Sunday, May 9, 2010

Jou Ma Se Dag

Sorry this post is so late, I have been very busy doing nothing.
So, this was going to be a funny "yo' mama"-type post, but no. I actually think my mother deserves much credit. Not only did I turn out quite well, I am also not the easiest person ever. Arguably. My mother has two Leo daughters who are VERY Leo-esque, and she is a very sensitive, soft-spoken person. Basically, I get annoyed [ergo aggressive, as is my nature] because she gets emotional, which makes her get more emotional, me more aggressive- you get the idea. But I do love her, I do owe her very much [including good skin; as a child I was yanked out of the ocean every ten minutes for yet another layer of sunscreen, and to this day I wear sunscreen every day. Yes, even in winter. Yes, even in winter in Cape Town.] and she is very beautiful [duh.]
That said, I sometimes have my bratty 'no one loves me' moments, especially when it comes to her dogs. She has five, and I love four of them dearly. But then there is BB, which is short for Bella Beautiful. She is not very beautiful. I swear she gets uglier by the day! Every time I think it is impossible, this rat in Dachshund's clothing is more manky looking. She attacks everyone, barks at everything and generally adds nothing to anybody's life. On my first holiday back from university in Stellenbosch, I was actually quite sad to be leaving home to go back to varsity. This is a notable moment in the history of Lizeland, since I got homesick maybe once in my five years of boarding school. So, I'm sitting at the breakfast table.
Lize [avec sorry face]: 'It's pretty sad that I'm going back today. Won't be back in two months...'
Mum [not even looking at aforementioned daughter]: 'What's wrong with BB?!'
Lize: 'Yup, I know. It is tragic, my leaving and all.' [See? Nobody loves me!]
So, BB had to be rushed to the vet, and my stepdad took me to l'aeroport. Turns out when BB got to the vet, she was running around and feeling quite alright again. The bitch hates me, and will do anything to steal all of my well-deserved attention.
So, today I got to thinking about mother-children relationships. The woman spawned me 21 years ago, it makes sense that she would have some kind of connection to me that means that she does, in fact, know best. But a few days ago I texted her something along the lines of 'of all my boyfriends I've had, which one could you see me with long-term? Like, serious, and long long term.' At first she wanted to know why I asked, but I couldn't go into the detail of my countless failed relationships and the fact that the love of my life [grade 8 boyfriend who I was convinced would be with me forever] turns out to be gay, so I just said 'Because.' She's quite used to this answer from my teenage years so, no surprise, she accepted is. And she answered that the person she could most imagine me with is... The Cyclist. The first and last cyclist ever to be my boyfriend. Don't get me wrong, I dig the sport and all that but I will never date a cyclist again. Never ever. Because besides for the 04h30am wake-ups [on the weekend!] to sit in a place where nothing is open [ergo no coffee], and see him for a total of fifteen seconds as he races past, it is like dating a girl. Well, I imagine it is. I have actually never dated a girl. Cyclists are always on diets. And I really do not need to be told 'don't eat that, that's the bad part.' Dude, I know it is. I'm drowning my sorrows in a duvet of fat because my boyfriend's body is a bajillion times nicer than mine [gross exaggeration]. That said, you may also refer to The Jock as The Arse. Sweet Hitler's panties, the boy had a body worth drooling over. The Jock was a nice guy and all that, but ultimately we moved in very different circles, lived at very different levels of ambition [Lize: 1 000 000 ; Jock: 3] and had nothing to talk about. So, we broke up. And he took it really badly, blah blah blah, I felt for the guy but there is little of me [read: zero] that pines for him.
So, the question of whether mum really knows best is potentially unanswered. I can tell you that I will never take shoe advice from her, and that she hates my hair short [while everyone else loves it. Or maybe they are all lying to me.] Maybe sometimes I know best, because surely that connection might go both ways? That said, I owe her a lot. I owe for her good parenting, and where I felt it was not so good, I got material for a 21 year-old textbook on how not to raise kids. Joking! She wasn't that bad. In fact, she was great. And she still is.
So, thanks, Mum. And I love you.

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