Today I realized that I’m a little freaked out by Maltese Poodles and way too many of my friends have big dogs that sleep on their backs with their junk on display for everyone to see. I’m not sure if I should be laughing or crying that my friends photograph canine testicles and post them on social media.Continue reading
Refusing to put the light on because I didn’t want to be alert enough not to be able to resume the glorious slumber I had been enjoying before, I stumbled to the bathroom to well, expel the demon was causing the stomach cramps that had awoken me. Muttering to myself about the wee hours of a Wednesday morning being a crap time for a bowel movement. I heard a kind of scratchy sound, which I attributed to my medication not being completely absorbed into my system.Continue reading
It was back to work for me today after a three-week break. It was clearly a good one because even though I didn’t go away, I relaxed so much that when I had to login to my PC, I stared at the keyboard in utter horror. I called our IT administrator and told him it’s that awkward moment when you’ve come back to work and can’t remember your password. He laughed, stating my holiday was definitely too long.Continue reading
Now, I am meant to be sleeping, but despite taking a full sleeping tablet (I usually only do half during the week) and my other medication, I’m still awake. Charming!
My legs feel like lead. Steve pushed me to leg press another 10 Kg more than last week. That I could still handle, but hip lifts… Good Lawdy, them things are in a league of their own! My thighs are going to probably be stiffer than a corpse tomorrow.
Tarryn, my hairdresser (aka The Fairy because she was the most beautiful pregnant fairy ever) was at the salon on Tuesday when I went to Elena for my nails. She asked me quite bluntly, Where’s your ass. I told her it’s there, but because all my clothes are getting a little baggy, it doesn’t look like it. Truth be told, I don’t really have a well-rounded derriere, because my butt cheeks are on my chest. I’m very aware of (as Charlie put it) my great rack or as my Capetonian friend, Allan refers to them, The Girls.
Anyway, my bustline wasn’t originally what I planned on writing about when I started this post. Love was. Or rather the sacrifices one makes for those we love. When faced with a situation where you would have to either cause- or suffer heartbreak to save the one you love, would you really do it? And I’m talking about relationships between two adults here, not a parent for their child because that’s on an entirely different plain.
On the subject of plain, why is plain yoghurt apparently healthier than its flavoured counterparts? Is it because it’s free of colourants? Or is it just because it doesn’t taste pleasant? Like Chaimberlain’s cough medicine – tastes like battery acid, but my Grandmother swore by it. That, and cod liver oil. Blegh!
Personally, I believe almost any ailment can be fixed with warm salt water. Sore throat? Gargle. Sinus? Inhale. Constipated? Drink a glass of warm salt water and you’ll be shitting through the eye of a needle in no time. Guaranteed!
Okay, so this post went from tits to shit in just a few paragraphs, but at least my eyes are starting to feel heavy. Here’s hoping for some REM because if I don’t get any soon, I will not only have lost my mind, I may very well be Losing my Religion too.
I love waking up to emails that say xxx liked your blog, or yyy is now following your blog. There is a sense of accomplishment in it. If you want to follow my blog, please do. Or dont. But please share my posts, if you think they’re worthy.
This morning I woke up to find out that a blogger called Tony Self of is now following my blog. That brings the total number of strangers reading the Reflections of this Misfit to 107. Yay! *Awkward happy dance that resembles a frog in a blender*
In just a few of his posts that I read, I was laughing like I haven’t in a long time, because on some levels I can totally identify with the conversations his Conscious and Subconscious have. If you’re looking for some good old-fashioned best medicine, pop over to his blog, The Self-Talk Show
Wishing you all a happy, safe, fun weekend!
I was chatting with a friend online last night and how we got onto the subject of blind dates, I don’t quite remember, but thought I would share my first (and last) blind date disaster with all of you. Apologies in advance for the long read, but I hope it will bring at least a smile to your faces today, that I promise you.
Before I go any further, I need you all to know that generally, I don’t think I am attractive. Not that I’m ugly… It’s just that I can be in a room full of other women and at least 70% of them will, in my opinion, be more attractive than I am. I regard myself more of a plain Jane than a ravishing beauty.
It all started when my cousin, Lorraine, 2 years older than myself was the chairperson of the local village’s pool club. Every now and then she would come round to my house and drag me with her to the pool hall to shoot a few balls. I should have realized then already that I wasn’t destined for this Crazy Little Thing called Love because I literally (and figuratively) have no ball sense. As we continue this ride, this statement will become more evident and ring even truer than it does now.
We shot a couple of balls, or rather Lorraine did, while I attempted to rip as much felt-cover off the pool table with the cue as I could. Eventually she lost her rag with me and decided to march me back to the car so she could take me home. I would have walked, but it was pouring with rain.
As we were walking down the stairs at the pool hall, a guy shoved past us in the opposite direction and then had the audacity to wolf whistle at us and shout something like “Hey you sexy beasts…”
At this time it should be noted that whilst I am not attractive, I am not a dog either, and thus, do not at all appreciate being whistled at, nor referred to as a beast of any other kind.
Lorraine wasn’t very charmed at the choice language I used in reply to his comment, but she got over it quickly enough because…
… two weeks later she sent me on a blind date with him!
I was visiting at her’s house – curled up comfortably on the couch watching a local soap opera when the door bell rang. I didn’t make an attempt to answer it – firstly because it wasn’t my house and secondly, it was that crucial moment when two of my favourite characters were about to share a passionate kiss for the first time…
I vaguely heard her say, “She’s almost ready. I think she’s just putting the last touches to her make-up. Have a seat in the visitor’s lounge…”
Like the Duracell-Bunny on Energizer batteries, she came charging into the TV lounge, whipped me into her mother’s room, threw some clothes (including a pair of her mom’s high-heeled shoes 2 sizes too small) on me, as well as slapped some make-up on my face, shoved 50 bucks in my hand, whilst in very hushed tones informing me that I was going on a blind date to the local dance hall and that she clean forgot to tell me about it…(yeah right!!) She then dragged me out to the visitor’s lounge to meet the Doorbell-Ringer…
“MTM, this is Roger. Roger, this is my cousin MTM. Enjoy the evening, you two!” And with a shove, he and I found ourselves on the front porch as the door thundered closed behind us.
I gave Roger a very quick once-over. Tall ‘n blond. Not badly dressed.
Seeing that I was now in this situation, I decided to try to make the best of it. I politely asked him where he had parked his car (the dance hall is about 2.5 Km from the house) as there wasn’t any form of transportation visible in the driveway.
He replied, “I don’t have a car. We’re walking. It’s not that far.” I couldn’t believe my ears! Walking?! You’ve got to be kidding!!
Needless to say, I was not charmed by the time we reached the dance hall…
Firstly because Roger had taken it on himself to re-christen me to Angelcakes.
Secondly because he gave me a running commentary of his dream car – an old Ford Cortina, which he was going to have painted gloss black with a Phoenix rising from the ashes painted on the bonnet. (Lorraine, you are going to be so dead when I get my hands on you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
And thirdly, but by no means less importantly, because my poor feet resembled two large oranges trying to make their escape out of a banana peel! They were blistered, but not enough for me to be able to get out of this situation
I think Roger must have picked up that I was feeling slightly harrassed, because he told me he would pay my entrance fee – and then proceeded to drop the money-note on the ground where the wind picked it up and blew it into a storm-water drain. This, I understand was beyond his control, but what really got me is that he spent 15 minutes on his knees trying to fish it out with a stick!
Eventually I ended up paying for our entrance and he bought me a cooldrink. He offered me a cigarette, which I turned my nose up at.
Seeing that we had walked all the way to the dance hall to dance, we decided to give it a bash. And what a bash it was. I bashed onto his feet and he bashed onto mine.
Roger politely enquired as to whether or not I had actually ever danced before prior to now. Honestly, I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to let on.
He told me to look at his feet to get a rhythm and then to look up at him. It worked. Everytime I lost the step, I would look at his feet and the steps would come. Finally getting the hang of things, I decided to check him out properly…
Nice blue eyes
Crisp white shirt
Black jeans…and then it caught my eye…
I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t what you’re thinking it is.
I don’t deny that I was working my way down to check out his package, but I never got that far because it caught my attention…
There between his crisp white shirt and his black jeans was a belt buckle. And not just any belt buckle. A belt buckle that read “STUD” in 5 inch letters. Polished to irridescent brilliance…Now, this was just too much.
I feigned a headache and demanded to go home, which Roger was only too happy to accommodate. We walked back to Lorraine’s house where I politely thanked him for the cool drink and the few dances. Before he could even try to kiss me, I opened the door, said a very hurried goodnight and closed the door in his face.
I know it was mean, but I couldn’t face the thought of, while he was not a bad-looking guy, playing tonsil hockey with a guy that “advertised” himself as a STUD.
(MMmmmmm you kiss so nice (STUD). Don’t stop what you’re doing (STUD). Do it again (STUD)…)
You get the picture I’m sure…
I stormed up the stairs to Lorraine’s room. I was quite ready to drive a stake through her well-meaning heart!
She was lying on her bed. “So, how was it?” she asked rather nonchalantly, trying to hide a smile.
“How was it, you ask? I’ll tell you how it was!” I bellowed. “It was a disaster ! An utter disaster! You sent me on a blind date with a man that made me walk to our destination. In shoes two sizes too small, I might add.”
Lorraine looked rather puzzled at this revelation “Walk?”
“Yes, walk. You know. One foot then the other. Walk. You sent me on a blind date with a guy who has no car. BUT wait, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have plans to invest in one. He is going to invest in an old Ford Cortina, spray it gloss-black and have a Phoenix rising from the ashes painted on the bonnet. And then he is going to come and fetch me – aka Angelcakes – for a spin.”
This was obviously just too much for her to handle because she lost her composure entirely and began to laugh hysterically. The tears were eventually streaming down her face. “You always have to be such a drama queen, MTM. He has to own a car. How else did he get to the pool hall the other night?”
“I don’t know! Maybe he walked? Or maybe he got a lift? But he told me he doesn’t own a car. Never mind that, it gets worse!”
She looked completely dumbstruck (which is something that doesn’t happen to her ever).
“When we eventually arrived at the dance hall, he took out the money for the cover charge, as you said he probably would. Then he dropped it on the ground where the wind picked it up and carried it into a drain,”
Before she could interrupt, I continued, “where he spent the next fifteen minutes trying to fish it out with a stick. I eventually paid for us both to go in. At least he had money to buy me a cool drink. And another thing, how could you send me on a date with someone that smokes? You know I don’t like it.”
She looked at me, started laughing hysterically again. “No! He didn’t!! I can just see this.” More hysterical laughter.
“Lorraine, I can’t believe you are making fun of me. You sent me on the most disasterous blind date in history and you think it’s funny. Well, I’ll show you funny.”
I proceeded to demonstrate the foot-bashing dance routine and my discovery of it, the STUD belt buckle. “You sent me on a blind date with a guy that literally advertises himself as a STUD . How could you?! I don’t know what’s worse, you wanting to send me out with a STUD or should I rather call him Flaming-Phoenix Cortina Man?!
She didn’t believe me. She just laughed hysterically. “You know, when you leave school, you should go into acting. You’d be pretty good.”
So I told her, I’d prove it. I contacted Roger the next day and asked him to pick something up at Lorraines’s office. He did – in full STUD garb. She was gobsmacked…
The phone rang moments after I had got home from school.
“MTM, MTM!! you were right! He does have a belt buckle that reads STUD. I don’t believe it!! And, for the record, I checked his package out – he’s anything but a STUD. I’m sorry. If I had known…”
Before Lorraine could continue her apology, I interjected, “If you’d known, you would have what Lorraine? You would have still sent me on a blind date with someone else – and with my drama-queen luck, it would have probably been Jeffrey Dahmer’s love-child or something, so it’s OK. You’re forgiven. Just don’t do it again. Ever. Promise me. Please.”
To rid myself of Roger, I introduced him to Neema, a close friend of mine, but I did warn her about the STUD thing. They hit it off, but it didn’t last long…don’t know whatever happened to him.
As for Lorraine, she promised and has lived up to her word. To this day, 17 years later, she has not attempted to play Matchmaker again.
Thank goodness for that!
…I realized this in quite a humourous way last night. It’s amazing how when you hear someone retelling a story you’ve told, just realize just how nutty you sound.
Last night at Ewan’s “The-thesis-study-is-finally-handed-in” surprise sausage barbeque, Carmen’s friend, Marion (whom I have also befriended) was telling a few of the group that she thought I was a bit strange when we first met. A group of us went out for coffee one evening after work, and there was Marion, unfamiliar to me, but a friend of Carmen’s, so someone awesome, simply by association. I knew all the other people that were there, and they knew me, so I didn’t think twice about telling them about the tragic passing of Mom’s much loved canary.
Now, most of my friends will tell you that I love animals, but that I seriously suck at taking care of them. Not because I don’t want to, simply because I’m so scatterbrained, I sometimes simply forget. I am not a good pet-sitter either, pets tend to die on my watch, as was the case with said canary.
Mom and Dad went away for a few days, about a week, the destination is irrelevant. The fact is they weren’t home, the canary was, and it was left in my capable over-30 hands…or so they thought.
I remember sitting at work updating orders when the proverbial bucket of ice-cold water was poured down my back! Shit, I’d forgotten to feed the canary, for about three days running. Oh well, if it’d survived this long (never assume anything!), what was another hour or two, right? When I eventually did get home, after first stopping at the mall for something, and then at a friend for a quick coffee (which lasted about two hours), I trotted off to the back porch to check on the canary and well…it was dead (as most of you probably expected by now). I was quite distraught – not because it was dead, but that Mom wasn’t around to bid it farewell and bury it, so I did what I thought (Marion obviously didn’t) was the next best thing, and I wrapped it in clingwrap, and popped it in the freezer, right next to the frozen chicken pieces. Birds of a feather…
The day before my folks were due home, I broke the news as gently as I could that the canary had chittered it’s swansong and was now in the Big Aviary in the Sky. Mom was understandably upset. What upset her even more was that I’d frozen the carcass. “Now mom, it wasn’t a carcass, it still had all its feathers and everything…” I told her that I wasn’t going to bury the poor little creature until she got home.
The day of the burial arrived – Mom made me dig a tiny little grave at the rose-bush and I placed the little popsicle in the ground, clingwrap and all. Mom thumped me upside the head and told me to use my brain – plastic is not biodegradable! So I picked it up, grabbed the ends of the plastic and shook until the canary popped out with a soft thud into the ground.
Our rose-bush is still growing like a weed…and the flowers are canary yellow too. Coincidence? Nah!
So, as I sit here, rereading this post before I publish, I realize just how loony I must have sounded regaling this true tale to someone who’d just met me. I guess I really am a misfit…but I love myself just the way I am.