The Benefit of Being A Breeder.

I have had the best night's sleep. Last night, I hung out with women who've bred girl children and they were accompanied by their offspring. There were three of us. Six children. One boy child. My worldview has been turned upside.

I daydream sometimes, about what flavour child I'd like to produce next time around. And for the most part, I've wanted another female child. In fact, I've mostly wanted an exact replica of The Daughter, because she is the most glorious human ever.

But then I spent a holiday with The (groovy) Nephew and thought that, actually, a man child would be quite lovely too. Boy children are different. They like destroying their mothers' make-up a whole lot less than girl children. And they do not throw tantrums when they are unable to wear their favourite dresses with tulle skirts. They prefer to capture ants and spiders. And use bits of grass, sand and twig to create obstacle courses for said insects. (Girls would try and cut the hair of the spiders. Or put them in naughty corner for not finishing their supper.)

They are different, are small children. And they're both super kiff. They're all fun. And, as you know The Pant likes to have (very) fun. So, I'd recently come to the decision that, if I had the choice (which I'd clearly not have), I'd like a boy child. A pigeon pair. One to capture insects and exercise them. And one to make them look beautiful.

But then last night happened. The women had retreated into Precious Jo'burg Friend's bedroom with full glasses of wine to peruse her latest crafty purchases. (Vests. Label. For fifty bucks. Steal.). And then the girl children descended on us with tubs of cream and busy hands.

And they took turns in massaging our heads, backs, arms, legs, feet, hands, faces. The one child had such strong hands, and massaged so flipping fabulously, that when she finished I asked her for her bank details so I could EFT her the grand I must surely owe her.

I was so slick with cream, that when I hugged this child's mother goodbye, I slipped right out of her grip and spilt down the stairs into a puddle in the corner. I am so laid back, that I'm close to falling apart. And the fact that daughter of Precious Jo'burg Friend has just spent an hour massaging back and arms (bribery, to get me to do some rad outings with them - and it's working!) adds, undoubtedly, to my state of absolute relaxation.

And so, while I'd love a boy child of my very own, I am officially of the belief that each household should, by law, have two girl children. One for the back. And one for the feet.

Thus, after my sabbatical, I'm looking for a rich man. I need to breed. Twice more.

Quick! Drink This!

I'd like nothing more than to make you jealous that you're at work while I'm still in my pyjamas, on holiday. But my white wine hangover prohibits me from doing such. It's grotesque. And if I wasn't feeling ill enough, The Travelling Companion woke me up and said, "Drink this. It doesn't taste bad but drink it quickly."

I'm a good girl. Sometimes, stupidly, I do as I'm told especially when I think that the glass thrust into my hand may contain some miracle hangover cure. Actually, the contents of the glass was liquid. And I needed hydration, huge style. My body lacked water such that the blood in my veins was powder.

And so I downed it. Error. Grave. It was Aloe Vera juice. (Why??). Every ounce of aloe flavour grabbed hold of other flavourants within the mouth (stale white wine, too many ciggies, general badness). I preferred the original taste.

I've brushed my teeth twice, had two cups of tea and eaten two slices of toast with scrambled eggs atop and, guess what?, the aloe flavour reigns. I'm contemplating tongue transplant.

But the hangover is gone. So maybe you should be jealous. We're off to do some shopping, perhaps a spot of lunch (no tolerance for white wine. Not for another six months to two years), and then we're topping up tans. And perhaps, because we can, an afternoon nap. All the kiff stuff. That's what life is all about. Radness.

X X X

Roadtripping In The New SA

Roadtripping in the New SA! Roadtripping in the New SA-ay-ay!

Woooooooo party!

A little scene setting: The Pant, The Sil's BF/Daughter of The Mother's BF, The Daughter + Small Size Son of Travelling Companion. The open road. Ice cold cokes (how great is coke?). Rad tunes - new Regina Spektor and I'm all over her like wet spaghetti. Radness.

Although, let me make one point clear - our feelings to this trip may differ from passenger to passenger. The Daughter is excited to see Precious Jo'burg Friend and her offspring, The Small Size Son is unaware of what is ahead of him, The Companion is heading back to work and, well, The Pant is going to have some extended holiday jol with Precious Jo'burg Friend. Halle-flipping-luljah. Radness. Woop-woop wicky-wicky. (For The Pant, anyway).

I'm going to be Earnest Hemingway with you now and admit that I'm unbelievably excited for this spontaneous break. I haven't been excited to go to Jo'burg ever. Truly. Ever. Not like this, anyway.

Maybe it's the dawning of the New Year (I suspect that has a lot to do with things - I'm so excited to start again - bigger, better, more). But I also suspect it's got to do with this Living-In-The-Moment Thing, and the reflection I've been doing of late.

Whatever the cause - it feels flipping cool.

So. Let me just share why 2011's had a super rad start.

1. The Daughter is just amazing.com. The magic she has brought to my life in this very short year is over-e-countable. Flip, guys, she is just the most phenomenal little person. And I'm the luckiest Mama-Cat ever.

We danced in the lounge like crazy women this morning. My heart is so full I can barely breath.

2. I topped up the tan - poolside. I love little more than lying in the sun. Ice-cream in one hand, Jilly Cooper in the other. Radness.

3. I got, like, properly flirted with. And he was hot with a capital H. The truth is I need to learn how to be flirted with again. But that's a skill that'll come with practice.

So this is how it went:

(Hot Guy with group of hot friends lying on sun loungers playing cards. The Pant and Liners lying on towels on grass eavesdropping on Hot Guy's conversation. The Pant hears they're leaving shortly. Vast shortage of loungers in pool area.)

The Pant: Hey are you guys leaving soon?

Hot Guy: Yes we are.

TP: Ah, please can we steal your loungers? There's a thorn poking through my towel and I'm lying dangerously close to snake-infested bush (don't be disgusting now, my panties. Think literal.).

HG: Of course you can. But we're leaving in two batches - only one golf cart.

TP: Well, can we move in in two batches, then?

HG: Sure. But can you give me your telephone number as a kind of swap?

TP (aside to The Sil but not a proper aside since HG definitely heard): Oh my God, I'm so embarrassed I don't know what to say.

All round laughs.

No exchange of telephone number. No point, really. Given that I'm roadtripping in the New SA.

And even though I've decided to take a six month sabbatical on Love, it was really nice to be noticed. By a Mr Hottie-Hot-Pants. Not that I shouldn't be noticed. It's 2011, after all, and I'm oozing with super-effing-radness.

So maybe it's not a sabbatical I'm taking. Just learning to love The Pant again.