Poephol lips.

Am enjoying a bowl of popcorn that the S just now made for me. Although there is a tad too much salt. Hence the gradual contraction of my lips into something that loosely resembles a ‘peophol’ or arsehole.

Damn, a Coke would go down well, now!

Today – I was extremely doff at my 8 to 5-er. Could not get a grasp on things – resulted in the chickie that I am replacing, becoming afraid for her reputation as a competent teacher, once she has left the company premises. Told her not to worry – I am prepared to accept all the credit for my dimwittedness.

Was dreaming about Franschoek, again, today. How I would slurp down gallons of wine, as I toured the local wine farms. How I would gorge myself on cheese and chocolate, amongst the vines, as I playfully swatted the mosquitos and ‘gif-miggies’. How I would dine in a world-class restaurant, or two. Perhaps – even ‘jacuzzi’!

Franschoek is the Bee’s-Knees!

Well, it finally happened. Franschoek is the most popular topic I have blogged on. So, how much longer do I have to beg for redemption?

Anyway, turns out my life after 8pm at night is not so boring, afterall.

Last night started with a bit of, “Remember when…” And before I knew it, S was dusting off the ABBA Greatest Hits, and ‘Fernando’ was echoing throught the kitchen and, in fact, all the way into the park across the road. This lead to me literally Dancing like a Queen all around the lounge furniture, while syping my wine. Out the corner of my eye, I was also watching Will Ferrell, in ‘Blades of Glory’ on mute. I then came to the conclusion that ABBA would have been the perfect source for this flick’s soundtrack, what with all the colour coordinated headbands and ‘retro Puma and Adidas warm-up suits.’

Seems that my R44.99 slippered-moonwalk, flaying arms and ‘Jazz Fingers’  was having an adverse effect on Mr rosfromscratch. I think I threatened to perform on Guitar Hero, as well. (Kidding aside, this mama rocks this game.) Of course, this lead to my wine glass being permanently topped up. I am afraid to say that I do not recall how I got to the ‘Lurrvvve Cave’, after I remembered to take my Zolpidem at 11.11pm.

But I do have vivid flashbacks of what happened there. And I think I was pretty much naked. And I am certain that I was NOT ‘Dancing with the Queen of New Orleans.’ But, I may have been bouncing on the Queen, in the dark. Thank God I am married to Mr – else one of us could have landed up in jail. Have been sitting tenderly, all day.

Remininscing about the good ol’ days has it’s benefits.

One side-effect …. I am going off to the Bon Jovi concert in Cape Town, in May next year. I kid you not. Tickets were booked today – and we even have a lift – thanks, Breyten.

Damn, I must have been good, last night!

Funny … I thought blogging would make me rich.

No. Really. I had delusions of grandeur. I thought that companies would be falling over their hampers of freebie products to sign up for advertising space on my extremely hilarious and ever popular blog. I was especially waiting, with wino breath, for an offer from a luxurious B&B in Franschoek (OK – at the very least, a 2 star motel on the N2). I have so been dying for a little vakay, a mini-break – if you will, in that area. I can think of nothing better than being surrounded by wine in all it’s processes: from infancy on the vines, through to it’s last, shimmering moments, breathing in a glass, alongside my crusty ciabatta, with a ripe brie and green figs on the side……. Mmmmm.

But I digress … back to blogging and being broke. They go hand-in-hand, it seems. Had a little pow-wow with Christine, the writer of a very funny blog in the US of A: Texana’s Kitchen . And I was delighted to find out that she actually earns money according to the hits on her site.

Then, my delight turned to horror, when she told me how much moola she was fortunate to earn … Any guesses?!?! Hmmmm. Well, it certainly would not be enough to put in the new kitchen that I have desired for the past few years. In fact, I would be lucky to buy enough milk to douse my Corn Flakes with tomorrow.  Yes. Think cents. Not Dollars, not Euro’s, not Pounds … and most definitely not Ronts!

Eeek! The frustration.

And, I might add, this Christine, works on her blog a helluva lot. We are talking 2.5-3 hours per day, just for networking – i.e. finding other blogs to like, and then hoping that they will like you back. Oh, and I would like to add that she actually has a real job, in real life, too. Plus, she is an avid cook and tests out recipes, etc., in her kitchen. There is substantial photo-taking. Then, she posts said recipes, as well as comments and ancedotes and all the other frilly stuff to fluff out the blog. The cherry on top, is that she is still funny.

Damn, I am exhausted from just jotting down the previous paragraph.

This also makes me ponder the whole reason for blogging? When does it go from being an enjoyable activity – a way to vent, meditate, praise, post and write for fun – to a crazed pressure-pit ? All of a sudden, there is (usually) self-induced anxiety and panic, which is intensified if you are slightly obsessive compulsive.

I must post, I must post more than once a day. I must hunt for new fans. I must visit and like hundreds of normally-boring people’s blogspots. Oh shit, what happens if no one likes me? What happens if I am not funny enough? What happens, if God forbid, I find an exotic flower growing in my unruly garden, and for no reason whatsoever,  I stroke it’s velvety purple petals and an allergic reaction causes my fingers swell up, and I can’t tap out a post tomorrow? The horror!

I also wonder about this whole fishing for ‘likes’ and ‘hits’, thing. Yes, you do get an ego-boost when you have a torrent of new followers. But, are these people actually reading what you are writing, or are they, too, just adding to their fan base? It is like a glorified blogosphere chain mail. I admit that I cannot get through all the new posts and comments notifications that come into my mail box on a daily basis. And I only follow a handful of blithering bloggers. Also, how do I admit to ‘Switters’ that I have no interest, whatsoever, in the fish he caught, but that I just want his hit?

All of this, and no pay.

Arabella is NOT the name of my pet pony.

Yup -that’s me. Not always baking, but definitely always BAKED.

In fact, Arabella is the name that appeared on the SECOND bottle of wine I had in only 4 days. Yes, some may say I am slithering (note to Paul: the words, slither and sliver, have very different meanings) down THAT very dangerous slope again. I would prefer to think that I am layering up my coat of armour; bracing myself for the next onslaught; driving myself to distraction.

But, damn, I am so very bulletproof. No headaches, nausea, loosening of morals or pole-dancing. At the very most, expect a tad more swearing, loosening of bowels (although, this could be partly due to an excessive intake of hummus) and flattened vowels. Eastern Cape-style, Baby! That’s how I role!

And, this social-phobe actually had people round last night for a braai. And it was all or nothing. So, my obsessive compulsive streak  manipulated my behavioural patterns to the extent that I did the whole she-bang. Cue salad x 2, hummus (another one of nature’s laxatives), pita’s, potato dish, tastefully origami-folded paper serviettes, choc brownie cake that would impress Gordon F#$%-ing Ramsay, coffee and my delightful personality.

It was fabulous, Darling.  Even had leftovers for lunch.

Strange, but true fact: There is now a show on TV called, ‘Dark days in Monkey City.’

No. Really.