I had a boyfriend when I was 12. I loved him. Entirely. We slow danced. We held hands. We wrote each other letters. I wore bodysuits and green pleated jeans. He dressed akin to Axel Rose. We were like the all South African tween couple. People envied our long-term commitment (6 weeks). And then he dumped me.
Since then, he's been one of my people. You know, a people is a person with whom one shares a relationship that can endure a long separation in which communication is scarce and then hook up again and it's as though you'd baked muffins together the day previous.
Alright, so sometimes we get hammered and smooch. But that hasn't happened for at least two years. Although... come to think of it, we haven't really been hammered together in those two years.
Now, I might have been 12 when he told me that he 'liked a girl in standard six', but I'm going to hang on to the gut feel that he made a mistake when breaking my teeny weeny heart. As Julia ('yo Viv babe') Roberts said in Pretty Woman, 'Big mistake. Big. Huge.'
So, because it's what we do, The Junior Boyfriend and I got chatting about our romantic lives.
The Pant: It's been about exciting as fat free milk, Darling.
The Junior Boyfriend: That bad, Pant?
TP: Why do you think I'm sweating so much? I haven't been this close to naked skin since I can remember.
TJB: We're nowhere near naked skin!
TP: We are! Look over there! All those people in costumes, frolicking in the sea! Driving me crazy.
TJB: But you don't want a twenty-year old surfer coming around.
TP: I so do.
TJB: Really?
TP: Any age really. As long as they're fit.
TJB: As in exercise?
TP: As in I'm being hip and don't all the kids say 'fit'?
TJB: I had a "fit" girlfriend once.
TP: Yeah. I remember her. What happened with her?
TJB: Well, a week before she came home and told me she was a reborn virgin-
TP: She what?
TJB: Ja. She became a reborn virgin.
TP: Is that even possible? No. Wait. She got that 100% herbal cream from Master Zing, didn't she? Did it give her big bums and thighs too?
We chuckled at this point.
TJB: Well, now, a week before that revelation-
TP: Yup.
TJB: So we were getting, er, you know.
TP: Yes.
TJB: And things got a little steamy..
This was like aural porn, and I wasn't putting the breaks on. At all.
TP: Yup yup. Don't stop. Uh-huh.
TJB: And so, well, you know how things go, like in a foreplayish kind of way.
TP: (Um... let me think about that) Yes!
TJB: And the next thing she grabbed me by the hair.
TP: Dirty slut.
TJB: And said (baby voice) icky icky poof poof.
I deflated like a balloon that's come undone.
Who says 'icky icky poof poof'? Especially in that state?
Some chicks don't deserve lovers. Full effing stop.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Monday, August 8, 2011
The God Mother.
Last weekend, while celebrating The Incubator's birthday (again?? how many is the woman going to have?) by steadily ploughing my way through bottle after bottle of wine, Good Friend who has recently been part and parcel of the creation and birth of Extra Flipping Cute Small Size Someone, asked me a question. As the answering of questions go, I'm pretty swift, if not wordy. This time, however, my response came with the speed of, well, a sloth. I think it was a combination of over indulgence and incredulity.
My exact position, despite a seriously fuzzy head, remains imprinted on my mind. I was on The Parental Unit's verandah, trying desperately to work out a way in which to unzip the skin on my back, so I could capitalise the skin-surface-area-to-direct-heater-warmth-ratio. (My body, in its entirety, is far more evolved than the average body - each body part seems to have developed feelings. Thus, for example, if I find myself with back to fire, the front of me gets jealous. I think the front of me is sulking, in fact - the boobs they are adrooping.)
The Incubator: So, Good Friend, have you set a date for the Christening?
Good Friend: Next weekend.
The Pant: Glug glug (it's not in brackets because I was drinking with such determination that the sound of it was as audible as my spoken voice, which is pretty effing loud.)
The Incubator: Oh, so soon? And have you chosen godparents?
GF: Well, we've discussed it between ourselves, but haven't asked them yet.
TI: Who've you chosen?
GF: My brother and ... Pant. If that's alright with you, Pant?
TP: (with red wine now dripping from nostrils and eyes the size of a rhino's ashtrays) Pardon?
TI: Oh, she's definitely free. Of course she'd love to.
TP: Love to?
GF: Great. Put on your most pious face. If you can.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm honoured beyond honoured - as I have been when selected to become responsible for the spiritual (and no, that has nothing to do with cane or vodka) well-being of my other Godchildren. It's just that I'm beginning to wonder how it is that there are now three different sets of parents out there with so little sense as to choose me to guide - so to speak - their children to God.
I think, really, it's because there are six individual adults out there who have, on their occasions, hidden themselves in and around a particular shop, in anticipation of my adverse reaction.
It starts with the name: Cum Books. Really? A Christian bookstore? Um... Besides feeling quite baffled - I mean, I'm sure the Christians must have known which 'cum' they were referring to when they chose the spelling - it kind of sticks in my throat. (No pun intended.). But to the think of my God in that way just makes me feel a touch uneasy. I'm Catholic, for crying out aloud. We believe in conception without the act of sex.
The Pant: Pardon me? Would you mind helping me?
Christian Book Boy: I am a servant of the Lord, Child of God.
TP: Pardon?
CBB: I am a serv-
TP: No. I heard what you said. I just wondered why you called me 'Child of God'.
CBB: Because you are God's child. Isn't it great?
TP: Yes. As are you?
CBB: I am. Amen.
TP: As is that person over there?
CBB: Yes.
TP: And that one?
CBB: Yes.
TP: And that one?
CBB: Yes.
TP: And that one?
CBB: Yes.
TP: As is that person, standing outside the shop who clearly is not Christian?
CBB: Yes.
TP: So what you basically called me is 'person'?
CBB: I suppose so.
TP: Don't you think you should show a person who is about to spend money in your store a little more respect?
CBB: I'm sorry: Can I help you, Ma'am?
TP: Say it again.
CBB: (Now a touch confused) Can I help you, Ma'am?
TP: Why, thank you. Do you have any Catholic merchandise?
CBB: (With that raised and drawn eyebrow expression that indicates the stifling of a laugh) I'm sorry, Ma'am, but this is a CHRISTIAN bookstore.
After explaining to the confused youth that, in fact, Catholicism IS Christianity, we perused the bibles on offer. I declined the retincular Bible - I'm a little old-fashioned that way - and settled on a pretty white leather-bound Bible; one that reminds me of the Bible I got for my Baptism.
We headed to the checkout counter and I handed over my card.
CBB: Do you have a 'Good Blessings' card?
Really?
My exact position, despite a seriously fuzzy head, remains imprinted on my mind. I was on The Parental Unit's verandah, trying desperately to work out a way in which to unzip the skin on my back, so I could capitalise the skin-surface-area-to-direct-heater-warmth-ratio. (My body, in its entirety, is far more evolved than the average body - each body part seems to have developed feelings. Thus, for example, if I find myself with back to fire, the front of me gets jealous. I think the front of me is sulking, in fact - the boobs they are adrooping.)
The Incubator: So, Good Friend, have you set a date for the Christening?
Good Friend: Next weekend.
The Pant: Glug glug (it's not in brackets because I was drinking with such determination that the sound of it was as audible as my spoken voice, which is pretty effing loud.)
The Incubator: Oh, so soon? And have you chosen godparents?
GF: Well, we've discussed it between ourselves, but haven't asked them yet.
TI: Who've you chosen?
GF: My brother and ... Pant. If that's alright with you, Pant?
TP: (with red wine now dripping from nostrils and eyes the size of a rhino's ashtrays) Pardon?
TI: Oh, she's definitely free. Of course she'd love to.
TP: Love to?
GF: Great. Put on your most pious face. If you can.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm honoured beyond honoured - as I have been when selected to become responsible for the spiritual (and no, that has nothing to do with cane or vodka) well-being of my other Godchildren. It's just that I'm beginning to wonder how it is that there are now three different sets of parents out there with so little sense as to choose me to guide - so to speak - their children to God.
I think, really, it's because there are six individual adults out there who have, on their occasions, hidden themselves in and around a particular shop, in anticipation of my adverse reaction.
It starts with the name: Cum Books. Really? A Christian bookstore? Um... Besides feeling quite baffled - I mean, I'm sure the Christians must have known which 'cum' they were referring to when they chose the spelling - it kind of sticks in my throat. (No pun intended.). But to the think of my God in that way just makes me feel a touch uneasy. I'm Catholic, for crying out aloud. We believe in conception without the act of sex.
The Pant: Pardon me? Would you mind helping me?
Christian Book Boy: I am a servant of the Lord, Child of God.
TP: Pardon?
CBB: I am a serv-
TP: No. I heard what you said. I just wondered why you called me 'Child of God'.
CBB: Because you are God's child. Isn't it great?
TP: Yes. As are you?
CBB: I am. Amen.
TP: As is that person over there?
CBB: Yes.
TP: And that one?
CBB: Yes.
TP: And that one?
CBB: Yes.
TP: And that one?
CBB: Yes.
TP: As is that person, standing outside the shop who clearly is not Christian?
CBB: Yes.
TP: So what you basically called me is 'person'?
CBB: I suppose so.
TP: Don't you think you should show a person who is about to spend money in your store a little more respect?
CBB: I'm sorry: Can I help you, Ma'am?
TP: Say it again.
CBB: (Now a touch confused) Can I help you, Ma'am?
TP: Why, thank you. Do you have any Catholic merchandise?
CBB: (With that raised and drawn eyebrow expression that indicates the stifling of a laugh) I'm sorry, Ma'am, but this is a CHRISTIAN bookstore.
After explaining to the confused youth that, in fact, Catholicism IS Christianity, we perused the bibles on offer. I declined the retincular Bible - I'm a little old-fashioned that way - and settled on a pretty white leather-bound Bible; one that reminds me of the Bible I got for my Baptism.
We headed to the checkout counter and I handed over my card.
CBB: Do you have a 'Good Blessings' card?
Really?
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Rickshaw Radness.
I had a monumental epiphany on Sunday. It's August! Which, in Durban terms, means it's nearly Summer. And since I'm sporting a stomach that could quite easily be mistaken for an incubation space of a growing foetus, I need to exercise. And eat Summer food. And I need to have started, like, before Winter.
With The Brother and all his manners - The Brother is to manners what the rhythm method is to family planning, but that's a story for another time - and his new-found svelte figure, we hit the beach for a little bit of a tone-up. With The Daughter in tow.
Now this situation is a little bit of an oxymoron. While I could do with the shedding of a few kilos, The Daughter is characterised by her pronounced stick-like figure. She's so little, in fact, that I fear for her going to 'real school' because I may have to enlist the services of a seamstress to custom-make miniature replicas of school uniforms.
The Brother was to run, we were to amble, meet up and drink good coffee. According to The Brother, who, it appears, has replaced all the good things in life with exercise - 11 sessions a week! - believes wholeheartedly in good coffee after cardio. I believe in beer. Castle Lite Draft, to be precise.
So, dressed in shorts and her precious size 8 (the small size 8) feet supported by running shoes that made the legs look not dissimilar to oranges on toothpicks (when in Rome and all that jazz), we began our saunter. I played the 'why-don't-you-chase-Mommy' game to try and up my heart rate. She played the 'why-don't-you-hold-this-end-of-my-elastic-belt-while-I-run-away-from-you-and-then-I-let-go' game. Didn't charm me too much.
And we jogged and chatted and held hands and skipped and giggled and had one of the jolliest impromptu afternoons known to mankind. And we wandered just a touch too far for The Spindly Legged One to return at any pace other than that of A Hurpling Mother Carrying Whingeing Child.
While admiring the buckets of flopping fish of the flopping fisherman on the third pier, The Daughter spotted The Brother resplendent in his leopard print vest and pouring enough sweat to fill a domestic swimming pool. The Daughter launched into a very classy screech of, "Uuuncle!!!! Stop running," which was certainly not out of place amongst some of the pearlers with whom we shared the promenade. Also, and in spite of the fact that she has a lung capacity that I'm sure should be listed somewhere in The Guinness Book of Records, the people that found themselves sauntering along the very same promenade as us, managed to collectively make such a raquet to succinctly drown out the attempts of The Daughter. This, coupled with the fact that The Brother runs with iPod earphones stuck in and Regina Spektor most voluminous thereon (he's been well influenced), meant that his stride was not broken by looking back.
The Pant: (with the realisation that I had car keys, cell phones and wallets; under breath) Shit. Bugger. (Louder now) Alright Sausage. We've got to run to Uncle. I need you to put on your big girl panties and chase after Mom, okay?
The Daughter: I have got panties on, Mom. I remembered.
TP: Well, that's a start. Now chase me.
TD: (The risings of that hysterical whine) My legs don't feel like running. My feet are tired. I hate the beach.
Brilliant. 3 km from the meeting site, at which I'd promised to be waiting by the time The Brother finished his run and The Daughter about to throw a tantrum that would have caused me to react in such a manner that other beach goers would be forced to tut-tut me in manner of, "How can you speak to your very own child in that manner?"
Always a lateral thinker, I approached a rickshaw driver(?).
The Pant: Okay, so how much for a ride back to Suncoast?
Rickshaw Man: Fottie rands.
TP: Great. Let us on.
RM: For one pesson. Ayttie rands for both.
TP: Okay. I'm going to go with no. I'll go and ask that guy with the elephantitis and the joint dangling from his lips.
RM: Fine. Fifty rands.
TP: Right. Hit it.
It took Rickshaw Man a little longer than I anticipated to get going. And his frequent superobics in which he dazzlingly jumped into the air sending The Daughter and my heads dangerously close to the ground had us shrieking with such joy that I even overheard one or two passersby muttering things about me being a "fun mom" and The Daughter being "an absolute delight". And that she most certainly is.
After rounding the corner and The Brother spotting his sister and niece - I mean hearing his sister and niece - in an elaborately adorned rickshaw, even he felt the blush of embarrassment that he burned such a scarlet red I thought he might spontaneously combust, I had yet another epiphany: Life is a pretty damn kiff thing. If you just let it be.
With The Brother and all his manners - The Brother is to manners what the rhythm method is to family planning, but that's a story for another time - and his new-found svelte figure, we hit the beach for a little bit of a tone-up. With The Daughter in tow.
Now this situation is a little bit of an oxymoron. While I could do with the shedding of a few kilos, The Daughter is characterised by her pronounced stick-like figure. She's so little, in fact, that I fear for her going to 'real school' because I may have to enlist the services of a seamstress to custom-make miniature replicas of school uniforms.
The Brother was to run, we were to amble, meet up and drink good coffee. According to The Brother, who, it appears, has replaced all the good things in life with exercise - 11 sessions a week! - believes wholeheartedly in good coffee after cardio. I believe in beer. Castle Lite Draft, to be precise.
So, dressed in shorts and her precious size 8 (the small size 8) feet supported by running shoes that made the legs look not dissimilar to oranges on toothpicks (when in Rome and all that jazz), we began our saunter. I played the 'why-don't-you-chase-Mommy' game to try and up my heart rate. She played the 'why-don't-you-hold-this-end-of-my-elastic-belt-while-I-run-away-from-you-and-then-I-let-go' game. Didn't charm me too much.
And we jogged and chatted and held hands and skipped and giggled and had one of the jolliest impromptu afternoons known to mankind. And we wandered just a touch too far for The Spindly Legged One to return at any pace other than that of A Hurpling Mother Carrying Whingeing Child.
While admiring the buckets of flopping fish of the flopping fisherman on the third pier, The Daughter spotted The Brother resplendent in his leopard print vest and pouring enough sweat to fill a domestic swimming pool. The Daughter launched into a very classy screech of, "Uuuncle!!!! Stop running," which was certainly not out of place amongst some of the pearlers with whom we shared the promenade. Also, and in spite of the fact that she has a lung capacity that I'm sure should be listed somewhere in The Guinness Book of Records, the people that found themselves sauntering along the very same promenade as us, managed to collectively make such a raquet to succinctly drown out the attempts of The Daughter. This, coupled with the fact that The Brother runs with iPod earphones stuck in and Regina Spektor most voluminous thereon (he's been well influenced), meant that his stride was not broken by looking back.
The Pant: (with the realisation that I had car keys, cell phones and wallets; under breath) Shit. Bugger. (Louder now) Alright Sausage. We've got to run to Uncle. I need you to put on your big girl panties and chase after Mom, okay?
The Daughter: I have got panties on, Mom. I remembered.
TP: Well, that's a start. Now chase me.
TD: (The risings of that hysterical whine) My legs don't feel like running. My feet are tired. I hate the beach.
Brilliant. 3 km from the meeting site, at which I'd promised to be waiting by the time The Brother finished his run and The Daughter about to throw a tantrum that would have caused me to react in such a manner that other beach goers would be forced to tut-tut me in manner of, "How can you speak to your very own child in that manner?"
Always a lateral thinker, I approached a rickshaw driver(?).
The Pant: Okay, so how much for a ride back to Suncoast?
Rickshaw Man: Fottie rands.
TP: Great. Let us on.
RM: For one pesson. Ayttie rands for both.
TP: Okay. I'm going to go with no. I'll go and ask that guy with the elephantitis and the joint dangling from his lips.
RM: Fine. Fifty rands.
TP: Right. Hit it.
It took Rickshaw Man a little longer than I anticipated to get going. And his frequent superobics in which he dazzlingly jumped into the air sending The Daughter and my heads dangerously close to the ground had us shrieking with such joy that I even overheard one or two passersby muttering things about me being a "fun mom" and The Daughter being "an absolute delight". And that she most certainly is.
After rounding the corner and The Brother spotting his sister and niece - I mean hearing his sister and niece - in an elaborately adorned rickshaw, even he felt the blush of embarrassment that he burned such a scarlet red I thought he might spontaneously combust, I had yet another epiphany: Life is a pretty damn kiff thing. If you just let it be.
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