Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Divorce Number Two.

I have just emerged from a two-day-long post-jol depression and have learnt two valuable life lessons:

1) If you really want to feel special, go on a date with your GBF, and,

2) Drunk people like to get really aggressive.

Seriously though, if you're looking for a pick-me-up, or even if you're not, get your GBF to pen you in for a night out - the benefits are bountiful - as I did with My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.

The fun all started as I was painted my face on while The Daughter was bathing herself:

The Daughter: Oooooo Mom.  Where are you going?

The Pant: I'm going on a date with Aunty My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.

TD:  Well, he's MY Aunty My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh so why can't I come with?

TP:  Because it's a date.

TD:  Well, it's not a real date.

TP:  It could be a real date.

TD:  But it's not a real date.

TP:  (How does she know this?) Why do you say it's not a real date?

TD:  Because Aunty My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh is a girl. Duh!

TP:  No, he's not. Does he look like a girl?

TD:  Well, no.

TP:  So?

TD:  But he buys the best shoes and even has piercings in his ears and anyway he's my aunty so he must be a girl.

TP:  But he looks like a boy, sounds like a boy and kind of acts like a boy?

TD:  So, he's a kinda girl?

TP:  I suppose.

Not much later, I was seated alongside one of my favourite boys in the world, swigging on warm house red, sweating in the balmy summer eve, engrossed in conversation in which I can only engage My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.  We spoke of euphemistic terms for the common vagina, boys we'd like to see partially-to-completely naked, the ineptitude of government organisations, how disappointed we are in the fickle, pretentious gay crowds who, by assimilation, have gone against every grain in which they fundamentally believe. And how wonderful The Daughter is. It was the exact conversation I could not share with anybody else, least of all a real date with someone, well, for want of a better expression: less-kinda-girlish. He moved the hair out of my eyes, he told me when tiny bits of broccoli florets were stuck between my teeth, he offered to come pee with me (!). He even bought me a rose from one of those Tape-Aids-For-The-Blind ladies who are so laden with shiny crepe paper, and gaudy teddy bears bearing slogans like 'I LUV U' that they do not look dissimilar to a bus in downtown Delhi.

I swoon for him. Over and over again.

And just as our last respective morsels of food had been swallowed, out of the corners of our eyes descended upon us two elderly folk, who both had taught us at different stages of our schooling.

Woman Folk: You (pointing at The Pant) I know you. You went to Suitably Posh Private School.  Did you play squash?

The Pant: (wiping the red wine that had moments previous escaped nostrils) Good Lord no!  Look at me!

Woman Folk:  Were you in detention often?

The Pant:  Are you asking if I went to detention often? Or if my name was on the detention list?

WF:  Well, I took detention on a Friday-

TP:  Yes, I did wash your squash court walls once.

WF:  But you didn't play squash-

TP:  Nor any other sport, Dear. Unless you classify Painting Toenails In Bedroom After School as a sport. Because if you do, then yes! I did that nearly every day. Dutifully.

We engaged in the usual chit-chat that is expected of acquaintances of this nature:  'Did you hear so-and-so had a baby?' 'Shame, remember So-and-So? She died!'  But I couldn't help overhearing the strained conversation between My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh and Old Man Folk With Exceptionally Bushy Eyebrows.

Old Man Folk With Exceptionally Bushy Eyebrows: So how long have you known Pant?

My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh: Five years.

OMFWEBE: And how did you two handle the year you were in Brighton?

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  It wasn't easy. But we got by. You know with Facebook and Skype and stuff.

OMFWEBE:  You must have missed her terribly.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Well, she is the panty of my heart.

OMFWEBE:  So, it's been five years now. When are you popping the question.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT: (with eyeballs dangling around his mouth) Ques-

TP:  Oh!  We've been thinking about but you know, with The Daughter starting at a private school, we're just finding it a bit tough on the old budget.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Yes! That's it! We totally can't afford it.

OMFWEBE:  Oh, I can imagine. Not easy being young parents these days.

TP: Young-

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Yes. Our love child. She's frightfully expensive. All the ballet pumps.  And extramurals. Killing us.

TP:  Yes. They really are. Which reminds me, I just paid for ballet today and she needed new tights and leotard - you know, the growth spurt Darling. So you're getting dinner.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Ah, the growth spurt.

TP: And anyway, we're thinking of having 3 more before we tie the knot, aren't we, Darling?

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  We certainly are *gulp*

OMFWEBE:  Well, if you're struggling with just the one, how are you going to cope with four?

TP:  You know, my little love-bum here is nearly finished studying (strategic stroke of the cheek).
Then he'll be a doctor. So we'll be okay. Besides, he's going to be a gynae - which'll certainly help with doctors bills.

OMFWEBE:  I thought you said you were doing a PHD in gender studies.


TP:  Gender studies: the polite way of saying 'Women's Plumbing'.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Um, Pant, we need to-

OMFWEBE: Yeah, I'm going to- Er, Lovey, I think we should- Ah, ja. Listen it was good catching up and- But we've, you know, gotta go.

And just like that, my momentary bona fide relationship with a doctor was over.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

A Grey V-Day.

With age and maturity I have developed an appreciation for the finer things in life.  I realise that I may be getting on, but there is much in the way of modern technology that makes me feel, at very least, that I'm not starting to look haggard and, at best (like on those good days), that I'm even improving with age.

Sure, maturity allows one to feel a little more comfortable in one's skin.  So while I may have a larger-than-average buttocks, they're my buttocks and there's very little I can do about them.  I won't wear those uber short denim shorts that simultaneously (in the name of fashion) create moose knuckle.  But that's okay.  There's plenty else I can wear and anyway, I've got confidence which helps everyone overlook a large arse, of this I'm absolutely convinced.

Take the new Benefit base for example: that stuff is amazing.  In four or five seconds, I'm rid of a number of sins that previously would have labeled me The Eternal Spinster.  Black rings?  What black rings?  Acne?  Who's got acne?  Wrinkle-shminkle.

No, seriously, I've been a happy little lass of late.  The life I lead has been so filled with such joy that I've really liked being me:

1) The Daughter's independence in the sea now means that I can body board alongside her - super radness.

2) Survived Midmar Mile without drowning not even once - am a machine.

3) Have new live-in full-time Armpit who is not only amazing with The Daughter but also cooks - FOR THE WIN.

And so it was that I approached Valentine's Day as a single dame with very little concern.  I've got so much radness in my life that the last thing I want right now is to have to cancel really cool plans on account of a 100 kg + yoke around this independent neck. Besides which, there's the odd Secret Admirer scattered here and there, so the day itself did not leave me reaching for razor blades with a warm bath run.

That is, until I decided to take a few minutes out of my day to catch up with Lovely Secretary With Eye Level Mirror In Her Office (whom, for the purposes of this blog we'll simply refer to as Lovely Secretary).

So, picture the scene: I was engaging in idle chit-chat with Lovely Secretary whilst inspecting what was likely poorly applied (on account of morning rush) make-up:

The Pant: (inspecting) Lovely Secretary, this base is amazing... Don't you think?

Lovely Secretary:  Wonderful Pant.

TP: (perusing blendage at hair line)  Could have spent a little more time blending though.

LS: (not looking up from work) Mmmmmmmmmm....

TP:  How do you get your base to blend so nicely?

LS: Pardon?

TP:  (still absent-mindedly inspecting) Never min- OH MY FUCK!

LS:  (shocked) WHAT?

TP:  What the fuck is this (pointing at hairline)?

LS:  Your hair?

TP:  Look closely.

LS:  It's still your hair.

TP:  What colour is it?

LS:  Looks blonde.

TP:  I. Don't. Have. Blonde. Hair.

LS:  No.  You don't.  Except for those two.

TP: (unable to hide intense fear) TWO?

LS:  Yup.  Two.

Moments later, I had pulled a pair of rusty tweezers out of the closest First Aid kit and extracted the two offending hairs from my hairline.  Which I then inspected against a dark surface and realised that there was nothing blonde about these fuckers.  They were as grey as my mood.

Fucking dog shit poes cock dick neighbour-of-anus!

Greying and lonely on Valentine's Day.  Brilliant.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Beautiful Boy Child Is Here!

I know.  I've been absent.  I've been absent, mind you, for the good of humankind, given that I've just spent the last month celebrating Christmas by drinking much festive wine, eating fried fish and lying on Cape beaches in such a splendid manner that I may have lost the ability, albeit momentarily, to form sentences with words exceeding two syllables.  It was great.  Can't wait to do it again.

And then I had a little inner pickle (not of the gherkin or onion variety): getting back on the blogging horse ain't no easy feat.  Especially when one's life has been characterised by moments of much hilarity in which one was cast as family/friend/mother/teacher idiot in most.

But today marks a special day.  Huge style.  Because The BF and Carlos have finally, after what seems to have been the longest pregnancy known to mankind (I am all but expecting to meet a muscly eighteen-year old with his legs and arms sprawled out of standard hospital issue cot), welcomed my third people into this world.

Halleluljah amen!  They're flipping rockstars, I tell you.  All three of them.

The bringing of the human child of (I believe) decisively boy persuasion into this world was not, as one would have hoped, as simple as opening the door and finding child on doorstep surrounded by the odd stork feather.  (This was a childhood story with which I battled to connect.  How effing unfair, I thought, it would be to not really want to extend one's family and the next minute an errant stork drops a bundle on your doorstep that may or may not look like the father and that's it - you're parents.)

I dealt with the most laborious labour of the century in the only way a best friend can: with a chilled bottle of Ernie Els and regular bbms to Carlos:

The Pant: (06h00)  Surely the baby is on the outside?

Carlos: (06h30)  Nought.

TP: (06h45)  And now?

Carlos:  (07h00)  Nought.

TP:  (07h15)  And now?

Carlos: (07h30)  Nought.  Please tell me you're going to work?

TP: (07h31)  Is the baby on the outside? 

Carlos: (07h32)  Nought.  GO TO WORK NOW.  AND STOP TEXTING ME.

TP: (07h33)  Okay.

TP: (07h34) Is the baby on the outside?

Carlos: (07h35) Die.

Finally, some fourteen of the most stressful hours later, I received the following text:

Carlos: (20h08) Beautiful Boy Child born.  Now I'm deleting you as a contact.

And, yes, I drank to that.

Congratulations my heart friends.  My heart swells with pride at your amazing feat yesterday.  Can't wait to meet your little guy.

Sorry, Carlos.