It was Thursday. The Good Food and Wine Show was on. And, if you know anything about me at all, you'll know that, apart from The Daughter, Good Food and Good Wine are my two most favourite things in the world. And so, accompanied by The Daughter, The Incubator, The BF and Carlos, and in possession of a stomach that had not been fed since the morning, I trundled on down to The Durban Exhibition Centre.
My first stop: the tent that sells tasting glasses.
My second stop: the stall that has those delicious olives, tepanades and olive oils.
The Pant: (placing glasses down with gay abandon to assist in shovelling as much food into mouth as possible) I've never had an olive before. I best try one.
The Olive Guy: What? I don't believe it! You've never had an olive before?
TP: (Yes! Works everytime.) No. I've had a difficult childhood. Didn't have things around the house like olives. But I'm working at making something of my life. And I think food is the perfect platform. (Foodies eat that shit up as though it were drizzled in truffel oil.)
I then embarked on tasting trickery of the finest display. While The Olive Guy was watching I'd say things like, "Oh no. I've already tried the aubergine and thyme infused olives. I couldn't possibly have another," and while his back was turned, I'd grab whole handfuls of the exact aubergine and thyme infused olives, stuff them into my mouth and then busy myself "looking for my wallet" while attempting to remove pips (or bones, as The Daughter calls them) using the dexterity of my tongue, chew and swallow in a most circumspect manner.
The BF: Have you tried this corriander and chilli tepanade?
The Pant: (attempting to swallow huge mouthful of biscuit and chewed corriander and chilli tepanade) No. (swallow swallow). Is it lovely?
TBF: It is. You should try some.
TP: Oh, alright then.
My third stop: the very cleverly packaged and mighty delicious chocolate buttons (70% cocoa for the win) stall. A more difficult one to master, but not one beyond me.
The Chocolate Lady: .... so I decided to package the chocolate in this manner to assist in baking.
TP: Very clever indeed. I am most impressed.
TCL: And we have customers from all over the world. I just sent a shipment out to Canada.
TP: (slightly overdone) I. Don't. Believe. It. Have you got any samples?
TCL: Well, I'm not really doing samples, but I'll give you a taste.
Nibble nibble.
TP: I'm not quite sure which one I prefer. Can I taste the bitter one again please?
TCL: Um. Sure. But before you do, how about the sugar-free?
TP: No point really. I mean isn't sugar-free chocolate kind of like kissing your brother?
I didn't get anymore samples out of Chocolate Lady after that.
I also learned to team fairly diverse flavours at this exhibition. I mean, who would've thought granadilla cupcakes and draft would go together? This, of course was a kind of fusion of flavour created by yours truly. Given, of course, that the delectable Robinson's ale stall was directly opposite unbelievably cute cupcakes.
My will-power is limited.
This was made even more evident when I stumbled upon a little restaurant that served champagne by the glass - makes you feel like you're spending less even if you do end up drinking eight glasses in quick succession - and oysters. Fresh meaty ones. Delivered directly from Heaven to the show, I imagine, mere moments before sliding down my throat.
I do not suggest anyone drink eight glasses of champagne before a) buying decorations for one's child's birthday cake or b) ordering a Green Mamba from a little hottie hot pants young enough to be your son.
The Pant: I've never had any alcohol in my life before. And I want to live a little. Would you recommend starting one's drinking career with Green Mamba?
Hottie Hot Pants Young Enough To Be My Son: Well, it's cane and creme soda, so it tastes just like Lecol Squeezie Juice.
(Cane. Creme soda. The Pant. Scene.)
TP: Oh, go on. Let me have a try.
(sip sip)
TP: I'm sorry, but the flavours didn't quite reach the back of my palate. Still the champagne - er - infused truffle oil I'm tasting. Could a I try another?
(sip sip)
TP: Hottie Hot Pants, you look really sexy when you pour from that bottle. Could I sample it again?
After 47 tots of delicious radness that tasted more like more than I've ever tasted before, I took out my wallet for a roadie:
TP: (addressing Carlos and The Incubator - The BF was driver) You guys keen on a roadie?
Carlos and The Incubator: (in unison) Oh, go on.
TP: Can I have three of those bad dogs to go, please. Darling.
And then I threw Hottie Hot Pants a smile dug out from the depths of my lustful soul. And as he cracked the bottle, Hottie Hot Pants sprayed himself in the face.
It's great to know I still have that effect on some men.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Da Skwl Teacha Wot Bugz Us
I've become the customer from hell. The staff at my local Woolies respond to my presence with rolled eyes, quick whips through the store and inter-staff broadcast BBMs something in the vein of 'High Alert: The whore who checks every item on the till is here.'
Wait. I give them far too much credit. Their broadcast messages probably read, 'Da skwl teacha wot bugz us iz in da store. Get 2 ur tillz n praten 2 lyk her.'
On my last enormous, financially crippling shop, I did the big shop at Much Cheaper Shop and then hit Woolies with Much Cheaper Shop's over laden trolley. Exhausted by what can only be described as the next best activity after applying for an I'd document, I did a dash through the store to collect items that The Daughter actually eats. Then I hit the till, waited while the items were checked through, mocked charged and handed over my credit.
Then I hightailed to pay for parking - I'd been held up those extra seven minutes by an older woman with a clubbed wheel trolley and so missed my 'first hour free' parking fee concession - sprinted in the elements (a right windy, cold and wet day it was) and began loading the groceries. This task, mind you, is not made any easier by a whingeing child, desperate to unpack the shopping bags before they'd hit the boot.
And that's when it happened: nestled betwixt paid-for bags of detergents and handwash and oversized boxes of cereal, was a jar of imperative onion marmalade. Hot.
I considered taking it as part of my you-effing-owe-me-Woolies compensation. But. Ah, and herein lies the big BUT. I had The Daughter in tow. And I couldn't easily pretend like I'd actually paid for the jar of radness. Especially considering I'd just cussed in manner of, 'Oh crikey effing Moses! How the sam hell did this get past those effing bleeping thingies? Shit balls.'
The Daughter: What's wrong, Mommy?
The Pant: Oh. Nothing, my precious.
TD: Then why did you say, 'Oh crikey effing Moses! How the sam hell did this get past those effing bleeping thingies? Shit balls'?
TP: Did I?
TD: Yes. You said 'shit balls'.
TP: Sorry, my pet. I didn't mean to.
TD: You know, Mommy, 'shit' is a bad word.
TP: I know, my precious-
TD: Just like f-
TP: Woaaaaaah! Don't say bad words.
TD: But you said a bad word! And nobody put you in the naughty corner.
TP: (A quick subject change - ammunition, I imagine, of many a mother) Should we go back and pay for this?
TD: Yes. Because stealing is bad and if you steal, you will go to jail.
TP: (Well....) Exactly right, my precious.
The Daughter - unable to walk due to the inclement weather - insisted on riding hip-side back to the store. Obviously, because I've experienced nothing but luck in all areas of life not least the romantic side, my car was parked a good two miles from any cover. I returned to stored feeling just as I looked: pissed on.
The Pant: Manager Man! (Offering offending Onion Marmalade.)
Manager Man: (eyerolling certainly not lost on me) Yes, Ma'am?
(Ordinarily when a 'Ma'am' is let loose in my direction, I become weak at the knees and demand the man from whose mouth it emanates a repeat. But from Manager Man with his spiky hair and rat-like teeth - No way.)
TP: I was unpacking my trolley and found this jar of onion marmalade therein. Not paid for.
MM: (irritated now) Well, do you want it?
TP: I did put in my trolley. I think that suggests that I may want it.
MM: Well, you can join the line and pay for it.
TP: (properly irritated) Pardon? Um.... how about a freebie for honesty?
MM: It doesn't work like that, Ma'am. (This 'Ma'am', mind you, I would never have asked for a repeat of because it was said in the same tone one might say 'girlie'.)
TP: Well. Then... Forget I ever came back. I'm leaving with my free jar of onion marmalade and what are you going to do about it?
MM: Ma'am (again, very unsexy), do you see that very large man dressed in the blue uniform over there?
TP: The security guard?
MM: Yes. Him. Well, if you leave this store without paying for that onion marmalade, you may well find that I'll stroll over to the exact same man and mention that you've got yourself ten little skinny fingers on the ends of your very bitchy arms.
TP: Oh please, Mr Manager Man. You'd have me arrested over a jar of onion marmalade? Please.
MM: Don't try me.
I didn't try him. I dutifully paid for said onion marmalade, which (might I add) is such a pleasure on the tongue when paired with a ripe brie that I have almost forgotten the incident. Almost. But not quite.
Because now, when I go into said store, I make sure I get every last penny of my shopper discount. Every. Single. One.
Wait. I give them far too much credit. Their broadcast messages probably read, 'Da skwl teacha wot bugz us iz in da store. Get 2 ur tillz n praten 2 lyk her.'
On my last enormous, financially crippling shop, I did the big shop at Much Cheaper Shop and then hit Woolies with Much Cheaper Shop's over laden trolley. Exhausted by what can only be described as the next best activity after applying for an I'd document, I did a dash through the store to collect items that The Daughter actually eats. Then I hit the till, waited while the items were checked through, mocked charged and handed over my credit.
Then I hightailed to pay for parking - I'd been held up those extra seven minutes by an older woman with a clubbed wheel trolley and so missed my 'first hour free' parking fee concession - sprinted in the elements (a right windy, cold and wet day it was) and began loading the groceries. This task, mind you, is not made any easier by a whingeing child, desperate to unpack the shopping bags before they'd hit the boot.
And that's when it happened: nestled betwixt paid-for bags of detergents and handwash and oversized boxes of cereal, was a jar of imperative onion marmalade. Hot.
I considered taking it as part of my you-effing-owe-me-Woolies compensation. But. Ah, and herein lies the big BUT. I had The Daughter in tow. And I couldn't easily pretend like I'd actually paid for the jar of radness. Especially considering I'd just cussed in manner of, 'Oh crikey effing Moses! How the sam hell did this get past those effing bleeping thingies? Shit balls.'
The Daughter: What's wrong, Mommy?
The Pant: Oh. Nothing, my precious.
TD: Then why did you say, 'Oh crikey effing Moses! How the sam hell did this get past those effing bleeping thingies? Shit balls'?
TP: Did I?
TD: Yes. You said 'shit balls'.
TP: Sorry, my pet. I didn't mean to.
TD: You know, Mommy, 'shit' is a bad word.
TP: I know, my precious-
TD: Just like f-
TP: Woaaaaaah! Don't say bad words.
TD: But you said a bad word! And nobody put you in the naughty corner.
TP: (A quick subject change - ammunition, I imagine, of many a mother) Should we go back and pay for this?
TD: Yes. Because stealing is bad and if you steal, you will go to jail.
TP: (Well....) Exactly right, my precious.
The Daughter - unable to walk due to the inclement weather - insisted on riding hip-side back to the store. Obviously, because I've experienced nothing but luck in all areas of life not least the romantic side, my car was parked a good two miles from any cover. I returned to stored feeling just as I looked: pissed on.
The Pant: Manager Man! (Offering offending Onion Marmalade.)
Manager Man: (eyerolling certainly not lost on me) Yes, Ma'am?
(Ordinarily when a 'Ma'am' is let loose in my direction, I become weak at the knees and demand the man from whose mouth it emanates a repeat. But from Manager Man with his spiky hair and rat-like teeth - No way.)
TP: I was unpacking my trolley and found this jar of onion marmalade therein. Not paid for.
MM: (irritated now) Well, do you want it?
TP: I did put in my trolley. I think that suggests that I may want it.
MM: Well, you can join the line and pay for it.
TP: (properly irritated) Pardon? Um.... how about a freebie for honesty?
MM: It doesn't work like that, Ma'am. (This 'Ma'am', mind you, I would never have asked for a repeat of because it was said in the same tone one might say 'girlie'.)
TP: Well. Then... Forget I ever came back. I'm leaving with my free jar of onion marmalade and what are you going to do about it?
MM: Ma'am (again, very unsexy), do you see that very large man dressed in the blue uniform over there?
TP: The security guard?
MM: Yes. Him. Well, if you leave this store without paying for that onion marmalade, you may well find that I'll stroll over to the exact same man and mention that you've got yourself ten little skinny fingers on the ends of your very bitchy arms.
TP: Oh please, Mr Manager Man. You'd have me arrested over a jar of onion marmalade? Please.
MM: Don't try me.
I didn't try him. I dutifully paid for said onion marmalade, which (might I add) is such a pleasure on the tongue when paired with a ripe brie that I have almost forgotten the incident. Almost. But not quite.
Because now, when I go into said store, I make sure I get every last penny of my shopper discount. Every. Single. One.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Ghost - A Rework.
I don't think watching old movies is a good idea. And I'm talking about those cult ones, like A Fish Called Wanda, Pretty Woman, Dirty Dancing and Ghost. (A misspent youth I had indeed. I knew what the term 'vulgarian' meant by the age of 7; - 'No, you're the vulgarian, you fuck.' - and by 10, I was dreaming of a life as a prozzie so I could be picked up by a filthy sex-crazed businessman, teach him how to drive, spend bucketloads of his cash on 80's inspired fashion - though I'd never lose touch with my roots by hanging onto those thigh high leather boots - and then we'd get married. In, like, a week.)
Look, I'm speaking from experience. One night this week - each night indistinguishable from the next, given that I'm back at work so each night is characterised by extreme exhaustion and the wit of fridge goop - whilst channel surfing, I happened upon Ghost. The excitement was unbearable. In spite of the chill of Winter evenings, I loosened the belt on my fluffy white gown to cool my heaving chest. I topped up the wine. And snuggled into my couch.
My first dilemma with the situation presented itself quite early on in the film. Look, I'm working on not being judgemental at the moment (I have even been back to The Pan & Kettle for another quart - this time without hand sanitiser handy) but I can't quite get how Demi Moore managed to bag that beef-cake Patrick Swayze (a hottie hot pants in spite of his tight black jeans and billowing latino mullberry shirt) with that hair. I mean, honestly now. The crop is more masculine a wig than any of the lovers with whom I've liased.
All through my teen years, I berated myself for my lack of artistic talent. Especially considering it didn't quite fit with my wounded artist soul image that I tried to present to the world. (If you must know, I wore things like one-size-fits-all tie-dyed wrap-around pants, old suit trousers purchased from second-hand stores, Smell's dad's jerseys. I wore bindis. I burnt incense. I put the base of my bed in storage so I simply had a mattress on the floor "to be nearer the earth". - Oh God, I'm cringing.). But I always dreamed of having a pottery wheel upon which I could throw some kind of container whilst simultaneously getting felt up by my lover. Oh, and I'd be wearing his shirt. A work one.
That is, of course, until I rewatched, in my adult years, that famous scene. The whole shebang is quite phallic, really. But the wrong way around. There is nothing sexy about a woman - forget her pronounced manliness - with her legs apart in manner of forgotten scissors on a child's desk, with a massive grey-brown phallus twisting within.
And clay is just not sexy. I'm sure I'd handle the situation something a little like this:
Patrick Swayze Look-Alike: What are you doing up?
The Pant: Couldn't sleep.
PSLA: Why aren't you reading, like you normally do when you can't sleep?
TP: Didn't want to wake you.
PSLA: That's a change.
TP: Yup. I'm being artistic and caring.
PSLA: I feel like getting dirty.
TP: Well, I'm nearly finished. Then you can have a go.
PSLA: Not that kind of dirty.
TP: Oh? Oh. It's 2 am and I'm being artsy.
PSLA: Well, let's combine the two.
TP: Pardon?
PSLA: Well, I could sit behind you and rub clay on your arms and you could moan as if you were enjoying it
TP: But it'll be dirty.
PSLA: Exactly.
TP: No. The wrong kind of dirty.
PSLA: That's the whole point.
TP: Give me five minutes. I'll finish this pot, then we can get clean dirty.
PSLA: Ok.
TP: Great.
Look, I'm speaking from experience. One night this week - each night indistinguishable from the next, given that I'm back at work so each night is characterised by extreme exhaustion and the wit of fridge goop - whilst channel surfing, I happened upon Ghost. The excitement was unbearable. In spite of the chill of Winter evenings, I loosened the belt on my fluffy white gown to cool my heaving chest. I topped up the wine. And snuggled into my couch.
My first dilemma with the situation presented itself quite early on in the film. Look, I'm working on not being judgemental at the moment (I have even been back to The Pan & Kettle for another quart - this time without hand sanitiser handy) but I can't quite get how Demi Moore managed to bag that beef-cake Patrick Swayze (a hottie hot pants in spite of his tight black jeans and billowing latino mullberry shirt) with that hair. I mean, honestly now. The crop is more masculine a wig than any of the lovers with whom I've liased.
All through my teen years, I berated myself for my lack of artistic talent. Especially considering it didn't quite fit with my wounded artist soul image that I tried to present to the world. (If you must know, I wore things like one-size-fits-all tie-dyed wrap-around pants, old suit trousers purchased from second-hand stores, Smell's dad's jerseys. I wore bindis. I burnt incense. I put the base of my bed in storage so I simply had a mattress on the floor "to be nearer the earth". - Oh God, I'm cringing.). But I always dreamed of having a pottery wheel upon which I could throw some kind of container whilst simultaneously getting felt up by my lover. Oh, and I'd be wearing his shirt. A work one.
That is, of course, until I rewatched, in my adult years, that famous scene. The whole shebang is quite phallic, really. But the wrong way around. There is nothing sexy about a woman - forget her pronounced manliness - with her legs apart in manner of forgotten scissors on a child's desk, with a massive grey-brown phallus twisting within.
And clay is just not sexy. I'm sure I'd handle the situation something a little like this:
Patrick Swayze Look-Alike: What are you doing up?
The Pant: Couldn't sleep.
PSLA: Why aren't you reading, like you normally do when you can't sleep?
TP: Didn't want to wake you.
PSLA: That's a change.
TP: Yup. I'm being artistic and caring.
PSLA: I feel like getting dirty.
TP: Well, I'm nearly finished. Then you can have a go.
PSLA: Not that kind of dirty.
TP: Oh? Oh. It's 2 am and I'm being artsy.
PSLA: Well, let's combine the two.
TP: Pardon?
PSLA: Well, I could sit behind you and rub clay on your arms and you could moan as if you were enjoying it
TP: But it'll be dirty.
PSLA: Exactly.
TP: No. The wrong kind of dirty.
PSLA: That's the whole point.
TP: Give me five minutes. I'll finish this pot, then we can get clean dirty.
PSLA: Ok.
TP: Great.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Supportive Shoes.
I don't find feet particularly arousing. Unlike The Father, I do not have a foot aversion and so I have been known to be somewhat reprimanding when partners have attempted to slide betwixt my sheets partially dressed in socks. In fact, I've been fairly vocal when an incident of this nature has occurred in manner of, 'What the fuck are you trying to do to me? Turn me into an eighty-five year old? I. Don't. Sleep. With. Men. With. Socks. On.'
Having said that, and at the risk of offending some of my more freaky (if yer know what I mean) readers, I have got to admit that feet, themselves, do not make The Pant pant with glee. I firmly believe in the 'feet-should-be-seen-and-not-licked' mantra. Footsie-footsie, I imagine, is like blending two different types of Roquerfort with sulphur over a bunsan burner.
I'm just not that kind of girl. I have been known, I admit (with deep regret) that when I have been in an altered state of singledom (read, 'in a relationship that was an express flight to nowhere'), I have attempted to prove my commitment through the clipping of toenails, the filing of cracked heels and the loving application of Ingram's. All in vein, really, because approximately 8.7 seconds after receiving the humiliating treatment from me, this particular lover minced his socially acceptable feet right out the door and did not even once turn on his soft-as-a-newborn's-bottom heel for a backward glance. I've since become okay with that.
Upon reflection, I have found that, for the most part, I seem to have the ability to pick partners who share the same nonchalance for feet as I do. I remember asking one lover once...
The Pant: Ah, babe (not very creative in the pet name scores). I've had the most hectic day and my feet are killing me. Please won't you give them just a wee rub (offering large and suitably fruity smelling tub of Body Shop body butter)?
Ex-Lover: Not a fucking chance.
He didn't last long. Can't imagine why.
Now, you might be wondering why I woke up this morning and needed to discuss my incongruent beliefs of sex and feet. The truth is, I'm perplexed.
You see, My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire, who has more than the two nipples per individual quota, sent me this picture:
Yes. That's a third nipple in the middle of someone's foot.
So, friends. There is, after all, a need for supportive shoes. Not to mention, a new meaning to the whole 'foot in mouth disease'. Crikey.
Having said that, and at the risk of offending some of my more freaky (if yer know what I mean) readers, I have got to admit that feet, themselves, do not make The Pant pant with glee. I firmly believe in the 'feet-should-be-seen-and-not-licked' mantra. Footsie-footsie, I imagine, is like blending two different types of Roquerfort with sulphur over a bunsan burner.
I'm just not that kind of girl. I have been known, I admit (with deep regret) that when I have been in an altered state of singledom (read, 'in a relationship that was an express flight to nowhere'), I have attempted to prove my commitment through the clipping of toenails, the filing of cracked heels and the loving application of Ingram's. All in vein, really, because approximately 8.7 seconds after receiving the humiliating treatment from me, this particular lover minced his socially acceptable feet right out the door and did not even once turn on his soft-as-a-newborn's-bottom heel for a backward glance. I've since become okay with that.
Upon reflection, I have found that, for the most part, I seem to have the ability to pick partners who share the same nonchalance for feet as I do. I remember asking one lover once...
The Pant: Ah, babe (not very creative in the pet name scores). I've had the most hectic day and my feet are killing me. Please won't you give them just a wee rub (offering large and suitably fruity smelling tub of Body Shop body butter)?
Ex-Lover: Not a fucking chance.
He didn't last long. Can't imagine why.
Now, you might be wondering why I woke up this morning and needed to discuss my incongruent beliefs of sex and feet. The truth is, I'm perplexed.
You see, My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire, who has more than the two nipples per individual quota, sent me this picture:
Yes. That's a third nipple in the middle of someone's foot.
So, friends. There is, after all, a need for supportive shoes. Not to mention, a new meaning to the whole 'foot in mouth disease'. Crikey.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Oops! I Did It Again!
Oops, I did it again. I went to the rugby - an environment expressly designed for women of a contrary nature to mine. But The Daughter loves the rugby and I'm trying to get Ross Skeate to take me on a date so I had to swallow my pride and ascend the stadium spiral to The Father's box dressed in more layers than was comfortable.
I settled the children into their seats with their cans of fizzy drinks and quickly ducked out back for one of my final cigarettes. And that's when it happened. A fifty-year old man with an apparent penchant for lying in sunbeds approached me. This was like a pukka divorcee. His shirt was unbuttoned an extra three holes, his neck was adorned by such a thick gold chain that I was surprised he didn't have graze marks on his chin and his jeans were so tight that I could tell his religion from thirty paces.
Fifty-Year Old With Thick Gold Chain: (motioning to his cigarette). Also a smoker?
The Pant: (taking drag of cigarette). Apparently.
FYOWTGC: Do you come here often?
TP: (Really?). Not really.
FYOWTGC: I do. Just bought into this box with Gary Teichmann. After my business was listed sixth on the JSE.
TP: Lovely.
FYOWTGC: So, what do you do?
Blah blah blah...
FYOWTGC: Ja, I've been divorced two months now.
TP: (Very effing loud alarm bells. Larry, again, just a freak and nowhere near as scrummy) I'm sorry to hear that.
FYOWTGC: No. It's okay. I'm completely over my wife. The divorce was a long time coming.
TP: Yeah. Um... You're not.
FYOWTGC: No I am. Seriously. Just spent three weeks up in Mozam. Spent a lot of time thinking and I'm over her.
TP: Um... Look, FYOWTGC-
FYOWTGC: It's Ben.
TP: Listen, Ben. I've spent the past 18 months surrounded by divorcees, and you're not over it. In fact, judging by your kit and those delightful Buffaloes you're wearing, which, by the way, were only fashionable in Benoni during the late '90s rave scene, you are most certainly just getting into it.
Ben: Really?
TP: Truly. In fact, I can tell you exactly how it's going to go. You're going to meet a girl who is way more fun than your wife ever was-
Ben: No. I mean the shoes. They're really not fashionable?
TP: No, lovey. They're not.
Ben: So, are you coming to One Stop after the game?
TP: I'm wearing Ugg Boots, forty-seven layers of clothing, my hair is tied up and I've come to this match accompanied by my four-year old Daughter. I'm going directly home after this.
Ben: Your shoes are great. Although I would like to see you with your hair down.
TP: (eyeing his grey-with-blonde-streaks mullet) and I'd like to see you with your hair up.
Ben: Um. Well, I'll tell you what. You take my car - it's a Kompressor by the way-
(Successful restraint from violently moving right hand in manner of wanker)
Ben: ...go drop the kids off, dicky yourself up, and come back and meet me.
TP: Um. I'm going to take a cab home, thanks.
Ben: But how can I be certain you'll be back?
TP: You can't.
Ben: Well, give me your number at least.
TP: Sure. It's 555-653-6985.
Ben: Well, let me just missed call you so you can ring me when you get back here.
TP: Um... Did I say 555-653-6985? (Bugger.). That's my old number. (So caught!). My new one is ...
Phone: (Adele) I heard that you're settled down, that you found a girl and you're married no-ow-ow-ow.
TP: Well, I'll let you know if I'm coming back, Ben.
Ben: Great. You shouldn't be more than half an hour, hey?
TP: And you said you were married? To a woman? Ready in half an hour? Pffffft.
After a hot bath with my girl, I dressed into pyjama bottoms and settled into Ricky Gervais's Animals, and nodded off into the deepest sleep.
I awoke to two texts this morning:
1) You are missed. Sleep tight Pant. Good meeting you.
and 2) I recall having met a very sexy mom last night . I also recall that i may have been a strong contender to win the idiot of the night award. If there is a chance for me to see you again it would be great : ) Ben.
If I did reply, it would go something along the lines of:
Yes you did. Regards, Pant.
I settled the children into their seats with their cans of fizzy drinks and quickly ducked out back for one of my final cigarettes. And that's when it happened. A fifty-year old man with an apparent penchant for lying in sunbeds approached me. This was like a pukka divorcee. His shirt was unbuttoned an extra three holes, his neck was adorned by such a thick gold chain that I was surprised he didn't have graze marks on his chin and his jeans were so tight that I could tell his religion from thirty paces.
Fifty-Year Old With Thick Gold Chain: (motioning to his cigarette). Also a smoker?
The Pant: (taking drag of cigarette). Apparently.
FYOWTGC: Do you come here often?
TP: (Really?). Not really.
FYOWTGC: I do. Just bought into this box with Gary Teichmann. After my business was listed sixth on the JSE.
TP: Lovely.
FYOWTGC: So, what do you do?
Blah blah blah...
FYOWTGC: Ja, I've been divorced two months now.
TP: (Very effing loud alarm bells. Larry, again, just a freak and nowhere near as scrummy) I'm sorry to hear that.
FYOWTGC: No. It's okay. I'm completely over my wife. The divorce was a long time coming.
TP: Yeah. Um... You're not.
FYOWTGC: No I am. Seriously. Just spent three weeks up in Mozam. Spent a lot of time thinking and I'm over her.
TP: Um... Look, FYOWTGC-
FYOWTGC: It's Ben.
TP: Listen, Ben. I've spent the past 18 months surrounded by divorcees, and you're not over it. In fact, judging by your kit and those delightful Buffaloes you're wearing, which, by the way, were only fashionable in Benoni during the late '90s rave scene, you are most certainly just getting into it.
Ben: Really?
TP: Truly. In fact, I can tell you exactly how it's going to go. You're going to meet a girl who is way more fun than your wife ever was-
Ben: No. I mean the shoes. They're really not fashionable?
TP: No, lovey. They're not.
Ben: So, are you coming to One Stop after the game?
TP: I'm wearing Ugg Boots, forty-seven layers of clothing, my hair is tied up and I've come to this match accompanied by my four-year old Daughter. I'm going directly home after this.
Ben: Your shoes are great. Although I would like to see you with your hair down.
TP: (eyeing his grey-with-blonde-streaks mullet) and I'd like to see you with your hair up.
Ben: Um. Well, I'll tell you what. You take my car - it's a Kompressor by the way-
(Successful restraint from violently moving right hand in manner of wanker)
Ben: ...go drop the kids off, dicky yourself up, and come back and meet me.
TP: Um. I'm going to take a cab home, thanks.
Ben: But how can I be certain you'll be back?
TP: You can't.
Ben: Well, give me your number at least.
TP: Sure. It's 555-653-6985.
Ben: Well, let me just missed call you so you can ring me when you get back here.
TP: Um... Did I say 555-653-6985? (Bugger.). That's my old number. (So caught!). My new one is ...
Phone: (Adele) I heard that you're settled down, that you found a girl and you're married no-ow-ow-ow.
TP: Well, I'll let you know if I'm coming back, Ben.
Ben: Great. You shouldn't be more than half an hour, hey?
TP: And you said you were married? To a woman? Ready in half an hour? Pffffft.
After a hot bath with my girl, I dressed into pyjama bottoms and settled into Ricky Gervais's Animals, and nodded off into the deepest sleep.
I awoke to two texts this morning:
1) You are missed. Sleep tight Pant. Good meeting you.
and 2) I recall having met a very sexy mom last night . I also recall that i may have been a strong contender to win the idiot of the night award. If there is a chance for me to see you again it would be great : ) Ben.
If I did reply, it would go something along the lines of:
Yes you did. Regards, Pant.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Missing Cat.
These extra long holidays are not designed for the teacher's salary. Which is why I get irritated when people respond to my poverty with, "Ah. But the holidays.". Yes. The holidays are great. But the highlight of one which does not coincide with bonus month, is a day with three meals. Truly. (Don't even get me started on the cost of groceries. The other day I bought a few items from Woolies, and when time came to pay, I almost offered the cashier a scalpel to remove a vital organ to sell on the black market in lieu of actual cash.)
So after our soujourn to Precious Jo'burg Friend, The Daughter and I decamped at The Parental Unit's abode. Not only out of need to keep body and soul in tact, but also because The Incubator finds herself on long leave. And people in poverty shouldn't be alone.
So, in order to decamp properly at my childhood home (not strictly true, since after my brothers flew the nest, The Parental Unit deposited me directly into boarding school because it was their "time to live" thus my childhood home was an institutional building with mouldy blue carpets in the bathroom), I had to bring Cat along. I could have put Cat in a cattery, but, again, this would have defeated my attempt to steer clear of that large margin below the breadline. Also, Cat is integral to my little family. The Daughter and I don't work so well without him. And that's in spite of his penchant for dragging in small carcasses of a reptilic nature.
Now, those of you who have owned cats will know that relocating them is something of an operation that requires steely determination, commitment and the grotesque return to the cat box. (Mock charge.). Cat expulsion - both urine and faeces - are possibly two of the most god-awful stinks known to mankind. Made even worse by the fact that cat box and Cat require the obligatory four-day lock-down in a space which will allow Cat access to his people, The Daughter and me. The space - our bedroom. I cannot begin to explain the nausea I have felt in the wee hours of the morning, when Cat has found it necessary to defecate in room with tightly sealed windows and doors.
And for the first three days, we coped through gritted teeth and an excess of thin saliva. Until The Daughter and I took a day trip. We descended on The Daughter's Best Friend's house for a play date. One which ran very close to dinner time. (The Daughter's Best Friend's parents are good friends, and they're wont to enjoy an odd tipple, which makes play dates an outing for the whole family.). In fact, we'd returned home to collect pyjamas and more wine and our intention was to return and see play date off in style.
But as I rounded the house, I caught sight of the bedroom window, gaping like the mouth of a tired dog.
The Pant: Cat's gone!
The Daughter: Don't worry, Mommy. Cat's just tired of pooing in that yucky toilet. He'll come back.
I didn't have it within me to explain to The Daughter that, actually, the whole lock-down scenario was not a sneaky way to keep Cat at hand to a) force him to do ballet, b) dress him up in clothes belonging to dolls and c) tie his ears in pigtails and attempt to make him up with the mother's MAC to improve his masculine appearance.
The sun was setting. My heart felt heavy. The troops of monkeys that hung languidly from the vast trees, mocked me with what I believe was fresh Cat blood dripping from their rabid mouths. I cancelled part two of play date in an hysterical manner:
The Pant: Can't come!
The Daughter's Best Friend's Mother: If you're out of wine, we can drink tea. It's not a huge problem.
TP: No! It's not the wine! (Gulp gulp.). It's Cat. He's gone! (Breath into brown paper bag with such fury that I feel dizzy).
TDBFM: Pant, he'll come back.
TP: No, he won't! He's hightailed it back to Durban and he has probably bonded with road and tyre of truck.
TDBFM: No, he hasn't! He's probably stuck in a tree or something. How's The Daughter.
I looked around the house and found The Daughter in a totally unconcerned state; lying on the couch, nibbling on choccies, watching Charlie and Lola.
TP: Upset. She's just hiding it well.
TDBFM: Well, when you find Cat, come back to ours and we'll have that glass of wine, okay?
Cat's disappearance lasted a full 12 hours. When I awoke the following morning, I expected Cat to be perched on face, clawing rhythmically on neck while violently suckling on earlobe. The peaceful awakening only made my heart sink further in despair.
I shot up (a manner of rousing which is most foreign to me) and raced outdoors.
TP: Cat! Cat! CAT!
Until I saw him, perched high in ogre-ish tree. I ascended said tree with such alacrity that I gave little consideration to unsuitable tree climbing attire. Knickerless and pyjama bottomed (the elastic of which is as effective as, say, The Department of Home Affairs), I climbed like a 12 year old boy with my Precious Cat in sight. Eventually with pyjama bottoms snuggled around ankles, and my bottom greeting the neighbours with a most rude fashion, I had Cat close to my person, with his claws deeply imbedded in fresh morning skin.
Cat is back. After attempting to keep him in lock-down for a further day, I interpreted his aloof, and sometimes bordering on violent, behaviour to mean, "Let me the fuck out of here, Bitch. Or else I'll claw your eyes out while you sleep."
And Cat has conquered The Parental Unit's pets like the little stallion he is. In fact, I think I saw him mating the Lab.
So after our soujourn to Precious Jo'burg Friend, The Daughter and I decamped at The Parental Unit's abode. Not only out of need to keep body and soul in tact, but also because The Incubator finds herself on long leave. And people in poverty shouldn't be alone.
So, in order to decamp properly at my childhood home (not strictly true, since after my brothers flew the nest, The Parental Unit deposited me directly into boarding school because it was their "time to live" thus my childhood home was an institutional building with mouldy blue carpets in the bathroom), I had to bring Cat along. I could have put Cat in a cattery, but, again, this would have defeated my attempt to steer clear of that large margin below the breadline. Also, Cat is integral to my little family. The Daughter and I don't work so well without him. And that's in spite of his penchant for dragging in small carcasses of a reptilic nature.
Now, those of you who have owned cats will know that relocating them is something of an operation that requires steely determination, commitment and the grotesque return to the cat box. (Mock charge.). Cat expulsion - both urine and faeces - are possibly two of the most god-awful stinks known to mankind. Made even worse by the fact that cat box and Cat require the obligatory four-day lock-down in a space which will allow Cat access to his people, The Daughter and me. The space - our bedroom. I cannot begin to explain the nausea I have felt in the wee hours of the morning, when Cat has found it necessary to defecate in room with tightly sealed windows and doors.
And for the first three days, we coped through gritted teeth and an excess of thin saliva. Until The Daughter and I took a day trip. We descended on The Daughter's Best Friend's house for a play date. One which ran very close to dinner time. (The Daughter's Best Friend's parents are good friends, and they're wont to enjoy an odd tipple, which makes play dates an outing for the whole family.). In fact, we'd returned home to collect pyjamas and more wine and our intention was to return and see play date off in style.
But as I rounded the house, I caught sight of the bedroom window, gaping like the mouth of a tired dog.
The Pant: Cat's gone!
The Daughter: Don't worry, Mommy. Cat's just tired of pooing in that yucky toilet. He'll come back.
I didn't have it within me to explain to The Daughter that, actually, the whole lock-down scenario was not a sneaky way to keep Cat at hand to a) force him to do ballet, b) dress him up in clothes belonging to dolls and c) tie his ears in pigtails and attempt to make him up with the mother's MAC to improve his masculine appearance.
The sun was setting. My heart felt heavy. The troops of monkeys that hung languidly from the vast trees, mocked me with what I believe was fresh Cat blood dripping from their rabid mouths. I cancelled part two of play date in an hysterical manner:
The Pant: Can't come!
The Daughter's Best Friend's Mother: If you're out of wine, we can drink tea. It's not a huge problem.
TP: No! It's not the wine! (Gulp gulp.). It's Cat. He's gone! (Breath into brown paper bag with such fury that I feel dizzy).
TDBFM: Pant, he'll come back.
TP: No, he won't! He's hightailed it back to Durban and he has probably bonded with road and tyre of truck.
TDBFM: No, he hasn't! He's probably stuck in a tree or something. How's The Daughter.
I looked around the house and found The Daughter in a totally unconcerned state; lying on the couch, nibbling on choccies, watching Charlie and Lola.
TP: Upset. She's just hiding it well.
TDBFM: Well, when you find Cat, come back to ours and we'll have that glass of wine, okay?
Cat's disappearance lasted a full 12 hours. When I awoke the following morning, I expected Cat to be perched on face, clawing rhythmically on neck while violently suckling on earlobe. The peaceful awakening only made my heart sink further in despair.
I shot up (a manner of rousing which is most foreign to me) and raced outdoors.
TP: Cat! Cat! CAT!
Until I saw him, perched high in ogre-ish tree. I ascended said tree with such alacrity that I gave little consideration to unsuitable tree climbing attire. Knickerless and pyjama bottomed (the elastic of which is as effective as, say, The Department of Home Affairs), I climbed like a 12 year old boy with my Precious Cat in sight. Eventually with pyjama bottoms snuggled around ankles, and my bottom greeting the neighbours with a most rude fashion, I had Cat close to my person, with his claws deeply imbedded in fresh morning skin.
Cat is back. After attempting to keep him in lock-down for a further day, I interpreted his aloof, and sometimes bordering on violent, behaviour to mean, "Let me the fuck out of here, Bitch. Or else I'll claw your eyes out while you sleep."
And Cat has conquered The Parental Unit's pets like the little stallion he is. In fact, I think I saw him mating the Lab.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
A Quart With The Incubator.
When The Incubator gets excited, it's truly a sight to behold. I don't know whether it's because she married young and missed out on her jolling days, or whether it's in her genetic make-up, but mention a good time, and she's all over it like wet spaghetti. (I imagine it's the latter, if this whole 'cut from the same cloth' theory holds any weight. Given, of course, that I quite like a good time. Although it must be noted, I'm not a 'good time girl' - ask Rugby Boy.)
So last night, The Daughter and I went on a wee date. We've spent a lot of time with The Parental Unit of late, and if I'm entirely honest, I get a little irritated playing the second fiddle. It seems to always be, "Oh, Granddaughter, come and snuggle with Granny," and, "Why don't you and I leave Mom to relax and go out for milkshakes?" Not to mention, "Mom's always in a bad mood, isn't she?". (For the record, I am seldom in a bad mood. The only time, really, that my mood could be considered bad, is when people say things like, 'Mom's so grumpy, Mom's in a bad mood'. That's enough to cause a release of steam from the ear valve - note 'valve', not 'valva').
The Pant: I'm taking The Daughter to the movies tonight. Do you want to come?
The Incubator: No thanks. But I would like to go to a pub near the movies with The Beautician and drink an excessively large amount of wine and have you drive me home.
TP: Right.
Movies with my girl was super. Half way through Cars 2 (our options were limited), we gave up on the whole two people to two seats ratio, and she snuggled onto my lap and we watched the rest of the film covered in pop corn and love. So much pop corn, in fact, that when I removed my boots (new, bought en route to movies when realised the gaping mouth looking of the left one made me look as though was raised shopping in Walmart) there was enough pop corn to sit through a screening of Gone With The Wind plus intermission.
But it's The Incubator who needs focus at this juncture. I picked her up, banged up the heater and headed to the homestead aka middle earth. Seriously, The Parental Unit's suburb is the coldest place on earth. It rivals Poland. I fear after having spent an extended period of time there, that my ovaries may have solidified and may yield - if ever I get the chance again - part-human-part-milkshake.
So, we were en route to their home, The Daughter and my teeth were chattering such that I feared expensive dentist runs, and The Incubator was chatting away with the comfort that the lubrication of wine alone can bring.
The Incubator: My darling,-
The Pant (addressing The Daughter): Babes, Granny is talking to you.
The Daughter: Yes, Granny?
TI: No, I'm talking to you.
TP: Me?
TI: Yes, you.
TP: But you said 'my darling'.
TI: That's you.
TP: But you never ca-
TI: Oh. Stop with the wounded child persona. I like you. There.
TP: It's just a bit of a shock, Mom.
TI: Get over yourself. We can be friends.
TP: No, we can't.
TI: Why?
TP: Friends talk about sex. I'm not talking sex with you - ever.
TI: But we can go for a drink, can't we?
TP: Are you trying to tell me that I'm your favourite daughter?
TI: After your brothers, yes.
TP: So, I'm your third favourite daughter?
TI: Yes, I mean no. I mean. Ah, can't we go for a drink, Pant?
TP: We can go for a drink. (Thinks a little) You know, I've always felt that they were quite feminine.
TI: Who?
TP: My brothers.
TI: They're not. Apart from the fact that The Brother wears eye cream, of course.
TP: Hmmmm...
TI: Let's go for a drink.
TP: Okay. But where?
TI: I really want to take you to the Pan & Kettle.
TP: Not the place where the lady sleeps on the bar to protect it from criminals?
TI: Yup.
TP: Where they only serve quarts?
TI: Uh-huh.
TP: Where the toilet is in a tent?
TI: That's the one.
TP: The same lady who pees herself while riding her bicycle around the village?
TI: You got it.
TP: The one that says 'fuck' a whole bunch more than me?
TI: The same one.
TP: More than you?
TI: That's her.
TP: The one who-
TI: You know where I'm talking about. Now do you want to go or don't you?
TP: I don't know.
TI: Don't be such a spoilt sport, Pant.
TP: What about The Daughter? I. Am. Not. Taking. Her. There.
TI: I've already asked Dad to look after her.
TP: Have you got hand sanitiser in your bag?
TI: I do.
TP: K. Let's do it.
We got to the homestead, I tucked The Daughter into bed, forced myself to have a wee (I did not want to find myself desperate for relief in Narnia and have to sit on a solid ice toilet seat in a tent on the side of the road). And just as we were leaving
TI: Pant, won't you phone The Beautician and ask her if she wants to come.
TP: Okay. (Dial number. Ring ring.)
The Beautician: Hi, Pant.
TP: Hi Beaut. The Incubator and I are going to the Pan & Kettle for a drink. Do you want to come?
TB: Oh shame, have you?
TP: Have I what?
TB: I'm sure I've got face wash in stock. Shall I bring it round now?
TP: What?
TB: I'm sure The Husband won't mind, silly billy. Let me just ask him (addressing husband) Husband, Pant has run out of face wash and is having a bit of a hectic break-out. Do you mind if I pop over and drop some off with her?
TP: I AM NOT HAVING A BREAKOUT!
The Husband of Beautician: Of course not.
TB: See, I told you he wouldn't mind.
TP: So I'll see you at the pub.
TB: Perfect. I'll be at your mom's house in 10.
And that, my friends, is why I found myself huddled around something akin to a fire in a barrel with a Castle Lite quart (R21) in hand last night. And a merry little pub it is. After a quart. As in life, most things are better after a quart.
So last night, The Daughter and I went on a wee date. We've spent a lot of time with The Parental Unit of late, and if I'm entirely honest, I get a little irritated playing the second fiddle. It seems to always be, "Oh, Granddaughter, come and snuggle with Granny," and, "Why don't you and I leave Mom to relax and go out for milkshakes?" Not to mention, "Mom's always in a bad mood, isn't she?". (For the record, I am seldom in a bad mood. The only time, really, that my mood could be considered bad, is when people say things like, 'Mom's so grumpy, Mom's in a bad mood'. That's enough to cause a release of steam from the ear valve - note 'valve', not 'valva').
The Pant: I'm taking The Daughter to the movies tonight. Do you want to come?
The Incubator: No thanks. But I would like to go to a pub near the movies with The Beautician and drink an excessively large amount of wine and have you drive me home.
TP: Right.
Movies with my girl was super. Half way through Cars 2 (our options were limited), we gave up on the whole two people to two seats ratio, and she snuggled onto my lap and we watched the rest of the film covered in pop corn and love. So much pop corn, in fact, that when I removed my boots (new, bought en route to movies when realised the gaping mouth looking of the left one made me look as though was raised shopping in Walmart) there was enough pop corn to sit through a screening of Gone With The Wind plus intermission.
But it's The Incubator who needs focus at this juncture. I picked her up, banged up the heater and headed to the homestead aka middle earth. Seriously, The Parental Unit's suburb is the coldest place on earth. It rivals Poland. I fear after having spent an extended period of time there, that my ovaries may have solidified and may yield - if ever I get the chance again - part-human-part-milkshake.
So, we were en route to their home, The Daughter and my teeth were chattering such that I feared expensive dentist runs, and The Incubator was chatting away with the comfort that the lubrication of wine alone can bring.
The Incubator: My darling,-
The Pant (addressing The Daughter): Babes, Granny is talking to you.
The Daughter: Yes, Granny?
TI: No, I'm talking to you.
TP: Me?
TI: Yes, you.
TP: But you said 'my darling'.
TI: That's you.
TP: But you never ca-
TI: Oh. Stop with the wounded child persona. I like you. There.
TP: It's just a bit of a shock, Mom.
TI: Get over yourself. We can be friends.
TP: No, we can't.
TI: Why?
TP: Friends talk about sex. I'm not talking sex with you - ever.
TI: But we can go for a drink, can't we?
TP: Are you trying to tell me that I'm your favourite daughter?
TI: After your brothers, yes.
TP: So, I'm your third favourite daughter?
TI: Yes, I mean no. I mean. Ah, can't we go for a drink, Pant?
TP: We can go for a drink. (Thinks a little) You know, I've always felt that they were quite feminine.
TI: Who?
TP: My brothers.
TI: They're not. Apart from the fact that The Brother wears eye cream, of course.
TP: Hmmmm...
TI: Let's go for a drink.
TP: Okay. But where?
TI: I really want to take you to the Pan & Kettle.
TP: Not the place where the lady sleeps on the bar to protect it from criminals?
TI: Yup.
TP: Where they only serve quarts?
TI: Uh-huh.
TP: Where the toilet is in a tent?
TI: That's the one.
TP: The same lady who pees herself while riding her bicycle around the village?
TI: You got it.
TP: The one that says 'fuck' a whole bunch more than me?
TI: The same one.
TP: More than you?
TI: That's her.
TP: The one who-
TI: You know where I'm talking about. Now do you want to go or don't you?
TP: I don't know.
TI: Don't be such a spoilt sport, Pant.
TP: What about The Daughter? I. Am. Not. Taking. Her. There.
TI: I've already asked Dad to look after her.
TP: Have you got hand sanitiser in your bag?
TI: I do.
TP: K. Let's do it.
We got to the homestead, I tucked The Daughter into bed, forced myself to have a wee (I did not want to find myself desperate for relief in Narnia and have to sit on a solid ice toilet seat in a tent on the side of the road). And just as we were leaving
TI: Pant, won't you phone The Beautician and ask her if she wants to come.
TP: Okay. (Dial number. Ring ring.)
The Beautician: Hi, Pant.
TP: Hi Beaut. The Incubator and I are going to the Pan & Kettle for a drink. Do you want to come?
TB: Oh shame, have you?
TP: Have I what?
TB: I'm sure I've got face wash in stock. Shall I bring it round now?
TP: What?
TB: I'm sure The Husband won't mind, silly billy. Let me just ask him (addressing husband) Husband, Pant has run out of face wash and is having a bit of a hectic break-out. Do you mind if I pop over and drop some off with her?
TP: I AM NOT HAVING A BREAKOUT!
The Husband of Beautician: Of course not.
TB: See, I told you he wouldn't mind.
TP: So I'll see you at the pub.
TB: Perfect. I'll be at your mom's house in 10.
And that, my friends, is why I found myself huddled around something akin to a fire in a barrel with a Castle Lite quart (R21) in hand last night. And a merry little pub it is. After a quart. As in life, most things are better after a quart.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Cut In The Light Of The Lord.
My apologies, again, for my profound radio silence, but give me a moment to explain.
The winter chill this year is so intense that I've feared that my digits would, at best, get frost bite, turn that revolting black-blue-purple-green hue that certainly does not scream "femininity" and fall off. As a result, my ability to type has been seriously hindered. But, thankfully, I've trained my winter-inspired nipple stand to type on behalf of the fingers - so excuse any titpos.
Also I've been sick in manner of grumpy congested man-flu for the longest time. The Daughter, however, has played nurse and, despite her sometimes exceptionally alternative methods of healing including a porridge made of flour, eggs, balsamic vinegar (because it has a brown colour like chocolate), orange Tropika and syrup, her love has seen me right:
![]()
The Daughter: Okay, Mom. You need to eat your breakfast if you want to get better.
The Pant: Ah my angel, Mom is so not hungry.
TD: I'm counting to three. Open your mouth. One... Two...-
TP: I'm not eating it.
TD: But Mom! You always make me eat my food. And you shout when I don't. (With a part-earnest, part-pissed-off look) Do. You. Want. Me. To. Put. You. In. The. Naughty. Corner?
TP: My babes, I am not in the mood for porridge. (Porridge, at the best of times, in my book reminds me lumpy sexual expulsion of the male variety - not to mention porridge of syrup, raw eggs and balsamic vinegar.). But maybe I will feel better if I have some toast.
TD: You know how I feel about wasting?
TP: Nothing?
Further, and probably the reason most responsible for my lack of blog action, I'm in the throes of giving up smoking. The Brother and The Sil went to Allen Carr's Stop Smoking Seminar and seem to have kicked the filthy habit with such ease that, while spending time with them in poes-cold Jo'burg, I became both self-conscious of my habit and jealous of their freedom from it. So I tootled on down to Exclusive's and bought his book.
Now let me put this in perspective. I am a reader. I love nothing more than snuggling into a warm bed (made positively toasty by my buy of the season - The Electric Blanket - Clicks, R179 for the win) with some filthy Kathy Lette literature. I am a book-a-day-kind-of-girl. Seriously, I've read 8 books in the last 2 weeks.
That is, until Allen Carr made his way into my bedroom. Blimey. Crikey effing Moses is the man as boring as boiled chicken. I am yet to make it through two pages without falling into a deep sleep peppered with very realistic (and filthy)and highly desirable couplings with Jake Gyllenhall.
The book is so bad, in fact, that yesterday while having my hair chopped off by Sexy Sexy Hairdresser (mmmmmm hmmmmmm) - in manner of very innocent 12-year-old girl, bar of course the wrinkles for which the lady at Dis-Chem has suggested I move to a new skin care range which serves to combat "early signs of ageing" - I nodded off and produced a string of drool so long that it bounced off the synthetic cover that ensconced my body and landed on the floor. Brilliant. Nothing quite says, 'Pick me pick me,' quite like eye-sleep-goop and drool.
I'm so embarrassed I think I may be choosing the following salon in future:
![]()
Nothing quite like having one's hair cut in the light of the Lord.
The winter chill this year is so intense that I've feared that my digits would, at best, get frost bite, turn that revolting black-blue-purple-green hue that certainly does not scream "femininity" and fall off. As a result, my ability to type has been seriously hindered. But, thankfully, I've trained my winter-inspired nipple stand to type on behalf of the fingers - so excuse any titpos.
Also I've been sick in manner of grumpy congested man-flu for the longest time. The Daughter, however, has played nurse and, despite her sometimes exceptionally alternative methods of healing including a porridge made of flour, eggs, balsamic vinegar (because it has a brown colour like chocolate), orange Tropika and syrup, her love has seen me right:
The Daughter: Okay, Mom. You need to eat your breakfast if you want to get better.
The Pant: Ah my angel, Mom is so not hungry.
TD: I'm counting to three. Open your mouth. One... Two...-
TP: I'm not eating it.
TD: But Mom! You always make me eat my food. And you shout when I don't. (With a part-earnest, part-pissed-off look) Do. You. Want. Me. To. Put. You. In. The. Naughty. Corner?
TP: My babes, I am not in the mood for porridge. (Porridge, at the best of times, in my book reminds me lumpy sexual expulsion of the male variety - not to mention porridge of syrup, raw eggs and balsamic vinegar.). But maybe I will feel better if I have some toast.
TD: You know how I feel about wasting?
TP: Nothing?
Further, and probably the reason most responsible for my lack of blog action, I'm in the throes of giving up smoking. The Brother and The Sil went to Allen Carr's Stop Smoking Seminar and seem to have kicked the filthy habit with such ease that, while spending time with them in poes-cold Jo'burg, I became both self-conscious of my habit and jealous of their freedom from it. So I tootled on down to Exclusive's and bought his book.
Now let me put this in perspective. I am a reader. I love nothing more than snuggling into a warm bed (made positively toasty by my buy of the season - The Electric Blanket - Clicks, R179 for the win) with some filthy Kathy Lette literature. I am a book-a-day-kind-of-girl. Seriously, I've read 8 books in the last 2 weeks.
That is, until Allen Carr made his way into my bedroom. Blimey. Crikey effing Moses is the man as boring as boiled chicken. I am yet to make it through two pages without falling into a deep sleep peppered with very realistic (and filthy)and highly desirable couplings with Jake Gyllenhall.
The book is so bad, in fact, that yesterday while having my hair chopped off by Sexy Sexy Hairdresser (mmmmmm hmmmmmm) - in manner of very innocent 12-year-old girl, bar of course the wrinkles for which the lady at Dis-Chem has suggested I move to a new skin care range which serves to combat "early signs of ageing" - I nodded off and produced a string of drool so long that it bounced off the synthetic cover that ensconced my body and landed on the floor. Brilliant. Nothing quite says, 'Pick me pick me,' quite like eye-sleep-goop and drool.
I'm so embarrassed I think I may be choosing the following salon in future:
Nothing quite like having one's hair cut in the light of the Lord.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Pant-Flu.
The outside world is protected from my inner-bitch by a fairly durable elastic-band-type resistance thingy that when too much pressure is applied, snaps. It usually takes quite a bit of pushing and prodding - and usually more than one source is required to see said resistance snap, but, yesterday meek little manager at Large Toiletry Selling Shop did it.
I woke with a sinus headache so intense I'd have used a chainsaw to remove offending head parts if I'd had one handy. Said headache was not made more pleasant by a) actual drilling of worker men in house, b) The Daughter's desire to turn day into musical in very high pitch or c) the inability to give up on day and return to bed in darkened room to bond with eyelids as though they were long lost childhood friends.
Instead, The Daughter had ballet (for which I had to hand-sew securing elastic onto 'character shoes'). Plus I had arranged coffee date with newly pregnant Mom of Ballet Friend during which she gushed for three quarters of an hour over cervixes, dilation, labour pains, cracked nipples and incontinence. While I ordinarily would have coped with such speak, on this day it served to heighten my growing feeling of nausea while reminding me of my very own barrenness. Brilliant.
But then. It happened. I ducked into Large Toiletry Selling Shop after a quick once around Over-Priced Children's Clothing Store.
The Daughter: Please can we go to Over-Priced Children's Clothing Store?
The Pant: Yes. But listen very carefully to me: I am not buying anything in there, okay?
After a quick once over, and the realisation that my outside-the-shop-door sentiments belonged to a much stronger-willed woman, we headed to the check-out.
The Pant: I'm going to give you my card, just ring it through, I do not want to know how much I've spent.
Check-out Girl: Don't worry - I get that a lot. No problem.
Check-out Girl was one of those very young un-wrinkled types, with false eyelashes, too much make-up and pictures of ballet shoes on her shirt and earrings. I, comparatively, looked like I felt - one with progressed raging man-flu, a few degrees short of full-blown pneumonia, with swollen cracked lips, red glassy eyes and an outfit I did not remember dressing myself in.
COG: I'm just going to put everything in this packet that says 'sale' on it even though nothing's on sale because it's the biggest bag we've got. (Flutter false eyelashes, fake smile, crack orange-hued base.)
TP: (under breath) whore.
And then Large Toiletry Selling Shop happened. The Daughter needed mousse for ballet because, to be entirely honest, I'd used gel that morning, and by the time she emerged from her two-hour dance class, it looked like I'd used the expulsion from boyfriend/girlfriend (or boyfriend/boyfriend, but not girlfriend/girlfriend) interactions to slick her hair back - the sight of which not only made me gag, but one which would not, I felt, go down well with other ballet mums.
Large Toiletry Selling Shop, like Overpriced Children's Clothing Store, is one of those shops that one walks into with the intention of buying one thing and exits with two very expensive packets. But I had need for mousse, and was fairly swift in selecting a well-priced (R22,96) fancy-looking mousse - strong-hold too. So I waited in the god-awful long queue and was eventually met by what could have been a tranny it had so much blue eyeshadow on and, again, false eyelashes so long I had to step back to prevent said eyelashes from wiping thick streaks of cheap mascara over my own face.
Tranny: That'll be R45.95, Ma'am.
(I was, as I'm sure you can gather, not in the finest mood - the veins in my forehead were throbbing like a stubbed toe.)
The Pant: No, lovey (could I have been more condescending?). It'll be R22.96
Tranny: Huh?
TP: On the shelf it says R22.96, so that is what I'll be paying.
Tranny: WONDER!
TP: I beg your pardon, young ... person?
Tranny: I'm calling the manager.
TP: Ah, very sophisticated in-store communication system you've got going here.
Tranny: WONDER!
TP: Lovey, if you scream a little louder, I'm sure you will succeed in causing my head to explode all over your till.
Other Worker Person: HE'S ON TEA, HILDA!
Hilda (it seems): He's on tea.
TP: I got that. Could you get him off tea, please.
Hilda: TELL HIM I NEED HIM, REGINA.
Regina: FIVE MINUTES, HILDA. JUST TELL LADY TO WAIT.
Hilda and I waited those five minutes in a state of stare-down, while other customers in growing queue stared at my back with bladed stare.
Wonder: What's the problem, Hilda?
I interjected, and explained the situation to Wonder over-pronouncing words like 'you' and 'your store'. After the small little weedy man met my situation with a, "Sorry, Ma'am, there's nothing I can do. I'm just the hair products aisle manager and the store manager is on lunch," I think I exploded.
The Pant: Well, Wonder, what I suggest you do with said can of mousse, is stick it directly in your rectum. And spend the rest of your ineffective day wandering like an ice-cream on a stick.
Then I turned on my heel, and minced on out of there.
Pant-flu: a fate worse than man-flu.
I woke with a sinus headache so intense I'd have used a chainsaw to remove offending head parts if I'd had one handy. Said headache was not made more pleasant by a) actual drilling of worker men in house, b) The Daughter's desire to turn day into musical in very high pitch or c) the inability to give up on day and return to bed in darkened room to bond with eyelids as though they were long lost childhood friends.
Instead, The Daughter had ballet (for which I had to hand-sew securing elastic onto 'character shoes'). Plus I had arranged coffee date with newly pregnant Mom of Ballet Friend during which she gushed for three quarters of an hour over cervixes, dilation, labour pains, cracked nipples and incontinence. While I ordinarily would have coped with such speak, on this day it served to heighten my growing feeling of nausea while reminding me of my very own barrenness. Brilliant.
But then. It happened. I ducked into Large Toiletry Selling Shop after a quick once around Over-Priced Children's Clothing Store.
The Daughter: Please can we go to Over-Priced Children's Clothing Store?
The Pant: Yes. But listen very carefully to me: I am not buying anything in there, okay?
After a quick once over, and the realisation that my outside-the-shop-door sentiments belonged to a much stronger-willed woman, we headed to the check-out.
The Pant: I'm going to give you my card, just ring it through, I do not want to know how much I've spent.
Check-out Girl: Don't worry - I get that a lot. No problem.
Check-out Girl was one of those very young un-wrinkled types, with false eyelashes, too much make-up and pictures of ballet shoes on her shirt and earrings. I, comparatively, looked like I felt - one with progressed raging man-flu, a few degrees short of full-blown pneumonia, with swollen cracked lips, red glassy eyes and an outfit I did not remember dressing myself in.
COG: I'm just going to put everything in this packet that says 'sale' on it even though nothing's on sale because it's the biggest bag we've got. (Flutter false eyelashes, fake smile, crack orange-hued base.)
TP: (under breath) whore.
And then Large Toiletry Selling Shop happened. The Daughter needed mousse for ballet because, to be entirely honest, I'd used gel that morning, and by the time she emerged from her two-hour dance class, it looked like I'd used the expulsion from boyfriend/girlfriend (or boyfriend/boyfriend, but not girlfriend/girlfriend) interactions to slick her hair back - the sight of which not only made me gag, but one which would not, I felt, go down well with other ballet mums.
Large Toiletry Selling Shop, like Overpriced Children's Clothing Store, is one of those shops that one walks into with the intention of buying one thing and exits with two very expensive packets. But I had need for mousse, and was fairly swift in selecting a well-priced (R22,96) fancy-looking mousse - strong-hold too. So I waited in the god-awful long queue and was eventually met by what could have been a tranny it had so much blue eyeshadow on and, again, false eyelashes so long I had to step back to prevent said eyelashes from wiping thick streaks of cheap mascara over my own face.
Tranny: That'll be R45.95, Ma'am.
(I was, as I'm sure you can gather, not in the finest mood - the veins in my forehead were throbbing like a stubbed toe.)
The Pant: No, lovey (could I have been more condescending?). It'll be R22.96
Tranny: Huh?
TP: On the shelf it says R22.96, so that is what I'll be paying.
Tranny: WONDER!
TP: I beg your pardon, young ... person?
Tranny: I'm calling the manager.
TP: Ah, very sophisticated in-store communication system you've got going here.
Tranny: WONDER!
TP: Lovey, if you scream a little louder, I'm sure you will succeed in causing my head to explode all over your till.
Other Worker Person: HE'S ON TEA, HILDA!
Hilda (it seems): He's on tea.
TP: I got that. Could you get him off tea, please.
Hilda: TELL HIM I NEED HIM, REGINA.
Regina: FIVE MINUTES, HILDA. JUST TELL LADY TO WAIT.
Hilda and I waited those five minutes in a state of stare-down, while other customers in growing queue stared at my back with bladed stare.
Wonder: What's the problem, Hilda?
I interjected, and explained the situation to Wonder over-pronouncing words like 'you' and 'your store'. After the small little weedy man met my situation with a, "Sorry, Ma'am, there's nothing I can do. I'm just the hair products aisle manager and the store manager is on lunch," I think I exploded.
The Pant: Well, Wonder, what I suggest you do with said can of mousse, is stick it directly in your rectum. And spend the rest of your ineffective day wandering like an ice-cream on a stick.
Then I turned on my heel, and minced on out of there.
Pant-flu: a fate worse than man-flu.
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