Bridge Over Troubled Waters

There is this guy that I have been seeing for a few weeks now. Until recently we enjoyed a fabulous relationship, but yesterday he really hurt me, he even made me cry. And the worst part? I'm going back for more.

Rewind.

I'm talking about my dentist.

A few weeks ago I took the Diva for her first dental appointment and she needed two fillings in her front teeth. This magical medical man managed to complete the procedure sans an injection and with minimum discomfort to my little angel.

I was in love!

A week later one of the fillings dislodged and we had to return to McCreamy. Once again The Diva sat still for more than fifteen minutes without so much as a flinch. By now I was head over heels.

I have a missing tooth in the bottom left rear section of my mouth (biltong, yeah really). It has been gone for a few years already but the discomfort has steadily increased to the point where I have to fill the gap. McCreamy's initial advice was for me to receive an implant but by the time he was finished describing the procedure I was deathly pale and my jaw clenched shut. I opted against his recommendation and instead selected option two: a bridge.

Yesterday was preparation for the bridge which involved filing down the adjacent teeth for caps to fit over. Now in order to painlessly drill the enamel you need to anesthetize your patient and for that you need an injection. Now I'm not afraid of needles. I'm not even afraid of needles going in with the intention of drawing something out. I'm so brave I can even handle a jab in the nether regions for a vitamin B12 shot! What I am afraid of is injections in my mouth with that dreadful poison that hurts like hell no matter how many times you rub my gums with strawberry flavoured 'number' (pronounced 'numb-er' not 'number').

I warned McCreamy and informed him that I am nowhere near as brave as The Diva. It was only when the tears were streaming down my cheeks and my white knuckles clenched around the arm of the chair that he heeded my confession. By then it was too late. I was immensely embarrassed and kept my eyes closed for the entire duration of treatment. After my allotted 45 minutes I dazedly scampered out of the electric chair, garbled a slobbery 'shee you nexsht week'; and made my way to the reception where I scheduled my next appointment to receive the bridge (over troubled waters).

All My Children Ep. 2

When D-Max and I moved into our complex eight years ago, he befriended a lovely young girl MJ who fast became a fixture in our household. We also got to know her family and they were only too happy to have her spend a great deal of time in our home, so much so that one day I was summonsed to a family pow-pow to discuss the future of MJ.

Present were MJ's mother, father, maternal aunt and myself. On the agenda; the possibility of me adopting MJ as they felt they could no longer look after her and she didn't give me the problems that she gave them. Picking myself up from the floor I enquired whether perhaps she could just stay with me on a temporary basis because adoption is, well permanent and if I go through with it I'm not about to hand the child back over should they have a change of heart. Provisional custody was not an option as far as they were concerned and I left with the promise of giving it much thought. As much as I wanted to adopt MJ and be a mother to such a big hearted child; I felt her parents were being extremely irrational and in the absence of abuse, could find no legitimate reason to take on MJ and so declined their request.

I continued offering MJ my guidance and an open door to my home and heart. She grew up, became a very beautiful intelligent young woman, and suffered no ill effects from her family. And then the wheels fell off.

Without exposing all of MJ's personal tragedies in detail, two years ago her mother felt that I was no longer a positive influence in her daughter's life and requested rather firmly that I break off all contact. With MJ still being a minor I had no say in the matter andrespected the wishes of the family.

A few weeks ago MJ tracked me down and disclosed all the tragedy that ensued after my disappearance. It included two run aways; severe physical, emotional and verbal abuse; and a horrific attempted suicide which led to a brief stay in a psychiatric hospital. When I took her hand and saw her mutilated wrist my heart broke and I was almost physically ill. My eyes welled up with tears I was flooded by the guilt of not adopting her when I had the opportunity; deserting her at the wishes of her mother and not being there for her when she needed me the most.

Her family has moved to Cape Town and she is currently living with her boyfriend at his mother's house. This afternoon she phoned me asked if she could come live with me because there is trouble in paradise and her only other option is returning to her family. She offered to do the cooking (she knows my culinary skills are in short supply); baby-sit the kids so that I can get a break and help financially with groceries and household supplies. I accepted her offer of cooking and kidding and rejected any monetary assistance.

So tomorrow my 'daughter' comes home.

All My Children Ep. 1

Isn't it funny how the Universe works? Sometimes our hearts desires are granted but not necessarily in the manner we requested. Nevertheless it comes with an enormous feeling of relief.

This afternoon I was earnestly considering alternative part-time living arrangements for D-Max (as he now refers to himself), as his teenage boorish antics have become too much for this tired, overworked single mom to handle. Add that to an extremely stressful and hazardous occupation; and a five year old Prima Donna a.k.a. Diva; and you have walking time bomb ready to explode.

As much as I detest the idea of D-Max spending more than a nano-second with the Sperm Donor; I felt it was time for him to leave his party, come to my party and take responsibility for the dilly dallying of his dick. Next week I celebrate the 11th anniversary of our divorce and whilst we haven't received so much as tuppance during the decade and a pinch, and I certainly don't expect to receive in the coming decade; some paternal discipline would not be amiss. So the plan was to call Sperm Donor tomorrow and inform him that his spawn will be living with him on weekends.

Since T and I separated in January I have been taking strain with the kids. He was the firm disciplinarian and I was the softy wrapped around their little respective fingers. Mommy was there to wipe the snot, the tears and the blood. I was the good cop and now I'm expected to take on the dual role of mother and father and it's unnatural for one person to play both roles effectively.

Arrrgh!!! I screamed to the Universe, I NEED HELP!!!

Don't Call Me I'll Call You

Don't you hate it when people call you during office hours and start a conversation before finding out whether you're busy or not?

Whilst I have no qualms taking business calls when conducting informal meetings in my office, I find it inappropriate to take personal calls with my staff sitting not two feet away. First of all I'm not particularly partial to colleagues being privy to my personal conversations and secondly it's rude, inappropriate and unprofessional to disrupt a business chat with personal business, unless it's a dire emergency.

So when I've no sooner answered the phone with a quizzical yet polite hello and the caller on the other end dives into a diabolical tirade before I have even established who I am are talking to; I can get pretty peeved.

Wait for me to complete the pronunciation of the 'O' in hello; introduce yourself if you know that I don't know you; and then enquire as to whether or not I am available to take the call. If not, have the courtesy to further enquire as to when would be a good time to call me back, alternatively leave me your details and I will return your call at my earliest convenience.

I’m specifically pointing my finger at call centers. Be it banks, insurance or those god forsaken timeshare agents; telesales people have no manners whatsoever. Why should I give a rat's ass about your family funeral plan when you couldn't be bothered with the simple courtesy of finding out whether I have the time (and patience in my case) to listen to all the benefits of including my in-laws (which I don't have) on my policy. From your demeanor, it appears you are under the impression that I am sitting next to the telephone, right hand hovering over the receiver ready to pounce at first ring. This is not the case, I assure you.

In all fairness, I must mention that whenever the dreaded Hellkom place a call to me, the operator always asks whether it's a good time for me to talk. However I must further add that it is as clear as broad (band) daylight that the poor hapless operator is reading from a script. That is another telephone faux pas that irks me. It sounds terribly insincere when someone is reciting from a generic draft and I'm too distracted singing along in my head to the sing song in the voice to concentrate long enough to hear about the fantastic call-more plan for just how much a month?

Does telephone etiquette have a place in today's fast paced society? Don't call me, I'll call you.

Vote NO for Bush

My parents have a house (or whatever the dwelling in the bush is referred to) in a game farm in the Eastern Transvaal. Yes I know it's no longer referred to as the Eastern Transvaal but the thing is, I'm not sure whether the farm falls in Mpumalanga or Limpopo, and I know in circa 1985 it was still referred to as Eastern Transvaal so we'll stick to what we know.

Their house on the farm is quite lovely. Very bush. Thatch, lots of wood, more thatch and still more wood. It's a house in the middle of the bush, so that's what to be expected. Oh and animals. Lots of wild animals. Lions, elephant, hyena, buffalo, giraffe and the rest of the zoo too.

Now here's the thing. I'm not a bush person. In fact I'm not an outdoor person; unless the outdoor is a flea market, a swimming pool or a beach. I don't do the khaki and the binoculars and the mosquito nets and the polaramine and the malaria. I also don't take well to being chased by a bloody maternal cow; elephant that is; nor do I fancy being faced with a spider any larger than the pinky nail on the baby toe of my little size three's. And if I wanted to see a lion I'd go to the zoo. Even better, I'd Google it.

I am a city girl. I take long hot bubble baths with my portable DVD player perched on the toilet seat under a white fluffy towel; showcasing the latest in my favourite series. I am quite comfortable using up all the hot water in the geyser and not feeling guilty about it. There are no baths in the bush. Or at least not at The Parents bush anyway. There's a shower. Did I mention there's no electricity? No electricity = no hot water. Ok, so there are solar panels on the thatch. Big deal, what happens when it's overcast, huh? On one of the three occasions I bit the bullet and roughed it, The Parents bought me a small round three ringed baby splash pool to put in the shower so that I could 'bath'. Lovely thought, but even at 5'1" I could not comfortably relax.

As for game drives, don't even get me started! First of all you have to up at the crack of dawn. Not figuratively, literally. At 4:30am you're expected to be dressed in your khaki's (which seriously clashes with my hazel eyes.) comfortable walking shoes (my stiletto's are very comfortable thank you very much) and a wind breaker. Binoculars, Roberts Bird Book, walking sticks and water bottles are optional.

The next problem is eating out. There are no restaurants, no take-away joints, no Mr Deliver not even a corner cafe. All meals are eat in, and when I say eat in, I mean eat out because every meal is braaied. Now I love a braai as much as the next SA chick, but three meals a day? Day in and day out. There's only so much boerewors that even I can handle.

So while The Parents and my five male siblings head up at least ten times a year and do the bush as only they can do, I'm quite happy to take walks in my garden in my comfortable walking shoes, all 5", whilst watching my cats (read: lions) prowling. And the only time I will face 4:30am is coming home from a good party.

Girls Night Out!

On Saturday my gal pal and I decided we were in dire need of a night on the town. She having recently suffered a break up, and me needing absolutely no excuse to dust off the dancing shoes and doll myself up.

Our first port of call was a birthday party in a suburb that shall not be mentioned by name. GP and I gate-crashed late, making a grand entrance with more than 2,5 litres of wine in hand (and about 500ml already consumed). Being the courteous and charming ladies we are, we were warmly welcomed and ushered to the bar whereupon we were handed two small wine glasses and our first bottle of wine uncorked. From there we made our way outside to sit (and drink) under the thatched gazebo.

Half a bottle of wine, two plates of chicken curry and many handfuls of crisps later we made our way back inside to the bar, lured by the promise of warmth that comes with dancing. We weren't on the dance floor for more than 15 minutes when the 'DJ' and I use that term very loosely, wa spinning records (figuratively of course) of tunes that we were unable to identity by either song title, artist or genre, When we couldn't even place the decade of said tune, we reaslised that it was our cue to make a disappearing act. And with that we grabbed out 1,5 bottles of wine off the bar and made a hasty retreat to our awaiting chariot, mumbling thanks of a delicious meal on our exit.

The night was young and so were we. After a few calls to various party PRO's we headed north to the capital of clubbing. We made our way up far too many stairs for a 30-something year old and once i had caught my breath, paid our entrance fee and once again headed straight for the bar. (much to my chagrin I see a pattern forming here.)

GP and I made the discovery that the club has a maximum height requirement, specifically for men. And it seems to be less than 5'6". I have honestly never seen so many vertically challenged men in one place before. They made me look tall! I mentioned to GP that we must've gate-crashed (as we are wont to do) the after party for SMAC (Small Male Adult Conference).

After a few hours of wearing out the soles of my black patent leather stiletto's on the dance floor and blatantly staring at the very short and very young men, we came to the conclusion that we needed to be surrounded by older taller people. The immediate broadcast of another unknown song by unknown artist from unknown decade and we elegantly made our way to the establishment across the parking lot.

We were pleasantly surprised to find average and even above average height men and women. What we weren't pleasantly surprised to see was a club filled with high school students and first year varsity soon-to-be dropouts. (And yes, I kept a look out for my son!) We also weren't prepared for the pole dance simulation gyrating antics of an unusually tall but male looking woman. I think GP is still traumatised!

As was our motis operandi by now, we waiting for the guaranteed unrecognised song and made our graceful exit. In the parking lot we stumbled upon a mobile boerewors stand and teated ourselves to our second meal of the evening. We both agreed that the sausage provided more satisfaction than any man whoe paths we corssed that evening / morning!

At 3:30am with stiletto's and wine bottle grasped firmly in hand I sprinted the short distance from GP's car to my front door and finally entered my haven.

My not-so-successful night on the town begs the question: Where do single 30-something woman go out for an evening of dancing and drinking without patronizing with patrons from another generation?

Not for Sensitive Viewers

And now for the full scoop.

On Saturday R had to briefly attend a work function so I opted out of that engagement (for obvious reasons) and decided to meet him afterwards at his friends birthday bash at a club. Thank God I was on the guest list and therefore able to push my way to the front of the queue. I have no qualms paying for the pleasure of my partying, but I abhor queuing. For anything.

R and I headed straight for the bar and my first poison was a R28 vodka, lime and lemonade. I almost sprayed the barmen with R6 worth of said drink when he told me the price. Gawd, when did drinks get so expensive? (We were not in Sandton). Luckily I was with a gentleman and R took care of the tab. And the next tab. And the next tab. And the next …

I was unusually subdued during my first drink, surveying my surroundings, meeting R’s friends, one of whom I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting. C, a pilot, recently had a near death experience so it was good to see him alive and kicking after being surviving an aeroplane crash and being submerged under water.

During drink two (500ml of vodka and red bull) the DJ played my 2006 theme song “Crazy” and that was all it took to get my dancing shoes on, R pulled me up and we set the dance floor on fire. I did not sit down again until just before we eventually left at about 02h00. When R was tired, C joined me and when he was tired, there was a multitude of men and women willing to make merry with me!

During the course of the evening C had a revelation that he felt he just had to share with me.

“You should hook up with R.”
“Why would I do that, he’s my buddy?”
“Yeah, but he’s really into and you’d have fun together”
“Oh. Well I’m not looking for fun, I’m looking for husband”
“You’re too young to be settling down”
“*choke* C, I’m almost 34 years old! I’m 8 years older than R!”
“No shit! I thought you were his age”

Whilst I was flattered at his faux pas; I did neglect to tell him about my lustful infatuation with M. R obviously hasn’t cottoned on to this fact, just as I had no idea for his feelings for me, so best for sleeping dogs to remain sedated.

At about 02h00, after drinking more than 2l of my new tipple of choice; the crew decided to head on to another club further north in the region.

“Oh hell no!” Said one drunken me. “I live in the opposite direction, so you guys head on out without me.”

And at that moment I realised that I had driven to the club; and therefore had a vehicle parked downstairs. And furthermore, being the law-abiding moral upstanding smart person that I am; I knew that I was in no state to operate heavy machinery or drive a car. R immediately came to the same conclusion and insisted on parking my car in a safe place (the corner Engen garage) and then driving me home.

Warning: not for sensitive viewers

Half way home I had my appointment with the pavement along Johannesburg Road. I calmly told R to pull over and then fumbled for the damn handle to open the door. I could not find the daft thing, so R leaned over, and opened the door for me; and with that my Stan (from South Park) impersonation began. I did not even undo my seatbelt, let alone get out of the car. From my very comfortable position within the vehicle I was able to dispose of my Spur nachos, carrots (I have never eaten carrots, so where did they come from???) and my V&RB. Inbetween chunks, groans and almost tears, I apologised profusely to R for my … er little scene and told him that I was going to avoid him for at least a week to recover from my embarrassment. He just rubbed my back in moral support and uttered countless “S’ok, you’ll be fine”.

I don’t remember much more about the ride home, so it must’ve been uneventful. Soon R was parked in my parking bay and helping me out of the car. I mumbled more apologies, waved off any further assistance and ran walked sauntered strolled stumbled to my front door.

And to think I woke up at 08h00 on Sunday morning sans a hangover!