Uuuuuggggghhhhhh.

Uuuggghhh. Too much wine. Too many cigarettes. Far too many sparky ideas ("Let's take the golf cart and go find a party"). Extravagant New Year's resolutions, mainly parenting related (...shall cook only organic Anabelle Carmel's recipes ... no sweets ...). And deep discussions. Deep. ("My child will never have a cellphone. This bloody Mxit is too bloody scary.")

And now? Bleeding eyeballs. Dry mouth. Quickened heart rate. Which would be fine, considering the room in which I sleep is dark (very dark), and cool (aircon + fan = Die Antwoord) and that linen softly caresses one's skin like a thoughtful lover (do these actually exist? Yes! For the first three months of a relationship. And then?). It would be more than fine. If The Daughter hadn't decided to play Dentist Dentist at 6 this morning.

She's never been to the dentist, how would she know? My mouth tasted like a bum had left his blanket therein. Why would she want to prod around in there? Children never cease to amaze.

Despite our incredible lack of foresight (tonight we're going to have to do it all over again, unless you want me to take the Azor?), something good came out of our drunken girly discussions.

It's the decision to rock 2011. To take from 2010 the lessons learned and apply them to the situations 2011 presents.

To move on.

The Pant feels healed. And she can't wait to wake up to a brand new start tomorrow.

Happy NY, my panties. Yay for the radness we're going make happen.


X X X

The Pant - 1. Filthy Lucifer - 0.

I couldn't sleep last night, despite being in possession of Jilly Cooper's latest novel. Wait, that's not entirely true. I fell almost asleep plenty of times. But just as the hypnic jerk happened (you know when you have that slight jerky feeling supposedly when your body becomes immobile otherwise you would act out your dreams?), I got this vision. And it frightened the bejesus out of me.

The lack of sleep has made me a little emotional today. (Thanks muchly to Precious Jo'burg Friend for attempted cheering.)

I think yesterday marks the second most frightening thing to have happened in my life. The first was when I found out I was with-child and wouldn't be allowed to drink or smoke for what seemed an eternity. (It turned out to be pretty easy, actually. But when the notion dawned, I was so frightened that I may have let out a little pee.)

The Daughter isn't much of an eater. Sometimes her Africanness is apparent, though, because she responds well to bribery. So in an attempt to get her to finish her poolside lunch yesterday, I promised her a final swim in The Adults' Pool (it has cocktail bar seating, yes please) and then an ice-cream.

We'd originally been lying by The Family Pool where I bore witness to her brazen pursuit of the older brother of the toothless five-year old. This guy had a silver chain. With cross on it. Apparently that's way cooler than a blow-up dolphin.

We then packed up the beach bag, and moved our things to the other pool. With no intention to stay after the swim, we simply threw our things down and immersed ourselves in the tepid water mixed with sun tan lotion mixed with others' urine mixed with bits of others' skin. Public facilities: pretty gruesome if considered properly.

The Grandpa was buying the ice-creams while the girls were drying themselves. He returned. And then it happened. I lifted up my bag to go, and from beneath it slithered a metre long brown and yellow snake. Slipping. Sliding its way into the bush.

My stomach turned. I used all my will-power not to vomit up my chicken tikka wrap on the unsuspecting holidayers having their lunch next to me. I screamed, "Snake! A real one! A real snake!!"

The Daughter lunged forward in curiosity but I reacted with a maternal instinct so animalistic that I may have dislocated her shoulder in restraining her. I've ignored her whining since then. If the shoulder is sore it means she's alive. The Pant - 1 , Filthy Lucifer - 0.

What really got me, like it got me good, was how the people around me did not panic. The couple who nearly found themselves sick-drenched continued eating. With their feet on the floor!! And they saw the manifestation of evil with their very own eyes. The others around me lazily called their children back. Others ignored me, Pant, The Prophet of Doom.

What is wrong with these monied people? Are they so evolved that they no longer have the faculty for fear? Did they all know that the snake was harmless? Like yellow suggests the wretched thing is placid?

In my book, yellow means danger. Full stop. The battery on my Blackberry goes yellow when it's about to run out. That's a danger, yes? It goes red when it's dangerously close to being dead. If the sneak had been red, well, I'd have done more than let out a little pee.

In fact, I don't care what colour the snake was. It was a snake. It was evil. The Bible says so.

The Pant's 2010 Confession Session.

We're gearing up for New Year in the holiday home. The Moet is in the fridge, the oysters have been ordered, the recipe for traditional (and this is a proper Liner Family tradition - I have photos to prove it) Paella has been agreed upon and people are discussing their resolutions for 2011.

I'm not sure I'm the kind of person that wants to share mine with the world. Or even the family. I'm just not all that interested in public failure. And there's a likelihood that I will fail. So if you don't know what I'm going to do, then you won't know that I haven't done it and you'll have less to judge me on.

I'd kind of decided that I was going to "celebrate" the end of 2010 in a way that I felt most appropriate - I was going to wash an Azor down with a glass of water (maybe even sparkling) at 7.00pm and be asleep with The Daughter by 7.12pm (those things work with the speed of a mongoose) because I felt that I had very little to celebrate. I realise that that's not true. And also I've forgotten the Azors at home.

There's lots to be celebrated. For example the end of post-break-up anorexia has seen the return of the breast. Look, they're not enormous, by anyone's standards. But at least it's evident that I've been through puberty. I may even start wearing a bra again. (I think that was last year's resolution. Fail. Big style.)

But in all honesty, my life is rich. I am surrounded by super radness all the time: in my home, with my family, at work and I'm in many people's hearts. That's cool. It's better than cool. It's Moet-swigging-super-effing-radness.

So instead of deciding on resolutions (I have two burning ones, I'll tell you about them when I succeed) I thought it would be therapeutic and exceptionally post-modern to reflect upon and be reflexive about my shortcomings in 2010.

It's The Pant's 2010 Confession Session. Allow me.

1. I wore the same knickers twice in a row while away one weekend. (Not out of choice, mind you.) I turned them inside out but still. In 2011 I will pack the night before so as to avoid similar situations. Or maybe I'll learn to rock commando.

2. I have a number of totally unworn garments in my cupboard. In 2011 I shall be more selective in my shopping. And wear these garments. Maybe.

3. I did not buy the jumpsuit at Forever New. I haven't stopped thinking about it. I will buy it and rock it like it's nobody's business.

4. I tried to control fate. Silly girl.

5. I stopped having fun. I am fun. And I'm spending 2011 in pursuit of it.

6. I loved entirely. I'll do that again. Because that's who I am.

7. I stopped loving my job. I will fall in love with it again, by putting my heart back into it.

8. I gave up netball. I'm starting that bad dog again. Regardless of weak knees and a total lack of co-ords.

9. I got dronk vir driet at The Prawn Shack. Not again. Noone likes an unhappy drunk.

And while we're doing this whole get-stuff-off-my-chest thing:

10. I texted Larry tonight. I heard he had a miserable Christmas. I wished him a happy belated Christmas and expressed my hopes that his 2011 would be a truly happy one. I loved him/love him (not quite sure on the tense there). It made me sad to hear that he's been miserable. He was my people once. And then I only wanted what was best for him, so why should I not want that now? The cool thing is I really do hope that he finds happiness. (I just hope it's not some leggy blonde hussy. I'm not sure the peace in my heart could stretch around that.)

Bring on 2011 with clean knickers, overwhelming love, off-the-charts fun and a new jumpsuit. Bring it on with Moet.

<3 <3 <3

Lazy Days With The Daughter.

I convinced The Daughter that it would be a wiser idea to hang with her mom at the pool instead of accompanying her cousins to The Crocodile Creek. It's a cracker of a day. I'm working on my tan. And we're in Natal, so one can barely rely on the weather.

She seems to be having fun. I know this because every third second we have this conversation:

TD: Mommy! Did you see that? Was it the coolest?

PL: Yes, my angel. You're amazing! Wow!

TD: What did I do?

PL: Ummmm....

TD: Did I lift my legs out the water?

PL: Yes! Yes, that's it! That's exactly what you did. You clever clever girl.

I've now convinced her that she needs a creme soda and to lie next to her mother and "blog" on the "blackberry" Father Christmas gave her. It's a blueberry really. And its batteries are flat. Actually I think something's broken inside. It rattles. Which beats the hell out of the higher pitched version of Die Antwoord's "ay ay ay I am your butterfly" that it used to play. Thank God for small mercies.

I like today.

The Daughter has picked up a very cute five-year old who sadly did not get his two front teeth for Christmas. They're playing with his blow-up dolphin. She keeps running back to me and saying, "Mommy, I know it's a betend dolphin but the boy keeps saying it's going to bite."

As long as it doesn't spit.

He's in the deep end now, and she's not allowed to go there. She's about to emerge, devastated, and I'm going to have to offer her wise words.

And I'm going to tell her exactly what I told myself: there's nothing more you can do. Fate is a strange animal. It bites sometimes, and that's sore. It's a bit like a playful kitten. Its scratches hurt, but its cuddles and purrs are that much greater a reward than the fleeting pain.

This holiday is my plaster. The scratch is covered up. I've given in to fate.

That little shit just called my daughter a liar. I'm hitting the paddling pool to knock the rest of his teeth out.

The Pant Picked These People.

My domestic situation is a little strange, certainly by modern standards. But it works and it makes me happy. I waited a long long time to live where I do and it makes me truly happy. When I'm up at four, capitalising on some quiet marking time, the view of the sea and the city, with its lights still on and the embryo sun dying the sky a magnificent purple to deep orange is truly breathtaking.

Yes, I love my home. I feel at home there. And it's big (well, compared to our previous cardboard box abode). So much so that I've taken to answering my phone with, "Sorry it took me so long to answer my phone but my house is just so enormous that I couldn't find it, Panty Liner speaking..."

But it's not my house, as much as my domestic situation that rocks - truly, madly, deeply.

I live below The BF, my people, and her husband (how weird is that guys?) who we'll call Jealousy. Jealousy has become my people too. They make up a very large portion of my peopleage. Much more than Larry. Much much MUCH more. Oops, I wasn't supposed to mention his name. Sorry, Jealousy.

The BF, my people, and I have been friends since the days of puppy fat and big boobs (how is it possible that we are the only people in the world who are thinner, with MUCH tinier boobs, than when we were at school?). We have been through so much together: awful fashion trends (do Turtles ring a bell?), travelling Africa on 18 seater buses, broken hearts, lesbian phases (no, not with each other, Jealousy, and thus there are no photos), having babies, Grey's Anatomy, PS I Love You, wine, more broken hearts, her glorious wedding, more wine, The Daughter's Christmas concerts and birthday parties, more wine, more broken hearts and lots of stuff I'm forbidden to discuss with the world. She is my people. I choose her because she's kiff. And because we choose each other as, I suppose, our own little family, we have some kind of familial love.

And I'm really flipping lucky because her boyfriend, became my people, and then he became her husband. The one before him was a total wanker who didn't give a toss about her & her friend (me). And how can you truly love someone if you cannot accept the value of their peopleage?

Jealousy is that big shoulder to cry on (BIG - MUCH bigger than Larry's), he makes tea when we're hung over or our hearts are sad. He pours wine when the situation is dire. He makes himself scarce on girly wax nights. He looks after The Daughter because she's his people too. He says the raddest things like, "Pant, I'm sick of you choosing dickheads. You're the second raddest chick in the world. And you need to start batting in your league, not below it.". And the coolest thing is he really believes what he says. So maybe it is true.

Am I getting all emo on you? Well, I'm living in this moment, and this moment is yet another cracker. And do you know why? I'm bikini-clad (again), lying in the African sun (again), I'm tanned almost to the point of milk chocolate, and I'm reflecting on what a lucky Pant I really am.

I have The Daughter and she is magical. I have my family and their blind loyalty knows no limits. I have The BF, my people, and Jealousy, and they are the people I'd choose as my people over and over again.

And the kiffest thing? They live just above me. So when I need them, all I have to do is step onto the balcony, look up and yell, "PAL!!!!"

If it wasn't for this convenience, crikey! we'd be properly broke from our phone bills.

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Living In This Moment.

Every holiday, I get myself an easy holiday read. A bit of escapism, really. Last Christmas, it was Stephenie Meyer (don't judge). Throughout the year it's been Kathy Lette (that woman is my idol) and this holiday it's Kate Atkinson.

It's just that (and now I'm going to show my age) books just aren't made the way they used to be. I'm not talking about the writing. No, the world is littered with masters of word and wit. Take Kathy Lette, for example. She is solely responsible for my weakened bladder and my six pack. God, that woman is funny.

No, it's the way they're bound. They're just not designed to endure seaside, poolside or riverside reading. The slightest mention of water and these new-age weeny books fall apart at the spine. They quake and shiver, and shed their leaves the moment they're removed from their comfortable bedroom and toilet habitat. They seriously need to harden up. Because their weakness is beginning to impact on my life, and that's just not cricket.

I'll admit, okay, that I am a snob (stop judging, snobs are people too). But I judge books by their covers, and their pages, and their ability to keep themselves together under trying times. And "Behind The Scenes At The Museum" just hasn't cut it. Look Kate Atkinson has taken me on some kind of an emotional rollercoaster - the woman is gifted. But BTSATM only lasted until page 398. And I'm on holiday.

The book is in five pieces. And it's not like we lost all our tennis balls so decided to restage a family Wimbledon tournament with it. But I'm certainly not prepared to battle each night to get some kind of order before attempting to read. As I've said, I'm on holiday and I've usually had a unit or six before hitting the sack. Under such conditions, The Pant is ill-equipped to order pages by number. I'm no good at numbers at the best of times.
So - and this is a true confession - last night I read the You magazine. Really, I know I'm a snob, but the You magazine has its place. And I read from cover to cover.

I learnt a whole bunch of useless stuff: binge drinking can make you more susceptible to HIV/AIDS because of associated risky behaviour. Duh! Being a total slapper also makes you more likely to contract HIV/AIDS. It's in the sex, really, and not the booze; tea has as much caffeine in it as coffee (duh!); how to make "christmas trees" out of post-its and a mirror (not really a tree, then, is it?).

And I did learn something else, and I'm trying to put it into action from today onwards. I am going to try and live in this moment, and pay little attention to what has happened or what may happen in the future.
It's hard. Believe me.

An American flirted with me on the beach today (he was in a speedo, I was definitely not interested). And the first thing I thought of was how this guy held no candle to Larry. Then I shed a (v small) tear.

I think this "living in the moment" thing is going to take some practice. And a few lifestyle changes. Like I'm going to have to tear down the Lauryn Hill quote on my mirror when I get home ("Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, although them again we will never never trust"). Oops. Future thinking. Bad Pant.

I'm just hoping that life presents many more moments like this in which to live. I'm bikini-clad, lying in the African sun, nibbling on salmon sashimi and sipping on chilled Springfield Life From Stone.

This is a moment in which I could live a thousand times over.

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A Traditional Liner Christmas.

Christmas is super. Really it is - especially when it's celebrated the Liner way because that is the only way I know how. I especially love the "Liner Family Traditions" - things we did yesterday and called them traditions so that our guests believed that these things are things we do every year, religiously.

Like yesterday we did the traditional Liner Family lighting of the Christmas pudding. When I tried to pour myself a fourth glass of champagne during this time and steal away for a cigarette, I was remonstrated by The Father: "Come on, Pant. It's tradition! And it's bad luck to miss The Lighting.". Last year, we had Nigella's chocolate mousse pots. Unlit.

And last night, after the children were in bed, we did another Liner Family tradition: we played 30 Seconds. Earlier yesterday, this particular game had been wrapped in Christmas paper with The Sil's name on it. And yesterday marks the first time a Liner has ever owned the game. Tradition? I think not.

30 Seconds was followed by the Pant and her brother having their traditional glass of port. It's the second time I've ever had a port. The first time was with Larry. In his house. In the middle of winter.

And last year, it was tradition for the children to get the prezzies in their stockings on Boxing Day. This year we had no stockings.

I love Christmas traditions. They're usually such fresh ideas.

But one thing's a dead cert for Christmas Day - we laugh with and love the people we're with because they are our people. And that's why, at times, I found yesterday a little tough. Sure, I was with The Daughter (she counts for 99% of my peopleage) and everyone else who really matters: The Parents, The Brothers, The Sil and The Neblings.

But there was, without doubt, a Larry-sized hole in my day. And it made me sad.

Christmas is (traditionally) a time to be with the ones you love. And unfortunately this love thing doesn't have an on\off switch. Because if it did, hell, I'd have got it 100% right.
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Booze. Desserts. Caffeine. It's Christmas!

It's a short blog. It's Christmas morn already. I haven't been to bed yet. And I think sleep is avoiding me like I avoid anything SARS related.

You see the single mom has to be everyone, all rolled into one. Present wrapper. Present buyer. Fun parent. Strict parent. Father Christmas.

The Daughter left out not one, not two, but three beers for Father Christmas (and three mince pies). He's a busy guy, you know. He needs refreshment.

So Mom is Father Christmas. And I was forced to drink all three beers and eat all three mince pies while wrapping a grotesque amount of presents. And then I washed it all down with a cup of tea.

The present wrapping, alone, took close on four hours. It's got to be done right. And The Pant has a penchant for ribbons. I like gifts to look pretty. Not that The Daughter or The Nephew and certainly not The Niece notice. The Liner family has spent more on wrapping paper than most families spend on groceries in a year.

And now I'm petrified. The Daughter is due to wake up in 4 hours and 37 minutes and I can't sleep. I can't sleep because I'm on some kind of alcohol-cum-sugar-cum-caffeine high. (I should patent this high and sell it at large night clubs that have several dance floors all of which blare "house" music [house? in whose house?] - I'd make a killing.). The Daughter possibly is not aware of this, but if I stay awake much longer, she's going to possess the power to crush me like a worm come 9 am.

And I also can't sleep because I'm super effing excited. I can't wait to feel Christmas the way she does - with every fibre of her being. I can't wait to watch her take delight in each and every gift. I can't wait to see the awe in her eyes the moment she realises that he actually came, and dropped off prezzies for her and her cousins.

And I can't wait for the post-excitement high to wear off and the desperate exhaustion to set in so that we can steal away for a long afternoon nap in a cool dark room. God knows we'll be needing it.

The Pant wishes you a super rad Christmas. Hope yours is filled with as much light and joy as mine <3 <3 <3

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Foot And Mouth Disease.

Does my social ineptitude know no limits?

Let me get this straight - I am generally a nice person. I sometimes give money to beggars. I often talk about packing up The Daughter's old clothes and toys and taking them to a children's home. I just don't know where it is. And I can't concentrate for long enough to listen to directions (and I CANNOT cope with that Garmin lady telling me what to do all the frigging time. And I don't know the difference between left and right.)

I generally don't hold a grudge. I mean, my 7 to 3 job is teaching, after all.

I like people. And some of them like me back.

But if I look back at past social interactions, I could possibly be considered a social retard.

Look, my finest moment was certainly not the time I called Larry's dad a cocksucker. To his face. Something a little like, "Are you always such a cocksucker?". Fortunately he was in awe of my dashing good looks and tangible charm that he didn't take offence.

Or the time a psychologist told a group of my work colleagues about the direct correlation between a lack of intelligence and a high sex drive. I exclaimed, "Cheese and rice! I must be really effing stupid then. Like properly doff."

The list is endless: I once asked a guy with very big nipples if he was breastfeeding because smoking would be bad for his baby.

I once declared my absolute adoration for head to a stranger shopper person. She was talking about individual units of broccoli.

I once asked a cancer patient if he was going for the Michael Stipe look.

And I forget to watch my mouth around The Daughter. She declared to her ballet teacher the other day that "My mom says you're 100". (In my defence, if she was a cat she'd be eeking out the very last minutes of her ninth life.)

I've got foot and mouth disease. Badly.

And now the rellies are rolling in thick and fast for the Christmas celebrations. Many of whom I'm not all that fond (but I promise, I'm a nice person). So please Lord. Help me keep my mouth in check. Just this once.




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Pantaholic = Lecherous Brazen Hussy

I have a confession to make: I really am a pantaholic. And I'm eternally grateful for my super-sized sunglasses.

Beach holidays rock my world. I love hanging with The Daughter, catching fish in rock pools, eating soggy ice-creams, watching her play in the sand through one teeny slit of eyeball whilst I allow the sun to worship my body. I love swimming in the sea. I love finding sea creatures nestled in the rocks with The Nephew and The Daughter.

I love cheese, biscuit and pickle lunches. And afternoon gins and a diet that has successfully obliterated post-break-up anorexia with the swiftness of a great big swift thing.

I love being with my family. I love that time feels unlimited - that there is no rush to hang out because being together is just what we do. I love that I have to think very little.

I love that I think less about Larry and that my heart feels like it's healing.

I love that I feel reconnected with my soul.

But what I really love, above all, is the post-beach exhaustion of the children and their lengthy afternoon naps. I love these, particularly, because the Sister-In-Law (my Sil) and I steal away to the pool for some much-deserved perve time.

Without children in tow, we're able to tan, undisturbed. It's kind of like Mom: Uninterrupted. We smoke whenever we want and use expletives in our general conversation because we can. And we treat ourselves to Rich Man Eye Candy.

And let me assure you, Zimbali is thick with this particular variety. Mmmmmm mmmmmm. Delicious.

Without my v big v rad sunglasses, I may be considered by the inner-Zimbalian cliques as the lecherous brazen hussy by the pool in the afternoons.

Oh God! Who am I kidding? They're clearly calling me that already.




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Sorry We Ate Your Chicken.

I've just returned from a fabulous 24 hours of over indulgence at The Prawn Shack.

An eventful 24 hours - a period of time which I'm fairly glad not to remember entirely. A period of time filled with delicious food, beers (and were they going down like homesick moles or what?), excessive prawn & tequila shots and general name throwing. (PS If anyone finds mine, could you kindly return it to me before Christmas? No reward, unfortunately, as gave The Prawn Shack all my money last night.)

It really was flipping cool. That beetroot pesto rocks my world.

But the main event, if you will, of our trip happened between 11 pm and 7 am. The boys got hungry, you see. And so they did what any boys would do in that self same situation.

They fired up a stove. And threw some chicken pieces on top. And then they ate them.

And then they realised that, in fact, we hadn't brought any chicken with us. And that they had been cooking in the communal kitchen at The Hatchery (cracking place - I need to live there). The chicken (seriously under cooked, dripping in salmonella but delicious nonetheless) had originally belonged to Super Grumpy and her husband.

The Munchie Boys left at 6 this morning to get back to work. Apparently not all people get eleven weeks leave a year. And they kindly left us to deal with their uber embarrassing situation.

Super Grumpy did not find the situation as amusing as we did. Especially in light of the fact that "Tom & friends" from Mofikeng had eaten their beans and eggs the night before. Half the crew spent the better half of two hours driving to and from Stanger to replace said chicken.

In spite of the fact that Super Grumpy suggested we might be hardened criminals - "Husband, please keep a close eye on my handbag here. What with THESE people around" - we did the right thing and bought them sorry choccies.

Which gets me to the Post Jol Exceptionally Clever Idea of Pant: PS chocolates should branch out with varied PSs on their wrappers. I didn't want to leave one that read "PS I miss you". I never will miss Super Grumpy. Neither did I want to tell her "PS Ek's lief vir jou." Ek is nie!

A simple "PS Sorry we ate your chicken" would have done just fine.

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No Regina, No Love.

How is this acceptable? A couple - maybe three - weeks ago, I ordered the first Regina Spektor album online. It was supposed to arrive tomorrow.

Now I'd planned a little reunion for Regina & me. (My feelings for Regina are bordering on inappropriate and I'm sure if I had the joy of bumping into her in real life, I'd probably get arrested for trying to slip her some amorous tongue.). But I love her. And real love lasts a lifetime (absolutely no dig at Larry intended).

I'd planned a whole evening, in fact. Something a little like this:

1) Put The Daughter to bed.

2). Invite the BF, my people, over for large glass of festive wine.

3). Discuss ineffectiveness of attempted Festive Diet.

4). Feel depressed. Pour another large glass of festive wine. Devour entire block of Le Petit brie.

5). Try on Christmas clothes.

6). Try on each other's Christmas clothes.

7). Try on clothes from high school.

8). Pour third glass of really large festive wine.

9). Try on school uniform.

10). Pour fourth glass of effing large super effing festive wine.

11). Declare mutual love but remind each other that it's not the alcohol talking.

12). Put Regina on.

13). Grab deodorant bottles. Sing at top volume to mirror. Laugh. Secretly think that we'd do a better job on stage.

14). Drink 3rd bottle directly from neck.

15). Fall over. Giggle.

16). Attempt book reading.

17). Fall asleep with bedside light on and book on face.

Now, does that not sound like the perfect way to welcome the BF and Regina back into one's life?

Well, that would be exactly what I'd be doing come December 3rd, if it wasn't for that silly person from Zoot who emailed me this morning and told me I couldn't have it. The day before it's due to arrive! The effing day before! It could have been a Christmas present! It was a Christmas present! For Bounced-Back-Super-Effing-Rad Pant.

I hate that person. I hope they get those little bathroom packs from Clicks instead of what they really wanted. I hope they burn their Christmas turkey.

In better news, the sun was out - scrap that - IS out. And The Daughter is the most glorious holiday companion in the world. There is nothing that touches a mother more than bearing witness to her child's tangible thrill and excitement.

LG, baby!!

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Pant Pulled A Dirty.

I pulled a dirty at the wedding. I made up an excuse and left. I'm not a good liar so I ended up telling the truth. But the truth is I lied before telling the truth. I blame my upbringing. For the truth-telling, that is. Damn that Catholic guilt.

Sadly, Bounced-Back-Charismatic Pant was not on the menu. And the other options were pretty miserable too:

1) Uber drunk Pant: lacking control of spaghetti-like limbs, with the linguistic output filter switched off (I could've said any number of things to alienate Teacher Friend, from "Sheeeeesh, pal. Your dad is hot" to "It's a pleasure to meet you friend of Teacher Friend. And I envy your bravery in that dress.") and sense of social etiquette totally out the window ("Oh I know where you live, Teacher Friend's gran. There's an excellent little porn shop around the corner from you. Perhaps I can pop in for tea the next time I'm in the area. Say, tomorrow morning, afternoon or evening??" This may have also opened up dop n dial possibility. And what would I have said?

2) Lurker Pant: I can do this sometimes. Corner lurker. Trying not to disturb other people's fun. Usually end up smoking FAR too many cigarettes and feeling bitterly sorry for oneself. Also, if combined with liquor will most likely end in suicidal dop n dial. God! Can you imagine?

3) Cry In Toilet Pant. And this is the way it was heading. You see it's easy to mask emotion initially. It was sunny. I had sunglasses on (v big, v rad) and anyway, doesn't everyone cry at weddings anyway? But when the crying doesn't stop, it becomes a little weird.

And so I left. And went and got depressed drunk with people whose job it is not to judge me. And then I read my book with only one eye open.

Now I'm on holiday - beach side. Where the air is so thick you can drink it. And I'm three units down. Halle-effing-luljah.

And I'm being the Yes Girl for the next two weeks. I intend to spend most mornings with bleeding eyeballs, playing with The Daughter in the sun, and the evenings ensuring there's sufficient blood to alcohol ratio coursing through my veins.

And, well, if a little holiday romance knocks on the door - it would be considered rude not to answer.

Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!

At Least There's A Pretty Dress

Dear God!

I need strength.

I'm off to The Teacher Friend's wedding today.  I am very fond of said Teacher Friend.  She has been more than willing to drink wine in copious amounts since the demise of Larry & Pant.  But to be entirely honest, I'm just not sure I'm in the place for celebrating love and relationships and ever-afters.  Bitter, perhaps.  Skeptical, definitely.

The Teacher Friend has offered a bed in the honeymoon suite for the night.  I've taken extra blankets so that I can hole up the sides of my car and sleep under its belly.  Nothing says you're single quite like your head under a pillow in an attempt to drown out the sounds of "Oh Teacher Wife."  "Oh! Naughty Teacher's Husband."  I feel ill already.

So I've spent the better part of this morning doing the following:

1) Making up dreadfully contagious bug that has created a barrier nursing situation at the parental unit (one cannot, possibly, care for one's own child when one is in such ill-health.)

2) Considering telling the truth ("Teacher Friend, I'd love to come to your wedding but... well, I'm kind of Down With Love at the moment.  Honestly, you'll be beautiful, but I'd rather spend my morning fantasising about removing Larry's balls with a blunt teaspoon.  Oh, and thanks for all the support.")  I still have to work with her next year.  And I'm giving up smoking.  I need at least ONE person on my side.

3) Searching the internet for emergency stand in Calvin Klein model escort to accompany to said wedding.  (I think bride and groom might spend their night with their heads under the pillow, then, in an attempt to drown out sounds.)

4)  Crying.

I'm off to said wedding.  Soon.  Because I like Teacher Friend muchly.  Because I am the Yes Girl.  And because HCG has given me a new lease on life. 

Not to mention the dress that was purchased for said wedding.  It accentuates post-break-up anorexia perfectly.  And I might pop into every pub en-route "desperate for a wee" and try pick up a last minute replacement.

And the Pant will never be the same again...

HCG changed my life.  The hair!  It dries straight!  Without blow-drying!  Without GHD!

Farewell perm.  Halleluljah!

The Pant is forever changed.

Hair. Brazilians. Chemicals.

I'm at the hair salon now. No, wait. Hair salon sounds far too early 90's. One almost expects to hear the jingle from that advert - "Salon Selectives! Salon shine - Like you've just stepped out of a salon!".

I'm at the hair dresser. No, I can't be. He's male. And straight. And possibly the most delicious specimen of male humanness the earth has even seen. And he's engaged to be married. (Bugger.)
I'm at the hair stylist. Oh, God. Who am I kidding? You're expecting me to leave here with a froth of curls and tendrils atop my head, aren't you?

Okay. I'm getting my hair done today. And so I've broken the first rule of Successfully Relaxing Leave: I've put on a full face of make-up. It's important to look good for the hair-cutting guy. I'm even wearing a push-up bra - an attempt to kind of look like I might have boobs. It's a pretty unsuccessful attempt. But no-one can say I don't try.

I like coming here. My ego gets massaged - he thinks I'm funny. He hangs on my every word. Then I pay him. It's fun. Kind of like emotional prostitution.

In fact, I look forward to coming here weeks before.

The hair-cutting guy and I have been friends for many moons. We worked the Durban restaurant circuit together. We jolled thick & hard together. Like it was nobody's business. Therefore my greeting is usually warm, to say the least. Today, not quite so.

Hair-cutting Guy: Pant, what are you wearing?

(I've been up since 7.)

PL: Nice to see you HCG. What do you mean?

HCG: The jeans? They're ... old. Like, what are they?

I'm wearing pre-daughter jeans. The self-same jeans that trawled the Doef-doef clubs with HCG and me. Not only do they fit, they're baggy. Like properly. I'm in a good place. I shan't let HCG's comment get to me. I shan't.

So I'm having a Brazilian straightening treatment in a minute. Now, forgive my naivety, but I thought "Brazilian" suggested a lack of hair? The very thing that is supposed to be straightened?

I'm going into this blind. The salon is pretty full. And if he asks me to drop my jeans, well, I might just.

Eviction Notice

I'm angry this morning. And I like it. And I'm going to tell you why.

The BF, my people, is off to Plett this morning. So that means my wine consumption will be halved until such time as I reunite with my family. That alone is grounds enough to seeth with fury.

I took her to the airp. Yup, in this effing miserable rain. The drive there was pleasant enough. But it was my homeward leg of the trip that got me going.

My child, a sleeper of monumental proportion, lay passed out in her carseat, like a drunk outside Clapham Grand on any given morning. My conversation options were limited.

I put on the CD player. Error. Grave error. Now, don't get me wrong, Alanis rocks my world to its very core, but when one's self esteem is as deflated as, say, the daughter's blow up swimming pool/scratching post of precious cat, Alanis is possibly not the best musical accompaniment.

She sang to me. Oh she did. About how "this loss is numbing me" and how "I thought we'd be family together" but that, of course, "I was sadly mistaken". She really has a knack, you know, of making one feel pretty damn rotten.

It's needless to say that had I been pulled over by a cop, he'd have bribed me to get my sorry little state right out of his sight.

I'm home now. Drinking tea (how rad is tea?). And I'm pissed off. I'm pissed off because I like Alanis. And I like driving. And I should be able to enjoy both these pleasures at the same time without putting any lives at risk.

I'd like to be pissed off with Larry, but I'm not. I'm angry with Panty Liner for not evicting his old man ass from her headspace sooner.

Your time is up, pal.  I've got charisma knocking at the door. And there's only space for one.

Exfoliated Oesophagus and Other Mild Ailments

I have a vivid memory from my childhood. I must have been 8 or 9 and we were on our month-long family holiday in Plett. My brothers had spent hours teaching me to body surf. And one day, I got it. Eureka! The feeling of being pushed through the water on the tip of that wild, natural energy was amazing, addictive - kind of like falling in love, although with body surfing you have more control. 

And so, one day, I was in the surf, desperate to relive that feeling (my God! How little I've changed). I tried a few waves: but my swimming wasn't fast enough or I wasn't positioned quite right. And then the right wave came along. A handsome wave, in my eyes anyway. An edge of danger to it, I suppose, but all the more reason to ride it. And everything was perfect: I was well-positioned, my swimming would ensure that I'd get ensnared by its energy and, come hell or high water, I was ready to commit to that wave, mind, body and soul. 

The feeling! If words could only describe. That freedom! I was part of the brethren of body surfers. I'd done it all on my own. I was unstoppable. 

Except then I opened my eyes. And peered off the edge of that wave. Below me was sand. Hard. Painful. Menacing. I tried to pull out but I was just too caught up in it. 

Nothing, no words of advice from my brothers, could have prepared me for what came next. My body slammed into the sand with a force so great it should have rendered me dead. The air, violently knocked out of my lungs. I was buried, face down, with sand in my eyes, mouth, nose, ears, it was knotted in my hair. It had exfoliated my oesophagus. 

My uncle peeled me out of the little-girl-shaped hole that day. My mother would have if she hadn't found the whole thing quite so funny that she was forced to sprint into the sea to relieve herself. She's much more supportive now. Oh, the number of times she's picked me up - winded and broken. 

That was the first time I was dumped. And I'm pretty much in the same position now: the wind knocked out of me, muck in my face, snivelling, crying, hoping that someone will pick me up out of this girl-shaped hole. 

But it couldn't have always felt like this. How did I get here? Let's rewind to the last time I was face down in the sand. He was a geek. With a perm. (I saw him at Woolies the other day and leopard crawled through the lingerie section to avoid contact.). The pain of that break-up was a small price to pay - I got out, at least. And I'd rather wake up next to Steve Hofmeyer than him. 

I made so many promises to myself that time around. 1) Make sure he's really into you (consult single girls must-have guide to dating: He's Just Not That Into You.). 2) Make sure you're really into him (consult one's own stomach - butterflies are imperative). 3). Always leave before being left (consult Marilyn Munroe - trust me to take advice from her). 

I dated. I snogged a few boys. I just didn't feel it. I wasn't in the right position or ready to swim or even hot enough to be in the sea in the first place. But what happens? Bham! Along comes - what shall we call him? Larry? - Larry. And, by God, did I want to swim? Did I not commit to that wave, mind, body and soul? 

I suppose it was the feeling! - the freedom! - the being part of the brethren, you know: A Couple. "No, I'm sorry, I won't be able to come to Claire's baby shower, I've been invited to meet my boyfriend's family on Saturday.". "Ah, I'd love to attend your child's first birthday party, but Larry and I are away that weekend." 

And the desire for that feeling. The countless dirty texts a day: LX - What are you wearing? PL - Nothing but a smile, baby. 

The early morning, mid-morning, lunch-time, after work, pre-dinner, during dinner, post-dinner, bed-time, dop n dial calls. The insatiable physical desire. The 'L' word (no, not 'lesbian', he wasn't that lucky). And the declarations of ever-after and more children to add to our modern brood and holidays and DWs and dates and fixing up the house and being on the same team. My word, it felt so good. 

But I opened my eyes. Perhaps too late. Or perhaps the exhilaration of the ride made me forget to look. Or perhaps it was his salt that caused a temporary blindness. I'm not really sure. But what I do know is that when I did open my eyes, there was only sand: hard, dry, menacing. Painful. And I was hurtling towards it at a hundred miles an hour. But this time it was the wind of all my life that was knocked out of me. 

And so I sit weeks on, contemplating how I got here. Was it just a bum wave? Or if I'd just waited a little longer, would that same body of water have come along and would it have been a safer ride? One that ended with exhilaration still coursing through me? And why couldn't there have been a bloody lifeguard standing beside me, "No! Not that one, Panty Liner. That one's unsafe. It's going to really effing hurt at the end." 

I still body surf. My best friend and I do it to escape the stress of adult life. We hit the beach and act like eight-year-olds and get sand in our bikinis and it rocks. But I'm not sure I'm ready to get back into the ocean of dating - it just seems too dangerous. I know if I hang in the surf, another wave will come along. I just hope it's the same body of water. 

And please God, if you're reading this, next time around, please can I end up in the foam? I'm all sanded out.