Ooo … I been a baaad pudddy cat!


Those of you that were clocking in for a regular read will have noticed that this blog-aunty has been rather slack of late.

You will also notice that the world DID NOT end on  the 21st.

In the beginning of my encroaching tardiness in the blogging department, I could argue the excuse of my now full time job at a global surfwear company (who would have thought?) But in the past few days, there has been excessive cooking (A FULL CATERING FOR 17 GUESTS FOR CHRISTMAS LUNCH) and drinking (we have lost count of all the boxes of chardonnay, cheap and expensive ‘champagne’ that have had board and lodging in the second fridge) and gift-opening (I was spoilt rotten this Christmas – handbags, Thierry Mugler, coffee flasks, orchids, aprons and lovely kitchen and smelly things.) So, in my small little mind – absolutely no time for blogging!

I am hoping to settle into my regular writing routine in 2013 (I really miss it). I have also made a vow that I shall not let sooo much alcohol pass my lips; hardly half the sugar shall coat my gullet and I have taken a moratorium out on baking in this house – there shall be none (not even Banoffie Pie) until I have lost at least 10 kg’s.

It may sound familiar – because it is. But really – my clothes are too tight; I can hardly breathe… And I refuse to buy another freaking kaftan!

Happy New Year, y’all … it can only be better than 2012.

 

I am the champion … right till the end!!!


3008 hits.

Thank God. Have recently consumed my Zolpidom with my Chardonnay, and am ready to retire for the evening.

S, stop making the kids’ school lunches and draw my bath. I command you! (I think he was hit no. 3001, after I forced him to log on and hit me, one more time. Yes, I am really that shallow, goal-orientated and materialistic.)

For a later post: I have a bone to pick with WordPress. They are running ads on my blog. (I spied this via S’s hit on my blog … the buggers!!) Apparently, according to an admin post by ‘Matt’ , the friendly face of WordPress, because I am part of some Ad programme? Oh, and I can opt out of this for 0.008c per hit?!?!

Listen, I don’t care what WordPress is advertising on my blog, as long as they give me the heads up and they reward me handsomely!! (Reward = Franschoek.)

Tomorrow, or the next day, when I am slightly more sober, I shall be taking this up with the authorities….

On the bright side … at least I don’t have intestinal worms.


I must apologise. Here I thought S was a cheapskate, but I was mistaken. The Chardonnay cost 35 Ront. I am spoilt rotten. And I recognise the name of the cellar! (Yes, I am now pouring my own glass as we speak.)

Just took my evening meds with my 3rd glass of plonk. Aah, it is like the good old days all over again. I would like to interject here by saying that one of the main reasons I gave up my 2 (bottles)-a-day habit was financial – so that we could afford to send J to The Boy’s School in Port Elizabeth. So this little lapse in my ‘ros-be-a-good-girl’ habit is rather extra-ordinary. I promise that it will not happen again, until the next rejection. It is also for this reason (as well as maintaining my sanity, proving my self-worth and having something to discuss over the mac ‘n cheese in the evenings) that I am on the prowl for a profession.

But this whole Blue Monday saga really has left me with a yearning for the Cape Winelands and MY OWN CAKE SHOP. I admit it – I want to wear a red ribbon in my hair, with red lippy and red bows on my arse and shoes and be known around the land as the ‘Cupcake Aunty.’ People shall flock to my place of business, rosfromscratch, and queue to taste my wares … and ooh … and aah … about my brilliance in the baking department.

No. Really.

I also want to get paid for writing. I am willing to take a writing course if the professionals out there think that there is hope. And I want to get a free holiday to somewhere in the Western Cape – where the wine is quaffable and the food is borderline cuisine. I am prepared to name-drop and blog-plop (rebecca2000 – another word for your Beccapedia) in lieu of a freebie.

And since I am close to 800 views, I shall have to mention Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s. Yes – I like to keep my audience happy.

Interesting fact: Did you know that I once, not so long ago, puked out the car window, all the way down Cape Road, in PE, right past the Nando’s and Cassie’s – after a particularly intense job interview? I kid you not. That is a blog for another day, when I am once again, below the legal limit.

The fat lady has not been liquidated yet – she is off to bed … soon.

 

So, I didn’t get the F#$%ing job … again.


No. Really. This is not a copy and paste affair. I am dead, dead serious … and for those South Africans, ‘skoon befok and moedeloos.’

Apparently, the story goes that there was someone who was prepared to do it for R2 000 less than me. Now let me tell you that it was not as if I was asking for anything to brag about. Oh, no. In fact, I would have kept my head down, gone about my job and quietly paid for the bread and milk every month. And maybe my daughter’s aftercare of 300 Ront p.m.

I could really use some choice, rude and refreshing verbal ejaculation at this point in time. But I shall restrain myself and behave like the lady (apparently doomed to a life of leisure) that I am. And bake. And bake. And bake. I want to eat my f@#king cake, too, though.

It is increasingly hard to remain upbeat and moderately satisfied with my lot in life. This job-hunt thing has become my achilles heel and a bit of a challenge. Which I am not enjoying.

It sort of makes you you feel really shit about yourself.

It brings out the evil-eyed green monster in me and I loathe those people that go off to work with a skip and a smile every morning.

It makes me doubt my self-worth.

It makes me dread having to phone Mumsie to tell her the news.

It makes me feel fat … and ugly … and dimwitted.

On the plus side … it has given me a good reason to drink. I am now enjoying the first 125ml of my 19 Ront bottle of Chardonnay, in about 3 months. I do not care what cellar it originates from, because it has a 14% alcohol content.

I shall most probably be summonsed to an appointment in the Oval office later this evening, where I will fax my stomach contents to all the people that do not really, really love me.

 

Cupcakes and Chardonnay


Image

“….An early morning stroll

is good for people on the whole.

It makes your appetite improve.

It also helps your bowels to move.” Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes – Goldilocks and the 3 bears.

But I digress …

Last night we were invited to a good ol’ SA bring ‘n braai in celebration of our friend, C’s birthday. Nothing too big or extravagent, although I did notice that her Biggie Best jug was out on the table, and we were treated to chip AND dip! Everything was lovely, the conversation was intelligent and mature (from my side, to start with) and we only crept out of there after midnight. The chops were nicely sizzled, the slald had zest, if one goes according to the number of times a cherry tomato jumped off A’s plate and the choc sauce was yet again good enough to lick off the side of the jug. But eager to prove that I was finally able to handle my drink, I had to insist that a bottle of Chardonnay was packed into the pick ‘n pay packet, along with the cream soda. It all started off innocently enough … small wine glass, with plenty of ice – and me discussing the current trend of yarn-bombing with the GM of SA M@#$#R. (Yes, we actually do have people of that calibre residing in our town!) By glass two, ice was not in the mix, I was still trying to thread the boerie down my throat and my mental health had become part of the conversation? In the meantime, pudding was adored by all, C’s Choc Sauce was worth sipping out a beer mug with a straw, and I must say that Black Forest cupcakes were not too bad, although falling apart as a result of all the Kirch I had drizzled so liberally on them. OK – back to the chardonnay (or troll’s toilet water, for that matter – as if I could tell the difference). With Adele setting fire to the rain in the backround and the other adults politely having tea, I gunned for the finish and set about syping the last 1/3 of the bottle. At thish sshtage, I knew I wash just the life of thish gathering. And out came the ‘puking-down-Cape-Rd shtory (A whole other drama), how I hated my shrink, the in’s and out’s of medical lighting and how unfocussed I wash. To C’s credit, she shat by my shide and cheered me on, and shoaked it all up (along with all the people who stay in a 1km radius of their house). By the time the clock struck 12, I was hoarse and if the dog had not farted, I would have gone on for another good hour. Adele had given up (and so had the husband). And home we went. Happy Birthday, C! And remember that the apron is for the kitchen and not the bedroom.