Pimpin' yo ass...

It's raining in Cape Town.  And I have very little fuel in my car.  So let's hope it gets me home on fumes.  Which it will.  My car is good to me like that.  But that is not the subject of this blog ... but could be tomorrow if I run out of fuel.

So last night was supposed to be an early night. I slaved away over a voiceover script until about 9.30pm and was about to head home when I got a text from The Genie saying that a certain government tax organisation could go do bad things to itself (she was going to fill out the dreaded return) whilst she was almost through a bottle of wine and was about to open the tequila. The Genie is on the way home so I thought I would pop in for a Jose nightcap.  I had worked hard after all and had been good since Saturday.

When I got there I was greeted by a very merry Genie, a bowl of food, a glass of wine, two men and a shot of tequila. Good move! The next thing I knew were were heading out the door to look for mischief thanks to Pretoria Friend fancying a "quick one" at one of the locals.  Pretoria Friend bailed at the last minute, but it was too late for us.  There we were, all lined up at the bar at a local pool joint in Obs.  One that is notorious for causing bad hangovers.  Especially on week nights. Especially on student night (which it wasn't - that's a Tuesday night if you need to know).

It was here that I was introduced to a well-known concept that is a popular party theme and ghetto occupation.  Pimping.  

The Genie's brother thought it would be fun to set up his sister with some random dude across the bar. One that was highly unlikely to get laid that night.  The deal was done and he told me that even if she didn't get down and dirty with the man, he would pay her R1 000. 


Turns out The Genie didn't take said man home, even though when I left the pool joint at 1.30am she was happily sinking his balls on the pool table. But she should be a R1 000 richer. And I am wondering how I go about finding a pimp of my own.

Pimp (from Urban Dictionary)
A bad ass that makes a living selling his woman, for shit loads of cash. Usually too busy to remember names so the common pimp will call his bitches, "bitches". Can usually be spotted by their unique taste in "pimpin clothes", and by them driving an old school Cadillac. Indeed we all wish we could be pimps.

Booze Label Scrabble

I learnt a new game last night at a local gig.  Not a drinking game, sadly, but a fun one nevertheless. Booze Label Scrabble - taught to me by my new Canadian Friend.

Basically you rip the labels off bottles of alcohol. Then you tear the letters out.  Using those letters you have to come up with words and, like scrabble, whoever gets the longest word wins.

We got together quite a good collection of  B's, L's, A's, C's, K's, L's, A's, B's, E's, L's and A's, M's,S's, T's, E's, L's and H's, U's, N's, T's, E's, R's D's R's Y's. Savannah is not good for this we discovered.

I came up with MUSE and Canadian Friend came up with LABIA.  We then decided to collaborate our efforts and were very proud of the result - U WANKERS BALLS SMELL.

Will add picture of said achievement tomorrow, if I can figure out how to get the picture off my phone.

Hell-o-ween weekend

You know it was a good weekend when the first drink of the day is not tea but a Go Girl energy drink.  Then you open your bag on a Monday morning and find your bra in it from Friday night.

Friday night started civilised-like at Peddlars.  It never used to be a civilised affair, but sadly it is now full of old gits who sit very quietly at the tables (the tables!) drinking their beers and ordering dinner. I found it all a bit sad.  What happened to the days of jousting your way through the throng of youngsters to get a shot of tequila whilst getting beer spilt down your front?  Or am I supposed to be grown up now? Pfft, boring!  So, after a few bevies I decided it was time to order some stomach-lining. No go there either, the menu has gotten all fancy.  No more 'tato skins oozing with cheese for R30. No sirree, it's all fancy burgers and steaks now. So we settled for a plate of chips for R25.  With no cheese.  Or bacon.  Then it was off to some "country club" in Bergvleit where we were told "we would be good-looking no matter what".  Sounded good to me!  A cover band was playing and the drinks were cheap. We settled in quickly and had a rocking time.  Then my bra started digging into me.  Underwiring hurts when it escapes.  And that is why I took it off. Because it was hurting. Not because I wanted to throw it at the band.

After crawling home at 2am, I was up at 7.30am to go to breakfast with my Mom Friend. 8am breakfast on a Saturday is always a good idea on a Thursday.  Not on Saturday. But bacon and french toast is always a good thing and so is a nap after it.  The dogs were very confused when I got home at 10am and went back to bed.

After an hour's power nap it was off to Party Partner down the road to help with his Halloween Braai set-up. It was all quite fitting, me walking down the street armed with Halloween goodies looking much like a zombie.

Needless to say I was late for the actual braai thanks to making a potato salad for over 20 people (that is a lot of potato peeling) and I also made the fatal mistake of going to the shops for supplies.  Irrespective of the fact that it was Halloween weekend, it WAS hell out there.

Then to make the afternoon worse, I chose to support the losing team. Safe to say that I will never support WP again. Seems to me that all rugby teams that wear black are winning teams.  Except it was pointed out that the All Blacks lost their match to Australia in the morning.  Clearly not a good day for rugby.

After many tequilas at the Oblivion bar, I attempted to get the hot barman's number.  Apparently he doesn't give out numbers to people he doesn't know.  I pointed out that in order to get to know someone they need your number.  He pointed out that I could just stand at the bar and order drinks from him all night and get to know him that way.  Clever barman-wanting-tips move.  After getting bored of said barman, I briefly considered a spot of pole dancing. But not on the one on the dance floor.  The one holding up the scaffolding.  Good thing I was stopped, I could have brought the house down...

Have a rocking week people!  And don't forget to join me at Lovecats on Friday at Mercury.  All proceeds to animal welfare.  Even from the bar.  Good excuse to drink up.  Hope there's hot barmen.  And a pole..

Does being single, independent and selective make you a lesbian?

After a particularly trying Friday, my day ended with someone at the office asking me if I was lesbian. The silence that ensued was followed by a defiant barrage on my behalf, with the person who asked the question saying “Oh I was just asking. It’s only because you have a certain way about you”. WTF?

It’s not that I have a problem with lesbians (I have lesbian friends, gasp!), but why do some men immediately think a woman must be gay if she is strong-minded, independent and perhaps a little intimidating. So I asked my Lesbian Friends if they thought I could have gay tendencies. Their faces went into shock and the reply was “Er no Tequila Tart, you are most definitely a breeder, no matter what anyone thinks. Besides, could you go down on a girl?” Euew… So after much consoling and many canned tuna jokes I went home confident in the fact that I am definitely not lesbian.


So what is it that makes a man assume a woman must be gay?


Is there a “butch” factor?
Is it because I am not stick thin and blonde? Does black hair and broad shoulders make you butch? Do flat shoes and make you masculine? Ok, I could do with losing some weight, but I happen to like black hair. I can’t wear heels comfortably (high arches or something), although I really wish I could and my broad shoulders are from years of being in swimming teams.



Is it because I am independent and seemingly don’t need a man?
I am an only child who went to boarding school at 6 years old, followed by going to London for 2 years on my own at 19. My dad died a few days after I turned 21 and my mum lives in the next door country. Of course I am independent. I can carry my own groceries, change a tyre and can go roadtripping on my own. I have been to gigs on my own, travelled on my own and lived alone for years. Needy, never. Lonely, sometimes. Independent, you bet.


Is it because I have been single for some time?
Forgive me for being picky about who I jump inbetween the sheets with. In fact I admit I am downright picky when it comes to men. And because of this I have had some amazing relationships in my time from choosing carefully. Does the fact that I am not desperate enough to take the next bad-pick-up-line-male home with me just because he’s a man and every girl should have one, make me a dyke? Should I be happy to accept any man that comes along and spend the rest of my life being mostly unhappy with my choice, but accepted by others as being “straight” because I am in a relationship?


Could it in fact be the men?
I love men (aren’t lesbians supposed to hate men?) and have met some really nice ones along the way. But lately, just as I start to think, “Yeah, this guy could be a rocker, I am kinda starting to like him”, he runs for the hills. Which, if I am going to get bitchy (ooh, how girly of me), makes me question the calibre of men around. Are men today too afraid to date a streetwise girl that has her own mind, is happy to pay for her own meal and can change her own lightbulbs? A girl who could probably drink many men under the table (I am Zimbabwean) and has a mind wedged firmer in the gutter than most blokes. Does being “one of the boys” make you unattractive, unsexy and most definitely gay?


OK, so I can lose weight (less butch factor), become more girly (high heel shoe shopping anyone?) and start asking for help (I need some pictures put up, requires a drill and this so-called-lesbian doesn’t own one). But I am not about to start running around Cape Town shagging every available dude at the next bar to prove a point. Nor am I going to shack up with a man who doesn't make me happy just so I can feel accepted by a couple-dominated society. Call me independent, call me intimidating, call me strong-willed and free thinking. Call me what you like, but don’t start questioning my sexual preferences just because I seemingly don’t “need” a man.

It's a lunar lunatic long weekend

Yipppeee!  Long weekend time ..  and mine starts at 1pm today.  Off with the office gang to play tenpin bowling.  Snacks are being provided and there is a cash bar.  Did somebody say “bar” on payday?  So we get to chuck balls, smash skittles, stuff our faces and drink. I can’t think of a better way to get the weekend started.

Turns out Tequila Town are having crazy specials tonight (like R10 for a shot of flavoured tequila) so this tart will be probably there at some hour.  And I have been informed that tonight  is full moon and spring equinox.  Which spells P.E.A.R. in a big way.  Well at least I can blame any bad behavior on the lunar and equinox thingy.

Tomorrow is tea with a friend who is back from Italy - can’t wait to hear the travelling tales.  Her photos were good, I could smell the coffee and croissants at the Boulangerie. Sigh … Italy.. Paris… Where was I?  Oh, Friday.  Tea followed by … you guessed it … a braai!  Time to catch up with Rehab Boy and New Dad amongst others. I have feeling there are going to be lots of babies, so perhaps I need to consider taking my trusty bottle of tequila with.  Then leave when they start crying and spend the rest of the day gatecrashing random braai’s across the city, offering a shot of tequila in exchange for a chop.  A dop for a chop …

Friday night going to be epic… my favourite club, Decodance,  is closing down.  Well they moving, but any excuse to have a party. Now that Party Partner and I have apparently been unbanned (again), we going to have to go big.  And that spells trouble..

Saturday could be airshow day.  Still deciding.  Perhaps I should make that decision when I wake up.  After Epic Friday I could have a pounding head which won’t go down well with roaring plane engines.  Of course I may only wake up on Saturday afternoon which means I would have missed the airshow.  Problem solved.  Saturday night is the preview, er “private screening” of my Filmaker Friend’s new movie which could be interesting. Looks like a mini horror flick, my favourite.  And a good chance to catch up with said friend, drink tequila with Boigz the Blogger and try get a role in a movie.

Sunday .. anything could happen.  Or nothing.  Who knows… Leaving the day open for suggestive suggestions.

Rocket guys!  It’s going to be a goody.  Blame any random acts of madness on the equinox moon thingy.  Or too much dop and chop...  cheers!

ps. My car has been fixed.  So I am now a stealth ninja.  Nobody gonna hear me coming when I gatecrash your braai ...

Diggin' the township vibes...

Driving to eKasie Backpackers in Khayelitsha was a challenge.  Thankfully they had signs up saying “eKasie” otherwise I would probably still be driving around the township now.  How one is supposed to look for non-existent road names or “the fourth road to the left” whilst dodging potholes, tooting taxis, dogs and soccer playing kids?  I have heard of multi-tasking but that was just pushing it.

Arriving safely at the backpackers I was pleasantly surprised.  More than pleasantly, the place was like a hotel!  Ethnically decorated rooms with names like Soweto and Kwa Mushu awaited, complete with posh linen, hot water bottles and even little soaps! Better than some of the bed-bug infested backpackers I have stayed in overseas.. suitably impressed. Even more impressive than the en-suite bathrooms was the pool table … and bar...

Lunch smelt damn fine and was relieved to find that it actually wasn’t goat.  Rather vetkoek and mince which was gone in a flash.  Turns out my team mates have a better appetite than me.  Which is always comforting. Then it was time for a walking tour of the hood.  On this tour I learnt the following:

1. Sections are ones with houses.  Eg. B Section, E Section etc. Sites are shacks.  So if you meet someone who says they will take you home to Site C, you going to a shack.  Rather go for someone who lives in a Section.
   
   
2. Those colourful little spaza shops on corners generally belong to Somalians.  Somalians sell their goods much cheaper than other shops and often allow credit. Which is why they are often victims of xenophobia. Local businessmen don’t like to be outdone.
   
   
3. There are licenced shebeens and unlicenced ones. The unlicenced ones are generally found in garages of peoples houses.  All shebeens, licenced or unlicenced are to be treated with caution on a Saturday afternoon.  White women + cameras = tourist bait.
   
   
4. It is generally only women who go to church.  Men would rather go to a shebeen. I am siding with the men on this one.
   
   
5. Funerals are now bigger business than weddings.  People judge each other on the type of funeral they hold for deceased relatives.  Keeping up the Jones’ in the funeral department often involves getting into debt.  Which explains all those funeral insurance ads on daytime telly.
   
   
6. The wooden walkway on Lookout Hill is under attack.  You can no longer walk around it due to the walkway being dismantled for use on houses.  Noticeably they take the ones from the top, not the bottom, thus allowing tourists to get to the top before realizing they cannot go round the other side.
   
   
7. Roadside braai-ing is big business in the townships.  And highly organised too. They even have signs telling you where to queue.  Best chicken I have tasted for a long time. And not a single sighting of Smiley’s and Walkie Talkie Chicken.  I did ask, but apparently we weren’t going to be exposed to that due to the vegetarian in our midst.  I made a note to be nice to the vegetarian (this was after laughing at her getting mauled outside a shebeen). 

After the township excursion it was back to eKasie for the cooking lesson.  I started out enthusiastically, but soon realized there were too many cooks in the kitchen. So opted to grab a Black Label from the bar and watch the rugby instead.  Watching the rugby in Khayelitsha and Springboks actually win a game was a first …


Supper was wolfed down in a flash and then it was off on a shebeen crawl.  Which turned into a visit to Sollies, a local nightclub in Section 20 which was all abuzz with DJs from Metro FM.  The queues were crazy and everyone was all dressed up for the occasion.  If I had’ve known I would have at least packed masacara.  And our boerie rolls pale in comparison to the full scale braai’s lining the street. We can learn something here…

Earlier the rest of the crew, who all had hangovers, weren’t entirely sure how long they would last.  Seemingly a couple of glasses of wine and copius amounts of chicken and Chakalala sorted them all out and they relished making new friends and learning “to dance with their bums” (their words, not mine) to the popular Kwaito tunes.  Whilst they shook their bums and gave out phone numbers and Facebook addresses  I went to the bar to buy cigarettes and another beer.  The barman took the box of cigarettes and opened them to give me one.  Cost of cigarettes – R25.  The look on the barman’s face when I said I wanted the whole box – priceless.

Clubs and shebeens all have to close at midnight in the townships so we got home at a reasonable hour (by my standards) and after a nice cup of tea (just like home), a good night’s sleep was had.

The next morning we awoke to the sound of a lonesome vuvuzela heralding the start of another day in Khayelitsha.  The clouds had cleared and women were putting out the washing.  Ladies were off to church, men awaited the opening of the shebeens and children played soccer whilst dogs scrounged scraps from the braai areas.  As I drove home through the leafy avenues of the southern suburbs I felt as though I had been a part of something quite unique.  A glimpse into a life I had known nothing about.  Lighting one of my cigarettes from the box from Sollies I decided I should organise a weekend at eKasie with my friends.  Let them in on a well-kept secret … townships can be a whole lot of fun..

Does this look like a backpackers to you?

eKasie Backpackers - the brightest building in the street

Fresh fruit and veg on your way home

Lookout Hill - you can only look out so far

Shebeens - always have innovative advertising

We have a lot to learn about neighbourly braai's

A series of fails... and a success...

Fail 1 – lack of blog activity
Possibly due to a high workload, excessive alcohol consumption and roadtrip planning. Those things all take time! Forgive me for living …

Fail 2 - no show at Survivor auditions
Definitely due to excessive alcohol consumption. And it was raining. Call me pathetic, but I figured that standing in the rain for hours with a pounding head and breath that would probably have the judging panel running into the rain was not going to be a good call. Looking back, perhaps I could have eliminated half the queue. Which apparently was so bad they had to run the auditions over 2 days. I know I let everyone down, but to be frank, I am not going to starve for your entertainment and I am worth a lot more than a million rand. Perhaps next year, when I can at least run round the block and don’t drink or smoke. Did I say next year?

But for every fail there is a success. After an almost fail, I did end up going to Khayelitsha for the night on Saturday. Almost fail because, again, it was raining. I might not have had the hangover this time, but rainy townships are not generally fun. So I phoned the Team Leader and got a bollocking for being honest. What I should have said was “I have a hangover, I can’t make it” and probably would have gotten away with it. Especially as Team Leader had one. To cut a long phone call short, I decided to take one for the team and give it my best shot. And I am glad I did…

You can read all about it in the next blog – people suffer from ADD when reading articles online. Apparently.

You can't eat Google

I have been politely reminded by Goth Friend and Camera Crazy Friend that whilst I have brazenly stuck up the “vote for my blog, it’s fabulous” link, I haven’t in fact updated my blog.  Since July.  Gasp!

I will have you know that I haven’t done my man list either.  Or had a tequila. The former because quite frankly I think it is silly and clearly Brainy Friend was just intent on making me feel uncomfortable.  You meet someone, you decide you like them and if they like you back, cool.  Do loads of nice things together and have lots of sex.  Not necessarily in that order.  If they don’t, stalk them until they file a restraining order.  Then find someone else to play with.  Simple.

The latter is because my latest bottle is now being used as a candle holder and no-one has offered to buy me another.  Unlike Goth Friend who managed to get a bottle of whisky delivered to her door by simply putting up a “I have no whisky left, snivel” on her Facebook status.  Perhaps I should give it a go…  After all, if you don’t ask, you don’t get.  I shall test this theory on the weekend by standing in the middle of a bar shouting “I need a drink, can someone please buy me one”.

Talking of that, it’s almost free drinks time, but before I go and get my weekend started, here’s something sobering to think about.  Apparently South Africa is going to run out of food in 10 years time.  “Demand will outstrip supply”.  Yikes, that is in OUR lifetime – and half of you still insist on having children which is just downright inconsiderate.

The funny thing is that I have been bleating on about this for ages.  Everyone is technology-mad and we are so busy Facebooking, tweeting and texting (er, that would be me, ooops) that we are not paying attention to what is important.  We whine when the internet goes down or our email systems crash.  For crying out loud, food people, food.  You cannot eat Google.  Or iPhones and iPads. Or computers or mobile phones.  Even when they eventually churn them out with some sort of taste or smell.


As someone who loves food (clearly), the mere thought is putting me into a panic and I am currently investigating containerised vegetable gardening.  As well as planning a trip to the Karoo to find a piece of land where I can farm vegetables, milk cows and cultivate the tequila cactus.  Yup, tequila is on its way out too.  It’s all too much!  No food and no tequila = crisis.  Get off Facebook Farmville and start real farming. Now!


Have a rocking weekend – I will be stocking up my bunker with tins and beer (it comes in tins too) and getting my car ready for a Karoo roadtrip.  When I get that farm going you are going to need me.


Oh, I found the picture by searching Google for food.  Go figure … even Google knows there will soon be no food ... aaarrrghhhhh!!!!

Men and apples

I have just been whinging in the office about the lads that sit opposite me and eat apples. Men eating apples just doesn't seem right.  And these are young men, not old ones that are being forced to do so for the sake of their colons or something.  AND one of them is a rock star while the other makes movies - surely they are supposed to be delving into their drawer for the hip flask containing Jack Daniels?  So I told them that in 10 years time it will be proven that apples give you cancer and that McDonalds was the way to go all along. Whilst delving into my drawer for my hip flask. 

But the apple thing reminded me of a conversation that was had with the Lesbian Friends the other night. According to the one, men treat women like a monkey treats an apple.  He takes an apple off the tree and takes a bite out of it.  If he doesn't like it, he tosses it and gets another one.  Women, however, will take a bite and if it's not quite right we will try polish it. We take another bite and if that still doesn't taste quite right but we still kinda enjoy the apple we will carry on trying to perfect it. And therein lies the lesson.  Women need to stop trying to perfect the apple. If it ain't a good one, just toss it and get another one.

Simple eh?  I'm gonna give this a try.  And make a note on my Man List that I don't want any more monkeys.

The man list...

I got thrown an interesting question by Brainy Friend on the weekend.  “What do you look for in a man?”   This question came after an equally uncomfortable “How long have you been single”.  I couldn’t come up with an answer. Not a single smidgen of ideas on what I thought I would want in a man.  I think I was still trying to work out how long I had been single for and was starting to feel sorry for myself.  So I just gulped and felt stupid.

Let’s face it, I barely manage to make a shopping list, let alone a man wanted list. Which upon reflection, is probably why I haven’t  found one yet.  OK, I have met plenty, but they either start boring me or just want to be friends or turn out to be lunatics with commitment issues.

After a bit of prodding and suggestions from Brainy Friend (who incidentally is a man, which makes it even more sad that he came up with some pointers before me) we came up with a few “must haves”.  I have since spoken to others about this and it seems that this “list” is actually very important!  You have to “put it out there” apparently. What happened to the good old days where you met a guy, thought he was fab, he constantly fantasised about what you would look like naked and you ended up getting together until either party got tired of the other one or the sex got boring?  Why does it now have to start with a list?

Finally, talking of how we have complicated things (like making “man wanted lists”)  read the latest blog from  The Monster From The Blog on how we are Facebooking and blogging ourselves to death – and making people feel uncomfortable with our dirty laundry. Will give you something to think about, while I start on my list…

Pear-shaped pay day weekends

It seems the weekend was quite an eventful one for everyone.  Whilst I lost a night’s sleep somewhere the following went down…

1. A workmate left our usual Friday night drinks session, went home and fell down the stairs. She now has stitches in her head and a damaged coxis – and is walking like Frankenstein.
2. Goth Friend had 3 glasses of champagne, totaled her car and spent Friday night in jail.  She is about to sue the police for her bad treatment (it was bad) and is hoping like hell that insurance pays out.  It’s the company that promises you ALWAYS get something out so hopefully they mean it. 
3. Party Partner got kicked out of a club we were at after having a bit of a showdown with somebody who apparently works for ETV.  There were no cameras present (pity) but we are still trying to figure out if the bouncers really were talking to management through their mouthpieces or if that was just a headset from a non-existent mobile phone. Looked impressive though.
4. The Springboks lost the rugby.  Which was pitiful.  Especially as (a) they were playing Australia for God’s sake and (b) I was supporting them for that match.  I have decided that whilst I may have had a few loser men along the way, I will be damned if I am going to support a losing team.  They had their chance and blew it.  Just like the men.

As for me … I almost outdid myself.  Payday Friday is always going to be a rocker and it was.  Reality set in on Saturday morning when the maid arrived at the door.  After 2 hours sleep she looked as shocked to see me as I did her.


After getting poofta woofta off to the parlour, I spent most of the morning at the tyre place getting two new tyres.  In that time I managed to drink a steri stumpi, swallow 4 headache tablets and send smses to find out if everyone else felt like they had an octopus stuck to their head trying to suck out their brain.

Then it was the rugby where I consoled myself by eating a pizza that set my mouth on fire and had me reeking of garlic for the rest of the weekend. 2 beers and an afternoon nap set me straight and it was off to Decodance with Party Partner for a friend’s birthday party.  Turns out there were so many damn birthday parties that night that the requests for bad songs just kept coming.  Not one to be outdone I requested a song and they played it after shouting over the microphone “This song is for Tequila Tart and it’s not even her bloody birthday” .  I rule ...

7 days = a week = lots of stuff to talk about

This blogging stuff is hard work!  Apparently I am supposed to update it every day.  So that’s another thing to remember to do – and for someone with a small brain this is going to be tough. I can barely remember my name half the time!  And now as punishment for being slack I am going to have to remember what the hell happened over the past few days.  Er, week.  7 days…  yikes!

So I have loaded them all separately – then it looks good.  Just pretend my computer died or the internet went down or something.  After all, it is going to crash.  The internet, not the computer.  Although that is likely too.  And now I am waffling.  But seriously … the internet is going to crash.  Probably in 2012.  Then we can all go grow vegetables and take up yoga.  Because we going to run out of food too. But that’s a whole different story .

And talking of stories, I am off to hear a really interesting one tonight.  I might be a changed person tomorrow…

Free meal Sunday

Sunday, unlike Saturday, did not start off well.  Took one of my dogs to an adoption day and left in tears.  Despite the fact that the little bastard had systematically destroyed my home and my sanity, used my poofta-woofta as furry chew toy and ate poo on my bed on a regular basis, I realized that I was quite fond of him.  So leaving him there broke my heart.  It didn’t help that they told me he cried for the whole day.  So there’s my punishment for telling Sick Friend that her hair looked like matted poodle.  Karma will get you.

The evening however was much better – stunning dinner at friends down the road.  Plus a few beers and a box of fags which were needed after my traumatic morning.  They, also knowing about my broke status, gave me more food!!  I could seriously start getting used to this.  So not only did I go home with a bulging stomach, I had food for the fridge too. My friends rock!

And now when someone comes over I can offer them chicken or beef.  In an air hostess outfit…

Beer shandy’s , bad hairdo’s and half naked vampires

Saturday morning started fabulously.  Men in the house, beer shandy’s and breakfast. It doesn’t get much better than that.  Really.  Plus my rugby team won!  Except I couldn’t really cheer as said men are all bok supporters.  So I had to sit on the couch with my mouth shut every time they scored a try in case I got a plate thrown at me.  Apparently shouting instructions at the Springboks doesn’t help them win – probably because they can’t hear you. But a silent victory on my behalf was had.

Visited Sick Friend who had not had such a good day.  The morphine was gone (gasp!) and they made her walk.  I added to her day by telling her that her hair looked like a matted poodle.

Saturday night was spent eating Thai curry and watching Vampire Diaries with Goth Friend. A wonderful girly night eating hot food and perving over hot men.  Make that hot man.  Damon is welcome to come scratching at my window any time. Good God, can one man be so damn good looking, have a perfect body and a perfect smirk?  Yoh … I wasn’t sure if it was the curry making me sweat or the eye candy on the telly.  Sad really, considering both of us are single and should be out on a Saturday night looking for men.  But let’s face it, men like that cannot possibly exist in real life.  Much like vampires …

Fantastic Friday

Friday was one of my least productive days in the office to date. Who works on a Friday anyway? I think I spent most of it admiring my blog and checking up to see who had signed up and what rude comments were made.  10 followers and 3 comments is a fairly good start me thinks.  “High Five” as my Goth Friend would say.

Free drinks on a Friday is always a winner.  How else are you going give your Friday night the kick-start it needs?  I think if our company ever stopped drinks on a Friday there would be mutiny.

Except my kick-start this Friday ended up with me leaving after 8pm.  I popped by the hospital to check on Sick Friend and we had the best conversation ever – she was zonked on morphine and I was slightly pissed.

Sugar highs and chocolate hangovers

So I went off to the hospital on the Thursday and was shamefully defeated in trying to siphon any drugs from my friend’s drip. Too many wires, pipes and beeping things. The beeping thing might have been the friend bed telling me to shut up whilst I went on about how lucky she was to be having such a cool time on morphine.  Noticeably the nurse never left the vicinity of the bed. 

Then it was off to Rehab Boy for dinner.  Arrived at the same time as New Dad, which was lucky otherwise I probably wouldn’t have found the flat. Directions are not a strong point.  New Dad was on the phone at the time telling Wine Farmer that bringing a bottle of his own wine would not be good advertising at this point.  I agreed, but now disagree. 

By the end of the evening I had finished an entire litre of coke and half a chocolate slab.  When I got home I felt like the Duracell bunny. And felt slightly crap the next day.  Which goes to prove that too much sugar is just as bad, if not worse, as too much booze. 

But dinner was good (I have only seen Rehab Boy at bars, never realized he could actually put a meal together) and I scored a pack of chicken breasts, some cheese, a CD and two books.  Being broke has its benefits.  Oh, and I learnt a new game … Rummycup or something.  Lots of numbers involved.  Which is probably why I ate too much chocolate, the concentration was killing me.   And the fact that for some reason I really wanted a drink.

You really should start a blog they said...

... so here it is. The beginnings of many tales about my chaotic life, my insane (but fantastic) friends, my lunatic menagerie, my long-suffering colleagues and my gradual rise to stardom.

Not to mention bar brawls, attempts at stage diving, roadtripping in a seriously unroadworthy car and upsetting the neighbours.

Some topics likely to be covered at length are:

• why having a hangover in winter is better than in summer
• why going to a nightclub with a crash helmet is sometimes a good idea
• ways to get away with arriving late at work on a constant basis
  
• how to drive when your cat has escaped from the cat basket and is clutching the steering wheel
• how a can of baked beans can, in fact, last a week
• how to find your tent in the dark without a torch at an outdoor festival
  
• why hiding dirty dishes in the oven when the landlady visits is not a good idea
• how to remove soil from your bed when your puppy decides to bring the garden indoors
• finding your way to the nearest party without GPS
• what every bachelorette's fridge should contain
  
• how to successfully gatecrash a party
• how to tweet, have a shot and a cigarette all at the same time
  
• why tequila is in fact, good for you
  
  

... as well as all sorts of other silly, but apparently amusing, stuff.

In this process I am likely to lose my friends, my job and any time I thought I had to myself. And possibly disowned by my family. But perhaps I will manage to get some money from advertising, food vouchers and free drinks from barmen across the country. In no particular order of priority.

Goody, almost time to go home. Going to visit my friend in hospital and try figure out how to siphon the morphine from her drip without getting caught by the nursing staff. After that I am off to dinner being held by a previous party partner who has just got out of rehab. Go figure ...