Friday, July 31, 2009

Persistence and unwanted visits

I saw an old friend again yesterday. Gareth. He now coaches hockey at the school where I coach netball. I don't actually know if he can be classified as an "old friend" as we never really got around to the friend stage because being friends generally involve having conversations about the weather and about how your day was and what you did this weekend. I don't think "take of your shirt and get over here" can be classified as a conversation.

We met at varsity in Psychology class. He was the one always late for class and not giving a shit if the lecturer gave him the stank face. I think I'm a magnet for those kind of guys. You see: of all the empty seats in the whole room he chose to plunk down next to me; not next to the sexy red head with a sluttish shirt matching her sluttish make-up or the brunette with the I'm-going-to-put-on-my-teacher's-outfit-and-then-spank-you-all-night-long-you-naughty-boy-face. I guess blondes have all the luck.

He always smelled like freshly cut grass and sweat and good times.

"What did I miss?" he asked me the first day he invaded my personal space.
"Invaded" because I put my bag on the seat next to me as soon as I saw him enter the room, but he merely picked it up nonchalantly and put it on the floor next to his shoes.

I didn't bother answering as I didn't feel like drawing any more attention to us and having to answer impossible questions from a spiteful lecturer who knew no one ever prepared for his boring class. I even considered offering to get him laid to just get a reaction out of his sour old prune face.

Gareth didn't stop there. Of course not. He took my notepad and wrote a number on it.

"Call me when you can't handle not being sexually satisfied by your boyfriend anymore."

Not exactly the type you take home and introduce to the family.

I didn't phone him. Of course not! I didn't feel like getting grass burns on my but, because something about the way he walked and the clothes he wore told me he was probably playing some kind of sport.

Just like he ignored the lecturer, he ignored me ignoring him. He started charming my friends who all just fell at his feet with wide spread legs for a single smile from his lips; he even attended my Afrikaans classes even though he was a pure bred English yuppie from Johannesburg who could only say "hallo" and "when do they come out" in Afrikaans; he waited for me at my dorm when I came back late from doing research in the library and that showed true, pure determination because it was so cold I think his penis shrank to the size of a baby carrot.

That determination night after night reminded me of soldiers slugging through muddy waters and without saying a word, I pulled him up by his hand on one of those cold nights and kissed him with my one hand behind his head and my other on his crotch. It didn't take long for us to get in his car where I started taking off one piece of clothing at a time while he tried to keep his right hand and eye on the road and the left hand and eye on me.

His flat was messy with clothes and plates and empty bottles everywhere so we found the only semi clean place there was: the carpet in the passage right next to the front door. After my first "visit" he at least started cleaning up his bedroom as I also didn't sign up for carpet burns.

He played hockey for the varsity (I suspected rugby, but hoped for a guy with more intelligence) and I went to all his games. I used to think hockey was for sissies and desperate boys pumped full of testosterone with a stick trying to make up for their, uhm, inadequacies. Gareth proved me wrong. He was daring, fearless, skilled and smart on the hockey field (in bed as well) and he was a great dancer. His music collection was so different to the image I always had of him before I got to know him; he always listened to the oldies like Sinatra and BB King. Sometimes he would pull me up and just start swaying from side to side, humming along to the tune and never stepping on my toes once.

The whole thing was pretty doomed from the start, I guess. His father passed away and being the eldest son he basically had to take over and run the family business with his mother. I stayed on to do my honors and masters degree and never heard a word from him since. He never really was the "I'll call you" type. That was four years ago.

And now he's here. In my small hometown far away from the hubbub of the city that is Joburg.

I think if I was better prepared it would've been fine, but everyone just talked about the new hockey coach for the first team of next year who used to play for the university nearby and never really saying his name. The ladies were all flustered and blushing just talking about this "catch." Any man that doesn't wear a kaki hat and socks pulled up to his knees with a comb tucked inside is considered a "catch" in this region.

I never pay much attention to the Gossiping Clan and was thus rather shocked when I saw Gareth walking across the rugby field to the netball courts; so shocked in fact that I glanced away for one second and got a ball in the stomach. Not the best feeling with the sore muscles and all from the other day.

There was no reuniting scene like The Lion King because first of all: Gareth was not as hairy as Simba and secondly I hurried the girls into a huddle, had our little cheer and then I quickly moved (not run) to my car and left.

It's not as though we just hit the pause button and all of a sudden we can pick up where we left off. I'm a respectable, grown woman now with common sense. I'm happy with my life, thank you very much.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Being Rocky Balboa and the cool factor

My arm hurts. A LOT. Just sitting here typing feels like some freaky little animal is gnawing away it obsessively. Stop typing then, you stupid masochistic woman, some of you might be saying to yourselves (luckily in the privacy of your home/office where you're reading this or you would have gotten a kick in the knee Jet Lee-style), but typing this post is the only thing keeping me from taking a few painkillers with a shot of the Goose. They say you should eat plenty of bananas because of the potassium in this fruit for sore muscles, but I've eaten so many already I'm afraid I'm going to start looking like a monkey soon. A monkey with one hell of a hangover and sore arm, that is. Something that seems to help is laying a hot bath, but I had to get out after an hour because I started looking like this:

I didn't even make a trip to the Torture Chamber – also known as The Gym – to deserve this. I merely threw a ball. Very hard, I might add. And none of this would've happened if I just acted my age and not tried to be all cool in front of a bunch of 14 year old girls.

Netball practice started again yesterday and one of the girls had a brace around her arm to support her wrist and was complaining about her partner throwing the ball too hard. So I told her to stop whining – not really, although I seriously wanted to and give her a crack while I was at it – and sit that one out as I would partner up with her friend. That was mistake number one.

Her friend has the nickname Not So Gentle Giant because she is the tallest girl on the team and has this confused look on her face – the one Will Farrell was born with – which her opponents mistakenly interpret as "bad ass from jail" because she really does look older than 14. I don't mind that face; it has won many a match for us so far.

Not So Gentle Giant has a strong arm. Think Hulk meets Iron Man meets The Departed (Leonardo DiCaprio looks pretty pissed off in that movie the whole time) and you pretty much get the picture. I'm 25 now; a 14 year old girl does not scare me. Thinking that was mistake number two.

I emphasized the purpose of this exercise before we started: strong shoulder passes to strengthen the muscles and which can also be used during a game as the girls aren't allowed to throw what we call the "loopy" pass during a practice or a match. Afterwards I was thinking it was one of those times I just should've thought up another bloody exercise.

So my "partner" and started throwing the ball at each other. The girl with the brace says to me in absolute awe after a minute or so:

"Wow, Miss, you're really fit!"

She shouldn't have said that and listening to a teenager who is impressed on a daily basis by a boy who can touch his nose with his tongue, was mistake number three. It reminded me of a guy trying to impress a girl and tries to show off by downing a glass of beer. She is "very" impressed and says to him:

"Wow! I can never do that! You are totally awesome!"

He then feels obliged to improve on his first effort as to not let her see that he is in fact a weakling whom hates beer and thus tries to swallow it as fast as he can the second time around and the third and the fifteenth time until he drops down dead from alcohol poisoning. I've seen it happen so many times before; not the dropping dead part, but the "I need to prove myself" part. I was that bloody fool now.

The exercise we were busy with requires a hundred balls to be thrown: the first forty about 5 feet apart from each other, the next twenty about 7 feet, the next twenty 10 feet and then again ten from 7 feet and ten from 5 feet. By ball number twenty two I was exhausted, but I couldn't quit and risk looking like that "weakling" in front of these girls. Especially with the glances I saw them sneak my way and the amazement in their eyes.

"Coach, did you work out this holiday without us?"

"Miss, where did you learn to pass like that?"
This comment just shows you the attention span of a 14 year old girl as I've even played on the court with them just a month ago, let alone passed a ball or ten to them.

"Miss, will I be able to pass like you someday?"

No pressure after one of them said that, right? I started hearing Eye of the Tiger and wondering why teenagers can't have this much admiration for their parents. Maybe there's a lesson to be learnt from this, Mom and Dad: if you want your child's unlimited adoration just throw a ball f*cking hard at one of them 100 times.

I was starting to sweat and I hate sweating. Men are different. There is something about a sweaty man that is strangely appealing and very sexy to me.

Like the fabulous Cannavaro, a proud product of Italy

and not-at-all-creepy uncle Bill from Peter Pan Leather Land.

When women sweat, other women look at them with a look on their faces saying: "Eew! Haven't you ever heard of anti-perspirant?" I can't help I have sweat glands and don't sit on my ass all day only using them when a hot guy walks past. Judgemental Bitch.

The girls were slacking because they were tired (and hell knows, so was I!), but we were at 75 and not finished yet.

"If I see another loopy, you are all running the rugby field three times!"

I tried to say it very quick as to not let them hear me sound out of breath. Actually I was just looking for an excuse to take a break because I could supervise them just fine from the tap next to the rugby stadium.

By this time my arm felt like someone injected it with fire, but I pursed my lips and thought if the 105 year old Sylvester Stallone could run those steps in Rocky #431 I sure as hell can catch and throw a number five netball ball a few times.

Thing is: Sylvester Stallone didn't run all those steps thanks to cutting and editing and I should've known better as to try and impress gullible, but nevertheless-appreciative-of-my-skills-afterwards-14 year olds. Our next practice is on Thursday again: the 100 ball exercise will not be on the programme again any time soon.

The moral of this story: no one is f*cking Rocky.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Too much wine makes you do stupid things

My weekend didn't start of very well. I didn't go out Friday evening because I just didn't feel like being harassed in any public place offering entertainment by some corny pick up line from a guy I wouldn't even touch with a pair of tweezers. So I ate too much chocolate and watched too many romantic comedies/romantic dramas/romantic thrillers/romantic action movies and woke up with a headache and the song Lucy by Hanson draining my brain cells from any cultivated thought.

(I kind of felt the way this poor kid looks)

To top it all: my heater couldn't stand the cold last night and broke and my geizer went some time after that as well which meant I woke up in an igloo with no prospect of drifting away in a steaming environment also known as the bathroom.

Now if there is one thing I don't think I can live without, it's a nice hot bath. I bath twice a day and sometimes when it's really cold I'll even take a third trip to heavenly bliss. (I think at least I'm "clean" on the outside, like otherworldlyone was saying; maybe there is still hope). It's the only thing that instantly warms me up and puts me in a good mood. No man I've dated could live up to those standards. Sadly.

I thus went to my mom's house to take a bath and feel like a human being again. Shortly after that Mr. Chase phoned and invited me for supper at his flat later that day. He'd been taking me out a few times this past week and I have to admit I haven't been revolted or forced to use the "I have a stomach virus" excuse. Yet.

I dolled myself up and tried to look as desirable as I four layers of clothes allowed me. Mr. Chase has been a great gentleman: opening the car door, standing up when I entered the room, taking the tray from me when I made coffee and regularly kissing my hand for any small and simple reason. I only have to say how spectacular the weather's been (he seems oblivious to my sarcasm) and he takes my hand, looks into my eyes and says with a little smile:

"You outshine everything with your spectacular eyes." Corny, I know, but sweet. Really just a nice guy.

Now I know this man can cook because he's a bachelor and he has amazing hands. Have you ever seen Eric Lanlard's hands (the French guy on the cooking show glamour puds). Or Gordon Ramsey's? Strong fingers: probably to grip the knife tightly as to not lose a finger in the chopping process; short, square nails: so that food or dough can't get stuck underneath. It's a bloody painful process trying to remove dough from your nails. That's another reason I don't bake bread anymore.

Their hands are always clean. In this contaminated day and age it's a bonus to find a man with nice, clean hands. Luckily I'm not obsessive compulsive about that or I'd never be able to have sex.

He made gnocchi and the dessert was this mouth watering frozen chocolate-covered cappuccino crunch cake. I had to refrain myself from not eating six pieces and looking like a pig, but it was INCREDIBLE. The only problem was the wine.

During the course of the meal he poured us wine and was telling me how expensive it was and that he went to great lengths to get this wine and how it compliments the pasta and the rich desert and blah blah blah was all I heard, really, because I'm not the best wine drinker. Sweet wine like a rosé taste like a cold drink to me with the exception being that cold drink doesn't make you giddy or cause your legs to feel like chopped off tree stomps. Wines like a merlot or pinot noir or cabernet sauvignon have an even worse effect on my bodily functions and inhibitions after about four glasses. So to keep my dignity I usually refrain from drinking wine or just stick to one glass. Usually.

Unfortunately he put some music on during the gnocchi. It was some kind of happy French music that made me want to get up, kick my shoes off and just dance with my eyes closed. It made me so happy in fact that I lost track of my alcoholic consumption and before you could say what's under your skirt we were in his bedroom with him having a thorough inspection of that part of my anatomy which intrigued him so much 20 years ago.

He wasn't a bad lover, but it was as exciting and dirty as Sunday lunch with the folks. He was very meticulous and strong and calm and I was too scared to even giggle when he touched my knee in fear of him looking up with a frown and asking if he was doing something wrong. Because he's that type. The type who makes you feel like you’re the parental supervision when you want to hear anything but the phrase "parent" in any way, shape or form.

And then I heard a bell in my mind. I always hear it when I've hit the one week mark with a guy. When you're an athlete and run track, the official rings a bell to announce the last lap. I guess this meant we were in the home stretch with our short relationship. As in me going home and him going away.

When we were both exhausted a few hours later he put his arm around me, he gave me a lingering, passionate kiss and said:

"Wow, that was something else! If I knew it was going to be this great, I would've taken you down like 23 years ago. Good night, baby,"

and curled up against me in the dreaded cuddle position.

First: it would've been considered rape if you "took" me when I was five. Secondly: I'm only 25 years young now and not 28 like you're implying, dimbwit. 28's way too close to 30 for comfort at this stage in my life. 30 means I have to be married with 2 and a half mini me's running around terrorising my dogs. I'm ONLY 25!

I waited for two minutes until I heard him snore. That was the last straw. I slipped out from underneath his clutching, clingy hand and dressed as quick as long sleeved shirts and a skirt allowed me and made a dash for my car. It's not like I have commitment issues, I just don't like messy break ups.

He phoned me this morning asking why I left.

I told him I have a stomach virus.

The moral of the story: stick to whiskey or vodka.

Well, maybe not this one. Not just yet :)

Friday, July 24, 2009

Welcome to my humble home!

Mr. Condescending requested (in a rather demanding manner) an invitation to my house during one of his comments on my blog this week. At first I thought it was my charming personality and spectacular looks that attracted his attention, but I was clearly mistaken. He is merely interested in my South African heritage and the peculiarities it might entail. Nevertheless: I hate to disappoint and decided to show everyone around.

Now: my apologies in advance for the pictures. I'm not a professional photographer as I don't stalk people from behind and snap away to put it on my blog later (wink wink, nudge nudge) but I gave it a good attempt and if you don't like it: GO TELL SOMEONE WHO CARES!

For those of you who doesn't know this yet: I love the Sopranos. Maybe because it was something my brother and I used to do together which didn't happen often as he's ten years older than I and a male at that. It wasn't cool having the baby sister around combing your friends' hair while you're talking about, you know "guy" stuff. In my defence though: his one friend had really nice thick black hair that just begged to be combed and loved and I was happy to answer that call.

I digress. At the beginning of every episode of The Sopranos that super fantastic song starts playing and you see Tony Soprano drive past all the landmarks on his way home. That was the inspiration for my version of Be my guest and yes, I know I'm bending the rules a bit: so sue me!
As some of you may know by now, I'm from sunny South Africa: where crime is as high as a hooker's mini-skirt. Our transportation system is a little bit different than some of the countries abroad as we have no Underground. We used to have this train, but then people started taking it apart for scrap metal and decorations for their houses and now the train has no more doors. So passengers started pushing other passengers off the train and unless you really don't feel like getting to work that day, you walk or steal someone's bicycle.

Luckily, for the 2010 Soccer World Cup, the government decided to design a new train called the Gautrain (it's just the province in which Johannesburg is located) to make us not look like total backwards bastards, but we're not allowed to use it yet. It's like saving the birthday cake until everyone else arrives when you just want to put your face in that vanilla icing and EAT!

We also have what we call the "taxi." It's not like a black cab from London (it's WAY cheaper) or a yellow cab from New York (it's WAY uglier). No: it's the "Coffin on Wheels." I'm not a racist (as I've caught a ride on one before just don't tell my mother!), but only black people make use of this transportation method. You have the newer model and don't be fooled just because it looks like a normal mini bus:

and then there's the dodgy version of a taxi:

The rest of us just drive cars and try to avoid being killed by these skilled drivers.
Please note that those dark marks on the blue taxi are actually not dirt, but mere dents. They drive like they own the road and honk at you when you dare use sign language.

As I was taking this picture in Dodgeville the driver was busy walking back to his taxi when he saw me and started waving his arms. He must have thought I was there to steal his valueble ride.

On the way to my house you will drive past the "Makoekoes" otherwise know as the "Location." This is part of the not-so-nice South African culture that tourists don't always want to or get to see (except for Soweto, of course). I guess it's almost like the ghettos abroad, but no white people or Mexicans (!) stay there and if you have a Makoekoe, it means your house doesn't have any brick walls or a proper tiled roof. That's where those train doors went.

It's extremely hot during summer as some of the Makoekoes have no electricity and thus no fan and in winter it's ball freezing cold. Let's move on to happier sights.

This is the sign you'll see as we enter my town: we're all excited about next year (the men mostly because they're trying to legalize prostitution).

Football is not really a well supported sport in South Africa as most males here started a tradition of their own when it comes to rugby: biltong and booze. It just depends on what team you support because you can't watch them lose when you're sober. Since the Confederations Cup we hope the support situation has changed as South Africa or better known as Bafana Bafana did pretty well.

As you enter town there will be a slipway to your left and if you take it you end up at the Bunny Sanctuary. I made a special stop there for Mr. Condescending:

To my utter dismay I could not spot a single bunny yesterday morning as I suppose it was too cold for them to go near the water. You got lucky, Mr. C. The Bunny Sactuary is just a place people take unwanted bunnies and leave them on the island to breed and feed while imagining they're in the wild. As bunnies can't swim, the municipality thought it was the perfect solution for the breeding problem. Heartless pigs.

About 5 kilometres from my house there is a lion park which I used to visit quite often because they allow you to hold the cubs and play with them. But lately I just don't feel like going there much. The lions don't roar that often anymore. I think they're sad. I made a quick stop anyway to show some of you a real lion and eliphant and because I know the owner really well. He accompanied me inside the cages to have a proper shot at both the lion and elephant (keep in mind I have an EXTREMELY good zoom function):

(Clearly I was twisting the truth as these pictures were taken earlier this year because of all the green schrub. Just checking if you're still awake.)

Let's fast forward to my house:

Welcome to my humble home!

DON'T mock the sign! My nieces made it for me with much love and care and as a good and proud godmother, I will crack you if nothing but a compliment for their artistry comes out of your pie hole.

But please come in! It's very chilly outside this time of year and I don't want you to catch a cold and sneeze all over my things.
This is my doorbell.

Meet Jane. She's a real barker, but a proper lady as a simple scratch on the chest makes her heart warm and leaves her wanting more and more and more and more; you'll be stuck petting her for the rest of the evening. She's ready to go party though as she's wearing her Princess outfit.

This is my bodyguard.

His name is Rupert. Don't let that smile deceive you: he's a real ferocious killer this one. Many a man's heel has been clenched by his razor sharp teeth. He's extremely possesive and hates it when any man comes within sniffing distance of his mommy. Note that he's not wearing his jersey (yet) as he's a big boy and hates being dolled up (I didn't want to embarrass him on camera).

Here is a small section of my book collection. I'm quite the collector as old books and all words fascinate me beyond measure. I don't like buying new books because it feels like they have not yet had time to grow a certain "character"; it's hard to explain but I like the feel of a book that's had a couple of miles on its back, as though it's been places and some of that magic that has been captured in its pages is now lying at the tip of your fingers, ready to be explored. It's a funny thing, I know.

As you can see most of the books are in Afrikaans because that is indeed my mother tongue. It has to be a really good book for me to read it in English but I have a few favorites like The road to Mecca by Athol Fugard, Joseph by Mervyn Jones (which is about Stalin), Picasso by Norman Mailer, Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee (Nobel prize winner and South African at that!) and anything concerning Russian literature. I like the heavy stuff ;)

If you glance to your left you will find my DVD collection. I have to admit: I'm a never-give-backer. If you bring it to my house, it stays in the house. It's almost like Hotel California except you can go by all means, but leave the nice things you brought with behind. Nice things ranging from wine to books to boyfriends, I'm not fussy ;) Most of these DVD's are what friends brought over to watch and was either too drunk or too tired to realize it was mine now when I shooed them out. Except for my 3 Ché Guevara DVD's, The Weddingsinger (which William and I killed by watching it so many times), Schindler's List and the Tarantino box set (which is further left). I vaguely remember buying those in London last year.

Let's move to the place they call "the kitchen". This is where the magic doesn't happen.

On the menu for tonight: freshly bought McDonalds :) We don't have Burger King or White Castle or Gordon Ramsey or any of those fancy and foreign things you people take for granted. I like to go out to my favourite restaurants more than having take outs because it's about the dining experience. When I want a home cooked meal, I go to my mom's house or get a friend to come over and cook.

I have many cookbooks which my mom and other worried females bought me. They probably hope and pray that it will inspire me to actually follow a recipe accurately and not burn the house down like my last failed attempt, but sadly I will not give in to these manipulative gestures. However: I do bake. In fact, I love baking. I love cakes and tarts and anything sweet.

I've actually made the recipe on the left and twelve glasses of water later I felt much better. It's a very rich and moist cake, but worth the heartburn 100%.

Where are my manners: you must be swallowing your tongue of thirst by now! I know I am from all this talking. I didn't have time to go out and buy any new liquor so stop bitching and just take the glass! I apologise for the set up: I used to have a wine rack, but the bottles looked so uncomfortable in there and it was just another place for creepy insects to rest so I decided to put everything in the kitchen underneath the glass shelf as I'm all for easy access ;)

Very similar to Australia: when you are invited to a person's house, you take your own liquor and when they say it's a "Bring and Braai" (braai = BBQ) you have to take your own meat as well because we are cheap bastards and meat is bloody expensive these days. Thus: I never keep any wine on the shelf as people have such varied tastes and I can only please so many men, sorry, guests at once.

I hope you enjoyed the show. It was lovely having you over. After you've helped me clean up the mess I've made, you can leave.
Oh, I almost forgot about Lucy! There she is with her baby Molly. What, did you think I have a REAL giraffe in my backyard?! We're not in the bloody WILD, man! It's only Africa.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Pimp my hair

Have you ever had a bad hair day?

Have you ever been in desperate need of a hairstylist and just went to the dodgy place on the corner that charged you an arm and a leg for a haircut like makes you look like a world class psychopath:

"It's not a wig. Piss off."

When you find yourself rolling on the floor too scared to face the mirror like this poor chap:

you know it's probably not a good idea to go back to "Unisex stylists- Where we buthcher hair."

I went for my hair cut again today and, as always, it feels as though I'm a new person: I have a walk those incompetent wannabes on Make Me A Supermodel prays for and dreams about, I have a new attitude that makes men glance at me twice with glee and women stare daggers into my back, I have a new smile that reminds you of long hot baths and messy duvetcovers, I have a new twinkle in my eye that says don't touch what you can't afford.

I'm still me, but my hairdresser just "pimped" me a little, I guess :)

His name is William. I have known him since my first hair disaster which happened when I was sixteen and the box of coloring said light ash blonde which is supposed to look like this:

(light ash blonde)

but ended up looking like this:

(I'm-going-to kill-myself-now-light ash blonde)

Not even my mother could look at me without cringing. My sister kindly suggested I go to her hairstylist which was according like a Rain man with scissors. When William saw me the first time, his words were: "The eighties are dead love, and so will your future sex life be if you walk around with that hair in public." I immediately fell in love with him.

William recently celebrated his fortieth birthday in Mauritius, but he doesn't look a day older than a well matured eighteen, I always tell him. He's been in a relationship with his partner for about fifteen years and it's the normal I-can't-live-with-you-but-I-also-can't-live-without-your-money-thing (the boyfriend being the broke one). William thinks that qualifies him as a relationship shrink. I nod in agreeance.

It really is like a therapy session when I go get my hair done. There is a very comfartable chair where I talk and talk and bitch and moan and cry and laugh while he listens and massages my head. Mostly he interrupts, but at least he can multi task, so I don't really have a problem with that.

Interrupting helps him get perspective on the situation, he says, and because I talk so much, he has to stop me every now and again to give advice before he forgets what he was going to say. That's his usual excuse. Sometimes he just interrupts me by playing a song that usually sums up his answer in a nutshell.

Once he played me I still haven't found what I'm looking for by U2 when I was complaining about my relationships only lasting two to three weeks; there was also the time he played me Prozac by Vanilla Ice when I asked him what makes people stay together for longer than fifteen years and then there was the time of my bad break up with that dickhead during varsity when William played me Somebody kill me please by Adam Sandler which he said was what he wanted to do the whole time whilst listening to the soppy story. He can be so sensitive, that William.

I've never walked into his salon with a photo or request because he just always shoots down the idea and chucks away the photo. So I complained about it the one time: he pretended to listen and then went ahead and did his own thing anyway.

William seems tough, but he's actually a real oyster with a beautiful pearl on the inside. He had a bad, bad childhood. His father was as loving to his sons in the same way Ted Bundy was towards woman. His mother passed away when he was still very young. William doesn't like to talk about his past much, but what he always mentions when he brings it up is the fact that his mother's death was something he could never get over.

"I think I would've turned out differently if she had stayed alive for long enough. When I think of her I can't breath and I want to turn around and die. What do you say, are we sharing a Valium?"

He started working when he was thirteen and dropped out of school when he was fifteen to go to the "big city" which is Johannesburg (around here anything bigger than a farm is considered the "big city"). I still remember when I was thirteen I was consumed by drooling over Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing and my main concern was what shoes went with what outfit (and I still have that concern today). But I can't imagine how hard it must have been for a young boy to survive on the streets in South Africa and support himself when he doesn't even have a fistful of chest hair yet.

William did and he made it and he has never looked back since.

When he's all done with my hair he stands back, folds his arms and says with a hint of a smile on his lovely face:

"You know, I think I like the girl staring back at me in that mirror. You have her name and number by any chance?"

Now I know he's gay and I know he's my friend, but it still feels damn good to get a compliment from a hot guy with a tight ass like him anyway.

And I walk out of the salon feeling like I deserve only the best and that I really shouldn't settle for anything less. Until the next day when I have to do that hair myself and William gets an anonymous pain in the ass.

(The song that comes to mind here is Reflections by Christina Aguilera: Who is that girl I see staring straight back at me ... )

Sunday, July 19, 2009

A black Polo Ralph Lauren Kimono Velour Robe

Who invented the night before the dreaded Monday? Honestly, I'd like to crack them. I suspect it wasn't God but some lonely work slave who couldn't wait to escape his pathetic weekend-blues from sitting in front of the television watching Mr. Bean over and over again as he had no friends to go visit. I think I need another weekend to forget about this one cause I'm feeling rather cranky after the Sunday afternoon I had.

Chris's mother invited my family to have lunch at their house yesterday. I was actually kind of excited to go because I knew this new girlfriend of Chris would be there and it always brings me immense pleasure to see how the High and Mighty (that's what I call Chris's mom, just H&M for short) interrogates the shit out of the next-possible-god-forbid-H&Ms. I've actually been in that terrifying situation myself when Chris and I just started becoming friends. She sees any and everything wearing something that even remotely resembles a skirt as a possible threat and like a weapon of mass destruction she zooms in on the innocent pray to destroy all and any fantasies about a future with her precious oldest son.

But my oh my, was I the one in for the fat surprise of the day! As it turns out I actually know Chris's girlfriend. In fact I know her very, very well as she's one of my good friends whom I went out with on Friday and held my hand while I was feeling a little, teeny, tiny bit sick from my good friend Jack Daniels in all his bitter glory on the bathroom floor of the pub. It would've been nice to know that she was dating my best friend before I had a little accident on her shoes as I would've aimed slightly higher to leave my mark on her strapless red dress she was showing off all night. If I really strained myself, I'm sure I could've made it all the way to her perfect, long, out-of-a-box black hair.

So there she was, almost sitting on top op my best friend clutching his hand like an eagle would claw a baby lamb he's about to devour. Well I have news for you, missy! I've been with Chris long before you were even considered important enough to glance at. Of course I've slept with Chris, friends. Once: in the in the pool, on the couch in the formal living room, on the pool table (but we had to stop after a few minutes at risk of not breaking the thing and some vital body parts in the process as well), on the kitchen counter, in the pantry (two words: chocolate sauce) on his uncle's robe (I'll explain later) and finally in the main bedroom on the bed like normal people. Does that count as once? I can never tell.

It all started when Chris had to do house sitting for his uncle that went on a business trip to Amsterdam. Obviously it was a great venue for a party as it had everything a good house party requires: a swimming pool, so much booze even an alcoholic wouldn't even be able to finish it, a great sound system and lots of food. Unfortunately the uncle's taste was limited to a few select cd's The Eagles and Elvis (you can only listen to Be my teddy bear so many times) and the rest of our friends decided to go to our favorite pub (but not after they have consumed enough alcohol to kill a school full of children). I didn't feel like killing anyone with my car and decided to just stay with Chris as I was still at varsity at that stage and being home for the weekend meant I was staying with my parents. But of course they trusted Chris! We've known each other since we started high school together.

That was it then: me and Chris all alone in the great big house with absolutely nothing to do. It was really hot and thus we decided to jump in the pool.

"I'm still hot," I complained when we were in the water.

"Take of your bikini then; you might be cooler with no clothes on."

Until this day I do not know if that was the worst version of a pick up line ever or if he was just drunk out of his mind. I prefer to think it was the latter: I really want to believe my friend has some kind of common sense even when he's a bit knackered.

I took his advice, took my bikini off and tossed both pieces in such away it accidentally hit him straight in the face. He looked at me as though it was the first time he had ever really seen me. I remember feeling goose bumps all over my body which was not from the cool water. The only thing I heard was the crickets hiding somewhere in the garden playing witness to this unique experience in the swimming pool and then Chris's heavy breathing as he walked through the water and stood in front of me. When he touched the back of my neck to draw me closer, it felt as though his hand was a burning flame and when he pushed up in me, I felt a sudden rush of excitement like something great was about to happen. It did. Over and over and over again. Somehow it was as though we couldn't get enough of each other. I spent the whole night discovering every single inch on his body with my hands, my tongue caressing every scar, my lips gliding over every little hair. The next morning I was gone before he woke up.

Oh! And the uncle's bathrobe?! He's H&M's brother and once told Chris he was a worthless, unambitious little spoiled rich boy that will always rely on Mommy's influence to try and get somewhere in the world, so just to bring him down to earth in our sick little way, we made time in our busy screwing-schedule to amp it up on his precious black Polo Ralph Lauren Kimono Velour Robe :-)

(I imagine this is what he looked like when he saw it)

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Shooters, waxing and relationships

I had a rough one last night. I could feel it when my mouth tasted like ash this morning and my head felt like it has been attacked by a swarm of killer bees. My eyes felt like they had seen the great light of God like Paul in the Bible, so I decided to just stay in bed thinking: this too shall pass.

I guess it's because my sister sent an email (so very impersonal) telling everyone she's taking the girls and going to the beach house for a few days (obviously she can't go to work looking like a blow up doll gone bad) and being very vague about whether the husband would be accompanying them. So I went out with some friends last night and ordered a shot for all the reasons relationships should be demolished from this planet. There was the "shotgun", "gorilla's puke", "eat hot death", "satan's piss" (not for the faint hearted that one thanks to the Tabasco), the "shot of respect" and many, many others with one highlight as always: absinthe. I don't remember much after I saw my green fairies. I think it's for the best.

Turns out Chris brought me home and also stayed the night (not in my bed though, people!) because after my rude awakening he served me brunch in bed. I felt like a queen (do queens get hangovers?). He knows how to make my eggs just right: the yolk extra hard (runny yolk always makes me think of a baby chicken's blood). The bacon needs to be slightly crispy accompanied by butter with toast (yes, I like drowning everything in calories) with honey bush peach tea and the spoon still in the cup.

I think Chris is actually the only man apart from my dad and brother who has seen me first thing in the morning. All the other men I've ever brought back to my house had the option of leaving straight after or sleeping on one of the couches in the living room which aren't so user friendly as I bought them for style and definitely not comfort. Why don't I let them share my bed? They fart, they snore, they steal the blankets, they kick, they talk and say weird things that make no sense in their sleep, they smother me and call it cuddling, their breath smells like carton soaked in water the next morning when they want to kiss and be all funky monkey and as I'm not a morning person, I can't deal with their crap and issues that early.

I didn't ask any questions about my antics of the previous night and Chris was gracious enough not to tell. Over breakfast we just talked about everything and nothing as usual and then he asked me when I was going to get ready for my appointment at the beauty salon as the lady who always does my waxing phoned earlier to confirm. I completely forgot about it and jumped out of bed, into the shower and just threw a random shirt and a pair of jeans on.

"I have to tell you something before you go," he tried to grab my arm when I was reaching for my car keys.

"Can't you tell me when I get back? They get really upset when clients are late and then sadistically take it out on their pubic hair."

"That was on a need-to-know-basis and I did not need to know that, woman!"

I laughed and quickly kissed him on the cheek.

"Wait for me? I'll make us some supper tonight and you can spill the beans over a warm cuppa afterwards."

"You cook?! I'll just get us take outs instead." He knows me so well.

Seems like I'm speeding everywhere these days, but at least I got to the salon on time.

Waxing has never been a fun experience for me, but it's one of those ten things in life I just have to do. While I was lying on the bed with the warm wax on my legs I thought of how much waxing is related to relationships.

Waxing hurts. A LOT. And the worst part is that you know it's going to feel like the flesh is being ripped off your body, but you still choose to go. No one is holding a tazer gun to your neck forcing you to do this and unfortunately we missed the rule of the feminist where it was a statement not shaving any type of hair, halleluja amen ;-). Some women even like the pain in a way; maybe it reminds them that they're still alive, maybe they just like torture. It's like that one guy in your past that always had a bad influence on you: he keeps showing up the way your body hair grows back and you have to make another appointment with the lady in the pink overalls. Maybe it's better to shave; at least afterwards you can throw away the old razor blade and welcome the new, fresh, sharp one to your bath or shower.

Oh, and the "something" Chris had to tell me? He has a new girlfriend. The end.

Friday, July 17, 2009

A new deadly sin added to the list

I don't feel like smiling today. I don't feel like being charming today. I don't feel like talking very much today. I don't feel like being me today but I thought maybe, just maybe, if I put it down into words, things will be normal again.

My phone rings at half past three this morning. It's my niece, crying so much I can hardly make out what she's trying to say. She's four years old, turning five in December. All I can make out is: "Come! Come help! Mommy is hurt!"
I just grabbed my keys and jumped in the car. My sister's house is about three minutes from mine. I got there in twenty one seconds.

The door was wide open with my niece standing there. I picked her up and tried to calm her down because she was still crying uncontrollably, locked the door (it is South Africa after all) and made my way through the house looking for my sister, praying that there's no blood for both our sakes as we kind of faint every time we see it.

I found my sister in the living room, sitting on a couch and as pale as a piece of dough.
"What the hell is going on here? What happened? Where's the baby?" I asked. The latest addition to our family had her first birthday a month ago and just started walking. She's the joy of the family and can get away with murder by just flashing us a little smile.

"Anke's fine. She's sleeping in our room."

When my sister looked up, I knew what had happened.

"Where the fuck is that coward!"
"Auntie M, we're not allowed to say the f-word! Jesus is watching, remember," my niece warned me through her tears. What a time to bring up Jesus and morals with my sister's face looking like a blue balloon already.

"I'm phoning Jacques." My brother. Kind of hardcore, but with an unmeasured love for his family. If think he knows a guy who has an uncle who has a friend that is a mobster. He'll be sure to make it as painful as possible.

"No, just leave them out of this. I didn't even want you to know, but Elske has your number on speed dial on her phone."

For the first time I'm actually grateful my sister spoils her children so rotten. I got my first cell phone when I was seventeen. My niece got hers when she was two and could barely hold it properly. My sister's phone, on the other hand, is lying on the floor next to the couch in a million little pieces. At least my sister is still in one piece. Always something to be grateful for.

I looked at my niece, lying with her head on my shoulder and a frown on her face. I gave a big yawn.
"Wow, I'm like SUPER tired now. Can I lie down in your bed for a while until I fall asleep?"
She smiled and nodded and ten minutes later she was asleep, although a little restless, cluctching my hand. Normal under these circumstances?

"Just tell me what happened, please?" I insisted when I got back to the living room.

Apparently they had an argument about where he put his watch (that he never wears) and he blamed it on their maid again insisting she stole it and should be fired. My sister told him he probably misplaced it, AGAIN, and to just have a look in his study as she's not going to fire the maid: she's the fourth one they got this month and it's only the sixteenth!

"That made him furious. Maybe it's the way I said it. Maybe he was right and the maid did steal it. It was stupid of me to disagree."

My mouth fell open in disbelief. Was I hearing right?! Is she actually trying to defend a fucking wife beater? You need to know this about my sister: she's a quiet, but strong woman. She needs to be in her career as financial adviser. She has an open hand and mind (mostly!) and supports numerous charities. She is funny, pretty (although she doesn't think so) a great mother and highly intelligent. Except when it comes to men, I guess.

"Was this the first time something like this has happened?"
Silence has always been an astonishing answer.

I'm reading this book about the seven deadly sins. I've just added another one to the list: beating your wife to a pulp and taking away her pride, her selfesteem, her selfrespect = punishable in any way the family of the wife sees fit. Hell seems like a holiday resort for him at this stage.

We just sat there. We waited. What she waited for I don't know, but I was waiting for the dickhead to come back so I could fucking crack him. We didn't speak. We didn't cry. We just sat there. I eventually got up and put the kettle on. Coffee always helps. And after we had coffee, we just sat there again. For the first time in a long time I heard the birds announce the sun's arrival. A new day.

Somehow I still can't believe this has happened. I mean, we're not a Jerry Springer-family (or his muscle, Steve, who took over now). We're a happy family, we're a loving family, we're a normal family. But last night something changed. We'll never be the same again.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

A Wednesday night, a roller coaster and a tongue

It's 8 o' clock on a Wednesday night and suddenly my doorbell rings. Even my dog looked at me all puzzled before jolting off to start barking at the front door. Now normally this would not be a weird or crazy sight, but it's -3 degrees Celsius out there (or about 26 degrees Fahrenheit) and no one phoned beforehand to warn me not to wear my Leonardo Dicaprio jacket that reads: "Trust me, Rose, if I pull it out we will sink!" Similar to this picture:

The jacket with my striped pink and white legwarmers over my old brown school tracksuit pants with my trusty old furry pink slippers after I've had a steam bath and facial mask that left me glowing like a firefly. There is no time to "throw on something glamorous" as I'm wearing four layers of clothes with my hair looking like the scene out of There's something about Mary. Bloody hell.

Turns out to be Mr. Chase (my friend started calling him that after she heard about the whole childhood story from running around the playground) and really the last person I wanted to see because what's a worse passion killer than, well, the whole me at this stage!

"Hello, Beautiful," were his first words.
I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Either he hasn't seen his optometrist in a looooooooong time or he's just a fantastic liar.
"I have a surprise for you!" he smiled, all excited.
"Surprise? What surprise?" I normally like surprises, but not when I haven't been warned in advance.
"Go get dressed quickly and you'll see!"

I really wasn't in the mood for frostbite, but I could see he was very determined and overly excited. I couldn't even try and persuade him with a seduce method because I looked so shit. So I went and changed while thinking it better be an AWESOME surprise. The last time a guy "surprised" me, was Neil. He came to my house at three in the morning, made me walk with him to this twenty four hour fast food place where he bought us each a footlong. He then took me to the rooftop of the library where he had set up a little romantic scene with candles and blankets and pillows and hundreds of daisies (my favorite) scattered all over the floor so it seemed like we were walking in a field of them. Just too bad his roommate looked like Johnny Depp :-)

Anyway! My expectations were pretty high. It didn't stay that way for long. He took me to an amusement park. With a roller coaster. I. Hate. Roller coasters. Why would I want to pay to puke my guts out in front of twelve year old kids? I'd rather just have a few tequilas and not remember my shame the next day whilst still achieving the same effect. Minus the twelve year olds, though.

But I smiled and told myself that I had my big girl-panties on and that all will be well seeing as I haven't had supper yet and lunch was a distant memory. Mr. Chase gripped my hand and said:
"Hold on for the ride of your life!"
Seriously?! He has obviously never had mind-blowing sex before :-)

The roller coaster was a little cart that went around a mountain of sorts, through a tunnel that probably represented a mine and I felt my stomach turn as the damn thing started gaining speed. For one second I thought that it was the same feeling you get when you meet someone for the first time that you could actually fall in love with when Mr. Chase suddenly grabbed my boob. I looked at him with some curiosity (he was normally quite shy) and then he started screaming louder than the little girl in front of us who also turned round to look at this guy that was screeching at the top of his lungs whilst clutching anything and everything he could find. I just smiled at her and shrugged my shoulders. At least he cured me from my fear of roller coasters because looking at him belt it out gave me a good chuckle and before I knew it the ride was over.

Soon after that we went home because I couldn't feel my nose anymore from the cold. I went to the kitchen to make him some coffee with lots of sugar (I thought he needed that after the "rough ride"), but he was only interested in groping (again, anything and everything within his reach). Even though it felt like an octopus wanted to get in my pants, I started unbuttoning his shirt when he started licking my ear. Now I have no problem with a sexy little nibble, but this felt like my dog trying to stick his tongue as far down my ear as he possibly could to try and lick it clean. This and the thought of what he would sound like when he actually came (I just couldn't get the picture on the roller coaster out of my head!), made me push him off and say:
"Woo, look at the time! I completely forgot about the meeting I have tomorrow morning. We'll have to continue this some other time, okay?"

I'm still struggling to get all that spit out of my ear.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Men are bachelors, woman are desperate

I went to my friend yesterday for some cake (which I had to buy!) and coffee and a good old bitch session. She had a baby recently and is now the proud mother of two beautiful girls. Sometimes I wonder why we're friends because we're so very different. The only thing we probably have in common is our age and the fact that we're both women.

My mom heard about my visit and phoned me just as I got home, asking questions about my friend's baby while doing the whole "aw, that's so sweet!" and just basically cooing along. I didn't have to wait very long for the dreaded question:
"So how's your love life going? Met anyone special yet? You're not getting any younger, angel cakes."

When men sleep around, they are called popular. When woman sleep around, they are called sluts. When men aren't married at a certain age they are called bachelors. When women aren't married at a certain age they are called desperate. My mom thinks we have reached desperate times now.

Well, I met someone over the weekend, actually. I went for my usual cocktail at my usual place and ended up with a bottle of wine sent over "from the gentlemen at table 15, miss." It was accompanied by a note saying:
"Nice to see you again.
You haven't changed a bit: still as gorgeous as ever.
Can you still run very fast?
A friend from the past."

Now one thing that HAS changed is the fact that I have a past drenched with a few slaughtered relationships and I was wondering if he was a victim that has swallowed a big-boy-pill and did the whole forgive-and-forget-let's-get-it-on-again or if he knows me from when I was still an innocent in diapers?

Turned out to be the latter. He used to chase me around the playground trying to look under my skirt when we were 5. I wondered if he still does that and smiled at the prospect of finding out.

I haven't told my mom about him yet as I don't want her to waste money on booking a wedding venue like she did with my last Mr. Right Now three weeks back. I guess it's just her way of showing she still cares or maybe it's her way of trying to fit in with her girlfriends who are grandmothers already. Poor Mom!

I'm off to chat to Chris again; I sent him a little care package to make him feel better after the break up and he loved it. BIG smile :) Maybe I should've put on my nurse's outfit and tried to "heal his heart." Nah, that would just be awkward, right!