Don’t eat my cock!!!

The things you hear when you visit your (ex) sister in law.

I was over at hers, and her chickens were moving around the garden.  They normally are inside a coop, but the dogs were packed away and there were chickens hanging out, some being cool, some being total wankers.

I really don’t know much about chickens, so my perception of what makes a chicken a wanker might be flawed.

My sister in law asks me :”Would you like a chicken?”

I think about it a bit and let her know that I am not really interested in keeping chickens.  I have a dog and a cat, the odds of the chicken making it through his first week at mine is rather poor.

On the other hand I quite like the taste of chicken, and if he was serving no real purpose, I was happy to eat him.

At this she screamed: “Don’t eat my cock!!”

As if I was going to do it right there in front of her.  What does she think I am?  Totally unfeeling?

Anyway the conversation continued and we spoke a bit more about her cock that was available.  She insisted on using the word “cock” …. I continued the conversation far longer than I would normally, just so I could hear her say “cock” a lot.

If you are in Cape Town and keen on this lad who thinks he is quite good looking — and you promise not to eat him, then Charlene can make a plan to get him to you.



Sidebar note on this guy:  She mentioned something about him waking up and crowing a tad on the early side, so if you like your sleep being interrupted by a screeching fowl, then this guy is for you.

On a similar story — Cape Town has the Labia Theatre, for reasons that escape me right now.

A few years back, there was a promotion in Cape Town.  It had something to do with “something I can’t recall” – maybe it was their birthday or they were doing something epic.

Anyway they asked restaurants to get involved.  At that stage I had a family member who worked at a popular burger restaurant in Long Street, and she put a “Labia Burger” on the restaurant’s menu.

She did not or could not make the connection. And she kept saying “It’s for the Labia Theatre …” and I kept going: “Yes, I see that….but it’s a labia burger …….. ”

Anyway, so that is my post about the Labia, and a plea of not eating the cock mentioned above.

That, I think is enough from me for one day.

It’s only taken about 20 years or so to get a tattoo …..

I may or may not have told this story before, if I have then forgive me, and just read along like you have never heard it before.

I have always been captivated by tattoos.

I am a visual person – I love art, I love logos, I practically mess in my pants (in a good way, not like the bad way in the previous post) when I deal with Pantone colours.

Tattoos are art.  One gets good art, bad art and everything in between.  Art is not always about the image before you, it is about how that image makes you feel when you look at it.  Art is something that connects with you, it could be that you are drawn to something, or you could be repulsed by something.  Art is when that feeling is created in us as humans.

I am often intrigued at the decision processes people make when deciding on an image that will be on their body for ever.

This is not something I would embark on lightly.

I recall when I was about 13, I saw this girl at the local public swimming pool, she was probably 16 years old.  She was decked out in blue shorts, a white shirt that had an off the shoulder thing going on, as well as a “captain’s hat on her head (I added the location, as sometimes people need clear instruction to have a visual).

To make her even cooler, and right there I would have contemplated sleeping with her, she had an anchor on her left arm/bicep.

She was the coolest girl I had ever seen, and keep in mind we are talking 1986, so tattoos were not common place.

I wanted to be her.  I wanted her tattoo.   I wanted the entire sailor outfit.  Unfortunately I was tall, skinny and gawky and the chances of me being able to pull that lot together would have been a “non starter” to say the least.

So my fascination with tattoos started and has remained.

Every few years I get this “okay, I am going to get a tattoo” bug and I find an image that I think is “the one.”  I am certain I want it on my body forever.  Then I put the image in my diary and commit to having it there for 6 months, if in 6 months the feeling is still the same, then righto, we are off for a tattoo.

And that would seem where the “rub” was.  I never liked an image 6 months later.

The initial feeling that it roused was no longer there.

I have avoided the “what’s popular” tattoos that have become er p0pular in the last few years.  Nearly everyone is tattood nowl.

It’s no longer considered this side line, alternate, only for bikers, chain gangs and people who need to be reminded what their chidlren’s names are.  It seems it is de rigueur for anyone and everyone to get one or two tattoos.

My journey has been a long one.

I have dragged around a lot of images over the years.  I have crumpled up many and thought and thought, and basically realised nothing resonated with me that long.

Until I found an image that did.

It started with a fox.  It was not tattoo related at the time.

I started looking at the fox and his qualities and why I found the fox such an alluring animal.  In stories he is always perceived as being cunning, but aloof.  When I started reading fox qualities, they often referred to the fact that the fox is quite a small hunter, he does not have the advantage of size, so he needs to be cunning and clever to catch his prey.

He is often considered aloof.  In fact he is a very social animal.  This is clear to see when there is a group of foxes that live together.  They are loving, playful and caring to one another.

I liked this concept.  And so it began.  The fox started to resonate with me, I looked at images and ideas I liked.  At this point, purely as an interest exercise.

I saw images that my brain converted to tattoos and I was hooked.

I built up various images and ideas, and finally after what feels like nearly all my life I decided to get a tattoo.

I chose to have it over my birthmark.

I have a dark birthmark just above my left hip.  Its about 110 mm (across) and 50mm high and in varying degrees of dark brown – the shape of a rugby ball.  When I was small it was a real issue for me, and I was embarrassed by it.


Through my teens it was also something to be embarrassed about – its not an area of my body I have to show anyone, so if I can avoid it, I don’t.  I did not get ripped off about it, as most people did not see it, so there was no reason to mention it.  I always wore a full piece swimming costume to cover it up.

I eventually became immune to it in my late 20’s, and now it is just there.

I decided to look at a tattoo and have it done over the birthmark.  I started with Ant over at Metal Machine Tattoos nearly a year ago, discussing some ideas and we sort of kept it as a casual discussion.

I went to him with a real sit down idea, and book a consultation around May.

We looked at the image, he had it tweaked a bit and then the decision was made to get started.  This was the inspiration, but the final piece has the fox dreaming with only one circle moving around him, and colour is used.


The first session was 4 1/2 hours (I fell asleep twice in two of the sessions).

The second session was about an hour and concentrated on the fine black details in the ‘dream circle’ images {This was up against my ribs, and felt like I was being cut with a scalpel, less than enjoyable – no sleep in that hour, some sobbing, but no sleep}.

There was some departure from the original image, in that the total size was going to be about the size of my hand.

When we started to position the fox so that it covered the birthmark, we needed to increase the size, and then it grew into a fair sized piece – actually far bigger than I had originally planned/imagined.

I have my third, and possibly last session this Friday.

There was one hare that Ant did not get to, the detail in this piece is incredible. I am going to ask him to make the colour of the hair the same as Parker – so he will have a spot over his one eye, and also a patch on his back.

My thoughts on tattoos have definitely shifted.

I do not show my tattoo to everyone who will look, it is still my private tattoo.

It is far more gorgeous than I thought was possible.

Ant did some wonderful work, and the sleeping fox looks like he is sleeping.  The detail he has included is mind blowing.  He added colour, and he pretty much worked off his own palette for that, I am so impressed.   I popped in at my dermatologist for something else, and he took a look at it — you can’t even see I have a birthmark, so that is incredible.

I found the tattoo process extraordinary, and do not think I can explain it.  It was not a case of lying in a chair and having someone tattoo you.  It’s not something someone does to you — it’s something you are experiencing.

Something in me shifted whilst the process was going on.   “Getting a tattoo” suddenly felt like “an experience” that I was having.  It felt different to all the other experiences I have had in my life.

I have no idea what happens when other people have a tattoo – but there is something almost “spiritual” that is occurring for me – I wish I could describe it.

I am very fond of my tattoo – I am really looking forward to Friday.

I will get to the point where I will show it around, but for now I prefer it to be “my little secret” that I get to look at.

I also understand how people get one, then immediately plan another and another.  I am already planning number two.

So that’s it then ……

Reluctant Mom speaks about shitting in her pants and trying to retain some dignity ….

The one where Derick Watts & The Sunday Blues have absolutely nothing to do with me shitting in my pants ….. but it still happened …………..

When I am feeling a bit low on life, and need something to really laugh about I tend to go and find the work of Derick Watts & The Sunday Blues.  I have no idea how I found them the first time, but crikey they make me laugh.

{In case you can’t view the embedding and need to hop along to YouTube to go and look at the video –}

I sit there in amazement with my jaw slightly unhinged going “what …. what …….what?”  At the same time I am snorting Med-Lemon out of my nose.  Oh the joy.

Med-Lemon is not my drink of choice, but I seem to have come down with the makings of a cold/flu.

I already had that stupid one that takes two months to move through your system.  Several days of coughing, hacking and trying to lie there long enough to die.  That one.  I did that already.  It wasn’t fun then, and it is hardly going to be fun now.

I tend to wait things out.  I prefer not to rush off to the GP — I like to sit there and simmer in my snot and mucus for a bit to see if my body can get it’s shit together and make itself better.

Sometimes you need to call in the big guns and take the anti-biotics.

She gave me a script for two courses, but told me to take the one, and once it is finished, see if I felt better (i.e. my chest had cleared) and I no longer had a shiny top lip from snot.  If I did, then yay, if not then I should pop along and do another week of the anti-biotics.

My GP told me in a very clear voice – get a pro-biotic, take it with these anti-biotics.

Of course I nodded and thought, chick, you have no idea how bullet proof I am.  I sometimes only go to the toilet to do a number two every 5 – 7 days.  What is this rather large pill that does not look unlike a suppository going to do to me?

I laugh in the face of fear!! Ha fucking ha!

I will confess I started to feel a bit …. shall we say jelly belly at a certain point.  I thought, well, more coming out, must surely be a way to lose weight.  Surely?  So I left it be.

It seemed I did need a second course.  The flu/cold/lurgie was stuck in my chest and I was talking like the Marlboro man trying to make a living as a telephone sex worker, but failing. Horribly.

Same routine, filled script – the pharmacist looked at me and in a very serious tone said:”You need to take a pro-biotic with this stuff!”  She said it twice.  And talked slowly so I was sure to hear.

I did hear, though it was tricky over the gurgling in my intestines.

Needless to say I ignored all the advise given to me.

Needless to say, I learnt in real terms what the phrase “shit myself ” meant.

It was incredible.  If it was not so gross and alarming, I would actually tell this story over dinner.  What ever I put in my mouth, would appear in what would feel like moments later in what can only be described as a peanut butter milkshake.

Sweet Jesus.  I think I might have started to pray at one point.

I developed a close and someone dependent relationship with my porcelain throne.

The incident, when I knew that things had gone horribly wrong, and I am not making this up …. I wish I was, goes a bit like this.

I wake up in the morning.  I had been out on a date the night before, and the end of it appeared a little sketchy in my minds eye.  But that is not unusual.  Some times I black things out for my own safety.

I noticed I was super clean and my hair had been washed – I had gone to bed with my hair wet.  Something I do in Summer, but not in Winter, and the weather was sort of in between.  All seems unremarkable at this stage.

I get out of bed, feeling sort of okay, go to the bathroom – as you do.

I glance around for my clothing that I wore the night before, and they are not lying on the bathroom floor, where I usually deposit them.  Interesting, I think.  I go along to the wash basket and my clothing is not there.

Now I am getting slightly worried/concerned.  I have a bit of a blank space in my memory banks, and right now working out where my clothing is, is creating a slight bit of anxiety and panic.

I am not sure why, but I decide to take a shower – no I am not sure either, so I pull the shower curtain back and there are my clothing.  All in a pile.  Wet in the corner.

I think ….. things are getting stranger here by the minute.  What the fuck went on here last night?

I pick my clothing up with a really confused look on my face.  And the penny drops, as well as what ever is left of my intestines out via my sphincter muscle.

I appear —- yes, you heard it here —- to have pooped myself.  Copiously.

I am not going to go into a huge amount of detail here as I actually do want to attempt to retain some dignity.  But if you imagine one of those large (buy more and save types) jars of peanut butter, and just smudging it all over your undergarments, your pants and various other areas, you will sort of get a hint of what I was looking at.

Only a hint!

I am the person who cannot use the toilet in a strange house.  Or if there is anyone in the house who knows I am going to the toilet, I can’t go.  I like to keep my ablutions on the down low.

I am standing there trying, with ever fiber of my being to remember how this happened, when this happened, and more importantly who was witness to this cataclysmic shit attack!!

I showered the shit off my clothing, realising and accepting that this was truly a low point in my life.

I was clean …. now, but clearly there was shit on me in the last 12 hours.  I emptied another “shower gel” that promised all sorts of calm and to lower my anxiety if I used it.

I then washed everything in a bucket, and snuck the wet clothes into the laundry basket with a very weak excuse as to why there were wet.  {When you are lying to your Housekeeper, you know you have sunk to an all time low}

It posed several questions:

1.  Why was I in the shower with all my clothing ON?

2.  How long before I had the shit attack did I get into the shower with all my clothing — because maybe I realised it was a hum dinger and I was not going to make it with all the buttons, belt and other stuff?

3.  Or had the shit fest already started and I realised the only way to save any of my dignity was just to get in the shower?

4.  At which point should I call the date from the night before to get an idea as to whether I had taken a crap in his car, on his seat, and in my clothing?

5.  The time line, logistics and the WHAT THE HELL are so disturbing, and there are so many rather unpleasant permutations that I chose to just not think about it at all.

6. I practiced “acceptance” and peace with the universe and all that stuff  I also got myself some pro-fucking-biotics as fast as I could leave the house and not have to drop a shit bomb on route.

7.  The pharmacist said: “take two now” I popped the pack open and took two in front of him – I used my contact lens saline as a liquid to wash it down with.  Not pleasant for the record.  He realised he was experiencing a bit of strange, so he nodded, and said “it should be fine but if you have a loose stool then take another one” …….. I nodded at him knowingly, like I had just written the book on loose stools.

As an adult standing watching what can only be described as a car wreck in your pants as they lay in the shower, does not have much in the way of “hey here is the upside.”  Nothing you can say can add a happy spin here.

I was absolutely and totally mortified.  I still am.

But you know how the old saying goes, SHIT HAPPENS!

{the “date” did contact me the same day and told me that it was the greatest date he had ever been on, and that we should do it again soon ….. and then tried to set up another date.  I am not sure what I did, and I am not really into scatophilia or scatting if that was what happened – the fact that there were a few hours there where I have a bit of a blank spot and it ended up in shit smeared clothing, sort of ended the potential romance there.  

I did go on another date with him – a lunch date — yep, the date that tells you this is going no where, just to check if I actually did do anything that I need to be worried about.  

He was delighted to see me, and I could see he was all “keen and all smiles” which made me think that maybe I had not taken a dump in front of him.  

Either way after that I said “bye” in that way you do when you actually mean “listen, this is not happening, it is you, not me, me I am fucking hilarious, and I am afraid that I might break you or distort your perception of reality, so I am going to say thank you very much for lunch, and wish you well – but I won’t be getting matching tattoos and we will not be seeing each other again” …. it is a very loaded “bye” and to do it right, you need to do that distance hug with two taps on his left hand shoulder, just to be clear that this, my friend is not going anywhere……}

I saw this a little while ago on Craig’s List — it is a bit of a long read, but damn it is funny and worth the extra cup of tea:

The image is too small to read, so I have added the copy so you can read it —- enjoy:

Craigs List

To the woman that crapped in my car… (NE Portland)

We met on Craigslist so I am hoping that this post finds you. I know that it could quite possibly be the most humiliating first date that you have ever been on, but I am willing to look past that.

I thought we had chemistry sitting at McMenamins sharing that basket of Cajun Tots while drinking the Terminator Stout. I really felt like there was a connection there. I found you to be intelligent and witty and looked forward to further conversation with you.

At some point in life, everyone has gambled on a fart and lost. It just happened to be on a first date in the passenger seat of my car. Please don’t feel bad. The package I sent you with Pepto the next day and the note that said “First dates are always a crap shoot. Call me” was meant to be funny, not offensive.

I have gambled on a fart and lost on multiple occasions. The first time I did it was very memorable. It happened when I was five and sitting on my uncle’s lap. I am lactose intolerant, but love cheese. I probably win 95% of the time, but I don’t think anyone wins 100% of the time. That’s why they call it “gambling”. I’m the last person to judge you for crapping your pants. In fact, I am impressed by your boldness. The timing on the other hand, could have been a tad bit better…like when you’re not sitting on a heated leather seat…

What I am trying to say is that if you want to go out again, I would be more than happy to take you someplace where we can get a meal that is high in fiber and less taxing on the digestive tract.

I await your call,

P.S. – If you shat yourself on purpose to end the evening early…Touché…

This is not the blog I was hoping to write ….

Parker, my French Bulldog managed to get out of our front gates Thursday before last.

I blame myself of course, but it was an accident.

I replay that if I had not chosen to wash them, and blow dry them, and then put them on the drive way to have a wee and a what ever else, so that they would stay clean and I could bring them back in to the house to sleep, then this would never have happened.

I kick myself I did not just take them to the groomers.

The gate had been acting a bit “broken” and had been repaired.  But repair guy needed to come back and to the final “gate is not broken.”  He didn’t.

My friend had offered to fix the gate – and I had said “no” because I did not want to be the person who is always having favours done for.  I knew “gate guy” had to just pop along and sort it out.  Would take him 15 minutes maximum,.

We were using a short chain to secure the gate, and you needed to hook the lock on the closest link of the chain to keep the gate firmly closed.

Any way due to a series of happenings, the gate was left wide enough for Parker to get through.

Dexter – my Boston Terrier – is such a skinny arse he can fit through all the security gates.  After dog washing I took a quick shower and I was trying to put warm things on to go and let them in.  I noticed Dexter hanging outside my sliding door gate, and he just had this “funny” look about him.

I was no worried, I just thought he was acting “odd” because he had just had a bath and been subjected to a hair dryer.  And now was being made to stand outside.  I could see the contempt written all over his face.

But there was something else.  Something about his look that made me wonder if Timmy might be down the well.

At that moment, I just got a funny vibe – how many times must Timmy fall down the fucking well?  I shot out the room and called for Parker.  He did not come when I called and I realised the front gate was ajar.

My friend Judith dropped everything and took off at a speed down the road calling for him.  Running in her jammies.  And screaming.

I went to check kids were being watched, got in my car and off I went to search for him.  Our suburb is not very big – we drove around.  The thing that stood out for me was that the neighbourhood dogs were not barking.

It was silence.

If I walk my dogs, each home’s dogs run out to swear and basically make obscene gestures to my dogs.  This is normal.

If my dog was walking around the ‘hood, the dogs would be barking.  They weren’t.

I consoled myself that he had probably walked into someone’s home, parked his bum securely on their couch and was getting the spot behind his right ear tickled in just the way he liked it, and he was snorting in appreciation.

I was concerned.  I was not beside myself with worry.

I firmly believed he was warm and comfortable and that the person who had him would take him to Panorama Veterinary Clinic in the morning, to be scanned.

I reasoned that they did not realise that the Vet was open 24/7 and would do it in the morning.

I managed to cancel my meetings and my interviews for the next day – there was only one I could not cancel.

I was sitting in the meeting and I saw the phone ring and it was Alana (Aidan and Alana had the sire and the dam of Parker’s) – there was a very fuddled few minutes of conversation where I believed that Parker was injured and he was at a vet.  And as I ran with this premise I realised the tone of Alana’s voice did not match the “happiness” of your dog being slight injured and just at the vet.

In my madness I could not hear what she was trying to tell me.  I kept thinking I needed to just pop along to Tygerberg Animal Hospital and fetch him – he was injured.  Not ideal.  But not that bad.  Right?

I just could not hear what she was trying to tell me.

Then the penny dropped.

It was a slow penny, but the drop was earth shattering for me.

I could not continue talking to her.

I had a candidate infront of me, that I needed to finish an interview for.  I tried my best to appear professional, and get it done, say thank you, and then burst into tears as I sat with my head on the table.  I might not be permitted to McDonalds again.

Lori,the breeder called, and I sobbed.  I felt like my little heart had been ripped out of my chest via my cornea.  Lori – remained sane – she said she would meet me at the vet.

I wanted to see Parker one last time.  I wanted to push my face against his fur and breath him in.  For the last time.

I wanted to call him my chunky little monkey and tell him how much I loved him.

I couldn’t.  He was in too bad a condition for me to see him.  Lori suggested I remember him for the way he was and not go through the trauma of seeing him now.

I understand he is “just” a dog.  I get it.  I get that he is not one of my children.  I understand all of that.  But for me he was one of my children.  In his snorty, affectionate manner and his big brown eyes that seemed to just understand me.

Parker was there when Kennith told me we were getting a divorce.  Parker was there when Kennith told me he was moving out.  Parker was there when I realised that Kennith had moved on and was dating.  Like not casual dating but boyfriend and girlfriend dating.

Parker was there to cuddle against me, listen to me sob and rest his big head against my chest.  He didn’t ask me to explain, he was happy to lie against me and when I looked like I was sobbing a bit harder, then he just moved in closer – usually until he was lying on my head or my chest.

In his eyes he knew my pain, and he knew that all I needed was a cuddle, a love and a little bit of snot from his big nose to drip on my hand.  He just knew.

I am bereft and I am still inconsolable.  I try to talk about Parker and then I burst into tears.

I know he is a dog, but he is not “just” a dog – he was Parker, my guy, my chubby chubbs, my guy.


{I do want to say thank you to all the people who shared the post about Parker being missing.  People I did not know or have never met made the effort to send me information about where to search and what to look for.

People I have never met phoned vets on my behalf, reposted my “lost dog” onto various pages on Facebook.  I received so many emails of support and encouragement from people, again, who I did not know.  People who understood and understand what it feels like to lose a dog.

I can’t thank everyone —- but if you are reading this, and you are one of those people who just see the distress in others and get involved to try to help, thank you.  No, not just thank you.  But thank YOU!}


Parker is gone.  He will not be coming home again.


Dexter stealing my heart on day 1



Parker and his dad Yoda — Parker has his tongue sticking out.  Yoda is wondering who needs to pay to get out of this situation.



Parker licking Isabelle to death ….. such a dangerous dog




Parker doing what he does best ….. sleeping and snoring …..




Dexter and Parker … who said that French Bulldogs and Boston Terriers could not live together ?  Them’s wrong.




When Kotex Pads and Blitz looked like a match made in heaven ……

I popped into Pick ‘n Pay Plattekloof Center recently, and wandered down the “outdoor” aisle, the one that looks very manly.  And makes you want to go home and start a fire.  Not necessarily in your fire place.

At the end of the aisle was the usual selection of Blitz/Fire Lighters, I can’t even remember what I was looking for to make me wander down this end of the store.

Maybe the shock of seeing such an interesting product juxtaposition rewired my brain and made for forget.  Its all possible.

I saw what can only be described as an “interesting” product placement  – or a “brilliant” product placement by Kotex pads.

I really like advertising/marketing that marries two unrelated ideas and makes them so brilliant that from that point on wards cannot “not” associate the two.

Mentos and Coca-Cola for instance.

Wine and …. more wine.

They pack so much wine in one aisle.  And so many varieties, sometimes you cannot just buy one, because then you look at the other bottle on the shelf and feel dreadfully sorry for it, so you buy it too and so it the chain of events continues until you start to make your way to an AA meeting.

Tip:  I do think you should place wine glasses in between the wine bottles – a “buy 6 of these bottles”, and get 6 lovely wine glasses at a discount or something.  I personally adore wine glasses.  They are second to books in my impulse purchase list.

Kotex, I put it to you — I think this might be an unbelievable placement strategy and I, for one, am hanging on with a large glass of wine, some popcorn, dying to hear the thinking here.

Or is it going to be a sad and rather painful “performance appraisal” meeting with one of your store marketers.

I really do hope it is the former.

{over to you Kotex Pads……}


{I took the photograph, hence the slightly grim quality — there is no photoshopping going on here.}


Interrupting the regular broadcast programme on this blog……… with this important announcement

I realise this has nothing directly to do with my blog – bu, but dog rhymes with blog, so really it is not that far a stretch.

Me = sitting and crying snot and tears.

I am sharing this – in the hope that by the end of the day I am no longer making snot bubbles and my dog is back home.

Parker, my French Bulldog got out of my front gate last night (18 June 2015) around 19h00.

We are situated in the Plattekloof/Parow/Northern Suburbs area of Cape Town.

Spent several hours looking for him.  I am under the impression he has just walked into someone’s home.  He is hang friendly and will make himself comfortable anywhere with anyone.

There were no dogs barking in our neighbourhood, and they always bark if someone is walking around and especially if a dog walks past their respective gate.  So based on this Magnum PI approach, I figure he is sitting in someone’s home sharing their couch and snoring.

I am beside myself with worry.  The word anguish does not even hint at it.

Parker, is a French Bulldog, he is micro chipped, a fully intact male, mainly white, with red/fawn markings on his face and a bit on his side.

Last seen in Plattekloof 2 {Parow,Northern Suburbs, Cape Town} area around 19h00 on the 18 June 2015.

If you know anyone who has picked him up, or someone in the area who could have seen him, or someone who just happens to have a new dog ……… please share this post — I can be reached on

Please help me #bringmydoghome




When you realise that you are not the only parent struggling with this parenting malarkey ….


Do not judge_quote

In essence I started to blog because I felt alone.  In my head.

I believed – firmly – that I was the only person who thought like I did.

I believed I was the only person who was scared shitless of parenthood.

I believed I was the only parent fucking up on a regular (interpret as almost daily) basis.

All the moms I saw looked so happy, clean, shiny and sane.

They seemed to be able to make endless inane conversation, where I spluttered and usually said something that referred to a penis, vagina or squirrel …. and sometimes all three in one sentence.

People started to move away from me like they have just noticed someone on the other side of the room who is waving to them, and they need to go.

The group re-forms somewhere else in the room, whilst I am standing there wondering how the fuck I can fuck up so much.  Socially.

I recall at one of our couple therapy sessions I voiced my inability and hate (intense dislike — I might have said something like I fucking hate) of how I felt about the mommy clicks (is it clicks or cliques???) at school – and the worse mommy clicks at birthday parties.

How difficult it was for me to try to conform to these groups.  How absolutely humiliated I felt as I grovelled to try to get some attention from all the “in moms.”  It was like primary school again, but with more money and my hair in a slightly better state.

Dropping and collecting Connor at school was torture.   I knew I had to make conversation with the “in mommies” but I was so hideously bad at it.  I usually managed to alienate them in sets of three.  These women never travel alone, they have a possé/gang/homies with them at all the time.

I detested going to children’s birthday parties.

It meant about three hours of sitting and talking about shit.  Not shitting on people during sex. Or accidentally farting a wet one, when you thought it was going to be a sneaky silent one.

But actual shit.  Their children’s shit.

I am creative, in fact sometimes I think I have super hero powers in being a creative thinker, but I cannot chat about “shit” —– and why would I want to.

To add to the overall problem, these parties were usually sober affairs.  The moms sat around talking about the colour of shit and drank tea, whilst the three dads who came along stood around the braai (sans fire) drank beer and talked about “I have no idea.”

Kennith refused to go to kids parties.

He figured as I had a vagina and a uterus, I should just suck it up and go along – there was no way he was going.  He was born with a penis and some testosterone, which gave him the right to say “fuck it, I don’t do kids parties — but you can go…”

Vaginas and uteruses are truly miraculous devices.  How do they allow me to be more socially comfortable than him in a room full of vapid mothers talking about their off spring.  How?

Maybe my uterus does not work right, because being trapped in a room with moms is not dissimilar from being trapped in a room with blood sucking leeches.

These mom conversations are usually made of moms waiting for the speaker to take a breath so they can jump in with their story about their Johnny and/or Hannah and how/she clever he/she was by putting a turd right inside his/her potty.

Fuck me.  No really.  Fuck me.  Much better idea than having to listen to stories about shit.

The only time someone’s shit is a good story is if on your date, your date got diarrhea and pooped in their pants.  Well that is my best story, but I will leave it for another day.

I sat in one of our countless couple counselling sessions explaining – whilst on the verge of tears – that I experienced this social trauma and made to feel so much less than I was, EVERY TIME I collected my child from school.

Kids parties were more painful than spilling hot wax on my nether regions, and having the hair pulled out via the root.  I would happily endure a 5 hour wax session than 3o minutes of this Dante’s circle of hell Mommy shit.

Kennith was visibly shocked. He could not understand how I hated it all so much – clearly he had not been listening to me for the last 5 – 7 years.

I was shocked that he was shocked.  I was shocked that he thought I enjoyed this “mommy obligatory” shit. I was genuinely jealous that I did not live in his head where it was all sunshine and fucking rainbows and he did not have to deal with these mommy-gangs.

Anyway the point of this post is that I have felt and allowed myself for the greater part of my existence to feel a bit “a part” and “a bit not quite fitting in.”

The joy of blogging was realising that I was not alone in my craziness.

The last post I wrote and the comments reminded me again how many people out there have a strange off center way of looking at life.

It made me so very very happy.

I am so grateful for everyone who could look past the thigh length penis and point out the picture of the holy, the suspicious tissue, the strange pillow case and then have a chat about those things.

Where – where – where the hell were you when I was going through the hell of mom-and-baby groups and moms-only-birthday parties??

You and I should be in the corner with wine.  Where the fuck were you???Either way I am thrilled you are here now.  High five to all who have decided fuck it and give mommy-gangs a justified “fuck you…”




This post contains explicit nudity …. the full frontal kind … you have been warned

The story starts in the land of WhatsApp, where all good stories start.

In this one I am sober.  It was the middle of the day (yes and I was sober) and I was working away like the industrious little worker bee I am.

I get this rather cryptic message – and it makes no sense.  It appears to be from a bloke named Patrick, and he is saying hi to his mate that he met in London, let’s call him Jeffrey.

I grasp I am not Jeffrey, unless that Bruce Jenner thing is contagious, but I play along.  I have a bit of time, and am looking for amusement and wish to sharpen my wit.

I answer the message and I make it clear that I am not in London. I was doing a quick up sell on Table Mountain and what ever else I could see out of my window.

On that particular day my wit was strong and I was actually being awfully funny.  This message banter went back and forth and it was all very knee slapping.

Patrick realised I was not Jeffrey, and then we had a general chat. He told me he was an Italian living in Ireland.  Excuse me as you peak my interest.  Right?

He sent me a photograph.  Totally unsolicited photograph.

Of himself – a selfie – but he was wearing a wife beater vest and shorts.  He was kneeling on his bed, and the reflection in the mirror showed some rather questionable flowery curtains, and a puke green sort of wall colouring.

Which was alarming as he had told me he was an interior designer …… maybe he is the blind kind.

He proceeded to send me several more pictures of himself, always in a vest, always “selfie” styled.  To be honest I had already cooled to this relationship on the first image of him in a vest.  I did not really need more to cool my ardour.

I have a rather violent aversion to vests.  And seeing men’s underarm hair whilst they are in a vest.  It is a bit sweaty and sort of stuck at strange angles to their arm pits.  Vests do nothing for me.

Actually that is a lie, it does manage to dry up my vagina almost instantaneously, and that alone is a sure sign that Patrick was not “my one.”

Once the initial few days of bantering had passed and I had used up all my comedy routine, there was really nothing to be done, but go our separate ways and try to forget ever “not meeting each other.”

Patrick would send me the odd WA message, and say things like “hi how are you doing” and then include an updated picture of himself in a vest.  I had the usual groin and groan reaction.

I replied less, because well we were done.  I had no more to get out of this relationship, nor give.

 {I want to warn you that if you sensitive to full frontal nudity, or if your name is Patrick, then I suggest you click away now}

I am sitting there quite innocently — minding my own business.  A lot of my work interactions are done on WA and the result is that messages pop up all day and I generally have my phone nearby during work hours.

There are a few things that I believe could have happened here:

1.  Patrick took a hit of pure heroine and thought this was a good idea.

2.  Patrick’s mother taught him that his body was beautiful and he should share it with anyone he barely knows.

3.  He had a new duvet cover he wanted to show me and this was the most interesting way he could work out to do that.

4.  This approach has worked for him in the past, and suddenly the entire conversation with Jeffrey is viewed in another light.

5.  Patrick knew it was my birthday coming up, and this is the only gift he could think that would keep on giving.

6.  I have nothing.

>>>>>>>>>>>  I am warning you that you are about to see an image that you will forever have burnt onto your retina ………….



>>>>>>>>>>> You have had umpteenth warnings to click away, but you have chosen to follow this path …….  no crying about this later, no hair pulling and weeping ………… if you are going to act like a grown up then you need to also take responsibility for your decisions ……….

>>>>>>>>>>  no more warnings

>>>>>>>>>>  this shit just got real ………..


Did you notice the floral curtains!!! ?  Yes, I know very distracting.

I did blur out his face, I really gave that several hours of thought.  As far as I know, and can testify the remainder of this image contains no photoshop.

I replied with a rather curt response along the lines of WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SENDING ME NAKED PICTURES OF YOURSELF — PUT ON YOUR VEST YOU SICK FUCK!

Or some thing of that ilk.

I realised from this image that Patrick really was proud of his physic and wanted to show everyone.  Now I don’t know everyone, but I have shown this around at my local pub.  Not always to applause.

Considering how infatuated most men are by their penises, they do have a rather STRONG reaction when they see pictures of other men with their penises out.

Men are a strange bunch.

Crazy white men especially, but we have discussed this earlier.

I have this friend Francois who is so damn funny – so I sent this picture to him.  Francois being polite, commented on that even though he was struggling to keep his lunch down, he wanted to draw my attention to the dimensions of not-Patrick’s-curtains.

I commented that now that he mentioned it, there was a certain ……. impressiveness there, once I got over the shock of the floral curtains.

Francois, without missing a beat goes “soft mattress” which made me splutter with laughter.  That is why I will always adore Francois and continue to stalk him a non threatening manner.

Some key points:

1.  You knew there was going to be explicit nudity and continued to read this post, so for your burning  and bleeding corneas I have no sympathy from me.

2.  I don’t have Patrick’s number any more, so please do not contact me looking for it.

3.  If you are this Patrick, then cool – you have a little bit of fame over here in South Africa, yay for you.

4.  Am I the only one who is deeply disturbed by those curtains?

5.  I show this to a friend, and the first thing she does is comment how atrocious that bedside lamp is ……. same girl who as we watched 50 Shades of Grey kept swooning at the decor.  Love her!!

I attended a funeral today …..

It wasn’t someone I was close to.  I knew her more by association than I-sat-and-had-chats-with-her-over-large-glasses-of-wine.

She is the friend of Kennith’s sister – and I met her when she was 12 or 13 years old, and saw her on occasion and we were “hey how are you doing?” sort of passing acquaintances.

Jocelyn.  She was born in 1979.  To me that makes her practical a fetus in this life.  Me the old decrepit one, her the young one. I was born in 1972.

She died on the 25th of May 2015.

I attend funerals always as more of a comfort to the living than for the dead.  The dead have moved on.  They are no longer worried by what we breathing mortals are doing.

I have unclear beliefs regarding a God/god and an afterlife.  I am an agnostic, not because I believe so strongly in anything, or nothing, but because I am on the fence.  Trying to work out my belief system exhausted me to the point where I just decided to “park” it …..

This funeral was very different.  Here is a young woman, who died.  She should not be dead.

Her two young daughters buried their mother today.

I cried snot bubbles through the entire service.

I listened to Jocelyn’s mother give a eulogy. I don’t think there was anyone in that church that was not crying and reflecting on their own life, through out this process.

The thing I found alarming/admirable/incredible, was the candor of her family.

How they openly spoke about what killed her.  There was no embarrassment or shame.  No hiding behind “mixed phrases” and “candy coated shit.”  They owned the honesty.

It did not make anything less sad, less real, less of an awareness that Jocelyn was an incredible person who touched people around her in a way that was profound.  The people sitting in that church, the people talking about her was testimony to that.

There was heart-ache.  Honest, bone crushing heart ache.

I cried for her mother – wondering what it must be like to bury your child in the prime of her life.

I sobbed for her two daughters, wondering what it would be like to bury your mother before you are even out of primary school.

How that shapes who you are.  And how life can be a bit of a fucked up place.

The entire service was positive, and actually inspiring.

I am not really into religious ceremonies and find the platitudes and bible babble annoying.  Usually services are conducted by church members/leaders who hardly knew the person who has died but feels okay to stand and “chat” about them for 45 minutes in a general vague manner, often forgetting their name.

This family had a close relationship with this church, and the pastor.  You could hear the familiarity in everything said today. The truth.

I cried so much today that I am not sure how I managed to actually keep any liquids in – I look not dissimilar to an old haggard raisin right now.

I cried for Jocelyn, her daughters, her mother and a life ending.  Snatched away.  Too early.  Too violently.

I cried picturing our places being interchangeable.

If I knew that my reckless behaviour would make my children motherless, would it make me behave more responsibly?

If I knew that my behaviour would probably nearly kill my mother if she had to stand at my funeral, would the jerk of that thought make me change?

We all have our demons.  Sometimes they hunt us relentlessly. Sometimes we run to them with reckless abandon and try to live with them.  But demons are fuckers and they generally win.  They are patient like that.

Knowing all of this will I change my behaviour?

The fact that I cannot answer this with a resounding “yes” makes me cry still more huge tears.

I am actually shaking, not sure if it is the realisation, or the shock of the awareness or the lack or fluids

I am at Vida e caffé and openly sitting at my laptop having a snot bubble cry.  I like the way no one attempts to notice me.

Today was a severely harrowing day.

RIP Jocelyn.  Yeah, fuck life it is really run by fuckers.


My first internet date …. when I was still wide eyed and filled with hope ….


So the guy’s name was and probably is still Leonard.  I am going to skip pseudonyms here.

I was happily sitting  chatting on dating sites. I thought I could keep this cyber chatting going for almost forever.  I know me.  My social phobia and my fear of meeting new people, will keep me glued to a keyboard and a screen, happily hiding there.

After a few drinks (when all good decisions are made) – I drink alone. It’s  not quite the 12 step programme, but it is less than 12 steps from my computer to my bed, so it is sort of the same thing.

I decided GO ON A DATE!  And then I had this internal monologue.  I often do it out loud so I am not sure how internal it is, and I convince myself that I need to “grow a pair” and just go out with people.

These people.  Just go.  Pick 10. Even if randomly, and go on 10 dates.

If after 10 dates it is still as much as a cluster fk as I anticipate it will be, then I will say fuck it all, eat chocolate until I am as wide as I am tall, and stop brushing my teeth.  And get cats.

That people is my plan.

I ask Leonard out.  Remember this is my first step out into this rather strange space.  I have not been able to set up my “rules” my “codes” that I stick to when meeting strange people in strange locations.

We book a time, Saturday 16h00 – my thoughts are I can be out of there whilst the sun is still up.

I make the mistake of letting him select the place.  Never made that mistake again.

He selected The Fat Cactus in Mowbray.  Should have been my first clue.  I was giddy with the excitement of it all, and forgave a lot of details that right now would not pass the muster.

I got myself ready for this date, like I was going to meet Leonard and we were going to run away and live together on his private estate, forever and ever and ever.

Yep, that is the way I was pitching this in my head.

I had not been on a date in more than 20 years.  Unless you count the time the plumber came over.  And I do.

I was channeling Cinderella and Snow White. It was all going to be magical.  Little woodland animals would come along and clean my house after I danced around with them in a clearing in the woods to music by Mr Bolton himself.

I arrive at the venue.  Early.

I want to make sure I have all exits mapped out.  I want to check out the toilet, see if I can fit through the toilet window if push comes to shove.  Shove being the operative word.

I am sitting at the “restaurant” and I got a sense of being 22 and drinking too much tecquila – it’s that kind of place, where you are singing “Come on Eileen” at about 11pm with people you don’t know, but whose sweaty armpits you are sort of leaning in to.  The decor leaned towards a grungy homeless shelter than say a place one magically meets their prince.

Again, I am trying not to be too judgey.  Be cool.

The table top was particularly sticky. Once I found a position where my arms were comfortable they just sort of stuck there.  Adhered there.  I kept it looking casual.  {I am not 100% sure what the sticky was, but I decided not to look at it too closely …..}

I am thinking about all the preening and stupid things girls do when getting ready for a date, and then this guy walks in.

He is the exact opposite of what a girl does to get ready for a date.

I cannot confirm, or deny, but he looked like he had been in that set of clothes since this morning,.  And at some point had had a relaxing deep afternoon sleep in those clothes on his gomma gomma couch.

Was woken up with a fright, no time for grooming, donned a white hat —- a fedora I think — I can’t make this shit up people, and appeared there before me.  Visions of stallions and being swept off my feet leaked away quietly.

It turned out he was my date.

Lucky. Lucky me.

I unglued my arms and said hello.  Now already any expectations have flown out the window.  Not up to the sky in wonder, but straight into the tarmac making that thunk-thunk sound like an injured pigeon does as it tries to tarmac dive after being in the sun too long.

I have long started regretting I got a full body wax for this, and the new underwear is starting to creep.

Anyway he introduced himself, Leonard, and I said hi and then he started to talk.  About himself mostly.  He did ask me a question, and as I tried to answer, he sort of cut me off and answered it.  For me.

I felt it was going so well we were finishing each other’s sentences.

By that I mean, I just ordered Millers and thought I would focus on drinking them.  I would let him speak. He seemed to have a lot to say.  Nothing really interesting, but with enough Millers things that are loud can turn int a quiet drone. I have done the field work, trust me on this.

Almost the first thing he said was that he did not carry credit cards – he only paid in cash.  I got a strange “Big Brother Conspiracy” going on —– but as said I did not have much time to ask questions —- or answer any.

He told me he owned his own home and car — which of course countered my initial sense that he was tres cool and homeless.  But I left it.  I thought that is sort of odd in this day and age, but hey white old folks be crazy, so I will just decided to go with the flow.

I knew that this date was not going well.  It wasn’t to the point where I felt I needed to throw a candle at the alcohol stand to form a fire ball so I could escape in the chaos that ensued.  I realised that at least I had a back up plan because the only thing going down here, was my expectations and hope of this ending soon.

As he talked he name dropped.

The problem with name dropping is if the person sitting across from you is not suitably impressed then stop fucking name dropping.  Name dropping is not cool if you have to keep explaining who the name is.

To the person drinking Millers sitting across from you.

I stopped opening my mouth to explain I did not know who so-and-so was, and realised I was not really going to get a word in, so I shrugged and ordered another Millers.

I looked around for something to read and found a menu.  I quickly jumped in with “I am starving – I am going to order something” and he then agreed and continue to tell me things about the menu.  It appeared he was a regular here.

Efficient and friendly server arrived, we ordered, and again I sat and drank my beer.

I was alarming sober.  I had fallen into that comfort level where I no longer cared. I started looking around and found things that amused me.

Food arrived.  It was really good.  Great mexican food – really enjoyed it.

He ate his. I think he ate what I didn’t eat. Or something else equally as endearing.

I thought okay, I have gone about as far as I was with this one.  I think I ordered another beer – and asked him if he wanted anything else, he said no.

I said great, I am going to call for the bill, which I did.

Leonard started to tell me that he gets 10% discount at this particular establishment.

If you have known me for 13 minutes you will know telling me you get a discount for anything is akin to making my vagina dry up, shrivel and catch the first taxi home.

I looked at him in my most convincing “listen here mate” look I could muster and said “it is fine really…”

And he kept saying it. 10% discount.

I was now wondering if we had moved into a sort of autism territory.  I kept staying IT IS FINE but slower and louder, because well, it was fine. The quicker I can get the fuck out of here, the quicker I can get home, phone my friend Judith and drink wine.

That was my short to medium term plan at this point.

Then he goes “I don’t have any cash on me……..”

I offered him what I though was a withering look, it might have just being “DUDE YOU ARE FUCKING SHITTING ME RIGHT NOW …..”

I did actually glance around waiting for Ashton Kutcher to appear and scream “PUNKED…”  He didn’t.

I am not sure how many seconds had passed  he said “I will run across the road and draw some money”


{key note:  the issue is not that I am paying.  I am fine with that.  Fine.  It is the fact that he announced he had no credit cards, then announced he had no money —– surely anyone in their sort of half right mind comes to a date with some money, or a cow to barter, or maybe some beans to barter for a cow …….. something dumbass….}

I was thinking that inside my head but it slipped out and I said it aloud.

I took control of my voice, stood up went to the bathroom, had a bit of a laugh and thought, well you know 9 more dates cannot be worse/stranger/more disappointing than this…. right?

I got back to the table.

He was still talking.  The server returned with the credit card machine.  He kept muttering about his 10% discount.  I wondered if I hit him against the side of the head with the credit care machine it would stop his bleating.

I know your frontal lobe controls conversation so it might need to be a full frontal head butt with an iron.

I paid the bill, said thank you and stood up.

My aim here was to leave, fast.  Avoid any contact.  ANY.

He insisted he walk me to my car.  Yeah, not.  I pointed to my car and said it was fine, it was right there, it was broad daylight and I would be fine.

He invited me back to his car.  I was a little unclear of where this was going.  I have not dated in 20 odd years, lots of things could have changed.

I agreed, only because I thought if I walked him to his car, that means I could leave him AT HIS car, walk to my car ALONE and be able to snigger uncontrollably the entire way.

I get to his car —- and this is a true story —- he takes out a brochure and starts to sell me something.  Not something interesting like a vibrator that gets 200 km to the litre, but cleaning products.

I shit you not.

I just stood there.  I took a deep breath. Smiled as politely as I was able, said thank and good-bye.

I walked back to my car – a little bit unsteadily.  It was not the beer, I was wearing heels that made me walk like a new born Kudu calf.

I called my friend Judith and told her to get her raggedy little arse over to mine as I seriously just needed someone to talk to.

She came over and we laughed, and then screamed with laughter and drank too much wine.

The next morning I checked my phone — I am that person who puts their phone down and then does not look at it for 15 hours.

There were a list of messages from Leonard.

They started off with “thanks, it was lovely to meet you” to “lets do it again” to “do you dance?” and then moved on to the more uncomfortable ones “why aren’t you answering my messages” and “okay, okay fine….”  There weren’t hundreds, but there were say 11 or so – but they got decidedly more needy as they went on.

How on earth could this guy think or feel that what he had just experienced would be considered a good date?

That I would want to repeat.  Maybe he was just following up on his cleaning product order and see if I was going to order 25 litres of Handy Andy or VIM.

I realise I am niave and a tad low on street smart, but for fuck sake, dude ………. dude!!  Even I know when a bomb is a bomb.

Needless to say I wished Leonard well, and said we would not be seeing each other again.

He did ask again if “we could go dancing … as friends”

Bless.  So that was my first time.  Done and dusted.  No more dating virgin here.  I owned that!

Yes, and some days it is just shit-a-holla ….

divorce_fuck you


I hate it when people ask me “so how are you doing…” and not add the “with the divorce thing, you know” …..

I still don’t know what to say.

Some days I am super happy. I have the remote control.  I can make star angels in the bed, and can poo with the door open. The world is pretty much my oyster.

The next day I don’t want to get out of bed.

I am not sure if I miss or hate Kennith.  It could be a bit of both.

Yesterday evening driving home I saw him running along the side of the road.

In a split second I had two thoughts “drive the fucker over” and “shame, I should stop and give him a lift” ….. but I understood that both would probably have a knock on effect to him running the Comrades, and instead chose to just drive on.

I hate that he has toddled out of this relationships straight into another.  And seems happy.

I want to kick him in his hairy little face and say “look what you did fuck wad….” but I guess he did not do it all by himself.

Why can he not have a relationship where they are fighting and throwing cat food at each other?  But in a non sexual way!

Why can’t he be muttering “she is a dumb bitch” under his breath ….. instead of looking so delightfully peaceful?  I am seriously ……….. seriously

I want to ram a fork into his shoulder, just to see if he will react.  I will blame her of course.  I know I can do it, I figured out how to sneak into their house …. I know which door squeaks, I know where the forks are kept.

I can be in and out of them in under 8 seconds ……. at the moment I am still at 14 seconds.

But I train two or three times a week, and my times are getting better.  I am only going to stab him with a fork, it’s not like I am going to shoot him whilst he is on the crapper. Relax people.

You will know when I am unhinged, trust me, you will know.

I hate that my kids keep telling me how wonderful she is – I don’t know her, and I still want to drive her over.  If my kids compare her to me one more time, I am seriously going to start to take Xmas money away from them and tell them J stole it.

On other days I sigh and I think how peaceful life is and I am glad K is not lonely, and I am glad he is dating someone who seems to be nice to my children.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

I never think that.  I’d like to.  That would mean I was potentially a nice person.

I just lie there and go fuckity fuck fuck.  Fuck it all ….. “now bring me wine and chocolate” I scream at no one in particular.  Hence I get neither.

I am fine for several days, and then I am not.  It might have nothing to do with Kennith it might just be PMS, but fuck that, I am blaming him for it all right now.

I do not want Kennith back.  I do not want him to die.  I do not want him to explode into 1 000 little pieces.   I am not sure what I want.

I lie in the bath and sip my wine – I have changed it up to a rosé – it makes me feel pretty and girly.  And I still get drunk at about the same rate, so that is really all that matters right?

Life is good.

Life is kak.

Life just is.

My constipation was pretty bad on the weekend ….. just filling space here people, just filling space.

Some days I am so happy I sing along to really shitty songs.

Some days I cry at radio adverts.  While the radio is off.

Other days I have MUSIC going so loud in my ear phones, I physically prevent myself from being able to think of anything.  It also drowns out the sound of my kids arguing in the car, so really it is a win-win all round.

Last night I climbed into bed.  The girls were already in my bed – this is kind of where they sleep most of the time.  Sadly it reflects on my social life.

I got into bed, I was tired, exhausted, and the cat was trying to find a spot.  Isabelle’s chubby slightly damp little hand came over my shoulder and held onto my arm, and for that little slice in time, I forgot everything and felt pure joy.

Then the cat clawed my foot, and I tried to kick him, missed and kicked the end of the bed, and the moment was just that little bit less magical.

As said before, fuckity fuck fuck.  With a double fucker fuck fuck at the end.


At your lowest, it is still not this ….

So I am internet dating. No secret.  It still bears a stigma, so we do not talk about it in polite company.  I think it might be more acceptable to say I am a prostitute.

I do not go around wearing a t-shirt announcing it – the internet dating, not the prostitute thing — keep up now.  The reality is what are the chances of me meeting a semi-stable male person who is single, or not in jail?

I will tell you incase you have not done this experiment, the chances are almost nil actually.  I can’t quite meet people at work ….. I work for myself, you see how that is weird?

I have to fling myself onto the cattle market that is internet dating and die a thousand deaths.  Daily.

My friend told me she saw her friend’s husband on a site once.

Well that got awkward fast.

Internet dating, by it’s sheer ludicrously, allows for several hours of funny stories, a few really embarrassing ones, and several that I prefer never to talk about unless I am on some sort of strong medication and restrained by a medical professional (not the one mentioned further in this piece just so we are on the same page here)..

You meet some lovely people.  You meet some questionable people, and then you meet the people who will hold your hair back whilst you are up-chucking. I am stylish like that, see.

Which basically means I am chatting to people who could be the 12 year old boy next door or a 78 year old woman in Geneva.  It is all pretty Dating in the Dark stuff – and you need to keep your wits about you.  I firm dose of humour, and always keep Barney’s words in mind “Stranger Danger.”

{does it bother you, or maybe raise an eyebrow that in that show there is a character called BJ.  Of all the names they could use, they settled on BJ, why not just go to the next level and call him ANAL?  Maybe I just do not understand the market they are trying to appeal to}

There are so many lows in the process that I can’t even list them.

I had a theory that I would sit and jot these down one day, but that day is never going to come.  Things have got so murky, my lines in the sand have been smudged so badly, that I am starting to doubt whether some things I recall actually happened.

I got this message today – with a few photographs:

Hi, I read ur story. Interested in you. I am Dr *******. South Korea medical Dr. work at khaleitsha area. prevent Hiv.Aids person. I majored gynaecology for female. Recently I looking for good friend.

I am not sure what to make of this.

He is looking for a good friend, he has majored in gynaecology.  I like the way he is specific and says “gynaecology for females” …. as opposed to?  Say ….. is there any other kind of vagina doctor I don’t know about?

Anyway, I am going to say thanks, but no thanks.  And then try to find the door to get the hell out of this rather strange place. For today, I will be back tomorrow, I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame —- a large petrol fueled flame!!

I am sure he is wonderful.

I am sure he is.

I am sure that I am never going to find out.

Good luck strange doctor guy.  Good luck.

Me – cheese and riced, I really need to take stock of my life sooner or later.


Dick pics …. when is it a good time …..?

{Part 1 of a series …… not sure how many in this series}

I am almost sure that this is a question that plagues many of us.

There are several very helpful articles —- several hundred in fact, so this must be a question around which many people are confused, terrified and are in need help.  Clarity.  Possibly some boundaries.

I thought that maybe I was losing touch with the cool kids so I ran the question “when is it a good time to send a dick pic” – Google was not shy with the helpful articles it had on supply around this exact issue – about 39 300 000 results (0,34 seconds) – that is a large figure.  When I ran the same search but based on “how to deal with anal leakage” the results seemed small/insignificant in comparison – 1 890 000 results (0,41 seconds) .

I am not wanting to compare the problems of anal leakage with that of whether to share dick pics.

One you are not going to take a picture of and send it to what you think might just be a “hot babe” whilst the other seems to be something you do take pictures of, then share with random people.  Totally random people, who you think need to see your dick.  In a pic.  Without a cat.  On a mat.  With a rat.

That people is a lot of people talking about dicks, photographing them, and then deciding on which distribution channel is going to work best, or at all.

I need to come out at this juncture and add that I do not personally have a dick/penis/prick or what ever is the right word.  It appears that there are more than 174 names/words in use that are used instead of the word penis.

That is unbelievable, if you consider the Eskimos only have 100 words for snow – and they see snow all fucking day, and all fucking night.

It actually cannot be proven that the Eskimos have a 100 words for snow, it is a bit of a legend and we just repeat it enough so now it sounds factual.

Lots and lots of snow, miles of it.  Piles of it, stretching out as far as the eye can see.

Falling from the sky, hitting you in the eye, ruining your hair, making your lips chapped, spoiling your lovely blue dress.  You never know how much there really is going to be — and it is always too much or too little, and seldom just the right amount.  Different shapes and sizes of snow flakes, no two the same.

Random people holding sticks on television in front of a map telling you how deep it is going to be – or that it might get slippery.

All of this and only 100 words for this phenomena of nature versus 174 for a dick, but now I have digressed.

To get back on track — here is a flow chart that helps answers the question of  “Should you send that Dick pic?”:

dick pic-flow chart


I have my own story around Dick Pics but I sort of wanted to create a base from which to operate or start the story, because as you all know, for me it is all atmosphere and background.

The details, the details – the story is always in the details.

Tune in again to read more on this fascinating topic.


The upside of Divorce …… that no one tells you

There are few perks to divorce, but if you do not focus on them, and try and relish in the small thing, there is a good chance you might end up with a sawn off shot gun, and an alcohol binge session that is not going to end well for anyone at the post office.

So here is my non-comprehensive list of shit that is good after a divorce:

1.  You can use it to stop a “call centre” operator in their tracks.  I had a call yesterday from Old Mutual and an operator was trying to set up an appointment with a very nice financial planner, to plan my life.  I said “you know I am at the end stages of a massive divorce, right now I can’t plan for next week {I did make it slightly more dramatic than it is} ….. I really can’t do this right now.”  I could hear him flicking through the “cards to use to deal with difficult customers” and he came out with nothing.  He apologised, wished me well, we might even have held hands symbolically and sang kumba-ya-ma-lord for a few moments.

2. Twice the cupboard space.  Not something I really factored in at all.  I left K’s cupboards pretty much untouched for a month or two, and then I thought, hey wait a minute maybe we can put my jeans here, and my jackets here.  And then I pretty much took over all the cupboard space. It makes me smile nearly every morning to open all those cupboards.

3. I have access to the remote.  Now, I can’t quite explain this emotion. It still makes me choke up a bit.  Unless you have lived with a man, you do not realise that has a woman, you just do not get remote control benefits, and if you do, then what ever you select to watch is deemed as shit/junk/this crap again.

4.  This is also connected to the DSTV remote.  I change the sound on the DSTV remote.  The rule was we only change the sound on the TV remote and you will be cast into hell if you dare change the sound setting on the DSTV remote.  I now do it with reckless abandon.  It is still quite a heady experience.

5.  I get every second weekend off and one night a week.  Let me say that again, every second weekend, I have no kids, no responsibility and the same is repeated one night a week.  I love my kids, but holy shit balls I like them so much more now that I get a break from them.  It is creepily fantastic.  I know I should be lamenting how I miss them and how I can’t live without them, but I am too busy fiddling with the sound on the DSTV remote.

6.  Isabelle sleeps in my bed almost every night – Georgia sometimes comes along.  There is something delicious about that warm, moist and sweet smell of your children close by.

7.  It is such a relief to not find shoes fucking everywhere.  Everyone puts their shoes into cupboards.  I no longer have to pack shoes away.  I did all the options, leave the shoes out, and see if “all” the shoes will eventually be left randomly all over the floor, and throw a shit fit, and then do internal anger.  I tried it all.  It appears the only solution to the shoe issue is divorce.

8.  Every day —- every solitary day —- K either takes the kids to school or fetches them.  I don’t wish to mention that at one point he had no idea what school or grade the kids were in, but it helps to give a balanced view of how fantastic this present arrangement is.  It means on two days a week, I can get up at 08h00 if I want — and I always want.

There are lots of negatives.

There are lots of things that are still shit.  There are lots of things that feel like I am being punched in the diaphragm and vagina simultaneously, but there are some ups …… there are some things that still make me skip around the house like a lunatic in happiness.  You know some days you need to cling on to the slithers of happiness in the madness, or you will lose the plot.

And stand screaming on your drive way.  I choose to get excited about the remote and changing the sound, without any repercussions.

great loss

Jean Claude Van Damme invented black. In fact, he invented the entire spectrum of visible light. Except pink. Tom Cruise invented pink.

I am coming off an insomnia bender of more than a week.  This is my third night of sleep, and I am beyond overjoyed at the prospect that I can go to sleep and remain so.  I am giddy with the excitement of it all.

The hamster on the tread-wheel in my head does not slow down much and I have been having some graphic dreams with incredible detail.  HD stuff.  Which makes distinguishing between real life and sleeping life a bit tricky.

Last night I had this dream – I probably had several, but this was the one I could remember, because it ended with me being on the floor.

So {in my dream} I arrive home and find that Kennith is there with a group of people, and they are having dinner.  In my house (in case you have been away for a bit and missed the details – Kennith and I are divorced and living separately as you do when you are divorced).

Dinner party is in swing, without my permission, or knowledge.

I am a bit gob-smacked, and then when I see his significant other {we will refer to her as Sparks or it will make trying to discuss this more awkward than it is already} sitting at the dining room table, in the chair I would usually sit in.

I am like “what the fuck!!?”

All of this blows my mind and I start ranting at Kennith about how inconsiderate he is being, and also how fucking inappropriate this all is.  Just totally in-a-fucking-propriate.

I am freaking out — but I have moved away from the dinner party, you know so as not to disturb the imaginary dream dinner party, with Kennith’s friends and his significant other.

I can’t recall what Kennith was saying – but the attitude he was giving me was that I should just calm down and what is the problem.

Nothing quite escalates an argument than telling the person who is losing her rag to “just calm down.”

I am not quite sure of exactly what happened in the precise order, because there was a lot going on.

Me screaming at Kennith.

Kennith being a dick.

Sparks coming over to introduce herself —- er, maybe not the right time wouldn’t you say?  {please keep perspective that this is my dream, this is not real life}

For some reason there is a room full of boxes, which were also freaking me out.

So, what happens next (both in real life and in my dream) is I take my hand and pull the duvet away from my left leg, to free it up from all those restrictive blankets.

I am dreaming, but I can feel and know I am doing this.

Then I launch a kick – I am not sure if I was kicking any of the characters in the dream, or the door or the boxes.

I am not sure.

I kick with all my might.  I got height and direction.  And enough velocity to pull me out of my bed.  And deposit me on the floor next to my bed.

Nothing quite wakes you up like hitting the floor.

{this is how I pictured I looked}


On a non related matter, what the hell is going on in this picture and should we be calling animal protection services?


I can’t poop if someone is near me and they know/think I might be pooping ….

I am physically unable to poop if someone is nearby.

That someone could be anyone.

I used to be at boarding school – I did not go to the toilet from Monday through to Friday – because you have these large rooms of toilets and showers, and there is just no way you are in there alone.

I used to try to wake up at 3am, but true as nuts I would be terrified someone would walk in, so totally unable to go.

By Friday I was bleeding from my eyeballs!

I still cannot go to the bathroom, if there is someone in my home, or if I am in someone’s home, or in a public bathroom.

I will literally be crying, knowing that if I took too deep a breath I would shit in my pants — but still I would hold out, I just cannot go.

This picture is exactly what happens when I go to a public bathroom, and that is just to wee.


waiting to poop


A few months ago, I was at a very dodgy bar.  It really was past the point of where dodgy was dodgy – what ever is the word to be used for “most dodgy”.  Any the who, at a certain point I had an overriding urge to urinate.

The type where if you do not go NOW you will actually just pee in your pants.

I was standing outside the one stall bathroom for women – past hopping from foot to foot – to the point where I was pleading to be permitted to use the bathroom.  I think I might have already been making nail scratches in the door and begging in a very high pitched voice.

Eventually the cubicle door opens and said girl looks at me and says “you really sound desperate” to which I reply “yes, I am going to pee in my pants ….. right now …… please I really need to use the bathroom”

She opens the door wider, and I notice she is not making any movements to leave the cubicle, whilst I use the facilities.

Normally this would be awkward beyond awkard, and I would stand there and mumble.

But this night was not one of those, this was, if I do not pee now, I am going to be pee’ing in my pants.  And no matter how dodgy this bar was or is, a girl peeing in her pants is not going to be overlooked, as just another low point of the evening.

I decide to just shelve my issue with pee’ing/shitting in front of someone.

I have no idea why she was still in the cubicle, with me.  On the upside the cubicle was considerably big, so it was not like we were pressed against each other.  We could have served snacks and invited a few other people to join in.  I was part the point of delving into the mystery of what exactly was going on here.

I had about a liter of urine that needed to be removed from my body immediately – else my jeans were going to become a large in efficient sponge.

Dropped pants, sat on the commode, and felt that relief you do when urine is not being poured into your pants.

I could barely speak for the joy and relief.  Bliss is a word I would throw around here.

At some point, once the initial pressure had subsided it gave me time to take in my surroundings, and notice that this girl was still in the cubicle with me.

When you need to pee, you really start to bring your standards down quite a few notches.

I looked around at her, she was behind me, I smiled, and said “thanks so much” — and she said “not a problem” and then continued to snort cocaine off the cistern.

I knew that this was not normal.  I felt she could look at my lilly white arse whilst she was snorting off the cistern.  I am not sure which part of this I found more disturbing.  I was sort of thankful I had decent underwear on.  I think it is a girl thing.

I also knew I had flashed my ass, and all the other bits to a stranger I had never met, and who appeared to be making very different life choices from me.  At the time.

I however still had about 340 ml of urine to get out – so I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

And so this strange “friendship” was formed.  I finished what I needed to do, wiped, flushed, washed my hands, thanked her again for her generosity of letting me into the cubicle, and wished her a good night further.

Okay so that ranked as one of my stranger experiences of that particular week.

The one where the woman got kicked in the face …. because of me

Yesterday something happened which will remain with me for quite some time.  Forever possibly.  It’ll be that thing that I lie awake at night thinking about and wondering if I had acted differently would the outcome have been affected.

I interview at public places – so it might be a McDonalds or a Mugg and Bean or a where ever.  It’s convenient, and I also like the fact that I am in a public area when I am meeting someone who I do not know.

Yesterday it was at a McDonalds, I use the same one regularly and I know the staff at this point, and it is comfortable.

My social anxiety does make it a challenge to interview, and added to that if I interview in an unfamiliar place it makes it more so.

As with most of these places there are usually several self appointed car guards, who exchange their time of staring at your car to ensure that no harm comes to it, for a few rand.

Now, the idea of car guards is not an issue for me.  I am a good tipper of car guards, and especially the other guys who help push your trolley and unpack your bags into the car.  Those guys I love!!  Especially when I have bought a few 25 kilogram pool salt bags.

So we have established I have no issue with both these entrepreneurial arms of the work force and the services they render.

These particular “car guards” who frequent this particular McDonalds are more of the class of vagrants, who have nicked day-glo green bibs and stand around looking like they are in various degrees of enhibiration the later the day gets.  But hey, who am I to judge.  Leave me in a parking lot staring at cars with a bib, and odds are I will be drinking wine through a straw by 09h00.

I don’t expect much from “my” car guards. I like them to say hello, and then make overtures of how they are going to protect my vehicle against what ever might happen (I don’t necessarily believe this sales pitch), and then when I return I like the person to match me to my car – because that tells they remember me, and maybe they have actually taken superior care of my car.

Then I also expect “my” car guards to not be fighting and screaming and screaming things like “jou ma’s se poes” (for those outside of South Africa, it is basically a reference to your mothers genital area ——- and you know when someone lays that down, that this shit just got real).  It is often the preamble to “what are you going to do with that knife?  Stab me?

The car guard “syndicate” at this particular parking area is made up of two men, and one woman.  I often hear the woman going off pop, and screaming things that make me smile and also sort of make me walk faster to my car to get in and push the automatic lock system.

Yesterday it happened again.  I had seen a skirmish had started between the one man and the one female.  Her appearing like the aggressor from my vantage point. She was the only one throwing things, smacking and swearing. The guy sort of stood there and stoically took his beating, with that look on his face that said he had already given up on this life shit ages ago.

I looked at this and figured, if they remained where they were I could walk past and get into my car and not get involved.

There was a lot of “jou ma se poes” going on and a few other colloquialisms which I did not quite get.

When I reversed (whilst the car guards were showing me how to reverse …. its a service I don’t particularly need, but I leave them to do what ever they feel comfortable with} I rolled down my window and said to them that I am a regular here, and I see them often, and generally I do tip.

I explained that whilst they fight and carry on in the parking lot like this, I am not going to tip them.  The one man mentioned something about the woman, and how she was the other man’s girlfriend.

{The woman was not there at the time, she had sauntered off after the screaming and swearing}

I told him I did not care whose girlfriend she was — and this is where I made my critical error in judgement: “Whilst that malletjie (mad person) is here and carrying on like that, I am not going to tip you guys.  Sort your shit out.  Everyone in the restaurant can see you and it really is not cool.  Get your shit together guys.”

I drove off, and they waved, and I thought “okay that’s done” – I was then sitting in a queue where there is an exit onto the main road out of the restaurant parking lot.

I see some movement to my left and I take a look over.  I see the woman from earlier sitting under a tree, doing what ever you do when you are homeless and are sitting on your mattress under a tree in a McDonalds parking lot.  She was moaning and swearing and gesticulating with a certain amount of fervour.

The guy (possibly her boyfriend) was walking over to her and he too was swearing and gesticulating.

I thought to myself, she is going to get up and beat the shit of this guy, pretty much like I saw her do before in the parking lot.

I was wrong.  Not for the first time on that particular day it would seem.

This guy walked up to her, I could not hear what they were saying as I was too far away and my windows rolled up.  I saw him kick her – right in the fact.  She fell the floor trying to move into the fetal position. He then continued to KICK – with all his might – KICK HER in the face.  She barely had time to bring her hands up to protect her face.

She tried to scramble away, but that exposed her abdomen and he did that kick thing when you bring your foot down and stamp someone rather than kick them.

I sat there horrified.  And mute.  And paralysed.

I am not sure what else happened, as the cars infront of me had moved and the cars behind me were hooting.

There was no where for me to pull off on the side and go back and try and do something.

I was horrified, and realised that my telling the guys that I was not going to tip them whilst they acted like hooligans, was directly translated into “while that woman is making a scene you guys are not getting any money!”

I drove away shaken, not knowing what to do. And feeling this deep veil of guilt that I had been the cause of this woman getting the living shit beaten out of her.

I also could not go back by myself into that situation.  By myself.  If that guy was happy to beat the living shit out of someone who he appeared to have as a girlfriend, what would he do to stupid me stumbling in being all moral high road and shit.’

So, no I did nothing.

I did not call the police.  I was sure telling them there were two bergies/vagrants who were having a fight would get about as much interest as whether the fire pool was really necessarily over at the Zuma Manse.

I am sorry I got involved. If I had kept my mouth shut, it probably would not have happened.

that thing

Valentine’s Day Gift Ideas ………..

Its a tricky kind of year – what to get that man in your life when it appears he has everything.

You just bought him shit for Christmas, and that was hard enough because he seems to only have one interest — and it will usually be something that either requires golf clubs, cycling shorts or a fishing rod.

As a selfless gesture and to assist you not wasting any further time out of your daily schedule to try and find something for that guy of yours, I have found the gift of gifts.

Valentines Day


It does come in three manly colours.

It also has the added purpose of being great if you every notice “plumber’s bum” on your guy.

I do have a question about the press studs though …. but this picture does not feature that level of detail.


I seriously don’t make this shit up ——->> order yours here.

Road Trip Friday ….

I have three bottles of wine, two bags of olives, two bags of chips, and some Diddle Daddle popcorn – what do you think I am packing for?

Road trip to Pringle Bay to meet up with some friends.  

I am so looking forward to this trip – it is the light at the end of the tunnel, of a week, that just should not be lived again.


*sprinkles fairy dust* …. to make my wish come true.

We are going to be staying at Sea Villa | Glen Craig — it is gorgeous and has just enough mountain and sea views to keep me comfortable lying on their couch and staring out the window.

I often dose off and have been known to drool a bit on their pillow, but they are so nice they don’t seem to mind.  Sometimes someone comes and puts a blanket on me.

{The website does not do them any justice, is is so much more beautiful than the site shows}

Girls with too many stories to tell.  Too much wine and a few bags of olives …. how do you think this is going to go?

Fortunately there will be no driving involved, and we can sort of stumble/trip/dawdle to our room.  The last time we did this, we ended up with three girls sleeping in one bed — it was actually quite pleasant.

I hope I have not under estimated how much wine I will need.

Have a good weekend, where ever it takes you!!


The one about the plumber ….. I really need my plumbing attended to


I had a burst pipe — as you do …… and there was sufficient water cascading over the street, to make me think of “Waterfalls” by TLC.

I blamed the neighbour and thought it was their problem.

Unfortunately it appears that my taps and important things connected to my water supply is on their property.  The pretty rainbow that was forming from all the water exiting my property, though pretty, was going to start to get expensive in terms of water usage.

I am normally quite a resourceful person, but when I am under a bit of strain and stress, then my reaction is not dissimilar from Chicken Little and screaming about THE SKY IS FALLING.



I seriously turn into a total imbecile with few skills and no ability to problem solve.

My neighbour called me this afternoon and made it clear that  the water was from my water mains (who knew I had water mains) was rather a lot.  And I needed to action it in with a bit more vigour than I was presently attending to the matter.

I called a friend – as you do when you are sitting waiting for your son’s cricket practice to finish {at the exact same time a cricket ball hit my car.  I am not sure which I was more suprised at, the cricket ball hitting my car, or the fact that these boys could hit a ball.  Which travelled that distance.  That besides.)  Friend gives me various numbers of plumbers in the area.

Trying to contact a plumber after 17h00, and trying to keep hysteria out of your voice is quite a trick.

Anyway, called three, found one who would pop around tomorrow afternoon — like quite late.

I was not sure that I had that much water in which ever reservoir water comes from. I tried to sound desperate – easy to do with three kids in the car, all going ape shit, whilst you are trying to have a phone call.

What is it about kids and escalating noise and total madness that ensues when you make or take a phone call?

They won’t speak to you for 4 days other than the grunts and the requests to wipe their bum, take a phone call, make a phone call and suddenly all three are orators of fever pitch proportions?

This story is starting to go off on a tangent.

I arrive at home and there is this guy standing next to his bakkie, and I think “please let this be my plumber ….” or if that is not working, then “please let this guy be my stripper instagram I booked for myself.”

And it was.  The plumber, not the stripper.

You know you expect Homer Simpson to arrive – the standard jeans a bit too low on the arse, the shirt fitting a bit too snugly, and not quite covering up the beer boep, and that general sense of “disregard for good grooming and body hygiene” one has become accustomed to when you call a plumber?

This guy. Did not get that memo.  It was all a bit giggly and arms flapping, and using a squeaky voice. That was me.  He was all calm and smiles.  At some point I think I offered to buy him a drink …. I decided at some point to stop speaking and just stare at him.

I told my friend and she said “why didn’t you take a photograph” — yep, that would have been less weird.

I think at some point I was hoping he would not be able to fix the shower of water and it would wet his shirt …. and you know your mind sort of wonders off when you are standing in a cul-de-sac with three children, and your shirt on back to front (because you dressed wrong this morning, and have just realised that it was actually back to front.)

I have never been one to google my plumber and hit the images button, it seems that everyone eventually gets to this point.  I am at that point.

I have been thinking about walking around my house and randomly breaking things, so that I can call a plumber to come over and sort out my plumbing.

{apologise if this post went off a bit randomly …….. I have been self medicating, and I don’t always get it right}


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