Happy birthday to Pie, from Pie, and with more Pie than you could shake a pie at! A couple of days ago, For The Love Of Pie officially turned a whole YEAR, YEAR* old. In gloriously blasphemous style- in an effort to honour the spirit of this blog as fully as possible- I am eating cake right now to celebrate this auspicious occasion. This probably marks the most diligence I've ever put into anything that didn't have a bubblegum centre, (the writing of the blog, not the cake. The cake happens more often than you want to know.) and I simply swell with pride at the thought. Well, pride or the chicken and mushroom pie I just had for dinner; it's something of a toss-up. (Hey, at least you can say I stay on point like nobody's business. When I commit to a PieTheme, I commit hard.)
I was going to have a party this weekend upon which I would have forced Pie-phernalia like a boss, but as it turns out, I am instead going to be attending A ROLLER DERBY MATCH. I'm sorry, but if your Fucking-A glands didn't just explode in excitement, you didn't understand me correctly. Roller Derby. As in, Whip It, live and in person minus Juno. I feel the distinct urge to dress up for this, and I don't know that it's a fight I can win. I see fishnet stockings and blue eyeshadow in my very near future.
The reason why my weekend has had a fuel injection of awesome is because I've been hanging out with new people. Peeps, if you will. Pizzaps, even. I've briefly touched on their presence here before (and, as I do, touched on their presence elsewhere also), but the big thing to note here is that in order for me to touch anyone anywhere, I've been making weekly trips to Joburg of a weekend. My options here are pretty much plane, train or automobile, and I seem to have landed on a combination of all three that works pretty well. (We're counting the little aeroplane noise I just made with my mouth as the "plane" bit. Just go with it, I don't ask much of you really.) I have now twice- twice!- ridden the Gautrain by my onesie. Since I am deathly afraid of public transport for fear of getting on the wrong train and finding myself in the Ukraine without a phrase book, I find this to be monumental in importance. The first time, I happened to riding the train whilst cosplaying Karen from Will & Grace, which made things marginally more interesting. I was wearing a pencil skirt with a slit up the back that more or less served as a window to my arse more than anything else, Jackie-O sunglasses, massive 80's earrings and bright red lipstick. By absolute needs, I was also affecting the Karen Walk, since the slit-that-is-actually-a-partition really necessitated a kind of a wiggly-arsed mojo. All of this, plus the vintage fur stole I was wearing made me a whole mess of friends between Centurion and Rosebank.
I glommed onto a small group of people who were at least getting onto the same train as I was, even if they were getting off three stops earlier. I figured if I could at least get as far as the right train, I might well be able to panic my way off the damn thing before the doors closed on me, ripping me in two and carrying my mangled moiety all the way to Park station. For quite some time after boarding, I could not bring myself to sit down, lest I seem rude to someone somewhere. Once I did, I got chatting to some bloke who was heading for the airport. He was making some comments about being so tall that his impending flight to London would fold him nearly double, but I "pfft"ed, since Pie-Pappa had about six inches on him. I take especial pleasure in deflating people who are used to being able to impress you by dint of being the tallest person in the room. Since I have a dad who tops out at 6"10, you really have to go all Shaq on my arse to make any kind of dent.
The second ride around I was much more confident. I knew where to go and sat down like I bloody well meant it, and could even push my neutral level of panic down to such a point that I had time to notice the sign in the carriage that announced the next stop had too many capital letters. That's not an error quite on par with the omnipresence of Comic Sans (which I only just experienced again about two minutes ago when Choccywokkydoodah forced it upon me in their closing credits. CHEAP BASTARDS), but it certainly gets my Loraine-Stink-Eye. In fact, I was sitting in readiness, hoping some poor lost soul would ask me for help and I could be the confident, more experienced stranger who smiled a benevolent smile and showed them where to disembark with only like a slight patronising expression.
Now usually, I fucking haaaaaate sleeping out. Only my very bestest of friends have ever been on the receiving end of my pyjama'ed self, and even then it was probably only out of seriously begrudging and ever waning affection. One of the reasons for this, though by no means the only or primary one, is that when I sleep out I become cat-less. And for a 22-year-old cat lady, that is not happy place to be. My two babies (yes, I said babies and I goddamn-well said it in a coo-voice, DEAL WITH IT) sleep on me every night, and even allow me to pet them every so often. Tesla will sit dead still and momentarily even forget how much better than me she is sometimes, and I might illicit a purr if I'm good enough. Turkish is a stalker, so her love is more or less iron-clad, and thusly is only of importance to this particular equation in terms of volume of cat. Now even if I sleep over somewhere that has a cat in residence, they are not my cats, who are obviously always, always superior in every way. Even Turkish. You might yet go a step further and even say that this hypothetical cat is a friendly arsehole, and might also deign to let me touch it. All well and good, say I, but still not winning me over. I want rapport, for fuck's sake, I want a cat that looks at me like it's intoning things with human subtlety, and that just doesn't happen unless I know the animal really well.
BUT. I have found my cat away from cat. He/she/it is called Tippex, is ridiculously pretty and fluffy, and is quite obviously retarded in the best way possible. I got loved up so endlessly, got rubbed and licked and hugged and "Hi!"ed every which way but loose, that I could resist. He let me pick him up and carry him around upside down- a feat that took me years of training to drum into my own cats. I'm afraid, even if this cat can't own me, it certainly has time share going now. Sigh, I want more cats. Oodles and oodles of kittens.
Announcement! I would like to call on whatever kind of Captain Planet and the Planeteers-type power I have with my readership to make this happen:
Yes, that is exactly what you think it is. Spread it around, tell a friend and just generally touch people inappropriately- every Friday from now on out has officially been declared Bad Pun Friday. I want you to reach into the very corners of your soul, and live by the example I've been forcing on this particular post: PiePun as excessively and as poorly as you possibly can. I do not want one utterance of "hard", "head" or "come" to pass by you unmined or underused. I want you to homophone, homonym and just generally go bananas at strangers and loved ones alike. Do not disappoint me Pielings, I know that you are singularly capable for this particular task. Bonus points for "That's what she said!" after innocuous comments made by the naive and elderly. We'll reconnoitre back here on Saturday 11h00 to report back and swap new material.
And then finally, before I leave you, I give you the gift that keeps on giving. Video of the Day.
*Late night sleeplessness idiocy.