Panick-stricken Picket Fence Syndrome

Saturday, 18.00pm
Being a girl is hard. When girls were born, they are sadly not handed an instruction manual on how to handle their up and coming hormones and emotions, and unfortunately don’t come with a disclaimer for the boys who put up with the girls who need the instruction manual on how to handle said hormones and emotions.
I have a theory I would like to share with you. I have even labelled this theory, its called the Panick Stricken Picket Fence Syndrome:
Girl meets boy, boy smiles at girl, girl hands out phone number, boy saves it as ‘chic with big tits/tight ass/winner pins @ Soandso’s Pub’, girl expects call, boy texts her when bored and horny one week later, girl dresses to the nines, boy throws on a decent shirt without holes, she goes to a romantic dinner, he puts down a deposit on future fornication by paying, she falls off her feet, he thinks she might be a good lay, she expects flowers, he expects head, her heart flutters, his pants get tight, they go home together. He wakes up hungry, she wakes up dreaming of a pretty little prairie house with green gardens that their two kids (Janie and Benjamin) can play on with their puppy (Rover) who has a cute green flea collar with a glittery bell on so they can hear him when he chases their cat (Mr. Puffelpoof) into the bushes. Their childrens bedrooms will be kitted out in Spiderman for the boy and Disney princesses for the girl, they will own a family station wagon which will be parked in the garage also known as his make shift workshop to keep him amused while his mates are all doing ‘bachelorhood’ on a Friday night, she will grow a gorgeous garden complete with, you guessed it: a perfect little white picket fence.
And now for the Panick-stricken part of this theory:
The minute he drops her off at home, she goes into preening mode, plucking vagrant hairs, shaving armpits, creaming moist skin, torturing herself about the tone of her muscles – god help her if he saw that last night – painting nails (doing two coats more than usual) and soaking her tired and sore body in a hot bubble bath to sooth her aching muscles from the night before. All in preperation to sit in the house right near the mobilephone. every fifteen minutes she dials a girlfriend, just to make sure the line is still working, but puts the friend on hold the second she hears a beep through the speaker thinking it might be HIS incoming call only to find out its the built in fucking minute timer.
Two days later, while she has been starving herself (for their next dinner date, of course) he is out pissing it up with the boys hitting on random girls who he smiles at, he gets their number, saves it as ‘bird with bouncy boobs/nipple stand @ Country club’ yadayadayada…
My theory is that this syndrome is far too fucking common in girls. All my mates have had it. The only cure seems to be marriage and growing humans that pop out nine months later. Earlier today, coffee with a friend revealed that yes, in fact, girls still are like this. She hasn’t heard from the dude in over a month, yet she still hopes. You wanna hear my hopes? I hope to hell and back that I do not do this again. Maybe not to the extreme above, but I know that if a seed has been planted in a girls head, its only natural instict that she will water it and make it grow. I HAVE had Panic-stricken Picket Fence Syndrome, and holy shit on toast, it SUCKS ASS!

I mean REALLY, is it even fucking worth it if or when you finally do get the Picket Fence?

Unt Hallo!

I love living where I live. I have been accused of having Small Town Syndrome and a Narrow Mind because I have never had the desire to go abroad. This isn’t necessarily correct, I do have the desire, just not to actually live there. A holiday overseas with my fabulously rich sugar daddy one day where we will fly over in his pvt jet and sail on his yacht in the Meditterean somewhere for a few weeks will be cool, or a stay over in the famous Ice Hotel in Sweden would do. Naomi Cambell once posed in an exact (but overlarge and blown up version) replica of the Absolut Vodka bottle made of ice, in the Ice Hotel. I wouldn’t mind doing that. Except I would take it one step further, I’d do it nude! Also, a picnic in Central Park, could be fun. I’d even feed the American ducks (or are they turkeys there?) little bread crumbs. But live anywhere but SA? For good? Hell fucking no, mofo! I love my town, in my country.
Once a year the German Community do a German Beer Festival and Church fete. Its probably the only time I am in holy territory, besides when people peg or get hitched. This annual event is quite the occassion for many in our town. All the little german grannies and wives dress up in their traditional little German clothes, wearing puffy lace sleeved dresses with wooden shoes and two braids on either side of their heads, the old men transform into an overnight brass band, which blasts through century old speakers all around the church grounds, which is right next to the cemetary. The dead people must get completely pissed about it. Interruptions of drunken old fossils singing to Folk songs, pimply teenagers running over gravestones (or shagging ontop of them) must really piss them off in their designated, silent & peaceful afterlife sentences.

The kids are entertained by archery, jumping castles, fair grounds and competitions. All the while traditional wooden puppets, knitted baby clothes for sale and cakes with names like ‘broedgekooken & pannekoeker‘ being eaten and washed down with tea by greedy housewives as they gossip about the ‘town tart’ sitting behind them and German home made meat on display is more than enough to amuse someone with a broken foot like me during the day. By night the over18′s are entertained in the oversized Beer tent, drunkenly displaying bouts of affection to people they havent seen since last years Beerfest.

Live music and stand up comedy entertains you while you stand in que for more than an hour waiting for an enormous jug full of foul tasting beer that you wouldn’t normally drink anywhere else if you were paid to.

Aaahhh, this weekend was the above mentioned German festival. Did you know being drunk on urine-like beer makes you balance better on your unbroken foot as you hop to your knocked over crutchers? Well now you do!

Current mood: fissed as a part

Veeting – so complicated

Sunday, 29th April. 19:35

I have the unfortunate luck of resembling a close likeliness to a bavarian slash german slash italian captain of hairyness. I was first in line for ass, boobs and hair. It hasn’t always been like this, one day I woke up pregnant (I know, weird) and all my hormones had undergone a sex change without asking me. Out of the blue, hair just popped up everywhere!
So I started waxing, and thus started the beginning of a beautiful relationship with my beauty therapist, Lysa. Lisa with a ‘y’. The coolest chic from uk to live in sa. i love her to bits. But she decided to go on holiday and then when she came back she went and got all engaged. Now she lives far away. How rude.

So one day I decided to take it upon myself to do a self wax, with those strippy things. Motherfucker!!!!!! You could call it painful. So I switched to veet. Perfect solution; no pain, no heat, no strips. Just smear it on and wait. When the time bell rings, go take it off. Easy peasy. Ha! Easy schmeasy!! I only got it right after the fourth try. Eventually it occurred to me to remove the bloody stuff BEFORE I felt a fire like burning sensation right into every one of my skin cells.
I’ve been watching TV lately, caught up on all my soapies (love Isidingo!) but more importantly, I’ve been watching adverts (foreigner translation: commercials) and have been checking out the latest veet invention, In-Shower Hair Removal Cream, is what they call it. One step up from normal Veet cream. Woo hoo. I love trying new things! Of course today when I was in the shop, I HAD to buy it. But never did I think it would make so little sense!
For example:
Follow these directions for use: DO NOT SWALLOW. (Er… okaaaaay?!) Before showering, apply cream evenly onto the skin using the soft, coloured side of the sponge. Once applied, wait one minute before entering shower. (Simple Enough… obviously to soak into the hair follicles and all that) Make sure the cream stays on for an additional two minutes without exceeding 6 minutes of total application times whilst in the shower, ensuring your creamed area does not get wet. (What. the. fuck?! How am I expected to stand in the shower and NOT get wet? More importantly, why stand in the shower at all? One step further, why, for the sweet love of jelly beans, say ‘it takes two minutes’ when already I have wasted atleast five climbing into the shower trying not to get wet?)
The cream will gradually be washed away from the water (aaah, so it does allow for wetness eventually, then) but to ensure complete hair removal, use the white side of the sponge to scrub gently. (Now maybe I’m completely nuts, or the veeting factory fucked up big time, but there are only two sides of this sponge, and neither one of them is bloody white!) I have been left with no choice but to believe that they called it In-Shower Hair removal because there is some mysterious hair removal ingredient in the tiles of ones shower unbeknown to the rest of us, that assists hair removal better than, lets say, the lounge for example.
Mental note: call Lisa with a ‘y’ first thing, and get a referral. I’m going back to bloody waxing.

Footnote: No hair follicles or skin cells were damaged in the writing of this post. They were all too frigging fused by that time!

Spongy, softy, soppy, mushy girls stuff

Apr 2, 2007, 10:31
Right, I had family drama last night. You have no idea how bad it was. Lets just say, I hate violent men. I have luckily been able to get out of that type of relationship before, and I will never go back into one.

Anyway, as per usual I was SheenaSuperhero again, and had the two victims with me at the house. I calmed the said party down, brought out some wine, and ended up getting pickled all by myself. Feel quite guilty now, surely it wasn’t the right place or time to be self involved? I think it was the fact that I’d been running around putting out fires for one family member since five, then when i finally got home and breathed, another family member called to say the very same thing was happening there too!

I finally got home just after nine, and cracked open some calmyoudown, which promptly ended up calming ME down…. waaaaaayyyy down. So the reason for me telling you this, is to cover my ass and have an alibi/excuse for saying what I am about to say, bearing in mind that I am hung over, and the after effects of alcohol genuinely do effect mood swings the next day:

In light of last nights activities, and someone’s profile I have read, I am inspired to do a list of my wants/needs/hopes in a man.. The perfect man…. does he exsist? I’m waiting to see.

- Looks truly do matter. Not the kind you are thinking of, the kind of looks and signals he gives out with his eyes. I truly believe that eyes are the windows into your soul. Therefore, when someone asks me if looks matter, i say HELL YEAH THEY DO!

- I want someone who will be good with kids. Not just in the future, he needs to be good with kids now. Kids are a huge part of my life. Personally, socially, professionally. Personally, I had a child of my own. He needs to know this, accept this. Be fine with me having photo’s of her lying around, be fine with my mom talking about her. Be fine with me crying on her birth day, or even her death day. More importantly, he needs to be fine with me not doing any of those things. The wound has healed, let me be. I may be sad from time to time, but I am ok. He should WANT to know about her, and feel comfortable asking questions. Socially, my friends all have children. MY best friend is mother to my two godchildren, I spend lots of time with them, which means he would have to aswell. Professionally, I deal with kids from broken homes all the time with life line. They phone in and I listen and talk and try to help where I can. Sometimes there stories are sad, more often they are horrific. I would need to sit down after a hectic shift over a cup of coffee and tell him all about this, and he would have to kiss me on my forehead and hold me close.

- Affection is so important! I love being hugged. And kissed. And touched. Touch my knee when we’re in the car, under the table, on the couch, in the line at woolies. Don’t confuse this with tonsil hockey, and spit swapping in front of old people, thats just disrespectful, but I’m not shy to love in public. He shouldn’t be either.

- Family is a huge priority. I’ve already spilled the beans about how huge my family is. And pretty intimidating at first. But once my family sees that he makes me happy and is not a psychopath/paedeofile/robber/axe murderer/rapist, they will accept him with open arms. And probably make him do all the braai’ing for a while. Until he has the balls to call shotgun. I would never embarrass him, humiliate him and would not be scared to stand up for him infront of my family, but they are important to me and he needs to try and get along & make the effort.

- Independance. I like to be on my own, its rare and not many people are this way, but I amuse myself and like quality alone time too. I drive my own car. I pay my own bills. I have my own accounts. I have my own friends. Don’t try change that. I won’t let you. But I am up for compromise; Lets go in two cars. U can stay if you aren’t ready to come home. We’ll split the bill half way, or this time I pick it up, next time is on you. We’ll visit my friends tomorrow, yours today.

- Have the ability to understand me. I am an open book. I right my own script. I will tell you how I am feeling. When I’m mad, happy, embarrassed, confused. Just ask. I love surprises. I’m spontaneous. So easy to please. I’m not high maintenance. All I ask for is honesty, laughter, companionship, love. I need to feel secure in our relationship. He should let me buy things for him. Sometimes they’ll be cheap and nasty, but humorous and teasing. I once bought a red heart shaped G-string for a guy on valentines day. I have also bought things that cost a bit more. Let me spoil him, and cook him great food. And when the food is not so great, tell me why and what you would have preferred.

- Allow me to be stupid. Although my IQ is higher than most (well, it used to be. I took an online test recently and it has dropped a few points) I can be a complete ditz. I walk into walls with or without my glasses. I say things outloud that should never be verbalised. I ask dumb questions. I randomly divert a conversation to that moth flying above our heads, or the waiter who just bent over. Bear with me. Its an interesting ride.

- Have patience with my trust issues. I have been burnt, as I’m sure you have too. My burns seem to unfortunately be on thriller movie level. You know that movie that you saw once where you couldn’t predict what was coming next, and when it does come, you could never fathom something like that happening in reality? They probably got the story line from my relationship track record. Show me I can trust you, win me over, and I’ll be yours for as long as you want me. Hopefully forever, because I am ready for that sort of relationship. I’m tired of being the only single girl at the doodaa with friends.

- Accept my career. I have a 24/7 kind of job. I get calls at 11 o clock on a Saturday night. Sometimes I won’t get any. I carry my laptop with me wherever I go, in case I need to do an urgent email. I am my own boss in the way of where I work, or when I get to go home, but that doesn’t mean I can skip my responsibilities either.

- Lets go camping! I don’t need hair dryers, make up or electricity! I can get dirty! As long as there is running water, showers and a toilet, let me show you how good I am at making camp coffee with condensed milk and a potjie pot on a fire!

- Sex is Awesome! Say no more.

- Let me be coy with my body. I have had a baby, I have stretch marks. I have a bakery going on around my belly, never mind rolls. If you’ve ever seen the movie “White Chics” I’m like t
he Backfat Sally girl, except not so bloody skinny. Deal with it. I have plans to do stuff, just let me do it in my own time. Unless Perfect Man plans on being my personal trainer, of course.

- Love Music! Even the slow, sad stuff. Especially the upbeat modern stuff. Let me sit in the bath and listen to Jack Johnson on full blast. When I’m in the shower, and doing my best Gregorian impersonation, you can laugh as much as you like, or even tell me to shut up.

There is so much more I can think of, but I will bore you with the details. The Perfect man… is there such a thing? I most certainly hope so!