team poen

teampoen
Originally uploaded by peas on toast.

Friday night wasn’t meant to be large, but as things go in my circles, it was one helluva an evening.
Hell’s fucking bells.

Basically, we ended off at Manhattan, me and The Girls, where pretty much all of us came to pretty much all coming right. I might’ve closed a deal, ‘cept I went and lost my bloody wallet. Around 3:00am, dead cellphone, not sober, talking to an oke for three hours about politics, I roared home, plugged in phone, phoned bank, cancelled cards and then got sms from C2 to say in fact she’d found my wallet. C2, you little biscuit.
But the wallet synopsis was only the start to the crisis.

Had already cancelled my cards. Wake up with killer hangover, go to bank, stand in queue for 2 hours, and then start crying. Make a scene in the bank, like Charlize Theron, except a lot less sophisticated and pretty. Bathe, and go to the Amazing Birthday Party Race.

The loser’s complex went through ups and downs the whole day, but I managed to have a bloody good time at this birthday race gig.
C, The Ant, The Gilb, M and I were Team Poen. I don’t think I’ve heard the word poen so much ever, in my whole life like ever. We really pulled the ring out of it. What a scream. (Well we think we’re a scream, but admittedly, not everyone gets our sense of humour.) We wrote the words ‘Ikey UCT Tigers’, ‘Bless’, ‘Poen’ and ‘Doondies’ all over my car in shaving cream. And ‘poen,’ poen pimp’ (The Gilb), ‘siff chicks’ on various body parts in face paint and ran around in UCT shirts. Team ‘over the top’ Poen played a mighty good game of fetch the clue, might I add.

We came fourth. Oh yes, out of 20 teams. And we actually shoulda come second, but we had to do a last-minute car exchange (my electric window decided to stop working – more losers), and go to the wrong pub for one of the clues, then drive through the botanical gardens like eight times looking for a poster which some team threw in the bin.

One of the clues was a joke saying that teams had to drive to Hatfield, Pretoria. (‘Drive to the Engen in Hatfield. Just kidding.’) And five teams did. And then of course, we spilled the contents of our coolerbox bevvies onto our laps (“No poening way. I just spilt beer on my poen.” That sort of thing.)

Highlights of the day (including all sentences with the word poen in it), were:
- “Quick! Open the gate, we’re in a race! Do it for a mate.” “Hold this please. Do it for a mate.” “Have a drink. Do it for a mate.” I think I’ve driven across the ‘do it for a mate’ idea.
- M putting on her emergency lights on the highway so that people would get out of the way when she drove in the fast lane at 160km/h, and something close to that speed down Coleraine Road.
- The Ant writing Nik Nak Poen on her arm. We heard a theory a couple of months ago that has stuck in the recesses of our collective cerebellums. Apparently Nik Naks make your poen smell. (So if you’re overcome with paranoia, opt for Lays Lightly Salted. Use it, don’t use it.)
- Running up and down Olifants (?) Road taking pictures of ourselves in front of random pool pump, home décor, Castle signs.
- Forcing The Gilb to stay in the car and work out the sudoku puzzle for us, while we had a picture humping the Madiba statue’s leg at Nelson Mandela Square. (You can’t hump the ex-president’s leg!”)
- Accosting the guy at the Internet café to hurry the hell up when we had to Google a clue and print it out.
- Everytime Gilb tried to open his mouth, he was met with: “Focus on the sodoku! Bloody hell focus!”
(Gilb: “Please stop spitting on me.”)
- Clues included stopping to buy a litre of petrol (R6,97), reading the sex column in the classifieds, as well as having to listen to 94.7fm at a certain time for another clue. It was very well organised.

It was good [sometimes] clean fun. We won a case of beer and a set of…steak knives. The Gilb was delighted. Steak and beer delighted.

Then, I was silly, and made myself go to a party with a whole lot of mates. To see Goldfish again. My loser’s complex had manifested into something epic by this stage, so I really should’ve stayed at home and made out with Niles my teddy bear instead. I freaked out on entering the establishment, and after a glass of wine, went and sat on the pavement outside while some dude insisted I go visit the same vending machine he just had.
Man: I’m telling you lady, that vending machine at the Shell sells great Smarties.
Peas: ….OK. Different Smarties that I may find at, say, Pick ‘n Pay?
Man: Correct.
Peas: You on drugs?
Man: Yes.
Peas: Fair enough.

I sat and contemplated life on the side of Benmore Street, only to end up attracting a drunk, homeless man to my One Man Pity Party, which I was having none of. Ex S drove there especially to rescue me and took my sorry ass home. I was so thankful, I could’ve eaten my own arm in gratitude.

Sunday was spent with my folks. My step-dad is hilarious. They obviously haven’t entertained in a while, and apparently before my anticipated breakfast arrival, the man rose from bed at sparrow’s fart and cleaned the house from top to bottom and put flowers and tablecloths all over existing pieces of furniture. Mum: “He’s been impossible all morning. Dusting the shutters, throwing his shoes into corners where you can’t see them, and trying to change the lounge furniture around for your arrival.” He’s such a doll. Bless his little tighty whities.

Last night I had some Earl Grey with Moogs, and met up with some mates of mine who I haven't seen in a while. Twas chilled.

Oh and, I was in the newspaper. Well, my blog and that I am a crazy bitch, was in a newspaper. After some serious thought, I realised this is an opinion of a journalist. Just like this blog is an opinion. I knew this was coming. And simultaneously, I grew some staunch balls of steel over the weekend. Which should keep me in good stead next time someone sees my genitalia. If steel balls are their thing, of course.