Matric- Farewell..... to money

Woe is me!
Last week my daughter, The MCM (Money Consuming Machine) attended her MATRIC DANCE. I spell it in capitals because Capital is what it's all about. A LOT of capital. EISH!

“It's like a bottomless pit,” I said to Mrs Ed one evening a few days before the BIG event. I was watching her stuff envelopes with one hand (to raise money for the matric dance shoes) and do someone's ironing with the other (to raise money for the matric hairstyling). I of course was busy on the couch with my TV data research which I intend to sell to advertisers (in aid of the matric dress) once it is complete.

Mrs Ed just grunted and, in that non-committal, I'm-too-busy-for-your-idiotic-banter way of hers, spat out a wad of chewing tobacco into her makeshift spittoon. She had to use the stuff because her hands were just too busy for cigarettes. She was already way behind in the magazine packing she had taken on to raise money for the matric nail treatment.

“Perhaps I could get another loan,” I thought out loud, kind of continuing an earlier conversation about how we could pay back the loan we had already taken for the Matric dress, should my TV research not come to anything, “Last time I met with the bank manager he was quite friendly.”
“He tried to run you over,” she mumbled through her beard. (Alas, there's just been no time for shaving or money for razor blades.)
“ No, I'm sure that big swerve he did onto the pavement was just a mistake. I distinctly saw him waving at me, in a most friendly fashion.”
“The man was waving his fist,” she sighed, spitting again, “Apparently the cheque you sent him to cover the overdraft bounced.”

I would not be moved (it is the World's Most Comfortable Couch after all), and instead decided to regurgitate a previous heated discussion.
“What is it about the Matric Dance, that everything has to be so darn fancy schmancy?” I asked. “In my day we had to go in school uniform. And I rode there on my bicycle!”
“It was MY bicycle,” she reminded me, “And you sat on the carrier and made me pedal!”
I changed the subject, not wanting to go down that road again (in case she made ME pedal this time) “But NOW,” I offered sarcastically, “NOW we have to buy a matric dress that costs more than a small aircraft. Will she ever wear it again? Should I get it insured for theft or are you going to donate it to a third world hunger scheme when the dance is over?” There was no stopping me. Of course she had heard it all before, so I wasn't surprised when she left the room to get the next bag of “And the shoes? You aren't going to even SEE them under the dress. Why she couldn't have worn her tommy takkies I don't know…..” But without an audience I lost steam, and eventually lay back and closed my eyes…. “How on Earth did a simple dance get so out of control,” I thought, as sleep crept in… “There must be a story behind it….”

Once upon a time, long long ago, in a land far, far away, the king decreed that young men should mark the end of their final year at school with a great feast .
“There shalt be a night of much music and dancing and general misbehaviour!” he said.
And so it was for some years, and the men didst enjoy, by themselves, the end of school celebrations.

But then one brave young man approached his head tutor, Sir Matthew Rick, with a humble request.
“Forsooth!” he exclaimed “Verily we implore ye sire. Whilst we thoroughly look forward to the imbibing of good mead, the fine platters of meat and of course the dwarf tossing competition, we gather that dancing with other men hath become somewhat 'last year'. Surely 'tis time whence one or two lowly maidens from the domestic training school should be summonsed to attendeth so that we may at least keep abreast with the eighteenth century?”

And so the head tutor decreed that young maids-in-training should be ordered to attend the celebration, but on condition that they fully covered themselves in sack cloth, so as to avoid temptation of the boisterous lads. And so it went, and a merry time was had by the young men at least.

But the following year one courageous young filly bespoke a request of her own to the head tutor, no doubt batting her eyelids as she did.
“Sire, this course sack cloth doth make us itch, and our erratic scratching movements will surely be off-putting to the young men. If it pleaseth thou, if only for their sake, may we not forgo such uncomfortable attire and rather drape ourselves in thick canvas or hemp, lest our dance moves deteriorate further?”

And, quite taken aback by her brazen attitude, the flustered man didst permit this to come to pass, not realizing what monster he was creating for the future.

Word of his weakness for a sweet smile was passed on from class to class, and as each year's celebration approached, more and more young lasses' presented their subtle and oft sly requests. Most were granted, and there was change in the land.

“Mayest we no longer be forced to arrive at the dance in the sewage transport cart, as it dost make us rather odorous partners for the young men?” suggested one damsel.
“Perhaps each of us could be assigned a partner so that the young men no longer injure their noble selves in the squabble over us lowly maidens?” another asked the following year.
“Alas, we useless wenches are shorter than most of the young men. Verily are we willing to bear the pain of wearing shoes built up in height to make us more suitable partners, should thou permit?” said a third the year after that.
“Lest the fine young men should find us ugly and unbearable to look at, would thou permit us to humbly sacrifice our dignity and allow the torturous application of paint to our faces and nails, and the use of heat in styling our modest locks of hair…..” a fourth offered generously.

And so, a new tradition of co-ed or 'Matric' school dances (named after that first head tutor), began. At first they blossomed into fun events, and a good time was had by all. But then, as each year further suggestions from the young lasses were met, the dances grew out of control.

For years parents knew nothing of the trouble that was brewing, but eventually the school could no longer afford to fund the ever-increasing costs attached to the maidens ever-increasing requests, and the lasses were forced to turn to their families for help.
“Papa, I beseech thee! Matilda hath been granted monies to purchase a bodice in the finest of imported woven cotton for the dance, and I wouldst not let anyone think that her father be more generous of heart than thee? May I have leave to visit the bank manager with your note for a little withdrawal? Pretty please dear papa?”……..

“Pater, I am bereft! Wendy and Michael hath been granted permission to arrive in his uncle's gilded carriage drawn by six of the finest Arabian stallions! Can we not arrange transport with more horsepower so that my partner and I may not dieth in agony of embarrassment?”…

But back to my daughter's Matric dance. Of course when the day arrived it was all SO worth it in the end. When my darling little MCM stepped out all grown up in her gorgeous flowing gown, I couldn't have been a more proud father, and must confess a tear or two did escape from my eye.......

Later on, when all the fuss was over and I was back on the couch, it brought to mind a Visa ad campaign I remember seeing on tv. (NB the prices are taken from memory, so might not be 100% accurate .)

“Matric shoes: R350
Matric Dress: A quarter of a billion Rand
Matric facial treatment, make up and manicure: 320 billion Rand
Hire of Rolls Royce to take my daughter to her Matric dance: 400 gazzillion Rand.

The look on my bank manager's face when he realizes I managed to extend my overdraft on the internet to 'pay' for all this…. PRICELESS!

But not all tales of princesses have a happy ending. Just when I was enjoying the fact that is was all over, bar the paying, a more experienced father chose to shatter my dreams.
“Ha ha,” he chuckled annoyingly, “You think the matric farewell is expensive? Wait until she gets married!”

I think I'm going to dig that bottomless pit and crawl into it for ten years or so, perhaps I might even look for gold?
I'd be mad if I didn't!

Wife number 2?

Now it was recently Mrs Ed's birthday, and being a creature of habit, I forgot until the last moment. No, not the last moment like 'the day before', or 'the night before' or even 'the hour before'. I mean the REAL last LAST moment. The split second when the memory hits your face like a soggy frog, just as you open your eyes for the first time that day. “OH MY GOSH! IT'S HER BIRTHDAY!” Of course being the coward that I am, my usual modus operandi is a mad, scrambling effort to leave the house through a window, or by removing a few roof tiles, and rushing to the nearest shops (NB the ones attached to petrol stations are open 24hrs) and back, so that I can nonchalantly wander into the kitchen before she even knows I'm gone, with a very attractive five litre can of multigrade oil, a new set of wiper blades and a PS bar chocolate bar - you know the ones with a message on the wrapper (if one is lucky one can find one with a 'Happy Birthday', or an 'I Love You', but sometimes one gets stuck with more vague birthday greetings, such as 'Missing You', or 'Good Luck for Your Exams' which need a lot more creative explanation.) But this year I was not blessed with so much time. The fact that Mrs Ed was standing over me, with her not-very-happy-birthday face glaring down, inches from mine, made me realise my options were even more limited than usual. I had to think fast. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” I squawked, “Um…. Did it arrive?” “What?” she parried, leaving me a beautiful, snivelling gap. “I can't tell you 'what' because (I haven't thought of it yet) then it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it?” Ooooh I am getting so good at this! Evidently not quite good enough. I could see by the fierce look in her good eye and the Charles Bronson twitch of her moustache that further explanation was required. I had to dig deep, and quickly too. “I've ordered you something over the internet, and it was supposed to arrive first thing,” was what I blurted out. Pausing for reflection, I solefully added “I can't believe that courier company. Tsk tsk.” The last bit of the sentence was, of course, the 'break eye contact phrase' which history has taught me is exceptionally useful in matters of self defense. A lot like the lesser wolf drops his gaze from that of the Matriarch so as to avoid getting his throat torn open. And so, apart from the ten minutes dedicated to angry shouting about poor service to the poor non-existent manager of the non existant courier company who wasn't really on the other end of the line, I spent a good portion of the day secretly perusing the internet, trying to find something that was a) cheap, b) not available locally and c) a practical birthday gift for Mrs Ed. I was just about to log off the www.discountgardentrowels.com website, when I spotted something out the corner of my eye. It was one of those internet ads that jump around and annoy people, but the wording got my attention. Online order - satisfaction guaranteed! Hmmmmm. In desperation I clicked on it. At first my heart sank:- at face value the website - www.russian brides.com - didn't look like it would solve my immediate problem at all…. But then I started thinking out of the box…. Maybe it would! In fact, maybe it would kill two birds with one stone! Just because I'm such a sensible person, I quickly read the 'Genuine comments from genuine customers' section. Keith Maniac from Piddle-on-Tyme, Gloucester had this to say: “Make no mistake, these Russian brides are here to meet a man like you. My new wife was desperate for just a little of the security, love and affection that Western women take for granted, and she found that in me. There's no doubt that the right Russian bride for you will treat you like the king of your own home.” Just above this was a big button that said 'Click here to meet a selection of Russian Brides, waiting to hear from you' I hesitated. One should really not judge a book by its cover, thus I had to steel myself so that the pictures I was about to see (no doubt of poor, hard weathered, be-muscled and sullen Russian housewives, desperate to improve their lot in life) wouldn't affect my purchase decision. Click. My giddy aunt! If these were the 'unhappy, down trodden, desperate for marriage, Moscow maidens', then something must be seriously wrong with the eyesight of the Russian male population. Either that or the happy women in that country must be absolutely exquisite! Of course I had to think practically, but it all started to make good sense. Mrs Ed was always saying she was tired of housework, and could really do with some help with all the cooking and cleaning (apparently lifting my feet as she vacuums underneath them is not considered real help), and here was poor 'Alyona' a rather busty blonde lady of 25, who the Russian Bride agency claimed was 'A queen of Russian cuisine' and 'Can't wait to make her new western home as spotless as the Tsar's palace'! What better help could Mrs Ed ask for? One presumes the Eastern woman is reasonably tough, judging by the photograph - no weakling would be brave enough to wear a bikini like that in the freezing Russian temperatures, would they? The logistics were a bit tricky. Obviously I wanted to keep the gift a surprise for Mrs Ed, so I had to forge her signature on the consent form for me to take on (by traditional law of course) a second wife (understandably the Russian ladies want to know they are being taken seriously before leaving their simple village lives for greener pastures). Fortunately the website had the paperwork which I could print, sign, scan and send back, along with details of our (Mrs Ed's) credit card for what they call sundry agency fees (no more than $15 according to the Russian BridesFAQ section). It's so exciting! According to a personalised email from Russian Bride CEO (what good service!) Don Duckerman, my new fiance will be arriving soon for a trial visit, just to check whether I am happy with her work before officially 'tying the knot'. And I know he's not lying because this morning I got an email from Alyona herself. She says she can't wait to meet me, and was happy to spend all her savings on her air fare, but if I could just transfer some money (she suggested about four hundred US dollars) into her parents' account so they and her little brothers won't starve whilst she is visiting me (thoughtful girl), she will be on her way! I can't wait to see Mrs Ed's face when her new 'kitchen sister' arrives! Once she gets used to her youthful looks and husky foreign accent, I'm sure she'll like her,