My morning

My morning started at roughly 4am with the wailing of a baby boy. My body reacted before my eyes could make sense of my surroundings and before I knew it, I was standing at the side of his crib. Oh. This is my wailing baby boy. Right. I have a son. What pains you, dear child? His legs are cold to the touch, fingers even more so. I cradle him and whisper sweet words of where the fuck is your blanket. He has a habit of doing tai-bo in his sleep. Gymnastics. Synchronized swimming sans the pool. His fluffly blue blanket is always miles away from his sleeping body. He is full of complaints as he nestles his head on my shoulder but the wailing has ceased. Bad dreams? What does a baby dream of that makes them wake up crying? A never-ending series of empty milk bottles? The horror. Diapers being changed but poopyness remains? DISASTER. My mom would say that when he smiles in his sleep, ye ol’ gods from superstitions passed are having a merry chat with him. Does that mean when he cries, our dark lord and saviour, Oprah, is plaguing his subconscious with free cars coupled with Eat, Pray, Love books? I despise Oprah. The Colour Purple was a shit movie. Okay, it wasn’t but fuck Oprah. Ahem. Back to reality and my snuggley, little borg. A diaper change, a fluffy onesie and a warm bottle of milk satiated his morning qualms and put him back to sleep but left me waaayyy off my daily routine. Coffee. Cigarette. Cleansing. Clothing. Easier said than done when sleep beckons…

I gathered a generic ensemble of clothing; pants, underpants, t-shirt. Generic. How. Very. Generic. A word I would hope another never uses to describe me. The t-shirt shall suffice, the underpants too but these pants simply will not do. I stare blankly at my open wardrobe and think WWSD? What Would Siouxsie Do? Inspiration strikes. Little skirt, stockings and fuck-off big boots. Black on black on black. On black. Yes. Onward! To work! I am feeling empowered and bitchy. Bitch couture.  Come at me, Friday and all that I am woman, hear my stomach growl nonsense. I catch a glimpse of myself in mirror not far from my office and I’m all, hey there foxy lady. A colleague bids me a pleasant day and asks how do I have the time to do hair, make-up, stockings and such when I have a kid. I am at a loss for words as I recall my feverish morning thus far. Truth of the matter is, I do not have the time but I do have the desire to like what I see when I look in the mirror. How to convey this sentiment to my inquiring work person… I flash a fake smile and continue my trek to the office.

I am struck with profound thoughts of why a mom should be clad in sweatpants and stained shirts. I refuse to be that mom. Vanity shall prevail. I will wear my mohawk high, smudge my multitudes of black eyeliner and rip deliberate holes in my fishnet stockings for as long as I possibly can. When the time comes for me to drop my son off at school, his friends will ask him who that weirdo lady is. He will smile ear to ear and proudly proclaim, THAT’S MY MOM, YO.

My breakfast

What a wonderful, uplifting feeling. You get to your office after a good couple days of public holiday realness and the entire expanse of the working realm reeks of boiled eggs. Marvelous. My esteemed colleague is in the process of stuffing six whole boiled eggs in her face. Remnants of broken shells decorate her already terribly untidy desk and she is devouring said unborn with her mouth wide open. Egg debris spews forth as she turns around to bid me a pleasant morning. Oh, darling. You have already ruined any chance of my morning being remotely pleasant. Now, fellow miscreants of society, I am by no means a food snob. I relish the aroma of freshly made food in all its steamy glory. My breakfasts are hardly of the ordinary kind. You might see me slurping a bowl of stew, munching a slice of pizza or even indulging in my mom’s famous chicken curry for breakfast all before 9am.

I long to take a wetwipe from my handbag of tricks and wipe it across her egg splattered face. As she is sharing anecdotes of the long weekend past, bits of yolk land on my freshly ironed skirt and I want to squeeze the life out of her bulging neck with my camphor cream-fresh fingers. Drastic. But I am a firm believer in morning freshness. All day freshness, for that matter. Refer to my previous post Smell the look.

Tragic is the plight of the thwarted woman bound by societal and workplace pleasantries. I could indulge in a full Natural Born Killers moment and exact my violent revenge… How much we take for granted. We all live this life in bounds instilled on us by… By who exactly? Emotions and actions are always to be in check less we experience the full wrath of the law. But let us leave that anarchic, existential debacle for another time. After I have indulged in my morning food offerings. A cheese burger is on today’s menu. I bid a splendid day to all of you gracing my blog with your inquisitive eyes. May the day bring flowery smells and may your hammer be mighty.

ANARCHY IN THE RSA

My bills

My career choice is one of complacency. I’ve had many jobs in my life. I used to press the button that made The Cobra go whooooosh at Ratanga Junction. I was the token weirdo slurping vodka out of a Spiderman sippy-cup at a cool clothing store called Space Station. I wore actual pantyhose at Grandwest while fiddling with faulty slot machines and signing little pieces of paper that granted the wielder a free sandwich and/or bottle of Johnny Walker, depending on the amount of monies they won. I was number one spiller of chemicals but looking fly as fuck in a labcoat while nursing sulphur allergies at Koeberg power station. I sold international travelers all manners of alternative South African music with the occasional Britney Spears album when I worked at a music store at the airport called Rythmic Beat. I shunned the unbelieving UK market when they would call in to complain about exploding HP printers destroying their 50 million year old coffee tables at Teleperfomance. FUCK. I’ve seen some shit, man. I’ve done some shit, man. There are several other job encounters that I would rather not mention… Whilst I did sometimes wish to climb that corporate ladder, be that slick-haired caffeine addict dishing out motivational hogwash and driving that Murr-Cey-Deez Benz, I chose a different life. I chose… complacency in mediocrity. Now I sit behind a desk. I internet. I help people that ask for my help. I typedy-type and talkedy-talk. Better? What is better? I ‘member watching an episode of Penn and Teller questioning that very term. Why do we seek better when what we have is deemed enough by our own standards? Hmmm. I am…. happy. I am… content. I am… loved. I am also… poor as fuck, yo. Meh.

The end.

My humps

Not all people at work are assholios but it just takes one… One elevator crusader that deems my attire inappropriate for mom-life. Hell, I wasn’t even showing boob. Flowy dress and boots with upside down crosses on them are office-chíc, no? Am sure the crosses were meant to be the right way around but they are from the Town of Chinas after all. LOL. I am… less confrontational than I was before. I am… not the man I used to be. I enjoy using that phrase. I could have ripped her face off with floral slander and sensual sarcasm but instead I just stood there slurping my coffee. She asks ‘Did you hear me?’… I ignore her. Slurp some more. She pokes my bare shoulder with her penis-shaped finger. In a fit of unbridled anger, I threw the remnants of my brown mana potion onto her floral dress and glide out of the elevator which made a perfectly timed stop. I’ve been working really hard on my temperament-fueled actions and this sloth of a woman made me regress. I want to be a calm, rational lady-person in my borg’s life but hot damn the sheep are testy testicles of late. Sigh.

Smell the look

While personal hygiene may seem second nature to most of us, there are many out there who insist on insulting your nostrils with a vulgar display of rotten cabbages. I have heard word through the vines that this “man-scent” is somehow appealing to a woman seeking a mate. Let us phrase it as such for it seems rather animalistic in nature. OMG YOU SMELL LIKE ROT AND NACHOS TAKE ME NOW. Ja, nee. I ventured out on campus today to buy some milk for I just can’t seem to stomach my coffee sans cow-juice. Spare me your judgement. Let us fight the vegan fight on another day. I walked past a beautiful lady-student; immaculate hair and make-up, lovely ensemble of the latest trend fresh off the rails of Foshini or Truworths or where-ever the masses are sourcing their threads from now. I describe her as a welcomed attack on the visual senses but what really caught my fleeting attention is the way she smelled. She smelled of haute couture, manicured nails and… and… RAINBOWS. It all came together wonderfully and for once in quite a few years of avoiding eye contact with anyone, my eyes fixated on her and and I flashed her a gap-toothed smile to banish the high-waisted skinny jeans right on off of her bootay. She returned the gesture and on some remote plane, in a galaxy far away, we were knocking boots and eating flowers. Sigh. I once knew a man who insisted that one has to “Smell the look”. It’s all well and good draping the cadaver in the finest of Gucci but beneath the cloth, the smell of death lurks. A lingering scent leaves a memory far removed from the actual visual onslaught. Moments can be perfectly captured in photos but this time a song manages to do so for me 🙂