Turning 20. Again.

The best thing about ageing, is sharing your celebrations with people who totally rock your world.  Which is what I did yesterday.  I'd originally planned a dinner with friends - but upon the realisation that things may turn a touch messy, I cancelled said plans and chose to spend my birthday with The Daughter.  She rocks my world, you see, to its very core.

For her, birthday celebrations work in a systematic structure and if this structure is ignored, then birthdays are not complete celebrations at all.

Step One: Shopping


The Incubator took her to Woolies to pick out a few gifts for me.  It has since been reported that The Incubator had to fight with steely determination to avoid the purchase of some questionable items.  You see, I don't own any purple garments or, really, items at all.  And that is simply because I really don't like the colour purple.  I like The Color Purple but the colour purple, not so much.  And so these were the items she wanted me to have for my birthday:

1)  Purple satin bra and granny panties set.
2) Purple brushed nylon pyjamas
3) Lime green nail polish and matching eye shadow
4) At least four different dressing gowns in varying shades of purple.
5) A purple pencil skirt.
6) Bright purple cushions for my lounge.

How The Incubator managed to make it out of the shop with non-purple really nice items, I am dumbfounded.  I fear, though, that this year may mark the last in which I receive items of my liking.  I suspect that by next year things may be a little different.

Step Two: The Wrapping Process


We spent the night with my Parental Unit prior to the ageing day.  I do this because The Daughter is too young to make tea on her own and it is of vital importance that one is woken up with "Happy Birthday to you", presents and tea in bed.  But also, so I don't have to do the wrapping of my own presents.  It kind of takes the surprise out of the whole gift receiving thing, does wrapping your own presents.

So The Daughter, The Incubator and The Father disappeared into the parental unit's bedroom on Tuesday evening, armed with packets of things, wrapping paper, sticky tape and far too many ribbons.  And since I am still not an adult, I tried to leopard crawl down the passage to catch sight of my gifts.

The Pant:  I'm not going to look.  I just need to borrow granny's slippers.  My feet are freezing.

The Daughter:  Not a chance, Mommy.  Get out!  You can't see your presents because I've already wrapped the perfume so you won't be able to see it so you won't know what it is.

Step Three:  The Gift Handover Session


We have a tradition in the Liner household.  Once the house is awake, which on birthdays is usually at about 5 am, the birthday girl/boy gets to climb into the marital bed, and the rest of the family goes to the other end of the house to collect presents, make tea, form an orderly queue and proceed down the passage blaring "Happy Birthday".

The only problem yesterday, was that The Daughter had hidden the gifts so well that she, and the parental unit, and in the end, I too, were unable to find the gifts.  After 25 minutes of turning the house upside down and The Incubator mentally ticking off gifts as they were recovered, it appeared that all the gifts were ready to be opened.

I climbed back into bed, and the procession made its way down the passage.

Step Four: The Gift Opening Session


The Daughter:  Okay, Mommy.  This one is pink body wash that I chose.

As I took the present into my hands to begin opening it, it was ripped from my grip and she began tearing at the paper.

The Daughter:  Look!  I told you it was pink body wash.

The Pant:  That's lovely.  Thanks my darling.  That's very kind of you.

The Daughter:  I know.  And this one is perfume.

(she was right.  After she opened it, it was perfume.  On this score, it must be mentioned that The Incubator is a truly fabulous woman.  This perfume, which is my most favourite, is almost impossible to find.  But she tracked down the very last bottle from Dallas.  Go The Incubator.  You're all kinds of rad.)

TD:  And this one is a grey jersey.

(She was right.)

TP:  Oh wow!  Thanks my darling.  I love that.

Within ten minutes, she had opened all my presents, but had told me what they were before.  And she was mighty chuffed.  She tried on the very special bra she'd chosen - one that promises to instantly add two cup sizes (was she trying to tell me something) - which she then declared a dud since it didn't fit her snug.

Step Five: The Luncheon


I don't know how this happened.  But I invited a good mix of people for lunch at the parental's - and I ended up cooking.  Such was my birthday busy that I forgot to put a face on and by the time I remembered, my hands were covered in egg & flour from dipping brinjal pre-creation of the famous brinjal parmegianos that it was just too late.

But I also got to spend my day with The Brother.  (Who, upon arrival, told me we don't hug but he could bump my side to show an acknowledgement of the fact that it was my birthday.)  And The Daughter's BF & her parents (who are seriously the most amazing people in the world.  We've just spent a glorious five days away with them over Easter and I have to tell you, that it was, by far, the best beach holiday I've had in years.  The Daughter and I have the tans to prove it.)

And what would a birthday be without My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Touch My Inner Thigh?  Apart from having the skill to make me feel like the most wonderful woman on the face on this earth, he sure does know how to thrill a girl.

This is the card I received from him:

He knows me so well, because the message inside the card reads:

Sure, birthdays are a drag.

But honey, at least you're still smokin'!

Ah, bless his cotton socks.

And just to complete the radness of birthday love, I'm dining with The BF, my people tonight.  (Roast chick and veggies, if you're reading, please).

My life is full of such lovely people, that I don't even mind getting older.  In fact, I welcome this 20th birthday with open arms.  Again.

Box Cuts and Brazilians.

I am a new woman!  I spent five hours having Sexy Sexy Hairdresser pulling and scraping and stabbing away at my head.  The only problem was, he used hair-related tools to stab away at my face area and I could have quite preferred other stabbing-tools being used.  But what's a girl to do?

I love Sexy Sexy Hairdresser.  Almost with an ache in my groin, but not quite.

Sexy Sexy Hairdresser:  What are we doing with your hair today, Pant?

The Pant:  Well, there's two corrections there.  Number one:  you will be doing the hair.  I will be perving over you and enjoying the attention that you'll have to bestow on me because I am a paying customer.  And number two:  it's already four o'clock so I think it would be more accurate to have used the word 'evening' rather than 'today'.

Sexy Sexy Hairdresser was applying a top deck look to a lady sitting opposite me.  I didn't want to be the one to tell her that top-deck went out with the advent of coconut and pistachio, because, really, who am I in her life?  Besides which, I was in Pietermaritzburg (this is the only problem I have with Sexy Sexy Hairdresser) and Pietermaritzburg truly is the capital of in-breeding.  I was astounded by the number of orange-hued people I saw as I stealthily crept through its dirty streets.

Sexy Sexy Hairdresser:  Why don't we do a Brazilian?

What I didn't say was, "Oh don't you worry, my pet.  I swung by the beautician's on the way here in the hopes that you might ask me."

What I did say was:

The Pant:  There are a lot of people around, but, okay.  If that's what you want pal, who am I to argue?

I left feeling like an altogether fabulous human being a mere six (four, five, six - who's counting after two?) hours later.  Okay, sure, I'd missed my post work afternoon snack - and anyone who knows The Pant knows that you don't mess with her post work snack, lest annorexia sets in.  I was feeling so thin by the time I left the salon, that the bones in my arms, also called elbows, were sticking out.  Now that's thin.

Anyway, it was nothing short of sheer entertainment because I got to see him cutting this number.  The man arrived with a fro so enormous that I developed an instant anti-white complex towards myself.  And he then left looking like this:

Happy Easter everyone.  The Daughter and I are very very EGGScited that we are finding standing up a challenge.

Tea With A Gay.

I tead (that's the past tense of tea) with a gay yesterday.  I like a little gay love to get me through the week, and since My Future Ex Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh is all "I've got work to do" and "Some people have to work to make a living" on my ass, I got me a wee little tea date with my Other Gay, of olde days.

These gay love interactions are of vital importance to my pleasant weekly functioning.  Sometimes I get so down with The Straight Life, that I like to slip off into That Other World, which is, if we're honest, a whole lot more appealing than the world I inhabit.  I mean, I get to share a table with a man who does not cup his farts at the table.  Nor does he pick his teeth with his fork.  Nor is he teaming brown cargo trousers (with the actual cammo print from the 1990's), with work shoes and a red tracksuit top (uuuggghhhh.... What was I thinking?  Note to self: next lover will definitely have style.)

Plus the man with whom I shared the table, smelt nice, was clean shaven and was actually witty.  And it is so that I didn't expect to be picked up.  And not because the people around me thought that I was dating said lovely human - because, quite frankly, even those with the most ill-tuned Gaydars on the market would have heard a very loud BEEP BEEP BEEP in their heads upon sight of Other Gay.

And not because he's like all queeny.  He's not.  He was even wearing trousers on this outing and had removed his nail polish and washed his face of make-up.  It's because I think people - well, I really think people should - would (could!) leave a fag and his hag to tea in peace.  And the waitress!  Of all people in this world!  She should definitely have the social etiquette to know when to back off.

Waitress:  Can I get you another pot of tea, Gorgeous?

The Pant:  Back off bitch, he's mine.  Get your own fag to hag.

Waitress:  I'm sorry I didn't mean to offend you.  I wasn't trying to pick your fag up.  I think you're Gorgeous.

TP:  And I think I'm in love with you.

Waitress:  Really.  Because I believe in love at first sight, and fairies, and dancing around naked under the full moon while chanting to our ancestors.

The thing about Other Gay is he's not a hippy.  In like any way.  He's like all hygiene and technology.  And dirty sex.  And so, at this point, he raised his eyebrows so high that he now has stretch marks on his eyelids.  His disgust at Waitress's behaviour, AND INTERESTS!, had obviously repulsed him and so I had to pretend that I too was repulsed, and thus, hide my enjoyment of attention.

TP:  I'm sorry, Waitress.  But I think you've got the wrong impression of me.  I am wearing pumps.  And pretty earrings which aren't Nike ticks.

Waitress:  Oh, but I don't think so, Babe.

TP:  (Babe?  Really?  A fucking Pig in a fucking City?)  Oh, but I do think so, Deary.  This here man is my lover.  But like loooo-oo-oo-oo-oo-over.  Like grrrrrrr. (Attempt at tiger growl from depths of throat total fail - hopefully off putting).

(The sexual chemistry between Other Gay and I is about as exciting as brown corduroy.)

Waitress:  (twirling her mullet) Ooooh.  Stop.  You're turning me-

TP: Don't say it!

Other Gay:  Look, Precious.  You're barking up the wrong tree.  Our Pant over here is not a licker.  And although she finds your flirting incredibly flattering, the only way she would ever consider dating you is if you had a penis.  And if you had a penis, I would encourage Pant to actually go for you because you + penis = far more manly than any other actual boy (with penis) she has ever dated.  Now could you do us all a favour, and scuttle off and get us another pot of tea.  And two scones.  Thanks.  Nice back-pack by the way.

After a dejected waitress left the table, Other Gay and I were a little baffled as to where she was getting lesbian love vibes from.  We put Pant under the microscope and went through the checklist:

1)  Handbag: not backpack. (Must be straight.)
2)  Earrings:  one per earlobe.  (Feminine.)
3)  Shirt: feminine lace.  (Definitely straight)
4)  Pants:  fitting, no boxer shorts creeping out since pants are on the hip level, not below, where they should be.  (Definitely a breeder).
5)  Hair:  Long.  Dyed.  One colour only.  Gloriously straight.  (Definitely straight.)

Other Gay:  Maybe she's one of those old school lesbos, you know, the ones that think that gays only hang out with gays.

The Pant:  But do you hang out with any lesbos?

OG:  I would, if you were one.  And you dressed like that.  And you didn't use lesbianisms, like "a glass?  What for?  It's in a glass" and "Fire engine".

TP:  Oh, that's sweet.  I'd hang out with you if you were straight.  But then I'd probably bed you.  And that would make things awkward.  But like, really, Other Gay.  What is it?  Why am I screaming "Vegetarian" to this woman-thing?

OG:  It just escapes me... I can't quite put my finger on-

TP:  What?

Other Gay was frozen with his finger in the air and his eyes downcast.

TP:  Okay.  Look I get it.  My tits are small but there, seriously, is nothing I can do about that.

OG: (head shake)

TP:  Is it the fact that I'm not wearing a belt because my shirt is long enough to cover my trouser?

OG: (head shake)

TP:  What?  Because my nails aren't done?

OG:  (head shake)

TP:  Ummmm....  she could not have possibly seen that I haven't waxed my legs this month, could she?

OG:  (head shake)

TP:  Just effing tell me.  I've got to stop putting out these vibes into the universe lest I get to the single age that requires a colony of cats and a genuine interest in crochet.

And just at that moment, a man from another table walked over.

Man:  Can I borrow your lighter, please?

I looked down and saw this, resting atop my cigarettes:

OG:  That'll do it, Pant. 

Ah, the skanky lady lighter: a definite draw card for the dykes.

Parents: Indecisive.

The Father is muchos fond of The Daughter.  So much so, in fact, that the day she went amiss in Woolworths (see The Rudest Slap), I was too afraid to share the ordeal with him in case he took me to court to sue me for custody.  I've come to realise that The Father loves me because of The Daughter.  Our telephone calls go something a little like this:

The Father:  Hi, Pant.  Is the Baby Girl there?

The Pant:  Well thanks and you, Dad?

TF:  Pardon?  The Baby Girl?  Is she there?

A week ago when I advised that we'd be going away the following weekend with friends, his displeasure was tangible.  His bladed stare pierced right through my eyeballs and caused an instant headache.

The Father:  Cool, we'll babysit The Daughter.  You young folk go and have a good time.

The Pant:  No, Dad, she's coming with me.  You know how much she loves the beach, besides which, there'll be tons of other children and you know how she loves to play.

TF:  The beach?!?  You never said anything about the beach!  Do you have any idea how big the ocean is?  And she can't swim that well.  I think it's too dangerous.

TP:  You are aware, Dad, that we live in a little sea-side hamlet called Durban and that we actually spend quite a lot of time on the beach and, consequently, in the sea too?

TF:  WHAT?!?!?  You take her to the beach?

TP:  Yes, Father, I do.

TF:  It's irresponsible, Pant.   Taking a child to the beach.  All that fun!  The sun!  The ice-creams!  How could you?  When I'm not even there to protect you?

TP:  You do also realise, Dad, that I've managed to parent this child, whom you believe is well-raised with a delightful personality and impeccable manners, on my own for the past four, almost five years?

TF:  Well, what about the... um... unspeakable incident at Woolies the other day?

TP:  You lost me in a shop once.

TF:  Well, that was different.

TP:  How?

The Incubator:  She is a fairly capable mother, love.  She's done a good job so far.

And so, I imagine, it was a heavy heart that he ceded the argument, and The Daughter and I set off on a weekend away.  And he checked up on my parenting skills approximately four times a day.  (Is she okay?  Can I speak to her?  If the weather's shit, I think you should just come up to ours; we've got a fire going.)

Anyway, I stood my ground.  I had The Daughter all to myself the whole weekend and it was lovely.  But as much as The Father adores The Daughter, she adores him straight back.  He is, honestly, her whole world.  And so, when I got the following call from The Incubator, yesterday, I was quite excited.

The Incubator:  Hi!!!  Are you at work?

The Pant:  Yes, Mom.  I am on a quest to keep soul and body together and so I work everyday.  What are you doing?

TI:  Just had my nails done, darl.  Which is why I'm not bbming you (she's just learnt how to use her 1 year old BlackBerry and gets very excited about it).  I don't want to ruin them.

TP:  Why aren't you at work?

TI:  It's past 9, darl.  Who works past 9?

TP:  I do.  It's what I get paid to do.

TI:  Anyway, I'm just shopping and realised you haven't given me your birthday list.

(My spirits perked up tremendously at this point.)

TP:  Well, do you have a sheet of A0 paper lying around so I can list a few things to you over the phone?

TI:  Ah, you know what, Pant.  I've just had lunch with Dad and we're thinking of coming down for dinner tonight.  You know, to see The Daughter.

TP:  And?

TI:  No, that's it.

TP:  What about me?

TI:  What about you?

TP:  Well, don't you want to see me too?

TI:  You do share the same house as The Daughter, silly.  So I suppose we will end up seeing you too.

TP:  Great, Mom.  Can't wait.  It's thai red curry tonight.  Let me know by three (which is the time I leave work and head to the effing shops) for sure so I can buy extra.

At three, I still had not heard back from her.  And so I rang her.

The Pant:  Hi, Mom.  What are you doing?

The Incubator:  Just lying down reading my book.  Isn't that what all women do at three o'clock.

TP:   No.  It's not what all women do.  Some of us work a fullish day.  So are you coming for dinner?

TI:  I don't think so, darl.  Dad's just a little busy at work and I'm really snug in front of the fire.

TP:  Okay.  No worries.  I'm getting my hair done on Wednesday with Sexy Sexy Hairdresser, so do you mind if I stay for dinner and perhaps rest my weary head on one of your pillows.

TI:  Perfect, darl.  Got to dash.

And so, I did a mini-shop, went home and climbed into bed with my very own book.  It is after all, what women are supposed to do in the afternoon.  The Daughter was snuggled in next to me, reading Dr Seuss, and my eyelids were fairly heavy, when MC Hammer's 'U Can't Touch Dis' awoke me.

TP: (croaky) Hello?

TI:  Hi Darl.  I'm just phoning to let you know that we will be coming for dinner.

TP:  What changed?

TI:  Dad's mind.

TP:  Oh great, Mom.  Are you staying the night?

TI:  Definitely.  Get the wine glasses washed!

Ah parents.  When did they become so indecisive?

Maturity: We Ain't Got It.

Do you know what I love about being grown up?  That little extra bit of maturity that comes with the wrinkles and the effects of gravity on arse and tits.

Take Friday night, for example.  We were away - a very grown up thing to do - with our families.  And Smell and I hadn't seen each other in a year and so had a whole year's worth of gossip to catch up on and could only do so with a glass of red in hand.  The underage children were in bed, and us older ladies were seated around a table.

Dinner and red wine: civilised.  Mature.  Well, not so much.

At about midnight the wine ran out  (we weren't planning a big night so hadn't bought tons of wine but, as it turns out, we'd bought enough wine to make us want more).  And so, I thought the wisest thing to do was to ring Directory Enquiry Services to get the number for Mr Delivery so he could bring us some more wine.

Directory Enquiries Person:  Hello Sawubona Goeie Naand Directory Enquiries Pietie speaking how may I help?

The Pant:  Pietie?  That's the name you go by?  Can you spell that for me?

Pietie:  Can I help you ma'am?

TP:  Yes please.  Can you deliver one bottle of Kanonkop Kadette to this place where we're staying, on the Natal coast.  And a pizza.  Ooooo.  Yes.  A veg pizza with extra chilli and no pineapple.

Pietie:  This is Telkom Directory Enquiry Services, not a pizza delivery place.

TP:  Now you listen to me Pietie.  I thought we had a connection.  And we need wine and pizza.  Now.

The line went dead.

TP:  No worries, girls.  It must just be the connection.  Damn exotic holiday getaway place.

I tried to ring again.

Directory Enquiry Person (a new one):  Hello Sawubona Goeie Naand Directory Enquiries Not-Pietie speaking how may I help?

TP:  Hello, may I speak to Pietie please?

DEP:  I'm sorry, Ma'am.  This is not a line for personal calls.  If you wish to speak to Pietie, you must phone him on his private line.

TP:  Well, can I have the number please?

DEP:  Of where?

TP:  Pietie.  It's spelt P I E T I E.

DEP:  I can't give you that number.

TP:  Why?

DEP:  Because you don't know him.

TP:  I know.  That's why I'm phoning Directory Enquiry Services.

At this stage my company was looking at me a little strangely, mouthing the words 'wine' and 'shut up' and 'you're making an arse of yourself.'  At which point ADT security patrol van drove past.  I threw the phone to Smell's Mom, instructed her to get the number for Pietie (no Mr Delivery, he was a thing of the past) and starting wooping!

TP:  ADT man!  Come back.

Smell's Mom:  Hello.  Can I please have one vegetarian pizza with extra chilli and no pineapple.  And a bottle of your finest red.

TP:  ADT man with your beard so lush.  Reverse.  Pick us!  Pick us!  We have feelings of love for you.

Smell's Mom:  Well you shouldn't advertise that you deliver if you don't.  That's false advertising.  And I work for lawyers and I will be sending your establishment a lawyer's letter on Monday demanding free stuff because of this apalling service.

ADT man:  Are you ladies alright?

(Smell, was not alright.  She was quietly dronk vir driet listening to Adelle on a cellphone while muttering the words, "The raw emotion at the Brit Awards" over and over to no one in particular.  And then she realised that we were out of wine.)

Smell:  Pant, please may I have another glass of wine?

TP:  We're out Smell.  Go and pump up the flirt with ADT over there and get him to go and buy us some more.

Smell's Mom:  Are you lying to me?  On top of this atrocious service.  Telkom, indeed.  No, are you discriminating against us because we're.... white?

Smell:  I've got pounds.  I'll give you some if you can get us a bottle of wine.

ADT man:  I'm sorry, Ma'am.  But that is not an emergency.  I cannot assist.

Smell:  Is this your idea of protecting the public?

ADT man:  Huh?

Smell's Mom:  This is appalling.  I'm phoning consumer watch.  Good night.

Then she slammed the phone down.  Except she didn't realise it wasn't a land line and slammed the cellphone into the table.

Smell's Mom:  Oops.  Sorry.  Are you still there?  (Pause)  Oh good, hi.  Please may I order a vegetarian pizza with extra chilli and no pineapple and a bottle of your finest red.  And could you get Pietie to deliver.

Smell:  Just one little bottle of wine ADT man.  Who's it going to hurt?

(As she said this, she tripped over her other foot and grazed her ankle on the wall.)

Smell's Mom:  Oh! You don't deliver.  Well, thanks anyway.  Pleasure chatting to you.

ADT man:  I think you ladies should lock up and go inside now, it's getting late.

Smell:  Okay.  Fine.  Be a spoil sport.

We got no more wine.  Thankfully.  Because even if we haven't reached the stage of adulthood and responsiblity, the universe was doing it for us.

The Crushed Crush.

It's still The BF's cooking week. But shortly prior to receiving the "Dinner's ready, pal" bbm, I received word that my oldest friend, Smelly, is safely deposited in my country. (I call her Smelly not because she stinks but because that's what I call her. In real life.) In order to experience the joy that is the team pig squeal of sheer excitement at having a chance to razzle with the finest of the fine, I poured a wee glass of wine.

So when I arrived for dinner, the tongue was lubricated enough to share, with my people, a small little tiny crush I had (note the past tense) on this number I'd met the other night.

The Pant: Okay, guys. So I'm thinking he's the perfect-build-up-the-ego, get-the-mind-ready-for-the-dating-game kind of raw passion and no after conversation kind of guy.

The BF: Okay. So is he the kind of guy you choose not to cuddle?

TP: Exactly.

TBF: But is he hot?

TP: Well, not in a conventional want-to-have-him-in-your-wedding-photos kind of way. He's a bad boy. Covered head to toe in tattoos and parties like a rock star. In fact, he is a rock star. That kind of raw sex appeal.

TBF: Ooooooo! When do we get to meet him?

TP: Never. And that's just the thing. He's not the kind of guy you would ever admit to being with. He's like a passionate dirty secret kind of on-the-low-down love affair.

And no sooner had Carlos gobbled down his dinner and whipped out the iPad. Parusing facebook he called (see guys are facebook snoop doggy doggers too),

Carlos: What's his name?

The Pant: Wankstick Deluxo.

Carlos: (typing away) Is that with a 'k' or a 'ck'?

TP: A 'ck'. (Now addressing The BF). You know that guy, pal? The one whose face you just want to smooch right off but hope no one ever finds out about?

Carlos: No, she doesn't. (The BF was nodding in fervent agreement while biting down on her bottom lip.) My wife has only been with one man, ever. Okay?

TBF: Absolutely. One man. Only.

Carlos: Okay, pal. He says his favourite games are: 'Pass the herpes' and 'Jacuzzi - whose finger is that?"

TP: Hmmmm... Okay, he's not conventional. But, um, maybe worth a shot?

Carlos: Says the person who has influenced him the most is Ron Jeremy.

The Pant and BF (in unison): Who's that?

Carlos: Only the world's greatest porn star.

TP: Huh? Never heard of him.

Carlos: He's the biggest weed ever but he's managed to get thousands of hot chicks to scrum him on camera.

TBF: So you think porn stars are hot?

Carlos: This isn't about me! Pant wants to tuck into some guy with herpes.

TP: He doesn't have herpes!

Carlos: Have you tucked in already?

TP: No!

The BF: Then how do you know? Are you sure?

TP: Yes, I am sure. And he doesn't have herpes because he's hot.

TBF: He sounds dirty, pal. (To Carlos) Let me see a photo... Repeat after me, Panty Liner, "I will not touch this wankstick with a ten foot bargepole".

TP: Why?

Carlos: Because first it was a fat guy and now this freak.

TP: You don't get to judge, Carlos! You think porn stars are hot.

TBF: This isn't about Carlos, although I'll deal with that remark later. (I hate it when the smug marrieds gang up on me.) Pant, no crush on VD there. No way, no how. Get over it. Go hang at The Beverley Hills and find a man rich enough so that both of us can give up work.

And, with the thought of being a lady of leisure - lunching with The BF everyday - my crush was crushed. In an instant.

That Bloody Effing Cork Screw.

Wednesdays are my late days.  And so, when I arrived home I had as much personality as a white wall.  We went directly to The BF's place upon arrival  - we were hungry, you see and it's her cooking week.

The Pant:  Hiiiii pal!

The BF:  How are you pally?

We were both exhausted so sat slumped over the dining room table, trying to feed The Daughter, waiting for Carlos to return from Jo'burg so we, too, could eat while complaining about our current states of being.

The Pant:  It's ridiculous - look how much weight I've put on.

The BF:  Me too.  Check my stomach.  It actually protudes.  The other day I was driving and I had an entire roll that went over the seat belt.  (Anyone who knows my BF knows that she makes Kate Moss look like she could do with a little bit of trimming down).

TP:  And acne.  I look like I've just turned 13.

TBF:  Don't talk to me about acne, pal.  I feel so gross.  I feel like I need to exfoliate my entire body right now.

I think if you were an average person, and you saw us, you would think that we were those kinds of chicks that are like, "I'm so fat, nobody likes me...", but we're not.  Well,maybe yesterday we were a little like that.

TP:  K.  It's time to stop complaining.  We need to eat healthy.  Stop drinking wine.  Exercise everyday.  And drink at least 2 litres of water a day.

TBF:  But it's so boring.  And besides, my drawer at work is full of treats and I'm not going to be able to resist them.  So until they're finished, I'm not going to be healthy.

TP:  You make a good point.  Can we have some wine then?

She tottered off to the kitchen to pour wine, while I continued on the quest to fill The Daughter with nutritious food.

The BF:  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k!

TP:  Pal!  The Daughter can hear you.  Say 'fork' instead.

TBF:  Sorry The Daughter. Foooooooooooork!

TP:  What's wrong?

TBF:  The bottle opener broke.  In the wine.

TP:  Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k!

TBF:  Pal!  The Daughter can hear you.  Say 'fork' instead.

TP:  Sorry The Daughter.  But block you ears because this is an adult emergency.  Foooooooooork!

We spent a good twenty minutes trying to get the effing cork out the effing bottle.  I was all for smashing the neck against the sink and breaking it off, then dropping two straws in.  Why is it, when you can't have something, you want it even more?

TP:  Okay, you hold the bottle, and I'll get pliers and try and pull.

TBF:  No wait.  I need a cloth.  Hold on.  Wait, it keeps slipping.  Let's go and ask the neighbours if they have a corkscrew, to screw in on top of the corkscrew and then try and get it out?

TP:  They're muslims, pal.  I don't think they'll have a corkscrew.

TBF:  Hmmmm.... what are we going to do?  Maybe I should phone Carlos and tell him to pick up a screw-top bottle on his way.

TP:  I've got it!  I live downstairs.  I've got a bottle opener.

And so, with much dexterity of the bottle opener, the cork oozed out and The BF and I were able to tuck into the wine.  And we did so with such vigour that when we had our little ballet lesson from The Daughter, we were not very good students.

She takes her teaching of ballet quite seriously and calls us by our first names when we're in her lessons.  We have to call her Miss Liner, to "show her some respect".

The Daughter:  Pant.  Stand straight.  Your back is slouching.  Good girl.  BF, point your toes properly.  Not like that.  Look at me.  That's better.  Now, point to the side, put your heel down.  Point to the side, half way in front.

The BF and I were pretty crap at ballet.  It's not our old age that has caused the atrophication of muscles that disallowed us to remain balanced at all times.  I blame the effing corkscrew.  If it had just not broken, then we only would have had one glass.

Well, that's what I keep telling myself anyway.

In other news:  The Smelly Cat has touched down in Jo'burg.  My excitement is tangible.

The Languages Of My Love.

So, I hightailed it out of work yesterday. I've been worried that The Daughter has been coming down with a wee cold, you see. So wanted to get her home and snuggled into bed with her mom. (We're snugglers, are The Daughter and I. Like huge style.). But I think my desire to spend as much of my medical aid's savings on homeopathic antibiotics and vitamins (because it's the kind of shopping spree that makes me feel like I'm a proper adult without having to part with any cash) has started to pay off. Six different vitamins and immune boosters this morning and she was as chipper as a bottled bee.

The Daughter: Mom, when can I have a brother and a sister? (She feels she's waited long enough for sibling company and so I must just produce one of each, at the same time.)

The Pant: One day, my baby.

TD: Are my brother and sister going to speak English?

TP: I'm sure they will, Precious.

TD: Because if I have Afrikaans brothers and sisters then I won't understand them and then I won't know if they're hungry or thirsty.

TP: That's true. I'll order English brothers and sisters for you, okay?

TD: Okay. But if God doesn't have any English ones, I don't mind Zulu ones.

TP: Really?

TD: Ja. Because at least I can say 'hello' to them which actually means 'I see you' and you say, 'Sawubona.'

TP: Wow, my angel. That's very clever.

TD: (chuffed) I know.

TP: Where did you learn that?

TD: Aarrgghh Mom! (said with the tone of part disdain part irritation that one would use when speaking to a complete mental arthritic.) I know lots of things. They're in my brain.

TP: Okay. So when you go to big school and you have to choose another language to learn, which one are you going to choose?

TD: Um.... (pausing for thought - I had asked her a fairly important question.)... I think I'll choose American.

TP: But American is English.

TD: No it's not. Americans say 'yeah' instead of 'yes'. And they call jam jelly. And jelly jello.

(She did have a point.)

TP: That's true, my precious. But you can only do Zulu or Afrikaans.

TD: Hmmmmmm.... (with limited options, one really needs to consider one's choice carefully). I'll do bonehead.

TP: Pardon?

TD: You know, Mom. Bonehead. Same as rok.

TP: Where did you learn that?

TD: Uncle told me. He said Afrikaans is also called crunchie. But I think that's a chocolate.

So there you have it, folks. The Daughter's second language will be bonehead/rok/crunchie. A wise choice, I suppose, given that she's already proficient in Zulu.

I Got Fan(ny) Mail.

So when I got a "Registered Letter" slip in my post the other day, I did what all self-respecting people do when they're on leave: I slipped it straight to the bottom of the pile and went back to bed with my book. (I've hit an all-time low in the trashy novel reading department. The one I'm currently nose diving into even has a grammatical error in its title. It's called, "What's A Girl To Do With... An Offer You Can't Refuse". Truly, a remarkable piece of predictably unremarkable prize turd. And I cannot put it down.)

But the thing is, in spite of the registered mail slip being well hidden, its existence failed to escape my memory. And so I began pondering its sender. A deceased distant relative bequeathing big fat diamonds to me, The Pant? A book deal? In registered letter? Unlikely.

An overdue bill, totally forgotten about? More like it.

And so, by mid-day, The Daughter and I were in the longest post office queue I've ever seen. (Who, other than people who have registered letters waiting for them, actually goes to the post office?).

There was a (I'm convinced of it) transgendered individual in the queue in front of me. I think he was becoming a she, but had missed the course on How To Dress And Act Like A Lady. She was wearing an ill-fitting denim pencil skirt, teamed with a sequinned t-shirt that was most likely originally worn by Elizabeth Taylor in her early twenties and the most hideous, falling-apart-at-the-plastic-seams, used-to-be-white-but-are-now-engrained-with-dirt trainers I have ever had the displeasure of clapping eyes upon. She tried, though, and wore dangly earrings except they served only to accentuate the sheer expanse of neck - so large, in fact, that I'm sure a costume necklace, in her book, would constitute a hula hoop.

It's not the fact that she was transgendered that bothered me. Nor was it her ensemble which made me scream, "My eyes! My eyes!". Nor was it the brash attempt to convert the pretty brunette (who was, also, exceptionally petrified judging by her knocking jeaned knees) into a lesbian. It was the volume of her voice. If I'd been in bed, 6 kms away, I'm sure I'd have heard this exchange:


Transgendered: So you're flying Emirates? Brilliant beef curry. And they'll give you seconds if you ask nicely.

Pretty Brunette: I'm not so worried about the food, it's the space.

Transgendered: Ah. Plenty of space on Emirates. No problem scratching my bal... ahem... bum. My ballbum. I call it a ballbum because it's round, see?

The Daughter: I'm huuuuuuuuuungry. How much lo-

The Pant: Ssssshhhhhh!

TD: Why, Mom?

TP: Just ssshhh. Not allowed to talk in post offices.

TD: But that lady, I mean person, is.

TP: Well, she doesn't know the post office rules.

Trangendered: And also, they're quite accommodating with hand luggage.

Pretty Brunette: Yes. I'm moving there so I'm going to need as much luggage allowance as I can get.

Transgendered: Well, if you're taking a lot of hand luggage best get yourself a back pack. And wear both the straps. It evens out the weight.

(Uuuugggghhhh - the backpack. It holds no value in this society. Of that I'm truly convinced.)

I was quite tired of attempting to appear like I wasn't eavesdropping, that I spent the rest of my twenty minute wait humming the tune to Regina Spektor's Folding Chair whilst day dreaming of being on stage singing to thousands of adoring fans.

And then, finally:

The Pant: Hello, I got this slip. Could you do me favour and go into the back, open the letter, and tell me who it's from?

Scrawny Post Office Worker: I'm sorry, Ma'am. You have to sign for the letter and then you can open it.

TP: Well, what if I don't want the letter?

SPOW: Then don't open it.

TP: But won't the people who sent it know that I've got it if I've signed for it?

SPOW: Yes, they can track it.

TP: So won't you just go back, open it, tell me who it's from and if I want it, I'll sign for it and if not, you can just throw it away and it'll be as if none of this ever happened.

SPOW: There are cameras in the back. And up there. And there. And one over there. I could lose my job, Ma'am. Please don't make me do this.

(A begging boy: the only answer to which is pumping up the flirt.)

TP: (Lick lip) I love the way you've style your hair into perfect spikes all over your head and (gentle nibble at corner of mouth) dyed the tips blonde.

SPOW: Are you flirting with me?

TP: Would it help if I was?

SPOW: No.

TP: K, fine. Just get me the frigging letter. Chop chop. I've been in here long enough and there's a disturbingly intense smell of onions on this side of the counter.

SPOW: Here's your letter. But before I hand it over, what are you doing later?

TP: Reading the letter, I imagine.

SPOW: And after that?

TP: Um.... I'll be doing nothing with you, thanks.

SPOW: But you said you liked my hair.

TP: And you made me sign for the letter.

And all that drama for something quite grand. Granted, not a 5 carat diamond but at least no super outstanding bill that I've forgotten about. I got fan(ny) mail: a pair of pink pant(ies) with the function of a purse. All the way from Austria.

And so, to my lovely Austrian pantafan: G'day, mate. Let's put another shrimp on the barbie**.

**and just for the record, I quote Dumb and Dumber.  And I do so because I can.

Aren't they rad?

Is This A Weird Thing To Do?

Okay, so the familial Christmas holiday has been booked.  And in the wake of our most glorious surprise sojourn, the destination has been decided: Cape Town.  I'm insanely excited about languishing on the beach with a trashy novel in hand, while The Daughter builds sand castles and catches little fishies with her cousins.

And I'm excited to know that I will be experiencing, again, the sheer oral pleasure of eating fresh oysters at Willoughby's.  And also, that I'll be a stone's throw away from some of the finest wine farms in the world.  And this is where my problem lies.

You see, a year ago, I found myself in Stellenbosch for some or other reason.  The CT Hairdresser and his Then Boyfriend took me out to dinner.  With a Straight Boy in tow (how thoughtful).  Well, it wasn't all that thoughtful, really, since I'd just struck up a quasi-relationship with someone else - a relationship in which I'd been misled to believing actually held a future.

And so, in spite of learning Straight Boy both worked and lived on a Boutique Wine Farm, I resisted his wily charms.

We shared a long evening, did Straight Boy and I.  And many a drink.  And so my texts home to The Boyfriend followed this pattern:

23h47 - Just finished dinner.  Going out for one drink.  You're the raddest.

01h57 - Miss you!!! Having one more drink then going home.

03h06 - Onm my waaay home.

03h34 - Just got home.

04h06 - K.  For real. Am leaving noow.

And because I'd actually meant the 'I miss you's and the 'You're the greatest boyfriend alive's, I was unshakable in my commitment to The Boyfriend.

But it was hard:

The Pant:  Shouldn't you be hitting on girls your own age?

Straight Boy:  I don't like girls.  I like women.

TP:  Well, this woman has a manfriend.

SB:  You look particularly unattached right now.

TP:  That's because my partner (I could never quite get my mind around referring to a middle-aged man as a 'boyfriend') is in Jo'burg.  Pining for me (how wrong could I have been?)

SB:  Exactly.  So, he'll never know if you sneak around the corner and smooch my face off.

TP:  I thought you wanted more from me?

SB:  I'll take what I can get.

TP:  How about a dance?

SB:  You know what dancing leads to?

TP:  Sore feet?

And so Straight Boy and I partied, and we threw excessive amounts of cane in our faces.  But I was steadfast in my decision to remain faithful.

Fast forward one year: The Boyfriend: axed, The Pant: in Stellenbosch at boutique wine farm. Unfinished business between Straight Boy and The Pant.  So what did I do?  I facebooked him.

The Pant:   I cannot aptly express my disappointment at having driven all the way to Fancy Boutique Wine Farm, to have sat through an hour explanation on why the grape does what it does albeit delivered by a particularly hilarious coloured woman, and no Straight Boy. :(

(I actually used an emoticon - these youngsters communicate in faces these days.)

His response was immediate.  If not disappointing:

Straight Boy: You come all the way to Stellies and you don't even tell me.  I'm with CT Hairdresser.  He said you leave tomorrow.  Would of (sic) loved to see you. X (Capital kiss, must smaak the pants off me.)

Anyway, so here's the problem:  Would it be too weird to forward booked holiday details to Straight Boy and say something along the lines of, "I regret not tucking into you that night so long ago.  Could you kindly remain single for the next 8 months, because I'll be in the area in December, and I think we have unfinished business.  Regards, The Pant."

Probably, hey?

Why I Live In Durban. And He Lives In Cape Town.

So after my initial joy at seeing CT Hairdresser, in the flesh, I realise why we only see each other once a year.  He's not one for mincing his words, is our little possum.  Mincing he's damn good at.  But mincing his words - not so much.

We hugged.  Kissed.  Cupped each other's faces in our hands and squealed phrases like "incandiverous" and "it's really you" and "you haven't changed a bit".  Well, truth be told, I squealed that.  And he replied with, "Your eyes are the same colour."

The Pant:  Ah my precious, I've missed you so.  You're looking so buff.

CT Hairdresser:  You're exactly the same, Pant.  Except your boobs are smaller.  How does that happen?

The Pant:  Your hair.  It's very dark.

CT Hairdresser:  And your boobs, they're tiny.  Seriously, what happened?

TP:  I'm not sure.

CT Hairdresser:  Sheesh.  Can you even wear bras anymore?

TP:  Can we not talk about my boobs?

CT Hairdresser:  Sure.  What's with the middle parting?

TP:  I thought they were in.

CT Hairdresser:  Yes.  In the mid-90's.  Come here.  Let me sort that out.

TP:  My hair's got too thick to wear it in a side-parting.  I look lob-sided.  See?

CTH:  Yes.  You do.  Let's try the other side.  Oh.  No no no.  Perhaps a clip?

After a gruelling twenty minutes of looking over me - Your arse is still smallish, What's with that top? Who chose those shoes? - we settled down to dinner.

CTH:  Still a feeder, I see.

TP:  Yup, nothing has changed.  I could, if you like, pretend like I've overdished and say something along the lines of, "I have no idea how I'm going to finish all of this" but-

CTH:  We both know you'd be lying.

And then we did the two hours of catching up - The Daughter is gorgeous.  You've lost so much weight.  Do you remember when you used to be straight?  Do you remember the bouncer at Roman Lounge?  What was her name?  Bobby?  Hated you because you looked too much like a girl.

And then, my favourite thing of the whole evening happened.  The holiday caught up with me, and his busy life caught up with him.

CTH:  Did you catch Grey's on Monday night?

TP:  No.  I had people over for dinner.

CTH:  You want to watch it?  I'm dying to see what happens with Torres' baby and how Lexi is going to cope with McDreamy doing this to her twice.

TP:  Me too.

So we snuggled up on the couch, my legs over his and watched Grey's  Except I don't think we saw the end.

And that's the beauty of my Cape Town Hairdresser.  He may not mince his words (but he's given me a fresh desire to tone up on them roads).  But we just got to be.  And that's pretty rad.

Driving With Mr & Mrs & Mr & Mrs Daisy.

I don't get to see CT Hairdresser often. In fact, the last time he clapped eyes on The Daughter was when she was four months old and attached to my breast. So when the opportunity to dine with my precious arose, I was at his house quicker than you could say, "Gay Love".

Well, that's not entirely true. I holidayed with not one, not two, but four over-50's. (This particularly breed of human grew up in Cape Town - but left at the age of 5 - and so obviously know exactly where they are going.)

The trip there left me reeling for a bottle of wine, served in the bottle with a straw.

Although I'd arranged to meet CT Hairdresser at his workplace (I was quite looking forward to a greeting in the vein of: "Hello darling, lovely to see you. What's with the hair? Sit down. Let me sort that out before someone sees me with you"), getting four over-50's and an under-5 out the door on time is kind of like herding cats.

So the deal was I had to get to his house. But his house is not the same house that we've previously been to, and so my actually reaching of desired destination was left in the hands of The Father (who would not be able to navigate his way from the toilet to the basin and who is also sometimes forgetful of the fact that modern vehicles are able to exceed 40 km/h) and The Uncle armed with The SatNav.

The Pant: Okay, he lives in Vagina Decliner Road, Strictly Dickly City. (Thanks Kathy Lette). But you can't find Vagina Decliner Road on the SatNav. So put in Ratanga Junction.

The Uncle: How do you spell Vagina Decliner?

The Pant: No. Don't put it into the SatNav.

The Father: I think it's V A G I-

TP: He said the SatNav won't pick up the street name.

TF: N A new word D E C L-

TP: I promise you, Dad. You won't find it.

The Uncle: Got it! Vagina Decliner Road, Mitchell's Plain.

TP: I don't think CT Hairdresser lives in Mitchell's Plain.

The Uncle: Oh, Mitchell's Plain is very up-and-coming with The Gays. 15.8 kms to go. Let's hit it.

So, we followed the very pompous instruction of the SatNav (sometimes I hate that condescending bitch almost as much as I hate the one on the airport escalators who always tells me to "Push trolley now").

When we had a toothless bergie brandishing a bottle neck at us threatening us with "Jou ma se poes. Ek sal julle (with the 'j' pronounced) dood steek", I had to raise my voice just a touch. I mean, my bum was, at this stage, eating the seat.

The Pant: I told you. I don't think CT Hairdresser lives in Mitchell's Plain.

The Father: Just phone CT Hairdresser. Tell him we're on the corner of Tik Street and Stolen ARV Avenue.

The Pant (on the phone now): Darling. Help me. Help me to live. Where is your house?

CT Hairdresser: Where are you?

TP: Corner of Oh-God-I'm-Shitting-Myself and I'm-Sure-That-The-Red-Eyed-Clora-With-Three-Brown-Teeth-And-The-Shotgun-Wants-To-Kill-Me.

CT Hairdresser: You're in the wrong place, my angel. I told you: type Ratanga Junction into the SatNav.

TP: Where am I?

CT Hairdresser: No idea, my precious.

TP: K. I'm coming darling. Please pour me a double gin and red wine.

CTH: I don't have any tonic.

TP: Who said anything about tonic?

Then I tried to explain to the two testosterone-driven Alpha males that, actually, when I said not to type 'Vagina Decliner' into the SatNav, I was being serious. And that, perhaps, if they wanted to see the following day, that now would be the perfect time to listen to, I don't know, someone who actually lives in Cape Town's directions.

The Father: Well, Pant, he's stuffing us around and now we're going to be late for our dinner.

The Pant: How is he stuffing us around?

TF: He doesn't even know where he lives.

TP: Ummmm... I should imagine he does know where he lives.

TF: Well, why are lost in Mitchell's Plain?

And that's when I realised that arguing would have been fruitless. Driving with Mr and Mrs and Mr and Mrs Daisy can be handled in only one manner: heavy drinking.

Needless to say, when I saw CT Hairdresser I had urges to thrust my tongue down his throat in a moment's confusion between feeling actually amorous and grateful for the fact that The Daughter and I were still drawing breath.

The Rudest Slap.

So sometimes life slaps you in the face so hard, that you cannot help but realise what's important and what's not. Reality slapped me today. Hard. So effing hard, in fact, that my left cheek has become my right cheek, and my right cheek has become an extension of my right ear.

Honestly, for fifteen minutes, my world came to a screeching halt. My will to breathe ceased. I begged for my heart to give up the ghost, and for my body to hit the floor with a deadly thump. But was, at the same time, so manic in my desperation to end the feeling that I found myself tearing around Woolies unaware of tears streaming down my face while yelling obscenities that would make a sailor blush.

So The Incubator, The Daughter and I set off on a spot of shopping today. This is an important outing to make, at this time of year, given that we're currently in the throes of celebrating my birthmonth. And so will often say things like, "The Daughter, Mom really likes those cushions and that throw. Maybe you should buy them for me for my birthday," (The Daughter would buy the earth for me if she had the means) in a really loud voice. It's important to drop hints to present buyers. Loud ones. Ones like, "If I don't own that item I will surely not make it through the next six months. The depression will be so fierce that I will have no option but to resort to bulimia."

So I was admiring pumps when The Daughter played her favourite hiding trick. She thinks it's funny. I certainly don't. Like not at all. And when, a moment later, I turned round to tell her that we were moving on to another section, she was gone. But like gone gone. Like nowhere to be seen.

I promptly broke into a fine film of sweat and starting behaving like a lunatic. The Incubator and I began searching so furiously and in such a disorganised fashion that we kept bumping into each other and chanting in unison, "Have you found her? Fuck!"

Then I found a worker person:

The Pant: Excuse me, The Daughter has just gone missing. From this very spot.

Worker Person: What's she wearing?

The Pant: Denim dress. Pink shirt. White tights. Denim pumps.

WP: Sweet. And her name?

TP: The Daughter. Now I've got fuck all time for 'sweet this' and 'cute that'. I need to find her. Right fucking now. So your job is to close all the exits to this store. Get the music switched off. And tell every other customer to shut the fuck up so The Daughter can hear me screaming for her. Do you understand me?

WP: I'll see what I can do.

TP: No, lovie. This is not a time for seeing what you can do. It's a time for finding my daughter. Now you get these doors locked right now, or I'll slap Woolworths with such a crippling lawsuit, that the entire franchise will go under, they'll blame you, and your great grandchildren's children will still be paying it off in the year twenty-one thirteen. Okay?

(The Father is a lawyer, you see. I think he's such a fine lawyer that I'm convinced he would have been able to get Adolf Hitler off. And so I feel quite confident when making threats of this nature.)

And I continued on the search. The Incubator had gone a level down, in her wisdom, and had found The Daughter ambling out of the store. The doors being locked was clearly of little importance to Worker Person who found it far more gratifying to look at her image in a handheld mirror while talking to her boyfriend, a welder from Montclair, I'm sure, on the phone.

Our reunion was nothing short of the most emotional experience of my life. I grabbed hold of The Daughter and pressed her into my body with such force that I now have a dent in the shape of a four-year-old girl on my front. I wept with such relief that I now understand those loud sobs that actresses make when they act that they're experiencing a really emotional moment. I was wailing in such a heartfelt manner that the by-standers were sobbing too.

I have not put The Daughter down since that moment. And have drafted a terse-worded email to Woolworths on their lack of missing child procedure. And I've realised that during those 6 or 7 minutes (which felt like a gloomy lifetime) in which The Daughter was missing, I didn't think about my job, or my car or whether my bum looked big in those jeans. I didn't think about the increase in electricity, or whether Particularly Beefy is ever going to phone me again. I didn't think about anything but my girl. And, by Jiminy Crickets, am I glad to have her back.

We're jetting off to Cape Town tomorrow. I've dug up the old harness and she'll be wearing it for the entire duration of our stay. You can count on that for sure.

The Elderly Hangover: An All Day Affair

So I'm not eighteen anymore. And I have Saturday morning fresh in my memory to prove it.

You see, I forget this teensy weensy little factoid when I'm out and so, when people suggest tequilas, and Patrons and other shooters, I'm generally game. The magnitude of Saturday's hang over needs to be committed to blog to serve as a future reminder to self.

How To Have A Hang Over:

1) Wake up. Realise The Daughter is with parental unit and pine for her.

2). Check call records on phone. Realise have phoned Larry at 02h36.

3). Send text: Humble apologies for dop n dial.

4). Panic. Wake Teacher Friend up. Receive information that Teacher Friend's battery died and she used phone to phone husband upon return home. Husband's name is Lars, the name directly after Larry on phonebook. Was misdial error which was quickly rectified. Breath sigh of relief (did not remember even thinking about Larry, let alone phoning him. Which is good, I suppose. Since did not actually do either of those things.)

5). Shower. Scrub body with cleansing vigour. Exit. Take headache pills.

6). Receive reply: You didn't...

7). Reply: Good. Do not feel like a total arsehole at all. Brilliant.

8). Brush teeth. Thrice.

9). Go to shopping centre. Attempt to buy cat food for The Cat (which is apt, I suppose, since The Cat is, in fact, a cat and therefore eats cat food.). Pet shop closed. Think may never feel normal again, especially considering am too embarrassed because of perceived alcohol fume emission to exhale in packed Saturday morning lift. And feet are damaged from new heels the night previous to tackle broken escalators.

10). Go to Kauai. Order breakfast burrito. And orange and carrot juice. Inhale.

11). Buy cat food, return home, feed cat.

12). Drive to parental unit's abode. Drive 20 km/h below the speed limit and exhaust self with concentration.

13). See The Daughter. Envelope her. Do not let go until her whingeing ("Crampa, tell Mommy to stop hugging and kissing me") starts to pierce eardrum and bring on fresh wave of nausea.

14). Explain state of being to The Incubator. She advises that there is left-over spaghetti bolognaise in the fridge, as well as two energades which had been bought because of the suggestion that I may be running in her area. (Pffffftttt!)

15). Down energades. Devour spaghetti bolognaise.

16). The Incubator invites self to join her for a cigarette. Puke in mouth a little bit. Find The Daughter. Demand 87 hugs and kisses.

17). Father announces he is going to shops. Suggest that will not make it through day without: two hot dogs, platter of sushi, 1 x litre Coco-Cola, 1 x litre ice green tea and suitably mindless rom-com DVD.

18). Dress The Daughter and Self in rain-proof attire. Hit garden. Aid in the climbing of trees and racing of leaf boats in gutters. Feel incredibly ill, but realise a child who is exhausted from having done something than child who has been kept indoors all day. (Mutter several prayers expressing gratitude at 1) the cooler temperature and 2) the fact that sun is well-hidden and is thus unable to scorch eyeball).

19). Father returns. Devour 2 x hot dogs plus entire litre of ice tea. Suggest TV in bed to The Daughter.

20). The Daughter falls asleep on The Pant's tummy. The weight of child on weak stomach makes self feel nauseas. But enjoy the closeness to The Daughter. Fall asleep.

21). Wake up. Ravenous. Devour entire platter of sushi. Salmon sashimi makes self gag. Consider whether have overeaten or not. Drink cup of tea, litre of coke and two glasses of water.

22). Bath with The Daughter. Try and convince child that splashing and making noise or trying to engage mother in actual two-way conversation where mother is slightly intelligible are bad ideas.

23). Settle on couch with The Daughter. Put DVD on. Fall asleep.

The elderly hangover: A Whole Day Affair.

How To Ruin A Date - Pant-Style.

So, it was about 6 hours prior to the start of the date, that my thoughts and feelings around the whole notion of dating a hottie-hot-pants changed.  Completely.  I was celebratory lunching (at the joy of the end of the term) with my colleagues, when I received a bbm from The Rad Friend:

The Rad Friend:  What you doing tonight?

The Pant:  Date with Particularly Beefy, you?

TRF:  Jack Parrow is playing at Sasha.  Should I put your name on the list?

TP:   Big style.  What time does he start?

TRF:  10.  What about date guy?

TP:  I think I can ensure an early end to the date.

My desire to go to a nightclub and watch an Afrikaans dickhead with an elongated leopard print peak rap about things like KTV and Murder She Wrote, instead of gazing longingly into Particularly Beefy's eyes, made me realise that perhaps The Pant is not in the dating space.  I thought I was ready to date.  I mean, I know without doubt that I am officially over Larry given that I consider him in a part contemptuous part sympathetic manner, when I remember to consider him at all.  But when I said, "Down With Love for six months", I should have just listened to self.  You see, there are too many hottie-hot-pantses out there and I'm a little like a kid in a candy shop:  Can't choose.  Don't want to.  Not going to.

So I had to be sneaky.  I like Particularly Beefy and I'd committed to this date (and even been excited about it), and so I couldn't bring myself to pull a dirty.  But I knew I could get date to end early.  I'm gifted in manner of inappropriateness.  So, at 16h30, I texted him:

The Pant:  Ready when you are.

Particularly Beefy:  You're early.  But we said 7.  I'll pick you up at 7 then?

My initial efforts to start date early in the hopes that date would end early, were unsuccessful.  I needed to be more crafty, more sneaky.  I considered using my oldest friend Smelly's trick: drink so much wine that you pass out in restaurant - but realised that this trick would leave me unable to join The Rad Friend in pretending to like Jack Parrow's music later in the evening.

And so I attempted the eat quickly, leave early ploy:

The Pant:  I am staaaaaaaarving (total lie, had eaten enough for four people at lunch time).  Let's order this food, baby.

Particularly Beefy:  We can order now.  After we've sat down and the waitress has given us the menus.

TP:  Guess I should've eaten before I came on this date, then.

PB:  We're going to eat..  But let's just take is slow (Aaaarrrrgggggghhhhhh.  Slow.  What is it with these romantics?)

TP:  Fine.  Let's do it your way.  I suppose you're going to order for me too?

He did not find this incredibly charming.  So I was off to a good start.

When the food arrived, I decided that an excellent technique to ending date early, would be to play chubby bunny with my sushi.

The Pant:  Let's see how many pieces of sushi we can fit in our mouths at one time.

Particularly Beefy:  Why?

TP:  It'll be fun.

PB:  I don't know if you know this, Pant.  But I'm an adult.

TP:  Yes?

PB:  And so I'm going to eat each piece of sushi on its own.

Uuuuugggggghhhhh.  Adults.  So boring.  And so I had to try a slightly more cunning trick.  I excused myself, went to the bathroom and applied lipstick in circles to neck and chest area.  Then I returned to the table.

Particularly Beefy:  Why have you got lipstick on your neck?

The Pant:  Where?  I didn't even bring my lipstick with me.

PB:  Well, you've got circles of lipstick drawn onto your neck and chest.

TP: Must be hives.  Allergic reaction to wasabi.

PB:  You're allergic to wasabi?  Why are you eating it then?

TP:  I forgot.  But I need to get home soon then.  I'm going to be hallucinating in seconds.

And then I waited a few minutes.

The Pant:  Why is there a polar bear eating with that family over there?

Particularly Beefy:  That table there?  Where no one is sitting?

TP:  Must be hallucinating.  I'm sorry.  But I need to get home.

PB:  Okay.  Let me pay the bill and I'll take you home.

TP:  What's the time?

PB:  Twenty past nine.

TP:  Could you drop me at Sasha, then?

PB:  I couldn't possibly.  You're hallucinating.  You need to get home.

TP:  I need to get my house keys from The Rad Friend and she's there.

PB:  You've got your house keys.  You locked your house when I picked you up.

TP:  Huh?

I have not heard from Particularly Beefy since I dop n dialed him from Sasha at 01h06.  I wanted him to hear how poes cool Jack Parrow was.  Oops.