Pure Luck

Okay, so all this health got a bit much for me so I decided to fall off the wagon for some excitement.
And boy was it ever.
It all started very innocently.
I went out for a coffee with my old friends the (mad) oral hygienists.
For they understand me.
What I didn’t fully understand about them is that they really are still quite mad.
And what nobody told me was that this coffee would turn into a full-fledged all-nighter, complete with dancing, repeatedly falling over and flirting shamelessly with pubescent boys...and sometimes even their girlfriends.
But to top it all off, I had a great time. My friend, we’ll call her Eldelle-da...That’s it Eldelda...um, Wynvrou. Eldelda Wynvrou got so slaughtered that she turned into one of the Dawn of the Dead extras. You know, the type that stares aimlessly into the night, mouth hanging open (maybe even a bit of drool sliding onto her bottom lip), hands outstretched, making that “AAAAAHHHHHHHH!” sound whilst advancing on a person.
She scared me a little, but it’s okay because I scared everyone else. Now, because I had no idea that I was going out that night, I was dressed in a regretful polo neck. It used to be black but now it’s grack (grey-black). I also don’t actually know where it came from but it either belonged to my ex boyfriend or someone who came over to my house and left without their shirt. This might or might not describe a wide range of people. I guess we’ll never know who this hideous polo neck belonged to. They probably left it here on purpose.
Because, believe it or not, I can’t stop wearing it, it’s just so darn comfortable!
The impressive part is that even while wearing this grack polo neck, dirty sneakers and a drab old jean, boys in their (alleged) early twenties still sauntered over to me on the dance floor and did that whole “well hello there, little lady” thing.
I was wildly excited about this and immediately went into research mode, asking them their names, ages and professions. Then every now and again my husband would drift over to take my drinks orders and they’d want to know who this scruffy-looking individual is. My husband, I’d say. Then a funny thing would happen. Guys three times the size of Sean would back away from me very quickly, stammering apologies and opening their hands in defensive gestures. Sean would gaze at them with beady eyes, shrug and stroll back to his pool table and new best friends. This entertained me.
To be fair, I never approached anyone, only interrogated the ones that approached me. Or Eldelda, who seemed to radiate feminine charm with her staring, vacant eyes and uncanny impersonation of autism.
I danced around her, singing threats at the adolescents who dared advance on her. This was good because by now I also know that she needs steadying in this state (she thinks she’s dancing but she’s really cart wheeling her arms while tripping over other people’s drinks).
Anyway, somewhere during the night I decided that I wouldn’t mind having a couple on special occasions. And the last time any of my friends lost their minds like this was so long ago that this definitely qualified as one.
I went over to the bar and ordered my first alcoholic drink for the night: Savannah (even though it’s not dry enough). I did this because I had to act quickly before I changed my mind about drinking and therefore didn’t have time to wonder about which drink will actually taste AND feel good, simultaneously. What I also didn’t know is that there was a special promotion going on with Savannah, presumably to get people to drink it.
Along with my icy drink, the barman handed me a yellow card, folded in half with the words “Do you feel lucky?” on it.
Obviously I didn’t, so I tossed it into my bag for want of a better place and went about my business. You ever seen that movie Pure Luck with Martin Short? Sometimes I remind myself of that dude.
If there is a loose stone, I will fall over it.
If there is something to be gained, I won’t.
If for some reason someone chucked a grenade into a crowd, I will inevitably catch it (even though I can’t catch a ball if you rolled it to me).

By the second drink I felt a bit devil-may-care, possibly from downing it, and asked the suddenly very cute bar tender what this yellow card-thingy is, asked while twirling a strand of my hair around my finger.
(I like playing the dumb blonde when I go out; it’s amazing what people will tell you if they think you’re stupid.)
The bar dude obviously liked a more intellectual type and must have decided not to dignify my question with an answer for he took the card, ripped it open, disappeared into a back room and reappeared with a (ghastly) yellow T-shirt.
He handed it to me and turned to the next (also hair-twistingly stupid) customer, with a bored expression.
I started seeing a pattern. I buy Savannah, get yellow card, give card to bartender and receive gift.
I liked the unfolding of these events because winning stuff has never been a strong point of mine. As a result whenever I won anything, e. g. a free apple or a certificate with my name on it or even just a pat on the back, it had a powerful effect on me.
This was no different...except I was under the influence, so the feeling of satisfaction that washed over me at that point was extraordinary and drug-like.
I took the previous card that I had tossed so carelessly into my bag earlier, back to the bar guy and he handed me... a duffle bag!
I’ve never owned a duffle bag!
My brain positively swam in serotonin, I went into an ecstasy trance (without taking any), telling everyone, including the unsmiling bouncer, that I am the luckiest girl in the world and have they lost weight because they are lookin’ good!
I went to the dance floor to work off some of this happy energy and a Michael Jackson song started playing! I was super-excited! I danced and jiggled, and wiggled and piggled and eventually expressed my affection for Michael J to the guy dancing a few feet away. He looked scared and went away. I guessed that it must be my age (dude, 27 is OLD!)
I was parched from all the boogying (MJ’s my BOY!), so I went back for a third and final Savannah...and won A TWO GIG MEMORY STICK! It was packaged beautifully in a little box that reminded me of jewellery.
This was better than jewellery, this was better than sex! Or cheesecake! Or all of the above.
Finally my luck has turned. Unfortunate no longer, I sprinted through the club, grabbing people by their collars, exclaiming my good fortune in a “The end is nigh” voice.
Almost hushed with wonder, I presented my unexpected treats to an equally impressed husband and a random guy that I think I went to high school with (urm...Marius? Mauritz?).
His girlfriend was HOT, he NEVER had girls like that in school.

Some of the other amazing things that happened on my night out was that I’ve never seen so many teenage girls in such tiny dresses, I got the DJ to play MJ again (he also looked afraid) and I almost managed to convince my husband to take a couple of young boys home with us.
What a party pooper.
I suspect that if I were a guy I would have eventually consumed a knuckle sandwich with some extra All Gold...but I’m not, so weeeeee!
For this one night, the stars aligned in my favour. The club was my oyster! People listened to me! With a slight dazed look, sometimes, but still.
Even the bartender was suddenly friendly.
I felt like I was on a lucky streak in a big shot casino where people would want to rub my hands to get some of it.
In hindsight, I probably should have skipped over to one.
That way I might have had thousands of rands the next day instead of a hangover and a lingering feeling of embarrassment.
Luckily I didn’t take anyone’s phone number so I couldn’t call and apologise for being a giant idiot.

Flashback Alert! I remember one night in the not-distant-enough past, when we went to watch some bands at Cafe Arc where I hung around the muso’s all night expressing my appreciation.
I might have said something along the lines of:
“I too am a mushician and I’ve sheen oh sho many terrible bandsh but YOU...were amazhing...oopsh I think I threw up on myshelf a little bit.”
And I thought the shine in their eyes was mutual respect from one muso to another.
My husband, (boyfriend and partner-in-crime at the time) later told me he overheard one of the band members asking the other one what he thinks about the babe in the orange heels...me.
I was delighted of course...respect is for wussies.
He called me a babe!
Plus he noticed my fabulous orange heels!
I might have felt slighted the next day but I think everyone did. The party was full-swing, wing-ding material and they always leave one feeling a bit like a dick, don't they?

Of course, I was wrong about my luck turning.
But for a while, I went into a fugue of feverish optimism, scouring the net for a well-paid, high-satisfaction job where you need no experience or a qualification and in fact the only requirement is that you must be me, Elmien, and no one else. I sent my CV to the whole earth.
And sure enough, me being the old charmer I am, one recruiter phoned me up to organise an interview.
During the interview he seemed confused...and nervous...what is it with me?
Am I really that strange? Or is it just my beauty that threw him?
I mean I’ve been on pills for MONTHS, surely I’m normal by now?!
I know the psychiatrist never actually SAID that the tablets will make me like everyone else but I sure hoped.
The main thing the recruiter, Russel-my-man, seemed confused about was the fact that I’m a “retired” oral hygienist masquerading as a creative writer.
He asked me whether I’ve written anything good lately and naturally I denied being of any value as a writer, as a matter of fact I’m downright shit at it.
Why do writers do this? I’ve read countless autobiographical pieces by Stephen King where he accused himself of being awful and “slumming it”.
Luckily Russel-my-man wasn’t interviewing me for a writing position as he works mainly with healthcare professionals going through identity crises, much like me.
He advised me not to breathe a word of this “writing fantasy” of mine in any future interviews and I gave him my solemn promise that I wouldn’t.
Heck, I’m just happy not falling over when I’m on my way to shake the hand of my prospective employer.
I managed not to trip as I left the coffee shop, feeling his eyes follow me out, probably shaking his head in exasperation.
I’m thinking of booking myself in somewhere nice...Denmar Psychiatric Hospital comes to mind. I’ve heard only moderately nightmarish things about it. Plus maybe these tablets only work under supervision.
Like builders.

Right, in the meantime I’ve received exactly zero phone calls from R-m-m and went a little bit crazy again.
People like me are easily disappointed to find out that nobody gives a shit. Of course our families, friends and if you’re lucky enough to have them, co-workers care but they aren’t the ones who count, for some reason.
We want the man on the street to come up to us and assure us of our value to society at large. We want strangers calling us up, literally begging us to come and work for them in their amazing, made-only-from-glass office buildings. People must pant with admiration at our talents!
This never happens. Not even in dreams. I ALWAYS trip on my way out of coffee shops in my dreams, presumably because my subconscious mind is an asshole.
Now there’s something that the tablets HAVE been doing.
Sleeping is almost but not quite entirely unlike an acid trip.
Now, I’ve always had hectic dreams, the kind that would put an alarmed expression on Joseph’s (the dream analyst with the colourful coat from the Bible) face. Or have I got my Bible stories mixed up again?
I’d probably be burned at the stake or chucked into a nearby stream to see if I float.
Once I dreamt that my cat puked a (live) tarantula that then proceded to chase me up and down a strange hut of some sort.
These days, I dream of other worlds, places and things that don’t (yet) exist. I am also never myself in these dreams.
I am a tomb-raiding, Bond-like, Indiana Jones-esque female figure who kicks ass and chews bubblegum at regular intervals. These dreams are almost inevitably riddled with daring sexual encounters and fearless flirting with death.
And I’m loving it.
Going to bed at ten and getting up at ten the next day has never been so awesome.

Now that you mention it, I think it’s time for my afternoon nap.

I’m Not Shallow, I’m Just Honest

Okay, so it’s been almost eighteen days now, without cigarettes and booze. And to my astonishment I feel fabulous!
Of course this might be a good time to tell you that while I was cleaning the house two days ago, I found my scale. It has been quietly sitting there gathering dust, waiting for the right time to take revenge on its neglectful mistress.

So I weighed myself and to my dismay it seems I need to give up eating as well.
I immediately got so excited that I had to celebrate with a cheese burger and small chips.
But for last night’s dinner I had a cup of fat free, sugar free yoghurt, a granny smith apple, an orange and four carrots.
Then I went to bed in the hopes that I’ll fall asleep before the hunger pains start.

I didn’t.

I ended up dozing fitfully, dreaming about guzzling gallons of wine, smoking cartons of cigarettes and eating pasta, bread, pork crackling, chocolate mousse cake and Flannagan’s like a mad thing.
I find this very disturbing because it means that food has now joined my long list of vices.
Yes, everyone, I now officially have an eating disorder.
I would have joined Gluttons Anonymous but if I’m not the thinnest person there, I might be forced to eat myself into an early grave.

But on a lighter note, I have finally bullied my long-suffering husband into buying me a hideously expensive, massive diamond-wielding wedding ring (I’ve found that foaming rabidly at the mouth while making demands has a profound effect).
Now I could die happy...after losing at least 5kg’s, that is.

You see, back in 2006 after years of cheerful friendship, he confessed “true lurve” to me. On this fateful day he generously threatened life-long infatuation, passion and eventual marriage (with a healthy side-order of children).
Obviously this terrified me and I back-pedalled wildly, blabbering about commitment being an evil catholic scheme and woman being from Venus and men being from the seventh circle of Hell meant that we were never meant to meet at all; love is nothing but a mutual misunderstanding and don’t get me started on children...etcetera, etcetera.
This seemed to only fascinate him more so in the end I told him that I would consider it if he waited at least two years before proposing and in that event he must wave a giant, sparkling rock in my face if he has any hope of an affirmative answer. Also I’d like many dinners in nice restaurants and if his car ever broke down or he suddenly lost his job, all bets are off. I warned him that I might grow tired of his antics at any point anyway and dump him unceremoniously and without warning or a logical reason of any kind.
Hey, I never claimed to be nice... or sane for that matter.

He obviously thought I was joking about the ring because that’s not what happened. And when cornered he denies ever having that conversation.
How convenient.
But in the end I won, naturally.

One of my friends gave me a disgusted look when I told him this story and said the worst word in the Afrikaans language: “Sies!”
Needless to say he’s a man because no woman would ever say that word in the presence of an innocent diamond.

I still maintain that all women who claim to “Not be a fan of diamonds” are fibbers. I like replying to that by saying: “That does not compute”. Or to quote Futurama: “That does not fempute”
Yes men, women are mostly material girls. Shallow beasts with eyes like crows, immediately attracted to all things shiny and expensive.
Anyway, I never did buy into the healing power of crystals but when it comes to diamonds I’m now a firm believer.

This ring cheers me up every time I reach, tremblingly for my sadly absent pack of Camels, every glass of sugar-free ginger ale I have to endure, every carrot I crunch between my teeth like Bugs Bunny, fantasising about body-slamming a Pepperoni Pizza.

Also, it instantly transformed my husband into the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even when he has bits of green stuff stuck in his teeth. For the first two weeks, at least, I stalked through the house, hungrily calling to my husband in a husky voice, whilst wiping the perspiration from my brow with my French maid’s apron.
A bruised and spongy Sean would have slipped out the back door by now and I’d have to turn begrudgingly to my beloved mint-choc-chip ice cream to keep me warm.
My new and improved non-smoker spidey-sense has unfortunately made candy one of man’s greatest achievements.

Now, just because I’m a shallow, fortune-hunting diamond hugger, doesn’t mean I’m a retail-therapy fashionista.
I’ve been collecting my husband’s bronze, copper and silver change, which is secreted about the house (some people have no respect for money) and using it to buy things, granted, but I only yank this money from him to buy granny smith apples, carrots and zero-kilojoule, zero-taste yoghurt.
Also for petrol so I can get to the shops.
Plus I don’t have a job so I can’t afford anything above R4 (the amount in my bank account).
And I only eat that junk so I can be true emaciated trophy wife quality.

My point is, the other day as I was counting out R190’s worth of 5 cents on a beady-eyed Pick ‘n Pay cashier’s counter, I noticed how she noticed my amazing (fabulous, most glorious, how-I-love-thee) ring.
This pleased me to no end.

You see, the ring thing is just as much about other women as it is about diamonds.
The way women interact is a strange phenomenon. Men, for instance are born without the ability to even detect these ongoing invisible conversations.

Question: If you are a man, have you ever heard your girlfriend/wife/sister/mother mutter something like: “I don’t like that woman...not one bit” under their breaths after bidding said woman the warmest, friendliest goodbye at a get together? This is usually mistaken for jealousy, hormones and female schizophrenia, when in actuality it’s a classic example of the secret language of women.
Men don’t do that. They either hit each other (when not friendly) or drink together (when indeed friendly).
Another example is how, coming from another woman, the phrase: “You look so good” (said with a sympathetic facial expression and an encouraging touch to the arm) is an unspeakable insult.
Apart from shoes, clothes and weight-gain, these conversations are mostly about men, which is why it’s so frustrating when trying to explain to your smug, all-knowing boyfriend/brother/husband that some slut is trying to sink her teeth into him.
“No, she’s just lonely/drunk/crazy, ha-ha, you’re being paranoid” and then sometimes the infuriating: “She’s waaaay out of my league, anyway, ha-ha”.

And this is exactly where the ring makes its most powerful appearance: the power of warding off and causing insane, golfer’s-green jealousy in other bitches. The symbolic version of a sign around his neck saying: “Whipped.”
Of course, sometimes this backfires because it can cause chicks to think that your husband is enormously wealthy, oblivious of the fact that he had to sell part of his liver and one of his retinas’s to be able to afford said ring.

Either way, who needs alcohol, cigarettes or food when you can have jewellery, right?

I Drink, Therefore I Smoke

Why, pray tell, do some people get to stay sane when they drink?

My mother and I had had a rather heated conversation about alcohol a while ago, her point being that not everyone who drinks are going to turn into raving boozers and my point being that they are.

Now, normally I am a very philosophical, grey area-loving debater but in this case I tend to get a little subjective.
Of course I’m probably speaking out of my arse, as my mother seems to believe.
This idea might have been enforced by the fact that I was drinking quite heavily whilst having this argument.
The reason for this extremist opinion about alcohol and the drinking thereof is simply because I can’t wrap my brain around people who’ll drink half a glass of wine, once a month.
Because what. In the heck. Is the point?
Unless of course you combine it with some potent hallucinogenic, I don’t see the function.

And don’t give me that I-like-the-taste-with-some-steak crap, because you don’t.

Okay, so here’s how I usually do it (I’m sure you’re all very interested).
I modestly pour half a glass of wine to sip on while I’m preparing a scrumptious cooking channel-inspired meal for my dear husband.

I’ve seen people doing this on television and thought it looked rather elegant.
I’ve always felt that drinks can serve as stylish accessories, in some cases.

For instance, in my brooding gothic days, I drank only gin and tonic at Zeplins because it would glow an eerie blue under the blacklight.
It went beautifully with my PVC corset and blue-black hair.
Sometimes losers who claimed to be “wiccan priests” or “psychic vampires” (sexy) would come up to me, sipping at red wine as if it were blood recently tapped from a virgin girl at a séance. Alarmingly, these people tended to be fans of Elizabeth Bathory, the champion psycho bitch from hell, who allegedly bathed in her victims’ blood.
Man, sometimes you can’t help but blame the parents.

But I digress, once dinner is done I’ll dish it up and realise that I’ll need some more wine to compliment the cuisine.
Some experts believe that wine goes well with food.
Plus a table just doesn’t look nearly as sophisticated without wine on it.

Then once dinner is finished, I think of chocolate.
But being in the first year of marriage I am terrified of ballooning into a giant, custom-made tent-wearing Donna Claire overnight, so refined sugar is out.
Therefore, to dull the pain of dietary self-control, I indulge in a sip of extra wine to go with my after-dinner cigarette(s).
By the end of the night I weave jovially through the house, barging into the bathroom where my startled husband is taking a crap, to declare my love anew to him.
This is usually met with a scathing rebuke, which flings me into righteous, towering indignation.
I’d then pick my cat up by his tail and drag him to bed to help me sullenly lick my wounds.

And the next day it starts all over again.

Of course the culprit doesn’t have to be dinner.
It can be lunch, snacks, game shows, celebrations, rewards, self-pity or whenever someone pops in for coffee.
“Nonsense, coffee’s bad for you! Here, down this pint of Tassies, that’ll get your heart pumping!”
I’ve grown accustomed to suppressing the urge to feel guilty about inevitably sending my guests home, swerving dangerously across the road, as I wave them off.
So...back to iced tea, then?

And another thing: smoking!
I am so sick of being abused as a smoker that now I have decided to join the winning (judgemental, smug sons-of-bastards) team: non-smokers.
These bogus new laws have turned all my favourite restaurants into elite clubhouses where I am most unwelcome because of my tragic addiction to cigarettes.
I find myself hiding in corners at shopping malls, fanning my cigarette like a kid on the school pavilion. I’d drag on it like some home-sick jail-bird about to be executed; all the while shooting furtive glances over my shoulder to see if any security guards have caught wind of my criminal activities. Because if they had they’ll charge into my face like drill-sergeants and give me stern reprimands, spittle flying at my tear-stained, half-frozen face.
Maitre D’s at restaurants don’t even really talk to us smokers anymore; they just point to the Siberia-esque corner in the parking lot or lead us to gray rooms where we have to read Braille menus because we can’t see through the smoke.
All this occurs under the upturned noses of the wretched non-smokers, perched comfortably on cushioned, velvet chairs in beautifully decorated halls, complete with violinists and candles.
It sucks.
I can’t stand it.
Unfortunately this means that Sean and I will have to sit at separate tables on our date nights, since he still stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that smoking is a very expensive, slow and annoyingly ineffective method of suicide.

My father-in-law quit about a year ago and is doing quite well.
He chews feverishly on Nicorette gum whenever I see him, though. I think he chews it between bites at mealtimes, to be honest.
He gave me one to try out the other day and it almost struck me down dead.
My entire upper body spontaneously combusted, my brain skipped beats and my one eye closed half-way and refused to open again until I spat it out.
I wheezed and coughed and spluttered and cracked jokes to hide my discomfort but in the end failed miserably and clawed, panting, at the hateful rubber in my mouth.
“So, do you feel like a cigarette now?” my father in-law smilingly asked me.
I had to admit I didn’t.
I didn’t feel like doing anything except maybe STOP, DROP AND ROLL!

Plus I have rather enough latent addictions to sense that swopping my cigarettes for Satan-Chappies might fit in all too neatly with my self-destructive streak.

My shrink says it’s all chemical...that I was born this way and I can’t help it.
She also said that I'm probably bipolar and tend to make massively impulsive desicions at the drop of a hat.

Gosh, I wish I had a cigarette.

When Good Oral Hygienists Go Bad

“We have arrived!” we murmured to ourselves, when we graduated Oral Hygiene, after two long years at university.

I should have smelled a rat, the first time I was called into the office to hear that wearing a bit of glitter around the eyes is considered unprofessional “around here”.

Most of us wanted to do what we studied, which entails consulting our own patients, teaching them about teeth and life and how the two interact, but it seemed like someone lied to us when we first started asking questions about this course.

“It’s the ideal profession for a lady”, they said.

“You can book your patients at convenient times”, they said.

Ja right.

This is how it works: orthodontists study for eons. First they study dentistry, then they work for a few years, then they go back and specialise in orthodontics.

As they finish, they murmur to themselves: “We have arrived!”
And in this case, it’s true.

They then set forth to conquer the world of money, I mean skew teeth.

Working on the patients themselves doesn’t make much sense since they’ll only be able to treat about fifteen a day, if they’re fast.
So, they came up with an ingenious plan of action: hire twelve oral hygienists (all female) to do the patients in their stead.

That way they can book 200 patients a day, glancing briefly into each one’s mouth, shouting orders to the bewildered girl, hovering next to them.

Great tip for orthodontists:
Tell the hygienists that they’re totally unemployable, when they come in for interviews, that way they’ll accept the pittance you’d call their monthly salary, once you’ve so generously hired them.
Continue insulting them throughout their employ, so they don’t wander off into the world of other, better professions.
Be strict on certain rules, e.g. “It is prohibited to sob helplessly while working on patients.”
“Crying will be confined strictly to the oral hygiene bathroom (separate from normal people bathrooms) and when emerging, eyes must look nice.”
“No ugly, smelly or rebellious oral hygienists will be tolerated.”

This kind of attitude spawned a new species at my workplace of the time:
The Mad Oral Hygienists of Moreleta Park.

These women almost invariably had some kind of substance problem, low self-esteem and would teeter on the edge of suicide if they weren’t drunk...which they were...all the time.

Interestingly enough, there was always a Dros across the road, no matter where I worked.
Some of us, working for Dr X, we’ll call him, found this to be wonderfully convenient and made a point of spilling into the pub at every spare moment, abusing the waiters, falling over old couples at corner-tables and systematically getting tremendously inebriated.
We’d then proceed to gossip wildly about all the girls that didn’t join us at that particular injunction.
Those other girls were off somewhere, drinking Earl Gray tea, calling us “drunken whores”, no doubt.

The hygienists at Dr X’s practise, where I worked for three years, split into two clearly-defined groups: “Die A-Span” (mommies with kiddies) and “Die Kring van die Spotters” (lesbians, smokers, druggies and drunks).
Naturally I fell into the latter (I was 23 years old, okay...don’t you judge me).

We had so much fun, almost taking ourselves out, all the time.
We laughed in the face of...well, other people quite frankly.

But, unfortunately when we weren’t out getting into trouble, we had to work our butts off for our elderly, increasingly demented boss in order to pay for our nasty habits...and the bills.
This work basically entailed wrestling little kids into dental chairs, forcing lip-retractors into their mouths and then mumbling threats at them, throughout the procedure to keep them from biting.

You’d think these (rabid) children would be the biggest obstacle in this field.
But you’d be wrong about that.

Ladies and gentleman, please welcome onto the stage...
“The Mad Mothers of Moreleta Park”.

While working for Dr X, we travelled to different cities every day to fork in more patients (money) so our senile employer can treat his family to gourmet holidays in Vegas every two weeks.
And every practise had its very own, special flavour of crazy mothers.
In Sandton, for instance, some came in looking like Barbie, laden down with 18-carate gold jewellery, dragged in by freckled little boys who would cause the most respectable of healthcare workers to gaze longingly at their boss’s cognac (mandatory in snob offices).

And if these “sweet” little things didn’t participate (they didn’t) their mothers would try and bribe them with ice-cream, toys and skiing-holidays in Switzerland.
They’d croon phrases like: “Is the nasty lady hurting you, schweetie?” and “Aw, now honey, stop gnawing on her hands or mommy won’t buy you that R1000 Transformer toy you wanted...”

In the beginning I was hard-pressed to be patient with the patients (the children) but as I got older and more experienced, I had more trouble being patient with their parents, who sometimes came in as a couple, clutching at each other as if their offspring was about to be executed.

But then sometimes, you’d be lucky enough to actually have an adult as a patient.
This, I felt, was like the psychological version of being on The Rack.
These adult patients cried more than all the kids I’ve ever treated, combined.
Screaming, kicking, biting little children are one thing...
Sobbing, hissing and threatening prosecution, adult patients take the cake.

And if they didn’t do those things, they talked.
They start seeing you as a strange kind of sadistic therapist. They’ll tell you about dresses they made when they were tweens, to sell to matriculants (for booze money, I suspect). They’ll elaborate on (all) their pregnancies (I lost a tooth with every child). They’ll jabber on about how fattening everything in South Africa is (can’t they manufacture mustard without adding sugar?!)
On and on and on, until finally you stuff their mouths with cotton rolls in a desperate attempt to stop the noise.

The thing I’ve gotten best at as an oral hygienist, however, was dodging things.
Bodily fluids become a part of life in this industry and hygienists will often find themselves in the unlucky position of being drooled over, peed on, bled at, and frequently having lunch-chunks blown their way (kids don’t hold back and boy can they aim well).

All of this sandwiched by the minibus-ride to and from the various destinations of work.
The twelve of us fought compulsively about everything we could think of.
Perhaps this was because half of us were hung-over and the other half pregnant.

The bus’s air conditioning was a favourite to bicker about. It seemed like all the cold air migrated to the back of the bus, causing those girls to freeze their asses off, while the front ones mopped the perspiration off their brows with leftover gauze patches.

Everyday someone would cry.

Everyday someone would physically attack someone else.

And everyday someone would stop the bus to hurl next to the road.

And to top everything off, our bus driver, Dick, scared the living shit out of us on a daily basis.
He drove like he had bought his licence on EBay.
One fateful day, he stopped the bus on a busy street, to take a nice long leak next to it, in full sight.
This didn’t go down too well with any of us.
At the time I was too horrified to consider the fact that he might have been taking a dig at us. We were, after all, complete bitches to the poor guy.

Our next driver was called Origin, which supplied us with endless hours of witty remarks.
Whenever something smelled funny on the bus, we’d loudly debate what “the origin” of the smell might be.
In hindsight, I’m surprised he didn’t kill us all.

Of course he tried, at some point after I had resigned, by wrapping the bus neatly around a tree.
As Murphy would have it, the girl who was engaged to be married in two weeks’ time was the only one who got hurt, and as a result had to spend her wedding on crutches.
The others just had hilarious carpet-burns on their foreheads from diving into the seats in front of them.

I guess my point to this whole piece is:
Don't allow anyone you care for to study oral hygiene.
Street Sweeiping would be a safer and more lucrative profession.

The Insect Revolution

Okay, so apart from the fact that I seem to have psychiatric problems, I also have a few other annoyances.
For instance: my house seems to dirty itself frequently and without warning.

Dust bunnies stream in from all four corners of the earth, calling up their local friends for a rendezvous at my place, so they can drink and multiply.

A while ago I decided to hire a cleaning lady who works at my sister's twice a week.
She seemed so totally awesome that I didn't even do an interview; I immediately hired her and organised her entry-card into my extremely secure, security complex.

If you don't have a card you can't gain entrance without first supplying the following: ID, passport, both your own and your parents' birth-certificates, a blood sample, a urine sample, a stool sample and some bone-marrow DNA.
You then sell your soul temporarily to the gatekeepers, which they will return to you, in reasonable condition, once you leave the complex, with the exception that you don't mysteriously acquire a flat screen TV in the time you visited.

Anyway, it seems like this cleaning lady and I had a slight miscommunication because she actually graduated with a masters' degree in professional egg-eating and not so much in house-cleaning.

So, after I was sadly retrenched from my job I spent way too much time sitting at home, whimpering into bags of O-Grady's.

And then the strangest thing happened.

The pristine veil of ignorance lifted from my eyes and I started noticing brown markings everywhere.
Like hieroglyphics only annoying and not interesting at all.
I'd swipe lazily at a smudge on the wall, stupidly causing a clean spot.
Then I'd have to either wash or repaint the entire thing for it to be an even colour.

I then noticed that the furniture, the ceiling, the light-fixtures, the carpets, the kitchen (yargh!), the garden and the pets were all horribly grimy.
I optimistically started scrubbing away with boiling hot, Handy Andy water and goldilocks.
It hurt to do this to the cats and once I've lost about a draught of blood, I gave up on them.

After a week of losing my mind more and more in this cleaning business (unpaid labour, I'll have you know) my house started looking marginally better.
But I've discovered loads of ants and miscellaneous other creatures living here, rent-free.

I methodically proceeded whiping them out with the help of "Diebug, Die, Die!" products.
Which was good, because my husband later confessed to me that he was getting a little bit tired of boiled-ant flavoured coffee.

I started growing a dark little moustache and cut my hair into an Austrian pot-cut.
I coloured it black...
The ants started referring to me as Hitler...
The Hitler of Ants...

I then went on to conquer the Black Widows in my garage.
My husband is terrified of spiders and in this case I had sympathy, since black widows aren't known to ask questions before they sink their teeth into a person.
I bug-bombed the hell out of them...

And was wracked with guilt when I went back into the garage and found the corpses of countless daddy-longlegs strewn across the garage-floor in mid-crawl.
An expression of disgust permanently frozen in their many, (so many) eyes.
The stuff must have smelt nasty because they all had that scrunched-up, I-detect-a-fart look on their faces.
I think that was their faces...

The mommy black widow was hanging upside down in her web, her alien-like eggs looking forlorn and orphaned in the corner of the ceiling.
I better still kill the little brats, before they hatch and snack on my family.

Word around town was that my new nickname was "The Antibug", since the "Hitler of Ants" no longer applied.

I wouldn't be surprised to see a little plaque erected in the corner of the garage, reading: "Here died the Widow of Falcon Crest 1. May she finally be at peace."

Other spiders would pay a small entrance fee to come and see the museum where The Great Fogger Massacre of 2010 occurred. If the people from Baygon are to be believed, these spiders too shall then die, because of the fine residue the Fogger is supposed to leave.

OH, the shame!

Anywho, I then went on to purchase something called "DYNEST" which is rumoured to cling to unsuspecting insects, which they then transport back to their nests, slaughtering every woman and child in the place.
I also sprayed something named "Wundergarten" on my half-dead Clivias, cutting down the pretty, but irritatingly hungry, caterpillars that recently moved in.

By this time I had lost my conscience completely and one of the more well-read caterpillars diagnosed me "A Sociopath".
Kind of like Dexter...but with bugs.

I started periodically checking my cats' and husband's pulses when they slept to be sure I haven't killed them as well.
I developed slight asthma from inhaling too many poisons of various natures.
The combination must have formed rudimentary LSD at some point because I distinctly remember seeing things in the garden that weren't supposed to be there.
Healthy Clivias, for instance.

The amazing egg-eating lady from Azkamamelodi had fled by now, never to return.
I suspect she saw something scary in my eyes.
"That wena, she had the eyes of the Tokolosh", she might later relay impressively to her friends.

I now sleep with a can of "Doom: The Odourless Killer" under my pillow, for fear of the insect-revolution.

And when they come...I'll be ready.

I'd Rather Be Shopping

17/05/2010


Apart from the fact that I feel a little breaky-downy every now and again, like at the drop-of-a-hat kind of now-and-again, I also have these weird druggie stages where I feel like I’m floating...in a sewer.

This of course might wholly be attributed to the sleeping tablets my new psychiatrist prescribed for me along with some new, non-placebo antidepressants.

Oh, a psychiatrist you say?

She’s from Poland...but she’s been living here for like 29 years, I think she said, but she still managed to retain her very strong gypsy-esque accent.

Which I thought was fantastic.

I’ve always wanted to go to a fortune-teller.
(I predict that you will go even crazier over time)

I’ve never wanted to go to a psychiatrist but if she poses as a clairvoyant I might be interested.
So I went.

She lives in a wooden cottage at the foot of the Drakensberg, she doesn’t use any electricity and has lost most of her teeth.

That was a lie. She has all her teeth, but they’re badly stained from drinking so much root-of-something tea.

Okay, it’s all lies.

She lives far, far away (Centurion) in a cosy little apartment (security complex) and has all her teeth (pearly-white).

I felt like smoking fists-full of cigarettes on the way there (and did) and by the time I was in the waiting room I wanted to sob helplessly over said cigarettes while I’m at it.
Don’t ask me why this always happens whenever someone’s going to be asking questions, it just does and I don’t seem to have much control over it...or anything for that matter...I hate my life.

So I went to see the nice gypsy-shrink who offered me some coffee (no thanks, I’m scared of suddenly developing caffeine-induced schizophrenia and I really don’t need that right now).
And then she sat me down in a very hot little room with skew paintings on the walls, yargh! (Must not jump up and correct painting, must not...)

I was starting to get those awful red blotches that happen at random points in time, yet another thing I have no control over.

Who needs polygraph-tests when your own body finds outing you to be unutterable funny?

She started asking some standard questions (I could see she’s done this before) but at some point one of my answers must have alerted her to the fact that I am undeniably weird, because she started looking intently at me with every question, narrowing her eyes, sometimes even tilting her head a little and saying “REALly?” and “oh my”.

Now, luckily this was no new experience for me since people have been doing it my whole life, usually ending the conversation with a dead-pan: “You’re weird”.

My best friend (who was, and still is, decidedly unorthodox) and I had this in common and started assuring each other that it’s definitely a compliment.
Why be normal, right?

The she-shrink, fitfully wrote everything I said down, even the fact that I have occasional sinusitis and hay fever (maybe that’s why I’m anxious, I can’t breathe!) and at some point even whipped out a calculator! Maybe she was tallying all the money she was going to rake in from publishing my case-study globally.

At some point I had to confess to being totally insane and dramatically burst into staggering tears, whereas she looked suitably alarmed and didn’t waste any time prescribing lots of strong yet delicious drugs. She also handed me a box of tissues which I promptly aligned with the edge of her desk.

“I...I can see this is really affecting you illmien, but don’t worry, I’ll help you”, she said, sounding a little like an uncertain Russian dominatrix. The fact that she called me illmien made perfect sense to me.

I was worried about getting morbidly obese on the stuff as I’ve done lots of research about everything on the planet for fear of it happening to me, and this was the common consensus of that particular medication. It can also allegedly (horrors) keep you from being able to...um...climax, which might make me want to kill myself a little more, rather than less.

Especially if my husband runs off with another, less morbidly obese, wildly orgasmic woman.

The Pole assured me that she’s been on the same tablet for years and “has a perfectly functional sex life” and hasn’t noticed any weight gain.

“Yes, Doctor, but do you eat starch?”

“Very little”

“How about pizza?”

“No”

“Cheeseburgers?”

“I’m afraid not”

Aw fudge.
I mean fuck (it’s less fattening).

Of course this was before I knew that apart from turning relatively attractive, depressed women into huge, sexually frustrated but stable women, these tablets were also designed to make you feel pregnant.
Which isn’t all that much more comfortable.

But as I told my sister, over my morning cup of wine, at least I’m too tired to go crazy some more.

The good doctor also instructed me to have my thyroid (ugh, I have a tyroid gland!) tested just to be sure it isn’t glandular. Maybe that can also conveniently explain my soon-to-be expanding midriff.

Which could mean that whenever I order the fried calamari instead of the grilled calamari and the slit-eyed, castrati waiter asks me if I’m sure about that, I can bark “It’s glandular, you son-of-a-scum-pig!” at him. And then maybe lob a piece of complimentary (buttered) bread at his (weak) chin.

So, knowing that I am craziest of all when it comes to narrow, silvery things penetrating my throbbing arm to draw out gallons of the stuff that my heart pumps around so it can ferry stuff to other stuff...I’m getting nauseous again.
Deep breaths...

So, knowing all that, I went directly to a pharmacy (with a nurse and everything) and secured an appointment to have some blood dr....you know what I mean.

I did it as early in the morning as possible, so I’m not fully awake yet, hoping I’ll wake up on the way home and would have forgotten all about the abomination I had just unwittingly endured.

Now, please understand, it’s not about pain. I have no problems with pain, as long as it’s not my appendix bursting, a heart-attack or a sneaky, latent brain-tumour that causes involuntary facial spasms (touch wood). Oh and absolutely NO emotional pain will be tolerated.
But a pinprick is nothing.
It’s...it’s the idea.

Now, for some reason while I’m thinking I’ll be fine because I haven’t woken up yet, the nurse always thinks I’ll be fine as long as she fires off mindless question after mindless question, e.g.
“SO, what do you do for a living?” which in itself has an extremely complicated answer at the moment.
Trying to explain to her that I want to be a writer but have been stuffing around as an oral hygienist for seven years and understand that she must hate doctors because they make all the money, blah blah blah I get all confused and start babbling about how much I love nurses because they rock at drawing blah...... and this is the point at which they shoot a shocked expression at me and start steering me towards a bed whilst pushing my head between my knees and I’m thinking was it something I said? just before I embarrassingly pass out.

It usually doesn’t take me much longer than say ten minutes to recover but when I walk out the nurse will glance sceptically at my pierced nose and the tattoo peeking out on my back and shake her head in a perplexed fashion.

I haven’t gotten the results back but I bet my thyroid gland is fine...
Must not think about glands!