Category: My Lovely Man

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Yes, I’m a bit risk averse

What is your risk appetite?

Let’s talk in terms of electric blankets. An international measure no doubt.

In Beira, even in winter, there is not really a high electric blanket demand. I came from Johannesburg to Beira with a 40 foot container of household contents. Where those electric blankets are is anyone’s guess.

In Harare, an electric blanket in winter is nice. My lovely man LOVES his electric blanket. Sleeps with it on all night. For a good few seasons my side of the electric blanket has not worked. This winter, with the help of trusty Take a Lot (and they do from me for sure), I rectified this.

When I depart the lounge for my shower and bed (trailed by several animals of course), I go to each side of the bed to switch the electric blankets on.

Zimbabwe, as an aside, seems to have sorted out their electricity problems. Can you believe it? We mostly have electricity in Zimbabwe at the moment and Mozambique has long been stable. South Africa could learn a thing or two.

Of course, there is a general election in Zimbabwe next month. So, we all expect to be switched off again after that shit show.

Anyway….. My lovely man’s side is always already on when I go to switch it on. I estimate that it takes about 10 minutes for the electric blanket to heat the bed. I also estimate he turns it on about 4pm.

Not taking any chances that lovely man.

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Just as you are… Not

My lovely man watched me doing my face the other day. Applying face powder actually. As one does.

What’s that for, he enquired.

This stuff, I said, is what makes me beautiful.

At this point, I waited expectantly, with love in my heart. Because, really isn’t it an opportunity for a compliment?

Insert anything, even if not sincere or true. Recognise the gap and act.

What does my lovely man say?

‘You better order some more’

Honestly.

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I’m saving it for a rainy day

I am a compulsive saver of information received.  Electronically at least. If I have a hard copy of it, I’m likely to throw it in the bin.  But!  If you email me something I’m going to bloody file it see.

Terrabytes and terrabytes of Dropbox. 

At one point this was completely out of hand.  I convinced myself that one day someone was going to be looking for something and I would be able to raise my hand and say ‘I have that filed!’  Literally, I could save the world and be adored.

That New24 2011 article or the BancABC 2014 exchange rate would be dug up and the relief would be palpable. 

So far, it’s only my old dad and my lovely man tapping into this extraordinary, somewhat compulsive behaviour of mine.  And I am frazzled and out of time and NOT adored by all as expected,

So, screw you all, I’m deleting shit. 

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It’s over there already

Have you been in your relationship forever, and also lived in the same house forever?

Sadly, my lovely man and I have not. None of the above. And currently we run two households, in two different countries.

This results in us pondering where things are. And often we will say ‘but I had one of those, where is it now……’ Anyone’s guess really.

In recent weeks, this debate turned to a vegetable rack. Fond memories of various vegetable racks owned (and clearly now missing), by both of us ensued.

Bottom line… We are without vegetable rack.

So, I asked at a seemingly well stocked supermarket if they sold vegetable racks.

Affirmative… They sent me to a section of the supermarket. I found a lot of vegetables, no vegetable rack.

Three times this happened. I asked three different assistants and was always sent to the same place. Vegetables (and fruit), no vegetable rack.

I was bemoaning my story of woe to the lady that does our hair.

What is alarming, she said, is that you fell for this three times and went back to the fruit and vegetable section. Three times.

Anyway, I’m looking for a new hair lady.

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That’s gonna sting

Personal grooming is a thing isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be quite liberating to let it all go? Certainly one way to trend on social media. 

All kinds of unwanted hair, and no sign of us evolving to no longer produce it as a species.

It’s quite big business. Other people removing it for you I mean. Bless them, can that be considered a calling? I ponder if this is discussed at school career days. Or does it come up as an option when one does an aptitude test? 

You are a natural for back, sack and crack maintenance. 

But, it’s all quite time consuming isn’t it?  So, sometimes neglected.

Recently I realised something had to be done. Home job time. 

So, on the way into the shower, I grabbed my lovely man’s shaving foam. 

When I was relaying the story, he immediately asked if I had also grabbed his razor. 

Certainly the fight would start depending on whom, and where, a shaving rash developed. 

Except it wasn’t his shaving foam. I liberally sprayed myself yonder, with Brut deodorant.

Not recommended.

An easy mistake considering the cans are next to each other, and a lovely lingering, somewhat manly, odour.

Aptitude fail really.

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Cooking with gas

We’ve been invited to go on a houseboat for a few days.

Lucky hey?

Not so lucky is my recent gas problem.

I may find myself being thrown to the crocs.

I blame the detox I attempted. Downing 500ml of neat tabasco can play havoc with the guts.

Not recommended.

My lovely man has, so far, made no comment. Bless him. Isn’t he a treasure? He is hard of hearing thank goodness. Hopefully he also has a severe cold.

He has mentioned a few times how pleasant the (sunny) spare room looks at this time of the year. In this fridge of a house.

I’m not sure if there is a connection or if I’m invited.

I wouldn’t invite me. Lethal.

I am starting to suspect that I’ve actually died and my brain is just taking a while to catch up.

Because, you know, there are emails to answer.

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Why can’t you just love me?

We recently saved a little tortoise and now he is at home with us.

Tommy I named him. Because… well, I’m lazy and uncreative at my core.

A tortoise, as it turns out, is a remarkably easy pet to have. Completely undemanding and quite reserved.

Found out my neighbour has a tortoise so I asked her for advice and she said that they do nothing. Nothing! Their tortoise lives off whatever is in the garden and only occasionally makes an appearance. He has been in this state in their garden for years she tells me.

This, of course, is totally unacceptable. He is not meeting expectations.

The first few days he seemed determined to break out of our garden. I fretted that perhaps he was a she, and there were abandoned eggs somewhere, but established that Tommy is indeed a male (whatever they may identify as).

The ever intrepid Mandova, almost as excited about Tommy as I was, secured the premises and had all kinds of ideas re. his care.

We have both had our hearts broken at Tommy’s complete lack of interest in our endeavors and outpourings of affection.

I spent many days checking on him, picking him up, crooning to him, scratching his back lovingly, buying a grocery store of tempting veggies and greens to feed him. He wants none of it. Or me.

I brought him in every night out of the cold (although truth be told, the house is a fridge and we would all be better off sleeping in the garden).

Should we make a place for him on the bed I asked my long suffering lovely man, who already has to wind himself around several inconsiderate animals to kip.

Doesn’t he wee on you every time you pick him up was his only comment. Well yes, I said, but I’m sure that’s his sign of affection. He’ll be house trained in no time.

In truth, Tommy, remarkably fast, does everything he can, to hide from me.

How long before he knows his name and comes when I call I asked my lovely man. He probably does know your voice already and is trying to ignore you replied my not so lovely man. He thinks you are a pain he continued, leave the chap alone, he’s a wild animal and wants to hibernate. You keep on getting Mandova to find him and then you wake him up to give him unwanted love and food.

Alfie, I reminded him, was a wild animal once, and he is now domesticated and loving. Alfie, he replied, is a complete mommy’s boy and wouldn’t survive two minutes in the wild.

And that, people, is how I like it. I have high hopes for Tommy’s turn around come summer.

I am not beyond forcing him to love me.

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Yes, I need a coffee ☕

I have been quite disciplined with my eating for some months, and dropped some weight.

But, in recent weeks, have failed somewhat.

So, to kick start myself back to good habits, I decided to do a detox programme I saw advertised.

The lady who promotes this and who kindly delivered my meals for the forseable future is indeed an advert for her product. Fabulously fit and toned. Arrived in skimpy shorts. Get inside I had to say to my lovely man.

Aren’t you cold I asked her, dressed like a polar bear myself. No, I’m just back from the gym she announced.

Of course. Also, I think she’s British. They don’t feel the cold do they?

You might get a slight headache as you are not allowed caffeine she announced.

Oh, I’m not worried, I told her, I’m not a big coffee or wine drinker. It’s quite nice, the fantasy in my head, I make the rules.

So, I diligently downed the first green smoothie thing and my lovely man observed my face and enquired if I was actually paying money to be this miserable.

One of the drinks seemed to be tomatoes and tabasco. I thought it might actually kill me.

How are you feeling my lovely man asked me in the morning. (After day one).

Well, I said, my weight is down, but I think I have a brain tumour and need you to take me to the hospital please.

Aaah, he said, you have a headache, should I bring you a coffee rather?

What I have learnt from this exercise :

I am not brave when in pain.

I would rather never eat again than face that tabasco smoothie.

I can, quite surprisingly, manage without wine, but am, it seems addicted to coffee.

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What’s that smell?

My lovely man is of great support to me and does many (read all), of the household chores.

Don’t you want one? Get your own, this one’s mine.

He often uses my little car to run around in.  It’s a ‘fuel saver’ vs a ‘ gas guzzler’.

The other morning we were having our pre-walk morning cuppa (and choccie biscuit) and he announced.  ‘ I don’t think I took the shopping out of the car yesterday, let me check’.

I’m sure it’s all fine he continued a little later… I’ve put the chicken in the freezer, all good.

Darling, I said, I don’t think that’s clever, shouldn’t we throw that chicken away?

It’s for the dogs he said, I’m sure it will be fine.  (I, of course, would take a bullet for my dogs, so this is NOT fine really).

I don’t get to drive my car, or any car very often.  My lovely man is the designated driver as a rule.  When we first started dating, he was very complimentary of my driving.  Now that the honeymoon is over there are any number of suggestions, instructions, and pleas to Jesus for help when I drive.  

But I had occasion (read boozy girls lunch), to go out by myself and lowered myself into my car and trundled off.

On my return, I asked my lovely man if it was my car that he had used when he went shopping and left the chicken in the car.

Yes, I think so, he said, it’s easier to park, why do you ask?

Because, darling, my car smells like something has died in it.

So now, not only do we have to empty the freezer of any chicken so that no-one in the household dies, I also have to sell or perhaps set alight my car. 

Perhaps you can have him after all.

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Say that again?

My lovely man is a bit hard of hearing.

The entire household seems to be, because certainly no one listens to me, including all the animals.

I am often reminded of a dear fellow that I worked with who informed me ‘ Rosie, your voice is pitched like a dog whistle, none of us have a chance.’

I digress.

On a recent morning walk, we were approached by some fellows who had saved a tortoise that was (slowly we presume), dodging the traffic.  Precious little thing.  Because this is Africa, we had to pay them and I carried the dear little thing triumphantly home.

I have always had a fondness for tortoises, and this little guy has now come into our lives!  That’s how it happens with animals isn’t it? 

I am likely to be lambasted because perhaps he’s exotic and we should not be looking after him.  But I love him already.  We’ll figure out for sure what the right thing to do is.  Better in the garden than the traffic surely?

Let’s call him Tommy I suggested to my lovely man.  How do you know he’s he, he asked.  My sister, I advised him, said that male shells are more rounded, and female shells are flatter.

Oh, he said, how on earth would she know that, should I Google it too?

She’s quite smart I said, but yes, you can Google it.

What should I ask Google he asked me.

Ask Google ‘ How do I sex a tortoise’ I suggested.

There are no results, he advised somberly, for ‘ How do I text a tortoise’ , I think we are doing it wrong.

Don’t you just love him? I’m sure he does it on purpose to entertain me.  He’s the best.

Tommy, it turns out, prefers the pronoun ‘ they ‘ .