Other People Are Also Arseholes.

I had my tea over a fabulous article this morning - and so I had to share.  (If you want to read the whole shebang, clicky clicky here).  It's really nice to know that I am not always the world's greatest arsehole.  Some other people are mammoth arseholes too.

I've got to share this with you.  (It's just a snippet, and it is completely owned by The Mercury, but having made The Pant such a gloriously happy woman, it certainly needs to be read by many).

So basically, there was an advocate who got the shits with a judge in the Western Cape High Court, and this is the interchange.  (I swear!  No blogger's license used - at all.)

Judge: Now first of all, Lawyer, where were you this morning?

Lawyer: My lord, I just want to know if my clerk gave you a message?

Judge: Yes, we got a confused message … (about) car problems you had.

Lawyer: Exactly. Now do you want to hear it again?

Judge: Excuse me?

Lawyer: Do you want to hear the excuse again?

Judge: Yes.

Lawyer: My car broke down.

Judge: Now why did you realise that around 10am when court proceedings were about to begin?

Lawyer: We had to wait for the AA.

Judge: Yes?

Lawyer: To tow the car away.

Judge: But you, no doubt, had a cellphone?

Lawyer: I didn’t know about the case. I didn’t have my diary (sakboek) with me.

Judge: Your bag (sakkie) wasn’t with you?

Lawyer: My diary wasn’t with me.

Judge: Yes. Could you not have phoned the High Court half an hour, an hour, before the time?

Lawyer: Judge, how long must we hassle with this?

Judge: Excuse me?

Lawyer: How long must we hassle with this? I’ve now gone to some trouble to be here.

Judge: Mr Lawyer, perhaps you don’t realise, your first duty, if you have to appear in the High Court, is to be here, and you are not doing us a favour by being here, despite your problems. Why are you turning your face away from me while I’m speaking?

Lawyer: Well, I asked my secretary to pass on a message and I assume she must have done so.

Judge: Yes, but then we got … (interrupted)

Lawyer: Now do you want the message from me again?

Judge: Then we got another strange message: Could the case be postponed until Monday, a telephonic request for a postponement?

Lawyer: Exactly. Then I got the message that you were prepared to wait for me, and now I am here.

Judge: You were not involved in another case this morning, were you?

Lawyer: I was not involved, Judge. I am here now. (He slams his hand on the desk.)

Judge: Sir (meneer), your attitude, you must... (interrupted)

Lawyer: But then you must not also come ... (interrupted)

Judge: You must be careful about your attitude, Mr Lawyer, in front of the court.

Lawyer: But then you must also not come with an attitude.

Judge: Excuse me?

Lawyer: I said then you must not come with an attitude, because we are both adults, I am not your child.

Judge: Mr Lawyer, I must tell you ... (interrupted)

Lawyer: I said I am not your child.

Judge: I must warn you … (interrupted)

Lawyer: You do exactly what you want. Do what you want.

Judge: You are sailing very close to the wind.

Lawyer: Jou ma se p**s, man! F**k you! (Lawyer leaves the courtroom).

And there it is: poes.  A word used too seldom.

The Running Relationship Break-Up.

I haven't blogged about my run with Particularly Beefy Guy because, as it turns out, I'm human and therefore have this protective mechanism that blocks out memory of extreme pain. And so I certainly don't remember him rubbing my back as I dry heaved against a tree trunk after 800 metres. Or the fact that I finished our little 3 k run in true Comrades-style: I crawled the last 200 metres, with Particularly Beefy egging me on, "You can do it, Pant. Nearly there. Do it for The Daughter. Make her proud.". "Yes, I will tell her that you love her.". (The crawling position certainly suits me. I was at eye level with a pair of the hottest legs I've seen since my boarding school days.)

So, last night my phone rang. And when I saw Particularly Beefy's name pop up, I turned my phone over and the TV up so I could hear Will & Grace over M C Hammer. But guilt - nay, curiosity - got the better of me. And I texted him back.

The Pant: If this is about running, I'm sick. I've got double pneumonia in one lung. Cough cough. But if it's not about running, then I think you should phone back.

And when my phone rang a second time, I airpunched. Then I remembered how naff airpunching is. Then I composed myself. Then I answered.

The Pant: Hiiiiiiiiiii! (Very dignified.)

Particularly Beefy: Hi. Sorry to call so late. I'm just in your area and wondered if I could pop in for coffee.

The Pant: Or a drink? You could pop in for a drink.

PB: Are you up? I mean you're not in your pyjamas, moments away from climbing into bed, are you?

TP: No! (Emphatic. While de-wedgying sleeping shorts from bum.). Come over.

PB: I'll see you in 5.

(5? I had "5" in which to de-pyjama, re-make-up, and dress in manner of I've-just-come-home-from-work-but-always-actually-look-this-hot.)

I opened the door about 7 later.

Particularly Beefy: You wear that to work?

The Pant: What? (I looked down and thought that, perhaps, a pair of fu*k-me boots and a micromini would not quite cut it as teacherly work attire.)

PB: Look, I don't mind (yes please) but surely it's illegal to teach impressionable youths dressed like that.

TP: Not if you don't get caught.

PB: How can you not get caught?

TP: Details, Particularly Beefy. Details. I'll dress like a nun, tomorrow, okay? You want a drink?

PB: Yea - a beer would be nice.

With drinks in hand we relocated to the lounge. He put his beer down, took my hand in his and looked me in the eye. (This was behaviour that spoke of something very cool or something very uncool.)

PB: Look, I wanted to come over to tell you that I don't think we should run together anymore-

TP: You're run relationship breaking up with me?

PB: I really need to focus on my Comrades training right now and I can't afford to spend 85 minutes strolling 3 ks.

TP (chin raised slightly, hand on heart): We did not stroll. We walked! And it was 83 minutes.

PB: I didn't realise you were so into it.

TP: I'm not.

PB: Then why are you so upset?

TP: Because I don't do getting broken up with very well.

PB: Which is why I was going to say-

TP: What? That we could "run" again when you've got over this Comrades thing? That you just need to run with other runners for a while? That you had a good time but you're not ready to become a one partner running companion kind of guy?

PB: Well, yes and no.

TP: Well, you need to decide pal. These boots were made for walking...

PB: So were your running shoes, apparently.

(Stumped. Uuugggghhh. And very wide smile of Particularly Beefy = direct flight to Melt-Your-Resolve-Weak-At-The-Kneesville.)

PB: I just thought, Pant, that we could do other stuff together.

TP: Like?

PB: Like, how about dinner on Friday?

TP: I can like that.

PB: Good, so it's a date, then?

TP: Uh-huh. (He said date! He said date!)

PB: I'll pick you up at, say, seven.

TP: That'll do. Um. Just one more thing - what other other stuff?

PB: Don't make me blush.

And that, my friends, is why I kept my school uniform when I did the closet clean-up the other day. "Don't make me blush" sounds a bit like a challenge to me. One that I intend to win. In due course, of course.

!! Free Porn !!

So, the other night, My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh and I were taking a pre-date stroll along the promenade.  It was that night when the moon was freakishly close to the earth, and it was truly breathtaking over the ocean.  I felt a sense of peace - being with My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh does that to me.  He's one of the nicest people I know - and so accepting.  Like in spite of, and perhaps even because of my fly-off-the-wall crazy PMS moments - he still thinks I'm all kinds of rad.

Anyway, there we were, hand-in-hand, soaking up the smells that Durban has to offer.  That bit by Addington Hospital doesn't smell so grand.  But we breathed through our ears and made it out alive.  And then, we looked up the hotels that rim the beachfront.  (Not rim like that - you dirty mingers.)

Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh:  I wonder what those people up there are doing.

The Pant:  They're probably getting ready to go out on a date.  Like us.  Except I'm sure theirs will have happy endings.

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Speak for yourself, Pant.

TP:  I only have myself to speak for.  Or maybe they're here on business.  And they're going to go to a restaurant on their own.  With a book.  I once served a man who took his book on a date.  He had a three course meal.

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Doesn't sound like a bad idea.

TP:  You make a good point.  Except I don't think I could read Kathy Lette in public.  I blush too much and have exceptionally animalistic urges, at times, which I'm unable to suppress.

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Ha ha.  Best not to do those in public, Pant.  Or maybe, they're getting some pre-dinner action.

TP:  True.  Although I personally wouldn't choose Durban as a DW destination.

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Well some people do.

TP:  You think?

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  No.  I know.  Check The Holiday Inn.  Three windows across, three windows down.

And let me tell you something - this was first class porn like I've never owned.

TP:  No man.  For real.  No man.  No.  He's just standing like Da Vinci's David and looking at the moon.

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Then why is she kneeling in front of him bobbing her head backwards and forwards?

TP:  No man.  (I squinted my aged eyes at this point to try and work out what the silhouettes were doing).  No man.  For real?

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  For real, my Pant.  There's a whole bunch of dirty lovin' going on there.

TP:  No.  Look.  He's turned to the side.  They're having a conversation.

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Then why is she bent over from the waist?  And he's thrusting his hips backwards and forwards.

TP:  No man (I really was in a state of shock).  He's dancing.  She's taking a while to tie her shoelaces.

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Then why are they never really apart?  Their silhouettes are always connected.

TP:  Go and give all our money to those fishermen for their deckchairs.  I'm not leaving until I've got some answers.

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Uh-oh.  A third party has just arrived.

TP:  You see.  They're a family.  On holiday.  (I looked a little longer.)  Uh-oh.

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Yup.  All three figures are blending into one frenzied silhouette now.

TP:  Why do you have to be gay?

FEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Why do you have to be a girl?

If you want some free porn, best you hit the beach front.

Geckos: Violent Creatures.

Big problem in the Liner household. Huge. Like en-effing-ormous.

There's a vicious gecko that has shacked up in my grocery cupboard and it's scaring me so shitless that I've taken to simply buying all the ingredients for dinner when I know perfectly well that that cupboard is stacked fuller than my knickers were when I was pregnant. Like last night, for example, I made The Daughter macaroni cheese (because she actually eats it), and I stopped at the shop on the way home (which I hate doing almost more than I imagine I'd hate scrubbing toilet bowls with my tongue) to buy more flour and macaroni. I know there's perfectly good dry ingredients in said grocery cupboard. But I wasn't taking a chance. No, siree. Not with that spawn of satan slithering all over them.

A month ago, if you'd asked me if I was scared of geckos, I'd have said, "Hell no," (in a poor attempt at an African American accent). Then I would've clicked my fingers three times, pursed my lips and turned on my fluffy slippered heel in that jerky movement where the hips go first and the torso follows later, and waddled out of the room. I've always been scared of the more conventionally scary things: bananas, snakes, birds indoors and recent divorcees that proclaim their undying love for you. The proper scary stuff in life. But geckos? Those harmless little insipid beings? No way.

As it turns out, I am afraid. Huge effing style. And it all started about a month ago, when Precious Cat left a little prezzie next to my bed (he's stopped doing this - my threats of adoption have had their desired effect and he's towing the line).

From a distance, it looked like a gecko in a black catsuit. "Nice style, See-Through Being," I thought, as I approached it with two full rolls of bunched up toilet paper with which to scoop it up and flush it away. The blackness covering Guff Reptile (they are reptiles, right?) was, in fact, a colony of those really tiny ants that have taken it upon themselves to inhabit various places in my house.

"Ah, shame, Ex-Creature, did Pussy get you good?" I said as I contemplated its death. "Let me lay you to rest in dignity. Why don't you swirl down our toilet bowl and you can decompose amongst faeces and other human waste.". And then I laced my stool spool-protected fingers around its body. And it flicked its head to the side and opened its pink mouth and let out a hiss that sounded like an over-fizzed can of coke being opened.

I snapped up with such alacrity that I got whiplash and sprinted (Hussein Boltt-style) out of the house, whimpering and crying like a little boy who wishes he was a little girl.

The Pant: CARLOS! HELP!

Carlos: What pally? I'm watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. Is it important or do you want me to take your rubbish out again?

The Pant: (now panting with fear - excuse the pun): Urgent. Reptile. Legless. In bedroom. Help.

Carlos: If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: Stop leaving little saucers of gin around the house so you can laugh at drunk insects.

The Pant: No. Legless. For real. Cat attack.

What is it with men and their bravado? He walked into my house, scooped it up and started chasing me with the corpse. I ran so fast, and so far, that it was only when I was past Ballito that I realised he'd stopped.

And now this minging shitter in my grocery cupboard? It attacked me the other day. I promise you. I was reaching into the cupboard to get sprinkles for the birthday cake of The Uncle, when I interrupted its rest and it went for me. It jumped and made that repeated 's' movement that snakes make with their bodies. And it hissed "ghaaaaa ghaaaa".

So this morning, I left a note for my maid:

Dear Armpit (I can't spell her real name),

Please lock The Cat in the grocery cupboard until The Gecko is dead. Otherwise I'm moving to Alaska.

And take the rest of the birthday cake. I need to have only one of arse if I ever have to move with pace away from another gecko.

Yours in cleanliness (it is, after all, next to Godliness),

The Pant.

The Leopard Mum.

 I picked The Daughter up in a rush yesterday. (We had the most insane day - never to be repeated and only made slightly better by the fact that my maid has been suitably trained to have remembered to put that delicious bottle of white in the fridge for me.) Why is it, when you're in a rush, that The Nosy Parker Teacher always wants "to have a word"?


Nosy Parker Teacher: Mum, could I have a word?

What I didn't say was: "Sure, lovie, you can have two words if you like.  And they'll be 'fuck' and 'off' - in that order.   And don't call me 'Mum'.   You are too old to have ever come anywhere near my vajayjay let alone out of it."

What I did say was:


The Pant: Sure.  Is everything alright?  (Having grown up being, well, myself, I know that when a teacher says she wants "a word", everything is not, in fact, alright.)

NPT:  Well, I wanted to show you some of The Daughter's art.  Isn't this one lovely?

(She showed me a picture of a house that The Daughter had coloured in.  She'd kept in the lines, but the house was green and it had a blue roof.  Since receiving the leopard print outfit from The Incubator I've decided to become The Leopard Mum. Quite similar to The Tiger Mum, but a whole bunch more lazy.   So I guess I have high expectations, but absolutely no drive to see said expectations materialise.)


The Pant:  But our house is white.  And the roof is red. I'm so embarrassed.  I'll have a word with her about this.  (Private word with teacher = problem, right?)

NPT:  No.  We're very proud of her.  She's doing exceptionally well.  (And this required "a word", now, why?)

TP:  Oh, good then.  So she is a model child, just like me?

NPT:  Well, there was one other thing I wanted to speak to you about.

(So now I'm thinking, "What? I have 3.7 seconds to get this child to her swimming lesson and you're going to tell me that she's cut out a star or a heart perfectly?  I get it, she's all super.  I'm very proud.  I promise.")

TP:  Of course.

NPT:  It's just that, um, she told Stevie that he was talking ... um ... bullshit today.

TP:  Well, what was Stevie saying?

NPT:  He said his dad was Superman.

TP:  Well, he's talking bullshit.

NPT:  That's exactly what your child said.

TP:  Good.  She's learnt how to identify when people are lying.  That's a very important skill to have in this day and age.

NPT:  Yes, yes.  It's just the language she used.

TP:  She didn't slip an article in, did she?  Did she say, "Stevie, you're talking the bullshit"?  Her uncle sometimes slips articles into his speech.  I'll correct her on that.

NPT:  No.  She cussed.

(Cussed?  Who uses that word?)

TP:  Well, where did she learn that word?

NPT:  You just said it yourself, Miss Liner.  Perhaps you should watch your language at home.

TP:  You used the word first, Nosy Parker Teacher.  Perhaps you should watch your mouth around my daughter.

And that's another trait of the Leopard Mum:  will not tolerate it when people think she's done something wrong.

Running With Beefy.

Okay. I need help here. I met a (particularly beefy) guy at a funeral the other day. Why are you smirking? Is it not socially acceptable to prey on The Hopefully Sexually Frustrated Grieving? You think that's bad? My other ex-boyfriends I've picked up - or rather been picked up by - at a gay club (I shit you not), an Elton John concert (no, not even the same guy), the communal bathroom at Burn (what? they weren't communal?) and one at an all boys' school reunion (I suppose I was asking for that).

Anyway, I've actually known Particularly Beefy Guy for a while. We grew up in the same city and our social circles must have crossed paths at times. In fact, we belonged to the same social circle. Where I come from, there are only two social circles: Those That Go To Church, and Those That Don't (I think you'll find that during our youths we belonged to the latter).

Particularly Beefy Guy: Shoh! It's been a while, Pant. How are you? Where are you living? What are you doing with yourself?

(Three questions in a row. He must think I'm super hot.)

The Pant: I'm good, thanks. (Was thinking of throwing in "recently single" but thought that that might be too much of an advertisement.). Still in Durbs (shit, should have said 'Durban'. Sounds like I'm trying to be cool. Like oooo! I'm so cool! I live in Durbs. Bugger). Still teaching. You?

PBG: Same old same old.

TP: (What is same old? Have I ever known this?). Ah, okay. Well, cool. (Cool? Did I just say that same old same old was 'cool'?)

PBG: Hey, how's your brother (no, don't ask about my brother. Keep talking about me. It's much more fun. Keep focussing on my boobs)?

TP: Well, he's been jolling up a storm. Going wild. Got divorced last year. A rite of passage, I suppose. I can't keep up with him.

PBG: Me too.

TP: Did I say I can't keep up with him? Pffffft... I so can keep up with him.

(At this point my kidneys skidaddled down to my toes and my liver ate its way into my uterus - it figured it was the least used organ in my body and would be safest there.)

PBG: But it's getting in the way of my Comrades training.

TP: Oh, you run? I've just started.  (Why did I say this?  I don't really run.  I fall over and cough up lungs is what I do.)

PBG: Have you joined a club?

TP: A club? As in not just The BF and me?

PGB: No, like, with hundreds of runners.

TP: Really? How many of them are men?

PGB: Most of them.

TP: When can I start?

Okay. So here's the problem: I start tomorrow. At 05h15. And I can't run five paces without falling over.

I just want Particularly Beefy Guy to find me attractive enough to want to sit over a meal, pretend to listen to what I'm saying and picture me naked. How is this ever going to happen if he has seen me exercising? 

My pick-up skills: Fail. Epic.

The Pant's Definitive Guide To Feeling Old.

I've always prided myself on feeling young.  I may not always look young, particularly first thing in the morning after a few too many glasses of wine the night before.  But I generally feel youthful.  I like jumping castles.  And I like playing in the sea so that I end up with a costume full of sand.  I sometimes get so engrossed in games with The Daughter that I get positively pissed off when she loses focus and chooses to play other with other things.  Like her dolls.  I don't like playing dolls.

But, sometimes, it just so happens that we feel old.  And I have a  (tried and tested) guide on how to achieve this:

1)  Wax both legs and armpits.  Not just one of each.

2)  Pour a delicious glass of sauvignon blanc and enter a bath.

3)  Apply proper make-up.  Like spend more than thirty seconds applying it.

4)  Wear pretty earrings and rings.

5)  Slip your sexiest little rokkie on.  (At this point you might find it an excellent idea to wear high-heels.  If you, like me, are suddenly called to the gate to open up for your brother, you may well find that you decide that you are unable to last an entire evening in said shoes, and you may want to rather slip on some sandals.  Sparkly.  Pretty.  But flat.)

6)  Drop The Daughter off with The BF (your people) and go out to dinner.

7)  Find yourself seated in a nice restaurant in the company of only men.  (This is a wonderful thing to do.  You should all try it.)

8)  Drink a few tequilas and some beers and perhaps a sneaky little gin and dry lemon.

9)  Agree to go to a local watering hole with men.  (You are, after all, dressed in an unbelievably hot piece of cloth and your newly waxed legs need to be shown off).

10)  Walk into watering hole.  Get greeted by horrendous stench of fresh chunder.  Gag.

11)  Walk directly to bathroom.  Wait in queue.

12)  Bump into human children that you actually teach.

13)  Hear "Miss Liner this"  and "Miss Liner that."  And, "Oh, Miss Liner, I like your dress."  (Gag.)

14)  Use bathroom.  Without toilet paper.

15)  Walk downstairs.

16)  Realise that you are a) overdressed (in that you have far too much cloth covering bits like boobs and bottom of arse) and b) in fact the oldest woman there.

17)  Down your beer.

18)  Move on to new watering hole.  Without any confidence.

It works, kids.  Trust this old lady.  Because that was my Sunday night.

In other news:  It was My Husband's birthday yesterday (so happiest of ageing days to you).  The Daughter and I baked in celebration:

Desire: To Strike A Happy Medium.

So sometimes I do things that are completely out of character. I act on impulse, I suppose, rather than on rational thought. And yesterday afternoon was one of such moments.

You see, on Saturdays, if The Daughter and I are in Durban and at a loose end, we go to Essenwood Market. I find it an acceptable mix of child-friendly and adult-interesting. The Daughter delights in those big ball things on the water, and I delight (muchly) in the avo sandwiches. And the cupcakes. And the pancakes. (So much so, that Lovely Gay Boy saw me at the pancake stall and yelled across a mass of hungry people, "Pantaholic! Or should I say Pancakaholic?"). Oh, and I love the pestos. And that lady that makes all those nice grey dresses.

But really, there is seldom need for us to actually walk through the market itself. We're the food and toys type, so we could localise ourselves in that section and then just leave. But I find it rude not to look. Kind of like going to a theatre production and leaving early.

So, a good 10 kgs heavier than when we arrived, The Daughter and I embarked on our obligatory stroll through the market. The grey dress stall was too full so we avoided it. In fact, all the stores at which I have previously parted with hard-earned cash were all too crowded. And I was too disinterested in shopping to make any kind of effort.

So we walked by. Quickly. And then I passed the Palm Reader Lady.

Palm Reader Lady: You look too youthful to have a child. But she looks just like you - must be your daughter.  (Talk about sucking up.)

The Pant: Thank you. But if you were slightly closer, you'd see I rely quite heavily on a polyfiller-type product to eliminate appearance of wrinkles.

PRL: I'm getting a sense that you've got a very prominent psychic gift.

TP: Well, I did predict that it was going to be stinking hot today.

PRL: You're talented.

TP: You're not the first person to tell me that.

PRL: And your aura is so healing. You attract broken people and help them heal.

TP: Ah, yes. I do make a good veg soup.

PRL: I must read your signs. Do sit down. I need your full name.

TP: Stage name? Or ID name?

PRL: ID name.

TP: It's Epany Brumelda Petunia (which is where The Pant comes from) Alicia Stephanie Winnie Liner.

PRL: Could you spell for me please.

TP: E for erection. P for pudenda. A for anus. N for naaai-

PRL: Just the letters'll do.

And then she furiously wrote down numbers and lines and asterisks and the like. And fore told my life 'til my late '50s: I'm going to be wealthy, I'm going to reach the pinnacle of my career at 33 (I'm a teacher - where do you sense I might stumble upon wealth?). And then she proceeded to tell me a whole bunch of things that made me cry. And every time she gave me a sympathetic smile I resisted the urge to lean across and punch her in the face. It's been drummed into me since I was a wee girl to, whenever possible, strike a happy medium.

She told me that skydiving and bungee jumping were dangerous sports. That I've had bad luck in love (duh, lady, I'm seated before a Medium in a lime green sheeted tent on a Saturday afternoon. If I'd had super luck in love I would imagine I'd be at home preparing pre-rugby snacks for my husband or, I don't know, playing behind the white picket fence with my 2.4 children.)

Then she told me I'd mother 2.4 children and have the white picket fence. To which I responded that I have generally preferred whole children. And that I didn't feel that picket fences were very safe.

Then she asked for R400.

The Pant: R400?? But you have not offered me any sexual favours.

Palm Reader Lady: I've got a talent. You need to pay for it.

And then I wanted to strike The Medium even though she wasn't smiling.

Four hundred bucks for a bunch of generalisations. Bloody hell.

Crack Tuft.

You know what one of my favourite things in the whole wide world is?  Keeping my lunch down.

I eat to keep things down.  I think it's better that way.  But yesterday I found myself in a lunch-time situation that turned me a violent lime green at the gills and required me to exercise the greatest self-control.

You see, we (my fellow smoker colleagues and I) have been sitting in our murky Fish Bowl squinting through a guaze of smoke without the assistance of light for the longest time.  So yesterday we got our light fixed.  The Smokers are going to be seeing.  Diarise this day.

(For the record, I like The Smoking Room.  It is separate from other teacherly mundane conversation and the word 'fuck' is welcomed.  Also we sometimes discuss things like sex and wine.  And the two things mixed.  It really is a nice way to spend one's lunch time.)

So electrician boy arrived.  With a ladder.  And I vocalised my excitement at having raw testosterone-driven energy within a metre of my being.  In spite of Electrician Boy's ugliness, I was sweating all over.  And not in a bad way.

That is, until, he bent down.  And his plumber crack greeted me so rudely that I choked on my thai green curry.

I then turned to Fellow Smoker and mouthed, "Crack.  Check.  It.  Out."

She shot an entire piece of tuna out of one nostril and onto the coffee table.  And began to giggle.  And I joined in.  And within a minute or two, the entire colony of smokers were giggling at the steel-wool-type tuft that escaped top of Electrician Boy's crack.  (It was not dissimilar, in shape, to that of Flopsy, Mopsy and Cotton-tail's little, um, cotton-tails.  But the sheer pubic-ness of the hair looked like something you would use to scrub pots.)

So for the record:  I'm not sure I can do hairy arse tuft.  I don't care how good-looking you are.

Imagine the following scene.  It's hypothetical.  Stop your judging:

The Pant and random boy in a mutual state of disrobement:

Random Boy:  Mmmmm ... mmmmm I'm feeling amorous.

The Pant:  You're bound to.  You are, after all, taking off your clothes with me.

(And then he drops his rods.)

TP:  What's that?

RB:  What?

TP:  That thing.  The fluffy thing, coming out of your crack.

RB:  Oh this?

TP:  Yes.  That.  What is it?

RB:  Oh.  It's arse hair.  I'm hairy.

TP:  And that, my friend, is the door.  It'll be open imminently.

RB:  What?  Over arse hair?

TP:  Yes.  I don't do arse hair.  Have you never heard of wax?  This situation is easily avoidable if you could just have enough balls to walk into a random salon and say to the beautician, "Please may I have a back, sack and crack."  And then, chum, you wouldn't be bonding with the exterior of my house.

RB:  But you've got stretch marks.

TP:  Fu*k off.  Now.

Being Blue.

So, all along I thought I was your random run-of-the-mill white girl.  Big lips.  Blue eyes.  Gloriously straight (thanks to scrummy hairdresser) dark hair.

Sometimes acne, sometimes wrinkles.  Sometimes puffy eyes, sometimes not.  Normal.  Like all the other people I see walking around.

That is, until I learnt the truth about my appearance.  You see, I've always considered most (excluding change room) mirrors to be fairly (but not entirely given their 2-deminsioal reflection) accurate.  I thought what I saw was pretty damn close to what others saw.

And then.  I stumbled across the gospel of The Pant.  Who I really am.  In technicolour: I saw a picture of myself and realised that, for many years, I have been prancing around the show with an air of arrogance that is so severely ill-befitting, it's embarrassing.  I should, after learning the reality of my aesthetic appeal (or lack thereof), do the unsuspecting public at large a massive service and just stay away from the outside world.

My mirror's been lying.  And only The Daughter is honest enough to tell the truth.

You see, actually, I'm blue.  So I've been lying on all those governmental forms for all these years (but do they even care to offer us blue people a box to tick.  Is my blueness a disability?)  But I'm not just blue.  I am also purple.  In that I have purple ears.  Which are larger than my head.  One of which sticks out of my eye.  Sometimes it can get a little irritating.  But most of the time, I'm quite comfortable mixing my senses.

Despite spending exorbitant amounts on fashion, it appears that I am completely incapable of putting together a decent outfit.  No, instead I like to wear vibrant, yet poorly-stitched patchwork dresses.  In the shape of a sack.  To compliment my very round body.

Did I mention that I have no arms and legs?  Apparently I float around our home, cooking supper, picking up partially worn items of The Daughter's clothing.  Kind of like a large, colourful balloon.  Without a string to hold me down.

But at least I have a big heart.  Sure, it has an odd shape.  And it is on the outside of my body (exhilirating content for an episode of Grey's Anatomy).  But it's what I do with that big heart that really counts, is it not?

That's me.  The Pant.  In all my mis-matched, ill-proportioned, limbless glory.  And I wonder why I'm single.

In other news:  There's an impostor on the blogosphere.  A lady who claims to be my gran (typos from beyond???).  If she wasn't so damn hilarious, I'd definitely interpol her ass.  Go have a read of Granny Pants.  She's all kinds of granny rad.

Men: So Easy To Please.

I came home to mussel and prawn pasta, the low crooning of Regina Spektor (she's all kinds of rad) and chilled white wine last night. Not just white wine, I might add. The Parlotones white wine. (That Kahn Morbee is a clever singer boy, is he. And if he doesn't watch out, he's sure to catch it from The Pant - strange attraction to rocker men that wear make-up, don't judge.)

And not orchestrated by my own boyfriend, I might add. (Simply because my man dropped the "it's not you, it's me" bomb on me. Over. The. Phone. Bitter? Not so much. Down With Love? Huge. Effing. Style.)

It was Carlos who cooked. So, sure, I've got to chalk the majority of the effort up to the fact that he's probably angling for some lovin' from The BF, my people, his wife. But I'd like to think that the little treat I bestowed upon him was at the back of his mind while he was doing the preparations for last night's meal.

I was in the change room, after my netball match, with a bevy of young girls when I phoned him yesterday afternoon.

Carlos: Sheesh. What's all that noise?

The Pant: Sorry. I'm just in the change room. Got our asses kicked by some school girls tonight.

Carlos: Are they in the change room too?

TP: Yup. That's why it's so noisy.

Carlos: Take pictures! Or video clips.

TP: Shut up you filthy manwhore. Just phoning to check if you've got dinner for The Daughter or if I must stop on the way home.

Carlos: As it would happen, Pant, I'm at the shop right now. I'll get The Daughter some dinner. If you take a photo for me.

TP: I'll pick up dinner, it's okay. Jeepers, you really are a minging shitter.

Carlos: K, fine. Just get them all to scream "Carlos, Carlos, he's our guy."

Easy enough.

They chanted with the (very irritating) choral ring that screams of just having won.

Carlos: I haven't heard that many girls call my name-

TP: Ever?

Carlos: I used to be a machine in my day, I'll have you know.

TP: Yeah. Sure you did.

So last night, Carlos had a smile from ear to ear. And The BF and I had groovy mussel and prawn pasta sauce - All. Over. Our. Faces.

Men: so easy to please.

Pretty Is What Pretty Does.

I've worked out what it is that single girls need to do in order to make themselves happy.  They need to act like Pretty.  Pretty is what Pretty does.  And Pretty buys herself pretty jewellery.  Super effing pretty jewellery:

The woman who makes this jewellery - Chey Michau - is my hero.  She and The BF, my people, are responsible for me finally becoming an adult (in that I wear earrings every single day now.). You see, The BF stumbled upon her works shortly before her wedding and bought me the most gorgeous earrings.  And I couldn't resist ordering matching ring.  And now I feel like a whole person, with pretty hands and pretty ears.

You've got approximately 47 shopping days until my birthday.  And I'm so into her silver crochet cuff that I've even stopped dreaming about Jake Gyllenhall.  Just saying.

I collected said beautiful item yesterday.  And it was not without struggle, I might add.

The Pant:  Babe, look at this pretty ring Mom bought herself.

The Daughter:  Can I wear it?

TP:  No, my angel.  It's Mommy's ring.  I'm going to wear it.

TD: (With the beginnings of a sob) But that's so unfair.  How come I never get anything.

(Look, it's fair to say that I am one of those women who spends most of their time, money and energy on their children.)

TP:  I always buy you things, my poppet.  This is for Mom.

TD:  (Displaying severe heartache)  I never get anything.   And I don't even have a pretty ring.

I'm trying this whole I'm-Not-Giving-In thing in the disciplining of my child.  But it really took it out of me.

Half an hour of tears, anger and threats ("If you don't give me the ring then I won't be your friend) and eventually I calmed her.  Placated, I suppose, would be a better term.

Thank you, Lord, for miniature white Easter eggs (from Pick 'n Pay).  They're all kinds of rad for restoring the sanity of a mother.  And for silencing miserable children.

No sooner had we arrived home had she returned to her gorgeous self.  And spent hours drawing a picture of her Mom.  Because she loves me.

(I have a large head, small body and exceptionally trophy-like ears.  I apparently team red with pink and green.  But at least someone really kiff loves me.)

Photoshoot.

It's Photo Day at work today.  And so the morning was nothing short of mayhem.

I got four calls over the intercom to come for my individual shoot.  And every time I got there, I was sent back to my classroom to teach because they "weren't quite ready" for me, but if I'd come back in 5 minutes, they would be. (You'd think that models would be treated a little better around here.  But no!  It's still all about the creative genius of the camera man.  Crikey.) Longest five minutes known to mankind.

I woke up this morning with a new sense of confidence.  I sushid with Single Friends yesterday, you see.  We're all in this newly-single boat together and so, we've decided to put those guys behind us and move forward.  They're not worth it, we've worked out.  And, sadly, we know we're right.

So, when photoshoot time came around, eventually, I pimped up the flirt like it's nobody's business.  Photographer Person was, I am almost certain, of the male gender so I couldn't miss an opportunity.

The Pant: (using put on "sexy" voice that sounded more like I'd just woken up.) How do you want me?

Photographer Person: Sitting is just fine.

TP:  Seductive sitting?  1960's vixen librarian sitting?  Innocent sitting?  Sitting comes in many different forms you know.

PP:  Well, you want these photos for your ID, don't you? 

TP:  Yes.

PP:  Well, then I'd go with red tape sitting.

TP:  These government people.  No sense of adventure.  Okay, so do you want a closed-mouth or an open-mouth kiss?

PP:  Neither.  We've just met.

TP:  I meant smile.  Do you want it open or closed?

PP:  No smile.  Straight face.

TP:  Oh.  Smouldering?  I can do smouldering.

PP:  No smouldering.  Just emotionless.

TP:  S & M?

PP:  Will you just sit still and let me take the photo if I say, "yes"?

TP:  Okay.

PP:  Stop bearing your teeth.  Okay.  Look at the camera.  Stop pouting.  Stop trying to look like a hungry tiger.  Keep still.  (click).  Now.  Please go.

The School Photographer: far too straight laced for The Pant.

Preventing The Shorn Spot.

I've spent the weekend so seeped in work that I'm starting to go a little bit crazy.  And by 'a little bit crazy', I really mean I'm about to be admitted into a hospital that is for people who like to chew balls of wool and who sometimes mistake their own identities for that of Hitler and frog march with stylish straight jackets on.

So this morning I was up at the crack of dawn (not because I was still out on the razz and arriving home, mind you - I didn't even have a hang over).  I was up, at the table, marking.  And the really shitty thing is, I'm not even close to finishing.  Shitballs.

The joy of attempting to spend one's weekend marking is that four-year-olds really just don't get it.  The Daughter has been intent on stopping me doing my work.  Before, the gods of labour have been chasing me so, that I've had to rely on the Gummy Bears' DVD to babysit for me.  And even then, things got out of hand behind my back.

There was silence, I remember.  And I was ploughing through my marking at a rate of knots.  Things were looking good.  I was set to finish before the sun rose.  And then I began to feel the discomfort that silence brings.  The Daughter was sitting at her dressing table, stolen items of my make-up strewn before her.

I approached.  Wearily.  I called her.  She turned around.  And then I saw it.  The self-hair cut:

Needless to say, this weekend, I've had to take preventative measures.  I could not possibly deal with the heart-brokenness that seared through my being the last time.

So we've set up a mutual marking centre.  She has her "marking".  And I have mine.

And I delight each time she mutters something a long the lines of, "These children!  Can they even speak English?"  or "Don't you know what the full stop is for?"

She is my favourite human.  Ever.

When I Grow Up...

The Daughter took the day off yesterday.  We've had a hectic week. And she just needed to chill with her granny.  I was welcomed home with "raspberry moon rocks", which had the exact colour of red sambuca chunder and a taste to match.

So while I was slaving away in 90 degree heat, The Daughter did all kinds of groovy things with her gran.  She shopped up a storm (we now have geisha themed coffee mugs for our home).  She baked.  She accompanied The Incubator on her school run to fetch Enormous Son of Maid and other friends.

You see, The Daughter is much like her mother.  She likes to flirt.  And so, with a car full of boys, she was in her element.  The Incubator recounted the story of The Daughter telling all the boys that, when she grows up, she wants to be an astronaut.  They fly into space, you see, and they get to wear very cool clothes.

I tried to engage The Daughter in a similar conversation last night.

The Pant:  So, my darling, how was your day?

The Daughter:  It was fine thanks.  Now open your mouth, Mommy, and eat this delicious moon rock I baked you.

The Pant (chewing with long teeth, attempting to not throw up):  Mmmmmmm (gag) mmmmmm.  Delicious, my angel. You're a very clever baker girl.  So, tell me, what do you want to be when you grow up?

The Daughter:  A maid.

The Pant:  No, that's not what you told the boys in the car.

The Daughter:  How do you know, Mom?  You weren't even there.

The Pant:  Granny told me.  You said you wanted to be an asssssss.... (trying to coax the big word out of her.)

The Daughter:  (pausing to think)  An ass-hole?

Ah, the big dreams of children.

Sale Rage.

I do sales.  I like feeling like I've saved money.  The notion of saving, actually, is untrue.  They should rather have big bright red signs everywhere that say "Spend Less Than You Would Have To When We Charge You Exorbitant Prices For Items That Are Not Really That Valuable."  But I'm an advertiser's wet dream.  I fall for those big red signs with (untrue) slogans that read : 50% off.

And so, I went to The Woolies Sale yesterday.  I feel battered.  Only worse.

Sure, I need to take responsibility for the fact that I only arrived at the sale after 5, with The Daughter in tow.  But, I'm going to rant anyway because that will make me feel better about myself.

So, the first counter I went to was Benefit.  Nothing on sale.  But I did try a fragrance called G-Spot.  And fell in love (you've got approximately 47 shopping days until my birthday, in case you're stuck for a gift).  Then I approached the clothing section.

It was in such a state of mayhem that I found two scarves on the floor (which were not, by the way, on sale) and I drew upon my Girl Guides' skills and knotted them into a fashionable harness for The Daughter.  And then I began my shopping.  One woman punched me in the eye for a cream size 8 cammi (she won).  Another rugby tackled me for a grey skirt from Twist (I won - wearing it today).  It was when I tried to find a bra in my size - there was only one without Hannah Montanna branding -and couldn't bloody extracate it from the plethora of half broken hangers in which it was tangled, I began to throw a monumental tantrum.

The Daughter:  Mom. What's wrong?  That isn't even a nice bra.  You don't even wear bras.  Why do you want it so badly?  Let's rather go to the kiddies section.

Not much better.  But The Daughter was adamant that she was going to buy something.  And every last item with a chiffon overlay, or sequince, or a vile taffeta rose attached had her eyes glinting.  Thankfully her deciphering of numbers is not so hot so I was able to tell her that, unfortunately, all those items were not in her size.  She settled on a nightie with pictures of cupcakes all over it.  Bought in the spirit of The BF's birthday.

I tried to be sneaky and take sale items into food section, pick up a few items for dinner and go through the obviously much quieter tills.  When it's passed dinner time and you're so hungry you could quite easily gnaw at the limbs of your own offspring, it is not a wise idea to do grocery shopping.

So, after 45 minutes of physical torture, The Daughter and I joined the check-out queue.  There were more people in this queue than were at the U2 concert.   We had to eat the food in our trolley to prevent passing out.  We were there for such a long time, in fact, that I have now made a new best friend.  Her name is Shirley.  She was standing in front of us in the queue.  We're so close, that I'm thinking of having The Daughter re-baptised so I can make her godmother - or godfather.  She's a bit mannish.

When, after sharing childhood secrets, recipes, medical histories, relatioship woes, after swapping cell-phone numbers, that monotone whore woman on the intercom thingy said "Next customer please", and Shirley disappeared, I felt positively broken-hearted.  We'd spent so much time together I felt like I'd lost a part of me, and couldn't help but dissolve into a puddle of tears.  Tears, that were not made any sweeter by the extra 10% I got off my purchases for being a cardholder.

When we exited the shop, I realised that it was well passed The Daughter's bed-time.  Passed my own bed-time, in fact, as the sun was beginning to illuminate the city.  And since every effing lift was occupied by very rude and not even good-looking construction worker men, it took us a further decade to reach the car.

Instead of going home, I simply wiped The Daughter down with wet-wipes and dropped her back at school.  And I was late for work.

I might possibly be cured of my obsession to "save".

Nothing Short Of Sheer Slapstick.

Okay. So there are, after all, a few downsides to exercising. In spite of the fact that The BF, my people, and I have been 'running', I am still nowhere near feeling remotely close to anywhere in the vicinity of fit. After two sessions at the gym, I'm feeling so incredibly buggered that I'm considering multi-organ transplant. Beginning with the lungs.

But it's not just the body that's a problem. (Even though I have possibly, due to sheer expulsion from sweat glands, lost at least 50% of total body mass.). It's the excessive fatigue.

You see, post-gym, I was scarcely able to make it through Grey's Anatomy on Monday night - and I live for that programme; so much so that I switch my phone off and avoid any conversation for three hours prior in the anticipation that people may ask me to do stuff with them.

So Tuesday morning was, in The Pant's house, nothing short of sheer slapstick.

5.00 am - The alarm sounds. Look at alarm and figure can lie in for further 15 minutes.

5.02 am - Look at phone. "Realise" that I'm not going to fall asleep again but treat myself to a few more minutes of sheer comfort.

± 5.47 am - Embraced in passionate kiss with Jake Gyllenhall.

± 5.59 am - Cannot find The Incubator in a busy shopping mall and panic.

6.10 am - Sun scorches through window, into eyeball, like a searing arrow. Check time. Scream: fuuuuuuuuuuu*k.

Hear The BF, my people, upstairs shriek: fuuuuuuuuuu*k.

The Daughter: What's wrong, Mommy?

The Pant: So much. Late.

6.11 am - Start shower. Strip naked with the sexiness of Roseanne Barr. Realise should make The Daughter's breakfast prior to shower so she can eat while cleansing occurs. Run through to kitchen. See 5 males returning from gym standing outside window. Too focussed on task at hand to be embarrassed at stark nakedness. Throw cereal and milk in bowl. Sprint to bedroom. Hand over to The Daughter, order, "Eat!" using a tone I know she will be too afraid to defy.

6.14 am - Dive head first into still-running shower. Have forgotten to turn cold on. Suffer third degree burns. Attempt to scratch own skin off with fingernails. Switch cold on. Wait for it to take effect, hopping from leg to leg. Bellow, "Are you eating?"

6.15 am - Get back in shower. More humanely. Scrub with ferocity. Remember naked encounter with neighbours. Blush.

6.21 am - Exit shower. Forgot towel. Sprint (over carpets - my worst thing) to linen cupboard. Grab towel. Realise have nothing to wear.

6.23 am - Exit house. Stand on balcony, wrapped in towel, hair dripping. Yell, "Pal, I've got nothing to wear!!"

6.24 am - She exits, in self same state of undressedness. "Me neither." We swap clothes through civilised exchange of throwing clothes up and down balcony.

6.34 am - Both The Daughter and self are dressed (thank God my initial morning tone was so stern that she did not engage in fight over "coolness" of selected outfit).

6.35 am - Realise have not made The Daughter's lunch. Cut watermelon with left hand. Rummage in cupboards for spreads with right hand. Butter bread using mouth.

6.37 am - Brush The Daughter's teeth with such ferocity think may have filed them down a centimetre or two. Brush own teeth.

6.39 am - Pour base directly on to face. Use brush to blend, ever so slightly. Smudge mascara. Do not care. Figure nude lips are far more fashionable than lip-sticked ones. Run brush through hair.

6.41 am - Exit house. Lock door. Remember have forgotten deodorant, perfume and earrings. Unlock door. Run to bathroom. Spray perfume under arms and deodorant onto wrists and neck. Think, "Fu*k it.". Slip earrings in. Dash for door. Remember to lock (am, if I don't say so myself, brilliant).

6.45 am - The Daughter, in car seat. Wanda, in reverse. The Pant, grinning from ear to ear at achievement. Think to self, "Who's. Your. Effing. Momma?"

6.51 am - Still super chuffed at own achievement. Think, "What is the point in waking up so early?" Catch sight of self in rear-view mirror. Gasp at ill-applied make-up. Promise self that will get up when alarm sounds in future.

In other VERY important news: Happy Birthday to The BF, my people. You're the raddest pal any girl could ever wish for. Heart you muchly xxx.

The Pant's Directory To Mastering The Flirt

There was a time, not so long ago, that my response to even the slightest sign of flirtation would have been a fierce scratching of the ears, an extended incoherent mumble followed by an exceptionally and terribly inappropriate laugh (hyhena-style).  Followed, no doubt, by a snort.  And an urgent silent prayer, "Open the effing ground and allow my entire effing personage to be swallowed whole.  Thanks.  PS You're very cool."

(See Roadtripping In The New SA.  I was all kinds of bad at flirting back then.)

I've grown in leaps and bounds since those days, and so I thought I'd share The Pant's Directory To Mastering The Flirt.  (It's a work in progress, mind you.)

1). Always, in conversation, drop in the word 'lesbian':

So I took a call from a Friday Night Hottie-Hot-Pants yesterday.  I wondered how he got my number but then realised that I'd used my (favourite) lip-stick to scrawl on his (very nice and now totally ruined) white shirt - at his insistence, I might add - the message: The Pant 555-CALLME.  He then offered me a tequila for my real number which he typed into his cell-phone (total waste of perfectly good lipstick, never mind the shirt).

Friday Night Hottie-Hot-Pants:  Is it true what you said the other night?

(Oh no, I wasn't using my ever-so-poor British accent to try and convince people I am a Doctor Without Borders and am on a plight to cover every child under the age of - how old was he? - 20 with a mosquito net, was I?  Was I offering free trial runs at my place?)

The Pant:  What did I say?

FNHHP:  You said you...um ... used to be a ... you know.

(Oh no.  What did I say?  Crikey.  Should not be let out in public.  Ever.)

TP:  I don't know.  Help me along here, soldier.  (I actually used that particular term of endearment.  Priceless.)

FNHHP:  A ... um ... a lesbian.

(I battled to suppress the guffaws that desired expulsion from my mouth.).

It worked.  Tell them what they want to hear and they'll be calling.


2). If You're Going To Eat, Choose A Sensual Item:

Yesterday was hot, right?  Not made any more comfortable by the fact that I chose to wear top-to-toe black including a synthetic top.  (By hot I mean pouring entire rivers of human sweat.)

And so The Daughter and I decided that the only way to combat the heat would be to buy ice-creams and ingest them with alacrity.  The thing is, see, even though I possibly have the biggest mouth known to man, it was just so hot yesterday that even I wasn't able to eat my ice-cream fast enough.

And before I'd reached my car, I was having to shove fairly whole ice-creams into the depths of my throat, and then remove them again to prevent exceptionally sticky goo from trickling down my own arms, never mind The Daughter's entire body.  For a by-stander, I guess, it would not have been dissimilar to watching to soft porn.

But I made Checked-Shirt-Man-Thing trip.  And I thought, "At least he's paying attention."

3)  Try And Play Things Down:

This technique, although I've learned, is not one I am very good at.  Let me illustrate how not to do this one:

The Pant:  You're very good looking.

Random White Shirt Boy (different from Friday Night Hottie Hot Pants):  You're a bit of alright yourself.

TP:  Thanks.  What is your position on the creation of more human children?  You see, I'm in the Breeding Phase.

Random White Shirt Boy then offered me a drink.  And left for the bar.  And did not return.

Subtle does it, girls.  Subtle does it.

The Big Weigh In.

(This one is for you - my New Single Friends.  Those two guys you've both been lusting after are all kinds of c*cksuckers.)


There's something about rejection that affects a girl's self-esteem.  Particularly when you've been rejected by a middle-aged dop-artist, the circumference of whose stomach is larger than my own once-pregnant belly.  We start to feel worthless, ugly, overweight.  As though we are not pretty enough to deserve love in any form.

It's all bullshit, of course.  But we really (I'm convinced of it) actually see ourselves, when we deign to look at ourselves in the mirror, as much larger, much uglier creatures who, because of their physical nature, should never set foot out of the house without a paper bag over their heads.  (I have actually worn a balaclaver on one occasion this summer.  In Durban!)

I've been feeling a lot like this lately.  I've taken to wearing loads of black, and litres of make-up because, well, I just haven't felt that good about myself.  I know The Daughter loves me.  And I know that there are loads of other people who actually value my company and enjoy spending their free time with me.  But I've felt all kinds of guff.

(To be entirely honest, nothing makes a girl feel as good about herself as having someone whom she adores being hopelessly in love with her.  She glows - well, The Pant does anyway.  And it's not that I've been so down that I've avoided outtings.  Really.  I just haven't felt my super rad self.)

And so, on Friday afternoon as part of my Lent, I delivered myself to the weigh-in lady at Curves.  (On the subject, I have to tell you that the reason I am going to Curves and not some other gym, is the fact that it works.  Quicker than a very quick thing.  And, sure, I'll miss much pervature opportunity.  But it only takes 30 minutes which will allow me more time to spend on my favourite hobbie of all time - lying down.)  I had packed a bag, ready for my First Work Out (which, by the way, they actually abbreviate to FWO).  But when I reached the gym, the lady (old, skinny and wrinkly - not the best advertisement) spent her time rather poking and prodding and measuring and writing down and comparing my measurements.  And I got the shock of my life.  I'd, as I've said, been feeling a whole bunch of siff.   And so when she told me that my body fitted into the "Superior" category, I nearly open-mouth kissed her.  Really.  I think she may be the hottest gym instructor I've ever had.

She then set up goals for me - a total of 25.8 cm to lose.  And as she furiously began writing down these numbers, I smiled a little.  I smiled because, actually, I'm a bit of alright.

And so when I was out on Friday night, I felt all kinds of confident.  And it's confidence that pays off.  If I remember correctly (which I'm sure I do), I had the offerings of some very nubile men.  Sure, I'm not looking for any nubile man right now (Down With Love for at least 2 more months) - but the truth is, they were all over me like wet spaghetti.  And no one even paid them.  At least I don't think so.  Single Girls, do you have anything you want to share with me.

I'm going to gym today, because I like feeling kiff.  And because I'm better than that lack of self-esteem I felt.  Whether we are overweight or not, we are all kinds of alright.  Whether those middle-aged tubby beer-swigging men think so or not.  I am.  We all are. 

And I've got the missed calls to prove it.

It Wasn't Me.

If you saw me on Friday night, it was not me.

I've made it my I'm-Recently-Single Change-Of-Life Resolution to hang out with more single people. And it's not because I don't absolutely adore My Smug Marrieds. Quite the contrary - they rock my world - but I'm so comfortable and accepted in their company that I feel little need to extend my circles. And, the truth is, I need to. So I'm on a Single-Girls-Unite-In-The-Name-Of-Tequila Mission.

Thanks muchly to Single Friend for widening my Single Circle on Friday night. I had the most fabulous time. (That is, strictly speaking, not entirely true. I think I had the most fabulous fun but could be mistaken, given the very large gaps in memory.)

It all started at "The" rugby. "We're going to the rugby," said Single Friend. Now, I'm not really the rugby type, at, like, all. But I can go with the flow. So I did not quite realise she meant Club Rugby and not Big Rugby. (What did that make us? Club rugby groupies? On my re-introduction into Single Life in Durban? I'd already been labelled and hadn't even had a drink.) But where there's a bar, there's a happy Pant. And so us girls did what all girls do best, we chucked liquor in our beaks. The bar ladies at this rugby joint were, if truth be told, super mega-fugly. And one flirted with me. So what did I do? I flirted back. The Pant: Not One To Miss An Opportunity.

Let me simply suggest that this night regressed with alacrity. Before we'd even been out, we'd (new friends) been for a toilet-paper-free team pee in communal toilet at Lovely-Long-Haired-Friend's flat. We made make-shift loo paper using bright pink tissue paper. I think the end result may have been magenta vaginy).

(On the subject, I learned something new on Friday night: The Vagazzle. According to Google, "Vagazzling is the art of blinging one's beaver" - with adhesive diamantes. I'm in shock. Who would actually vagazzle?)

Towards mid-evening, I made it my mission to find a twenty-year old hottie hot pants, minus shirt. Would you believe that this commodity is, in fact, fairly thick on the ground in Durban? Thanks muchly Single Girls for being my moral compass, and preventing me from tucking into Green Shirt Boy. I'd have felt all kinds of wrong yesterday if I had.

In fact I know I had a brill time, I must have: I woke up with three different types of chewing gum, a Heat magazine and two empty packets of Fritos (the red ones) next to my bed.

Yay for embracing singledom too. It really is all kinds of fun.

I Want The BF Back.

Please help me!  I've lost the BF, my people, to an unbelievable obsession I fear may only be replaced by the production of an actual human child.

She's fostering kitties.  These precious pumpkins:

But her obsession is seriously concerning me: she's bathing them, feeding them per syringe (when they're completely capable of ingesting food on their own), brushing them, cuddling them, chastising them for poor behaviour.  She's waking up at 4am to check on them!  She's deworming them, and rubbing wet cottonwool balls on their bum-holes so that they'll shizen (when they crap quite easily while she's at work).  She's even giving the little possums pocket money.

So, please, help.  It's dire.  Her obsession is driving me to drink (any excuse).  I miss her.  Last night we didn't even talk about sex once.  If you drop me a mail on pantaholic@gmail.com then you'll become today's very lucky Pantaholic Winner Person (a titled that's coveted the world over) and become the owner of any one of these gorgeous six kitty-pies - (in some countries, they may even be put in pies.)

Otherwise - Happy Friday, people.  I'm heading out for a night on the town with Single Friend.  If you bump into two chicks that are flirting outrageously for tequila, and making up elaborate stories about our own radness in the attempts to bed 20 year-old hottie-hot-pantses - that'll be us.  Come on over.  But bring a round of tequilas.

xxx

No More Panty Liner.

I woke up this morning feeling like a razor-tongued cat had spent the entire night licking my eyeballs. The fatigue is immense. So big, in fact, that if it were a human, it would be one of those gold medalist obese people - one of those that are too big to get out of their trailers.

(On the subject of those seriously obese people, I've got to mention that I just don't get them. Look, I'm female, and as such, I get having problems with weight - hence my appointment tomorrow with Curves where they'll weigh me, measure me, prod me with tools not dissimilar to those used by gynaecologists - and they'll set me on a path to pure toned ecstasy. But those REALLY huge people I don't get. Surely when they get on the scale and it clocks in at, say, 300 kgs, they must think to themselves, "That's quite a lot, isn't it?". And then, they carry on eating medium-sized rhinos and other large animals until they weigh 600 kgs and declare, "I don't know how this happened.". I can tell you.)

Anyway, I'm bushed. The Incubator came to spend the night with me last night. The Father was in Jo'burg on business and when that happens, us girls like to have girly evenings. We've both declared weekdays wine-free days, and so, do you know what we did? We drank wine. Other Close Friend and The BF, my people, joined and we sat, on the floor, just being girly chatter-boxes.

Our conversation, I'm embarrassed to admit, was centred around teeth. Root-canal, implants, porcelain veneers, gum disease, flossing, bleaching. For, like, two hours. And that's the beauty of Girly Nights: there are no rules (apart from "Must Drink Wine") and there are no expectations. They are never planned, and it's only the following morning that you realise how much fun you actually had.

I love random radness. And conversations that usually have no outcome. But we did have one conversation that has officially changed my life:

The Incubator: Pant, I'm sorry to tell you this, but it might be time to change your name, by default.

The Pant: Why? My name rocks.

TI: I'm just worried about when you get married. What if you marry a Sexy Rash?

TP: Hmmmm.... Panty Rash. Yeah, no one likes one of those.

TI: Or a Mr Crumbles.

TP: Panty Crumbles. Causing celibacy in women the world over.

TI: Or a Mr Stench.

TP: I'm not even going to team the 'Panty' with that. I may as well just call myself Rusty Coins.

TI: Or Mr Goop.

TP: I get it, Mom. I'll change my name.

TI: Or Mr Pleasure?

TP: Then I'll change my name back.

So, people, henceforth she shall simply be referred to as "The Pant".

And as soon as the (effing) internet is up and running, all names shall be changed.  Officially.

Private-School-That-We-Used-To-Go-To-On-The-Move Day.

I was up at 3.30 am.  Marking.  And so, when I was doing my make-up at 6.30 am, I pushed a little tear.  Combination of fatigue and frustration at feeling totally redundant in this world.  I mean, I really do make an effort with my job - really I do - hence my being up at 3.30, but some of the stuff I had to mark sent me into a frenzy of fury so fierce that even Precious Cat hid.  (Again, under the pink bathroom mat.)

Thank God for The BF, my people, though.  Because she sure does know how to cheer a girl up.  She sent me this image while en route to work:

And the memories associated with that particular vehicle have made my heart happy again.  When we were at school, you see, we used to pay R299 (and it wasn't even that long ago) to jump on this bus in Durban and it would deliver us, 33 and a half hours later, to the magical town of Victoria Falls.

The BF and I earned our National Drinking Colours there.  What our parents were thinking, we'll never know.  But we used to take our school uniforms along and declare one day Private-Scool -That-We-Used-To-Go-To-On-The-Move-Day.

These were the rules for this particular day:

1)  You may only take your school uniform off if you are swapping kit with a boy.  (And, Mom, it was just for shits and giggles.)

2)  The first drink of the day to be mixed with milk because it was breakfast time.

3)  You may not have the same drink twice in a row  (hence, we believe, the birth of the John Deere).

4)  During pub-to-pub transit, the African crystal mug, (purchased from Livingstone local market where that crazy woman called Violet used to spit at us) has to remain safely fastened to school dress.

It was on this day that I truly learned about loving someone so much and it not being the liquor talking.  Many of those nights ended in dronk vir driet love.

Ah, my BF - she rocks.  At least she still loves me after all the fashion faux pas I've made:

Yes.  Those are Mad Dog tracksuit pants.  And yes, I am wearing Turtles.  With white school socks.

And yes, I will be drinking wine with my BF tonight.

We'll Talk About It Tomorrow.

After writing the first three chapters of my novel (now abandoned - it morphed itself into a narrative about a crazy hose-beast whose nature depressed the bejesus out of me), and The Husband's relocation to Jo'burg coupled with the gods of labour declaring Capulet/Montague-style war on me (I have so much marking I doubt my eyeballs will feel the protective covering of my eyelids ever again), I've been feeling just a touch down over the past two days.

"It's okay to be down sometimes, Pant," I hear you say. And I couldn't be in a more enthusiastic state of agreement if I tried. It's just that I've got to focus on snapping out of it today because, I've come to realise, negativity attracts more negativity. Allow yesterday's antics to illustrate.

So I was ambling along the corridors of my workplace, mindlessly daydreaming about unlikely but highly desirable future couplings with Jake Gyllenhall - I do this in an attempt to drown out the unbearably loud drone of collective teenage angst - when a teen heavy-book-bagged me right in the solar plexis, snapping my brand new sunglasses in half, knocking me off my feet and all the air out of my lungs. I like to think it was a mistake - but the teenagers managed to scatter with such alacrity that if I'd had the capacity, they'd have vanished before I could have said, "Which one of you?"

With a swollen top lip from connecting with a stair and soiled white skinnys, I made my way back to my classroom a little shell-shocked. And as I turned a corner, another teen charged past me with such force that if I didn't have such a penchant for dairy products, I'm certain the bones in my arm would have crumbled.

And do you know what I mumbled? The words, "What has become of the youth oftoday?" found expulsion from my very own (injured) lips. Great. So not only did I look as though I'd been caught in a bar-room brawl, my clothes looked as though I'd sharted and I'd aged instantly - I was positively seventy-five. Brilliant.

But it's not just the youth of today that had it in for me yesterday. It's also the pushy beggars of the greater Durban area. I take the same route home everyday. Simply because there is only one route to take. And I meet the same beggars at around the same time. I also answer their requests for 20 cents with the same response - "You probably earn more than me, pal" - everyday.

But Lady With Hideous Teeth And Poor Dress Sense decided to get into an argument with me yesterday:

Lady With Hideous Teeth And Poor Dress Sense: Why do you always say that?

The Pant: Because it's the truth.

LWHTAPDS: Then how come you're drinking a coke?

TP: Thirsty. And I need the caffeine and sugar rush to get me through the piles of marking in my boot.

LWHTAPDS: I thought you had nothing.

TP: I do, I have a sum total of nothing for you.

LWHTAPDS: Then how come you've got a coke?

TP: Well, technically, the bank owns this coke. They've just suggested they trust me enough to think I'll pay them back for it at the end of the month.

LWHTAPDS: Can I have the rest of your coke?

TP: Will you leave me alone and go and argue with that rich man behind me if I give you my coke?

LWHTAPDS: No.

TP: What do you mean 'no'? No, you won't leave me alone? Or, no, you won't go and argue with the rich man behind me?

LWHTAPDS: I'll leave you alone but I won't go and speak to that man.

TP: Why?

LWHTAPDS: Because he won't give me anything.

(The man was driving a big fancy car and compared to my Wanda, which is held together by cable ties and hope, I figured he had more to give than I did.  But I handed her my half empty can of coke.  I needed her to go away.)

TP: No asking me tomorrow, okay?

(The light turned green.)

LWHTAPDS: We'll talk about it tomorrow.

Anyone got a spare wig and baseball cap to lend me? And a big-ass pair of dark glasses? Since mine are now in two.