Car troubles... revisited

Is it not enough that I ding my Dad's car after I dinged my Dad's car two months before - for which he has decided to rent a car (for which I have to pay, in addition to the car repairs) over the ten day period while his perfectly-drivable, if somewhat blemished, car is waiting at the panelbeater's for panelling, that I have a pregnancy scare (relief: all in my head), a dreaded upcoming work performance review, etc etc?

Well, let me answer that not-so-rhetorical question for you: no no, resounding NO!

Picture the scene: Saturday morning (11:30 to be precise), I'm panicking because I've booked buffet lunch at Standloper's for 12:00 - in not-so-next-door Langebaan an hour away - but my friends have not yet showed up at my house. To speed things up a bit when they arrive, I decide to rearrange the cars in the driveway so we can make a quick getaway when their lazy asses eventually arrive (can you see where this is heading???)

I say to my boss - yes, that's right, the man who pays me the salary I spend on car parts each month - now picture this in slowmo - "caaaaan i moooove yoooour reeeentaallllll caaaarrrr ooouuut oooofffff theee driiiiiivewaaaaaay?" "Suuuuuurrre, the keeeeeyyys aaaaare oooooon the taaaaablllllle." "heeeeheeeeee.... doooo yoooooou truuuuuuust meeeee aaaaafter mmmmmyyyyy aaaaaaccccident laaaast weeeeeek in mmmmyyyyy Daaaaad's caaaar?" I sickeningly joked.

Murphy, of course, was eavesdropping. This was too good an opportunity to miss, and the joke clearly ended up being on me.

So, out I go, rental car keys in hand, jump into the rental, and happily reverse it a mere 4 metres down the driveway, into the gate standing a mere 4.00001 metres down the driveway. Shhhhhiiiitttt! I pulled forward, parked, jumped out, checked the bumper and saw no marks. Relieved, I thought I'd touched it so lightly that no evidence was visible. Until I moved around the side of the car, where a nice scratch and dent nestled between the bumper and the side panel on the right-hand side of the car. Panic took over, I went inside and said nothing to my boss about the incident.

When my friends arrived, we drove through to lunch, and I sat for a long agonising hour at the back of the car, dying to release my guilt to someone (but couldn't, because one of my colleagues - the boss's favourite - was in the car with us). When we got there, through furtive whispers, I admitted my evil evil deed, to which one friend says "Don't say anything - it's his fault if he rents a car without taking out insurance" (can you believe this man took the Hippocratic Oath?), while the other says "I'm sure he'll understand."

That evening, the single moral person in my life - my boyfriend - says I have to admit what I did, and accept that I'll have to pay for the damage. (I ran the idea past him that I should add a cross on the little piece of paper they give you showing where existing scratches on the car are when you first rent it, but he thought this was a particularly stupid immoral thing to do.) So.... now, not only have I dinged my boss's car, but I have failed to mention it to him. (What cruel cruel things did I do in my past life?)

Naturally, being the conniving wench that I am, I came up with a story to make the confession a little easier. Saturday night, when I eventually get home, the boss and the favourite are sitting on the couch watching tv. I run in, looking startled and nervous, and tell him more or less what happened, except that I didn't find a scratch on the car until I got back that evening and my car headlights picked it up. He was surprisingly chilled about the whole event, and seems to think the rental company won't notice the scratch (as if!), and says we'll deal with the problem if (when) it eventually arises.

So... this is the third time this year I've dinged a car, none of which were my own, and all of which occurred in parking areas. It's people like me that give women drivers a bad name, isn't it?

All this has distracted me from posting what I really need to post about - my last few days in Cape Town! That's tomorrow's work.

pee troubles

Let me start this off by trying to explain why – it’s a lack of trust issue. Simple as that; if I don’t know you, but really know you, then I can’t pee in your vicinity. There are three people (outside of my family) that I trust enough to pee near – and only one I can pee in front of (including my family).

If you are anywhere near the bathroom where there is a remote chance that you could hear me, ahem, ‘tinkling’, then my bladder shuts up like a trap and no matter how full it is, it won’t open up and relieve itself from the pressure of massive pee build-up.

Take yesterday, for instance. I drink about 2 litres of a weird tea concoction during each office day, which naturally means I need to go to the bathroom often – quite a bind for a person with my problem. So, yesterday, at around 11:30, I get up to go to the loo, only to be joined by some girl walking there too. I immediately reroute to the kitchen to get a glass of water instead. I’ll try again later, I reasoned. Come 12:30, and my bladder is about to explode. I go to the bathroom, and this time, make it into the bathroom. (Obstacle number 1 is overcome). Unfortunately, some soul in cubicle number 1’s feet are peeping out at me. Right, immediately reroute to the basins, pretending to need to wash my hands – very thoroughly – while I await her departure from the loo. She doesn’t make a move to budge from the toilet, and I leave in painful exasperation, hating myself for my failure to do something as simple as pee in a toilet. Still not relieved of my pain, I go back to my office (a room I share with 3 colleagues, who wonder suspiciously why I get up to go to the “fax machine”, the “printer”, the “kitchen” or, even, the “loo” all the time). I’m talking major explosive pain here. Then a sparky idea comes to mind – I can go fetch my Canadian and UK cash (upcoming holiday – yay!), which, although too far to drive to without me fainting from the pain of needing to pee first, will enable me to swing home first (1.4 km from the office) and do the deed, unfettered by the interruptions of others. So I did. And then collected my forex.

Right, you’re thinking why the hell I’m telling you this. It’s simple – I realised that for someone to need to go home to take a pee, things must be wrong that need fixing. I mean, in my head. I’m so frustrated at myself – and equally mystified by the absurdity of my hang-up – that I’m telling you all so that I can force myself to go see a psychologist and deal with it (can you imagine the sessions – he/she will say “Now, I only vant to hear von drop”) , so that you can’t mock me next time I’m at your place and ask where the furthest bathroom is.

There, I said it. It’s a load off my chest, and hopefully soon a load off my bladder.

car troubles

I'm a little alarmed at how much sex has seemed to dominate my recent blogs - so in this entry I'll say no more other than: bought a fab new vibrator with a friend the other day (actually, they match), and it looks like many enjoyable evenings will be spent together on lonely evenings in Cape Town (me and my toy, not the friend). Right, onto the sex-less stuff: I'm a fucking moron driver. A few months back, I borrowed my Dad's car while up for the weekend in Jozi. I was out visiting friends, who needed an emergency stash of extra ice. Completely tanked, I volunteered to reverse down the steep, windy road to buy more at the nearest petrol station, and met with a rather mean pole halfway down the cliff. D'oh! My father, being the unreasonable man that he is, at first insisted I pay the full repair amount (R50,000) without claiming on insurance. He relented; I claimed, I swore, I had another tankard.

Then, a few short weeks down the line, parked up close and personal next to the Gilb's driveway's tree (and yes, with a few too many Stellas frolicking in my gut), I accidentally rolled my Dad's car into the tree while trying to reverse out. shithotdamn! for what seemed like a little caress between metal and wood, it sure left a fucking large (and expensive) dent. a dent, mind you, that will not be repaired in time for my parents' return from Port Alfred. (All together now: Lolo's fucked fucked fucked, Lolo's f-f-f-f-fucked! ad infinitum)

In a masochistic twist, I decided to sms the news to the same cold bastard who was with me in the car during the first accident (charismatic, yet cold-hearted ex), and 5 minutes later answered the phone to a loud, gleeful guffaw of pleasure at my distress. friends - who needs them?

so, if i never write another word on this blog, you'll know my Dad's Sicilian genes kicked in and he's having my kneecaps carved into ornaments. if not, i'll do as I normally do: keep you posted.

ps: Peas, don't be pissed off I'm not coming to the Vaal. My fingers are crossed for you not to do something stupid (though you will), but anyway, keep the voddies flowing.

The trial

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present you with the evidence for the crime on trial today. Before you lie graphic visuals of the violence many luscious vixens endure at the hands of their animated lovers - purple ear, or petechial bruising, as it is known among the experts - is a shame that is borne silently and stoically by our victim, Lolo X, but she has chosen to speak out, bravely, and share the details with you all.

I ask that you be strong and courageous when examining these pictures, and to put yourselves into her position at the scene of the crime. Her legs entwined with his, their bodies grinding rhythmically to the animalistic beat of desire, her (not so) soft moans of encouragement, his mouth.... ahem, sorry, I got distracted for a moment there. Where was I? Oh yes, his mouth... his mouth hungrily attached to hers, locked in a duel of tongues. Then, at her most vulnerable, her ear lay exposed for attack. The Gilb's tongue darted - deliberately, I assure you - to her ear, his teeth took hold of her soft, alluring earlobe, and sunk themselves greedily into its flesh.

Ladies and gentlemen, exhibit A - the earlobe that escaped unharmed. Note its evenness of colour, its soft unwounded flesh.

Doh! Due to the unprecedented incompetence of the author, the pictures could not be posted.

Ladies and gentlemen, exhibit B - the earlobe that didn't get away. Note the discoloration, the lacklustre appearance. This earlobe has lost the will to live, it wants to escape to a better place, where earlobes can run free and safe from victimisation.

Doh! Due to the unprecedented incompetence of the author, the pictures could not be posted.

I ask you to reflect on the damning evidence before you. The accused is guilty, as charged.

The mystery of the purple ear

Not much time for a chinwag, but I feel compelled to share my shameful secret, a dark, dirty, secret I've been keeping to myself for two days now.... i have.... a purple..... earlobe. yes, you read right. my right earlobe is noticeably darker than my left. three possible reasons:
- bruising from boyfriend nibbles
- hair dye stain that went unnoticed from a week ago
- freaky new fungal infection conquering my body from the earlobe outwards

google-ised "purple ear", and among the results for labrador ear cleaning and mobile technology companies, I found this:

Purple Ear


Keywords: ear / ear injuries / purple ear / bruising / petechial bruising / blow to the ear / punching

This is a bruised ear. The ear lobe and surrounding skin is covered in tiny haemorrhages and is thus purple. Purple ear is also known as petechial bruising.

Smith, S.M.(ed) (1978) 'The Maltreatment of Children' London; MTP Press Ltd. pp 22

Keywords: ear / ear injuries / purple ear / bruising / petechial bruising / blow to the ear / punching / pinching / accidents

Bruising of the ear is commonly found in child abuse and very uncommon in ordinary accidents. The bruising is usually on the upper half of the ear. It often results from repeated blows with the hands or fists, or pinching. The ear and surrounding skin appears bruised. Green or yellowish staining indicates bruising that is some days old.

Smith, S.M.(ed) (1978) 'The Maltreatment of Children' London; MTP Press Ltd. pp 22

The Gilb's a bastard! Beating me in my sleep while I snore soundly on...

***warning: contains scenes with gruesome blood***

Thinking myself to be something of a romantic, and armed with the powerful yearning arising from four abstaining weeks away from the boyf, I was inspired to plan a brief getaway to a luxury lodge in Muldersdrift for some quality time with my man, punctuated by bouts of blissful orgasms, haute cuisine, and heavenly massages at the resort’s spa.

Fact 1: periods will always inflict you at such obviously inopportune times.
Fact 2: as much as you try to create the awesome sex and subsequent blissful orgasms despite the imposition of mother nature’s monthly visits, you won’t succeed. ‘Normal sex’ is already endowed with enough bodily fluids to make it a messy business, this just takes it to another annoying level, that completely precludes the occurrence of aforementioned sex-and-orgasm duo.
Fact 3: in the face of these already overwhelming odds, overindulgence in an all-you-can-eat meat frenzy stacks up the odds further against your favour. Why why why did I turn the dinner into a ‘me eat more than you, caveman-pussy’ affair? Spurred by the mere hint of competition, I ate my way through most of the wildlife our bountiful country has to offer – eland, giraffe, buffalo, hartebeest, crocodile as well as the more mundane chicken, beef and lamb – leaving no space whatsoever for my favourite meat, 10-inch dong (not that I’ve actually measured it, but the Gilb makes up for vertical shortness with certain horizontal lengths. There, now the world knows). Enough said.

Surely by now you’re thinking ‘no, this much bad luck is impossible – surely the horror story has to lighten up at this point!’ Thank you, kind-hearted readers, but life is indeed the proverbial bitch we so often claim it to be. Mercy should have entered at this point, with a heavenly, if somewhat overpriced, his-and-hers massage. Given the state of the fucking mattress I’ve been sleeping on in CT for nine months (which coincidentally makes me feel I have been carrying a child to full term), my back is a minefield of knots and sensitive, bruised bones. The Nazi masseus picked up on my weakness and used it to immerse me in an hour of WWII torture.

So here I sit, sullen, sulky and sore. The Gilb enjoyed his massage, at least. Pardon me if I feel hard done by.