Hip-hip hooray if yours is still good to go for another year or whatever time lies ahead. Some of us drank ours away this past festive season. Some smoked them out. And mine, oh well, let's just say it was jinxed.
I'll tell you why.
So, there I was telling my friends they could bring their men over since mine would be at home like that song by Chante Moore, Chante's Got a Man at Home. I had forgotten that mine is a little like sunshine just before the rain.
The women, having arrived hours earlier dragging their handfuls of gorgeous kids clutching brand-new Barbie dolls and trucks, kept me entertained with their tales of 2008 and continued with the famous question: Where is the man of the house?
Their men got there without much coaching on directions and I should have seen this as a bad omen.
Men live to get lost and when they just rock up without having called at least 10 times, you should know there will be something to cry about later.
It was New Year's Eve and they lit the fire without complaints, played music without driving me insane and before long the meat was giving off an inviting aroma.
Where was the man?
The kids, thinking they could actually manage to stay up long enough to enjoy the midnight celebrations, started lining up their fireworks. The fathers cheered them on as if they shouldn't have been doing the opposite.
I hate fireworks but I held on tight to my yearly belief that mine will most probably light her first "cricket" at the age of 40. Life does after all begin at the same age.
That's when I started calling, thinking I'd be 100 before he'd rock up. Before I knew it, I had called 14 times and was snatched out of it by a friend who had an announcement to make. She is getting married. Freaking hell.
People are getting married and I'm busy looking for a man who looks at prospective grooms with pity. The thought of it now!
Why do we put up with men who look at the aisle as an accident scene? I'll tell you why we do it. Because even the announcement friend had given the marriage thought a boot a long time ago. Then her man just rocked up with a rock worth all the trouble.
So I figured I'd keep calling until he'd get sick of it. Instead I got sick. So sick, in fact, I started using his Carvella shoes to start a new kind of fire.
You see the thing with guys is that they are too lax about relationships and they all blame it on their fathers.
"He was never there for me, he drank a lot, he was a player."
Stop it, stop it, stop it with the excuses. What does that have anything to do with me? It's not as if my father were there, but my brother doesn't pin any such traits on his relationships.
Like Forrest Gump, a thought then struck me. Since I had gone that far with the burning, I might as well go all the way.
So I went ahead and helped myself to his expensive jackets. I must admit it was rather a nice feeling, having an outlet for my rage.
My friends tried in vain to dissuade me from giving in to temporary insanity. In the end, I was not mad. I was even and had managed to reach a point of no return with the charade.
But the thing is, people should stop thinking they can embarrass others in the presence of family and friends and expect victims to bury the hatchet just like that.
He tells me some items were gifts from very "important" people.
"You should have given the clothes to your brother," he says, as if he's in a position to be making suggestions. And who said I wanted reminders?
Yes, just like any woman who has ever tried to stand up for herself against abuse, I have lost him.
"I didn't want to be with your family, but mine," he said.
I should have understood why my calls went unanswered because I'm a freaking mind reader. Well I didn't and he should be grateful I burnt crap that can be bought.
So last night as I examined carefully my rage and the things we do in the name of love, I realised that I'm not cut out for the "Yes sir the eggs are over easy and the toast is done lightly regardless of where you slept last night" culture.
I will most probably go down as the psycho girlfriend but I feel like the super ex-girlfriend now, albeit a lonely one.
But I wasn't going to roll with the punches forever. At least I'm not doing time for the infidelity crimes committed against me.
What have I learnt through all this?
Having a boyfriend sure is nice, until you realise his one foot is in and the other outside.
Relationship rogues just suck
Hip-hip hooray if yours is still good to go for another year or whatever time lies ahead. Some of us drank ours away this past festive season. Some smoked them out. And mine, oh well, let's just say it was jinxed.
I'll tell you why.
So, there I was telling my friends they could bring their men over since mine would be at home like that song by Chante Moore, Chante's Got a Man at Home. I had forgotten that mine is a little like sunshine just before the rain.
The women, having arrived hours earlier dragging their handfuls of gorgeous kids clutching brand-new Barbie dolls and trucks, kept me entertained with their tales of 2008 and continued with the famous question: Where is the man of the house?
Their men got there without much coaching on directions and I should have seen this as a bad omen.
Men live to get lost and when they just rock up without having called at least 10 times, you should know there will be something to cry about later.
It was New Year's Eve and they lit the fire without complaints, played music without driving me insane and before long the meat was giving off an inviting aroma.
Where was the man?
The kids, thinking they could actually manage to stay up long enough to enjoy the midnight celebrations, started lining up their fireworks. The fathers cheered them on as if they shouldn't have been doing the opposite.
I hate fireworks but I held on tight to my yearly belief that mine will most probably light her first "cricket" at the age of 40. Life does after all begin at the same age.
That's when I started calling, thinking I'd be 100 before he'd rock up. Before I knew it, I had called 14 times and was snatched out of it by a friend who had an announcement to make. She is getting married. Freaking hell.
People are getting married and I'm busy looking for a man who looks at prospective grooms with pity. The thought of it now!
Why do we put up with men who look at the aisle as an accident scene? I'll tell you why we do it. Because even the announcement friend had given the marriage thought a boot a long time ago. Then her man just rocked up with a rock worth all the trouble.
So I figured I'd keep calling until he'd get sick of it. Instead I got sick. So sick, in fact, I started using his Carvella shoes to start a new kind of fire.
You see the thing with guys is that they are too lax about relationships and they all blame it on their fathers.
"He was never there for me, he drank a lot, he was a player."
Stop it, stop it, stop it with the excuses. What does that have anything to do with me? It's not as if my father were there, but my brother doesn't pin any such traits on his relationships.
Like Forrest Gump, a thought then struck me. Since I had gone that far with the burning, I might as well go all the way.
So I went ahead and helped myself to his expensive jackets. I must admit it was rather a nice feeling, having an outlet for my rage.
My friends tried in vain to dissuade me from giving in to temporary insanity. In the end, I was not mad. I was even and had managed to reach a point of no return with the charade.
But the thing is, people should stop thinking they can embarrass others in the presence of family and friends and expect victims to bury the hatchet just like that.
He tells me some items were gifts from very "important" people.
"You should have given the clothes to your brother," he says, as if he's in a position to be making suggestions. And who said I wanted reminders?
Yes, just like any woman who has ever tried to stand up for herself against abuse, I have lost him.
"I didn't want to be with your family, but mine," he said.
I should have understood why my calls went unanswered because I'm a freaking mind reader. Well I didn't and he should be grateful I burnt crap that can be bought.
So last night as I examined carefully my rage and the things we do in the name of love, I realised that I'm not cut out for the "Yes sir the eggs are over easy and the toast is done lightly regardless of where you slept last night" culture.
I will most probably go down as the psycho girlfriend but I feel like the super ex-girlfriend now, albeit a lonely one.
But I wasn't going to roll with the punches forever. At least I'm not doing time for the infidelity crimes committed against me.
What have I learnt through all this?
Having a boyfriend sure is nice, until you realise his one foot is in and the other outside.