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.
Showing posts with label The BF. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The BF. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Who Needs Enemies?
So I went out for dinner with The BF and Other Close Friend on Friday night. The BF and I used to do this regularly. And then life just seemed to get in the way. Besides which, we got into the habit of eating together every night that the notion of going out for a special dinner just kind of got filed away. Along with our days of being able to go six consecutive days of eating only cake and not gaining any weight. Ah, those were the days.
It was a little bit like a date. Except the closest I came to a boobie grope was from Other Close Friend.
Other Close Friend: Pant, your boobs are looking amazing. When did they get so big?
I will admit to you, because you won't tell anyone (will you?) that I've witnessed a distinct breast growth over the last couple of months. And while I take pleasure in men no longer looking at my face while they address me (The Husband's Friend even commented on boobs, something in the vein of, "You have put on weight ... on your boobs"), I kind of miss my uber flat-chestedness. For starters, I could wear any top I wanted to. And go out dancing. And not wake up with a chest ache I remember experiencing when I was jersey cow to The Daughter. But I shan't complain. I mean, for real, I'm not sure a man has commented on my lips or eyes (or any other feature above my chest) for the past two months.
The Pant: To be honest, Other Close Friend, they may be bigger,
OCF: Are you-
TP: No. I'm not. Don't even go there.
OCF: But why are they SO big?
TP: Well, if you must know, Other Close Friend, it's a new bra.
OCF: No. Way.
TP: Yup.
OCF: They look like grown-up's boobs.
TP: I know!
OCF: But surely a bra can't do all of that?
TP: It can. This thing is so padded it's like a fat suit for tits.
OCF: Let me feel.
I paused for thought. And then leant forward, the right breast leading.
Other Close Friend prodded and caressed in my general breast area for a good minute or two.
OTC: It feels just like a boob.
TP: What does?
OTC: Your boob.
TP: You were actually touching it?
OTC: Yes.
TP: Oh! Couldn't feel a thing.
What I hadn't noticed during this grope fest was Sexy Sexy Man dining with his parentals. I later learned that he spent the majority of his meal blushing a violent ruby at the public display of, well, affectionish.
Luckily though, I have my friends to ensure that if Sexy Sexy Man wasn't judging me enough, they made sure to drive my embarrassment home. While I was out having a ciggie, they sent via the waitress a hand written note with my number to said man.
Ah, who needs enemies, when your friends are quite capable of making a tit of you?
It was a little bit like a date. Except the closest I came to a boobie grope was from Other Close Friend.
Other Close Friend: Pant, your boobs are looking amazing. When did they get so big?
I will admit to you, because you won't tell anyone (will you?) that I've witnessed a distinct breast growth over the last couple of months. And while I take pleasure in men no longer looking at my face while they address me (The Husband's Friend even commented on boobs, something in the vein of, "You have put on weight ... on your boobs"), I kind of miss my uber flat-chestedness. For starters, I could wear any top I wanted to. And go out dancing. And not wake up with a chest ache I remember experiencing when I was jersey cow to The Daughter. But I shan't complain. I mean, for real, I'm not sure a man has commented on my lips or eyes (or any other feature above my chest) for the past two months.
The Pant: To be honest, Other Close Friend, they may be bigger,
OCF: Are you-
TP: No. I'm not. Don't even go there.
OCF: But why are they SO big?
TP: Well, if you must know, Other Close Friend, it's a new bra.
OCF: No. Way.
TP: Yup.
OCF: They look like grown-up's boobs.
TP: I know!
OCF: But surely a bra can't do all of that?
TP: It can. This thing is so padded it's like a fat suit for tits.
OCF: Let me feel.
I paused for thought. And then leant forward, the right breast leading.
Other Close Friend prodded and caressed in my general breast area for a good minute or two.
OTC: It feels just like a boob.
TP: What does?
OTC: Your boob.
TP: You were actually touching it?
OTC: Yes.
TP: Oh! Couldn't feel a thing.
What I hadn't noticed during this grope fest was Sexy Sexy Man dining with his parentals. I later learned that he spent the majority of his meal blushing a violent ruby at the public display of, well, affectionish.
Luckily though, I have my friends to ensure that if Sexy Sexy Man wasn't judging me enough, they made sure to drive my embarrassment home. While I was out having a ciggie, they sent via the waitress a hand written note with my number to said man.
Ah, who needs enemies, when your friends are quite capable of making a tit of you?
Monday, May 16, 2011
Will Work For Cake.
I was asked to do some external work the other day. Writing work. (And this excited me endlessly because if I was doing some writing for someone else, and it was not one of their third year English essays, this task, ultimately, made me A Writer and not just A Jotter Down Of Rude Words And Mundane Memories. You can imagine my excitement. I was wooping around the show like a raver whose favourite track is booming out of a wall full of fuck-you speakers in a dance club.)
Ah, but then. There was the small issue of remuneration. It's not like I am in the position to say, "For my last project, I charged fifty bucks a word." Because my last project was a mother's day card for The Incubator. And I charged her (in a round about way) a whole lot more than fifty bucks a word. (I am a bit disappointed with the work I did on that card, though. If my memory serves me correctly, I did not squeeze a single tear from her eyeball. Fail. Epic.)
So I decided to go with the "I'll do it for the love of writing" route.
Needer of Writing: Absolutely not.
The Pant: Seriously, consider it some experience and exposure for me.
NOW (I like that.): No, I insist. I must give you something.
TP: Okay. It's winter, I'll work for cake.
NOW: Pardon?
TP: No! Not that type of cake! You can send a chocolate cake round to my work so I can share it with my friends. But a big enough one so The Daughter and I can have a cake picnic too.
NOW: I'm not paying you in cake.
TP: But, and I'm going to say this at the risk of sounding like a horny 18 year-old boy: I love cake. More than any other baked good. Cake makes me happy. It makes me feel happy on the inside and rounder on the outside.
NOW: Fine. How about I book you and a friend a spot for high tea at The Oyster Box?
TP: Ooooo! Say it again.
NOW: High tea at The Oyster Box.
TP: Oooooo! Say it ag-
NOW: I'm not saying it again.
TP: (Curbing my excitement, attempting to sound professional): Sounds like a fair deal. Book for Saturday. Many thanks. Pleasure working with you.
No sooner had I ended the conversation with Needer of Writing was I on the phone to The BF:
The Pant: Get your fat clothes ready! We're eating cake on Saturday!
The BF: What are you going on about?
(I relayed the conversation with NOW. In a typical manner of he said and then I said and then he said and then I said and then he said.)
The BF: Oooo! I'm wearing stretchy pants.
The Pant: Me too. Can I borrow one of Carlos's shirts?
TBF: Big time. Good idea.
Ah, we're a classy act, are The BF and I.
So we arrived at The Oyster Box (read Colonialism At Its Finest) dressed in Carlos's kit. And were greeted by an uber-friendly man who, judging by his sheer girth, consumes the entire leftover high tea daily as quality control. (Part of his job description, I imagine. Those Oyster Box folk aim to please.)
Man: Can I get you ladies some tea?
The BF: Hell no. We haven't eaten since last night to make space for some cake, honey. Ain't no way we going to spoil it by no tea.
Man: (addressing me): And for you, Ma'am?
(Under normal circumstances I would have requested the gentleman to call me 'Ma'am' again. But this Man, I could tell, could not have handled encouragement. In his head, he'd already eaten my kit off and was now devouring my rump in a most unsavoury manner.)
The Pant: Didn't you hear the lady? She said, "Hell no." Now get us some cake!
Man: Would you like me to take you on a tour of the buffet? You know, get you better acquainted with "the cake".
TP: You know what, Man? You do not sound dissimilar to my ex-boyfriend.
Man: I beg your pardon?
TP: Yup - he was always telling me, "Get to know your cake a little better, Pant." Said it would help him. I didn't quite get it. When presented with cake, he wasn't afraid to tuck in. Might be the death of him one day, I fear.
TBF: You're talking about baked goods, right?
TP: Huh?
Man: Ooooooookay. Would you follow me.
TP: Let's get this show on the road. This chit-chat is making me ravenous.
By the time he finished walking us around the voluminous offerings, The BF and I were so famished that we'd have settled for a mouldy slice of uncooked pig's liver. Lucky we didn't have to.
And so we began our feast. Cupcakes and three tiered chocolate mousse jizz-in-your-rods radness. The most glorious chilli bites and cheeses I've ever had the pleasure of treating the inside of my mouth to. Vegetarian sushi. Home-made hummus and tiramisalata. Chocolate cake. Chocolate eclairs. Coffee eclairs. Coconut ice. Scones. (Attempt at ladylike belch unsuccessful.). Mini creme brulee. Mini brownies. Sweet potato samoosas. Teeny weeny pita breads. (Did not care regarding ladylikeness at all. Belch audible throughout entire hotel.). One more plate of cheeses. Just two more chilli bites. Okay. Enough. No wait. Just one more creme brulee. Done. Not yet. Must end on a savoury note. Vegetarian pate on mini crustinis with peppadews. Done. Oooo! Forgot to try hazlenut praline do-nuts. Done. Oops. Forgot, must end on savoury note. Salmon sandwich. Done. Wait. Cannot have high tea without cucumber sandwich. Unbelievably royal. Done. Belch. But I haven't had any black forest cake. Or those little shooter glasses filled with a fancy sounding stuff. Bugger.
So after we'd phoned an American company to pimp our ride with steel undercarriage reinforcements, The BF and I rolled to the car.
And while I looked at myself in the mirror before last night's shower and actually said to my reflection, "I am so not getting naked with you," I am happy. Fat but happy.
Ah, but then. There was the small issue of remuneration. It's not like I am in the position to say, "For my last project, I charged fifty bucks a word." Because my last project was a mother's day card for The Incubator. And I charged her (in a round about way) a whole lot more than fifty bucks a word. (I am a bit disappointed with the work I did on that card, though. If my memory serves me correctly, I did not squeeze a single tear from her eyeball. Fail. Epic.)
So I decided to go with the "I'll do it for the love of writing" route.
Needer of Writing: Absolutely not.
The Pant: Seriously, consider it some experience and exposure for me.
NOW (I like that.): No, I insist. I must give you something.
TP: Okay. It's winter, I'll work for cake.
NOW: Pardon?
TP: No! Not that type of cake! You can send a chocolate cake round to my work so I can share it with my friends. But a big enough one so The Daughter and I can have a cake picnic too.
NOW: I'm not paying you in cake.
TP: But, and I'm going to say this at the risk of sounding like a horny 18 year-old boy: I love cake. More than any other baked good. Cake makes me happy. It makes me feel happy on the inside and rounder on the outside.
NOW: Fine. How about I book you and a friend a spot for high tea at The Oyster Box?
TP: Ooooo! Say it again.
NOW: High tea at The Oyster Box.
TP: Oooooo! Say it ag-
NOW: I'm not saying it again.
TP: (Curbing my excitement, attempting to sound professional): Sounds like a fair deal. Book for Saturday. Many thanks. Pleasure working with you.
No sooner had I ended the conversation with Needer of Writing was I on the phone to The BF:
The Pant: Get your fat clothes ready! We're eating cake on Saturday!
The BF: What are you going on about?
(I relayed the conversation with NOW. In a typical manner of he said and then I said and then he said and then I said and then he said.)
The BF: Oooo! I'm wearing stretchy pants.
The Pant: Me too. Can I borrow one of Carlos's shirts?
TBF: Big time. Good idea.
Ah, we're a classy act, are The BF and I.
So we arrived at The Oyster Box (read Colonialism At Its Finest) dressed in Carlos's kit. And were greeted by an uber-friendly man who, judging by his sheer girth, consumes the entire leftover high tea daily as quality control. (Part of his job description, I imagine. Those Oyster Box folk aim to please.)
Man: Can I get you ladies some tea?
The BF: Hell no. We haven't eaten since last night to make space for some cake, honey. Ain't no way we going to spoil it by no tea.
Man: (addressing me): And for you, Ma'am?
(Under normal circumstances I would have requested the gentleman to call me 'Ma'am' again. But this Man, I could tell, could not have handled encouragement. In his head, he'd already eaten my kit off and was now devouring my rump in a most unsavoury manner.)
The Pant: Didn't you hear the lady? She said, "Hell no." Now get us some cake!
Man: Would you like me to take you on a tour of the buffet? You know, get you better acquainted with "the cake".
TP: You know what, Man? You do not sound dissimilar to my ex-boyfriend.
Man: I beg your pardon?
TP: Yup - he was always telling me, "Get to know your cake a little better, Pant." Said it would help him. I didn't quite get it. When presented with cake, he wasn't afraid to tuck in. Might be the death of him one day, I fear.
TBF: You're talking about baked goods, right?
TP: Huh?
Man: Ooooooookay. Would you follow me.
TP: Let's get this show on the road. This chit-chat is making me ravenous.
By the time he finished walking us around the voluminous offerings, The BF and I were so famished that we'd have settled for a mouldy slice of uncooked pig's liver. Lucky we didn't have to.
And so we began our feast. Cupcakes and three tiered chocolate mousse jizz-in-your-rods radness. The most glorious chilli bites and cheeses I've ever had the pleasure of treating the inside of my mouth to. Vegetarian sushi. Home-made hummus and tiramisalata. Chocolate cake. Chocolate eclairs. Coffee eclairs. Coconut ice. Scones. (Attempt at ladylike belch unsuccessful.). Mini creme brulee. Mini brownies. Sweet potato samoosas. Teeny weeny pita breads. (Did not care regarding ladylikeness at all. Belch audible throughout entire hotel.). One more plate of cheeses. Just two more chilli bites. Okay. Enough. No wait. Just one more creme brulee. Done. Not yet. Must end on a savoury note. Vegetarian pate on mini crustinis with peppadews. Done. Oooo! Forgot to try hazlenut praline do-nuts. Done. Oops. Forgot, must end on savoury note. Salmon sandwich. Done. Wait. Cannot have high tea without cucumber sandwich. Unbelievably royal. Done. Belch. But I haven't had any black forest cake. Or those little shooter glasses filled with a fancy sounding stuff. Bugger.
So after we'd phoned an American company to pimp our ride with steel undercarriage reinforcements, The BF and I rolled to the car.
And while I looked at myself in the mirror before last night's shower and actually said to my reflection, "I am so not getting naked with you," I am happy. Fat but happy.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
How Not To Work.
You know, with all good things in life, must come bad. Like a bottle of wine is a glorious thing. Until it finishes. And your skinny white jeans may rock your entire world to its very core. Until your maid gets hold of them. Because then they become baggy off-cream rods with flecks of dirty grey. And my job, another case in point, is truly a magnificent one. Can I hear you all say, "10 weeks leave a year" please? To which I respond, "Ah, but you forget! My salary! And of course, exams."
We're in the pre-exam space at the moment - kind of like a community of sitting ducks. Except the only way to deal with exam marking (the first wave of which floods my humble abode imminently) is to have all the non-exam stuff marked prior to aforementioned exam marking arrives. Easy, no?
Oh contraire, little ones. Because the pre-exam marking is the tough stuff. And it coincides with the setting of papers and typing and retyping them until your fingers bleed from their individual pads. (I'd always far preferred other methods for rubbing away one's fingertips.) Plus the teaching of young minds cannot cease. Neither can the parenting of small humans. Or the desire to sit around the dinner table with The BF.
In fact, the desire to do all of the above (bar, of course, the marking) increases threefold. The parenting that's been going down in The Liner Household, or Chateaux de Liner as it has been fondly dubbed, has been happening with such fervent commitment, that I've even got The Daughter saying things like, "Mom, let's sit down and communicate" and, "Don't you think candle light in the dark makes such an interesting effect on the walls?" (She also said, as she woke up this morning, "Mom, you're special but I love you very much." I resisted the urge to lean forward and clip her on the ear. I decided, rather, that she just had a bad case of Conjunction Confusion and had intended to say 'and' instead of 'but'. But to make sure, I whipped out the black board and delivered a two hour lesson on appropriate conjunctions and conjuctive phrases this afternoon. She's currently bandying around words like 'notwithstanding' and 'consequently' with the ease of very few adults.)
It's true: I am the Princess of Procrastination. So because I had a small forest in paper to mark the other night, do you know what I did? I invited The BF down. And boy oh boy, did I prolong the visit.
The initiating bbm read: Dinner in 5.
And after she arrived, some three minutes later and began digging in the cutlery drawer for knives and forks, I quipped...
The Pant: What are you doing?
The BF: Getting things ready for dinner.
TP: Why?
TBF: Because you said dinner in 5.
TP: Oh. About that. What I meant was "dinner in an hour and five."
TBF: Oh, okay. Thought it was a little early to eat - I'll just pop back upstairs and finish wh-
TP: Noooooooo! (I dropped to the floor and held tight around her ankles.) Don't leave me!!
TBF: Oh, fuck! You've heard from him again, haven't you?
TP: (confused, but still with her ankles in a vice grip and my nose dangerously close to the opening of her left sheepskin slipper) Who?
TBF: Barry? Has he called? Wait, no - has he emailed?
TP: Who?
TBF: Whatshisface?
TP: Oh, God, no.
TBF: Oooo! Was it Hot Mama's Beef Pot?
TP: Who?
TBF: Sexy Sexy Mindgames.
TP: Yes, but that's not the reason. I mean, we did have a little text conversation but that's not why-
TBF: Don't stop there. I want details. Tell me everything.
The BF was, at this stage, sallivating.
TP: Tea?
So, upon The BF's instruction, we sat down for a quick cup of tea to talk about Sexy Sexy Mindgames, then she'd pop back home, finish what she'd been doing, I'd roll out the pastry and finish off the pie (I know, I've even abbreviated Domestic Goddess to 'DG' when I am required to initial things.). Then she'd come back for dinner and we wouldn't have wine.
The Pant: Please can you get your drill out this weekend - I really want to hang that cross of mine.
The BF: Who's going to do the drilling?
TP: Me.
TBF: No, you're not.
TP: Why?
TBF: Because you're a girl.
TP: Oh, so now I can't drill?
TBF: Yes.
TP: So what am I supposed to do? Wait for Carlos to get back? You know I'm only as committed to hanging this cross as the amount of work I have. And this week I have tons.
TBF: I don't care. You're not drilling.
TP: So who's going to do it for me?
TBF: Um... Sexy Sexy Mindgames?
TP: How can I? Port? (Not wine, therefore no rules broken.)
TBF: Yes please.
(Glug glug glug sip sip sip sip sip.)
TP: What? Am I supposed to phone him and say (miming holding phone - although whoever talks into a pinkie and listens through a thumb is a bit of an arsehole), "Hi Sexy Sexy Mindgames-"
TBF: Make the voice huskier.
TP: (dropping an octave or six) "Would you mind coming over? I've got a wall - it needs drilling."
(Giggle giggle)
TBF: No, say, "Sexy Sexy Mindgames. I really need your help. Please could you pop round and drill-"
TP: Me?
(Giggle giggle giggle)
TBF: Or how about say, "Hi Sexy Sexy Mindgames, my back's against the wall-"
TP: "And I'd like you to be up against me?"
(Giggle giggle giggle.)
Oh, how we killed the 'drill' sexual innuendo. And that bottle of port.
But not the marking.
(And if you must know, the cross remains leaning against the wall. And not a drill in sight.)
We're in the pre-exam space at the moment - kind of like a community of sitting ducks. Except the only way to deal with exam marking (the first wave of which floods my humble abode imminently) is to have all the non-exam stuff marked prior to aforementioned exam marking arrives. Easy, no?
Oh contraire, little ones. Because the pre-exam marking is the tough stuff. And it coincides with the setting of papers and typing and retyping them until your fingers bleed from their individual pads. (I'd always far preferred other methods for rubbing away one's fingertips.) Plus the teaching of young minds cannot cease. Neither can the parenting of small humans. Or the desire to sit around the dinner table with The BF.
In fact, the desire to do all of the above (bar, of course, the marking) increases threefold. The parenting that's been going down in The Liner Household, or Chateaux de Liner as it has been fondly dubbed, has been happening with such fervent commitment, that I've even got The Daughter saying things like, "Mom, let's sit down and communicate" and, "Don't you think candle light in the dark makes such an interesting effect on the walls?" (She also said, as she woke up this morning, "Mom, you're special but I love you very much." I resisted the urge to lean forward and clip her on the ear. I decided, rather, that she just had a bad case of Conjunction Confusion and had intended to say 'and' instead of 'but'. But to make sure, I whipped out the black board and delivered a two hour lesson on appropriate conjunctions and conjuctive phrases this afternoon. She's currently bandying around words like 'notwithstanding' and 'consequently' with the ease of very few adults.)
It's true: I am the Princess of Procrastination. So because I had a small forest in paper to mark the other night, do you know what I did? I invited The BF down. And boy oh boy, did I prolong the visit.
The initiating bbm read: Dinner in 5.
And after she arrived, some three minutes later and began digging in the cutlery drawer for knives and forks, I quipped...
The Pant: What are you doing?
The BF: Getting things ready for dinner.
TP: Why?
TBF: Because you said dinner in 5.
TP: Oh. About that. What I meant was "dinner in an hour and five."
TBF: Oh, okay. Thought it was a little early to eat - I'll just pop back upstairs and finish wh-
TP: Noooooooo! (I dropped to the floor and held tight around her ankles.) Don't leave me!!
TBF: Oh, fuck! You've heard from him again, haven't you?
TP: (confused, but still with her ankles in a vice grip and my nose dangerously close to the opening of her left sheepskin slipper) Who?
TBF: Barry? Has he called? Wait, no - has he emailed?
TP: Who?
TBF: Whatshisface?
TP: Oh, God, no.
TBF: Oooo! Was it Hot Mama's Beef Pot?
TP: Who?
TBF: Sexy Sexy Mindgames.
TP: Yes, but that's not the reason. I mean, we did have a little text conversation but that's not why-
TBF: Don't stop there. I want details. Tell me everything.
The BF was, at this stage, sallivating.
TP: Tea?
So, upon The BF's instruction, we sat down for a quick cup of tea to talk about Sexy Sexy Mindgames, then she'd pop back home, finish what she'd been doing, I'd roll out the pastry and finish off the pie (I know, I've even abbreviated Domestic Goddess to 'DG' when I am required to initial things.). Then she'd come back for dinner and we wouldn't have wine.
The Pant: Please can you get your drill out this weekend - I really want to hang that cross of mine.
The BF: Who's going to do the drilling?
TP: Me.
TBF: No, you're not.
TP: Why?
TBF: Because you're a girl.
TP: Oh, so now I can't drill?
TBF: Yes.
TP: So what am I supposed to do? Wait for Carlos to get back? You know I'm only as committed to hanging this cross as the amount of work I have. And this week I have tons.
TBF: I don't care. You're not drilling.
TP: So who's going to do it for me?
TBF: Um... Sexy Sexy Mindgames?
TP: How can I? Port? (Not wine, therefore no rules broken.)
TBF: Yes please.
(Glug glug glug sip sip sip sip sip.)
TP: What? Am I supposed to phone him and say (miming holding phone - although whoever talks into a pinkie and listens through a thumb is a bit of an arsehole), "Hi Sexy Sexy Mindgames-"
TBF: Make the voice huskier.
TP: (dropping an octave or six) "Would you mind coming over? I've got a wall - it needs drilling."
(Giggle giggle)
TBF: No, say, "Sexy Sexy Mindgames. I really need your help. Please could you pop round and drill-"
TP: Me?
(Giggle giggle giggle)
TBF: Or how about say, "Hi Sexy Sexy Mindgames, my back's against the wall-"
TP: "And I'd like you to be up against me?"
(Giggle giggle giggle.)
Oh, how we killed the 'drill' sexual innuendo. And that bottle of port.
But not the marking.
(And if you must know, the cross remains leaning against the wall. And not a drill in sight.)
Dear God, Much Love And Thanks, The Pant.
I've been a complaining sodding whore for the last couple of days, have I not? And so, in an attempt to redeem myself from whenst you have shelved my whingey self, I have decided to have an upbeat banter today. In prayer form. Sometimes we ought to be thankful, I feel.
So, here goes...
Dear God,
While I was a little upset with You about the creation of the bus the other day, I realised that perhaps You had not intended real humans to travel therein, and so I am thankful to You for buses, particularly because, as a result of this particular creation, You have housed my internet imposter gran (GrannyPants) and her digitally challenged husband. But could You kindly put warnings on buses as You continue to create interesting hippie homes, that humans should not, in fact, go inside them whilst they are attempting to move through streets. I'd be awfully thankful if You could.
And thanks must go to You for Your invention of the padded bra. That was a real cracker - well done. And I'm most impressed by this creation because they are a two-fold life-saver. On/in the one hand, they certainly do save a flat-chested Mary, like me, a particular amount of face. Of course, when the bra comes off, the viewer of the wares within the bra might gasp something along the lines of, "What the? Are you a? Where'd they go?" But I'm okay with that. You know I prefer them when they're drunk anyway. Or at least I keep telling myself that. So cheers for the instant extra two cups. They go a long way. (PS Could You start making wine bottles the same way? Like each bottle comes with an extra two glasses. You of all, um, people? - well, you were once a person - deities?, yup, deities should know how much I like an extra tipple or two. So I'll be expecting that on the shelves next time I hit the bottle store, right?)
But also, Your creation there has saved my face more times than I'd like to admit. You know, what with Your decision to turn summer off, I'm left with a nipeel speel so intense that I've carved holes in most of my sleeping tops. I'm thankful for the small nipples that You gave me, but You know, I've learned to handle the bad with the good, and my nipple stand is something like smuggling a collection of needles. Let's just say, that when the temperature drops below 30, my nipples get straight to the point. But You made the padded bra, God, and so now, when I remember to wear a bra, people right up in my face won't be able to check the temperature off my chest. Good one.
Also, a huge kudos to You on choosing Durban as my hometown. Although I whinge every morning when I step out of bed something in manner of, "Colder than a witch's teet. It's effing unbearable. It must be sub-20!" I know that You chose Durban for me, because there are no other places in South Africa where I can tan mid-winter. You rock. Seriously.
Also, God, thanks muchly for taking Larry away from me. In the olden days of puffy eyes and anti-depressants, I was probably praying something in the vein of, "Pleeeeeease (sob sob) give him baaaaack!" but I've come to see Your logic in that decision. Fine logic it was too. You know I remember the winter that I spent in Jo'burg being his house bitch (well, of course You do, You know everything so You know what's in my mind), well the lack of warmth there really did render me a nasty person. And as a result of Your decision to set us on different paths, I no longer have to consider enduring another Jo'burg winter. So, God, I have finally come to see Your light. Give Larry to a girl who can handle the cold. Send me a hotter man (please) both in his preference for temperature and in looks. Thanks.
While we're on the subject of Larry, God, I must just request that You stop sending him to me in brief dreams, like You did last night. But I thank You for keeping me chaste in said dream. At least this morning, I woke up without any Catholic guilt. Or send me those dreams, but could You replace Larry's face with New Sexy Sexy Man who seems to be playing Sexy Sexy Mindgames with my head? You already sent me his body.
And as always, thank You for The Daughter. And for her profound change in me. And for The Father, The Incubator, The Husband, The Brother, The Sil, The Nephew, The Niece, The BF, Carlos and My Future Ex Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh. And keep them safe. Please.
Much love to You, God. You really do rock.
The Pant.
So, here goes...
Dear God,
While I was a little upset with You about the creation of the bus the other day, I realised that perhaps You had not intended real humans to travel therein, and so I am thankful to You for buses, particularly because, as a result of this particular creation, You have housed my internet imposter gran (GrannyPants) and her digitally challenged husband. But could You kindly put warnings on buses as You continue to create interesting hippie homes, that humans should not, in fact, go inside them whilst they are attempting to move through streets. I'd be awfully thankful if You could.
And thanks must go to You for Your invention of the padded bra. That was a real cracker - well done. And I'm most impressed by this creation because they are a two-fold life-saver. On/in the one hand, they certainly do save a flat-chested Mary, like me, a particular amount of face. Of course, when the bra comes off, the viewer of the wares within the bra might gasp something along the lines of, "What the? Are you a? Where'd they go?" But I'm okay with that. You know I prefer them when they're drunk anyway. Or at least I keep telling myself that. So cheers for the instant extra two cups. They go a long way. (PS Could You start making wine bottles the same way? Like each bottle comes with an extra two glasses. You of all, um, people? - well, you were once a person - deities?, yup, deities should know how much I like an extra tipple or two. So I'll be expecting that on the shelves next time I hit the bottle store, right?)
But also, Your creation there has saved my face more times than I'd like to admit. You know, what with Your decision to turn summer off, I'm left with a nipeel speel so intense that I've carved holes in most of my sleeping tops. I'm thankful for the small nipples that You gave me, but You know, I've learned to handle the bad with the good, and my nipple stand is something like smuggling a collection of needles. Let's just say, that when the temperature drops below 30, my nipples get straight to the point. But You made the padded bra, God, and so now, when I remember to wear a bra, people right up in my face won't be able to check the temperature off my chest. Good one.
Also, a huge kudos to You on choosing Durban as my hometown. Although I whinge every morning when I step out of bed something in manner of, "Colder than a witch's teet. It's effing unbearable. It must be sub-20!" I know that You chose Durban for me, because there are no other places in South Africa where I can tan mid-winter. You rock. Seriously.
Also, God, thanks muchly for taking Larry away from me. In the olden days of puffy eyes and anti-depressants, I was probably praying something in the vein of, "Pleeeeeease (sob sob) give him baaaaack!" but I've come to see Your logic in that decision. Fine logic it was too. You know I remember the winter that I spent in Jo'burg being his house bitch (well, of course You do, You know everything so You know what's in my mind), well the lack of warmth there really did render me a nasty person. And as a result of Your decision to set us on different paths, I no longer have to consider enduring another Jo'burg winter. So, God, I have finally come to see Your light. Give Larry to a girl who can handle the cold. Send me a hotter man (please) both in his preference for temperature and in looks. Thanks.
While we're on the subject of Larry, God, I must just request that You stop sending him to me in brief dreams, like You did last night. But I thank You for keeping me chaste in said dream. At least this morning, I woke up without any Catholic guilt. Or send me those dreams, but could You replace Larry's face with New Sexy Sexy Man who seems to be playing Sexy Sexy Mindgames with my head? You already sent me his body.
And as always, thank You for The Daughter. And for her profound change in me. And for The Father, The Incubator, The Husband, The Brother, The Sil, The Nephew, The Niece, The BF, Carlos and My Future Ex Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh. And keep them safe. Please.
Much love to You, God. You really do rock.
The Pant.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Where Words Will Not Suffice.
Sometimes, although I find this happens seldom, I have to admit that words alone are unable to aptly express certain events or sights. Oh yes. Sometimes only a picture will suffice. Or several pictures, as it happens.
So yesterday I found myself accompanying a bunch of teens on a sporting outing. We rode there by bus - the large kind - and without thinking, I chose the front seat that looks directly out of the wide-view windscreen. Error. Of gravest proportion. Look, I don't want to get into details, but it's fair to say that my rectum was contracting with such vigour and out of such fear that when I alit, there were definite munch marks in the seat.
But it is the destination to where we travelled that had me gaping at the mouth.
Upon arrival this sign was proudly on display:
For those of you who are lacking in the Afrikaans language, the sign reads "Your One Stop School". And I have just a wee problem with this sign. What is the target audience of said advertisement? Is it parents of children of the school-going age? Because, if so, I would hasten to think that anyone would consider an establishment of education based on its convenience.
The sights that greeted my as I ventured into said school, had me reeling. At one stage, I clutched onto a banister with with hand around throat. It was because of this:
Now I am most sensitive when it comes to a) bad hair days and b) difficult hair. My own hair a case in point. But this, I fear, is tantamount to child abuse. Surely the parents of said child should not be allowed to bludgeon their child's hair with garden shears regardless of how much they dislike her? It's criminal, is what it is. There are unsuspecting public outside of the house, people. Please.
If that was not bad enough, I found myself on the side of a field, just slightly behind this number:
Can you understand why I was confused as to whether I was actually in South African and not in a Walmart in the deepest south. That is a man in his wife/girlfriend/sister's shirt. In public!
After sending said photographs to The BF, the following interchange of texts ensued:
The BF: Is that male or female?
The Pant: To be honest I'm not entirely sure.
TBF: Mother trucker.
TP: Pal, this is a real experience.
TBF: That's no lie.
TP: I'm worried that my child (who was with me) might absorb this trashiness by osmosis.
TBF: Don't let her breathe.
And so she didn't breathe. And I've decided to start saving. The Daughter is going to the same school Kate Middleton went to. Finish and klaar.
So yesterday I found myself accompanying a bunch of teens on a sporting outing. We rode there by bus - the large kind - and without thinking, I chose the front seat that looks directly out of the wide-view windscreen. Error. Of gravest proportion. Look, I don't want to get into details, but it's fair to say that my rectum was contracting with such vigour and out of such fear that when I alit, there were definite munch marks in the seat.
But it is the destination to where we travelled that had me gaping at the mouth.
Upon arrival this sign was proudly on display:
The sights that greeted my as I ventured into said school, had me reeling. At one stage, I clutched onto a banister with with hand around throat. It was because of this:
If that was not bad enough, I found myself on the side of a field, just slightly behind this number:
After sending said photographs to The BF, the following interchange of texts ensued:
The BF: Is that male or female?
The Pant: To be honest I'm not entirely sure.
TBF: Mother trucker.
TP: Pal, this is a real experience.
TBF: That's no lie.
TP: I'm worried that my child (who was with me) might absorb this trashiness by osmosis.
TBF: Don't let her breathe.
And so she didn't breathe. And I've decided to start saving. The Daughter is going to the same school Kate Middleton went to. Finish and klaar.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Turning 20. Again.
The best thing about ageing, is sharing your celebrations with people who totally rock your world. Which is what I did yesterday. I'd originally planned a dinner with friends - but upon the realisation that things may turn a touch messy, I cancelled said plans and chose to spend my birthday with The Daughter. She rocks my world, you see, to its very core.
For her, birthday celebrations work in a systematic structure and if this structure is ignored, then birthdays are not complete celebrations at all.
Step One: Shopping
The Incubator took her to Woolies to pick out a few gifts for me. It has since been reported that The Incubator had to fight with steely determination to avoid the purchase of some questionable items. You see, I don't own any purple garments or, really, items at all. And that is simply because I really don't like the colour purple. I like The Color Purple but the colour purple, not so much. And so these were the items she wanted me to have for my birthday:
1) Purple satin bra and granny panties set.
2) Purple brushed nylon pyjamas
3) Lime green nail polish and matching eye shadow
4) At least four different dressing gowns in varying shades of purple.
5) A purple pencil skirt.
6) Bright purple cushions for my lounge.
How The Incubator managed to make it out of the shop with non-purple really nice items, I am dumbfounded. I fear, though, that this year may mark the last in which I receive items of my liking. I suspect that by next year things may be a little different.
Step Two: The Wrapping Process
We spent the night with my Parental Unit prior to the ageing day. I do this because The Daughter is too young to make tea on her own and it is of vital importance that one is woken up with "Happy Birthday to you", presents and tea in bed. But also, so I don't have to do the wrapping of my own presents. It kind of takes the surprise out of the whole gift receiving thing, does wrapping your own presents.
So The Daughter, The Incubator and The Father disappeared into the parental unit's bedroom on Tuesday evening, armed with packets of things, wrapping paper, sticky tape and far too many ribbons. And since I am still not an adult, I tried to leopard crawl down the passage to catch sight of my gifts.
The Pant: I'm not going to look. I just need to borrow granny's slippers. My feet are freezing.
The Daughter: Not a chance, Mommy. Get out! You can't see your presents because I've already wrapped the perfume so you won't be able to see it so you won't know what it is.
Step Three: The Gift Handover Session
We have a tradition in the Liner household. Once the house is awake, which on birthdays is usually at about 5 am, the birthday girl/boy gets to climb into the marital bed, and the rest of the family goes to the other end of the house to collect presents, make tea, form an orderly queue and proceed down the passage blaring "Happy Birthday".
The only problem yesterday, was that The Daughter had hidden the gifts so well that she, and the parental unit, and in the end, I too, were unable to find the gifts. After 25 minutes of turning the house upside down and The Incubator mentally ticking off gifts as they were recovered, it appeared that all the gifts were ready to be opened.
I climbed back into bed, and the procession made its way down the passage.
Step Four: The Gift Opening Session
The Daughter: Okay, Mommy. This one is pink body wash that I chose.
As I took the present into my hands to begin opening it, it was ripped from my grip and she began tearing at the paper.
The Daughter: Look! I told you it was pink body wash.
The Pant: That's lovely. Thanks my darling. That's very kind of you.
The Daughter: I know. And this one is perfume.
(she was right. After she opened it, it was perfume. On this score, it must be mentioned that The Incubator is a truly fabulous woman. This perfume, which is my most favourite, is almost impossible to find. But she tracked down the very last bottle from Dallas. Go The Incubator. You're all kinds of rad.)
TD: And this one is a grey jersey.
(She was right.)
TP: Oh wow! Thanks my darling. I love that.
Within ten minutes, she had opened all my presents, but had told me what they were before. And she was mighty chuffed. She tried on the very special bra she'd chosen - one that promises to instantly add two cup sizes (was she trying to tell me something) - which she then declared a dud since it didn't fit her snug.
Step Five: The Luncheon
I don't know how this happened. But I invited a good mix of people for lunch at the parental's - and I ended up cooking. Such was my birthday busy that I forgot to put a face on and by the time I remembered, my hands were covered in egg & flour from dipping brinjal pre-creation of the famous brinjal parmegianos that it was just too late.
But I also got to spend my day with The Brother. (Who, upon arrival, told me we don't hug but he could bump my side to show an acknowledgement of the fact that it was my birthday.) And The Daughter's BF & her parents (who are seriously the most amazing people in the world. We've just spent a glorious five days away with them over Easter and I have to tell you, that it was, by far, the best beach holiday I've had in years. The Daughter and I have the tans to prove it.)
And what would a birthday be without My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Touch My Inner Thigh? Apart from having the skill to make me feel like the most wonderful woman on the face on this earth, he sure does know how to thrill a girl.
This is the card I received from him:
He knows me so well, because the message inside the card reads:
For her, birthday celebrations work in a systematic structure and if this structure is ignored, then birthdays are not complete celebrations at all.
Step One: Shopping
The Incubator took her to Woolies to pick out a few gifts for me. It has since been reported that The Incubator had to fight with steely determination to avoid the purchase of some questionable items. You see, I don't own any purple garments or, really, items at all. And that is simply because I really don't like the colour purple. I like The Color Purple but the colour purple, not so much. And so these were the items she wanted me to have for my birthday:
1) Purple satin bra and granny panties set.
2) Purple brushed nylon pyjamas
3) Lime green nail polish and matching eye shadow
4) At least four different dressing gowns in varying shades of purple.
5) A purple pencil skirt.
6) Bright purple cushions for my lounge.
How The Incubator managed to make it out of the shop with non-purple really nice items, I am dumbfounded. I fear, though, that this year may mark the last in which I receive items of my liking. I suspect that by next year things may be a little different.
Step Two: The Wrapping Process
We spent the night with my Parental Unit prior to the ageing day. I do this because The Daughter is too young to make tea on her own and it is of vital importance that one is woken up with "Happy Birthday to you", presents and tea in bed. But also, so I don't have to do the wrapping of my own presents. It kind of takes the surprise out of the whole gift receiving thing, does wrapping your own presents.
So The Daughter, The Incubator and The Father disappeared into the parental unit's bedroom on Tuesday evening, armed with packets of things, wrapping paper, sticky tape and far too many ribbons. And since I am still not an adult, I tried to leopard crawl down the passage to catch sight of my gifts.
The Pant: I'm not going to look. I just need to borrow granny's slippers. My feet are freezing.
The Daughter: Not a chance, Mommy. Get out! You can't see your presents because I've already wrapped the perfume so you won't be able to see it so you won't know what it is.
Step Three: The Gift Handover Session
We have a tradition in the Liner household. Once the house is awake, which on birthdays is usually at about 5 am, the birthday girl/boy gets to climb into the marital bed, and the rest of the family goes to the other end of the house to collect presents, make tea, form an orderly queue and proceed down the passage blaring "Happy Birthday".
The only problem yesterday, was that The Daughter had hidden the gifts so well that she, and the parental unit, and in the end, I too, were unable to find the gifts. After 25 minutes of turning the house upside down and The Incubator mentally ticking off gifts as they were recovered, it appeared that all the gifts were ready to be opened.
I climbed back into bed, and the procession made its way down the passage.
Step Four: The Gift Opening Session
The Daughter: Okay, Mommy. This one is pink body wash that I chose.
As I took the present into my hands to begin opening it, it was ripped from my grip and she began tearing at the paper.
The Daughter: Look! I told you it was pink body wash.
The Pant: That's lovely. Thanks my darling. That's very kind of you.
The Daughter: I know. And this one is perfume.
(she was right. After she opened it, it was perfume. On this score, it must be mentioned that The Incubator is a truly fabulous woman. This perfume, which is my most favourite, is almost impossible to find. But she tracked down the very last bottle from Dallas. Go The Incubator. You're all kinds of rad.)
TD: And this one is a grey jersey.
(She was right.)
TP: Oh wow! Thanks my darling. I love that.
Within ten minutes, she had opened all my presents, but had told me what they were before. And she was mighty chuffed. She tried on the very special bra she'd chosen - one that promises to instantly add two cup sizes (was she trying to tell me something) - which she then declared a dud since it didn't fit her snug.
Step Five: The Luncheon
I don't know how this happened. But I invited a good mix of people for lunch at the parental's - and I ended up cooking. Such was my birthday busy that I forgot to put a face on and by the time I remembered, my hands were covered in egg & flour from dipping brinjal pre-creation of the famous brinjal parmegianos that it was just too late.
But I also got to spend my day with The Brother. (Who, upon arrival, told me we don't hug but he could bump my side to show an acknowledgement of the fact that it was my birthday.) And The Daughter's BF & her parents (who are seriously the most amazing people in the world. We've just spent a glorious five days away with them over Easter and I have to tell you, that it was, by far, the best beach holiday I've had in years. The Daughter and I have the tans to prove it.)
And what would a birthday be without My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Touch My Inner Thigh? Apart from having the skill to make me feel like the most wonderful woman on the face on this earth, he sure does know how to thrill a girl.
This is the card I received from him:
He knows me so well, because the message inside the card reads:
Sure, birthdays are a drag.
But honey, at least you're still smokin'!
Ah, bless his cotton socks.
And just to complete the radness of birthday love, I'm dining with The BF, my people tonight. (Roast chick and veggies, if you're reading, please).
My life is full of such lovely people, that I don't even mind getting older. In fact, I welcome this 20th birthday with open arms. Again.
Friday, April 15, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
That Bloody Effing Cork Screw.
Wednesdays are my late days. And so, when I arrived home I had as much personality as a white wall. We went directly to The BF's place upon arrival - we were hungry, you see and it's her cooking week.
The Pant: Hiiiii pal!
The BF: How are you pally?
We were both exhausted so sat slumped over the dining room table, trying to feed The Daughter, waiting for Carlos to return from Jo'burg so we, too, could eat while complaining about our current states of being.
The Pant: It's ridiculous - look how much weight I've put on.
The BF: Me too. Check my stomach. It actually protudes. The other day I was driving and I had an entire roll that went over the seat belt. (Anyone who knows my BF knows that she makes Kate Moss look like she could do with a little bit of trimming down).
TP: And acne. I look like I've just turned 13.
TBF: Don't talk to me about acne, pal. I feel so gross. I feel like I need to exfoliate my entire body right now.
I think if you were an average person, and you saw us, you would think that we were those kinds of chicks that are like, "I'm so fat, nobody likes me...", but we're not. Well,maybe yesterday we were a little like that.
TP: K. It's time to stop complaining. We need to eat healthy. Stop drinking wine. Exercise everyday. And drink at least 2 litres of water a day.
TBF: But it's so boring. And besides, my drawer at work is full of treats and I'm not going to be able to resist them. So until they're finished, I'm not going to be healthy.
TP: You make a good point. Can we have some wine then?
She tottered off to the kitchen to pour wine, while I continued on the quest to fill The Daughter with nutritious food.
The BF: Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k!
TP: Pal! The Daughter can hear you. Say 'fork' instead.
TBF: Sorry The Daughter. Foooooooooooork!
TP: What's wrong?
TBF: The bottle opener broke. In the wine.
TP: Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k!
TBF: Pal! The Daughter can hear you. Say 'fork' instead.
TP: Sorry The Daughter. But block you ears because this is an adult emergency. Foooooooooork!
We spent a good twenty minutes trying to get the effing cork out the effing bottle. I was all for smashing the neck against the sink and breaking it off, then dropping two straws in. Why is it, when you can't have something, you want it even more?
TP: Okay, you hold the bottle, and I'll get pliers and try and pull.
TBF: No wait. I need a cloth. Hold on. Wait, it keeps slipping. Let's go and ask the neighbours if they have a corkscrew, to screw in on top of the corkscrew and then try and get it out?
TP: They're muslims, pal. I don't think they'll have a corkscrew.
TBF: Hmmmm.... what are we going to do? Maybe I should phone Carlos and tell him to pick up a screw-top bottle on his way.
TP: I've got it! I live downstairs. I've got a bottle opener.
And so, with much dexterity of the bottle opener, the cork oozed out and The BF and I were able to tuck into the wine. And we did so with such vigour that when we had our little ballet lesson from The Daughter, we were not very good students.
She takes her teaching of ballet quite seriously and calls us by our first names when we're in her lessons. We have to call her Miss Liner, to "show her some respect".
The Daughter: Pant. Stand straight. Your back is slouching. Good girl. BF, point your toes properly. Not like that. Look at me. That's better. Now, point to the side, put your heel down. Point to the side, half way in front.
The BF and I were pretty crap at ballet. It's not our old age that has caused the atrophication of muscles that disallowed us to remain balanced at all times. I blame the effing corkscrew. If it had just not broken, then we only would have had one glass.
Well, that's what I keep telling myself anyway.
In other news: The Smelly Cat has touched down in Jo'burg. My excitement is tangible.
The Pant: Hiiiii pal!
The BF: How are you pally?
We were both exhausted so sat slumped over the dining room table, trying to feed The Daughter, waiting for Carlos to return from Jo'burg so we, too, could eat while complaining about our current states of being.
The Pant: It's ridiculous - look how much weight I've put on.
The BF: Me too. Check my stomach. It actually protudes. The other day I was driving and I had an entire roll that went over the seat belt. (Anyone who knows my BF knows that she makes Kate Moss look like she could do with a little bit of trimming down).
TP: And acne. I look like I've just turned 13.
TBF: Don't talk to me about acne, pal. I feel so gross. I feel like I need to exfoliate my entire body right now.
I think if you were an average person, and you saw us, you would think that we were those kinds of chicks that are like, "I'm so fat, nobody likes me...", but we're not. Well,maybe yesterday we were a little like that.
TP: K. It's time to stop complaining. We need to eat healthy. Stop drinking wine. Exercise everyday. And drink at least 2 litres of water a day.
TBF: But it's so boring. And besides, my drawer at work is full of treats and I'm not going to be able to resist them. So until they're finished, I'm not going to be healthy.
TP: You make a good point. Can we have some wine then?
She tottered off to the kitchen to pour wine, while I continued on the quest to fill The Daughter with nutritious food.
The BF: Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k!
TP: Pal! The Daughter can hear you. Say 'fork' instead.
TBF: Sorry The Daughter. Foooooooooooork!
TP: What's wrong?
TBF: The bottle opener broke. In the wine.
TP: Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k!
TBF: Pal! The Daughter can hear you. Say 'fork' instead.
TP: Sorry The Daughter. But block you ears because this is an adult emergency. Foooooooooork!
We spent a good twenty minutes trying to get the effing cork out the effing bottle. I was all for smashing the neck against the sink and breaking it off, then dropping two straws in. Why is it, when you can't have something, you want it even more?
TP: Okay, you hold the bottle, and I'll get pliers and try and pull.
TBF: No wait. I need a cloth. Hold on. Wait, it keeps slipping. Let's go and ask the neighbours if they have a corkscrew, to screw in on top of the corkscrew and then try and get it out?
TP: They're muslims, pal. I don't think they'll have a corkscrew.
TBF: Hmmmm.... what are we going to do? Maybe I should phone Carlos and tell him to pick up a screw-top bottle on his way.
TP: I've got it! I live downstairs. I've got a bottle opener.
And so, with much dexterity of the bottle opener, the cork oozed out and The BF and I were able to tuck into the wine. And we did so with such vigour that when we had our little ballet lesson from The Daughter, we were not very good students.
She takes her teaching of ballet quite seriously and calls us by our first names when we're in her lessons. We have to call her Miss Liner, to "show her some respect".
The Daughter: Pant. Stand straight. Your back is slouching. Good girl. BF, point your toes properly. Not like that. Look at me. That's better. Now, point to the side, put your heel down. Point to the side, half way in front.
The BF and I were pretty crap at ballet. It's not our old age that has caused the atrophication of muscles that disallowed us to remain balanced at all times. I blame the effing corkscrew. If it had just not broken, then we only would have had one glass.
Well, that's what I keep telling myself anyway.
In other news: The Smelly Cat has touched down in Jo'burg. My excitement is tangible.
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