I survived a five-hour car trip with The Parental Unit for which I surely deserve some compensation for emotional damages. While I am exceptionally fond of my parents, I am convinced that travelling long distances with the people who created you should be banned. I arrived at Precious Jo'burg Friend's house dangerously close to a nervous breakdown.
It began at the unacceptable hour of 4 a-effing-m, with a temperature so chilly I was exhaling solids. (It must be noted that I am not - especially on my first day of leave - wont to rise before the sun on a Saturday morning and so was in a mood not dissimilar to one with a fevered hangover.)
But I climbed directly into car and lay my head on pillow next to The Daughter who, like her mother, enjoys icy early mornings as much as constipation. But, as with all long distance trips, The Father's boredom with repetitive scenery becomes apparent when he takes it upon himself to single-handedly provide the vocal soundtrack to the trip.
Well, that's not strictly true. He often requires my, or The Daughter's input in terms of providing the descant.
The Father: (sings)Holy Mary, Mother of God. (Speaks) Now, Pant, when I get to the (sings) pray for us sinners (speaks) part, I want you to descant with (sings) pray for us pray for us. (Speaks) K, let's try it.
I don't know why I don't just say no, but I don't, and inevitably I get it wrong.
The Father: Okay, ready?
The Pant: Yup.
TF: One, two, three (sings) Holy Mary-
TP: (cat's choirish) pray for us pray for us, yeaaaaaaaaaah (Mariah Carey style).
TF: (abrupt) What was that?
TP: Descant improvisation.
TF: Descant what? I told you to sing (sings) pray for us pray for us.
TP: And I workshopped in (sings) yeaaaaaaaaaah (Mariah Carey-style).
TF: You what?
TP: I thought we could try something new.
TF: The descant is new. You can't be extra new with Holy Mary.
TP: Why?
TF: Because this is my edition of Holy Mary, not yours. Right, let's take it from the top.
TP: K.
TF: (sings) Holy Mary-
TP: (sings) Mother of mother of-
TF: (anger, audible). What was that?
TP: I was descanting.
TF: The wrong words. I told you it was (sings) pray for us pray for us.
TP: Sorry.
TF: Fine. Let's try it again.
I never quite got The Father's descant right. Eventually he ordered me to sing the hymn and he'd provide the descant.
TF: K go.
TP: (sings) Pray for us pray for us.
TF: Bloody hell, Pant. What is wrong with you this morning?
(I couldn't tell him that my idea of fun did not include the singing of hymns in a new-aged descant-style.)
TP: What?
TF: You're supposed to be singing the (sings) Holy Mary, Mother of God (speaks) part. The descant is mine.
TP: Right. Okay go.
TF: You're supposed to start.
TP: What?
TF: What do you mean 'what'?
TP: What am I supposed to start?
TF: (very close to emitting steam from ears.). The hymn.
TP: (taking a huge chance). Which hymn?
TF: Don't make me swear.
TP: About?
TF: Just leave it, Pant. I'll do it on my own.
And he did. A number of songs and hymns. Including:
a) the entire sound track to The Sound of Music including the yodelling bits,
b) the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar,
c) every Beatles song he knows,
d) the songs he used to sing to The Daughter when she was a small baby and,
e) his old school song (majority of words forgotten and improvised with 'aaaaas' and 'uuuuuus')
There's a reason for flying. This trip, a case in point.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Master Zing.
Dear Friends,
The most amazing thing has just happened to me. So amazing, in fact, that I fear it may cause this blog to cease to exist. You'll know that my blog, if you're an avid reader, basically is a rambling on the following topics:
1). Shoddy love life,
2). Large bum and thighs,
3). Unbelievably small boobs,
4). Job dissatisfaction,
5). Court cases (imagined, of course)
6). Stolen cars,
7). The Daughter,
8). Vitamin B injections (owing to depleted energy levels)
9). Small penises
and, 10). All over body pains.
(Okay, so the last two aren't really discussed by me, but if they were...)
Yup, I discuss the insecurities that plague me. And by 'plague me' I mean 'are'. I had kind of resolved to simply take life as it comes. Deal with the blows. Delight in the joys.
That is, until I went to collect my post this afternoon. I'm not usually a rush-off-to-collect-the-post-kind-of-person. Nope, I prefer to collect my bills when they're covered in gecko poo and other insect excretion that I'd rather not think about. But at the mo, I'm awaiting correspondence from suitably posh private school in the hopes that The Daughter will embark on a similar education I experienced: one that will aid her in flower arranging and beautiful gift wrapping. (I shit you not. I'm wasted on this career-and-not-settling-down bullshit.)
And there, between acceptance letter and excessively overpriced electricity bill was a little pamphlet the contents of which I'm certain will straighten out my life. Yup, the stars are all aligned in support of The Pant; given what marvels Master Zing can perform.
First and foremost, he sells a cream (free delivery) that purports to do incredible things. Like reduce/increase breasts (100% guaranteed - same cream???). And gain or lose weight. And (and this is one of my favourites) gain hips/bum. This self-same cream also fixes "tired no Energy" which will prevent the by mistake steek. And 'Strong Penis Erection/Libido Herbal/Enlargement in all Sizes". Which will be great, if I go see Master Zing (strictly by appointment).
By appointment (and I can simply type "Durban Central" or "Morning Side Windere" into my GPS and I'll be delivered directly to Master Zing's offices), there are a number of things I can solve. Like, I could Wanda back, under the "Bring back stolen items e.g. money, cars etc.) That would be nice. I miss Wanda in all her bashed up oldness.
Plus I could fix a variety of heartbreak hotel problems. I can "Bring back lost lover & make him/her to be yours." That would be nice. If I chose, of course, to bring back any of my lost lovers. I could choose to (and this is indeed might be desirable for some), "touch girls and follow you".
Master Zing, it appears, is a master of all life areas. I could get (according to point 11) "enemies against you", while simultaneously fixing (I assume) "court cases". "All body pains" could be easily fixed, and I could get some good luck.
And don't forget folks, "free delivery".
![]()
The most amazing thing has just happened to me. So amazing, in fact, that I fear it may cause this blog to cease to exist. You'll know that my blog, if you're an avid reader, basically is a rambling on the following topics:
1). Shoddy love life,
2). Large bum and thighs,
3). Unbelievably small boobs,
4). Job dissatisfaction,
5). Court cases (imagined, of course)
6). Stolen cars,
7). The Daughter,
8). Vitamin B injections (owing to depleted energy levels)
9). Small penises
and, 10). All over body pains.
(Okay, so the last two aren't really discussed by me, but if they were...)
Yup, I discuss the insecurities that plague me. And by 'plague me' I mean 'are'. I had kind of resolved to simply take life as it comes. Deal with the blows. Delight in the joys.
That is, until I went to collect my post this afternoon. I'm not usually a rush-off-to-collect-the-post-kind-of-person. Nope, I prefer to collect my bills when they're covered in gecko poo and other insect excretion that I'd rather not think about. But at the mo, I'm awaiting correspondence from suitably posh private school in the hopes that The Daughter will embark on a similar education I experienced: one that will aid her in flower arranging and beautiful gift wrapping. (I shit you not. I'm wasted on this career-and-not-settling-down bullshit.)
And there, between acceptance letter and excessively overpriced electricity bill was a little pamphlet the contents of which I'm certain will straighten out my life. Yup, the stars are all aligned in support of The Pant; given what marvels Master Zing can perform.
First and foremost, he sells a cream (free delivery) that purports to do incredible things. Like reduce/increase breasts (100% guaranteed - same cream???). And gain or lose weight. And (and this is one of my favourites) gain hips/bum. This self-same cream also fixes "tired no Energy" which will prevent the by mistake steek. And 'Strong Penis Erection/Libido Herbal/Enlargement in all Sizes". Which will be great, if I go see Master Zing (strictly by appointment).
By appointment (and I can simply type "Durban Central" or "Morning Side Windere" into my GPS and I'll be delivered directly to Master Zing's offices), there are a number of things I can solve. Like, I could Wanda back, under the "Bring back stolen items e.g. money, cars etc.) That would be nice. I miss Wanda in all her bashed up oldness.
Plus I could fix a variety of heartbreak hotel problems. I can "Bring back lost lover & make him/her to be yours." That would be nice. If I chose, of course, to bring back any of my lost lovers. I could choose to (and this is indeed might be desirable for some), "touch girls and follow you".
Master Zing, it appears, is a master of all life areas. I could get (according to point 11) "enemies against you", while simultaneously fixing (I assume) "court cases". "All body pains" could be easily fixed, and I could get some good luck.
And don't forget folks, "free delivery".
Monday, June 20, 2011
Tipping The Scales of Sanity.
There are certain things I just don't know about myself. How tall I am is one. When asked this question, I respond in one of two ways: I either place my hand on top of my head and declare, "This tall," or I say, "Somewhere between The Daughter and The BF." Neither of these answers is untrue, mind you. But I've received a lot of eyerolling in response to my totally unmathematical knowledge of self.
The other thing I do not know about myself is how much I weigh. I know, for example, that I weighed in at 73.5 on the day The Daughter was born. I puked a little in my mouth when this information was revealed to me. (As it happens, I was in the process of dilating when The Charlatan Nurse forced me to stand on the scale. Evidently, I raced through labour apace in an attempt to lose a few kilos.)
I pointedly do not own a scale. I fear owning one would tip my scales of sanity because I imagine I'd weigh myself in various stages of dressedness and eatedness. All. The. Time. I'd weigh myself before and after each cup of tea, before and after each toilet visit. Naked and again when dressed for work. Or for a night out (the difference between these two weights would, no doubt, be fairly significant.) I'd weigh myself all the forking time. It'd become tiring. And I'd probably end up making the following phonecall to The Father:
The Pant: Dad, my scale is lying. Definitely a manufacturing malfunction.
The Father: Oh dear...
TP: Can we sue them?
TF: What for?
TP: Well, for depression.
TF: Whose?
TP: Mine! Yesterday I weighed x, and today it tells me I weigh x+1. And I've hardly eaten a thing since then.
TF: Well, what's 'hardly a thing'?
TP: My normal. Muesli and yoghurt for breakfast. Two cupcakes, four samoosas and a slice of chocolate cake for tea. And two cups of tea. Two oranges, an apple, a bean roti, two slices of toast with bovril, cheese and cherry tomatoes. A chocolate. A coke. A little bit of last night's leftover lasagna and duck l'orange for dinner.
TF: I don't think we'd have a very good case.
TP: But, Dad! I'm sad now. Seriously. I've just had to uncork a bottle of wine and dish up a bowl of ice-cream to deal with the severe depression I'm feeling.
TF: What's that noise in the background?
TP: Oh, that's just Single Girls. We're having some wine and snacks and talking dirty.
TF: Oh, lovely. You having a good time?
TP: Yes, a glorious time, thanks, Daddy Darling.
TF: Then you're not depressed.
TP: I feel desperately down, though.
TF: Cut out the cake, Pant. And maybe glasses 3 - 8 of the wine and you'll see that your scale might start telling the truth.
TP: And if it doesn't? Can we sue them then?
TF: We'll talk then.
TP: Thanks, Dad. You're the best (he really is).
Scales are, indeed, lying, cheating swines. I know this because whenever I'm in the vacinity of a scale, I cannot suppress the urge to stand thereon. And the numbers that mock me are always different.
Take this weekend's run-ins with scales for example. The first was at Thursday afternoon drinks at book club.
After guzzling approximately seven thousand units of wine, the integrity of my skinny jeans was seriously compromised as my bladder protuded in manner not dissimlar to that of 40 and a half week pregnant Dear Friend's stomach. I attempted to rush to the toilet but was unable to do so due to a) lack of balance owing to wine consumption and b) severe cramp and inability to stand upright owing to excessively full bladder.
When I reached the bathroom, there in the corner of the room was a shiny white scale, inviting me to stand on top. So I did, pre- and post-massive-wee. And the difference in weights? Nil. Zilch. Zero. Niks. How can that be possible.
So I went to my homestead, because I know that there, the scale always lies. And in a good way. For the past 6 years of my life, including the pregnancy, I have always weighed 50. The Daughter also weighs 50. As does Enormous Son of Maid. As does The Husband.
It's a great scale. It tips the scales of sanity in the right direction.
The other thing I do not know about myself is how much I weigh. I know, for example, that I weighed in at 73.5 on the day The Daughter was born. I puked a little in my mouth when this information was revealed to me. (As it happens, I was in the process of dilating when The Charlatan Nurse forced me to stand on the scale. Evidently, I raced through labour apace in an attempt to lose a few kilos.)
I pointedly do not own a scale. I fear owning one would tip my scales of sanity because I imagine I'd weigh myself in various stages of dressedness and eatedness. All. The. Time. I'd weigh myself before and after each cup of tea, before and after each toilet visit. Naked and again when dressed for work. Or for a night out (the difference between these two weights would, no doubt, be fairly significant.) I'd weigh myself all the forking time. It'd become tiring. And I'd probably end up making the following phonecall to The Father:
The Pant: Dad, my scale is lying. Definitely a manufacturing malfunction.
The Father: Oh dear...
TP: Can we sue them?
TF: What for?
TP: Well, for depression.
TF: Whose?
TP: Mine! Yesterday I weighed x, and today it tells me I weigh x+1. And I've hardly eaten a thing since then.
TF: Well, what's 'hardly a thing'?
TP: My normal. Muesli and yoghurt for breakfast. Two cupcakes, four samoosas and a slice of chocolate cake for tea. And two cups of tea. Two oranges, an apple, a bean roti, two slices of toast with bovril, cheese and cherry tomatoes. A chocolate. A coke. A little bit of last night's leftover lasagna and duck l'orange for dinner.
TF: I don't think we'd have a very good case.
TP: But, Dad! I'm sad now. Seriously. I've just had to uncork a bottle of wine and dish up a bowl of ice-cream to deal with the severe depression I'm feeling.
TF: What's that noise in the background?
TP: Oh, that's just Single Girls. We're having some wine and snacks and talking dirty.
TF: Oh, lovely. You having a good time?
TP: Yes, a glorious time, thanks, Daddy Darling.
TF: Then you're not depressed.
TP: I feel desperately down, though.
TF: Cut out the cake, Pant. And maybe glasses 3 - 8 of the wine and you'll see that your scale might start telling the truth.
TP: And if it doesn't? Can we sue them then?
TF: We'll talk then.
TP: Thanks, Dad. You're the best (he really is).
Scales are, indeed, lying, cheating swines. I know this because whenever I'm in the vacinity of a scale, I cannot suppress the urge to stand thereon. And the numbers that mock me are always different.
Take this weekend's run-ins with scales for example. The first was at Thursday afternoon drinks at book club.
After guzzling approximately seven thousand units of wine, the integrity of my skinny jeans was seriously compromised as my bladder protuded in manner not dissimlar to that of 40 and a half week pregnant Dear Friend's stomach. I attempted to rush to the toilet but was unable to do so due to a) lack of balance owing to wine consumption and b) severe cramp and inability to stand upright owing to excessively full bladder.
When I reached the bathroom, there in the corner of the room was a shiny white scale, inviting me to stand on top. So I did, pre- and post-massive-wee. And the difference in weights? Nil. Zilch. Zero. Niks. How can that be possible.
So I went to my homestead, because I know that there, the scale always lies. And in a good way. For the past 6 years of my life, including the pregnancy, I have always weighed 50. The Daughter also weighs 50. As does Enormous Son of Maid. As does The Husband.
It's a great scale. It tips the scales of sanity in the right direction.
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