With age and maturity I have developed an appreciation for the finer things in life. I realise that I may be getting on, but there is much in the way of modern technology that makes me feel, at very least, that I'm not starting to look haggard and, at best (like on those good days), that I'm even improving with age.
Sure, maturity allows one to feel a little more comfortable in one's skin. So while I may have a larger-than-average buttocks, they're my buttocks and there's very little I can do about them. I won't wear those uber short denim shorts that simultaneously (in the name of fashion) create moose knuckle. But that's okay. There's plenty else I can wear and anyway, I've got confidence which helps everyone overlook a large arse, of this I'm absolutely convinced.
Take the new Benefit base for example: that stuff is amazing. In four or five seconds, I'm rid of a number of sins that previously would have labeled me The Eternal Spinster. Black rings? What black rings? Acne? Who's got acne? Wrinkle-shminkle.
No, seriously, I've been a happy little lass of late. The life I lead has been so filled with such joy that I've really liked being me:
1) The Daughter's independence in the sea now means that I can body board alongside her - super radness.
2) Survived Midmar Mile without drowning not even once - am a machine.
3) Have new live-in full-time Armpit who is not only amazing with The Daughter but also cooks - FOR THE WIN.
And so it was that I approached Valentine's Day as a single dame with very little concern. I've got so much radness in my life that the last thing I want right now is to have to cancel really cool plans on account of a 100 kg + yoke around this independent neck. Besides which, there's the odd Secret Admirer scattered here and there, so the day itself did not leave me reaching for razor blades with a warm bath run.
That is, until I decided to take a few minutes out of my day to catch up with Lovely Secretary With Eye Level Mirror In Her Office (whom, for the purposes of this blog we'll simply refer to as Lovely Secretary).
So, picture the scene: I was engaging in idle chit-chat with Lovely Secretary whilst inspecting what was likely poorly applied (on account of morning rush) make-up:
The Pant: (inspecting) Lovely Secretary, this base is amazing... Don't you think?
Lovely Secretary: Wonderful Pant.
TP: (perusing blendage at hair line) Could have spent a little more time blending though.
LS: (not looking up from work) Mmmmmmmmmm....
TP: How do you get your base to blend so nicely?
LS: Pardon?
TP: (still absent-mindedly inspecting) Never min- OH MY FUCK!
LS: (shocked) WHAT?
TP: What the fuck is this (pointing at hairline)?
LS: Your hair?
TP: Look closely.
LS: It's still your hair.
TP: What colour is it?
LS: Looks blonde.
TP: I. Don't. Have. Blonde. Hair.
LS: No. You don't. Except for those two.
TP: (unable to hide intense fear) TWO?
LS: Yup. Two.
Moments later, I had pulled a pair of rusty tweezers out of the closest First Aid kit and extracted the two offending hairs from my hairline. Which I then inspected against a dark surface and realised that there was nothing blonde about these fuckers. They were as grey as my mood.
Fucking dog shit poes cock dick neighbour-of-anus!
Greying and lonely on Valentine's Day. Brilliant.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Verbal Diarrhoea
There comes a time in every parents' life (of this I'm convinced) that one makes the discovery that there is only one way to cope. Two solitary words that, on any given day, have the power to cause mass joy to surge through the average woman's body. Two little words: red wine.
I know this because as I type, I have four bottles of the finest (cheapest - per kind understanding favour of The Incubator) dumped in a large vase, out of which stick a handful of left-over-from-The-Daughter's-birthday-party multi-coloured straws, through which I am guzzling the crimson stuff. The next best option, I fear, would be warm gin.
You see the thing that they don't tell you at ante-natal classes is that once the changing of nappies is over, and once the cracked nipples and breast dependency ceases, you'll be left with a human: one with a vocabulary, a will, a sense of humour (thankfully). One who likes to talk.
A lot.
It all started - the verbal diarrhoea, that is; not the talking - at 5.08 am on Monday morning. This troubles me especially since I have taken great pride in the fact that, up until Monday, The Daughter was a late riser. But it appears that, with the onset of the discovery that she is able to speak, at speed, without drawing breath for a good 120 minutes on the go, she no longer requires as much shut-eye. I'm shattered.
The Pant: (dreaming of interactions with Patrick Lambie - and not the verbal kind - begins to rouse. Her eyes flicker as consciousness ousts state of euphoria. Begins to open eyes and first sight is of five-year-old angel child but millimetres from her face, breathing the thickness of morning breath) Morning, my angel.
The Daughter: So-Mommy-you-know-I-haven't-stopped-thinking-about-the-hamster-at-Calvin's-house-and-I-really-want-a-hamster-and-actually-I-want-three-hamsters-and-I'm-going-to-call-them-Lily-and-she's-going-to-be-the-queen-and-then-Grace-that's-the-next-one-she's-going-to-be-a-baby-but-they're-all-going-to-be-babies-and-anyway-we're-just-going-to-pretend-so-Lily-can-be-the-queen-and-Grace-can-be-the-princess-and-ooooooo-I'm-going-to-dress-her-in-a-beautiful-pink-ball-gown-and-then-Max-is-going-to-be-the-prince-and-I'm-going-to-look-after-them-because-you-got-scared-when-we-were-at-Calvin's-party-do-you-remember-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom-do-you?-do-you-remember?
I felt as though I'd been bludgeoned half to death by the power of word. Reeling, I made my way to the kitchen: breakfast, I thought, may cause momentary silence - provided, at least, by the swallowing of chocolate Wheetbix.
Not so.
The Daughter: (chew)and-Mom-you-don't-have-to-worry-about-a-thing-not-a-single(swallow)-little-thing-because-I'm-a-big-girl-because(chew)-I'm-five-which-is-the-same-as-five-and-a-half-and-at-my-next(swallow)-birthday-I'm-going-to-be-six-and-when-I'm-six-I'm-going-to-be-so-big-that-I'm-going-to-become-queen-and-then-I'll-feed-my-hamsters(chew)-and-I'll-bath-them-in-the-bath-with-me-is-that-okay-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mommy?-Is(swallow)-that-okay-to-you-know-bath-with-my-hamsters?Mom-is-it?-Can-I-can-I-can-I-PLEASE?
After answering fundamental questions regarding the correct methods for raising polite hamsters (including 1. Can hamsters go to boarding school like Cat when we go on holiday?; 2. How big are hamsters' toothbrushes because hamsters should brush their teeth because they are NOT going to be naughty like Cat who doesn't brush his teeth which is just scusting?; 3. Don't you just love hamsters?; and 4. Can we please get hamsters with babies in their tummies even the boys?), I decided to seek respite in the shower.
Because my me-time had been stolen by The Daughter's larynx, I chose to take my morning tea into the shower, and extend my allocated cleansing time just a smidgen.
With only the sound of drumming water, my brain began to acclimatise. I started thinking my normal 5-in-the-morning thoughts like, 'What am I going to wear today?'; 'What are The Daughter's after-school commitments?'; (brief visual of Jake Gyllenhall in most compromising position) 'What am I going to make for lunches?'; 'Is there bread?', when The Daughter opened the shower door enough to squish her face in to begin the verbal torrent again.
The Daughter: Is-today-a-hair-washing-day-for-you-Mom?-Mom?-Mom?-Is-it?-I-don't-like-washing-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-the-shampoo-goes-in-my-eyes-and-it-hurts-but-when-I'm-six-I-will-only-wash-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-that's-what-big-girls-do-and-Mom-Mom-Mom-can-I-wash-my-hamsters-hair?-Do-hamsters-even-have-hair?-Or-is-it-like-Cat's-hair-which-isn't-really-hair-it's-actually-called-fur-even-though-it-leaves-bits-of-hair-on-my-bed-when-he-sleeps-with-me? Oh-Mom-Mom-Mom-
Two hours later, we found ourselves securely strapped into Brumelda en route to school/school (as it happens to be).
The Pant: (turning the radio up to figure out if WeatherSA had been truthful about the day's weather, and whether or not there'd be any accidents on my drive)
The Daughter: So-Mom-do-you-think-my-hamsters-will-be-able-to-come-to-swimming-lessons-with-me-I'm-sure-Uncle-Swimming-Man-won't-mind-and-then-we-can-get-a-pool-and-our-hamsters-won't-drown.Oh-won't-it-be-lovely-when-we-have-a-pool.My-hamsters-are-so-cute-don't-you-think-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom?
The hamsters we don't own? I feel I know them biblically.
And so I drink this wine without an iota of guilt. And for this I can be eternally grateful to The Daughter.
I know this because as I type, I have four bottles of the finest (cheapest - per kind understanding favour of The Incubator) dumped in a large vase, out of which stick a handful of left-over-from-The-Daughter's-birthday-party multi-coloured straws, through which I am guzzling the crimson stuff. The next best option, I fear, would be warm gin.
You see the thing that they don't tell you at ante-natal classes is that once the changing of nappies is over, and once the cracked nipples and breast dependency ceases, you'll be left with a human: one with a vocabulary, a will, a sense of humour (thankfully). One who likes to talk.
A lot.
It all started - the verbal diarrhoea, that is; not the talking - at 5.08 am on Monday morning. This troubles me especially since I have taken great pride in the fact that, up until Monday, The Daughter was a late riser. But it appears that, with the onset of the discovery that she is able to speak, at speed, without drawing breath for a good 120 minutes on the go, she no longer requires as much shut-eye. I'm shattered.
The Pant: (dreaming of interactions with Patrick Lambie - and not the verbal kind - begins to rouse. Her eyes flicker as consciousness ousts state of euphoria. Begins to open eyes and first sight is of five-year-old angel child but millimetres from her face, breathing the thickness of morning breath) Morning, my angel.
The Daughter: So-Mommy-you-know-I-haven't-stopped-thinking-about-the-hamster-at-Calvin's-house-and-I-really-want-a-hamster-and-actually-I-want-three-hamsters-and-I'm-going-to-call-them-Lily-and-she's-going-to-be-the-queen-and-then-Grace-that's-the-next-one-she's-going-to-be-a-baby-but-they're-all-going-to-be-babies-and-anyway-we're-just-going-to-pretend-so-Lily-can-be-the-queen-and-Grace-can-be-the-princess-and-ooooooo-I'm-going-to-dress-her-in-a-beautiful-pink-ball-gown-and-then-Max-is-going-to-be-the-prince-and-I'm-going-to-look-after-them-because-you-got-scared-when-we-were-at-Calvin's-party-do-you-remember-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom-do-you?-do-you-remember?
I felt as though I'd been bludgeoned half to death by the power of word. Reeling, I made my way to the kitchen: breakfast, I thought, may cause momentary silence - provided, at least, by the swallowing of chocolate Wheetbix.
Not so.
The Daughter: (chew)and-Mom-you-don't-have-to-worry-about-a-thing-not-a-single(swallow)-little-thing-because-I'm-a-big-girl-because(chew)-I'm-five-which-is-the-same-as-five-and-a-half-and-at-my-next(swallow)-birthday-I'm-going-to-be-six-and-when-I'm-six-I'm-going-to-be-so-big-that-I'm-going-to-become-queen-and-then-I'll-feed-my-hamsters(chew)-and-I'll-bath-them-in-the-bath-with-me-is-that-okay-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mommy?-Is(swallow)-that-okay-to-you-know-bath-with-my-hamsters?Mom-is-it?-Can-I-can-I-can-I-PLEASE?
After answering fundamental questions regarding the correct methods for raising polite hamsters (including 1. Can hamsters go to boarding school like Cat when we go on holiday?; 2. How big are hamsters' toothbrushes because hamsters should brush their teeth because they are NOT going to be naughty like Cat who doesn't brush his teeth which is just scusting?; 3. Don't you just love hamsters?; and 4. Can we please get hamsters with babies in their tummies even the boys?), I decided to seek respite in the shower.
Because my me-time had been stolen by The Daughter's larynx, I chose to take my morning tea into the shower, and extend my allocated cleansing time just a smidgen.
With only the sound of drumming water, my brain began to acclimatise. I started thinking my normal 5-in-the-morning thoughts like, 'What am I going to wear today?'; 'What are The Daughter's after-school commitments?'; (brief visual of Jake Gyllenhall in most compromising position) 'What am I going to make for lunches?'; 'Is there bread?', when The Daughter opened the shower door enough to squish her face in to begin the verbal torrent again.
The Daughter: Is-today-a-hair-washing-day-for-you-Mom?-Mom?-Mom?-Is-it?-I-don't-like-washing-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-the-shampoo-goes-in-my-eyes-and-it-hurts-but-when-I'm-six-I-will-only-wash-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-that's-what-big-girls-do-and-Mom-Mom-Mom-can-I-wash-my-hamsters-hair?-Do-hamsters-even-have-hair?-Or-is-it-like-Cat's-hair-which-isn't-really-hair-it's-actually-called-fur-even-though-it-leaves-bits-of-hair-on-my-bed-when-he-sleeps-with-me? Oh-Mom-Mom-Mom-
Two hours later, we found ourselves securely strapped into Brumelda en route to school/school (as it happens to be).
The Pant: (turning the radio up to figure out if WeatherSA had been truthful about the day's weather, and whether or not there'd be any accidents on my drive)
The Daughter: So-Mom-do-you-think-my-hamsters-will-be-able-to-come-to-swimming-lessons-with-me-I'm-sure-Uncle-Swimming-Man-won't-mind-and-then-we-can-get-a-pool-and-our-hamsters-won't-drown.Oh-won't-it-be-lovely-when-we-have-a-pool.My-hamsters-are-so-cute-don't-you-think-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom?
The hamsters we don't own? I feel I know them biblically.
And so I drink this wine without an iota of guilt. And for this I can be eternally grateful to The Daughter.
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