Verbal Diarrhoea

If you’re anything like me (and 10 000 Capetonians), you probably watched the fall of the iconic Athlone cooling towers. If you’re anything like me, you probably spent a large amount of time sitting in the traffic, becoming all too familiar with the smell of your clutch burning. If you’re anything like me, you also probably missed the first few seconds of the implosion because your friend, *cough* Juan *cough*, decided that THAT was a good time to inquire about your life. And if you’re anything like me at all, you probably quelled the inevitable boredom that resulted from spending an hour in the traffic, playing your new favourite game, “Is he wearing any underwear?” What? Oh you’re too mature to play a silly game like THAT. You’d rather spend your time talking about the psychoanalytical effects of the implosion. Touche.

Anyway, no innocent men were felt up during the playing of the game, although Juan’s mind might have been warped.

After watching the implosion (and singing along to a Mariah Carey song), I finally managed to get my hands on season 2 of The Wire. Man, you have no idea what lengths I had to go to, to get them. I swear, I must have visited 10 DVD rental stores and promised to hand over my first born to whatsisface … Rampelstiltskin.

How was your weekend?

On Sunday I was looking at babies.

In the whole history of Sid Kane, this is an unprecedented event. My usual stance of “Oh holy mother of fuck, why would anyone do THAT to their vagina” was replaced by looks of yearning, looks that has heretofore been reserved for hooker heels and men with really broad shoulders.

I’m talking about desire. For a baby. I Sid Kane, who previously duct taped a nappy to a kid’s ass and has often referred to kids as “rugrats”, am overcome with the sudden desire to have a little one.

 And all I wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

And all I needed was a simple man

So I could be a wife

It got so bad that while lounging at La Perla, I ignored any hot men in the near vicinity. Noting my fascination with the little buggers, Cazz finally commented, “You want a life altering experience? How about having one of those?”

Me: I did think about it but to be honest with you Cazz, I don’t think the parents would be too happy with me abducting their kids. Parents are kinda touchy that way.

I always thought I’d be a mom

Sometimes I wish for a mistake

The longer that I wait the more selfish that I get

You seem like you’d be a good dad

*Sigh*

I’m not quite sure what else to tell you guys. I guess I just don’t really want to tell you guys that for the longest time ever I’ve had this image in my head of me standing in front of my bedroom window, watching my husband and kids play soccer. Of course as the years have passed this vision has evolved to include me holding a camera, which has now become as much a part of me as my appendages.

Now all those simple things are simply too complicated for my life

How’d I get so faithful to my freedom?

A selfish kind of life

When all I ever wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

(Just reread this and can’t believe how girly and honest I am. And on a public forum no less. God I want to puke.)

 The act before Estelle. I think this band’s name is Love Vuvuzela. I’m not too sure. I was to distracted by Dizzy* and Cazz’s bitchy commentary regarding this band’s act to pay attention to their “performance”. (There was more stipping going on than singing.) 

Band: This is the part of the show where we start singing our favourite songs.

Dizzy*: She means that this is the part of the show where they’ve run out of their own material.

And sometime during the show the girls stated that they’d perform a little striptease for us.

And like the narrator of a Verimark advert Cazz said, “But wait, there’s less.”

Estelle. I didn’t know many of her songs but that sure as hell didn’t stop me from enjoying her concert.

Mildly surprised by Estelle’s choice of costume.

After the concert we decided to chill. From the looks of Dizzy*’s face Juan just told her that he’s originally from Pretoria.

Checking to see if the camera works. Oh who am I trying to kid? We all know that I just love having my photograph taken.

Friday night. Photo taken at Chrome in Pepper Street. This was after supper at Panchos, pool at Stones AND clubbing at 91 on Main.

Me: Oh Man I feel so old. Why do they let these teens in?

En-dee!: You know it’s not that the crowd is getting younger. It’s that we’re getting older. This has always been the age of the crowd.

And later that evening.

Guy: Has anyone ever told you that you look like Mariah Carey?

En-dee!: Yes.

Guy: Oh.

Guy slinks off. Later that evening guy settles for a photo taken with random chick.

Saturday afternoon. Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. My sister and her boyfriend. Her boyfriend ran the Two Oceans Half Marathon in under 2 hours. Some of the delightful treats on offer at the party. Saturday night. Brazil and Ghana under 20 soccer match. Brazil won the match.

All the vampires walkin’ through the valley
Move west down Ventura Blvd
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
All the good girls are home with broken hearts

Free Falling – John Mayer

So we’re sitting outside, happily eating ice-cream when someone bitches about how their ice-cream is melting too fast.

Juan: Yeah that’s why I took an ice-cream cup instead of a cone.

Sid: Please bitches. I’d never let my ice-cream start dripping.

Dizzy*, all too excitedly, “Yes, you have to work it real fast.”

And with that a silence descends. We all look at Dizzy*, mouths agape and eyes bug-eyed, wondering when she’d realize that she just made the funniest, unintended bit of innuendo. It takes her 30 seconds.

Photo taken yesterday in Obs. We (Cazz, Fahiema, K, The Doctor and I) watched as some guy obtained a tattoo. I might or might not have whispered: “Scream bitch, scream.”  Display in some shop window at the Waterfront. Photo taken in some art gallery at the Waterfront.

*

I’d noticed the pink T-shirt before I noticed him. It had obviously been in the wash a few times yet this did nothing to diminish the luminous glare that radiated from the T-shirt. To say that the T-shirt was hideous would be an understatement. Over the years I’d become custom to his interesting taste in clothes. There’d been many a time when I’d simply stared at his shirts and wanted nothing more than to set it alight or stab it with such ferocity you’d think I was fighting off a pack of coyotes. 

Later the exact origin of the T-shirt would emerge – a present from his girlfriend. The mere mention of her name set my stomach churning. She had the type of name reserved for empty headed heiresses or blonde FHM cover girls – not just pretty but oozing sex appeal from every pore. This was not the type of girl I’d envisaged for him. I’d have expected him to go for the pretty, nerdy type. The type of girl you have no problem overlooking.   

My initial distaste at the sound of her name was immediately followed by surprise. I had a hard enough time getting to grips with the fact that she actually let him out of the house looking like THAT, let alone deal with the fact that she consciously bought him fugly clothing.

Later, after discussing this strange phenomenon with Mad Phoenix we’d concluded that she was purposely ruining his potential. She knew exactly how cute he really was and didn’t want any girl getting any ideas in her head. To prevent this from happening, she was dressing him down, making him look like a hobo. She was a conniving little one. Much respect to her.

Yesterday I attended the Just Jinjer concert at Kirstenbosch Gardens (pictures to appear on THIS BLOG in the near future). During the concert Ard (the lead singer) asked us to support a worthy cause and that details of this cause can be found on Seth Rotherham’s blog.

Me: Seth gets paid to blog. He’s like super rich. Lives in Campsbay and is sponsored to drive sports cars. Or something ridiculous like that.

Aims: Yeah. All these companies like Puma advertise on his blog. He’s also well connected. He went to high school with all these famous sports stars.

Me: Damn! I wish my parents had money to send me to a prestigious high school.

Cazz: Hey. Your blog isn’t making money NOW! But I’m sure it will one day. Give it some time and before you know it all these companies will be asking you to put their ads on your blog. Companies like Adult World. Or Senokot.

Last night we attended a play at the theatre, dahlings. Yes, how awfully sophisticated of us. Gone are the nights when I could be found shaking my booty on the dance floor, a strange man’s hands on my hips. Those nights of wild abandon have been replaced by dinner parties, plays at the theatre and art exhibitions. Soon we’ll be spending our nights complaining about osteoporosis and varicose veins. Yeah, the future DOES look promising.

Minutes before the play was to start we’d congregated in front of the “intimate” theatre to await the last of our party. Intimate was the word used by Kitty to describe the room. Dingy was the word that came to MY mind.

While the others talked about topics that I’m sure was amusing, I was busy studying the events guide. Excited to find that the Old Mutual Comedy Festival would be taking place again this year I shoved the booklet into my friend’s faces.

“We ABSOLUTELY have to go to this”, I said emphatically. Saying things emphatically is the key to success. Your friends are more willing to take you seriously if you say things emphatically.

As Dizzy* ran her delicate, little index finger across the guidebook she couldn’t help but ask, “The page is wet. Why is the page wet?”

Intrigued by the mystery of the wet page, Cazz too ran her fingers across the page in the hopes of identifying the source.

I, being the saint that I am, simply had to enlighten them.

“Erm, yeah … I just sneezed on the page.”

Yes, we ARE awfully sophisticated.

 Did we lose ourselves again?

Did we take in what’s been said?
Did we take the time to be,
All the things we said we’d be?
So we bury hopes in sand
And my future’s in my hands

It means nothing – Stereophonics

Photo taken between Muizenberg and St James. Photo taken at Kalkbay

*Photos are all I have time for today.

I’d given the clock in the corner of the computer screen a cursory glance and found myself more than a little annoyed at the time. There was still two hours to go before I was allowed to shake off the chains of corporate bondage. My brain was feeling unusually sluggish and refused to perform anything but the most rudimentary functions. I was tired.

Must be the heat.

Lord knows that I’ve had enough sleep the previous night. I’d forsaken salsa class (not that this was much of a sacrifice) to stay at home and mope. I wanted to forget the events that had taken place that day. And sleep had always been my antidote of choice. I’d spent an entire 6 months of 2008 trying to forget.

I had slept, right?

Of course there was the slight chance that I didn’t actually sleep. Tossed and turned? Nightmares? Entirely plausible.

This inexplicable tiredness was the reason I’d arrived at the bar an hour late. The very minute I’d arrived home, I’d lain my weary body down on my bed only to awake at 6 (the allotted time I was supposed to meet my friends). I’d quickly changed into a pair of shorts, tank top and yellow v-neck blouse. The black tank top was an essential accessory – I didn’t want to expose too much cleavage.

Upon arriving at the bar I’d notice the two strangers (male and female) seated besides my friends. I’d allowed for the customary introductions before immediately launching into my tale of woe – details never emerging. Not that night.

“Think of the most insensitive thing you’ve ever done and multiply it by 7.”

“What did you do THIS time?”

Special emphasis placed on the “this”. Or maybe imagined it? Maybe there was no question? I do remember Juan asking, “Still?” And I remember the female, without knowing the facts, stating that if I felt guilty I MUST have done it on purpose.

I didn’t need this. Not from a stranger.

“I’m going to the bar to get myself a drink.”

Dizzy* being her usual adorable self, couldn’t help but blurt out, “Yeah you go get that stiff pineapple juice. I’m sure everything will look much better after you down a few of those.”

*

Later that evening, the female asked if I would join her in the corner while she smoked. And since I LOVE inhaling second-hand smoke that would eventually lead to lung cancer, I happily obliged. There we stood, her telling me that I needed to give her my number since I absolutely, positively had to attend her mother’s 50th birthday. And as her cigarette diminished into a little stub she did something … strange. Out came her left and right hand, her index finger and thumb of both hands pinched together like the pinchers of a crab. And with these very fingers, she deftly tugged the top of my black tank top up. Apparently she felt that I was STILL exposing too much cleavage.