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: