[As I’m typing, I’m trying to keep my nose down my shirt in an attempt to avoid the revolting, nauseating stench of a colleague’s early morning mince and chicken livers from the canteen. I think that’s what they called it – it smells more like rotting sewer rat, but that could just be my sensitive nasal passages so early on a Monday morning. How is this day not over yet?]
Okay, so on with this weekend. On Friday, Beloved Boyfriend joined the massive throngs of enthusiastic teenagers at the Live concert. I’m not a fan of being shoved around, staring into sweaty armpits while trying to catch a glimpse of the stage and spending most of the evening (a few hundred’s rand worth) in the queue for either a portable cubicle or a sheltered bush – when I can jump around and sing along to songs I like in the comfort and space of my own home. But enough about Boyfriend. I cunningly turned down an invitation to Turtle Crack – which got rained out anyway – and spent the evening at home. Alone. With no power. Not the highlight of my weekend, but I survived. I put candles into glass jars, rather than easily meltable plastic tubs (fire safety 101) and ran a bath (AFTER the lightning had died down) with rubber gloves and rubber soled flipflops on, just to be sure…
A quick revelation about power outages on the roads: people hoot with enthusiasm. Does this make the lights come back on?
On Saturday I went to collect a garage card that I didn’t order. I got a phonecall last week to tell me that my garage card was ready to be collected. I found this amusing because I’ve been out of the country and haven’t had a garage card for the last year and a half. I told Vusi from Nedbank this. It threw her for a bit, but unperturbed she carried on with her script. “You can collect your card from Randburg branch within 7 days.” I said I didn’t want the renewal. Pause. “You can collect your card from the Randburg…”
So I decided to go fetch it, seeing as it was there. My new friend, Bongi, came back with bad news. “We cannot find any proof of residence or any accounts under your name,” she says, witholding card that I didn’t want and hadn’t ordered.
“I know,” I explained, “I haven’t ever had an account. The card was under my father’s name. I didn’t order for renewal but I got told I had to collect it.”
Bongi explained that she wouldn’t be giving me the card and I explained that she could break it in half and shove a piece up each of her nostrils for all I cared. I didn’t want the damn thing in the first place and I had wasted most of my precious Saturday morning to drive to Randburg to fight with her.
Bear in mind, the last time I went to collect my garage card, the branch manager wouldn’t hand it over because she refused to believe that I was the same person pictured on my driver’s licence. “This is a man,” she informed me with a chuckle. “Where is your ID?”
It was a bad photo from a bad stage, and I prefer not to talk about it. And it clearly states FEMALE on the document anyway. Nedbank get stuffed.
Oh yes, I was going to talk about menstruation, wasn’t I? I got carried away with my hatred for Nedbank. It was also National Arsehole on the Road Day on Saturday. But, after dragging Boyfriend and a few others around the Zoo on Saturday evening (they were open for a Halloween special – lots of monkeys wearing witch’s hats and Scream masks), I was feeling a lot calmer about all things garage and traffic related.
And that’s when it happened... PMS.
NEWS FLASH: Boys, PMS is not in our heads. It is a very real affliction. Do not, if you value your dangly bits, ever suggest that we're making it up or exaggerating.PMS makes me cry. Buckets. It wreaks havoc with my hormones and emotions and I bawl at just about anything. Dead puppies, cute puppies, weddings, TV ads, computers not working and most famously – because I couldn’t separate eggs. It’s embarrassing and I wish I could control it. I really, truly do.
Short story on Sunday is that Boyfriend and I were having an argument. It was about small differences. Until I started crying… then it became life or death differences.
Bless his cotton socks, my beloved boyfriend knew enough to placate and sooth me - and then took me out for sushi and all was good in the world. But since then, I’ve now done him the favour of circling the calendar dates for future reference. So he now knows to just agree with every thing I say at THAT time of the month. It might be easier and cheaper.
ps. I got choked up to see people handing out pamphlets in the rain this morning. PMS is, quite literally, a curse. Excuse me, I need to cry.