Dare I be so dull? Season's Greetings

Shit! I woke up this morning, and the first thought (alright, the second, after "God! I could really smash a mince pie right now!") that crossed my dozey mind was "Shit! I haven't wished all my readers a Merry Christmas and all that jazz!"

So, here I am, in an Internet cafe in Plett, doing just that. Well, in a minute. First, I'm going to rattle on a bit about things. So, I got to Plett on the 18th Dec. The boys (the boyf and his bro) have been playing golf every day. I've walked the course with them twice (and thanks to the first time, I have the Most Embarrassing Tan Lines Ever etched across my back - today was the first day thereafter I've braved wearing a halterneck, out of sheer desperation and not doing laundry in time, and I'm walking sideways along pavements, with my back to the walls, to avoid any tres-cool 18-year-olds snickering at me, the blotchy twit of a 25-year-old). The third thought I had this morning was "Oh fuck! I didn't call to cancel my flight from Joburg to George!" Dear readers, you'll remember I was meant to be going to Mozambique, but thanks to, ahem, politics, I'm not. So, I had to cancel a flight from Vilancoulos to Joburg (which cost me R1000), and then I meant to see to the cancellation of the following Joburg to George flight which I no longer needed because I drove to Plett with my boyfriend on the 18th. But I never got around to it, and uncannily, I woke up one minute after I was due to board this morning. So there goes another R1000...

Anyway, I'm having nostalgia about my best Christmas ever, the one spent with my best friend and his family in Scotland. It was a combination of the grand company, the food and the snow, (oh! and they put us up in this ultra-quaint hotel next door), and I worry no Christmas henceforth will ever be as memorable. Sigh! Timmy, do you feel the same, I wonder?

Well, on that note kids, I wish you all the merriest and cheeriest and cosiest of Christmases. Whether you're celebrating it with eggnog, brandy and Coke or even having a Colombian Christmas, I hope it's a fabulous one. And that 2006 grants you all your dearest wishes, including the one that gives me more time to write this blog for your entertainment!

Lolo got a promo

Yip, it's true, folks. All that bitching and moaning about work finally paid off! I'm now a small step up the ladder (Analyst to Senior Analyst), but the extra dosh don't hurt one bit! So, to celebrate, I'm taking some peeps out for dindins tomorrow night.

Otherwise, the weekend was good - work Christmas party on Friday, followed by immense fun and games at Doc's place, followed by trouble on Saturday. Speaking of which, I'm not going to Mozambique anymore. Group politics is the polite description for the situation. Oh well. I'll be damned if I'm going to be miserable about it. I'll be partying up a storm, on my own, in Peas and my flat. Any takers?

The fairer sex?

After my mini-tirade against men in my last blog, let me be fair and slag off women. We’re a crafty, deceitful bunch, after all. All smiles, perfumes, coiffed hair – how could anyone like that want to hurt you?

But don’t forget the Wonderbras, the diamante-studded g-strings, the pre-nups. We’re fricking dangerous, never forget that. Because we care, we try hard to please, and when we don’t get what we want in return, we start looking for it elsewhere. From butterflies to foxes, without you ever even noticing it.

We’re manipulative, cunning – far clever than you are at pre-determining outcomes. We make things go our way, and the really deft amongst us will lead you to believe it’s what you wanted all along. Especially gifted lasses will even make you think they didn’t want it in the first place, and now they’re going along with what you want, so don’t forget the favour. Payback time will come, it always does.

Just a warning.

Men, the root of all troubles

Had a chilled(ish) weekend in Mbona Lodge, Natal Midlands, with a couple of good folks, the only other lady and I returned on Sunday afternoon, leaving the three men behind for an extra day, who should returned yesterday after whatever stupid antics men do on their own while stranded in the outdoors (soggy Marie? Re-enactments of Jackass?)

I’m still trying to digest the substantial portion of pig I guzzled on Friday night – once again, it descended into a contest between me and … myself, actually, to ensure I ate the whole thing, hungry or really, really not. It’s all that damn bolshy ex’s fault, I tell you. Saturday consisted of splendid lunch at La Lampara, the doc’s favourite Midlands haunt, followed by two brimful-glasses of Jamesons, and a lengthy yelling session with the ex (quite normal, really), except this time I ended up in tears (could it be the booze? Or do I hate not being able to convince the opposition of my faultless correctness on all issues?) And to think the whole thing started because he said “The main thing that will determine the success or failure of 2010 will be AIDS.” I’m sure you can see that it would have been impossible to let that brazen, fact-less comment slide.

Then, of course, the Gilb wisely dragged me to bed, but unwisely decided to continue the argument by backing Don. More tears, more yelling, then a bizarre attempt from me to turn it into sex (at 2am, both drunk and tired, just not a good idea, but rather amusing at the time – for both of us, I think).

Sunday was milder, given the tender stomachs and heads. The drama did pick up a bit with the revelation by a friend that his ex – who had run off with someone else before the relationship had come to an end – had just told him he wants to marry him (without ever having given the proper apology deserved). Some people have just way too much fricking nerve for their own good, I tell you.

Now, back in the office, the drama continues. Another friend is going completely off the wall with despair – again, the results of male behaviour. Ladies, and men of a certain disposition, keep your heads about you – men mean misery, trouble, pain, confusion! Sometimes a kiss and cuddle, but boy, do you pay…

Ilovemyflatmate.blogspot.com

Yes yes, I know I haven’t written in a while. The reason will become apparent shortly. But before I go into that, let’s recap the frenzy that was the past two/three weeks:

- house sat for my manager in her swish Melville house while she was away one weekend. Both the Gilb and I are allergic to cats, so we were puffy-eyed and sniffling the whole time, which is both amusing and highly unromantic while making love, or what some would call a lovemaking session (yeuch! Does anyone say these dreadful words?!)
- I moved out of my house, and in with Peas last weekend, hence the blog title. While it’s only temporary till a suitable male moves in with her next year, it’s still tremendously exciting coming in to the flat and screeching “Honey I’m home!” over the din of Peas on a microphone, wailing to Frank Sinatra/B.E.P/Michael Bolton (seriously) while simultaneously trying to quaff (or smash it in her face, as she quaintly puts it) a G&T. Vices: she doesn’t do dishes the way you or I would, which is to say “clean” them in the strictest sense of the word. Virtues: many. Although singing’s not one of them. Highlights are: she’s a wonderful conversationalist, a drama magnet with thousands of intrigues to share daily, a quirky dresser who allows me to make strong suggestions about which belt to combine with which earrings, a less-than-gifted dancer who nevertheless dances with the confidence of Fergie (B.E.P fame), someone who can tell you all about the décor at the Brenthurst (not the clinic, the Oppenheimer residence) and various elite Westcliff households, all in the same sentence as using her charming phrases like “Bless!”, “Shut up! Get out of town!”, “Oh my Christmas!” and the now-famous “Smash it in your face!” (which can mean let’s eat, let’s kiss, let’s get this over and done with etc etc). To us, Peas!
- After a year of emailing a handsome, dark, mysterious stranger I only met once, we ran into each other (more design than fate, actually) at the Pinkies party in Sandton last weekend. He was every bit as fabulous as I remembered him, not sure I carried my own torch as high as he remembers it, though. We had a decent face-to-face chat, which will hopefully not change the divulge-all nature of his emails in future. Till next time, mate  The party itself was so-so, I expected a bit more debauchery than I saw. Does one have to do all the misbehaving oneself these days?!

Right, enough catch-up, the reason for the sparseness of my posting lately: again, that favourite four-letter word of mine, work. Given the frequency of the unusually long hours I’ve been putting in lately, I decided to keep a day-by-day log of the hours I put in. I’ve only had it going since the 21st November, but to date it reveals: a) I’m a bit of a geek for keeping a log of working hours, but more importantly, b) in the ten days since, I’ve worked an average of 15.35 hours a day. Yes, that includes weekends. And last night, when I pulled an all-nighter for today’s deadline. In the nine-odd remaining hours each day, I’ve barely had time to perform the rudimentary hygiene routines, smash food in my face, keep up my highly-demanding social profile, let alone sleep or post blogs. But, there’s hope: in exactly fourteen days, I’m off to Mozambique with Peas and her great entourage, followed by Christmas and New Year’s with the Gilb’s famdamily in Plett. Oh, and I’m off to the Natal Midlands this weekend for a rustic two days in a lodge. Viva holidays!