy?

I'm really irritated. I'm as irritated as a cat being bathed. Or a porcupine being poked. Or the three minutes on a Friday before you leave for your long and well deserved weekend only to be stopped by the boss carrying piles of files which only has one destination: your desk, with a note written neatly on top reading complete before Monday. Now you know how irritated I am.

Apart from itching and burning legs, I now have to meet ten random men in an attempt to keep me from falling into flowers. And there's no use arguing with Mother. Once she's set her mind on something it's over, almost like an alcoholic taking a drink after being sober for a year. Brandy has no brakes. Especially when that "brandy" is being supported by a bunch of twenty somethings who find it highly amusing watching me in this uncomfortable and painful situation.

Anybody want to swap places with me right now? I'll even clean toilets for a living.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Cake and sex: there's always room for seconds

A word of warning: send the kids to bed for this one, dear friends, unless you want your child looking like this for the rest of his life after reading about the birds and the bees before the time is ripe:

Judearoo and otherwordlyone gave me two very different but extremely delightful tasks. The one involves cake. The other: sex. I even wrote a post on the combination of these two things. Let's just say things ended up with me sneaking out of the cake-baker's apartment but of course not without eating another quick slice. I'm all for quickies.

Judearoo was channelling Marie-Antoinette, but the cake came at a price: I need to tell her (and since you've tuned in you might as well read about it too) three things about myself that she couldn't tell from my style of writing or what I choose to write about and as I didn't want to use up all the space on her comment-area, I decided to do it back here.

I wish all cake was this cheap and easy to get. Or maybe not as I might just have to join the CA.

1. I still blush upon receiving a compliment. How bloody ridiculous is that. You'd think after 25 years I would be able to get those blood vessels under control, but they're about as stubborn as your eyes not wanting to open on a Monday morning.

2. I cry. A lot. Think the Pacific ocean. If the make-up companies ever really want to put their waterproof mascara to the test they should let me wear it while watch something like Gran Torino or even Marley and Me where the lab lies under the tree outside about to die. Just thinking about it makes my eyes itch of emotion.

3. I'm not funny in 'real life' or otherwise known as 'the life outside the blogasphere'. My friends never laugh at things I say or at my jokes (laughing at me and my relationship status doesn't count). Maybe because I keep forgetting the punch line? Whateva. Punch lines are overrated anyway. Like The Jonas Brothers.

Hee hee hee.

otherwordlyone recognised my closet-exhibitionism and called me out on it. I'm rehabilitated, really, and now I only expose sex stories. The terms are these: "Tell us 3 things about your sex life. You can make them whatever you want and it doesn't necessarily have to pertain your current partner (or a partner at all for that matter). You can talk about your likes and dislikes, your kinky fetishes or your secret desires. You can tell us a funny story about the time you were having sex in the woods with your old boyfriend and you both ended up with 1,000 tics. Whatever you want ... it's totally up to you!"

Only 3? Pity.


1. Foreplay is a must. I don't spend my hard earned money on sexy, sink-your-teeth-into-this-you-naughty-boy-lingerie for only my own enjoyment. Sex is like a 5 course meal: you don't insult your host by immediately jumping to dessert. You savour every deliciously different dish and when that chocolaty piece of heaven finally lies there before you, you utter a grown of delight and roll every spoon full in your mouth teasing your taste buds until the next bite. Hmmm ...

2. Don't suck my ear. Don't nibble my ear. Whispering in my ear results in uncontrollable laughter for some reason. But the neck? Ah, that is a whole different story. Caressing the it with a touch as light as a butterfly and my heart is like a little lamb dashing from a wolf in my chest; a lingering kiss in the nape of the neck and I could easily be a member of the band Wet wet wet.

3. My sex-story happened during my last trip to the coast. A few friends and I went to my family's beach house over Easter weekend. That's where I met Cody, the Surfer. His name wasn't really Cody but one of the guys was infatuated with Surf's up and wouldn't stop calling him that. Don't feel bad for Cody because one look in the mirror and I'm sure he'd get over it because he was gorgeous. Think Baywatch meets Hung. He was indeed a sight for sore eyes. Let me just wipe the drool off my keyboard quickly.

One evening we went to the only restaurant in the complex our beach house is located in. It rained that day so everyone started drinking unusually early. You can only play so many games of 30 seconds in a sober state before you want to strangle your partner who didn't know Joan Jett originally sang I love rock and roll and not Britney Spears. Can you tell my friends are a bunch of jocks?

After a few hours of that torture we didn't feel like cooking and walked to the restaurant where we caught up with Cody who was sitting at the bar having a beer. His hair was still wet as he had just finished surfing, The perfect storm-waves and all. I think that's why I liked him so much; he had a fearlessness about him. Add an amazing set of teeth and you have a winning combination.

The bar had a limited selection of liquor (no JD or Vodka) with only one cocktail. You guessed it: sex on the beach. They replaced the vodka with coconut rum (ugh) but it was either that or beer. So we sexed it up. Big time.

The friends soon went home (cheaper booze) and Cody asked if I wanted to go for a walk on the beach. He was a true gentleman wrapping me in his waterproof jacket and during the walk his fingers comfortably slipped into mine like a hand finding its glove.

Cody talked about his life growing up at the coast, his ambitions of becoming a lawyer some day and his love for painting. He took me to his 'serious spot' as he called it which turned out to be a hidden piece of beach next to some rocks. For a while we just lied there on the sand listening to the crash of the waves when he leaned over and traced the outline of my lips when I parted them and welcomed his rather rough, salty index with my awaiting tongue.

Now, this may all sound very sexy and sensual and it was until the first sand crab stuck its curious clippers out to see what earthquake was waking the whole colony. The next one popped its head next to my arm and if these creepy fuckers weren't enough to ruin the mood, it started raining. Okay, raining might be an understatement cause I could handle a few drops and even imagine me being a mermaid being schooled in the way of the sea by the god Poseidon himself. But it poured down so hard that I thought we were going to drown on dry land.

I felt like this poor boy with my beach adventure coming to such an abrupt halt.

I ended up with pneumonia a few days later but not before Cody and I continued our "sex on the beach" armed with a blanket, umbrella and insect repellent. The moral of the story?

Just stick to the cocktail.