Aspoestertjie – and other innocent words

“I’d say that I am as delicious as garlic, but I’m not that shallot.” – Shana fife, 2020

A week ago, while trying to fit urinating into my very busy schedule. I sat down on the toilet and tried to relax and take five mother-of-three-fucking minutes to myself.  Eyes closed, I waited for the sweet relief, relishing in the alone time… when I noticed that even though my bladder felt filled to the absolute brim, only a very thin, almost lava-temperature trickle of piss emerged.

If this type of anecdote is too vulgar for you, I suggest you disengage now, because it only gets more unsettling as of this point.

No stranger to a burning vulva, I knew to elevate my legs and relax. This was definitely a bladder infection.

Luckily, Syria’s blue play-set chair was in the bathroom. Usually, this would annoy me because my children do not understand the concept of packing things away, but today it was my saving grace; and saved me a waddle, pants around the ankle, through the house, looking for something to help me piss.

I put my feet on it, and relaxed back, as if to open the proper channels to give myself some sort of urine epidural. I only sat like that for about ten seconds when I felt the wave finally rush down. But when I didn’t hear the satisfying splash in the water below, I opened my eyes just in time to see the last of my fountain-piss landing on the floor, the seat and the chair.

Apparently I should have aimed.

You live you learn.

I tell you this story because it is a perfect extract to indicate exactly what the last week had been. All culminating to me desperately washing my vagina with diluted vinegar last night; to which my asshole husband felt the need to comment – “Nou ryk it rerag soes n viskeffie”.

I wanted to come back and tell you guys the rest of the story sooner, but whenever I make the concerted decision to be a good blogger, every other aspect of my life decides that it wants my full attention.

 

This week, it was my vagina.

Without further ado.

As I said in the last blog, after hearing the little girl in the bathroom, the rest of the day was ordinary. The week also went by with nothing more than subtle flashes of a little child in my peripheral vision. At one point, I remember turning around thinking again that Syria was behind me, but being met with empty space. Then, one Thursday evening, after playing around with the cards again, I said something that made my husband very, very scared.

Now, for context, at the time my days were pretty much laid out for me. My routine was as follows; Wake up at 5am and get Jonah ready for the van to fetch him. Wake the girls and Riyaahd. Drop Riyaahd at the taxi rank, take the girls to crèche. Get home and work until Jonah gets home. Cook. Fetch girls. Then, when I get home, Riyaahd is there and we do supper, bathing, prayers and bed. Also, my husband and I communicate with each other an unhealthy amount, so he was fully aware of my whereabouts and actions.

That day went as the rest do, and when we got home, I stood in the kitchen while Riyaahd played on the computer. The kids were in the room.

“Did you get the umbrella?” I randomly blurted out in the middle of summer. Riyaahd looked at me, strangely. I wasn’t sure why I had said it.

“What umbrella, baby?” shame he is so kind. Roles reversed, I would have asked him if he was keeping him stupid.

“The umbrella man. For the field. Wasn’t it raining today?” In my head, I had all these images of being on a sports field in the rain. While I said these things out loud, I started to be unsure of whether or not I was recalling a dream, or a memory of the day. It felt so real, as if I was floating inside of two realities at the same time.

Riyaahd stood up and came to stand next to me at the counter. I had had manic episodes before in which I made stuff up from the pit of my anxiety, but this was different. It felt sinister.
He held me, and I felt silly. I also felt like I wanted to faint. My phone was face up on the counter, and I saw his eyes drift from mine, to the screen.

“Baby. Why is that your profile picture?”
“What?”

I looked at my phone, and couldn’t remember taking a picture of the Empress Tarot card and making it my screensaver.

That was all that Riyaahd needed to anoint the house, the children, me, the front doors and our cat. He didn’t even have time to investigate further. The cards were put outside for the night. I had no say. He had played the husband card and sanctified the property. The next day, he threw the cards away.

After this, there had been some strange happenings. The shadowy figures from my previous blogs came and went.
A particularly impactful experience was when I woke up, only to quickly see a teenage girl knelt at my bed. She was looking for something underneath my side of the bed, looked up and past me, shook her head and then got up and walked towards the cupboard before I didn’t see her anymore. She looked larger than a normal human, though, but I cannot properly explain, without sounding like I am lying.

*As I finished writing this, my mom and dad came to pop in. I am now ou-mense-remedied. My mom forced me to eat two cloves of garlic, a teaspoon of gerasperder ginger and apply yogurt to my clit. No infection will survive. I feel like I need to be baked at 180 degrees for an hour and I’d be fucking delicious.

Also, I promise to blog more.

Or not.

Fuck it.

 

 

2 thoughts on “Aspoestertjie – and other innocent words

  1. Nadia Christians says:

    Heya

    I just wanted to say thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to blog for us. We are so demanding of more, coz you are an excellent author… I love every piece you write.

    Thank you Shana.

    Regards Nadia

    On Tue, 11 Feb 2020, 12:01 PM Into a Housewife…, wrote:

    > Independent Author posted: “”I’d say that I am as delicious as garlic, but > I’m not that shallot.” – Shana fife, 2020 A week ago, while trying to fit > urinating into my very busy schedule. I sat down on the toilet and tried to > relax and take five mother-of-three-fucking minutes to mys” >

    Like

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