Can you hear the weddingbells?

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

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

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

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

This is usually the reason for men saying:

"You look nice"

or if they're really daring:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you like to touch my boobs?"

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

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

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

Go shawty, it's your birfday

Dear Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your grateful and loving daughter.

Tea for two?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ladytruth: "CROAK!!!!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needless to say, we didn't have dessert.

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

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

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

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

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

I guess all that's left to say is:

NEXT!

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

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

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

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

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

to which he replied:

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

How's that for shutting up an angry woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One down, nine to go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andre: "So how do you keep busy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eeeuw, Mother!"

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

Don't ever stop and smell the roses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She never fails to disappoint with her predictability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cake and sex: there's always room for seconds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hee hee hee.

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

Only 3? Pity.

;)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just stick to the cocktail.