happily AFTER ever

The honeymoon is definitely over, alright

2011-03-03T10:05:00.004+01:00

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.

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."

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?"

My answer used to be: "When our children insist on it."

I thought it funny back then. WAY back then.

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.

"When are you having kids? YOU'RE BIOLOGICAL CLOCK IS TICKING, YOU KNOW."

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.

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.

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.

I mean, who can resist little girls looking like this:

Me, I can. Cause I know that looks can be deceiving.

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.

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.

The jury is still out on this one, but any advice will really help.

It's that time of the year

2011-01-11T08:16:00.000+01:00

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 Friday the 13th. I'm scary like that.

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.

Birthdays are a big deal in my family. Like so many other things.

The invitations: mostly verbal since my people have surpassed snail mail AND the Internet. They're that fast.

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.

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 at all.

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:

And there will be no surprises this year.

This year it'll just be Chris and I. And the dogs. We'll be having the cake I 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.

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.

But until then:

What you can learn from relationships by growing plants and vegetables

2011-01-04T11:49:00.000+01:00

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:

Needless to say, after eating one I ended up like this:

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 then 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 then 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.

Kind of like relationships.

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.

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.

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:

Brainwashing only gets you so far.

I have learned that trying too hard will not make it last any longer:

Plus it makes you feel bloated, frustrated and fat. Not sexy.

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.

Seriously, you don't have to pretend you never knew "Milan" wasn't Julius Caesar's last name anymore.

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.

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.

If he'll hold your flowers while your busy with a pose, it's a good sign. Obedience: great start to any marriage :)

Here's looking at you, kid

2010-12-27T19:01:00.011+01:00

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.

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.

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.

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."

Gran L replied with her heavy Italian mobster accent: "I bloody hope not!"

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.

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.

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.

Here's to you, Gran Liliana; I hope you keep them on their toes upstairs. Rest in Peace.

The prodigal lady returns

2010-12-23T19:31:00.005+01:00

It's true: the bitch is back :)

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.

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.

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.

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 :)

It's good to be back.

Our little sunshines

2009-10-25T18:44:00.024+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

E rocking the Minnie Mouse ears.

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

Sing, sing a song

2009-10-18T21:30:00.015+02:00

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

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

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

And all the questions are just killing me.

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

Yes, almost like jail I presume.

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

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

And my favorite:

"What is your song?"

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

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

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

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

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

The apple is finally ripe

2009-10-11T19:56:00.013+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now it feels like we have come full circle. It had to be now and not last week or last month or last year. The time wasn't right. We weren't right.

Our first official date was on Friday night. It felt strange to dress up for my best friend, but Mary hasn't claimed her little lamb yet and it went rabid when he gave me a lingering kiss at the door. Our hands found each other like the ocean finds the beach and it felt ... good.

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

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

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

2009-10-06T09:00:00.001+02:00

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

Buckle up, here we go.

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

The rules for this award are as follow:

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

Without further ado:

1. Where is your cell phone? Close

2. Your hair? Blond

3. Your mother? Confidant

4. Your father? Difficult

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

6. Your dream last night? Tiring

7. Your favorite drink? JackD

8. Your dream/goal? Published

9. What room are you in? Bedroom

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

11. Your fear? Dark

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

13. Where were you last night? Dreams

14. Something that you aren't? Rich

15. Muffins? Heart

16. Wish list item? Worldpeace ;)

17. Where did you grow up? House

18. Last thing you did? Bath

19. What are you wearing? PJ

20. Your TV? Big

21. Your pets? Priceless

22. Friends? Love

23. Your life? Alright

24. Your mood? Stable

25. Missing someone? Monique

26. Vehicle? Quasimodo

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

28. Your favorite store? All

29. Your favorite color? Pink

30. When was the last time you laughed? Morning

31. Last time you cried? Saturday

32. Your best friend? Forever

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

34. One person who emails me regularly? Frenchie

35. Favorite place to eat? Mom's

I'd like to give this award to:

Hannah Miet

JennyMac

O-Zone

Constructive Attitude

Politics of Love Chick

Staceyjwarner

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

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

1. When I was seven I almost drowned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the award goes to:

critty critty bang bang

Kaitlyn

The pale observer (Holli)

King of New York Hacks

I was in a giving mood.

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

Jeve (John and Steve are having a baby)

__________________________________________

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

Otherworldlyone

Eric

Advice and Humor from Mr. C

Meditations in an Emergency

_____________________________________________

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.

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

2009-10-05T15:16:00.018+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-09-30T14:12:00.023+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My front yard looking like an ice rink

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

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

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

Her Royal Highness: high on sleep and comfort

Does he LOOK amused to you?

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

Can you hear the weddingbells?

2009-09-27T23:21:00.008+02:00

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

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

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

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

This is usually the reason for men saying:

"You look nice"

or if they're really daring:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you like to touch my boobs?"

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

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

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

Go shawty, it's your birfday

2009-09-23T22:06:00.007+02:00

Dear Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your grateful and loving daughter.

Tea for two?

2009-09-19T21:55:00.014+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eli Stone (that's the only decent, nice attorney I know):

"I've met many women in my line of work. Bitter, hard, sometimes insane women, but none like yo -"

Ladytruth: "CROAK!!!!"

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

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

Ladytruth: (trying to save the situation and her dignity)

"You know, I've never met a divorce attorney before. I bet you've never be screwed CROAK!!!"

Eli Stone (the little frown is upgraded to big brother Frown like the principal looking irritated with the girl who punched a boy for bullying her friend because he has nerdy glasses and freckles)

"Are you sure you're alright? Shouldn't I scare you or something to make them stop?"

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

Needless to say, we didn't have dessert.

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

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

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

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

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

I guess all that's left to say is:

NEXT!

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

2009-09-17T12:14:00.005+02:00

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

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

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

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

to which he replied:

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

How's that for shutting up an angry woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One down, nine to go

2009-09-09T21:12:00.010+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andre: "So how do you keep busy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eeeuw, Mother!"

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

Don't ever stop and smell the roses

2009-09-06T20:07:00.019+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She never fails to disappoint with her predictability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cake and sex: there's always room for seconds

2009-09-02T19:16:00.036+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hee hee hee.

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

Only 3? Pity.

;)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just stick to the cocktail.

Being an Afrikaner on the first day of September

2009-08-30T22:22:00.019+02:00

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.

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.

When I asked my mom about it that day she just gave me her usual children should be seen and not heard 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.

I could never tell how old Pule actually was. He had too many wrinkles to determine an accurate age.

It's suffice to say that he wasn't 21 anymore.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I asked Pule if he knew why we never sang our traditional Afrikaner songs at school that day.

Pule took a puff from his pipe, tucked on his old Northern Transvaal cap(these days know as the Blue Bulls 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:

"If you came to my house and we only spoke Sesotho (which I didn't understand back then), would you feel comfortable?"

What was he going on about? Of course not. The only thing I could say in Sesotho back then was what way is the police station? and I doubt that phrase would have been appreciated at Pule's place.

I just shook my head.

"How many black children are there in your school now?" Pule asked.

An image of me and my brother playing that video game Othello came to mind.

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.

Schools during the nineties seemed a lot like that Othello board with about 90 percent white kids and the rest consisting of black, brown or Indian children.

"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?"

The famous picture of the dying Hector Peterson in the arms of a friend with his sister running beside them.

I remember that conversation to this day. Especially after the whole District 9 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.

District 9 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.

I have mixed feelings because I'm tired of saying I'm sorry for something I had no part in.

I'm tired of feeling guilty for something I didn't do, but which the color of my skin ties me to.

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.

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.

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.

It's all about Meme, Michael Jackson and cocktails with awards

2009-08-29T20:55:00.013+02:00

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.

First: a word of thanks to otherworldlyone 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.

Moving on. The first award being dished out is the premium Meme award from Matthew at Resurrected Ramblings 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 ~~our rugby team currently being the best in the world and Super 16 winners AGAIN~~ great bloggers exploding from the kangaroo's sack, so to speak ;)

Anyway, this award requires the recipient to "list 7 personality traits exhibited by their writing." Here goes nothing:

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.

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 Feast of love:

"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."

The point is: if you can't laugh about is, someone else sure will.

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.

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.

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).

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?

"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.

"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."

Puzzled look from Mary.

The next day I got called to the Principal's office for a ~~spanking~~ sit down with Mary's mother wanting to know why I'm teaching sex ed in my language class.

"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."

Mary's mom shook my hand and asked the principal to give me a raise.

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.

I'd like to pass this award on to the following people for various reasons:

Why, how and other abstract questions

thegirlwiththepinkteacup

a day in the life

Advice and humor from Mr. Condescending

andy warhol goes shopping

bateau de banane

blogged down at the moment

blogging is for dorks

bored neoclassical guy

calling people names

expateek

john and steve are having a baby

life in left field

Lola Lakely

Meditations in an Emergency

Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskin

My soul is a butterfly

Pics and poems

Proud Maisie

See foxes?

The caped tirader

The japing ape

The yellow factor

This is why your hold time's so long

You. Me. No adult supervision

JennyMac and Judearoo: you have already been tagged, but you know you would've made "The List." ;)

I'm really looking forward to read about the 7 personality traits in your writing, so get busy already.

The next award is from Jennymac currently enjoying some time back in her hometown of Seattle. The only thing I know about Seattle is Grey's Anatomy 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!

This award has the following rules:

"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."

Cocktail: check. I just made myself a white Russian.

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:

otherworldlyone: 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.

Matthew: 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).

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.

Eric: 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.

The girl with the pink teacup: 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.

Tennyson: 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.

Judearoo: 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.

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.

A dog with issues and the human pain-in-the-ass

2009-08-27T22:05:00.010+02:00

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.

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 Edward Scissorhands 400 times with Mommy.

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.

Since then we've moved to The Blunt Scissors Puppy Friendly Parlor or just Designer Paws 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.

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 Rage Against the Machine 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.

The owner turns to me and asks in quite a rude tone:

"Where's the owner?"

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?

No.

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.

"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 Dallas 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 Dallas; JR was my hero when I was seven.

"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."

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.

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.

It might say Prince Charming on his jersey, but his middle name is Hitler and this is what he likes to call the Are you looking at me, boay?-stare.

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.

According to the lady the dog now has an ulcer and coughs up blood whenever stressed.

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.

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.

When she saw my dog getting his coat trimmed off by one of the workers, she was upset. Again.

"I thought the owner cuts the dogs' hair. That's what I heard."

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.

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.'

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.

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."

Sure I can be Arnold Schwarzenegger!

2009-08-24T18:49:00.008+02:00

I am not my mother's daughter anymore. I am now my mother's Muscle. Yes, Muscle with a capital M to make me seem more threatening and important because it's like a title. Without the title of king Henry the VIII seems like a pervert shagging anything wearing a dress.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"It just eats up the gas. And gas is really expensive these days, love. We have to save every penny we can."

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?

So my mother was hot from bothering all the shop assistants in her search for the right bucket ... eh ... I mean shopping 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.

"Like real ninjas, I tell you!"

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.

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?

Neither did my mom.

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 So you think you can dance. I guess it'll be more like 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. 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.

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.

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.

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.

Why Gene Simmons is a bad influence and giving away an award

2009-08-17T21:21:00.016+02:00

Let me introduce you to my friend Michael. This is the best way of summing him up:

I recall my first time with a condom; I was 16 or so.

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.

I honestly answered: 'No, this is my first time.'

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.

'Just a minute,' she said and walked to the door and locked it.

Taking my hand, she led me into the back room, unbuttoned her blouse and removed it. She unhooked her bra and laid it aside.

'Do these excite you?' she asked.

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.

'Well, come on,' she said, 'we don't have much time.'

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.

Did you put that condom on?' she asked.

"I sure did," I said and held up my thumb to show her.

She fainted.

Michael is a thirty three year old male in desperate need of a vasectomy. From my point of view of course, not his.

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 Guitar Hero.

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.

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.

"I couldn't help it; the condom broke."
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?

"It's not my fault she's not on the Pill."
Would it kill you to ask first?

Last week a "long lost love" called him anxiously, wanting to meet.

"Jeez, Michael!" I scolded him like an old mother. "Who the hell in this world haven't you slept with? A nun?"

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.

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.

Maybe if he resembled this chap, things would be a lot different.

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.

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.

"I'll get married when my children insist on it," and that coming from a preacher's son.

As I mentioned in my previous post, otherwordlyone from Calling people names (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:

Matthew: 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.

Thegirlwiththepinkteacup: 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.

Gorilla Bananas: for a gorilla he is actually pretty talented and he never holds back on the verbal.
Judearoo: for always seeing my point of view and loving it (praise is always welcome here)

Organic Meatbag: 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!

Tennyson: 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 :)

Mo Stoneskin: Monday's with Mo 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.

JennyMac: she likes keeping it short and sweet whilst managing to be entertaining at the same time

mysterg: 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 ;)

Dave King: 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 ;)

Eric, 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 Sally-Sal, my very first commenter in the dry times and one of my favorite bloggers :)

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.

And thus with my best Elvis impersonation: Thank you; thank you very much!

The letter in the aisle and another award

2009-08-16T15:42:00.008+02:00

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.

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.

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.

Anyway, the "letter" was written in a neat, firm handwriting and read as follows:

"My Raynard

After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul.
And you learn that love does not mean leaning and company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises;
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.
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.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you can endure, that you really are strong and you really do have worth.
And you learn
and you learn
and with every good bye
you learn.

PB."

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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 ;)

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.

"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."

Good thing he died in his sleep, the old bugger.

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.

"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."

She takes a good long sip of her gin.

"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."

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.

If he looked anything like Kirby from Lipstick Jungle: hell, bring on gravity if older women is his thing.

"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."

He was on his way to Johannesburg to an exhibition when he was hijacked and killed.

"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.

"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.

Righto, Otto, that's that. Otherworldlyone from Calling people names 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.

How to kill love

2009-08-14T12:59:00.005+02:00

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.

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.

Like this, but without the bad hair and a loud "Aijaaaaaahhhhh" true Jackie Chan-style

The unfortunate person on the receiving end of the move that I like to call rearrange your face was a girl I knew from varsity.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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 That Girl thanks to every sentence starting with:

"That Girl was so shameless! How could prof. R fall for her?"
You're just jealous that he was tapping your fat ass, Hippo.

"That Girl with the bun in the oven? Yeah, I know her. She's in my hostel. Real slut, if you ask me."
Takes one to know one, Hooters.

"That Girl got what she deserved. She should have known better."
I bet your grandmother is Judge Judy, Dorothy.

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?

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.

"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.

Try and dry-clean that, bitch.

"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?"

"I can't speak from experience, but I can tell you what my friend granny Lil said to me way back when about love."

I took the last sip of my ice tea and aimed the can at a nearby dustbin.

"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."

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 That Girl anymore. She is The Woman now, happily married to The Stockbroker and her six year old son has the most serious brown eyes I have ever seen.

"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."

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.

My friend the witness and my first award

2009-08-12T21:45:00.057+02:00

My friend Graham popped over today to say goodbye before he went back to Cape Town. He'd been staying here with his parents during the course of his exams and now that all of its finished: he's off to our version of the Windy City. But not before he shared some of the funny that always seem to follow him around.

"I'm a witness to a crime," is the first thing he says to me after my dog Rupert allowed him to speak. He takes the whole watchdog-thing very seriously, bless his fluffy heart.

"What like a hijacking! A stab-and-grab! Oooh, oooh, or a muuuuuurder?!"
You have to drag the u out to make it seem more ominous.

And don't judge! This is our daily lingo here, so just take a chill pill and get over it.

"Well, it was an almost-murder. Does that count?" he asks puzzled while eating most of my popcorn I just made for my movie Becoming Jane. I adore James Mcavoy when he tries to act all Fight Club and gets his ass kicked all the way back to Glasgow in the process. Not many men can take a defeat like that and still look alright enough to drag to bed. It's an art.

See! Just look at this pose! It must have taken two and half seconds to perfect!
Sheer genius ... sigh ...

What happened was this:

When an exam paper states three hours to complete, Graham will sit and write the damn thing for the whole 180 minutes. I know! Pretty frustrating for the invigilators, right? Wrong. The old lady who's always there watching the students with a Nazi-eye adores Graham. Everyone has to arrive fifteen minutes before the session starts so they can take their seat and begin sweating in angst all by their lonesome self. If you they are late, she makes them stand in front while she hands out all the papers to the rest of the already seated early-nerds, but not before she gives the "naughty ones" a good scolding on bad manners. Not Graham though. She even gives him his paper first even though he's late and when he leaves, she always says:

"See you on Monday (or Tuesday or whatever day his next paper is scheduled for) and enjoy studying!"

She's almost like a stalker, but the worst thing that'll happen to Graham is probably getting a hickey from her toothless mouth. Thluck, thluck. So sexy.

It's just Graham and another student when the Harmless Stalker announces there is an hour left for the three hour paper and the two hour paper-people need to hand in their answering sheets. The student writing the two hour paper appeals and says she's not finished yet as she thought it was actually a three hour one. The Harmless Stalker checks on her own schedule and then walks to the student's desk to check on her actual exam paper to see what the time is on there. As the student lifts up her paper, all her crib notes fall to the floor.

The Harmless Stalker innocently picks them up when she sees the desperate scribbling of a cheater on them and looks at the student in utter shock.

"What are these, Miss?"

Seriously? Is that the most intelligent thing she could come up with in this exciting soapie-like episode? Why not:

"Do you need a lesson in hiding your crib notes, you dumb, cheating donkey?"

Or how about:

"Back in my day we actually made an attempt at writing all things legibly especially when we were planning on cheating. You should really be better prepared, you disgrace of a human fart!"

The student denies everything, but to no avail. You can't cheat an old cheater and when the Harmless Stalker turns around to write the student's name and student number down for her report what does the student do?

She shoves the pages in her mouth and starts chewing like a cow on crack. Chew, chew, chew and swallow

"What do you think you're doing!" yells the Harmless Stalker. "Did you just eat all your crib notes?!" Graham says the Harmless Stalker was as red as a beet and looked like she was going to wring that girl's neck like wet washing.

"What crib notes?" the student asks sarcastically. "No evidence, no crime, biatch!" The student clearly watches too much CSI. And From a G to a Gent with that language.

Graham now has to testify at the hearing. It sounds like a lot of fun.

On to lighter things. I've been awarded! I think this is what it feels like when a guy gets luckily unexpectedly. It's nice getting some good attention for a change; lately I've only been on the receiving end of unpleasant surprises. So thank you, Missy from Life in the left field (which you should please check out as she does wonders with a sewing machine).

I'm not sure what the etiquette is with this sort of thing, but I've never been one for etiquette so I'll be posting it on my sidebar and staring at it all day until my big head pops from too much self-love :)

I am sure though, that many of you mature bloggers have received this award in your younger posts and know what it entails.

"In order to be considered for the award it must be be relatively new, say with in the last 6 months or so and must evoke some kind of response."

I'm going to bend the rules just a little bit and not only pass it on to blogs six months old or less, but also to people with not enough followers while they have amazing writing abilities and lovely personalities.

We all know the feeling of writing a post and checking it every hour and three seconds to see if someone left a comment and the disappointment that follows when you discover the opposite, right? So please pay these people a visit, who knows: maybe you'll find something you never knew you were actually looking for ...

andywarhol goes shopping: you'll immediately fall in love with this sincere drummer from Australia (Tennyson, I haven't seen this award on your blog yet, but if you do have it, just humor me and accept it anyway!)

Different wiredly: she specializes in describing something in such a way that you can taste, feel, touch and hear it by just using your eyes.

The Caped Tirader: I've only been reading his blog for a while now and already I'm a fan of his wit.

Blogged down at the moment: Mariann knows her stuff and she'll entertain you like a good wine at an expensive restaurant.

Dipso Chronicles: Andy provides a little bit of everything whilst educating you in a non-educational way

Lola Lakely: with her honest style she has given me many good chuckles in a short period of time

Meditations on an emergency: mysterg has cutting-edge sharp humor and won't ever leave you disappointed

This is why your hold time is so long: do yourself a favor and go have a look at Jeff's monsters

Stumbling, falling, dreaming, flying: I've stumbled across this blog, fell in love with it immediately and now dream of reading it every night. Please read the post touch; trust me, you'll think about it every time a moment of touch presents itself!

Resurrected Ramblings: Matthew always leaves me with a feeling of envy because I know I will never be able to write like him. It's better than poetry after sex.

see foxes!: because she's a fellow Army Wives-watcher and we are far and few in between!

If you already have this award remember: there's nothing wrong with collecting and showing off twice, people.

Happy reading!

Seeking advice

2009-08-11T21:50:00.014+02:00

(This is the real reason Ronaldo left Man Utd)

I've had a pretty decent week so far bragging and rubbing salt in all the Man Utd wounds I could possibly find thus making me one happy chappy.

That was until this evening: when I heard about the cheating.

So we've all probably cheated at one time or the other in our wandering-eye lives. I have no problem with cheaters, I even consider it comedy hour when I watch the show Cheaters on television, but it becomes an issue when my friend is the one being cheated on. It's like the Sopranos: your friends become like your extended family and if someone messes with the family? Let's just say you better have a good plastic surgeon on speed dial.

Just kidding, relax! I've just always wanted to say that and be all mob-like and wicked cool and … ok … I'll stop right there.

The whole thing started when some of the guys came over to my house on Sunday to watch Chelsea destroy, uh, beat Man Utd in penalties in such a way even their mothers were ashamed to be associated with them. Did I mention I like rubbing salt in wounds?

Anyway, this one friend of mine comes along all merrily to watch the game, totally ignorant of the fact that I haven't seen him or heard from him in about six months, but still feels himself worthy to drink my liquor and eat my biltong (biltong being like beef jerky but just WAY better my Yankee friends tell me). I don't like having this friend around because he takes talking smack to a whole other level: the level which usually ends up with a fist in the face, but we didn't want to ruin the excitement that comes with the start of the new season of premiership football and thus nobody bothered listening to him. For the purpose of this post, let's just call this friend Smack.

After the game we had a BBQ and just a good catching-up session with most of the guys leaving at a respectable eleven o' clock. Except Smack. Because he wanted to talk more smack, but I really wasn't in the mood so I made a mistake … sorry … arrangement that I would meet him for coffee or a drink after netball practise today. What did he want to talk about, you may ask at this point urging me to actually just get to the point which is:

Smack has/had a new "girlfriend" which is just his term for the screw in his overactive screwdriver as he can't even keep a conversation going, let alone an attempt at a relationship and if I'm playing judge on this one you better know it's bad. He goes through girls quicker than a roll of toilet paper. It's just nasty.

More to just let him talk and not expect a response from my side, I ask him to describe her to me which he unfortunately did in every last gross detail. When I asked him if this seemingly painted lady had a name, I spilled half a glass of Jack D which made me even angrier. Turns out it's Chris's girlfriend and my (ex) friend. Just read all about the history on this link if you haven't seen it or merely need to refresh your memory.

Let's just call her Z: not for Zorro (I love that masked Spanish man too much to humiliate him like that), but Z for Zero as in she is dead to me.

I felt like Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson on The Closer as I assumed the roll of interrogator without Smack suspecting anything (she's really good at asking questions, that chick).

"Smack, that is truly an amazing story. The way you describe it makes it sound like true love?"
This is me puking in my hand.

"Nah, love is just a four letter word. You of all people should know that."
At least he can spell. Thank gawd for small mercies.

"True, true. Is that why we haven't seen you around? You've missed out on a few good Fridays, my friend."
Whatever. The only thing he missed was us ignoring him making a drunken fool out of himself.

"Nah, that was like last week. But she got all clingy and stuff and I told her like chill, cheapy, I don't need no complications, you know? And she got all like tissue on me who just messed up my like Hang Ten jacket and I just didn't need that in my life right now, you know?"

When I said he can spell, I meant it's as far as his language education goes. And he went to an English private school. Sad, I know.

"I feel so sorry for that (bitch) girl, Smack. You should seriously learn how to treat women better. How many times have we talked about respect?"

"Respect? Nah, I just respect you, baby," whilst giving what was probably an attempt at a sexy smile, but all I could see was Gollum wanting me to make out with him. Yuggy.

"So sorry to be rude, but I have to get up early tomorrow to go to … eh … gym. Thanks for the drink. Keep well!"
Luckily he's so self-centered he never realizes when people actually lie to him. Poor bastard.

Z was/is/has been/had been cheating on my best friend. How do I handle this situation? I don't want to be the "friend" that told him his girlfriend was fooling around with Smack of all people! Chris acts all macho and boys-don't-cry, but it won't be the best feeling hearing from someone your girlfriend went to seek greener (more like heavily armed with aftershave) pastures? And he obviously doesn't know because he was there on Sunday with the rest of the guys cheering by my side for our favorite football team.

And don't tell me he's into "Sharing with Smack." That's just wrong on so many levels. He's not really good at hiding his feelings; I can tell he's lying just by looking at his mouth. Don't ask me why or how, I just know. It's like I have a supersniffer when it comes to Chris telling lies. He hasn't figured out my secret tell though. Hehe.

But what to do? Maybe I should confront her? Yes! Then I can try that new combo of Superman I've been practicing on Mortal Kombat vs. DC. I love hearing "Finish him!"

I don't have a problem; I just mix fantasy with reality sometimes like all you people who watch and read Harry Potter, okay!

Let's not digress anymore as I know I have to do something, but I'm just not sure what and how cause I'll be damned it that girl gets away with breaking my best friend's heart. Until I come up with a solution, I will be busy perfecting my move non-stop, so don't be frightened or worried when you stumble across an article in our local newspaper about a homeless man getting kung fu'd by a blonde lady claiming to be Clark Kent in disguise. It's all in the name of friendship.

The constant knock on the front door

2009-08-10T15:47:00.008+02:00

Neighbors: everyone has them. Sometimes they're like the part of the family you tell your friends you don't have and sometimes they become more than your family could ever be.

My neighbors fall in the first category.

I have a few of them I would like to introduce you to because I'm all for sharing pain and suffering.

I'll start with the neighbors on the side of my backyard. I call them the Knockers. See, they have three children who just love playing sport, cricket being their favorite. And all that jazz about it being the "gentleman's" game? You haven't seen these kids play then. There is a constant yelling going on due to broken windows, dented car doors, miaowing cats fleeing for their lives no thanks to the dubious batting skills of these kids. I don't have a problem with that. I do have a problem with the ball constantly landing in my backyard. You can probably guess what follows next.

Knock on my front door.

"Ma'am, sorry to bother you, but my brother hit the ball in your backyard (AGAIN) so could you please just throw it back over?"

He can't merely climb over the wall because I live in a security complex and our fences have electric wiring. Another problem occurs when I can't find the ball, because by the time I get home in the afternoon, one of my dogs either buried it or chewed it to pieces. If there's no ball, I can't throw it back over.

Knock on the front door.

"Ma'am, sorry to bother you, but have you thrown the ball over yet cause we can't find it."

Instead of just speaking to me from their side of the wall, they always walk around the block to knock on the front door. Kids have so much energy.

Moving on to the Beggars. They are my neighbors looking out from my front door's side. Now before I moved into my house, I had a wall built around it for my dogs. That cost about an arm and half a leg. Then, one night as I was watching Criminal Minds, I heard a knock on the front door. The conversation went something like this:

Neighbor: "Hi, I'm Peter. We live across from you."

Me: "Hi, nice to meet you."
Even though I've been staying here for two months now, but hey, maybe you're a late riser. And thanks for asking my name, by the way.

Neighbor: "So, I see you put a wall up?"

Me:"Eh, yes."
He's a real bright one, this guy. So perceptive.

Neighbor: "The thing is: we want to put a wall up too and we want you to pay R8000, 00 because it's for the sake of your privacy as well."
R8000,00 is about $980.

Me: "You know what: I just paid at least twice that amount for my own wall and your house is across the street so I don't really see how that affects my privacy. But thanks for stopping by. Oh, and by the way, my name is Mariska. Good night."

Front door closing in his greedy face.

Damn upper-class bum.

The neighbors on my left hand side I like to call the Bucketlisters, for obvious reasons. Imagine one of your wildest parties where someone set fire to the tablecloth whilst doing a flaming sambuka shot and the pool being full of that red liquid that tells you when someone was too lazy to get out of the water to take a pee and a real life Fifty Cent music video with music pumping from every corner of the room? Now multiply that by three hundred and you have the Bucketlisters.

These are old people having the blasting time of their lives. Unfortunately they blast it at my bedroom window even on a weeknight because they're obviously on pension and can sleep the hangover off every day of the week. They are living the good life. Retired bastards.

My favorite is of course the neighbor right in front of my side door. I was tanning (topless) one day when one of my dogs started sniffing at the wall. When I turned my head to see what it was, I caught a glimpse of a boy with eyes the size of an owl on ecstasy trying to hide behind a bush on the other side of the wall whilst peeking to his hormone's delight. Turns out I wasn't the only one to catch the peeking pervert as I heard his grandmother scold him all the way to the bathroom to go "clean his pants from the stains of sin." Never mind Big Brother watching you; it's the sixteen-year-old's you need to watch.

(maybe not an owl, but close to the freaky-enough)

Needless to say the grandmother never really talked to or greeted me when I walked my dogs past her house until the day I heard a terrible, urging scream from her house. I rushed over and discovered her friend propped up against one of the couches with a kind of bluish ring around her mouth, eyes looking like Droopy's and the left side of her face starting to sag. First thing I thought was stroke so I phoned an ambulance and ordered my neighbor to get her friend some water as I tried to keep the old lady awake and talking. It's all I could remember from when Chris's dad had a stroke: that the person should not fall asleep and be kept as comfortable as possible.

We waited and waited and waited for the ambulance to come while the old lady was getting bluer and her face starting to look like a mediocre version of Scar Face, so I ran back to my house, got my car where we put the seat down all the way and took her to the hospital ourselves. The doctor in the ER said we probably saved her life bringing her in so quick cause, as it turns out, she did have a stroke. And the ambulance? Oh, they rocked up at nine o' clock that night. The whole street could hear my neighbor giving them a piece of her mind. I think they had to go to the bathroom afterwards as well to wash off their "guilt that should stick to them like semen-sin for taking so long to rescue and old lady." She's a real class act, my neighbor.

The next day I had a knock on my front door. It was my old lady-neighbor with a basket full of chocolate chip cookies and a big apology for being so rude to me when Tommy was so "naughty invading my privacy."

Neighbors: sometimes you should really just ignore the knock on the front door and sometimes they save you a trip to the store by bringing over snacks :)

I have found the answer!

2009-08-06T21:39:00.006+02:00

Is shopping a real drag sometimes? Do you want to run away when you see the long line at the cash register and all you want to buy is a carton of milk and a few bars of candy? I have discovered the quick and simple solution to long queues and impatient queuers and cue dramatic drum roll: a pregnant woman.

Pregnant women are the best. I never knew shopping could be so easy until I went with my pregnant sister-in-law. It's like having a VIP pass to all your favorite shops. Jip, just get a pregnant woman to escort you for a day and all your shopping worries are a thing of the past.

Upon receiving the great news of a new arrival to our family a few months ago, my sister-in-law decided to put things in first gear and just take it slow for a bit as she's a financial adviser which means her day is usually spent trying to fix all kinds of intricate money problems and the people that come with it. Really tiresome. Especially the people-part. So she took the afternoon off yesterday and asked if I wanted to go shopping with her. Hmf, what a silly, breath-wasting question. Anything with the letters s h o p in it (and in that order) equals a happy, kind, loving, agile me. It's very peculiar: when I have to run on a treadmill, I barely last five minutes; when it comes to shopping, I give the energizer bunny a run for its money and can last up to five days longer. I love shopping :)

We went to the bank first. I tried to warn her about going to a bank over lunch time: it's about as pleasant as sticking your head in a beehive, but she just smiled and said:

"Just watch and learn," was all she said.

We got to the queue and I was already irritated with the soft music which probably tries to be soothing, but actually just awakes the serial killer in people; you know, like the Manchurian Candidate. But then something strange happened. As soon as people saw my sister-in-law with her pregnant belly, it was like the Red Sea parting for us to go to the promised Front of the Line. It was amazing. I could almost hear the angels singing "haaaaaaa" but unfortunately I'm still waiting for the white light. It was as though someone yelled:

"Preeeeeegnant lady walking, preeeeeeeeegnant lady walking," like the guy in The Green Mile but instead of meeting Sparky, we met the friendly teller called Belinda who just adores babies and puppies and – unfortunately – talking. There's always a price attached to everything, I guess.

I looked at my sister-in-law in absolute awe.

"The belly has powers," I said astonished.

"Yes, pregnancy has its advantages," she smiled.

The bank was only the beginning.

Our next stop and my favorite place: the Mall. While we were walking in the Mall people looked at us differently, like they were almost smiling. Now, I always smile because my dad say it releases stress hormones (like I need it) and makes you feel better after doing so. It's like giving someone a present just because it's Thursday.

But people don't always smile back. Especially the old ones. They look at you suspiciously and grab a tight hold of their walking frame for in case you want to run away with it. Or maybe they just think you're high because what reason could there be for an unmarried twenty five year old blond lady to smile about? I even tried putting a lucky packet ring on my left ring finger once, but I still got the same reaction from the old ladies, only this time they looked at me with pity as if wanting to say: "You can't fool an old dog, little lady; we can sniff the singleness and loneliness on you."

Anyway, people made way for us to walk in the middle of the isle. Maybe they were just afraid to bump into my sister-in-law's big belly and having a law suit on their hands, but it was still nice having some breathing space in the usually busy lunch hour with people pushing up against you and especially horny guys grabbing your butt thinking they can use the close proximity as an excuse. I wasn't born yesterday, you pervert!

The same thing happened at every shop we went to as in the bank: we were immediately promoted to the front of the queue (maybe my sister-in-law could bring the belly to my job and get me promoted as well? Note to self: ask her next time we get together) and because of this we finished our shopping rather quickly so we even had time for a long lunch. But that's where the big belly became a problem.

The tables in the coffee shop were arranged quite close together and it being lunch hour and all, the shop was packed. The only open spot was in the outside section, but in order for us to get there we had to make our way through numerous tables.

Another thing I learned today was that a pregnant woman can't suck her belly in. The guy who ended up getting squeezed between his table and my sister-in-law's belly also learned that. The lady whose coffee ended up all over her pretty floral dress also learned that and the little baby's mother trying to feed him with a spoon when she only ended up stuffing her face with baby food unfortunately also learned that. I can go on and tell you about the milkshake the belly accidentally bumped off a waiter's tray and I can tell you about the credit card machine ending up in a lady's salad, but I think if I say any more about the lunch, my sister-in-law might just get upset and a pregnant woman cannot be upset. By anyone. There's an unwritten law about it apparently.

The food was actually good and aside the fact that my sister-in-law had to get up ever so often and visit the bathroom which made the rest of the customers cringe and duck it was a pretty nice day.

Looking at her I feel so privileged being able to experience the pregnancy from the sideline, like feeling the baby kick, seeing all the sonars (I invited myself several times to see the real deal up close and personal), reading the baby magazines with her, shopping for the most adorable and small booties and clothes. A pregnant woman is a beautiful thing; my sister-in-law sometimes just gives a small smile stroking her belly and I think it's because she hears something only pregnant woman are allowed to hear or feel something only they can feel: the bond between an unborn child and its mother. Like my bond with my dog, Rupert, that people don't really get.

I myself can't stop touching her belly; it's like Humpty Dumpty is right within my reach. I asked if I can paint a little face on it and she looked at me and then asked:

"Can I die your dog black and blue?"

I never dared asking her such a stupid question again.

The before

The after

Wedding crashers gone wrong

2009-08-03T00:10:00.021+02:00

The week has been like playing Slow Ride by Foghat in easy mode on Guitar Hero: pretty simple, straight forward with no surprises. It would've been uneventful if I didn't get that phone call from my mother informing me of an upcoming wedding.

Weddings have always been a bit of a problem for me: beside the what-to-wear issue, there's also the who-will-be-my-date issue. The what-to-wear issue can be sorted out quick and painless like a reliable gas attendant: hallo, in, wash window, pay and drive out. But alas, it never quite happens that way.

You need a new dress thanks to the six degrees of separation theory: there's always the risk of someone seeing you wear the same dress you wore to your Cousin Louise's wedding. That's if you can still fit into that dress. The what-to-wear issue then becomes a dragged out affair like a president's speech thanks to numerous visits to the Torture Chamber (aka the Gym) and the mere mention of the word chocolate just drives you to the brink of tears. A woman deprived of chocolate is like a rehabilitated sex addict going to a porn convention. It just ain't pretty, people.

Dress hunting is worse than finding an eligible bachelor: it needs to fit like a rubber glove making you look slim, respectable and gorgeous at the same time whilst not stealing the attention away from the slightly large bride in her white tent. It is her day after all and you need to respect that and be a fabulous wall flower, but a wall flower nevertheless.

Then the date-issue. You can't just take any Tom, Dick or Harry to an Afrikaans wedding. Oh no, no no. There is always the expectation factor. As soon as you invite a man whom the family has never met, he will be interrogated. Guantanamo Bay will be like the Holiday Inn if you are not prepared. See, the man cannot wear a too nice suit because the family isn't stupid and will suspect he has a good job and ask him politely to buy the first round of drinks as he's the "new guy" and "tradition" requires it. Only problem being: it's always someone's first round.

Side note: because of numerous alcoholics in the family, open bar has been phased out and is strictly forbidden at get-togethers. Once our uncle Steve had a few too many and ended up in a swimming pool holding a goose in the one hand (no one knows where he found the poor bird) and his underwear in the other whilst still fully clothed. Uncle Steve: every family has one.

Now if your date has a modern-day mullet, the family will harass him with questions like if he's related to the Bruiser from Benoni where Charlize Theron is from and that is not really a big compliment around here.

The Bruiser from Benoni himself and no, it's not a mediocre version of Sylvester Stallone as you will see in the picture below:

The Bruiser from Benoni: a proudly South African product.

The family will ask if he has a Benoni BBQ-pack at home:

And they will even ask if he has any animals at his house since the only fur in Benoni is that on the dashboard.

I used to always just take Chris to weddings. The family knows him well, loves him and accepts him after they discovered he makes one mean BBQ and in the proper manner too: on a Weber with charcoal. That, of course, is an integral part of Afrikaans tradition and Chris being English it's like the hand of God blessed him with this gift.

I still remember the last wedding Chris and I went to. One of my friends from varsity finally succeeded in capturing a man and I just had to go as we're still a tight knit group even after graduating. It was quite a far drive, about four hours, so we googled the name of the guesthouse on the invitation and the place seemed lovely with a quaint type of feel; there were mostly pictures of the garden and some flowers and also a great shot of the reception hall and that was the best thing about this guest house: situated only a few feet away from where the reception would be held made it the ideal drink and walk destination. Chris immediately booked us a double room. I phoned my best friend a week before the wedding and she said the boyfriend and her will be staying two rooms away from us. We were happy and really looking forward to seeing the rest of the gang.

Chris wanted to leave early that morning so we would have plenty of time getting ready for the wedding and I agreed that it was a good idea. After all, no one wants to be stuck in a car for four hours and pitch up at the church all sweaty and wrinkly. Problem number one occurred when we arrived at the guest house and tried to book in. Due to the number of guests the manager decided on "her own discretion" to downgrade our double room to a single one as she "assumed we were married" since Chris booked it under his name only. She then glanced at my naked ring finger with eyebrows even Elizabeth Taylor would be jealous of.

Problem number two was the room itself. No air cooling system while it was about 40° Celsius (or 140° Fahrenheit), no kettle in the room for coffee or boiling water as I was not going to drink that funny brown-yellow gunk from the tap, no television and seriously gross looking bedding. The bedding I sorted out no problem as I just went to the room next door and swapped it with ours, but the rest of the little issues we had, we just had to swallow, in a manner of speaking.

At least we were better of than my friend because when they arrived to their (also) single room after another judgmental look, their windows couldn't even open. It seemed as though we were stuck in False-advertisement-ville.

But we decided to make the best of our time together and went to the dining room to have a drink. Sadly they only had Coke Light and when Chris asked for some ice, he was informed that the ice machine was broken (surprisingly). Not to worry, the manager said, the barman will just go get some ice from the shed.

Problem number three occurred while we were sipping away at our Cokes and reminiscing about the good old days when all the lights went off. Not to worry, the manager said in a high pitched voice, they are well prepared and will get the generator out of the shed. The shed?

"What else do you guys think they keep in 'the shed'?" Monique, my friend, asked.

"Hopefully a teleportation device to get us out of this shit hole," Chris answered.

Wishful thinking.

When we finished our drinks we went back to our rooms to get ready. Monique said they wanted to first stop at a McDonald's as they haven't had lunch yet, so we were in charge of saving them some seats. But what our dear friend the bride forgot to mention in the invitation was WHICH church the ceremony would be held at. It just said NG church. Chris then decided to find the (only) McDonald's in town on the GPS, but when we got there: no sign of the friends.

"Let's just drive straight. If you hear a church bell or see a church with a lot of cars in the parking lot, it's probably it," Chris said calmly as I was frantically phoning all my friends I knew would be at the wedding, but obviously switched their phones off when they got inside the holy atmosphere of the church.

Eventually, about fifteen minutes later, we found a church with a funny looking old car decorated with streamers and balloons which could only be the wedding couple's getaway mobile. Luckily Monique saved us some seats close to the door and we enjoyed the ceremony with tears of joy and plenty of crumpled tissues.

When we got outside to decorate the bride and groom with confetti, the weather didn't look so good. Dark clouds gathered in the sky and threatening thunder could be heard in the distance. Just as we finished saying a quick hallo to the new Mrs. Korff, the first raindrops fell. It was soon followed by hail. That was problem number four as the drive back to the reception area was on a dirt road. I'm terrified of hard rain and hail thanks to Noah's ark and just hoped and prayed we wouldn't be washed away in that godforsaken town.

Chris decided to park in front of our room at the guesthouse as the reception area was a mere twelve feet away, but separated by a wall which meant we had to take another entrance to the guesthouse. This is the part we still "disagree" on till this day.

Chris never gave clear instructions as to what to do next when we finished parking. All he said was:

"Take of your shoes and make a run for it."

He didn't say where to run to.

I opened the car door and made a mad dash towards the reception area with hail the size of healthy organic eggs hitting me on and all sides thanks to a cold wind blowing. The cold wind, however, was nothing compared to the icy water I had to run through which dammed up on the grass. When I got to the reception area, I saw car after car park in front of the door with a little carport where the lady would get out HIGH AND DRY and the gentleman would find parking in the lot reserved for wedding guests.

Let's just say I wasn't very impressed with Chris at that moment, especially since I looked like this wet cat with my hair sticking to my sore and bruised scull like little telephone cords, my make-up running down my face and goose flesh which probably suited my image of a wet chicken. It was still hailing, but I didn't care. After seeing all the lovely, DRY ladies in the lobby, I ran back to the guesthouse where I bumped into Chris halfway.

"Don't. Say. A. Word," I got it out through clenched teeth.

And he didn't. He just took my hand and ran back to our room with me. As if things couldn't get any worse, we had no power. Nothing. Nada. I just sat on the bed feeling like a turtle on its back while Chris tried to dry our clothes by waving a telephone book like a fan with a determined look on his face.

Apparently the plan was for us to go to our room first (that's why he parked in front of it) and wait for the hail to subside. It really would've been helpful if he had said it in so many words and not just assumed that I knew what to do.

There was no way in hell I was going to rock up at my friend's wedding with my wet hair, jeans and my Superman t-shirt. Can you imagine how much attention we'd be drawing away from the blushing bride? We'd be like a couple of invited wedding crashers and my friend the bride would be furious. No, I'd rather eat an eel. Alive.

After a while Chris stopped and fell on the bed too. He looked at me and gave a cough that suspiciously sounded like a chuckle.

"You look like Gene Simmons after a rough night," he said and started coughing a bit louder.

"You look like … like … whatever."
Because men don't have to worry about wet hair. Or wet clothes, for that matter. That's what all the sexy calender guys get paid to wear anyway.

I had to admit that the whole situation was pretty funny. What were the odds anyway of all these events happening on the same day? Not even those kids on Final Destination could outdo us on this day. We laughed and laughed until we both had stomach cramps.

"I'm hungry," was my next complaint.

"Me too. Let's wait another ten minutes then take the car, go to dinner in town and go see a movie."

It seemed like the only good idea he's had so far that evening and I didn't feel like sitting in the room staring at my beautiful, expensive but wet dress whilst listening to the music coming from the reception hall.

We waited and then we went to a dodgy mall with a steak house where the meat seemed a bit on the greenish side, but after the day we had anything on a plate was pretty edible. There was no movie house so we headed back to the guesthouse with me singing along to Chris's FAVORITE band in the whole wide world: Westlife. I went through a mid-Westlife-crisis in my early twenties. Chris never lets me bring Cd's into his car anymore. Bummer.

When we got back, we discovered the power came back on and after singing and dancing to a few hallelujahs, Chris quickly dried our clothes with my hair dryer while I redid my make-up. We were at least in time for dessert and after that we danced the night away with my wrinkled dress and his shrinking pants.

Chris's favorite saying these days is:

"Never judge a book by its cover."

How bloody true is that.

There is still time

2009-08-01T14:58:00.007+02:00

My best friend's mom found out she has cancer a couple of days ago. My friend is sad, but she is hopeful. She is hopeful even though the doctor said its stage four liver cancer and that it had spread to her colon as well. She is hopeful even though the doctor cannot provide her mother with any treatment like chemotherapy because the cancer has spread too far and too quickly. The doctor said it's too late. My friend said there's always hope.

I thought of using those words you grasp at in times like these similar to a person looking for a branch or something to hold them up when he's slowly slipping away in quicksand, but it somehow seemed inappropriate.

"I'm so sorry."
Why are you apologizing? Did you cause the cancer?

"Is there anything I can do?"
How about ripping that poison out of her deteriorating body?

And as my brave friend started talking about work and her squash and their plans for next year, I thought of my dad.

The police found my father laying face down in the middle of Buffelsdoorn Road about 11 feet from his Mercedes with all the car doors wide open, his wallet with money still in the cubbyhole, his jacket still on the backseat, his Rolex watch still on his arm, but he was beaten to a pulp and unconscious. My dad's pants were chafed at the knees as though he was trying to crawl on the tar road. From what and to where, we still don't know.

When my brother phoned me that night at half past one, all he said was:

"Dad's in the hospital. He's in surgery. It's bad."

My dad was on the local rugby club's committee and he always went to watch the practice on a Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. That Tuesday the police found his car on a route that leads away from my parent's house and we all know my dad practically invented short cuts as he grew up in Pretoria (our nation's actual capital) and always complained about traffic. It was also strange that nothing was stolen because, well, it's South Africa. The police could not question my dad and we were all left puzzled as to what really happened that night.

We waited and waited and waited some more and I could see my mother grow older. I could see my sister growing more scared and my brother angrier.

I felt like a statistic. Before we always spoke of crime and how it affected people we knew. Now we were those people.

Our house doctor came to the waiting room and said we could go in pairs to see my dad for a few minutes, but warned us that he was still out of it and that we shouldn't get a fright at what he looked like. He said we should prepare ourselves for the worst as he had little faith that my dad would make it through the night with the head trauma he suffered as well as something about his internal organs and I wanted to ask him if he could for once, just once, speak proper Afrikaans so we could actually understand what the hell was going on and what was happening to my dad. But my tongue was thick in my mouth.

My brother went in with me.

We walked to the bed and I still remember turning to my brother and saying:

"That incompetent nurse gave us the wrong room. I'm just going to check on the white board in what bed Dad's laying."

The man on the bed couldn't be my dad. His face was swollen like a balloon and beaten purple and dark blue beyond recognition; his eyes and nose were one just one big, indistinguishable heap. You could at least tell where his mouth was thanks to a tube coming out of it and there was this monitor constantly beeping with every breath he fought for. There was a weird, pungent smell in the room and for some reason I wanted to scratch myself the whole time.

No, that wasn't my dad. He didn't even wear his glasses and his hair was all messed up. My dad carried a little comb in one of his pockets (not his sock) because he hates messy hair. And he is totally lost and blind without those glasses. At least he allowed me to pick him a new pair the year before as he wore those old school horn rimmed ones and looked like Noah Bennet in Heroes. You're going to scare your patients away, I convinced him as he's a dentist and works with little children every day.

When I checked the white board in the passage I discovered that the man in the bed had the same name as my dad. I just walked out.

We all sat in that waiting room all night drink cup after cup of bad coffee as the soda machine was out of order. Everything was out of order that night. We contemplated on what could've happened and why my dad was on that road. We wondered if there was anyone with him in the car and why someone would beat up a pretty defenseless 61 year old man. I suppose that's where my brother's angry part comes in.

I won't bore you with details of rude detectives and empty promises, physiotherapy and months of rehab. After two years my dad can think, walk and talk like any other guy on the street. He's just really moody now, but so am I for at least one week in a month. No biggie.

I used to know of my parents, but didn't really know them. I never paid a thought to them being young once, a time before me. I never asked my dad what he bought with his first pay check, who was his favorite teacher at school, when he first kissed a girl and if he passed his driver's license with flying colors. I know that now and more. I'm glad my friend is getting that opportunity too.

This is my dad and I at a function a few years ago. He doesn't like wearing his glasses when we take photos because he always says he's a superhero when he takes them off (yes, like Clark Kent) and the camera exposes his secret anyway. We smile politely and nod.

Persistence and unwanted visits

2009-07-31T20:34:00.014+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being Rocky Balboa and the cool factor

2009-07-29T15:52:00.011+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like the fabulous Cannavaro, a proud product of Italy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much wine makes you do stupid things

2009-07-26T21:08:00.014+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and curled up against me in the dreaded cuddle position.

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

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

He phoned me this morning asking why I left.

I told him I have a stomach virus.

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

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

Welcome to my humble home!

2009-07-24T16:26:00.034+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rest of us just drive cars and try to avoid being killed by these skilled drivers.

Please note that those dark marks on the blue taxi are actually not dirt, but mere dents. They drive like they own the road and honk at you when you dare use sign language.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let's fast forward to my house:

Welcome to my humble home!

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

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

This is my doorbell.

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

This is my bodyguard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope you enjoyed the show. It was lovely having you over. After you've helped me clean up the mess I've made, you can leave.

Oh, I almost forgot about Lucy! There she is with her baby Molly. What, did you think I have a REAL giraffe in my backyard?! We're not in the bloody WILD, man! It's only Africa.

Pimp my hair

2009-07-22T13:52:00.010+02:00

Have you ever had a bad hair day?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(light ash blonde)

but ended up looking like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A black Polo Ralph Lauren Kimono Velour Robe

2009-07-19T20:37:00.010+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shooters, waxing and relationships

2009-07-18T15:54:00.010+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I laughed and quickly kissed him on the cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A new deadly sin added to the list

2009-07-17T11:34:00.001+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Wednesday night, a roller coaster and a tongue

2009-07-16T11:43:00.000+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men are bachelors, woman are desperate

2009-07-15T11:54:00.000+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The TOO nice guy/girl in the break up

2009-07-14T14:06:00.002+02:00

My friend, Chris, just got dumped by his girlfriend. Now to me that makes no sense at all. Chris is an awesome guy: he's got brown hair that just begs your hand to run through it, violet blue eyes, a shy smile and a rock hard body. Then he still has a great sense of vulgar humor at times and a gentlemen-like touch when he speaks to you. See: perfect!

Needless to say: my buddy is pretty distraught. That got me thinking about the girlfriend. Why did she dump him like a child at an orphanage: without any reason or at least a goodbye kiss? And then it hit me like a ray of light hits a hangover the next morning: Chris was "too nice."

Everyone's had that type of relationship: the guy is so considerate it makes your toenails want to fall off at some stage; he is so thoughtful it makes you feel guilty when looking at the hunk in the seat next to yours at the movies; he is so giving it makes you feel like a thief accepting all the gifts and the free dinners and drinks. He is just too nice.

I was like that once: the "too nice" girl. It happened in my first year at varsity. We met while I was busy doing telephone duty with my roommate one night (I was absolutely TERRIFIED of telephone duty and my roommate assured me eleven to twelve on a Wednesday is the best time to do the dreaded duty cause it's little Saturday and everyone's usually out and about doing what students do best: drink and fornicate). It's always been easy to flirt over the phone and we hit it off, arranging a date for that Friday. The date went alright and we were exclusive since then. It was during exams though and we didn't see each other all that much cause he was studying engineering and it's usually a bitch in the last semester. To make up for lost time I invited him home for the holidays and he gladly accepted (when I dropped him off at his house I realized why!). We had a lot of casual fun, always on the borderline of being more intimate, but I didn't want to hand it to him on a plate: he was just a first year, after all.

So Valentine's Day was the Big Day, or it was suppose to be. We were seniors now so he arranged some first years to serenade me from the balcony and one of them came up and gave me a bunch of roses and he was stupendiously delicious for a first year, I remember thinking. The boyfriend was nowhere in sight. I thought he'd like to make an appearance and waited. And waited. And waited until the bastard rocked up drunk out of his mind from the Valentine's dance punch that he took a "few" sips of with his mates before coming over. I didn't feel like unlocking my chastity belt after I tasted some vomit in his mouth and he passed out soon after that. Things then went downhill faster than a kid on a bicycle with no brakes.

He was always "busy", but I could never figure out with what. I wrote him stupid, soppy poems, cooked him food cause he always complained he was so "tired" after class, did his washing (and I didn't even do my own before that!), cleaned his fucking pigsty. I was the "too nice" girl.

Then, after a month of slavery and serving, I phoned him to find out what time he'd be picking me up to go to the movies. He didn't answer his phone. So I called his dorm and they kept saying he's not available. After talking to my friend who was a Philosophy major, I realized it was time to confront. I walked to his dorm, high heels and all and asked the first year on telephone duty to call him. His dorm had intercoms in the rooms to notify them of a telephone call (one telephone on each passage) or a guest at the front door. The first year was clearly confused and just said there's a nice lady for him, not telling if the lady was on the phone or at the front desk. So the boyfriend told the first year to tell "the nice lady" he was not there. I smiled at the first year, made a gesture to come around the front desk in which he nodded with a terrified expression in his face and stepped back. As calmly as I could I turned on the intercom to the whole dorm while giving the boyfriend a piece of my mind, telling him and all whom wanted to hear how he couldn't even get it up when the occasion presented itself and that if he had time in his "busy" schedule, he would come down before I told everyone about his pubic hair which he plucks with tweezers.

He was there in eleven seconds and I just stood there, exhausted of being so damn nice, and gave him a slap in the face before I took of my heels, went to my friend's dorm next door to his and spent the night on top of him forgetting all about the "nice" girl I was.

Since then my relationships have only lasted two, three weeks max. I guess it's just enough time to not get attached or bored before you move on to the next best thing. Needless to say: being nice died at that front desk and I've never looked back since.

I just wish I could do something to make Chris feel better. It's the first time in a long time that I wish I was the "nice girl"; maybe he would look at me differently.

The Declaration of Non-Interest! (talk about super high standards, people!)

2009-07-02T13:52:00.000+02:00

My friend sent me this via email this morning and apparently it's called "The Declaration of Non-Interest":

"It doesn't interest me what you do for a living;
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are;
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love of your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon;
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine of your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with JOY, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, realistic or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself, if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithul and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty everyday and if you can source your life on the edge of the lake and shout the silver of the moon.

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me whom you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments."

She ended the email with: "Don't ever settle for second best, because you are a worthy woman."

Wow! And I thought I had high standards! Right?

Seriously, though: what man can live up to these type of expectations? He needs to be a saint, but still be an eligible bachelor (unlikely combination). Am I right or am I right?

Please let me know if there are men like this out there or if this is just some woman trying to create yet another Prince Charming to whom all other men look pale in comparison!!!!!!

Online chatting: always telling the truth about yourself or not?!

2009-06-30T11:51:00.000+02:00

(another one from http://www.postsecret.com/; go check out this amazing website)

So I'm feeling much better (thank you for asking!), but haven't been out and about mingling and cocktailing as it's fragile times money-wise and I'm just not feeling ready to give up my self-quarantined state. Therefore I've been exploring the art of online chatting and discovered some new material to add to my theory of "The Man Test" ;-)

Online chatting can be a crazy addictive thing for some people, I discovered. It's like creating a whole new identity of someone you want to be. I met this guy while playing poker that just started chatting me up. I suspect it's because of the picture I posted, in fact, I'm a 100 000% sure it was because of my endearing, naughty little smirk on the photo (remember: men see better than they think!). He wasn't anything near Hollywood-hunk material, but I was bored and curious to see where it would go. And boy oh boy, did HE go!

Let's call him Busy B for the sake of fictional truth :)

This chap didn't hold back: 30, from London, seeking serious relationship (as in I-want-to-have-your-babies), been in prison for a few years, but happily rehabilitated, very willing and very able on all fields according to his vital stats. In some ways I felt flattered, I mean, everyone has a Michael Scofield-fantasy, right?!

Soon before long his questions started bordering on third base-material. I was thinking: slow down, sailor! but couldn't help entertaining the thought of where Busy B thought this actually might go?! I know people meet over the Internet and make a connection (no pun intended), but surely not after the first couple of pickup lines? Pickup lines such as: "I find you so intriguing and mysterious" (LOL!), "Your eyes are as deep as the ocean", oh and my favourite: "If I received a nickel for everytime I saw someone as beautiful as you, I'd have five cents." In what bar did he hear that one?!

So after I get over being mysterious and intriguing and all (by not giving him my number!), it finally came to me: I was just the Typing test!!!

Now those of you that didn't have typing at school, preparing for a typing test is very, very easy: you just use all the practical knowledge you gained during the term. You hardly even look at the material the day before the test because you know you've done this a million times before and allthough there's always room for error, you trust yourself enough to go through the motions instinctively and even pass with distinction! The practical knowledge you require in typing is always very handy in the technological age we live in these days ... Am I right or am I right?!

Needless to say: I became a busy bee myself and been too busy to get back to the empty little promises Busy B so readily made :)

Until the next test!

Love "sick": are woman just a test a man needs to pass?

2009-06-29T17:12:00.000+02:00

(an image from http://www.postsecret.com/ that I just cannot forget)

I've been feeling a bit under the weather these past couple of days and have been confined to the couch, stuffing myself with lozenges and drowning my sorrows in orange juice. I finally had the time for that movie marathon that I've always promised myself, but never could get around to lately. Consequently, most of the movies were, yeah, you guessed it: romantic comedies

Soppy-predictable-yet-addictive love stories where boy meets girl, have some kind of physical attraction where love is confused with a little bit of lust, overcome an obstacle and fall into each others eager arms. VERY romantic. But that got me thinking: what happens afterwards? What happens when the hickeys fade and the butterflies stop flying? And why does that happen? Especially the whole why-part. And between my millions of tissues and orange peels, it came to me. I will keep it simple ;-)

A woman is like a test a man has to study for. Just imagine that chemistry or history test you had to prepare for at school. Some men try cramming as much information in the shortest period of time as they possibly can and that will be called the "One Night Stand". Then there are other men that prepare for the test weeks in advance. They study and study and although there are still a few things they are unsure of, they have most bases covered, feeling confident about writing that test. That is called "The 2-Week Wooing Process" where men are interested in you and what you have to say about your best girlfriend Lucy that just got a new apartment, they open the door for you, gently slide they're hands in that crook of your back to steer you forward and gaze deeply into your eyes telling you they are the beautiful shade of blue like the ocean after a storm. Something along those lines.

But when the test is finished: they forget all about what they studied! They sometimes remember some of the basic facts that can help them get by (barely!), but forgot all about the information that the long questions consist of and if they had to write the test again, they'll score below average and some might even fail miserably. Alas, these men don't dwell on they're failures for long! It's not in a man's nature; always keep moving forward, remember!

Maybe the test should be prolonged to a series of 4 - 400 papers. Maybe these guys should get tutors? Or maybe they're just not that good with tests to begin with ;-)

Am I right or am I right?!