Sundays should be banned. The blues are just too hectic.
Yesterday I woke up with a slight nausea that's become synonymous with weekend mornings. I had, however, only partially contributed to the mass frenzy of wine drainage the afternoon/evening previous and so could not chalk my queasy stomach up to over indulgence.
I'd had every intention of going to church, but when I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I came to the conclusion that it was probably most considerate if I stayed away from the unsuspecting public. This sickness has taken it out of me - I am starting to look not disimilar to the goop that is sometimes found at the bottom of fruit and veggie trays in some fridges.
And if being sick wasn't enough, my brother (aka The Husband) and I officially divorced yesterday. He moved out (by 'moved out' read 'left all his stuff except for a bag of clothes and most of the nice towels'). I'd been looking forward to him leaving, thinking that perhaps it would be nice, perhaps natural even, for The Daughter and I to live alone. I was looking forward to still having cheese in my fridge on Sunday evenings. And not having to make extra sandwiches and tea in the mornings.
But now I realise my error. I miss The Husband, and he's only been gone for one sleep. Last night, I struggled more than I have ever struggled to get to sleep. Every time The Cat jumped about with some or other live creature, I was convinced that a light-footed burglar was creeping through my house, possibly helping himself to my shoes.
And then, at about 21h15, the next-door neighbour's dog started barking so furiously that I thought the miniature pooch must have actually been attacking the ankles of a violent thief. To be honest, I've never noticed the dog's existence until last night. I've not been too concerned with security, only locking the gate and leaving the door open to allow fresh air through the house. But when that mutt began yapping, it took all my courage to get up and steal through the house like a cat burglar myself.
And shit myself, did I. I tentatively placed one foot on the floor, then with the utmost care, placed my weight upon it. The old wooden floorboards creaked beneath my weight. Convinced that runaway convict of Great Expectations' fame was now onto my wakened state, I dropped into a leopard crawl position beside my bed.
My breathing was heavy. My heart beat, audible. Above the racket of my very own vital functions, I was completely unable to hear him helping himself to the silverware.
And then. A crash came. From the kitchen. I soiled my trousers, screamed and began to sob violently. "Oh Jesus, please don't let him find me. I beg you, send back The Husband. I will never again complain about his plates beside the couch. I promise I won't. I'll even stop swearing. I don't deserve this effing fear, do I?"
I slipped underneath my bed and began fumbling for the cellphone charger cord, so I could whip it under the bed, and call the South African equivalent of 911. My fear - nay, my situation - was perfect Sunday night of the 80's 911 Emergency viewing.
But, deep within my heart, I knew that even if the cops did know about my predicament, they'd be too busy doing nothing to respond to me. And so, being The Parent of The Household, I forced myself to go and assess the situation: The Cat, in the centre of the darkened kitchen, licking butter from the broken butter dish.
I need My Husband back. Or any Husband for that matter. I don't need him to share my bed, just to go to sleep in the spare room so I don't feel so alone. So, if you're done with yours, please send him over. He can have free reign of the remote control, eat all my cheese and I'll prepare daily lunches and morning tea. As long as I don't have to sleep alone again.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Adulthood - Does It Exist?
I went to a family lunch yesterday, which lasted long into yesterday evening.
I have been part of this particular family my whole life, which, according to The (very well trained) Daughter is 20 years. In those "20 years" I have never eaten pork. Pigs, because of their pinkness, remind me of humans - pink humans. And so I don't eat pigs or their bi-products. It's not an I-love-pigs-so-much-that-I-daren't-eat-them situation. Really, it's not. The thought of eating pig flesh, for me, is like eating human flesh - and, I'm sure you can imagine, that doesn't rock my world.
Also, I don't particularly like the taste of pig. And, as I'm ageing, I find meat in general less and less appealing. I just don't want to suck marrow and juices out of the knuckles of dead animals. Look - I'll do it - but I'm starting to prefer more civilised ways of eating. I really don't want you to get the impression that I am anything like my (strumpet hussy charlatan) ex-sister-in-law who doesn't eat certain animals "because of their intelligence". (The real reason is to be different and difficult. I bet she tucks into biltong when she's alone.)
Anyway, my uncle, who'd had a bottle of leg-spreader while cooking, cooked what looked, and certainly was reported to be, one of the finest roast porks known to mankind. Even to me, the crackling looked inviting.
The Uncle: Pant - you're not eating meat. Are you not feeling well?
(I'd hoped not to make a big scene. I'd hoped that the fact that he'd drained another bottle of leg-spreader by the time we'd sat at the table would ensure he wouldn't notice my plate.)
The Pant: No, I'm fine. This is enough for me.
TU: But there's no meat on your plate.
TP: Don't worry, I'm fine.
TU: Don't you eat pork?
(I've got to tell you that my uncle has the loudest voice known to man. Minutes after he'd bellowed "don't you eat pork?", I got a text from Precious Jo'burg Friend: How can he not know you don't eat pork? After all these years?)
The Mother: She doesn't eat pork. And she's not that fond of meat. I'm not sure whose child she is.
TU: You don't eat meat? That's insane. What do you eat if you don't eat meat?
TP: I do eat meat. I just don't eat it often. And I'm not that into roast pork. Please can we stop focussing on me and just start eating.
TU: Or how about I'll quickly go and fry some pork chops for you?
(Pork chops... aren't they made of pork?)
TP: No thanks, Uncle. This is perfect for me. Besides which, I'm leaving a little more space for wine.
TU: That's my girl. More wine. Ra-ra.
The problem with hanging out with your family, like I did yesterday - particularly family you don't get to see very often - is that things invariably get out of hand. The Father is a non-drinker, as is The Daughter (which is a good thing), and so they bugger off to do really cool things, like search other people's houses for leftover Christmas decoration and restage the February edition of The Nativity Scene. (They titled yesterday's play: "When Joseph and Mary Found A Real House and Mary Was Able To Plug Her Cellphone In And Sing Versions Of Regina Spektor's Samson to Her Babe In Arms." A very modern take on an exceptionally traditional historical moment. Truly breathtaking.)
But those that were drinking became more and more immature as the night dragged on. And not in a bad way. It was just interesting to watch. You see, I've been waiting to feel like an adult for the longest time. I have tried to be adult - I even wear earrings - but when I do adulty things, I always have the slight disappointment that I'm just not doing it right. Last night was for me, an affirmation that I'm probably as adult as I'm ever going to be, which is as adult as real adults are.
The Uncle started hugging and kissing The Father, declaring his love for him and suggesting that it wasn't the liquor talking. The Mother and The Aunt discussed (and giggled about) their ex-boyfriends from their teenage years. They even got into an argument over whose jeans those were - all those decades ago. And when the wine ran out - a feat I'm not even sure The BF and I could have accomplished - they uncorked Frangelico and started fining each other.
I'm feeling better about myself. Maybe I am an adult after all. Or maybe this adulthood thing doesn't really exist. Maybe.
I have been part of this particular family my whole life, which, according to The (very well trained) Daughter is 20 years. In those "20 years" I have never eaten pork. Pigs, because of their pinkness, remind me of humans - pink humans. And so I don't eat pigs or their bi-products. It's not an I-love-pigs-so-much-that-I-daren't-eat-them situation. Really, it's not. The thought of eating pig flesh, for me, is like eating human flesh - and, I'm sure you can imagine, that doesn't rock my world.
Also, I don't particularly like the taste of pig. And, as I'm ageing, I find meat in general less and less appealing. I just don't want to suck marrow and juices out of the knuckles of dead animals. Look - I'll do it - but I'm starting to prefer more civilised ways of eating. I really don't want you to get the impression that I am anything like my (strumpet hussy charlatan) ex-sister-in-law who doesn't eat certain animals "because of their intelligence". (The real reason is to be different and difficult. I bet she tucks into biltong when she's alone.)
Anyway, my uncle, who'd had a bottle of leg-spreader while cooking, cooked what looked, and certainly was reported to be, one of the finest roast porks known to mankind. Even to me, the crackling looked inviting.
The Uncle: Pant - you're not eating meat. Are you not feeling well?
(I'd hoped not to make a big scene. I'd hoped that the fact that he'd drained another bottle of leg-spreader by the time we'd sat at the table would ensure he wouldn't notice my plate.)
The Pant: No, I'm fine. This is enough for me.
TU: But there's no meat on your plate.
TP: Don't worry, I'm fine.
TU: Don't you eat pork?
(I've got to tell you that my uncle has the loudest voice known to man. Minutes after he'd bellowed "don't you eat pork?", I got a text from Precious Jo'burg Friend: How can he not know you don't eat pork? After all these years?)
The Mother: She doesn't eat pork. And she's not that fond of meat. I'm not sure whose child she is.
TU: You don't eat meat? That's insane. What do you eat if you don't eat meat?
TP: I do eat meat. I just don't eat it often. And I'm not that into roast pork. Please can we stop focussing on me and just start eating.
TU: Or how about I'll quickly go and fry some pork chops for you?
(Pork chops... aren't they made of pork?)
TP: No thanks, Uncle. This is perfect for me. Besides which, I'm leaving a little more space for wine.
TU: That's my girl. More wine. Ra-ra.
The problem with hanging out with your family, like I did yesterday - particularly family you don't get to see very often - is that things invariably get out of hand. The Father is a non-drinker, as is The Daughter (which is a good thing), and so they bugger off to do really cool things, like search other people's houses for leftover Christmas decoration and restage the February edition of The Nativity Scene. (They titled yesterday's play: "When Joseph and Mary Found A Real House and Mary Was Able To Plug Her Cellphone In And Sing Versions Of Regina Spektor's Samson to Her Babe In Arms." A very modern take on an exceptionally traditional historical moment. Truly breathtaking.)
But those that were drinking became more and more immature as the night dragged on. And not in a bad way. It was just interesting to watch. You see, I've been waiting to feel like an adult for the longest time. I have tried to be adult - I even wear earrings - but when I do adulty things, I always have the slight disappointment that I'm just not doing it right. Last night was for me, an affirmation that I'm probably as adult as I'm ever going to be, which is as adult as real adults are.
The Uncle started hugging and kissing The Father, declaring his love for him and suggesting that it wasn't the liquor talking. The Mother and The Aunt discussed (and giggled about) their ex-boyfriends from their teenage years. They even got into an argument over whose jeans those were - all those decades ago. And when the wine ran out - a feat I'm not even sure The BF and I could have accomplished - they uncorked Frangelico and started fining each other.
I'm feeling better about myself. Maybe I am an adult after all. Or maybe this adulthood thing doesn't really exist. Maybe.
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Pant's State of Co-Dependence.
I may be a parent myself, but when I'm sick I revert straight back to a childish state of co-dependence. And so it was that yesterday I packed The Daughter and myself into my faithful Wanda and made the hour's trip to my parental homestead. I drove with the window open, and pulled over three times to dry retch onto the steamy bitumen.
The Mother was taken aback when she heard my hooter sound desperately at her gate - she even came out to greet me.
The Mother: Why are you here?
The Pant: Hi, Mom.
TM: Yes, yes, hi. But why are you here?
TP: Sick. Think I might be (mock charge) pregnant.
At which point, The Mother burst into a fit of laughter so intense she had to cross her legs to prevent tears from running down her inner thighs.
The Mother: Pregnant! Stop! You're so funny. (Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.). You need to um... you know... to be, you know, with-child. Pregnant. Pant, you are such a card.
I did not feel like a card. Nor did I feel like the rich Chicken Korma she prepared to "settle" my stomach. (I think she may have sadistic tendencies: have daughter feeling nauseous, must go to great lengths to get her to up-chuck.)
And so I declined supper (but snuck out to The Maid's room for a serving of samp and beans). And I declined a glass of red. It is when I declined the wine that she began to honestly worry. The change in attitude to my state was profound.
The Mother: I read your blog. Maybe the salmon wasn't that fresh after all. Let me phone The BF to check on her state of health.
(The BF was fine. And so The Mother began to worry more.)
TM: Okay. Are you pregnant?
The Pant: Not unless it's The Second Coming.
TM: Hmmmmm.... Doubtful. But not impossible - you are my child, after all. Hmmmm.... I know! Maybe it's a bug. Maybe my own offspring are human after all, and they, too, get sick.
TP: It would appear so.
She then leaned toward me and brushed my forehead with her lips (Moms are super rad, aren't they?)
TM: You're really hot!
TP: That's what all the men say, Mom. But I'm in no mood for flattery.
TM: No, you're not hot like that (thanks, Mom). You've got a temperature. You're not such a prima donna! My, oh my.
And that's when her compassion kicked in. She tucked me into bed - her bed - with a You magazine, and left me with the promise that "Dad can sleep in the spare room, and you can sleep with Mommy tonight".
A good 10 hours sleep next to my Mommy Darling, and I woke up feeling like a regular human merely being. My mom is all kinds of rad. Especially when I'm really sick.
The Mother was taken aback when she heard my hooter sound desperately at her gate - she even came out to greet me.
The Mother: Why are you here?
The Pant: Hi, Mom.
TM: Yes, yes, hi. But why are you here?
TP: Sick. Think I might be (mock charge) pregnant.
At which point, The Mother burst into a fit of laughter so intense she had to cross her legs to prevent tears from running down her inner thighs.
The Mother: Pregnant! Stop! You're so funny. (Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.). You need to um... you know... to be, you know, with-child. Pregnant. Pant, you are such a card.
I did not feel like a card. Nor did I feel like the rich Chicken Korma she prepared to "settle" my stomach. (I think she may have sadistic tendencies: have daughter feeling nauseous, must go to great lengths to get her to up-chuck.)
And so I declined supper (but snuck out to The Maid's room for a serving of samp and beans). And I declined a glass of red. It is when I declined the wine that she began to honestly worry. The change in attitude to my state was profound.
The Mother: I read your blog. Maybe the salmon wasn't that fresh after all. Let me phone The BF to check on her state of health.
(The BF was fine. And so The Mother began to worry more.)
TM: Okay. Are you pregnant?
The Pant: Not unless it's The Second Coming.
TM: Hmmmmm.... Doubtful. But not impossible - you are my child, after all. Hmmmm.... I know! Maybe it's a bug. Maybe my own offspring are human after all, and they, too, get sick.
TP: It would appear so.
She then leaned toward me and brushed my forehead with her lips (Moms are super rad, aren't they?)
TM: You're really hot!
TP: That's what all the men say, Mom. But I'm in no mood for flattery.
TM: No, you're not hot like that (thanks, Mom). You've got a temperature. You're not such a prima donna! My, oh my.
And that's when her compassion kicked in. She tucked me into bed - her bed - with a You magazine, and left me with the promise that "Dad can sleep in the spare room, and you can sleep with Mommy tonight".
A good 10 hours sleep next to my Mommy Darling, and I woke up feeling like a regular human merely being. My mom is all kinds of rad. Especially when I'm really sick.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Snoop Doggy Dog.
With Carlos away, and Other Close Friend's house a potentially unsafe dwelling zone, coupled with my own eager enthusiasm, every night is girls' night. (And no, Carlos, not in that way. There are no photos). Amen.
I am absolved of all duties domestic as it is The BF's cooking week. Therefore she is planner of menu and, as such, ultimately controls what my energy input will be for the day. I figured, then, that it would be somewhat rude to bbm her: Pal - feel like sushi tonight. You keen?
And so, instead, I opted for the slightly more subtle yet (as it turns out) exceptionally effective approach: I sent a tweet out into the universe.
@pantaholic Dear Anyone Who Loves Me, please pick up 3 x portion salmon roses, 2 x tempura prawn bamboo rolls & 2 x salmon sashimi. Thanks muchly.
The BF arrived home laden with fishy delights. God. Bless. Her.
And so, there we were, us four girls seated around the table, making exceptionally technically apt remarks about our fare:
The BF: Mmmmmm... the salmon is fresh (a good thing, I suppose).
The Pant: (Munch munch munch) be careful of the soya stuff I made - it's quite wasabi-y. Maybe add some more soya. But not too much. Don't want to it too soya-y (Jamie Oliver would be proud).
Other Close Friend: Please pass my fork. Only eating with a fork because they only had two sets of chopsticks.
The Pant: Oh, I've got tons of chopsticks downstairs. I'll run and get you so-
OCF: No (emphatic). You don't want to go all the way downstairs on account of me. I'll just eat with a fork. Really. It's fine.
The BF: Careful with the salmon roses - best to use your hands - they're quite fally aparty. (See, jargon of culinary experts. Culinese, I like to call it.)
And so, there we were, dip dipping, munch munching in complete satisfied silence. Well, not in complete satisfied silence since all of us were secretly think, "Man alive, would this be tasty with wine... Hmmmm... If I bring up wine, I'll appear like an alcoholic. Best keep quiet and try and imagine exceptionally complementary palate of wine with this outstanding sushi. La dee dah dah. Wine wine wine."
And then The Daughter piped up:
The Daughter: Why do you never have to finish your food and I always do? It's just because you guys are adults and I'm just a kid. (I have no memory of giving birth to a small-sized goat, to be honest.)
The Pant: You need to grow big and strong, that's why you have to eat all your dinner. Now, don't whine and eat up.
OCF: Wine? Did you say wine? Yes please!
The BF and The Pant (in chorus): Me too!
And thus, within seconds a bottle of the finest white was uncorked. We sushied and wined in a profound state of merriment. And then we did what all girls secretly do but pretend like they don't do: we snoop doggy dogged all over Facebook.
In fact, we were such hardcore snoop doggy doggers, the only thing that was missing from the picture was three leather skull caps, three gold teeth, three belt-loop-to-pocket chains and a bevy of scantily-clad go-go girls who we'd collectively refer to as "Our Bitches".
And our snooping went in this order:
1). Baby photos and uneducated dress sense of certain mothers. (A three-month-old in a pair of jeans is not cute. In fact, it's all kinds of weird. As are three-year-olds in black satin dresses.)
2). Hideous Weddings. (And the shoes? What is that - a man or a woman? No! She could have at least ironed the hem of her dress.)
3). Ex-boyfriends. (It must be noted that The Pant avoided all things ex but did get to offer several judgemental interjections: What were you thinking? Were you thinking? Please tell me you were drunk for the entire duration of that relationship.)
4). Pregnancy Photos. (Why do we do that to ourselves? Seriously. Sure, miracle of life and all, but why broadcast to people who have not seen you naked what you look like at your most bloated and undesirable? When you pack on 20 kgs on your face - don't record it. Or record it but don't broadcast it.)
Note to self: remove all pregnancy photos soonest.
I am absolved of all duties domestic as it is The BF's cooking week. Therefore she is planner of menu and, as such, ultimately controls what my energy input will be for the day. I figured, then, that it would be somewhat rude to bbm her: Pal - feel like sushi tonight. You keen?
And so, instead, I opted for the slightly more subtle yet (as it turns out) exceptionally effective approach: I sent a tweet out into the universe.
@pantaholic Dear Anyone Who Loves Me, please pick up 3 x portion salmon roses, 2 x tempura prawn bamboo rolls & 2 x salmon sashimi. Thanks muchly.
The BF arrived home laden with fishy delights. God. Bless. Her.
And so, there we were, us four girls seated around the table, making exceptionally technically apt remarks about our fare:
The BF: Mmmmmm... the salmon is fresh (a good thing, I suppose).
The Pant: (Munch munch munch) be careful of the soya stuff I made - it's quite wasabi-y. Maybe add some more soya. But not too much. Don't want to it too soya-y (Jamie Oliver would be proud).
Other Close Friend: Please pass my fork. Only eating with a fork because they only had two sets of chopsticks.
The Pant: Oh, I've got tons of chopsticks downstairs. I'll run and get you so-
OCF: No (emphatic). You don't want to go all the way downstairs on account of me. I'll just eat with a fork. Really. It's fine.
The BF: Careful with the salmon roses - best to use your hands - they're quite fally aparty. (See, jargon of culinary experts. Culinese, I like to call it.)
And so, there we were, dip dipping, munch munching in complete satisfied silence. Well, not in complete satisfied silence since all of us were secretly think, "Man alive, would this be tasty with wine... Hmmmm... If I bring up wine, I'll appear like an alcoholic. Best keep quiet and try and imagine exceptionally complementary palate of wine with this outstanding sushi. La dee dah dah. Wine wine wine."
And then The Daughter piped up:
The Daughter: Why do you never have to finish your food and I always do? It's just because you guys are adults and I'm just a kid. (I have no memory of giving birth to a small-sized goat, to be honest.)
The Pant: You need to grow big and strong, that's why you have to eat all your dinner. Now, don't whine and eat up.
OCF: Wine? Did you say wine? Yes please!
The BF and The Pant (in chorus): Me too!
And thus, within seconds a bottle of the finest white was uncorked. We sushied and wined in a profound state of merriment. And then we did what all girls secretly do but pretend like they don't do: we snoop doggy dogged all over Facebook.
In fact, we were such hardcore snoop doggy doggers, the only thing that was missing from the picture was three leather skull caps, three gold teeth, three belt-loop-to-pocket chains and a bevy of scantily-clad go-go girls who we'd collectively refer to as "Our Bitches".
And our snooping went in this order:
1). Baby photos and uneducated dress sense of certain mothers. (A three-month-old in a pair of jeans is not cute. In fact, it's all kinds of weird. As are three-year-olds in black satin dresses.)
2). Hideous Weddings. (And the shoes? What is that - a man or a woman? No! She could have at least ironed the hem of her dress.)
3). Ex-boyfriends. (It must be noted that The Pant avoided all things ex but did get to offer several judgemental interjections: What were you thinking? Were you thinking? Please tell me you were drunk for the entire duration of that relationship.)
4). Pregnancy Photos. (Why do we do that to ourselves? Seriously. Sure, miracle of life and all, but why broadcast to people who have not seen you naked what you look like at your most bloated and undesirable? When you pack on 20 kgs on your face - don't record it. Or record it but don't broadcast it.)
Note to self: remove all pregnancy photos soonest.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Good Friends and Red Wine.
Yesterday was a collective bad day for womankind. I know. I was one of them.
In spite of having won a prize - the second I've ever won - yesterday sucked ass. (The first prize I won was a deckchair - I'm not really the deckchair type so I've yet to pick it up. Yesterday I won a book. I'm a book girl so thanks muchly to the very groovy people at Pan Macmillan who are in the throes of sending me a copy of Emma Donoghue's Room. Yay for winning. And a book too - all over my face.)
I've spent the past couple of months - The Post Larry Months, I like to call them - focussing my attention on being positive: See hottie-hot-pants, delight in glorious sight. Eat block of blue cheese, remember that Larry never liked it. Play Alanis Morrisette at top volume, remember that he didn't like her too. Have weekend time in Durban, remember that was not able to have groovy weekend time in Durban when was with him. You know, try not focus on the fact that am not with the one I love, but celebrate in what that offers.
But sometimes, and, believe me, it has happened seldom of late, I have a lapse in this positivity. And so yesterday afternoon, I sat on my steps and allowed myself to be bleak. And then realised that I had to get rid of any link to my work day so rapidly changed into pyjamas.
The BF had left a bottle of wine at mine sometime during last week, so I devised a sneaky plan to return wine to The BF but make her promise that she'd share it with me given that I'd returned it. It was when she opened the door, five minutes after her return from work, in her pyjamas that I knew I wasn't alone.
The Pant: I'm returning your wine. As long as I can have a glass immediately with you.
The BF: Shit day? I've got a glass going already. Nice pyjamas.
TP: You too.
The BF: And Other Close Friend (seated on couch, also in pyjamas sipping wine) has had a shocker too.
(At which point, I burst into tears.)
The Daughter: My mom says her eyes are sore. I think she's telling a fib because she's also got a sad face on but I promise I've been a good.
(More tears. I'm actually welling up as I type this - how pathetic can women be sometimes?)
The BF: Ah, poppet. (Bursts into tears.) You're such a special girl. I think your mom's eyes are sore. You're always a good girl.
TP: Other Close Friend, what (sob) is up with you?
Other Close Friend: My house got broken into today and (bursts into tears, sob sob) my boyfriend is away overseas.
(The BF, my people, thrusts into my hand glass of wine which, in the same fluid movement, makes it to my lips.)
TP: Oh fu*k. Sorry pally. Were you there? Are you okay? (She shook her head and continued on her quest to find suitably safe new house on her computer through misty eyes.) And you pal (turning on The BF) what happened with you?
The BF: Carlos is (sob sob) away for two weeks. And two people, my friends, got fired today.
So there we were, three crying ladies and one very worried little girl. (Ah bless! She didn't leave my side and repeatedly told me that she loves and that I'm still the prettiest mommy even though I look ugly when I cry.)
There's something in having a cry-out with people who love you. It's healing. Being yourself with people who like you for who you are, in spite of your weakness is all kinds of kiff. Plus girls really do know how to cheer each other up. We had the four ingredients: red wine (obviously), blue cheese on biscuits (supper - kiff), Alanis Morrisette (because she's all kinds of girly kiff) and hot men - thanks very much Carlos's issues of Men's Health.
The Cat - the only male company of the evening - responded to our team cry in the only way males know how:
Go figure.
In spite of having won a prize - the second I've ever won - yesterday sucked ass. (The first prize I won was a deckchair - I'm not really the deckchair type so I've yet to pick it up. Yesterday I won a book. I'm a book girl so thanks muchly to the very groovy people at Pan Macmillan who are in the throes of sending me a copy of Emma Donoghue's Room. Yay for winning. And a book too - all over my face.)
I've spent the past couple of months - The Post Larry Months, I like to call them - focussing my attention on being positive: See hottie-hot-pants, delight in glorious sight. Eat block of blue cheese, remember that Larry never liked it. Play Alanis Morrisette at top volume, remember that he didn't like her too. Have weekend time in Durban, remember that was not able to have groovy weekend time in Durban when was with him. You know, try not focus on the fact that am not with the one I love, but celebrate in what that offers.
But sometimes, and, believe me, it has happened seldom of late, I have a lapse in this positivity. And so yesterday afternoon, I sat on my steps and allowed myself to be bleak. And then realised that I had to get rid of any link to my work day so rapidly changed into pyjamas.
The BF had left a bottle of wine at mine sometime during last week, so I devised a sneaky plan to return wine to The BF but make her promise that she'd share it with me given that I'd returned it. It was when she opened the door, five minutes after her return from work, in her pyjamas that I knew I wasn't alone.
The Pant: I'm returning your wine. As long as I can have a glass immediately with you.
The BF: Shit day? I've got a glass going already. Nice pyjamas.
TP: You too.
The BF: And Other Close Friend (seated on couch, also in pyjamas sipping wine) has had a shocker too.
(At which point, I burst into tears.)
The Daughter: My mom says her eyes are sore. I think she's telling a fib because she's also got a sad face on but I promise I've been a good.
(More tears. I'm actually welling up as I type this - how pathetic can women be sometimes?)
The BF: Ah, poppet. (Bursts into tears.) You're such a special girl. I think your mom's eyes are sore. You're always a good girl.
TP: Other Close Friend, what (sob) is up with you?
Other Close Friend: My house got broken into today and (bursts into tears, sob sob) my boyfriend is away overseas.
(The BF, my people, thrusts into my hand glass of wine which, in the same fluid movement, makes it to my lips.)
TP: Oh fu*k. Sorry pally. Were you there? Are you okay? (She shook her head and continued on her quest to find suitably safe new house on her computer through misty eyes.) And you pal (turning on The BF) what happened with you?
The BF: Carlos is (sob sob) away for two weeks. And two people, my friends, got fired today.
So there we were, three crying ladies and one very worried little girl. (Ah bless! She didn't leave my side and repeatedly told me that she loves and that I'm still the prettiest mommy even though I look ugly when I cry.)
There's something in having a cry-out with people who love you. It's healing. Being yourself with people who like you for who you are, in spite of your weakness is all kinds of kiff. Plus girls really do know how to cheer each other up. We had the four ingredients: red wine (obviously), blue cheese on biscuits (supper - kiff), Alanis Morrisette (because she's all kinds of girly kiff) and hot men - thanks very much Carlos's issues of Men's Health.
The Cat - the only male company of the evening - responded to our team cry in the only way males know how:
Go figure.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Menopausal Pant.
It's official: I'm going through menopause. Granted I'm not even at the prime of my sexual life, I've got a good couple of years of breeding in me and ... Bham! What happens? I've hit menopause. Fan-effing-tastic.
If I'd known it was in the post, I'd have dressed for the occasion. But if I'd known, what would I have worn? What is the appropriate attire for passing on to the next phase of womanhood? A twinset and pearls? Perhaps teamed with a tweed skirt?
Okay. It must also be noted that I'm wont to jump to conclusions. Am perspiring therefore must be going through menopause. (Have headache, must be tumour. Have runny nose, must be full-blown pneumonia. Have sore back, must be osteoporosis.) But I have noticed a serious increase in the sweatage factor. Take last night (and the previous 90 nights this summer) as a prime example: I woke up so drenched in sweat that I had to towel myself dry and change faithful pyjama bottoms into skimpy knickers.
And on our 'run' this morning, again - oh, how it poured. Not as a result of sheer exertion, I might add. But because of the sexual heat that serves as an erotic aura around Black Polyshorts Guy. I was so flushed that my running shorts threatened to slip right off.
(On the subject of running, I've had to blow Hottie-Hot Pants Runner Guy off. I like healthy. I like fit - oh, do I like fit. I like ripped - a nice treat too after my previous lovers. But, seriously, exercising so often? And, "Really, another glass of wine? On a week night?". Yes, Sunshine, another glass of wine. To be chased down with two more if I'm ever going to drink you interesting. Excellent way to get into a girl's knickers, pal. Plus he dropped vowels in his texts and is a total stranger to the full stop. Off-putting.)
I'm sweating so much that I'm either pregnant or the good old ovaries are calcifying. I doubt I'm pregnant. Given my Down With Love status. But what a conversation that'd be: "Hi, sorry to interrupt your exceptionally busy day, Very Important Man. It's just that I'm pregnant and it's yours. Again, sorry to disturb. Nice chatting." I can just imagine the poor man - taking on the pasty look of a middle-aged cadaver. Oh, how I'd chuckle.
I also managed to perspire quite substantially whilst on the beach on Sunday. I love the beach. I mean, where else would it be perfectly acceptable to walk around in less than your underwear? It's a perfect first date setting - at least you get to window shop before trying on the garment. But, honestly, could so many nubile men be in one place? The one number was so hot that my can of coke opened itself as I 'nonchalantly' walked past him, sucking in my stomach while simultaneously tensing every muscle in entire body to prevent wobble. We had to retreat into the over-weight crowd at uShaka because I think my thick-tongue-screen-saver appearance was even embarrassing The Daughter.
And so (I never thought I'd say this), Winter, where the hell are you? I just need a good night's sleep, for crying out loud! I'd like to not have to change my linen daily. I'd like to have make-up on past nine o'clock. I'd like to greet three o'clock without swollen feet. I'd like a cup of effing tea.
And I need to wear my new grey mohair dress. It's so pretty, hanging there. Something that pretty sure does deserve an outing.
So, if you could pop in Mondays thru Fridays, that'd be charming. But please bugger off on the weekends. I got some beach lovin' to do.
If I'd known it was in the post, I'd have dressed for the occasion. But if I'd known, what would I have worn? What is the appropriate attire for passing on to the next phase of womanhood? A twinset and pearls? Perhaps teamed with a tweed skirt?
Okay. It must also be noted that I'm wont to jump to conclusions. Am perspiring therefore must be going through menopause. (Have headache, must be tumour. Have runny nose, must be full-blown pneumonia. Have sore back, must be osteoporosis.) But I have noticed a serious increase in the sweatage factor. Take last night (and the previous 90 nights this summer) as a prime example: I woke up so drenched in sweat that I had to towel myself dry and change faithful pyjama bottoms into skimpy knickers.
And on our 'run' this morning, again - oh, how it poured. Not as a result of sheer exertion, I might add. But because of the sexual heat that serves as an erotic aura around Black Polyshorts Guy. I was so flushed that my running shorts threatened to slip right off.
(On the subject of running, I've had to blow Hottie-Hot Pants Runner Guy off. I like healthy. I like fit - oh, do I like fit. I like ripped - a nice treat too after my previous lovers. But, seriously, exercising so often? And, "Really, another glass of wine? On a week night?". Yes, Sunshine, another glass of wine. To be chased down with two more if I'm ever going to drink you interesting. Excellent way to get into a girl's knickers, pal. Plus he dropped vowels in his texts and is a total stranger to the full stop. Off-putting.)
I'm sweating so much that I'm either pregnant or the good old ovaries are calcifying. I doubt I'm pregnant. Given my Down With Love status. But what a conversation that'd be: "Hi, sorry to interrupt your exceptionally busy day, Very Important Man. It's just that I'm pregnant and it's yours. Again, sorry to disturb. Nice chatting." I can just imagine the poor man - taking on the pasty look of a middle-aged cadaver. Oh, how I'd chuckle.
I also managed to perspire quite substantially whilst on the beach on Sunday. I love the beach. I mean, where else would it be perfectly acceptable to walk around in less than your underwear? It's a perfect first date setting - at least you get to window shop before trying on the garment. But, honestly, could so many nubile men be in one place? The one number was so hot that my can of coke opened itself as I 'nonchalantly' walked past him, sucking in my stomach while simultaneously tensing every muscle in entire body to prevent wobble. We had to retreat into the over-weight crowd at uShaka because I think my thick-tongue-screen-saver appearance was even embarrassing The Daughter.
And so (I never thought I'd say this), Winter, where the hell are you? I just need a good night's sleep, for crying out loud! I'd like to not have to change my linen daily. I'd like to have make-up on past nine o'clock. I'd like to greet three o'clock without swollen feet. I'd like a cup of effing tea.
And I need to wear my new grey mohair dress. It's so pretty, hanging there. Something that pretty sure does deserve an outing.
So, if you could pop in Mondays thru Fridays, that'd be charming. But please bugger off on the weekends. I got some beach lovin' to do.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The One Up Of A One-Day Weekend.
There's something to be said for working on a Saturday. Sure, the fact that you actually have to work sucks a little bit of ass. (And by 'a little bit of', I mean 'huge'.). And, of course, one is obliged to take their Friday night easy - unless you're The Pant. Because if you are The Pant then you go balls to the walls with your mother (mentality: have company, must get hammered).
And yes, I did wake up for work an hour late this morning. The sun poured through my windows and I had a brief feeling that it was Sunday. I felt ever so rested. Restored. But then realised it was Monday morning and screamed "fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k!" Then I tripped over the cat and slammed face first into the bathroom door. Black eye: glamourous.
Of course, when I saw myself in the mirror prior to my ever-so-rushed shower, I noticed not only a black eye, but exceptional sunburn. My nose is so red that I've had to use approximately a litre of base to cover it up. Fortunately, though, I have no sunglasses tan - I lost those bad boys yesterday. (And I loved them. And true love lasts a life time.)
I'm currently wearing these:
Also, I had to turn down tickets to the rugby on Saturday owing to extreme exhaustion as a result of tying the dogs loose with The Mother and having worked a full day. I spent my Saturday evening on the couch, watching a mammoth omnibus of Come Dine With Me. I was so exhausted that I couldn't bare to face my stove and ordered in pizza. Single. And a coke. At a whopping R130. I feel like I've been raped.
Actually, working on Saturday holds very little joy. But there is one up (note: singular). And this little thing has made me smile such that I have severe cheek cramp and what looks like the beginnings of fresh wrinkles. When you've only got one weekend day, you better make it good. And so, yesterday, The Daughter and I spent our glorious Sunday at uShaka. And what an effing jol we had.
We laughed so much that my six-pack is back in fine form. We went down more supertubes than you could shake a stick at. We had hideously over-priced hot dogs with cheap tomato sauce and even more hideously over-priced ice-creams (all over our face kiff). And she made me the proudest mama cat in the whole world.
I love her. She's so brave. She did that biggish slide thing all on her own. I'm so chuffed.
Get a daughter. They'll rock your world to its core. Even when nobody else does.
PS (Totally germaine) I'm wearing a bra today and my boobs look so big (it's all relative) that I think I may have a crush on myself.
And yes, I did wake up for work an hour late this morning. The sun poured through my windows and I had a brief feeling that it was Sunday. I felt ever so rested. Restored. But then realised it was Monday morning and screamed "fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k!" Then I tripped over the cat and slammed face first into the bathroom door. Black eye: glamourous.
Of course, when I saw myself in the mirror prior to my ever-so-rushed shower, I noticed not only a black eye, but exceptional sunburn. My nose is so red that I've had to use approximately a litre of base to cover it up. Fortunately, though, I have no sunglasses tan - I lost those bad boys yesterday. (And I loved them. And true love lasts a life time.)
I'm currently wearing these:
Also, I had to turn down tickets to the rugby on Saturday owing to extreme exhaustion as a result of tying the dogs loose with The Mother and having worked a full day. I spent my Saturday evening on the couch, watching a mammoth omnibus of Come Dine With Me. I was so exhausted that I couldn't bare to face my stove and ordered in pizza. Single. And a coke. At a whopping R130. I feel like I've been raped.
Actually, working on Saturday holds very little joy. But there is one up (note: singular). And this little thing has made me smile such that I have severe cheek cramp and what looks like the beginnings of fresh wrinkles. When you've only got one weekend day, you better make it good. And so, yesterday, The Daughter and I spent our glorious Sunday at uShaka. And what an effing jol we had.
We laughed so much that my six-pack is back in fine form. We went down more supertubes than you could shake a stick at. We had hideously over-priced hot dogs with cheap tomato sauce and even more hideously over-priced ice-creams (all over our face kiff). And she made me the proudest mama cat in the whole world.
I love her. She's so brave. She did that biggish slide thing all on her own. I'm so chuffed.
Get a daughter. They'll rock your world to its core. Even when nobody else does.
PS (Totally germaine) I'm wearing a bra today and my boobs look so big (it's all relative) that I think I may have a crush on myself.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Incubator - Bad Influence.
Shit.
Warning: Do not invite your mother for dinner on a school night. Sheeeeesh ke-effing-bab. She's hardcore. and as a result, please do not judge my inability to string coherent sentences together too harshly today - I'm weak of faculty of mind, liver, ears, eyes and other important organs.
I've got work today (do not go there - I'm swearing and cursing and damning the whole world). And so had the Parental Unit for dinner and a sleepover so they could take care of The Daughter today. When I left this morning, they were all passed out in a stupour of sleep so stunning that I turned a very lime shade of green.
I cannot handle my liquor. Three glasses of wine and I'm a screaming scene. It's just what I am: a cheap date. But, also, I am unable to learn from my mistakes. And so, with my feet up and the glorious view of Durban in front of me, sitting alongside one of my most favourite people in the world - The Incubator - I thought I was oh-so-hardcore, and kept topping up my wineglass.
Error. Grave. HUGE.
This morning I looked at myself in the mirror and got the shock of my life (worse than the time my brothers told me that the electric fence was turned off and that I should go and touch it). I looked like one of those rabbits that they do animal testing on - eyes red and oozing sleep goop.
And the skin - the upper eyelid is an avocado shade of green. The black rings under my eyes are so enormous that I've had to apply industrial strength concealer all the way to my jaw line. And my skin - sallow is how I hope to look one day. It's taken on a transluscence that allows one to peer through skin and into brain - the colour of which I'm sure is an off-yellow.
And if that's not enough - I woke up with two cheeky pimples. What the hell? Pimples and wrinkles? Surely God does not dislike me so?
I have so much concealer on today that my face is hanging about 7 cm lower than it usually does due to the weight.
When did I get so effing old?
Warning: Do not invite your mother for dinner on a school night. Sheeeeesh ke-effing-bab. She's hardcore. and as a result, please do not judge my inability to string coherent sentences together too harshly today - I'm weak of faculty of mind, liver, ears, eyes and other important organs.
I've got work today (do not go there - I'm swearing and cursing and damning the whole world). And so had the Parental Unit for dinner and a sleepover so they could take care of The Daughter today. When I left this morning, they were all passed out in a stupour of sleep so stunning that I turned a very lime shade of green.
I cannot handle my liquor. Three glasses of wine and I'm a screaming scene. It's just what I am: a cheap date. But, also, I am unable to learn from my mistakes. And so, with my feet up and the glorious view of Durban in front of me, sitting alongside one of my most favourite people in the world - The Incubator - I thought I was oh-so-hardcore, and kept topping up my wineglass.
Error. Grave. HUGE.
This morning I looked at myself in the mirror and got the shock of my life (worse than the time my brothers told me that the electric fence was turned off and that I should go and touch it). I looked like one of those rabbits that they do animal testing on - eyes red and oozing sleep goop.
And the skin - the upper eyelid is an avocado shade of green. The black rings under my eyes are so enormous that I've had to apply industrial strength concealer all the way to my jaw line. And my skin - sallow is how I hope to look one day. It's taken on a transluscence that allows one to peer through skin and into brain - the colour of which I'm sure is an off-yellow.
And if that's not enough - I woke up with two cheeky pimples. What the hell? Pimples and wrinkles? Surely God does not dislike me so?
I have so much concealer on today that my face is hanging about 7 cm lower than it usually does due to the weight.
When did I get so effing old?
Friday, February 18, 2011
Wobbly Bum.
You know what the thing is with children? You give them what you think they want and need - love, education, attention, food, comfort. Etc. And you learn that you've got it all wrong.
The Daughter has recently raised a jealousy issue she has at my sudden (and, to all who know me, totally unexpected) interest in exercise. It's not so much an interest in the exercise as it is an interest in fellow nubile runner men, but how do you explain that to The Daughter? It's also a desire to remain trim in spite of exorbitant daily calorie in-take.
When I arrived back yesterday morning from my run and went to wake her up with breakfast in bed, a ritual I practise every morning (I know, it must suck ass being a child), she made her disapproval at my new-found interest well known.
The Daughter: Why do you get to go running and I just get to sleep in in this nice cuddly bed? It's so unfair. You just get to do (sob) everything cool because you're big.
Ah, if only I'd had a tape recorder. That's something I'd like to play to her in 20 years' time.
The Pant: My babes, it's because I'm big that I have to go running (and no, not in an Alice Walker Colour Purple kind of big way). I would love to stay and cuddle you in the mornings but Mom has to do this. (I am the third person - either referred to, by self, as Mom or Miss Liner.)
TD: You just (sob sob sob) love The BF more than me.
And so I pinkie-promised her a run yesterday afternoon.
I figured I'd roll like my brothers did when I was a child. They're much older than me and so I cannot tell you how many times I've had to go to the beach with them and serve as their skirt bait. Upon reflection, this was not a wise decision of mine. The closest I came to picking up was another single mom at the park. Not ideal. Also, had not quite considered that I should not be that into men that are attracted to young children.
So we set out - dressed alike - into the streets of our suburb, on a Mother-Daughter-Bonding-Run-Session. And it was bliss! We chatted and caught up - not because we don't see each other often, but because when we're at home we just do our own things: she torments her cat and I practice my favourite hobbie, lying down.
But somehow - I think I must not have been paying attention - we ended up at the park. And not a single hottie-hot-pants in sight. Not one. Fail. Epic.
So we swang, and we see-sawed. By "we see-sawed", I mean she sat on the see-saw and I struck a Captain Morgan pose and shot her into the air from which pure bubbles of giggly joy were sounded.
And then she made a friend. And that's where our outing took a turn for the worst. 2 kms from our house, I knew there was a possibility that I'd have to carry her home. ("My legs are tired." "My feet don't feel like walking".). And so, when the sun began its ritual descent, I urged The Daughter to stop gallavanting from one side of the playground to the other and I explained that I felt Other Child did not need a further 30 minutes of tuition in the field of "Galloping Like A Horse".
It was a difficult and delicate situation. And I was a master of manipulation: I promised her she could chase me home and if she managed to catch me, she could wobble my bum three times.
She caught me seventy-two times. You do the math.
We got home in a nick of time to begin the evening routine, both happy. Mom-And-Daughter-Bonding-Run-Session = winner.
Especially in light of the fact that arse must definitely be smaller.
The Daughter has recently raised a jealousy issue she has at my sudden (and, to all who know me, totally unexpected) interest in exercise. It's not so much an interest in the exercise as it is an interest in fellow nubile runner men, but how do you explain that to The Daughter? It's also a desire to remain trim in spite of exorbitant daily calorie in-take.
When I arrived back yesterday morning from my run and went to wake her up with breakfast in bed, a ritual I practise every morning (I know, it must suck ass being a child), she made her disapproval at my new-found interest well known.
The Daughter: Why do you get to go running and I just get to sleep in in this nice cuddly bed? It's so unfair. You just get to do (sob) everything cool because you're big.
Ah, if only I'd had a tape recorder. That's something I'd like to play to her in 20 years' time.
The Pant: My babes, it's because I'm big that I have to go running (and no, not in an Alice Walker Colour Purple kind of big way). I would love to stay and cuddle you in the mornings but Mom has to do this. (I am the third person - either referred to, by self, as Mom or Miss Liner.)
TD: You just (sob sob sob) love The BF more than me.
And so I pinkie-promised her a run yesterday afternoon.
I figured I'd roll like my brothers did when I was a child. They're much older than me and so I cannot tell you how many times I've had to go to the beach with them and serve as their skirt bait. Upon reflection, this was not a wise decision of mine. The closest I came to picking up was another single mom at the park. Not ideal. Also, had not quite considered that I should not be that into men that are attracted to young children.
So we set out - dressed alike - into the streets of our suburb, on a Mother-Daughter-Bonding-Run-Session. And it was bliss! We chatted and caught up - not because we don't see each other often, but because when we're at home we just do our own things: she torments her cat and I practice my favourite hobbie, lying down.
But somehow - I think I must not have been paying attention - we ended up at the park. And not a single hottie-hot-pants in sight. Not one. Fail. Epic.
So we swang, and we see-sawed. By "we see-sawed", I mean she sat on the see-saw and I struck a Captain Morgan pose and shot her into the air from which pure bubbles of giggly joy were sounded.
And then she made a friend. And that's where our outing took a turn for the worst. 2 kms from our house, I knew there was a possibility that I'd have to carry her home. ("My legs are tired." "My feet don't feel like walking".). And so, when the sun began its ritual descent, I urged The Daughter to stop gallavanting from one side of the playground to the other and I explained that I felt Other Child did not need a further 30 minutes of tuition in the field of "Galloping Like A Horse".
It was a difficult and delicate situation. And I was a master of manipulation: I promised her she could chase me home and if she managed to catch me, she could wobble my bum three times.
She caught me seventy-two times. You do the math.
We got home in a nick of time to begin the evening routine, both happy. Mom-And-Daughter-Bonding-Run-Session = winner.
Especially in light of the fact that arse must definitely be smaller.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Imminent: Cat For Adoption.
I love my cat (by my cat I mean Cat That Was Given To Daughter For Her Birthday but has become a shared commodity in our house). He is like a cat-dog combo - like something you would expect to eat in a Vietnamese take-out joint. He's playful and cuddly. Loyal and aloof. He behaves and he doesn't. Needy and self-sufficient. And as far as pets go, he's all kinds of rad.
Except one little thing. And it's this one little thing that may result in him finding himself named on the 'For Adoption' list imminently. The little shit has taken to bringing me daily presents. A little bed-time treat - the nature of which is causing me to sleep with one eye open.
He's imaginative in his choice of gifts: they've ranged from cockroaches to geckos, from birds (and the wreckages of feathers and lice and nests!!) to gnarled lizards. And given that I'm such a ninny I'm even afraid of bananas, these creature/ex-creature corpses do not sit snug with me.
But last night was his finest find. I'm so deeply emotionally scarred that he's officially on his last warning.
I'd put my phone on to charge and was moving about the house, switching off lights and TVs and other noise-producing gadgets that together produce a cacophony of sound so great that I've resigned myself to the fact that I will, forever, hear a dull ringing in my ears. I'd brushed my teeth. Taken the butter out of the fridge to aid in easy butter-spreadage for the morning.
And just as I was locking the last door, the little shit slipped past me and trotted into my bedroom.
"That's quite normal," I thought. "My babies are all in for the night and now I can go and capitalise on some groovy cuddle action."
I turned away from the locked door, approached my bedroom door, chucked my keys on my bed and went to kiss The Daughter. And then I returned, exhausted, desperate to settle into some trashy literature before bed. And then I saw it: an effing mouse. ALIVE! In my bedroom.
The Pant: Cat. Stop it. Take it outside.
The cat continued to claw at the animal, chucking it in the air, dragging it across my recently-cleaned cream carpets.
TP: Take it the fu*k outside. Now. Stop killing it.
He was in an aloof mood, was the little shit, and totally ignored me.
TP: (voice rising) CAT! Take the effing mouse outside and kill it the fu*k out there.
It took Cat a good hour to kill said mouse. I would have saved it, if I'd been able but I was too effing scared that I spent that entire hour standing on the table in my lounge screaming like a cat with its foot in a blender.
Eventually the murderer left my room. And I found, deep within me, the courage to go and assess the situation: a dead little mouse, lying on its side, eyes closed - a bit like a sleeping Stuart Little but without the tartan.
I considered simply getting into bed and ignoring the corpse's existence. But I'm too afraid of lazy snakes to do that. I imagine that there are plenty of snakes in this world that would prefer their meals already murdered.
And so it took me a good further 20 minutes to scoop mouse into makeshift dustpan (read actual dustbin) using a broom and a concerted attempt to extend my arms a further arm's length away from my body. Each time the broom made contact with the mouse, I'd shriek and run to the other side of the house muttering, "Oh Lord save me - send me a man - a live-in one - what have I done to deserve this??? Please! Help! Me! I will never blaspheme again. I swear to effing God, I won't."
After much crying and snivelling and plea-bargaining, I got the mouse into the bin and took it outside. That was something for someone else, anyone else, to sort out.
And I went to bed shaken, like a passenger on a bus in Mumbai, but super effing tired.
It was when I woke up for my morning 'run' (with The BF, my people - much more peaceful) that I found the self-same effing mouse on my effing cream carpets that I've just spent another effing arm and effing leg to have cleaned. For fu*k sakes!
His mouth must be disgusting. And he suckles my ear every night.
Any takers?
Except one little thing. And it's this one little thing that may result in him finding himself named on the 'For Adoption' list imminently. The little shit has taken to bringing me daily presents. A little bed-time treat - the nature of which is causing me to sleep with one eye open.
He's imaginative in his choice of gifts: they've ranged from cockroaches to geckos, from birds (and the wreckages of feathers and lice and nests!!) to gnarled lizards. And given that I'm such a ninny I'm even afraid of bananas, these creature/ex-creature corpses do not sit snug with me.
But last night was his finest find. I'm so deeply emotionally scarred that he's officially on his last warning.
I'd put my phone on to charge and was moving about the house, switching off lights and TVs and other noise-producing gadgets that together produce a cacophony of sound so great that I've resigned myself to the fact that I will, forever, hear a dull ringing in my ears. I'd brushed my teeth. Taken the butter out of the fridge to aid in easy butter-spreadage for the morning.
And just as I was locking the last door, the little shit slipped past me and trotted into my bedroom.
"That's quite normal," I thought. "My babies are all in for the night and now I can go and capitalise on some groovy cuddle action."
I turned away from the locked door, approached my bedroom door, chucked my keys on my bed and went to kiss The Daughter. And then I returned, exhausted, desperate to settle into some trashy literature before bed. And then I saw it: an effing mouse. ALIVE! In my bedroom.
The Pant: Cat. Stop it. Take it outside.
The cat continued to claw at the animal, chucking it in the air, dragging it across my recently-cleaned cream carpets.
TP: Take it the fu*k outside. Now. Stop killing it.
He was in an aloof mood, was the little shit, and totally ignored me.
TP: (voice rising) CAT! Take the effing mouse outside and kill it the fu*k out there.
It took Cat a good hour to kill said mouse. I would have saved it, if I'd been able but I was too effing scared that I spent that entire hour standing on the table in my lounge screaming like a cat with its foot in a blender.
Eventually the murderer left my room. And I found, deep within me, the courage to go and assess the situation: a dead little mouse, lying on its side, eyes closed - a bit like a sleeping Stuart Little but without the tartan.
I considered simply getting into bed and ignoring the corpse's existence. But I'm too afraid of lazy snakes to do that. I imagine that there are plenty of snakes in this world that would prefer their meals already murdered.
And so it took me a good further 20 minutes to scoop mouse into makeshift dustpan (read actual dustbin) using a broom and a concerted attempt to extend my arms a further arm's length away from my body. Each time the broom made contact with the mouse, I'd shriek and run to the other side of the house muttering, "Oh Lord save me - send me a man - a live-in one - what have I done to deserve this??? Please! Help! Me! I will never blaspheme again. I swear to effing God, I won't."
After much crying and snivelling and plea-bargaining, I got the mouse into the bin and took it outside. That was something for someone else, anyone else, to sort out.
And I went to bed shaken, like a passenger on a bus in Mumbai, but super effing tired.
It was when I woke up for my morning 'run' (with The BF, my people - much more peaceful) that I found the self-same effing mouse on my effing cream carpets that I've just spent another effing arm and effing leg to have cleaned. For fu*k sakes!
His mouth must be disgusting. And he suckles my ear every night.
Any takers?
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
One Lung And Two Functional Limbs Down.
I was lying on a picnic blanket, partially clothed, looking mighty toned and tanned, with Jake Gyllenhall's post-coital head resting on my stomach, with a cool breeze blowing and some Enya-esque music piped through the air when my M C Hammer 'U Can't Touch Dis' ringtone woke me in the rudest fashion this morning.
Hottie-Hot-Pants Running Guy: You up?
The Pant: *croak* (most embarrassing) Yup.
(Attempt at silent clearing of throat unsuccessful.)
HHPRG: You sure?
TP: Totally. Been up since 3 doing pilates and drinking herbal tea.
HHPRG: I'll be at yours in 5. Listen, I'm a bit buggered from my surf yesterday (yes please) so I was thinking just a short (there is a God and He loves me) 4 or 5 ks this morning? (shit bugger fu*k.)
TP: In a row?
HHPRG: Ha ha, sleepy head (term of endearment? Flirting? Methinks so.). See you now.
A quick brush of the teeth and an application of "natural" looking make-up and I was on the road in at least seven minutes.
HHPRG: Howzit. (Cheek kiss - good sign.). Are you wearing make-up? (shit bugger fu*k.)
TP: Nooooooooo (emphatic). Must not have come off properly last night. You know how stubborn make-up can be.
HHPRG: I don't, actually (not gay - good sign). Can you touch your toes? I want to see how flexible you are first thing in the morning.
TP: Oh, Baby. I'm flexible. But you're going to have to buy me a drink before you get to see how flexible I am.
HHPRG: Just need to see how much stretching we're going to have to do.
TP: (gulp - think may have bitten off more than I can chew) um...
HHPRG: Come on, Pant. We don't want you getting any injuries.
TP: (shit bugger fu*k). Um... What - er - kind of injuries are you talking about?
HHPRG: Pulled hammies, shin splints-
TP: Oh! (relief) Stretching of muscles. Oh! Okay.
We stretched. And then we ran. Mother of God. Am one lung and two functional limbs down. Need wheelchair to get me through rest of day.
But Hottie-Hot-Pants Running Guy made me laugh, so that's a good thing. Our views on liquor seem to differ though. Which makes me worry about post-run future gatherings.
And this is how it ended:
The Pant: There's my house! Sweet sweet home. Oh how glorious your white walls are. I thought I was never going to see you again. Oh, God, thank You.
Hottie-Hot-Pants Running Guy: Happy to be home then? Tired?
TP: No, not tired (desperate attempt to stop panting unsuccessful). Just thirsty. You want to come in for a beer?
HHPRG: It's 5 to 6 in the morning.
TP: In South Africa. (pant pant) It's 5 to 6 in the morning in South Africa. Elsewhere, it's not 5 to 6. And besides, isn't beer one's reward for exercising?
HHPRG: Not today, Pant. I've got to get to work. And so must you.
Was he blowing me off? Shit bugger fu*k.
Hottie-Hot-Pants Running Guy: You up?
The Pant: *croak* (most embarrassing) Yup.
(Attempt at silent clearing of throat unsuccessful.)
HHPRG: You sure?
TP: Totally. Been up since 3 doing pilates and drinking herbal tea.
HHPRG: I'll be at yours in 5. Listen, I'm a bit buggered from my surf yesterday (yes please) so I was thinking just a short (there is a God and He loves me) 4 or 5 ks this morning? (shit bugger fu*k.)
TP: In a row?
HHPRG: Ha ha, sleepy head (term of endearment? Flirting? Methinks so.). See you now.
A quick brush of the teeth and an application of "natural" looking make-up and I was on the road in at least seven minutes.
HHPRG: Howzit. (Cheek kiss - good sign.). Are you wearing make-up? (shit bugger fu*k.)
TP: Nooooooooo (emphatic). Must not have come off properly last night. You know how stubborn make-up can be.
HHPRG: I don't, actually (not gay - good sign). Can you touch your toes? I want to see how flexible you are first thing in the morning.
TP: Oh, Baby. I'm flexible. But you're going to have to buy me a drink before you get to see how flexible I am.
HHPRG: Just need to see how much stretching we're going to have to do.
TP: (gulp - think may have bitten off more than I can chew) um...
HHPRG: Come on, Pant. We don't want you getting any injuries.
TP: (shit bugger fu*k). Um... What - er - kind of injuries are you talking about?
HHPRG: Pulled hammies, shin splints-
TP: Oh! (relief) Stretching of muscles. Oh! Okay.
We stretched. And then we ran. Mother of God. Am one lung and two functional limbs down. Need wheelchair to get me through rest of day.
But Hottie-Hot-Pants Running Guy made me laugh, so that's a good thing. Our views on liquor seem to differ though. Which makes me worry about post-run future gatherings.
And this is how it ended:
The Pant: There's my house! Sweet sweet home. Oh how glorious your white walls are. I thought I was never going to see you again. Oh, God, thank You.
Hottie-Hot-Pants Running Guy: Happy to be home then? Tired?
TP: No, not tired (desperate attempt to stop panting unsuccessful). Just thirsty. You want to come in for a beer?
HHPRG: It's 5 to 6 in the morning.
TP: In South Africa. (pant pant) It's 5 to 6 in the morning in South Africa. Elsewhere, it's not 5 to 6. And besides, isn't beer one's reward for exercising?
HHPRG: Not today, Pant. I've got to get to work. And so must you.
Was he blowing me off? Shit bugger fu*k.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Faithful White Bear.
Do you know what's better than getting flowers for Valentine's Day? Getting flowers the day after Valentine's Day. Yup. It's all kinds of radness.
I've just been disturbed from my I-am-so-shattered-I-just-need-to-lie-down-on-my-couch-and-read-mindless-literature rest. Only to be greeted by the haggard face of flower delivery man. He's a hunk is flower delivery man. Well-spoken too - I had to ask him to repeat "print name here" four times to understand him.
And not one but two bunches of roses - one for the self and one for The Daughter.
My card reads:
Pant O Pant,
Love you up.
White Bear.
I was originally going to chalk White Bear's late flower delivery up to Valentine's being such a busy day for florists. He would obviously not be able to control the exorbitant number of blooms for delivery on the 14th. Or perhaps the fact that I was only home for a brief 30 minutes yesterday, during which time I probably would not have heard the doorbell over the loud expletives finding expulsion from my mouth at The Maid's sheer skill for being able to hide my new skinnys that make my arse look edible, in the most unlikely places. (They were found in The Daughter's knicker drawer in the end. Can someone kindly explain that logic to me?)
But I've worked out that White Bear sent me flowers the day after Valentine's just to prove he loves me everyday. And he doesn't need to be told which day to show his love. It's endless. Flowers because he loves me and not because everyone else is showing it. Rad. Ness.
White Bear has been sending me flowers, faithfully, every year since I can remember. His spelling has improved, over the years. One year, his message read, "Eye luvvvvv yoo.". And his writing is a little bit bigger. One year he sent me a card that, at the time, was taller than me. And it had, "I love you" written in such small handwriting at the bottom right hand corner that I asked White Bear to take the card back to his bedroom and write in it. But since White Bear is a secret admirer and annually denies his existence, it was The Father that showed me White Bear's miniature scrawl.
And so, White Bear, I hope you read my blog - I suppose it's likely given the fact that you've been stalking me for 20 years at least - this poem is for you:
Dearest Dad,
You're all kinds of rad,
And now I'm a touch sad,
Because I want to give you a hug
And talk rubbish & drink tea in a mug.
The Pant loves The Father muchly. He really is the grooviest old guy out there.
xxx
I've just been disturbed from my I-am-so-shattered-I-just-need-to-lie-down-on-my-couch-and-read-mindless-literature rest. Only to be greeted by the haggard face of flower delivery man. He's a hunk is flower delivery man. Well-spoken too - I had to ask him to repeat "print name here" four times to understand him.
And not one but two bunches of roses - one for the self and one for The Daughter.
My card reads:
Pant O Pant,
Love you up.
White Bear.
I was originally going to chalk White Bear's late flower delivery up to Valentine's being such a busy day for florists. He would obviously not be able to control the exorbitant number of blooms for delivery on the 14th. Or perhaps the fact that I was only home for a brief 30 minutes yesterday, during which time I probably would not have heard the doorbell over the loud expletives finding expulsion from my mouth at The Maid's sheer skill for being able to hide my new skinnys that make my arse look edible, in the most unlikely places. (They were found in The Daughter's knicker drawer in the end. Can someone kindly explain that logic to me?)
But I've worked out that White Bear sent me flowers the day after Valentine's just to prove he loves me everyday. And he doesn't need to be told which day to show his love. It's endless. Flowers because he loves me and not because everyone else is showing it. Rad. Ness.
White Bear has been sending me flowers, faithfully, every year since I can remember. His spelling has improved, over the years. One year, his message read, "Eye luvvvvv yoo.". And his writing is a little bit bigger. One year he sent me a card that, at the time, was taller than me. And it had, "I love you" written in such small handwriting at the bottom right hand corner that I asked White Bear to take the card back to his bedroom and write in it. But since White Bear is a secret admirer and annually denies his existence, it was The Father that showed me White Bear's miniature scrawl.
And so, White Bear, I hope you read my blog - I suppose it's likely given the fact that you've been stalking me for 20 years at least - this poem is for you:
Dearest Dad,
You're all kinds of rad,
And now I'm a touch sad,
Because I want to give you a hug
And talk rubbish & drink tea in a mug.
The Pant loves The Father muchly. He really is the grooviest old guy out there.
xxx
Post Mango Groove Glow
It's official - last night I had the best Valentine's fun I think I've ever had. That's not to take away from the truly romantic previous Valentine's nights I've spent wedged beween my parents on the couch watching taped episodes of Cheaters (The Father's a huge fan). But last night, honestly, was the best fun I've had with clothes on (and off) since I scarcely can remember. (I do still hold dear the memory of when I had slightly more fun - but I refuse to sully the dignity of this blog with its sordid, sworded details.)
Last night was spectacular. I feel like a whole person this morning - like all of my wobbly bits have been firmed up from dancing. And also that I am a lucky lucky Pant because I got to spend my day of love with the people that I truly love: The Daughter, The BF, my people, and Carlos; My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh and his Long-Term-Lover-Friend and My Future Ex-In-Laws. Representatives from the joys of all my life: The Daughter, coupled with best friend coupled with some gay lovin'. Well, that's just too much of rad.
There are no words to describe The Daughter's kiffness. Man alive! But having my girl at the concert of the band that I first saw when I was around about the same age as her, was a proper full circle moment for me. She knows the words to Special Star! Ah! And the fact that she danced holes in the grass at the Botanical Gardens - well, I'm just a super proud mama cat. And I've got to tell you, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree: Her wit and sarcasm, and the fact that she was born to be on stage was made very evident last night in a conversation with Long-Term-Lover-Friend.
The (seriously shocking) curtain raiser band, also known (in my circle) as The Razor Blade Band, also known as Thomas Kane (methinks) were on stage. They had the stage presence of cream paper. And a voice so jarring that the hair on the back of my neck has grown a few inches. His screams, mid-song, caused my earballs to close up like sea anemones. Crikey.
The Daughter: Who said they could go on the stage?
Long-Term-Lover-Friend: They're a live band. That's why they're on stage.
TD: But aren't we here to see Mango Groove?
LTLF: Yes. Mango Groove are coming now now. These guys are just playing a bit.
TD: Well, can we ask them to get off so that we can go and play on there? They've had a very long turn.
Their turn was too long. And I fear if Mango Groove hadn't been so rad, I'd have been on the phone to The Father this morning discussing the validity of legally suing The Botanical Gardens for both physical and emotional trauma.
But Claire Johnstone is an oral and aural goddess. And the middle back up lady singer person! She is my idol. If only I could move my body like that. But try I did. All night long. With my groovy little girl. Radness.
I've got the post-orgasmic glow of the single lady - Post Mango Groove Glow. It would take a naked 90-year-old man with a semi to wipe the smile off my face today.
Last night was spectacular. I feel like a whole person this morning - like all of my wobbly bits have been firmed up from dancing. And also that I am a lucky lucky Pant because I got to spend my day of love with the people that I truly love: The Daughter, The BF, my people, and Carlos; My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh and his Long-Term-Lover-Friend and My Future Ex-In-Laws. Representatives from the joys of all my life: The Daughter, coupled with best friend coupled with some gay lovin'. Well, that's just too much of rad.
There are no words to describe The Daughter's kiffness. Man alive! But having my girl at the concert of the band that I first saw when I was around about the same age as her, was a proper full circle moment for me. She knows the words to Special Star! Ah! And the fact that she danced holes in the grass at the Botanical Gardens - well, I'm just a super proud mama cat. And I've got to tell you, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree: Her wit and sarcasm, and the fact that she was born to be on stage was made very evident last night in a conversation with Long-Term-Lover-Friend.
The (seriously shocking) curtain raiser band, also known (in my circle) as The Razor Blade Band, also known as Thomas Kane (methinks) were on stage. They had the stage presence of cream paper. And a voice so jarring that the hair on the back of my neck has grown a few inches. His screams, mid-song, caused my earballs to close up like sea anemones. Crikey.
The Daughter: Who said they could go on the stage?
Long-Term-Lover-Friend: They're a live band. That's why they're on stage.
TD: But aren't we here to see Mango Groove?
LTLF: Yes. Mango Groove are coming now now. These guys are just playing a bit.
TD: Well, can we ask them to get off so that we can go and play on there? They've had a very long turn.
Their turn was too long. And I fear if Mango Groove hadn't been so rad, I'd have been on the phone to The Father this morning discussing the validity of legally suing The Botanical Gardens for both physical and emotional trauma.
But Claire Johnstone is an oral and aural goddess. And the middle back up lady singer person! She is my idol. If only I could move my body like that. But try I did. All night long. With my groovy little girl. Radness.
I've got the post-orgasmic glow of the single lady - Post Mango Groove Glow. It would take a naked 90-year-old man with a semi to wipe the smile off my face today.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
How Adult Dinner Parties Happen.
I have reached an all new height on the arsehole scale today. I woke up, groaned and reached for my sunglasses. And lay in bed for a further two hours, groaning. With sunglasses on. The reason? I thought I was adult enough to enjoy an adult dinner party like an adult. But I'm not.
The BF, my people, and Carlos hosted their first dinner party as a married couple. And invited a host of Smug Marrieds to join in. I was immediately transported back to my childhood when I saw the dining table: an 8 seater, beautifully set, with a ninth place set at the corner. With a chair from her desk. I knew it was my buttocks that were destined to grace it . Ah!
The problem with functions of this type is none of us are adult enough to enjoy adult dinner parties like adults. They start out well: nibbles (fancy), wine (fancy), conversation (suitably civil). But then something strange happens. I think it might be that the wine begins to flow. And then the jaegermeister follows suit. And then, because we're adults and we behave in an adulty way, the tequila is uncorked.
Kind of like being at varsity. Except we didn't eat fish fingers. And we drank slightly more expensive varieties of liquor. And we drank out of glass vessels. Yup, gone are the days of polystyrene.
I began the evening off with, "No, seriously, I like being single. I'm piles too busy to have a boyfriend. No, I don't want to meet your single brother.". And as I continued to drain bottles of a glorious blush, my sentiments changed: "Is he hot? Hell, yes, set me up with him. And the other one you were talking about? Him too.". "No, I won't cheat on your brother. Make him the last blind date, then I won't be cheating. How can you even think I'd cheat on him? I love him. We were made for each other."
I'm not even sure we ate at the dinner table. I do know we had fillet though, because I found mustard seeds in my teeth this morning, and a piece of rare meat in my handbag.
And so, this morning, I lay in bed with my sunglasses on, draining litres of water in the attempt to rehydrate, piecing together the fragments of memory I have. And just as post-jol depression (PJD) was setting in, I phoned The BF to thank her for a lovely evening.
The Pant: Hi pal. How are you doing?
BF: Why are you screaming at me?
TP: (dropping to a barely audible whisper) Sorry. Just wanted to thank you for a lovely evening. Had a bit too much wine though.
And at the mere mention of the word 'wine', she flung the phone at Carlos and began dry retching.
Carlos: Sorry, pal, we had a bit of a big one last night.
TP: All of us, then? Ja, just wanted to say thanks.
C: For what?
TP: For dinner and everything. Had a great time.
C: You were here?
And just like that, my PJD vanished. I couldn't have behaved that badly if my presence is unrecallable.
Being an adult: pretty damn childish.
The BF, my people, and Carlos hosted their first dinner party as a married couple. And invited a host of Smug Marrieds to join in. I was immediately transported back to my childhood when I saw the dining table: an 8 seater, beautifully set, with a ninth place set at the corner. With a chair from her desk. I knew it was my buttocks that were destined to grace it . Ah!
The problem with functions of this type is none of us are adult enough to enjoy adult dinner parties like adults. They start out well: nibbles (fancy), wine (fancy), conversation (suitably civil). But then something strange happens. I think it might be that the wine begins to flow. And then the jaegermeister follows suit. And then, because we're adults and we behave in an adulty way, the tequila is uncorked.
Kind of like being at varsity. Except we didn't eat fish fingers. And we drank slightly more expensive varieties of liquor. And we drank out of glass vessels. Yup, gone are the days of polystyrene.
I began the evening off with, "No, seriously, I like being single. I'm piles too busy to have a boyfriend. No, I don't want to meet your single brother.". And as I continued to drain bottles of a glorious blush, my sentiments changed: "Is he hot? Hell, yes, set me up with him. And the other one you were talking about? Him too.". "No, I won't cheat on your brother. Make him the last blind date, then I won't be cheating. How can you even think I'd cheat on him? I love him. We were made for each other."
I'm not even sure we ate at the dinner table. I do know we had fillet though, because I found mustard seeds in my teeth this morning, and a piece of rare meat in my handbag.
And so, this morning, I lay in bed with my sunglasses on, draining litres of water in the attempt to rehydrate, piecing together the fragments of memory I have. And just as post-jol depression (PJD) was setting in, I phoned The BF to thank her for a lovely evening.
The Pant: Hi pal. How are you doing?
BF: Why are you screaming at me?
TP: (dropping to a barely audible whisper) Sorry. Just wanted to thank you for a lovely evening. Had a bit too much wine though.
And at the mere mention of the word 'wine', she flung the phone at Carlos and began dry retching.
Carlos: Sorry, pal, we had a bit of a big one last night.
TP: All of us, then? Ja, just wanted to say thanks.
C: For what?
TP: For dinner and everything. Had a great time.
C: You were here?
And just like that, my PJD vanished. I couldn't have behaved that badly if my presence is unrecallable.
Being an adult: pretty damn childish.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Putting The Fun Back In Funeral.
Funerals are depressing things, aren't they? You've got to have battery acid coursing through your veins to not shed a tear during one, particularly during the eulogy. Especially when it's delivered by a heart-broken child of deceased parent. It's the real affection for which I cry. Not the pomp and ceremony of funerals - particularly those so vastly different from the ones I remember from my Catholic upbringing.
But The Pant sure does know how to find the fun in funeral. Last year, when The Grandpa died, I hosted the wake and it turned out to be in the top five biggest nights of 2010 - the antics of which I will keep for another blog post.
And so I've compiled a little list for you. How terribly organised of me?
The Pant's Guide To Putting The Fun Back Into Funeral:
1). Take a 4-year-old with you. Particularly one whose understanding of church is entirely limited to that of the Catholic church. Man, they say the damnedest things:
The Daughter: Mom! That Jesus looks so different to ours. Look, he's wearing normal clothes. And he isn't even a brown person.
The Daughter: Mom!! Why are those people putting their hands in the air??
And just when the rogue evangelist guy was getting into full swing and said something along the lines of "In Jesus' name", she crossed herself perfectly. A sign that she has never mastered before. A sign that was so alien in these surroundings that the entire congregation seemed to take in a collective short, sharp breath when she did this.
2). Go to the wake. They're only really awkward until the end of the first drink. But the swiftness with which liquor is sunk - even if you're not partaking - is always fun to watch.
And, if possible, take a 4 year-old with you. Mine stripped down into knickers and splashed into the pool. And nothing quite averts attention from bereavement quite like the innocent delight in a child's laughter. Within minutes, she had a whole host of adults in the pool with her (and other children too).
3). But this is the most important point: go to the funerals of people you actually like. Because the chances are high that their people are people you like too. And being in the company of people you like is like health spa for the soul.
Yes, funerals are crap because death, and its finality, sucks. Saying goodbye is awful. And it's painful to watch the pain of others. But not living in the moment - well, that's just a sin. And so, somehow, amidst the darkness of the funeral, fun is there to be found.
PS Also, must mention that The Pant met a hottie-hot-pants running guy whose invited me to run with him on Tuesday morn. He's run the comrades. Am praying for miracle fitness between now and then. The Pant: not one to miss an opportunity.
But The Pant sure does know how to find the fun in funeral. Last year, when The Grandpa died, I hosted the wake and it turned out to be in the top five biggest nights of 2010 - the antics of which I will keep for another blog post.
And so I've compiled a little list for you. How terribly organised of me?
The Pant's Guide To Putting The Fun Back Into Funeral:
1). Take a 4-year-old with you. Particularly one whose understanding of church is entirely limited to that of the Catholic church. Man, they say the damnedest things:
The Daughter: Mom! That Jesus looks so different to ours. Look, he's wearing normal clothes. And he isn't even a brown person.
The Daughter: Mom!! Why are those people putting their hands in the air??
And just when the rogue evangelist guy was getting into full swing and said something along the lines of "In Jesus' name", she crossed herself perfectly. A sign that she has never mastered before. A sign that was so alien in these surroundings that the entire congregation seemed to take in a collective short, sharp breath when she did this.
2). Go to the wake. They're only really awkward until the end of the first drink. But the swiftness with which liquor is sunk - even if you're not partaking - is always fun to watch.
And, if possible, take a 4 year-old with you. Mine stripped down into knickers and splashed into the pool. And nothing quite averts attention from bereavement quite like the innocent delight in a child's laughter. Within minutes, she had a whole host of adults in the pool with her (and other children too).
3). But this is the most important point: go to the funerals of people you actually like. Because the chances are high that their people are people you like too. And being in the company of people you like is like health spa for the soul.
Yes, funerals are crap because death, and its finality, sucks. Saying goodbye is awful. And it's painful to watch the pain of others. But not living in the moment - well, that's just a sin. And so, somehow, amidst the darkness of the funeral, fun is there to be found.
PS Also, must mention that The Pant met a hottie-hot-pants running guy whose invited me to run with him on Tuesday morn. He's run the comrades. Am praying for miracle fitness between now and then. The Pant: not one to miss an opportunity.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Divorce 101: Getting Thin
I think I need to divorce my husband (The Brother - weird Liner family thing). The other night, we were having our nightcap on the verandah, breathing in the sweet fumes of Durban, when we got into the fitness discussion.
The Husband: I haven't been going to gym this week. Think I've put on weight.
The Pant: (because I'm always nice) No, you haven't. Me, on the other hand. Sheesh kebab. I've put on more weight than would be needed to end famine in Africa.
TH: Yes. You have. But it looks good (shocking afterthought-get-yourself-out-of-deep-trouble comment)
And so the next morning, I had The BF up, and the two of us set out for a run (by 'run' read 'run only when passing very hot other runner men but not so much that you actually break out into a sweat'). And so we ambled along, admiring nice houses and discussing the changes we would make to other houses to make them, well, decent. One of those suggestions was: bulldoze the whole effing thing down and build from scratch. But use a different builder.
Ah. The rush of endorphins really makes The Pant a clever, clever girl. (Hey! I might have forgotten to mention that our 'run' start time is 5 am - a girl is allowed to not be at her most intelligent.)
And so, there we were, 'running' side-by-side, taking apart other people's taste when we passed a house from which a very loud whiiirrrrrring sound was emitted.
TP: Oh. My. God. Whoever that chick is, she must have a shit load of hair! Talk about industrial strength hair dryer. Crikey. We can hear it from here.
BF: Either that, or she's got a functional pool pump.
TP: Yup. Pool pump. That makes better sense.
As I said - not the brightest bulb in the box.
But I'm glad we're 'running'. It means we're part of some kind of clan of beautifully-bodied people. They greet us in the morning. That hottie-hot-pants in the black polyshorts with no top (I know! Glor-effing-ious!!) has greeted me with 'howzit' three times this week! That must be some kind of a record. I wonder if it's considered poor running-etiquette to stop a runner mid-stride to suggest that you might want to be awfully naughty with him?
So, I suppose, there's no real need to divorce The Husband. He's got me onto something good.
And I'm so getting thin And I'm getting Black Polyshorts Man. There. He's got himself an alias.
The Husband: I haven't been going to gym this week. Think I've put on weight.
The Pant: (because I'm always nice) No, you haven't. Me, on the other hand. Sheesh kebab. I've put on more weight than would be needed to end famine in Africa.
TH: Yes. You have. But it looks good (shocking afterthought-get-yourself-out-of-deep-trouble comment)
And so the next morning, I had The BF up, and the two of us set out for a run (by 'run' read 'run only when passing very hot other runner men but not so much that you actually break out into a sweat'). And so we ambled along, admiring nice houses and discussing the changes we would make to other houses to make them, well, decent. One of those suggestions was: bulldoze the whole effing thing down and build from scratch. But use a different builder.
Ah. The rush of endorphins really makes The Pant a clever, clever girl. (Hey! I might have forgotten to mention that our 'run' start time is 5 am - a girl is allowed to not be at her most intelligent.)
And so, there we were, 'running' side-by-side, taking apart other people's taste when we passed a house from which a very loud whiiirrrrrring sound was emitted.
TP: Oh. My. God. Whoever that chick is, she must have a shit load of hair! Talk about industrial strength hair dryer. Crikey. We can hear it from here.
BF: Either that, or she's got a functional pool pump.
TP: Yup. Pool pump. That makes better sense.
As I said - not the brightest bulb in the box.
But I'm glad we're 'running'. It means we're part of some kind of clan of beautifully-bodied people. They greet us in the morning. That hottie-hot-pants in the black polyshorts with no top (I know! Glor-effing-ious!!) has greeted me with 'howzit' three times this week! That must be some kind of a record. I wonder if it's considered poor running-etiquette to stop a runner mid-stride to suggest that you might want to be awfully naughty with him?
So, I suppose, there's no real need to divorce The Husband. He's got me onto something good.
And I'm so getting thin And I'm getting Black Polyshorts Man. There. He's got himself an alias.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Raddest Love.
Love is a strange animal indeed. I am utterly, hopelessly, unconditionally in love. And it's a love I can feel physically - like a magnetic charge in my chest. This love is unfaltering, even when the recipient says things like, "I think your legs look a bit ugly in that dress." Or, "Your bum wobbles when you brush your teeth." Or even, "Your face doesn't look pretty when you cry".
I am wholly in love with The Daughter. Every little thing about her. But, it must be noted, that this love amazes me. I'm stunned, sometimes overwhelmed, by the strength of it. Take today, for example. The Daughter has made me look like an absolute dick. Total knob jockey. A bone fide wankstick. Ass wipe. Cocksucker. Doos.
And I feel nothing but absolute love for her.
She wants to be just like me (talk about a compliment because she's already all kinds of super radness in her own right). If I wear skinny jeans, she wears skinny jeans. If I wear a brooch, she nicks it before getting out the car for school. She wears pashminas as scarves in winter. She's desperate to have the matrix straightening thingy done to her gorgeous locks. She mimics my speech when playing with her dolls. She examines used wax strips and exclaims, with delight, "Gooooooood one!" She's mastered my totally rhythm-less Beyonce booty-shake. She adores Regina Spektor. And The Beautiful South.
And because I spend hours blogging on my BlackBerry, so must she. Except she doesn't quite know how to type. Rather she has become an expert at the random phonecall. On Sunday, she phoned her grandfather 11 times in 7 minutes. She has phoned my boss. An ex-friend. A friend in London (more than once). She's replied to bbms with "jhjhdedssdfnudfsdfns". She's even phoned Mozzie Cabs.
But this morning was her finest: she phoned Larry 8 times. Before 7 am. The man has 8 missed calls from me. Oh God. Oh crikey. What a toss I feel.
How do you come back from that? "I'm terribly sorry but it was The Daughter and not me"? Yeah right. Yup, sure it was The Daughter. Uh-huh, that's totally plausible. One. Hundred. Cement.
I tried the explanatory email which was met by a silence that screams, "Whatever major loser".
And so, in an attempt to make myself feel better, I did the only thing I know: I shopped. And I've got to tell you, spending money sure does take a girl from loser to luscious in no time at all.
The people who make Benefit certainly do know how to transform a girl. That Confessions of a Concealeaholic has got to be the most amazing product out there. When the seller lady finished demonstrating its wonder, The Daughter squealed, "Oh Mom! You look stunning!". (I'll be taking one of those, thank you.)
And that Some-Kind-A-Gorgeous. All over my face. Seriously. How can one product make you feel so much of kiff?
(Go to one of those selected Woolies, and buy yourself some. Immediately.)
And then I hit La Senza. Underwear so beautiful I am considering taking the rest of the week off so I can laze around all day in it, drinking champagne and eating cupcakes. It's so effing hot that I don't even want to get naked ever again!
And then a dress. And when I slipped the cream vintage linen and lace over my head and The Daughter cried, "Oh Mom! You're the prettiest mommy in the whole wide world," I realised that I am a bit of alright, actually.
If the coolest, grooviest chick in the world thinks I'm rad, who gives a fu*k about anyone else?
I am wholly in love with The Daughter. Every little thing about her. But, it must be noted, that this love amazes me. I'm stunned, sometimes overwhelmed, by the strength of it. Take today, for example. The Daughter has made me look like an absolute dick. Total knob jockey. A bone fide wankstick. Ass wipe. Cocksucker. Doos.
And I feel nothing but absolute love for her.
She wants to be just like me (talk about a compliment because she's already all kinds of super radness in her own right). If I wear skinny jeans, she wears skinny jeans. If I wear a brooch, she nicks it before getting out the car for school. She wears pashminas as scarves in winter. She's desperate to have the matrix straightening thingy done to her gorgeous locks. She mimics my speech when playing with her dolls. She examines used wax strips and exclaims, with delight, "Gooooooood one!" She's mastered my totally rhythm-less Beyonce booty-shake. She adores Regina Spektor. And The Beautiful South.
And because I spend hours blogging on my BlackBerry, so must she. Except she doesn't quite know how to type. Rather she has become an expert at the random phonecall. On Sunday, she phoned her grandfather 11 times in 7 minutes. She has phoned my boss. An ex-friend. A friend in London (more than once). She's replied to bbms with "jhjhdedssdfnudfsdfns". She's even phoned Mozzie Cabs.
But this morning was her finest: she phoned Larry 8 times. Before 7 am. The man has 8 missed calls from me. Oh God. Oh crikey. What a toss I feel.
How do you come back from that? "I'm terribly sorry but it was The Daughter and not me"? Yeah right. Yup, sure it was The Daughter. Uh-huh, that's totally plausible. One. Hundred. Cement.
I tried the explanatory email which was met by a silence that screams, "Whatever major loser".
And so, in an attempt to make myself feel better, I did the only thing I know: I shopped. And I've got to tell you, spending money sure does take a girl from loser to luscious in no time at all.
The people who make Benefit certainly do know how to transform a girl. That Confessions of a Concealeaholic has got to be the most amazing product out there. When the seller lady finished demonstrating its wonder, The Daughter squealed, "Oh Mom! You look stunning!". (I'll be taking one of those, thank you.)
And that Some-Kind-A-Gorgeous. All over my face. Seriously. How can one product make you feel so much of kiff?
(Go to one of those selected Woolies, and buy yourself some. Immediately.)
And then I hit La Senza. Underwear so beautiful I am considering taking the rest of the week off so I can laze around all day in it, drinking champagne and eating cupcakes. It's so effing hot that I don't even want to get naked ever again!
And then a dress. And when I slipped the cream vintage linen and lace over my head and The Daughter cried, "Oh Mom! You're the prettiest mommy in the whole wide world," I realised that I am a bit of alright, actually.
If the coolest, grooviest chick in the world thinks I'm rad, who gives a fu*k about anyone else?
The Pant Is A Squeezer.
I am a squeezer. In gender and in nature. I have the correct naughty bits to classify me as such. As well as the monthly moodiness. I have the correct desires: lots of clothes, make-up, romance. But also, and most significantly, I love to squeeze. And I'm not talking about that loved-up cuddle on the couch action. Oh no! The Pant likes to squeezes things. With her fingers: blackheads, whiteheads, acid bumps, millea. All of them.
In fact, it is that which I miss most about being in a relationship. Sure, as only sister to The Brother (who is single), I have carte blanche on his impurities. But he was blessed with skin, as The Father puts it, like silk. Or velvet. I'm not sure. But basically, he has the smoothest blemish-free skin in the world.
And so, today, I was faced with the biggest challenge of my professional career. A teen whose gender is irrelevant walked into my classroom today. Because I see so many teens, I scarcely have time to scrutinise their faces. But this one approached me, up close, to ask if it could be excused to fill its water bottle.
And usually I'm too busy to actually look. But today I raised my head. And looked at it mug on.
And there, perched dead centre on the shnoz, was the world's biggest pimple. The thing was gargantuan. It deserved its own pillow upon which to sleep.
I spent the entire lesson sitting on my hands trying to conjure up images of naked grandpas to try and prevent myself from leaning over and giving the thing a good squeeze.
I cannot tell you the sheer delight I would have experienced at the squeezage of that number. It would have made my year.
In fact, it is that which I miss most about being in a relationship. Sure, as only sister to The Brother (who is single), I have carte blanche on his impurities. But he was blessed with skin, as The Father puts it, like silk. Or velvet. I'm not sure. But basically, he has the smoothest blemish-free skin in the world.
And so, today, I was faced with the biggest challenge of my professional career. A teen whose gender is irrelevant walked into my classroom today. Because I see so many teens, I scarcely have time to scrutinise their faces. But this one approached me, up close, to ask if it could be excused to fill its water bottle.
And usually I'm too busy to actually look. But today I raised my head. And looked at it mug on.
And there, perched dead centre on the shnoz, was the world's biggest pimple. The thing was gargantuan. It deserved its own pillow upon which to sleep.
I spent the entire lesson sitting on my hands trying to conjure up images of naked grandpas to try and prevent myself from leaning over and giving the thing a good squeeze.
I cannot tell you the sheer delight I would have experienced at the squeezage of that number. It would have made my year.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Random Date Disaster.
So, I really have no room to complain, since it was I who actually agreed to Disastrous Random Date. But, really, I think something needs to be done regarding date etiquette.
A Monday evening, after possibly the most Morbid Monday of the year, was possibly not the best night to go out on a date. But I'm embracing singledom - so I got ready, make-up on, high-heel shoes blah blah blah - you know, the expected attire for possible romantic evening.
I probably should have cancelled moments after The Devil Worshipper had bludgeoned my mouth - unanaesthetised - with hooks and metal clasps and things that basically caused so much pain that I was unable to speak for a good 6 hours afterwards.
Anyway, Date Man arrived, to pick me up at arranged time.
I wasn't even going to have to mention that I, in high heels, had to help push-start his clapped-out shaggin' wagon (it actually had a sticker saying Love-Mobile on it). Because, quite frankly, the date's poor start was the highlight of it, completely.
It's not even that I had too much of a problem with going Dutch. I don't mind doing Dutch. Especially if Dutch is a hot single man with a bone fide accent. And a bone fide, um, bone. But paying for a date sticks quite awkwardly in my throat.
It was the fact that we had nothing to talk about and, it would seem, less in common. I am not all that interested in turning and fitting (is that what he was telling me??) of machinery. The only machinery I am au fair with is the type that is battery operated. And has three speeds: Slow, Medium and Oh-My-God-Again-Again.
But the lowlight, for me, dear friends, is when Random Date Man tried to make a joke:
Random Date Man: Why did the banana go to the hospital?
The Pant: Why would you say that to me you wicked wicked awful man?
RDM: No. You're supposed to say I don't know.
TP: You don't know? You think that's some kind of excuse? Did you not google my likes and dislikes?
RDM: Huh?
TP: You're talking about... the... "B" word. Don't you know I have a phobia of them? Like they scare the bejesus out of me? And before you get onto the whole phallic thing, I'm quite comfortable with the eating of and touching of cucumbers and carrots. Even baby marrows. But they're a bit small. But bananas - you selfish, thoughtless man.
Apparently he didn't know about this phobia.
RDM: Well, it wasn't peeling well.
Conversation after said ice-breaker joke was, at very least, stagnant. It was when he ordered a bacon and banana pizza that I slipped off to the bathroom.
The Pant: PLEASE come and fetch me. Immediately. I don't have my car.
Carlos: Why didn't you take your car?
TP: I don't drink and drive. And I don't date and stay sober. Phone me in three minutes and tell me The Daughter needs me. Please. I'll do anything for you. Except open mouth kiss The BF (my people) for you so you can take a photo.
And, three minutes later, the date ended. Except Random Date Man offered me a lift home. And so I had to push start his car uphill.
Are there any decent single men out there? Crikey.
A Monday evening, after possibly the most Morbid Monday of the year, was possibly not the best night to go out on a date. But I'm embracing singledom - so I got ready, make-up on, high-heel shoes blah blah blah - you know, the expected attire for possible romantic evening.
I probably should have cancelled moments after The Devil Worshipper had bludgeoned my mouth - unanaesthetised - with hooks and metal clasps and things that basically caused so much pain that I was unable to speak for a good 6 hours afterwards.
Anyway, Date Man arrived, to pick me up at arranged time.
I wasn't even going to have to mention that I, in high heels, had to help push-start his clapped-out shaggin' wagon (it actually had a sticker saying Love-Mobile on it). Because, quite frankly, the date's poor start was the highlight of it, completely.
It's not even that I had too much of a problem with going Dutch. I don't mind doing Dutch. Especially if Dutch is a hot single man with a bone fide accent. And a bone fide, um, bone. But paying for a date sticks quite awkwardly in my throat.
It was the fact that we had nothing to talk about and, it would seem, less in common. I am not all that interested in turning and fitting (is that what he was telling me??) of machinery. The only machinery I am au fair with is the type that is battery operated. And has three speeds: Slow, Medium and Oh-My-God-Again-Again.
But the lowlight, for me, dear friends, is when Random Date Man tried to make a joke:
Random Date Man: Why did the banana go to the hospital?
The Pant: Why would you say that to me you wicked wicked awful man?
RDM: No. You're supposed to say I don't know.
TP: You don't know? You think that's some kind of excuse? Did you not google my likes and dislikes?
RDM: Huh?
TP: You're talking about... the... "B" word. Don't you know I have a phobia of them? Like they scare the bejesus out of me? And before you get onto the whole phallic thing, I'm quite comfortable with the eating of and touching of cucumbers and carrots. Even baby marrows. But they're a bit small. But bananas - you selfish, thoughtless man.
Apparently he didn't know about this phobia.
RDM: Well, it wasn't peeling well.
Conversation after said ice-breaker joke was, at very least, stagnant. It was when he ordered a bacon and banana pizza that I slipped off to the bathroom.
The Pant: PLEASE come and fetch me. Immediately. I don't have my car.
Carlos: Why didn't you take your car?
TP: I don't drink and drive. And I don't date and stay sober. Phone me in three minutes and tell me The Daughter needs me. Please. I'll do anything for you. Except open mouth kiss The BF (my people) for you so you can take a photo.
And, three minutes later, the date ended. Except Random Date Man offered me a lift home. And so I had to push start his car uphill.
Are there any decent single men out there? Crikey.
Monday, February 7, 2011
God Will Get You.
I'm currently sitting in the dentist's rooms, a copy of Nobel Smile in hand, with the fear of God coursing through my veins like an A-grade drug. This fear coupled with the heaviness of heart I feel at the senseless murder of one of my oldest friend's dads does not bode well for breaking the stereotype of Morbid Monday.
Flip. Life sometimes sucks. I'm not sure why my eyes are welling up. But they are. (In my next life I would like to be a man: those that are so easily able to turn off their feelings. Ooooo! I'd like to be a player with perfect teeth: lots of sex and no dentist appointments. Radness.)
I love small towns, though. They really know how to perk a single girl up. Particularly elderly receptionists:
Elderly Receptionist Lady: I'm sorry, Mrs Liner, but you have forgotten to fill in your husband's details.
The Pant: It's Miss Liner, actually. Since I don't have a husband.
ERL: Oh. But you've filled in a dependant.
TP: Yes?
ERL: And so I need your hus - oh. Sorry. Your father's details, please.
TP: Why?
ERL: Because every girl needs a man-
TP: Like a fish needs a bicycle?
I've just been called. Time to go hang out with the satan worshipper.
I knew when I stole that toffee that cracked my tooth that my mother's sentiments were too true: God'll get you.
He's about to.
Flip. Life sometimes sucks. I'm not sure why my eyes are welling up. But they are. (In my next life I would like to be a man: those that are so easily able to turn off their feelings. Ooooo! I'd like to be a player with perfect teeth: lots of sex and no dentist appointments. Radness.)
I love small towns, though. They really know how to perk a single girl up. Particularly elderly receptionists:
Elderly Receptionist Lady: I'm sorry, Mrs Liner, but you have forgotten to fill in your husband's details.
The Pant: It's Miss Liner, actually. Since I don't have a husband.
ERL: Oh. But you've filled in a dependant.
TP: Yes?
ERL: And so I need your hus - oh. Sorry. Your father's details, please.
TP: Why?
ERL: Because every girl needs a man-
TP: Like a fish needs a bicycle?
I've just been called. Time to go hang out with the satan worshipper.
I knew when I stole that toffee that cracked my tooth that my mother's sentiments were too true: God'll get you.
He's about to.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Whipped Cream On The Décolletage.
I felt the pinch of being single for a solitary moment yesterday. I thought, perhaps, during those 5.7 seconds that it was Larry I was missing. But upon trying to conjure up an image of him, I found myself fantasising about Jake Gyllenhall. I can't remember what he looks like. Honestly. That must surely be a good sign?
And, seriously, the moment was exceptionally fleeting. The Pant does well single. She's able to fulfill her very own self where the men she's dated have been unable. Incapable. Dorks. Just so you know, she isn't some pathetic pining repeat of her December self. She is happier than she's been in a long time.
I live in Durban, right? Where the constant heat is so oppressive that I've spent nights worrying that I'm going through menopause. The sweat factor is intense. I work without aircon too. And so, come 8.15 am, the make-up has slipped right off and the clothes are clinging in places I didn't realise I had places. I've considered going to work naked - but apparently standing before impressionable youths in the nick is against the law (a law, I feel, that should be revisited.)
As a result of all of this, I am unable to moisturise the body. Cream mixed with copious amounts of sweat makes clothes stick with a slickness of lubrication enough to make one want to vomit. And so this entire summer I have walked around with reptile-like skin. Not so great to look at. But much easier to handle.
That is, until, The Incubator came to the rescue. She was concerned about my lack of creativity in dress - linen pants and vests, daily. (Wear a skirt!) And she felt that something needed to be done. So when I emerged from the shower yesterday morning, she thrust into my hand an aerosol can of body mousse.
Now, I cannot aptly express the discomfort I certainly felt when, with The Incubator's eager eyes upon me, I expelled what looked like whipped cream onto my décolletage. And I caught sight of my nakedness in an incredibly flattering mirror: the lights were low, the steam from the shower gave rise to the romance of my situation, Barry White was crooning in my head, I saw Jake Gyllenhall gently massage the mousse across my collar bone. Mmmmmmm hmmmmmm....
5.7 seconds later, I realised The Incubator was waiting for my response to wonder product. And so I began rubbing in the mousse with the sexiness of boarding establishment House Mother.
The verdict: body moisturing mousse rocks. And The Pant is ready for the rebound. I've picked the contender too. Poor boy.
And, seriously, the moment was exceptionally fleeting. The Pant does well single. She's able to fulfill her very own self where the men she's dated have been unable. Incapable. Dorks. Just so you know, she isn't some pathetic pining repeat of her December self. She is happier than she's been in a long time.
I live in Durban, right? Where the constant heat is so oppressive that I've spent nights worrying that I'm going through menopause. The sweat factor is intense. I work without aircon too. And so, come 8.15 am, the make-up has slipped right off and the clothes are clinging in places I didn't realise I had places. I've considered going to work naked - but apparently standing before impressionable youths in the nick is against the law (a law, I feel, that should be revisited.)
As a result of all of this, I am unable to moisturise the body. Cream mixed with copious amounts of sweat makes clothes stick with a slickness of lubrication enough to make one want to vomit. And so this entire summer I have walked around with reptile-like skin. Not so great to look at. But much easier to handle.
That is, until, The Incubator came to the rescue. She was concerned about my lack of creativity in dress - linen pants and vests, daily. (Wear a skirt!) And she felt that something needed to be done. So when I emerged from the shower yesterday morning, she thrust into my hand an aerosol can of body mousse.
Now, I cannot aptly express the discomfort I certainly felt when, with The Incubator's eager eyes upon me, I expelled what looked like whipped cream onto my décolletage. And I caught sight of my nakedness in an incredibly flattering mirror: the lights were low, the steam from the shower gave rise to the romance of my situation, Barry White was crooning in my head, I saw Jake Gyllenhall gently massage the mousse across my collar bone. Mmmmmmm hmmmmmm....
5.7 seconds later, I realised The Incubator was waiting for my response to wonder product. And so I began rubbing in the mousse with the sexiness of boarding establishment House Mother.
The verdict: body moisturing mousse rocks. And The Pant is ready for the rebound. I've picked the contender too. Poor boy.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Wanker of the Week Award.
It's Friday - halle-effing-luljah - but The Pant has the mental maturity of a cretin and therefore is unable to write properly. Humble apologies. But honestly, five days of work - IN A ROW. It's bloody criminal is what it is.
Just one thing.
WANKER OF THE WEEK AWARD
I saw this gem on the way to work this morning, and it was too good not to share:
Honestly. A camouflaged sports car? In which jungle? And what exactly are you trying to hide from? And, pal, nothing screams 'behind the times' quite like GREY camouflage. Unless you're in the Anarctic. In which case, your car just ain't going to cut it.
Just one thing.
WANKER OF THE WEEK AWARD
I saw this gem on the way to work this morning, and it was too good not to share:
Honestly. A camouflaged sports car? In which jungle? And what exactly are you trying to hide from? And, pal, nothing screams 'behind the times' quite like GREY camouflage. Unless you're in the Anarctic. In which case, your car just ain't going to cut it.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Social Ineptitude.
I got stopped in the supermarket yesterday. A man - a good-looking one at that - confidently approached me while I was waist-up in the ice-cream freezer, looking for an ice-cream for The Daughter whilst attempting to inhale glorious flavour of Almond Magnum. (Damn sucky diet. Been salivating for ice-cream for three effing days. Roll on Sunday.)
"Excuse me. Sorry to bother you," - my obvious displeasure at having been pulled away from mouth-wateringly taunting freezer scent was clearly visible - "but isn't your name Panty?"
And I was upright, rummaging in my bag for a writing utensil with which to autograph piece of paper/his pectorals/shirt in less time than you could say "what ice-cream?". That's not strictly true, although I wish it was. I hit my head on the freezer lid, popping glass sliding lid thingy onto floor and causing Supermarket Manager (v NB job) to rush over mumbling the words "silly cow" under his breath.
The Pant: Yes. Yes, I am. Panty. I mean Panty is my name so that's who I am which is why, I suppose, people call me Panty. (Pause.) Or Pant.
(I'm always stellar when caught off-guard. And eloquent.)
Good-looking Man: Didn't you used to work at Exceptionally Seedy Bar Cum Excuse For Restaurant?
I dropped the pen and pretended I was rummaging in bag for breath mints.
TP: I did. A long time ago. Guess I haven't aged much since then.
(Extended uncomfortable silence.)
TP: Since you recognised me. I mean, um, obviously I look a lot like I used to. Which means I haven't changed much. So maybe I haven't aged much. Or maybe spending so much money on make-up is worth it after all. Not that I wear much make-up. This is my natural complexion. Um....
Good-looking Man stared at me with a look of what I'd like to believe was lust but was, I suspect, most likely utter disbelief. There were voices inside my head screaming "Shut the efffffffff up" in unison.
GLM: Well, you used to serve my dad often. He spoke very fondly of you.
TP: You see! I'm not a complete social retard. Some people like me!
GLM: Yeah. Well. Nice seeing you again. Take care.
And he turned on his heel.
And I stood for a moment, replaying the encounter in my head over and over again. The ears were burning red that I had to stick my head back in freezer.
Thank God for the sensitivity of The Daughter, though. Because she looked at me and exclaimed, "Mommy, your bum looks normous when you bend over like that."
"Excuse me. Sorry to bother you," - my obvious displeasure at having been pulled away from mouth-wateringly taunting freezer scent was clearly visible - "but isn't your name Panty?"
And I was upright, rummaging in my bag for a writing utensil with which to autograph piece of paper/his pectorals/shirt in less time than you could say "what ice-cream?". That's not strictly true, although I wish it was. I hit my head on the freezer lid, popping glass sliding lid thingy onto floor and causing Supermarket Manager (v NB job) to rush over mumbling the words "silly cow" under his breath.
The Pant: Yes. Yes, I am. Panty. I mean Panty is my name so that's who I am which is why, I suppose, people call me Panty. (Pause.) Or Pant.
(I'm always stellar when caught off-guard. And eloquent.)
Good-looking Man: Didn't you used to work at Exceptionally Seedy Bar Cum Excuse For Restaurant?
I dropped the pen and pretended I was rummaging in bag for breath mints.
TP: I did. A long time ago. Guess I haven't aged much since then.
(Extended uncomfortable silence.)
TP: Since you recognised me. I mean, um, obviously I look a lot like I used to. Which means I haven't changed much. So maybe I haven't aged much. Or maybe spending so much money on make-up is worth it after all. Not that I wear much make-up. This is my natural complexion. Um....
Good-looking Man stared at me with a look of what I'd like to believe was lust but was, I suspect, most likely utter disbelief. There were voices inside my head screaming "Shut the efffffffff up" in unison.
GLM: Well, you used to serve my dad often. He spoke very fondly of you.
TP: You see! I'm not a complete social retard. Some people like me!
GLM: Yeah. Well. Nice seeing you again. Take care.
And he turned on his heel.
And I stood for a moment, replaying the encounter in my head over and over again. The ears were burning red that I had to stick my head back in freezer.
Thank God for the sensitivity of The Daughter, though. Because she looked at me and exclaimed, "Mommy, your bum looks normous when you bend over like that."
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Illiterati.
So I happened upon an ex-boyfriend's blog yesterday. I know it's my ex-boyfriend because there is a picture of him. With his eyes freakishly close together. I don't remember them being that close together but love, I have learned from the comfortably safe distance of hindsight, is totally blind.
Honestly. I have made some strange choices in my life. And I have no idea why. This particular boyfriend has absolutely no redeeming feature - he's not clever (and I do clever in a BIG way). He's super mega-fugly (and I can like to like all kinds of sexiness). Oh, he's not sexy. And also - you know that redeeming feature that some ugly guys have that I would definitely not discuss on this blog for fear of Mother/Father/(worse still)Brother reading? Well he lacked that. So. Huge. Style. It. Wasn't. Even. Real.
Yawn.
Nope. Geek Ex-Boyfriend With Perm was (and judging by putridly inane contents of his blog, remains) all kinds of unPanty-ness on so many levels.
Now, I don't mean to be unkind, but I don't really care about this individual. I would rather (I swear) wake up next to... ummmm.... who's really siff? A simpleton who eats his own eye goop. But I thought that, at least, someone - anyone - would care enough about this person to tell him the truth about his ramblings.
There's no one out there. And so I've taken it upon myself to do some charity work. You know, help those in need. I'm a kind person, after all.
Dear Geek Ex-Boyfriend with Perm,
What was I thinking?
And, pal, seriously. What's with the blog?
There's a little function in the English language called "grammar". This compromises of little lines and dots called "punctuation marks". These "punctuation marks" help separate ideas and thoughts. And they also help readers decipher what the eff you are trying to say.
Oh, and also. Blog about something interesting.
If you can.
Yours (never ever ever ever ever ever again)
Panty.
Honestly. I have made some strange choices in my life. And I have no idea why. This particular boyfriend has absolutely no redeeming feature - he's not clever (and I do clever in a BIG way). He's super mega-fugly (and I can like to like all kinds of sexiness). Oh, he's not sexy. And also - you know that redeeming feature that some ugly guys have that I would definitely not discuss on this blog for fear of Mother/Father/(worse still)Brother reading? Well he lacked that. So. Huge. Style. It. Wasn't. Even. Real.
Yawn.
Nope. Geek Ex-Boyfriend With Perm was (and judging by putridly inane contents of his blog, remains) all kinds of unPanty-ness on so many levels.
Now, I don't mean to be unkind, but I don't really care about this individual. I would rather (I swear) wake up next to... ummmm.... who's really siff? A simpleton who eats his own eye goop. But I thought that, at least, someone - anyone - would care enough about this person to tell him the truth about his ramblings.
There's no one out there. And so I've taken it upon myself to do some charity work. You know, help those in need. I'm a kind person, after all.
Dear Geek Ex-Boyfriend with Perm,
What was I thinking?
And, pal, seriously. What's with the blog?
There's a little function in the English language called "grammar". This compromises of little lines and dots called "punctuation marks". These "punctuation marks" help separate ideas and thoughts. And they also help readers decipher what the eff you are trying to say.
Oh, and also. Blog about something interesting.
If you can.
Yours (never ever ever ever ever ever again)
Panty.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Wine-Free Wax Session: Fail.
I have a friend. No, that's not the end of my story. But this friend, who we'll call Friend for the purposes of this blog, popped in this afternoon.
Friend: Hi, was just in the area. Thought I'd pop in and say hi.
The Pant: You live in the, ahem, area. You're bound to find yourself in this particular area at least daily. And why are you sprinting to the microwave with a wax kit under your arm?
F: Need wax. Haven't waxed since December. (Peering in the fridge, with rising panic in voice) And where's the effing wine?
TP: Alcohol/Meat/Sugar/Chocolate/Starch/Fun-free diet. You're going under unanaesthetised.
F: Bloody hell. Shit. But why?
TP: Don't ask. Just strip.
And so there I was, spreading molten wax onto Friend, when she shrieked.
Friend: Bloody hell. Cheese and rice. Crikey effing Moses. That's going to blister!
The Pant: I know it's been a while. But that is how one removes unwanted hair from the body. And you chose to do this without wine. Me? I'm on a wax-free diet until I'm off the wine-free diet.
She chose to continue. And just as I was about to rip one of the more intricate strips off, she yelped:
Friend: Don't. It's still moist.
I feel sick. And dirty. I made her rip her own strip off and sent her home.
And not even a glass of wine to calm my own nerves.
Shitballs.
Friend: Hi, was just in the area. Thought I'd pop in and say hi.
The Pant: You live in the, ahem, area. You're bound to find yourself in this particular area at least daily. And why are you sprinting to the microwave with a wax kit under your arm?
F: Need wax. Haven't waxed since December. (Peering in the fridge, with rising panic in voice) And where's the effing wine?
TP: Alcohol/Meat/Sugar/Chocolate/Starch/Fun-free diet. You're going under unanaesthetised.
F: Bloody hell. Shit. But why?
TP: Don't ask. Just strip.
And so there I was, spreading molten wax onto Friend, when she shrieked.
Friend: Bloody hell. Cheese and rice. Crikey effing Moses. That's going to blister!
The Pant: I know it's been a while. But that is how one removes unwanted hair from the body. And you chose to do this without wine. Me? I'm on a wax-free diet until I'm off the wine-free diet.
She chose to continue. And just as I was about to rip one of the more intricate strips off, she yelped:
Friend: Don't. It's still moist.
I feel sick. And dirty. I made her rip her own strip off and sent her home.
And not even a glass of wine to calm my own nerves.
Shitballs.
Diets. Sucky.
There's a reason I've never been on a diet - that is until my ultra skinny BF (my people) somehow managed to coerce me into Cleansing Whatever Organ It Is That Makes Gall Stones Detoxification (Sick) (Effing) Diet. And the reason is simple: Diets suck. Huge anus.
I don't think I need to diet. Sure, there's a little extra post-Christmas-demise-of-post-break-up-anorexia padding that could be shed. But I'm okay with it. I've never had to give up fat/meat/liquor/sugar in tea/chocolate/bread/potatoes/fun to do it. I've always relied on the rhythmical cycle of heartbreak to keep me in shape.
But when The BF, my people (skinny as a Monday is long) told me that this particular diet would ensure decreased severity in hangovers, I signed up within two shakes of a dog's lipstick.
And now I'm fed the eff up.
I have to drink a litre of apple juice a day. No mean feat, I hear you say. Try it. It's like having constant cotton mouth.
And I have to drink olive oil and lemon juice in the mornings. Which is not the worst part. True, the coating of tongue, teeth and cheeks in oil is fairly revolting. But the cutting out of kiff food is far more of a challenge.
I'm certainly not looking forward to the Epsom Salts. At all.
Tonight we're eating brown rice and butter beans. Without the butter, of course. And I ordinarily wouldn't mind a meal like this. But today I really effing mind. With all of my human merely being.
All I want is warm white bread, straight from the oven, slathered in butter. Chased down by a robust red. Only because I'm not allowed it.
Bugger.
I don't think I need to diet. Sure, there's a little extra post-Christmas-demise-of-post-break-up-anorexia padding that could be shed. But I'm okay with it. I've never had to give up fat/meat/liquor/sugar in tea/chocolate/bread/potatoes/fun to do it. I've always relied on the rhythmical cycle of heartbreak to keep me in shape.
But when The BF, my people (skinny as a Monday is long) told me that this particular diet would ensure decreased severity in hangovers, I signed up within two shakes of a dog's lipstick.
And now I'm fed the eff up.
I have to drink a litre of apple juice a day. No mean feat, I hear you say. Try it. It's like having constant cotton mouth.
And I have to drink olive oil and lemon juice in the mornings. Which is not the worst part. True, the coating of tongue, teeth and cheeks in oil is fairly revolting. But the cutting out of kiff food is far more of a challenge.
I'm certainly not looking forward to the Epsom Salts. At all.
Tonight we're eating brown rice and butter beans. Without the butter, of course. And I ordinarily wouldn't mind a meal like this. But today I really effing mind. With all of my human merely being.
All I want is warm white bread, straight from the oven, slathered in butter. Chased down by a robust red. Only because I'm not allowed it.
Bugger.
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