Betrayal

Not too many things get my feathers ruffled, but yesterday, they were positively rubbed the wrong way. It’s not often a friend really disappoints you, so when it happens, it feels utterly kak. And when it’s a friend whose happy-go-lucky way you admire, who draws people into her circle and enthralls them with her enchanting personality, it feels quadruple kak.

Should I be airing the sordid details here, for all and sundry to read? I dunno, but writing’s cathartic and I need some emotional release.

After my stupid, embarrassing antics at the jacuzzi party a few weeks’ back, that almost cost me a great 3-year old relationship, I decided it was time to make amends with my partner in crime. Why? Because I hate leaving things unsaid, ending on a bad note, and especially don’t want to jeopardise my social interactions with the good friend of paragraph one, nor those of my partner in crime’s with her, either.

I admit some dumb SMS’s were traded between her and I, mostly relating to the sudden interest some of her other friends were showing in me, but I thought she knew I was joking – after all, I was following her jokes and tone of conversation in all of this. Evidently, she misunderstood me, because I got a couple of really bewildering emails from her yesterday, and I couldn’t understand whether she was pissed off or just badly wording things, so that it just seemed she was pissed off when she wasn’t.

I called her to figure out what the hell was going on, and I got the immense feeling she’d put a lot of words into my mouth that I hadn’t ever conceived of saying, and passed those on to others too. Do you not know me better than to think I have some malicious streak in me that wants to get back at my partner in crime by feigning interest in him so that he gets interested in me, then I can “dump” him and hurt him, thereby exacting my revenge? (Sounds a lot like what one of us was originally trying to do with someone a while back, now doesn’t it?) After all, it was my fault as much as his. Anyhow, I had made plans to meet up with him (originally on her well-wishes, I might add), to smooth the situation out, and get to know him like most people get to know other people, through intelligent conversation. Those plans, I thought, went smoothly, the intention of our meeting, I thought, was clear – so why the confusion, the turmoil? After the weird emails from my friend, I emailed the guy stating very clearly my intentions were none but about ‘damage control’, and perhaps meeting someone who was a genuinely good, interesting person who – heaven forbid – might one day become a friend too. I’m glad we at least had the agenda straight, because we did meet last night, and the conversation we had was one of the best I’ve had in ages. Who knows? In another situation, where both of us were single, I could have found myself extremely attracted to him. But it’s not that situation; I have a boyfriend I love to bits; a friend with whom I can hopefully sort out my differences; and a potential friend in the making.

To the anonymous missus of the above: I love you like crazy, chick, and want nothing but the best for you and your friends. But I want you to understand how much you’ve hurt me. If The Gilb had broken up with me after the ‘incident’, I’d have been truly upset, but at least I would have deserved it. This, from you, I don’t deserve. I feel betrayed. I hope for my benefit – and for yours – that we can work this out, because I really believe we have some good times to share in the future, and I want nothing more than for those to materialize.

Your love won’t pay my bills

Standing atop Parktown Ridge, parading through the once-upon-a-time houses of Johannesburg’s once-upon-a-time who’s who list, I felt that it was high time I made a move to get onto today’s who’s-who list – which incidentally hasn’t strayed far from its forefathers, at least in terms of location. Because Jacob Zuma lives a stone’s throw from where Herbert Baker once resided; a mate who has had sex in/jacuzzi’d in/thrown up in a number of these houses confirmed that they’re all the abodes of the people we want to be… or be married to, at least.

Now, I’ve always been the type of lass who - while never a bra-burning, leg hair-growing feminist – believed in being the breadwinner, bringing home the bacon to a great house-husband who gave me daily foot massages and took the kids to school. But during a fabulous cultural walk that gave me a glimpse into the lifestyles of the rich and famous, I decided I didn’t want to be I-can-take-a-holiday-and-buy-a-nice-Jaguar-whenever-I-want rich, I decided I want to be honey-let’s-host-a-ball-tonight-and-round-it-off-with-breakfast-in-Provence rich.

Now, I have some significant obstacles that stand between me and the mounds of moolah I would need to be in this state of wealth. For one, the ordinary day job is not going to get me there. I’ll let you in on a dirty secret; I’m ashamed to tell you, because I’m appalled at my lack of moral character (and recent weeks’ activities will only confirm this further), but while one of the senior associates at my company was away, I snuck a peak at a document sitting on his PC’s desktop (I use his computer at this current client regularly, because his is the only one with Internet access), temptingly entitled “Salary confirmation”. What it indeed confirmed for me, is that even at two salary ranks above me, the poor lad will remain the former type of rich, unless he has other plans afoot (no doubt he does, he’s kinda wiley that way). And I can forget the inheritance taking me to the dizzy heights of gilden excess – while the parentals occupy a nice, not-so-humble residence (not quite in Herbie’s league though) and give the general illusion of wealth, Daddykins squanders his dosh on lavish parties, and seldom puts a cent where compound interest could work its magic. And then, there’s the house-husband issue. The Gilb’s taken quite a liking to the idea, and even if he could be convinced to work for a living, what would make his wealth plight any easier than mine? And I’m not so sure about his parents’ stashed horde either (I can’t very well ask, now can I? So I’ll have to assume the worst. And besides, why then would they live in Linden instead of London? Cultural differences aside, I can only assume it’s due to lack of excess funds). It would all be so easy if I didn’t love my boyfriend so much – I could find someone from the stupidly wealthy set whose fantasies would be all too easy to indulge – but the fact is that I do, and no amount of money can convince me otherwise.

So – you’re all expecting I have a plan. Well, no I don’t, but I’m working on it. Because I will own a wine farm in Chile one day, and would certainly love it if all of you had the dosh to pop in whenever your little hearts desired. Here’s to us! And to the fabulous Zinfandel Vintage year of 2030!

Back to the hum-drum

After two weeks of turmoil, things have calmed down a bit on my side – to the sad point where I worked the whole of Saturday, taking brief respite in a bout of lunatic shopping (three pairs of shoes, a fabulous top, underwear, Morgenster olive oil).

On Sunday, a friend, her adorable niece and I went to what seems to have become a dating hot spot – the zoo. Nope, I’m not referring to animals seeking partners for mating season, but to the astounding number of hand-holding pairs of humans (ranging from 12 to sixty-something) traipsing around the grounds. I spent a lot of time gazing at my favourite relatives, the chimps, who sporadically thrilled the crowd by throwing sticks, chewed pieces of fruit and faeces at the only slightly more evolved animals staring at them.

What my news lacks in excitement, is made up for by friends’ antics: three doctor mates down south became prison bitches for a few agonizing hours in the back of a police van while hitching a lift from the Cedarberg to Cape Town; a colleague had car accidents on Wednesday afternoon and Thursday morning (see, it’s not just me) – haven’t heard from him since then, and one never knows what happened from Friday to Sunday.

This coming week and the next should up the ante a little: a mate is over from London for the week, I attempt go-karting for the first time on Saturday, do the Heritage walk in Parktown on Sunday (I hate Herbert Baker, but after writing around 20 essays on his architecture in high school, it’s time to show off my knowledge to the victims I drag with me), and start my wine course on Monday. Oh, and my daily two-hour trek has been somewhat enlivened by beginners’ German tapes, which add to my knowledge and detract from my driving skills (it does say “Warning: do not listen to these cd’s while driving or operating machinery” on each cd. Oops. Die tante is vreundlich. Ein Coca-Cola und drei wurste, bitte shurn. )

A tip for those of you who will face a job interview in the future (all of us, I hope; I don’t want any pals stuck in the same job for the rest of their lives) – when a prospective employer asks you what your hobbies are, never answer “Nothing”, and certainly never proceed to excuse your lack of interests on your race. A young Oriental lass, to whom I posed the question, explained: “You see, Chinese people don’t really have hobbies.” Riiiiiight. I’m sure 1 billion people on this planet would object to that comment – I certainly do. Every other boring buttlicker (we were holding a recruitment evening event to suss out potential new colleagues) at least had the decency to deflect the question and say “I enjoy socialising”. Don’t we all?

Well dearies, I promise to be more inspired next time. Peas, I will respond to your ‘list of 7s’ soon, I swear!

Week 2 as a 25-year old: downhill from here

I’m definitely changing my hair back to its traditional blue-black colour. My first weekend as a blonde saw me in losing my memory in the wee hours of my party celebration, and having a 2-hour argument over some political crap that I as a white person probably have no right to comment on.

The second blonde weekend saw me repeat the first, except this time at a fellow Virgoan’s party, minus my clothes, plus a jacuzzi, a second cigar and one boyfriend to watch my shameful antics. Picture me (or rather, try not to), naked in a tub with about 8 people, kissing some strange character while the Gilb was an onlooker. “Are you fucking out of your mind?” you’re all saying. Well, clearly. I don’t even remember doing it, is the scary thing. When my boyfriend left that evening, he gave me the rather obscure instruction to watch out for myself, and left a similar instruction with my Virgo pal. I was mystified, and assumed only that he didn’t want me to show my ‘nads off to the world.

Of course, in retrospect, it all makes sense – the very moment the Gilb departed, some unknown hands start giving me a back massage – from somewhere in the tub. After more drinking and tomfoolery, everyone except me and the dude leave the tub. He hits on me, I try to take things back to a conversational space, fail, and eventually get out the tub and drive home in a shockingly drunk state because I don’t want to spend the night in the same house as that creep.

I awake the next morning thinking, I’m lucky I have the great, noble boyfriend I do, and am not stuck with someone like that. After taking a shower, I was totally shocked to see the boyf had sent me an SMS saying “We need to talk.”

I don’t want to go into the gory details of “the talk”, but suffice to say there is something utterly soul-shattering in seeing an honest, caring, gentle and humble man crying at the hands of your selfish, indulgent recklessness. I know I never want to cause that misery again, and that I am lucky to be given the chance to prove myself. The Gilb - though you won’t read this, I am so totally sorry for my behaviour. I had no idea of what I was doing, and promise never to put myself in that situation again. Thank you so much for forgiving me, I don’t know what I’d do if you’d decided to dump my sorry ass….

Week 1 as a 25-year old recapped

I tried really hard to make time to write a blog last week – mostly to congratulate myself on reaching 25 years of age – but due to the extended festivities, none of that was possible.

Instead, I will recap the crazy goings-on of the past few days.

Let’s start with the hair-dyeing incident. The box said “blonde”, I left the pre-lightener and dye on for an hour each (double the recommended time), and my hair still came out looking closer to an apricot than desired. (When I saw my boss at a tender presentation the following morning, he nearly had a heart attack. I’m officially the office clown).

Next, let’s move on to the cabaret dancing to Frank Sinatra at a friend of a friend’s place. This guy decided he really wanted us luscious ladies to kiss for his viewing pleasure. (Did I mention we were stoned?) We didn’t quite yield to his request, but he was abated after I gave him permission to give me a foot massage (is it just me, or is that An odd request from a stranger?) But how surprised can you be with a guy whose jocks have been suspended from a pole on the balcony of Jolly Roger for three weeks?

On Friday, the day the boyf had “set aside” to celebrate our 3rd anniversary/my birthday, I go over to his house for a home-cooked meal (you’re thinking ag, sweet!), only to be informed that he has to play a dj set from 3-5am at some dodgy pool club/ex-Goth haunt in Blairgowrie. Riiiiiiight. Avoiding the justified argument that could have ensued (he did ditch me on Thursday – my actual birthday - after all), I acquiesced. We slept from 10 till 1:30, then headed off to the club, where I danced my ass off as hard as possible to ensure I didn’t fall asleep again.

No rest for the wicked, however. Waking up unpleasantly early (to sort out despised admin things that pile up routinely), catching just a few glimpses of that gorgeous Luke McAllister (All Blacks, shirt 21) on my way out, I proceeded to find tile glue and grout, beg for sponsorship for my Italian society’s 94.7 Challenge team (“No!”; “Um, no!”; “Sorry we don’t do that”; “Call head office”), drag Timmy to my house to help with some tiling (you may think I’m joking, but it’s a fave pastime of mine), and still decide what outfit to wear for my “gentlemen-and-classy-escort” party that evening. (The Gilb, clever and living dangerously as usual, called to ask whether I’d chosen my outfit yet, before coming over to my house to get sucked into the affair).

The party: utterly splendid. Everyone I wanted to see was there – barring a few important Cape Town peeps and those flung in various other corners of the Earth), looking mostly classy-slut (with the exception of one white-clad Oxford Road ghetto-slut – you know who you are). The vino went down way to fast, and was followed by that detrimental cigar. Not being a smoker, it got me very rough very quickly. After doing the elegant thing in Sandton till 1:30, we moved to Norwood till 4:30, where my memory disintegrates. I commented to the boyf that it was strange my voice was hoarse on Sunday, to which he replied that it was no fucking surprise after my 2-hour shouting match (or what I prefer to call a ‘debate’) with a friend over political issues. Oh well. Then of course, one friend started getting it on with another friend (at least it wasn’t in the confines of our pantry this time, but rather in a public toilet).

More torture ensued on Sunday morning, when I luckily awoke at 9:30 because I couldn’t breathe – thank God, as I was meant to be picking up the boyf for a fandamily lunch at Mount Grace. I looked quite the English rose in my pink sundress, but underneath lurked my sore psyche. Ultimate proof that it was cigars and not alcohol that did me in, lies in the fact that I wasn’t hungry at all, and after forcing about 10 oysters down my throat (you’ve got to have them when they’re offered!), the rest of the meal looked rather lacklustre…

And so the week went.