boys weekend

Sometimes boys are the best remedy for anything.

For one, they're chilled. For two, they're usually hilarious. And for three, they're not girls. Girls are wonderful in their own special way, but boys - nothing beats being the girl within a bunch of boys.
I spent the entire weekend surrounded by boys. Friends of mine who simply have a different appendage to me.

On Saturday I chilled with Whale (Hi Whale!) and Company in the lush Tuscan splendour of wherever we were; and yesterday I went to the Vaal with Doc, Dick, Moogs, Big T and company.

Guys are always logical, easy-go-lucky, chilled. It's easy hanging around men. They scratch their balls and talk about boobs a lot, but it's really a small price to pay. Oh and they play rough. I got hit by a tennis ball square in the right tit. Ouch, ok. Ouch ouch ouch motherfucker.

Boys simply don't have the hang-ups girls do when you're just mates with them. That's quite important. Boys walk around talking shit, baiting each other, tossing a ball...it's all so...simple. I haven't seen my boys for a while, and yesterday was spent playing tennis, riding around in a boat on the river and slouching around reading the Sunday papers. As a girl, it's just what the doctor ordered. There was a stage - back in 2001/2 - when I decided I really preferred male company. And suddenly I remember why.

It's so nice to have Doc back. Our resident little Joshua Doore. He's back from India, and has started his own business importing beautiful Indian pieces into South Africa. What's so great about my friendship with Doc is that I burp in front of him; and he shows me his skin rash.
All these boys look after me. I really love them to bits.

As God is my witness, I really wanted to stay on the Vaal with this group of lads for the rest of the week. Just one day really sorts shit out in your head. You relax, you think about e.coli in the water, you feel wind in your hair, and the best part is this little oasis in only an hour 15 from the Rat Race.

I also watched Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me this weekend. I was on my ace, and I properly shat myself. I love Twin Peaks, for all the cinematic, David Lynchie, music, plot, whatevers that any fan does. But I've only seen the second movie. (Different from the series).

I got my hands on an old VCR cassette tape of the first movie. And hells bells. I only knew what Laura Palmer was like dead bru. Alive, she was a real little firecracker that schnarffed Columbian Marching Powder in the school bathrooms, was fucking a few okes on the side, and her father DEFINITELY had something to do with her death. What a bladdy weirdo though, is David Lynch. Everything's going along normally, then he has to throw in some twisted music and a frigging midgit man who can't talk properly into the mix. After all these years of watching, researching and foruming “Twin Peaks” on Google, I still have no idea who the wierd little devil guy is, man.

It's a fucked-up twisted movie. But hell, I love it.

a woman post

The following is based on a number of things. I am going through some horrible stuff right now, that I can't deny. But this post is NOT about me. This is a post for women. (Although men aren't exempt from this either.) I haven't written this alone - Internet forums and a social worker have helped me to put this together. This is for those stuck in these various situations. Face value. Capisce?

The best thing you can do for a friend if they're being cheated on, is to tell them. If you're the last person to find out, this is almost worse than than the cheating itself. There's a high price for humiliation and trust.

The best you can do a for friend when you worried about how they're being treated, is listen to them. And be there for them IF the chips do fall.
Telling a person what to do in this situation is not going to work. They'll eventually be forced to choose sides, and down the line, they'll stop talking. You can offer your ears and your shoulder if things go wrong. Work with them, not against them.

The best you can do for a person who has been hurt physically and emotionally is to also listen to them. It is very difficult to understand the full extent of the situation if you haven't been there yourself. So just listen.

The best thing to realise is that some situations are more complex than what the stereotypes purvey.

Realise that people can change. I've seen this enough times to believe it. So always give people a chance. I've also seen people react differently with different people. Have faith in them.

Abuse can happen at work, or at home. You can't see verbal abuse. But sometimes this is worse than physical abuse itself. Abuse consists of name-calling, shouting, belittlement, isolation, physical harm, coercion, threats.

There are numbers of reasons why the person doesn't leave. Love, the hope it will get better, fear, unfounded optimism, fear of no support, pressure to make it work, religious beliefs, their self-esteem is shot, or they're apathetic, they don't want the "relationship to fail", the list goes on.

In the same grain, sometimes leopards do not change their spots. But they can if they try hard enough.

Try not to judge people based on the few facts you have about them, their situation or their past.

People who are in/have been in bad domestic situations have a number of reactions to very small triggers. If the fridge door doesn't close properly, and they collapse in tears, just listen. You don't have to understand, but you can listen.

People are multi-faceted. This is important to remember. If they handle things badly in certain situations, or are bad in a crisis, or have anger management problems, this doesn't mean they're bad people at heart. (As Izzie said so correctly in Grey's Anatomy last night - “People who do horrible things aren't necessarily horrible people.”)

Often people blame themselves for being abused (verbal, physical, psychological, etc etc). Or feel that whatever has happened to them is somehow their fault. This falls across many spectrums, from manipulation to battery and rape.

Often the most unsubservient, strong, outspoken and independent people are those that find themselves in a situation of emotional hostage. Always remember that stuff happens behind closed doors, even if the likeliness seems out of your realm of understanding.

And lastly, please don't read into this too much. I am not a psychologist, and I'd also prefer it if you don't relay this as “This is what Peas is sad about obviously.” I am far removed from any of these situations, that I can promise. These above suggestions simply might apply to anyone who can relate – or just know someone who has been in these circumstances.

In the meantime, I sift through my particular crap. Over lots of coffee, because I'm not sleeping too hot.

two posts

Both are the same.

One is verbose circumlocutorily loquacious.
For those with exempt sagacity, spot the one replete in pleonasticism.

Dad crashed into my cock last night.

Let me explain.

At 2:30am this morning I heard a loud ker-thunk. Immediately followed by a manly screech, and obscenities ranging from “what the fuck”, “what the fuck is this thing...a fucking bird?” “Tasteless piece of shit...” “The bloody cock fell on me.”

I have a giant wooden rooster statue in the entrance hall. A large white bird. It nailed him on the foot and, like a true man, the world has come to an end because “he can't walk now.”

I examined his foot with a “there there Dad, what about a nice cuppa tea?” To which I got, “The bird fell on my bone, Peas. Look at my injury! I'm in dire pain....Dire.”
The final word was a breathless dramatisation. I got this message while I was tapping away at a review yesterday: Under Panado sedation for rooster bite. Please bring home a walking stick.

The problem with men and their ailments is – do you take their threats seriously? “I'm dying.” Maybe they are really dying?

Because when I say I'm dying, Mr 747, it's when I've truly hit the bottom of my mortal demise. Do you really need a walking stick Dad? Maybe he does.
Does this make me a shitty daughter if I'm slightly skeptical?

Either way, Dad needs mothering. My gran has long passed, so he has no mum; he has no wife, and God knows what's up with all the girlfriends. I don't even ask anymore.
On getting home, “This chicken is a bloody disgrace. It's jaw punctured me.”

So I will make him tea and marvel in the way his bruise looks oh so very purple.

And so...we shall perdure as ere:

My progenitor crashed into my rara avis last night.

Allow me to elucidate.

At the aurora of 2:30 ante meridium, I heard a loud cacophony. Immediately followed by a manly malediction, and obscene licentiousness, such as: “What the fornication is this thing...an ornithological effigy?” and other offalic detritus.

I have a giant cockalorum simulacrum in the threshold atrium of my apartment. It lacerated him on the foot, and like a true male australopithicus afarensis, the world has come to a cessation. Because “he can't walk now.”

I examined his retractile with a “there there Dad, what about a nice thermogenic beverage?” To which I got, “This poltroon fell on my osseous matter, Peas. Look at my affliction! I'm in moribund indisposition....moribund.”

The final utterance was a breathless dramatisation. I got a communiqué from him while I tapped away at an apalogue: Under Panado sedation for rooster bite. Please bring home a pikestaff.

The problem with men and their exigent importunances is – do you take their fulminations seriously? “I'm in extremis...!” Maybe they really are indubitably perishing?
Does this make me a countrified offspring if I'm slightly dissenting?

Either way, I must enmatriarch my Dad. My gran has long passed, so he has no forebearer; he has no spouse, and God knows what's up with all the sexual compatriots.
On getting en domicile, “This chicken is an ensanguined disgrace! It's mandible perforated me.”

So I will make him a recalescent brew, and marvel in the way his haemotomic contusion looks oh so very purple.

catastrophe

Mr 747 is sick. Stop the Earth rotating on its axis please, we have a sick man on our hands.

After a debaucherous weekend in the bush (he proudly told me that the butler did say they broke the record for most beers consumed in the house in one sitting), he now has 'flu and a sore foot, which means, translated into Man Code: “I am both lame and dying.”

It's funny. But even the most silverback-alpha-of-all-males who save the world on a daily basis fear the terminal worst when their nose starts running.

We went to watch a movie on Sunday, with him limping pitifully across The Zone, while blowing his nose, and at the ticket counter, swear to God, he turns to me and speaks those unforgettable words, I have heard so many times before:
“I think I'm dying.”

This statement is one I've heard from the mouths of countless men before, so I wasn't overly surprised, however, one can't tell a guy to: “Pull yourself together and pop a Corenza C.” One has to switch to Man Code and speak in his language. One has to be Shakespearen about the whole affair, because that's evidentally what Amist A Man Being Sicketh and Dyingeth is all about.

“Oh my little bokdrolletjie. Are you going to make it through the movie without alerting NetCare for a stretcher and drip?”

Mr 747: No really, this just may be it. This could be the last thing we ever do together.
Peas: Oh no! What are we going to do? We really are in a pickle if you kick the bucket. Can I stroke your hair and swab your forehead?
Mr 747: Whose going to take care of you if I die?
Peas: If you die, I will die.
Mr 747: Well I better not die then.
Peas: And you better get your foot sorted out. What if they have to amputate?
Mr 747: Now that's a bit over the top don't you think?
Peas: Touché, MacBeth.

I am not his mum; I'm his ho. And I love being the on-death's-doorstep nurturer. But not forever. So let's hope my lame, dying dude gets better soon.

PS: He has written himself an obituary for his Facebook profile that I have to post if he does die.

the dating crucible

Was paging idly through my Bible kiff little He's Just Not That Into You book last night.

I've said this before – I think most of what the book says – which is pretty frank – is true, correct and brilliant. Women generally make excuses for men on a whole. (“But he's just really really busy....you know really, like, busy and stuff.”) The good thing about this book, is that it recognises that one doesn't need to lose face in the dating scene. One can proceed with knowledge and save a bit of [remaining threads of] dignity going forward.

The rules. He's Just Not That Into You:
If he's not asking you out.
Hanging out, eating chocolate, or bumping into him at a nightclub doesn't mean you're dating. Please tell me you know this already, ladies.

Men aren't afraid of 'ruining the friendship.'
They also know how to use a phone, and they also know how to find you. You are good enough to be asked out.

He's busy all the time, or has a lot on his mind.
Even if he has to assassinate Robert Mugabe, and he's gone undercover, or he wrecked his mother's Volvo – he'll spare you a thought and make contact if he's into you. “You deserve a fucking phonecall” – quote.

He's not that into you if he's shagging someone else.
By the way.

He's not that into you if he only sees you out on the piss/is always loaded/is a crack whore bastard
Even the most die-hard party animals (me included) have intimate moments on grape juice.

Bad boys are actually bad.
I'm gonna take a page from my own personal experience record and agree. They cannot be tamed, they don't care about you, and it will only end in tears. Your tears.

Don't date a man who isn't sure if he wants to date you.
If he likes you enough, he won't um and ah. He will want to see your bum as often as possible.

Don't waste your precious time on a man who has already rejected you.
It wasn't because he had selective amnesia the first time.

Makes sense, n'est ce pas? Although a guy mate of mine insists that the book is pants and South African men are different. I wholly disagree. “They aren't as forward as other guys,” he says.
To that I responded: “Then they're even more useless.”