So this is my new Digs… and other stuff.

Pretty cool, huh?  Just paint me with a feather in my head and call me Stokahontas.

In other news, I was watching Barry Hilton the other night and had tears running down my cheeks.  The housemates were staring at me in fear, they’ve finally been introduced to ‘The Cackle’.  My brother warned them, so I hold no accountablility.  Anyway, going back to my story:  something Barry said got me thinking:

I love my Glenda, I truly do, but her voice irritates the befuckery out of me. So, I want to start an invention.  Just imagine you could have different characters for your GPS navigation?  Not just voices, but characters!

The British gay character:

Oh dahling, what the fuck have you got on?  Go back inside and change that skirt imme-jia-tely! Good, thats much better.  Now then, where’re we off to?  Ah, fab.  Swing a left over here and just drive on passed this ghastly looking public taxi.  Oh fuck, dahling, you’ve missed the blasted turn off.  Rather lets ask this gorgeous looking chap for proper directions, shall we?

The Curry-muncher from Chatsworth character:

Howsit my lunny, where we going in all?  Okey, mek a left at da robots, right?  Now rev your engine onetime to show dis lunny next door you have a Gee-Tee-Eye bru.  Okey den, now go right, right?  If you pus dis oke at da stop street don’t listen to him okey, he LIES, las’ time he promised us a buggin, remember dat?  Den de glasses broke, remember dat?  For true, rudder mek a motion to move, ek se”.

The Zol-bol character:

Woah, mian, why are you motioning so slooow?  Duuuuude, like, do you have any substinance?  I have a serious case of The Munchies.  Oh, cool you wanna go to the beach?  Yeah, its like *this* far, mian.  Woaaaaaah, check how pretty the robots are!  They’re extra greeeeen.  Uhh, if I told you we just went passed the offramp, would you like, “freak out” on me?

So, I have the idea, but who can actually get it out there?

I teargassed our kitchen!

So, Hayley thought it would be funny to give me teargas, in case I accidentally hijack somebody again and need to protect myself.

I get home from the coast this morning and decide to test the stuff.

I aimed for the kitchen sink, forgot to cover my mouth and naturally it ricoccheted off the wall, nowhere near the sink, and hit me right in the gob.  Needless to say, I have been streaming tears, coughing and sneezing the house down, and our kitchen is infected with tear gas.

Like Cath says:that’s like giving a psycho person a knife and hoping they dont stab anyone!

I have teargassed the kitchen.  Oh boy…

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.

Carry on, choke me

In bitter sweet news, my favourite cartoonist is shutting down one of his two comics, to introduce a new comic strip involving baby ellies, leopards and lions. Of course, I am speaking of Jeremy Nell, the delightful Capetonian of this era. If you are a follower of Urban Trash, or even not, I’d head over to his site or rush out and buy the latest Times edition to see what you’ll be missing. Bring on the 30th June the release date of the new strip, I can’t wait to see what he’s dished out for us.

For the last twelve hours I have been on the loo with my head in the basin. I have food poisoning. I know I should be happy because its one way of totally losing weight, but dude. I can’t keep anything down or in! Cath in her infinite wisdom decided we were going shopping this afternoon. Aside from her doing carry-on-choke-me* in the middle of the isles, me tripping on the escalator, us sitting on the stairs crying with laughter, and screaming for the waitron in mugg n bean and then asking everyone around us if he had, in fact, been concieved yet as he was taking so long to bring us our drinks, I actually felt better. For an hour. Also, she doesn’t care if we’re in Musgrave Centre and I’m in my Pj’s.

We got home and I had to run back to Marvin, our toilet. I think he missed me. I was all like, oh sweet lawd – this wall is so cold, I’m in heaven…

So. One piece of toast and half a glass of coke is what I’ve had today. The horlicks milkshake I ordered went untouched, practically and so I can only surmise that I am ready for the next fad, which will be eating lettuce leaves alone, then going to chunder it all out again, in manner of super models. I’ll stay away from carrots though. Apparently (snort) they make your vagina go orange. You don’t even want to know how I heard about this.

But, please can it be said, that I have the best flat mate in the world. I have been loved, fed rehydrat and looked after. I love her. Even without a penoos. And NO, damnit – I’m still not gay.

* Karaoke

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)

Pink slippers

Sunday, 6th May, 19.21pm

Last night I did the duly responsible South African thing and supported my rugby team, the Natal Sharks vs my brothers team, the Stormers. For some reason, everyone in our family supports a different team, so as you can imagine there was great competition in my dads household, as the game after was the Blue Bulls vs. the Crusaders.

There are two reasons I support the Sharks:

No.1 reason: Ryan Kankowski plays 8th man. I love that man, I have unformalised plans of stealing him late one night and shoving him into a sack and making him have my babies. Or the other way round, whichever he prefers – I’m totally open to anything that devine male specimen might suggest.

No. 2 reason: The Sharks are the coolest team in SA by far, and the also happen to play for my very own province. My team won despite all odds (according to the boys) and my brother and his mates decided to take me out for drinks to celebrate.

So much for my non-drinking speech last week, I had obviously spoken to soon, as the last two weeks in a row I have metamorphised into a bloody bar fly. There is something about Spice gold mixed with shooters that turns me into a dancing queen with an extra loud voice. I have only one thing to say: I am NEVER drinking again!

I lost the battle of who was going to go to the shop to buy breakfast (we all pitch in and pull tooth picks. Murphy’s law decided I had to select the shortest fucker) so off I go, all clad in my jumper and pink slippers with my little sister, Ashleigh. The plan was for me to stay huddled in the car cradling my poor hung over little head, but when we got there Ash convinced me to go inside with her. I was far too ill to protest and state my case of wearing pink slippers.

Inside the supermarket, we entered into chaos. They had arranged for my one true love, favourite Shark player, Ryan Kankowski to be doing a promotional stint with some skanky model, signing rugby balls, along with my favourite radio DJ, Alan Kahn being the MC.

Of all the freaking days, they pick this one! When I look like shit on toast and feel a hundred times worse. DJ Alan was convincing young boys and girls over the mike to come say hello to their rugby hero, and I promise you, I would have cued up with the best of them, knocking out the little ankle biters to be first in line if I wasn’t in my current state.

Stealing a glimpse at Ryan as I shuffled passed, I noticed that he was looking absolutely F.I.N.E despite running around on a huge field chasing a tiny ball along with 14 other fully grown men just the night before. Alan has a face made for radio, unfortunately.

Ash was at the opposite end of the very large shop and smsed me to find Sweet chilli sauce, which was situated two aisles back, so I swivelled around and started desending back the way I had just come, taking one bold step after another as I came nearer to the direction of Ryan and his fans.  Standing a little taller, sucking in my tummy, flicking my hair, pursing my lips and fluttering my eyelashes with a completely fake grin and that far away gaze in my eye that us girls sometimes do- just in case he happened to look my way.

I didn’t notice that there had been an oil spillage and as I took a step, I felt my remaining foot that was on the ground give way. I tried to over correct myself, but only made it worse and, in slow motion I tell you, felt myself going down. Flat on my face. Legs and arms sprawled everywhere- hair in my mouth- trolley flying into the crowd just two meters ahead. I closed my eyes and wished my head could fit up my own arse.

After many ooh’s and aah’s, whispered sniggers, and one kid shouting to another, ‘hey look, that chick just fell flat on her face, aahahahahahahaa!’ DJ Alan announces over the mic ‘we’ve had an incident in aisle 3, please send a clean up crew immediately’ and then, ‘Shame, are you ok, my dear? Some poor lady fell flat on her bum here, folks.  Ryan, where are you going buddy?’

My beating heart skipped a beat. Oh gawd, please tell me he’s walking out the door. Please don’t let him be coming here.  I’ll just DIE!

I was still lying on the floor, with my head now curled firmly under my arm pit willing myself to be swallowed, hoping that if I laid still enough people would just forget about me and carry on with their early morning shopping and Rugby player signing.

Next thing I feel is a gentle tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes and lift my one overgrown eyebrow just enough so I can peep out from under my arm pit to see the soft brown eyes of my hero crouching over me, ‘sweetie, doesn’t matter how long you think you can lie here, they won’t stop looking, trust me’. It was official, I had to be THE BIGGEST loser in the world. No one had EVER been as humiliated as I was right this very second.

Ryan took my hand (I immediately noticed how my nails needed a desperate filing and polish) and helped me up on to my feet all the way over to his chair, where he sat me down and offered me a sip of his coke. I still had not uttered a word, I was in too much shock. By this time, the Spar manager had rushed up to me, and was being so sweet that I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, yes actually, I was hurt.

My neck was throbbing more than if you’d pounded a fucking hammer into it, but all I had left was dignity. I got up, embarrasingly muttered a thank you to no one in particular, firmly placing my eyes on my feet, addressing no one in particular and shuffled away. In my pink slippers.
I spotted Ash at the cashier till a few meters away and as soon as I made eye contact she started waving her arms ever so subtely and shaking her head ever so slightly, averting her eyes to the next till, clearly not wanting to know me at that point in time. Little cow. I love her too much to have embarrassed her too, so I shuffled right passed her, through the door and out to the safety and solace of my little blue VW car. In my pink slippers.

Fifteen minutes later, back at my dads house, I sat on the couch glaring at all my siblings with their faces blood red and eyes glistening with tears of laughter as Ash recounted my story, holding an ice pack to my now very stiff neck. It was so stiff, in fact, that I could not move it. Every time I used my neck muscles I would have a pinch all the way down to the bottom of my spine. My dads wife Trace generously hands me a little blue pill, which I eagerly try to take with water, carefully making sure to not put my head back which proves to be difficult. Eventually I pour water in my mouth, throw in the pill and swallow down only after half the liquid has poured out over my chin and down the front of my shirt. I start to cry as my brothers and sister howl with laughter.

I’m now sitting on the bed, my lap top stacked high on pillows so I don’t have to look down and have a very fat tongue, seeing double and am pretty sure that I am drooling all over myself. I haven’t been this high in years. But at least my neck isn’t that sore anymore.
Yup, thats me, the girl sitting on the bed with a goofy looking face, crooked neck, cross legged on the bed.

In my pink slippers.

Humfry Bumfry* Bash

My friends and family are having a bitch fit because this year, for my birthday, I don’t want to celebrate it. They don’t think so, apparently. You see, every year my birthday is somewhat of a looked-forward to event for the following reasons:

1. I’m the oldest sibling, my family love teasing me about being the oldest, yet most fragile (literally) child.
2. I am the youngest friend, as all my mates are older. So they like to live life through me.
3. I can throw a huuuge party when I want to.

I’ll give you a bit of my brief birthday bash history:

• Age: 16 – I threw away my name in Rockies, the one and only place to flick a hoof and get motherless. I actually achieved the latter, as my mother disowned me for a whole four days. She was phoned up at midnight to unlock the gate as my buddy’s parents dropped me off at home, barely conscious, Kev had to carry me up the stairs. I got woken up at 5.30am sharp the next morning to go HIKING.
• Age: 17 – My mates threw a (so not surprising) surprise bday bash for me in the life savers tower down on the beach front. I had sand up my butt for days. Yes, lets not go there…
• Age: 18 – Everyone came to my place to get wet, drunk & full as I hosted a pool party of note, with a side of lamb and pork spitt & drink as much as you can until you fall down on the ground.
• Age: 19 – I was pregnant so had a tea party and watched all my friends slur there way to drunkdom. They had fun tho.
• Age: 20 – Jerk (an ex, for my new readers) paid Britt to take me out for the day while he set up a huge charra* party for me in the garage. I did not have a clue until about 3o’clock that afternoon when Britt started driving in circles around Margate Beachfront and clearly stalling for time, when I was protesting utmost that I did, in fact, need to pee.
• Age: 21 – Huge motherass of a party. Hired out a local dive, decorated it to beyond recognition, with stars, and draping, and red carpeting as my theme was “Hollywood”. I dressed as a Pink princess, complete with flowy flowery skirt and tiara. My friend Brad came as a carpet. Seriously, he was totally naked and barefoot and draped a red carpet around him and cut out holes for his arms so he could drink.
• Age: 22 – Hired a couple of those tressel tables and stuck them together like a medievel banquet to fit 25 of my closest best friends (plus one’s included) to have an afternoon lunch home made by …. (drum roll, please) …. ME! I slaved like a dog to make SIX different italian pastas, complete with garlic rolls, french salad dressing, olives and the green, white and red stripes.

So, this year, if I decide to go to a nice quiet restuarant, please excuse me.

* Our very intelligent garden boy was hard at work one day when a visitor popped in to drop off a present for my dad as it was his birthday. That evening, Jameson came into the kitchen and mumbled to my dad:

The man, she say “Humfrey Bumfrey” and promptly handed over the by now crumpled and creased gift.

** I am infamous for my pasta. Any shape, flavour or form is infloppable to me. Its the one thing I can cook that comes out delish everytime. I’m not boasting or anything, I’m just saying…
I rock at cooking pasta. More so than anyone else.