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.

Nostalgic memories, anticipation & rememberings

I hate Christmas shopping.

I hate vaalies who come here and take over the bloody coast line and walk around looking like lobsters with peroxided hair saying ‘fank you’.

I hate having to curb my spending.

I hate not being able to park in my parking lot at work.

But I love Silly season.  I love the vibe.  I love going to a club and having to wait at the bar while talking to strangers and having drinks being bought for me.  I love the beach weather we’re having. I love being a local here where every second, third and fourth car has a GP registration.

I don’t even mind the ‘fank you’s’ that much.

Merry Christmas everybody.  I hope Santa spoils you rotten. 

I wish that I could share my love with two very special people who are no longer here with me.  Kiera and Andrew, I will be thinking of them both tomorrow. 

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.