Elmien Grove's Blog, page 3

Zolpi-DONE

Ever since matriculating my life has been one long line of heart breaks and chemical warfare against myself.
I guess at times it was fun but at the beginning of 2016 a little voice spoke up in my mind.
She sounded exactly like the Child Empress in Neverending Story but instead of asking me to say her name, she said:
"You are ready to wake up, now".

The Child Empress has never before been one of my "voices" so this was interesting and new and so I started keeping an eye out for
signs of what this might mean.
She might have been referring to the fact that I never truly woke up before 17:00 in the afternoon because then work would
be done and I could get my freedom on. But I knew this was a problem and didn't need a Child Empress to enlighten me to this.

Secondly she might have been trying to wake me from an actual coma in which case I would probably be an old lady in a dilapidated hospital and all my loved ones would be gone or dead or
given up on me. If this was the case the first thing I would do when I woke up is clobber the doctor who had obviously been giving me the generic drugs while I was out because much
of my time was spent having awful nightmares about screwing up my life and getting absolutely nowhere.

Thirdly, I was about to drink my last sleeping tablet that night and it was the end of the script.

I had a choice now;

1.) Go to the doctor and try and persuade him to give me another script and no I am not abusing them. Yes I am on some psych meds too. Why? Because I'm crazy that's all.
Lots of people are crazy. Everyone should be on pills. Okay?! JUST GIMME THE EFFING SCRIPT YOU BITCH!

2.) Stop taking sleeping tablets.


The second option was terrifying. I had never been a good sleeper and when I did sleep I had vivid night terrors which caused me to rocket from my bed and run screaming into the night.
Don't believe me? Ask anyone, literally anyone who had spent the night with me, before I had started taking the knock out tablets.

No there aren't that many guys that have had the privilege.
And that's not the point...Judgy Mcjudgerton, sheese.

In order to survive these awful nights of never sleeping again ever, I started working on one of my fabled plans.

Queue mission impossible theme song:

I would get home from work, cook dinner and have wine.
Then watch TV, having more wine.

Then when the clock struck 21:00 I would have a relaxing candle lit bubble bath.
This was easy because the bathroom light had been blown for months so I had to use candles and I still had bubble bath from my first kitchen tea in 2009.
The bubble bath had survived my first marriage *hang head in shame for failing at first marriage and never using bubble bath during it*.

Have more wine in romantic bath.

Maybe invite husband to join me.

Husband not interested in having romantic bath with drunken wife.

Send husband for more wine.

Husband refuses and pours last glass of wine down drain.

Freak out.

Husband feels so bad that he gets more wine.

Get into neatly made bed with fresh glass of wine.

Read a book. Not Steve King, no, we are looking for calm dreams, maybe some light Marian Keyes.

Read until eyelids start getting heavy.

Switch off light and feel extremely awake.

Ask husband to smother you with pillow, just a little.

Husband refuses.

Husband = rebel.


After executing this plan the next night because my sleepers were then depleted, I didn't sleep at all.
This sucked a lot because sleeping seems important. And fun.

The sun rose and found I had turned into an extremely hung over zombie.

Luckily it was a Friday and most people at the company where I worked operated at half speed on Fridays anyway, actually mostly because they too were hung over zombies.
What is it with a Thursday night and drinking our heads off?
Is it because it's almost Friday and we might explode from excitement because we get to do nothing but drink for two whole days?
And then wake up Friday morning never wanting to drink again?

Yeah that seems logical enough.

Back to me.
That night we had a braai with friends and I told them all about it and how terribly hung over I was *said sipping on wine*.
And they were very sympathetic and supportive *also sipping on various alcoholic drinks*.

And that night I slept, if you could call it that.
My brain had effectively blocked all memory of the dreams I had but they were incredibly horrible. Like a David Lynch movie had a child with a Japanese horror movie.
And that child turned out to be a nightmare and I gave birth to it.

This kept on going and was later joined by feelings of weirdness. That is the best way I could describe them.
I googled Zolpidem withdrawel and boom there it all was, listed neatly from top to bottom and some of them I could still look forward to.

But as with all highly unpleasant circumstances, this passed and I sort of became a normal sleeper again. Actually better than how I used to be with only the occasional leaping from bed and running yammering into the night.

My husband who had only ever spent the night next to me after I had a firm Zolpidem habit underway was in for a treat.

Now because I am always asleep when these night terrors catapult me into the dark of night, I usually don't remember what I dreamed about or where I was headed or sometimes that anything had happened at all.

But the latest one I remember clearly.

In the dream husband and I were in a garage of some kind when suddenly the garage door started closing and somehow falling sideways towards us.
Me having noticed this was frantically trying to get out from underneath it and astonished to see that husband was not bothered.
In fact he looked like he was sleeping, peacefully.

Luckily my cat immediately caught on to the fact that some catastrophic (pardon the pun) event was transpiring and speedily vacated the room in a flash of Siamese coloured fur.

My desperate clawing and sputtering finally woke my husband and he said something that stopped me dead in my tracks because of its bizarreness.

"Wat gaan aan, blaashasie?".

Translation: I can't...it Just doesn't work in English. But it involves a bunny rabbit.

Suddenly the garage door vanished and I was standing next to my nice safe bed in the middle of the night, looking down into the confused, half smiling face of my husband.
I was trying to make sense of his question when I realised my cat must have been roused by my sudden scuffling, assessed the situation as Mommy has gone Loco (again?)
and left as a result, not because of a garage door falling in slow motion towards him.

And it was funny.
It was so funny that the sound that came out of me next was a loud, unexpected guffaw of mirth.
The fact that he had called me a "blaashasie" joined in on the hilarity and saw me hysterically scream-laughing for the rest of the night.

This time when the sun came up it found a very different picture of me.

Lying in bed, gripping the covers, eyes half closed, still weakly giggling and happy as hell.

Hasta la vista, Zolpidem.

Wine; Gateway Drug to Pole Dancing

I love having a plan and am pretty good at it, even if I say so myself.
Now even though my personal development plan (PDP to the corpees out there) always said my “area of development” (aka shit I’m not good at doing) said “planning” in big red letters the last six years of my employment, that’s not entirely accurate.
I just didn’t like the kind of planning they wanted me to do, is all.But when it comes to my life, my actual experience as a human being, planning is crucial to me.
Now, this might conjure up images of me having a Filofax (#80’s), an immaculate diary and a daily routine that flows seamlessly from point A through to point Z, at the end of which I slide into my perfectly made, pethairless* bed, legs shaved to a silky finish but still somehow tanned, my flawless body lovingly dressed in a beautiful negligee, close my eyes and drift into the kind of slumber reserved specially for those who have everything under perfect control.That would be a misconception of epic proportions.
When I said “plans” I really meant “backup plans”…even “escape plans” might describe the things I hoard in my head a little better.In other words, these plans are there so that I can continue living through mildly to extremely unpleasant events while only being sort of present. The other part of me will be off preparing the future scenario in my mind, where everything will be completely different and obviously much nicer.Even though that doesn’t even matter either because by the time that reality is in the present, half of me will be off to the next hypothetical scenario, fluffing the pillows of that next, glorious bed, metaphorically speaking.
Okay, let’s talk real examples.One night in the not so distant past, I was sitting hunched over on the couch with a box of cheapish red on the coffee table and a very grimy wine glass in my hand, staring at the clock. It said 02:00. What a depressing time to be awake and holding a grubby wine glass.
This behaviour had been spiraling slowly out of control over the previous two weeks or so and I knew the signs when I saw them.I was drinking too heavily and gaining weight at an alarming rate. This could also partly be ascribed to continuously stuffing my face with potato chips to get the wine taste out of my mouth. Insanity, thy name is annoyance!
But, being a wise and experienced sage, I chose not to:aa.)    Put down the wine and go to bed like an adultOrbb.)    Pour all the alcohol in the house down the drain like a crazed alcoholic.
No.I quietly kept sipping my wine as I got out my little note pad and started jotting down ideas of how to address this problem realistically.Of course, this was fraught with danger as an inebriated mind can come up with some crazy shit at two in the morning.And mine did not disappoint.
Plan number one was *drumroll* pole dancing!If I went to pole dancing lessons all the time, I wouldn’t have time to drink, it will obviously whip me into fabulous shape which in turn will boost my self-esteem so much I wouldn’t feel like drinking as much and the big one: I will learn how to pole dance, heck yeah!
I already felt better just dreaming about how amazing I was going to be, so the rest of the wine and potato chips tasted a little less depressing and I managed to weave my way through the house to bed where I breathed vile fumes into my poor husband, who I shall refer to from here on forth as Truluv* (gangsta for True Love)’s face.
A truly wonderful plan has as much merit in being made as in being deployed.
Which is a good thing because my hangover lasted ages and The Plan couldn’t unfold until I could face daylight without hissing again.
Finally, after toying with the idea of ditching the plan just to screw with myself a little more, I found a place and went to my very first class.This was sobering for two reasons. For one, I was used to having my first tittle by this time of the evening and two; instead of sinking into the couch with said tittle, I was standing in a room filled with poles, younger and thinner women -girlseven- and swaddled in what can only be described as an eclectic mix up of garments I thought people generally learn pole dancing in.
Run run run until you get to London! Said brain.Glub glub time? Enquired addictive personality centre in brain.No, replied I, squaring my double chin.
The instructor flounced in with a body to weep over but teeth that soothed my jealousy, ever so slightly.She made the newbies sign waivers so we couldn’t sue them if we dropped on our heads and developed resentful feelings.Then we did a few little exercise-esque things and I felt impatient to start with the good stuff. When with the flying and the beautifulness, miss?
So I was very excited when she clapped her hands together and announced the time to start poling.She showed as a step up thing that seemed as easy as cherry pie until I tried it and found that I weigh a million pounds and as a result have extreme difficulty getting off the ground and onto the pole. Also once I finally managed to heave myself up I experienced a sensation I imagined akin to having your shin flayed, then doused with boiling sea water.
Sliding from the pole with yelp of surprise and expression of indignation, I almost enquired WTF dude? From the smirking instructor. But she seemed used to this sound and expression being expressed in her studio and calmly handed me some liquid chalk for my sweaty palms, which made me forgive her instantly because Ohhhhh! It’s not because of me being grotesquely overweight, it’s just slippery hands causing this ungainliness! ohhh!
Trying out the basic spin she showed us and losing the top layer of skin behind my knee, I found another highly unpleasant factor of this class, and funny enough it was not the loss of previously mentioned skin.There is a giant mirror, no not a mirror, a WALL made of mirror, in the front of the room…and I…in it. Plainly visible to the naked eye. Painfully large and with a stunned look on my face and red shins.How to deal with this problem.
Subconscious Brain was luckily quick-footed and sure of wit because apart from the first spin I managed to execute quite nicely, after spotting the lesser spotted and in fact much avoided me in the mirror, I instantly lost the ability and could only turn in semi-circles, always away from the mirror.Coming to a screeching halt inches away from facing myself again, the thought did cross my mind that this activity, although sobering, was much trickier than previously anticipated.
As I drove home, it started raining and a tiny wave of goodfeelingness didn’t exactly wash over me, but sort of climbed on top of me and lay there.This is good, I did something! I worked out and did a basic turn! I wonder if I should have a glass of wine to celebrate. Oh no, I thought of wine! What do I do?
So I went home and I honestly can’t remember whether I had wine or not…which probably means that I did…but that’s not the point.
I kept going to the classes and sometimes there would be other beginners, no that’s not a strong enough word for what we were, EXTREME beginners who would practice on the same pole as me and have the same difficulties and sheepish looks on their faces, which really helped. One of them were even a little bit bigger than me, which helped a whole lot.Most days-after I wouldn’t be able to walk like a natural person and would hobble from dentist to dentist (I’m a dental sales rep) with, let’s call it a primateal bounce gait*. But after about three weeks of going to two classes per week, I started feeling a little tighter around the midriff and stomach.
This was probably as a result of both exercising as well as not drinking and pigging out on Tuesdays or Thursdays, so yay for me, even though I was still indulging my head off on all other days of the week…especially Sundays… I hate you Sunday.Alas, this brief window of respite was not to last…On a dark and stormy night, far away from home, in an evil cave called Protea Hotel Polokwane, I was destined to slip and fall in the dumb shower/bath while rinsing the shampoo from my hair…and DIE!
Well die, if by dying you mean landing on the side of the tub rim with your ribs and straining your intercostal muscles, causing you to screech uncontrollably and then in turn causing severe pain in the event of uncontrollable screeching, which causes an infinite loop of uncontrollable screeching.
Thus bringing my budding career as a stripper to a premature end.

Or did it?


*copyright dibs on the phrases “Pethairless”, “Truluv” and “Primateal Bounce Gait”

God Gave Me Kurt Cobain

Every night when I go to bed I am confronted not by the demons of the past but by the wraiths of the future. Maybe it’s just the vision of my own black cat crossing my path, the fact that I have broken countless mirrors in my lifetime or that I walk underneath the ladder stored in the garage every day.
I think it’s just paranoia, but it still sucks.
But maybe it’s because I am finally really happy, almost boringly so, and not used to this kind of feeling.

Actually I’m used to total chaos. I mean at school things were relatively straightforward. I had more time on my hands to get bored with and did kind of cool things with it, like glue a bunch of beads together and then throw it out the window.
And when I met a boy I worked out strenuously every day seven days a week until my body was perfect. But he kept going back to this other girl so I kept at it like a…well a teenager.
But then he went back to her anyway.

Then time was spent on writing AWFUL self loathing teenage poetry to the croon of Radiohead’s Bulletproof.
And then writing TERRIBLE self pitying songs in a dark room with my guitar.
My sister once asked me if I wanted to be Kurt Cobain.
I said no I want to marry him, duh.
She said he has been dead since 1994.
After waking up from my faint, I explained to her that Kurt Cobain is my DESTINY!
Nope, sorry sis. He’s definitely dead.
Shotgun head dead.

After doing the necessary research to moot this preposterous notion I had to do an hour of extreme cardio…because it was true.
I suddenly realized I've been praying every night for God to give me a dead man as a groom and here I was mourning the death of the most beautiful and romantic future relationship.
But at least I knew he went to heaven, I mean with that face and voice he could go anywhere.
Wait a minute… no, no I think the face and the voice and the minor incident where he accidentally killed himself might have caused him to go to hell.
What does the bible say? THINK THINK!
Oh yes, I think it said something about some guy that went to hell begging for just one drop of water on his tongue but then just a little bit later God yanked him out and took him somewhere else. Ah yes, it was Lazarus.
Well I was saddened by the thought that my Kurt might be in such torment so I went to my sister and asked her if she thinks we can pray for someone after they have died?
She said knock yourself out.
So I did. For about a month, I think.
So hopefully Kurt is in a Nirvana of sorts now, probably playing a harp instead of the guitar but man I bet he is ROCKING that harp!

About ten years after the tragic loss of my future rock star husband I was dancing in my favourite club called Zeplins. My heart had recently been shattered by my first true love and I was rappelling off the wild side of the cliff’s edge, if you know what I mean.
So there I was doing my thing, funneling straw rum, bouncing from guy to guy trying to get some attention (don’t judge me, my self esteem was slightly compromised by being dumped by someone that said we were meant to be together forever even in the afterlife, that God said this to him (Really? Did He have a very deep voice? Because it could have been the janitor).
I was about halfway through my tenth quadruple gin and tonic when I saw him.
It was Kurt Cobain. But less dead. And younger.
I stared at him for as long as possible without people noticing the sad, weird little 6 staring at the magnificent, can-get-any-girl-he-wants 10.
It was about a week later that a friend of mine said she saw a cute guy but felt too shy to go chat him up and when she pointed at “Kurt” my heart sank.
He would go for her. She had long legs, clear skin and sky blue eyes.
She was an 8.

I realized that my chance to talk to him was fading rapidly so I volunteered to go chat him up for her. Well at least get him to come over.
So I bounced over to him on a 150% flirtation velocity power.
I said dumb things, he didn't say much, there was a roaring in my ears and my blood was the raging rapids in my arteries.
Somewhere in the conversation which was very short, because I kept inhaling and forgetting to exhale and worried about exploding disgustingly in front of him, he came back to meet my friend.

They dated for 3 effing years.
Three years of pure torture.
They came over to house parties, braai’s, movie nights, everything! I couldn't stand seeing him so often because it fanned my crush and I loved my friend so I knew I had to get it together and keep it together.
But it was a real challenge.

I couldn't make eye contact with him for fear of starting a conversation…about how beautiful he is.
I couldn't smile at him for fear of him smiling back, in which case I would be blasted into a fantasy world in my head where he is mine, which I couldn't do because that would be wrong. So I avoided the smile.
I also couldn't be with him in the same room without lots of other people there which was sometimes very difficult. As groups move, some people move as a bundle and some move in their own personal space, usually after waiting for the throng to get through the doorway first. “Kurt” and I obviously had that same condition because we were always the last two to get out of the room.
Now this might seem stupid but even a second with him next to me and the others trailing down the hallway was temptation enough for me to grab him by his shirt and scream I LOVE YOU PLEASE MARRY ME into his face.
But friendship came first for me in those silly days, so I worked hard to delete my feelings.
Eventually when they broke up he disappeared and I thought I would never see him again.

But about 5 years after that, out of literally thousands of people, I ran into him and his new girlfriend who I barely saw (except for the fact that she was skinny) because I was agonizing over the insane cruelty of life.
Here I am running into this man, looking hideous.
I was going through an identity crisis, you see, I had cut my hair super short, dyed it bright red and decided to pick up like a 1000 kg’s as an afterthought.
He seemed pleased enough to see me again but not exactly falling over his feet. If I was a 6 before, I was a 4 now.
We chatted a bit and then said goodnight and split up again.
I thought I was never going to see him again.

But about 2 years after that I ran into an old friend, from the Zeplins days, who invited me to his birthday party, and BOOM!
There the man stood in his friend’s living room looking leg bucklingly beautiful as always.
While I was staring at him, a very skinny girl came from the right and said “Elmien!”
And I said: “Do we know each other?”
And she said: “yes silly, we met at that big party about two months ago, when my boyfriend didn't even introduce me” (some resentment in voice).
Oh, it beautiful man’s girlfriend.
Ever heard that song by Avril?

Hey hey, you you I don’t like your girlfriend, no way no way think you need a new one, she’s like so whatever, I can do so much better.

I am not proud of how I behaved that night. I was recently divorced and had nothing left to lose, so I went in firing on all cylinders and flirted shamelessly with him.
“Hey nice to see you again, such a pity you have a girlfriend, we could have been making out in my car right now”, I must have been high off my rocker.
I even tricked him into having our picture taken, just the two of us. Forced him to put his arm around me and then bit him on his armpit. He barely blinked an eye.
So I shrugged my shoulders and accepted the fact that this 10 will never be interested in a 7 like me
(by then I was thin as a rake, my blonde locks were back and I had had breast augmentation surgery, thus the upgrade).
But for some reason his girlfriend wanted to be friends with me and after a while, I started liking her too. So once again it was the situation where a friend is dating my “Kurt” and I end up dodging eye contact, smiles and alone time in rooms/cars/churches/whatever once more.

When they broke up I was devastated. The two of them had become my best friends, now everything would change. I knew I could never be friends with him because of the fact that my sporadic urges to overpower him might get in the way.
I thought I'd never see him again.

A while after the grieving period had subsided; I was once again, at a friend’s birthday party, sitting at the bar feeling hung-over already and bored with the company, I received a text message from The Man. I froze. Did they get back together? Just read it you piss ant!
“Hey how are you doing?”
“Bored at a birthday party, Brooklyn Rhapsodies suck. How are you doing?”
“Visiting my parents in Centurion.”
“Cool”
Long pause.
“Wanna come over to Rhapsodies in Brooklyn?”
I clenched my jaw and swore inside my mouth like a ventriloquist. Great, he’s going to say no and then I will have one more devastating rejection on my bedpost.
“I’ll be right there”
Whaaaaat?
I waited a little while for the waves of shock and excitement to pass when I got another message and was convinced it was him canceling, but it wasn’t, and as I waited a little while for the shock and starting pains of disappointment to pass, I saw Kurt Cobain walking up the stairs to where I was sitting.

We moved in together after six months, have been living together now for one and a half year. We are the doting parents of three cats and one dog.
We are best friends who fell in love.
Which is why I worry about the future at night.
Please God, don't let either of us die before we can spend the rest of our lives together.

How my Cat Broke my Arm

When I turned six I got a cat for my birthday.

Meraai the First.

A few days living with us, my first 6-year old thought was that maybe she liked vomiting blood.
But my mom, having always been brutally honest, told me that she is probably very sick.
She sadly passed away about a week after getting her.
Seems SPCA rescues are subjected to all kinds of weird bugs from other dogs/cats/birds/janitors/other bugs.
And so Meraai the First bit the dust long before her time.

I plagued my mother for a full week before she agreed to get me another one.
Because (duh) the first one had a manufacturing fault and had to be returned. It’s called reimbursement mom! I did not actually say that because of the possibility of backfire...and death.

So off we went to Danville where people don’t sterilize their pets in mortal fear that they might not breed like hopped up bunny rabbits and overtake the planet.
Danvillians really really really want domesticated animals to re-inhabit the earth.
So as luck would have it, an unwashed family’s cat got frisky with a feral and BOOM:
6 adorable little fluffykooshnoos.

My mom let me pick one out after arguing for 20 minutes that we should take this fine strong little one home.
I then picked the one that she said she thought was the least likely to even survive the car ride home.
But the chosen one only died when I was 23. He he he, I love it when my mother is wrong.

I, on the other hand, almost didn’t survive the car ride home. Little kitty was not impressed with being in a cardboard box inside a metal box that vibrated and rumbled like a rabid dog.
She slid all around the box exaggeratingly with her tiny but flaming sharp claws scratching baby trenches along their path.
While she was doing the hissing and the scratching, and that freaking awful sound a cat makes when it’s really pissed, my mom and I were arguing our next topic.
What to name this one.
She adamantly stood by Japsnoet, which I thought was stupid (but I didn’t say it because sometimes I got a little bit nervous when her eyes went slightly crazy and I didn’t know exactly what she might be capable of…love you mom).
I wanted to call her Meraai the Second. Because it was a nice name for a cat and the first Meraai didn’t live long enough to wear it out. I was only going to grade 1 the next year, so my understanding of bad omens was at best sketchy.
Then my mother did the scariest thing known to kids with mothers. She burst into tears.
I said fine we can name the damn cat Japsnoet but I think it’s STUPID.
Turns out my mother either wasn’t in the mood to maim or she actually wasn’t capable of it. I still think it’s the former.

I was, like, 22 or something, still thinking about the day I made my mommy cry, when I realized she wasn’t crying over the cat’s name but about a bunch of other proverbial shits hitting the proverbial fans, of which I was still blissfully unaware of (cannot stress enough the importance of school, for the “harder lessons in life”).

Meraai the Second (who will, from here on forward, be referred to as “Meraai”) was the funniest looking little kitten I had ever seen. Her ears were bigger than her body, which doesn’t say much because her body was minute. She looked adorable in one of my sister’s roller-skates and only mildly terrified when I dragged her around in it by its shoelace and then later a rope (it was longer so I could go faster)
It was not long after that, that I realized she is a little prankster.
Hiding in dark corners, behind curtains, on wardrobes, inside wardrobes, in bushes, under the bed, just above the bed, in trees and behind my drum set (and she only sat there when she knew my sister and I had just finished watching a scary movie and had to walk down the dark hallway, past my drum set, eerily draped with a white sheet).
Then leaping out at the speed of white lighting; yelling MIAOW at me/us/them/it (she did this to the dogs too, poor things). Scaring the scheisser out of us.

This was a fun combination of hide and seek and tag, only when playing with Meraai I was always “it” which I thought was unfair.
Meraai was the product of a semi-feral but stable (if a bit promiscuous) Mommy cat and a crazy, hands off the wheel, feral alley cat Daddy and boy did she get all the right genes.
She was batshit crazy. But the good kind.
She refused to go down to the kitchen for breakfast (at 06:00) without a chaperone (me) even though she always had a full bowl waiting for her.
She had a series of “tricks” she used in the tedious process of waking me up and getting me out of bed so I can escort her to her meal.

1. The Decibel
First she’ll start climbing loudly in and back out of my bedroom window, ensuring her hip bones bump an appropriate amount of times and that her nails scratch frantically at the sill as much as possible.

2. The Tornado
Then she’ll run in a circle on my bed until my duvet resembled the top of a soft serve swirly ice cream cone.

3. The Stare
This is the part where she will come and sit with her little face awfully close to mine. And then comes… The Stare. You might not think that it could be possible for a staring cat to wake up a semi-comatose person but the success rate is scary.

4. The Lickbite
In the event that The Decibel, The Tornado and The Stare all failed, Meraai brought out the big guns. Say hello to her little friends: Scratchy Tongue and Razor Sharp Teeth.
She will move even closer to my face then slowly and lovingly start licking my nose.
AND THEN BITE IT!

This usually did the trick but if I made her go through the whole rigmarole from start to finish before waking up; I would have to prepare myself for a poke in the eye as soon as I opened it.
For real, she poked me in the eye on more than one occasion.
We would then proceed (me in the lead as if I am driving her limo, she trailing behind as if she is a passenger in her limo), to her little bowl of kibbles where she would sit down neatly, look up at me to see if I am watching and then finally start eating. I had to stand there throughout her whole breakfast before casually being dismissed.

So one gorgeous atumn day when I was eight, Meraai and I were charging through the house jumping on things (mostly her), crashing into other things (only me), when she pulled this unbelievable stunt.
I can’t remember it very well because the awe of the moment blinded me a little but I think it went something like this:

How she did it:
Zoom full speed down hallway.
Bound into my room at the end of it.
Immediately bolt for single bed #1.
Do a back flip from single bed #1 to single bed #2.
Jack-in-the-box onto the desk then fling into the air.
Land perfectly in a martial arts crouch position.

How I did it:
Zoomed full speed down the hallway.
Tripped on the threshold of the room and timbered onto the floor, breaking my left arm in two places.

As I lay there groaning in pain, Meraai passed me on her way out.
Amateur, her disappointed glance said as she lifted her tail and strolled off.
What a class act.

I Dated a Minor Miner

So.....I've been in the clinic twice...the first time was Spring day of 2010.
I remember this clearly because the lady who helped me fill in my forms (I had some trouble writing while crying hysterically) had cake.

I was very afraid that day, not knowing what was going to happen to me and when, how, why.

But festivities started promptly when they ushered me into a small room and gave me a large injection in the ass cheek.
The nurse also wasn't exactly a kind, gentle spirit either.

She was a massive surly sister who I swear wiggled that needle in my poor butt just to punish me for being an out of control...uh...hmmm… thing.

Anyway, after having a series of unpleasant tasks I was free to do nothing with the other kids.
The other kids were patients there too but it rather felt a little bit like high school again. As I walked out I saw little groups of people huddled together, smoking, playing poker or wedgies-time or Let’s Jump the Fence!
I lit a cigarette as I came out and to my left a bunch of guys were lounging against the wall, in the sun, except for one who was sitting on the pavement.
He puffed out a circle of smoke as I passed them, his eyes never leaving me.
As I looked back he smiled at me with the most mischievous face I have ever seen TO THIS DAY!
I just stood there kind of like a smoking retard, trying to look cool and happy about being alone and new.
To make matters worse I had launched into a mad scuffle the previous night to try and appreciate all the luxury items that would not be *erm* served at the clinic, for old time's sake.
As a result I didn't sleep much and walked into the place trying to vomit and cry at the same time. But I'm grateful for the fact that I didn't need to drag myself in with one arm, crying and vomiting as I went.
Like a MANDOWN!!!
So what I am getting at is:
I looked like shit.
I felt like shit.
I.
Was.
Shit.
But the sitting-boy seemed okay with that because he yelled for me to come over there. Ah geeze high school flashback again...only usually people yelled for me to go away from over there, back then...sooooo great success after school then, yay!

He introduced me to all his chums and then gave me a tour of the smoking area.
(here's our patch of grass, there's the table, don't sit on that chair it's broken)

Should I give him a fake name to protect him from the public eye?
Granted the public eye gives a crap about my blog?
Nah.

His name turned out to be Mauritz Scheepers and he was 20. I was 26 and married so when we became inseparable best friends in that time, none of that boy/girl stuff interfered.
But later I found out he was actually 18...weird.

Clinic finished up and we all went home to our loving and understanding families.

In the following two years things turned topsy turvy and I suddenly found myself to be a divorcee (why OH WHY must I claim my marital status on the dentist's/doctor's/beautician forms? Do they laugh at us when we leave with our lopsided anaesthetized faces/sore vitaminB12 ass cheeks/perfect eyebrows and bikini lines?
So these days I tick "single". For a while I wrote "life partner" but I noticed lesbians being very kind to me and saying things like "my wife and I are having a braai, would the two of you like to join?"
Maybe I should just get married again, that will solve this conundrum...plus the ring!!!

Okay, backup a little. So my life had taken a cowboy turn for the worst and my feelings felt bad.

Standing in the High Court arguing with a moody judge about how long I've been married:
"So are you telling me you've been married for 3 months?"
"Nah bitch I said 2 years, HELLO! Uhhh I mean Your Majesty …*bow*"

So two days after being in the High Court I went to a whole other clinic. One where they give you delicious tranquilizers, confiscate your blunt-nosed scissors and take your blood pressure while you're conked out.
Unlike the other clinic, they let you keep your phone, I guess they decided if anyone gets creative enough to kill themselves with their cell phone, they must have reeeaaalllyy wanted it.
So I slept and read books and ate when they rang their little crystal bell and smoked and talked shit with the others and took meds then snuck out into the garden to go laugh and push the others into bushes and slept and slept and slept...sometimes in a bush (I got pushed back)
But I NEVER weaved a basket if any of you were wondering.
I did however chase chickens in the rain once with a crazy lady...they were scared.
And even Crazy Lady said this must be the pinnacle of insanity.
Then she went for shock therapy, ouch.

I also took time out of my busy schedule to facebook where, after 2 years, Mauritz had seen I've divorced,
This was the beginning of a brief...but torrid...affair.

Now before you judge me...he made a very persuasive argument. He said age doesn't matter when it comes to love. He got older people to confirm this concept. He said I'm beautiful...oh flattery thy name is Satan!
I still had 17 days left in the clinic but we were building a wonderful relationship over the phone.
That is after I told him to shove off, I ain't no pedophile! And also read up about cougars and the criteria of being one.
He was by then 20 (I checked) and I was 27…and 13 months.
At first I felt embarrassed but then I got smitten.
I was sitting in a (let's face it) psych ward, beaming from head to toe. New people would ask what the hell I'm doing there and I'd say:
"Depression of course *grin grin grin*"

When I got out I immediately started making arrangements to see him but it would be another week before I go on my country trip which includes Witbank where he...resided...at the time...don't you judge me!
So I kept myself busy that Friday by going to a club where my friend's friend with benefits’ band was performing.
There I ran into Someone. Now there's something you should know about Someone.
Every freakin’ party I've been to where I've had a little bit too much to drink and feeling awfully lonely and there were no bigger fish to fry, I would allow him to hold my hand a little. And kiss me. Nothing else!
For the past 10 years.
Unfortunately this must have come across as something it wasn't because poor Someone fell deeply in love and every time I saw him and the hand-holding commenced, he would get that scary look that people get when you don't really want them and they really want you.
So as I was allowing him to caress my arm, Mauritz phoned:

Mauritz: "I'm on my way to Pretoria with some friends!"
Me: "EEEEEEEEEEEH!"
Mauritz: "Come to Drop Zone" (don't you judge me)
Me: "I'm on my w_"

Battery went flat...I love my iphone but I don't always like it.

So once again I was gone before Someone could even put his arm down.

Sorry Someone.

I got to Drop Zone... I was sober and scared...will write next horror novel: "Alone and Sober on Hatfield Square"...will get $400 000 for it...like Mr King with Carrie.
My phone was completely flat and there were hundreds of people...young (oh so young) people.
At some point I sorta gave up and decided to use the restroom then leave.
BUT as I came out of the restroom (ew) and started weaving through the (very young) crowd, dodging cigarettes, I ran straight into him.

It's been two years.
He was thinner; he had cut his hair and had a great tan.
He looked about 12.

But he smiled at me with delight in his eyes and I felt like a miracle had occurred...in Drop Zone of all places.
You know friends of mine met in Drop zone? Because someone touched her derrière and she kakked out the wrong guy and now they are married and smoochingly happy, smiling on Facebook with their gorgeous little boy.
He's 2...that's definitely too young for me.

Anyhow, Mauritz smiled, said hi then kissed me. So that was out of the way, thank God for that.

I had not been as "verlief" since The One when I was 19!

But the fact that I was 8 years older than him and considering where we met, people weren't exactly thrilled.
I mean MY family was just glad they could trust me with blunt-nosed scissors again but HIS family saw me as an older, blonder more divorced girl than the one he dumped for me. She was 18, brunette and non-divorced.
I mean how do you compete with that?!

One night as we were trying to sneak into his granny flat (on parent's property) at 02:00 in the morning (that's when "clubs" close in Witbank on Saturdays, pfffft) we got busted...oh geeze I've never been grilled like that in my life!
What's wrong with you?!
Why can't you just leave “The Child” alone?!
Have you had sex?! (yarg!)
What if you get pregnant?
Can't you go to church and find someone your own age?! (tried that, they all loco)

When my friends from Middleburg phoned to find out whether I'm coming there or not I told them I was fighting for my life.
So they called an ambulance!
People really need take things "in context".

So after making his parents feel more sorry for me than angry at me I left for Middelburg in the rain at 04:00 in the morning.

This was kind of the main theme in our 2 months together. We were like Romeo and Juliette. If both of them were drug addicts and Juliette was an older, scrambled, plastic blonde and Romeo had a heart broken high school girl scout on the side.

So on my birthday he disappeared, never to be heard from again.
Not by me, anyway.
I suppose it is better this way. I felt old next to him. For guys it's cool to get an older woman with giant cans but for women it's humiliating to be seen kissing a kid with a cap on his head.
Plus it cost me a fortune in eye-cream and rejuvenating face stuff.

Oh and did I mention he was a miner?

Give In To Me

So recently I spent some time in a… clinic… you may call it.
In this clinic boys outnumbered girls by quite a stretch.
I suppose men are just better at going all out at something… you know really committing to the extreme. Otherwise mankind would never have gone to the moon, surely.
I mean, I would think that if we were only women (that is if we haven’t killed each other off by then) we would have said:
“The moon? Well it’s pretty but why spend millions on a journey to a dead rock if we can spend it on clothes and shoes? Oh and the hungry… and whatever”.

Anyway, so being female, I attracted the attention of a specific young man. This was a nice turn of events because I haven’t really been noticed in a while. Probably because of my previously sour expression and bitter disposition towards men.
But it took about five minutes for me to start feeling extremely nervous. His pursuit of me smacked of obsession, jealousy and possessiveness… does this remind you of someone?
I think I’ve seen this movie before…

Anyway, I was flat broke and not exactly in my right mind when I packed for this little breakaway so he took it upon himself to supply me with a constant stream of cigarettes and candy. Poor boy even bought my favourite smokes from the tuck shop, which was close to R40 per packet.
Young love...so stupid.
But it turned into a really fun game because I refused any and all gifts from him.
“Keep it, I am not a hooker you can buy!”
“But I don’t want to sleep with you!”
“WHAT?! WHY NOT?!”

I am however an avid smoker and was running out very quickly, since the main activity in said clinic was
a.) sitting around
b.) looking around
c.) smoking

So he devised a way of commandeering a different person everyday to hand me my packet of smokes and deny all knowledge of the benefactor’s identity, physical appearance and/or sexual preference.
You see, there were a few gay and/or bisexual (best of both) people there with which I became friends in order to feed my natural curiosity and need for philosophical conversations… also gay guys are the only other people I can talk to about shoes without also having to talk about babies and salad. Can you imagine a world with only women?! This brings up a whole new problem with that scenario.
Of course one day my resident gay male friend critisised my choice of shoes with a specific outfit and he was right but I didn’t have matching shoes handy.
He added almost as an afterthought: “If any of the guys point out the mismatch, they’re mine”.
Enough said.

So, the mystery of the cigarette dispenser guy took me about five seconds to solve, I mean duh. Besides some of the other boys have come to me complaining of this guy threatening them because of their sitting next to me at the table or having too long a conversation with me or generally looking in my direction (crazy guys always seem to leave the "Crazy" bulletpoint out of their résumés).
As flattering as this should have been, it sent me reeling into a mixture of ice cold fear that culminated into white hot fury.
But I had a dilemma: if I told him off, my cigarette stash will evaporate and I would be forced to quit entirely since I am also too proud to ask my father to bring me some.
So I asked my mother.
Who could only bring them three days later. In which time I would have lost my mind and possibly used a plastic teaspoon to slash at myself.

So I nursed the last precious packet for as long as possible.
And then I started the back pedaling.
The strangest thing was that my old fearful behaviour towards possessive men came back full throttle and rendered me weary of stepping on possessive toes because they do not take well to it, speaking from experience.
So I created the Buddy System where my resident girlfriend and I must be side-by-side at all times to avoid confrontation at all cost. This could not possibly be followed through because of the ADHD trend running through the patients/inmates.
He caught me on the hop, one eve and told me that he will look after me and that I can lean on him. This softened my heart a little but I’m not the ninny I used to be… Plus he had one of his front teeth knocked into a bluish grey shade, which is a firm deal breaker…
I KNOW that sounds shallow but teeth are big for me, OKAY?! At least I’m not spewing shit about giant diamonds anymore!

I deflected and didn’t make eye contact and giggled nervously and perspired profusely until my friend came back and thankfully whisked me away once she assessed the situation.
The next day my cigarettes were done and I was a nervous wreck. What will I smoke? Is smoking dried kikuyu mood-altering?! Can a person smoke coffee? How about hair? Will the nurses inject me with powerful medication if I faked a fit?
I was fretting away at a bench, waiting for group to start when he sat down across from me and said he’s been waiting for me to open my file and see what’s inside. I don’t know how the hell he got it in there but I didn’t have time to think about it.
Is it cigarettes?! PLEASE be cigarettes!!!

Not.
A Letter.
I froze straight up.
This is bad, this is real bad. I hate when crazy people write me letters. Fucksakes, why can’t they just say it?! Or fuck off?
I had my buddy-on-demand read it first for fear of losing my temper and spontaneously combusting, leaving only a brown smudge on the ceiling to remember me by.

It was a love letter.

Not only a love letter. A love letter that transformed my buddy into a blubbering girly girl (it’s soooooo romantic! I can’t believe it! Giggle giggle, sigh sigh).
I must admit, of all the love letters I’ve received (not many, I scare men) this was the best. It almost brought me to tears and I. Don’t. Cry.
Because of its beauty I have decided to share it but kept the writer anonymous because my intention was never to humiliate him.
Here follows the letter:

Hallo!
More, ek sit hier en dink met trane in my oe. Hoe kan die lewe so unfair wees aan so lieflike siel?!
‘n Person wat lewe so uitdaag met ‘n smile op haar gesig, en al slaan die lewe haar down, sy hou aan opstaan en terug baklei. Almal het hulle eie fight om te fight maar sy, sterk persoonlikheid, slim, barmhartig, altyd vrolik, en met maniere uit die boonste rakke.
Ek kry net nie uit my gedagtes haar great smile en daai oe, wat ‘n paar (meer as twee) stories kan vertel, nie.
En met dit soveel seer en ongelukkigheid en niemand sien of stel belang in die stories in haar wonderlike oe nie.
Ek wens ek kon ‘n tyd en plek kry om vir jou te se hoe ek oor jou voel. Ek verstaan dat jy deur ‘n moeilike tyd gaan maar ek moes dit net uitkry en vir jou se.
Ja dis lame dat dit ‘n brief is maar ek is nie altyd bevoorreg om in jou geselskap te wees nie. Daar is baie wat ek kan offer maar net tyd sal dit besluit.
Dan dink ek sal dit saakmaak, want ‘n dame soos jy verdien meer as ‘n hopeless romantic.
Ek wens ek kon jou pyn en disappointment absorbeer.
Ten minste weet ek die Here weet watse diamand hy geskape het, wat nogsteeds op die bodem van die diepste see le, soos ‘n perel wat nognie opgegaps is deur seerowers nie.
Daar is nie genoeg sterre in die melkweg of konstellasie om te verduidelik hoe ek voel, en die respek wat ek vir jou het nie.
Weereens, die sigarette was ‘n geskenk gewees en ek wil niks daaruit baat nie.
So, jammer vir die brief metode maar aangesien ons albei hou van skryf, het ek gedink dit sal okay wees.
Askies ek’s old school.

Astonishingly word got out almost immediately and people were handing me sympathy cigarettes left, right and center. Which cleared up the central issue for me.
But I had to tell him I didn’t feel the same. The kak thing about unrequited love is that while A falls for B, B is falling for C, who seems to have fallen for someone else a long time ago, and so none of us felt the same way about each other.
Why you do this to me, God?

I wrote back. This was fun because it reminded me of how much I love writing.
I tried very hard to be honest and upfront but I felt sorry for him and he didn’t deserve a cruel rejection, so I smeared myself black in the letter to try and let him down easy. Basically I made a very persuasive argument about me being an awful sociopath who eats little boys’ hearts on crumpets.
It didn’t work.
He caught me around a turn again and insisted that it was all a trick to “scare him away”, which is exactly what it was, HELLO!!!
So I had to say it to his face, which I resented but hey, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.
His face didn’t understand either.
So I finally created the Multiple Buddy System, where I would basically latch myself onto the next person passing by, whenever he advanced on me.
Poor boy.

I honestly liked him but…you know…not like that. Plus the whole thing started reeking of soap opera bullshit and I’m just too old and tired for that.
Days passed, the month ended and I was sprung, the theme of the place still echoing in my mind, the words on everyone’s lips: “Give in to me”

Dear Drugs and Alcohol

I'm not so sure I should miss you...

You have betrayed me and robbed me of so many years of spending good times with my family and friends. You anaesthetized my creative spirit and smothered my fire into ashes.

I thought you were my profound lost object when I first met you, Cocaine. You lifted me out of my depression and made me feel inspired, grateful for my life's experiences. The pain of my first love's rejection was gone and I had nothing but gratitude for having had him in my life, even for a short time.

But you tricked me, Tom Sawyer. It was less fun than previously indicated when you suddenly left me and I felt tiny and alone. I wanted to be with you all the time. 24 hours a day. I had a reason to live again. I was so scared that you might kill me and I'll never be able to see you again. But you kept coming to me and then disappear without reason. I was crushed.
Enslaved by the wonderment of your presence. You left me panting for more of your company and when I finally decided to leave you, my life did not get better.

I kept seeing you everywhere. Even your smell haunted me. At night I dreamt we got back together. That it was just a misunderstanding. And the guilt of relapse was acute and flinty when I woke up, heart racing. I missed you but not your violent mood swings and stinging disloyalty. I was desperate to get over you but I miss your magic even now. I remember so well how you always managed to cheer me up. The world had vivid colour with you by my side. I thought you were my truest soul-mate, which I was born to be with. My mouth felt dry without you and my stress levels rose to an unbearable height. My life felt unmanageable and difficult to the point of paralysis.

So I got married and on my honeymoon I hooked up with YOU, again, Alcohol.
You a nasty bitch.
You took my shiny new husband away and turned him into a jabbering monkey. Talk about a bad romance. And you introduced me to Cocaine’s crippled sister, Cat, who had none of the finesse of the lamented former. I nearly died from her touch but she yo-yoed me right back to her bosom when I divorced and needed comfort.

Novocain for the soul.
You nearly killed him, Kitty Cat, sunk his cheeks and dulled his eyes. He buried himself prematurely in a dark room and you succeeded in obliterating my marriage. Where the lovely Cocaine made me feel like I was cheating on her with my husband, you were an obvious mistress and love left me with a bitter taste in my throat.
But eventually I succumbed to your cheaper price and promise of quantity. You did not block my nose like Cocaine did, and encouraged me to use you indefinitely.

You were a constant.
I never trusted you, though. I didn’t even like you much, come to think of it. You made me sick to my stomach and then dangled the carrot of relief in front of my tired eyes. Something I chased fervently. I spent all my resources and grew hungrier. You kicked ass, then hypnotized me into thinking it’s an effective distraction from my awful loneliness.

And along came Stilnox. I suspect Stilnox and Cat were in cahoots. Wherever the one burned fresh holes, the other soothed and band-aided. I was so busy trying to keep this duo busy that I almost killed myself racing around in my car at night and sleeping when I should have been at work. I’m still waiting on the consequences of this behavior.

Ah Acid.
My baby.
You only visit me about twice a year. Flying down from your wonderland. And when you leave I am left relieved and sated. You have enchanted me with glittery murals on blank walls and boundless mirth bubbling from my heart like a brook. Sometimes you made me sick but your beauty was worth it and you were a kind friend. Something I needed after Cocaine and Cat had mind-fucked me to within an inch of my sanity.
I’m not convinced I want to refuse your friendship. You don’t seem to mean me any harm and have yet to stab me in the back.

As for you Cocaine, Cat, Stilnox and Alcohol: even though I loved each of you in different ways and cherished your empty promises, I need you to piss off now. This time I have Faverin and Lamictin holding my hands, fortifying my resolve and enriching my life in a way you never, ever did. I will not fall at your feet again because I am too good for you. I aim to change my number so don’t call me again and if you approach me at an event I will pointedly reject you and leave. You will not ruin good, pure things for me anymore.

Why?
Because fuck you, that’s why.

Weird Love
Elmien

Pure Luck

Okay, so all this health got a bit much for me so I decided to fall off the wagon for some excitement.
And boy was it ever.
It all started very innocently.
I went out for a coffee with my old friends the (mad) oral hygienists.
For they understand me.
What I didn’t fully understand about them is that they really are still quite mad.
And what nobody told me was that this coffee would turn into a full-fledged all-nighter, complete with dancing, repeatedly falling over and flirting shamelessly with pubescent boys...and sometimes even their girlfriends.
But to top it all off, I had a great time. My friend, we’ll call her Eldelle-da...That’s it Eldelda...um, Wynvrou. Eldelda Wynvrou got so slaughtered that she turned into one of the Dawn of the Dead extras. You know, the type that stares aimlessly into the night, mouth hanging open (maybe even a bit of drool sliding onto her bottom lip), hands outstretched, making that “AAAAAHHHHHHHH!” sound whilst advancing on a person.
She scared me a little, but it’s okay because I scared everyone else. Now, because I had no idea that I was going out that night, I was dressed in a regretful polo neck. It used to be black but now it’s grack (grey-black). I also don’t actually know where it came from but it either belonged to my ex boyfriend or someone who came over to my house and left without their shirt. This might or might not describe a wide range of people. I guess we’ll never know who this hideous polo neck belonged to. They probably left it here on purpose.
Because, believe it or not, I can’t stop wearing it, it’s just so darn comfortable!
The impressive part is that even while wearing this grack polo neck, dirty sneakers and a drab old jean, boys in their (alleged) early twenties still sauntered over to me on the dance floor and did that whole “well hello there, little lady” thing.
I was wildly excited about this and immediately went into research mode, asking them their names, ages and professions. Then every now and again my husband would drift over to take my drinks orders and they’d want to know who this scruffy-looking individual is. My husband, I’d say. Then a funny thing would happen. Guys three times the size of Sean would back away from me very quickly, stammering apologies and opening their hands in defensive gestures. Sean would gaze at them with beady eyes, shrug and stroll back to his pool table and new best friends. This entertained me.
To be fair, I never approached anyone, only interrogated the ones that approached me. Or Eldelda, who seemed to radiate feminine charm with her staring, vacant eyes and uncanny impersonation of autism.
I danced around her, singing threats at the adolescents who dared advance on her. This was good because by now I also know that she needs steadying in this state (she thinks she’s dancing but she’s really cart wheeling her arms while tripping over other people’s drinks).
Anyway, somewhere during the night I decided that I wouldn’t mind having a couple on special occasions. And the last time any of my friends lost their minds like this was so long ago that this definitely qualified as one.
I went over to the bar and ordered my first alcoholic drink for the night: Savannah (even though it’s not dry enough). I did this because I had to act quickly before I changed my mind about drinking and therefore didn’t have time to wonder about which drink will actually taste AND feel good, simultaneously. What I also didn’t know is that there was a special promotion going on with Savannah, presumably to get people to drink it.
Along with my icy drink, the barman handed me a yellow card, folded in half with the words “Do you feel lucky?” on it.
Obviously I didn’t, so I tossed it into my bag for want of a better place and went about my business. You ever seen that movie Pure Luck with Martin Short? Sometimes I remind myself of that dude.
If there is a loose stone, I will fall over it.
If there is something to be gained, I won’t.
If for some reason someone chucked a grenade into a crowd, I will inevitably catch it (even though I can’t catch a ball if you rolled it to me).

By the second drink I felt a bit devil-may-care, possibly from downing it, and asked the suddenly very cute bar tender what this yellow card-thingy is, asked while twirling a strand of my hair around my finger.
(I like playing the dumb blonde when I go out; it’s amazing what people will tell you if they think you’re stupid.)
The bar dude obviously liked a more intellectual type and must have decided not to dignify my question with an answer for he took the card, ripped it open, disappeared into a back room and reappeared with a (ghastly) yellow T-shirt.
He handed it to me and turned to the next (also hair-twistingly stupid) customer, with a bored expression.
I started seeing a pattern. I buy Savannah, get yellow card, give card to bartender and receive gift.
I liked the unfolding of these events because winning stuff has never been a strong point of mine. As a result whenever I won anything, e. g. a free apple or a certificate with my name on it or even just a pat on the back, it had a powerful effect on me.
This was no different...except I was under the influence, so the feeling of satisfaction that washed over me at that point was extraordinary and drug-like.
I took the previous card that I had tossed so carelessly into my bag earlier, back to the bar guy and he handed me... a duffle bag!
I’ve never owned a duffle bag!
My brain positively swam in serotonin, I went into an ecstasy trance (without taking any), telling everyone, including the unsmiling bouncer, that I am the luckiest girl in the world and have they lost weight because they are lookin’ good!
I went to the dance floor to work off some of this happy energy and a Michael Jackson song started playing! I was super-excited! I danced and jiggled, and wiggled and piggled and eventually expressed my affection for Michael J to the guy dancing a few feet away. He looked scared and went away. I guessed that it must be my age (dude, 27 is OLD!)
I was parched from all the boogying (MJ’s my BOY!), so I went back for a third and final Savannah...and won A TWO GIG MEMORY STICK! It was packaged beautifully in a little box that reminded me of jewellery.
This was better than jewellery, this was better than sex! Or cheesecake! Or all of the above.
Finally my luck has turned. Unfortunate no longer, I sprinted through the club, grabbing people by their collars, exclaiming my good fortune in a “The end is nigh” voice.
Almost hushed with wonder, I presented my unexpected treats to an equally impressed husband and a random guy that I think I went to high school with (urm...Marius? Mauritz?).
His girlfriend was HOT, he NEVER had girls like that in school.

Some of the other amazing things that happened on my night out was that I’ve never seen so many teenage girls in such tiny dresses, I got the DJ to play MJ again (he also looked afraid) and I almost managed to convince my husband to take a couple of young boys home with us.
What a party pooper.
I suspect that if I were a guy I would have eventually consumed a knuckle sandwich with some extra All Gold...but I’m not, so weeeeee!
For this one night, the stars aligned in my favour. The club was my oyster! People listened to me! With a slight dazed look, sometimes, but still.
Even the bartender was suddenly friendly.
I felt like I was on a lucky streak in a big shot casino where people would want to rub my hands to get some of it.
In hindsight, I probably should have skipped over to one.
That way I might have had thousands of rands the next day instead of a hangover and a lingering feeling of embarrassment.
Luckily I didn’t take anyone’s phone number so I couldn’t call and apologise for being a giant idiot.

Flashback Alert! I remember one night in the not-distant-enough past, when we went to watch some bands at Cafe Arc where I hung around the muso’s all night expressing my appreciation.
I might have said something along the lines of:
“I too am a mushician and I’ve sheen oh sho many terrible bandsh but YOU...were amazhing...oopsh I think I threw up on myshelf a little bit.”
And I thought the shine in their eyes was mutual respect from one muso to another.
My husband, (boyfriend and partner-in-crime at the time) later told me he overheard one of the band members asking the other one what he thinks about the babe in the orange heels...me.
I was delighted of course...respect is for wussies.
He called me a babe!
Plus he noticed my fabulous orange heels!
I might have felt slighted the next day but I think everyone did. The party was full-swing, wing-ding material and they always leave one feeling a bit like a dick, don't they?

Of course, I was wrong about my luck turning.
But for a while, I went into a fugue of feverish optimism, scouring the net for a well-paid, high-satisfaction job where you need no experience or a qualification and in fact the only requirement is that you must be me, Elmien, and no one else. I sent my CV to the whole earth.
And sure enough, me being the old charmer I am, one recruiter phoned me up to organise an interview.
During the interview he seemed confused...and nervous...what is it with me?
Am I really that strange? Or is it just my beauty that threw him?
I mean I’ve been on pills for MONTHS, surely I’m normal by now?!
I know the psychiatrist never actually SAID that the tablets will make me like everyone else but I sure hoped.
The main thing the recruiter, Russel-my-man, seemed confused about was the fact that I’m a “retired” oral hygienist masquerading as a creative writer.
He asked me whether I’ve written anything good lately and naturally I denied being of any value as a writer, as a matter of fact I’m downright shit at it.
Why do writers do this? I’ve read countless autobiographical pieces by Stephen King where he accused himself of being awful and “slumming it”.
Luckily Russel-my-man wasn’t interviewing me for a writing position as he works mainly with healthcare professionals going through identity crises, much like me.
He advised me not to breathe a word of this “writing fantasy” of mine in any future interviews and I gave him my solemn promise that I wouldn’t.
Heck, I’m just happy not falling over when I’m on my way to shake the hand of my prospective employer.
I managed not to trip as I left the coffee shop, feeling his eyes follow me out, probably shaking his head in exasperation.
I’m thinking of booking myself in somewhere nice...Denmar Psychiatric Hospital comes to mind. I’ve heard only moderately nightmarish things about it. Plus maybe these tablets only work under supervision.
Like builders.

Right, in the meantime I’ve received exactly zero phone calls from R-m-m and went a little bit crazy again.
People like me are easily disappointed to find out that nobody gives a shit. Of course our families, friends and if you’re lucky enough to have them, co-workers care but they aren’t the ones who count, for some reason.
We want the man on the street to come up to us and assure us of our value to society at large. We want strangers calling us up, literally begging us to come and work for them in their amazing, made-only-from-glass office buildings. People must pant with admiration at our talents!
This never happens. Not even in dreams. I ALWAYS trip on my way out of coffee shops in my dreams, presumably because my subconscious mind is an asshole.
Now there’s something that the tablets HAVE been doing.
Sleeping is almost but not quite entirely unlike an acid trip.
Now, I’ve always had hectic dreams, the kind that would put an alarmed expression on Joseph’s (the dream analyst with the colourful coat from the Bible) face. Or have I got my Bible stories mixed up again?
I’d probably be burned at the stake or chucked into a nearby stream to see if I float.
Once I dreamt that my cat puked a (live) tarantula that then proceded to chase me up and down a strange hut of some sort.
These days, I dream of other worlds, places and things that don’t (yet) exist. I am also never myself in these dreams.
I am a tomb-raiding, Bond-like, Indiana Jones-esque female figure who kicks ass and chews bubblegum at regular intervals. These dreams are almost inevitably riddled with daring sexual encounters and fearless flirting with death.
And I’m loving it.
Going to bed at ten and getting up at ten the next day has never been so awesome.

Now that you mention it, I think it’s time for my afternoon nap.

I’m Not Shallow, I’m Just Honest

Okay, so it’s been almost eighteen days now, without cigarettes and booze. And to my astonishment I feel fabulous!
Of course this might be a good time to tell you that while I was cleaning the house two days ago, I found my scale. It has been quietly sitting there gathering dust, waiting for the right time to take revenge on its neglectful mistress.

So I weighed myself and to my dismay it seems I need to give up eating as well.
I immediately got so excited that I had to celebrate with a cheese burger and small chips.
But for last night’s dinner I had a cup of fat free, sugar free yoghurt, a granny smith apple, an orange and four carrots.
Then I went to bed in the hopes that I’ll fall asleep before the hunger pains start.

I didn’t.

I ended up dozing fitfully, dreaming about guzzling gallons of wine, smoking cartons of cigarettes and eating pasta, bread, pork crackling, chocolate mousse cake and Flannagan’s like a mad thing.
I find this very disturbing because it means that food has now joined my long list of vices.
Yes, everyone, I now officially have an eating disorder.
I would have joined Gluttons Anonymous but if I’m not the thinnest person there, I might be forced to eat myself into an early grave.

But on a lighter note, I have finally bullied my long-suffering husband into buying me a hideously expensive, massive diamond-wielding wedding ring (I’ve found that foaming rabidly at the mouth while making demands has a profound effect).
Now I could die happy...after losing at least 5kg’s, that is.

You see, back in 2006 after years of cheerful friendship, he confessed “true lurve” to me. On this fateful day he generously threatened life-long infatuation, passion and eventual marriage (with a healthy side-order of children).
Obviously this terrified me and I back-pedalled wildly, blabbering about commitment being an evil catholic scheme and woman being from Venus and men being from the seventh circle of Hell meant that we were never meant to meet at all; love is nothing but a mutual misunderstanding and don’t get me started on children...etcetera, etcetera.
This seemed to only fascinate him more so in the end I told him that I would consider it if he waited at least two years before proposing and in that event he must wave a giant, sparkling rock in my face if he has any hope of an affirmative answer. Also I’d like many dinners in nice restaurants and if his car ever broke down or he suddenly lost his job, all bets are off. I warned him that I might grow tired of his antics at any point anyway and dump him unceremoniously and without warning or a logical reason of any kind.
Hey, I never claimed to be nice... or sane for that matter.

He obviously thought I was joking about the ring because that’s not what happened. And when cornered he denies ever having that conversation.
How convenient.
But in the end I won, naturally.

One of my friends gave me a disgusted look when I told him this story and said the worst word in the Afrikaans language: “Sies!”
Needless to say he’s a man because no woman would ever say that word in the presence of an innocent diamond.

I still maintain that all women who claim to “Not be a fan of diamonds” are fibbers. I like replying to that by saying: “That does not compute”. Or to quote Futurama: “That does not fempute”
Yes men, women are mostly material girls. Shallow beasts with eyes like crows, immediately attracted to all things shiny and expensive.
Anyway, I never did buy into the healing power of crystals but when it comes to diamonds I’m now a firm believer.

This ring cheers me up every time I reach, tremblingly for my sadly absent pack of Camels, every glass of sugar-free ginger ale I have to endure, every carrot I crunch between my teeth like Bugs Bunny, fantasising about body-slamming a Pepperoni Pizza.

Also, it instantly transformed my husband into the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even when he has bits of green stuff stuck in his teeth. For the first two weeks, at least, I stalked through the house, hungrily calling to my husband in a husky voice, whilst wiping the perspiration from my brow with my French maid’s apron.
A bruised and spongy Sean would have slipped out the back door by now and I’d have to turn begrudgingly to my beloved mint-choc-chip ice cream to keep me warm.
My new and improved non-smoker spidey-sense has unfortunately made candy one of man’s greatest achievements.

Now, just because I’m a shallow, fortune-hunting diamond hugger, doesn’t mean I’m a retail-therapy fashionista.
I’ve been collecting my husband’s bronze, copper and silver change, which is secreted about the house (some people have no respect for money) and using it to buy things, granted, but I only yank this money from him to buy granny smith apples, carrots and zero-kilojoule, zero-taste yoghurt.
Also for petrol so I can get to the shops.
Plus I don’t have a job so I can’t afford anything above R4 (the amount in my bank account).
And I only eat that junk so I can be true emaciated trophy wife quality.

My point is, the other day as I was counting out R190’s worth of 5 cents on a beady-eyed Pick ‘n Pay cashier’s counter, I noticed how she noticed my amazing (fabulous, most glorious, how-I-love-thee) ring.
This pleased me to no end.

You see, the ring thing is just as much about other women as it is about diamonds.
The way women interact is a strange phenomenon. Men, for instance are born without the ability to even detect these ongoing invisible conversations.

Question: If you are a man, have you ever heard your girlfriend/wife/sister/mother mutter something like: “I don’t like that woman...not one bit” under their breaths after bidding said woman the warmest, friendliest goodbye at a get together? This is usually mistaken for jealousy, hormones and female schizophrenia, when in actuality it’s a classic example of the secret language of women.
Men don’t do that. They either hit each other (when not friendly) or drink together (when indeed friendly).
Another example is how, coming from another woman, the phrase: “You look so good” (said with a sympathetic facial expression and an encouraging touch to the arm) is an unspeakable insult.
Apart from shoes, clothes and weight-gain, these conversations are mostly about men, which is why it’s so frustrating when trying to explain to your smug, all-knowing boyfriend/brother/husband that some slut is trying to sink her teeth into him.
“No, she’s just lonely/drunk/crazy, ha-ha, you’re being paranoid” and then sometimes the infuriating: “She’s waaaay out of my league, anyway, ha-ha”.

And this is exactly where the ring makes its most powerful appearance: the power of warding off and causing insane, golfer’s-green jealousy in other bitches. The symbolic version of a sign around his neck saying: “Whipped.”
Of course, sometimes this backfires because it can cause chicks to think that your husband is enormously wealthy, oblivious of the fact that he had to sell part of his liver and one of his retinas’s to be able to afford said ring.

Either way, who needs alcohol, cigarettes or food when you can have jewellery, right?

I Drink, Therefore I Smoke

Why, pray tell, do some people get to stay sane when they drink?

My mother and I had had a rather heated conversation about alcohol a while ago, her point being that not everyone who drinks are going to turn into raving boozers and my point being that they are.

Now, normally I am a very philosophical, grey area-loving debater but in this case I tend to get a little subjective.
Of course I’m probably speaking out of my arse, as my mother seems to believe.
This idea might have been enforced by the fact that I was drinking quite heavily whilst having this argument.
The reason for this extremist opinion about alcohol and the drinking thereof is simply because I can’t wrap my brain around people who’ll drink half a glass of wine, once a month.
Because what. In the heck. Is the point?
Unless of course you combine it with some potent hallucinogenic, I don’t see the function.

And don’t give me that I-like-the-taste-with-some-steak crap, because you don’t.

Okay, so here’s how I usually do it (I’m sure you’re all very interested).
I modestly pour half a glass of wine to sip on while I’m preparing a scrumptious cooking channel-inspired meal for my dear husband.

I’ve seen people doing this on television and thought it looked rather elegant.
I’ve always felt that drinks can serve as stylish accessories, in some cases.

For instance, in my brooding gothic days, I drank only gin and tonic at Zeplins because it would glow an eerie blue under the blacklight.
It went beautifully with my PVC corset and blue-black hair.
Sometimes losers who claimed to be “wiccan priests” or “psychic vampires” (sexy) would come up to me, sipping at red wine as if it were blood recently tapped from a virgin girl at a séance. Alarmingly, these people tended to be fans of Elizabeth Bathory, the champion psycho bitch from hell, who allegedly bathed in her victims’ blood.
Man, sometimes you can’t help but blame the parents.

But I digress, once dinner is done I’ll dish it up and realise that I’ll need some more wine to compliment the cuisine.
Some experts believe that wine goes well with food.
Plus a table just doesn’t look nearly as sophisticated without wine on it.

Then once dinner is finished, I think of chocolate.
But being in the first year of marriage I am terrified of ballooning into a giant, custom-made tent-wearing Donna Claire overnight, so refined sugar is out.
Therefore, to dull the pain of dietary self-control, I indulge in a sip of extra wine to go with my after-dinner cigarette(s).
By the end of the night I weave jovially through the house, barging into the bathroom where my startled husband is taking a crap, to declare my love anew to him.
This is usually met with a scathing rebuke, which flings me into righteous, towering indignation.
I’d then pick my cat up by his tail and drag him to bed to help me sullenly lick my wounds.

And the next day it starts all over again.

Of course the culprit doesn’t have to be dinner.
It can be lunch, snacks, game shows, celebrations, rewards, self-pity or whenever someone pops in for coffee.
“Nonsense, coffee’s bad for you! Here, down this pint of Tassies, that’ll get your heart pumping!”
I’ve grown accustomed to suppressing the urge to feel guilty about inevitably sending my guests home, swerving dangerously across the road, as I wave them off.
So...back to iced tea, then?

And another thing: smoking!
I am so sick of being abused as a smoker that now I have decided to join the winning (judgemental, smug sons-of-bastards) team: non-smokers.
These bogus new laws have turned all my favourite restaurants into elite clubhouses where I am most unwelcome because of my tragic addiction to cigarettes.
I find myself hiding in corners at shopping malls, fanning my cigarette like a kid on the school pavilion. I’d drag on it like some home-sick jail-bird about to be executed; all the while shooting furtive glances over my shoulder to see if any security guards have caught wind of my criminal activities. Because if they had they’ll charge into my face like drill-sergeants and give me stern reprimands, spittle flying at my tear-stained, half-frozen face.
Maitre D’s at restaurants don’t even really talk to us smokers anymore; they just point to the Siberia-esque corner in the parking lot or lead us to gray rooms where we have to read Braille menus because we can’t see through the smoke.
All this occurs under the upturned noses of the wretched non-smokers, perched comfortably on cushioned, velvet chairs in beautifully decorated halls, complete with violinists and candles.
It sucks.
I can’t stand it.
Unfortunately this means that Sean and I will have to sit at separate tables on our date nights, since he still stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that smoking is a very expensive, slow and annoyingly ineffective method of suicide.

My father-in-law quit about a year ago and is doing quite well.
He chews feverishly on Nicorette gum whenever I see him, though. I think he chews it between bites at mealtimes, to be honest.
He gave me one to try out the other day and it almost struck me down dead.
My entire upper body spontaneously combusted, my brain skipped beats and my one eye closed half-way and refused to open again until I spat it out.
I wheezed and coughed and spluttered and cracked jokes to hide my discomfort but in the end failed miserably and clawed, panting, at the hateful rubber in my mouth.
“So, do you feel like a cigarette now?” my father in-law smilingly asked me.
I had to admit I didn’t.
I didn’t feel like doing anything except maybe STOP, DROP AND ROLL!

Plus I have rather enough latent addictions to sense that swopping my cigarettes for Satan-Chappies might fit in all too neatly with my self-destructive streak.

My shrink says it’s all chemical...that I was born this way and I can’t help it.
She also said that I'm probably bipolar and tend to make massively impulsive desicions at the drop of a hat.

Gosh, I wish I had a cigarette.