Asanda started to talk to me on gchat yesterday. I was shocked, almost. She never talks to me these days, not after what happened some months ago. In early February last year, she offered me a place to stay, until I’m back on my feet. I was really down and out back then. She used to (could still be, I don’t know) stay in a one-bedroom flat in town, but it had ample space for two, even three people.
So I moved in with Asanda and her brother. Her brother didn’t stay there long; he really just came to Cape Town to try and find employment and left a couple of weeks later. Three months later, I move out into my new apartment, where I am still staying today. By that time, however, our friendship had taken a sound knocking. Staying together does something to one. Even though she was hardly there, I’m sure she felt as though she has to baby-sit me. It was that and the money issue.
We didn’t exactly agree on any monthly payment but when I moved out she wanted to me to pay her R1200 a month for every month I stayed there. Impossible, especially because I would be paying rent in a new place. Our old agreement was that I keep the place clean and buy whatever I need to do so.
I moved out in early May 2007 and I saw her once after that. I bumped into her at the Waterfront one evening and that was the extent of it.
We used to talk on gchat sometimes, but not very often. She was distant, withdrawn and would never initiate a conversation.
Once, in September, she phoned me to tell me she quit her job and her old position is vacant. I phoned the owner of the company, but it was filled that very morning. I knew Asanda could not have known and moved swiftly along.
Our contact was minimal during the last couple of months. I once invited her to have coffee with me but she cancelled on me the day before we were supposed to meet. I eventually gave up, bemoaning my sorry lot to Victor.
So imagine my surprise when she starts to talk to me yesterday. She even offered me a ticket to the Spier Poetry thingy on Saturday. The only condition was that I attend one of the Spier satellite events.
Of course I went! It was great seeing her again, albeit a little awkward. I don’t think we’ll ever really regain our easy banter and conversations about our future novels and appearances on Oprah… not that she liked Oprah anyway.
In a way, our friendship, which was really only starting to blossom back in Feb 2007, died a slow death. I can’t blame her for it, as much as she can’t blame me for it.
All I know is that last night’s Poetry event was awful, and that I owe her a tremendous debt, which I will repay not in money, but if ever she needs my help or a favour, she’ll get it.
I paid a visit to my parents recently. They were pleased to see me, I think. I don’t see them very often; only ever couple of months or so. Now, the previous time I paid them a visit (dodgy grammar, I’m so sorry), I had Victor with me. We were in the area; why not go visit them?
He spoke Afrikaans to them, even though he is very much English. I thought it was sweet of him; never mind that he speaks Afrikaans very often, almost on a daily basis. I don’t have any difficulty understanding him – bar his dodgy grammar and his reluctance to use the Afrikaans double negative! – so I didn’t think they would have.
Even more surprising was when I noticed him quietly chatting to my mother just before we left an hour later. We didn’t stay long; it was almost dark and we still wanted some hanky panky during the daylight hours…
So, yesterday, I had a chance to speak to my ma-goed. I asked her what’s her – admittedly very brief – opinion on Victor. She couldn’t really say anything and declined to comment. (Ha! I make her sound like a celebrity!)
My sister finally said what was on my mom’s mind: he mumbles when he speaks. Now, this isn’t such a big deal to me; I also mumble. Ek praat binnensmonds. And I’m far worse than him, actually. They’re used to me; they’re not used to him yet, which is why they find it difficult to understand him, methinks.
But I’m sure that’s not the only reason they’re not too keen on poor Victor. I’m just too scared to ask.
But. And this is a rather big but. My paternal grandparents weren’t too keen on my stepdad when he was courting my mom and even when they were already married for a couple of years.
They kept gossiping about how very stupid and very Bushman-like he is! Well, dear reader, my parents have been married for over 20 years. So parents are not always right. Or are they? As long as I’m happy with him …
- He reads
- He thinks I’m amazing
- He can cook – even if it’s only bean curries and bunny chows thus far…
- He can talk about just any subject with authority
- I think he is gorgeous
- We’re sexually compatible … mostly
- He makes me feel valued and feminine and clever and treasured
- He isn’t a pauper
It struck me just now: I only have this very moment. I don’t have the past; I don’t have the future; all I have is this very fleeting now.
Fuck. I sound like a bloody hippie, and if you’re a fan of South Park, you would know that hippies are evil. Anyway. So. This means I should do as many nice things as I can possibly think of, and not go to bed as early as I do. I don’t do nearly enough for myself.
I need to read more, I need to go to more art exhibitions (I missed a book launch last night. drat!) and book launches, meet more people, enjoy life more, damn it! Yes, I do these things regardless but so very often, I live for the weekend, or for the next day, or the next hour. Would I not enjoy myself a bit more if I could enjoy (most of) everyday/hour/minute?
Is this a worthy goal even?
There is something that has been bothering me for a while now. It’s this whole Valentine’s day thingy. It irks me because I would like to give Victor something nice but I’m not entirely sure if I should.
I’ve known the guy for a very short while only so it might not be appropriate. I wasn’t going to blog about this because I figured it’s not really worth my fretting over it. And then I read Life of a Valley Girl’s post this morning and I started to freak out!
I don’t think Victor is very into Valentine’s day, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not. Perhaps I should just tantalise him with some goodies I bought over the weekend. I’ll post the pictures tomorrow. It’s a skanky nurse outfit that I bought! And I’ll wear my skanky high heels, just because he told me on Sunday that he dislikes high heels.
Methinks I’ll strut before my big mirror and touch myself, not allowing him to touch me at all.
I even went as far as buying a doctor’s kit on Saturday. It was close to 5pm and we just returned from having lunch in town. So I told him I need to buy my niece a doctor’s kit and we need to go to Toys R Us before they close at 6pm.
We had a nice stroll to the store and when we got there, he told me it’s the first time he had ever gone … and then he broke off, blushing. I can just guess it was the first time he had ever gone inside a toy store with a girlfriend, or someone who could be described as a girlfriend. I’m not his girlfriend yet, though. Why are men so reluctant to make up their minds?
So anyway. We had a lovely time at Toys R Us and I got the doctor’s kit. I’ll only use the stethoscope in conjunction with the rest of the goodies I got. At some stage – we were sitting in Sea Point – I offered opening up the package so that we can play doctor-doctor with it. Hmmm. He didn’t seem very keen. I wonder if he’s a bit conservative?
He hasn’t done any kinky stuff. Compared to him, I sound like a Playboy bunny! Well, I hope I can bring him around still. He’s young so I have lots of time!
And what better way to spend Valentine’s day?
I used to be a cat lady but I gave my two kitties away early last year. I like to believe they’re still alive somewhere, and that they did not land up at the S.P.C.A.
I live alone in a cute little apartment in Cape Town. I moved out on my own at the rather tender age of 20.5 and told myself I will make it. Ha! I struggled a LOT, but it’s finally paying off now, at the ripe old age of 25.5
Toby and I were together on and off, on and off, for a very long time. We were just kids; we didn’t know what we had in each other and/or what we were doing. It was fun, but it was mostly a lot of admin; young people shouldn’t have that much admin. They should be having fun, damn it!
I was on the injection for a LOONG time. I think it really messed up my body; every couple of months, I get a lump in my breast. Very painful, it was. Is, because I think it’s back now.
My favourite activity is not having sex. Surprise, surprise! It’s actually reading. Books are my first love. I need to be surrounded by beautiful things, and, to me, books are it.
That said, I do like having sex, but I can’t do soulless sex. I need to be able to connect with someone, otherwise it’s really shit.
I love buying shoes! Very, very, very much. I have some really cooky shoes. My shoes complete me. But I don’t believe in spending more than R200 on a pair of shoes, which is why Shoe HQ is my favourite place in the whole, wide world.
I’m chubby, which I think is even worse than being fat. Hmmm. Perhaps I should just own up to the fact that I am fat, finish en klaar. I’m 5″4 and weigh 65kilos. Eish. I used to be so much skinnier. And people tell me so regularly. I claim that I’m living La Dolce Vita! And perhaps I am. It must just stay that way.
I have, what some white people will call, an exotic look. I share features with – shock, gasp, horror – Thandie Newton and Jo-Anne Strauss. I look like their fat, very evil twin. Honestly.
Because I’m a loner, I’m a blogger. No, that sounds wrong. Because I’m a blogger, I’m a loner. No, fuck it. I’m a loner. Is that ok? Fine. Good. Excellent. I’ve always been one, perhaps because I was an only child for quite some time.
I have conversations in my head. Not just the normal talking to oneself conversations. No, sir. I have full-blown conversations with re-enactments of actual scenes, or a visualization of possible scenes. It’ll often involve someone I’m trying to impress (Victor, at the moment) and one of my friends or a hip acquaintance like for example Craig Native.
I’m just slightly cuckoo. And it’s only because I’ve learnt to embrace myself for who I really am: cuckoo. And I mean this in the best sense possible. So many times, you meet someone who thinks you’re OTT, but they’re actually as OTT in other areas of their life, they just do not realise it. Toby was like that. And then I rubbed off on him a little. These days, he’s as random as any other Capetonian. Or more so! And it’s all thanks to me. I feel proud!
Oh. Last but not least. I turn straight men gay. But more about that some other day.
My friend Lalita is great. We don’t see each other very often, but when we do, it feels as though we saw one another just the previous day. Or week. Or something. We’re not very alike, to be honest. Methinks the only thing we have in common, is our craziness, though she sometimes think I’m the really cuckoo one!
I often invite her over for dinner. Well, I used to, when Toby and I were still an item. So this week, I was supposed to host her once more and I was counting on Victor to be there as well. He mentioned something about needing to be in Cape Town for something specific, and it would’ve been perfect timing: introduce Lalita to Victor and get her approval. Even though she’s slightly younger, she is very wise and I trust her judgement.
Alas, it was not to be. Victor was too busy at work and Lalita decided she’d much rather return all the dinner-debt and cook me supper at her place. She’s so sweet.
We got to talk about finances. It’s not really such a sensitive topic between me and Lalita. I guess she earns about the same as I do, perhaps just an extra R1000 per month, possibly an extra R1500 a month. Sad, really, when you consider I’m older, but anyway.
She reckons I should do what she does: spend R400 a week on everything. Besides rent, of course. Is this possible?? Could I honestly only spend R400 a week on everything? I’ve been used to not being able to spend any money, but it was only this month, when my finances just took a turn for the worse. I was hoping February, the month of love and romance and goetertjies, would be much, much better.
I’m not so sure. It’s not as though I gorge myself on food; I’m actually rather stingy with my spending on food. And I would be quite happy to have a sandwich or Cuppa-Soup for supper once or twice a week. Being single, I can do that. I no longer need to worry about Toby and his constant moaning.
I’m just not so sure if it’s doable. I’ll give it a shot, as an experiment. My thinking has changed, ever so slightly thanks to our conversation. Call me gullible, but perhaps she is onto something?
How to survive – Apetown style
Many, many of my friends and acquaintances have told me over the years they admire me; I can hustle when I’m really pushed into a corner. At some stage I thought of hosting a monthly class, aka Carrie from SATC, but on how to get men to fund your admittedly-not-so-lavish-lifestyle.
What I have learnt over the years (really only since 2006, if I have to be honest) is that men will give anything for a really good blowjob. Even more if you swallow their stuff. Don’t get me wrong: I love swallowing the right guy’s stuff. And that’ll be Victor, as I did on Saturday. It wasn’t bad, actually… Anyway. Anyone else, well, it’s kinda eeew. But I’ll do it if the money/reward/spank is good enough.
So how did I survive being fired three times in 2006-7? Oh, it was easy.
I pilfered a lot last year. For some strange reason, I pilfered a ton of books! That didn’t really help me to keep my tummy full; it was an attempt to distract me from my poor surroundings. Sometimes I would return the pilfered item to a different store and receive a refund. Depending on which store it is I could then buy something else with that money/credit note. That is how I managed to buy a kettle early last year.
On another occasion, I pilfered a really cute clock. The price: R199. I’m not entirely sure what I did with the credit I received from the store. I think I bought another towel; I was gatvol of Toby using my damn towels. On another occasion, I pilfered some really fancy perfume. I managed it with a horde of sales assistants crowding around me.
The men in my life also helped me a lot. I think I’ve already written about Muhannad and how he used to give me money. R2000 here, R3000 there, it doesn’t matter; he’s got more money than Allah. Uri also helped me a bit. I once placed an ad – I placed many, many ads – on Gumtree, to which many guys responded. One of them contacted me and made the mistake of constantly calling me. Once, he called me a couple of minutes after Muhannad cancelled on me. So I was teary and not in a good mood. I then told him I’m upset because I’m getting evicted from my flat. Well, it was true!
The very next day, he drove from wherever he was staying and gave me R800 to help me. Yes, he wanted to shag me, but it didn’t happen. Remember I said I don’t do coloured guys? I never heard from him again.
So when I didn’t receive money from random Gumtree men, I would receive it from Uri or Toby or even from Anton.
Anton’s a character and a third. He started out very nice, and then turned progressively bad, then good, then bad. Anton is a character for another blog post on another day after I had had two or more glasses of red wine and I’m listening to angry chick music.
Another survival tactic was my Virgin Credit Card. Wow. What an amazing contraption. I don’t know if I’ll ever pay what I owe to Mr Branson, I think I’ll just worship his card thrice daily. It kept me from starving at the end of 2006. Unfortunately, when I thought I needed it most, Mr Price picked up that it is a Hot Card and alerted Virgin Money. At that stage I was already 7k over my limit of only 5k. Well, it was my fault: I asked them to lower the limit, thinking I won’t really need a 7k credit card limit. So silly of me, I know.
So I knew what it feels like when I wanted you to imagine you’re at the till and you want the card to go through and not be declined.
Oh. I also did a tiny bit of freelancing. Not much. Not enough. But I did it, and it somehow got me a job at my present company. God knows what will happen if they find my blog.
So, kids. Do not think I’m nice. I’m not. I know how to take care of myself. I might never become the bergie with Swarovski earrings, but I will always have street smarts. If Uri decides my blowjobs are kak, I’ll find some other sugar daddy in a beat. Trust Craigslist/Gumtree/(insert random, dodgy bar’s name here) for that.
Hmmm. Methinks I may need to ingest something not liquid. So, cheers vir eers! – Ant Stienie van Agter Elke Man. (The trippy writing style I attribute to my boobs being as big as they are today and also to a rather nice 2007 Robertson Winery Sauvignon Blanc. It looks cheap, and it is – only R24 at Pick n Pay – but it’s damn nice!
This post is not meant to be read by men. You may recoil in disgust; you may feel offended; you may feel slightly insecure, and that is something I would not wish upon you. No, I’m not a hate-spewing misogynist, I actually really like men. I don’t even call them penis creatures, like some of my friends do. Fine, then, I do sometimes, on the rather rare occasion, call them such names, but I make up for it by my intense love of all penis creatures. Oops, I didn’t mean to, I swear!
Anyway. I am a self-confessed SATC addict. There is one episode in particular that I have been watching non-stop for a couple of weeks: Ex and the City. This is where Samantha hooks up with a very well-endowed gentleman. And decides he’s too much to handle. Why do I mention this? Well, Victor is rather… um .. well-endowed. So much so that it is sometimes difficult to have sex. Now, we have not had much sex. Sometimes it’s rather nice not to, and just to cuddle. Eish, we must be getting old, hey?
I’ve never been with anyone as big as him. It doesn’t hurt, so that’s not what is makes me uncomfortable. It’s just that there is so much of it! And most positions do not do much for me… this is sad. Most of my normal positions that I like, do nothing for him.
I was trawling the internet as much as I could these last two weeks, just to find anything that’ll give me some ideas on how to handle his … um, goods. There is really not much, hey? But then again, I’m mostly at work when I access the interwebs. Perhaps I should use his laptop next time and try to find something.
But that’ll mean he’ll know that I’m slightly intimidated by his goodies. Eeeek. I just can’t win!
The old Tarah is rearing her head once again. Now, I quite like the old Tarah. She’s a super feisty lady… the problem is that she could sometimes be too feisty.
Something else started again last night. I did it. I pilfered something. Eeek. Fuckit. It was there, so I took it. It looked interesting.
Perhaps I needed a bit of excitement last night. I got home, read two chapters from one of my favourite books, downed 1.5 glasses of white wine and fell asleep at about 9pm … Wow. I have such an interesting life.
I feel guilty, but not very. I’ve done this so many times, I even hauled myself into therapy because of it. The only problem is that it got too expensive. Well, there were many problems. I was also forced to resign, so I kinda, um, you know, lost my Medical Aid cover in November last year. But that’s another long story.
Fuck. I really don’t want a rehash of the same old story. And no, I don’t want help. Or not really. The worst thing is that it’s so damn easy to pilfer stuff. I deliberately use the word pilfer, even though it might not have the exact same meaning as the S-word. I want to feel better about myself.
It’s not as though I pilfer because I’m poor, though I used to … sometimes. I’ve got food in my fridge, I’m getting my salary cheque next week, I have enough transport money. I’m sorted, actually. But my morals have taken a bit of a beating, and I’m to blame for it.
Why do I do it, then? Um, well, it’s damn exciting. Take the feeling of being in love and multiply it with the excitement caused by the first kiss (as long as he doesn’t slobber in your mouth) and then add that burst of panic you experience when you stand at the till point and you want to charge something to your maxed-out credit card. That’s about how exciting it is to … um .. you know. Especially if it’s expensive perfume you managed to st .. pilfer.
I will stop. I know it. I just don’t know if I can. I went without doing anything for so long. More than a couple of months. I was so proud of myself. Even told a friend about it on Saturday, telling her it’s under control. She was shocked, but didn’t judge me at all. She’s also done some pretty intense things.
Phew. This feels like my daily confessional! And perhaps it is.