BAD DAY FOR BAGLETT

I renamed yesterday Black Thursday. A day I hope I never have to repeat in this lifetime. Acutely aware of the deadlines I had yesterday, I double checked all the relevant documents, and some irrelevant ones just for kicks, attached the first document and hit ‘send’. I’m no IT guru, but I do know that when the screen goes black and the laptop starts making a sound similar to a cat fight, you’re in a world of sh*t.

Rushing to the nearest computer fixing shop, I fell into the shop and ran up to the counter to meet the guy I would now be spending the rest of my day with. Explaining the severity of the situation and the fact that my career depended on the laptop NOT making the cat dying sounds, he tried to revive it. While he attacked it with a screwdriver and me thinking ‘I could have done that’, I was asked to fill in a job form.

Me: What do I put under fault description?
IT Guru: Um, write ‘screwed’, your hard drive has just crashed.

I started to see spots and my knees gave in. I fell into the chair someone had given me and started to take short little gasps of air while trying not to vomit. Four IT guys whipped into action and started performing laptop emergency surgery. My laptop was pulled apart bit by byte. Pieces were removed I didn’t even know existed. It was too painful to watch and I was ushered into the waiting area and given a cup of hot sweet tea.

I was mindlessly paging through a magazine when it occurred to me that a computer shop is very similar to an emergency ward at a hospital. Lots of beeping, I’m sitting in a waiting area sobbing and the IT surgeon keeps coming up to me at regular intervals saying ‘We’re doing everything we can ma’am’. I kept getting up and trying to go around the counter to see what was happening and I keep getting removed with ‘You’re not allowed back here ma’am, I’m sorry.’

Five hours, FIVE hours later, I was given an anorexic looking flashdisk the size of my thumb which contained all the information that survived the laptop crash of 2009 and a ‘We did everything we could. I’m sorry.’ I don’t remember what time I went to bed and I’ve been up since 3am this morning trying to redo everything on the Housemate’s laptop before she leaves for work.

F*ck being an organ donor, I’m becoming a laptop donor.

SO MUCH OF THE TIRED

After a very quiet evening with The Queen consisting of DVDs and pizza, I was responsibly in bed and in la la land by 11pm with a solid seven hours sleep ahead of me. Thanks to The Wine Merchant it was more like a solid four hours.

A very drunk sounding Wine Merchant: Baglett! I’m waiting for you!
Me: It’s 3am Wine Merchant, where am I supposed to be?

I can hear the Wine Merchant mumbling to someone ‘Where’s she supposed to be?’

WM: I don’t know Baglett, I’m outside McDonalds with my friend the policeman and he says you have to come here.
Me: Sigh. I’m on my way.

I arrived at McDonalds to find two policemen standing next to their van and The Wine Merchant feeding chips to plants.
Policeman: Is that your boyfriend ma’am?
Me: No.
Policeman: He says he is.
Me: He also feeds chips to plants. Who are you going to believe?
WM: Baglett! I am, officer, she’s lying.
Me: What kind of identity parade is this? One guy? Where are my options?!
Policeman: Ma’am please take him home.
Me: Fine.

WM: I promise Baglett, I wasn’t driving. I was at a function nearby and got hungry and walked to McDonalds. Next minute two cops picked me up. (Now whispering) I think they wanted my McDonalds.
Me: Definitely. It’s a McDonalds heist. So you promise you weren’t driving?
WM: Nooooooo Baglett, you must never drink when you’re over the limit.
Me: You mean drive.
Wm: No you drive, it’s fine.
Me: Sigh. No you drunk ass, I was correcting you.
WM: Why are you so grumpy?
Me: Because it’s 4am and I have to get up in two hours.
WM: It’s Sunday, take a day off Baglett.

I let him go to sleep thinking it was Sunday. It takes the edge off the fact that I’m revoltingly tired and my eyes look and feel like a patchwork leather jacket.

IT'S ORGANS NOW

I’m nothing if not persistent. After collecting my new driver’s license card (woohoo) I was given an organ donor leaflet. Since it was so soon after my egg donor debacle, I assumed it was a sign.

Me to Wine Merchant: So I’m going be an organ donor.
WM: So it’s organs now.
Me: Yip. Say goodbye organs!
WM: What changed your mind?
Me: I sent out an email to the fam asking for their thoughts on my egg donor situation.
WM: And?
Me: My mother gave me a flat out no, The Brother said I was mentally unstable and my Dad asked me how many omelettes I was making. He doesn’t really get it.
WM: And now you’re becoming an organ donor because…
Me: Because I didn’t realise that you only have to donate them when you’re dead.
WM: What did you think they did?
Me: I don’t know. I guess I had visions of myself waking up in a bath full of ice, with a ringing phone next to me, minus a kidney with a signed receipt from the Organ Donor Foundation.
WM: Um, no. That’s not what they do.
Me: I just assumed they rocked up at your door and demanded a donation of whatever organ you had left.
WM: You know, they may not want your organs, let’s be honest, your liver isn’t looking too great.
Me: Kidneys aren’t in tip top condition either I suspect.
WM: Lungs are definitely a bit dodge.
Me: Do they take feet?
WM: Not yours.

THE PAIN

What a fun-filled weekend. An early dinner on Friday and a run on Saturday to take me to up lunch. A lunch that I will happily repeat every Saturday if the host would let me. My kind of lunch. Where beautiful couches overlook a maize of gardens, mini putt putt course and pool. Where the food is superb and the company entertaining. Where not everyone knows everyone, so before the wine kicks in, everyone is perched at the end of their chair with a slightly pained expression asking the person next to them what they do for a living, calling them ‘sweetie’ because they’ve forgotten their name already. Three hours in and a couple of bottles down, you’re sitting on their laps and inviting them home to meet your parents.

Drinking in the day is great if you go home in the evening. That’s the work of an intelligent person. A stupid person doesn’t and spends the entire evening saying ‘but it’s Saturday night’ with an expression on their face that is similar to a baby screaming. I managed to convince the Housemate to join me for post-lunch drinks which turned into tequilas which turned into jaggermeisters which turned into me not getting out of bed the whole of Sunday while the Housemate died on the couch. I can hear The Housemate from my room so while I lay in bed and she lay on the couch, I saw her once and spent the day talking to her from my bed.

Housemate: I hate you.
Me: You loved me last night.
HM: I loved everyone last night.

An hour later.

HM: Whatchadoooon?
Me: Nothing. What you doin?
HM: Nothing.

Another hour goes by.

HM: Do you want to get some food?
Me: I sent The Wine Merchant out to get McDonalds. Phone him and place an order.
HM: McDonalds doesn’t agree with me.
Me: Me neither.
HM: So why are you eating it?
Me: Because I doubt it will stay down for very long so I may as well give it a whirl.

Five minutes later I hear the Housemate putting in a call to Mr Delivery ordering enough food to feed the complex. I also hear her explaining to the guy on the end of the phone that she is severely hungover so a little speed wouldn’t go unnoticed.

HM: Want a bite?
Me: Will you bring it to me?
HM: No.
Me: Then no.

An hour later

HM: What’s the worst thing that could happen right now?
Me: That you keep talking?
HM: I keep trying to think of something to make me feel better.
Me: I’m wearing my Knysna marathon t shirt to remind me that I’ve suffered worse pain.

Two hours later

HM: Want some wine?
Me: Sure.

MY EGGS

I was chatting to a ‘friend’ of mine yesterday about her battle to fall pregnant. I say ‘friend’ because I don’t see her too often which means we barely know each other. In fact, if she hugged me, I would tell her to calm down. But she is the kinda woman I would want to be my ‘friend’. It’s just taking its time, she’s a lot older than me and thinks I’m slightly mad, but we’re working through all that. Anyhoo, she was telling me the sad tale that she would never be able to fall pregnant and was now going down the egg donor route.

‘Friend’: So I’m looking for a donor.

My hands instinctively went to my stomach and I gasped.

‘Friend’: Don’t worry Baglett, I don’t want your eggs.
Me: Shew. That was a close one. WHAT?! What do you mean you don’t want my eggs? What’s wrong with my eggs?!
‘Friend’: Well, I didn’t think you would be an option.
Me: Why not?! I have great eggs! Well, I mean, I’m sure they’re great. I haven’t seen them in person, but I saw them on a scan once and they look like great eggs. The kinda eggs you don’t mind bringing home to meet your parents.
‘Friend’: What?
Me: You know what I mean.
‘Friend’: I just don’t think I could ask someone to go through the painful procedure to become an egg donor.
Me: What’s so painful about giving over a couple of eggs?
‘Friend’: Well, you don’t lay them Baglett, it involves hormone injections.
Me: Well I’ve got loads of hormones so you wouldn’t have to inject me with any extra guys.
‘Friend’: Are you offering your eggs?
Me: I’m sorry, what?
‘Friend’: You sound like you’re offering me your eggs.
Me: Do I? You don’t want my eggs. They’re terrible eggs. Most badly behaved eggs in the business. Did I mention on the scan, they were fighting with each other? The most intolerable, undisciplined eggs I’ve ever seen.
‘Friend’: Don’t worry Baglett, I’ve already got a donor – I was just winding you up.
Me: Oh thank God.
Me: Could I be your back up?
‘Friend’: Really?!
Me: Well, your back up’s back up.
‘Friend’: Thought so.

I'M NO LONGER COOL

The Wine Merchant’s brother phoned me yesterday on the off chance that I was in the area and 'would I mind fetching him and his mates from gym?'. I was nowhere near the area, in fact, if he had asked me to fetch him from Durban, it would have been closer. But not one to turn down hot 18-year-olds, I said, ‘I’m on my way.’ I had already embarrassed myself the last time I had met his friends (http://baglett.blogspot.com/2009/08/boys-in-matric.html) and was beginning to reevaluate my cool status. A little pep talk on the way there and I was ready to be the coolest twenty-something year old on the planet.

Immediately pulling up to the gym, I felt mommyish. And not in a good way.

Wine Merchant’s Brother: Hey Baglett! What you listening to?
Me: Um, no, don’t press that.

And Frank Sinatra started singing his lungs out to the four hot gym boys.

WMB: Seriously?
Me: I’m doing research for a story on dead singers. Shutup. SO GUYS! What’s the latest with the chick situation?
WMB: I was with this girl last weekend, she was soooooooooo sick!
Me: Shame! What was wrong with her?
WMB: No Baglett, she was hot.
Me: I knew that.
WMB: I’m going to ask her if she wants to hook up.
Me: OK GUYS, everyone be quiet! Turn the music off!
WMB: Um Baglett, I’m on MXit, you don’t need to stop talking.
Me: I knew that.
WMB: Baglett, where are you going?
Me: I’m still trying to get out the parking lot.
WMB: The exit is over there.
Me: But you said, ‘straight on’ earlier.
WMB: I was agreeing with Sean about this girl he met. I meant he must go for her. ‘Straight awwwwwwwwn’.
Me: I knew that.

And feeling like the mom that children try and stuff in the cupboard when their friends came round, I did what every self-respecting person would do to try and be cool – I bought them airtime and a six pack.

A GREAT RECEPTION

I hate going to office parks, you always have to fill out at least two forms, one for you to keep (oh please can I?) and then sign here, sign there, no, that's the wrong block, here. Crises. I always expect them to take fingerprints and a pint of blood while they're at it. After giving all my information to Mr Security man, I was allowed onto the premises on the basis that I had the second security sheet signed otherwise I would never be let out. The thought of being detained forever in an office complex because I didn’t have the form signed seemed highly unlikely but one must follow sheep protocol.

On arriving at the reception desk, I was greeted by Nancy. Nancy was on the phone. I love people who point at the phone and mouth ‘I’m on the phone’, just in case you thought they were merely holding it to the ears having a dial tone date with the receiver.

Five minutes of ‘mmmmmm’ and ‘yaaaaaaaaaa’ and eventually,

Nancy: You can’t carry on like this.
Me: No you’re right, I can’t. I’m here to collect something?

Again with the pointing and the mouthing ‘on the phone’.

Nancy: Maybe he should see someone.
Me: I’d like to see someone!
Nancy: Ma’am I’ll be right with you.
Nancy: You can’t just be another one of his books in his bookcase.

What kind of analogy was that? Maybe it wasn’t, maybe this woman was completely deranged and was talking to a book.

I was debating whether or not I should give up and walk out but then I remembered the importance of having my slip signed for National Security and realised I was stuck listening to this woman’s inane conversation for all eternity.

When I could take it no longer, I pulled out my cellphone and phoned the reception desk.

Nancy: Sigh. Hold on. There’s another call. Hello?
Me: It’s me.

She wasn't sure whether to carry on talking into the phone or put it down and talk to me face to face. Not risking the latter in case she took the book's call again, I continued talking into my phone.

Me: I'm here to collect something. Something for Baglett?

Nancy had the decency to look slightly embarrassed, fetched the package, signed my slip and off I went. Of course, the call was quickly switched back to the battered book girl and as I walked out, I heard

Nancy: You won’t believe what this bitch just did!

PARENTS IN TOWN

My parents were up here this weekend for a sixtieth birthday party. And while they tried to convince me that the 60th coincided with an already-planned trip to see me, I knew better.

I often look at my parents trying to work out which characteristic I got from which parent. It’s a fun game I like to play with them where they each claim the good ones and blame the bad ones on the grandparents or a distant uncle. It’s a tug of war which always starts with:

Me: At least I’ve got thick hair.
Mom: That’s from my side of the family.
Me: I hate my feet.
Mom: You have your father’s feet.
Dad: She gets her intelligence from me.
Mom: Spell ‘intelligence’.
Dad: Why, can’t you?

And so it goes on. I was apoplectic with excitement for them to arrive, even more so, since they were arriving at Lanseria, an airport new to me.

Arriving at Lanseria, I could not for the life of me, find the arrival terminal. Assuming passengers were just parachuted out the plane into the parking lot on the way to O.R. Tambo, I stood outside to catch my parents as they fell from the sky. A very helpful, very small employee whose name was Lance showed me where the tiny little passage was, in the tiny little airport where the passengers entered through. When I asked if his name was short for Lanseria, he didn’t look very impressed and wondered off into his tiny little office.

I joined all the little kids up on the Viewing Deck as we watched the plane land and I watched in fascination and fear as my parents got off the plane. This time it was not so much thanking the God genes that I didn’t get my Dad’s ability to walk like a duck, but I started wondering ‘Is this what I’m going to be like when I’m older?’

My mother gracefully stepped off the plane stairs and started walking towards the building. Two minutes later, I watched as she realised she had lost my dad. I could almost hear her say to herself, ‘Oh God, where is he now?’ as she turned around and started walking back to find him. She was immediately assisted by a man in an oversized vest, who assumed she was crazy and was trying to get back on the plane. Obviously explaining that her husband was an idiot, the man released her as she walked around the plane in search of my Dad. He was found at the back of the plane fiddling with his luggage which he forgot he had put on the plane in the first place and finally, the two of them fell through the arrival doors.

The rest of the day consisted of going to various venues in Jo’burg where my Dad had left stuff behind on a previous trip and finally the two of them got ready for their sixtieth. It was a fairly formal occasion and my mother came out the room looking sophisticated, glamorous and five years younger than she actually is. We watched as my Dad came out wearing blue polyester pants, shoes that had a hole in them and a short sleeved white shirt.

Mom: Oh my God.
Me: Dad, your shoes have a hole in them.
Dad: Gives my feet room to breathe.
Mom: Love, where’s your suit?
Dad: I left it here the last time I was in Jo’burg. I thought we could fetch it today but I forgot where I left it.
Me: Dad, are those polyester pants?
Dad: My finest polyester pants I’ll have you know.
Mom: Sigh. Are you ready?
Dad: Am I what?
Mom: READY?!
Dad: For what?
Me: The Ice Age.
Mom: The party.
Dad: Oh the party? Yes, let’s go.
Mom: Where’s the card?
Dad: What card?
Mom: The card. For the present.
Dad: What present?
Mom: Sigh. Never mind.

And as I watched my Dad do his duck walk to the car and my mother shouting at him because he said he wasn’t deaf, it was because she wasn’t ‘announciating’ and she calmly said ‘it’s annunciating love, not announciating’ that I realised I’m in a world of shit. I’m twenty plus years younger than them and have a future of forgetfulness and hearing aids to look forward to. And if my Dad’s anything to go by, I’ll be dressing in polyester doing a duck walk to parties.

DINNER PARTY PEOPLE

Today began with a slow start. When I spotted the six bottles of wine that the Single Sidekick, The Marketer and the Cool One and I had polished off last night, the throbbing headache made sense. I also wasn’t sure why the dirty dishes were in the drying up rack until I realised that I ‘washed’ them before I fell into bed. Apparently I was cleaning with one eye because I considered that plates with bits of avo stuck on them were in fact clean and pots with mushrooms stuck to the bottom were spotless.

I do enjoy spending time with these girls. Three very strong personalities mixed with copious amounts of alcohol, are balls of fun.

Amongst the usual subjects of celebrities we were meant to be with, who is dating who and why the cat keeps bringing in dead birds, were the others:

It’s ok to never get married
Me: It really doesn’t faze me if I never get married.
The Marketer: You’re lying.
Me: Of course I’m lying.

Baglett flirts too much and needs to stop giving out the Single Sidekick’s number instead of her own
Me: The Wine Merchant hates it when I give out my own, you know that.
SS: Baglett, stop it. Randoms keep phoning me and I don’t even know who they are.
Me: Don’t think of them as randoms, think of them as potential husbands. I’ve met them, I’ve screened them, and I think they’re perfect.
SS: The one guy doesn’t even speak English.
Me: Don’t be such a languagist.
SS: That’s not a word
Me: Well he won’t know will he?

Interval to watch Dad’s video of the garage door opening

New girlfriends of ex boyfriends and how we hate them.
Me: She may be pretty now, but her looks won’t last.
TM: Have you seen her under harsh lighting?
The Cool One: I kinda like her.
SS: So do we but we don't saaaaaay so.

Embarrassing things we’ve done when we’ve got dumped
Me: I went to his house to pick up a drying up towel just to see him. I pretended it was one of a kind and I desperately needed to have it.
The Cool One: I was tiling my boyfriend’s kitchen. He broke up with me and I continued to go there each day until I had finished it.

Annoying neighbours
TM: Can you guys hear someone?
Me: No
TCO: It’s someone shouting at us to be quiet.
TM: Can’t hear them over the music. They'll have to shout louder.

One day I’m going to be at a dinner party and be expected to discuss politics and the state of the country. That will be a very scary day.

HD - IT'S NEW TO ME

So on Monday evening, while I was sitting on the balcony, rocks started falling from the sky. Giant white boulders. I watched with absolute fascination as people came streaming out their doors, jumped into their cars and started driving. I assumed the correct procedure when it hails in Jo’burg, was to evacuate. So I ran to my car and screamed out the complex. When I looked behind me, instead of a stream of flashing lights of cars, there was nothing. People had merely re-parked their cars undercover and were waiting. Having been doing the exact opposite and driving back up the road while rocks hit my car, the only thing I could do was park it under a tree, jump on it and scream, ‘Nooooooooooooooo!’

The Hail Gods heard me and the hail stopped as quickly as it started. I got back into my car, back into the complex and parked. Hot Neighbour, having watched my evacuation with much interest said,

‘It’s Jo’burg; you’ve got to be careful of HD.’

Not wanting to sound like a complete idiot and ask what the hell HD was, I mentally went through the possible options of what HD stood for: Hors D‘oeuvres? High Definition? Hot Dog? I went with what I assumed was perhaps important to him.

Me: Harvard Dropout?
HN: Um. No. Hail damage.

Well then why the f*ck didn’t he just say that then instead of coming up with a useless acronym that works for any number of things, including Hulk’s Daughter.

A quick inspection of the car revealed that, thankfully, it did not resemble a cellulite-ridden butt cheek but was as smooth and sleek as ever. Unfortunately, following the rocks from the sky was a massive barney between Mr lightning and Mr Thunder. When you couldn’t hear yourself over the thunder and the lightning was now coming through the window, heading down the passage and aiming for the bathroom en suite, you’re in a world of shit.

I’m a grown woman but with the Housemate in London and The Wine Merchant in the dog box, I hugged that psycho cat like my life depended on it. Unfortunately the cat was more scared than I was and spent the entire night shivering under the duvet. Of course I said, 'You’re no Thundercat, are you?’ and then fell about laughing for half an hour.

Housemate come back, I’m losing the plot.

I MET JO'BURG PEOPLE

I was starting to wonder where all the actual Jo’burg people were. Going out, I meet Durbanites, people from Port Elizabeth, other ass-end towns where the children escaped and obviously Capetonians. I’ve met more Capetonians here than in Cape Town and had come to the conclusion that all the Jo’burgers had buggered off when they heard I was coming. So when I went to a relatively Cape Town people-packed dinner on Sunday, organised by a Capetonian, I pretty much concluded it would be another Capetonian-infested dinner. Not necessarily a bad thing, but when you’ve allocated Sunday as Homesick Day, spending the evening talking about Rocking the Daisies wasn’t high on my list of things to make me feel better. I might as well have stayed at home and phoned my Dad while he told me how many more Christmases he had left.

Well kill me softly if the dinner wasn’t full of people from Jo’burg. Actual born and bred, living, drinking Jo’bugers. And what great friggin people. People are always banging on about how friendly Jo’burg people are, but since I had confined my meetings to the male variety and they were indeed super-friendly, I remained skeptical of the girl portion of the city.

Girls are funny creatures; we size each other up in an instant. In Cape Town, the questions usually formulate themselves so the following information is gathered: which school you went to, where you studied, who you know, who you’re married to and where you live. In Jo’burg the questions are loosely based on what the hell you’re doing in Jo’burg, what do you do for money and where did you go last night?

The girls I met were great. Girls who were nursing such severe hangovers, that when the waiter came to take their order, they ordered a hug. By the end of the evening, we were exchanging phone numbers, and making plans. I’m very much to blame for the ‘We must do lunch’ scenario. It’s accompanied with an air kiss and said so flippantly that the person is not sure if you said something or swallowed a bug.

And because perhaps when they asked me for my number and suggested a novice game of golf and I reacted by hugging them, falling at their feet and in between sobs, shouting ‘I’ve been accepted, I’ve been accepted’, I got a call the very next day and a golf ‘date’.

Not the best reaction to being invited somewhere but I’m thinking, I can only improve.

NOT GOING WELL

The Housemate has selfishly left me and buggered off to London for two weeks. One way to make someone miss you and realise how you take them for granted is to bugger off and leave them to fend for themselves for 14 days and nights.

We have a great living arrangement, she does all the cooking, sorts out the maid, does boring things like pay the phone bill and buy the correct lightbulbs and batteries. In turn I entertain with witty comments and funny jokes. It worked when lived together in London, and it works now. So when she left, she was naturally concerned.

Housemate: So you will pay the bill?
Me: Of course! Who’s Bill?
HM: The phone bill.
Me: I’m all over it. How do I do that?
HM: You go a shop and pay for it at the till.
Me: Easy. So I stand in the queue that says ‘Phone bills’.
HM: No. You stand in any queue.
Me: The one that says ‘Less than ten items’?
HM: Sure. Unless you’ve got more than ten phone bills.
Me: Really?!
HM: No. And please, please water the plants.
Me: Those would be the green leafy things.
HM: Well spotted. I’ve left the watering can near them as a reminder.
Me: Good for you. How often do those bad boys drink?
HM: Unlike you, once a day.
Me: Gotcha. Now don’t worry about a thing and have an amazing time. And remember me when you pass though Duty Free.

So far, I’ve managed to break the watering can and kill two out of eight plants. I remember hearing that if you talk to plants, they grow. I’ve been reading to them, brought them inside to watch DVDs, and played every song with the word ‘grow’ in them. These little bastards have done nothing but point their leaves in the direction of the soil as if to say ‘That’s the direction we’re going.’

I also went to pay the phone bill but left the actual bill at home. Two days down and 12 to go. This weekend will be spent at the nursery buying plant look-alikes and trying to find the phone bill which I think the plants stole to piss me off.

DAD - THE MOVIE MAKER

My Dad has discovered how to record videos with his cellphone and formulate them into ‘movies’ with a program on his computer. I’ve received two videos from him, both testamounts to the fact that my parents DO miss their children and are completely and utterly bored.

Video one is called the Break Out. My Dad has managed to find the cheesiest country music ever to accompany it (because you think ‘Breaking out’, you think country music) and even has credits at the end. The video, or plot should I say is of my Dad's dog, who, the minute my Dad leaves the house, sneaks through the gate and goes on a tour of the neighbourhood. While the plot isn’t really nail-bitingly awesome, it’s the fact that my Dad hid in the bushes across the road for God knows how long with his camera and waited for the dog to escape. He then spent a good hour turning the footage into a ‘movie’ for the family’s entertainment.

Me to Mom: Mom, have you seen Dad’s latest movie?
Mom: Oh God darling he’s incorrigible. It’s his latest thing. He spends the day walking round the house with that bloody camera filming the most ridiculous things.
Me: May I ask why?
Mom: He’s bored darling! He then sends it to everyone he knows because obviously we all want to see the bloody dog leaving the house. Wait for the move Break In, it’s the sequel. If he makes me watch it, I’ll make my own movie entitled Breaking that Bloody Camera.

So when I got an email from The Brother yesterday asking ‘Have you seen Dads latest? There are no words.’ I downloaded it immediately and had an apoplexy.

Video two is entitled The Garage Opener. My Dad has now managed to perfect voiceovers and different angles. As the opening sequence shows my Dad zooming into the driveway on his bike, the camera then focuses on the bike's hooter. He explains that he has managed to build the garage door opener into his hooter and with two blasts in quick succession, the door would magically open. And then he demonstrates. Two blasts later, the camera moves to my mother who runs up to the garage door, opens it and runs away.

To close the door, my Dad explains to the viewer, you merely repeat the first action. By hitting the hooter and the door will close. And again, my mother runs up to the door, pulls it closed and runs off like a little mechanised doll.

It was the most ridiculous, distressing, hysterical thing I’ve watched in years.
.
Me: Mom? The video?
Mom: Oh God darling I know. I don’t know why I did it.
Me: Fame is addictive. You know Dad is threatening to put it on YouTube?
Mom: WHAT? I’m phoning your father.

And that is what happens to parents who suffer from severe empty nest syndrome.

GAYDAR FAILS ME

I bumped into 30th birthday boy over the weekend and it jogged my memory as to what happened to the very yummy man I had been sitting next to the whole evening, sweeping him off his beautiful legs with my wit and charm.

30th birthday boy: Baglett, he’s gay.
Me: As in happy?
BB: No, as in, he would rather be with me than you.
Me: WHAT?! But he laughed at all my jokes, he was responding to my subtle yet brilliant flirtation techniques. He was gorgeous!
BB: I was wondering why you were following him around.
Me: I was not ‘following him around’, I was directing him.
BB: To where?
Me: To me.
BB: But you knew he lives in New York.
Me: Yes, but I was going to move there.
BB: When?
Me: When he asked me to of course!
BB: Why are you so upset about this anyway?
Me: Because I have a very reliable gaydar and now it’s gone to shit. Maybe I could convert him?
BB: More chance of you moving to New York.
Me: Well, I would have to if I’m planning to convert, now wouldn’t I?
BB: You’re delusional.
Me: No, I’m undeniable. I’m telling the Housemate.
Me to Housemate: Remember that guy we were dribbling over?
HM: Speak for yourself, but yes.
ME: He’s gay.
HM: WHAT?!
Me to Birthday Boy: Seeeeee, no one believes you. And she has a better gaydar than I do.

Secretly, I think Birthday Boy was lying and was just saying that because he didn’t want me to move to New York. Because if it is true and the man is gay, that means my gaydar is broken and that’s just too depressing to think about.

ROCKING THE GARDENS

This past weekend was just silly. Silly, silly, silly. So much of the fun of course, but silly. I tried not to sleep just in case I was missing out on something. Whenever someone comes up from Cape Town, it’s important to show them how awesome Jo’burg is. And once you’ve banged on about the Gautrain for an hour, the next obvious thing to do is show them restaurants, bars and clubs. I take my hospitality duties very seriously and managed to dance, down drinks and throw name in many parts of Jo’burg this weekend.

The person in question was actually The Ex, who I believed was up here to tell me it’s taken him three years, because he’s mentally challenged, but he has finally realised he made a huge mistake and would like me to have his babies. Unfortunately with all the excitement of Rocking the Gardens, he obviously didn’t get a moment to speak to me alone. I know he’s devastated.

Massive congratulations to the Rocking the Gardens crowd, what a thoroughly fun bloody day. Christ, I love watching drunk people. People getting so burnt that blisters are forming but they couldn’t feel their skin or see it for love or money. Girls crying because their boyfriend had come up behind another girl and kissed her, assuming in their drunk state it was their girlfriend when it in fact was someone else’s wife. You can just imagine the drunk domino game that causes.

Inbetween watching the phenomenal SA bands and also watching the group in front of us nibble their way through a bag of mushrooms, the fun ones, I realised it was bathroom time. I had done a good job on not breaking the seal, but it was inevitable and I began the trek to the bathroom.

Portaloos are not my friend. The only portaloo I ever actually ‘enjoyed’ was the VIP J&B Met portaloos of ’99. They were the size of an actual bathroom, clean, filled with flowers, little perfume bottles. Lighting so good I looked years younger and infinitely thinner. An hour later, I was asked to leave, but the memory has stuck as a good one.

The opposite can be said about these portaloos. Firstly my claustrophobia set in nicely and the only light you can see is the alien green one emenating from the bottom of the toilet bowl. A smell so bad and a toilet so full of chemicals that had you touched it, you would have lost a finger. As the day progressed and the sun went down, they got worse. With no daylight, I think people were confusing the sink with a toilet bowl and guys so drunk were standing in the loos, with the door wide open, weeing into the queue. Two girls ran out a loo screaming because they had opened the door to find a guy sitting on the seat, with his pants aroundhis ankles, fast asleep. With the green glow of the toilet bowel reflecting onto his face, he looked like a dead Shrek. One girl, so drunk, fell out the loo into the arms of an equally drunk guy and they both fell instantly into drunken love. As I watched him try to be kinky and suck her finger, I couldn’t help but think that since she had forgotten to pull her pants up properly, I seriously doubt she remembered to wash that pinky finger of hers.

Thanks Rocking the Gardens, barring the portaloos, it was a bloody great day. Send me a ticket to Rocking the Daisies and I’ll forget all about them.

FEEDING TIME

I’m not a big eater. My metabolism broke up with me years ago and is now seeing the BFF who can eat a small country and still manage to work off the calories by watching an aerobics class on TV. But I’m fine with the fact that it’s Small Meal city for me from now on. I usually try to stick to some form of liquid diet which is equally enjoyable, if not more, and I don’t suffer from ‘Maagies vol, oogies toe’ syndrome. More ‘maagies empty, oogies fixed on hot man’.

So the 30th I went to this past weekend was a slight gastronomical shock to my system when I arrived expecting champagne on tap and a lot of mingling with a touch of hot man lingering. Following that, since we had the restaurant to ourselves, I would dance the night away and fall out the place at stupid o’clock.

Restaurant owner: Would everyone take their seats so I can talk you through the menu?
Me to Housemate: Slutiana, since when do they talk you through snacks?
Restaurant owner: We will be having a ten course dinner with wine to compliment each course.

Drop fork.

Me to HM: Are you kidding me? Ten friggin courses? I ate before I came just in case I wouldn’t like the snacks.

With the Housemate calming me down by promising me that the portions would be the size of my thumbnail, I took a giant glug of my very expensive wine and began the ten course marathon. Unfortunately the portion sizes were not the size of my thumb nail, they were in fact the size of the Incredible Hulks thumbnail. Five portions down and I wasn’t coping.

Me: I can’t breath.
HM: Drink something.
Me: Why am I not bulimic?
HM: Because it would be a waste of this beautiful food.
Me: Where am I?
HM: Baglett, focus.
Me: I can only see out one eye.

The last and final course was the ‘main’ course which while it looked slightly fuzzy to me, was sublime and of course I had to finish the entire thing and proceeded to go round the edges of the plate with my fingers to lick the last of the sauce. I was now completely delirious and suggested to myself (out loud) that going outside for some air would make me forget that I was about to implode. Had I been thinking rationally, I would have ignored the waiter when he announced the cheese platter had arrived. But I had lost all power of rational thought and hit that cheese platter like my life depended on it.

HM: Baglett, stop eating.
Me: I can’t help it. Oxygen is no longer making it to my brain. The ‘I’m full’ signal never made it.

The dancing began and the shooters were brought in. Two of my favourite things and I was ready to give it horns.

30th Birthday boy: Why is Baglett lying on the floor?
HM: She just realised she is full.
30th BB: Should we just dance around her?
HM: Naah, I’ll prop her up at the bar.

When the barman asked me what I wanted and I answered ‘Ablublablubooo’, I called it quits, got in my car, had to push the seat back. got home and fell into bed. I woke up the next day and realised I had had the audacity to ask the waiter for take aways. Sweet Lord.