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.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Friday, November 4, 2011
Verbal Diarrhoea
There comes a time in every parents' life (of this I'm convinced) that one makes the discovery that there is only one way to cope. Two solitary words that, on any given day, have the power to cause mass joy to surge through the average woman's body. Two little words: red wine.
I know this because as I type, I have four bottles of the finest (cheapest - per kind understanding favour of The Incubator) dumped in a large vase, out of which stick a handful of left-over-from-The-Daughter's-birthday-party multi-coloured straws, through which I am guzzling the crimson stuff. The next best option, I fear, would be warm gin.
You see the thing that they don't tell you at ante-natal classes is that once the changing of nappies is over, and once the cracked nipples and breast dependency ceases, you'll be left with a human: one with a vocabulary, a will, a sense of humour (thankfully). One who likes to talk.
A lot.
It all started - the verbal diarrhoea, that is; not the talking - at 5.08 am on Monday morning. This troubles me especially since I have taken great pride in the fact that, up until Monday, The Daughter was a late riser. But it appears that, with the onset of the discovery that she is able to speak, at speed, without drawing breath for a good 120 minutes on the go, she no longer requires as much shut-eye. I'm shattered.
The Pant: (dreaming of interactions with Patrick Lambie - and not the verbal kind - begins to rouse. Her eyes flicker as consciousness ousts state of euphoria. Begins to open eyes and first sight is of five-year-old angel child but millimetres from her face, breathing the thickness of morning breath) Morning, my angel.
The Daughter: So-Mommy-you-know-I-haven't-stopped-thinking-about-the-hamster-at-Calvin's-house-and-I-really-want-a-hamster-and-actually-I-want-three-hamsters-and-I'm-going-to-call-them-Lily-and-she's-going-to-be-the-queen-and-then-Grace-that's-the-next-one-she's-going-to-be-a-baby-but-they're-all-going-to-be-babies-and-anyway-we're-just-going-to-pretend-so-Lily-can-be-the-queen-and-Grace-can-be-the-princess-and-ooooooo-I'm-going-to-dress-her-in-a-beautiful-pink-ball-gown-and-then-Max-is-going-to-be-the-prince-and-I'm-going-to-look-after-them-because-you-got-scared-when-we-were-at-Calvin's-party-do-you-remember-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom-do-you?-do-you-remember?
I felt as though I'd been bludgeoned half to death by the power of word. Reeling, I made my way to the kitchen: breakfast, I thought, may cause momentary silence - provided, at least, by the swallowing of chocolate Wheetbix.
Not so.
The Daughter: (chew)and-Mom-you-don't-have-to-worry-about-a-thing-not-a-single(swallow)-little-thing-because-I'm-a-big-girl-because(chew)-I'm-five-which-is-the-same-as-five-and-a-half-and-at-my-next(swallow)-birthday-I'm-going-to-be-six-and-when-I'm-six-I'm-going-to-be-so-big-that-I'm-going-to-become-queen-and-then-I'll-feed-my-hamsters(chew)-and-I'll-bath-them-in-the-bath-with-me-is-that-okay-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mommy?-Is(swallow)-that-okay-to-you-know-bath-with-my-hamsters?Mom-is-it?-Can-I-can-I-can-I-PLEASE?
After answering fundamental questions regarding the correct methods for raising polite hamsters (including 1. Can hamsters go to boarding school like Cat when we go on holiday?; 2. How big are hamsters' toothbrushes because hamsters should brush their teeth because they are NOT going to be naughty like Cat who doesn't brush his teeth which is just scusting?; 3. Don't you just love hamsters?; and 4. Can we please get hamsters with babies in their tummies even the boys?), I decided to seek respite in the shower.
Because my me-time had been stolen by The Daughter's larynx, I chose to take my morning tea into the shower, and extend my allocated cleansing time just a smidgen.
With only the sound of drumming water, my brain began to acclimatise. I started thinking my normal 5-in-the-morning thoughts like, 'What am I going to wear today?'; 'What are The Daughter's after-school commitments?'; (brief visual of Jake Gyllenhall in most compromising position) 'What am I going to make for lunches?'; 'Is there bread?', when The Daughter opened the shower door enough to squish her face in to begin the verbal torrent again.
The Daughter: Is-today-a-hair-washing-day-for-you-Mom?-Mom?-Mom?-Is-it?-I-don't-like-washing-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-the-shampoo-goes-in-my-eyes-and-it-hurts-but-when-I'm-six-I-will-only-wash-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-that's-what-big-girls-do-and-Mom-Mom-Mom-can-I-wash-my-hamsters-hair?-Do-hamsters-even-have-hair?-Or-is-it-like-Cat's-hair-which-isn't-really-hair-it's-actually-called-fur-even-though-it-leaves-bits-of-hair-on-my-bed-when-he-sleeps-with-me? Oh-Mom-Mom-Mom-
Two hours later, we found ourselves securely strapped into Brumelda en route to school/school (as it happens to be).
The Pant: (turning the radio up to figure out if WeatherSA had been truthful about the day's weather, and whether or not there'd be any accidents on my drive)
The Daughter: So-Mom-do-you-think-my-hamsters-will-be-able-to-come-to-swimming-lessons-with-me-I'm-sure-Uncle-Swimming-Man-won't-mind-and-then-we-can-get-a-pool-and-our-hamsters-won't-drown.Oh-won't-it-be-lovely-when-we-have-a-pool.My-hamsters-are-so-cute-don't-you-think-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom?
The hamsters we don't own? I feel I know them biblically.
And so I drink this wine without an iota of guilt. And for this I can be eternally grateful to The Daughter.
I know this because as I type, I have four bottles of the finest (cheapest - per kind understanding favour of The Incubator) dumped in a large vase, out of which stick a handful of left-over-from-The-Daughter's-birthday-party multi-coloured straws, through which I am guzzling the crimson stuff. The next best option, I fear, would be warm gin.
You see the thing that they don't tell you at ante-natal classes is that once the changing of nappies is over, and once the cracked nipples and breast dependency ceases, you'll be left with a human: one with a vocabulary, a will, a sense of humour (thankfully). One who likes to talk.
A lot.
It all started - the verbal diarrhoea, that is; not the talking - at 5.08 am on Monday morning. This troubles me especially since I have taken great pride in the fact that, up until Monday, The Daughter was a late riser. But it appears that, with the onset of the discovery that she is able to speak, at speed, without drawing breath for a good 120 minutes on the go, she no longer requires as much shut-eye. I'm shattered.
The Pant: (dreaming of interactions with Patrick Lambie - and not the verbal kind - begins to rouse. Her eyes flicker as consciousness ousts state of euphoria. Begins to open eyes and first sight is of five-year-old angel child but millimetres from her face, breathing the thickness of morning breath) Morning, my angel.
The Daughter: So-Mommy-you-know-I-haven't-stopped-thinking-about-the-hamster-at-Calvin's-house-and-I-really-want-a-hamster-and-actually-I-want-three-hamsters-and-I'm-going-to-call-them-Lily-and-she's-going-to-be-the-queen-and-then-Grace-that's-the-next-one-she's-going-to-be-a-baby-but-they're-all-going-to-be-babies-and-anyway-we're-just-going-to-pretend-so-Lily-can-be-the-queen-and-Grace-can-be-the-princess-and-ooooooo-I'm-going-to-dress-her-in-a-beautiful-pink-ball-gown-and-then-Max-is-going-to-be-the-prince-and-I'm-going-to-look-after-them-because-you-got-scared-when-we-were-at-Calvin's-party-do-you-remember-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom-do-you?-do-you-remember?
I felt as though I'd been bludgeoned half to death by the power of word. Reeling, I made my way to the kitchen: breakfast, I thought, may cause momentary silence - provided, at least, by the swallowing of chocolate Wheetbix.
Not so.
The Daughter: (chew)and-Mom-you-don't-have-to-worry-about-a-thing-not-a-single(swallow)-little-thing-because-I'm-a-big-girl-because(chew)-I'm-five-which-is-the-same-as-five-and-a-half-and-at-my-next(swallow)-birthday-I'm-going-to-be-six-and-when-I'm-six-I'm-going-to-be-so-big-that-I'm-going-to-become-queen-and-then-I'll-feed-my-hamsters(chew)-and-I'll-bath-them-in-the-bath-with-me-is-that-okay-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mommy?-Is(swallow)-that-okay-to-you-know-bath-with-my-hamsters?Mom-is-it?-Can-I-can-I-can-I-PLEASE?
After answering fundamental questions regarding the correct methods for raising polite hamsters (including 1. Can hamsters go to boarding school like Cat when we go on holiday?; 2. How big are hamsters' toothbrushes because hamsters should brush their teeth because they are NOT going to be naughty like Cat who doesn't brush his teeth which is just scusting?; 3. Don't you just love hamsters?; and 4. Can we please get hamsters with babies in their tummies even the boys?), I decided to seek respite in the shower.
Because my me-time had been stolen by The Daughter's larynx, I chose to take my morning tea into the shower, and extend my allocated cleansing time just a smidgen.
With only the sound of drumming water, my brain began to acclimatise. I started thinking my normal 5-in-the-morning thoughts like, 'What am I going to wear today?'; 'What are The Daughter's after-school commitments?'; (brief visual of Jake Gyllenhall in most compromising position) 'What am I going to make for lunches?'; 'Is there bread?', when The Daughter opened the shower door enough to squish her face in to begin the verbal torrent again.
The Daughter: Is-today-a-hair-washing-day-for-you-Mom?-Mom?-Mom?-Is-it?-I-don't-like-washing-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-the-shampoo-goes-in-my-eyes-and-it-hurts-but-when-I'm-six-I-will-only-wash-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-that's-what-big-girls-do-and-Mom-Mom-Mom-can-I-wash-my-hamsters-hair?-Do-hamsters-even-have-hair?-Or-is-it-like-Cat's-hair-which-isn't-really-hair-it's-actually-called-fur-even-though-it-leaves-bits-of-hair-on-my-bed-when-he-sleeps-with-me? Oh-Mom-Mom-Mom-
Two hours later, we found ourselves securely strapped into Brumelda en route to school/school (as it happens to be).
The Pant: (turning the radio up to figure out if WeatherSA had been truthful about the day's weather, and whether or not there'd be any accidents on my drive)
The Daughter: So-Mom-do-you-think-my-hamsters-will-be-able-to-come-to-swimming-lessons-with-me-I'm-sure-Uncle-Swimming-Man-won't-mind-and-then-we-can-get-a-pool-and-our-hamsters-won't-drown.Oh-won't-it-be-lovely-when-we-have-a-pool.My-hamsters-are-so-cute-don't-you-think-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom?
The hamsters we don't own? I feel I know them biblically.
And so I drink this wine without an iota of guilt. And for this I can be eternally grateful to The Daughter.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Ballet: Porn For Rich People.
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.
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.
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