SLEEPING - NOT SO MUCH

I’m getting f*ck all sleep at the moment and it’s really affecting my ability to go out during the week.

Various reasons are contributing to this little sleep deprivation pattern; The Housemate and I have been known to stare at the various comings and goings of our complex late into the night conjuring up ideas of massive affairs and gross infidelity. No. 10 is definitely shagging no. 14. His gym-loving sinewy girlfriend leaves at 5am and you can pretty much bet Granny’s pearls that the little nymph is hightailing it across the quad at 5:05.

My addiction to The Sims has also returned and since my character is sleeping with four different men and I now have two sets of twins, I’m trying to see them grow up to work out who belongs to who.

It’s all very ‘edge of your seat’ stuff this. But the main reason for my dwindling hours of nap nap is Satan’s pet. This little tabby has adopted the Housemate and I and prefers to eat our food and sleep in our beds. While I do love the little psycho, I don’t so much love it when it’s got its claws firmly entrenched in my ankles at 3am because it’s hungry. Not actually having a cat means that our kitchen is not packed to the max with Whiskas so trying to convince an animal that is half cat, half sociopath that avo and crackers is the way to go, is pretty futile.

We’ve got into a 3am pattern now of the cat realising that I’m being serious when I offer it roasted veggies and it gives up, wraps itself round my ankles a couple of times to suck my blood and then goes back to sleep. While Dracula’s protégé seems to drift into an easy sleep, I lie there at 3 in the morning thinking deep and meaningfulls such as the following:

- Avo and crackers sounds pretty good round about now.
- If The Wine Merchant wants to give up drinking during the week, surely this doesn’t mean I have to?
- I wonder if The Housemate is awake? Let’s ask her.
- If I made homemade lemonade as a kid, can I make homemade vodka as an adult?
- I wonder how Old Man River is doing. Or who he’s doing.

Tonight I know I will be free of these earth shattering thoughts keeping me awake all night as I will be hitting the town with the Single Sidekick and plan to get horrible hammered, say inappropriate things and definitely have a fight with the Wine Merchant. If I don’t pass out near a club, in or on top of it, I will be shocked.

YUSSUS

Crises but Jo’burg is dry in Winter. I’ve started using night cream during the day and am considering bathing in two thirds oil, one third water before bed. It hurts to smile and pieces of my face keep falling off. I’m losing skin by the second here.

Also struggling to get used to the chameleon that is The Wine Merchant. Listening to him on the phone this morning was possibly my most frightening experience to date.

Wine Merchant: Hello Wine Merchant speaking.
WM: Boet! Howzit hiiiiii! Lark I was just sayin, it’s been time since we jolled hey. When we going for a dop?

Stare at him mouthing the words ‘Who are you?’

WM: Izit? Ya my boet, it's shweet hey.

Drop cup.

WM: Sorry boet, my missus is giving me the eye.

Start weeping.

WM: Ok give my love to the girl.

Sweet f*ck.

Me: Who are you?
WM: What do you mean?
Me: What do you mean ‘what do I mean’? What the f*ck is ‘lark’?
WM: It’s ‘like’.
Me: Well say that then.
WM: He’s from the South, you’ve gotta speak their language.
Me: Can’t he speak North?
WM: Don’t be a snob Baglett.
Me: I’m not being a snob but my ears are very sensitive to words like ‘missus’, ‘boet’ and the only reason I ‘gave you the eye’ was because I was crying. Don’t ever let my mother hear you talk like that, she’ll send you straight to finishing school.
WM: And your dad?
Me: He won’t even notice.

ARRIVING ALIVE

A three day work week. Sweet lord, what the hell is the point? I’m so used to having long weekends, I’m not sure how I’m going to cope when things go back to normal. I may have to take a holiday.

As used to driving in Jo’burg as I’ve become, nothing prepared me for my drive on Friday night to visit The Queen who was up for the weekend. I try not to drive at night since I’m usually drunk but also I’ve noticed my night vision isn’t what it used to be. Just the other day I thought a blue light was green and I drove straight past a cop car who was trying to pull me over.

Listening intently to Tim the talking GPS (who incidentally has great night vision) he told me to pull into a main road and keep going straight. What he didn’t say was what to do in the event of a shooting.

Driving merrily along trying to decipher if the red light in front of me was a traffic light or a star, I noticed lots of blue lights coming up fast behind me. Thinking ‘The Milky Way is bright tonight’ I heard the familiar sounds of police sirens. Realising I had the entire Jo’burg metro police brigade behind me, I tried to pull to the side but the taxis were having a ‘lets see if we can build the longest taxi rank ever’ competition when I heard shots. Looking into my rearview mirror I saw two very panicked faces behind me as they hooted which I translated as ‘We’re driving a stolen car, get the f*ck out of our way’. I couldn’t, so I didn’t, which really pissed them off and just as they were trying to ever so politely nudge me, I pulled up on the pavement as a stream of bullets went flying in their direction.

Getting over that little hiccup I turned into the highway and was hit by bumper to bumper traffic. I wasn’t sure if this was a result of the shooting or because highway’s hate me but after an hour of stop/start my car started telling me it wasn’t loving the game so much and could it overheat quickly. My instinct was to phone my dad which in hindsight was completely pointless since the guy was sitting on his couch in Cape Town.

Me: Dad!
Dad: Baglett! This is a nice surprise, what’s up?
Me: So I almost died in a drive-by shooting and now my car is threatening to explode if I don’t get off this highway.
Dad: Sh*t Baglett. Who were you shooting at?
Me: I wasn’t shooting anyone dad, the cops were.
Dad: Why, what did you do?
Me: Dad, I didn’t do anything, there was a stolen car behind me. They were shooting at him, not me. More urgently, my car is overheating and I need to get off the highway.
Dad: Put on your emergency lights and take the emergency lane. If anyone stops you, tell them to phone me.
Me: Yes I’m sure that will help.
Dad: And stop shooting people.

Before I could explain again, that I still wasn’t the one doing the shooting, I lost signal and after two and a half hours of driving that should have taken twenty minutes, I arrived to meet The Queen where my speech on how she must move to Jo’burg was severely tainted by the drive by shooting and massive accident. She’s promised to visit again, but is considering renting a helicopter so we just fly to all destinations.

INKY FINGER

Well voting was pretty uneventful. Next year I’m hitting Alexandra polling station for some real action. I had a ninety year old in front of me who wanted to chat about the days when she was my age and I had a Sandton mother of two behind me who banged awwwwn and awwwwn about the importance of good boots.

Hearing stories of hour-long queues I was ready with a snack pack, a book and a fully charged phone to surf myself into a coma. Ten minutes of Granny Gabber and Sandton Love My Boots, I was disappointed to find I was in front of the queue. Hearing a ruckus (good word) I turned around to see a cop van scream in and five very hot cops fell out. Anticipating some polling station action, I got my camera ready, but alas they were merely there to vote and joined the queue behind me. Love My Boots went to a different table which put me right in front of Hot Cop. Smiling seductively and subtly showing him my ID to show him we were of similar age and therefore meant to be together, I didn’t notice all twenty party helpers were waiting for me to stop flirting with the law and actually vote.

Hot Cop: Um, Ma’am.
Me: Oh Hi! Duty calls hey? (Good one Baglett)
HC: I think they’re waiting for you.
Me: Oh

Because like an asshole, I was registered in Cape Town, I had to fill in a pink affidavit type thing proving that I was now in Jo’burg. Which I thought was obvious since I was, um, in Jo’burg. Completing the form, I was compelled to show it the cop behind me and say...

Look, I’ve got a pink ticket! And then wink.

F*ck.

GREASE AT THE CRICKET

Well the cricket was fun. After annoying the crap out of everyone the whole day saying things like ‘I was just WANDERING what time we should get there? 4! Or 6!?’ and ‘I’m BOWLED OVER by the top you’re wearing’, The Housemate, The Single Sidekick and the Wine Merchant and I made it to the Wanderers. I’m not a huge cricket fan, but I am a fan of drinking so I launched myself at the ‘public bar’ to get my plastic cup and my bag of tokens. It was like a drinking arcade game and I was already the winner.

Finding our seats was slightly tricky: looking for Block D, Row 2, no 16 with an armful of plastic cups was as difficult to me as solving world debt and for half an hour I stepped on, over and on top of various spectators until I found my seat. Which incidentally was next to an incredibly bitter single woman who made her duty to take out all her unfulfilled dreams on South African cricket and me. Stepping on her, I joined the Wine Merchant at the ‘public bar’ for my next plastic cup refill. I wasn’t so much thirsty as I was excited to refill my person plastic cup but my childish innocence was soon shattered when I heard;

‘Hey baby’ and a greasy hand caressed my arm.

Me: Sorry buddy, won’t you just move her arm there? Thanks every so much.
Wine Merchant: Leave her alone.

In hindsight I realised The Wine Merchant was only trying to get this guy away from me for my sake, but I took it as an attack on my independence and rights as a woman. (How this was an attack on my rights as a woman, I have no idea)

Me: I’m FINE! I can totally handle this guy and I certainly don’t need you Superman to come swooping in and save the…

At the same time drunk greasy man started lunging at me and my woman’s lib speech was replaced by:

‘Don’t just stand there! Help me dammit!’

I vaguely heard West Side story theme music as ten of his mates appeared at Greasy Monkey’s side all wearing various different shades of wife beaters. Greasy Monkey, now feeling very brave, puffed out his chest so that his back was severely arched and shouted ‘You want a piece of this?!’

Are you f*cking me? Who says that?! It took all my strength not to choke on my plastic cup and I dragged the Wine Merchant who was now ready to take on Danny and the T birds, back to our seat where I found The Single Sidekick building a long straw in an attempt to syphon other people's drinks.

The Single Sidekick: What the hell happened to you guys? I’m dying of dehydration here.
Me: Sorry, some guy came on to me and I gave him….. BAT!

No one laughed but I swear Bitter and Twisted next to me cracked a smile.

In Other News: I’m off to vote now. And then off to an Inky Finger party. Crises it’s exciting.

A REALLY BAD FIGHT CLUB

I love a good argument. There’s nothing better than screaming and shouting knowing there really isn’t much chance of you losing. And I’m usually quite good at it. I like using big words like anthropomorphize and ubiquitous to confuse my opponent and make him lose his train of thought. I like my fights to be short, punchy and full of mature statements like ‘No you shutup.’ Followed by ‘WHAT did you just say to me?’ only to be used in situations where I actually didn’t understand what was said to me so I have to ask the obvious. They immediately back down because they now think they’ve crossed a fine fighting line. If there’s a chance I am actually in the wrong I like to meaningless phrases or questions that really have no impact but make the opponent think. Statements like ‘You’re being defensive’ and ‘You’re begging the question’. I have no idea what that means but it was used on me once and threw me completely off.

Fighting with the Wine Merchant however is NOT fun. He’s a lingerer. A fighter who likes to think about each and every word he says and each and every word said to him. Kinda like Bold and the Beautiful when they say something and then stare out the window for a half an hour. Hence I tend to avoid arguing with him not because I don’t win but because I fall asleep while he’s thinking of his next comeback.

Me: Well you’re a in a mood
Wine Merchant: I’m not in a mood Baglett, I just want to talk about this and you keep avoiding it.
Me: Let’s download Catherine Tate videos and watch them all night.
WM: Baglett you’re doing it again. What the hell is wrong with you?!
Me: Or not. I’m not bovered.
WM: Baglett!
Me: Listen buddy, I’m not in the mood for an argument with you right now, I’m tired and don’t think I can fight to the best of my ability. Let’s postpone till next Thursday, same place, same time?
WM: This is not a joke Baglett, you always do this. I’m so sick of it.
Me: You’re begging the question.
WM: WTF? What question?

Oooh slight problem here. No ones ever questioned the question.

Me: Stop being so defensive.
WM: You’re not making any sense Baglett.

Dammit. It’s not working.

Me: Why do you always anthropomorphize everything?
WM: I’m not!

Ooooh he’s better than I thought. Time for dramatic exit.

Me: Ok you’re clearly not going to give this up. I’m leaving.
WM: If you leave now, don’t bother coming back.
Me: Seriously?!
WM: Yes.
Me: Fine. (Another one of those big words I mentioned earlier)

Usually I just drive down the road and wait for five minutes before going back, but being a little parched I drove down the road to the shops, got lost and ended up on the highway to Pretoria. The Wine Merchant anticipating my return, got worried and called. When I explained that I took his words to heart (and could he direct me to Sandton) he apologised.

Technically, that was a win.

I CAME, I SAW, I RAN, I FELL OVER

So had a pretty eventful week in Cape Town. Would have been more eventful had I not come down with bird flu on day two. Sleeping was high on the agenda, staying awake was pretty much impossible. With the Two Oceans on the Saturday, people were filling my head with stories of runners who had died because they had flu and ran. I finished off their sentances with 'into a car' and braved the other thousands of runners and crossed over the starting line with dreams of my running my best time ever and being hounded by Asics and Puma for sponsorship deals.

Having had a recent knee injury which was added to an unidentified drinking injury resulting in a twisted ankle, I made sure I was strapped to the max. Nine km’s into the race, I realised I had strapped the wrong knee. At the exact time I was giving my knee a really good talking too, the brother piped up with…

The Brother: We’re doing 6 minutes a km here guys, we better pick up the pace.
Me: Really? Sh*t absolutely.
In my head: If I could ‘pick up the pace’ I think I would have f*cking picked it up by now, wouldn’t I?

After another two km’s of trying to run with one knee at a pace that I couldn’t manage to match had I been riding a bike, I said goodbye to the brother and looked around to find a granny I could run with.

15 km’s into the race just as I was considering diving into the pram of a passing runner mom, I saw in the distance The Dad, The Mom and The Gran.

Me: Daaaaaaaaaaaad!
Dad: Baglett! I’ve got to go warn the Gran that you’re coming – stay there!
Me: What do you mean ‘Stay there’, it’s a f*cking race dad.
Dad: Well run slower then
Me: That’s pretty much impossible
Gran: Oooh smile! Take a photo with all of us
Me: Guys, this is not a day for family portraits, if you haven’t noticed I’ve got to keep running.
Me: Dad, Your Dog is chasing me.
Dad: He just wants some of the extra walkies Baglett, take him with you.
Me: I can’t friggin run with the dog dad, this is not a ‘bring a pet on your run’ day.
Dad: Fine, bring him back. Good luck Baglett, and just so you know, your brother is waaaaaaaaaay ahead of you.
Me: Thanks for that.

With that bout of family support, warped as it was, it pushed me to the finishing line, where I listened to Chariots of Fire on my Ipod, fell over the finishing line, hugged the medal guy and collapsed onto the ground pretty chuffed that I was still breathing.

Needless to say I’m still wearing my medal. The Dad convinced me not to wear it at the airport because… wait for it….

‘It would set off the medal detector’.

Good God.

IT FEELS SO GOOD

I knew the flight from Jo’burg to Cape Town with The Wine Merchant was never going to be uneventful. Finding out the flight was delayed till stupid o clock is always a good start and a great way to see how each of us cope when tired and annoyed.

Me: Hit the bar?
Wine Merchant: Let’s check in first Baglett before we get hammered shall we?

At the same time as we were checking in, the great Seth Rotherman (2Oceansvibe.com) phoned to tell me I had won a blog award. I let out a shriek that would have made a drunk banshee proud and proceeded to tell the check in lady, security and our waitress at the Spur who looked at me funny when I ordered tequila for starters, jaggermeister for mains and to keep ‘em coming.

Realising of course that our flight was now not going to land at the time I had told my Dad, I put in the fiftieth call to him for the day.

Me: Dad!
Dad: I’m at the airport. I’m at the friggin airport! Stop calling me!
Me: Dad, our flight is delayed, we’re only landing at 12 30.
Dad: No worries Baglett, I’m on it.
Me: Dad? DAD!
Dad: Huh?
Me: Did you just fall asleep?
Dad: Baglett! Hi! What’s up?
Me: Crises Dad. Set your alarm.

Trying to explain to the Wine Merchant the entire way to Cape Town that he need not be nervous or in any way afraid of meeting my Dad was futile so I ended up telling the people in the aisle about my Blog award which was a lot more fun. Not for them so much since they were trying to sleep but balls of fun for me.

But the meeting between my dad and The Wine Merchant was everything I expected it to be.

Me: Dad. Where are you?
Dad: They moved the highway again. I’m on my way.

30 minutes later my dad arrived, fell out the car wearing his pink poly shirts, his favourite t shirt three sizes too small and was followed by the dog. While the dog, excited to be out the car, ran in the direction of international departures, the dad rushed up to me, hugged me and proceeded to call The Wine Merchant by Old Man Rivers name.

Priceless.

In other, more important news: I would like to congratulate all the blog winners and I would like to thank everyone who voted for me. There’s a very proud Baglett sitting here. Marty – as promised – I dedicate the award to you. You earned it.

MEETING BAGLETT'S DAD

I leave for Cape Town tonight on the world's most expensive flight ever. With The Wine Merchant. While I’m childishly excited about seeing my Dad again (Mom is in Nairobi at a snoozefest, conference, whatever) it dawned on me that The Wine Merchant might be slightly anxious about meeting my Dad. I picked this up when he said:

I’m slightly anxious about meeting your dad.

Crises I’m perceptive.

While I fobbed him off with ‘You’ll be fine’, this clearly didn’t put his angst at ease and he went to confide in the Housemate.

The Wine Merchant: I’m meeting Baglett’s Dad tonight.
The Housemate: Oh my God, you’ll be fiiiiiine.
WM: Should I wear a shirt?
TH: Well, he will be wearing poly shorts with a t shirt that dates back to a time when he had muscle tone. What time is he fetching you from the airport?
WM: 11pm.
TH: It’s Boozy Lunch Friday followed by Boozy Dinner Friday so make sure Baglett phones him before you board to remind him. He’ll forget.
WM: What do I call him?
TH: Well he’ll definitely call you by one of Baglett’s ex boyfriend’s names so anything goes really.
WM: Do you think we’ll get on?
TH: You’re in the wine business right?
WM: Yes.
TH: He’ll ask you to marry her.


Happy Friday people!

I'M AN IDIOT

So my drive to work yesterday was eventful. After being pulled over in a road block at 9am, I smiled at the policeman silently congratulating myself for being sober.

Policeman Plod: Morning ma’am. License please.

F*ck. While I could picture my license sitting in The Wine Merchants car shouting ‘I’m heeeeere!’ I realised I didn’t have supernatural powers and couldn’t extend my arm to the North and retrieve it.

Policeman Plod: Well Ma’am we’ve got a problem. Without your license, I have to arrest you.
Me: Is this April Fools?
PP: No Ma’am I have to arrest you.
Me: But I don’t want to be arrested.
PP: No one does but you don’t have a license.
Me: I have one, it’s just not in my bag right now. It’s a naughty little license.

While I was trying to decide which emotion would work the best on the cop, crying, flirting or shouting ‘Wait till my dad hears about this’ he asked,

PP: How much money do you have on you?

Scrounging in my bag I managed to produce R53 and 65 cents and a Hello Kitty watch.

PP: The fine is R300.

Me: Well the Hello Kitty watch is worth R300 alone.

10 minutes later I had driven to an ATM, withdrawn R300 and handed it over to the cop.

PP: I’m doing you a big favour here Miss. Don’t tell anyone about this.

Realising I just bribed a cop I phoned The Wine Merchant.

The Wine Merchant: BAGLETT! Are you f*cking crazy? You have 24 hours to produce your license and he cannot legally arrest you!
Me: Nooooow you tell me.

Between the toll gates and bribing cops, driving in Jo’burg is turning out to be very expensive.

Just for those as retarded as me, check out http://www.trafficalert.co.za/know_your_rights.htm