Growth spurt - and I'm not talking about height

"Why do people say 'grow some balls'? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding." - Sheng Wang

WARNING: This blog post may carry disgusting content. The scenes in this post contain blood and vomit. If you're already gagging at the thought of what might be ahead, find someone else to read ahead of you to give you warning. Or swallow a spoon of cement and grow a vagina.

As I've gotten into my 20s, I've realised how people discuss being an adult more and more with comments like, "You know you're an adult when..." or "You know you're getting old when..." I think all those statements are superfluous and you might agree with me after I tell you my story.

This post is not blaming anyone. In fact, the people that should be blamed are car manufacturers, but we'll get to that point in a bit. I just want to say that I don't want to scare anyone and put them off giving blood. I think it's an important part of being an active citizen and if you can do, give it a go. The South African National Blood Service (SANBS) are a great group to support, because it doesn't cost any money - you only need to give up half an hour of your time and a unit of blood. The other group I want to shield from blame is Subway. I love you Subway. I am in no way blaming you for what happened. I think it was a series of unfortunate events.

A picture perfect seen before all hell breaks loose.

My plan for the day was to pick up some food for the Easter weekend so the parentals wouldn't have to rush out and think about dinner. Then my brother, Matthew, and I were going to go donate blood, because it's Easter weekend and prime time for blood transfusions thanks to some of the worst drivers in the world unfortunately owning a car and having a driver's license. So, we thought the SANBS could do with two units and we went off to donate.

The Hermon children are both useless at donating blood, because we both passed out. At least Matthew got though a full donation before fainting. I, however, had to fight to keep myself going and I wasn't going to stop until I filled that bag. Besides, I was pretty much all the way there, before the room started to look like a snowing TV set. It's at this point that I'd like to say a special thank you to the woman working at the SANBS donor centre at the Colony Arms. Two lovely ladies who patiently waited for Matthew and I to reach maximum up-right walking capacity before letting us go on our merry way.

There goes my blood and my vision.

So we got in the car to pick up some meat and Matthew had a hankerin' for KFC. We were on our way home and in the middle of an intersection when my Subway 'sub of the day' decided to come back on stage for an encore. I carefully lent forward so as not to aggravate the beast about to roar out of its cage and picked up Matthew's KFC meal. I gently placed his meal to the side and buried my head in the paper bag now sitting on my lap. I had readied myself just in time as the six-inch sub filled the bag along with a Bar One I had eaten earlier. But let's not forget, this was a paper bag.

I should have gotten out of the car as soon as possible, because that paper bag had no stamina. Everything started to seep out of the bag and down the sides of my thighs. The structural integrity of the bag was in no way capable of safely securing the contents of my stomach. It leaked all over my jeans, handbag (which was poorly placed on my lap, underneath the bag), onto the shopping at my feet and all over the passenger seat. With each round-about, there were three, I winced as the mixture of bile, sweet onion sauce and chunks slid down my legs.

I climbed out of the car to find my jeans covered. Matthew had to spray me down with a hose. I quickly washed up in the shower, threw all my clothes into the washing machine and set to work on cleaning my car. This is where my complaint with car manufacturers begins. Cars aren't built to be cleaned. Although, Toyota seem to be advertising some new ice-cream proof seats, but to be honest, a car that can be easily cleaned after a vomit comet would not just have my curiosity, but my full attention.

Credit and many thanks for this picture and now meme is owed to Quentin Tarantino for the awesome script and film, Django Unchained.

This little paragraph is directed at car companies: Think of the money you could make. If the kids of today are built anything like myself, then they are most likely prone to car sickness. Anything longer than a half hour drive could've resulted in a multicoloured nightmare for my parents. Holiday trips were carefully calculated: I had to be placed in the front seat after the breakfast stop and I'd remain there until we had reach point B. So if there's a car out there that can easily be cleaned under the seats and between every nook and cranny, you'd have soccer moms and road-trip dads all after one.

And this is where the "You know you're an adult when..." kicks in:

Like I said, I spent many years being the car sick child on long trips. And in general, I think we all have horrible memories of missing our calls with the big white telephone. But after they've wiped your face with a damp cloth and you've had a drink of water, our parents would just say, "Go back to bed, honey. I'll clean this up." In my case, it was always my mom who got up in the middle of the night to clean up the un-Godly mess that could only be made by Satan's spawn.

Now, however, that abhorrent mess with the power to make you gag even after you've heaved all you could heave, is your responsibility and no one else's. It's all yours to clean up and no one is interested in coming to your aid, as my brother demonstrated in his lack of interest after hosing me down. So I gathered my supplies for the long hard journey into adult hood.

I don't think people realise just how momentous cleaning your own vomit out of your car is. I've cleaned up my own chunder messes, but to actually scrub down your car and scrape up the chunks blown is quite a life changing moment. First of all it's your car. Second, it's your mess. And third, no one will ever be cleaning up after you again. This moral to the story will of course be shot out of the sky by those who can't stomach cleaning up their own sick.

After I'd packed the bicarb and vinegar away, and rolled down the windows, I went to my room and retreated into the foetal position. I felt so ashamed after the mess I had created, but then I remembered something that made me feel loads better. While I was cleaning the car, my dog Winston reminded me of how gross dogs are. He took to my chunks of mess like his four o'clock meal time. In that moment I realised that no matter how disgusting I felt, there's nothing more gross than the habits of our K9 friends. Cue link to the Oatmeal's "My Dog: the paradox".

A good day

I have very little excitement in my life at the moment, so bear with me.

I got a 'no'! I'm so happy. I finally got a reply for a job and it was a 'no'. Even though "Thank you for responding, however your application had been declined" is not the best news, it's progress. It's better than thinking my job applications are being sent into a void of unopened emails with CVs attached. I imagine a lot of my responses are floating around in space like the melodies of Will.I.Am  At one stage I thought I'd have better luck posting my letters, and then I giggled at how preposterous such a thought was - to put this into context you have to understand that the South African Post Office's sorting office in Gauteng has been on strike for weeks. I sent my boyfriend a Valentine's Day card and he has yet to see it.

I know a lot of adverts say, "If we have not contacted you by such-and-such a date, consider your application unsuccessful." Which I'm sure is the best way to save time when it come to hiring and recruiting. But if you're someone like me, who has had little, in fact, no success when it comes to job hunting, this was a serious turning point. It was just so nice to have a little bit of interaction, even if it was an unsuccessful application. The fact that someone took the time to open my CV, give it a read and then send a reply containing 'no' was so much more motivating than the never-ending silence.

On another completely unrelated, but happy note...

I had such a pleasant day as a consumer.

Last night, I made my easy and loved falafels for the parental unit and myself. When I was near finish, my dad started loading the pita breads into the oven. In my house, we have better luck with the lotto than we do with pitas. For the last couple of months, the pita breads we have bought and thrown into the oven remain flat piece of hard crust on the outside and a soft doughy-goo on the inside. They never rise and yet we continue to favour these unsuccessful pitas over wraps. After many weeks of perseverance we had a most wondrous night! My mum had picked up a pack of Global Wrapps pitas.

My mum and I are huge fans of the brand. When we can, we will frequent their restaurants and order a haloumi and avo wrap and a BBQ chicken and potato wrap for my mum and I respectively. And on this particular Sunday night, we had struck gold with puffed up pitas for our easy Carte Blanche dinner in front of the TV. This week, however, was an entirely different experience.

So as I was saying, my dad had started chucking them in the oven when he noticed some of the pitas had turned into hosts to some unsavoury guests. Green patches of mold had come up on the sides of the last three pitas in the packet. And I'm not talking about a slight case of mold you would happily digest if it was the last slice of bread.

Check it out! The green on the packet matches the green on the pita. Now that's branding.

This was a full scale invasion of an ecosystem. So we ate the three best looking ones.

The very next day, I walked into Checkers, not to throw a fit, but to politely bring to their attention the green facts. I told them we ate three - we had to, there was no other starch in the house - and that we had double checked the date of expiry. I think I was quite polite in asking them for a refund and the manager was happy to do so. He was so happy to do so, he also gave me a fresh new pack. So, thank you Checkers for your understanding and fabulous customer relations.

Too many times, as consumers, we are immediately on the defensive. Even today, I was trying to remember sections of the Consumer Protection Act on my way there in case I'd have to drop some law knowledge - what little I know - on the manager. I've been a cashier and had a woman spew the line, "I know my rights as a consumer," across the counter. I've also seen a woman demand petrol money for her travels back to the store where a packer had forgotten to include an item in her grocery bag.

We are far too defensive and sometimes a quiet conversation can be a far more pleasant experience than the one that can be riddled with accusations. Who knows? You might get a free packet of pitas for your manners.