Worst Blogger in all history

Truth is I suck at blogging.
I suck at making sure I write everything I need to do in my diary.
As a child I sucked at writing in my fluffy, pink, lockable diary.
But this is my attempt at redemption.

Much has occurred since my last blog. Kat and I attended the SA vs. Australia ODI at Centurion in our SA bikinis - as promised. Much consumption of Castle ("get me a Castle you arsehole") ensued, as what else is more apt to consume at a sporting event of this nature other than an ice-cold castle. Okay, so it isn't the most attractive thing to see two Hot Blondes knocking back the Castles (or maybe it is?) but there's nothing more satisfying that drinking a beer while supporting our National Cricket and Rugga teams. Its just how we roll.

Cricket that day was phenomenal. Not only were we instant schlebs with our nifty bikini's, team tanks (nogal with our Nicknames on the back) and cowboy hats but we had the time of our lives. I felt like Britney Spears being bombarded by the Paps outside a La la Land eatery - people of all types were coming up to us requesting our presence in a pic with them. Never taken that many pics in my life - and that's saying something...I am, at best, trigger happy.

Scored bonus times when we were leaving - the teams were leaving to board their busses. Got to pose with some of the SA possie: the ever-exuberant Makhaya Ntini, my once upon a dream hubby Graeme Smith, Albie Morkel, devastatingly effective debutante Wayne Parnell and old AB-baby de Villiers who specifically requested a piccie with 'the Twins'. Nathan Bracken was a honey-bunny and graced us with a pic!

Kept it relatively chilled for about two weeks other than Easter, my 2nd nunu niece's 3rd bday and my first ever Oyster. I tried it. I didn't enjoy it much and specially didn't enjoy the taste of the sea repeating on me for the rest of the evening.

So after what would be,in my usual terms of jolling, a sabbatical, Kat and I decided (broke and all) that we'd hit a jol of note and hit the trusty, old Manhandler. And did we...or did it hit us?

I needed it, things around this place are still fricken erractic. I'm feeling a little dazed and confused still and pretty lost to say the least.

We arrived in time to capitalise on the free entrance my current vocation allows and started off with a wine. I don't drink wine. Wine = wine hangover. But since our 'Kaaaaa Baaaaa' consisted of warm Nederberg Rose and tequila (to be consumed through our yellow and pink 'sippy' cups) we threw caution to the wind. Great idea at the time. Less of a good idea the next morning.

So after or first wine we head off to the Car for the 'Kaaa baaa'. Kat calls Dirtbin boy. We speak to Dirtbin boy and his two friends. Kat decides there and then that a road trip to Dirtbin is in order - I'm not going to Slaapstad anymore anyway (sadness). We're drunk on 1 glass & 1 sippy cup of wine. Or a least I am. Yay.

So we polish off the rest of the bottle of wine and head back in for a jam. Fun times. Tequila. Tequila song with invisible maracas - just the 2 of us.'Take your shoes off before you kiss him boy' joins in our fun times. Some Old Eds boys get involved in the the ruckus. More tequilsh, then a whole team of 15 of us sing the tequila song. Some devilishly handsome gent approaches me while I make a spectacle of myself shaking what my Majer gave me and utilising my 22 years of dance lessons and experience and not holding back - not even when 'All Summer Long' comes on and we do our Hoe down dance with invisible cowboy hats and lassos.

He's hot. No lies. Still I don't pay much notice - I'm having way too much fun! Start to pay a bit more notice when his feel his ice blue eyes on me from the opposite side of the dancefloor. Paid alot of notice when he comes up to talk to me for the fourth time. Pay the most notice when we're dancing together.

Just before the sun rises we leave - a whole night breaking it down in my stiletto boots has taken its toll. He stops me when as we walk out the entrance to leave. "Wow, you're hot" he says as he leans in to give me a "good morning" smooch. "Ditto" I reply, "a certain Streets song comes to mind". And man is he FIT. sigh.

So "Take your shoes off to kiss him" tells us we cant drive home now, we can come chill with him at mates for a few hours. Probably the best idea because I wasn't completely sober and if we were pulled over by the Pigs it wouldn't have been all rainbows and butterflies.

So we arrive home at 8am...yes. Finished. Majer asks why I didnt tell her I was sleeping out. "Maj, I didn't sleep." Climb into bed, and the Diabetic Boy 'exness' calls. Think about screening it but it may be a crisis of sorts after the hair-raising dream I had that involved me beating him in a mountain trail race by 2 hours and him going into a diabetic coma.

I answer like a hobo left his blanket on my tongue. He asks if I'm ok, because I sound like death. Duh, I haven't slept you turd. "Should I call you back later", he asks. No. You were the dumbass that woke me up in the first place, so talk damnit. Pointless banter ensues. He has to go into some Asian combat class that he's taken up. I give it another month or so. Nothing lasts with him - he loses interest too quickly. At least he's well and happy, he is still my best guy friend.

Kat and I contemplate the KES vs. Jeppe First XV match but we both aren't compus mentus enough to even try getting ready in time. Instead Kat picks me up for a meal at Tasha's, Vig joins us for a freezo. In our haze of babalaas-edness Vig somehow convinces us to accompany him to the Urban Wave gig at Nasrec in Soweto. Holy Moses. Didn't think we'd cope and it was to be our virgin Urban Wave experience.

We pitch up there in a flurry of Luminescent splendour. Lumo tanks, facepaint, and headbands. I do not think that the peeps at the registration knew what hit them. Peeps must have thought we were tripping on some good ish. We dance like no-ones business which only draws more attention to us. Suddenly I'm sikalekhekhe-ing with some bird who then pulls some new move out the bag - rubbing her hands with the fire that is being generated from my dancemoves. "Chisa, chisa, chisa" she chants. WHAT? Oooooookaaaay.

I spend the whole of my Sunday in my pjammas vegging out and sorting out my room, again.

Tomorrow: news about our Dirtbin jol this last weekend. Far too much fun was had to have to add it to this delightful titbit.

Adieu til the moro!