Let your troll bridge down

Ever had the line “a mate of mine is coming over later” sprung on you?

Well today I did. We had a visitor, after a lovely girl’s day complete with mince and veggie dolmades’, hummus, guacamole and corn chips, ALL MADE from scratch by the lovely Leb immigrant TP and the couch dweller Cait.

Troll's are so cliquey.

TP is a rather friendly lass that is always keen to invite new people into our little Diggs circle so when her old bud she hasn’t seen for yonks asks to come over she didn’t hesitate. I on the other hand, being a troll guarding the bridge to my homey flat with protective zest, was rather sceptical.

I conceded, and her one mate (singular) brought 6 of his mates (plural)  to “chill” and smoke hubbly. As I walked in, I hear that this group of friendly strangers has already heard how odd I can be before I had even met them. I arrive to find out that these people chuckling on my couch know that my day began by brushing my teeth with soap because my ridiculous lover left for P.E with his toothpaste. Apparently the need for fresh minty breath isn’t as great a one as I had initially thought. My life is rather ridiculous when I think about it or rather when strangers point it out.

At first I was a touch apprehensive but it was actually a lovely few hours of getting to know a whole bunch of new people. We laughed, we smoked, we swopped stories, we laughed some more and then: a guitar was found.

This is obviously a cue for a bit of an HD home concert.

What was special about this private showing was that my Robyn joined in on backing vocals and one of the ex-strangers also supplemented the already pretty entertaining concert with some beat boxing. It was excellent to watch, it was even more excellent to watch through the eye of my Blackberry, and even most excellent to have my blackberry’s eye caught by two other Black Berries also recording this random group ‘jam-session’.

Moral of the day : Some times its okay to let down your Troll bridge.

White woman driver

There are always those few things that apparently should not be spoken about during polite conversation. This obviously includes politics and religion, but if you are a girl then it might also include weight gain, ex boyfriends and boyfriends’ ex-girlfriends.

At yet another Sunday night feeding, I discovered another thing that should be tackled rather lightly: Driving abilities. Or rather lack thereof.

My Robyn is a renowned bad driver but somehow manages to make it home alive in her daily run around’s so my mates and I tend not to take the piss too much. But this was the one dinner party that all our inside jokes about the deathly driver would come out.

Story 1: She hit a curb today and didn’t notice.

Story 2: She ran a red light and looked at the law abiding drivers like they were the arseholes.

Story 3: She did a U turn across two lanes of traffic without looking. Yes she crashed.

Story 4: At a braai in Stellenbosch, she fell asleep after having too much wine (also known as passing out). When she wakes up announces to her 5 passengers how pleased she is that she isn’t drunk anymore. The best part of this is that on our 30K journey back, while the rain trickled down on the windscreen, and the car fogged up (because she didn’t know how to turn the defogger on) while the hearts silently pumped with anxiety in the backseat, and sweaty hands wiped the quivering thighs of its owner, my dear unknowing, unsuspecting Robyn asks why everyone is so quiet. The response received from everyone via BBM was “because we are all praying”.

Apparently this is only funny to everyone else, because apparently my Robyn had absolutely no idea that she was what we academically and thoughtfully classified as unaware yet happily spatially damaged driver.

There’s always a stereotype attached to driving. My Robyn fills the dangerous woman driver generalisation but all I can say is it could be worse. She could have the generalised driving ability of a black woman driver. This is one rather non-PC generalisation I shamelessly (and humorously) agree with, especially since all of my most hilarious driving moments have involved a black woman driver in a giant BMW or Bentley.

Hey it could be the same woman for all I know but in every case, there has been nothing but hooters, angry people that are late for something and at least one graceful bumper bash.

So when this one woman, decided that she was lost mid intersection, she just stopped.

Yes STOPPED.

 She then proceeded to turn her car off.

Yes she turned the mammoth car OFF in an intersection.

The best part was the no hazard lights decision or the use of anything minutely helpful to the fellow drivers sharing the road. Then she got on her phone and had a conversation for directions while blatantly ignoring the hooting and shouting before starting her car again and moving on.

If I look at it this non-PC-yet-extremely-correct situation, then I can happily be grateful for My Robyn and her non-driving skills which seem almost minor by comparison.

Those 'creatives'

I studied theatre and performance for a whole tertiary year of my life and I absolutely loved it. I am now an avid play goer. It helps that my Robyn studies theatre and performance at UCT so I always know when all these cheap plays are and what they’re about. My Robyn tells me about the third years’ movement exhibition on Friday night.

This is how my brain works: R20 + potential entertainment= Good idea!

 IM IN!

I invite my long time high school friend Kelso to come along. She’s one of those very logical, yet creatively comedic know-it-all characters that enjoy the small things in life. She’s ‘that friend’ that occasionally blurts out some really great and unforgettable bloopers like “I think I’d be an excellent mathamatologist”. I heard her say this 6 years ago, and it’s definitely one of her best.

As everyone knows with theatre: it’s in terpretive and not everyone enjoys it. These performances were no different. The first performance was ridiculous. I didn’t mind the gas masks or the tormented and staggered breathing, or even the surplus of mirrors. It was just pointless and it felt like it went on for a few hours. Hours of strange twitches and swinging arms, instead of the 7 minutes it really was.

After that performance I was curious to find out what the logical Kelso’s feelings on the performance was. She merely looked at me and smacked me with her classic humorous charm: “Dude, we’re in that episode of Friends where Joey performs in the worst 3 hour play ever and everyone has to pretend they enjoyed it. Well I won’t do it! I refuse to be a part of that episode!” Ah Kelso, so clear, so concise, so obviously a film buff.

Thankfully we were happily entertained by the next 6 performances. They had everything a semi grown up could want: exotic chorus’s to supplement the movement of a man acting as a bull, jumping castles, elevation equipment, shadow fights, love stories and best of all nudity.

We managed to discuss the pieces like real grown-up’s. Kelso even managed to drop her filmic jargon and replace it with some proper thespian phrases and interpretive words like “juxtapose”and “narrative”. I’m so proud!

"The pattern"

The house of the triple D’s is much like a family: large, intimidating and noisy. Even the extra’s are like distant relatives with all their weird quirks and knowledgeable advice on everything. We definitely take turns on being the parents. Often the parent of the day organises a family day trip. I’ve identified a pattern: we begin the outing by doing something we deem ‘productive’ then we get distracted and will most likely end up somewhere with a bottle of wine to discuss our day’s accomplishments.

Last Saturday was not our normal hangover ritual of mopping up left over stomach curdling booze with a delicious and cheap cafe Sophia breakfast. Instead the day began at the hope street market. Apparently we were there to see the clothes and jewellery stalls (the “productive” part). The double date gang arrived with couch dweller Cait and met up with a few great friends and ultimately ended up trying the samples of all the food at least twice before settling on something to eat (the “distraction” part).

This was a different kind of trip because we seemed to have messed with the pattern by leaving out the breakfast. Somehow this meant that we wouldn’t find wine, nor would it find us, instead we would find another “productive” activity to ultimately continue with setting the day off its destined wine course.

We went to the company gardens where in true grown up style we played on the art work, fed carnivorous ducks and eventually resolved to go eat again somewhere else.

No “distraction” part still.

Even worse: no wine.

I would not allow this strange change in the pattern to defeat me! Some good was going to come out of this day! Some wine SHALL be drunk (by me) at some stage!

We were heading that night to a party I would never ever forget. It wasn’t unforgettable for the right reasons. Rather it was a night that could easily have been a nightmare—that one horror dream situation where you buck up the courage to fully commit to dressing up to a theme and NO ONE else does...

My Robyn, the couch dweller and myself all dressed up to the nines in the playboy bunny themed attire only to arrive at the party as the minority. Thankfully we were in such a scarce group that people thought we worked there and demanded photo’s. We should have charged, then the party would have been worth it.

Instead of following the simple pattern for pre-destined happiness, we went off the course and in my eyes nothing was achieved!

Next time, I will bring my own wine, that way I WIN! (And oh boy, do I like winning)

Sunday feedings

To you this is just a picture of young people being civilized around a table where cutlery and placemats are being used instead of fingers and laps. But to me this the most competitive day of the week: Sunday night feeding.

The triple D’s house hold is not just a three man digs. It’s at least a five man digs but every Sunday our house is more of an 8 person situation. You see, on a Sunday we have a dinner where a few of our friends come through and we feed them. Ooh my spidey senses tingle even when I write it.

I’ve been called what is termed a ‘feeder’. It’s not my fault though; it’s in my genes from both sides! Porra-Jew genes are particularly lethal. After a friendly ‘please stop feeding us’ intervention the extra flatmates or house dwellers have placed me on standby and instead have decided to take turns to be the feeders every Sunday.

So they cook, and the original three flatmates invite. It’s an excellent compromise!

So Sunday’s are a lively experience that have ultimately become one of the most enticing days of the week. Last week the resident ladies man began and topped the weeks before him by a) buying his groceries from Woolies (a student treat) and b) cooking from scratch (no just add meat). So the 6 of us there that night took it upon ourselves to be the master chef judges. We picked our characters and judged his meal on presentation, texture and flavour. So we ate a “delicious, although slightly overcooked, chicken stir-fry with crunchy fresh veggies. Its coconut twang was explosive especially added with the balsamic toasted sunflower seeds that were sprinkled on top for presentation and added texture.”

The best part of this meal is that my Robyn is a vegetarian and in true gentlemanly style the ladies man tried to keep the poultry and veg separate; he even cooked them in different pans. Brilliantly though when it came time to judge the meal he got so excited and cocky, as men do, that he mixed all of it together anyway. So My Robyn spent her night picking chicken bits out her dish.

A solid 6 but a +1 for effort. Cue the polite golf clap please

This past Sunday my flatmate that lives on my couch decided to top Dixie’s dish by feeding an extra two people (+1 point) and she made desert (+1).

Hmmm, I can’t wait for this Sunday.