Beautiful Boy Child Is Here!

I know.  I've been absent.  I've been absent, mind you, for the good of humankind, given that I've just spent the last month celebrating Christmas by drinking much festive wine, eating fried fish and lying on Cape beaches in such a splendid manner that I may have lost the ability, albeit momentarily, to form sentences with words exceeding two syllables.  It was great.  Can't wait to do it again.

And then I had a little inner pickle (not of the gherkin or onion variety): getting back on the blogging horse ain't no easy feat.  Especially when one's life has been characterised by moments of much hilarity in which one was cast as family/friend/mother/teacher idiot in most.

But today marks a special day.  Huge style.  Because The BF and Carlos have finally, after what seems to have been the longest pregnancy known to mankind (I am all but expecting to meet a muscly eighteen-year old with his legs and arms sprawled out of standard hospital issue cot), welcomed my third people into this world.

Halleluljah amen!  They're flipping rockstars, I tell you.  All three of them.

The bringing of the human child of (I believe) decisively boy persuasion into this world was not, as one would have hoped, as simple as opening the door and finding child on doorstep surrounded by the odd stork feather.  (This was a childhood story with which I battled to connect.  How effing unfair, I thought, it would be to not really want to extend one's family and the next minute an errant stork drops a bundle on your doorstep that may or may not look like the father and that's it - you're parents.)

I dealt with the most laborious labour of the century in the only way a best friend can: with a chilled bottle of Ernie Els and regular bbms to Carlos:

The Pant: (06h00)  Surely the baby is on the outside?

Carlos: (06h30)  Nought.

TP: (06h45)  And now?

Carlos:  (07h00)  Nought.

TP:  (07h15)  And now?

Carlos: (07h30)  Nought.  Please tell me you're going to work?

TP: (07h31)  Is the baby on the outside? 

Carlos: (07h32)  Nought.  GO TO WORK NOW.  AND STOP TEXTING ME.

TP: (07h33)  Okay.

TP: (07h34) Is the baby on the outside?

Carlos: (07h35) Die.


Finally, some fourteen of the most stressful hours later, I received the following text:

Carlos: (20h08) Beautiful Boy Child born.  Now I'm deleting you as a contact.

And, yes, I drank to that.

Congratulations my heart friends.  My heart swells with pride at your amazing feat yesterday.  Can't wait to meet your little guy.

Sorry, Carlos.

Carlos Does Some Pimping.

My friends are in a state of frothy at the imminent date between (well, what I want to call him for the sake of continuity is 'Biggest Cocksucker' but given that Date Boy has apologised whole-heartedly for misdemeanours committed during first meeting, I think he should be aptly named Mr Saturday) myself and Mr Saturday.

They're all but rubbing themselves down in oil and chocolate and hitting very large pits designed for female wrestling such is their excitement at fact that I have actual date with a man who is not coasting dangerously close to decripitude.  I'm slightly more reserved in the whole shebang, but I have come to learn, of late, I am some kind of vicarious vessel through whom the majority of my friends live.

Carlos has always been a touch protective of me, you see.  I think this is mainly because he spent far too much valuable time making cups of tea and pouring gins and wines and little shots and buying chocolates and bringing tissues and allowing me to wipe my snotty nose on his sleeve, that he had kind of committed to not wanting to have anything to do with a possible suitor for fear of having to go through the whole motion again.

But then I think something snapped inside Carlos, a while back, at 40th of New Friend.  I haven't heard the full story but I am led to believe by Carlos's guilty looks that the interaction between Carlos and Mr Saturday went something like this:

Carlos:  Hey my guy/pal/tjom/buddy (I have no idea what men actually call each other when they're talking amongst themselves).

Mr Saturday:  Howzit.

Chat chat in manner most mundane probably about rugby and Patrick Lambie (but not how I would talk about Patrick Lambie as I don't imagine either of them actually admitted to "having deep desire to be motorboated by Lambie" - although am not really sure.)

Carlos:  So you see that chick over there?

Mr Saturday:  The one with massive boobs?

Carlos:  Those are totally fake.

Mr Saturday:  I don't mind.

Carlos:  No, like they're an illusion.  Good bra.  Small tits.

Mr Saturday:  Ya?

Carlos:  What do you think of her?

Mr Saturday:  She's alright, I suppose (You suppose???  Watch your mouth, chum...)

Carlos: The thing is, she's been on the shelf for the longest time... and I'm worried that she's approaching her sell-by date.  I mean the dust is starting to settle and I don't see anybody with a damp cloth approaching her, if yer know what I mean.

Mr Saturday:  Huh?

Carlos:  Listen buddy.  The wife and I are not safe.  She sits between us on the couch.  She has keys to the front door and if it's not her daughter, then it's her, barging in.  She's everywhere.  We need to get her off our hands.

Mr Saturday:  I'm kind of busy at the moment.

Carlos:  She used to be a lesbian!!

(I did not.  It's just Carlos's little pimping technique).

And so, friends, I have a date on Saturday.  My friends are so damn excited they've all but hacked my facebook messages and cellphone records and will probably arrive at date venue having booked the table next to ours, and also having ordered a crooning violinist to watch me blush.

They're a stellar bunch, are my friends.  Really effing wonderful.

The Food Good and Shwine Sow.

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.

Changing My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh

It would appear that Harold Camping got it wrong.  For those of you who've been away at that crochet convention in middle earth, Harold Camping is the guy who predicted that the world would end on 21 May.  Because (and you'll love this) of gay pride!  Look I don't mean to point out the obvious but, Darling, with a name like Camping, I wouldn't pick on The Gays.  The irony, I daresay, was not lost on any of us.

So in the run up to D-Day, My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Caress My Inner Thigh and I got a touch sketchy.  I mean, he was part and parcel of the reason for the destruction of the world as we know it what with his blind commitment to dabbling in (and I quote him) "this faggotry".  And with such a twisted view of the world, I knew I'd have a few questions to answer.  What with choosing to head my own household as a single mother.  And the mothering I've done!  (It's embarrassing) The Daughter hasn't yet learned to shell peas.

And so I spent the majority of last week dedicated to the attempt to straighten My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Caress My Inner Thigh out.  A selfish pursuit, you might term it, given that I found myself, with The End approaching, in desperate need of a husband.

Our banter went something along the lines of:

My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh: How can you function without a man in the house to guide you, correct you, and firmly chastise you for poor grooming and short-sightedness?

The Pant:  Indeed.  I beseech you, leave the Gay Way and come keep me in check.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMT:  It's long overdue - this faggotry is not proper for one so blessed with a penis.

TP:  It's a sin.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMT:  It is.  But I am afraid my commitment to this alternative way of life is as unwavering as yours is to cake.

TP:  But it's not right.  Not when you're so lucky to have been born with phallus.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMT:  I agree.  Will you cure me?  Time is running out.

And so I, with the help of The BF, Other Close Friend and Carlos, began my fervent mission in saving My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh from an eternity of despair.

I took the visual approach.  I thought if he witnessed enough images of sauciness, he may give in to my wily ways.  But I'm a prude, so I had to use my imagination.  The first image you see before you will be my stomach.  I swear.

And still he remains committed to his lover.  And not to me.  I can't imagine why.

But I guess that's okay.  Because Harold Camping made just a small error in his calculation.  And I've still got until October to change him.

The Crushed Crush.

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

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

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

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

TP: Exactly.

TBF: But is he hot?

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

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

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

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

Carlos: What's his name?

The Pant: Wankstick Deluxo.

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

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

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

TBF: Absolutely. One man. Only.

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

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

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

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

Carlos: Only the world's greatest porn star.

TP: Huh? Never heard of him.

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

TBF: So you think porn stars are hot?

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

TP: He doesn't have herpes!

Carlos: Have you tucked in already?

TP: No!

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

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

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

TP: Why?

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

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

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

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