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.

Sorry for them

I finally got the day off on Monday, but I've just learnt that no contingency plan has been made to cover my shift that starts at 6am. Oh well, don't say I didn't warn them.

This is me laughing my way to a long weekend...

Mwaaaahahahaha!

Slowly, slowly...

Slow moving
Slow driving
Slow typing
Slow thinking

This morning I couldn’t insert the damn key into the car door. I’ve had this problem before, where I was trying to use Boyfriend’s keys to open my car… so I studied the keys. Yup, definitely mine. Tried again, then realised it wasn’t my car.

On arriving at work, it took an extra 30 seconds to coordinate unlocking door, then opening door handle (not rolling down the window). Got out of car, noticed I was parked across two parking lots, decided it would probably piss people off, got back into car to repeat coordination and concentration.

I shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery.

It started at liquid lunch yesterday. We decided to introduce the three new temps in the way of ‘media-lunches’. By 6pm I was at the work Xmas party - wearing a short red skirt and a Christmas hat complete with red pom-poms hanging off the ears; pointing at my knee and proclaiming, “You see this bruise? This bruise is from knee-sliding. I am the dance-off queen!” (god, I'll let it go sometime in the next year)

Unfortunately, a colleague has just sent me the pics she took last night. I’m not going to put any up here. I preferred it when details were sketchy. A summary goes something like this: colleagues smiling, Koekie posing, some other random, another picture of Koekie grinning, Koekie and Nommy, Koekie striking another pose, Koekie pouting, Koekie and a few randoms, Koekie smacking R’s ass, Koekie looking proud of herself, R minus his shirt (for the record, I had nothing to do with that)… and then I left. Thank god.

Then there’s this.

Apparently, Ethiopia’s unique panthera leo abyssinica are too much trouble to conserve, so instead the government is selling the cubs off to taxidermists - to be euthanised, stuffed and sold to avid colonialists.

And now, I’m going to get hangover food.

Dr Love

My reputation precedes me.

Today I got an interesting phonecall from a Rhodes friend, who I met up with at the re-onion on Friday night...

Him: Hi Koekie, how’s work going.
Me: Fine. Busy. What you want?
Him: Where’s the nearest Adult World?
Me: Hahaha…
Him: Hahaha… No, seriously. I know you know these things – where’s the nearest Adult World.
Me: Oh, right… I’m glad you thought of me for this. Well, for you it’s probably easiest to go off the highway onto Corlett, it’s the on the left after Melrose Arch. There's one on Jan Smuts, but it's more effort to get to.
Him: Fantastic. You’re a special kid.
Me: Thanks. There’s also a Hustler shop across the road, but the Adult World has better variety.
Him: I’ll just take your word for it.

Apparently, I am a sex guru amongst my friend and colleagues – mostly because I tend to talk smutty, I guess. Don’t tell Boyfriend, he’ll expect me to show more aptitude in the bedroom…

Last night it was determined that I am most definitely not an expert when it comes to relationships. I forget anniversaries and buy Christmas and birthday presents last minute, much to Helsbels’ disgust.

Boyfriend and Hels have both already made lists about what needs to be bought – and for whom - before Dec 25. I admitted that I’ll be lucky if I plan anything before Dec23. This got us to talking about previous presents we’ve bought for our significant others.

Hels’ list included: a watch for her then-boyfriend’s 21st, and, most recently, a Persian cat for her current boyfriend.

Boyfriends list of presents for me included: Fossil sunglasses and a designer dress.

My list of presents for Boyfriend over the years includes: a second-hand rugby jersey (it was a joke); a Mnet beach towel and a set of wine glasses (that I got as a corporate gift); amongst other atrocities.

It’s about give and take. He gives, I take.

I don’t do presents, so please don’t get your hopes up for Christmas. Only a lucky few can expect a card.

Hot beverages

I love my milo first thing in the morning. I don’t drink coffee, but I need my milo/hot chocolate/something sweet, chocolatey and milkie.

This morning’s milo was later than usual, and I was rushing back to my desk without concentration when I realised that my mug (with a moo-cow on it, of course) was lopsided – and spilling down my one jean pant.

Ever the quick-thinker, I tipped the mug back – thus balancing out the spill down my other jean pant. I don’t even swear anymore when it happens. This is what I do. I spill on myself.

*Shrug*

It made me think of one of my more infamous adventures… the day I tipped an entire mug of piping hot chocolate all over myself and everyone seated at the table around me, at work.

I was being my usual witty, entertaining self and paused, mid-story, to take the first sip of my drink. I lifted mug from table, got it half way to my mouth… and poured about half the contents directly into my lap with such velocity that the liquid actually ricocheted off my legs in about 5 separate directions, effectively dousing everyone around me in the deluge.

It’s a very important lesson to learn: Bring to lip, THEN tip.

One of the guys, who I had just met, was wearing white pants. [I work in media: some of the men can like to be wearing white jean pants] He assured me that it was no problem, dark chocolate liquid on white pants is all the rage. And then he excused himself very quickly.

It is for this very reason that I never, ever wear white. As a rule. Certainly not if I can help it. One day, when/if I get married, I’m going to have wear deep amber, or maybe a nice poo-brown – and not for the obvious ‘lack of blushing bride’, but rather because it’s just tempting fate to wear white.

Do it for world peace

Seriously, do it.

Awesome

Last post for today, but I have to share:

Hi All

The city council advised that the water supply to our building will be off for an indefinite period of time. This will have a serious impact on the air-conditioning of the building, which we are forced to switch off.

Regret the inconvenience

Facilities Department

ps. don't go to the toilets if you can help it. I wonder if this water cut will also be 'indefinitely' affecting my complex. Awesome.

Bananchies

Reunion post-mortem:

Every Rhodes party comes complete with drunk speeches… old ballie stands up to welcome all the guests with a cheerful “leddies n genllmn… our edution sstem…” complete with the interesting toast of “to old faces, and new colour”.

Aaaah… the Eastern Cape is finally catching on to the idea of the Rainbow Nation.

The speech that followed started with “you haven’t come here to listen to me speak…” and went on 45minutes too long. The third speech was short and to the point: Let’s get drunk and vomit.

We were also reminded to please keep off the bowling green, as Rhodes is running out of venues to host Alumni functions. We can never go back to the same place the next year. You can take the Rhodent out of the Eastern Cape, but you can’t take the... urgh, it’s not gonna work, but you get what I mean.

I won a brilliantly purple Rhodes cap in the raffle draw. I wasn’t there to collect my prize, so Chlu claimed it for me – and then wouldn’t let me wear it. I never win anything, when I do, it’s hideous and withheld from me anyway.

I got over it, by ploughing through as many savannahs as I could get my grubby paws on. A direct consequence of this was me marching up to Mr DM and demanding a dance-off, for old times sake. I literally stomped my foot for emphasis.

The dance-off itself, in my humble opinion, was the dance-off to end all dance-offs. Mr DM and I have been known to attempt break-dancing in our footloose competitions in the past.

This time, we managed to amass a circle of cheering, clapping spectators as we went dance move for dance move on the newly laid floor – culminating in us both sliding across the circle on our knees, arms flung in fashionably dramatic angles. We eventually called in quits in a surprisingly sober decision before someone got hurt, although my knees are splendidly bruised from my efforts.

At 11:30pm the power cut (or somebody in power cut the power), and that’s about all I could remember… the pieces were filled in for me the next day.

It was fan-tas-mic.

Yesterday, I decided to attempt being all domestic (again) – it was time to make Banana Bread. As usual, this entailed reading the recipe and then choosing to ignore instructions. Instead of this, I’ll use this… I don’t have that, so I’ll just make do with that…

I don’t have an electric beater, but after what felt like several days of hard labour and manual beating (and a few minor repetitive stress related injuries), I finally decided that batter was sufficiently ‘creamed’.

I don’t have a bread loaf either so I decided that muffin tins would work.

They didn’t.

My banana bread muffins took forever to cook, despite the fact that I was opening the oven to check on them every 15 minutes, so I eventually lost patience and decided to physically pull them out of the baking tray. This didn’t work so well either, as I now had half-baked muffins, half out and half still obstinately wedged in their muffin constraints.

I gave up on those and decided that the remaining batter was now going to be spread across a baking tray and they were going to become Banana bread crunchies, or the newly-termed ‘Bananchies.’

This didn’t work so well either as they kinda crusted on the top, but not underneath which means that technically they should be called Banana bread 'squishies' more than anything else.

Amazingly, and despite my best efforts to sell them to my family and friends, nobody was too enthused to try my Banana Bread-muffin-crunchie-squishies.

Oh well, all the more for me…

Because I can

I got into work late today. Why? Because I can.

Ranger Mouse asked me to do him a favour. I smiled sweetly, but I think it’s going be ‘completely unmanageable and unjuggleable’ to get done. Especially as I’m on a go-slow.

My friends once bought me a T-shirt that reads: 'Do NOT mess with me. You will not win'. They thought they were funny but they could have a point.

After the second power cut yesterday, I decided it was a good time to go draw money. Of course, ATMs apparently need electricity to work too. Go figure. So instead, R and I strolled around Woolworths, where I pretended to stab people with a cutlery set, leading to us coining the phrases, “I’m gonna go WOOLIES on your ass”; “things are gonna get WOOLIES in here”; etc.

It was funny at the time, okay.

I also bought a packet of Chuckles (chocolate-coated malt puffs) – mostly because I needed chocolate, but also because I could share the chocolate love at the work place.

I even offered a pair or three to Ranger Mouse, while happily humming one of my all-time favourites:

Suck on my chocolate salted balls...
Put ‘em your mouth and SUCK ‘EM!

I enjoyed it, and that’s all that counts really. Now I am off to Home Affairs for the third time in the last few weeks: to collect a renewed passport and for a reapplication of my birth.

Will someone please stop this whirlwind of fun, I wanna get off and puke.

Home affairs and sex shops

So I piled R into the car with me to pay yet ANOTHER visit to Home Affairs. R also got introduced to my driving style of singing along to any song with gusto, with or without the correct lyrics... "Don't feel like dancing, dancing... digidigidigiwoooooooo!"

At Randburg, Princess - my favourite car guard - welcomed me with a wide grin of recognition and one of the caravan picture-pushers greeted me with a "no pictures today, just collection for you!"

I'm not joking when I say I've been to home affairs a lot lately.. They dig me.

Anywho, passport is still not ready for collection, but it was worth a try while we were there, so we pottered on down past the cows and chickens to the ID department, to be met with patient chaos. Chaos in that there was no queue and no system, and no one behind the counter. Patient in that most people were sitting waiting for nothing to happen - bar one guy who had taken it upon himself to rifle through documentation behind the counter.

After about half an hour of sitting doing nothing, one of the other ladies informed me that it wasn't actually a queue and that I should just push my way in for attention at the counter. Aaaaaah... so THIS is how South Africa works. Got it.

Birth certificate applied for and paid for, I watched the clerk behind the counter help himself to cash from the register and put it into his wallet. So THIS is how South Africa works.

Got back to work, only to be informed by Anger that I had to take her to a sex shop. Interesting concept on a random afternoon, but fortunately I live in a dodgy area so we pottered down Corlett to Hustler and Adult World... it was an eye opener for my loud-mouthed friend from Stanger.

I'm no porn star (I've got aspirations) but I've seen enough etv porn and spent enough time in Amsterdam to know that the ultimate dildo is the Rabbit Pearl 3000. Apparently there aren't many sex shops in Stanger.

Anger: Oooh, what about this?
Me: Do you even know what it is?
Anger: They're pearls.
Me: Yes.
Anger: What do they do?
Me: They go up...
Anger: Huh?
Me: They go up...
Anger: Oh! [drops package]

Some of our favourites were:

1. The Seaman's pump
2. The Thunder pump
3. The Randy Russion doll - with her 'three horny love holes'
4. The 'Ewe Loves You' blow-up
5. The Titty-drinking straw
6. The cum fest video - 'no holes barred'

It was a good way to end a bad week. Now I'm going to get drunk at the Rhodes purple party re-Onion.

Keep it sleazy.

Aggression is...

Why this day sucks like a chocolate-coated scrotum:

1. It started off well, there was no warning.
2. The witch flew in early, just to mismanage and pick fights with all and sundry.
3. The witch doesn't know what she's talking about, especially not when it comes to software, which makes getting anything done extremely arduous and time consuming. But she wants everything done NOW.
4. I had my meeting with HR and manager, who asked Ranger Mouse if my taking leave was really, completely “unjuggle-able”.
   Ranger Mouse replied: Yes. Completely unjuggleable, unfeasible and unmanageable.
   This was met with open-mouthed silence from me and manager. I’m not coming on that Monday. Leave or no leave. Mostly on principle.
5. Power cuts.
6. Our team is one member down today, because apparently other people can take leave as long as they’re not me.
7. Boyfriend is having no luck in PTA. We’ve established what stamp is missing, which can only be acquired from Foreign Affairs. Our birth certificates need the stamp too, but… wait for this… they can’t be more than one year old. Last time I checked, my birth had not expired.
   I am, therefore I was born.
   I thought birth certificate was a once off. Apparently not.
8. We now have to reapply to proof that we were born, having just proved that we never got married.
9. Boyfriend and I are probably going to get to The Hague by 2009, just in time for his contract to expire.
10. Birth certificates can expire. Seriously, WTF.

I want to scream at just about every single one of the mentioned on this list: “Jy was uit jou ma se gat gebore want haar poes was te besig!” (Forgive my Afrikaans spelling, or lack thereof)

All irritants must die.

Crises

The highlight of my day yesterday was the earthquake that hit just off the coast of Japan, triggering panic around the coastline of a “tsunami, with swells of 2metres”. Residents were evacuated in the middle of the night and told to ‘flee’ to higher ground.

Not that I’m excited at the impending doom of Japanese fishing communities, but rather at the fact that my entire office came to grinding halt to watch the live CNN coverage.

“We’ve got reports that the first waves have started hitting Wadjamajingie*… And we’re crossing to our live feed from our correspondent…” Cue footage of boats in harbour, rocking gently in minor swells.

Words could not describe the palpable disappointment in our office.

[*Not the actual name, look it up yerself.]

Otherwise, Boyfriend and I finally got our certificates of NON-marriage, which we duly sent off to our contacts in the Netherlands hoping this would be the final paperwork for our visas.

The Hague informed us that the certificates are unusable because they need a stamp from the Department of Foreign Affairs Head office. Boyfriend and I studied our certificates. They’ve both got: letter head bearing full colour SA coat of arms and Dept of foreign affairs letter head; stamp bearing date and HEAD OFFICE; and original (not copied) signature from Head of Office dude.

We’re not sure what else is needed.

I also got approached by New Guy (who’s doing much better on the computer – not stupid by any means) for a ‘private’ chat. So I led him outside for a talk…

He was so awkward and uncomfortable, my first reaction was, “ohgawd, he’s going to ask me out.” But it turned out to be much more awkward. He was asking for money. It’s his first job since getting his degree, I have noticed that he doesn’t bring or buy lunch at work, I know he needs the cash. I also know that HR won’t forward his salary – something he’d already tried to ask.

First, let me make it clear. I am that person who stares in disgust at people selling sob stories, while I eat my seafood platter in an elegant restaurant. I don’t think I’m uncompassionate at all, but I don’t have time for people who can’t help themselves. I also don’t like lending or giving money because I don’t know what I’m sponsoring. I don’t like lending to friends, never mind people I don’t know.

I was in a predicament, so I did something that went completely against my grain and constitution. I gave him money for transport.

It’s not that I didn’t want him to have to the money, I just don’t like the situation. But I’m glad I did it. I feel one rung closer to Champers on the Ladder of Goodness.

It all lead to an interesting conversation between Boyfriend and me at the end of the day…

Me: It’s not that I don't want to help him...
Him: How much more do they need on this piece of paper...
Me: I just don't want to be his sponsor.
Him: It’s signed, what more do they need?
Me: What was I supposed to do? I had to help him.
Him: And it’s already got a damn stamp!
Me: I really like the guy, I want him to do well.
Him: F*ing useless Netherlands.
Me: F*ing useless HR.
Him: Drink?
Me: God, yes.

I also managed to get to bed at 9 last night. What a pleasure. And this morning I was treated to Anger reciting from the Lion King with great enthusiasm. Sometimes, but only sometimes, I love my office.

Ps. Boyfriend is off to fight with the Dutch Embassy about what exactly they require. I wish him strength and luck.

Sleep-deprived humour

"Santa's little helpers are subordinate clauses." - Seen on a garage notice board.

I'm so tired, I giggle every time I think of it.

Subordinate CLAUSES. Get it?

Dear Anon

My liewe Mooi Meisie

I don’t know who you are, but I love you dearly because it appears that you know me. I think I went to varsity with you, but I could be wrong. I think you may be overseas (Asia?) but I could be way off.

And I know you can’t speak Afrikaans, which doesn’t really help because - despite my heritage - I don’t know many poepals who can speak Afrikaans.

I know that you’re loving taunting me, and I want to swat you for it.

xxx Koekie
ps. please give me more clues, I wanna know who you are.

Moving on.

I really need sleep… starting work at 6am and not going to bed before 11pm takes it out of this quarter-century life. I’m such a granny – evidenced even more by the fact that I had one glass of wine last night. One glass – and mussels in a wine sauce – and I was well ‘sauced’. I was spinning. I couldn’t understand it. Is this any way for a Rhodent to behave?

*hangs head in shame*

Yesterday, Anger asked me to help her look pretty for an interview (another colleague jumping ship). I suggested that she might want someone who actually wears make up on a regular basis, but she insisted on me.

Right… in that case, I suggest we start with green and gold eye glitter. She stopped me dead in my sarcasm by admitting that she had both. She wasn’t joking… out of the depths of her car she whipped out a professional (complete with silver briefcase) make up kit. I can’t remember the last time I saw so much colour in one place.

I thought it was the funniest thing I’ve seen – especially as Anger is about as make-up inclined as I am. Quoting her: “Do you think I need some of that… [motioning to painting on her cheeks]… stuff?”

Blusher. Yes, put one some blusher-stuff, dearheart.

After dressing Anger like a clown, I stopped past my folks place - where Mumsy noticed that my car was dripping from under the engine. As you can probably guess by now, I’m of the “let’s leave it and see how long it lasts before it explodes” variety of mechanic. But mom was insistent that dad take a look under the hood.

I popped the bonnet, stared intently into the engine, kicked the front tyre for good measure and felt qualified to proclaim, “yup, something’s definitely dripping.”

We established that my car was oozing water (doesn’t seem such a problem to me?) but we couldn’t determine where it was from.

Dad asked how my water and oil levels were. I shrugged. Dad asked when I last got them checked. I shrugged.

“You know you should get them checked every time you fill up, right?” Dad asked loudly and slowly as though talking to an idiot. As if.

It’s a good lesson to learn, seven years down the line. We (Dad) checked my radiator (I think?) water levels… to paraphrase my offspringer, “Forgodsake Koekie, it’s all bone dry!”

It would appear I’ve been driving on pretty much nothing but good faith and fairy kisses. Awesome. I found this very amusing. Daddy-dahling did not. In fact, he seemed quite concerned about it. Go figure.

Technicalities

I finish here on 30 November. I’ve asked for leave for the 27th. I got told by Ranger Mouse that he doesn’t think they can do without me and ‘technically’ I can’t take leave after handing my resignation.

a) If you can’t do without me, how about showing your appreciation in my remuneration. Shpanks.
b) Technically, I didn’t resign. I informed you that I would not be renewing my contract, because technically I was never really hired. And technically (am I overusing this word?), I only needed to give you a week’s warning so… wait for it… technically I could fuck off today.

I’ve never taken one sick day, I start work at 6am every damn morning and I’ve never been (more than 30minutes) late. I work overtime on a regular basis and I’m owed four days leave… so I’m taking it to HR.

I know I’m not alone in my hard-working mission but at this stage, Ranger Mouse - the obsequious superhero - can eat my pip-munching shorts.

Ps. I almost flattened a colleague in my haste to get to work this morning. Apologies Anger (her name means Anger… isn’t that awesome?), you still rock my working world.

Identity crisis?

Pa-ranting

Ahem… hi… I’m back and I can type (and edit copy) again. Sober Koekie. Drinking is very exciting in my world, it would seem.

So after winding my way home on Friday, I discovered that Boyfriend had gone out without me. How rude. I entertained myself by watching terrible movies like Little Shop of Horrors (Feeeed meeeeee, Seeeymour) and then went to bed/passed out. I woke up to hear Boyfriend coming home and I decided it was as good a time as any to pick a fight… Boyfriend eventually managed to get to sleep, but I remedied that problem by sitting on him, prodding him and telling him to “Communicate… COM-MU-NI-CATE.”

He loves me.

Before heading off to a pool party on Saturday, I flooded the kitchen by opening the washing machine when it hadn’t finished draining. Turns out there’s a lot of water in that little contraption. Ever the baboon, I did the same thing on Sunday morning.

Omigosh… I was going to move on from Sunday, but here comes the rant session. Why do people breed if they have no inclination to raise the offspring? See, we went to the Bot Gardens yesterday. Lovely day, chilling in the park…

Until Fat Mamma and her beeyatch arrived. Fat Mamma and Hubby had four children – the oldest was about 5, the youngest was about 6months old. You do the maths.

The kids names were Luke, Joshua, (something indistinguishable) and Screaming baby. I know because the couple spent most of their morning going, “Luuuuuuuke, come back here! Josh… Josh! No, get off that!”

It was mostly Fat Mamma sitting on her ass at the top of the hill screeching, while her Bitch ran around at the bottom of the hill trying to gather a toddler under each arm. In a way, I’m grateful that Fat Mamma stayed at the top of the hill, because had she moved the recovering 2004 tsunami victims may have felt the repercussions.

You might have noticed, I don’t like young kids and I REALLY don’t like people who can’t control young kids. At one stage, precious Luke actually came and stared at me from behind a tree about 30cm away. I felt a similar revulsion to when I stand on a squishy bug – but this could have been due to the smell that was exuding from dear Luke’s nappy. Think Roald Dahl’s The Witches… I have a similar aversion to children. Especially badly behaved ones.

Maternal, me? What biological clock?

As I sat, trying to avoid breathing through my nose, Fat Mamma’s bitch came to collect the monster. The father whipped him away threatening to give him a smack if he didn’t behave… and Luke laughed. Affective parenting 101. When your kids laughing to your face, at the age of 3… you’ve got problems.

Please don’t get me wrong, I’m talking about discipline – not abuse. But I pity the foolish offspring who tries to laugh at me one day. It won't happen. And for this reason, I have no desire to procreate.

A friend once told me that any child I breed should be confiscated at birth. I fully support the motion.

Moving on from my opinionated views….

After burning my finger in the hair straightener this morning, I felt I was good to go for a Monday. There was also a tree across our road – not a few branches, a tree. I think it rained solidly from about 8pm last night to about 4am, and then some more.

Two hours later, Boyfriend called me to inform me that he couldn’t get out of the house – not because of the tree but because he couldn’t find his keys…. Which I found in my car’s cubby hole. I didn’t even know they were there.

I then got to sit in the traffic and the rain, in order to get home and let my Boyfriend (looking like a monkey in a cage) out of the flat. He’s lucky I like him. On the upside, I got to listen to the Rude Awakening for the first time in about 6months.

Clever people

We received a call stating there was a male who had a firework in his bottom and it was bleeding

At least we can rest assured that he is unlikely to breed. And will probably be pooing through a tube for the rest of his life. Dignity must be earned.

Moving on to the bitch session for the day: when you're making a phonecall and it rings and rings and rings and (x 50), the person you're trying to get hold of is... here's a groundbreaking thought, sit down if you must... probably not in the office yet.

On about ring number 53 I answered the phone.

Dude: "Is Phumzile there?"
Me: No she's not, which is why she wasn't answering her phone.
Dude: "Where is she?"
Me: I don't know.
Dude: "So you must just put the phone down [I shit you not] and I'll phone back until she picks it."
Me: I'd really prefer it if you didn't do that.
Dude: "So what must we now do?"
Me: You could leave a message and I'll give it to her 50 times over.
Dude: "Please tell her to call me when she gets in."
Me: Consider it done.

Clever people.

Liquid Lunches Rock

thja'ts all.

Quickie

I've already had to remind New Guy how to log on. Literally.

I have to share what my most amazing Boyfriend did last night... I was sitting at home, watching Egoli and wondering what else I could find to eat in the flat, when Boyfriend arrived home complete with a bottle of favourite wine (as sweet as they make it - the wine, not Boyfriend), my favourite chocolate and ingredients for supper, which he made.

He has his moments. I'm keeping my grubby paws on him.

Right, soppy moment over. There's this or this to read today. Truly, I couldn't decide on one. China has also introduced a "One Dog Policy"... like the one-child policy, only with their staple diet.

Mississippi

This morning I was pottering around making as much noise as possible to wake up Boyfriend (because why should he get to sleep when I have to go to work) when he suddenly blurted out, "Mississippi!"

I thought this a mild case of tourettes, but he was apparently copying me from last night. I sat up in my sleep and shouted "Mississippi!" I followed this up by telling him that "it was a long story to explain" and "I always do it anyway" and went back to sleep.

I think I'll make it my new toast... Mississippi!
I like it. And I need a drink. This is why I need a drink:

I got into work to discover that we're training a new temp. HOORAY! Management have cottoned onto the fact that we're desperately short staffed (another person resigned on Monday).

I start working with New Guy, trying to be patient - it's a new system, it's the first day, I'll stress about meeting my own deadlines later, it's not his fault, slowly slowly...

"Okay," I say, "just cut and paste this from here to here." Silence. New Guy hovers cursor uncertainly around page. "You know how to cut and paste, right?"

No.

Screech, grind, crash, THUNK.

Sorry, what?

You've been hired as an online content temp and you don't know how to use Word?! What were the hiring criteria???

Can you type? Yes.
Can you use MS Office suite? No. What's that?
Can you tell us what this is? It's a computer.
You're hired.

He can type, yes. It takes him a while to find the letters, but he does put them in the right order eventually. I spent the next two hours patiently using technogical jargon such as "goobledeegook" like I was talking to a two year old.

Oh my shattered G-string.

He doesn't know the most fundamental functions. I think Cut-and-paste sums it up. I'm trying not to make this personal - I truely blame HR and management, but I think the interview process consisted of "Enter Rosebank taxi rank, ask: do you want to work for X-Media firm. Hired."

I've said it before and I'll say it again.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!

This is helping our short-staffedness how? Honestly, people.... Mississippi.

Low

Yesterday I played a kak game of hockey. It was a good run around, which is the point really, but sometimes it’s nice to win. It wasn’t helped by the fact that our team kit is blue shirts, black shorts, blue or white socks and the opposition was wearing blue shirts, black shorts and white or blue socks. I felt more sorry for the umpires than usual.

There was also the bunch of scaffy hobos smoking pot in the parking lot next to the pitch… So although we weren’t seeing much action down my side of the field, we didn’t care.

Reason 1 for low levels: kak hockey in a very chilled atmosphere.

PMS is officially over. Not for sensitive readers, skip to Reason 3 if you can’t handle it. Menstruation rocks, stone me now. Boyfriend told me I was just looking for attention. I offered to go kick for kick – balls vs. uterus. I’ll go first.

Reason 2: lining tearing away, uncomfortable.

I got as far as my front door this morning before realising that I had no idea where my keys were – house or car.

Reason 3: late for work.

Got into work to be greeted by an email to let me know that a family friend who was diagnosed with cancer last week passed away last night. Young man with a young wife and daughter.

But whoever did this is still out there.

Reason 4: life is not fair.

Good food and whine

Excuse me... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGHHHHHHHHHHH

Thank you. I had to get that off my chest. After putting together a witty, thought-provoking, eloquent and of course life-changing post I clicked publish...

“You have logged out of your account. Please sign in again. Ps. We didn’t bother to save the draft you were working on, so suck on our chocolate salty balls.
Yours faithfully, Blogger.”

I swore slightly.

Here we go again. It’s not going to be nearly as groundbreaking, so please send all letters of dissatisfaction and complaint to screwu@blogger.com

I was going to post about bad drivers. But I’m bored of that, so you’ve been spared the tirade. Send grateful letters to same email address.

This weekend, Boyfriend and I bickered our way out to Gallagher Estate for the Good Food and Wine expo. I’m usually not a fan of crowded places, but I can’t resist eat-all-you-can entrances. If you’ve seen Wedding Crashers you’ll know what I’m talking about: “Just a sample, thanks… another sample… thanks…”

Most of my time was spent racing a granny with a pram back and forth in front of the Weber stand – cheese sausage grillers rock my world. The Checkers stand also rocked, with their food conveyor belt… but you had to elbow your way in past the fatties, of course. I felt really sorry for the Sasko bread stand, so I tried some of their rye bread with jam out of pity.

There was even an opulent pet food stand with displays literally good enough to eat. Who feeds their dog that stuff? No wait – who presents their dog’s food like that? Paris Hilton etc, I know… but do normal Midrand-ish people actually buy into that?

We had a lovely time, I found it particularly amusing when Boyfriend managed to drop his mouthful of sparerib pie into his taster of Citrusdal pinotage. I also managed to spill chilli sauce all the way down my arm, onto my right calf and into my Pick n Pay bag (and handy hold-all for freebies and things I’d swiped. Naughty Koekie, going to hell. Much to Boyfriend’s disgust, I stole a Savanah ‘voting’ stick for the Get-set-Cook show we watched. One side has a lemon and the other has a lime. It’s now our Yay-or-Nay voting stick at home. Who ever holds the voting stick, holds absolute power). And so, covered from head to toe in sparerib pie, chilli sauce, free wine and cider, gooey ice cream and fudge we made our glazed way home.

The End.

Two interesting experiments from this weekend:

1. If you drop a bottle of wine from hip height but manage to get your foot in the way before it hits the tiled floor, the bottle is less likely to break but your foot will hurt. Conversely, if you drop a glass bottle of olive oil and, in your attempt to catch it, knock it on to the stove – it will smash spectacularly.
2. Leaving your house keys in the outside of the front door overnight is possibly not the best exercise in personal safety and security, but sometimes you’re lucky and would-be burglars and opportunists don’t notice.

The End. Really.

Pronto

Please click on the demo. I watched it four times. It made me laugh, four times.

I know it's serious... But it's also seriously funny how serious one set of hands and a black dildo can look.

Wonderpants

I was going to be all grumpy today and bitch about how stupid people/neanderthals/'roid-popping vegetables should not be allowed to get driver's licences because they do things like overtake on the wrong side of the road on a blind corner; or turn from the middle lane instead of using the turning lane like good little gerbils; or shoot into an intersection as the robot goes green in the other direction and then STOP, looking completely bemused when people around them get upset... But then I found this and all was good in my world.

“It basically lifts, separates and extends,” aussieBum founder Sean Ashby was quoted as saying. “This design uses all of the natural assets of the person, whether they be big, small or indifferent.”

Male insecurities, begone.

Witchhunt

The witch is in a foul mood today. She's either menstruating or menopausal - or she hurt her arse dismounting from her broom, having missed the medication trolley before leaving for work this morning. At least three people to my count are walking around the office with singed hair from standing too close to her breath. Another was eviscerated just for making eye contact. Meine god.

This team is seriously understaffed. I'm covering for someone who's off sick and someone else is covering for someone who's off sick who was already covering for the other team which is also short staffed.

We are definitely not paid enough for this. Did I mention that I'm leaving? And I know for fact, they're not going to replace me in a hurry... they'll just spread the already-stretched-to-nervous-breakdown team thinner and thinner. I mean, this is what journalism is all about, right?

Yesterday I went to get my kah-nee xrayed, as recommended by my doctor. I didn't think there was much point - I've been walking, running and falling on it for the last 7 months, but hospitals are always fun. Doc basically came to the conclusion that I have patella non-functionitis syndrome. I'm paraphrasing. The radiologist seconded the opinion that falling on it this week probably hasn't helped. You don't get that knowledge without studying for at least 6 years...

Hockey this evening should be fun. If I manage to avoid being eaten alive in hell (aka The Witch's Office). She has a cauldron. I've seen it, I swear.

Things I'd like to say at work...

Thanks to TC for this... there were 40 in total but I've selected just a few I'd like to use today:

1. I don't know what your problem is, but I'll bet it's hard to pronounce.
2. How about never? Is never good for you?
3. I see you've set aside this special time to publicly humiliate yourself.
4. Who lit the fuse on your tampon?
5. I see the stuff-up fairy has visited you again.
6. I have plenty of talent and vision - I just don't give a damn.
7. I'm visualising duct tape over your mouth.
8. This isn't an office. It's Hell with fluorescent lighting.
9. If I throw a stick, will you fetch it?
10. How do I set the laser printer to stun...

More novel knowledge

A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare:

Hermia, Lysander, Demetrius, and Helena: "We're all in love with each other the wrong way around."

Everyone goes into the woods. They have wacky experiences, pair off correctly, and live happily ever after.

THE END.

K, no more of this. Go find your own stories if you're interested.

Ultramelled Greats

The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald... Ultra-condensed:

Gatsby: "Daisy, I made all this money for you, because I love you."
Daisy: "I cannot reciprocate, because I represent the American Dream."
Gatsby: "Now I must die, because I also represent the American Dream."
(Gatsby dies)
Nick: "I hate New Yorkers."

Where was this in my first year of English?

Become a literary genius: Book-a-Minute Classics

Exciting times

Yesterday I handed in notice of my resignation. Well, technically I can't really resign because I’m only currently contracted until the end of November, but I let them know that I wouldn’t be begging for a renewal come the next month. Because I’ve been offered a job, also in media but not online – which actually pays! What a novel idea.

I told my three-tiered managerial tiger one at a time. The first guy didn’t say much, other than he was ‘bummed’. Expressive. The second one had just got back from a London conference and I think was still getting over her sleeping pills so didn’t do much more than grin at me. Not sure how much she remembers. The third, main-man, said ‘fuck’ about seven times. Always good to know you’re loved. Of course, his reaction could be directly related to me being the fourth person in the last month to leave… but you pay peanuts, even monkeys don’t stick around.

Sooo… I start a new job from Dec 1. Scary and exciting.

Last night I guested (it’s a word; deal) for another hockey team and had a good run around until the biggest hairest and lesbianest of the opposition told me to sit-the-fuck-down with a hand planted in the middle of my back. Seriously, this chick is big and scary, and if she’s not lesbian then she single. Or married to a Limpopo farmer.

She had the ball (did I mention she has a reach like a full grown orangutan?) and I was buzzing around her like a half-pint fly trying to get the ball back when it got ahead of both of us… we both dashed for the ball, but as my team mates know, once I’m going in one direction that’s it, boy. I turn like the titanic. So as I ran in front of Big Hairy Lesbo, she gave me a little shove – which was all the encouragement I needed to dive nosefirst into the astro turf. Arms flailing, superman-style, I hit the turf and skidded for a good few metres, my feet flipped over the back of my head and I somehow managed to slide for a bit on my back before rolling with the momentum, jumping to my feet and running on. What a hero.

Fortunately, my right knee took the full brunt of the fall so I was relatively unscathed. Unfortunately, it’s the same knee that I’d finally decided to let the doc look at this afternoon. So the somewhat problematic knee is now somewhat problematic, pussy and squishy to touch. Awesome.

Hmmm, just thinking about it, I’ve had a similar fall a few years ago, but instead of landing on my right knee, I landed solely on my right breast (which explains why there’s nothing left) and popped my shoulder out. I jumped up after that one too – but not to carry on playing… rather because I was fully aware that I had landed at the feet of the sports photographer.

“Please tell me you didn’t get that,” I begged.
“Wrong lense,” he sighed.

Talk about missed photo opps. His bad

Unstable element

Warning: this post contains reference to menstruation and other girly things. Do not read if you do not wish to know this about me. (Yes, rumour has it that despite my best efforts to avoid admitting it, I’m a girl. Deal with it. I am... dealing with it, and a girl.

[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.