Saturday, October 29, 2011

Ballet: Porn For Rich People.

I like going to 'the ballet' (to be said by projecting voice through the top set of the teeth, with one's head tilted slightly up, whilst looking down on commoners) for three reasons:

1) It's an excellent reason to get tarted up as though one is going on a date, without having to actually go on a date (because going on dates often means spending the evening with turds who have more than likely not passed primary school);

2) It's really quite pretty.  Those chicks are amazing.  Seriously.  And if, I'm to be entirely honest with you, I did find myself having totally inappropriate thoughts about doing my own kind of pirouette with some of those male dancers, naked; and

3) I get to hang out with some gay love.

I have a knack, you see, of picking up a little bit of gay fluff wherever I go.  (I think I was born in the wrong body, to be honest.  Apart from the fact that I - unlike many women - really like my body (well, today anyway), I think I would suit being gay, and male.  At least then My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh may, in fact, want to caress it.  With his tongue.)  And let me tell you something, it's chicks and Marys at the ballet.  And straight guys who've cheated on their wives/girlfriends and paying big time for the crime.

In fact, within three minutes of arrival, had I no sooner acquired a gin (little big bottles of - such fun), was I whispering into Dear Gay's ear...

The Pant:  You naughty, naughty boy.  How dare you wear a tie to a function of this nature?

Dear Gay:  Why?  You said I should shave... I just thought I ought to look the part.  And look at you in that beautiful little (and he meant little) frock, you foxy minx-

TP:  Ooooo.  Say it again.

DG:  Little frock?

TP:  No.  The other bit.

DG:  Look at you.

TP:  Look at you?  No.  The other bit.

DG:  Foxy minx?

TP:  Well, yes.  But it's kind of lost its impotus.

DG:  So what's wrong with my tie?

TP:  You obviously don't know what I do to naughty little boys who wear ties.  Let's just say I hold the tie in a vice grip.

DG:  **blush** **fumble** **realise that, in fact, is not at all aroused by said image** **laugh like drain at my inappropriate behaviour.

The thing with ballet that does get me, though is a previous conversation I'd had with The Brother.  I was laughing at him - I think at this stage he was one of those whipped husbands who was forced to appreciate the arts with his (hussy, charlatan) wife.  He missed a very important rugby match for an outing to the ballet because "rugby is for the intelligentless masses".  (The witch also believed that my - or anyone's - avid consumption of tomato sauce was indicative of one's belonging to "the lower class".  I suffered my addiction to the righteous redness in silence.  It was only when I learnt, some years after her departure from the family, through Malcolm Gladwell's literature that tomato sauce is the most complex, yet perfectly balanced flavour on earth - in fact, it's the only perflectly balanced flavour in the world.  Low class, hmmmmmmm?)

The Pant: How was the ballet?

The Brother:  Not too bad, actually.

TP:  Who are you and what have you done with my brother?

TB:  Well, it's kind of like porn for rich people.  I haven't seen so much minge and cock in my life before.

I took The Brother's unsavoury description of the ballet as evidence of the fact that you can take the pleb out of the gutter but never the gutter out of the pleb.  Until I witnessed it first hand.

Don' get me wrong: I am actually one of those people who truly delights in the art of ballet.  But I did feel a little uncomfortable in a few of the scenes on Wednesday evening.  Particularly the one where the prima ballerina lifts her leg back, over her head, revealing her Russian McMuffin, and The Evil Genius the spends a good five minutes swivelling her aroud, ensuring that all audience members get a good look.  I blushed such a deep scarlet that I think I may have lit up, illuminating the man in a lace shirt beside me.

My enjoyment of ballet may be permanently hindered.  And The Daughter's dabbling in the dance may just about be over.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Boring People Who Don't Say 'Fuck'.

I'm entering Come Dine With Me SA.  I'm a little worried about this entry, particularly because I'm exceptionally worried that I will, in fact, be chosen to participate in said show, in which case I'll have to quickly learn to cook, start cleaning those forgotten nooks and crannies (like the dining room table, book shelf, piano stool, and under the very large wooden table in the lounge).  Plus I'll have to learn to be amiable.

I may have to take a refresher course on manners.

You see, I had a wee little think to myself the other day - as I'm wont to do - and realised that I'm seriously (no, like seriously) coming to grips with singledom.  And 'by coming to grips with', I'd prefer it if you read 'really fucking enjoying it'.  Seriously.

You see, the truth is - and it's a scary truth - that I've grown accustomed to having my own space, not sharing my bathroom, leaving my tampons in a bright pink box on the back of the toilet, leaving used strips of wax (that do not look dissimilar to neat little slivers of rodent fur) in the bathroom bin without a lid.  I've only myself to blame when the milk runs out, or there's not enough bread for The Daughter's sandwiches, or I've run out of dishwashing liquid. 

(That's not strictly true.  In fact, it's not true at all.  When I do realise that the dishwashing liquid has run out - which is not very often since am not all that keen on actual dish washing - I usually mutter something along the lines of, "Could kill that Armpit!!  What does she do with the stuff?  Drink it?  Crikey effing moses."  It's got me into hot water these little rants I have.  The Daughter has often greeted Armpit in the morning in manner of, "Morning Armpit, my mom's going to fire you because you drive her to drink," or, "Armpit, you mustn't drink my mom's imported tea, because it makes her red in the face and sweat from the sides of her head.")

I have also, since being on my own, learned that I am not all that fond of underwear.  Or clothes, for that matter.  And not in a I-sit-around-in-the-knick-cross-legged-while-watching-telly kind of way.  But I've employed an open-door policy in our house.  I'm regretting it now, of course, since there appears to be no hiding place.  When I was growing up my parents used to escape to the bathroom with their books for hours on end, while my brothers tried to kill each other with knives and I burned incense and felt moved by nature.  (God, I was an awkward teenager).  When I try that in our house, The Daughter is quite happy to camp beside me, begging to read Curious George on the kindle.

I can't imagine that the guests on Come Dine With Me SA would be all that charmed to round the corner, and find me perched upon the loo, in the knick.  Nor would they be pleased to find that there may, in fact, be a chocolate - no that's crazy, chocolate doesn't have a shelf life, since it cannot actually exist for longer than 40 seconds in The Liner Household - an apple, 100 days old, lodged between the trunk and the back of the couch.

I'd be especially upset, though, if I spent a whole week of my life dining with boring people who don't say 'fuck'.  I think that's my biggest fear in this whole debacle.  Yes.  It's boring people who don't say 'fuck'.

And any meal involving pork, bananas, tripe, kidney, rice pudding and sago.  And pro nutro.  Or anything that is similar in texture to male sexual expulsion.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

A Reality Check.

I lost my mind this past week.  I'm convinced of it.  You see, after poo-pooing liaisons with The Twenty Almost One Year Old Hottie Hot Pants on account of his a) age, b) inability to compose text messages that did not include "words" like 'nyc', 'joakin' (joking, I think),  'gna' (going to) and 'please call me', and;  d) job prospects (none), I seemed to have a complete change of heart, and decided to actually meet up with him for a drink.

I think I may have even fancied him.  Who could blame me?  The man is a good 8 years younger than me, and everyone wants  to have a brief affair with a much younger man, so I thought I ought to knuckle down sooner rather than later.  And, as God is my witness, I really tried quite hard.

I engaged in text message conversations:

Twenty Almost One Year Old Hottie Hot Pants:  Hey panty um is ur surname pervert?random bt curious (smiley face).

The Pant:  No.  Panty Pervert is another teacher.  I used to work with her.  I'm Panty Liner.

TAOYOHHP:  Haha u thnk?so it is pervert?

Now, forgive me for feeling a touch confused at this point - but how could the boy not get "I'm Panty Liner"?

And so I decided to ring him:

TAOYOHHP:  Hey Panty.  Look, I saw your picture in the newspaper and I know you're getting married soon so it's all good.

TP:  Pardon?

TAOYOHHP:  I saw your picture in the paper.  It said "Panty Pervert" "soon-to-be-married".

TP:  But I'm not Panty Pervert.

TAOYOHHP:  But you said you were.

TP:  I said "I'm Panty Liner".

TAOYOHHP:  I thought you were being sarcastic.

Um??  How?

TP:  No.  I was being perfectly serious.

TAOYOHHP:  Ok.  Cool.  So, you're not getting married?

TP:  Not as far as I know.

TAOYOHHP:  So can we like hook up and like stuff like?

TP:  (considering proposal, and considering the good it would do for my self-esteem, not to mention the street cred it would buy me at the next book club gathering) Ya!  I mean, hell yeah!  Big time.  Radness.

TAOYOHHP:  Radness?

TP:  Yes!  Radness.

TAOYOHHP:  What does that mean?

TP:  That will be nice?

TAOYOHHP:  Oh like, ama-zing?

TP:  Amazing?

TAOYOHHP:  Ama-zing is like amazing for old people.

To be quite honest, in spite of the fact that Twenty Almost One Year Old Hottie Hot Pants almost gave me cardiac arrest when he 'joaked' that he was seventeen to which I responded, "Good God!  Don't ever phone me again, Child.  I could get fired!  I could get arrested for even talking to you," I was really quite looking forward to meeting up with him at the infamous Pan & Kettle.

I was looking forward to going on a date and having complete confidence that the little mite would be totally taken by me because in his eyes, I am a cougar - several thousand times above anything that he would be able to pick up at a trance party in Lion's River.  Also, there wouldn't be those other normal considerations:

1)  Please let him have a decent surname in case I fall head over heels in love with him and end up marrying him;

2) I wonder if he breeds well;

3)  What the fuck am I going to wear to make me look as thin as possible?;

4)  I hope he doesn't have too much of a potty mouth for when I introduce my future husband to my parents - Father in particular.

You see the facts were:  He's a little hottie hot pants, and I aint never introducing him to anyone.

But by the time Friday evening rolled in, I'd fielded numerous calls:one from The Brother in which he openly mocked my cheap attempt to feel youthful;and one from Carlos in which he begged me to go out wearing nothing but a scarf as a skirt and a push-up bra to maximise the tot's street cred.  And then it happened: Reality Check of monu.emtal proportion.

The toll of spending an entire week working (sure, for a salary that, at least puts me in a position to have surplus two ply toilet rolls hidden beneath the bathroom sink -evidence of a real home) I lost my will to smash beer cans against my forehead and use words like 'ahwe'and 'ama-zing'.  And so I politely retracted agreement to meet for drimk optimg to rather sleep.

And here's the thing with the younger steed: 17 missed calls and 2 texts, one of which included phrases like "miss u"and "luv u".

Reality Check #2: it' really unfair to cougar little tots.  

Friday, October 14, 2011

Dr Dad.

My gran - the French Mauritian one - was a bit of a hypochondriac; a characteristic I think The Father has inherited.

Yesterday my head nearly exploded. I had a post holiday depression headache so sore that I could barely rest my glasses atop my head from the severe pain that surged through my body, driving me very close to a fresh bout of bumilia.  And so I phoned The Father for a little bit of sympathy.

The Father:  Hi, Pant.  Can I speak to The Daughter please?

The Pant: Um. I made the call, Dad.  How are you?

TF:  Fine thanks.  The Baby Girl?  Can I speak to her?

TP:  I'm not that well, Dad.  Worst headache - even worse than the hangover post Pan and Kettle.

TF:  You know what, Pant.  I once had a friend who had a headache-

TP: (Haven't we all?)  Ya?

TF:  And he took a few panados and went to bed and died that night because of a brain tumour the size of his fist.  Had a big hand too.  And you know what they say about guys with big hands?

TP:  Big brain tumours?

TF:  No.  Big fists.

TP:  Well, I did take some pills and then I fell asleep for two hours.  And I've just woken up and it's still sore.

TF:  Sounds like my big fisted friend.

TP:  You think I have a brain tumour?

TF:  It wouldn't be the first.

TP:  I've had a brain tumour before?

TF:  No.  My big fisted friend did.

TP:  Sheesh Dad.  I'm a little worried now.  What if I die?

TF:  Should I set my alarm clock for every five minutes tonight to phone and see if you're still alive?

TP:  We'll not get any sleep.

TF:  Probably best that you don't get any sleep.

TP:  I might just be coming down with flu.

TF:  Then you definitely mustn't sleep.

TP:  Why?

TF:  I once had a friend, who did a little bit of exercise when he had flu.  And he went for a lie down and had a heart attack and died.  Have you done any exercise today?

TP:  Well, I walked to my car twice-

TF:  That's enough to do it.  Go and buy yourself 8 Red Bulls and don't sleep.  Although, I read this newspaper article of this girl who had flu who drank Red Bull and died.

TP:  Dad, I'm shitting myself a bit here.  Do you think I'll be okay?

TF:  I'm really not sure, Pant.  The prognosis is not good.  Do you have any muscular pain?

TP:  Well, my one arm is a little sore.

TF:  You know, I once had a friend.  He had a sore arm and went for a swim in the ocean and it got bitten off by a shark.

TP:  You think I'm going to lose my arm?

TF:  All I'm saying is 'stay away from the beach'.  And don't sleep.  And don't drink Red Bull.  Don't close your eyes.  Don't move.

TP:  You're scaring me a bit.  Can I talk to Mom?

The Incubator:  Dad says you're not feeling well.  Got a bit of a headache?

TP:  Yes.  Do you think I'm going to die of a brain tumour/heart attack?

TI:  Have you been drinking water?

TP:  Yes

TI:  Have you made a poo today?

TP: (really?) No.

TI:  Well, there's your problem.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Why Having A Period Is Bad For You.

So, here's the deal, right?  Do not go tampon shopping when you actually have your period in the middle of the day. It's so bad for you, I expect that in the near future there will be pills that make this occasion more bearable.  Not only do you look and feel like shit (mainly because your tits are the size of melons and you forgot to wear a bra because you cannot be placed under any undue discomfort) but you will run into your ex-boyfriend's mother - the one with the really good skin - and she will stop to chat and even hug and kiss you.

I turned the corner on the tomato sauce aisle (an error, but fairly apt given my most horrendous state of womanliness) and committed to said aisle.  I was half way down, day dreaming about Jake Gyllenhall dressed in school uniform, when the breezy lady broze directly into my line of sight.


Ex-Mother-In-Law:  Pant!  How lovely to see you.

The Pant: (As lovely as, say, world famine?)  You too!  (slightly overdone interest) How are things?

EMIL:  Oh they're good.  How's The Daughter?

TP:  She's fine thanks - big.  Just turned five.  Such a joyous little being.

EMIL:  Oh, how lovely.  Well, you know Geek Ex-Boyfriend With A Perm got married the other day.

TP:  I did know that (I took great delight in perusing his wedding photographs on Facebook and laughing at his great girth and her hideous hair do).  I saw it on Facebook.  It looked lovely.  Really (fucking ugly).

EMIL:  Ah it was.  So how's that man of yours in Jo'burg?

Really?  Am I seriously going to be characterised for the rest of my natural life by a relationship I had with Larry?

TP:  We split up (but I imagine you know this because you do seem to know far too much about my life without ever having contact with me).

EMIL:  (fake concern) Awww.  I'm so sorry, Pant-

TP:  Don't be.  I'm not.

EMIL:  Well, that's good.  Met anyone else?

What I couldn't tell the woman was that I'd been in the process of turning out the biggest bunch of weeds - not least of all The Biggest Cocksucker - to open up my diary for men with a more socially acceptable appeal.

TP:  Well, there's my twenty year old hottie hot pants.  But he's young.

EMIL:  Oh my!

TP:  And dirty.

What I refrained from telling her is that my twenty year old hottie hot pants has been in scant contact of late.  Apart from, of course, the dop n dial that I handed over to The Incubator to handle.  And the late night sms.  A "please call me".

I guess The Future Ex Mother In Law hasn't given him his pocket money this week.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

How Not To Impress The Pant

I have done a little empirical research over the years - in the very scientific manner of gossiping with mates over countless bottles of wine - and it is official: I have endured the worst dates EVER. I mean I've had to sit by and watch a man with brown teeth and orange fingers leave a grand total tip of 50c - which he so proudly proffered with the words, "Please! Keep the change.". I've had to watch a man pray, on his knees, for close on three-quarters of an hour and with such vigour that there were people in Kimberly who could hear it. I've had to sit through dinners in which the man opposite me has droned on and on (and on) about what a bitch his ex-wife is and how wonderful the world would be if she, say, somehow disappeared.

I've had my fair share of charmers, let me assure you.

But my most recent date is one that I choose to immortalise in this forum as The Worst Date Of Living Breathing Independent Woman Ever. And I mean that: EVER.

Biggest Cocksucker (very briefly known as Mr Saturday) was most eloquent in ticking every box in The How Not To Impress The Pant information brochure. Truly, his skill is, if it wasn't so downright offence, something to behold.

So, here's a little guide on how not to impress The Pant.

1. Cock Up First Date In A Most Splendid Manner.

I probably should have gathered that a date set for moments after a Rugby World Cup match in which South Africa would be playing would not turn out to be the finest, but I figured that a guy who is supposedly chomping at the bit with eager anticipation could at very least try and remain sober. Even soberish. Not so.

Biggest Cocksucker was pretty inebriated a good two hours prior to date and thus began bargaining on venue for date, start time of date and, eventually, end time of date. It moved from meeting for a drink, to going to one of his mates' for a braai (um....?) to (and you'll love this), "I'm just going to stay over at yours. It'll be nice to cook you breakfast in bed."

Biggest Cocksucker, I don't do breakfast or bed with you. Ever.

And so I put the brakes on before ever having to clap eyes on him. This whole 'self-respect' thing seems to do a bit of governing.

But I felt guilty. The man evidently is not made of wood. His eyes are not painted on and as such could not really help his feelings or his lust and so I agreed to meet him. At a restaurant. His display of unrefined chauvinism and lack of, well, basic decency from the minute we met to the moment we parted was spectacular indeed.

2. Discourage The Pant From Eating

The Pant: Excuse me waiter, could I have a quick perusal of your menu. I am staaaaaaaaarving

Biggest Cocksucker: (addressing the waiter) Don't worry about it.

TP: (bemused). What? Have you already decided what I'm going to eat?

BC: (chuffed) No! I would never do that, Pant. I'm really not that kind of guy.

TP: (more bemused) Then why did you tell the waiter not to worry?

BC: I didn't want you to be embarrassed-

TP: How could I possibly be embarrassed?

BC: I figured you hadn't seen the time.

TP: (seriously confused) And so?

BC: It's after 8.

TP: (now worried that may have missed something big) Ya?

BC: You know if you eat after 8 it all turns to fat and you don't want that do you?

Really? I can't eat after 8? You've got to be fucking kidding me.

3. Offend The Pant

BC: So... Who's the guy that always writes on your wall about his vagina?

TP: Oh, that's My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.

BC: (visibly upset) But he doesn't have a vagina. Why does he talk like he does?

TP: All gay men have manginas.

BC: (face turning such a scarlet my lips by comparison appeared anaemic) HE'S GAY?!?!?

TP: (quite enjoying the discomfort of the old school rugger bugger, who was most definitely was so far out of his depths, he'd have lost his way trying to touch the sand, was displaying) Well, what do you mean by 'gay'?

BC: (still fuming) Like he digs other okes?

TP: Same as you? Yes, I suppose.

BC: (really effing angry now) I AM NOT GAY!!

TP: You play rugby. You like boys' weekends. I didn't say you were gay.

BC: Well, I don't shag boys.

TP: That's good to know.

BC: Gays are evil.

TP: I beg your pardon?

BC: The Bible says so.

TP: I'm sorry. Could we just back track a minute. Did you just say, 'Gays are evil'?

BC: Yes.

TP: And you've just said this to a person who would be hard pressed to list five straight friends?

BC: (incredulous) You hang out with gays?

TP: No, I hang out with people, my friends. Some of them prefer to involve themselves in same sex relationships.

BC: (confused, again): So do you hang out with gays or not?

TP: I'd really rather not have this conversation with you (under breath) you bigoted fuck stick.

4. Miss The Boat Completely

BC: So, you really want to go to India on your own?

TP: I really do. I want to do something for myself on my own.

BC: So, do you want to score Indians?


5. Not Pick Up On ANY Of The Signs At All.

We took our final drink outdoors, under an umbrella, while the rain pelted. This gave Biggest Cocksucker what he perceived to be a most opportune moment to cosy up to me offering warmth. I was thinking two things: 1) Thank God my brothers spent the majority of my youth standing by with stop watches as they forced me to down draught glasses of Oros to see if we could showcase a family boat race team; and 2) How very glad I was that the date was drawing to a close.

And then it happened: he lunged.

Seriously, pal? What the fucking fuck?

Now, I'm not talking about the-could-this-be-mistaken-for-a-peck-on-the-cheek-lunge, the man actually opened his mouth and dived mouth first in my direction, aiming for my own succulents apace - IN A PUBLIC PLACE. After he'd insulted gays, forbidden me from eating and suggested the only reason I'd go on an overseas holiday is to partake in some kind of fuck fest!

I counter-lunged, with speed, as though a rattle snake had struck. I actually recoiled and screamed, completely involuntarily, "Woooooaaaaah tiger" with my hands raised protectively.

TP: I'm sorry. I'm just not (attracted to you you homophobic chauvenistic pig) ready for a quick relationship. I need to take things slowly (so slowly, in fact, BC, that I'd like things to go in reverse, and undo this whole date altogether.)

BC: I wasn't trying to score you.

TP: Um... Yes you were.

BC: I just wanted to feel your lips against mine-

TP: And your tongue, in my mouth?

So here's the deal Biggest Cocksucker, my lips are reserved for men who can a) write in full sentences; and b) understand the etiquette of basic human interaction. You're so not that guy.