Recently in Red Whine Category

One of the few perks  The ONLY solitary perk about lugging extra weight around on one's rapidly ageing body is that the additional lard seems to fill up wrinkles, thereby creating the illusion that one is still in possession of a smooth, youthful skin.

At least, this is the thought I console myself with whenever another of my garments mysteriously shrinks overnight. (It's amazing, I seem to own the world's most Incredibly Shrinking Wardrobe.)

Luckily, I don't have the faintest idea what my padded body looks like. I haven't had a full-length mirror since the late 90's.

Of course, other people are also partly to blame for my blissful delusion. Recently, a guy I'd just met asked me: "So, Red, how old are you?" (These South African boys are SO rude!)

In response, I batted my lashes, giggled like a 15-year old and asked: "Just how old do you want me to be?"

Okay, not really. But before I could give him my standard reply ("I put the four in thirty-four!" Because yes, *sob, sob*, until recently I was still merely thirty-four), he cocked his head to the side, squinted at me and proceeded to deduct an ENTIRE NINE YEARS from my age!!! (Which prompted me to quickly uncheck the 'rude' box after his name. Apparently he did attend charm school after all.) 

Did I mention that it was really REALLY dark at the time?

So whenever another button pops, I try to suck in my stomach, gingerly insert a safety pin where said button used to be and place the button in a jar housing all the other popped buttons. That jar is labeled: "Payment For Lifetime Access To The Fountain Of Youth."

When I turned 35 at the end of August, I was far more upset about leaving the 18 - 34 group - that sprightly age demographic so revered by especially advertisers (and men) - than about the PHYSICAL implications of finding myself smack dab in the middle of my 30's.

But alas, even one's best delusions must eventually come to an awful end.

A few days ago, I popped into the newly opened beauty salon in my neighbourhood.

I'm still not really sure what had driven me to go in there. Normally I steer well clear of such places. I figure that beauty parlours are reserved exclusively for those who are already in possession of beauty, not for those of us who have a hard time unearthing even our alleged inner beauty!

As soon as I'd stepped into the lightly perfumed, clinically clean salon, I felt like a fish out of water. When I laid eyes on the receptionist - a model look-alike with perfectly sleeked back hair and cheekbones so sharp that it could easily poke an eye out - I felt like a clumsy elephant among delicate butterflies.

She was murmuring into the telephone when I walked in, so I had some time to let my inadequacy and out-of-place-ness thoroughly sink in. I stood around uncomfortably, nervously toying with the safety pin straining to hold my trousers together and hoping that it wasn't visible to Ms. Immaculately Put-Together.

She finally ended the call and looked up at me. (And the worm's eye view is DEFINITELY not my best angle! NOT that I even have a best one, but you know what I mean.) I could've sworn that I momentarily saw an incredulous expression flash across her face (which couldn't have been more flawless if it had been airbrushed), but it might have been my imagination after all, because when I looked again, her perfect, front-cover of Vogue-worthy face had rearranged itself into a look of consummate professionalism.

"May I help you?" she asked. I was almost waiting for her to add: "Not that I think we'd be able to help the likes of you!"

"Yes, please. I just want to know if you by any chance give laser treatment here?"

She scrutinised my face and then pointedly said: "No, but we do Botox!"

GAH!

Fat face, I can't believe you've decided to stop working at such a critical point in my life! You useless, chubby traitor you!

NOW what do I do?!? Shoot myself?

Or be shot choc-full of Botox?  

Hello.

Thissssss isssss the ssssssnake. I'm here to inform you that I have eaten Red. She'ssssssssssss large, ssssssso it took me sssssssseveral hoursssssss to devour her. For my trouble, her hair hassssssss given me a bad casssssse of indigessssssstion and *cough* hairballssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

Oh, shut up Cobra.

It's me, loveys. And no, the slimy bastard hasn't gotten me... yet.

However, last night I encountered something which proved to be far more dangerous to my health than any venomous, fork-tongued reptile: two friends and a bottle (or three) of red wine. The one bottle's top collided with my lips... and after that everything became a bit muddled and befuddled. And today the Hangover From Hell has me by the head, pounding the living daylights out of my skull.

The upside about the hangover is that I feel so ill, I don't even CARE about the possible presence of the snake in the house anymore. In fact, right around now, I'd consider a fatal snake bite to my person to be a bit of a merciful favour.

When will I learn that I am, despite my size (SUV), surprisingly light on fuel? 

I told my sister.

I still hadn't made up my mind as to whether I should or not by the time I arrived there, but my crocodile eyes were uncooperative. Hours after the few (okay, many) tears I had shed, they were still virtually swollen shut. And I know from experience that trying to convince my sister that IamdoingjustsplendidlythanksandwhatredeyeswhatareyouTALKINGabout while trying to peer at her through telltale slits would be as futile as trying to look like a movie star whenever I cry. You know what I'm talking about. You see it in any drama and even in a few romantic comedies. When they zoom in on the actress's flawless makeup, the tears clinging to her impossibly long (and still perfectly mascara'd), quivering lashes like glittering jewels, making the leading man's heart melt and causing him to lean in, gently brushing her tear-streaked cheeks with his lips or fingers.

Why oh why do I look so horrid not only during crying jags, but for almost DAYS afterwards? Even waterproof mascara can't survive the destruction of all make-up during my melodramatic sobbing spells. You know how television news always capture women in war torn countries? Women who have just lost their entire families in senseless violence and who are wailing loudly, making otherwordly, primal sounds while desperately tearing their hair out and clawing at their clothes?

They have nothing on me when I weep. When I get going, I surpass even that which Oprah Winfrey refers to as "the ugly cry".

So before she could even ASK me what was wrong, I simply blurted out the whole story. And started crying again in the retelling. (Hey, I laugh at my own jokes, so I'm almost compelled to cry during the telling of my own sob stories in order to keep things fair and balanced.)

Her immediate reaction was laughter. Not at me, bless her. (She doesn't laugh at my jokes, so laughing at my sob stories is probably also just part of keeping the equilibrium.) But because the entire situation was so preposterous.

Then she asked: "Why didn't you tell me last night, when she was still here?" (Aww, I think this is the grown-up version of her wanting to beat up my playground bullies!)

THEN she told me that the girl was 1.) Drunk anyway.

"Which only makes people say what they really think!" I wailed.

And then she told me that the girl was 2.) Not... Well, let's just say that she wasn't quite as forthcoming to me about her own life and about what she is doing.

(Okay, here it is. I can TOTALLY not keep it to myself. That girl? The one who has told me that I should really become a bit more independent!? SHE IS TOTALLY NOT EVEN STUDYING RIGHT NOW! Hasn't done ANYTHING, in fact, for YEARS! Which is why she is putting pressure on my brother-in-law's friend to propose to her, because apparently her extremely rich daddy is now finally getting impatient with his 30-year old daughter's lack of drive and would really like her to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE ALREADY! And hey, what better way to do that than to get a husband, right?)

So yes, I'm over it. Okay, my over-it-ness didn't, admittedly, happen immediately. When I finally stopped crying, I got angry at her audacity. Then I thought of all the things I SHOULD have said to her:

"Okay, so how about I remove all my vital internal organs. After performing the DIY (of COURSE!) surgery on myself, I would simply continue living. WOULD THAT BE INDEPENDENT ENOUGH FOR YOU?"

(And that is really all I came up with to say. My sister said I should have said: "Wow! Thank you for such stellar life advice! Especially since you are such a fine example of independence yourself! So I really value your unasked for counsel!")

Then my dear sis reminded me how I didn't even ask for the car.

And then we had coffee and cake and lived happily ever after...

Seriously though, I do know why her words stung me so much and so deeply. During my last years in the States, as I slowly sunk into the depths of a bleak, all-consuming depression, one of the first and most important things I lost a grasp on was my independence. And I've had to work HARD to get it back. (Still working on it, in fact, every single day.) And I will be the FIRST to admit that I would never, ever, ever have been able to do it without my family's help.

I love them.   

Just returned from a dinner party at my sister's and brother-in-law's and I'm so upset that I'm in tears.

No, not at the family. The dinner was lovely as always, the company was stellar and apart from this one girl whom I had never met before, I am acquainted with everyone else who was there.

I actually like(d?) her. Spent a long time chatting to her because she and her boyfriend were the first guests to arrive and since my sister was still getting ready, I kept her company.

She spent the whole evening talking about herself. I didn't mind, because I thought she was interesting. I'm only mentioning that she was talking about herself because of what happened so entirely out of the blue later on.

Before I get to that, here's something else that has happened to me over these past two weeks (it's related to this story). My little old car almost died last week. The mechanic managed to resurrect it for an incredible amount of money (which, luckily, I was able to afford at the time), but my brother-in-law worried that it was on its last wheels and that I would get stranded somewhere. So he went out and bought me a slightly new(er) car!!! Same make but considerably less vintage than the other one. Got it at a great price, but I've already worked out a plan to pay him back every single cent. AND I'm giving him all the money from the sale of the old car, since he had initially bought that one too and I had never been in a position to pay him back for it.

Anyway, so over the course of the evening, people came up to me and remarked about my "hot new wheels" (it really is, to me! I drove it for the first time on Thursday) and so at some point - and since it's no secret that my brother-in-law paid for it - I said: "Yes, don't I have the BEST brother-in-law?"

So this girl, whom I had been listening to all evening, and who knows nothing about me apart from the fact that I freelance and that I'm 34 years old  - turns back to me when we are alone again and says: "You know, you really ought to be more independent. I mean, at some point they are going to get sick of helping you."

I was so gobsmacked, because: She had just spent the entire evening telling me how she, at 30, was living with her parents again. Who is paying for her to study. Again. (She had attempted the university/studying thing plenty of times before but had never figured out what she wanted to do, so she never bothered to finish anything. And I had just spent the whole evening telling her how interesting that makes her!)

I was honestly so taken aback that I didn't even say anything back to her. So I just... didn't. (Luckily the party moved to the kitchen for coffee right around then, so I started speaking to someone else.) But the more I thought about it, the more upset I became. So much so that later, when I was driving home, I totally burst into tears.

I'm still crying a bit (writing is helping though), but now I'm getting a bit more angry. Now I'm asking myself where she gets off for making such a judgement about me. How DARE she? She had never even laid eyes on me before tonight, and most of our conversation had revolved around her and her life (which I seriously didn't mind! As I've said, I found her fascinating, and hey, since I'm not exactly a poster child for success in life, career or love, I am the last person to judge anyone else), so where exactly did her remarks come from?

Now of course... and I hate this about myself... the self-doubt starts to niggle at me again. That horrid voice starts to whisper. It asks: "Well, if there are no truth to her words, why are you so bothered and hurt by it?"

Well, we all know the answer to that, don't we? We all know that I HAVE relied on my family a lot since returning, tail-between-the-legs, humiliated and with absolutely NOTHING to my name from the States three years ago. But, in my own feeble defence, I've come a long way since those early days. I'm working. I live alone (yes, still in my humble little room, but at least I pay my own rent and I buy my own food and coffee). Yes, measured against other people my age, I know I fall WAY short in terms of possessions, savings, etc. But then again, what DOES constitute success exactly? Who determines it? Isn't the fact that I'm doing a job that I absolutely love and adore enough? That I'm living my passion? That I'm truly content to be by myself? That I've made strides to cultivate this independence?

Yes, bastard voice in my head. A few years ago I definitely was NOT independent. But dammit, now I am. Yes, my family still helps me an unspeakable amount, but it's considerably less than it was when I first returned home.

But still, I'm so, so, so hurt by her stupid remarks. And now the doubt is creeping in that I'm still not enough of anything and that I will never, ever be. 

She totally got to me.

Turns out my face is too scary even for radio...

That's right. I got STOOD UP.

By a DJ.

I kept quiet all weekend (okay, okay... but I tried, honestly) and soothed my voice with honey and milk coffee in anticipation of my big radio interview on Monday afternoon. It turns out it was all for naught, because there WAS no call, no interview.

Normally a girl should at least get one complimentary dinner before the guy decides not to phone, no?

Remember my ratty, so enormous it swallowed up my entire room, has-been, executive office swivel chair (circa 1970's/1980's), covered in torn, grayish (but it's really an unidentifiable colour) pleather, purchased by me in April from a second-hand shop?

It is dead.

In pieces.

I am such a loser, even the furniture is breaking up with me...

Today I am older than I have EVER been before!

And yes, I know I said that last year, but this year it is really true, because last year I wasn't THIS old.

Luckily, to soften the blow a bit, I'm not the only one ageing today. Today is also the Ageing Day of an ex-boyfriend. (Happy birthday to us, Johnny Boy!) He is calling me from Mallorca later, the bum. Oh, well. At least he never forgets!

It is also Cameron Diaz's birthday.

And Mary Shelley, who scribbled Frankenstein. She created the monster when she was a mere 18 years old. In those moments when I suffer from delusions of grandeur, I pretend that I'm her reincarnation. WHADOYOUMEAN I'm more Frankenstein than Shelley?!?

My mom called me just after noon today to wish me. She waited to phone, she said, because I wasn't born until midday.

"What?" I asked. "You mean to tell me that there is actually a time of day before noon? I had no idea!"

Let it be known therefore that it is my birth right to sleep until noon. If only because I was such a considerate kid. You have to admit, it WAS rather nice of me to wait until the doctor was fully awake.

I had some more good news today. After some minor adjustments to it, the scale told me that I was 5 kilos lighter than I was yesterday!

They say with age comes wisdom. What about senility then? How do they (whoever THEY are) explain that then, huh? In my case, it's definitely more senility than wisdom. So I've decided to call it wisdumb.

Tomorrow I shall tell you about some of the wisdumb I've acquired through the years.

For now, my arthritic fingers need to rest.

Curled around the biggest cup of coffee it can find.

If your biggest fear on earth was, say, a fear of heights.

And then one day, someone - who knows full well what your fear is and how serious that fear is - misleads you and you end up on a 'plane and when you're 10,000 ft up there (or however high), they suddenly strap you into a parachute and say: "Surprise!" and push you out the door.

Should they really be taken aback if you are less than thrilled and never, EVER want to speak to them again? Would you also be so upset and distressed that you would sob?

And no, the above is all metaphorically speaking. I hate heights, yes, but love flying. Won't go skydiving though.

Can't cope. Hate my life. Wish I could just "Poof!" vanish...

I've always secretly hoped that she was "plump" like me.

I mean, for Heaven's sake, half of her blog's title consists of food!

But despite my fervent wishes, I knew that she wouldn't be fat. She attracts way too much male attention for that, and well, we can say what we want about South African men (or Earthling men, for that matter), but they prefer to bypass girls like me who have tonnes of... personality... to have slight, slinky things dangling from their arms. (Any man who wants to convince me otherwise, feel free to try and persuade me over a fully-expenses paid dinner. With desert.)

And the other day she confirmed my worst suspicions... she is thin. Not just thin, but, according to herself, bones-are-visible thin. And if you've been one of my imaginary readers for long enough, then you would know that, as the world's first and only blubbery, boneless woman, I have always fantasized about not only possessing bones, but actually being able to poke people's eyes out with 'em!

To add further insult to my injured and burdened-by-extra-lard soul: She says that when she stresses, she loses her appetite. Loses! Her appetite!!!

I would never be able to lose my appetite, even if I had wanted to. Wouldn't you know it, but my appetite and I were born joined at the lip. So no matter how hard I try, I could never ignore this enormous appetite clinging to my lip like a stubborn cold sore and glowering at me like a wild and ravenous animal. My appetite suffers from year-long PMS and low blood sugar, and if I don't constantly sate it, there is hell to pay.

So as you can see, stress has the opposite effect on me than it has on her. My heart only needs to speed up by one beat per hour, then every edible morsel within a 500 kilometre radius of me hurtles into the magnetic force field of my mouth and violently flings itself down my throat.

I really have very little say in the matter. And even if I had wanted to protest, I couldn't, because my mouth is full.

See why I write for a living? It's my only means of communication! (Yeah, yeah, I know... one would THINK that I would be better at it then...)

Anyway, back to Miss Mushy Peas on (thinly sliced) toast. I really want to hate her for being skinny and pretty and not eating when she is stressed, but by being charming and clever and oh-so-witty (as has been reinforced and affirmed by her being awarded the Most Humourous Blog Award at Friday's South African Blog Awards), she has made it nearly impossible to dislike her. Even though I still believe that it should be genetically impossible for thin, pretty girls to have brains, personality and talent. It's too unfair!

Yes, it was the South African Blog Awards on Friday night, and even though that other blog I write for lost, my brilliant boss/friend (bossy friend? Friendly boss!), whose blog title also mocks me by being edible, Cherryflava scooped up the award for Best Business Blog. I'm so proud of him!

The other big winner of the night is another skinny bitch - despite the fact that her slight frame has borne twins!! Mommy blogger Tertia strutted away with the major prize of the night for winning Blog of the Year AND for Best Writing!

Unfortunately they didn't win large food hampers... Although Tertia DID win an Apple.

Good thing I wasn't even nominated in that category, because in the highly unlikely event of me winning, I probably would've devoured the damn thing.

Last night I had the WORST nightmare.

No, it wasn't my usual "falling" dream where I have that roller-coaster feel on the pit of my stomach as I'm falling through space, and then I jolt awake just as I'm supposed to hit the ground... or in my case, the sharp rocks I am hurtling towards.

Analyse THAT!

Or don't.

Anyway, this nightmare also didn't contain monsters, bogeymen or ghosts.

It was worse. MUCH worse.

I was out in a shopping mall in the States, and I ran into my ex boyfriend and his current girlfriend.

Apart from the fact that the witch was blonde (of course! Grrr...), I don't remember any exact details.

Except... and this is the truly nightmarish part...