Universe: 1, SheBee: 0

So there I am on my way to see Bad Brad, a mate of mine who’s moved to Durban.  Finally – a buddy from my hometown nearby! He calls to ask me to pop in at the garage to pick up a pack of smokes. After nearly being rammed up the frigging ass by a taxi who tries to park his bonnet in my boot at the traffic lights, I turn left into the Garage and park right outside the doors of the 24hr One Stop.

Inside, I contemplate buying myself a box of smokes too, but my will to not, wins. The cashier (inaptly named ‘Intelligence’) hands over the smokes for Bad Brad and I hand over my plastic to pay for them. But out of the corner of my eye, I see my blue Chico Golf rolling backwards with its lights on.

Holy shitballs, I panic, whilst frozen in confusion and shock.

My body mock charges towards the door, then stops in doubt, then starts again, then stops at the fucking electric- door- that- won’t- open- quick- enough, damnit! Ten million years later, I manage to exit the One Stop at the speed of light to the sounds of Intelligence and crew in the shop behind me “Haaibo and Eish’ing” to their hearts content, convinced I’ve just done a runner.

Tearing up to the outside the car window, I scream at the man sitting in the driving spot:

DUDE! PRESS ON THE BREAKS! ITS ROLLING BACK, PRESS- ON- THE- FUCKING- BREA-hey, wait! Excuse me please, but why the fuck are you driving my car?

*please insert murderous thoughts here*

YOU GET OUT OF MY CAR YOU CRIMINAL! GET! OUT! PETROL DUDES, YOU GUYYYYS – HE’S STEALING MY CAR, MAN! CALL THE POLICE, DIPSHITS!

Rapidly the man rolls down the window, looking terrified, “Please! L-l-lady! Calm down, please, calm down! What is it that you want? I have no money on me! Do you have you, do you got a gun, laydee?”

My thoughts: What? What?! What the hell would he ask if I had a gun f– oh, shit. Oh no…

Cringingly, I look up and around me a little bit. Oh please god, no.

Over the roof of this blue Chico Golf, I see another, bluer, Chico Golf.  Right in the next parking bay to this particular blue Chico Golf THAT I THINK IS BEING STOLEN, I see MY blue Chico Golf.  Right next to it.  In the next parking bay.  Untouched and unstarted.  Not being stolen in the slightest manner of any way.

I. Have. Not. The. Words.

Stereotyping Humans

Have you ever just sat and people watched? I know I have. I do it all the time. Being one of those people who notice other people in their cars can sometimes prove to be very interesting.

For example, I bet you the women who whizz past us in their flashy cars yawning with their mouths wide open and looking like they’re about to swallow their steering wheel don’t get that we know they are usually the ones for public fartation. You know, the kind when you’re in a Woolies* cheese and egg isle and you smell the silent, but violent ones. It hits your nose first, and so you look up with your tear-stained eyes only to see a Sandton Mommy with her manicured nails and high-lighted ridiculous long in front, short at back hair do, and you think to yourself;

“Yeah, bitch, I know it was you, and you know I know”.

The same goes for dudes who hum there cars slowly and silently nearby in the next lane, listening to Radio 2000, discreetly picking their nose, but then try and cover it up as if its just a scratch across the nostrils. Those are the fuckers who get caught on camera and have the security staff howling with laughter as they put their grubby nose picking hands down their pants and scratch the befuckery out of the nutsack while picking up a quick bag of ice at the Caltex**

We know who you are, you little sneaky nose picking nutsack scratching dipshits. You aren’t that discreet.

We’re always watching you. I’d remember that if I were you.

* Woolies – fancy foodchain store with supposed luxury installed. Pff. Whatever.

** Caltex is one of the many petrol station companies

I’ll end off by leaving you two funnies that had me in hysterics today:

And then this delight:

Fuck it, I’m traumatised.

Jesus.  I hate being a female sometimes.

Today I decided that I have looked like a monkey for long enough, and went to go and replenish my stock of veet.  While in the fem products isle, I grabbed a box of tampax.  You know, just so that I have it handy. 

Just as I turn around, I walk slap bang into a dutchman closely resembling an equal mix of the powerhouse gym freak dog and Vin Diesel, and as luck would naturally have it with all things Sheenafied, the box of tampax flies right into his shopping basket.  Excuse me while I just popmyhandintoyourbasketandgrabmywomanplugs thankyouverymuch, thinks I.  "No wurrrrries chick, I see vose fings all the time wiff ma sister haha" says he.  I turn around and scurry to the till, muttering under my breath, talking myself out of a red flush all over my cheeks "Self," says I, "stop the fucking train, its natural to buy these things, goddamit, don’t blush!"

The Spar manager spots me and comes over to greet his customary greetings and unfortunately says hello right to my tampax box.  His face goes blood red.  ‘Ag shame, I think the manager is embarrassed’ the stupid cashier says to me.  Yeah, no shit, Sherlock bloody Holmes!

In my hurry to get the hell out of there, I drop my car keys and they slide right under the counter.  As I bend down, my skirt gets hooked on a randomly placed screw and tears just as I bump my head on the stupid credit card signing place block type thing that they always have slap bang in the way of where you are trying to pay.

I grabbed my packet of female goodness, slung it over my wrist, one hand bunching up my now torn skirt, the other clutching onto my car keys while rubbing my head, and the entire walk across the parking lot I felt eyes burning into the back of my skull.

Life is so unfair.  Why can’t normal things happen to me? 

I’m never going shopping for woman things again.  Serious.  I will hire someone to go in for me and I will stay safely in the car.  I’m serious. But the good news is, my legs aren’t hairy and monkey like anymore.  Smiley face.

This is kinda kak, but ya.

I don’t want to ever become one of those annoying saffers that bitch and moan about our country, but I’m feeling a little invaded and bitter at the moment, so please bare with me. Ok, all understood? Good.

The night before last saw me tossing and turning in bed as the neighbourhood dogs were barking madly and generally just unsettling me. I have been staying on my own for some time now, so I’m not usually a nervous nelly, but something in the atmosphere was telling me the world around me was out of whack. My little house is usually in darkness at bed time, but on this night I saw it fit to switch on the garage light as I felt rather unsettled.

I usually sleep in the buff, but since I have family staying with me, I was fully clothed, thank fuck. At about four in the morning, after I had been up to drink water, have a wee, shout at the dogs and coo at my birds, I was drifting off to a peaceful place in my semi subconscious mind, when I heard a loud thud, sounding like a person landing on their feet off a high place.

My over-active imagination kicked in and I visualised three or four goons trapesing over my property with guns, knives, rope and -who know’s – maybe a land mine or two for extra effect. Sadly, I wasn’t far wrong. Fair enough they had no weapons to be seen plainly, but they definately didn’t belong on my property, or in my garage which was were they were at the time of sight.

My dad switched on every light and apparently the neighbours made a bit of a racket (more than the dogs had done) and the two illegal shitheads flew off, jumping over my fence wall. They didn’t get anything, but could have easily made off with any number of cars on the property or worse, come inside and had their disgusting way with me. They did, however, manage to ransack every bag, suitcase and box there was in the garage.

Not meaning to sound like a typical ignoramus, but; I can’t believe this happened to me! I have high walls, a big metal gate, we have dogs on the property and inside my house, I live in a cull-de-sac road, with at least 3 pairs of cops within a 5m radius in front, behind and next to our yard. And those cops all have big scary police dogs too!

How could these idiots come into my comfort zone without so much as a thought, and ruin my perfectly safe environment? I feel completely violated and nervous to be alone now. I keep thinking, what would i have done if I had been alone? I have no weapons or protection and I freeze up in these situations. Like, really, I am completely useless in the face of danger – I try not to even blink while holding my breath, just in case they see me moving and decide to pounce!

I know this is sunny South Africa and crime is to be expected, but I liked living in my world of safety, where ignorance was bliss.

Goddamnit.

Ih’m ‘n traffis!

Driving home for me used to be blissful. I strap in my seatbelt, click on the mp3 player, turn up the volume and glide home in a bubble of music and relaxation. But I said “used to”, didn’t I?

For some reason our quiet coastal line has become densely populated by cut throat vaalies* and business men. When did this happen?

The problem is that the more people = more cars = more traffic = more traffic cops.

Bugger.

For those of you that don’t know, despite me owning my new(ish) car that belongs to me and is in my own name** I drive illegally. I do not have my drivers licence. This is purely because I have failed the drivers test. Twice, but we won’t go there***

Anyway, so there I am, listening to my music with one eye open watching the traffic, when all of a sudden I see the oke in front of me staring in his review mirror. Annoyed, I try to ignore him.

Cut to five minutes later, where I am now idling at the robot next to him, softly chuckling at the immensely kitch red and black dice dangling from the interior of his roof, when all of a sardine I hear:

Oke: “Hallow mooi cherrie, hoe gaan dit?” (Translation for foreignors: Hey there pretty chick, how things going?)

Acting deaf and dumb for a few seconds, I pretend not to hear him.

Oke: “Vis traffic are badt, ne?” (This traffic are bad (t, just cos he can) hey? – poor grammar unintentional on his part)

Sigh. I look over to him and nod, curtly. Polite enough to aknowledge him, impolitely enough to stop him talking to me. I am listening to the new Truth CD, for fuck sakes! Why is he annoying me with words coming out his capped-tooth mouth?

Oke: Do you sommer net want to go for a klippies wiff me? (Are you in the mood to have a drink with me?)

Me: No, buddy, fanks alot, though. (Thats me ripping him off right there, didja notice?)

Oke: Ag, what a disappearance (I can only assume he meant dissapointment), cherrie. I was look forward to it lorts. (lorts = lots, just by the way)

I am forced to go on the high way now, granted it saves me being hit on by clutch plates, and I get to not have to worry about cops on the way home, but shit man, it costs 14 Souf Efrican Ronts everytime!

* The english okes are m’kay, but its the dutchies that get to me. Them with their jean pant, skin smeared in sunscreen (too late, everytime as they already look like pink lobsters with peroxided yellow hair. Chops!).

** This is a family “joke” in an unfunny sort of way. I was stubborn enough to find a loop hole in buying my own car, yet not smart enough to actually pass the driving test. Go figure.

***ok, we can go there:

• First attempt: cop commented on my boobs – I swore at him, I failed.
• Second attempt: Cop commented…. on my bad parking. That wasn’t his fault, that was just me being a fem driver. Dammit. Oh, and then I reversed into the pole. Woopsie.