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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.
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.
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.
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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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.
Is it just me, or do you also loathe packaging?
Apart from the obvious that it’s mostly all plastic, it’s largely impenetrable isn’t it? And often seems unnecessary and an overkill.
I’m a bit of a shopper. it’s my one talent really. Random spending. But, inevitably, anything new comes in packaging that you have to wrestle off. Take Take A Lot for instance. Those people, bless them, give extra thought to packaging because, presumably, the goods have to survive transportation. So, there is re-packaging in a lot of cases. Not that this always helps. Possibly because my order is then put on a donkey cart or something similar and driven over less than attractive roads to me.
A face wash I ordered recently arrived burst. (Yes, there is face wash here before you ask, we are not a nation of dirty faces). But, I was tempted in this case because it was a charcoal face wash, and I just can’t resist a charcoal anything really. Charcoal is so versatile don’t you find. Like bicarb and coconut oil. There must be 100 uses for these products. Must Google it. I take great comfort knowing that if I ever suspect I have been poisoned, I can just chug down my face wash and I am likely to survive the ordeal.
Back to the packaging. It’s that hard plastic shell that kills me the most. I really have to gird my loins when stuff arrives in that. I ponder on that movie Tom Hanks starred in where he was washed up on a deserted island and his only companion was the American football Wilson (or was it a rugby ball, is there a difference?). Anyway, what if Wilson had arrived in a hard plastic shell? And also washed up with him was a scissor in a hard plastic shell. The movie would not have done as well I’m sure. We would have all been gnashing our teeth in frustration.
Some years ago I met someone in the packaging industry. It was quite fascinating to hear her speak about it because it’s actually very complex and very competitive. Lots of math goes into packaging. She was absolutely fabulous. Hysterical really, very entertaining and great company.
But, that’s how psychopaths are aren’t they? Engaging and charming. Because really, this must be one of the criteria required to be in the industry, to be a complete sadist.
I’m sure she’s the exception.
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.
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.
We are enjoying a few days at the magnificent Victoria Falls.
I know, so lucky.
Our resort offers a shuttle service into town. They don’t encourage you to walk too far around here because of the wild animals. Having said that, the locals walk everywhere. Out of necessity one presumes.
Anyway, after our boozy lunch (always), we caught the shuttle back.
There was a very attractive lady on the shuttle with us and then we stopped again and picked up Casanova. Himself.
Immediately he started harassing her for her details. Including phone number and room number.
Amazing.
So, when we arrived, we hung around a bit to escort her, as necessary, because of this unwanted and somewhat aggressive attention.
Later, when we were having a sundowner, we saw this young lady again and she thanked us for the help.
She was with her friends by now. (She made a point of telling us, perhaps she thought we would chase them off too).
Where are you from they asked us.
This question is almost as loaded as ‘what is your surname’. I am always confused by both and tend to ramble a bit.
Luckily my lovely man stepped in and explained that we were local. Zimbabwean.
Immediately we were regarded with deep suspicion. Which is normal. My lovely man never gets asked by a Zimbabwean if he is Zimbabwean. I braced myself for the inevitable.
She doesn’t sound like a Zimbabwean they stated, as expected, moving away slightly. She sounds like an South African. Also, they continued, it’s her hair. Very Pretoria. The one guy actually waving his hands around his head.
No good deed…
Nice though, he said as an afterthought.
Yes, I said, I lived in SA for a long time, I guess I picked up an accent.
Not being able to resist rambling, I further explained that, at one point, I even married into the Afrikaans tribe, but I wasn’t accepted. Voted out. The weakest link stuff.
They all nodded… Knowingly.
My lovely man just sighed and ordered another beer. Don’t start with the surnames please he muttered.