I like going to 'the ballet' (to be said by projecting voice through the top set of the teeth, with one's head tilted slightly up, whilst looking down on commoners) for three reasons:
1) It's an excellent reason to get tarted up as though one is going on a date, without having to actually go on a date (because going on dates often means spending the evening with turds who have more than likely not passed primary school);
2) It's really quite pretty. Those chicks are amazing. Seriously. And if, I'm to be entirely honest with you, I did find myself having totally inappropriate thoughts about doing my own kind of pirouette with some of those male dancers, naked; and
3) I get to hang out with some gay love.
I have a knack, you see, of picking up a little bit of gay fluff wherever I go. (I think I was born in the wrong body, to be honest. Apart from the fact that I - unlike many women - really like my body (well, today anyway), I think I would suit being gay, and male. At least then My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh may, in fact, want to caress it. With his tongue.) And let me tell you something, it's chicks and Marys at the ballet. And straight guys who've cheated on their wives/girlfriends and paying big time for the crime.
In fact, within three minutes of arrival, had I no sooner acquired a gin (little big bottles of - such fun), was I whispering into Dear Gay's ear...
The Pant: You naughty, naughty boy. How dare you wear a tie to a function of this nature?
Dear Gay: Why? You said I should shave... I just thought I ought to look the part. And look at you in that beautiful little (and he meant little) frock, you foxy minx-
TP: Ooooo. Say it again.
DG: Little frock?
TP: No. The other bit.
DG: Look at you.
TP: Look at you? No. The other bit.
DG: Foxy minx?
TP: Well, yes. But it's kind of lost its impotus.
DG: So what's wrong with my tie?
TP: You obviously don't know what I do to naughty little boys who wear ties. Let's just say I hold the tie in a vice grip.
DG: **blush** **fumble** **realise that, in fact, is not at all aroused by said image** **laugh like drain at my inappropriate behaviour.
The thing with ballet that does get me, though is a previous conversation I'd had with The Brother. I was laughing at him - I think at this stage he was one of those whipped husbands who was forced to appreciate the arts with his (hussy, charlatan) wife. He missed a very important rugby match for an outing to the ballet because "rugby is for the intelligentless masses". (The witch also believed that my - or anyone's - avid consumption of tomato sauce was indicative of one's belonging to "the lower class". I suffered my addiction to the righteous redness in silence. It was only when I learnt, some years after her departure from the family, through Malcolm Gladwell's literature that tomato sauce is the most complex, yet perfectly balanced flavour on earth - in fact, it's the only perflectly balanced flavour in the world. Low class, hmmmmmmm?)
The Pant: How was the ballet?
The Brother: Not too bad, actually.
TP: Who are you and what have you done with my brother?
TB: Well, it's kind of like porn for rich people. I haven't seen so much minge and cock in my life before.
I took The Brother's unsavoury description of the ballet as evidence of the fact that you can take the pleb out of the gutter but never the gutter out of the pleb. Until I witnessed it first hand.
Don' get me wrong: I am actually one of those people who truly delights in the art of ballet. But I did feel a little uncomfortable in a few of the scenes on Wednesday evening. Particularly the one where the prima ballerina lifts her leg back, over her head, revealing her Russian McMuffin, and The Evil Genius the spends a good five minutes swivelling her aroud, ensuring that all audience members get a good look. I blushed such a deep scarlet that I think I may have lit up, illuminating the man in a lace shirt beside me.
My enjoyment of ballet may be permanently hindered. And The Daughter's dabbling in the dance may just about be over.
Showing posts with label ballet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ballet. Show all posts
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Pant-Flu.
The outside world is protected from my inner-bitch by a fairly durable elastic-band-type resistance thingy that when too much pressure is applied, snaps. It usually takes quite a bit of pushing and prodding - and usually more than one source is required to see said resistance snap, but, yesterday meek little manager at Large Toiletry Selling Shop did it.
I woke with a sinus headache so intense I'd have used a chainsaw to remove offending head parts if I'd had one handy. Said headache was not made more pleasant by a) actual drilling of worker men in house, b) The Daughter's desire to turn day into musical in very high pitch or c) the inability to give up on day and return to bed in darkened room to bond with eyelids as though they were long lost childhood friends.
Instead, The Daughter had ballet (for which I had to hand-sew securing elastic onto 'character shoes'). Plus I had arranged coffee date with newly pregnant Mom of Ballet Friend during which she gushed for three quarters of an hour over cervixes, dilation, labour pains, cracked nipples and incontinence. While I ordinarily would have coped with such speak, on this day it served to heighten my growing feeling of nausea while reminding me of my very own barrenness. Brilliant.
But then. It happened. I ducked into Large Toiletry Selling Shop after a quick once around Over-Priced Children's Clothing Store.
The Daughter: Please can we go to Over-Priced Children's Clothing Store?
The Pant: Yes. But listen very carefully to me: I am not buying anything in there, okay?
After a quick once over, and the realisation that my outside-the-shop-door sentiments belonged to a much stronger-willed woman, we headed to the check-out.
The Pant: I'm going to give you my card, just ring it through, I do not want to know how much I've spent.
Check-out Girl: Don't worry - I get that a lot. No problem.
Check-out Girl was one of those very young un-wrinkled types, with false eyelashes, too much make-up and pictures of ballet shoes on her shirt and earrings. I, comparatively, looked like I felt - one with progressed raging man-flu, a few degrees short of full-blown pneumonia, with swollen cracked lips, red glassy eyes and an outfit I did not remember dressing myself in.
COG: I'm just going to put everything in this packet that says 'sale' on it even though nothing's on sale because it's the biggest bag we've got. (Flutter false eyelashes, fake smile, crack orange-hued base.)
TP: (under breath) whore.
And then Large Toiletry Selling Shop happened. The Daughter needed mousse for ballet because, to be entirely honest, I'd used gel that morning, and by the time she emerged from her two-hour dance class, it looked like I'd used the expulsion from boyfriend/girlfriend (or boyfriend/boyfriend, but not girlfriend/girlfriend) interactions to slick her hair back - the sight of which not only made me gag, but one which would not, I felt, go down well with other ballet mums.
Large Toiletry Selling Shop, like Overpriced Children's Clothing Store, is one of those shops that one walks into with the intention of buying one thing and exits with two very expensive packets. But I had need for mousse, and was fairly swift in selecting a well-priced (R22,96) fancy-looking mousse - strong-hold too. So I waited in the god-awful long queue and was eventually met by what could have been a tranny it had so much blue eyeshadow on and, again, false eyelashes so long I had to step back to prevent said eyelashes from wiping thick streaks of cheap mascara over my own face.
Tranny: That'll be R45.95, Ma'am.
(I was, as I'm sure you can gather, not in the finest mood - the veins in my forehead were throbbing like a stubbed toe.)
The Pant: No, lovey (could I have been more condescending?). It'll be R22.96
Tranny: Huh?
TP: On the shelf it says R22.96, so that is what I'll be paying.
Tranny: WONDER!
TP: I beg your pardon, young ... person?
Tranny: I'm calling the manager.
TP: Ah, very sophisticated in-store communication system you've got going here.
Tranny: WONDER!
TP: Lovey, if you scream a little louder, I'm sure you will succeed in causing my head to explode all over your till.
Other Worker Person: HE'S ON TEA, HILDA!
Hilda (it seems): He's on tea.
TP: I got that. Could you get him off tea, please.
Hilda: TELL HIM I NEED HIM, REGINA.
Regina: FIVE MINUTES, HILDA. JUST TELL LADY TO WAIT.
Hilda and I waited those five minutes in a state of stare-down, while other customers in growing queue stared at my back with bladed stare.
Wonder: What's the problem, Hilda?
I interjected, and explained the situation to Wonder over-pronouncing words like 'you' and 'your store'. After the small little weedy man met my situation with a, "Sorry, Ma'am, there's nothing I can do. I'm just the hair products aisle manager and the store manager is on lunch," I think I exploded.
The Pant: Well, Wonder, what I suggest you do with said can of mousse, is stick it directly in your rectum. And spend the rest of your ineffective day wandering like an ice-cream on a stick.
Then I turned on my heel, and minced on out of there.
Pant-flu: a fate worse than man-flu.
I woke with a sinus headache so intense I'd have used a chainsaw to remove offending head parts if I'd had one handy. Said headache was not made more pleasant by a) actual drilling of worker men in house, b) The Daughter's desire to turn day into musical in very high pitch or c) the inability to give up on day and return to bed in darkened room to bond with eyelids as though they were long lost childhood friends.
Instead, The Daughter had ballet (for which I had to hand-sew securing elastic onto 'character shoes'). Plus I had arranged coffee date with newly pregnant Mom of Ballet Friend during which she gushed for three quarters of an hour over cervixes, dilation, labour pains, cracked nipples and incontinence. While I ordinarily would have coped with such speak, on this day it served to heighten my growing feeling of nausea while reminding me of my very own barrenness. Brilliant.
But then. It happened. I ducked into Large Toiletry Selling Shop after a quick once around Over-Priced Children's Clothing Store.
The Daughter: Please can we go to Over-Priced Children's Clothing Store?
The Pant: Yes. But listen very carefully to me: I am not buying anything in there, okay?
After a quick once over, and the realisation that my outside-the-shop-door sentiments belonged to a much stronger-willed woman, we headed to the check-out.
The Pant: I'm going to give you my card, just ring it through, I do not want to know how much I've spent.
Check-out Girl: Don't worry - I get that a lot. No problem.
Check-out Girl was one of those very young un-wrinkled types, with false eyelashes, too much make-up and pictures of ballet shoes on her shirt and earrings. I, comparatively, looked like I felt - one with progressed raging man-flu, a few degrees short of full-blown pneumonia, with swollen cracked lips, red glassy eyes and an outfit I did not remember dressing myself in.
COG: I'm just going to put everything in this packet that says 'sale' on it even though nothing's on sale because it's the biggest bag we've got. (Flutter false eyelashes, fake smile, crack orange-hued base.)
TP: (under breath) whore.
And then Large Toiletry Selling Shop happened. The Daughter needed mousse for ballet because, to be entirely honest, I'd used gel that morning, and by the time she emerged from her two-hour dance class, it looked like I'd used the expulsion from boyfriend/girlfriend (or boyfriend/boyfriend, but not girlfriend/girlfriend) interactions to slick her hair back - the sight of which not only made me gag, but one which would not, I felt, go down well with other ballet mums.
Large Toiletry Selling Shop, like Overpriced Children's Clothing Store, is one of those shops that one walks into with the intention of buying one thing and exits with two very expensive packets. But I had need for mousse, and was fairly swift in selecting a well-priced (R22,96) fancy-looking mousse - strong-hold too. So I waited in the god-awful long queue and was eventually met by what could have been a tranny it had so much blue eyeshadow on and, again, false eyelashes so long I had to step back to prevent said eyelashes from wiping thick streaks of cheap mascara over my own face.
Tranny: That'll be R45.95, Ma'am.
(I was, as I'm sure you can gather, not in the finest mood - the veins in my forehead were throbbing like a stubbed toe.)
The Pant: No, lovey (could I have been more condescending?). It'll be R22.96
Tranny: Huh?
TP: On the shelf it says R22.96, so that is what I'll be paying.
Tranny: WONDER!
TP: I beg your pardon, young ... person?
Tranny: I'm calling the manager.
TP: Ah, very sophisticated in-store communication system you've got going here.
Tranny: WONDER!
TP: Lovey, if you scream a little louder, I'm sure you will succeed in causing my head to explode all over your till.
Other Worker Person: HE'S ON TEA, HILDA!
Hilda (it seems): He's on tea.
TP: I got that. Could you get him off tea, please.
Hilda: TELL HIM I NEED HIM, REGINA.
Regina: FIVE MINUTES, HILDA. JUST TELL LADY TO WAIT.
Hilda and I waited those five minutes in a state of stare-down, while other customers in growing queue stared at my back with bladed stare.
Wonder: What's the problem, Hilda?
I interjected, and explained the situation to Wonder over-pronouncing words like 'you' and 'your store'. After the small little weedy man met my situation with a, "Sorry, Ma'am, there's nothing I can do. I'm just the hair products aisle manager and the store manager is on lunch," I think I exploded.
The Pant: Well, Wonder, what I suggest you do with said can of mousse, is stick it directly in your rectum. And spend the rest of your ineffective day wandering like an ice-cream on a stick.
Then I turned on my heel, and minced on out of there.
Pant-flu: a fate worse than man-flu.
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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