Mammoth

Ok, I've wasted the last fucking hour trying to be a proactive blogger and upload the fucking pictures that I took this weekend, but I think - for some reason - the computer thinks that I don't like it and is refusing to be co-operative. But at last, here we go...

Right... Think. Type. Order.

My weekend started at the Bedfordview Sports Bar. Any preconceived misconceptions were quickly put to pay when I realised that, for the most part, people east of Rosebank are relatively normal – although slightly (grossly) oversized. What was meant to be a few quiet drinks quickly turned into a late night and ended with us stealing a dodgy, abandoned (but unopened) packet of niknaks and and smashing them in our diff – as us from the Eastrand would say. ps. flat top hairstyles, platform tekkies and vest tops are still very much IN.

Saturday morning I pottered off the hairdresser to make pretty for the hockey dinner that evening. That’s where it all went pear.

I told my hairdresser I wanted what we had last time.
Blank stare.
You remember what we did last time, right?
Uuum, ja… we cut it a little, layered it a little… um…

And off we set. She started snipping at the back and by the time she got round to the front it was too late. I was humming the funeral march as my locks dropped to the floor in bundles the size of small babies. Then, in case I wasn’t unhappy enough, she blow dried my hair UP. There is nothing wrong with volume in my hair. In fact, I run screaming from any shampoo, conditioner or product that proudly boasts ‘Added Volume!’

So I left the salon looking more like a happily married housewife from Oranje, rather than the sleek, red carpet strutting trophy wife I had envisioned. But, I told myself, I was going to be mature about this. I was NOT going to cry. What would that do? The hair is now cut. Ce la vie.

And then I cried. Oh, did I mention I was PMSing? I cry when I PMS. Ask Boyfriend.

I now needed consolation and turned to my cellphone for sms comfort. Unfortunately my phone picked that exact moment to have a series of brain farts. I started receiving sms’s that read: hoe@#dals my toe la& tonighT, Meet at %soli* aitol.” Which I, presume, is not how they were sent. These messages then progressed to the simple and helpful statement of ‘Unreadable’ with each new sms. I’ve diagnosed it with the deadly XDR-TB virus that’s been floating around Joburg lately, but am taking it in for a second opinion today.

After a series of woooosaaaahs and deep breaths, I was able to get ready for the hockey dinner – dressed as a Bunny of the Playboy mansion.

Donning my oversized ears, snazzy Playboy wristbands and a cheeky pink pom-pom attached to my ass I bravely ventured into the bar for predrinks - to find myself faced with a sea of people just there to watch some rugby. Picture Bridget Jones, literally in bunny outfit… Where the fuck are the rest of my team? I’m far too sober for this.

Sobreity quickly amended, I located my team (who had not donned their playboy attire yet, to avoid what I had encountered) and thatch-roofed hairstyles and reprobate phone troubles were soon forgotten.

Hmm, details are sketchy from the hockey dinner itself. I was a few litres of lubrication down by the time food was served (having already knocked over a number of full drinks, very distressing. Must drink to amend distress) and I was smoking H.O.T. As one is, after shooting a few sherry shots.

That is, until Beloved Boyfriend told me my hair looked like a mushroom… Never one to shy away from admin. Pick the slightly insecure, PMS-ING (did I mention that?), now half a bottle of wine down and very dronk-verdriet chick. I burst into tears, certain of the fact that everyone was pointing at my upturned goldfish bowl impersonation.

Finally coaxed out of the bathroom by a very patient fellow Playboy bunny I set about – again – amending my sorry situation. Sniff, sniff. Idiot boyfriend (who, I must add, I do truly love… but he’s still an idiot. Important lesson #357: Girlfriend gets very sensitive and cries after drinking wine. Note taken. Idiot.)

Aaaanywho, last laugh was on me as I returned to give Boyfriend more admin, which he avoided by falling off his chair. Not sliding… tumbling.

All in all, good clean fun that the whole family can enjoy. Ps. More pics can be found here if you want proof of the carnage.

On Sunday my weekend actually started, as I’d taken Monday and Tuesday off to spend time at our little plek on a farm just outside of Rustenburg. I told myself I was going to detox and sober up… but after a few hours of bellowing conversations at my two grannies and doing my best impression of a patient and doting granddaughter (haha) I had not just fallen off the wagon, I had dived off head first in search of the nearest Marula tree.

I also graduated myself from farm guest to farm girl as I drove the landie, barefoot nogal… yeeeehaaa! It was great fun, although Daddy-darling did feel the need to inform me – as I launched the heavy vehicle in fourth gear over a series of potholes and futile speedbumps – that most people prefer to be driven at a speed where they can actually spot game. I’ll keep that in mind for next time. I also won the messy rib-eating contest. Although I may have been the one to call the contest, I was the unanimous winner by a long shot. It's a talent.

Oh and I bought a new pair for slippers from Rustenburg’s shopping mall. See example of average family that can like to be spotted at Waterval mall. I'm going to hell, I know.

This latest purchase takes my tally of slippers alone to 5 pairs. I now have more slippers than Boyfriend has shoes, much to his disgust.

Come on people… they were orange, and fluffy… how could I not buy them? I don't care who you are... orange fluffy slippers rock.

Mammoth post over. Now better get cracking on those deadlines!