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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