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.