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 boots

My da got me my very first pair of Doc Martens when I was in high school. Before them I was a sneaker-clad miscreant of fashion. My Docs made me feel really bad-ass. They brought a newfound confidence and a slight increase in height. I felt good in them. After that all encompassing emotion of goodness, I decided that bitch couture is my niche. The blacker the better.

Over the years my wardrobe has become a sea of lush black fabric. Satanist. Goth. I’ve been called it all. I proudly brandished my black flag and shunned the unbelieving masses when they tried to put me in a box. Enter my very first pair of platform boots, pictured here in all their splendor. I was inches taller. The leather wrapped around my legs seductively. The buckles tightened around them and I was ready to kick heads in. I felt… powerful. They are quite the statement, these boots. I’ve mended them countless times and wear their wounds with pride. I could be wearing an enormous macaroni box with these babies gracing my feet and my ego would know no limits.

Yes, yes. It is merely a character augmentation. A superficial one but I do so enjoy expressing my demeanor and creativity through my dress code. I put effort into my appearance because I like the way I look. They say clothes maketh the man but darling, boots uplift the woman.

An easy going blog piece tonight. I’m all jacked up on pork chops and chai tea. It’s clocking 11pm in South Africa and I have nothing but time and pork fat on my hands. As you were.