Leopard Print. So Much Of.

Alright. I'm ready to open up. The time for communication is here.

You see, I've been mulling this little gem over - wondering which words will aptly describe this monstrosity given to me by The Incubator. The wench has a sense of humour, right? I've always known that. But I didn't quite realise she'd actually part with hard-earned cash to demonstrate it.

We had this conversation last week.

The Incubator: Leopard print is huge in London. I've bought you something really funky. I'm sure you're going to love it.

The Pant: Oooooo! What is it? What is it? You have to tell me.

TI: All I'm saying is it's leopard print.

And then she pulled this number out of her bag:

Can you see why I have no words? It has feet! Like a real babygrow.

When I modelled it for The BF, my people, and Carlos, they insisted I lay on the floor, pretending to be the leopard hide they'll never be able to afford:

I'm hanging my head in shame.

The Incubator and Backpack.

I picked The Incubator up from the airport yesterday afternoon. The Daughter's excitement was so profound that she needed three toilet breaks before clapping eyes on her grandmother, and two after. The term "peed and went blind" took on a whole new literal meaning for me.

I'm not going to lie: I, too, was excited to see her. My mom and I are wont to share the odd glass of wine together. She's a groovy old wench, is The Incubator. I like her. And, besides which, every time I spoke to her during her sojourn, she'd say something like, "I'm so buggered. I've walked Oxford Street/Camden Market/Petticoat Lane/Portabella Road flat today.". You, too, would have been excited.

So, there we were, squashed against the railings at International Arrivals at King Shaka Airport. There were so many people pushing against us with such force, that I thought the railing might sever me in half. I have a permanent indentation - just below the rib cage.

And we waited. And waited. And lost oxygen supply to the brain. Then the first person emerged: a damn fine looking businessman. (I nearly abandoned my Dutiful Daughter post to make acquaintance with said hottie-hot-pants but he was swallowed by the frenzied crowd in less time than you could say "shake-a-my-kun".). And then a well-groomed granny (with a full face of make-up on) strolled through. She looked so fresh that there was little sign she'd just flown across continents. Just one small indicator of her long journey: camel toe. Why do people insist on travelling in jeans? They're going to creep. And you're going to feel molested. The tracksuit pant, in my humble opinion, was expressly designed for long distance travel.

A few ragged souls emerged. Followed by The Incubator and The Beauty Therapist. You know when you recognise someone but something's amiss? Well, that's what I experienced. She looked just like my mother, but something was wrong. And so I had to do the mental check list: hair (done) - check. Face (done) - check. Shirt (hers, selected by me) - check. Jeans (error, but whatever) - check. Shoes (have seen before - definitely hers) - check. Body (some weight loss, but to be expected) - check. Backpack ... what the hell? When did she become a lesbian?

We stayed up late last night, trying on new purchases and chatting and sinking bottles of red. And I took the opportunity to rip her off. I reminded her of the, "You're not a lesbian, are you?" conversation. She blushed. She made up feeble excuses (I just had too much stuff to fit it all in my suitcase). But fact remains: she owns a backpack.

And it's worrying.

Pig Squeals and Pee.

We're all pretty vain, aren't we? I mean, why do chicks swoon for compliments? Like the MC from The BF, my people, and Carlos's wedding told me I am thin tonight. If he didn't have a girlfriend, I'd have tucked into him right on the spot. Possibly with knife and fork. (He is a golden god, apparently.)

It doesn't take much to say, "You're the most beautiful girl in the world", or "Sheeeeeeesh kebab, you look hot today, babe". Really, it doesn't. And chaps, the rewards are plentiful and good.

Which gets me to my point. Those who know The Pant might consider me confident. The first night I met an ex-boyfriend, he slurred in my ear, "You're so confident, you're bordering on arrogant.". I took it as a compliment. And look what that got him. (In fact, I'm not sure what that got him - the only thing I remember from that night is that slurred speech, a bisexual girl that I was trying to hook him up with and that our taxi driver's name was Fish.)

This is a typical conversation I could have with a friend:

Friend: Pant, that guy has totally got the hots for you. He's eyescrumming you.

The Pant: It's his eyes, Friend, they're not painted on.

I like compliments, I suppose, when they come from the source. So if the guy had said, "I'm eyescrumming you", I may have replied with a whole bunch of incoherent sounds followed by a 90% lunge in the hopes of the 10% reciprocal lunge.

And so, this was my response to Anonymous's comment earlier today.

(S)he wrote:

I am...in a word, ADDICTED. I cant wait to read every morning, its like the highlight of my day - how sad is that. But seriously, you need to write a book. I live in london and i have sent your blog to ALL of my friends and they too are ADDICTED. so consider yourself international ;-)

I let out a little pig squeal - reeeeee. Followed by just a tiny pee.

Anonymous, you have rocked my world today. I thank you. And if you're a guy, well, pull in for your reward. As I've said: it'll be plentiful and good.

The Etiquette of Anti-Social Behaviour

It's not that I'm a total social recluse. In fact, I'm not a recluse at all. I like socialising. Put a glass of wine in my hand and I'm as happy as, well, Larry.

But sometimes I just like quiet. Like when I've had a long day at work and dragged myself off to the ballet outfitters and handed over perfectly good wine money for ballet slippers that'll last three months. On those days, like today, I'd much rather kick off my shoes, lie with my feet on the back of the couch and eat food that comprises mainly of carbs.

And then I like to get ready for my bath. The bath itself is a ritual. One that can only be done in solitude. I strip. Then I start the water. Then I wonder around my house. In the nick. It's liberating. And Alanis "recommends walking around naked in your living roo-oo-oom", remember? I've lived in a situation where I can do this for a long time, you see. Until a year ago, that is.

Almost a year ago today, my brother and his (strumpet, hussy, charlatan) wife decided to end their marriage. I love my brother. And I really like him. So he moved in with The Daughter and me. And so, I suppose, I became his wife. Which is why I've started referring to him as My Husband in everyday conversations. But before you go all judgemental on my ass, let me explain the true nature of our relationship.

I make his lunch. I make his morning coffee. He has usurped my lounge television remote and so the only thing that can be viewed in the very room designed for TV watching, is sport. I make his dinner. We sometimes have a drink in the evenings or a cup of tea and chat about our days. But that's where is ends. And so, without the wifely benefits of a marriage, he is My Husband. So, I guess, it is like a real marriage.

My Husband is away on business. And so tonight, my home becomes The Pant's nudist colony. A space in which she can bath with the door open. And wax in the lounge. And walk to the kitchen to reheat wax without hiding my naughty bits. I probably should. My young neighbour eyed me through the kitchen window the other day. I wasn't as much embarrassed as I was chuffed that I'd made an Indian man blush so.

So, with The Husband away and the cooking duties reneged to The BF, my people, I was set for a night of total Pant pampering. Selfish, perhaps. But I don't give an eff.

And so, I was perusing the pages of a fashion magazine. The Daughter was playing in the garden with her fairies. Life was good. Or so I thought. And then I heard, "Do you want to come into my house and play SandArt? My mom can help us."

And that's when it happened. A thousand strange children descended on my abode eager to totally eff the tranquility and cleanliness of my house.

They ran such amok that I am now seated, before The Daughter, unable to speak. I'm exhausted. Too exhausted to get naked. That's got to be a first for The Pant.

Children: Must be schooled in etiquette of anti-social behaviour.

Face(Arse)Book.

Dear Face(Arse)Book users (these are different from regular Facebook users),

What is it with the pathetic status updates?  Seriously.

I have a friend who judges people by their facebook statusses.  He gives them three hits.  And on their fourth status of this kind: "So-And-So is sad
:(", "So-And-So is hot", "So-And-So is having spaghetti bolognaise for lunch", well, he just defriends them.  A mutual friend of ours lasted 3 days.  3 days and the fourth status update, and she was out.


I have a another friend, who we'll call Perm (and no, not because of his hair) who is currently using Facebook for attention.  These are his last three status updates:

• Perm had a really great Ironman 70.3 race.

Followed by (I swear) about three hours later:

• Perm had a 4uper Ironman 70.3 race.  (Didn't get the typing quite right iether, shame.)

And then, this morning, I saw this:

• Perm is really chuffed with his Ironman 70.3 result.

We get it, okay.  You did the Ironman 70.3.  You did well.  What would you like me to do?  Get down on bended knee and glorify your name?  He's the kind of guy that would throw a "While you're down there" in my direction.

But his last three updates aren't quite as bad as the people that deem it necessary to use deep philosophical quotes.

Take this one for example:

• So-And-So "Before you say anything about a person, ask yourself: Is it TRUE, is it NECESSARY, is it KIND?" - Martin Luther King Jr.

Okay.  Number one, dear heart, your status is grammatically incorrect.  But I suppose that is becoming a trend with the illiterate technological generation of today.  Let me, if you will, explain a rule or two.

When you start a sentence with a proper noun (that is what your name is), it generally needs to be followed by a verb (that is a doing or being word).

See, if I was updating my status in response to some of your updates, it would be grammatical incorrect for me to type the following:

• Panty Liner You are a cock.

You see, I am not a cock.  I am cocky, but I am not a cock.  So without that little old 'doing word', I am telling the wrong person that they're a cock.  Seldom do I actually tell myself I am a cock.  Seldom but not never.

But if I'd had any of the following updates, they would make sense:

• Panty Liner thinks you are a cock.
• Panty Liner , "You are a cock."
• Panty Liner: You are a cock.

And the second problem I have, Mr I-Am-So-Learned-That-I-Am-Actually-Able-To-Quote-Martin-Luther-King-Junior, with your status update is that it really is irrelevant.

I'm a gossiper, you see.  I sit with my friends and discuss other people's poor fashion sense, their shocking people skills and their oh-so-dire relationship problems etc. etc. etc. etc.  (And yes, I meant to put four 'etc.').  That's what chicks do.  They talk about people, in unkind ways using information that is passed from mouth to ear to mouth to pillow to ear to mouth to mouth to phone to phone to email to facebook.  It's probably untrue.  And it's probably not necessary to discuss these things in the greater scheme of things.  But it's still effing entertaining.  It's fun.  You non-gossipers, you should try.

So now that I've established that what I generally talk about is unkind, untrue and unnecessary, what, then is the point of asking myself all these questions?  I don't care Martin Luther King Jr told me to do that.  I'm still going to gossip.  Asking those questions would just be a waste of time.  End of story.

Besides which, is Facebook really the correct forum to attempt to change the nature of human interaction?

Really now.

Food Types and Body Parts

My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh phoned me yesterday.  He's wonderful.  He lifts my spirits instantly and says the most wonderful things: "Pant, you are so skinny", "He'd be lucky to have you, Panty of My Heart", "You're a talented writer, Pant.  You should write a book", "Oh. My. God.  You look amazing".  Those kinds of things.  He rocks.  Even though his compliments are, at very least, fabrications of the truth.

Yesterday I had a truly difficult day.  Not horrible.  But difficult.  You see I had proper insomnia on Sunday night - I think it's a Sunday night thing.  And The Pant struggles through a day on 3 hours sleep. But the reason for my insomnia (apart from having slept in and lazed around for the majority of the day) is because my head has been a-ticking.  I read the new Fair Lady and learned that I was born in the year of the pig.  A pig of a year, for some.  But because I'm a pig (and that's no reference to my filthy mouth and mind), I need to take the bull by the horns this year. (Evidently Larry was born in the year of the bull. I might have to take the bull by the horns and kick it repeated in the effing face?)  I've got to make the monkey jump.  I've got to pull some magical rabbit out of some illustrious hat.  I've got to change my life around.  And that takes some thinking.

(Plus I had some naughty thoughts which I daren't share with the world.  But, oh my.  Oh baby.  Mmmmm hmmmmm.)

So when My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh phoned, I had the mental and emotional maturity of a 6 year old.  I was barely able to use words with three or more syllables - hence I was totally unable to tell him that I felt like marmalade on toast, or that I should be put into a wheelbarrow and plonked upon the bed.  And the wit?  Well, it was lacking.

He's a good friend, though.  And can force himself to sink to my level when I'm in this space.

The Pant:  You should have seen what she was wearing.  Fish nets!  And a fanny flap!  At her age!

My Darling (it's shorter than My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh):  You kidney.

TP:  I kid you not.  I'm being cereal.

MD:  How can she liver with herself?

TP:  I nose.  And it's not the first time she's been seen looking like a tranny in the most off-the-wall clubs.  What's neckst?

MD:  Sounds like she ought to be working Point Road.

TP:  That's eggs-actly what I was thinking.  Never in my entire eggs-istence have I seen an outfit like that.

(That was a lie.  My Darling and I have been known to enjoy the odd fancy dress evening - particularly those themed 'Trannies and Grannies'.)

MD:  The last time I saw her I nearly had a heart attack and pasta whey.

TP:  You nearly died?  A bit eggs-treme, don't you think?

MD:  It was bad, Pant.  She is obviously skint because she clearly has no fashion cents.

And.  That was me.  A puddle of human laughing matter all over the kitchen floor.  Hysterics.  Probably not so funny now.  But at the time, on that little sleep, it was hilarious with a capital H.

Which gets me, really, to the point of this blog.  There are things that I like about being an adult, sure.  Particularly the x-rated stuff.  But the domesticity and the grown-upness of it all can sometimes get me down.

Take our general conversations, for example.  They're about the following thing: money, weather, food, sex (or lack thereof).  And what do not-grown-ups talk about.  Fantasy.  And they say kaka and weewee and all sorts of really stupid things.  And then they laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity and outrageousness of it all.  I know, I've seen The Daughter.  Last night she told me it was okay to eat meat balls but not poo meat balls.  And then, I promise you, she laughed such that she lost the ability to hold her body upright.  Earnest Hemmingway.

And I think letting go and having fun is kiff.  It's what I want to do.  Every day every day.

And so, in a 2011 attempt to become less grown-up and have more fun, The BF, my people, and I have come up with a fabulous solution: we alternate cooking weeks.  It's her week to cook.  My kitchen is spotless.  I read all afternoon.  The food was super effing delicious (it always is when someone else cooks).  And I got to focus on having fun.

I had that conversation with My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.  I played with The Daughter.  I cuddled.  And I had, thank you very much, a very super effing rad day.  Even on 3 hours sleep.

The Bridesmaid's Wedding Woes.

Tonight I rushed home, with a bottle of red safely clutched under my arm. The BF, my people, found herself, two months after the event, in possession of her & Carlos's wedding album and DVD.

The truth is, I'd seen The BF, my people, all day and evening long on the day of their nuptials. I knew she looked beautiful. Fact: The BF, my people, was the world's most beautiful bride. I didn't need wedding albums or DVDs to reaffirm this for me.

The reason for my haste and, most definitely, for the bottle of red was to witness how I will be recorded, for the rest of, like, forever in their lives. The result: a silent begging the earth to swallow me, a flush of burning shame so intense I had to stick my head in the freezer for a good half an hour. No jokes.

It was windy, right? My hair was down. My personal favourite photograph (one that would be frame worthy if it wasn't for my hair) looks a little like a bunch of pretty people and a joke, all huddled on the beach. The hair had been whipped and whirled into a bird's nest of chaos, perched lob sided on my head.

And the one where I'm smiling. Crikey! Look, I know I've got a big mouth. Apparently it's a gift. But so big that it nullifies the eyes, nose, cheeks - neck even? I look like a giant pair of lips and teeth on top of a dressed body. Kind of like that ad with the hands and body - you know, less yadda yadda, more ching ching.

And. Error of gravest proportion. I insisted on speechifying. I wrote the speech, I swear, NINE months before the wedding. It was heartfelt. I promise. But what do I look like on DVD? A jerky shaky private school snob whose s's and t's are overpronounced. God, and the emotional display of lack voice control. Em-effing-barrassing.

On the night of my peoples' wedding, my large lips bonded repeatedly with glasses of red, and canes and creme sodas, and jaegermeisters and tequilas. So much so that I had indentations on both top and bottom lip. So sure, I was tipsy. And I was, of course, a bridesmaid (and nothing makes a man drool quite like a shiny dress and a bouquet of flowers, trust me). But it's my naivety that embarrasses me the most. It was these men who complimented me - on my speech.

"Oh Pant, that speech was so heartfelt.". (Thanks.)

"My word, Pant, you were born to have an audience before you". (I know.)

"You are so confident, Pant. Can I graunch you?" (Thanks and no thanks.)

Nice compliments, right? I certainly believed them at the time. I was walking around with such a big head I looked like Ally McBeal (sure, post break-up anorexia assisted greatly in creating this look). But it sucks that they weren't true (I know, because I've seen the DVD and my Parkinson's impersonation). Damn shmucks - trying to get into my seamless knickers, they were.

Besides my being a total blot on the documentation of the celebration of Carlos and The BF, my people's love, watching that day again has filled The Pant with hope. I'm going to be like that girl from He's Just Not That Into You. Just because I've had proper Irish luck in the ways of love, I'm not giving up. The BF, my people, got what she deserves: a man who truly adores her. I'll find my man too. When The Pant becomes Up With Love.

Oh, one more thing. Those girls who are waiting for your men to propose, get used to the waiting. Despite saying to The BF, my people, "If you throw that effing thing anywhere near me, I will never effing speak to you again," she threw it - directly at the my head. And I caught the bouquet to prevent being knocked out.

So, if traditions and superstitions have any weight at all - you girls have got such a wait ahead of you that you may as well start breeding now. It's much easier to conceive before the onset of menopause.

Wankstick Alert.

Jude Law Look-Alike was my toy boy.  I was young.  I was a foot-loose and fancy free.  He was great arm candy.  But that's where it ends.

You see, since the left-off-lift-off-move-forward moment at the airport all those years ago, I have changed.  I have become a mother.  I have become a professional.  I have become less foot-loose and more foot-tied-down.  And that's okay, because I like my life.  Muchly.

So when I arrived at the poolside braai, with The (gorgeous) Daughter in tow, we began a little game of I Spy.  The first thing that I spied with my little eye was something that began with 'f' - funnel.  And then The Daughter spied with her little eye something that began with 'c' - cases upon cases of liquor.  It was when I spied with my little eye (but did not share with The Daughter) something beginning with 'w' - wankers, en masse, that I decided to take my leave.

It's usually my gaydar that beeps uncontrollably loudly in my head.  But yesterday is was my dickhead antennae that were making this REALLY loud screeching sound - kind of like when those metal detectors sound at the airport.  I mean, there were more mohawks and tattoos than you could shake a stick at.  And total arses declaring, "Ahem, JLA, your MILF is here".

Milf?  I get it.  But you don't, cocksucker.

Total time at poolside braai of wanksticks - 12 minutes 37 seconds.

That style poolside braai just ain't my bag, anymore.  And I was a little disappointed to leave, because well, um, JLA had his shirt off.

But I did what any other fickle tart would do - I got on the phone and found me another super duper poolside braai to attend.  Gatecrash might be the word that you would use.  But great fun I had.

You see, I have this couple with whom I have been friends for the longest time.  They have children.  One of said children is the bestest friend of The Daughter.  And hanging with this couple is never uncomfortable nor is the behaviour unsuitable for children under the age of 18.  There are beers, sure.  There's wine, definitely.  And on special occasions there is also (like yesterday afternoon/evening) a cheeky little John Deere to get the party started.  But that stuff only comes out when the kids are in bed.

So reckless these jols are not.  There is no competition to see who can drink 8 litres of beer in the quickest time.  Nor do the men stand around headbutting cans of beer.  Call me what you will, but that kind of thing just isn't my scene anymore.

So I had a lovely evening.  So did The Daughter.  So did The Father, who was gladly there so I didn't have to drive home.

I feel whole today.  And not hung over.  Weird.

Romantic (Hic) Own Bath.

I must have been pissed last night. In fact, I have absolutely no doubt.

I'm a firm believer in spontaneity being the spice of life, you see.

Yesterday, I'd had a long day. I'd taught more children than I'd like to remember. I'd arisen before the alarm clock sounded. I'd done everything that was expected of me: made lunches for The Daughter, The Husband and myself (shock! Horror! Did not have bean roti from across the street), had dressed weather appropriately. But. Was. Knackered.

I'd intended to cook my second favourite meal: fish and potato wedges (the first being spag bol). But my phone rang just as The Daughter and I were getting into our afternoon nap dream session.

Carlos: Pant. What you doing?

The Pant: Afternoon nap. I expect you to be down in 20 preparing afternoon gins.... Wait... We're not on holiday anymore. What are you doing?

C: I'm at the shop. Are you cooking us a Pant and People Reunion Dinner.

TP: Sure. If you'd like box fish and chips (preparation time = zero).

C: No. I want your Thai Green Curry. What must I get?

After listing the ingredients over the phone, I settled down to my quiet afternoon tea and twak. At which point The Husband (actually The Brother - it's a long story) returned from work:

The Brother: What's for dinner? I'm effing starving. And if it's not ready in 10 please hurry. Because I'm going out for man beers with my Very Hot Man Friend. (He didn't use those words exactly. But I report with as much salt as I deem necessary.)

TP: It's Thai Green. We're dining with The BF, my people, and Carlos.

TB: Cool, I'll invite my Very Hot Man Friend for dinner. Then I'll go out.

Mmmmmmm hmmmmm....

So we dined. The BF, my people, and I chatted. The boys chatted. We met outdoors for inter-gender cigarette smoking sessions. And after Man and Chick Talk, we sat around together and just, really, chatted. But it was that kind of chinwag where you feel cleansed after. I suppose it had balance about it: a touch emotional, a touch work-related and piles super effing funny.

For the record, it's just the best to have my people back. I dig it here. The Pant = a happy happy girl.

But the wine flowed like, well, wine.

Anyway, I had just three glasses. And not even big ones. Hic. Huge effing hic. The Pant is such a loser drinker that when I went to have pre-sleep bath (she may forget to floss, but she never goes to bed dirty), I looked at myself in the mirror. And I honestly thought, "You look kind of pretty. You're a bit of alright."

I thought I was so attractive I poured myself a bubble bath and lit candles. (A jolly romantic bath it was too.)

And this is why I know I must have been pissed. Because The Pant is Down With Love because she is Down With Self-Esteem. She has, of late, felt, well to put it bluntly, ugly.

Balls to that! That's a whole bunch of bullshit on so many levels.

So the kiff part is I've learnt that being pissed is actually good for you.

It makes you feel good about yourself.

Amen.

Plz Rite Proplie.

Okay, initial excitement of spending extended daylight hours with shirtless Jude Look-alike waning. At rapid rate. And the reasons are numerous.

But the main problem with my predicament is that the lights can't be switched off.

You see, firstly the end of post break-up anorexia has seen the return of back fat. Okay, not in abundance. But I can definitely notice some hangover - even wearing today's elasticated waist skirt. (The Pant in a skirt! How preposterous!)

But I mustn't complain. At least I have a little bit of boob. A little bit. (I even got some boob action last night. From a mosquito. So now have bee stings with a mozzie bite. Brilliant.)

But I am, I suppose, going to have to swim. So will be required to don bikini. Perhaps should wear burkhini?

So, problem number two: wax night was 10 days ago. Which means stubbly regrowth. Which would be fine, if not a little uncomfortable, if I wasn't required to wear swimwear. And it's not the poky out pubes I'm worried about. It's the costume catch factor. You know how cozzie material loves to stick to rough things, like bricks? Not so great when attempting to be sex bomb siren.

Also, extended holiday jol with Precious Jo'burg Friend ensured that the departure of glorious summer holiday tan came with alacrity. I know I shouldn't turn my nose up at the opportunity to sun myself. But therein lies yet another problem.

Apparently yesterday's plea was directed at the wrong Proper Noun. I should have been speaking to the weather goddess. Because it's windy and overcast. And it looks like we're about to experience the rains of the rest of the country. I'll blame myself for Shitty Weekend Weather. I should never have complained about the heat. Damn you, Panty Liner. Damn you.

But there's a bigger problem, bigger than weather and regrowth and back fat: it's Jude Look-alike. He's hot. Like really effing super hot. But The Pant is Down With Love (but Up With Lust). And I received this text from him:

Hey Pant looking 4ward 2 c-ing u on sat my add is 12 Shirtless Street Sexyville mayb we cn ctch up where we lft off

I just wanted to look. Maybe cop a feel but certainly not catch up where we left off. We left off at the airport. Left off lift off start again, no?

And (and this is a big one) I don't do the dropping of vowels. Nor do I do the replacing of words with digits. And not a single punctuation mark! Eeeeeew!

Can't write English. Major turn-off.

Dear Nubile Men,

If you wish to bag The Pant, plz rite proplie.

X X X

The Pant: Wilted Spinach.

Dear Durban,

When did you get so effing hot?

You know I love you (muchly) but how am I supposed to maintain any kind of put together look when you insist on stimulating my sweat glands so?

You see, today I tried to put together a semi professional look. And I think I made a pretty good effort: the hair was down (gloriously straight without any effort), there were pearls round the neck, earrings in the ears (matched the shirt too - I was on top form). I wore two shirts (to avoid wearing a bra) and skinny jeans. I did my face, even. But like properly. Like if I was going out on a date.

Honestly, I looked quite hot at 6 this morning. But like hot in a not hot cool kind of way.

By 8 am the hair was up, and I had a granny clip keeping the excess hair off neck and face.

By 9 am the pearls were off.

By 10.30 I had eyeshadow on my nipples and lipstick around my belly-button.

And it got worse. In spite of having drank approximately 8 litres of water, at 12 the heat was so manic that I thought I had a brain tumour and was scared I might die.

By 1.30, the pip-ache was so intense I was scared I wasn't going to die.

I think 'dishevelled' would be an inaccurate descriptor for the way I looked today. Something a little closer to 'shit' would be a bit more appropriate. Yes.

Since I looked like (total) shizen, obviously I had to run into super hottie-hot-pants ex-boyfriend, the Jude Law look-alike, at the supermarket.

I tried to hide myself amongst the baby spinach, but he caught sight of my sweaty scratchy self. He looked like he'd been hanging in a large fridge all day.

Jude Look-alike: Pant! Is that you? What are you doing and what is that green stuff on your head?

TP: Spinach. It's cooling.

JLA: What have you been up to?

Blah blah blah.

JLA: So are you around this weekend?

TP: I am. Why?

JLA: Having a poolside braai on Saturday, would love you to come.

TP: Poolside braai. Hmmmm. Will you be shirtless?

JLA: There will be a pool. I intend to swim so I...

TP: I'm in.

So, Durban, what I'm trying to say is, I'll forgive you for today's heat and its undesirable effect on my appearance if you could please make an appearance on Saturday. A bit like today. So Jude Look-alike doesn't feel the need to put his shirt on. At all.

Much love,

Your Pant.

XXX

What The Hell Was I Thinking?

Okay, so I'm a Bad Mother.  Not entirely, The Daughter's school lunch is made, her clothes for her first day back at school are laid out (with clean knickers), all her stationery has been purchased (even the 10 toilet rolls that were on the list, although The Armpit thought it a bright idea to distribute those around the house) - hell, I've even chosen and set aside, next to her hairbrush, which clips and hairbands she'll be wearing.  And it must be noted that she was fed, bathed, story read, and fast asleep before the clock struck 7.30.  That's pretty effing good going.

It's just the one thing I forgot.  You see, apparently it's important that children have bags in which to place things like lunch (made), change of clothes (clean, ironed, selected, placed on bed), sunblock (left over from holiday, although has her name written on it) and sunhat (a styling one it is too).

It's not that I am The World's Absolutely Worst Mother Ever, but I just didn't think.  She has in the vicinity of 43 million school bags at our home.  But we're not at our home, are we?  Nope.  We're babysitting Grandpa (fat lot of good we're doing there - I was so excited that The Daughter went to bed on time, and that my blog has had 3 000 hits, that I opened up a beer, and chased it down with two more so he had to cook.).

The Home of the Parental Unit is my dumping ground.  There are more of my belongings in spare room cupboards and drawers than in my actual home.  So I thought, "Hmmmmm ... the chances are high that there's a school bag of The Daughter's floating around here".

Well, I was wrong.  But I did happen upon some Memory Lane clothing that, if I kept hidden from the world, would feel like a dirty secret.  It is dirty.  But having this knowledge on my own is killing me.  Have a heart, read on.

Look at these peaches I found:

I wore the ACDC shirt.  OFTEN.

Stop judging.  I know you owned mustard jeans.  Or wore three-quarter straight leg pants with XL sized floral button up shirts when you were actually a size XS.  I know you did it, okay?

I would like to go and develop a tik habit now to deal with this mortification.

Truck Drivers - Irritating

I would like to become a truck driver.  There.  I've said it.  Note 'truck driver' and not 'bus driver' because not all chicks are bus drivers.  Some are.  But not all.

You see this morning, I had to take the hour trip from where I am attempting to take care of The Father while The Incubator is on her sojourn in London to my place of work.  It is not a bad drive.  Wanda is very used to it, you see.  So she's almost on autopilot.  But this morning was a little different.

I started work late today (diarise this day).  And I had to drop Enormous Son of Maid off for his first day of high school.  I got a little emotional, dropping ESM off.  The child was born at the end of my standard 5 year.  He was like my little baby.  Only until he turned 5, of course, because then he became like my very large brother.  He's enormous.  Truly.  Gives The Beast a run for his money.  So big, in fact, that he's already been given a nickname - Tank.  I suppose Enormous Son of Maid is a bit of a mouthful.

Anyway, I then took to the highway.  The same highway that I take so often.  But, I guess, I should have accounted for more traffic.  By more traffic I mean I should have accounted for - no jokes - 42 000 000 trucks.

This is how I drive: with a can of coke (regardless of time of day), some minty chewing gum, and, depending on whether The Daughter is accompanying me on said trip, plenty of twaks.  And, most importantly, very loud music.

I pretend that I'm in a rock band.  With go-go girls.  In fact, I'm such a huge hit that Beyonce is my back-up girl.  Today I Romeo & Julietted the whole way to work.  I threw in a few radio tracks too.  There was even a Roxette number and I was getting so dressed for success that the cars around me were battling to keep on track.  Ooooooo - and I definitely 'come and open up your folding chair next to me'ed.  Regina Spektor (love her as I do) better watch out because when I get my posse together and we start doing cover gigs of hers - man alive! will she be out of be business.  Also, when Larry decides to open his ears and sees me perform this particular track, he'll realise he doesn't want 'to make frown' and be 'a silly clown' anymore.

And so there I was: in my happy place.  Singing.  Smoking like a trouper.  Chewing on gum like a common street slut.  Until I nearly had my life wiped out by an arrogant effing truck driver.  Now, don't throw all this 'save the truck driver', 'it's not their fault - it takes 700m before they can change out of second' at me.  I don't give an eff.  I like my life.  I particularly like the being alive part of my life.

Are they blind?  Are those mirrors on the side of their trucks decorative?  Because look they don't, and move swiftly into fast lane going up bloody effing Key Ridge (Quayy Rijj for you, J - private joke) they do.  It really effing irritates me.  Not only because I value my life but also because I had to turn my music down to concentrate.

So, I've decided that I'd like to become a truck driver.  Obviously they have extra lives.  They're the feline of the human race.  And I'd like to irritate other people intensely.  I'd like someone to write a blog about me.  I'd like to drive the whole way from Jo'burg in the fast lane.  Sidling another truck at the exact same speed.

Oh, and at night, I think I'll drive with my brights on.  Other drivers should be blind too.

Eff the truck driver.

Monday - A Day Of Mourning

So I made an error today.  I wore black.  Top to toe.  I like wearing black when I'm in a state of mourning.  I wear it on Mondays very often.  But today, it was especially important to wear black because, well, today marks the day of my return to work after a glorious 6 weeks of leave.  The leave, evidently, is the part of my job that I love most.

But it was an error.  Because it wasn't like today was the coldest day known to man.  I sweltered.  Melted.  I perspired like a blind lesbian in a fish shop (old, I know, but it still makes me laugh).  But the heat aside, I shouldn't have worried too much about my return to work.  It wasn't half bad.  And quite nice, actually, to see the colleagues I actually like.

But then I made a faux pas of monumental proportion.  Now, before I recount the story, please don't cast me in the role of self-absorbed bimbo.  I'm not.  Well, I am.  But not entirely.  What I mean is, I care about what I wear and what I look like and what make-up I wear.  Sometimes.  But I also have a brain (sometimes - but not in the choosing of potential life-partners.  Nope.  Then I'm truly brainless.).

You see, last night I battled to sleep.  I tossed and turned because I didn't have my usual two glasses of medicinal wine prior to bed.  Leave is a truly wonderful thing except for the fact that it cultivates and encourages alcoholism.  And when I eventually fell off to sleep, my sleep was, to say the least, fitful.  My rest was plagued by a nightmare that left my clothes, sheets, pillows even, soaked in sweat.  The night sweat would have rivaled any menopausal wench.

And when did I recall the narrative of my nightmare?  In the middle of a meeting with middle-aged women.  It kind of went a little like this:

Boss Lady:  Are you feeling alright Pant?

The Pant:  Yes, I'm perfectly fine.  Just a little tired.  Not used to getting up early.  Oh, and I had a terrible night's sleep.

BL:  Shame, why?

TP:  My word, I had the most hectic nightmare.  It was awful.  I dreamt that my hair was going grey.  And I had these big silver streaks all over my head.  Scared the bejesus out of me.

And then I looked up.  At her face.  And then her hair.  With its big silver streaks all over.  Shining under that fluorescent light.  Glowing, almost.  Taunting me.  Begging me to say something else.

No. of days of work this year: 1

No. of times pissed Boss Lady off: 1

Brilliant.

Swine Flu On A Sunday.

I have spent the most part of my day languidly turning the final pages of my Kathy Lette novel, contemplating how to construct a narrative detailing the events of the last 24 hours. I can't do it. It's too effing hot and I'm sweating like a commercial sex-worker in church.

So I'm just going to tell you, okay?

1). I got (accidentally) boobie groped by a woman last night. Thanks for that. It's the most action these puppies have seen in, well, months.

2). It got too late to finish the game of Cranium. We would have won, I'm sure, if we hadn't got such crap cards. We would have. But while I'm on the subject of games, I need to officially mention that The Pant is Down With Cranium and Up With 30 Seconds. Cranium is crap. My days with play dough are done. Well, almost.

3). I realised that the words to that very happy song that I often bop my head to are, "Well, fuck you and fuck her too". I like that people can sound happy when they're filled with hatred and anger. I've downloaded it. It's now my ringtone. Should hopefully see me through the week of (effing) work.

On the topic, I must also share that My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh and I truly burn up a dance floor when we're presented with one. Man alive do we choreograph a truly spectacular bum-shaking session. It's almost sexy, but without the sex. I suppose it's just 'y' then.

4). I breakfasted with The Father, The Daughter and A Waste of Human Skin this morning. Okay, maybe A Waste of Human Skin is a bit harsh. A better description of the man would be He Who Has Been Beaten To Death With The Ugly Stick And Then Revived. With A Personality To Match.

The Father is a village-dweller, you see. He breakfasts at the same place every day. With the same people. He likes it. And one of the people who is often seated around the same table as The Father is This Man.
I've met him plenty times before. And each time I accompany The Father to his breakfast jol, Dread (that we will run into This Man) accompanies me.

Going out for breakfast with The Father is like going out to breakfast alone except a mate pops by every now and again for a chat. You see he always needs to go to the can, then returns, then goes to draw money, then returns, then goes to buy the paper, then returns, then goes to buy twaks, then returns, then needs to take a call outside, then returns. You getting my drift? I must just tell you that I am a Class-A Bona Fide Daddy's Girl. I adore him. But the truth is the truth.

So while I was out to breakfast "with" The Father, I spent 90% of my time, alone, with This Man. Despite his private school education and his forty-plus years on this earth, he has still not learnt the words "Please" and "Thank you". Nor has he discovered the social etiquette of the 10%+ tip for service. And he says things like, "I'm off to take my sports car for a spin". (Can you see me wiggling my pinkie?)

How did I deal with my breakfast date, I hear you ask. I engrossed myself in The Daughter's colouring in book.  And I hardly went out the lines.  And I only coloured in two neighbouring blocks the same.  I didn't mean to.  While sipping on my milkshake. So, perhaps, my days of playdough are not over.

5). A fat, sweaty pig (yes, an actual traffic cop) tried to pick me up at Spar. He threw on the "Hey, baby" and the "Don't ya want some of this?" and the "Don't wear a short skirt and blame me". Sick effing pork rasher.

Hey, mister! I'll wear whatever the eff I like. And you, with your coffee-and-do-nut tyre around your waist, you ain't never gonna get anywhere near some ass like mine, okay?

You know you always hear people saying, "I wouldn't touch him with a ten foot barge pole"?

 Well this swine I would. Right in the mug.  Super effing hard.

A Love Hate Relationship.

Dear BF, my people,

You are a kind person and a good friend.  And I am eternally grateful for our friendship.  Thank you for feeding my cat when I am away (can you feed him tomorrow morning, please? I think Carlos has got keys for my house).  Thank you for waxing me.  Thank you for drinking wine with me - even when it's just over the phone.  Thank you for being generally kiff.

Most of the time, I love you.

Today is not one of such days.  My feelings for you are teetering on the precipice between dislike and hate.  I have picked up your bug.  And couldn't eat breakfast (sure, the establishment hasn't quite mastered the soft egg and I had to mush it on my toast using garden tools).  And have been in bed all day.  And not in a sexy kind of way.

Please would you remain healthy for the rest of your natural life so as to protect me from the chick-flu depression.  I might require life support to see me through your latest bug.

But I sure as hell ain't missing Games' Night With Trashy Make-Up tonight.  So, to those of you who are attending this event, please do not try and stick your tongue down my throat.  I know many of you will battle to refrain from doing so.  But please - will-power is the new black.  It's not that I'm not keen to get amorous with you - I most certainly am - I just don't think you could handle this brush with death.  It's hideous.

And, please, also, all you fellow Craniumers, don't think I'm making up some feeble excuse prior to said event in the unlikelihood that My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh and I might lose.

It ain't going to happen, suckers.  The Pant and Her Man rock Games' Night With Trashy Make-Up like nobody's business.  All over your faces.

Oh, and BF, my people.  Hope your eyes are feeling better.  My mom always said, "Watching too much porn will give you pink eye."

Is there anything you want to tell me?  Like, what's hot at the mo?

PS You still rock.  Because you are my people.

Oh Em Gee. I Forgot To Say.

Many years ago, The BF, my people, and I embarked on The Year of The Date.

One of such date men is now a teacher at the school at which I planted a tree.  It was possibly the worst date I have ever been on.  I went to great lengths to avoid discussion with said man, whom, for the purposes of this blog, we'll call Hideous With A Capital H.  I even attempted jumping into the handbag of Other Single Mom Who Smoked.  Sadly, I could only fit two limbs.

When I attempted said dive, Other Single Mom shrieked.

OSM:  What the hell are you doing?

TP:  Hiding from that hideous specimen of human man over there.

OSM:  Why?

TP:  I dated him.  Once.  Two hours of my life I'll never get back.

OSM:  But you're pretty and he's super mega-fugly.

TP:  Thanks, but now's not the time for flattery.  Hide me.  Quick.

Later, as we were ambling towards the rainforest planting site, I was forced to relive the memory of said date with Other Single Mom.  I guess when you've been inside someone's handbag, had one of their tampons lodge itself in your earball, you've really got to share your secrets.

Within seconds, she was rolling on the floor in hysterics.  Lucky she was not wearing white, like me.  And also lucky that she could find the humour in what was, for me, possibly the worst two hours of my life.

Hideous With A Capital H and I were due to work at the same school.  I was hammered, at Frankie's.  It was 4 am.  I become friendly at around this time.  In fact, The Pant spends the hours of 02h00 - 04h00 "Making New Friends".  And one of the friends I made, on that fateful night, was Hideous With A Capital H. Now, before you get all judgmental on my ass, I didn't kiss this guy.  I have kissed other hideous numbers, but this one, well, there was just no way.

And so he approached me, and asked if I'd like to go out for coffee some time, so he could give me advice on how to deal with the disciplining of boy children.  I needed help then, so I agreed.

A few days and texts later, we were due to meet for lunch at Mugg & Bean at a nearby mall.  I put in effort.  Cargo pants, vest, touch of make-up.  Look, I wasn't at my height of sexy, but the date certainly didn't warrant it.

We were due to meet at 1 o'clock.  He arrived at 1.15.  Wearing!!  Nondescript white takkies.  You know, like proper Running-On-The-Road shoes, except (forgive my snobbiness) not label.  With rugby socks.  Rolled down.  And, do you know those elasticated waist, short-long-long-short boardshort material thingymajiggies?  From Mr Price?  A black pair.  With two white stripes down the side.  And on top, he was wearing a grey La Coste top.  You know, it could have been fine, if it had actually fitted him.  But it didn't, and the sleeves were three-quarters on him.  And it was old, like it had been slept in for thirty days straight with those little bally things.

I could go on for days about his BO, but, quite frankly, I'd like to keep my lunch down.

Look, the mere memory of this date tires me beyond belief.   But there are two things that I need to mention so you can understand why I was inside handbag of Other Single Mom.

1)  He prayed for a full twenty minutes when his meal arrived.  OUT LOUD.  Look, I love Jesus, really I do. And I'm all for thanking him for my food.  But a full on spectacle of prayer on a date!  Seriously!

2)  I paid for the meal.  Now, I'm all for chicks' rights and all, but I don't do paying for lunch.  And the reason I paid?  Because he forgot his wallet.  Who the sam hell goes on a date without a wallet?  I paid because I had to get out of there - immediately!

I got in my car.  And before I had even put beloved Wanda into reverse, my phone beeped:

Wld u lyk 2 do dat agen?

Yes, Freak Boy, I'd love to take you out to lunch again, so I can gag on your BO.

Getting Dirty With A Botanist

So, you know I said that I had to witness the planting of a tree?  What I didn't know, and therefore failed to mention, was that I actually had to plant the effing tree myself.  With compost and spade and dirty hands and everything.

Now, The Pant has been known to get down and dirty.  But not with actual dirt.  And generally, when I am getting down and dirty, I prohibit photography.  No such luck today.

Look, the chapel service wasn't so much a chapel service as an elderly man bleating down a microphone about some path these young boys must make with a bag full of stones.  The metaphor was completely lost on me.  I shudder to think what was going through the minds of these teeny little boy children.

And then Mr Very-Important-Headmaster stood up.  He took up his spot behind the podium.  Parents and children alike were anxious.  They hushed each other.  I didn't get it: he looked just like any other old man leaning against a bar looking for some younger lady skirt.  But the audience (congregation??) was in awe - mouths agape.

And he spoke.  And what he said struck fear right into the depths of my own heart.  Look, the man is a master of circumlocution but the gist of his speech had something to do with planting, with my bare hands, an actual tree.  I kind of thought he said in groups of ten boys.  But alas! upon arrival at the planting site, there were some 4 zipillion trees and even more bags of compost.

I tried to get Enormous Son of Maid to do all the work.  And it was looking quite good.  The plant was in its hole, the compost poured around it.  But a pile of earth was next to the scene and needed to get into the hole.  I sent ESM off to find a spade because I sure as hell wasn't getting my hands dirty.  At which point Old (like ancient) Botanist Man approaches me (in khaki teesavs, nondescript golf shirt and those hideous sandal things with hundreds of velcro straps).

Old Botanist Man:  That's too deep.

TP:  Shouldn't I be saying that?

OBM:  The plant needs to be closer to the top of the ground.

TP:  Okay.

OBM:  Can I show you?

TP:  Show away pal.

OBM:  Do you mind getting dirty?

TP:  With you?

OBM:  Of course I'll help.

TP:  Yes I do mind getting dirty, then.

(At which point Enormous Son of Maid returns with spade in hand.)

TP:  Okay guys.  Get planting.

I took the opportunity to look around and soak in the intricacies of human interaction.  At hole 63, the hole next to ours, was clearly a divorced couple who share only two things in life:  their son and their hatred for each other.  I laughed.  Not just inside.  But outside too.  It was like watching two children, forced to be Mary and Joseph in the Nativity Scene, when he stole her bike and pulled her hair in the playground earlier.  It was priceless.  Really.

And then Nouveau Riche man who couldn't find his hole (it's in between your sizeable arse cheeks, Sir).  He threw one mammoth hissy fit at the headmaster because he had his tree, he had his compost, and he couldn't find an effing hole in which to plant his effing tree.  Oh, how I chuckled.  Self-Important-Self-Righteous Prick.

One other thing.  How ugly are some people?  There was one lady, with a poodle under her arm, who, I swear, has had her hair done exactly the same way as her dog.  It's as though she drove the entire way from Namibia with her head out the window.

I'm exhausted now.  All that planting and eating of fingers really does take it out of one.  Trust me.

Single Dad Eye Candy Appeal, Please.

The result of taking over The Incubator's duties coupled with my very own?  Eggs-effing-hausted.

I've driven 300 kms.  Been to one super effing long meeting in which The Daughter told my boss, "Mommy's Boss, I'd like to go home right now."  Been to two malls (still hectic - go back to work everyone, for crying out loud).  Bought two pairs of shoes (none for self.  Fail.)  Been to three cellphone shops.  Have I eaten?  Crikey.  Did not buy food for supper.  Father is going to be hungry.

And more importantly.  Is there wine in the house?  Wine is very important for mental wrap-around of tomorrow's agenda.

So when The Incubator left, she simply said, "Please make sure that Enormous Son of Maid is sorted out for his first day of high school."  No problem, right?

Wrong.

Apart from having parted with more cash than I'd like to believe possible (surely school shoes aren't that expensive.  And blazers?  Are they Versace?  Crumpets.), and spent more hours behind the wheel of my beloved Wanda than I'd like to have, I've been cast in the role of Stand-In Parent tomorrow.

Yes, I have to go to a "New Boys' Lunch" at his new school.  On the agenda it says I need to attend a chapel service and witness the planting of a tree.  And then join all the other new parents for a finger lunch.

It's the finger lunch I have huge problems with:

1)  I don't eat fingers.  I never have.  And I'm not about to start simply because I am considered for the day to be Parent of Private School Boy.

2)  If they're not serving fingers, is a 'Finger Lunch' some kind of rich people's first base orgy?  I'm not in.  I'm so not in, I'm positively out.  But say I had to be in.  What would I wear?  What is the appropriate attire for mingling and fondling of random rich people parents?

I'm going to be the youngest person at the function by a good fifteen years.  Some people might snicker, "She started young."  They'd be right.  Except I don't think they allow sub-teens to adopt.  Something about the whole "be able to provide for child" thing.

Yup, I'm looking forward to this event just about as much as I would be for an episiotomy.

The only thing that is dragging me there is Single Dad Appeal.  Because The Pant could be renamed 'Flirty Gerty' at the minute.  She could very much like, at least, just a little eye candy.

Please Lord - just a little, to get me through.

Making Fond(le) Memories.

Okay. So, I might be Down With Love. But I'm most definitely Up With Lust. Most definitely. Flat out. Big style. Amen.

I've just dropped My Incubator off at the airport. The Mother, like her father, has an obsession for punctuality. I didn't get that gene. Nope, like my own dad, I'm a worshipper of tardiness. And procrastination. And all those things that irritate people.

The point is, we found ourselves at the airport an hour early. Yes, THREE hours before her plane was due to take off! She's going for a quick two week holiday with her friend. Does this warrant an emotional airport goodbye? Long hugs? Extra kisses? I'm-going-to-miss-you-most-of-all-scarecrows? The two wenches managed to squeeze out tears too. It was positively hillbillie-esque. For the record, I was prepared to drop and run.  But she insisted, "Babes, I'm not going to see you for two whole weeks.  Or my granddaughter.  Please come in for a drink."

And I was out of the car quicker than you could say, "Savanna on ice, please."

And because I was expecting a more evolved kind of airport farewell, I was ill-prepared to actually get out the car. To put it bluntly, I was wearing a vest, bra-less, without built-in support. And airport aircons work. The result? A slightly embarrassed Pant and a bevy of salivating German tourists (exiting bathrooms).

The Pant attempted to remain composed. And I really hope I looked dignified - although that's probably a pipe dream given that, well, it was so cold in the airport that there were two neat little holes in my vest - just slightly below chest level.

But work that aircon did.

The Pant was so excited by the attention that she attempted to strike up a conversation.
Picture it:

(In the passage outside ablution facilities. Faint pee smell. Strong detergent stench. They're walking out. I'm walking in - desperate for wee).

German hottie-hot-pantses ogling chest area of Pant. Flash smile (it's big, I know it works.)

TP: Hi! How are you guys?

Germ 1 - staring at breastage, unable to speak.

Germ 2 - staring at breastage, wiping drool from both corners of mouth.

Germ 3: Huh?

Bloody hell! I'd forgotten that effing language barrier bullshit thing. Shitballs! Crap in a bag and punch it twenty-seven times.

There was no time for Charades.  Look, I'm good at any type of game - but not when you've had two bottles of water, a coke, and a Savanna on ice.  Then you've got to run.

But it's baby steps, right? And I think a tourist would be perfect. They leave on good terms. And so one will always have fond(le) memories of the lust and just know that nothing more could have happened. Because it just couldn't have.

I'm digging some lusty rebound tourist action. Mmmmm hmmmm. Yes please.

No. I'm Not A Lesbian.

You know the reason I'm visiting my homestead?  Well, The Mother's off to London and I thought I'd, I don't know, hang out with her.  Help her pack.  Show her which jerseys to wear with which shoes and which scarf.  Write down all the things I need from various outlets, and hide in her coat pockets, handbag, travel pack, passport, amongst her traveler's cheques.

I've spent a grand total of 4 hours with her in the last three days.  She's been off having her hair done (Matrix Straightening Thingy!  Again!  Amazingness!), nails done, waxes done, eyebrows done, eyelashes done, facial done, pedi done. She's so done that she barely looks like my mother.

But the times that we have spent together - you know, sitting on the verandah face down in a glass of red? - have been really cool.  We've discussed the big things in life.   Take this conversation for example:

Mom: So, did you meet a little lawyer up in Jo'burg while you were with PJF and Bradlow?

TP:  No, Mom.  I've told you.  I'm spending the next six months being Down With Love while I make changes to my life and then I'll consider dating again.

Mom:  Six months?  You're not a lesbian, are you?

TP:  Oh God, Mother.  I've just had my heart ripped out of my chest and then run over several times by a Superbike.  No, I'm not a lesbian.  Let me go and check on my sleeping child.  You know, the one I gave birth to?  Product of heterosexual relations?  (That's not strictly true.  I made The Daughter.  All by myself.)

I scarcely need to comment on the conversation.  Except, I think it necessary to say that I got me some good advice from CT Hairdresser those many moons ago.  So Mom, don't worry, I don't carry a backpack, nor do I wear t-back vests.  And I intend to breed again.  (Can you hear that sigh of relief?)

And last night.  Ah, it was fabulous:

Mom:  Babes, have you heard from Larry?

TP:  No Mom.  I told you.  I texted him after Christmas - wishing him a happy Christmas blah blah blah.  And he never replied.

Mom:  Well, you didn't honestly expect him to reply, did you?

TP:  I did.  I honestly expected him to reply.  But if you don't think I ought to have expected a reply from him, why then are you asking if he's contacted me?

Mom:  Well, he can't reply.  He's been told to leave you alone.

TP:  Again, why do you think I might have heard from him?  (By whom??)

Mom:  Well, I thought you might have contacted him.

TP:  Why would I contact someone who hasn't replied to my texts?  Isn't not replying to your texts pretty much the same thing as saying, out loud, "I'm Just Not That Into You"?

Mom:  Because you love him.  (I think my mom might be a hippy.)  Follow your heart.  Phone him.

TP:  And the, "I'm Just Not That Into You" part?

And this is where family is fabulous.  They are arrogant on your behalf.

Mom:  Oh no.  Larry can't do better than you, my darling.  Of course he's into you.

At which point The Father walked in.

Dad:  Don't you dare ever get hold of that guy.  Ever.  Rather find yourself a decent man.  Stop playing with boys.

(Larry is ten years my senior.  I've never really considered him a 'boy'.  But if he is a boy, who does my father expect me to date next time around?  A man who has already retired from the bench of The Constitutional Court?  Crikey.)

I don't want Larry back.  I think I'm ready to be his friend.  But I don't want him back.  I don't want my next six months of being Down With Love to be interrupted.  But I'd like to be his friend.  I think, honestly, that it's my star sign.  Us Taureans are just not designed to have people dislike us.

But I aint going to phone him.  Hell.  No.

So, it's been good being at home.  Other than worry about the fact that I'm single (I'm still under 30 for crying out loud!), my mother has been a fabulous shopping companion.  She's great.  And today we had the most educational day.

As a result of going to The Midlands Mall, I am more than ever driven to be successful this year.  The place was full of sub-humans with atrocious dress sense.  I mean, there was a little girl, 8 maybe 9, in a pair of high heels, stonewashed denims from the '80's and a t-shirt that read 'Too Sexy To Touch'.  And there was an image that could've been pudenda.  I think it was supposed to be lips.  But looked more like abstract vagina art.

And, shame, there was this little Indian boy with a hair cut that would rival the chick from Die Antwoord's.  The poor boy had a mullet mohawk - all the way to his bum!  With bits that were peroxided.  Child abuse?  Pretty close.

AND!!  These people do not know how to walk.  I nearly sustained concussion on several occasions when people in front of me would just stop.  To look.  At nothing.  I'm going to design Mall Tail Gates.  So you know whether the person in front of you is stopping or turning.  And in some shops, even reversing.

Can We Do This Please?

And one more thing.  Please go check this out : improveverywhere.com

We SO need to do that.

xxx

Book Club. I need.

So this is the thing, right?  I have actually found wrinkles on my face.  Seriously.  There are laugh lines around my eyes.  I call them 'laugh lines' when everybody knows they're actually just signs that the elastin in my skin is no longer doing its job.

I have always thought that plastic surgery was for vain people.  And I'm still of that belief.  But I want me some plastic surgery.  Eyes.  Neck (when it goes - that'll be an important thing to correct), knees (no one likes an old lady knee and, besides which, I've invested in many above-the-knee garments and so it would only be fair to said garments to provide them with suitable knees.  But for the record, the knees have a good few years left in them.)  And rack.  I definitely need a new rack.  I blame The Daughter for lack of rack.  That Being-A-Good-And-Caring-Mother thing allowed her to literally suck the life out of them.  And they used to have life.  They had movement.

But given the fact that I am an adult now - I even wear earrings almost everyday - I think it's high time my female friends came to the party and started doing some Book Club events.  We do other things: Girly Wax Night, Drink-So-Much-That-You-Stage-Karaoke-In-Your-Lounge nights, but never book club.  And that's balls.  Yes.  Balls is what it is.

You see, last night I bore witness to The Mother's Book Club.  (To be honest, I didn't bear so much witness as got heavily involved in conversations and helped finish their wine before they were ready to end the evening.)  And do you know what?  There wasn't a single book present.  And they give each other gifts.  Like The Estate Agent has just returned from China and gave everyone little coin purses.  And The Businesswoman gave The Mother and Her BF Cath Kidston emergency travel packs for their plane trip on Wednesday.  Like, hello!  This is a book club I could get very used to.

And then they drank wine, ate very rad food, and chatted the night away.  But they're elderly.  And they have little staying power (well, on this occasion anyway - I've seen them see the night through and skinny dip and do their own Old Lady Version of Karaoke.  Although their music is much crapper than ours.)  

Isn't that just the kifferest?  And not a book in sight!  And absolutely no discussion about said books because, well, it's not even about books.  Just drinking and being merry and giving of gifts.  Now, that is an evening I can like to like.  Often.

So, The Pant's Girls: we are doing Book Club this year.  We've got the wrinkles.  We partake of the grape.  We like to eat rad food.  That, to me, suggests that we've ticked all the right boxes, no?

Book club.  I need.

And in other, very serious news.  Jealousy had a huge ongeluk yesterday.  His car is a write-off.  But he's okay.  So, his name has officially been changed to Carlos.

Please don't take chances on the roads, guys.  My People are very important to me.  I couldn't handle if anything serious happened to them.

xxx

"You And Me, Babe. How About It?"

Damn. Being on leave is such hard work. I'm exhausted.

You see, usually on Sunday nights, I watch Carte Blanche from my bed. And at 8 o'clock sharp, I switch the TV off. No M-net movie for me, kids. Aunty Pant-Pant needs her sleep. Considering one of the prerequisites for my job is "Survive. The Day". This is impossible without a solid 8 hours.

But last night was different. I watched Carte Blanche. In the lounge! And then I watched the M-net movie. Which was weak. Despite its featuring Hugh Grant (who does appear on my list of sex-pot kadrillionaires I plan to not meet, fall in love with and marry within the next two years.)

But the most glorious thing happened last night. And I only know about it because I'm on leave. Had today been a working day (yes, like you are doing), I would not have been sitting on my balcony, being calm and reflective, looking at the view of the City I Heart at 10 pm. Nope. I would have been in a deep state of bondage with my eyelids.

And so I would have not seen the sky erupt into a splendour of colour and light over The Moses Mabhida stadium. That fireworks display was truly breathtaking. A full 10 minutes of it. Man alive, I love this place.

Also, if I was working today, I wouldn't be heading off to my homestead.

These are my tasks for Being On Leave Monday:

1. Buy cat food (done. Two for the price of one too. Radness.)

2. Go visit Mom. (Mom happens to be at my hairdresser and she's dangerously close to finishing her twaks so I need to stop in and drop some off. I think I'll take a round of cokes too. And make the boys laugh. Ah, emotional prostitution.)

3. Go see My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Absolutely No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh. He's giving me a technological tutorial on how to be a wizard with Twitter and making fan pages for Pantaholic. Oh. And we'll air smooch. And that will be the raddest.

I think that's all I need to do. Yup.

Leave is glorious. Really it is.

And one more thing, completely germaine. I woke up with The Killers' version of 'Romeo & Juliet' playing in my head. I love that song. So much so that when I was buying the cat food I turned on the pizza-faced helper boy and sang, "You and me, babe, how about it?"

He blushed so hard I thought the blood might seep through his skin.

Sorry Pizza-Face. Didn't mean to excite you.

Being A Fag Hag.

It's a short blog. But it's important. The Pant realised, today, why she loves being a fag hag.

Look, I'm eternally grateful for my Gaydar - it's helped prevent me from being involved in very many possibly embarrassing situations. Because, let's face it, gay boys are hot: they have fashion sense, good hair, decent shoes and they always smell so flipping fabulous. These are qualities that attract women to men, no? Well, unless you're into neanderthal. Which I'm not. So my Gaydar has stopped me from lunging on many occasions. Except one. But he was so rugged. The venue should have given me a clue. Note to self: do not go on the hunt in gay clubs.

And it's not only because of their honesty that I'm a happy fag hag. They are honest. Sometimes too much. I will never forget shopping with CT Hairdresser (aw! he's so lovely). I walked out of the dressing room in a t-back vest and jeans. And he shrieked.

CTH: Oh no! Oh no no no no no no no, my dolla! No!

(I thought I looked hip. Happening. Bitching.)

TP: Why? What's wrong?

CTH: Well, firstly, my precious, those jeans. They're wrong on so many levels. But the biggest problem is that they make you look like you have four arses, forget two.

TP: Okay. But what about the top? Doesn't it make my tits look massive?

CTH: Ah shame, my sausage. Listen carefully to me: your tits will never look massive. Ever. Okay? And nothing says "I love carpet" quite like a t-back. Okay?

And it's not only because of their loyalty. I mean, My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Absolutely No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh is the one person upon whom I can count. Regardless of where in the world he may be. Regardless of how dire my situation is. He chose me, you see, and so he sticks by me, regardless. Oh, and we rock Games Evening so much better than Will & Grace. So much.

I love being a fag hag because I love their language. And I feel part of the bigger world when I get to converse using it.

Today, on board my homeward flight (on time! From Lanseria! Miracles happen everyday) my steward was a delightful man. His theatrical demonstration of how to use the stylish life-jacket (especially the blow up part) had me rolling in the aisles in hysterics.

But my finest moment was when he offered me a drink.

Air Steward: Can I get you gorgeous ladies a drink?

TP: Please. A kiddies' activity pack. And a glass of dry white for me, please.

AS: Oo! A Sunday arvie dora for you?

And that was the moment. Dora. He said it. And he knew I knew what it meant. I may have boobs (well, kind of), but I'm part of this Men's Only Club.

And it rocks.

Punishment For Ever Having Had Sex.

So the kiff thing about being a chick is we don't need to go out to have a night of fabulosity. In fact, we don't have to plan fabulosity to experience it. But I suppose that's true of all life: rad things happen when you don't plan for it. Which is why I have absolutely no plans to meet, fall in love with and be married to a sex-pot kadrillionaire in the next two years at all.

The PJF and I decided to spend our last night together at home, sharing the couch with her Chinese lawyer husband, Bradlow. And, let me assure you, it wasn't out of laziness. Nope, we were quite prepared to doll up in push-up bras and high heels. It was because we chose to preserve our friendship that we stayed in. Who'd be designated driver? I see no point in having a solo boozy night.

And so we stayed in. We called it Detox Night. I made a veg soup. PJF poured the wine. And we sat on the couch and watched The Hangover.

But then the strangest thing happened. I went to my room to pack the bag (a task that takes a good hour) when the PJF walked in with a pot of molten wax and another full bottle of wine. Now while Girly Wax and Toenail Night cannot replace the sheer thrill of being outrageously flirted with by hottie-hot-pants en mass, it's still super fun.

So that's what we did until the wee hours of this morning: we waxed, and drank wine, and painted our toenails and reminisced about our high school hostel days and we discussed really siff things. It was good.

And, do you know what? I think The Pant is officially properly healed. Maybe even healed enough to discard the photograph of Larry and His Daughter in my kitchen. Maybe. (But I so do still love His Daughter.)

And the punishment for having a good night with my pal? Possibly even God's punishment for having ever had sex? A children's party this morning!

I'm still reeling from all the learned mothers out there. At this particular jaunt I must impress upon you that The Daughter, product of my loins, was the oldest child. By a good year or two. So I've done all the stages that they've done. I require no re-education on teething or walking or talking or even sleeping habits. The Daughter has a full head of teeth, walks quite nicely in high heels, has a bigger vocabulary than most of the adults present and (joy of joys!) can quite happily sleep until 9 am. Thank. You. Very. Much.

But the highlight of my day? Miss Bossy Boots Know It All Mother who, upon arrival, scouted out the house for possible dangers to her precious child and then pulled out her bag of tricks and began child-proofing someone else's house.

Ummmm... Can you spell 'condescending'?

I need wine. In abundance.

Happy birthday Small Size Son of Travelling Companion.

Help a Technological Re-Tard Out

Hey Panties of My Heart,

Please help this old re-tard out (pronounced, please note, ala Alan of The Hangover) and follow me on Twitter.

I think my address (do you call it that?  see how last Tuesday I am when it comes to this stuff?  In fact, if it wasn't for The BF, my people, and My Future Ex Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh - well, there'd be no blog!) is @Pantaholic.  Does that make sense?

I currently have two followers.  Thanks Mom.  And The BF, my people, who will pay forever if she doesn't follow me.

And while I'm on here, here's a friendly word of advice for Breeders  (those who've bred and those who intend to do so): 

DO NOT GO ON ANY FUNFAIR RIDES AFTER EATING SMOKED SALMON BAGELS.

Children are shmucks.  They'll do anything to get their own way - even emotional blackmail (this I must learn from The Daughter for future relationships).

The Daughter:  Mommy Darling (God, she's good) please may I go on that big boat machine thing after lunch?

The Pant:  Of course you can, Precious Heart.  Just finish your lunch first.

TD:  And if I finish all my lunch like a good girl, will you come on the boat with me?

(You getting the whole emotional blackmail thing??)

TP:  Well, let's see how well you do.

4 minutes later.

TD:  I'm finished Mom.  And you know that I love you more than Granny and Grandpa and any other person in this whole wide world so PPPPLLLLEEEAAASSSEEE will you come with me.

TP:  You really love me that much?

TD:  Yes I love you even more than chocolate, ice-cream and Strawberry Pops (that's big, HUGE).

And so, moments later we were on this big metal machine contraption.  I was, if I'm honest, fairly excited to be one of Those Cool Moms - you know, the ones that actually do stuff with their kids.  I was Rad Mom.

Sitting opposite us were two ultra cool approximate nine-year-olds.  They were so cheeky and rude that if their parents hadn't been in close proximity I might have punched them both in the face so hard that they'd spend tonight brushing their teeth out their arses.  What is it with children this age?  There's one thing that I hope I'll get with age: self-restraint.

And then this machine started.  Humans are not designed to be moved around like that.  And children are clearly not quite human.  As the machine was rocked with this violent mechanical force, so, too, were the contents of my stomach - lurching forwards, backwards, side-to-side, up and down.

Thankfully I'm vain, and was eyeing out a really cute single Dad whose daughter was sitting behind The Daughter and I on rocking Death Contraption.  Otherwise, I would have up-chucked two decaf (I've learned my lesson) cappuccinos, an appletizer and salmon bagel with extra salmon all over those little shits.

And afterwards, I was hanging on the fence, attempting to regain my centre of gravity and lose the nausea by breathing deeply into a brown paper bag, when the daugher declared:

TD:  Mom, can we go again?

To which I replied:

TP:  No, my sausage.  I'd rather die of death than ever do that again.

TD:  Fine.  I want to go to my Granny and Grandpa's house because I love them more than you.

Parenting.  Not easy.

Dear et Al.

I can't sleep again. And this time I blame take-out joints. Why does everything have to come with a drink? Especially after you've been having "tea" with PJF's mom.

Wine makes you thirsty. Fact. And since the Chinese place didn't offer a dinky to accompany cashew nut chicken, my options were limited: Coke, Fanta or Creme Soda (not even water!)

I'm in Jo'burg and so I knew to definitely NOT order a Creme Soda. Not with these Precious Bees buzzing about. And I have it on fairly good authority that Fanta, well it's practically sugar-free. So a no order there. But a coke! Ah, for a sip of coke! A coke: a truly glorious thing.

And I know I shouldn't. But I do it anyway. I drank me some icy coke. All of it. And the result? Caffeine-induced sleeplessness and itchy feet. (The coke has nothing to do with the feet. But they are itchy.)

So here I am. Listening to the noises a sleeping house makes. Dripping tap. Turning bodies. Buzzing (effing) mozzies. Is that a clock tick I hear? (Is there even a clock in this house?) And I'm thinking of all the letters I never wrote. The ones I'd like to have written.

Now if I was thinking of all the stuff I did write and shouldn't have (particularly boozy post-break-up texts), well, I'd be burning up with shame.

So here goes:

1). Dear Geek Who Made Silly Thoughtless Comment About Regina,

You are not and never will be cool. Dissing Regina is tantamount to tattooing "I R Cocksucker" on your forehead. Please don't do it again. I don't want to have to waste you.

With love,

The Pant.

PS. Please keep reading my blog. Thanks muchly.

Oooo! This feels good.

2). Dear Geek Ex-Boyfriend With Perm (no, not Larry - his literature falls under the other category),

What was I thinking?

Regards,

The Pant.

3). Dear Barman,

I was not trying to use my boobs to get me served first. I just stand like that: leaning forward slightly, using both arms to squish mammaries together. It's my posture, okay?

Thanks,

The Pant.

PS. It worked, though. Didn't it?

4). Dear House Mother From High School Hostel,

I am The Pant. PJF is a different person. I know you got us mixed up but you must know she was good. She didn't do anything wrong. It was all me.

Sorry,

The Pant/PJF

And finally.

5). Dear God,

What's with the periods? They suck, you know. The only kiff thing about them (and this is real scrape-the-bottom-of-the-silver-lining barrel stuff) is that I may win a trip to Mauritius with my BFF through Lil-lets.

And it's not just the period. It's the pain. The mood swing. The acne!! What's with that? Come on!

Men hate us for between 5 & 7 out of 28 days.

And what do they get?

Yup, I thought so.

So if you're thinking of doing away with the whole period thing, I'll second you. I'm behind you all the way.

Thanks God. You rock my world. Big style.

See you on Sunday,

All of my love,

Your Pant

X X X

Rocking Nothingness & Its Benefit.

Do you know what I hate about being on leave? Nothing. Absolutely sweet eff all.
I made a decision last night to do nothing today. And while I haven't been entirely successful at Rocking Nothingness, I made a jolly good attempt at it.

The Rules For Rocking Nothingness are:

1. Brush teeth only if you come into contact with other people ('other people' defined as people over the age of 18 excluding The Armpit aka Domestic).

2. Bond with eyelids & new Kathy Lette book. (Yes, I'm in possession of true joy. Life is so good, it's The Goodest).

3. Do not get out of pyjamas. If needs be, get Mr Delivery to bring around fresh milk, and send child to gate with money. Wait - that makes me sound like I care what the acne faced Mr Delivery boy thinks of me. I go to the gate myself. Give him a little thrill. It's possibly the closest he'll ever get to the bedroom of a woman of my calibre.

4. Hide from children. The Armpit assists greatly here. Worry not about their dental hygiene or whether they've been fed. Just hide. Lock doors, if necessary.

And so I was doing quite well with Rocking Nothingness. I was wedged between the Wendy House and the boundary wall - a space that would scarcely fit an anorexic with the death rattle. I had Kathy Lette, tea (self-made, the best way), ciggies and the quietness that a mother rarely experiences.

And then my phone rang. Regina is my ringtone, so I don't mind the intrusion, initially. It was PJF.

The Pant: Hi.

PJF: Why are you whispering?

TP: Hiding from the kids.

PJF: Oh. Shit. My friend is dropping off two more. Is that okay?

TP: Ja. Um. Um...

PJF: Don't worry. I'll be home soon. Got to run. Bye.

She's clever, is PJF. Cuts the call before I can protest.

And it's not the fact that I would be sharing a house with FIVE children to which I intended to protest. It was her early return from work. And it's not that I don't want to hang out with her. That is, after all, the only reason I'm in Jo'burg It's the fact that I'd have to break rules 1 and 3.

So, I'm ready. Dressed. Teeth brushed. With make-up on.

And this, really, is the point of my blog: make-up.

Although The Pant is Down With Love, she has realised that her love for Benefit is true. It's life-long. It's deep. It's all the kinds of love I intend to one day share with a handsome, educated, tanned, foxy, sensitive, god-in-the-bedroom billionaire.

PJF phoned from the gate, "I'm here. Please send The Armpit out to help with groceries.". At this stage I was as fresh-faced as Roquefort cheese.

But by the time she saw me, I looked like me, only much better. That Benetint is a wonder product. Truly it is. Go and buy it immediately.

And that Some Kind-A Gorgeous. Sheesh Kebab! The ease and speed that results in this Amazingness has left me at a loss for words.

Go directly to shop. Buy two. Send one to me. Mine's almost finished.

The Soft Fat Woody.

So here's the deal, right? If you want to have a decent day trip, don't pick The Pant as your tour operator. She sucks. Huge style.

I'd instilled such excitement in the under 7's regarding their Aunty Pant-Pant/Mom And Kids Official Outing To The Bird Gardens that they scarcely slept last night. And they were fed and dressed, with teeth brushed by the time I'd taken the tea bag out of my morning cuppa.

I too battled to sleep last night. I had a cup of tea before bedtime, you see. And so I blogged, and read, and blogged (and deleted) and read. And - ooooo, do you ever do this? - I thought up possible confrontational situations with exes in which I am so slick with tongue that these exes melt into puddles, realise just how wonderful The Pant truly is. And then they beg for me to return to their lives. Cue Barry White music. Dim lighting. And then... Oh my! I'm hot under all these clothes.

And I did this continually until 4 am. Bugger.

I stumbled out of my room at 07:58. Precious Jo'burg Friend was at the kettle. She took one look at me and declared, "You look awesome, Pant. I'm bunking work and making sure you make it through today with these children.". God bless her.

Three hours later, we'd paid our entry fee and were feeding those parrot type birds. There was one on my head. And two on my hand. (Is this a new idiom? A bird on the head is worth two on the hand?)
This is the third time I've done this. The first time, a bird landed on me and I crapped myself so royally that if I'd had a panger handy, I'd have removed the entire limb to rid myself of the sensation. I am - no - was scared of birds. I didn't trust them. They live in the air, for crying out loud, shouldn't they be weightless? Well, I've faced my fears.

So there we were: PJF and me, and our kids, without jerseys, let alone rain coats. And the skies opened. Torrential rain. Outdoor area. The oldest of the three declared, "Mommy, God's crying.". ("Bawling" would be a more appropriate term. The Love of His Life must have surely left him.). To which, The Daughter, product of my Catholic loins responded, "I hate God.".

Yup, we were off to a good start.

We ducked into the casino. Excellent parenting. And fed them KFC. Beyond excellent parenting. (Ooooo - in my Twister [with Zinger sauce] was a tracking device tag. Found three bites from the end. I got another one. Two Twisters for the price of one - radness). Then we shopped.

And then we attempted the Bird Gardens again. We reached the first pen in which pink flamingos were standing on one leg (I think one of their peers was a metro police officer, and had pulled them out of their cars to check just how drunk they really were - they looked pretty effing sober to me - soberer than The Daughter). And then what happened? The skies. They opened with ferocity.

Luckily PJF and I were wearing white tops. We were welcomed indoors by stranger men with such warmth that I was convinced we must have all gone to different schools together.

Outing fail. And doubly expensive because PJF felt sorry for the kids and bought them stuffed toys to compensate. She purchased her Miniature Man a soft Woody (from Toy Story). And the following conversation happened:

Oldest Girl Child: Mom, where did you find a soft Woody?

The Pant: Yes, PJF, I didn't know Woodys could ever be soft.

PJF: I've been looking everywhere for a soft Woody. And today I found one.

OGC: And that Woody's fat.

TP: If you ever find one of those, my angel, you hang on for dear life.

Oh, what they don't understand won't hurt them. Yet.

The Precious Jo'burg Bee.

I'm glad I packed a pair of heels. It was a last minute decision. Obviously there wasn't enough space in the bag. The Pant doesn't know how to pack light. The last time I went to Cape Town, I went for four days. And my luggage weighed 34 kgs. That's substantially more than half my weight. I had to get a personal loan to pay the excess baggage fee.

And it's not like I had excess baggage at the time. In fact, I don't think I'm an excessive excess baggage kind of girl. Really I don't.


But back to the heels. I threw them into The Travelling Companion's car at the last second. Well, not quite "threw" as much as spent fifteen minutes playing a real-life game of Tetris with said heels and The Small Size Son's innumerable toys. The car was so tight that I had Gammy Knee Syndrome upon arrival.

But the heels are with me. And I'm glad. Honest, I wasn't planning on wearing heels. I'm not the kind of girl that wears heels, like, ever. But I do collect them. So my standard peep-toe black stilettos are not the most exciting pair I could've brought with. But they were the only shoes I had on me when the decision was made. They're my emergency heels, you see. They reside full-time in my boot, alongside emergency black pashmina and emergency Carpe Diem beach bag that The Daughter and I use if I finish work early enough and the weather is kiff.

I haven't worn said heels yet. But I plan to. And not only because I have an ass and it deserves some shaking, but because Precious Jo'burg Friend and I haven't really hung out. Well we have. But we're parents, and so we suffer from Constant Interruptionitis.

Take yesterday's lunch outing, for example. We lunched outdoors at a venue that had more jumping castles and farm animals than you could shake a stick at. The kids stuck to us like proverbial shit to a poodle's ass.
The other thing this particular venue had was bees. Thousands of the buggers. They descended on us en mass such that we ran, like little girls, to management to "sort out this unacceptable situation". Now, before you start labelling Precious Jo'burg Friend and me "precious" (which we are), let me just point out that The Daughter's creme soda had six bees floating in it, and eight neatly lined up the straw.

We were promptly moved indoors. And forgotten about. The thirst became so intense that Precious Jo'burg Friend had to slide a knife (with force) between my tongue and palate and wedge the two apart. And when she did this, it sounded like planks snapping.

When The Manager (very important job, almost as important as Examinations Invigilator at large tertiary institution) eventually came over to check my vitals, he suggested that, perhaps, the swarm of bees that nearly obliterated us was, in fact, our fault. And if we'd had the foresight to order Fanta, instead of Creme Sodas, for our children, then we might have enjoyed our lunch outdoors where we would have been looked after by our waitress. Fanta, he explained, has less sugar than Creme Soda and also it's green - a colour which bees prefer to orange.

My my. Don't you learn something new every day? This Jo'burg breed of bee is more precious than I am. Won't drink Fanta. Doesn't like the colour. My my.

So Precious Jo'burg Friend and I have decided to go on a night outing. Because both bees and children will be sleeping. And the latter will be babysat. And us girls? We'll be precious and oozing with super effing radness.