...he hasn't visited my blog yet. I'm turning up the guilt in a huge way.
But there are more serious matters at hand. Embarrassing matters really. I'm rather fucking mortified to tell you the truth.
So yesterday was municipal election day here. I voted. Naturally. Then Small Bum and I had dinner at his parent's house. I wore light coloured pants. That was a misjudged error, but then, they were my only clean trousers. It's also that time of the month. Make the connection. Don't make me spell it out, it will just compound my embarrassment. I only realised on getting home last night and undressing, and reacted with what only can be screams of horror. I screamed at my pants for about a minute solid.
What can a woman do? I don't know his parents helluva well, which is even worse. I'd rather this happen in front of the president to be perfectly honest. Oh my gad. I hate being a women sometimes. Sure, I love my endless collection of stiletto heels, my blingey jewellery, my skirts, the fact that I can put make-up on, my lacy underwear, my push up bras. But this, this! It's just not fair.
On Tuesday (for yesterday was a public holiday), we all went out in Norwood. It was superb. My ex, R, also happened to be there, and we had a fabulous chat. The best chat we've had in months. So I'm chuffed about that. I'm also chuffed at how open and honest and caring he seemed to be.
What I'm not chuffed about are my pants, the parents and this embarrassing fuck-up that could've been avoided had I only caught it in time. I'm assuming that if Small Bum saw it, he would've said something. Or maybe he just couldn't. I'm not sure if I should even broach the subject with him. Perhaps I won't.