I’ve never had much sympathy for guys who are sick. I think it stems from my dad who is the biggest hypochondriac. He had a cold once and my mother found him lying in bed with a thermometer in his mouth, reading a medical dictionary and trying to take his blood pressure. He updated his will and asked to see his children. When my mother pointed out he had a cold and that he was unfortunately going to live, he didn’t believe her and tried to convince her he was in fact taking his last breaths. When his mates called that night to invite him to a party, he was up, dressed and ready to go in ten minutes.
So when the Wine Merchant came down with man flu, I was less than sympathetic. He lay down on the couch with a wet cloth on his forehead and asked me to pass him the glass of water that was so close to him, he could knock it over with a sneeze.
Wine Merchant: Do I feel hot to you? I feel so hot.
Me: No. You don’t.
WM: I’m seeing dots.
Me: Well connect them and tell me what shape they make.
WM: Could you make me some chicken soup? I have to eat before I take my medication.
Me: Those are over the counter flu tablets. They’re about as strong as children’s chewable vitamins. You don’t need to eat before you take them.
WM: I’m so hot. Could you get me a glass of ice cold water?
Me: Would you like a piece of lightly buttered toast with that?
WM: I’m. Too. Weak. To. Eat.
Me: You’re driving me crazy! You’ve got a cold and you’ll be absolutely fine in about a day. Suck it up.
With that his mother came round. And she’s not just any mother, she is the ultimate mother. She is completely devoted to her children and lives to please them. She came equipped with a first aid kit that I would expect to find on Airforce One.
Mother of Wine Merchant: Oh pooooor baby! You look terrible! Let me take your temperature.
Me: Oh God.
She stuck the thermometer in his mouth and the thing basically melted.
MOWM: Oh my gosh! We’re going straight to the doctor.
The Wine Merchant cast me a glance that said ‘Seeeeeee, told you’ and he was whisked off to the doctor leaving me to think about what I’d done.
It turns out the guy has bronchitis and flu, bordering on pneumonia.
Bad Baglett.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
NOT MY NUMBER
I love flirting. It’s up there with my many other talents which include my ability to drink a vat full of wine and still remain a ‘lady’, talk absolute shite and make sense and wrap my father round all my fingers on both hands. And feet. But lately, I find my flirting abilities have been put under scrutiny. By none other than the Wine Merchant. He seems to get slightly annoyed when I talk to randoms but doesn’t understand that it’s harmless. God forbid, of course, his eyes stray in the direction of any female, where he will sent straight to the nearest optometrist to have them removed. So I’ve had to fill my flirting quota sneakily and secretively.
One such example was this past weekend while at a bar to watch the rugby. Situated in a bar, watching the rugby, the ratio of men to women was 8 to 1. I was in my element. On my way back to my table, I was stopped by a very good looking guy by the name of Rob. The conversation flowed, the flirting was at an all-time high and we generally spent a good ten minutes filled with me saying ridiculous things like ‘What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?’ followed by him saying equally pathetic things like ‘Looking for you.’. Brilliant! The problem came when he asked me for my number. Crap. Having a certain degree of loyalty to the Wine Merchant, I knew I couldn’t give him my number, nor did I really want to. The flirting was officially out of my system. For the next 30 minutes or so. I did what I thought was a brilliant maneuver and went on my way.
The next day as The Housemate and I were sitting dissecting the evening and both agreeing that Myprodol were made by angels, she brought up a rather awkward subject.
The Housemate: Some guy keeps phoning me and I have no idea who he is.
Me: Oooooo exciting! Did you meet him this weekend?
TH: I don’t remember meeting anyone this weekend or giving them my number.
Me: Ummm
TH: Baglett, have you been giving guys my number again?
Me: I get bored.
TH: You can’t give guys my number, give them your own.
Me: I used to but the Wine Merchant got annoyed. I don’t know why. He gives his number to people all the time.
TH: Work people Baglett, he gives his number to work people.
Me: Whatever. Anyway, let me know if a guy called Rob phones, he’s sooooo cute.
TH: Why do you give them MY number, give them a fake number if you have to.
Me: I used to give them the BFF’s number, but what with her living in London, the whole +44 code made them suspicious. And those bastards are sneaky now; they immediately phone the number I’ve given them to check. If they check, I merely grab your phone, show them and say ‘Seeeeee, I wasn’t messing with you, this is my number.’
TH: You’re insane.
Me: Yes. So Rob hasn’t phoned?
TH: No.
Me: Bastard. Men are bastards.
TH: Oh. My. God.
One such example was this past weekend while at a bar to watch the rugby. Situated in a bar, watching the rugby, the ratio of men to women was 8 to 1. I was in my element. On my way back to my table, I was stopped by a very good looking guy by the name of Rob. The conversation flowed, the flirting was at an all-time high and we generally spent a good ten minutes filled with me saying ridiculous things like ‘What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?’ followed by him saying equally pathetic things like ‘Looking for you.’. Brilliant! The problem came when he asked me for my number. Crap. Having a certain degree of loyalty to the Wine Merchant, I knew I couldn’t give him my number, nor did I really want to. The flirting was officially out of my system. For the next 30 minutes or so. I did what I thought was a brilliant maneuver and went on my way.
The next day as The Housemate and I were sitting dissecting the evening and both agreeing that Myprodol were made by angels, she brought up a rather awkward subject.
The Housemate: Some guy keeps phoning me and I have no idea who he is.
Me: Oooooo exciting! Did you meet him this weekend?
TH: I don’t remember meeting anyone this weekend or giving them my number.
Me: Ummm
TH: Baglett, have you been giving guys my number again?
Me: I get bored.
TH: You can’t give guys my number, give them your own.
Me: I used to but the Wine Merchant got annoyed. I don’t know why. He gives his number to people all the time.
TH: Work people Baglett, he gives his number to work people.
Me: Whatever. Anyway, let me know if a guy called Rob phones, he’s sooooo cute.
TH: Why do you give them MY number, give them a fake number if you have to.
Me: I used to give them the BFF’s number, but what with her living in London, the whole +44 code made them suspicious. And those bastards are sneaky now; they immediately phone the number I’ve given them to check. If they check, I merely grab your phone, show them and say ‘Seeeeee, I wasn’t messing with you, this is my number.’
TH: You’re insane.
Me: Yes. So Rob hasn’t phoned?
TH: No.
Me: Bastard. Men are bastards.
TH: Oh. My. God.
Friday, July 24, 2009
AND WE LISTEN TO THE MESSAGES...
Since I was waking this morning up at a time when no self-respecting human being should have their eyes open, I went to bed at stupid ‘o clock last night. Taking into account it was Phuza Thursday, I switched off my phone and woke up to these pearlers this morning.
Message 1 – The Gran
Hi Baglett, this is your Gran! Um, just phoning, ummmm. Oooo, why am I phoning? Is this Baglett? Hello? Baglett? Are you there? (Now talking to herself) There must be bad connection, hey sweetie (talking to the dog presumably) We will just phone her tomorrow, won’t we darling? Now where’s that phone…*Click*
Message 2 – The Wine Merchant
BAGLETT! It’s 8 o clock you loser. You’ve obviously completely morphed into your mother and now going to bed before senior citizens. What time did you have dinner? Lunchtime? Phone me when you wake up. Or maybe I’ll just phone your mother – same thing really. Ouch, you couldn’t have enjoyed that too much, could you? *Click*
Message 3
Dear Valued Client, this is a friendly reminder to pay your credit card. *Click*
Message 4 – The Dad
Hi Bag! You never call us anymore. That must mean you have money. Anyway, I’m off to a wife swapping evening. Your mother refuses to come with me, so I’m taking some wine as my partner. But so are all the other guys since none of them are married. Call us when you get a chance, you keep forgetting you left some cats behind and they’re standing at the gates with their suitcases packed. It’s a pathetic sight really.
Message 4 – The Animal Lover
Baglett – I WISH you were here! It’s SOOOOO much fun - you won’t BELIEVE who I bumped into?! Your Ex! So I totally told him how happy you are and I told him aaaaaaaallllllllllll about the Wine Merchant. I can’t remember what he said but I’m sure he was cryiiiiiiin inside. He had some skank on his arm. She looked super-dodge so I started telling her aaaaaallll about you. Oh my gosh – it’s The Neighbour! She wants to say hi – HIIIIIIII BAGLETT! You won’t belieeeeeve who we saw – YOUR EX! So I totally told him how happy you were and allllll about the Wine Merchant! Crap, where’s my drink? *click*
I would rather listen to the bank message 40 million times over than that cringer.
Happy Friday people!
Message 1 – The Gran
Hi Baglett, this is your Gran! Um, just phoning, ummmm. Oooo, why am I phoning? Is this Baglett? Hello? Baglett? Are you there? (Now talking to herself) There must be bad connection, hey sweetie (talking to the dog presumably) We will just phone her tomorrow, won’t we darling? Now where’s that phone…*Click*
Message 2 – The Wine Merchant
BAGLETT! It’s 8 o clock you loser. You’ve obviously completely morphed into your mother and now going to bed before senior citizens. What time did you have dinner? Lunchtime? Phone me when you wake up. Or maybe I’ll just phone your mother – same thing really. Ouch, you couldn’t have enjoyed that too much, could you? *Click*
Message 3
Dear Valued Client, this is a friendly reminder to pay your credit card. *Click*
Message 4 – The Dad
Hi Bag! You never call us anymore. That must mean you have money. Anyway, I’m off to a wife swapping evening. Your mother refuses to come with me, so I’m taking some wine as my partner. But so are all the other guys since none of them are married. Call us when you get a chance, you keep forgetting you left some cats behind and they’re standing at the gates with their suitcases packed. It’s a pathetic sight really.
Message 4 – The Animal Lover
Baglett – I WISH you were here! It’s SOOOOO much fun - you won’t BELIEVE who I bumped into?! Your Ex! So I totally told him how happy you are and I told him aaaaaaaallllllllllll about the Wine Merchant. I can’t remember what he said but I’m sure he was cryiiiiiiin inside. He had some skank on his arm. She looked super-dodge so I started telling her aaaaaallll about you. Oh my gosh – it’s The Neighbour! She wants to say hi – HIIIIIIII BAGLETT! You won’t belieeeeeve who we saw – YOUR EX! So I totally told him how happy you were and allllll about the Wine Merchant! Crap, where’s my drink? *click*
I would rather listen to the bank message 40 million times over than that cringer.
Happy Friday people!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
NOT SO MUCH
I love driving in Jo’burg, I’m always guaranteed some form of entertainment. If it’s not violent protesting on the side of the road, or a truck on fire, or a mad bergie trying to dance his way through the cars, it’s a massive roadblock. And this morning did not disappoint.
While driving, debating the meaning of the words ‘I wanna take a ride on your disco stick’, I felt as if I was being followed. Usually oblivious to anyone other than myself on the road, this struck me as serious. If I could tell I was being followed, then I was definitely being followed. More than likely for a day or two.
I looked in my rearview mirror to find a man who was driving so close to me, I assumed he had a bumper fetish. Quite fond of my bumper, I accelerated only to find him increasing his speed. When I changed lanes, he did the same, when I slowed down, he followed suit. Not able to see the man clearly, my imagination conjured up a lovely image of rapist eyes, snarling teeth and there were definitely five guns in his jacket with an array of knives by his side and his last victim was in his boot.
While debating whether or not I should take the next turn off to avoid imminent death, he started flashing his lights. I was mentally going through all the ‘Beware the latest road hijack scheme’ that my dad is intent on sending me on an hourly basis, and was now convinced my last memory of life would be the N1.
Missing the turn off and my last chance of survival, my killer pulled up next to me. He slowly wound down his window and I was momentarily distracted by the nearby Woolies truck with ‘Stuck in a Jam’ on the side of it. (I do love those trucks). Trying not plough straight into it, I stared into the face of my killer with what I hoped was my best ‘Oh please don’t shoot me’ face. He grinned back at me, waved and shouted ‘WANNA GO FOR COFFEE?!’
Let that be a lesson to all men out there, as flattering as potential death on a highway is, it certainly is not going to get you coffee.
While driving, debating the meaning of the words ‘I wanna take a ride on your disco stick’, I felt as if I was being followed. Usually oblivious to anyone other than myself on the road, this struck me as serious. If I could tell I was being followed, then I was definitely being followed. More than likely for a day or two.
I looked in my rearview mirror to find a man who was driving so close to me, I assumed he had a bumper fetish. Quite fond of my bumper, I accelerated only to find him increasing his speed. When I changed lanes, he did the same, when I slowed down, he followed suit. Not able to see the man clearly, my imagination conjured up a lovely image of rapist eyes, snarling teeth and there were definitely five guns in his jacket with an array of knives by his side and his last victim was in his boot.
While debating whether or not I should take the next turn off to avoid imminent death, he started flashing his lights. I was mentally going through all the ‘Beware the latest road hijack scheme’ that my dad is intent on sending me on an hourly basis, and was now convinced my last memory of life would be the N1.
Missing the turn off and my last chance of survival, my killer pulled up next to me. He slowly wound down his window and I was momentarily distracted by the nearby Woolies truck with ‘Stuck in a Jam’ on the side of it. (I do love those trucks). Trying not plough straight into it, I stared into the face of my killer with what I hoped was my best ‘Oh please don’t shoot me’ face. He grinned back at me, waved and shouted ‘WANNA GO FOR COFFEE?!’
Let that be a lesson to all men out there, as flattering as potential death on a highway is, it certainly is not going to get you coffee.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
AIRPORT AND OFFICERS
So the Wine Merchant arrived back on Saturday. Very aware of my tendency to go out and never come back, I put myself under house arrest on Friday night. Sitting with the cat on a Friday night while watching The Sound of Music was officially a personal low for me.
I had everything planned; I was going to look amazing, smell amazing and make him forget about the seven blonde apparitions he had just spent a week with. The welcome back scene was going to be off the charts. He would walk slowly through the automatic doors looking around for me in the crowd. I was going to start running slow motion style screaming ‘Wiiiiiinnnneeee Merrrrccchhhaaaantttt!’ while he dropped his bags and ran towards me. He was going to lift me up, swing me around and somewhere in the background, ‘God Only Knows’ by the Beach Boys would be playing through the airport speakers. It was going to vomit-inducing stuff but it was going to be good.
Well that didn’t bloody happen did it? Giving myself plenty of time to get to the airport, I didn’t factor in the planet-altering roadworks on Ga-bloody-loolies. Squishing eight lanes into two doesn’t exactly make for smooth-flowing traffic. Muttering ‘F*ck this sh*t’ I drove into the emergency lane with the taxis and announced to my car that we were now driving in the Baglett lane. Not two seconds later, a cop car appeared out of nowhere with its disco lights on and pulled me over. Realising this was my first time I could show my newly acquired temporary license, I couldn’t have been happier.
Me: Morning officer! So how’s the fam?
Officer: Ma’am you are not allowed to drive in this lane.
Me: But this is the Baglett lane!
Officer: The what?
Me: It’s the lane I drive in when I’ve got twenty minutes to pick up the Wine Merchant from the airport and someone has closed all the other lanes.
Officer: Ma’am I don’t know what the Baglett lane is, but this is the emergency lane and it is used for emergency vehicles only.
Me: But this IS an emergency. As we speak the Wine Merchant is landing and I am supposed to do reinvent the Love Actually scene. You know the one at the end with the airport when…
Officer: Ma’am please stop. I’m going to have to give you a fine.
It was right then that my phone started ringing announcing the Wine Merchant was phoning me.
Me: Look! It’s the Wine Merchant! Now he’s landed and my dreams are shattered. Am I allowed to answer this call since I’m not officially driving even though I am in my car?
Officer: Sigh. Yes.
Me: Wine Merchant! I’m stuck on the highway – here, speak to the officer. Officer – it’s the Wine Merchant, he wants to talk to you.
Officer: Ma’am. I’m not going to speak to the Wine Merchant.
Me: Wine Merchant - He doesn’t want to speak to you. I’ll phone you back.
Officer: I’m really, really soweee Officer. I pwomise not to do it again. But The Wine Merchant has just spent a week with seven blondes and my insecurity levels have reached an all time level of craziness and if I don’t get there right now, they may hijack him forever.
Officer: Sigh. Ok. Go.
Me: Yaaaaay! You little legend. Byeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Defeated, yet smiling, the officer walked back to his orange eyesore of a car, probably wondering why he ever entered into his career field in the first place. As he sat in his seat, hoping that the next person he pulled over would not be borderline psychotic, the same woman he had just stopped, stuck her head through his window, waving a piece of paper frantically in his face and almost shouted:
‘My license! You forgot to ask me for my license!’
I had everything planned; I was going to look amazing, smell amazing and make him forget about the seven blonde apparitions he had just spent a week with. The welcome back scene was going to be off the charts. He would walk slowly through the automatic doors looking around for me in the crowd. I was going to start running slow motion style screaming ‘Wiiiiiinnnneeee Merrrrccchhhaaaantttt!’ while he dropped his bags and ran towards me. He was going to lift me up, swing me around and somewhere in the background, ‘God Only Knows’ by the Beach Boys would be playing through the airport speakers. It was going to vomit-inducing stuff but it was going to be good.
Well that didn’t bloody happen did it? Giving myself plenty of time to get to the airport, I didn’t factor in the planet-altering roadworks on Ga-bloody-loolies. Squishing eight lanes into two doesn’t exactly make for smooth-flowing traffic. Muttering ‘F*ck this sh*t’ I drove into the emergency lane with the taxis and announced to my car that we were now driving in the Baglett lane. Not two seconds later, a cop car appeared out of nowhere with its disco lights on and pulled me over. Realising this was my first time I could show my newly acquired temporary license, I couldn’t have been happier.
Me: Morning officer! So how’s the fam?
Officer: Ma’am you are not allowed to drive in this lane.
Me: But this is the Baglett lane!
Officer: The what?
Me: It’s the lane I drive in when I’ve got twenty minutes to pick up the Wine Merchant from the airport and someone has closed all the other lanes.
Officer: Ma’am I don’t know what the Baglett lane is, but this is the emergency lane and it is used for emergency vehicles only.
Me: But this IS an emergency. As we speak the Wine Merchant is landing and I am supposed to do reinvent the Love Actually scene. You know the one at the end with the airport when…
Officer: Ma’am please stop. I’m going to have to give you a fine.
It was right then that my phone started ringing announcing the Wine Merchant was phoning me.
Me: Look! It’s the Wine Merchant! Now he’s landed and my dreams are shattered. Am I allowed to answer this call since I’m not officially driving even though I am in my car?
Officer: Sigh. Yes.
Me: Wine Merchant! I’m stuck on the highway – here, speak to the officer. Officer – it’s the Wine Merchant, he wants to talk to you.
Officer: Ma’am. I’m not going to speak to the Wine Merchant.
Me: Wine Merchant - He doesn’t want to speak to you. I’ll phone you back.
Officer: I’m really, really soweee Officer. I pwomise not to do it again. But The Wine Merchant has just spent a week with seven blondes and my insecurity levels have reached an all time level of craziness and if I don’t get there right now, they may hijack him forever.
Officer: Sigh. Ok. Go.
Me: Yaaaaay! You little legend. Byeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Defeated, yet smiling, the officer walked back to his orange eyesore of a car, probably wondering why he ever entered into his career field in the first place. As he sat in his seat, hoping that the next person he pulled over would not be borderline psychotic, the same woman he had just stopped, stuck her head through his window, waving a piece of paper frantically in his face and almost shouted:
‘My license! You forgot to ask me for my license!’
Thursday, July 16, 2009
WAS BORED, WAS ANNOYING
So The Wine Merchant phoned last night. And probably wished he hadn’t.
Wine Merchant: Baglett! You won’t BELIEVE who I’m sitting next to!
Me: Tom Jones!
WM: Um, no.
Me: Elvis!?
WM: He’s dead Baglett.
Me: So they saaaaay.
WM: Baglett, don’t be ridiculous.
Me: Animal, vegetable or mineral?
WM: You’re bored aren’t you?
Me: Intensely. So who are you sitting next to?
WM: A friend of yours!
Me: Oh my gosh! Is it the lady who begs at my robots!?
WM: She’s a friend of yours?
Me: Well not my best friend but we exchange banter when the robot is red and she is currently wearing half my wardrobe which pretty much constitutes a friend.
WM: Baglett, you’ve been waffling on for so long, she’s talking to someone else now.
Me: Well, she can’t be that good a friend, can she then?
WM: She claims she is. What are you doing by the way?
Me: I’m exhausted. I’ve just finished a long road trip.
WM: Is this the kind of road trip when you follow cars with CA number plates in case you know them?
Me: That’s the one!
WM: Annnnnd?
Me: Didn’t know them.
WM: You never do.
Me: One day Wine Merchant. One day I will know the people driving the CA number plated cars. Are you drunk yet?
WM: No. You?
Me: Always.
WM: Baglett, your friend is telling me to tell you to give her a call.
Me: But she doesn’t have a phone!
WM: Not the lady from the robots Baglett, your actual friend.
Me: Gotcha.
And let that be a lesson to the Wine Merchant to not phone me when there is nothing on TV.
Wine Merchant: Baglett! You won’t BELIEVE who I’m sitting next to!
Me: Tom Jones!
WM: Um, no.
Me: Elvis!?
WM: He’s dead Baglett.
Me: So they saaaaay.
WM: Baglett, don’t be ridiculous.
Me: Animal, vegetable or mineral?
WM: You’re bored aren’t you?
Me: Intensely. So who are you sitting next to?
WM: A friend of yours!
Me: Oh my gosh! Is it the lady who begs at my robots!?
WM: She’s a friend of yours?
Me: Well not my best friend but we exchange banter when the robot is red and she is currently wearing half my wardrobe which pretty much constitutes a friend.
WM: Baglett, you’ve been waffling on for so long, she’s talking to someone else now.
Me: Well, she can’t be that good a friend, can she then?
WM: She claims she is. What are you doing by the way?
Me: I’m exhausted. I’ve just finished a long road trip.
WM: Is this the kind of road trip when you follow cars with CA number plates in case you know them?
Me: That’s the one!
WM: Annnnnd?
Me: Didn’t know them.
WM: You never do.
Me: One day Wine Merchant. One day I will know the people driving the CA number plated cars. Are you drunk yet?
WM: No. You?
Me: Always.
WM: Baglett, your friend is telling me to tell you to give her a call.
Me: But she doesn’t have a phone!
WM: Not the lady from the robots Baglett, your actual friend.
Me: Gotcha.
And let that be a lesson to the Wine Merchant to not phone me when there is nothing on TV.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
OH THE EXCITEMENT
So the Housemate is on her THIRD date tonight. With the SAME guy. It’s created much excitement in our household and the event has managed to turn us into pre-pubescent teenagers. Without the bad skin or studded belts.
Housemate: What the hell am I going to wear?
Me: Wear what you wearing the day we went to that place and it was warm, but not too warm and we drank that delicious champers.
HM: He’s seen me in that outfit.
Me: He’s a guy, he won’t know.
HM: Yes, but I’ll know.
Me: Are you sleeping over?
HM: I’m not sure, how long did you wait before you slept over at the Wine Merchant’s house?
Me: Oh crises, don’t compare us please. You may remember we had about fifty dates without even a kiss on the cheek. I mentioned the words ‘stay over’ once and the look on his face was similar to mine when I first saw the The Shining.
HM: Well I have to sleepover, he lives in the gamadoolas.
Me: Well, whatever you do, don’t arrive at his door with your overnight bag and your favourite teddy and then sms your friends the whole evening with updates on the evening’s progression. I did that once and the relationship was one of my shorter ones.
HM: Oh my God, he’s phoning me.
Me: Oh my Gaaaawd! This is sooooooooooooo exciting!
HM: You’re almost 30 years old. You know that right?
Me: Which is why it’s very important you answer that phone so we’re not sitting here when we’re 40 having the same discussion.
Since the Wine Merchant is off with his harem of girls in the Cape this week, I suggested that I act as her escort for the evening. I got a look that said a thousand words, mainly ‘Piss off’ but she has promised at least two updating smses. If they order pizza, I’m hijacking the pizza man in the doorway and delivering it myself.
Best the Wine Merchant comes back soon, I’m starting to lose the plot.
Housemate: What the hell am I going to wear?
Me: Wear what you wearing the day we went to that place and it was warm, but not too warm and we drank that delicious champers.
HM: He’s seen me in that outfit.
Me: He’s a guy, he won’t know.
HM: Yes, but I’ll know.
Me: Are you sleeping over?
HM: I’m not sure, how long did you wait before you slept over at the Wine Merchant’s house?
Me: Oh crises, don’t compare us please. You may remember we had about fifty dates without even a kiss on the cheek. I mentioned the words ‘stay over’ once and the look on his face was similar to mine when I first saw the The Shining.
HM: Well I have to sleepover, he lives in the gamadoolas.
Me: Well, whatever you do, don’t arrive at his door with your overnight bag and your favourite teddy and then sms your friends the whole evening with updates on the evening’s progression. I did that once and the relationship was one of my shorter ones.
HM: Oh my God, he’s phoning me.
Me: Oh my Gaaaawd! This is sooooooooooooo exciting!
HM: You’re almost 30 years old. You know that right?
Me: Which is why it’s very important you answer that phone so we’re not sitting here when we’re 40 having the same discussion.
Since the Wine Merchant is off with his harem of girls in the Cape this week, I suggested that I act as her escort for the evening. I got a look that said a thousand words, mainly ‘Piss off’ but she has promised at least two updating smses. If they order pizza, I’m hijacking the pizza man in the doorway and delivering it myself.
Best the Wine Merchant comes back soon, I’m starting to lose the plot.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
LICENCE OF 2004
Renewing my driver’s licence is something I put off for a while. Five years to be exact. While in Cape Town it wasn’t much of an issue, here in Jo’burg, they seem to take valid licences quite seriously. You may remember my bribing incident of April ’09 aptly entitled ‘I’m an Idiot’
After chatting to a few people explaining that my licence expired sometime in early 2004, they convinced me that I would have to retake the drivers test. After the first person told me, my response was ‘Shutup your face’, after the tenth, I got in my car and practised my three point turn, my parallel parking and my alley docking. While my alley docking was off the charts, my parallel parking resembled a drunk two-year-old who was using the head rest as a steering wheel.
I arrived at the licensing department at 7:30am this morning and went through the turmoil that is a government building. With no one to ask where the hell I was supposed to be or what form to fill in, I filled in a learners licence form, a drivers licence form and a form for police clearance which I thought would come in handy for something in the future.
Handing all three forms to some mindless wonder I was shuffled into another room I was told to ‘Sit!’ and ‘Wait here!’ which was in keeping with the signs in the place: ‘INFORMATION!’, ‘FORMS!’, ‘CASHIER!!!’ Why cashier deserved three exclamations marks is beyond me. Maybe they were really happy to have one.
I found myself sitting next to a woman who may have eaten all the previous cashiers and was now looking at me as if I would make a great post-cashier snack. I removed her thigh from my lap and got up after I was called by a man who looked like he would rather be burning in hell than doing his present job.
Misery: You here for will?
Not remembering filling out a form for a will, I replied
Me: No.
Misery: Well why are you here then?
Me: I thought I could get my drivers licence renewed?
Misery: That’s a wal.
Awwwww, so what I heard as ‘will’, was in fact ‘wal’ which is traffic licence speak for drivers licence rene'wal'. It’s important you know this because he looked pretty pissed off that wasted three seconds of his time with my will query.
When he requested my old licence, my mind worked overtime. I could pretend I’ve been overseas since 2004 but I had no proof of this and my mother is an intensely bad liar. I could pretend I had lost my licence and convince them that my lost licence was in fact completely up to date, but fear of the ‘system’ stopped that idea. I could hand over the prehistoric licence, expiration date 2004, and get what I deserved. Handing it over to Misery with my thumb surreptitiously covering the date, it was snatched from my quivering hand.
While Misery glanced at it and I was mentally practising my hill starts, he threw it back to me and I was instructed to sign ‘here’ and ‘here’.
R215 and twenty minutes later I was the proud owner of a temporary licence and six weeks away from getting my licence card. So to all those, who like me, have put off getting their licence renewed because of fear of penalty fees or retaking of drivers test, fear not. They couldn’t care less. And if I don’t get stopped at a road block quite soon to proudly show off my temporary licence, I’m going to commit some traffic misdemeanour. I’m that proud.
After chatting to a few people explaining that my licence expired sometime in early 2004, they convinced me that I would have to retake the drivers test. After the first person told me, my response was ‘Shutup your face’, after the tenth, I got in my car and practised my three point turn, my parallel parking and my alley docking. While my alley docking was off the charts, my parallel parking resembled a drunk two-year-old who was using the head rest as a steering wheel.
I arrived at the licensing department at 7:30am this morning and went through the turmoil that is a government building. With no one to ask where the hell I was supposed to be or what form to fill in, I filled in a learners licence form, a drivers licence form and a form for police clearance which I thought would come in handy for something in the future.
Handing all three forms to some mindless wonder I was shuffled into another room I was told to ‘Sit!’ and ‘Wait here!’ which was in keeping with the signs in the place: ‘INFORMATION!’, ‘FORMS!’, ‘CASHIER!!!’ Why cashier deserved three exclamations marks is beyond me. Maybe they were really happy to have one.
I found myself sitting next to a woman who may have eaten all the previous cashiers and was now looking at me as if I would make a great post-cashier snack. I removed her thigh from my lap and got up after I was called by a man who looked like he would rather be burning in hell than doing his present job.
Misery: You here for will?
Not remembering filling out a form for a will, I replied
Me: No.
Misery: Well why are you here then?
Me: I thought I could get my drivers licence renewed?
Misery: That’s a wal.
Awwwww, so what I heard as ‘will’, was in fact ‘wal’ which is traffic licence speak for drivers licence rene'wal'. It’s important you know this because he looked pretty pissed off that wasted three seconds of his time with my will query.
When he requested my old licence, my mind worked overtime. I could pretend I’ve been overseas since 2004 but I had no proof of this and my mother is an intensely bad liar. I could pretend I had lost my licence and convince them that my lost licence was in fact completely up to date, but fear of the ‘system’ stopped that idea. I could hand over the prehistoric licence, expiration date 2004, and get what I deserved. Handing it over to Misery with my thumb surreptitiously covering the date, it was snatched from my quivering hand.
While Misery glanced at it and I was mentally practising my hill starts, he threw it back to me and I was instructed to sign ‘here’ and ‘here’.
R215 and twenty minutes later I was the proud owner of a temporary licence and six weeks away from getting my licence card. So to all those, who like me, have put off getting their licence renewed because of fear of penalty fees or retaking of drivers test, fear not. They couldn’t care less. And if I don’t get stopped at a road block quite soon to proudly show off my temporary licence, I’m going to commit some traffic misdemeanour. I’m that proud.
Monday, July 13, 2009
JEALOUSY MAKES YOU BITCHY
So the Wine Merchant has buggered off to Cape Town for a week for ‘work’. Since when is staying at different wine farms sipping on the Cape’s finest Merlot, termed as ‘work’? That scenario pretty much makes up most of my nightly dreams and aspirations. But while I’m quite content to let him experience the wonders of the Cape, I’m not so charmed at his travelling companions which includes seven girls.
Me: Who are you, Snow White?
Wine Merchant: Baglett, don’t start, I work with them.
Me: Where are all the men? Crises, if I have R10 for every time I asked that question.
WM: Sigh. Baglett, they’re my colleagues. I can’t help that they’re women.
Me: If you follow that up with something like ‘I don’t even notice them’ and ‘They mean nothing to me’, I’ m going to throw up.
WM: For the 40 millionth time Baglett, you have nothing to worry about. Now unlock the doors so I can get out.
Me: Fine, but if they aren’t all dwarfs and whistle while they work, I’m not letting you go.
As we got his bags out the boot, I heard someone shout ‘Yoohooooo!’. Wondering who the hell would use the term ‘Yooohoo’ who wasn’t 80, I looked up to find a blond vision running up to us in Jimmy Choo’s and luggage that cost more than my car. She was neither Happy, Sleepy or Grumpy, she was Hot.
The Wine Merchant, looking distinctly uncomfortable, introduced us, while Hotness ruined whatever chance I had at an emotional goodbye and the two of them walked away. Five seconds later they were joined by six other blondes who looked nothing like dwarfs and I watched while The Wine Merchant led the pack of seven blondes into the airport. It was like a scene out of Catch Me if You Can when Frank Abagnale Jr. leads his harem of hot airhostesses through the airport.
I am nothing if not slightly jealous and massively insecure. My only consolation is that there seems to be severe downpours in the Cape at the moment. I hope their perfect hair goes flat.
Me: Who are you, Snow White?
Wine Merchant: Baglett, don’t start, I work with them.
Me: Where are all the men? Crises, if I have R10 for every time I asked that question.
WM: Sigh. Baglett, they’re my colleagues. I can’t help that they’re women.
Me: If you follow that up with something like ‘I don’t even notice them’ and ‘They mean nothing to me’, I’ m going to throw up.
WM: For the 40 millionth time Baglett, you have nothing to worry about. Now unlock the doors so I can get out.
Me: Fine, but if they aren’t all dwarfs and whistle while they work, I’m not letting you go.
As we got his bags out the boot, I heard someone shout ‘Yoohooooo!’. Wondering who the hell would use the term ‘Yooohoo’ who wasn’t 80, I looked up to find a blond vision running up to us in Jimmy Choo’s and luggage that cost more than my car. She was neither Happy, Sleepy or Grumpy, she was Hot.
The Wine Merchant, looking distinctly uncomfortable, introduced us, while Hotness ruined whatever chance I had at an emotional goodbye and the two of them walked away. Five seconds later they were joined by six other blondes who looked nothing like dwarfs and I watched while The Wine Merchant led the pack of seven blondes into the airport. It was like a scene out of Catch Me if You Can when Frank Abagnale Jr. leads his harem of hot airhostesses through the airport.
I am nothing if not slightly jealous and massively insecure. My only consolation is that there seems to be severe downpours in the Cape at the moment. I hope their perfect hair goes flat.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
IN THE SOUTH
There are certain stigmas attached to the various areas of Jo’burg. There are accents, there are behaviors, and there are very specific styles of clothing. I had the pleasure of visiting the South the other night to watch Prime Circle sing their sexy hearts out. The closer The Wine Merchant got to the South, the more I noticed his accent changing. He was morphing into Southdom. Any minute I expected his blue Gap shirt to miraculously change into a hoodie and a gold earring to appear in his left ear.
Sitting down in a relatively nice carpeted theatre-type place I took in the crowd around me. There was the couple next to me where the boyfriend had clearly been taken to the concert under much duress and was sulking, the rowdy bunch behind us had clearly been drinking for eighteen hours prior to the concert and there was the two tone wonder in front of me who was completely unaware that she was in public and was taking PDA’s to a new level of inappropriateness.
It was during the final song that I felt something wet land on my shoulder. Hoping to God that The Wine Merchant had not turned into a girl and was now crying, I looked behind me. Two women, both in their early forties, wearing clothes clearly borrowed from their 12-year-old daughters, were going for each other. Throwing their drinks in each others faces, pulling each others hair and screaming such obscenities I wanted to grab a pen and write them down.
There is nothing scarier than women fighting. We have nails, we have large rings and we tend to lie on the brink of mental unstableness so there’s always a good chance we’ll go completely over the top and start eye gouging. Just as I was about to ask the one woman if she could repeat the last word she used and how to spell it, she decided the hair pulling was overrated and she needed to take it up a notch. She took a step back from her opponent, leaned back, lifted her top and started shaking her fake breasts wildly while screaming ‘F*ck you b*tch’. I was absolutely finished. It reminded me of a lion roaring, but with breasts. Security stepped in and removed the women and we came to terms with the fact that Girls Gone Wild were not coming back. Everyone remembered that Prime Circle was in fact the show for the evening and we settled back in our seats with sighs of disappointment and the sounds of cameras being switched off echoed through the theatre.
On our way out we spotted the two women being treated for a bloody eye and a broken nail. The Under Duress husband looked at them, sighed and said ‘Only in the bloody South’ and then gave his earring a good tug.
Sitting down in a relatively nice carpeted theatre-type place I took in the crowd around me. There was the couple next to me where the boyfriend had clearly been taken to the concert under much duress and was sulking, the rowdy bunch behind us had clearly been drinking for eighteen hours prior to the concert and there was the two tone wonder in front of me who was completely unaware that she was in public and was taking PDA’s to a new level of inappropriateness.
It was during the final song that I felt something wet land on my shoulder. Hoping to God that The Wine Merchant had not turned into a girl and was now crying, I looked behind me. Two women, both in their early forties, wearing clothes clearly borrowed from their 12-year-old daughters, were going for each other. Throwing their drinks in each others faces, pulling each others hair and screaming such obscenities I wanted to grab a pen and write them down.
There is nothing scarier than women fighting. We have nails, we have large rings and we tend to lie on the brink of mental unstableness so there’s always a good chance we’ll go completely over the top and start eye gouging. Just as I was about to ask the one woman if she could repeat the last word she used and how to spell it, she decided the hair pulling was overrated and she needed to take it up a notch. She took a step back from her opponent, leaned back, lifted her top and started shaking her fake breasts wildly while screaming ‘F*ck you b*tch’. I was absolutely finished. It reminded me of a lion roaring, but with breasts. Security stepped in and removed the women and we came to terms with the fact that Girls Gone Wild were not coming back. Everyone remembered that Prime Circle was in fact the show for the evening and we settled back in our seats with sighs of disappointment and the sounds of cameras being switched off echoed through the theatre.
On our way out we spotted the two women being treated for a bloody eye and a broken nail. The Under Duress husband looked at them, sighed and said ‘Only in the bloody South’ and then gave his earring a good tug.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
IT'S THAT TIME OF THE YEAR
It’s that time of the year when I decide to go on a diet. This year I want to be so thin, there is a fear of me falling down the drain when showering. I want to hug people and bruise them with my cheekbones. I want my friends to say 'We're worried about you' when they are in fact, secretly jealous. I want to eat a grape and be full. This of course never happens, but this year, it feels different. But the question is, which diet should I choose this year?
There was the very expensive dietician of ’99 who charged me an absolute fortune so that I couldn’t afford food. I’ve always thought you should dress for the job, and in a dieticians case, weigh in for the job, so when I found her to borderline obese, I didn’t trust a thing she said. When I went for my weekly appointment and hadn’t lost weight, she sighed, gave me a face like I had just run over her puppy, and marked my chart with red pen. I mumbled, ‘I’m still thinner than you Fatty.’ and cancelled all future appointments.
Then there was the Fatkins diet of 2002. I gave up alcohol, caffeine, sugar and carbs. I spent a fortune on Dr ‘I will make you thin but boring’ Atkins bloody books and went against my vegetarian principles and started eating farm animals. Bread was the enemy and caffeine-free tea that looked like urine replaced my Sauvignon Blanc. I suffered through it for a month and was declared the most miserable person on the planet. I also managed to gain almost ten kilos and severe bad breath.
The shrink wrap diet of 2004 goes down in history as one of the stupidest things I’ve done in my lifetime. The Single Sidekick and I had seen a product advertised on Verimark. Promising us vanishing centimeters, rapid weight loss and thighs the size of toothpicks, ultimately leading to a fulfilled and happy life with adoring men and jealous women, we were hooked. We had visions of being half the size we were, people weren’t going to recognize us and we would definitely have to buy new clothes. We dutifully smothered our bodies with the fat burning cream and wrapped ourselves from the neck down with industrial sized cling wrap. We then lay down on the bed and shouted ‘Let the thinness begin!’ What they didn’t tell you was that the cream plus plastic whips up such intense heat that we began to turn puce and started to sweat like a sumo wrestler in the Sahara. The only thing we managed to lose was our dignity when the Single Sidekicks very hot brother walked into her room to find the two of us lying side by side on her bed like two large chipolata’s on a braai.
A particular stinker was the Weigh Less diet which I attempted to reverse the effects of Fatkins. Having to attend soul destroying weigh in’s, facilitated by an obese Nazi, in a depressing hall, was bad enough, but when they told me to cut down on my alcohol intake, I told them to piss off.
When I gave in and went to see a skinny dietician, she explained that one glass of wine was equal to one carb. I was allowed five carbs in a day. Thinking I was very clever, I would starve myself the entire day and then have five glasses of wine in the evening. Five glasses of wine on an empty stomach led to complete obliterated drunkenness which in turn led me to the nearest McDonalds because I was so drunk I forgot I was on diet.
If you have any wonderful diets for me, please let me know. Otherwise I’m going to only eat food that starts with W. Watermelon, watercress, wasabi and wine. I’ll be falling down drains in no time.
There was the very expensive dietician of ’99 who charged me an absolute fortune so that I couldn’t afford food. I’ve always thought you should dress for the job, and in a dieticians case, weigh in for the job, so when I found her to borderline obese, I didn’t trust a thing she said. When I went for my weekly appointment and hadn’t lost weight, she sighed, gave me a face like I had just run over her puppy, and marked my chart with red pen. I mumbled, ‘I’m still thinner than you Fatty.’ and cancelled all future appointments.
Then there was the Fatkins diet of 2002. I gave up alcohol, caffeine, sugar and carbs. I spent a fortune on Dr ‘I will make you thin but boring’ Atkins bloody books and went against my vegetarian principles and started eating farm animals. Bread was the enemy and caffeine-free tea that looked like urine replaced my Sauvignon Blanc. I suffered through it for a month and was declared the most miserable person on the planet. I also managed to gain almost ten kilos and severe bad breath.
The shrink wrap diet of 2004 goes down in history as one of the stupidest things I’ve done in my lifetime. The Single Sidekick and I had seen a product advertised on Verimark. Promising us vanishing centimeters, rapid weight loss and thighs the size of toothpicks, ultimately leading to a fulfilled and happy life with adoring men and jealous women, we were hooked. We had visions of being half the size we were, people weren’t going to recognize us and we would definitely have to buy new clothes. We dutifully smothered our bodies with the fat burning cream and wrapped ourselves from the neck down with industrial sized cling wrap. We then lay down on the bed and shouted ‘Let the thinness begin!’ What they didn’t tell you was that the cream plus plastic whips up such intense heat that we began to turn puce and started to sweat like a sumo wrestler in the Sahara. The only thing we managed to lose was our dignity when the Single Sidekicks very hot brother walked into her room to find the two of us lying side by side on her bed like two large chipolata’s on a braai.
A particular stinker was the Weigh Less diet which I attempted to reverse the effects of Fatkins. Having to attend soul destroying weigh in’s, facilitated by an obese Nazi, in a depressing hall, was bad enough, but when they told me to cut down on my alcohol intake, I told them to piss off.
When I gave in and went to see a skinny dietician, she explained that one glass of wine was equal to one carb. I was allowed five carbs in a day. Thinking I was very clever, I would starve myself the entire day and then have five glasses of wine in the evening. Five glasses of wine on an empty stomach led to complete obliterated drunkenness which in turn led me to the nearest McDonalds because I was so drunk I forgot I was on diet.
If you have any wonderful diets for me, please let me know. Otherwise I’m going to only eat food that starts with W. Watermelon, watercress, wasabi and wine. I’ll be falling down drains in no time.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
SISS
I can’t explain to you the week I had last week. Probably the worst week I’ve had in my life. Apart from the week when I was 12 and my Dad added his own fish to my tropical fish tank and it ate all the other fish. Which is why I couldn’t put fingers to keyboard as they were too busy putting tissues to eyes. But enough about that, if this week doesn’t go well, I’m moving to Pennsylvania and joining an Armish community.
On another note, I’m starting to worry that the romance is waning in my relationship with The Wine Merchant. What was once a respectful and polite relationship has become this:
Wine Merchant: Babes, where’s the newspaper?
Me: On the table.
WM: Awesome.
Tucks paper under arm and heads towards the bathroom.
Me: Where are you going?
WM: Bathroom. Baglett, it’s going to be a goooooodie!
This ritual usually takes anything from ten minutes to eight days. He then walks out with a really chuffed look on his face and says:
Wine Merchant: Babes, you won’t believe it!
Me: Please, for all that is good and holy, I don’t want to know.
WM: I’ve been trying to go for days! I feel thinner. Do I look thinner?!
Me: You’re disgusting.
WM: Do you remember when I was trying to go yesterday?
Me: Oh my God. You’re still talking.
WM: Here’s the paper.
Me: I wouldn’t touch that if you if you gave me a million dollars.
WM: Do you know what feels like a million dollars?
Me: What?
WM: Me after…
Me: Stop talking, please, I beg of you, don't finish that sentence.
After discussing this with the girls last night, I realised I’m not alone. But the Wine Merchant might be if he keeps giving me a running commentary of what he does in my bathroom.
On another note, I’m starting to worry that the romance is waning in my relationship with The Wine Merchant. What was once a respectful and polite relationship has become this:
Wine Merchant: Babes, where’s the newspaper?
Me: On the table.
WM: Awesome.
Tucks paper under arm and heads towards the bathroom.
Me: Where are you going?
WM: Bathroom. Baglett, it’s going to be a goooooodie!
This ritual usually takes anything from ten minutes to eight days. He then walks out with a really chuffed look on his face and says:
Wine Merchant: Babes, you won’t believe it!
Me: Please, for all that is good and holy, I don’t want to know.
WM: I’ve been trying to go for days! I feel thinner. Do I look thinner?!
Me: You’re disgusting.
WM: Do you remember when I was trying to go yesterday?
Me: Oh my God. You’re still talking.
WM: Here’s the paper.
Me: I wouldn’t touch that if you if you gave me a million dollars.
WM: Do you know what feels like a million dollars?
Me: What?
WM: Me after…
Me: Stop talking, please, I beg of you, don't finish that sentence.
After discussing this with the girls last night, I realised I’m not alone. But the Wine Merchant might be if he keeps giving me a running commentary of what he does in my bathroom.
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