tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78320834127962008222024-03-06T01:57:00.631+01:00happily AFTER everApart from ranting on about relationships, love and all the laughs that go with it, I am on a journey of self-discovery. This might just get interesting ;)ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-88905730877685668762011-03-03T10:05:00.004+01:002011-03-03T10:52:01.757+01:00The honeymoon is definitely over, alright<div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IDdSldCooz4/TW9c2Nzx-rI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/5qY9y-Hm9LU/s1600/ARF56E9CA2KKD3KCASYKR8ZCAQHQ2ZMCAWA07LZCA0SLO1CCA053P8LCAHIM508CABBY89SCADI8RMJCA44Q1KGCA8V25MSCAG3LIDKCAGMMJT6CA2QEW18CAI8UUL3CA0Q70XKCAJSR3SECAMZLTNICAWSKR1D.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 484px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 379px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579780549824871090" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IDdSldCooz4/TW9c2Nzx-rI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/5qY9y-Hm9LU/s320/ARF56E9CA2KKD3KCASYKR8ZCAQHQ2ZMCAWA07LZCA0SLO1CCA053P8LCAHIM508CABBY89SCADI8RMJCA44Q1KGCA8V25MSCAG3LIDKCAGMMJT6CA2QEW18CAI8UUL3CA0Q70XKCAJSR3SECAMZLTNICAWSKR1D.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>The reason I have been absent for a while is because I've been busy dodging bullets. Bullets with a special inscription on them: BABIES. </div><br /><div></div><div>It seems that when you're not yet married the most frequent question that pops up in any conversation is: "So, have you met anyone yet? You're not getting any younger, you know."</div><br /><div></div><div>Yes, I knew. But then I got lucky and I got engaged to Chris. The single most frequent question then was: "So, when are you guys getting married?" </div><br /><div></div><div>My answer used to be: "When our children insist on it."</div><br /><div></div><div>I thought it funny back then. WAY back then.</div><br /><div></div><div>Now that we've been married for a while, you know exactly what annoying question is asked in EVERY single conversation I have. People from the supermarket ask me that, people at the car wash enquire about it, people at the salon where I get my hair done nose about it. The worst is visiting my brother. His wife had to quit her job when they moved out of town and now her new mission in life is to probe into people's personal lives. She thinks she's a reporter and an inquisitor when actually she's just a nosy, probing ... alien.</div><br /><div></div><div>"When are you having kids? YOU'RE BIOLOGICAL CLOCK IS TICKING, YOU KNOW."</div><br /><div></div><div>Yeah, I know, but I've never been a fan of squeezing. Especially squeezing in having a baby before the clock strikes ... I don't know ... old-eggie-hour and then squeezing a big baby out of my tiny, pretty little ... hole.</div><br /><div></div><div>There are books about everything these days. How to lose weight, how to gain weight, how to be your best self, how to anything. Unfortunately I missed the one on what happens after the honeymoon. The one that tells you how quickly people can be corrupted by angel faces.</div><br /><div></div><div>Sure Chris and I talked about what we wanted in the future: a nice house with a garden and a fence for the dogs, a dishwasher as I don't want Gollum-looking hands when I'm older, enough money to live comfortably and one day, some day a baby. But thanks to my over-eager sex-crazed siblings who both now has 2 girls each, it seems that Chris's some day and my some day have taken slightly different time stamps.</div><br /><div></div><div>I mean, who can resist little girls looking like this:</div><br /><div></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 401px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 547px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579785320163250258" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8FZxLXJsgyQ/TW9hL4tFEFI/AAAAAAAAAeY/KJmeUScFEe4/s320/Kamera%2Bse%2Bfoto%2527s%2B061.jpg" /><br /><div>Me, I can. Cause I know that looks can be deceiving. </div><div> </div><div>Don't be fooled by the smiles or the holding-hands-thing. They can yell like sirens and scratch like angry, hungry rats. But that doesn't seem to bother Chris. He adores the one on the left and can play with her for hours. Usually he pays for it when we get home since her idea of playing involves things that boys like to do: lots of running, kicking balls, jumping over home-made obstacles and see how high she can climb a tree without breaking a limb. He can't walk for 2 days after that. I guess that's the price you pay for marrying a (three year) older man... sigh.</div><div> </div><div>It's difficult cause we're two in this marriage and even though he hasn't said anything or pressured me into having a baby I know it's something that he would like in the nearby future. I just don't think that I'm ready for that kind of responsibility. I can't even keep plants alive, for crying out loud.</div><div> </div><div>The jury is still out on this one, but any advice will really help.</div><div> </div><div> </div></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-32168534323993781072011-01-11T08:16:00.000+01:002011-01-11T08:16:17.068+01:00It's that time of the year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKcvzAOnKTls4fQBEki8biTIL-YnZpOzTM1TaOi3A0-d4pGEjtoRl7_tt8YuYI0vZFZfwxf6JCPqLr71BZFtj1_RsygZgW6rCp7rwm-8iILa0zWXIcS0L4xrXM_5vgltjN_T8YnO18lfn8/s1600/images5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKcvzAOnKTls4fQBEki8biTIL-YnZpOzTM1TaOi3A0-d4pGEjtoRl7_tt8YuYI0vZFZfwxf6JCPqLr71BZFtj1_RsygZgW6rCp7rwm-8iILa0zWXIcS0L4xrXM_5vgltjN_T8YnO18lfn8/s1600/images5.jpg" /></a></div>Yep, it is indeed that time of the year for me. Birthday-time. On Thursday, this year. I was actually born on a Friday so I was the original inspiration for Jason in <em>Friday the 13th</em>. I'm scary like that.<br />
<br />
I used to love my birthday. Being woken up at an ungodly hour by the sound of someone who's voice is like that of a whale mixed with a kid having nasal problems on a roller coaster, is allowed once a year. Consuming ridiculous amounts of cake without feeling that muffin-top looming is allowed once a year. Acting all surprised when your overweight aunt Mary tries to jump out from behind the bean bag, is allowed once a year and not hilarious at all.<br />
<br />
Birthdays are a big deal in my family. Like so many other things. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RVZg1peQ2bMYfBahRLYozMP1M6JMmeHjSdSbl5S-mQMHJeA7deIvDQOtuxp6aOiGf5_bTZJ-hsXOiV98lmPmFcZoOsmNnSNFbT416c4WVlFVFdJH16_rAZEgIEdK4rk_6i2dazCdbuaN/s1600/AFXHSN8CAX8Y5DBCAF05WLMCAVA7XCVCAYQ3OLHCARROP79CADSYSLECA8F0B3MCAVQDGN1CAY7YOWNCAJWKGMFCAW5N4CACA09WDG5CA36PAYLCAFAPNVSCATFEV7TCAY2DT9DCATBWO5PCARJI978CA3BUAO5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RVZg1peQ2bMYfBahRLYozMP1M6JMmeHjSdSbl5S-mQMHJeA7deIvDQOtuxp6aOiGf5_bTZJ-hsXOiV98lmPmFcZoOsmNnSNFbT416c4WVlFVFdJH16_rAZEgIEdK4rk_6i2dazCdbuaN/s400/AFXHSN8CAX8Y5DBCAF05WLMCAVA7XCVCAYQ3OLHCARROP79CADSYSLECA8F0B3MCAVQDGN1CAY7YOWNCAJWKGMFCAW5N4CACA09WDG5CA36PAYLCAFAPNVSCATFEV7TCAY2DT9DCATBWO5PCARJI978CA3BUAO5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
The invitations: mostly verbal since my people have surpassed snail mail AND the Internet. They're that fast.<br />
<br />
Lots of guests: you were only born once, Mom says, so you might as well take advantage of other people's kindness on that day by demanding presents since the one you got from them for Christmas, well, is now a matching set of 15. Thanks for (another) wine bottle stopper, uncle Shawn. We're just opening bottles of wine every time you come around since you insist on seeing each one of your stoppers. And watching you get ridiculously drunk at what stage you then take off your shirt and pretend you're part of the Village People while doing the Macarena. Fusion. Good times.<br />
<br />
A sit-down meal: no finger snacks here, friends. My family firmly believe that we're not savages. And the fact that you now have your one hand free to hold your drink with sitting at the table and loading your plate with food at the same time is not an incentive <strong>at all</strong>.<br />
<br />
The cake: you are not the baker of your own cake. Nor are you the chooser of your own cake. Never. That privilege goes to either Mother or Sister. They have a non-erotica policy. I once wanted a Playboy bunny cake, but instead ended up with something that looked like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TStUmjSls-I/AAAAAAAAAa8/osK_VH6xUn4/s1600/A20UI5LCABELA5JCAYY6T4JCA3OXMWZCAG4ORHUCANV6FB2CAY6HIG2CATYWVVECA4CFGFCCAH5ZAFACAIFW1ONCACIPDGXCA0LSW2KCA5FV13HCAP1FQVLCAUHIWJ7CAH9GGI2CA961H52CAVTIXB5CABEX0SW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TStUmjSls-I/AAAAAAAAAa8/osK_VH6xUn4/s1600/A20UI5LCABELA5JCAYY6T4JCA3OXMWZCAG4ORHUCANV6FB2CAY6HIG2CATYWVVECA4CFGFCCAH5ZAFACAIFW1ONCACIPDGXCA0LSW2KCA5FV13HCAP1FQVLCAUHIWJ7CAH9GGI2CA961H52CAVTIXB5CABEX0SW.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>And there will be no surprises this year.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TStYs5-4PTI/AAAAAAAAAbA/aNbe1vOPaRM/s1600/images2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TStYs5-4PTI/AAAAAAAAAbA/aNbe1vOPaRM/s1600/images2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This year it'll just be Chris and I. And the dogs. We'll be having the cake <strong>I </strong>chose, sipping some champagne while sitting on our veranda watching the sun go down and smile about not having to fish out cupcake wrappers from the toilet.<br />
<br />
This year I'm turning such an insignificant age and it feels as though I'm stuck in the middle, in a liminal phase. I don't feel like spending money on being stuck. I'd save that for Chris's birthday since he's turning 30 this year. If and when I turn 30 and I'm still wrinkle-free I might consider letting the fam throw me a surprise party.<br />
<br />
But until then:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMGnlL2I5FfON0yij_UcJ9yHND0k6Dzv4CLEmgIckuZmt7_J-CrrdCw_KiiuWkeIQ22PerZ5dQ4JFd_IsasC3kInq9TrTgLU5QSwf6LIzt0nWUlLtbMnBE-qrpIvaRysIi3GakZjn3ZtgM/s1600/A0DRYZOCA0LVSG7CAH7MLY7CAUI00XACA2ZHC7QCANH7QPZCAYLFS14CABYOQZ9CAVVTRFPCAMP00PJCAU34GUFCA6C63RGCAS0CVEACA58WKM0CA7WG8YMCA1AXWPJCA34Y4V7CA63LXRWCAOHAZ4DCAI9DWZB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMGnlL2I5FfON0yij_UcJ9yHND0k6Dzv4CLEmgIckuZmt7_J-CrrdCw_KiiuWkeIQ22PerZ5dQ4JFd_IsasC3kInq9TrTgLU5QSwf6LIzt0nWUlLtbMnBE-qrpIvaRysIi3GakZjn3ZtgM/s1600/A0DRYZOCA0LVSG7CAH7MLY7CAUI00XACA2ZHC7QCANH7QPZCAYLFS14CABYOQZ9CAVVTRFPCAMP00PJCAU34GUFCA6C63RGCAS0CVEACA58WKM0CA7WG8YMCA1AXWPJCA34Y4V7CA63LXRWCAOHAZ4DCAI9DWZB.jpg" /></a></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-42525710662461171372011-01-04T11:49:00.000+01:002011-01-04T11:49:41.960+01:00What you can learn from relationships by growing plants and vegetables<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIg57-ZlqxW9hdhtasBNOBAqw9Cu4fLgshjeLwDy50Q-SZqjiWeLelzACLq6wocK5XYX-8sQFRcyQ8OjrMMIcwdn3Yro1LnCfp_beYLqIAw2MCB3rNefW6Vm381ACquYd2qrG4z-2l9iu/s1600/AVSZAH0CA8DF8MBCAWJ3SP5CAGMY12RCABDVAR3CATNQBJDCAWCN17PCAHJPHCYCAENV1L4CA9NM6Z4CAFOSCYLCAKZFCPFCAS2FC1LCAJ3B9PTCACT6W1LCAF3XV8CCAY3RIO2CAN3M4VDCAJZFDZYCA1N3H49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIg57-ZlqxW9hdhtasBNOBAqw9Cu4fLgshjeLwDy50Q-SZqjiWeLelzACLq6wocK5XYX-8sQFRcyQ8OjrMMIcwdn3Yro1LnCfp_beYLqIAw2MCB3rNefW6Vm381ACquYd2qrG4z-2l9iu/s1600/AVSZAH0CA8DF8MBCAWJ3SP5CAGMY12RCABDVAR3CATNQBJDCAWCN17PCAHJPHCYCAENV1L4CA9NM6Z4CAFOSCYLCAKZFCPFCAS2FC1LCAJ3B9PTCACT6W1LCAF3XV8CCAY3RIO2CAN3M4VDCAJZFDZYCA1N3H49.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>I've never been good at gardening or growing anything. I tried growing a vegetable patch once. Instead of my vegetables turning out like this guy's, it looked a little more like this:<br />
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558263606965539538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhld1jb-pqMw6KLazylwt5V39bCdxKrjoYTrdCWwwVpbHzblW4qW4CpFFo_47kr2oflmI2mQ_61twZWH53FEfJoGcJbLBx5nyDJd-SOb_mKedaYrpGawASGgl_y2xwb9-lSNH_H3F1JGR-M/s320/AY2V2EVCA8EMCA0CAJSYQWFCA8TNH2ACA9Y4XQUCAQMQLZTCAO2WIG1CAV7D73LCAE79F7FCAKCQM8ECAGEF76VCA1884ZDCAIVQOQZCAY53L7YCA9QQ9HWCA2D71LRCA47D5T1CAENKQY3CA978NPXCAB9IEO7.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 194px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 259px;" /><br />
Needless to say, after eating one I ended up like this: <br />
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558263800766711026" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TSLrelScxPI/AAAAAAAAAaE/J3a-9DrhDH0/s320/A9F9NTLCA0NLMSACACMNPHRCAGVH14QCABWGDEICAOCSTPWCA3NO04TCAYJHKNTCA7IYYO0CA9UV82WCAQF0GHRCA1WALFZCAJQGF6YCAS8J784CAFF20V4CAPMIACYCAPIR12SCAY2J7D4CAXLIUZ5CATIADIN.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 225px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 224px;" /><br />
<br />
My plants died for no reason ... or so I thought. I'd water them everyday and after a week they'd just wither away. Only <u>then</u> my mother informs me to water them twice a week. So I buy a new plant. And water it twice a week. Meticulously. It died again. Only <u>then</u> my sister tells me that you have to water according to the plant and the plant's needs. Some are twice a week, some more. Some need a lot of direct sunlight, some love the shade.<br />
<br />
Kind of like relationships.<br />
<br />
I've had a few in my time. I've smothered them with water thinking that's what they wanted when in fact the turd was too lame to tell me that he liked little water and lots of shade. Good thing I killed THAT relationship after week 3. <br />
<br />
And that was my main problem in relationships: the talking part. Just like plants some men would say nothing but just stare at the light thinking I was telepathic and knew that they were thinking McDonalds while I was thinking more along the lines of fine dining and dancing. But I have learned a few things along the line.<br />
<br />
I have learned that saying to yourself this is what I want and this is what I like does not make it true, but only aggravates the feelings of self doubt and loneliness:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558269137933345186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQCW1uESsBTMAhckj8soiEfieh6TrJatPBXRuByUCkZwpkQFAhPPH7filWwvlOKypdVQrb6c9a_q3jRngk1ATY_FSWgA2LuBgueQN5mxsyz-9XzfLzusKGpXBy6nENDIjrCAH09HXvFxm/s320/AW7FVM0CALN6QG8CA8G6JDWCAEWHHKVCAOZAWS6CAOT10LACA1VE26UCALK7NCPCA4BUU49CACB1IHQCAN40HV9CAJVZMLNCA0SUEUSCATPTPI8CASB1D7VCAZQOHBQCABMPDXLCACJ34BPCAULF73KCAOS9CI5.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 157px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 236px;" /> <em>Brainwashing only gets you so far.</em></div><br />
<br />
<div align="left">I have learned that trying too hard will not make it last any longer:</div><br />
<div align="center"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558267461850310898" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TSLuzr4zKPI/AAAAAAAAAaU/nmRIKVo9efY/s320/AJ3DBZ9CAV4251DCAZZD83NCA1YBPACCA1DEB1RCAL4CLXHCA2HI2EICAJJE4ZICAVPE18TCAVHO4DCCAATWMWWCAFSGAD3CARF2BZFCALGFEMKCA8JPIH3CASOGNS7CAONIA14CAJ2SXW0CAYG5V0BCAT1UCZQ.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 340px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 247px;" /><em>Plus it makes you feel bloated, frustrated and fat. Not sexy.</em></div><div align="left"><br />
</div>And I've learned that when you start pretending and belittling yourself to make him feel better about his little weener of a personality, it's usually time to bail. Even through the window if necessary.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TSLynwZAKnI/AAAAAAAAAak/IeMhWki774w/s1600/AVR5NVVCAM8YMGZCA7LNR2NCA0M5DHYCAPESEWXCA15EZIACAE2YSQGCAGMFZCJCAGP630ACALC0GS7CA0L2IN1CA3DW0B0CABUR557CA1J38JNCAF9GET0CAQP37YXCAIJNW7BCAZ3CHAJCAO4SHUACAXE5ITS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TSLynwZAKnI/AAAAAAAAAak/IeMhWki774w/s400/AVR5NVVCAM8YMGZCA7LNR2NCA0M5DHYCAPESEWXCA15EZIACAE2YSQGCAGMFZCJCAGP630ACALC0GS7CA0L2IN1CA3DW0B0CABUR557CA1J38JNCAF9GET0CAQP37YXCAIJNW7BCAZ3CHAJCAO4SHUACAXE5ITS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><em>Seriously, you don't have to pretend you never knew "Milan" wasn't Julius Caesar's last name anymore.</em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>And that's how Chris and I made it. We ran through and jumped over all the obstacles relationships are riddled with, all while holding hands. And when he went on one knee to ask my hand in marriage (I know, how cliché, but still fabulously romantic!) there was no way I'd give up that chance for happiness. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It'll be a year in April and the honeymoon phase is kinda over, but it's still good. It's better than good. It's great having someone to share your ice cream with while waiting for your order; it's wonderful walking around without any make-up on and not worrying he'll run after you trying to throw a sheet over your face from the horror of seeing your freckles and less than perfect complexion; it's pretty awesome laying in the bath and talking about his day and yours. It might be simple, but it's ... good.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TSL3AU990FI/AAAAAAAAAao/6jyvjYiJNHo/s1600/139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TSL3AU990FI/AAAAAAAAAao/6jyvjYiJNHo/s320/139.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>If he'll hold your flowers while your busy with a pose, it's a good sign. Obedience: great start to any marriage :)</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-58227486850899060212010-12-27T19:01:00.011+01:002010-12-27T19:55:06.836+01:00Here's looking at you, kid<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TRjVYS7solI/AAAAAAAAAZo/4D7sK41BWaE/s1600/A7LFKUDCAI5LTVPCACF946MCAIBTE10CA8667K0CAVR5HR6CA0RYBS5CAPWTAMCCAWGG6IBCACCNRFYCA7UMLLHCAGHVQGRCAU67HA6CAV33R0MCA1S91KWCAF94022CASH9MJ0CA4OO5F3CA0X9UX7CAQAIVQP.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 311px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 301px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555424753737310802" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TRjVYS7solI/AAAAAAAAAZo/4D7sK41BWaE/s320/A7LFKUDCAI5LTVPCACF946MCAIBTE10CA8667K0CAVR5HR6CA0RYBS5CAPWTAMCCAWGG6IBCACCNRFYCA7UMLLHCAGHVQGRCAU67HA6CAV33R0MCA1S91KWCAF94022CASH9MJ0CA4OO5F3CA0X9UX7CAQAIVQP.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />Christmas sometimes makes you feel some crazy emotions. You go from one ho-ho-ho-high to an if-auntie-Mary-sings-we-wish-you-a-"Mary"-Christmas-one-more-time-I-will-stuff-her-mary-ass-in-the-chimney-low. Maybe it's the pent-up frustration from getting soap-on-a-rope four years in a row from your mother-in-law or maybe it's cause Christmas just isn't the same this year.<br /><br />Chris's gran, Liliana, passed away on the 13th of November. She was the closest thing to a grandmother I ever knew since all my grandparents passed away either before I was born or before my 7th birthday. From the day we met we clicked like Turner and Hooch, me being Hooch since I had so much to learn from her.<br /><br /><br />Gran Liliana wasn't your average grandmother. She didn't knit bulky sweaters with characters on them as she knew not to waste her precious time and not to put us through the whole pretend-we-love-it-and-give-it-to-the-maid-the-next-day-routine. She didn't bake cookies because she was realistic enough to not want us die before her. She DID have an amazing sense of humour; I suppose being 88 you've seen enough to know that it's better to laugh about it than letting everyone see your ugly-cry face.<br /><br /><br />I remember taking her to the optometrist a few months ago to get her eyes tested. As we were about to leave, the optometrist shook Gran L's hand and said: "See you again in six months."<br /><br />Gran L replied with her heavy Italian mobster accent: "I bloody hope not!"<br /><br /><br />She came to South Africa after WWII with Chris's grandfather. He met her in Italy and fell in love instantly with this short, witty and strong willed lady. At first she didn't like Africa all that much since we had none of the style the Italians possessed (not much has changed) and she couldn't understand a word of Afrikaans. She still couldn't speak the language until the day she died; she stayed stubbornly true to her roots.<br /><br />Being in Italy during the war Gran L had the most amazing stories to tell about how the Germans bombed their home and their villa and how they had to fight for survival. I wish we had more time for me to write them down. It would've been a great Christamas gift.<br /><br />I miss her light little chuckle that sounded like happy girls playing in a field; I miss her calling me my worst days without her even knowing that I was sitting on the floor feeling pretty sorry for myself; I miss her slow walk and holding her hand; I miss her blue eyes and complaints about her back; I miss her little old person smell and clinging of fine jewellery; and I know I promised her I wouldn't cry when she's gone, but she never told me it would be this hard. I just miss her so much.<br /></span><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 301px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 431px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555433422991068994" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TRjdQ6a3D0I/AAAAAAAAAZw/o5qiZSTDHQc/s320/christmas07%2B131%2Badjusted.jpg" /><span style="font-size:130%;">Here's to you, Gran Liliana; I hope you keep them on their toes upstairs. Rest in Peace.</span>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-44952193729165794302010-12-23T19:31:00.005+01:002010-12-23T20:00:36.814+01:00The prodigal lady returns<div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TROV7xFT2iI/AAAAAAAAAZU/-zqDgnVd2v8/s1600/AT9XDLGCAD88O6SCAKXLZJ0CAQ2FLMNCATTQDOYCAG92E16CA8TTBGTCAGH7Y30CAI122IOCAWDMNECCAQRIMFYCA7T9BXHCAI23TTHCA9N5MW1CASWH7I6CA9P765QCADUERE6CA3X6D8XCAHTCQ99CATO5YJY.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 248px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 207px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553947619498383906" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/TROV7xFT2iI/AAAAAAAAAZU/-zqDgnVd2v8/s320/AT9XDLGCAD88O6SCAKXLZJ0CAQ2FLMNCATTQDOYCAG92E16CA8TTBGTCAGH7Y30CAI122IOCAWDMNECCAQRIMFYCA7T9BXHCAI23TTHCA9N5MW1CASWH7I6CA9P765QCADUERE6CA3X6D8XCAHTCQ99CATO5YJY.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>It's true: the bitch is back :) </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And before I go any further I have to apologise for the sudden departure. If my mother knew about my rude manners ... wait ... she does. How little has changed.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But a few things HAVE changed. I moved, I gained weight, I quit my old job, I learned all about peace making, lost a few friends along the way and I learned how much I really despise cars without air conditioning.</div><div></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 406px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 315px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553949979903854322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKD141rjA2avhpy9Tn4js6RaQDCuKX9HiVN0NeW-vS1AJ3qWMlII8yQVe4cDr1dxO2W9OpA7hwRf82v6nKlKiXy0BEN8m6xqLokvPqDfMJrTnem_Kl7JmxTdCLnJCdXMnk48nLgJFw01fD/s320/AVRK2NNCAYGRWY2CAMH0J88CAY1RR9OCA3S4WRJCAVHAO7CCAXLTUMACAQVPUUHCAENBZUICAQ3UN4GCAK50GKECAOJ8HTRCACZEMW9CAM3A9KYCA3B7T9TCAZFG91LCA74XP2FCAMVR7OWCASM76FECAQLU4UY.jpg" /><br /><div>And I got married. To the love of my life. Freakin' finally. I thought I'd always be the bridesmaid and never the bride; there were so many bridesmaid dresses in my spare bedroom closet that I started wearing them to work at one stage. Let's just call it my eigties desperate fashion mistakes. The eighties are making a comeback any way. <div><br /></div><div>This is a short post just to touch base; I hope I still have some old friends left wanting to read my reflections on, well, me and of course some other things I have experienced this past year as well as things to come. I've started reading posts again of some of the kids who are still on the block and think it's going to take me, well, 500 years to catch up. I can't wait :) <div><br /></div><div>It's good to be back. </div></div></div></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-36751430209446678882009-10-25T18:44:00.024+01:002009-10-25T19:52:25.469+01:00Our little sunshines<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SuSdOLR9b1I/AAAAAAAAAZE/jqGgpIqu8So/s1600-h/santa+clause+is+dead.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396611120368545618" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SuSdOLR9b1I/AAAAAAAAAZE/jqGgpIqu8So/s320/santa+clause+is+dead.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br /><div><div><div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">This joke pretty much sums up what my one godchild slash niece, Elske or just plain Elly, is like:<br /><br /></span><em><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br />The man, who was a priest, said, 'I am a Father.'<br />The little boy replied, 'My Daddy doesn't wear his collar like that.'<br />The priest looked up from his book and answered: ''I am the Father of many.'<br />The boy said: ''My Dad has 4 boys, 4 girls and two grandchildren and he doesn't wear his collar that way!'<br /></span></em></div><br /><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:130%;">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." </span></em></div><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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: </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">"It's nice hugging you, Ladytruth; you're soft like a marshmallow."<br /></span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">I might be a curvy marshmallow, but at least I get the hugs and you don't anorexic aunt Mary.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />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. </span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /><br /><br />I love my nieces slash godchildren. But sometimes it's nice giving them back to their parents when the day's over.</span><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396607653522657106" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SuSaEYRfT1I/AAAAAAAAAYs/FBv3PO-lp2o/s320/ellie+en+ne+verjaardagpartytjie.jpg" /></p><br /><p align="center"><em>N (on the right): Man, my party blows.<br />E (stuffing her face on the left): At least the food's good.</em></p><br /><p><em><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396608192387326530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0d_c4VTaYGjFmSimv-dz-_EJMCDBjgy-0JGRCFWzNME3UQYR926TRWLGCLTKJDCJKRYzDqBqud4ktg1Bv_UwRJ5R-mjEwns8961LnbXUR99TVXJTdkx6Y2a9OKIIB16FFxaN7Ljs-HSun/s320/ellie+verjaardaypartytjie.jpg" /></em></p><br /><p align="center"><em>E rocking the Minnie Mouse ears. </em></p><br /><p><em>This post was inspired after reading about <a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/10/surprise-guest.html">otherworldlyone's</a> beautiful little Hannah</em></p></div></div></div></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-25667547815559536932009-10-18T21:30:00.015+02:002009-10-19T11:17:03.147+02:00Sing, sing a song<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Stt90UpSS6I/AAAAAAAAAYU/aJX10ZgmQ9w/s1600-h/couple.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 262px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394043316554845090" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Stt90UpSS6I/AAAAAAAAAYU/aJX10ZgmQ9w/s320/couple.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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?</span></div><br /><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">And all the questions are just killing me. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"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?"</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Yes, almost like jail I presume.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"What about your names for each other? I call Steven 'Wonderboy'. Get it? Steven? Stevie Wonder?"</span></div><br /><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm sure 'Wonderboy' wishes he had the power to become deaf and blind. Maybe that would scare you away. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">And my favorite:</span></div><br /><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"What is your song?"</span></div><br /><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">When I hear a certain song or two my whole body turns into one big goose bump. Like my first car accident. Fergie's <em>Big girls don't cry</em> was playing when the guy hit me WHAM! on the passenger side skipping the stop sign one Tuesday morning. It's like I told <a href="http://brody-ninjafunk.blogspot.com/2009/10/what-are-you-thinking-about.html">Dan</a>: there wasn't much crying going on. I think the <em>Everybody was kung-fu fighting</em> would've been more appropriate as I haven't seen that much fist pumping since the political riots in the 80's.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span> </div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-34889766498904386762009-10-11T19:56:00.013+02:002009-10-11T20:52:32.085+02:00The apple is finally ripe<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/StImkRmKvXI/AAAAAAAAAYM/ZUqn4YYxqoM/s1600-h/statues.bmp"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 256px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391414108556541298" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/StImkRmKvXI/AAAAAAAAAYM/ZUqn4YYxqoM/s320/statues.bmp" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">The first time we met he looked at me and said in his yet to be manly voice:</span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"Hi, I'm Chris. Pleased to meet you."</span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>Girls just wanna have fun </em>(replacing the <em>girls </em>with <em>boys</em>) by Cyndi Lauper and <em>I wanna rock and roll all night </em>by Kiss. He preferred the latter. I'm not sure why.</span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">At least there was no struggle finding appropriate subjects to talk about during supper and my usual <em>I just have to go powder my nose </em>excuse while I sat in the bathroom for about eleven minutes reading blogs was laid to rest for the night.</span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I think this was the first successful date Mom hasn't sent me on. </span><em></em></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-39467540513259424662009-10-06T09:00:00.001+02:002009-10-07T18:48:01.669+02:00Forget about the Oscars, Emmy and Grammy Awards: it's the Truthy's today.<p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Ssrj8syB0oI/AAAAAAAAAX0/A_ojOoMHuHE/s1600-h/Darwin-awards.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 256px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389370536054870658" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Ssrj8syB0oI/AAAAAAAAAX0/A_ojOoMHuHE/s320/Darwin-awards.jpg" /></a></p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Award ceremonies happen every once in a while here at <em>happily AFTER ever. </em>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.<br /><br />Buckle up, here we go.<br /><br /></span><p align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SspYzD6YQjI/AAAAAAAAAXE/CxqX_Nkzaas/s1600-h/AWARD+otherworldlyone"><img style="WIDTH: 156px; HEIGHT: 149px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389217538348958258" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SspYzD6YQjI/AAAAAAAAAXE/CxqX_Nkzaas/s320/AWARD+otherworldlyone" /></a></p><p align="left"><br /><a href="http://pushbuttonalpha.blogspot.com/2009/10/waking.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">AlphaButtonpusher </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">and </span><a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/10/getting-around-to-accepting-and-passing.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Otherworldlyone </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /><br />The rules for this award are as follow:<br /><br /><em>1. Answer the questions below using only one word</em><br /><em>2. Thank the blogger who gave it to you</em><br /><em>3. Pass it on to 6 of your favorite bloggers</em><br /><br />Without further ado:<br /><br />1. Where is your cell phone? <strong>Close<br /></strong><br />2. Your hair? <strong>Blond</strong><br /><br />3. Your mother? <strong>Confidant</strong><br /><br />4. Your father? <strong>Difficult</strong><br /><br />5. Your favorite food? <strong>Mom's macaroni and cheese</strong> (you try saying that in one word, okay!)<br /><br />6. Your dream last night? <strong>Tiring</strong><br /><br />7. Your favorite drink? <strong>JackD</strong><br /><br />8. Your dream/goal? <strong>Published</strong><br /><br />9. What room are you in? <strong>Bedroom</strong><br /><br />10. Your hobby? <strong>High maintenance</strong> (it takes time to perfect and yes, I'm cheating. Again.)<br /><br />11. Your fear? <strong>Dark</strong><br /><br />12. Where do you want to be in six years? <strong>Earth</strong><br /><br />13. Where were you last night? <strong>Dreams</strong><br /><br />14. Something that you aren't? <strong>Rich</strong><br /><br />15. Muffins?<strong> Heart </strong><br /><br />16. Wish list item? <strong>Worldpeace</strong> ;)<br /><br />17. Where did you grow up? <strong>House</strong><br /><br />18. Last thing you did? <strong>Bath</strong><br /><br />19. What are you wearing? <strong>PJ</strong><br /><br />20. Your TV? <strong>Big</strong><br /><br />21. Your pets? <strong>Priceless</strong><br /><br />22. Friends? <strong>Love</strong><br /><br />23. Your life? <strong>Alright</strong><br /><br />24. Your mood? <strong>Stable</strong><br /><br />25. Missing someone? <strong>Monique</strong><br /><br />26. Vehicle? <strong>Quasimodo</strong><br /><br />27. Something you're not wearing? <strong>Make-up</strong><br /><br />28. Your favorite store? <strong>All</strong><br /><br />29. Your favorite color? <strong>Pink</strong><br /><br />30. When was the last time you laughed? <strong>Morning</strong><br /><br />31. Last time you cried? <strong>Saturday</strong><br /><br />32. Your best friend? <strong>Forever</strong><br /><br />33. One place that I go to over and over? <strong>Kitchen</strong><br /><br />34. One person who emails me regularly? <strong>Frenchie</strong><br /><br />35. Favorite place to eat? <strong>Mom's</strong><br /><br /><br /></span></p><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>I'd like to give this award to:</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://hannahmiet.blogspot.com/2009/10/im-open-macbook-part-2.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Hannah Miet</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://letshaveacocktail.blogspot.com/2009/10/pour-some-blogger-on-me.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">JennyMac</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://livingintheo-zone.blogspot.com/2009/10/rain-rain-and-oh-yeah-more-rain_04.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">O-Zone</span></a></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://symphonic-discord.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">Constructive Attitude</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://politicsoflove.blogspot.com/2009/10/sexy-saturday-video.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Politics of Love Chick</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://staceyjwarner.blogspot.com/2009/10/temperance.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Staceyjwarner</span></a> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">__________________________________<br /><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfcd64ccqzJZ5D7E5XNk0OtQlDwk95Ojq1a-r6TFRGtoIdky19vt54s61eVHX1PnBvoVMOlFZArcPjYpSkxNYzUJntBld3g4OqypmA7KLLiqiDmt_QBLJSZwNHE9GsiAp-rlkb7dbA7Eg/s1600-h/AWARD+from+f8hasit+honestscrapaward.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 185px; HEIGHT: 179px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389361509639569554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfcd64ccqzJZ5D7E5XNk0OtQlDwk95Ojq1a-r6TFRGtoIdky19vt54s61eVHX1PnBvoVMOlFZArcPjYpSkxNYzUJntBld3g4OqypmA7KLLiqiDmt_QBLJSZwNHE9GsiAp-rlkb7dbA7Eg/s320/AWARD+from+f8hasit+honestscrapaward.jpg" /></a><br /></p><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The next award is from </span><a href="http://www.f8hasit.com/2009/10/grab-seat-and-martini.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">f8hasit</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">. 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<br /><br />The award is to <em>'honor those who write from the heart'</em>. 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.<br /><br />1. When I was seven I almost drowned.<br /><br />2. I always take a bath or shower with the bathroom door open.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />4. I don't wear any jewelry other than earrings and my watch.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />6. I only have black and pink shoes in my closet.<br /><br />7. Whenever I'm nervous or bored I chew my pinky nails.<br /><br />8. I have never been away from home for more than three weeks.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />10. Roses are overrated. My favorite flowers are daisies.<br /><br /><strong>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:</strong><br /><br /></span><div align="center"><a href="http://lajenno.blogspot.com/2009/10/simply-awaiting-verdict-in-marcos.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Jenno</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://pearl-whyyoulittle.blogspot.com/2009/10/when-you-live-with-your-god-in-garage.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Pearl</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://megaramblings8821.blogspot.com/2009/10/im-bloggy-friend.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mega Ramblings</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://everydaydistractions.blogspot.com/2009/10/in-australia-burger-king-is-called.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">josefine</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://tudorcitygirl.blogspot.com/2009/10/lifethe-best-things-really-are-free.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Tudor City Girl</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://timesurge.blogspot.com/2009/10/oh-exchange-student.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Surge</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://megs7827.blogspot.com/2009/10/arent-you-guys-busy-with-wedding-stuff.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Megs 7827</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://hawk052.blogspot.com/2009/10/still-i-feel.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">MilesPerHour</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://www.9uy.info/2009/10/politically-incorrect.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">9uy</span></a></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://japingape.blogspot.com/2009/10/high-seas-heroes.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">the japing ape</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">_______________________________________</span></div><p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Ssrc_n118UI/AAAAAAAAAXs/ZDlfcYWdiy0/s1600-h/AWARD+meme+josefine+favorite+things.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 200px; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389362889686905154" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Ssrc_n118UI/AAAAAAAAAXs/ZDlfcYWdiy0/s320/AWARD+meme+josefine+favorite+things.bmp" /></a></p><p align="left"><a href="http://everydaydistractions.blogspot.com/2009/10/in-australia-burger-king-is-called.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Josefine </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">tagged me in a meme the other day stating the following: <em>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</em>.<br /><br />Confusing? Nah, just hop over to her blog and her humor and great outlook on life will cure any of those thoughts.<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><strong>5 favorite items I can't go without</strong>:<br /><em>1. socks<br />2. contact lenses<br />3. fridge<br />4. hair dryer<br />5. petrol (these boots definitely weren't made for walking considering their price tag)</em><br /><br /><br /><strong>5 favorite characters in a television series:</strong><br /><em>1. Tony Sopprano (The Soppranos)<br />2. Lorelai Gilmore (Gilmore Girls)<br />3. Dean Winchester (Supernatural)<br />4. Castle (Castle)<br />5. Izzy Stevens (Grey's Anatomy)</em><br /><br /><strong>5 things I will not likely be caught doing (this is a little variation on the favorite theme): </strong><br /><em>1. picking my nose in public (social status killer)<br />2. going to a Jonas Brothers concert<br />3. wearing a Man Utd shirt<br />4. eating avocado<br />5. having a drink right out of the bottle. One word: syphilis-of-the-mouth.<br /></em><br /><strong>The 5 people who I'd like to do the 5 favorite things meme are:<br /></strong><br /></p></span><div align="center"><a href="http://www.welchva.com/2009/10/halloween-2009green-link-luvin-edition.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Rebecca</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://nikineu.blogspot.com/2009/10/festivals.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Sami</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://mariannsimms.blogspot.com/2009/10/trick-or-treat.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mariann Simms</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://bookishblonde.blogspot.com/2009/10/antique-cinderella.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Sharon </span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://edsfunnypages.blogspot.com/2009/10/mondays-are-fundayscough.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Ed</span></a> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">___________________________________________<br /></div><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCO95eH7M-MGEeiCr1389ApgrLGBWgzOURb_KFTiCxyJjUny0TijQLLv6JlvnkZMvtBMVHllnplG2zzS__0dZwBHqI031nblqne7nzWjox4ykcKPo6EwpOtA1bIhi5zX3PFaL0Hvh9Z8L_/s1600-h/AWARD+Dan+from+vacant+mind+lovelyblog.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 150px; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389217716541840082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCO95eH7M-MGEeiCr1389ApgrLGBWgzOURb_KFTiCxyJjUny0TijQLLv6JlvnkZMvtBMVHllnplG2zzS__0dZwBHqI031nblqne7nzWjox4ykcKPo6EwpOtA1bIhi5zX3PFaL0Hvh9Z8L_/s320/AWARD+Dan+from+vacant+mind+lovelyblog.jpg" /></a></p><p align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The next award is from my favorite boys </span><a href="http://www.abodeonethree.com/2009/09/migration-concluded-awards-celebrated.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Matthew </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">and </span><a href="http://brody-ninjafunk.blogspot.com/2009/09/play-that-funky-music-caucasian-boy.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Dan</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">. 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.<br /><br /><br />And the award goes to:<br /><br /></p></span><div align="center"><a href="http://pushbuttonalpha.blogspot.com/2009/10/waking.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">AlpHaButtonpusher</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://www.hotpieceofsass.com/2009/10/mama-says-it-best.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">One Sassy Girl</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://rubbishatpoker.blogspot.com/2009/09/random-rubbish-again.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">rubbish</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Mostoneskin/~3/758Sapliao4/there-is-surely-nothing-worse-than.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mo Stoneskin</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://kasabiangirl.blogspot.com/2009/09/life-sucks-doesnt-it.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Kasabiangirl</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/LovelyClusters/~3/t_IDGVMDHbE/featuring-hula-gypsy.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Rachel</span></a></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://mamadinis.blogspot.com/2009/10/tie-that-binds.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Dini</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://momloves2quilt.blogspot.com/2009/09/my-granddaughter.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Love to quilt</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://monicaholtsclaw.blogspot.com/2009/10/recent-photo-boxes.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Monica Holtsclaw</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://nichegallerycouk.blogspot.com/2009/10/whats-new.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Nichegallery</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://openthoughts-pdcole.blogspot.com/2009/08/posting-number-3-saga-continues.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">pdcole</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://picsandpoems.blogspot.com/2009/10/unlikely-subject.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">dave</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://timesurge.blogspot.com/2009/10/oh-exchange-student.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Surge</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://bluecontrarian.blogspot.com/2009/09/thinking-strategically-about-middle.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">scott</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://projectsaviorreborn.blogspot.com/2009/10/shut-up-stupid-sunday-abstinence.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">project savior</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://s4shangrila.blogspot.com/2009/10/coming-up-for-air.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Will</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://tudorcitygirl.blogspot.com/2009/10/lifethe-best-things-really-are-free.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Turdor City Girl</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://cfoxes33.blogspot.com/2009/09/positive-thoughts-for-wednesday.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">cfoxes</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://thinkingwithcrit.blogspot.com/2009/09/hopping-on-award-band-wagon.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">critty critty bang bang</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://lajenno.blogspot.com/2009/10/simply-awaiting-verdict-in-marcos.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Jenno</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://masterlace.blogspot.com/2009/10/all-out-of-blood.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Lace</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://www.rageraw.com/2009/10/day-13-oops-i-forget-to-eat.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Kaitlyn</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://badlydrawnmonsters.blogspot.com/2009/10/pseudofake-advertising.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Jeff</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://whysoserioustoday.blogspot.com/2009/09/when-we-hurt-those-we-love.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">why so serious</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://bateaudebanane.blogspot.com/2009/10/never-give-up-never-surrender.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Madame DeFarge</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://expateek.blogspot.com/2009/09/russian-aide-memoire.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">expateek</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://profileoftheday.blogspot.com/2009/09/bachelor-506-nice-guy-during-day-freak.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mimi</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://hollisramblings.blogspot.com/2009/09/penguin-wedding-step-parent-wedding.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">The pale observer (Holli)</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://www.theyellowfactor.com/2009/10/special-post-important-news.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">j-face</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://findthecheapestprice.blogspot.com/2009/09/blog-post.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Epicuros</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://thewayitgoestoday.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">omchelsea</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://dipsochronicles.blogspot.com/2009/10/give-us-men.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">andy</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://mattandoliviaj.blogspot.com/2009/09/naughty-naughty.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">matt and olivia</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://plainolebob.blogspot.com/2009/10/ok-for-those-that-have-asked-and-wanted.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">plainolebob</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://videosdefensapersonal.blogspot.com/2009/09/contra-un-abrazo-del-oso.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Carmelo</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://kingofnewyorkhacks.blogspot.com/2009/09/silent-septemberremember-9-11-2001.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">King of New York Hacks</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://lovesbattlescars.blogspot.com/2009/08/balancing-hope-and-disappointment-after_13.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Her side</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://deepikagupta1987.blogspot.com/2009/09/disney-my-another-love.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Deepika</span></a></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"><a href="http://daijoji.blogspot.com/2009/09/end.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Magdalena</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://loveandbooze.blogspot.com/2009/10/sleep.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Loveandbooze</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://thehalflifeoflinoleum.blogspot.com/2009/10/love.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">koe whitton williams</span></a></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">I was in a giving mood.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">__________________________________________________</div><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5cQzFBU_o9cJqgujgnbTzS_TywbqMHX6nsMOLShgwLhRHGOzSmRz5S7kseLHZSqzggDV4WYwLUpSJlaLBovrnovGZcHK5TewUU6PKKOfrq5HHRZgn5XNnE16amdCVw_1zZf1kN4xl-IF/s1600-h/AWARD+kasabiangirl+loveblogaward%5B1%5D+(1).jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 150px; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389361634168214434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5cQzFBU_o9cJqgujgnbTzS_TywbqMHX6nsMOLShgwLhRHGOzSmRz5S7kseLHZSqzggDV4WYwLUpSJlaLBovrnovGZcHK5TewUU6PKKOfrq5HHRZgn5XNnE16amdCVw_1zZf1kN4xl-IF/s320/AWARD+kasabiangirl+loveblogaward%5B1%5D+(1).jpg" /></a></p><a href="http://kasabiangirl.blogspot.com/2009/09/life-sucks-doesnt-it.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Kasabiangirl </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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:<br /><br /></span><div align="center"><a href="http://johnandstevearehavingababy.blogspot.com/2009/09/surrogates.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Jeve (John and Steve are having a baby)</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://brody-ninjafunk.blogspot.com/2009/09/play-that-funky-music-caucasian-boy.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Dan</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://beyondwunderman.blogspot.com/2009/10/tea.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Jonas</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://bloggingisfordorks.blogspot.com/2009/10/blatant-self-promotion-dig-me-or-die.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">erin</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://newtspad.blogspot.com/2009/10/tbwcyl-day-278.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Trinity</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://thecapedtirader.blogspot.com/2009/10/day-6-plans-are-pointless-staying.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">The Caped Tirader!</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://left-field-missy.blogspot.com/2009/10/and-winners-are.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Missy</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/SnappingPanda/~3/gfw6CbdrZuw/rainy-days-and-saturdays.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Sashindoubutsu</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center">__________________________________________<br /></div><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SspZFTP2FgI/AAAAAAAAAXU/-QgUWAlKoSI/s1600-h/AWARD+alphabuttonpusherilove_your_blog.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 256px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389217851703170562" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SspZFTP2FgI/AAAAAAAAAXU/-QgUWAlKoSI/s320/AWARD+alphabuttonpusherilove_your_blog.jpg" /></a></p><br /><a href="http://pushbuttonalpha.blogspot.com/2009/10/waking.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">AlpHaButtonpusher </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">gave me this wonderfully French award which I really love. Doesn't everything just sound better in French? Passing this on to:<br /></span><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/10/getting-around-to-accepting-and-passing.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Otherworldlyone</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://annoiatoregazzoneoclassico.blogspot.com/2009/09/finished-pool-more-or-less-piscina-e.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Eric</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://somanylosers.blogspot.com/2009/09/adventure-dont-forget-it.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Advice and Humor from Mr. C</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://thepeachtart.blogspot.com/2009/10/another-small-victory-for-women.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">The Peach Tart</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://proudmaisie.blogspot.com/2009/10/kink-at-claridges.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Proud Maisie</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://www.f8hasit.com/2009/10/grab-seat-and-martini.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">f8hasit</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://differentwiredly.blogspot.com/2009/09/on-forgotten-places.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Judearoo</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://sallyuncut.blogspot.com/2009/09/little-red-riding-hood-dean-winchester.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Sally-Sal</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://meditations-in-an-emergency.blogspot.com/2009/10/im-not-geek-but.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Meditations in an Emergency</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://andywarholgoesshopping.blogspot.com/2009/10/view-from-up-here.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Tennyson</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://organicmeatbag.blogspot.com/2009/10/here-comes-rant-machine.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Organic Meatbag</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://lolalakely.blogspot.com/2009/09/lola-vs-apocalpyse.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Lola Lakely</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://www.abodeonethree.com/2009/09/migration-concluded-awards-celebrated.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Matthew</span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">_____________________________________________<br /></span></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /><br /></span></p>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-25371854709923359762009-10-05T15:16:00.018+02:002009-10-05T19:27:27.786+02:00There is a lamb in my chest. Is that normal?<p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmvobdUf709G8ygyYgSgjTglyS9JWPS1FTSRjQLRmDKRMcTn8-oGiEfFpuol4OvITxyOLXebvjHA_qubG8oRN8GlBr9lfxyxUjDVskLUBsMJ_CKP-f9juVRoLixS1IjvN7QJBnOCOHx8a/s1600-h/cop5.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 245px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389123929754594722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmvobdUf709G8ygyYgSgjTglyS9JWPS1FTSRjQLRmDKRMcTn8-oGiEfFpuol4OvITxyOLXebvjHA_qubG8oRN8GlBr9lfxyxUjDVskLUBsMJ_CKP-f9juVRoLixS1IjvN7QJBnOCOHx8a/s320/cop5.jpg" /></a></p><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /><br />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. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SsoEwY9dQXI/AAAAAAAAAW8/iXhB7ScD2ps/s1600-h/walkie+talkie.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 169px; HEIGHT: 70px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389125133482672498" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SsoEwY9dQXI/AAAAAAAAAW8/iXhB7ScD2ps/s320/walkie+talkie.bmp" /></a></p><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /><br />The reason for the gun and back to the future communication's device was the lad's occupation. He's a cop. <del>Luckily</del> 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.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />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. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>The Lion King</em>. The urge to yell <em>Mufasa </em>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.<br /><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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 </span><a href="http://ladytruth-happilyafterever.blogspot.com/2009/07/black-polo-ralph-lauren-kimono-velour.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">that girlfriend </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-1469958039051591842009-09-30T14:12:00.023+02:002009-09-30T20:53:52.071+02:00A memory of a lost friend and snow in sunny South Africa?<div align="center"><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387240668370184034" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SsNS2FW-J2I/AAAAAAAAAWE/MaY4Zofs8aA/s320/lonely+jack+vettriano.jpg" /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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?</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"Everything went well. Just take this prescription and if you feel any discomfort or sudden bleeding come back immediately."</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The water tastes bitter; she imagined it differently and it could have been. If only she wasn't so alone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 258px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 237px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387329756324285650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6oUNEvKACh2fxaJg1FOUIlOc2ofQUl2f6n73rlCEypzxVix0FxFaZVTLTY05TemCZFiSqYd0fSjbeD-e-m2C54uhhJvZ9ogWV8AmfMYNJbBvIDtvGLjwatZJVXvs771HLSu52GYMEazy7/s320/Image0075.jpg" /> <p align="center"> My front yard looking like an ice rink<br /></p><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>I'm dreaming of a white Christmas </em>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.</span><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SsOkwIKcEVI/AAAAAAAAAWU/TsBhOpy0hNM/s1600-h/Image0076.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387330725997187410" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SsOkwIKcEVI/AAAAAAAAAWU/TsBhOpy0hNM/s320/Image0076.jpg" /></a></p><p align="center">Looks like a cotton wool factory launched its opening in my backyard </p><p align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SsOlxLKaB1I/AAAAAAAAAWc/BVjr9INipVc/s1600-h/Image0049.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387331843493857106" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SsOlxLKaB1I/AAAAAAAAAWc/BVjr9INipVc/s320/Image0049.jpg" /></a><br />Her Royal Highness: high on sleep and comfort</p><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UtmYn_bHxLvsA_B3LTb2nwSKeKHhyphenhyphendRfq2gwWTgYBc3YYMBpvHXc9d2i8ypcn1BsBoOyGZKacI3cp1nFFsM1T_30j7ZBKAClAZ2a53cpSfS2aY39oLieuor34pEP8QzdltuGZ86z9Sly/s1600-h/Image0063.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387332543223251234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UtmYn_bHxLvsA_B3LTb2nwSKeKHhyphenhyphendRfq2gwWTgYBc3YYMBpvHXc9d2i8ypcn1BsBoOyGZKacI3cp1nFFsM1T_30j7ZBKAClAZ2a53cpSfS2aY39oLieuor34pEP8QzdltuGZ86z9Sly/s320/Image0063.jpg" /></a></p><p align="center">Does he LOOK amused to you?<br /></p><p align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span> </p>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-11995546171557300322009-09-27T23:21:00.008+02:002009-09-28T00:06:54.781+02:00Can you hear the weddingbells?<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Sr_hDGojMCI/AAAAAAAAAV8/VbaDObvGkv4/s1600-h/all+the+single+ladies.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386271122794950690" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Sr_hDGojMCI/AAAAAAAAAV8/VbaDObvGkv4/s320/all+the+single+ladies.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">If you do, you probably suffer from a concussion and have to go to the emergency room immediately.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />This is usually the reason for men saying:<br /><br />"You look nice"<br /><br />or if they're really daring:<br /><br />"That dress brings out the color of your eyes."<br /><br />Really? I must be having a serious case of pink eyes then and will join you with the concussion in the emergency room stat.<br /><br />That's why I was so surprised when Date #3 got up, took my hand and said:<br /><br />"A woman who can wear those Louis Vuitton shoes without it wearing her deserves a standing ovation."<br /><br />Right there and then I knew this evening would be as unforgettable as the Madonna and Britney kiss. Just in a PG way.<br /><br />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 <em>Time of my life </em>by doing that last dance from <em>Dirty Dancing </em>as an ode to Patrick Swayze (whom we both loved and adored). </span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Except for that last lift. Please, that would just be social suicide.<br /><br />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 <em>My endless love </em>with an equally frustrated new lady friend.<br /><br />When I asked him why he doesn't just tell them the truth, he said with a far off look:<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />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:<br /><br />"Would you like to touch my boobs?"<br /><br />He smiled, took a sip of his drink and said:<br /><br />"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 <em>All the single ladies."</em><br /><br />He truly knows the way to a woman's self esteem. </span></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-63257846877112549962009-09-23T22:06:00.007+02:002009-09-23T23:15:21.238+02:00Go shawty, it's your birfday<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SrqK_7RVbCI/AAAAAAAAAV0/mbNCSgqNIKE/s1600-h/65th+birthday.bmp"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 280px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 280px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384769135321639970" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SrqK_7RVbCI/AAAAAAAAAV0/mbNCSgqNIKE/s320/65th+birthday.bmp" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Dear Dad</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">You were the one who taught me the wonder of great Afrikaans poetry at the tender age of seven when you recited <em>Vergewe en vergeet </em>(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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>Rescue 911.</em></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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?</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Your grateful and loving daughter.</span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-74937352949940752272009-09-19T21:55:00.014+02:002009-09-19T23:10:57.968+02:00Tea for two?<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SrVH0_9GCwI/AAAAAAAAAVU/aPKcDvb2YKE/s1600-h/lawyer.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 315px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383287905437747970" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SrVH0_9GCwI/AAAAAAAAAVU/aPKcDvb2YKE/s320/lawyer.gif" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Every time he said 'marriage' I felt obligated to <em>boo!</em> like the crowd at the MTV awards with the mere mention of ol' Kanye's name. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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:</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Eli Stone (that's the only decent, nice attorney I know):<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"I've met many women in my line of work. Bitter, hard, sometimes insane women, but none like yo -"</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Ladytruth: "CROAK!!!!"</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">(whilst smiling sweetly and concentrating on not spitting out her drink. Too much humiliation can't be good for the brain.)</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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) </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Ladytruth: (trying to save the situation and her dignity) </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"You know, I've never met a divorce attorney before. I bet you've never be screwed CROAK!!!"</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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) </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"Are you sure you're alright? Shouldn't I scare you or something to make them stop?"</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Needless to say, we didn't have dessert. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">On our way home, Chris just smiled when I complained about the disaster that was the date. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"That bad, huh?" he asked and I could only nod with utter and great disappointment. Eli Stone had a really cute bum.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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:</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"Go to the kitchen and cook me some supper, woman, or I'll sue you and take half of your closet AND the dogs,"</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">and then I might just have to kill him to get rid of those silly demands.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I guess all that's left to say is:</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">NEXT!</span></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-75278768161209031242009-09-17T12:14:00.005+02:002009-09-17T12:48:32.649+02:00A funeral, a robbery and an update on the next date<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUQ4xz2ZXz6EjdBfx67js4q1DLDsT4z03dMz0z_dT2KxO-CVplnGYAMhY5KU-mOP5ZmT5OBAPlHvMEY8Pc5mOO2hnBlakk-4133oO3adOo7oSF2YeWxdNFnNd6VzCasA8e0shsks7ybPj/s1600-h/robbery.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 165px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382385214502746194" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUQ4xz2ZXz6EjdBfx67js4q1DLDsT4z03dMz0z_dT2KxO-CVplnGYAMhY5KU-mOP5ZmT5OBAPlHvMEY8Pc5mOO2hnBlakk-4133oO3adOo7oSF2YeWxdNFnNd6VzCasA8e0shsks7ybPj/s320/robbery.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">My best (girl)friend's mom had been </span><a href="http://ladytruth-happilyafterever.blogspot.com/2009/08/there-is-still-time.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">very sick </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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:</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"We're on our way to my aunt's funeral. Can't you just let us go so we can pay our respects!"</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">to which he replied:</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"I'd be more worried about my own funeral if I were you."</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">How's that for shutting up an angry woman.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I asked my friend how she was doing and she replied:</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"I'm alright, thanks. Everyone that comes up to me sharing their condolences do so by slipping a Prozac in my hand."</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I could think of worse things to get at a funeral. Like sinus from all the flowers.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">We just keep our heads down day to day, clutching our handbags and pray for the best.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-25624828166458422302009-09-09T21:12:00.010+02:002009-09-10T01:28:15.561+02:00One down, nine to go<p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvQPWdqTp6lIkDeOfbMUwY6_-yUS1-nCGbMVlFMuwLzJJTuJnysjSCzQ5Cy4_mNDgCut4I2kaDhzzvx_ZuakwcQLDnV9YzCXryJgDy64zkAIDGospI5S_HZRfT5KF-0IggiDC2WuAaoPd/s1600-h/first+date.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379560832960862066" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvQPWdqTp6lIkDeOfbMUwY6_-yUS1-nCGbMVlFMuwLzJJTuJnysjSCzQ5Cy4_mNDgCut4I2kaDhzzvx_ZuakwcQLDnV9YzCXryJgDy64zkAIDGospI5S_HZRfT5KF-0IggiDC2WuAaoPd/s320/first+date.jpg" /></a></p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Andre: "So how do you keep busy?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">LadyTruth: "Apart from conquering the world one man at a time these days? Nothing too strenuous. How about you?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Andre: "I just got back from Zambia doing missionary work. I'm now busy applying to churches here in becoming a full time preacher."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">At first mentioning the word<em> missionary </em>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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>From a distance </em>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. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Before I ruined the whole evening, I lied and told Andre I had to go because I needed to do some laundry at home. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Chris kept singing <em>Joy to the world </em>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. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"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."</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"Eeeuw, Mother!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-34712620991608278832009-09-06T20:07:00.019+02:002009-09-07T21:10:14.367+02:00Don't ever stop and smell the roses<p align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SqVYoCKlbfI/AAAAAAAAAU8/jLvPesRy1jQ/s1600-h/prickly+snail.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378802774763204082" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SqVYoCKlbfI/AAAAAAAAAU8/jLvPesRy1jQ/s320/prickly+snail.jpg" /></a><br /></p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /><br />While I was busy <del>licking</del> 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.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"This would never have happened if there was a man around to take care of you," Mom starts her free therapy session.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Like a man would cure me from my clumsiness. Maybe that's the cure for Aids?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"And you're not getting any younger, LT."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">She never fails to disappoint with her predictability.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"Wine gets better with age," I try to save some of my reputation and dignity. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size:130%;">"So does mould on bread," a loyal friend comes to my rescue. What have I done to deserve these kind, considerate, caring people?</span></p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">"The cork goes rotten after a while, love, and then the wine is pretty darn useless, but I </span><span style="font-size:130%;">spoke to Chris's mom about <em>the situation</em> 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. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"So what did Starsky and Hutch decide?" Dad asks when he returned from his inspection.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"If you're referring to my friend and I," Mom was not amused, "we thought of introducing LT to ten men in ten weeks."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">She stood back with folded arms looking like she had just found the answer to saggy boobs without the pain of plastic surgery.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"That's a brilliant idea, Mrs. Truth !" my other trusty friend exclaimed. "That will really spice up her sex-"<br /><br />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?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>complete before Monday.</em> Now you know how irritated I am.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Anybody want to swap places with me right now? I'll even clean toilets for a living.</span></p>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-32155805543532196512009-09-02T19:16:00.036+02:002009-09-02T23:43:52.647+02:00Cake and sex: there's always room for seconds<span style="font-size:130%;">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:<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Sp7cMCYprSI/AAAAAAAAAUk/pk5LfEJ0MFE/s1600-h/funny+kid.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 130px; HEIGHT: 112px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376977104483757346" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Sp7cMCYprSI/AAAAAAAAAUk/pk5LfEJ0MFE/s320/funny+kid.jpg" /></span></a></p><a href="http://blabblevalue.blogspot.com/2009/09/velly-intelesting-mr-bond.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Judearoo</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> and </span><a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-told-you-id-get-around-to-it.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">otherwordlyone</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> gave me two very different but extremely delightful tasks. The one involves cake. The other: sex. I even wrote </span><a href="http://ladytruth-happilyafterever.blogspot.com/2009/07/too-much-wine-makes-you-do-stupid.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">a post </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span><br /><div><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Sp7Yp6WwjQI/AAAAAAAAAUM/0LoNQ9dsCAo/s1600-h/AWARD+judearoo+cake.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 87px; HEIGHT: 126px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376973219677900034" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Sp7Yp6WwjQI/AAAAAAAAAUM/0LoNQ9dsCAo/s320/AWARD+judearoo+cake.jpg" /></span></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://differentwiredly.blogspot.com/2009/08/whip-or-carrot.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Judearoo </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I wish all cake was this cheap and easy to get. Or maybe not as I might just have to join the CA. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>Gran Torino</em> or even <em>Marley and Me </em>where the lab lies under the tree outside about to die. Just thinking about it makes my eyes itch of emotion. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Hee hee hee.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcHZo3LX7FpJcYG0bIVufriS6n5SCOgl6SOGaT48dE1nxQGqg0f4rxtM7IafLGGyJ3o79yitwuMIOfBf_A8FRI1mvUpzVotnPjQdVuJkBfZ8aIrajl9aIDTW3Se41FHUIW7Cv4EoYveX4q/s1600-h/AWARD+ExposeYourself%5B1%5D.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376973542418565282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcHZo3LX7FpJcYG0bIVufriS6n5SCOgl6SOGaT48dE1nxQGqg0f4rxtM7IafLGGyJ3o79yitwuMIOfBf_A8FRI1mvUpzVotnPjQdVuJkBfZ8aIrajl9aIDTW3Se41FHUIW7Cv4EoYveX4q/s320/AWARD+ExposeYourself%5B1%5D.jpg" /></span></a></p><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-told-you-id-get-around-to-it.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">otherwordlyone</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> 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: "<em>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!"</em></span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Only 3? Pity.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">;)</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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 ...</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>Wet wet wet.</em></span></div><div><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></div><div></div><div><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>Cody </em>but one of the guys was infatuated with <em>Surf's up </em>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 <em>Baywatch </em>meets <em>Hung</em>. He was indeed a sight for sore eyes. Let me just wipe the drool off my keyboard quickly. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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 <em>30 seconds</em> in a sober state before you want to strangle your partner who didn't know Joan Jett originally sang<em> I love rock and roll </em>and not Britney Spears. Can you tell my friends are a bunch of jocks? </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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, <em>The perfect storm-</em>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. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span> </div><div><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRL-5qGBc4wBVz1CQtclCqcxNoE44GjyXSes8r_W_J7a1dlttEKtOFjoPhcbNl4XOwrmnDfeWqulPDwBLH1ATXBF_sdZMTa_4-4NYw9BP4Mg4HPWAi_b1TrXRykolHLb1zqt5JVCiS9H3k/s1600-h/crying-boy1.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376973725232645986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRL-5qGBc4wBVz1CQtclCqcxNoE44GjyXSes8r_W_J7a1dlttEKtOFjoPhcbNl4XOwrmnDfeWqulPDwBLH1ATXBF_sdZMTa_4-4NYw9BP4Mg4HPWAi_b1TrXRykolHLb1zqt5JVCiS9H3k/s320/crying-boy1.bmp" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I felt like this poor boy with my beach adventure coming to such an abrupt halt. </span></p><p align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">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? </span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">Just stick to the cocktail.</span><br /></p><p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Sp7Yht_BKuI/AAAAAAAAAUE/8xrJtFGmowk/s1600-h/Sex%2520on%2520the%2520Beach.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 242px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376973078918146786" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Sp7Yht_BKuI/AAAAAAAAAUE/8xrJtFGmowk/s320/Sex%2520on%2520the%2520Beach.jpg" /></a></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div></div></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-59819928135517564942009-08-30T22:22:00.019+02:002009-09-01T01:15:01.667+02:00Being an Afrikaner on the first day of September<p align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpxDOZjid9I/AAAAAAAAAT8/STZQbKMX5xw/s1600-h/spring.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 235px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376245969830705106" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpxDOZjid9I/AAAAAAAAAT8/STZQbKMX5xw/s320/spring.jpg" /></a></p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The first day of September used to hold great memories for me growing up as a child. When I was in primary school (age 7-13) it was the one day we were allowed to wear "siwwies" otherwise known as casual clothes freeing us from our hideous, warm and contraceptive uniform (no one would touch you when you were wearing that thing). We would all go to the school hall where we would sing songs in Afrikaans and about being an Afrikaner and we would lock arms and sway to the rhythm of the old piano on the left side of the stage. Good times.<br /></span><br /><div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">When I went to high school that was the one day I was really looking forward to (my birthday and Christmas were during the holidays so they don't count), but to my utter dismay the first day of spring came and gone as unnoticed as a streaker at a nudist camp. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">When I asked my mom about it that day she just gave me her usual <em>children should be seen and not heard</em> response which meant I'd either have to wait and ask her about it when I was considered an adult (I'm still waiting for that day to come) or I could go ask Pule our gardener that had been mowing our lawn with me holding the electric chord behind him all the way and teaching me how to trim roses since I could remember. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I could never tell how old Pule actually was. He had too many wrinkles to determine an accurate age. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><p align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw6Rg1GrAI/AAAAAAAAATU/IzjzymxBeO0/s1600-h/wrinkly+old+man.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 258px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376236127718386690" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw6Rg1GrAI/AAAAAAAAATU/IzjzymxBeO0/s320/wrinkly+old+man.jpg" /></span></a></p><div><span style="font-size:130%;">It's suffice to say that he wasn't 21 anymore. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">To me he was the wisest man on this side of the world because obviously Einstein or Goethe already claimed that role in the northern hemisphere. Pule had little posessions, but it never seemed to bother him. Nothing could break his slow, steady stride and come to think of it: I had never seen that man run. Ever. Not even the time when he found a beehive in the wall below the bathroom window. I, on the other hand, would've given Forest a bloody run for his money that day, so to speak.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Now, Pule was black. With post-apartheid or post-segregation still in diapers people felt the way someone feels when he spots a spider (that he is weary and kinda afraid of) in the bathroom while taking a wee and he watches the spider not knowing what to expect: is the spider going to jump him and bite his weener leading to infection and having to get it amputated? Or is the spider going to move retreat down the basin into the drain and allow the man to run to his phone and call Pest Control? You get the picture.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">But I didn't really know all about these things. All that mattered to me at fourteen were shoes called Jelly Babies, the latest Roxette cassette (or what we used to call "tapes") and trying not to push the pimples on my face whilst strapping my emerging boobs down with bandages. I had early onset cupsize-syndrome: when my friends were still as flat as an ironing board, my chest area looked like molehills. </span></div><p align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw7Vzhtm-I/AAAAAAAAATc/J6tji6VSOR0/s1600-h/jelly.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 135px; HEIGHT: 101px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376237300968430562" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw7Vzhtm-I/AAAAAAAAATc/J6tji6VSOR0/s320/jelly.jpg" /></span></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The infamous Jelly Babies. They may not seem that fabulous NOW, but ten years ago they were like Jimmy Choos to teenagers here. Upon finding an image of these shoes, they called them "vintage." I am oficially old. Shit.</span></p><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I asked Pule if he knew why we never sang our traditional Afrikaner songs at school that day.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Pule took a puff from his pipe, tucked on his old Northern Transvaal cap(these days know as the <em>Blue Bulls</em> rugbyside: the best in the country by far and even winning the Super 16 twice now thus being the only South African side able to accomplish that) and then he said:</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"If you came to my house and we only spoke Sesotho (which I didn't understand back then), would you feel comfortable?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">What was he going on about? Of course not. The only thing I could say in Sesotho back then was <em>what way is the police station?</em> and I doubt that phrase would have been appreciated at Pule's place.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I just shook my head.</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"How many black children are there in your school now?" Pule asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">An image of me and my brother playing that video game <em>Othello</em> came to mind. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw80d2UC8I/AAAAAAAAATk/aEWYTTBYDIQ/s1600-h/othello+video+game.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 111px; HEIGHT: 97px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376238927236828098" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw80d2UC8I/AAAAAAAAATk/aEWYTTBYDIQ/s320/othello+video+game.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">I was always white (repeat after me class: white equals good) which meant my brother had to be the black side (repeat after me class: black equals bad). I kicked his lily ass in that game time after time; I could always feel victory approach as my white dots slowly but surely turned his black dots over to my color until the board looked like evenly spread out snowflakes followed by me rubbing salt in his wounds and then having to run as fast as I could from objects coming my way at amazing speeds. His aim was usually fairly true.<br /><br />Schools during the nineties seemed a lot like that <em>Othello </em>board with about 90 percent white kids and the rest consisting of black, brown or Indian children.</span></p><div><span style="font-size:130%;">"The black kids in your school grew up hating Afrikaans. Some of their brothers and sisters died for standing up against that language. Do you think they would be happy if they had to sing songs about spring and the Afrikaner in that language with those memories in their hearts?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><p align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw9ti50HgI/AAAAAAAAATs/GMwy23zD5SI/s1600-h/hector+petersen.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 104px; HEIGHT: 135px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376239907846233602" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw9ti50HgI/AAAAAAAAATs/GMwy23zD5SI/s320/hector+petersen.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />The famous picture of the dying Hector Peterson in the arms of a friend with his sister running beside them.</span></p><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I remember that conversation to this day. Especially after the whole <em>District 9</em> movie that'd been released worldwide recently. The movie is set in that very place where Hector Peterson lost his life in 1976 when a nervous, young white policeman accidentally pulled off a shot when the children came too close. The children were toi toing (protesting) against the fact that their primary language in school would be Afrikaans which they couldn't even understand, let alone speak. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>District 9</em> is about the recent Xenophobia-episode we had here in South Africa and it's about apartheid (segregation) and how the oppressed eventually had enough and rebelled against the government. I have mixed feelings about this film because it brings back those old grudges and the bitterness and the unforgiving hatred of losing a child, a husband, a mother, a loved one. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I have mixed feelings because I'm tired of saying I'm sorry for something I had no part in. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm tired of feeling guilty for something I didn't do, but which the color of my skin ties me to. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm tired of feeling angry because the language I dream in, the language I pray in, the language of my soul must now be taken away and killed like a rabid dog.<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">This country drenched in blood is the only home I know; where would I go if I had to leave? Where could I feel the sun on my skin every day even when it's winter, where I can see the Big Five wander about their daily routine less than ten metres away from where I'm sitting (in a Land Rover with a guy holding a f*cking HUGE gun), where I could eat biltong (almost like beef jerky), pap en vleis (porridge and meat from a BBQ), drink mampoer (think the strongest drink you've ever had and multiply it by 400: hello hangover my old friend) and tell a joke about Koos van der Merwe in Afrikaans? I have been abroad and I just never had the same feeling than when I'm here in the land of the sun. Times are uncertain and they're are pretty tough now in South Africa, but this place is under our skin and in our hearts. Maybe it's the contaminated water we drink that make us this crazy by wanting to stay here.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">So happy first of September wherever you are: be it the beginning of autumn with the promise of cooler days and fireplace-nights, or the beginning of spring with the promise of new blossoms and sweaty sheets. At least now people can have sex again on top of the covers without freezing the passion off ' their arses. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><p align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw_41pn-uI/AAAAAAAAAT0/uPkfANr_Nkc/s1600-h/FUNNY_Cat_top_of_dog_small.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 247px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376242300880419554" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spw_41pn-uI/AAAAAAAAAT0/uPkfANr_Nkc/s320/FUNNY_Cat_top_of_dog_small.jpg" /></span></a></p></div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-67803426995339155682009-08-29T20:55:00.013+02:002009-08-31T16:30:41.713+02:00It's all about Meme, Michael Jackson and cocktails with awards<div align="center"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">It's time to dish out some awards from the Truth Side. Don't worry; it's not as gloomy or evil (unfortunately) as the Dark Side, but certainly not as bloody boring as the Goody Two Shoes Side either. Some people don't like these awards. I'm not one of them. I get tired of blowing my own horn sometimes so when someone else does it for me, I'm grateful.</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><p align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpqUp8BDueI/AAAAAAAAATA/CAKrFfqrD6M/s1600-h/AWARD+from+OWO+touching_award_2"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 290px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375772553426221538" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpqUp8BDueI/AAAAAAAAATA/CAKrFfqrD6M/s320/AWARD+from+OWO+touching_award_2" /></a></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">First: a word of thanks to <a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/08/conversations-with-bride-dinner-dicks.html">otherworldlyone</a> for giving me this beauty :) I've always wanted a Michael Jackson staring at me with those adoring eyes. Not many can pull of the "white glove" without ending up just looking stupid. Michael did white glove and creepy: a combination only he could master.</span></p><div align="left"></div><p align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpmQk2QLrKI/AAAAAAAAASw/t98bJtr7r_U/s1600-h/AWARD+from+MATTHEW.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 160px; HEIGHT: 120px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375486592956476578" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpmQk2QLrKI/AAAAAAAAASw/t98bJtr7r_U/s320/AWARD+from+MATTHEW.jpg" /></a></p><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Moving on. The first award being dished out is the premium Meme award from Matthew at <a href="http://resurrectedramblings.blogspot.com/2009/08/55-for-122nd.html">Resurrected Ramblings</a> all the way from the land down under. Thanks to Shane Warne and George Gregan I have never really been fond of Australians, but this point of view is slowly changing thanks to <del>our rugby team currently being the best in the world and Super 16 winners AGAIN</del> great bloggers exploding from the kangaroo's sack, so to speak ;)</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Anyway, this award requires the recipient to "list 7 personality traits exhibited by their writing." Here goes nothing:</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">1. My writing is always personal. And yes, I know everyone's usually is but they haven't claimed that one yet so it's mine now. There's a piece of me in every post I write, be it good or bad and I think it's the closest thing (except for my dogs of course) to a baby I'll ever have. I like to tell stories about the Willy Wonkas I meet, the people claiming to be my family and the rest of my encounters with people resembling all walks of life. Not only do they make for interesting posts, but lasting memories I could look back on and laugh my last breath out when thinking about them.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">2. Speaking about laughter: I'm a Patch Adams at heart. I'm just not a doctor and I resent the fact that he dresses up like a clown because there are other ways to spread the funny without freaking your already damaged patients the hell out. And I'm cuter than Robin Williams. Okay, maybe Patch Adams was a bad example, but I believe that laughter is the answer to World Peace (I just solved the biggest problem in your life, beauty contestants). It's like what Morgan Freeman said in the movie <em>Feast of love:</em></span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">"<em>There is a story about the Greek Gods: they were bored so they invented human beings. But they were still bored so they invented love. Then the weren't bored any longer. So they decided to try love for themselves. And finally they invented laughter: so they could stand it."</em></span></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">The point is: if you can't laugh about is, someone else sure will.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">3. My writing is always long and elaborate to say the least. I think I have yet to write a short post which irritates me at times and I'm sure the reader as well having to concentrate and sit still for two minutes. I especially feel for the ADD ones.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">4. I can't seem to stick to the point. It's like that in my everyday life as well. Luckily I don't work in the military because sticking to the mission would've been torture for me. Now I just torture readers with my long posts. At least this way there will be no physical damage except maybe getting some cellulite from sitting on your butt for long periods of time reading and writing comments. As for the psychological damage from these posts? Don't look at me! Go see a shrink. It helped Tony Soprano and he killed people for a living.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">5. I don't believe in happy endings hence the whole happily AFTER ever because no one ever seems to bother making a movie about what happens three years after the seemingly elated and I-want-to-tear-your-clothes-off-after-attempting-to-carry-your-fat-ass-across-the-threshold-newly married couple closes the door behind them only to reveal two and a half screaming kids and a colic baby with bills piling up on the kitchen counter four years later with the crazy sex being nonexistent or mediocre and bad. At varsity I used to kill at least one character in the stories I had to write for class. And that was on a good day. Don't worry, I'm not mental: just realistic and sober (tonight).</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">6. I like sarcasm. Too much at times since it got me into trouble way too often at my old job as a teacher. You'd be amazed at how serious fourteen and fifteen year olds are at times. And what ever happened to teenagers not telling their parents anything after their 12th birthday?</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"Where do we have to draw a line, Miss?" little Mary asks after I'd already given that specific instruction for the umpteenth time that same period.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"Preferably at 'take off your clothes and dance on the table so I can tape you and post it on Youtube, baby.' Otherwise you could just draw it right underneath the date, Dipsy."</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Puzzled look from Mary.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The next day I got called to the Principal's office for a <del>spanking </del>sit down with Mary's mother wanting to know why I'm teaching sex ed in my language class.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"It's called integration, Mrs. Mary, which it's part of the new syllabus. And I'm actually giving you more value for your hard earned money you need to plow back into your ungrateful child's education by teaching two subjects at once."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Mary's mom shook my hand and asked the principal to give me a raise.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">7. What you see is pretty much what you get. I won't seduce you with big, I-have-to-look-that-one-up-in-the-dictionary-words and beautifully constructed, eloquent sentences. This is me. I'm not perfect all the time, but at least you won't catch me wearing green and red at the same time. Some days you'll have me at my best, most of them at my worst but at least you know what to expect. Just don't compare me to that old, trusty dog you had once or I'll high five your face, jackass.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I'd like to pass this award on to the following people for various reasons:</span><br /><br /><a href="http://organicmeatbag.blogspot.com/?zx=e3315b7552b84585"><span style="font-size:130%;">Why, how and other abstract questions</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://thegirlwiththepinkteacup.blogspot.com/2009/08/critical-mass-not-real-post.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">thegirlwiththepinkteacup</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://everydaydistractions.blogspot.com/2009/08/desperate-houswife-and-why-i-shouldnt.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">a day in the life</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://somanylosers.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">Advice and humor from Mr. Condescending </span></a><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="left"><br /><a href="http://andywarholgoesshopping.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">andy warhol goes shopping</span></a></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span></div><div align="left"><a href="http://bateaudebanane.blogspot.com/2009/08/three-wise-monkeys.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">bateau de banane</span></a></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span></div><div align="left"><a href="http://mariannsimms.blogspot.com/2009/08/potato-farmers-new-vampires.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">blogged down at the moment</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://bloggingisfordorks.blogspot.com/2009/08/1934-peanut-butter-massacre.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">blogging is for dorks</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://annoiatoregazzoneoclassico.blogspot.com/2009/08/how-i-saved-my-cup-come-ho-salvato-la.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">bored neoclassical guy</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/08/conversations-with-bride-dinner-dicks.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">calling people names</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://expateek.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">expateek</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://johnandstevearehavingababy.blogspot.com/2009/08/sht-i-finally-did-it.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">john and steve are having a baby</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://left-field-missy.blogspot.com/2009/08/new-pen-and-ink.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">life in left field</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://lolalakely.blogspot.com/2009/08/lola-vs-break-up-paint.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Lola Lakely</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://meditations-in-an-emergency.blogspot.com/2009/08/form-orderly-queue.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Meditations in an Emergency</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://mo-stoneskin.blogspot.com/2009/08/barber-fruitcake-and-three-harley.html">Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskin</a></p><div align="left"></span><a href="http://hannahmiet.blogspot.com/2009/08/c-is-for-cookie-among-other-things.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">My soul is a butterfly</span></a></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="left"><a href="http://picsandpoems.blogspot.com/2009/08/stranger-than-fiction.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Pics and poems</span></a></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div align="left"><a href="http://proudmaisie.blogspot.com/2009/08/in-case-you-were-all-wondering.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Proud Maisie</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://cfoxes33.blogspot.com/2009/08/happy-birthday.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">See foxes?</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://thecapedtirader.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">The caped tirader</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://japingape.blogspot.com/2009/08/highest-of-high.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">The japing ape</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://www.theyellowfactor.com/2009/08/friday-funny_28.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">The yellow factor</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://badlydrawnmonsters.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">This is why your hold time's so long</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://sallyuncut.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;">You. Me. No adult supervision</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><div align="left"><br /><a href="http://letshaveacocktail.blogspot.com/2009/08/what-happens-in-seattle-stays-in.html">JennyMac</a><span style="font-size:130%;"> and </span><a href="http://differentwiredly.blogspot.com/2009/08/whip-or-carrot.html">Judearoo</a><span style="font-size:130%;">: you have already been tagged, but you know you would've made "The List." ;)</span></div><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm really looking forward to read about the 7 personality traits in your writing, so get busy already.</span></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpqODPpcVgI/AAAAAAAAAS4/qOiRYss9BH8/s1600-h/AWARD+from+JENNYMAC+goodblog6_copy.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 213px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375765291611215362" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpqODPpcVgI/AAAAAAAAAS4/qOiRYss9BH8/s320/AWARD+from+JENNYMAC+goodblog6_copy.jpg" /></a></p><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">The next award is from </span><a href="http://letshaveacocktail.blogspot.com/2009/08/what-happens-in-seattle-stays-in.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Jennymac</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> currently enjoying some time back in her hometown of Seattle. The only thing I know about <em>Seattle</em> is <em>Grey's Anatomy </em>and if I were to have my appendix removed while being in Seattle, I would love to have McDreamy get his hands on me. A girl can dream, okay!</span></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">This award has the following rules: </span></div><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"Make a cocktail, pick out some of your favorite bloggers. Send this award to 4 of them. Tell them why you think they give good blog."</span></em></div><div align="center"><br /></div><p align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Cocktail: check. I just made myself a white Russian.</span></p><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">This is the tough part for me because I hate singling out only a few people for awards. It's like going to try outs for cheerleaders or the football team or the play and you give your darn best by almost breaking a leg/arm/vocal chord and leave it all on the stage. When you hear the announcement that the results are up on the board next to the hall, you dash there during break time and search frantically for your name. I hate that feeling of suspense, but I can only give this one to 4 bloggers. I'm just going to bite the bullet:</span></div><div align="left"><br /><br /><a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/08/conversations-with-bride-dinner-dicks.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">otherworldlyone</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">: she never ceases to amaze me. Just when I think I can't laugh any louder, I can't read any faster to see what she'd been up to, I can't scroll down frantically enough, I do. Her stories are straight from her big heart (and what a wild one it is) and although I think she'd crack me for saying this, she's like Dr. Phil in the sense that she always tells it like it is. Reading her blog is having dessert for breakfast: awesome and something that just never gets old.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="left"><a href="http://resurrectedramblings.blogspot.com/2009/08/55-for-122nd.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Matthew</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">: when I first started reading this man's blog I felt the way a football scout probably feels when he discovers the next John Terry slash Didier Drogba or when a talent scout discovers the next Janis Joplin. He actually reminds me of Dave Matthews back in the day when he was just "the guy singing in that pub." We used to drive up to see some friends in Johannesburg who loved going to this pub where Dave always played. Nobody knew who he was or where he came from; all that mattered was the music. And it was good. It's only years later that our friend recognised his voice on the radio and found out "the guy singing in the pub" has become pretty famous since then. Dave can't go to our little pub anymore without having lingerie or socks or condoms thrown on stage (don't worry: they haven't been used yet, Matthew). </span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Anyway, in Matthew's quiet way he won me over after reading the first post and since then I've never been disappointed. I assure you: neither will you.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="left"><a href="http://annoiatoregazzoneoclassico.blogspot.com/2009/08/how-i-saved-my-cup-come-ho-salvato-la.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Eric</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">: this anything but boring guy was the first blog I started following. I found him by clicking "next blog" on the top menu bar and since then he's been my "THE blog." Eric is from the South, but his passion is all things Italian and he makes carving marble seem like the sensual journey of discovering a woman's body (don't blush now, Eric) and now even I am interested in it. His blog is informative without being "teachery" while he still manages to throw in a little humor that's like the olive in my martini. This modest gentleman's writing is like a drug of which you will soon become a full blown junky.</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><a href="http://thegirlwiththepinkteacup.blogspot.com/2009/08/critical-mass-not-real-post.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">The girl with the pink teacup</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">: she is probably like the Mona Lisa of the blogworld or the Tony Soprano of New Jersey. She is known and loved by all because she not only writes about blow jobs in a way it feels like having a slice of death by chocolate being licked off your fingers by Jensen Ackles, but because she takes time to leave long and sincere comments on your blog making you feel like you didn't write that piece for nothing. She has that rare gift of mesmerising you with her words and taking you on a journey to worlds still undiscovered. You meet writers like her once in a lifetime, if you're lucky enough.</span><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><a href="http://andywarholgoesshopping.blogspot.com/2009/08/random-thoughts-for-friday.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Tennyson</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">: I know I'm only allowed 4, but since crossing paths with this drummer, I have to bend the rules just a little bit. He gives you the impression of being just another average Joe, but his writing begs to differ. I especially liked the post he wrote about how Lady Hem proposed to him. His blog gives me a sense of comfort and after reading it I usually have a smile on my face. Through his writing I know he's a loyal friend and if he's music is anything like his writing, he must be pretty kick ass.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://differentwiredly.blogspot.com/2009/08/whip-or-carrot.html">Judearoo</a>: I know I'm pushing it now, but this girl is worth it. At times she reminds me of Dill from "To kill a mockingbird" when he says to Jem and Scout: "I'm little, but I'm old." Judearoo's writing delivers a little bit of everything: sometimes playful, sometimes sweet, sometimes as beautiful as a sunset in Paris and sometimes all these things combined. Definitely worth checking out.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Have fun with these awards, kids, and spread it like the legs of a lady of the night. I'm going to cool my typing-tired fingers around another cocktail; have a good week.</span></div></del></del>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-79654068893506840212009-08-27T22:05:00.010+02:002009-08-28T08:44:34.233+02:00A dog with issues and the human pain-in-the-ass<p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374738385035287682" style="WIDTH: 160px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 149px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVAT-5OjtVZxfUn_g82rHyU1Sn5bj97uFkDWCAdCmorxo_MfeyMh91x2_Nu6pNwbmwtMDpiYI2cSBCjn0Hb5AyM8iTvk0KaGRiBu-YjMGaRy1e2t4eIV2xohUjYGM4reCNu8RaWT3PRXxQ/s400/womans+best+friend.bmp" border="0" /></p>I had to take my dog to the doggy parlor yesterday. He hasn't been for a haircut in four months and since people were stopping me in the street trying to take pictures of my "mini sheep" I knew it was time.<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVeW8frgHDse1QBhUVQLEf3AB7Z7YHCV_V7yihkl-r-zvgKdVmO7FuemnZ0R64H3qFAwrAlt__VPB8X2N8aMm6eECjEizoa-zGXnVqyfZy9Ka-sIwGuwmiQMkIxNA9FajN2Fr86it9vrre/s1600-h/DSCN0043.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374743911908763938" style="WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVeW8frgHDse1QBhUVQLEf3AB7Z7YHCV_V7yihkl-r-zvgKdVmO7FuemnZ0R64H3qFAwrAlt__VPB8X2N8aMm6eECjEizoa-zGXnVqyfZy9Ka-sIwGuwmiQMkIxNA9FajN2Fr86it9vrre/s320/DSCN0043.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />This is him trying to hide from me even when he was a puppy and we had to go to the parlor. He's not a big fan of scissors after watching <em>Edward Scissorhands</em> 400 times with Mommy.</p><br />I've been going to the same parlor for the past year now. The previous one I went to left my dog with little customer satisfaction after he had to deal with Mommy holding a teabag on his eye for four hours with five minute intervals after getting yanked by some scissors which ended up bursting a vain. He was not a happy chappy after that episode. Neither was Mommy after the vet's account.<br /><br />Since then we've moved to The Blunt Scissors Puppy Friendly Parlor or just <em>Designer Paws</em> for short and we've been much happier. The owner even has a chair for me to sit and wait in while I hawk eye them clipping away at my dog-child. Here in Africa we don't abandon our offspring, even if they're hairy with four legs and a dominating personality.<br /><br />I always have three books in my bag (no wonder it's so heavy, I always thought it was the brick in there, but Tolstoy can be a serious weapon any day of the week) so I make myself as comfortable as possible whilst listening to barking that even gives <em>Rage Against the Machine</em> a run for their money noise wise, when this lady walks in with her Yorkshire Terrier. I love touching dogs because I'm a dog person and thus dogs let me touch them because they love the love I pet them with. But not this Yorkie. Oh no. Nor the owner. Bigger oh no. I could sense from the way they approached the counter they were not what-a-cute-dog-let-me-mush-his-little-face-while-I-make-coo-sounds-people.<br /><br />The owner turns to me and asks in quite a rude tone:<br /><br />"Where's the owner?"<br /><br />Are you blind, woman? Am I wearing a pink flowery apron with gloves and when talking to you, trying to get rid of all the excess dog hair I had just been shedding by spitting it out the side of my mouth like Clint Eastwood chewing tobacco?<br /><br />No.<br /><br />But I did know the answer because the owner and I are good friends (dog people flock together, or is it howl-together?) and he always tells me where he's going when he leaves. He could be my parlor-husband in a sense.<br /><br />"He just had to drop off the dogs from this morning and pick up the ones who have appointments for this afternoon. He'll be back in no time. What a cute dog you have there," I said with a smile anyway because my mother drilled manners into me the hard way: no <em>Dallas</em> unless I gave back the money I took from church in that little sack they send around after service for donations. It was an honest mistake as I thought it was a gift from the congregation because my dad always said "he who gives, shall receive" and I thought it was high time for the receiving-part after months of giving and don't dare judge me about <em>Dallas</em>; JR was my hero when I was seven.<br /><br />"I phoned Deon (the owner) yesterday and he said he'd be here," she was telling someone who really didn't care, "and the only reason I came today was because my neigbour said he has a great feel for dogs. Like some kind of dog whisperer."<br /><br />Wrong again, lady. That's Cesar Milan and he lives in M e x i c o. You know that place somewhere abroad? She should really get out more and mingle with dog people, the poor recluse.<br /><br />I explained again and as a good friend tried to defend the owner as he's only been really good to my dog-kids. He even sows and then puts the little bandana he just made on my Jack Russell and these funny bows in my Maltese's ears. How he gets those bows in without being ripped to pieces by the Furious one, I honestly don't know.<br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spbngsfk4LI/AAAAAAAAARI/4mgiB_HdZPQ/s1600-h/DSCF1339.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374737754198696114" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spbngsfk4LI/AAAAAAAAARI/4mgiB_HdZPQ/s320/DSCF1339.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It might say <em>Prince Charming </em>on his jersey, but his middle name is Hitler and this is what he likes to call the <em>Are you looking at me, boay?-</em>stare.</p><br /><div align="left">The lady then starts telling me her dog's life story about how he turned into a different animal all together after his teeth got pulled out while not completely sedated. I just thought to myself: I would also be a different person if that were to happen to me; it's a toss up between turning into the Hulk and Dracula, but I guess the Hulk would win as he doesn't actually need his teeth to get even with a dentist sucking at his job.<br /><br />According to the lady the dog now has an ulcer and coughs up blood whenever stressed. </div><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spbn97RLJfI/AAAAAAAAARQ/HAwqRfn1w6A/s1600-h/yorkie-health.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374738256381027826" style="WIDTH: 229px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Spbn97RLJfI/AAAAAAAAARQ/HAwqRfn1w6A/s320/yorkie-health.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><em>See, its even trained to say "aaaaahhhhhh" at the snap of the fingers. This dog could be on a toothpaste commercial if it didn't have the whole fobia-thing going on.</em></p><br /><br /><br /><br />Apparently the dog experiences stress whenever the lady isn't around. That's why she wants to stand there with the dog while its being bathed and having the hair cut.<br /><br />When she saw my dog getting his coat trimmed off by one of the workers, she was upset. Again.<br /><br />"I thought the owner cuts the dogs' hair. That's what I heard."<br /><br />I wasn't having a great day and this lady was seriously getting on my nerves. First of all she was interrupting my time with Tolstoy and then when I glanced over at her I thought for a second she was going to suggest I bath and tame that crazy, blood coughing dog's hair.<br /><br />Just then my parlor-husband returns (right on time, dear) and faces the wrath of the Stressor. I do actually think she might not be the main cause for this dog's anxiety, but she sure is contributing to it because, according to Cesar, dog's need rehabilitation and humans need training for we mess up our dogs with our 'wrong energy.'<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />If you're not a dog person I probably sound like that boring bitch with the three children talking to a person who's still screwing every guy that has good hair and a car. It's annoying, I know.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My Maltese now resembles the rat in a sugar cane field licking his exposed little balls the whole time and my Jack Russell looks as though she's lost a few pounds as well. I wish I looked that great after a "trim."<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpbqPjWkmoI/AAAAAAAAARg/c-ZmVcPk9E0/s1600-h/after+they+have+passed+out+waxing.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374740758222117506" style="WIDTH: 95px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 139px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpbqPjWkmoI/AAAAAAAAARg/c-ZmVcPk9E0/s320/after+they+have+passed+out+waxing.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-14832469716965672142009-08-24T18:49:00.008+02:002009-08-24T19:36:28.477+02:00Sure I can be Arnold Schwarzenegger!<p align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpLJTWbXq7I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/03TVBcEykZE/s1600-h/the+muscle.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373578639681498034" style="WIDTH: 130px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 94px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SpLJTWbXq7I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/03TVBcEykZE/s320/the+muscle.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div>I am not my mother's daughter anymore. I am now my mother's Muscle. Yes, Muscle with a capital <em>M</em> to make me seem more threatening and important because it's like a title. Without the title of <em>king</em> Henry the VIII seems like a pervert shagging anything wearing a dress.<br /><br />My mom is 61 now; an age where she is perfectly capable of doing things herself. I still go shopping with my mom all the time, but this week I have been a bit preoccupied with the netball as one of the girls broke her arm during practice and I felt responsible and terrible. I am officially the worst non-parent in the world therefore I locked myself in the house and was confined to my uncomfortable-yet-stylish living room couch watching horror films and eating lots of carrot cake with terribly zesty icing which just made my glands swell up and itch by merely glancing at that cake. All it ended up doing was giving me stomach cramps and making me feel like a fat faced pumpkin.<br /><br />But I digress, because my mom got mugged this week. Well, kind of. She went into the store to buy a plastic bucket for some obscure reason and when she got back to her car, two men approached her in a ungentlemanly fashion as one tried to grab her handbag.<br /><br />Now, my mom unfortunately has this terrible saving-habit. She finally got the car of her dreams after driving one messed up canary yellow two door piece of crap which only purpose was to embarrass me at school when she dropped me off. I once asked her to drop me off on the corner and let me walk the rest of the way with the excuse that I needed all the exercise I could get growing up and all, but she insisted it wasn't safe and let me get out in front of my class room. And that was even before Columbine, people! I feel sorry for my nieces and their popularity taking a dive before it even had a chance to bloom.<br /><br />Back to the saving. Her new car has air conditioner and all the lovely perks that you bloody well pay for when buying the car of your dreams. But my mother does not use her air conditioner.<br /><br />"It just eats up the gas. And gas is really expensive these days, love. We have to save every penny we can."<br /><br />Yes, mother; there is a tiny rat named Tim sucking up all the gas in your tank and getting high on the fumes at the gas station. What can you do?</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>So my mother was hot from bothering all the shop assistants in her search for the right bucket ... eh ... I mean <em>shopping</em> and although it's winter, she popped her window down. Just what the two thugs were hoping for. According to Mom they appeared out of nowhere.<br /><br />"Like real ninjas, I tell you!"<br /><br />Because the car has a central locking system, Jackie Chan just popped up the lock which allowed Jet Lee access to the passenger side where my mom's purse was.<br /><br />Now, the ladies will get it when I say your whole life can pretty much be found in your purse. In my mom's case, anyway: credit cards, debit cards, shopping cards, gift vouchers, driver's licence, pictures of the family just in case you bump into an old enemy you want to impress with rubbing your beautiful children and grandchildren's smiling faces under her nose, house keys, car keys, the safe's keys, lipstick, another set of earrings in case you lose one whilst shopping like last time and end up looking like an idiot with one earring or a trashy tart wearing none (that's Mom's opinion, not mine), you get the idea. Would you just let your precious life slip into the uncaring hands of a street thug who's about to go on the shopping spree of his life?<br /><br />Neither did my mom.<br /><br />She apparently yelled some things even I cannot repeat in this post and was able to grab a hold of the purse's sling. The adrenaline storm kicked in and she said she felt like Samson with the Philistine about to cause her great discomfort canceling credit cards and standing in queues longer than the audition phase in <em>So you think you can dance</em>. I guess it'll be more like <em>Get in line if you've been robbed from all the crap you carry around weighing your shoulder down and giving you early onset arthritis</em>. I'm sure it would be an instant hit. The part where you're supposed to dance for your life would probably be the re-enactment of how you were robbed. I'd pay money to see Mom do that.<br /><br />The thugs evidently noticed my mom was stronger than she looked, that she in fact has the strength of 300 Spartans hidden in her matured body from gardening and picking up whining grand kids and they took off without the purse and three black eyes. She at least got some punches in, she said proud.<br /><br />Mom was still pretty shaken up behind her kick-ass exterior though, and so I assigned myself to the Muscle position. I may be little, but I am strong and there is, after all, strength in numbers. Four fists are better than two? Take into account my screeching ability and awesome aerobic high kicks and we're a fierce team, Mom and I.<br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIdJtka6sMorsBO8OUkHr6VMtI6TxQlyj4CBuUVRNmR52UsymsMOpqiWlUYzNPEVJvhrIbTKUDS42fo5qRPcEUGpFHM3U4HhVkm_plvz5ZxIe59g1aONGV32JxXJggoknYNHzcY1DRFKL1/s1600-h/biseps.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373584495722802530" style="WIDTH: 103px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 114px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIdJtka6sMorsBO8OUkHr6VMtI6TxQlyj4CBuUVRNmR52UsymsMOpqiWlUYzNPEVJvhrIbTKUDS42fo5qRPcEUGpFHM3U4HhVkm_plvz5ZxIe59g1aONGV32JxXJggoknYNHzcY1DRFKL1/s320/biseps.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div><br />Being a Muscle I get free lunches and clothing items whilst doing my job escorting Mom to all the good shops in the Mall. It's not that bad at all, really. I might just quit my day job for this and who knows? Maybe I'll run for governor someday.</div>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-13855677727757286652009-08-17T21:21:00.016+02:002009-08-17T22:35:23.457+02:00Why Gene Simmons is a bad influence and giving away an award<p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SomxQ0ah8mI/AAAAAAAAAQg/MCN33CFWdbU/s1600-h/with+this+im+going+to+control+your+life.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371018933121970786" style="WIDTH: 223px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SomxQ0ah8mI/AAAAAAAAAQg/MCN33CFWdbU/s320/with+this+im+going+to+control+your+life.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><br />Let me introduce you to my friend Michael. This is the best way of summing him up:<br /><br /><em>I recall my first time with a condom; I was 16 or so. </em><br /><br /><em>I went in to buy a packet of condoms at the pharmacy. There was this beautiful woman assistant behind the counter, and she could see that I was new at it. She handed me the package and asked if I knew how to wear one. </em><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>I honestly answered: 'No, this is my first time.'<br /></em><br /><em><br /></em><em></em><em>So she unwrapped the package, took one out and slipped it over her thumb. She cautioned me to make sure it was on tight and secure. I apparently still looked confused. So she looked all around the store to see if it was empty. It was empty. </em><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>'Just a minute,' she said and walked to the door and locked it. </em><br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>Taking my hand, she led me into the back room, unbuttoned her blouse and removed it. She unhooked her bra and laid it aside. </em><br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>'Do these excite you?' she asked. </em><br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>Well, I was so dumb-struck that all I could do was nod my head. She then said it was time to slip the condom on. As I was slipping it on, she dropped her skirt, removed her panties and lay down on a desk. </em><br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>'Well, come on,' she said, 'we don't have much time.' </em><br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>So I climbed on her. It was so wonderful that, unfortunately, I could no longer hold back and KAPOW! I was done within a few minutes. She looked at me with a bit of a frown. </em><br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>Did you put that condom on?' she asked. </em><br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>"I sure did," I said </em><em>and held up my thumb to show her. </em><br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em>She fainted. </em><br /><br /><br /><p>Michael is a thirty three year old male in desperate need of a vasectomy. From my point of view of course, not his. </p><br /><p>He got a girl pregnant when he was seventeen. The girl was twenty four. I know, I know: when he says you're his first, he might just mean it. But give credit where credit's due because Michael is a great dad. He is there for his son's rugby matches and end of the year play, giving him just enough pocket money to not buy cigarettes and a coke, spending time with him jamming it out on <em>Guitar Hero.</em></p><br /><p>Michael adores Gene Simmons (just like me!) from KISS and clings to Gene's philosophy on marriage like crabs to ball hair. My friend is more than happy to be the bachelor with the flat screen TV, the sea of clothes around the washing basket, the three day old chips layered all over the living room table. </p><br /><p>Michael became a daddy for the second time (that we know of) with a different girl this March. I think he has a problem, but according to him he's not it. The girl moved in with him so he can "keep an eye on them." Yeah, right.<br /><br />"I couldn't help it; the condom broke."<br />How about using one you bought at a store that day and not the old ones you got for free at a varsity party nine years ago in the drawer in the first place?<br /><br />"It's not my fault she's not on the Pill."<br />Would it kill you to ask first?<br /><br />Last week a "long lost love" called him anxiously, wanting to meet.<br /><br />"Jeez, Michael!" I scolded him like an old mother. "Who the hell in this world haven't you slept with? A nun?" </p><p>When he gave me a sheepish grin, I wanted to vomit in my mouth. He has no standards, I swear. And he wonders why I won't introduce him to my girlfriends.<br /><br />Michael is not a bad guy. He is a gentleman in every other way and not a stingy one at that. He's funny, handsome if you're into tall, blond guys and likes to have a good time without even touching a drink. He just loves the idea of love and being in love. Unfortunately when the feeling disappears, so does he.<br /></p><p align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Somw2kJNmpI/AAAAAAAAAQY/icrdVxXckDA/s1600-h/safe-sex-demotivational-pics-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371018482077768338" style="WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/Somw2kJNmpI/AAAAAAAAAQY/icrdVxXckDA/s320/safe-sex-demotivational-pics-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Maybe if he resembled this chap, things would be a lot different.</p><br />The Long Lost Love was fearing pregnancy as she was very late, but too scared to see a doctor. Because he's still my friend and I know a little something about the deceitful ways of women I told him he'd better get her to a doctor and if there is another delivery from the stork on the way, he should insist on a paternity test as soon as he sees those little pink feet.<br /><br />He came over today wanting to go for a drink to celebrate his 'hit and miss' (one less future-Michael to worry about) when I told him to grow the hell up. Was he ever planning on settling down someday, I asked.<br /><br />"I'll get married when my children insist on it," and that coming from a preacher's son.<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLmAYQDod79o7ag2_tIVy5IFIyweLkIo_KjOczIvEDMA_p7Iqr1Mks87v9x-kSuko4FOgEk79zyGiohA7t1d4F3VNyh_zWqc5VSJzOotS2wuDbM8ZUPFygXMl3LaI6gfuvs2YgSzZUwFI/s1600-h/award+for+good+comments.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371027711596958754" style="WIDTH: 172px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLmAYQDod79o7ag2_tIVy5IFIyweLkIo_KjOczIvEDMA_p7Iqr1Mks87v9x-kSuko4FOgEk79zyGiohA7t1d4F3VNyh_zWqc5VSJzOotS2wuDbM8ZUPFygXMl3LaI6gfuvs2YgSzZUwFI/s320/award+for+good+comments.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><br />As I mentioned in my previous post, <a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/08/dont-lookim-not-done.html">otherwordlyone from <em>Calling people names </em></a>(you'd better been at her blog already!) awarded me for always having something to say. I'd like to pass this on to the following people:<br /><br /><a href="http://resurrectedramblings.blogspot.com/2009/08/pastblast.html">Matthew</a>: he always makes me feel like the true lady I am (I'm vain, okay! get over it) with his comments and his writing is like having a cup of hot chocolate in the arms of a beloved in front of a fireplace on a cold winter's night. Did that sound poetic or just marvellous? Then yes, that's Matthew for you.<br /><br /><a href="http://thegirlwiththepinkteacup.blogspot.com/2009/08/melbourne-train-stations-and-taking.html">Thegirlwiththepinkteacup</a>: even though not blogging as frequently as all her friends and followers would hope, she still goes through the trouble of leaving long and sincere comments which just proves why she is so popular and loved.<br /><br /><a href="http://japingape.blogspot.com/2009/08/last-king-of-ireland.html">Gorilla Bananas</a>: for a gorilla he is actually pretty talented and he never holds back on the verbal.<br /><a href="http://differentwiredly.blogspot.com/2009/08/idealogy-versus-reality-bedtime-story.html">Judearoo</a>: for always seeing my point of view and loving it (praise is always welcome here)<br /><br /><a href="http://organicmeatbag.blogspot.com/2009/08/how-music-shaped-me.html">Organic Meatbag</a>: he's always honest and true with a dash of humour whenever writing a comment on anyone's blog. You've got to love that in a guy!<br /><br /><a href="http://andywarholgoesshopping.blogspot.com/2009/08/in-through-out-door.html">Tennyson</a>: he says what he wants to and needs to but in such a way that you end up agreeing with him. He's like the pied piper with an Aussie hat :)<br /><br /><a href="http://mo-stoneskin.blogspot.com/2009/08/kgb-could-never-touch-me-but-as-for.html">Mo Stoneskin</a>: <em>Monday's with Mo</em> is what I like to call it these days; something to look forward to on one of the dreariest days of the week. In his comments he always relates what you have said back to something in his life; a big plus in my book.<br /><br /><a href="http://letshaveacocktail.blogspot.com/2009/08/as-they-say-safety-first.html">JennyMac</a>: she likes keeping it short and sweet whilst managing to be entertaining at the same time<br /><br /><a href="http://meditations-in-an-emergency.blogspot.com/2009/08/i-love-smell-of-napalm-in-morning_17.html">mysterg</a>: although a Portsmouth fan, he can still leave a comment that manages to make me smile. Maybe I smile because of the fact that he's a Portsmouth fan?! Just kidding, mysterg ;)<br /><br /><a href="http://picsandpoems.blogspot.com/2009/08/when-signals-dont-get-through.html">Dave King</a>: his comments are always reflective of him being a true gentleman; something money can't buy. Sometimes I don't know how he can stand reading my blog ;)<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://annoiatoregazzoneoclassico.blogspot.com/2009/08/whats-with-hole-in-my-yard-perche-un.html">Eric</a>, I would've nominated you, my dear Italian-speaking-genius-with-marble-annoyingly-talented friend, but otherworldlyone has done it already and rightly so. The same goes for you <a href="http://sallyuncut.blogspot.com/2009/08/just-to-prove-that-i-could.html">Sally-Sal</a>, my very first commenter in the dry times and one of my favorite bloggers :)<br /><br />Thank you all for taking the time and always commenting on what is written here. It's a nice feeling opening my blog in the middle of the day and seeing your name with a comment on my post. My self esteem is like a deflatable mattress sometimes and your comment is like the air pumping it to its proper size.<br /><br />And thus with my best Elvis impersonation: <em>Thank you; thank you very much!</em>ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-39898610610902240162009-08-16T15:42:00.008+02:002009-08-16T16:36:52.907+02:00The letter in the aisle and another award<p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SogNW4HONtI/AAAAAAAAAP4/iUjBeKybzsQ/s1600-h/girl+drawing+hearts.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370557242310276818" style="WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 210px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SogNW4HONtI/AAAAAAAAAP4/iUjBeKybzsQ/s320/girl+drawing+hearts.bmp" border="0" /></a></p>I was sitting at a table in my favorite restaurant waiting for my friend - who is always late - to join me She's not fashionably late: she is inconsiderately late at times. I swear she'll be late for her own funeral someday.<br /><br />Anyway, while I was waiting as usual, I saw a piece of paper in the aisle next to my table. It had been torn a bit from hurried waiter-feet and I could see something had been written on it. It was too big to be an order and it also didn't qualify as a menu. I like picking things up, much to my mother's dismay. I always pick pennies up that are lying in streets, seemingly abandoned by a wallet; I like to pick up shiny things because you never know when you might hit the jackpot in it being a diamond! And yes, I have been fooled by the occasional glued-to-the-ground-penny after which I tried to walk away as gracefully as an idiot possibly can.<br /><br />So true to my nature, I leaned over and snatched up the piece of paper. Much to my delight it seemed to be a letter addressed to a "Raynard" from, I assume, a lady with the initials PB. Immediately scenes from Message in a Bottle flashed before my romantic eyes and I could already imagine me reuniting the two lovers and stand back with a sigh of happy jealousy at the sight of such sickening true love.<br /><br />Anyway, the "letter" was written in a neat, firm handwriting and read as follows:<br /><br /><br />"My Raynard<br /><br /><div align="center"><br />After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul.<br />And you learn that love does not mean leaning and company doesn't always mean security.<br />And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises;<br />and you begin to accept defeats with your head up and your eyes forward with the grace of a woman and not the grief of a child.<br />And you learn to build your roads on today because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans and the future have a way of falling down in mid flight.<br /><br />After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.<br />So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.<br />And you learn that you can endure, that you really are strong and you really do have worth.<br />And you learn<br />and you learn<br />and with every good bye<br />you learn.<br /></div><br /><div align="left">PB."<br /><br /><br />Okay, maybe I should hold off on the whole happy ending part. And suddenly I felt like an intruder. And I felt a bit sad. So sad in fact that I got up and left the restaurant to go to my favorite place to "think" (which is just my word for crying a little in privacy because I'm absolutely hideous with my puffy cry-eyes) while I phoned my friend to cancel lunch.<br /><br />I hate it when things don't work out the way they're supposed to. Or the way you hoped they would. It reminds me of granny Lil's story with her John.<br /><br />She was married to a Hollander. His parents moved to South Africa years ago thanks to his mother's asthma and he never could get used to our culture. The two met through mutual friends and he pursued her like a dog on heat.<br /><br />"I suppose it's because I wouldn't give him the one thing he got from every girl he looked at or touched," she smiled.<br /><br />He wasn't an attractive man with his thick glasses and crooked nose, but there was something about the way he handled himself in the presence of women: a kind of nonchalance that drove them to the brink of … eh … tears ;)<br /><br />They had two children together (two girls) and everything seemed fine on the surface. She was a brought up in a Calvinistic way: she loved her husband and God, was faithful to them both, treasured her family and was a good mother until the day her husband died. It was then that she found out he had been cheating on her for more than thirty years. He even had another family in Holland which he was supporting by sending them money she had to do without thanks to his "non-spending" nature.<br /><br />"How naïve I was. My life was a lie. Everything I believed in was one big sham. I felt like I had woken up from a dream into a nightmare existence when I discovered the contents of his locked drawer. We hadn't shared the same bed in years, but I thought it was because of his bad back. Maybe I didn't want to see what was happening? I don't really know. All I DO know is that I wish he was alive so I could kill him myself."<br /><br />Good thing he died in his sleep, the old bugger.<br /><br />She kept their father's "betrayal" from her daughters (one disappointed bitter woman in the family was enough) who paid more and more worried visits to their mother.<br /><br />"They wanted me to go see a shrink so I said I'll do that if they bought me another bottle of gin from the liquor store on the corner. They left shocked and pale, poor things. I never had a drink in my prissy life before that."<br /><br />She takes a good long sip of her gin.<br /><br />"I started painting again. Most of the first attempts found their last resting place in the dustbin and I eventually got so frustrated I decided to get someone to guide me to the path of enlightenment again," and she waved her hand in a dramatic gesture through the air. "That's how I met John."<br /><br />John was her art teacher, you could say, and old enough to be her son. Good thing he wasn't because that would just be incest considering what they did every Monday and Thursday afternoon after the lesson at her house. Granny Lil may be old, but she proved that she was far from cold. She was no cougar (way too classy and old school for that) but she still had a firm arse.</div><p align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SogQoumG5cI/AAAAAAAAAQA/uRuo8kwumoI/s1600-h/kirby.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370560847527994818" style="WIDTH: 127px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 125px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SogQoumG5cI/AAAAAAAAAQA/uRuo8kwumoI/s320/kirby.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />If he looked anything like Kirby from <em>Lipstick Jungle</em>: hell, bring on gravity if older women is his thing.</p><br />"My paint strokes improved dramatically," she remembers with a far off look in her old blue eyes, "I felt inspired and alive again. He made me feel wanted, intelligent, beautiful. I became a woman again under his trained hands."<br /><br />He was on his way to Johannesburg to an exhibition when he was hijacked and killed.<br /><br />"Story of my life," granny Lil smiled with me clutching an already wet tissue in my fist. Anger just makes you strong and at her age all she wants to do is die with the memories of her one "sinful" act still in tact.<br /><br />"I'm sure God has a sense of humor; why else would he have created a thing like love? I just hope that's as far as His sense of humor goes, because I don't want to live to be 200. Unless he sends me another John to pass the time with," she winked at me before taking another long sip from her glass of gin.<br /><p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SogS2QaApLI/AAAAAAAAAQI/Bl5bkY4krds/s1600-h/award+for+good+comments.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370563278965613746" style="WIDTH: 172px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SogS2QaApLI/AAAAAAAAAQI/Bl5bkY4krds/s320/award+for+good+comments.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><br />Righto, Otto, that's that. <a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/2009/08/dont-lookim-not-done.html">Otherworldlyone from <em>Calling people names</em> </a>thought me worthy of an award and coming from her (my blogsister in crime) I consider it a huge honour. If you haven't read her blog, you have a gap in your upbringing, trust me. I got this award thanks to my comments I irritate her with ever so often. I will gladly pass this award along, just not today. Today is not a good day for me. And considering tomorrow being Monday, it won't be a good one either. But I'll report back for duty soon enough with an award up my sleeve.ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832083412796200822.post-20293086819128265842009-08-14T12:59:00.005+02:002009-08-14T14:22:16.497+02:00How to kill love<p align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SoVPmDvqULI/AAAAAAAAAPo/-ThbVOuP1ZU/s1600-h/self+defecne.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369785645968019634" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SoVPmDvqULI/AAAAAAAAAPo/-ThbVOuP1ZU/s320/self+defecne.bmp" border="0" /></a></p>I was walking in the Mall yesterday afternoon after netball practice, just minding my own business, touching clothes adoringly and walking away fast from ugly babies when a hand grabs me from behind.<br /><br />Now with recent reports in newspapers about robbers targeting malls specifically these past 2 months in what seems like a bad episode of a series that would be called "The Debt Collector" giving my credit card swipe-withdrawal symptoms, every opportunity seems like a golden opportunity to try out the lessons learned in the expensive self defense classes a couple of friends and I attended a while back. As a reflex I pulled my elbow back so far that it hit the person in the nose resulting in some blood loss any baby vampire dreams of at night.<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SoVP076BI_I/AAAAAAAAAPw/5nx3uDrJNbc/s1600-h/self+defecne+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369785901562012658" style="WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 241px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__RWh-IBC44A/SoVP076BI_I/AAAAAAAAAPw/5nx3uDrJNbc/s320/self+defecne+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Like this, but without the bad hair and a loud "Aijaaaaaahhhhh" true Jackie Chan-style </p><p align="left">The unfortunate person on the receiving end of the move that I like to call <em>rearrange your face</em> was a girl I knew from varsity.<br /><br />She had a tragic story back then already and here I was as sensitive as always with my elbow in her nose. Coffee/soda and cake was the least I could offer her (especially since I was craving the coffee shop's chocolate caramel cake anyway). For the sake of this post let's call her Juno.<br /><br />Juno was a year ahead of me which made her my senior in the hostel (hostel, dorm, pretty much all the same). She wasn't like all the other seniors though as she didn't make us leopard crawl the hallway in our panties whilst having to dodge water balloons every time we heard "Incoming!" No wonder some of those retards are still trying to get their degrees four years later.<br /><br />She wasn't part of that crowd because she was never there. When it was me and my roommate's turn to wake her up the one morning, we stood there for half an hour knocking, more like gently caressing the door as some of the seniors got pretty pissed off being woken up by a banging noise which would later result in a new "game" consisting of more target practice involving eggs. All these "games" would actually make a darn good post someday. But not today. Today is Juno's day.<br /><br />There were always rumors as to where Juno was. Obviously most of them involved a boy and well, doing something naughty. It was the source of many discussions in my room late at night when we were still busy learning the seniors' names and titles. Titles like Palesimomedante and Baritokwarskawa and Leilolopantstai. I know: what the hell, right?<br /><br />I sometimes saw Juno in my building on campus as it turned out she was studying Afrikaans literature as well. She noticed me once because I was wearing the required hostel uniform on a Monday (no one could miss what looked like a red thumb walking the campus) and we started talking. We went to lunch that day and every Monday after that. </p><br />One day I saw her with a tall, dark man wearing a blue jacket, jeans and expensive shoes. He had an arrogance about him; that type of arrogance that comes from knowing one's power over the opposite sex thanks to good looks and money. Later I discovered he was a professor lecturing foreign languages in our department.<br /><br />Of course you put one and one together already: she had an affair with the man, the Dark One. But he was married. And somehow his wife found out about the whole thing, one thing lead to another and the rector of the varsity called him in giving him two options: resign and leave the varsity with his reputation in tact or be publicly humiliated and lose everything. Of course he chose the first option. Juno was approached as well and her silence bought with a bursary covering any and all expenses. Only one problem: yep, she was pregnant.<br /><br />I never knew girls could be so cruel. That whole sticking together-thing? Big myth that year. Word spread like fire in a dry forest and before she knew it, she was known as <em>That Girl</em> thanks to every sentence starting with:<br /><br />"<em>That Girl</em> was so shameless! How could prof. R fall for her?"<br />You're just jealous that he was tapping your fat ass, Hippo.<br /><br />"<em>That Girl</em> with the bun in the oven? Yeah, I know her. She's in my hostel. Real slut, if you ask me."<br />Takes one to know one, Hooters.<br /><br />"<em>That Girl</em> got what she deserved. She should have known better."<br />I bet your grandmother is Judge Judy, Dorothy.<br /><br />Now I know she was stupid to fall for his lies about him leaving the wife because she doesn't look at him the same anymore or make him feel worthy blah blah blah, but people make mistakes and who am I after all to judge?<br /><br />I've never been one to go with the crowd, so I still had my Monday -lunch with Juno. I could see her cringe under all the malicious eyes every time we would look for a table.<br /><br />"You know what? Ever since I've been hanging out with you, I'm a bloody celebrity! Look at all the attention I'm getting," I waved my spoon in the direction of a girl whispering something to her friend whilst glancing over at our table constantly and accidentally hit her full on the boobs with my chip-and-dip.<br /><br />Try and dry-clean that, bitch.<br /><br />"I just wish I didn't love him so much," Juno said in a tiny voice. For the first time I saw a twenty year old terrified, heartbroken, used girl sitting in front of me. "How do I stop loving him?"<br /><br />"I can't speak from experience, but I can tell you what my friend granny Lil said to me way back when about love."<br /><br />I took the last sip of my ice tea and aimed the can at a nearby dustbin.<br /><br />"She said you can't kill love like you can kill an animal, a pestering insect or another human being. Not with a gun or a knife. Love is tougher than flesh and blood and it's way stronger than death. It burns like a flame from hell and not even all the water from all the oceans can cool it down or extinguish it. You can try and get rid of it by starving it until it dies. Starving it by never seeing that person ever again. The rest is up to time."<br /><br />And now she is sitting in front of me again, but it's a different woman this time. Her eyes have a straight look about them, her posture is upright and proud, her mouth is gentle, but firm. She isn't <em>That Girl</em> anymore. She is <em>The Woman</em> now, happily married to <em>The Stockbroker</em> and her six year old son has the most serious brown eyes I have ever seen.<br /><br />"I never thanked you for the advice you gave me that one Monday. It has taken me quite some time to heal and the scars are still there, but I don't look at them every single day anymore. And I never thanked you for being my friend when I had no one."<br /><br />When we got up, I threw my empty ice tea-can in the nearest dustbin. I still wonder if that whispering-wimp got the miracle sauce out of her white sweater.ladytruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06033228344935713117noreply@blogger.com17