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.