Happy Fathers Day.

I’m having a bit of a wobbly, excuse me.

Growing up I felt like my dad wasn’t around much, probably because he wasn’t.  He was a contractor and went where the money was.  Which meant that my brother Brandon was the man of the house at the age of 9 or something.  He was the only meat eater really, so whenever he got sick of the scrambled eggs on toast we practically lived on, he would braai a piece of boerie on a candle.  Because he was too small to know how to start an actual braai, and between my mother and I we were pretty useless with anything related to something a man should do.

So Brandon learnt how to do it all.  He shocked himself a few times learning to rewire plugs, made sure all the light bulbs were in reach by letting them hang down on a wire from the ceiling and I remember he even created his own DV board once, with a piece of chipwood, a few light bulbs and a light switch.  It was rad.  But it was also sad.

Of course, in those days my family didn’t have much money.  And although there was always love, there were far too many tears too.  Of course, a lifestyle like this couldn’t lead to a very successful marriage, so when my parents announced their imminent divorce, I can’t say I was really surprised.  After a few months of not seeing my dad, when I did I cried too much to even enjoy it.  His home was cold, he had no furniture, he was permanently depressed and basically it just sucked.  Until he met the woman of his dreams who brought love and light into his life, I really avoided seeing my father as much as I could.

Two or three years later, after not seeing my dad for most of that time, my mother had remarried and Kev had stepped in for much of my fathers role.  It was tough at first, he had a whole new way of discipling us kids and that was something I was not used to.  The first time he told my brothers to pick a stick* I nearly died of shock.  But we got into the whole “new dad” thing eventually.  Or at least, Brandon and I did, Darryn hated Kev from the start and it only got worse as he got older, and the saddest thing is that it was completely mutual.

When Kiera came along Kev and I really bonded for the first time ever.  It went from hellos and goodbyes to proper conversations and advice and laughter and mutual respect.  Kev became my go-to guy for most things, choices, ideas, dreams, plans and thoughts.  I’d run it by him and because he was the most stable man in my life at the time, I hung on every word he said.  His advice was well thought out and usually always made sense.

When Kiera died, it was Kev who carried me to the car and took me home.  The first time I came home drunk, it was Kev who carried me up the stairs and calmed my shrieking mother down.  The first time I had a boyfriend, it was Kev who banned me from closing my bedroom door.  The first time I got grounded, it was Kev who helped me sneak back inside the house when he caught me climbing through the bedroom window at two in the morning.

It was a long and bumpy ride, but after a few years, Kev was as much a father to me as my father was.  Just for different reasons.  My dad and I have always had a weird friendly kind of relationship, and have never really been close despite that I know he loves me to death, and I him, but he’s never been much of a father in my life, more like an older cousin or uncle I get along really well with.  I’ve never asked his permission for anything, and in tough times unfortunately I’ve never needed to ask his advice.  Even though I know that if I had, he would do his best to be there for me, I just never felt comfortable doing it.  In that way, I’m glad that my youngest sister Ash came along, because although Dad was always tight with my brothers, he kind of missed out with me and my growing up, but got to do it properly with Ash.  It’s sad, but its true.

Kev got me, Dad got Ash.  Two dads with two daughters that didn’t come from their own loins.

But now it’s all changed.  For some reason, in Kev divorcing my mom, he chose to divorce us kids too.  I haven’t spoken to him since our holiday in December, and that was strained enough.  When I went down in March for Wok’s birthday I could barely look him in the eye.  For Kev’s birthday in April, I couldn’t even bring myself to call him.  A generic sms was sent out with a generic thank you response. There have been times when all I wanted to do was pick up the phone and say hi, but the thought of what is going on with my mom prevents me, and I know that he’s not the same man he was when I was 19.  He doesn’t know me.  I don’t know him.  We’ve lost touch and I didn’t even know how much this bothered me until this morning.

I woke up and in the excitement of Jon running around looking for something to wrap up his dad’s gift with I realized that it would be inappropriate to sms Kev a fathers day sms.  And although I phoned my dad to wish him and secretly hoped he would cheer me up and fill the gap, he didn’t.  I felt a sense of sadness that overwhelmed me so much that when Jon looked at me questioningly, I burst into big fat overwhelming tears.  It hit me like a ton of bricks.  I’ve lost the one  fatherly father I’ve ever really known.

And that’s just fucking terrible.

* This was his #1 choice of punishment.  The kids had to pick a stick for their hiding.  The choice was more torturous than the act.  Too thin and you’d get double the smacks, too thick and it would hurt too much, a lot of pressure for a twelve year old.

** I didn’t want to publish this.  I’m terrified my dad reads this and feels like he’s failed me.  This isn’t what this post is about.  It’s about a girl who still feels like a child sometimes and the fact that her 2nd father is leaving her too has just hit home.

SA Beauty Pageant 2008. Good lawd!

SA Beauty Pageant 2008

Inspired by this:  http://www.news24.com/News24/South_Africa/News/0,,2-7-1442_2377628,00.html sorry, the wordpress link popper upper thingy won’t work right now.  So I can’t cleverly make it link to a word and stuff.

“I want world peace, and pretty flowers, and some education for the poor, and world peace and also, world peace”.

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.

I am PMSing most dangerously, look the other way!

I know that I bitch every month around this time, but Jesus!  I am a raging, hormonal bitch lately.   If a sentence like this offends you, I encourage you to read this.  I think poor old Richard needs a stand up ovation for avoiding me at every corner of his house and peacefully minding his own business while I sit glaring at my computer screen.  He’s been subjected to the following:

• His favourite bowl being smashed.  Not on purpose, promise
• Being moaned at while he channel hops while I’m trying to watch TV, even if only during commercial breaks
• Silent sulks from me, not knowing what is going on with me or why I was happy only two mins previously

An aside – how funny is this picture?  I love it.  Am going to print out a thousand copies and pluck it everywhere I go from now on.

Also, I think I have decided to stay in Cape Town indefinitely.  Anyone want to hire me?  I do good blow jobs customer relations, admin, write ups, managing, coffee making & just about anything else you need to be done.  

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.

Searches that lead (weird) people to this site

1.    Slipper hurt my foot.  (Well Shame, you poor person you.  Please explain to me how Mr. Google can assist you with this current problem?)

2.    How to get drunk girls home with me.  (Well, Sparky, this is how:  make sure your nails are clean, because no woman in her right mind will let you touch her anywhere with dirty nails.  Once that’s sorted, ensure your person looks presentable and that you are not a sex freak look-a-like.  Girls don’t really like that much.  How you actually get the drunk girl to your actual house I don’t actually know.  Maybe you could ask Jeffery Dahlmer, you sick Fuck!)

3.    Woman in KZN looking for audult fun.  (The place to go:  Teasers.  You can’t touch them much, but maybe if you sit on your hand long enough and call it Foxy, you might find some loving with a difference once you get back home.  Jerk off.  And its adult.  ADULT.)

4.    Famdamily.  (I have one of those too!  Except, mine is slightly bigger than yours and my dad can kick your dads ass.)

5.    Portable Pussy.  (It was a joke people, sheesh!  On a serious note, I thought only my internet mate and I were this insane, you don’t actually believe those things are real, do you?)

6.    Doing dead people hair for funerals.  (Wow, that must be a totally awesome job.  Not.)

7.    Things to do for boyfriends and girlfriends.  (Well now, one or two things you could try:  1.  kamasutra 2.  handcuffs.)

8.    Something dying inside of me.  (Dear god, did you eat a frog?  I hear those things can’t live long inside you. Get medical assistance, guy, like now!)

9.    Is my son doing crack?  (Jeez, lady, I dunno!  You should get one of those drug checker thingies.  That might help.)

10.   Going home to Jesus.  (Well, lets hope he cooked me an apple pie, yo.  He’s good at that.  I’m so glad I married Jesus. Sigh)

11.    I am busy spring cleaning (well good for you! You missed a spot, right there behind your anal tendancies)

12.   Fuck off stupid bitch (well now! didn’t your mother ever wash your mouth out with soap when you were so rude?)

13.   "i’m worth more than that" (you keep telling yourself that, sunshine)

14.   Rhyme sheens (leans? cleans? preens? its not that hard really)

15.   They make you lay on a cold hospital bed (You could always ask them to warm up the hospital sheets?)

16.   I am a boy and i was a girl (wow.  Now there’s some ingredients for confusion. Sorry for you buddy)

17.   Are you sarcastic? (Who, me?  Never. Evar. Like, never, ever, ever. Pssh.) 

18.   Wossa virgin?  (Someone who doesn’t like bumping uglies)

Screw you, you HTML riddled whore, you!

Taking the easy way out. Thats what I do, always have, hopefully always won’t. This blook writing business is an almost abomininational* pain in my rectum. Each website is so goddam negative!

• If you blah blah blah [insert some wrongdoing or another] you are not ready to write a book.
• Unless you can read this sentence and know what it means, you are not ready to write a book.
• Writing a book is hard work. (No shit sherlock, I thought it would be all roses and wine drops).
• If you are unpublished, you are likely to stay that way for a while, don’t hold your breathe.

Jaysus! Thank the pope (or my brothers for teasing me my whole life**) that I have thick skin or I would have stopped this bus right here.

* I made that word up. Three seconds ago.

** Which reminds me, my effing brother shot me with a paint ball gun last night, right on my arse. I teared up a bit, I won’t lie.