One of those weekends

…when you drink far, far too much, and let your indignance vent itself in malicious manipulative ways. But that’s Saturday’s story.

On Friday night, my first-ever solo-organised Italian Society event went down, in the form of a wine, port and cheese tasting at a cosy little Italian restaurant (what else?) in Greenside. The Gilb, my sis, Peas, C, Third Roommate, Moogs & L, J and a colleague and his wife all succumbed to my threats and joined us, where we predictably gorged ourselves on the likes of ciabatta, mozzarella, provolone and assaggio, amply accompanied by wines and ports from Calitzdorp estate De Krans. Then, back to the flat for some karaoke-on-a-whole-new-level a la Songstar Rocks (Play Station game), where the Gilb, thanks to his high school choir participation, kicked serious ass out of boys and girls alike, and Third Roommate exposed a gaping lack of singing ability. The guests left, the Gilb and I did the deed we now have a whole week to fantasise over, courtesy of the long distance relationship, only to be interrupted very shortly afterwards by a soddingly drunk Unshaven. The man I had barely heard of, never mind met, barged into the room as I was putting my underwear back on, though truth be told he was probably too drunk to remember anything. A highly agitated Peas had a desperately-needed quick ciggy then dragged the Gilb and I with to drop Unshaven off at his house – “You’ve been dismissed!” was clearly running through all of our heads, hopefully Unshaven’s, too.

Saturday morning started on a good note (yes, I got some again) but was marred by the Gilb’s early departure – he mentioned he wanted us to join his friends later for the rugby, I said cool, no problem – as long as that gave us time to go to Sandton so I could replace the lounge chair I broke the night before performing karaoke too avidly, and go scream at people at the VodaShop. So far, so good. But then he finds out the rugby started in a half hour’s time (yes, we got up rather late), and makes the rather unsound decision to ditch me in my hour of need to join his friends. Like a bad puppy that knows it peed on the carpet and is going to be punished, he leaves with a defensive “and I’ll take you out for dinner tonight, okay Liefie?” “We’ll see”, was the stony reply. I went to Sandton alone, found two spectacular chocolate leather chairs, and as I carried the heavy bastards up to the parking lot, thought to myself that this kind of situation was precisely one of the reasons why girls had boyfriends – to help them carry heavy shit to the car. Getting angrier and angrier, I stormed into the VodaShop and had a rather public screaming match with the manager: “this, ma’am, is precisely why Vodacom will lose substantial market share when number portability is introduced!” I screeched – this did not have the effect that launched Charlize Theron into the public eye, but did serve to calm me down to the point of rational, evil and conniving anger at the Gilb. I remembered he had found a hole in his brand new pyjamas that morning, and thought I’d attempt to lead by example in how a loving and caring partner would act towards their significant other, by buying a needle and thread to stitch it up for him. I am not at all ashamed to say that I was more concerned that the act should trigger immense guilt in him, than that it should protect his flesh from the harshly cold Secunda winter nights. Perfectly on cue, he called me as I was paying for the needle and thread. “You said you were going to come and join us once you’d finished in Sandton” he said. “Oh yes, I’m just about done – I’ve looked the centre up and down to find a sewing shop that stocks the correct grey colour thread that matches your pyjamas to fix that hole.” 15 love. “Aaahhh, Liefie, that’s so sweet and thoughtful of you.” 30 love. “Yes, I’m also running late because I was carrying two heavy, heavy chairs up to the car when some really sweet guy insists on helping me, and I bought him a coffee afterwards to thank him”. 40 love. Pure, evil lying genius. “Oh”. “But I’ll be there in 20 minutes darling, I promise.” Game, set, match! I hung up abruptly, congratulating myself for maintaining a very sweet even tone during the conversation, then head on over to his friends’ place. He did throw in a meek apology of sorts, but I was not about to lose my resolve in being thoroughly pissed off with him.

We then head on to a party of another friend of his, my anger subsides as my wine bottle empties – after all, I thought, I can’t be completely pissed off with him if he’s taking me to dinner. So I meet some fabulous people, have all kinds of arb conversations with the strangers (bumped into another random who knows Peas’ blog) then the Gilb alerts me we’re going to meet yet more of his friends at the Jolly. “But what about dinner?” I ask, in retrospect a little viciously. “You didn’t sound like you felt like it. Besides, I haven’t seen these people in ages.” Oh, what a bloody moron! “Well, we can go as soon as I’m finished with this drink.” And then embark on pseudo-intense conversations with the people at the braai, nursing the last drops of my wine bottle until he dragged me away. Not to be outdone, I say “actually I’m glad we’re going, I’m starving!” We get to the Jolly, they bring menu’s, I don’t order anything. “I thought you were ready to eat a horse?” he asks. “If I have another pizza this week, I’ll puke. I’ve had four already.” I can see the guilt building up inside him, so I say “but don’t worry, I’ll just drink more so I don’t notice. Now don’t waste any more time speaking to me, you haven’t seen these friends in ages, get as much face time in as you can!” – still said with the even sweet voice. The friends, naturally, had another set of friends there which they hadn’t seen in ages, either, and seemed intent on spending more time catching up with them than the Gilb, and this state of affairs had not gone unnoticed to him. “I guess it’s just one of those days when you’re cross with me for the whole day” he sighed. “Yes, it is.”

Genuinely hungry and totally stubborn, I refused any offer of pizza slices (I may have had four last week, but as in the famous line from the movie Threesome, sex is like pizza. Even when it’s bad it’s still good) and tucked into three double Jamesons. I was well oiled at this stage, and the friends of the friends felt the need for us to join them in downing shooters. Now I’m not a fan of shooters, give me my wine/whiskey/beer or any combination of these, and I’m a happy camper. But peer pressure always wins in these situations, so we knocked back a few sets of a toxic combination of absynthe, tequila and suitcases. As my vision began to blur, I suddenly felt my resolve crumbling as I decided that the Gilb’s lap would be far more comfortable than the wooden chair I was in, and after a few neck nuzzles, shots and good-byes later, I even forced him to stop at a petrol station (apparently) so I could buy a pie. I woke up on Sunday morning feeling – in the following order –

Head pain
Stuffy nose
Remorse at my extended sulky treatment of the Gilb

So I even fixed his pyjama hole for him while he recounted the events of the night before that I had no recollection of. He apologised thoroughly, as did I, and today, as on every day after a stupid fight, I am filled with even greater love for the guy. You just can’t win, can you?