The M.I.L.F diary Snippets

Photography by Simon Atwell.

Kerry graduated from the University of Cape Town in 1990 with a Bachelor of Social Science Degree, majoring in Sociology. Her final year theses were ‘The Socio-Economic implications of the then proposed development of Cape Town’s Water Front (today known as the V&A Waterfront) and ‘Politics of Human Sexuality; An inquiry into the South African Legal System’. She also has an International Advertising Diploma (Boston House AAA) and completed the Estate agents board Exam - which she has never used (but thought at the time it was a good idea!!!)

Kerry has been working in the Music and Entertainment industry since

1994. She specializes in Artist and Band management and production, with a strong focus on the business-of-creativity.

Contents

Fore-Snip

Part 1

Snippet 1

Snippet 2

Snippet 3

Snippet 4

Snippet 5

Snippet 6

Snippet 7

Snippet 8

Snippet 9

Snippet 10

Snippet 11

Snippet 12

Snippet 13

Snippet 14

Snippet 15

Snippet 16

Snippet 17

Snippet 18

Snippet 19

Snippet 20

Snippet 21

Snippet 22

Snippet 23

Snippet 24

Snippet 25

Snippet 26

Snippet 27

Snippet 28

Snippet 29

Snippet 30

Snippet 31

Snippet 32

Part 2

Snippet 1

Snippet 2

Snippet 3

Snippet 4

Snippet 5

Snippet 6

Snippet 7

Snippet 8

Snippet 9

Snippet 10

Snippet 11

Snippet 12

Snippet 13

Snippet 14

Snippet 15

Snippet 16

Snippet 17

Snippet 18

Snippet 19

Snippet 20

Snippet 21

Snippet 22

Part 3

Snippet 1

Snippet 2

Snippet 3

Snippet 4

Snippet 5

Snippet 6

Snippet 7

The Balance of Life

About the Author

Fore-snip

M.I.L.F Music I live for

M.I.L.F Moments I live for

M.I.L.F Mother in labour Files

M.I.L.F Master in Life-forgiveness

AND…. last but not least

M.I.L.F

Mother I'd Like to Fuck

Urban dictionary quotes;

* ‘Generally an older woman who has bared offspring that young men fawn over. Popularized by the 1999 hit film American Pie and the character of "Stifler's Mom’.

* Teenage boy to his friend ‘Ouch whoa! Josh – your mom is such a milf’.

* One Jewish Guy to another the Jewish Guy: ‘Listen here you dreidle spinning menorah lighting yeast eating Jewish SOB, let me educate you. A hot mother would be considered a milf of course, but milfs don't have to be mothers to be milfs. They have to be in the general age range of a housewife, mid 30's to mid 40's, sometimes into the early 50's …’

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=milf

Part I

The M.I.L.F Diary Snippets

Snippet 1

A queen with a drama

6-am my hand fumbles its way to turn off my new morning wake up call, Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody with the words ‘mama I just cant carry on’ belting out. A tune that my dear friend Brady insisted on downloading on my phone. He assured me that the theatrical dramatics of the song would kick start my day into bold action.

I lay there frozen, counting the waves in my secret heavens, depleted from winding the night’s madness into a narrow sleep. I contemplated Brady’s words, ‘Sweetie darling, you can’t negotiate reality, you must own it, embrace the fear, what you resist will persist. Ma’ doll there is no greater way to reach in and connect with your sad inner self, than with a piece of music that takes you down to the den of doom and gloom.’ He’s a fucking genius. Such wonderfully wise words I thought for a man of 39 years of age, still firmly attached to the umbilical cord and being held together by his doting mother.

Brady was living a double life. His mom had no clue that he was gay. In the closet by day, raging queen by night, hooking those house beats on the dance floor to tacky techno remixes of Bette Midler's ‘The wind beneath my wings’.

Brady’s repertoire of music was limited but shit he could have chosen ‘I’m alive’ by Celine Dion or that Diana Ross track off his favourite compilation CD ‘Straight out and straight up’. Hell ‘Mama Mia’ by Abba would have been a small step in the right direction. Ok breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out feel my inner self, face the fear. A sound of a needle scratching across a record on an old gramophone interrupts the moment. What the fuck is that.…? Feel my inner self? No no feel my outer self and figure out which part exactly was reality and which part was living hell. And is there a difference?

Two hands with 10 fingers, two feet with 10 toes, 2 legs, 2 arms. Heck I’m all body, I’m awake. I’m alive. Crap! It’s Ground Hog day yet again. Mildly hysterical with exhaustion, I’m still a Queen with a drama, no umbilical attachment and being held together by a safety pin.

Snippet 2

The Chicken run

6.05am: Jaz - my dependable man of steel – enters the bedroom. ‘Good morning’ he gently says, whilst placing a delicious all encompassing breakfast tray - including my imported Italian filter coffee - onto my bed.

Jaz - my chiseled strong man of steel - draws open my curtains just a little. He knows exactly how big or small the gap should be, allowing the fresh morning sunlight to peep in and flirt its way onto my sheets. Jaz - my solid and robust man of steel – is from Malawi. He is my much needed home vice, my housekeeper and my sturdy driver. Abi is his wife. She is beautiful, with a fine facial bone structure. Slender with long legs that go to heaven and back. I appointed Abi to be beautiful Bezi’s assistant. Bezi is my-life-depends-upon-could-not-cope-without-her child minder and caregiver for Faith.

Shit! That freaking sound of that freaking needle scratching across the vinyl on that crappy vintage gramophone interrupts the moment yet again.

Um.. err .. Uh ok All right, all right, all right. I confess, I admit it; this is not my life. This is not my snippet. This reality belongs to someone else. This is someone else’s movie set. A script far out of my reach. A reverie far away from my very own living hell.

Okay, so scrap and ignore everything I’ve just described and let’s start again.

Its 6.05am and my freaking exhausting - pathetic groundhog day - chicken run begins again. Sluggishly I go into the kitchen. Pillowslip still firmly attached to my face. Turn the kettle on. Make my seven year old little girl Faith - my gorgeous fairy child - her school lunch. Make my coffee. Wake up Faith. Make her breakfast. Give her breakfast. I have a thirty-second bath. Oversee Faith getting dressed.

6.45am: Beautiful Bezi – my maid, my baby sitter, my house cleaner, my everything - arrives. Bezi fled from Zimbabwe eleven years ago to escape the cruel, harsh, inhumane repressive *Mugabe regime. Ironically she wakes up at 4.30am every morning, ensuring that her two hour and fifteen minute public transport escapade from the township gets her to our house on time. An escapade, which includes a couple of taxis, a train ride and dodging the daily squatter camp street violence and muggings.

I whine at Faith to stop buggering about. I moan at Faith to hurry up. I grumble at Bezi to assist me in watching Faith brush her teeth. I berate Faith to stop playing with the cat. I groan at Faith that she needs to make friends with her school shoes and socks as she’s got them for the next ten years. I moan at Bezi that I’m not quite sure what her early morning role is, knowing quite well that there is no morning role (other than perhaps I feel agonizingly alone). I ask Bezi to make me a cup of coffee knowing that I’m going to have three guilt ridden sips, knowing that I’ve only asked her to make the coffee to sublimate my need for her to appear to be doing something, and knowing that she’s onto me.

I get dressed. Brush my teeth. Put on some make up. Just enough to make a difference, never to be the subject of ‘she’s let herself go’ and aware that face painting techniques are the subject of ‘you should see what she looks like without any make up on’. Faith and beautiful Bezi head for the car, a funky sporty cabriolet. I quickly squirt some Angel spray above my head hoping my dull aura will be cleansed. One last glance in the mirror. Look hottish, feel like shit.

Hop into my car. Lavishly spray a sensual chocolate vanilla body mist, bought for the sole use as an air freshener, convinced that the delicious candy store scent will make the other kids prefer our ride. Look good, smell good. I figured its imperative that a funky sports car should also appear to feel good inside, and the delectable smell of a chocolate factory should do the job. The pay off; the kids will feel sweetly fulfilled by the time they reach school.

Look good.

Smell good

Feel like shit!

*Footnote

*Mugabe Regime; Robert Mugabe is the second and current President of Zimbabwe. The Mugabe regime is described