Waking Up Thinking Your Girlfriend Just Crapped The Bed Can Be Incredibly Awkward.

And makes for some pretty interesting moments the next morning, that’s for damn sure.

Now I’m a pretty heavy sleeper. A combination of alcohol, rastafari mountain cabbage and an incredibly large Parma ham and smoked mozzarella pizza from Colcacchios will do that to you.

So imagine my surprise, and incredible grumpiness, when at stupid o’clock on a weekday morning I get woken up with Sam poking me in the ear.

Not even in a good way.

She’s poking, and prodding, and flicking and annoying. So I open my eyes, get ready to say something incredibly male and insensitive, and realize she’s sort of pointing at my pillow. So I turn my sand-crusted ogies to my pillow, and see some dark streaks running down the material. I figured this probably warranted a little more attention than a grunt and a turn-over, so I did most men would do when faced with dark streaks on the pillow in the middle of the night…

I sat bolt upright, and freaked the fuck out.

Well, I was about to. It was going to be a fantastic little “HOLYSHIT MY NOSE MY FACE WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING HOLY SHIT MY NOSE MY FACE MY PRECIOUS* HOLY SHIT” type affair, complete with hysterics and metrosexual hand waving.

I didn’t get the chance to have my little plutz in the end, because I looked at Sam instead. Sitting up in bed, arms outstretched like a war-zone orphan near death begging for food and redemption, or something equally metaphorical and emotional. A look of pure angelic confusion covered her face, along with great flipping wodges of brown stuff.

It was in her hair, all over her hands, covered her pyjamas, and spread all over the sheets.

So I flipped out good and proper at this point.

After a short time screaming like a Nancy Puff and leaping from bed to chest of drawers to boudoir-thingy, I stopped and considered something. Even though I may have spent a good part of my formative years with a humidifier trying to re-open my nostrils after an unfortunate trampoline accident, I can still smell shit, when shit happens. And I couldn’t smell shit. At all. In fact, there was a sort of warm, cocoa-type aroma, but that was about it.

To cut a short story long, it turns out my darling dearest has a bit of a sleepwalking problem. And a ‘wake up in the middle of the night hungry yet still asleep so I’ll just grab this big chocolate bar, rip the cover off and take it to bed with me forgetting to actually eat the goddamn thing, instead falling asleep with it in hand and squidging it all over all and sundry instead” type problem.

Which I suppose isn’t too bad, considering she has full control over her bowels as well. And insists on doing any and all housework to make up for it, including the washing, ironing and back waxing.

God I love her.

She presses my shirts like a legend.


* Not that I’m arrogant or vain or a misogynist sexist pig or anything. Not me, uh uh.

This Picture Is Freakin' Cool.

That's about it, really.

Have a fun Tuesday, high fives all round...

A Brief Letter To My Future Wife.

*Powered by Fungah, who rocks my e-face*

Dear ____

I'm sorry I left the toilet seat up again, I know how much you hate it. It's only a small mistake though, right? It's no different from you leaving it down, after all, relatively speaking. I took the dog to the vet yesterday, while you had the kids at rugby practice, I hope it's alright. Remember that night in Paris, when I told you I loved you, and the stars sparkled like a celestial crown around the Eiffel tower? Well, the dog had a vasectomy. Ha ha. Just kidding. He's dead. Turns out he had an inoperable tumor in his brain. I thought this would be the easiest way to break it to you.

Remember that conversation we had, when you said that I needed to work on my conversational skills, and learn to respect your delicate, feminine emotions? Well, I've thought long and hard about it, and have decided you were right. I'm sorry. But not sorry enough to not tell you that it's over bitch, I know you're fucking the personal trainer again. Whore. THIS RELATIONSHIP IS FUCKING OVER.

I know you've been banging him ON MY BED. Do you know what bed cost? SIX THOUSAND RAND. And my gentle, thumping heart. Every time his dick slams into you it's like a penis shaped dagger through my heart. When I first heard about it it was like a million penis shaped daggers repeatedly stabbing my soul.

Oh, as you'll see by the mess on the floor I've shaved your cat and dyed it orange. Because that's what pain feels like _____, it feels orange.

Oh, kids, fuck you too. What have you ever done for anyone? I hope this house is attacked by killer bees and the undead and you have to go on some violent flight for your lives where one or two of you die (I'm looking at you Rick and Lucy) before finally thinking you've found safety only to die, Sameul L. Jackons style, like, maybe instead of getting eaten by a shark you get stung by a shitload of pissed-off bees, and the zombie tries to eat your leg but he only kind of bites you, and you think you got out scot-free but then some ancient shogun brought to life by an evil curse plummets from above and decapitates you. That would rock.

So, in summation: Fuck you guys.

P.S. We're out of milk.

Love, your future husband.

XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXo

'My First Time' Tuesdays - The Cheesiest Cheese Sauce In The Whole Of Cheeseland.

It was, I swear to everything good and pure.

Sam had done the crumbed chicken breasteses, and the garlic baby potatoes, and the sugar snap beans with baby corn, while Flattie whipped out some roasted cubes of butternut.

I couldn’t just sit there. I had to do SOMETHING besides roll a joint and drink a Klippies Coke premix.

Never tasted that before by the way, thought I’d give it a bash. It’s pants.

So a cheese sauce, or ‘roux de fromage’ as I hear the Italians call it, was called for.

Bear in mind I’d never done it before. I’d seen people do it, eaten plenty of them, but never actually prepared, from scratch, a cheese sauce. I got the cheddar grated into a nice pile, I put the pot on the stove to heat up, grabbed the flour and milk, and realised I had fuckall butter.

Doh.

Still, when one commits to assisting those around one, one cannot simply pull out due to a lack of ingredients in ones kitchen. One. So the milk was put in the pot, and on the heat. A dab of flour was gently chucked into it, and a whole lot of whisking ensued.

A globular glumpy mass sort of ensued the unsuing of the whisking.

Not to be deterred I whisked. I whisked hard, and fast. I wielded hat whisk in a manner such a whisk has never been wielded before, and added a touch more milk.

It thinned. It thinned gloriously, and I knew it was time. The mature cheddar, pre-grated by Mr Woolworth, made a sort of ‘spush’ sound as it hit the milky floury mix, and again with the whisking.

Whisk, whisk, dab milk, touch flower, Maldon sea salt, whisk, whisk.

Hooray.

I swear, and have the leftovers in the fridge to prove it, it was the cheesiest, smoothest, positively delectable dairy based topping for meat and vegetables that my little hands have ever conceived. It was also the only one. But hey, who’s counting right?

Bring me your poor, your hungry, your lactose tolerant.

I have the technology. I will feed them cheesy goodness.

I Sort Of Blew Up My Girlfriend Last Night.

And it was her birthday, so I feel kinda bad about it…

You find out all sorts of things when you get a girlfriend. What their favourite type of Cinnabon is, what noises their bum makes when they’re fast asleep, and that they share birthdays with some of their other friends.

For Sam’s birthday, she and her mate decided to have a joint dinnery-drinks vibe at Casa de Galinha, a lovely little Portuguese spot on Rivonia Road. The usual Porto-Mozambican fare – prawns, grilled chicken, catembas, sangria, armpit sweat – you know the type.

Yummy.

Now I know my darling Beloved is pretty pernickety when it comes to food, so I didn’t think much of it when she ordered a plain, yet lovely little fillé and potatoes au gratin for her evening meal. I’m just a greedy little punk, so I had a shitload of prawns. Shrimp. Whatever. They had lots of legs, garlic, lemon butter and tasted like fresh oceany goodness.

Dinner gets munched, drinks get drinked, guests get fershnickered, and a banging great time is had by all.

Then we went home.

Being the good boyfriend that I pretend I am, home-time was obviously followed by a nice spot of Birthday Kafoofling, the type where the girl gets to lie there like a clubbed seal and the boy puts in all the work for a change. At least that was the plan.

It started off okay, I think I had kissed, caressed, tickled and lubed all the right parts, when Sam’s breathing started to get a little erratic. Normally this is a good thing (At least I read so in Cosmo) but her shortness of breath was accompanied by some gurgling noises and one or two convulsions.

‘I’m good, but I’m not that good.’ I say to myself.

‘I.. can’t... fucking... breath...’ gurgles she.

So I nip the bedside table on, have a look at my new found love, and promptly shit my pants.

Sam has turned a really deep shade of puce, her lips have swollen up bigger than an Oomba-Woomba tribal stereotype, her eyes are bulging out of her head like great big bulgy things, and breathing was something that happened to other people.

A bit like Hitch, I suppose, but more swelling, hysteria and white girl.

After a night at Sunninghill Emergency, I now know a couple of new things about my girlfriend:
- She’s on Discovery Medical aid, happily accepted by hospitals nationwide.
- Her car might need a tune up, some of the late-night corners were a little tricksy.
- When she says she doesn’t want the prawns, it’s not her being fussy. It’s her not wanting to die.
- If I ever eat seafood around her again, she would greatly appreciate me showering, exfoliating and gargling with turpentine before I even think about touching her again.

Ah, the things we learn in relationships...