This is a long post, so please bear with me: the weekend was incredible.
Birthday party was so much fun! Our mates all came through to a swish establishment for pre-drinks before hitting it hard. God I love having all my mates in one room at one time. R was meant to be in Cape Town over the weekend and had taken me out for waffles last week to make up for his absence, but pitched up to surprise me. Bless.
Moogs and I phoned Doc in India twice – passed the phone around the table, needless to say his phone bill will be horrendous. I came as Mutton Dressed as Lamb – a poppie with a short white skirt and white heels. My folks even popped in for a drink and my mother said something along the lines of, “ You know, Peas, now that you’re 26…”
Peas: Hold the phone right there. Almost 26 Mum.
Mum: Now that you’re almost 26, you have to start dressing appropriately. You know, your age.
Gack! The girls all took me out afterwards, N, Klo, C, E. Ie: the Most Hilarious Chicks On The Planet. We properly ripped it. Had such an awesome night.
We all stood around debating where they were going to take me. (Friday night? After Jagerbombs aka rohypnol? I wonder where on Earth we will go?) Why we debated this is beyond me. Naturally we ended up at Manhattan. Naturally I ended up on Forbsie’s shoulders again, this time in a teensy weensy poppie skirt, and naturally I kissed another Eastern Cape farmer.
OK what is up with that? He was actually very nice, even though he kept on saying “You’re crazy man.” Like over and over again. C needs to meet a farmer, not me. Do I look like someone who would milk cows? For some reason they have become quite the common denominator in my scoring record of late.
This time, we stayed there until LAST ROUNDS. 5:00am. They have that there. Unbelievable. The Ant I got some awesome gifts, like a gorgeous bottle of wine and How To Walk In High Heels from Moogs and L, spa gift voucher, shoes, a singing pig whose mouth opens and closes, earrings, underwear, and of course Ramone Allones penis-shaped pasta that grows in size when cooked. The best thing about the evening was that our ‘boyfriends’ were there. Well the people we tend to claim as our boyfriends but they either have girlfriends/are useless/don’t know we exist/have boyfriends/are our mates but don’t know we call them our boyfriends.
Woke up on Saturday with extremely sore feet and an even sorer head. Was told by The Ant that I was holding my ‘boyfriend’s’ hand at the pre-drinks bash. I don’t remember this. I’m so embarrassed for myself. And all my male mates were flirting with my mother.
C the next morning: “Oh. My. Shattered. Nerves. Can we be thee drunkest girls on the planet? I kissed my boyfriend.”
N the next morning: “The fucking car guard stole my wallet. But somehow I managed to afford more drinks than I ever have in my life. I’m going to back to bed for the rest of the day.”
Me the next morning: “Oh my fuck. I held my boyfriend’s hand last night, I scored another farmer, and… where are my shoes?”
Message sent to Klo that night on my phone: Klo did u score me i kissed eastern cape farmer new one bye.
E the next morning: “Can I be in hell right now? I have to drive to the Magaliesberg today.”
Klo the next day: “We were dancing in the bathroom. Like up against the basins.”
My step-dad the next day: “Third Roommate tells me you use the Francophile card all the time. He did, however, have a lot to say about espetada.”
R the next morning: “You feeling top notch or do you wanna cotch? By the way, when I entered you into the 94.7, I wrote down in the entry form under ‘medical conditions’ that you’re a nymphomaniac. They think you’re going to hump everything in sight for 94.7 kms. So if you’re followed the whole way by cops, don’t be alarmed.”
Then there was the dog. This is traumatic. On Saturday, I’m not even lying: a dog wouldn’t leave me alone. No, not a dog as in a complexionally-challenged male. A dog. A canine. I went to a braai with C and N, and this bloody dog accosted me the moment I got there. I knew nobody at this braai – the room was filled with a whole of men trying to watch rugby – and the dog made an erratic beeline for my backside. No, but it wouldn’t stop.
It chased me around the house panting, while I, hungover, ran through the establishment screaming in terror, up the stairs, into the garden, street, almost throwing myself in the pool, etc. being harassed by a flipping dog. Was not coping with the situation. I interrupted the first half of the Australia-SA game because a dog was trying to get fresh with me, simply because it couldn’t help itself. A female dog on heat. Who obviously caught on that I am on heat or thinks I’m in desperate need of a lesbian shag.
This dog nearly made me leave the braai – it was epic. It slobbered all over me the whole afternoon, humping my leg, licking me, aiming for my ass. I was so embarrassed and freaked out, I had a panic attack. An hysterical panic attack. C and Klo were hyperventilating and crying in hysterics too, which didn’t help. Nobody else got this bitch on heat treatment Just me. I cannot tell you how much I disdain Irish Setters right now.
I then departed to another braai, where I played ball and mop props with R, L Ramone and Moogs. I fell off the ball and landed on my coccyx, did handstands, danced with the mop, stood on R’s leg (?), and admittedly drank too much Bacardi and coke, thanks Ramone for making me hammered and falsely-athletic.
I dreamt on Saturday night I found out plans about a coup d’etat and never did anything about it. And people were bombed and hurt as a result. Losers complex of note. Woke up and had a little cry. Even though it was just a dream. And God help me, please may it just be a dream.
Sunday was spent having a chilled lunch at Moyo with C and Little C and walking around Zoo Lake. Was nice. Awesome weekend, awesome.