Present time!

Poo. Another Xmas is in its moer. There’s no time like present time. The highlight of my Xmas was getting this: … a polystyrene plane valued at R3,99 in most toy stores. When was the last time YOU got a present that made you rush outside and play in the garden for the rest of the day? I thought so.

The plane was part of a riddle, as Beloved Boyfriend’s present to me. In a box were a bunch of numbered presents:

1) Pin-on badge that read “I’m ONE!”
2) A sticker that said “Free”
3) A polystyrene plane (construction needed)
4) A used movie ticket
5) A two-year-old’s birthday candle
6) A guide book on Holland.

You get it? I did… One Free Plane Ticket To Holland. He’s going to pay for my flight, WHEN I finally get my visa.

Say it with me…. “Aaaaaaaaaw!”

My family think he’s completely nuts – I mean, his EU passport got him overseas out of my reach and now he wants to PAY to get me to join him?

I warned Boyfriend that he’s going to regret giving me the book on Holland, because it’s become my reading material. “…And then after we go there, we can go here, then we should go to this place, and then there’s this flower festival…”

Sorry for him!

New Years resolution: do not kill local actors

Yesterday, I had to coordinate my first all-day full-cast last-minute press shoot. Two days before the Xmas weekend.

It didn’t start off too badly. The cast coordinator and photographer were there at 7:30am, as promised. The set stylist and wardrobe artist were late. The main actor was late. Then the cast coordinator told me she had never seen the schedule before… the schedule that I sent out on Tuesday. This was a problem, because she had failed to inform the main actor that he would be needed all day. Main actor had other plans (like picking his parents up from the airport, two days before the Xmas weekend). It’s not exactly like I could’ve told him to stuff his family plans, it wasn’t his fault his fekking production company had failed to pass on his schedule.

It’s my fault really. When I sent out the full day proposed schedule and call times, I probably should’ve pointed out in the email that both were attached on different sheets on the same Xcel workbook. Oh wait. I did. I probably should’ve resent the schedule the day before, just in case. Oh wait. I did. You see, it’s my fault really. I didn’t put enough effort into my communication.

So at 8:30am my entire production shoot fell apart. The cast group shots that I was supposed to get were stuffed. The show is called Joseph’s Burden. Without Joseph it’s just a burden really. My burden.

I also established that the cast and crew had had their year-end party the night before. So they were all irritable and wanted to leave as soon as they arrived, which was a bit tricky as we were due to shoot (as stated on my carefully planned schedule) until 6:30pm.

Then the prima donna of the show called to say she couldn’t make her 2pm call time, so she was coming now, at 10am and ‘I would just have to fit her in.’ Awesome. What part of SCHEDULE don’t these people understand?

I should’ve just sent out an email the day before saying, “Open invite! Please stop by whenever it suits you. We look forward to seeing you! Ps. You’re all on a local South African production. Don’t kid yourselves; you have not hit the big time.”

By 11:30 I was juggling the main actor who had to leave by 11:30, another actress leaving by 11 (who had, in fairness, told me of her other plans two days in advance), and a fekking drama queen who was three hours early and only wanted pictures taken from this angle, to be published in this paper, with this information. Oh and can she have some coffee. I pointed to the kettle. She didn’t appreciate that.

‘Tis the season to be jolly (and not think murderous thoughts).

By midday I was still trying to placate actors who had not been told that it was an all day shoot. The make up artist, the set stylist, the wardrobe artist and the cast coordinator had all fallen asleep in the studio.

By 1pm, I was playing cast coordinator because the actual cast coordinator had gone home – a fact I only established when I realised that actors weren’t being picked up or dropped off at the studio anymore.

All in all, a very successful day. Three more sleeps til Christmas!

Overshare

Okay, I wasn’t going to blog about this… but here is my daily overshare:

First, a little lesson in feminine hygiene for the guys… Ladies’ loos have ladies’ bins for ladies’ things. Comprendé? Don’t worry, I’m not going to go into detail, just setting the scene.

So, I go to the loo yesterday – and use the wheelchair loo because it’s the only one available (yes, I’m one of THOSE people). There’s a ladies’ bin on either side of the loo. These bins at work are super-fancy. They’re automatic so us delicate ladies don’t have to actually touch them – just wave our delicate hands over the sensor and with a ‘Rrrrrrrrk’ the lid mechanically opens and shuts again after 3 seconds.

As I sit down, the bin on my right gives me a gratuitous Rrrrrrrk as it opens all by itself. Oookay, I think, I may have set the sensor off. It’ll close shortly.

Just as the bin on my right is closing, the bin on my left starts its own routine. Rrrrrrrrk. Then the bin on my right starts again. Rrrrrrk. Bin on left opens as right is closing. Rrrrrkrrrrrrk….rrrrrkRrrrrrrk.

By this stage, I was sitting with my arms straight out in front of me, complete with giggles – determined to prove to myself that it wasn’t me setting off the sensors.

Of course, as soon as I left the bathroom (bins still opening and closing willy-nilly), I had to share this experience with my office, which sent a few ladies to verify the facts. They came back in hysterics as our magical bins were still doing their mystical mambo in the ladies loo.

Ladies' bins in a ladies' loo, going nuts. Fits with the general female psyche, doesn't it?

Finger food

This morning, I managed to clamp my pinky-finger in my ceramic hair straightener. This is what happens when you're not paying attention. I now have a blistered knuckle and a mishapen and puffy finger.

If I had a camera I would take a picture of my sausage-finger for all my adoring fans, but I've found this picture which I think sums it up pretty nicely:

Luxury Lodgings

Over the weekend, I went to Valley Lodge. Awesome. The Luce is a travel journalist and so gets to visit all sorts of exotic places around the world – all expenses paid of course. This entails a fair amount of traveling on her own, but occasionally she gets to bring a friend along. Luckily for me, the misguided gentleman she’s been gently spading for the last few months is currently out of favour, so I cracked the invite to this luxury lodge.

The first thing we did was explore our new surroundings – and while strolling innocently along we came upon a small herd of impala, a zebra, a wildebeest and a rooi hartebeest. The impala were skittish… and so was I. When the hartebeest started charging up and down the length of the open field, I quickly decided that I was not likely to outrun the animal and so put as much space as possible between me and Haartebeest – while ensuring that The Luce remained somewhere in between (see pic).

Cheeky Hartebeest.

Wild and unruly animals survived (we were also lucky enough to spot the blue-balled underside of a vervet monkey), The Luce and I made our way to the restaurant for one of our many decadent meals. Of course, being a romantic getaway, the lodge was filled with holidaying couples – and me and The Luce. Very sweet.

The Olympic-sized swimming pool was nice too – and with temperatures reaching melting point, even I was enticed underwater for a dip.

Later, The Luce adopted one of the lodge’s pet cats – luring it into our room for the night. Stompie, as we named her (the cat, not The Luce), must be on her 7th or 8th life, as she had lost her entire tail in an unfortunate accident that we could only speculate on.

Stompie was a very elegant cat, besides the lack of balance from her missing appendage, and she liked to show her affection by rooting her claws firmly in our skin and then dragging them back at a leisurely and content pace. She particularly liked sitting on my chest and kneading at my none-existent bosom, which was nicely sunburnt anyway.

We were nervous as to Stompie's unknown house-training status and so felt compelled to 'walk' the cat through the open window routine... "Okay, Stomps," I said as I picked her up from her comfy spot on the bed, "this is how it's gonna work if you need to excrete in any way. You're gonna jump up onto this chair here..." (as I bounced her from the flooor up to the chair) "then you're gonna jump out this window here..." (as the chair bounce was followed by an explanatory close-up of the open window). "Right... Chair, window. Chair, window. No poo-poo in the four-star hotel room, okay?"

Stompie also liked to the play a fun game when the lights were off. This game was called Stalk Koekie. Stompie decided she was, in fact, a bloody panther. And I was apparently her target. She would delight in pouncing on me just as I was falling asleep, digging her claws into my back, shoulders or neck. It was one of the few nights of my life where I felt the need to protect my jugular. I threw Stompie off my bed quite a lot.

See pic of Stompie lovingly caressing The Luce’s arm. See The Luce’s doting and appreciative facial expression.
Good food and good company. A good weekend… Until Sunday evening, when the inevitable happened. All my self-indulgent feeding of Seymour the Beast caught up to my IBS-suffering insides.

If you have seen Meg Ryan in French Kiss, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Think about her on the train, having ploughed through a platter of cheese…

“Uh oh…. Oh, Cramp… CRAMP! Oooooooooh. Oh. Argh…. LACTOSE INTOLERAAAAAAAANCE!”

The terror that flaps in the night... DWD

Two years ago I had an unfortunate incident with my then-boss... he was a creep and I made no pretense of liking him. This led to serious work tensions. I do not respond well to being sworn at from across the open plan office and he did not respond well to cocky upstarts swearing back at him.

We ended our passionate relationship with him threatening not to pay me and me flinging threats of the Labour Rights Act and CCMA court at him.

I left, he paid me. We didn't hug.

I'm not proud of how I behaved when I eventually left, it all got very childish and petty. Sometimes, I seem to think that once you start a fight, you might as well finish it. It's a matter of pride, or a lack thereof.

Yesterday, I sent out a press release to a group mailing list. Darkwing Duck (DWD, my previous boss) was obviously on mailing list, because I got a sarcastic (almost sneering) reply from him saying, "My my, small world."

Now, back in the day, I would've replied with something along the lines of: "My my, small penis." But I didn't. I just ignored it. This is me, letting it go. This is me, all growed-up.

Right. Now that I am finished extolling the virtues that are me, I can move on... to the Magaliesburg lodge where I am going to spend this weekend being pampered and indulged.

Yes, please.

Bring. It. On.

H.O.T... Hot

I love summer, I really do. But I think I would be able to love summer to its fullest if I didn't sweat out three litres of perspiration every time I climbed into my car. Air con is the way forward. Fan vents just don't cut it.

"Here we go, let's move all this hot air around, shall we? Turn up the speed of the fan... we'll move the hot air faster!"

Speaking of karretjie, I got my radiator fixed (turned out to be a very cracked water pump). I also got the window winder fixed. Hooray for me not having to climb out of my car when arguing with parking attendants at Rosebank. I got my car back yesterday, and then realised that my handbrake isn't working, and the warning light for the brakes was eyeballing me from the dashboard.

This vehicle is literally falling apart every time I shut the door.

So, I dropped off my car (for the second time this week) this morning and then forgot about it. I booked my routine wax appointment with my Jewish 4-foot-something monster of a beautician for 1pm. Come 12:45 I started scratching around for my car keys, which were obviously sitting at the garage. This resulted in me treating my colleagues to a "fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK!" stomping fit.

A quick emergency call to my Boet (what a treasure) ensured that I picked up my car and was on my way to have hotter-than-hot wax tipped over sensitive parts of my body.

Waxing done, I got into my now baking hot car and headed over to badly-ventilated Home Affairs to collect my passport that is finally ready. HOORAY! Of course, just because I was there, what usually takes 10mins (in, passport collected, out) - took 40 minutes. Yes, I'm taking this personally - the gods of chaos do these things to me on purpose.

The three people in front of me were all from agencies and the very clever person behind the till was not big on multitasking.

Take receipt. Study it. Type into computer. Study receipt. Study computer. Study object recently removed from left nostril. Walk away. Walk back. Check name. Work out alphabet on fingers. Flip through passports. Check name AGAIN... Locate passport. Hand passport across. Next receipt.

Oh my shattered g-string. Applicants for IDs were moving faster, and that really is saying something.

But I got my renewed passport... I am one step closer to my non-existant visa. Hoo-fukking-ray!

Flattened and tagged

So I moved my flat today. Well, when I say I moved my flat, I mean it in every sense of the South African definition. I watched four burly black men move my flat. In my defense, I was informed by the moving company that I was not allowed to move anything - leave it to the pro's otherwise it won't get insured. Suited me.

Even though I did no heavy lifting, watching all your worldly goods being packed up and carried away is quite an effort. It was also quite amusing watching Josie flirt with Surprise and Bornface, who responded with enthusiasm. Then Jo and I had our emotional farewells to deal with as well - but not before Jo got stung directly between the eyes by a bee. Even then she was loving the attention... "I look like an alien!" she wailed in mock distress.

I got myself and the last of my summer clothing back to my parents place (my home for the indefinite future). Now I just need to get a visa. Really, visa. Now.

At the end of the day, I am feeling flatter than my empty flat.

Which is why I wasn't going to blog, but after a little nap I woke up to discover that I've been tagged.

I think this is how it works... Spidertjie reckons I should share some things about myself that I haven't revealed on my blog. Me, the queen of overshare must share more (I lie. I may only be third princess behind Peas and Champers). Here goes:

-My father, as a joke when I was born, entered Galileo Bazeezelbub as my middle name. My grandmother sobbed unconsolably when she heard.
-One of my nicknames is Dildo. It had nothing to do with a reputation.
-I am terrified of h2o. Water en mass, makes me nervous. I am of the non-swimming persuasion.
-I watch 7de Laan, voluntarily.
-Sometimes, I pick my nose.

Overshare, over.
Out.

Ps. Peaches, you’re it. TAG.

Naughty or nice?

Frantic, rushed off my feet - in between I keep asking people at work if they've sorted out my visa, when I'm trying to ask them anything else. Guess what's on my mind? Flat is being packed and shipped off tomorrow. So much still to be done before then.



Despite the chaos, I had to take a moment to find out more about Pornaments:

The nine ornaments - spoofs portraying Mr. and Mrs. North Pole, reindeer and Frosty the Snowman in sexually risque positions - are selling for nine dollars and are on display on public shelves.

Shock horror. Local church and youth groups are protesting. Apparently they feel that risque ornaments make a mockery of the religious sanctity that is Christmas. Go figure.



Poor Santa.

ps. I can no longer view my own blog at work because it is apparently too dodgy for my work webmarshal. I can't view it, but I can still post. Sucks. But we'll have to work around it. There's always time to blog...

Are you there god? It’s me, Margaret

I’m shipping all our stuff this week. Yes, this is an optimistic move because at this stage, the authourities are not so keen in letting me live in their country. Pants to them.

As with every move, this entails going through all the hidden shelves in the cupboards and all the sentimental boxes of crap etc. It turns out that I have saved, for the last three years, a pair of very worn Garfield socks. Why? There was also a hairclip, consisting of four florescent shoelaces. Again… why? Of course, I kept the hair clip. One day, the 80s will come back and then my orange, pink, yellow and green shoelace hair piece will be the envy of all to survey. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

By far the best, and most random treasured item was my “Learn to play the gum leaf” CD and explanatory booklet. My mother informs me I bought that while on hockey tour in Australia. The gum leaf. Not a musical instrument, but just an ordinary leaf off a gum tree. WHY WOULD ANYONE BUY THAT?

Then I found my old diaries. I went through a stage where I thought I was Judy Blume. Oh the teenage angst. Well, technically pre-teen angst:

12 February 1991
Dear Diary,

I can’t believe I wasn’t invited to Sarah’s party. She said we were best friends. Well if that’s how best friends treat each other, then I’m Mose’s uncle… We’ve known each other since nurserarry (sic) school. I just asked mom for her opion (sic) on what to wear. She takes everything so seriously. It’s not like I was asking her about sex or anything. I was just asking her opion (again – sic)…

I think my favourite entries were the ones about my family. Obviously, being the eldest, I was not very loved.

16 October 1994
Dear Diary,

Why are brothers such pains? I’m not sure if he (Dorkface) can really help it. He is just such a dickhead. And now he’s seen me write dickhead in MY diary and he’s told mom.

I can’t decide whether to slant my writing backwards or forwards [Present day Koekie: both slants demonstrated in respective directions] Anyway, Dorkface has now got me into so much trouble. Mom said, “Nice one, Koekie.” I said, “Thanks.” Mom, “Real nice, Koekie.” I said, “Thanks.”

Ps. Why are brothers such pains? Answer: It is so, because they are boys.

I was a real little trouble causer, wasn’t I? I love the flippant interaction with my parental authority. Also, I was twelve and saying phrases like, ‘it is so.’ No wonder Sarah didn’t invite me to her party.

Another:

12 April 1994, 20 to 12pm [I think I meant midday]
Dear Diary,

Why is life so unfair? Why do my parents love my brother [the aforementioned Dorkface] more than me?

Next entry:

12 April 1994, 16 to 1pm
Maybe my family isn’t so bad after all. They’re forgiven.

How magnanimous of me. You think they possibly fed me in between? I think Seymour The Beast was placated.

It has been an interesting character study... apparently I’ve always been a drama queen. And my favourite topic was and always will be: me.

To do

Things I need to do before the end of the year:

• Collect passport
• Collect birth certificate
• Collect Boyfriend’s birth certificate
• Prove I don’t have a criminal record (yet)
• Reapply for visa
• Sell Boyfriend’s car
• Fix my car’s window
• Fix my car’s radio
• Fix my car’s radiator
• Pack up flat and ship to the Netherlands

Things I need to do sometime next year:

• Find someone prepared to buy my car
• Learn Dutch
• Learn to ride a bike

Oh, my aching arms

Last night, we went go-karting. I was awesome… if by awesome, you understand it to mean “got in the way a lot, frustrated other drivers and refused to come off after my allocated amount of laps on the track.” Then I was AWESOME.

A group of about 20 of us were divided into teams through a random draw. My team consisted of one Audi-driving SARS accountant, one under-aged minor, myself and one very frustrated 25-year-old who watched as his team was lapped four times… in the first round.

I was under the mistaken belief that I did quite well – for a girl. In all honesty, I was only really there for the spins and for skidding into corners, which I think I did very well, thank you.

Each driver got two rounds of 8 minutes on the tracks. About halfway into my first round, my poor girly arms gave up on me. I simply didn’t have the strength to control the kart any more. Of course, this message did not relay to my brain – so my foot was still merrily depressing the accelerator pedal. As I came into the big corner and my arms gave up and my foot didn’t, I managed to side-swipe R (who had only lapped me once in that round, I think) quite spectacularly. I got a very threatening warning flag and an evil eyeball from the official for being a menace on the road and to society.

It was fun.

In the second round, when my team was about 12 laps behind the leaders, I took the approach that if I wasn’t going to beat them, then they sure as shit weren’t going to pass me… again.

No, I lie - there was nothing conscious in my strategy. I was just trying to hold on, and see through my helmet that kept falling down over my face. There are only three bends in the track, but if people were viewing a hidden camera from my kart they could be forgiven for thinking there were at least seventeen, with all the skidding, sliding and swinging I did. All this extravagant maneuvering left no room for overtaking. So I’m told.

On about my second last lap (which I later learnt was supposed to be my last lap), I finally managed a corner that saw me gliding smoothly to the outside of the track and accelerating. It felt so good. So that's how it's supposed to be done. Now if only I could remember what the hell I did… Shortly after that, my evil official stepped into the track and just about dragged me into the pit lane. Rumour has it that he’d been trying to call me in for the last few laps.

Whoops. Let’s just put it down to lack of peripheral vision, shall we?

Jovial

Let me tell you about my domestic treasure. Her name is Josie and she was hired by Boyfriend before I moved in with him. From the first day that I met Josie, we both knew whose house it was. It was hers. Once we’d sorted out the balance of power, we got on like a… um, flat on fire.

Josie works in a few other flats in our complex, so when she sees I’m home she stops by for a visit. Sometimes she catches me attempting some ironing of my own and she chuckles and shakes her finger at me. She whips through our flat like a cleaning tornado once a week – and even polishes Boyfriend’s rugby boots from time to time. True story.

Josie is possibly the most happy person I know. She laughs at everything (mostly me). Sadly, very recently her younger sister was killed – shot dead in taxi violence as an innocent bystander. Even then, Josie came to work a week later with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face, not because she had to but because she said she wanted to get back to work. She is a strong and amazing character.

Occassionally, we have our little communication break downs. Just this week, she popped by to give Boyfriend a farewell card, which read: “…I wish you all the best in your journey to Chicago.”

We have no idea where she got Chicago from, but we love her for the thought.

This morning, Josie arrived while I was getting ready for work. Boyfriend and I had gone through all our stuff on the weekend, resulting in two huge bags of clothing and other random jumble which I offered for her use.

Josie was delighted and proceeded to put on a fashion show for me – donning Boyfriend’s and my clothing in layer upon layer over her clothes. “And then when I’m missing you,” she grinned, “I will wear it all like this… and then I will be thinking of you and your husband!”

Another Josie highlight from this morning (there are usually a few) was when she spotted the cover of the Sunday Times Magazine, advertising the upcoming gay marriage between two Isidingo stars.

She picked up the magazine, waving it above her head: “White wedding?” She proclaimed, before doubling up in laughter, “I don't think so!”

I will miss this woman so much when (WHEN) I leave – and not because I’ll be leaving the South African Madam and Eve culture. I’ll miss her laughter and her jokes as my friend. And if anyone is looking for a reliable, very thorough and very entertaining lady to help maintain their house in the area of Rosebank, let The Koekmeister know.

Forgive me for this gushy post. I’m still feeling emotionally bruised from yesterday.

More tranqs

My Orange Eagle has touched down in The Hague. At almost exactly the same time, I received this email from the Dutch agency which has been applying for my visa:

"We regret to inform you that the Dutch Immigration Authorities (IND) has denied your MVV-application... This means that you need to start a C-visa application (tourist) at the Netherlands Embassy in Pretoria on your own account."

I can't believe it.

Tranquility

It’s that time of the month, people. No, not THAT time (well, that too) but it’s time for another overshare…

Because you see, I am one of the many sufferers of IBS. I’m not going to go into details. Look it up yourself if you don’t know.

The short story is that whenever I get stressed, I get sick. I don’t consciously do this. Half the time, I don’t even realise that something is stressing me until I get start spewing out both ends (there’s the overshare I was threatening). I start a new job, I get sick. I get overwhelmed at work, I get sick. Boyfriend and I have been doing long distance for a few years now, and in the past I haven’t even been able to stand up straight when time came to get him to the airport. I hate airports. They’re emotional and they stress me out.

I don’t even have to be saying goodbye to anyone. I can just be at an airport WATCHING total strangers tearing away from each other’s arms at departures and I get emotional. It certainly doesn’t help when I’m premenstrual.

So take premenstrual, emotional and stressed and then time it with Boyfriend’s departure for The Hague. Disaster in the making. That was until I discovered… *drum roll please*… tranquilisers.

Not catatonic ‘one flew over my cuckoo’s nest’ tranquilisers, but rather gentle ‘take a fekking chill pill, chick’ tranquilisers.

Consider this a public service announcement to all IBS sufferers out there. It works.

By 4pm yesterday, when Boyfriend still hadn’t even started packing and was due to leave for the airport in less than two hours, when on any other occasion I would’ve been hysterically sobbing, hyperventilating into a paper bag, hanging over a toilet or all three, I was calmly pointing out what still needed to be done before he departed.

Such was my out of character serenity that Boyfriend was even starting to become nervous about me driving his car back from the airport.

Even at the airport, when Boyfriend was told that his hand luggage was too heavy for the flight (8kg as opposed to the regulation 7kg), I didn’t get stressed.

I can tell you exactly what was in his hand luggage – because I packed it:

• A pair of work shoes;
• a pair of black pants;
• a white shirt;
• a blue tie;
• a black belt;
• one set of boxers;
• a pair of black socks;
• a thick top;
• two magazines and two thin books

His hand luggage was half full and certainly a lot lighter than what my hand luggage would’ve been, which usually consists of:

• A hairdryer;
• a hair straightener;
• two brushes and a comb;
• more hair accessories;
• a set of pajamas;
• spare underwear;
• a change of clothes;
• a change of shoes;
• all toiletries (usually jumbo-sized shampoo and conditioner);
• almost complete medicine cabinet;
• all my jewelry;
• a few CDs;
• my MP3 player;
• my camera;
• a few books (generally finishing one and starting another);
• PLUS: my handbag and all it’s womanly contents.

Boyfriend had a change of clothes as he was heading straight into the office, and something to read. How much less could he possibly take on the plane?

Even as I was shouting across the crowded check-in area to Boyfriend to, “Show them! Just show them what you have in your bag… how much more can you possibly take out?” (this is me ON tranqs), I still did not panic. These things really work.

So we took his winter top, the magazines and the books out, they weighed his luggage again, gave him the all clear, he checked in… and then we put all the stuff back in his hand luggage again. What a joke.

In fact, now that I think about it, it all went very smoothly. The closest I came to a panic attack was trying to find my way out of the parking lot as I couldn’t find the effing exit.

Today I started my new job in Randburg. So far I’ve been offered chocolate cake on two separate occasions. I think I’m going to like this job.

Karma

Apparently I'm approachable.

I went to Cresta on my day off. I wasn't in any rush, so when a grandpa called me over in the parking lot as I was arriving, I stopped to help. Before I knew what was happening, I had a 90-year-old granny on my arm and I was helping her out of the car and down the ramp to the shops.

I really didn't mind. In fact I found it quite amusing. She was an absolute dearheart. And she was the one who realised we were actually walking away from Dischem (our mutual destination). Thank god for her, otherwise I would've walked the length of Cresta before realising.

I shouldn't say thank god. Blasphemy. She's a nun from Lesotho - and has been for the last 70 years. That's dedication to the cause. I decided not to tell her that I live with my boyfriend.

Leaving my favourite Sister at the medical centre, she thanked me profusely and told me that one day, I too would get help when I least expected it.

Later, I was scratching in my wallet for parking money. I had exactly R3 in change, or a R100 note. Amazingly, my parking came to R3. And the machine accepted all of my coins - first time.

How often does that happen, people?

I'm telling you... karma.

Final day!

The exclamation mark shows more enthusiasm than I am feeling, but it has to be there. So yesterday, we went ten pin bowling after work. Here are a few pics. These girls rock… even though they didn’t let me win (I hit two spectacular gutter balls in the last round. Never been big on BMT). ps. I take pictures of cleavage because I don't have any. pps. I cannot fix the stupid layout. I give up.

Needless to say, many savannahs were drunk and by the time my alarm went off this morning I very seriously considering calling in sick on my last day.

I finally dragged my sorry ass out of bed and stumbled through to the kitchen for a much needed glass of water (note to self: many savannahs + no water = mouth like the bottom of a bird cage). Holding glass under tap, opened faucet and water spewed forth. I don’t know what possessed it, but the water came out with such force that none actually remained in the glass - and sink, kitchen and self were all drenched. Splendid. Fortunately I was still in my PJs, but at that stage I was seriously thinking about going to work in them. And it was a bad hair morning - I looked like an Australian rugby league fullback, undercut and all. I'd prefer not to talk about it.

Got to work, avoided work, ordered toasted sarmie for delivery. Forty minutes later I went downstairs to find out how one toasted sarmie could possibly take so long… to be informed by reception that they sent the delivery guy back because I wasn’t answering my extension.

After a fairly heated discussion about what my extension actually is (oh sure, they can get hold of me when they’re putting someone through for IT, HR, Phumzile, Fred or the CE-bloody-O but they can’t find me when I’m feeling sorry for myself and need a toasted cheese and bacon asap), I went to go fetch the damn sandwich myself.

Get to Sandwich Baron, explain the stupidity that is reception, ask for my non-delivery, am informed that the guy is still trying to deliver to me. Now, you have to appreciate the location to understand this. I work on the one side of the block, Sandwich Baron is a straight line away on the other side of the road. There is no ways I missed the delivery guy. And trust me, I was looking.

Sandwich Baron sends second delivery guy to find first delivery guy. First delivery guy returns, with the coveted sarmie in hand. Second delivery guy is now missing. I’ve got my sandwich, I don’t care.

I wonder if they ever found poor Prince? He might still be wondering the streets of Rosebank. Bless.

Penultimate day at work!

Yesterday, the girls in the office gave me a leaving present of a savannah bottle/drinking glass and a pair of purple doondies (see picture). I was awarded the Savanah Trophy for drinking the most savanahs. Anger said when she saw the undies she thought of me. I’m not sure how to take this… the graphic on the front is a flying dog with wings.

Regardless, they rock. I rock. We all rock. And now I can shake my ass like dorky Natalie (Cameron Diaz) in Charlie’s Angels… in my little pair of boyish underwear.

Awesome.

Then I went to movies with Mumsy to watch Little Miss Sunshine, which is probably the funniest movie I’ve seen this year (I haven’t seen Borat yet). I may be ruining it by raising expectations, but any movie that makes bundling a body into the back of a van (that has to be kickstarted in 3rd gear) funny, is good humour.

And one day, when I have kids, I’m going to make sure they enter every beauty pageant. Because children should be seen and not heard, and if they’re gonna be seen, then they must look good.

One the way home, I was rolling up my window when my window-roller-upper-thingie came off my hand. So I got the giggles. I tried to put the roller-upper-thingie back on, but ended up having to pull/tug the window up and drove home with the winder in my lap. And then Boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend (aka Psycho or My Nemesis) almost turned a corner into me. That would’ve made my night.

So now, like the infamous Peas, I’m of the “stop car, open door, get out car, swipe card, get back in car, close door, drive through booms” variety.

Awesome.

Hen-picking, grandkids and Ponte

First, I’d like to apologise for all the missed calls and smses that I did not reply to this weekend. I have no excuse. I’m useless. Please don’t cross me off your social calendar just yet. Things are a bit hectic this week.

My weekend, abridged: I organised Kj’s kitchen tea and hen party on Saturday. My grandmother brought her a nectarine pip. On Sunday I went with Boyfriend to join his family for their big Christmas dinner out at Henley-on-Klip. It was pretty. The end. Now you’re caught up.

If you’re really bored and on work time, here's the unabridged version:

Hen Party

The party started with a fairly sober kitchen tea, where all the ladies were asked to bring a recipe and a marriage tip, to be stuck into a personalised folder. Cute. Trying to convey these instructions to my deaf grandmother over the phone was frustrating. After a few minutes of shouting, we eventually gave up and decided to just tell her when we picked her up.

I was the lucky one to play Granny-fedex. As I was shuffling her out of the door, she started muttering about a pip. Why must she bring a pip? I thought she’d lost her pip.

We eventually established that when we were shouting MARRIAGE TIP, she was hearing BRING A PIP, and so had duly eaten, washed and wrapped a nectarine pip. We convinced her to give it to the Bride-to-be anyway. I’m telling you now, marriage pips will be all the rage by next year.

The kitchen tea was followed by a less-sober Hen Party. We took our bachelorette to Billy’s in Fourways, because nobody else was interested in treating her to an exhibition at Tease Hers, much to my disappointment. Anywho, many cocktails were consumed and many men were harassed. My mother had kindly provided a giant penis moulded out of white chocolate, because that is what she does. No further comment there.

It also turns out that Billy’s is apparently the mecca for all Bachelorette parties. There were five other Brides-to-be on Saturday evening, which lead to a number of attention-seeking arm-wrestles and dance-offs.

Right at the end, the Bride-to-be had a fight with her Bridesmaid-to-be sister and it all ended in tears, with me dragging the one out of the bathroom to take her home. Aaaaah, emotions and alcohol. Good times.

Boyfriend’s family Christmas/reunion

After four years, Boyfriend was finally brave enough to extend an invitation to his family’s yearly Christmas lunch out at Henley-on-Klip. I thought Henley-on-Klip was on the other side of Pretoria, turns out it’s by the Vaal. Learn something everyday.

The family Christmas was like any other family reunion. If you’re present, they fight with you; if you’re missing they talk about you. There are the loud, over-opinionated ones; the ones fighting in the kitchen for the title of Best Cook/Best Host; the granny who can’t hear properly; the uncle who gets drunk and then wants to give speeches; the dodgy cousin who cops a feel at every opportunity for a hug (or is patting my arse how they say hello out near Henley?); and more and more, the pressure for the pitter-patter of little feet.

Boyfriend’s mother informed us, in no uncertain terms that in ten years time she wants – no, DEMANDS – grandkids. This year, she attended her 40th school reunion and was embarrassed beyond words to only have tales of one child’s wedding - and no grandkid photos to produce. Can you handle the scandal? At least she was better off than poor Esme… none of her children are married. Can you imagine the shame? She is absolutely not attending her 50th reunion if she has nothing to show for it.

Fortunately, Boyfriend is the youngest of three children, so the pressure is on the newly-wedded eldest for grandkids, and then on the middle child for the next wedding. Although ten years is a long time, she may be including us in that little equation.

The family Christmas was also interesting because I learnt where Boyfriend gets his lack of direction from. Travelling in convoy behind his father, who led us through two U-turns… in a row… in the little community of Henley-on-Klip, I realised why my darling Boyfriend has as much homing instinct as a blind ferret.

Actually, I lie... Boyfriend does have homing instinct. Unfortunately, his beacon of reference is Ponte Tower. He went to KES (I prefer to call it Hillbrow High), but being of the northern suburbs, I’m not so comfortable with the area. I’m actually much calmer about it than I used to be - there used to be panic attacks in the car as he drove me through Hillbrow at 11:30pm trying to get his bearings…

Driving back yesterday, we had our obligatory argument about how to get home.
“Stay on the N3,” I said… “it’s lunchtime on a Monday, just stay on the highway.”
“No no,” said Boyfriend, “I think we should follow the signs to Joburg.”
“You make a good point,” I countered, “But following the signs will lead you through city centre. At lunch time. On a Monday.”
“I’m following the signs,” said Boyfriend, putting his ‘I.R. Man’ cap on.

I closed the mapbook, muttered something about needing my Hillbrow fix and gave up trying to navigate. Also, bear in mind, we were giving a German journalist a lift from pretty and peaceful Henley-on-Klip to Sandton. Why not take her through the city centre? We need more good news stories to infiltrate Europe.

And so we wound our way through lunchtime traffic, eventually finding Joe Slovo Dr and going straight past Ponte. Always Ponte. Capetonians have the mountain, my Boyfriend has Ponte.

Having survived the Nigerians, drug dealers, muggers and hijackers (one and the same?) without incident, we got the German safely back to our apartment, where I fed her my world-renouned Banana-squishies, selling them as a South African treat.

I kid you not, she asked for the recipe.

The End.

Romeo, 17-0 and paranoia

After squealing some tekkie and flinging some shirt, R also managed to score some chick at the Xmas party on Wed. He knew her age and her number, but not her name – literally saved on his phone as Random.

With much delight we speculated on how to find out this missing information, but she beat him to it. R (let’s call him Romeo) received an email, from this random:

“Are you the Romeo that I met up with last night?”

A bold move as it stands, but bolder still when we noticed that it was sent to every Romeo on the global work list.

To: Rome Jones, Romeo Smith, Romeo Kumalo, Romeo McDonald…

It was the highlight of my hungover day.
No wait, our hockey game was probably the highlight of the hungover day – probably because I had very little to do with it. My tutu-flouncing team won 17-0, mostly thanks to this ballerina, who scored about ten of the goals. I just stood at the back and prayed that someone else would tackle before the opposition got to me.

Then… Boyfriend informed me that he is leaving for The Hague, like, next week. He’s going to the city of the Big Giant rock called Paaaarl to visit his folks and then flying out the next day…like… soon.

When I first started this blog, it was meant to be a soapbox about me and my misadventures. I’ve realised it’s slowly becoming a blog about “how much admin I give my long-suffering and much-loved boyfriend”. Maybe it should be an indepth look into the psyche of a semi-sane female.

I may just be over-tired.

I didn’t sleep much again last night, because I was having a mild panic attack about how soon Boyfriend is going overseas. I’ve got three 'sleeps' left with him. This became very traumatic for me, while Boyfriend was out enjoying farewell drinks with his colleagues.

Last night’s inner monologue: ‘He’s going, I’m staying. I’ll have to sort out the actual move from this side. What still needs to be done? How much longer will my visa take? What if I don’t get my visa? What if I can’t get a job? What if I comfort eat for the next two months and arrive in the country weighing 110kgs and he doesn’t love me any more? He thinks I’m fat!’


Then, drunk Boyfriend came home.












Now let me introduce to the two sides of my brain… there’s Mr Rational, the angel on my left shoulder. Then there’s Ms Dementia, the little voice that produces most of the oestrogen levels in my system.

I think it was Ms Dementia who opened the debate in my head.

Ms D: Go tell him about your paranoia. He’ll love you more for it.
Mr R: Duuuude, the boy is sitting in your lounge in his underwear, scoffing a sandwich drunkenly thrown together three seconds ago…. Now is not the time.
Ms D: Tell him. He’ll appreciate your openness and honesty. He’ll thank you.
Mr R: He’ll think you’re nuts.
Ms D: He knows you’re nuts.

Ms D won.

My Beloved Boyfriend opened and closed his argument with “you’re such a dork.” I found it difficult to counter.

I’m not sure what the point of this post was, I think I’ve lost track a bit. I’m tired, possibly a bit psychotic, and ignoring deadlines. Ms D and The Beast are telling me to get chocolate and a packet of ghost pops.
I always listen to the little voices.