Verbal Diarrhoea

In between making music and separating Malawian kids from their biological fathers, Madonna spends 2 – 3 hours each day, exercising. I was going to say something about how she’s apparently so busy that she has to pencil her kids into her schedule, yet has enough time to maintain her figure. But then I realized that if Madonna were a guy, I’d never have alluded to his poor parenting skills. Somewhere along my 24 years on this planet (ahem) I just accepted the idea that a good woman, a good mother cooks, cleans and reads to her kids every night, as fact.  

Anyway … I don’t really have anything interesting to tell. Suuuure, I could tell you about what prompted my male colleague (Afrikaaner) to ask me if I was ever in the porn industry, but then I wouldn’t have you guys on tenterhooks for the ENTIRE weekend. Yeah, I know, I’m a terrible tease.

Enjoy the weekend

For those of you who aren’t aware of who the MFH is, here’s the back story:

We met five years ago. It was NOT love at first sight. He’d whisked into the office and I in my usual chevalier fashion dismissed him, as just another white boy. Five minutes later and I was selecting the names for our future progeny. I’m nothing if not a dreamer.   

This one sided love affair only intensified when he said those 6 magic words, “I want to write a book.” Insert the lyrics to Dave Matthews Band’s, You and Me.

Anyway, if the Oracle had presented me with this opportunity 4 years ago I’d have jumped at the opportunity to put the moves on MFH. Now that I’m older and wiser (and inherently afraid of being slapped with a sexual harassment suit), I know that I have absolutely no moves to speak of.

No but seriously. Even though our relationship has now evolved from silent adoration (from my side) to constant taunts and hair pulling (from his side)*, I know that no amount of prayer or cleavage will change the status quo from colleague to girlfriend.

*Here’s an example of the type of “conversations” that MFH and I indulge in.

Me noticing him munching on a piece of ginger: Are you really going to eat that piece of ginger just like that.

Him: No.

Ten seconds of silence pass before he eventually states, “You ask a lot of stupid questions.”

Yep, ladies and gentlemen, THAT’S what I find attractive. Those of you who are planning on setting me up on blind dates should please take note.

Friday night: Blogger meet-up held at Knoxville in Kloof Street.

The meet-up was organized by the ever fashionable Brazen, whose hot boyfriend does NOT have an available brother. At the meet-up I managed to chat to some fabulous ladies, whose passions ranged from unicorns to Antoni Gaudi (a Spanish architect). I must say that I was mightly impressed with Zeanne’s knowledge of Spanish art/architecture.

Guy: So … what’s your blog about?

Me: Diarrhoea.

Radio silence ensues.

Me: What? I’m trying to corner a unique market. Trying to garner some sponsorship. Senokot …

Saturday morning: I ran my 1st half-marathon in under 3 hours and it was way easier than I had imagined.    

I also discovered that my sister has a tendency to freak out under pressure.

Sister: Do you have pins to secure your race number to your T-shirt?

Me: …

Sister: Do you have pins?

Me: …

Sister: Do you have pins???

And in the most laid back fashion ever, “I don’t know. I’m busy looking in the bag right now.”

Sister: No, you don’t!!!

Me: Okay, you need to calm the fuck down.

Saturday night: Attended Mo’s birthday party (more about that some other time).

Sunday morning: Woke up at 6:30 and hiked up Elephant’s Eye.

Monday morning: Feel like kak. Think I might be coming down with the flu AGAIN!

Morning my beautiful readers

This morning while going through the motions of a responsible adult, I couldn’t help but lament the lost of my blogging mojo.

“I have no more stories. I am officially boring. Work has sucked all the creativity and joy from my inner soul. The only things that I ever bitch about now, is how the cartographer who gets paid R15 000, doesn’t understand the concept of a scale bar. A scale bar!”

Please note that the incredulity of this statement is accompanied large amounts of rabid foam around my mouth.    

That was 3 hours ago. Let’s fast forward to 2 hours ago. I’m sitting behind my desk and pretending to a productive member of society. And as I sit there, scanning through the shared articles on my Greader, I discover this beauty. 

Go ahead people click on the link! (Unless of course you’re at work. The author of this blog accepts absolutely no responsibility for any loss of income you will incur from viewing restricted material at work.)

For those of you too pussy to click on the link, here’s the abridged version. It’s a list of 10 of the worst sex stories ever heard. (Note: You will laugh. You will freak out.) My favourite has to be the one in the comments section, where the man’s sphincter actually managers to break a girl’s finger. I kid you not.

Anyway …

The list of stories reminded me of something that happened a few years ago. (Relax, I won’t be over-sharing here.)

My mom’s recovering alcoholic uncle was staying with us. Please note that this guy must have been in his fifties – or something old.  And while he was in our living space, he thought nothing of entering my room and perusing my bookshelf. (Please note that I’m very territorial. I’m not big on people touching MY stuff. Please back the fuck off.) One of the books that happened to catch his attention was a book on some of the most disastrous sex experienced. Enticed he picked it up and read a few chapters.

This was all he needed to believe that we now had common ground and thus started awkward conversation number 520.

Him: So I read THIS book of yours.

Me: Oh …

Him: Yeah and it’s funny. It reminded me of my younger days when I was reckless AND …

Older relative gets this faraway look on his face as he remembers the good old days. I freak out. I think I just about nodded my head and then exited the room as fast as possible. I mean, who the fuck wants to hear gramps recall the days when he tied strange women up?

*

Can we all breathe a collective sigh of relief? Can we all raise your fists in victory, whilst the song, “Eye of the Tiger” plays? Can we all donate R200 to my ever growing shoe collection? No? Well, it was worth a try.

So … I’ve been a little stressed at work, tying up loose ends of big ass project.

The initial idea of the project was that I was simply supposed to swoop in with my tights and cape and provide a colleague with guidance. Guidance soon morphed into “you fucked up so badly that I need to redo everything AND still meet the deadline”. The result is that I’ve been so stressed that I’ve been mainlining coffee and scarfing down so much chocolate I’d make Willy Wonka proud.

And whilst my fingers moved swiftly and confidently over the keyboard, the unavoidable thought that I was wasting my life stuck behind the glare of a PC, struck me. I wish I could say that this was simply a momentary thought; that I simply shook my head and went on my merry way, but I simply couldn’t help thinking of all the things I could be doing. I thought about how I should be standing barefoot on the banks of a river, the blades of grass prickling the soles of my feet. I thought about sunshine, laughter, friends, hammocks, books and road trips. I thought about all the things that made life THAT much sweeter.

Anyway, I’ve just completed THIS project (just handed the last of the reclassified datasets to the web developer) and thought I’d share something funny with you guys.

Saturday night

Barry: Sid, your cat’s sitting in the bathtub.

Me: Oh yeah, you’re supposed to open the tap for the cat. The cat only drinks FRESH water. She won’t drink water that’s been in a bowl for a few days.

And then Barry gives me this look like he simply can’t fathom the words coming from my mouth; as if I’d suddenly started speaking Klingon.

A month or two ago, Barry and I attended a farewell party for his American friend.

The setting for the party was one of the most palatial houses I’ve ever been to. Seriously! With the house situated on the mountain and overlooking the ocean, the view was spectacular. And if this wasn’t enough the house contained a pool, two huge TVs (at least) and a projector. The whole time I was there I couldn’t help thinking, “Is this, what American dollars gets you?”

At some point during the party, someone brought out an American board game. The name of the board game escapes me, but I do remember that it was similar to 30 Seconds in that each person had to describe a term on a card and his/her team members had to guess the word.

Me: It’s something that you blow up. You can use your mouth or …

American man: Inflatable mattress?

Another American man: Penis?

Me: Erm … inflatable mattress is correct …

Looking back at the whole thing, maybe I shouldn’t have said, “You can use your mouth”.

The following story told by Dizzy*

Where you at??? I just have to share this with you. It’s too funny, and gross, not to.

So I haven’t had coffee in a while, right? I mean a really good, not-self-labour cappuccino (and with all the references to the good Italian cappuccinos in Eat, Love Pray, I’ve been a-craving) so I head on over to our local eatery in the business park here, meet up with Adrian for a lovely cuppa and catchup. And the coffee is soo good. Totally worth it and I get to the bottom of the cup and notice this odd cube-like thing the size of a 10 cent sweet at the bottom of my cup. I stop smaking my lips and start poking the bugger. And it has this firm, spongy consistency and Adrian takes is out of the cup and starts poking it, both of us trying to figure out what the hell it is while I try not to gag.

So then he cuts it in two and it has this weird off white, almost beige, stringy centre.

So I head on over to the counter and tell the two ladies, “Excuse me, but I found this, this THING in my coffee cup”. And they start poking it as well and then the one picks it up with her fingers, squashes it and says, “Oh, it’s a piece of chicken!”

And I’m like, “Ewww what?”

And cover my mouth as I feel myself grilling*!

And she responds saying, “What? Don’t you eat meat??”

WTF??! Clearly missing the point entirely!!

* Editor – Yeah, I’m not entirely sure what “grilling” means either.

Never too soon
Oh reckless abandon,
Like no one’s watching you

Sweet Disposition – The Temper Trap

Let’s go back in time when I was a freshman* at university and Britney Spears bothered to put on panties before leaving the house. Yes, the early 2000s was a time of innocence. Back then I still believed in soul mates, the healing power of chocolate and that a good job was all that was needed to OWN a house. Now the only thing I swear by is the healing power of chocolate – unless of course you’re diabetic, then you’re screwed.

Comic from Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal.

Anyway, the following story takes places a few months into my first year at uni. I’m in the Bolus Herbarium (Botany Library) searching for my BFFs (En-dee!, Fahiema and Goldilocks**). Not finding them I decide to share a table with a group of black students, one of whom I recognize from one of my classes.

So they’re sitting there having an interesting conversation, none of which I can understand because they were speaking in Xhosa. Of course I wasn’t going to let something as silly as the language barrier stop me from participating in a conversation that appeared to shock the audience.  

Me: Wait? What? I don’t understand you guys. Please repeat in English.

Girl: I was just telling them that I watched this series where a black mother caught her gay son having sex with a guy. She them poured boiling water onto them while they were still busy in the act.

Everyone shakes their heads and mutter something or other. And then the boy said something that shocked me.

Boy: Homosexuality – the white man’s disease.

And I just sat there, wide-eyed and disbelieving as everyone else seemed to agree with him. Until that day I’d always assumed that it was only the uneducated that thought this way – now I know better.  

*South Africans don’t use the term freshman so I have no idea if I’m using the term correctly.

**Goldilocks would later stop speaking to us after we screw her over but that’s a story for a whole different blog post. Actually I think I already blogged this story.

 Zooey Deschanel & M. Ward from the band She & Him. Some of you might recognise her from the movie 500 Days of Summer (awesome movie).

Anyway, I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time “reading” through the archives of THIS blog (Dance to the Radio). It’s a music blog, with Liz providing readers with free downloads to Monday Mixtapes. Since Liz is a huge fan of the following bands: No Doubt, Florence and the Machine, Phoenix, Jimmy Eat World and Feist, I’m sure to enjoy any artists/bands that she introduces me to.  

*

So yeah, something weird/embarrassing/comical happened yesterday but before I give you the nitty gritty details on my latest moment of dipshittery, let me give you the back story.

A few weeks ago I went on a date. Yes, *shock, shudder, gasp* an actual man wanted spend time with me and I DIDN’T share all the intimate details with you. I know, you’re absolutely hurt by my lack of trust in you but honestly I’m never going to be THAT girl. I’m never going to the girl repeats every cute little conversation had; I’m never going to be the girl who describes how his smile sets my heart a flutter; or how 15 minutes after meeting him you were already creating a mental inventory of all the people you’ll invite to your wedding. In my head I’d like to be that girl but I’m afraid that by splattering my potential relationship status and happiness all over the web I will inevitably jinx it. Plus there’s that whole “Oh Shit” factor when things don’t work out. I just can’t (won’t allow myself to?) publish intimate details of all my hopes and dreams only to look back 6 months later and state to a bunch of strangers that I was a complete idiot for trusting him.   

Anyway, the guy was perfect on paper … Good looking, employed, Muslim, blah blah blah.

And as we all know, perfect on paper is one thing. Making me laugh so hard I have trouble breathing, is a completely different thing. So when he didn’t call me immediately I wasn’t too crushed and deleted his number.

Let’s flash forward to last night. Imagine a girl wearing absolutely no make-up and dressed in track pants,* searching the aisles of Pick ‘n Pay (a local grocery store) for essentials (read: chocolate). Now imagine if you will, this girl spotting the guy. Now what would the normal response to this situation be? Oh wait, that’s right, this girl isn’t normal. So when the girl spots the guy instead of saying hello, she ducks left so fast you’d think she’d spent her formative years learning kung fu from Buddhist monks. Not only does this girl avoid speaking to the guy, but she also leaves behind all her groceries and hightails it right out of there.

Who does THAT??? Hell, I can’t even believe I did that! I keep replaying the incident in my head and thinking, “What the fuck?”

*Note: I was only wearing track pants because I was planning to run 6km immediately after doing some shopping.

Two blog posts in a day. Damn, I’m on fire!

Back when I was young and beautiful and had millions of suitors who loved me not for my body but for my intelligence, I worked as a receptionist at an Estate Agency. I hated that job. I hated every minute of it. And every time I consider leaving my current job I remind myself of how much worse life can be. That’s right bitches, fear is holding me back.

But THIS story isn’t about how much I hated my old job and former boss. What I’d like to talk about today is a conversation I overheard while working in THAT hellhole for R2 000 a month. That right, R2 000 a month! I had an honors degree in Science, no less, and I was working as a receptionist at a shitty ass agency for R2 000 a month. AND I worked Saturdays as well!!! Do you have any idea how little R2 000 is??? Fuck, my current monthly payments on my car is double that.

Struggling to find a job in the environmental field, I eventually settled for a job answering phones and contemplating suicide. This mind you, was not a permanent position. I was simply a stand-in for a woman who was on the verge of ejecting a kid from her vagina.

After two months of utter boredom, the new mother arrived back at work to show off her baby. Since I’ve never been the type of woman to fawn over another woman’s kid* I remained firmly behind my desk. All the other office women however scrambled towards the rugrat and cooed over it.

Female colleague: Oh your coloured baby is so dark.

Mother: Yes but it is okay. It’s a boy. Boys are allowed to be tall dark and handsome.

To me this remark sounded strange and I couldn’t help wonder if she had a dark, little girl would she love her less?

*The only kids I’m willing to dote over are my cousins and future nephews and nieces. Oh right and if I ever have my own kids, I’ll probably love them too. Probably.