Sure I can be Arnold Schwarzenegger!

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

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

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

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

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

(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

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 :)