weekend

Friday. Fabulous. Spent an evening giggling and cohorting with my (UCT, PE Tech) Allenby Underberg girls, C, E and N with the exception of R, a (UCT, PE Tech) Allenby Underberg guy mate of ours. We ate gnocchi and drank lots of red wine at Berlin in Melville. Haven’t been to Melville in way too long, and God did it make a pleasant change from the quasi-usual Friday nights at Manhattan. Even got home at a decent hour and had myself a cup of tea and watched The David Letterman Show. R is substituting Moogs as Best Guy Friend at present, who hasn’t come up for air in five weeks. New relationship. Bless. Or vomay, either way you look at it. He seems to be sthoinking his way through his mattress, and I’m not really game to hear anymore about it at the minute.

On Best Guy Friends, my dearest friend Doc was deported from India last week. Swear to God. It wasn’t drug-related, before you ask. His visa was fucked up somehow, and he has to come back to Jozi for a week to sort it out, poor chap. But great to see him. So great. We’re driving out to ‘the country’ (anywhere north of Fourways) on Wednesday the public holiday for some time out and a good catch up.

Saturday: Met Ex S for breakfast in Rosebank. We had a great catch-up after his holiday in the Eastern Bloc. I think Ex S and I have finally reached a point where we can be real friends. Friends where we can talk about our personal hook-ups and break-ups. He really is still so special to me, and after all that’s happened over the last 10 months, we know now that we can be great support systems for each other. I am very happy about this.

Saturday. Fabulous. Went to a Stellenbosch braai with C and two other mates from school. Knew nobody there, it was fantastic. We were all, inclusive of Doc, very badly behaved, but then so was everybody else it seemed. Eventually I decided I’d had enough and left. That’s the great thing about being single: I can just up and leave whenever I want. By that stage all of us were getting messy anyway.

We saw a chick, at the beginning, dash from the digs from what could only be a breakfast run. Pity she did it when there were, like, 100 people there already. (“Sorry, I forgot to mention that I’m having a whole lot of people round for rugby today…I forgot to wake you before they pitched up…”)

I met a dude called Danny K (I jest you not), who taught me and my ggghays some Yiddish words: (He loved C, and since she’s half Jewish, tried to get fresh with her all day.)
Show us the front side of your (bum!) tochas!
Give me a gggghug!
Me and my mishpochas here are from Ggghimeville!
Shalom!
(Mazeltof.)

Then Danny K and C fell backwards into the jacuzzi, and a bee stung me on my left (asscheek) tocha, because I fucking sat on it. One dude was found on the floor eating, I think, dog biscuits. A mate hid a Rhodes girl’s drinks in the microwave with a sign that said “Bite Me.” The girl was severely pissed off. (I had nothing to do with it). Hilarious afternoon. Doc has got back into the swing of Joburg afternoon braais.

Then I went to the Colony for one ‘just a coke’ (I’m doing this a lot lately – teetotalling when things get rough. I think I’m growing up.) Went home to bed and got a phonecall from a mate. I won’t say who it is, because that would be telling, but this story even put me to shame and is definitely more bloggable than my weekend. I love it:

Mate: (Whispering) Peas, it’s me. Help.
(Muffled echoing sounds, like she’s standing in a broom closet or toilet cubicle.)
Peas: Dude, where are you talking?
Mate: In the bathroom. Oh my fuck, you’re not going to believe this. I am at that dinner party with Dude I’m Kind Of Seeing right? And guess who is here?
Peas: Who?
Mate: Well I’ve been placed between Guy I Kissed Last Week and Girl Who Just Kissed Another Guy I Also Kissed This Weekend. And she knows.
Peas: What! You’re joking. Just what kind of nightmare dinner party have you got yourself into?
Mate: Nightmare. Dude this is so hectic, and I’m so drunk and obnoxious right now, oh God help.
Peas: OK calm down. What Girl Who Kissed What Guy?
Mate: You know the guy I kissed this weekend? Not my date, the other guy? Well he snogged this girl too, and she’s fucking here. And I’m sitting in between them.
Peas: This is priceless.
Mate: Fuck. I have to go back and eat dessert.
Peas: Classic. Good luck with that dude. Don’t think I’d cope. This is too funny.
Mate: Shit I gotta go. I hope they didn’t hear this conversation.
Peas: It would be funny if they did though.
Mate: Bye.

Sunday. Fabulous, then not so fabulous. Had some lunch with my mummy dearest, and then the same mate I had the conversation with above, called in for a much needed cuppa with Aunty Peas. We worked out I’d been calling this dude we know by another name for the last five months.

I hit the rink with R and some other mates in the evening. This was meant to be the well-rounded Q-Tip end of my weekend. The other the two people arrived with a random poenter by their side. I squinted to see if I recognised him – and gracious God above, it was indeed someone I recognised.
It was Small Bum. Osama Bin Laden might’ve given me less of a ‘Surprise!’ vomit-reflex.

The wires got crossed, and as a result, the group dynamics had fucked up so fucking royally, I actually didn’t know what to do with myself. The whole weekend I’d managed to avoid (Small Bum) people I didn’t want to see, and he had unwittingly joined the party.

Then the mutual mate fell off a step and broke his foot. Before we’d even started skating.

Paramedics, doctors. R and Small Bum having to carry him to his car in a cast, while I had to tag along behind holding his shoes. There have been less taxing moments in my life. Probably like brain surgery and when I crashed my car. Then after delivering The Broken Foot guy to his car: me, Small Bum and R in a [tiny, claustrophobic] elevator together.

I still wanted to skate though. And R and I did. Then a girl crashed into me, pulled me down, and I landed on her chest. And fucked up my knee. It looked like I was boofing her on the ice.

Good times.