Having kids. Part 2, the pregnancy.

So now what? You've knocked her up, well done bro.

You'll want to share the exciting news, right? Now, regardless of your relationship with your mother up until this point in your life, the first person your fingers will dial is your old lady, don't ask me why, it just seems to happen. So, you're on the phone to your mom, shes on the phone to her mom and if by some bizarre cosmic reaction, the now expectant grannies will be transformed into living, breathing how-to-eat-sleep-work out the sex-sleep pregnancy encyclopedias. Sure, moms intentions are good, but to maintain sanity, extract the info that you need only. That first phone call is guaranteed to end with this pearler: "Don't tell anyone about this until the 3 month mark, darling!" Huh? What? Why? Well its a reality, miscarriages are common, but you're so flipping excited that you're going to tell your friends, work colleagues, postman, car guard, but as long as you tell each person "Hey, its early days, so don't tell anyone, ok?" everything will be fine.

So, the countdown has begun, nine months until an alien arrives.

Over this period of time, everything changes.

At first, very subtle changes, books on pregnancy appear, where they come from and why anyone would require 15 varieties of "what to expect when you're expecting" is beyond me. Eating habits change. When your princess actually manages to hold down a meal, her appetite which once rivalled that of a hummingbird, will now have the magnitude of that weird Asian hotdog eating champion. Most women rely on a sneaky diet of cigarettes, chewing gum, coffee and lettuce, take 3 of those away and well.....its not pretty. Now you as the unsuspecting schmuck will also suffer around the waistline, there's probably some pseudo-psycho name for this like husband-comfort-pregnancy-eating, be warned! Of course the bonus to the weight gain and the females hormone change is the increased boob size, those puppies are gonna get massive (awesome) this would be great if you're allowed to touch them/her, but seeing as she  now considers her body as a sacred-baby-carrying-temple, don't even think about it (sucks). Shnookie-pie's normally carefree attitude (hey, I'm just generalizing) regarding the little things around the house will also start to change (understatement) its called the nesting instinct or some shit like that, its hectic.

so, your chicks become a fat, puking, anal-retentive, untouchable bitch. awesome hey? don't forget to tell her that shes radiant and glowing (everyone she bumps into (excuse the pun) will).

Ok, so you're freaking out, that's cool, salvation awaits in the form of my 2 personal favourites, the gynae visit and the motherfucker of them all : THE ANTE-NATAL CLASS!

I have a dream, one day I'll bump into the sadist that conjured up the concept of anxious, neurotic couples, who are complete strangers, thrown into evening (fuck me!) classes where the most gruesome, intricate details of child birth will discussed, analyzed and even (and this is where I fainted in front of everyone) viewed, on a 40 inch plasma, in high definition.

I like to think that its all marshmallows and candy-floss inside the human body, I pass out during blood tests, I do not need to have someone explain things that are called: "braxton-hicks, breaching, bloody-show (my personal favourite).

The gynae-visit, wow, what a mind-fuck. sitting in the waiting room, talking in hushed tones. your chick waddles off to the loo to piss in a cup and you're left flipping through pregnancy magazines hoping theres a hot chick modelling fold down bras. Then, into the room you go, I would start off sitting on a chair, less distance to fall when the good doctor starts going into detail  about my wife's vagina (I would like someone to please explain to me how they let men become gynaecologists? I can picture some med kids sitting around their dorm room, "I want to look at pussy all day so I'm gonna become a gynae).

So, as the calender counts down, the books have been read, the room is prepared, hospital bag is packed. Take this advice: Go to the movies, a lot. Will your lives change when baby comes? You have no fucking idea!

Next: Part 3, the big day.

Cricket

The reality of how insanely crap this game is, hit me like a missed pull-shot to the head, when trying to explain it to an American friend of mine.

"So, let me get this straight" he drawled in his nasally accent "You guys actually have a game that's more boring than baseball?" Now wait for it......he was of course referring to a limited overs game.

In this day and age of fast cars, fast food, fast Internet and faster women, how, I ask you, with tears in my eyes, can you justify five days to play one game? Now, before you purists out there (read: old farts) get your conkers in a twist, let me add this, if you're going to spend five days in a field patting your team mates' asses, would it be too much to ask to have a result at the end? A draw?! A fucking draw?!!!!!!! You have got to be kidding me? "Oh, but it was a titanic battle between batsman and bowler" "This game is on a knife edge, it can swing either way" "The captain has some careful decisions to make at this point". I'm sorry, did I miss something between drinks break, tea and lunch? The only thing that swings both ways are some of the cricketers (sorry KP, you peroxide your hair, you definitely like a bit of polony sandwich).

So, we can all agree that the five day game (yawn) is a total waste of time, limited overs, surely a better option? Um, no. My opinion on this is largely based on our countries' incredible depth of talent, we possess the greatest all round cricketer in our team (Jacques, you beauty, love the new hair) but when this genius can bat through a rib injury, score a 100 and we still lose, that's it, the proteas, the management, the game in general can  get caught in the proverbial silly mid-on. If you require more reasoning, match-fixing, detailed conversations about a fucking crack in the pitch and the whopper of them all: Duckworth-Lewis!

Here we have the most complicated, retarded system ever when the heavens open (do cricket players melt when it rains?) Does anyone actually know how the DL system works? I'll bet the answers no, some grumpy prick of an umpire (do these guys ever smile?) just sticks his finger up his ass and goes " I think SA, Australia etc, need to get 5000 runs in 10 overs due to the light drizzle we experienced for 15 minutes, gee, thanks for that.

I will admit, I have enjoyed the occasional game at Newlands, drinking beer, cute WASP chicks everywhere......wait a second, that's why I go to bars! Take away the beer and chicks? Poncy guys rubbing a ball against their crotches.

It's a month to the cricket world cup, where the saffa's actually have a chance of winning, but they will choke as usual and the nations' hopes will be dashed. The Springboks have won TWO world cups, at this point I'll be happy if we could win a series against Bangladesh.

Thank you Herschelle Gibbs for injecting some excitement, I vote they make you coach, get the team, drunk, high and laid and who knows.....we might start winning?

Joburgers

It's been a while since my last post, December holidays are like that in Cape Town, the days seem to flow into each other in a haze of beach, beer and braais. Despite many years of conditioning, this couple of weeks can make even the most hardened capetonian feel like they have dipped their finger into the proverbial acid pot and have entered a strange and weird place not unlike Alice tumbling into wonderland. Between mid December and the first week of January, leaving your house to hit the beach, waterfront or even a milk and bread run, you are guaranteed an encounter with that strange and intriguing creature: the Vaalie (or joburger or maximus blingus).

So we live in a city that's as close to perfect as any in the world, so I'm kind of ok with giving up the beaches, malls, pubs and clubs for two weeks to this annual migration (infestation?) The weather is notoriously fickle this time of the year anyway, so when the the last Ferrari, Lamborghini, custom Harley has been put back on the train for good 'ol gauteng, we can settle into the real months of cape town summer and chuckle at each other as we find a parking within 20 nautical miles of our destination.

Why are vaalies so easy to spot? Let's exclude the cherry red sports car with the GP number plate "V-FAST", that's too easy. I"m talking about a single stand alone unit, male or female. Identifying a group is also easy, any number of 4 or more walking side by side each other blocking the entire pavement, entrance to the Ed Hardy shop or on the good couch at Caprice doesn't count, for true vaalie spotting points, look for the details. Its summer after all, so we all generally wear less clothes, its how these outfits are put together that truly boggles the mind (and wallet).

Capetonians (male): boardshorts, tshirt, slip slops. Joburg (male): boardshorts (Ed hardy), vest (silver star), trainers (with socks), power balance band and various other multi-coloured bangles that would make some of the guys on clifton 3rd blush), add a cap, sunglasses, watch and jewellery to the ensemble and you've got the average joburg males' beach look.

I'm sure my psychiatrist will tell me that I target the guys fashion sense more than the girls because I didn't get breast fed until i was 3 or some crap like that, the truth is, the joburg chicks are generally fucking hot, travel in groups (packs, sets) are so well manicured that they use Gucci tampons (true story) and are generally easier to talk to than the average ice-cold model-actress-waitress-don't even look my way cape town girl that I'll put up with whatever they wear. (except those fucking sandals! Are they boots? are they sandals? they're open in the front (sandals) but have leather up to your calf (boots!) All you need is Russell Crowe and a fucking spear and you're good to go!)

Cape Town, breathtaking views of Table mountain, Lions head, Clifton's sparkling water, beautiful people everywhere, lots to look at when you're driving, right? Sure, I understand, why rush? You're on holiday, cruise down the road, take it all in. Now, this might come as a surprise to you from up north, but there is actually a reason why there are two or more lanes in the road, if you want to drive slowly, KEEP FUCKING LEFT!!!!! Isn't Joburg like a big city? Surely you have multi-laned roads there? Next time I'm in Joburg (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha) I'll cruise around looking at all your touristy stuff (gated roads, security estates) doing 30 in the fast lane.

Thanks for coming to visit, thanks for spending all your cash at our restaurants, thanks for fighting with each other in our bars and clubs, a special thank you to the ladies for all that gym time, thank you guys for making the biggest, meanest capetonian look like a smurf, thanks for making me love my scooter, thanks  for asking me at the top of lions head where you can buy a water, thanks for showing me that money cant buy style, until next year, see you my china.

The Braai

Its seems as if the braai fires have been lit for summer. Barely a day will pass without an invite to one of our countries finest traditions, but with anything that we hold dear, there are rules, largely unwritten ones, until now....

1. If it does not involve glowing embers, its not a braai, its a BBQ, take your poncy, twist of a lever controlled flame and fuck off. We live in a country where you are allowed to make fires, take advantage, its what makes the food taste different to the aussies and the yanks anyway. (ever tried cleaning a gas BBQ? holy crap!)

2. To satisfy mens food requirements, we require equal carbohydrates (beer) and protein (meat) anything else is purely for decoration. Ladies, please beer (whoops, bare) this in mind when sending us off to the shops to get supplies for a braai. Expect a look of confusion when on our return, you ask us where the salad, veggies are, on second thought, what are you doing sending us to the shops anyway? If we are snackish before the first piece of lava temperature sausage is being eaten, we will entertain chips (carbohydrates) and biltong (protein).

3. Braais that 'start' at 8 mean eating at 10. This rule can be applied to any start time, this allows a solid 2 hours of beer drinking-bonding time that is vital to the success of the event.

4. The BRAAI-MASTER. Ok, tricky one this, the host of the braai is ALWAYS the braai master, however there are only a few exceptions:
a) If amongst the guests there is one of those rare individuals  whose meat tanning skills have become that of legend, he will be shown the due respect and allowed to wield the tongs. (these talented individuals are easily recognizable by there back seat braai remarks and their speed at picking up the tongs when the host has put them down for a millisecond to go to the toilet. They will have the entire meat layout rearranged by using geometry theorems, have calculated exact cooking times of boerewors, chicken, chops and steak so that all meat will be ready at exactly the same time)
b) If the number of guests require more than one braai to be active at once, an additional braai-master can be appointed by the host, but beware, it will be remembered as the hosts braai and rumours of rubbery steak and raw chicken will haunt you forever so choose wisely. (your best friend who has been known to burn coffee is not ideal)

5. One is never allowed to arrive at a braai with whole chicken pieces (skin on, boned) they will upset the braai master considerably. Chops, boerewors, pre marinated chicken kebabs or chicken fillets, steak, ribs are all all fool proof options. I believe there is a law against whole chicken pieces that are bought to a braai in a frozen state, punishable by a double shot of warm black sambucca.

6. Vegetarians. You arrive at a braai with your tie-dyed tshirt and toe rings, proudly whip out your veggie burgers or sausage or whatnot. Shamelessly approach the braai-master and ask him if its not too much trouble to cook these before the meat. ARE YOU FOR REAL??!! Yes its too much trouble to cook your msg flavoured cardboard before actual food, does the fact that I've braaied more cows than Shaka, king of the zulus owned,on that braai already not seem a bit contradictory to you? Why don't you just snack on the cardboard box that grey, tofu piece of shit came in, it'll probably taste better.

7.In my wife's perfect but totally unrealistic world, everyone eats together, at a big table, with cutlery. In reality, I've just finished braaiing every animal in 'Old McDonald' and drunk 7 beers, taste tested everything, fed all my friends the 15 varieties of boerewors I've discovered. If we didn't have guests (or my mom in law) over, id probably have killed that T-bone straight of the grill with my fingers and teeth. No I don't want any fucking cous-cous.

8. Braaiing is the ultimate in male decadence, it involves large amounts of eating, drinking, talking complete crap with your mates, it also is a totally legitimate excuse for neglecting every other duty imaginable. "Sorry baby, cant watch the kids, I'm braaiing" (present) "Clean up? but i braaiied. (past tense)  "I'm just chilling out sweetheart, got to braai later. (future)

So crack a cold one, light the blitz and get braaiing.

Having kids. Part 1, falling pregnant

So you've been married or living together for a couple of years (watch it guys, that means she's your common law wife and that bitch can take you for everything!) You're at that point in your relationship where you're probably ok taking a shit with the bathroom door open, no attempt is made to hide the tampon box (it just kind of hangs around like your mother-in-law, and the sex, well, its ALMOST routine.

One day your usually cool, chilled chick comes home with that look. What look? That look that a Jack Russell gets when you are holding a tennis ball. "Babe, you wont believe it, (best friend/ sister/ cousin/ teller at woolworths) is pregnant, she looks amazing, so glowy, with the cutest little bump, i actually knew something was up, women's intuition and all that, I really think its time we start trying.....blah, blah, blah. Now truth be told, men are incredibly simple creatures, so all we really heard were the last three words: blah, blah, blah, however.....what will get our attention.....is the trying part. "

You see guys, a women wants a baby and unfortunately for her (and therefore, fortunately for us) it means actually having to have sex, lots of it. So when we tell our friends that we are trying for a baby, it means we're shagging, loads, and us guys like to boast  about that kind of crap.

She's out there telling all her friends that you guys have agreed its baby time. No, we have agreed to multiple sessions of sex, often coinciding with a phase of the moon, low pressure system over the arctic (all the books she's secretly reading and all the info her friends are giving her means you and your penis are on call 24-7). There is one very important issue which you poor bastards will be totally oblivious to while performing the Scandinavian helicopter for the second time on single day (yes guys, sex twice a day is very possible) and that she is using you, its those millions of little swimmers she's after, I know its impossible to fathom at this point, that's why I'm here to warn you.

So everything seems quite brilliant, wife's off the pill, sex in the shower, in the cupboard, on the kitchen table, you're feeling like you have more purpose than just for your credit card.....then, one day....."HONEY! guess what?!" Well, no prizes for guessing what as you walk through the front door after work  and trip over the scattering of empty home pregnancy test kit boxes. "We're having a baby!" "Sweetheart, that's awesome!" as you kiss her and begin to unbutton her blouse..."Um, what are you doing ?"she asks puzzled.......uh oh.......

To be continued......

Real estate agents

Most people will face the daunting prospect of their largest investment, buying a house or apartment, only a few times in their lives. This will almost always involve the services of a real estate agent. If the prospect of committing yourself to a 20 year financial burden is not scary enough, enter the bottom-feeding, manipulating, double-crossing, swindling but still ever-so-cheery realtor.

Known to travel(hunt) in pairs, this particular breed of scavenger is usually identifiable by blue-rinse or shock blonde peroxided hair, excessive gold jewellery and the kind of nauseating perfume your grandmother wouldn't even wear.

Whilst house-hunting for their dream (read:budget allowed) starter home, expect mentioned piranha to crush all your dreams and aspirations by using the following tried and tested "tools" of the trade:

1. Showing you property way beyond your original pre-approved and discussed price. "I love it darling" your wife will say as you stand there wondering how this silly cow in her shapeless dress confused your R2 million budget with the rolling lawn, panoramic viewed palace you are standing in. "You'll just have to bite off more than you can chew and chew faster!" or some other scripted piece of wisdom the wicked witch of the west will drop on your already strained shoulders. Grabbing your wife's hand and dashing off to the east wing, bedroom 14, "This can be juniors room" she-devil chuckles, parting her shock red lipsticked lips to reveal the finest crowns money can buy, patting your pregnant wife's belly for full effect.

2. Failure to reveal the actual costs. "Huh? But i thought you said it was R2.5 million?" Cue pity laughter...."Yes deary, but we have to add commission, lawyers fees, transfer costs, beetle certificate, electrical certificate, a special levy due because its Thursday, a donation to the area's girl guides and transfer costs." "Two transfer costs?!" you exclaim as you grab onto the table where half the amazon rain forest was cut down to provide the sea of paperwork which lies in front of you. "Tut, tut, silly me, only one transfer cost, you see, its not so bad...." more grinning.

3. Telling you what you want to hear, never what you don't. "If you need more space, just go up a level." "Need more garaging, just knock down that wall over there" with a dismissive wave of her sparkly hand like she is Harry fucking Potter with a wand, "Need a pool? Just dig a hole over there, look, there's even a spade" cackle, cackle...  "What about that sign over there with that computer generated picture of the 15 storey apartment block, when is that happening?" you naively ask. "I know the developer" she says "He'll never get the plans approved"

4. Subject to sales. Want to sell your house and buy another? Double the fun! The less that you agree on, for your house, equates directly to how much higher the agent will push for on the new house you want to buy. An easy sale of your existing house and more commission for the agent on the new purchase. Cool hey? Double the fun? Doubly fucked is more like it.

So off you go, have fun on a Sunday afternoon, enjoy the experience and don't forget to initial every page.

new years parties

Aaaaah, the end of another year. 2010 has been particularly crap for almost everyone. With the worldwide recession turning even the simplest business transaction into an attempt to extract blood from a stone, everyone is now eagerly anticipating some much needed R & R and the prospect of the end of year bonus.

Social events abound, Christmas lunches, braais etc, and the topic of conversation usually turns to the inevitable: "What are you doing for new years?"

New years eve, champagne, fireworks, dancing into the night, and sharing a kiss with a significant other (or stranger) as we count down to midnight and forget the old and embrace the new.

No, no, no, no, absolutely not.

I'm always up for a party, but you can take your pre-arranged, pre-booked, over-priced, over-hyped, forced and fake affair and stick it in a pair of concrete shoes and send it to Davey Jones' locker. Good parties are almost always spur of the moment affairs, when you find yourself dressed in the clothes you went to the beach in, at 3am, in a house you may or may not know the owner of, surrounded by some good friends and some random (read: normally hot, scantily clad) guys and girls, there should be some kind of mind altering substance involved, normally coinciding with the vowels of the alphabet.

What kind of person books those new years specials at restaurants? You know the ones, we'll serve you exactly the same food we normally do, but we'll add a bottle of 5th avenue cold duck sparkling wine, lock you in our establishment with a bunch of strangers, play some shit music, tell you after dinner that its a cash bar and make you contend with our staff who are so incredibly resentful they're working on new years, they have probably pissed in the sangria.....all this for only R1000, tickets limited!

The "Party". Hey are you going to ...........for new years? Its gonna be the best new years party ever, I heard that ........ and ........are gonna be there and that ........are gonna be performing and that (house owner/party thrower) sold 1 of his 38 listed companies this year and the pool is gonna be filled with Dom perignon and they gonna have a ski slope, only not with snow....pffffft. Plastic, superficial assholes that make barbie and ken seem genuine, the highlight of this party is when I get removed by some pricks bodyguard for asking the jimmy choo wearing, fake-tit sporting chick if her dad minds if we dance. My DAD?!!! followed by a well manicured hand slap, I'm his third wife, you wanker!

A sure fire way to NOT stick to your new years resolutions (quite possibly the dumbest concept anyway) is to approach your give up smoking, lose weight, get in shape, drink less promise by waking up with a splitting hangover, reaching for your smokes whilst ordering take out pizza and settling into a hair of the dog beer, watching DVDs.

So if you're wondering who that asshole is putting on his wetsuit at 6am on January 1st, as you hide in your overpriced cab ride home, hating yourself and life, that's me, happy new year.....