'Freezo girl'

I seem to have a knack for getting other people obsessed with freezos. I have officially become known as 'freezo girl' and people appear to associate them with me. Friends (and strangers!) actually text me:

'Having a freezo, made me think of you.'
'Having a Starbucks coffee frappucino on the King's Road, wish you were here.'
'Popped to Caturra for hangover freezo. You're right – best hangover cure ever!'
'I love freezos and I love you!'

(I made that last one up...)

It's all quite endearing really. I feel somewhat proud to have passed on the Caturra legacy. I only realised the true extent of it the other night when I rang my friend, who was at her 5-star apartment, hanging out with her Friend (who I've only met about 3 times):

Me: 'Can I come over and watch The Bachelor? I'm downstairs at Hudsons.'
5-Star: 'Ya definitely come up, am just chilling here with Friend.'
Friend (in background): 'Is that The Jolly Olive?'
5-Star: 'Yes, she is coming over to watch The Bachelor.'
Friend: 'Does she have freezos?'
5-Star: 'It's 8.30 on a Friday night.'
Friend: 'Can she please organise that we get freezos?'
Me: 'The freezo place is closed!'
Friend: 'Use your key.'
Me: 'I don't have a key!'
Friend: 'But you're freezo girl?'
Me: I'm on the Champagne tonight – I can bring some of that?'
Friend 2: 'It'll do. But this can't happen again. You got to live up to your name freezo girl.'

All this freezo talk is making me salivate. Guess where I'm going for lunch today...

Do a little dance...

I think, I think, I'm still hungover… From Friday!

Got home from work early friday afternoon, weather-beaten (office aircon in 14-degree weather) and decrepit. Lay down on my palatial trundle, engulfed myself in duck-down duvet and disappeared into dream world for a good hour before receiving an overzealous, ear-piercing phonecall from tipsy friend (post-Friday work drinks). "Get your ass out of bed, we are meeting at Hudsons in an hour to drink!"

Christ! Leapt out of beddy-byes, legs shaking violently from torturous afternoon knee rehab, and jumped in shower. Within an hour was dressed to the nines – pink sequined top, high-waisted skirt, heels, curled hair – ready to paint the town red, the 'town' being worst-most-seedy-place-in-the-world Deco, which for some unknown reason I had agreed to go to. 7pm arrives and I start my 1-minute journey down the road to Hudsons. I ring tipsy friend just to check she hasn't passed out in a gutter.

'Where are you?" I ask.
"At home. Why?" (She lives in Hout Bay)
"Er, it's 7 o'clock... you got me out of bed and said to be at Hudsons at 7 o'clock."
"Did I?"
"Are you being serious? You told me to wake up and get ready!"
"Oops."

Turns out she had driven back to Hout Bay, ended up showering and giving herself a makeover and had forgotten she called me. Luckily I had a mate down at Hudsons (which is a social waterhole on a Friday now!) so went down anyway for Porky Poppers and Champagne. Tipsy friend arrived only an hour later. With bad news. She was not coming to Deco. Neither was anyone else who had formerly committed to the event. In a moment of sheer panic that I would be going home on my Friday night, semi-pissed, make-up still in place, a takeaway chilli popper, alone in my pretty sequined top, I accepted an invitation from a male to join 'them' on Long Street. 'Them' being male, male's little sister and a lesbian couple. But spontenaity and craziness (aka the Champagne) got the better of me and I leapt into Batman (the Yaris) and took off and at overenthusiastic speed, dodging police cars and bergies. After a brief stint at Long Street's Slug & Lettuce (Lord knows why we need two of those crusty joints in Cape Town), ended up shaking a heel on the Zula Bar d-floor till some ludicrously hairbrained hour, and woke up with painfully sensitive teeth as a result of all the enamel-extinguishing Toffee Vodka shooters. Promptly booked an appointment for a filling.

Saturday is a hungover haze (saw Hairspray, drank freezos, drank bubbly, ate burgers...). And Sunday consisted of retail therapy (been offered a job as Forever New's mascot) and seeing a chick-flick romcom (Love Wedding Marriage), both of which left me with a large hole in my wallet and feeling miserable enough to lie on the couch in pink slippers and all my new clothes, ploughing through nougat for the remainder of the day. All in all, it was a weekend-long LC. But boy was it worth it!!

Tonight my favourite show in the whole entire world starts – the fantastically fabulous amazingly excellent magnificently stupendous bodaciously awesome brilliantly wonderful show-stopppingly incredible SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE. Screw the knees – I'm so excited I could pirouette round the office! I usually sit and watch it wearing my pointe shoes (just like a Springbok supporter would wear their Bok shirt for the game). Have decided to go teetotal this week (until at least Tuesday!) so unfortunately no celebratory bubbly for opening night.

'Some guys have all the sun'

I need a tan.

Am actually translucent.

When I'm in the bath you can't even see me!

Have officially removed all white clothing from my cupboard and stowed it in a basket under the bed (the basket in which I keep things I never want to see again). If I wear white, I look naked. When I wore white two days ago, a colleague said she didn't want to come close because she didn't want to 'catch whatever I have!'

I'm one of those people that unless I've had sun (after which my hair goes a lovely, pretty blonde and my skin a jolly 'olive' colour), I look like I have a terminal illness. My face is drained of colour. An apparition. If i said 'Boo' to a five-year-old, he'd probably wet his pants.

I also feel so unhealthy when I lack vitamin K. So, at the very first glimpse of summer (anything above 20 degrees will do at this rate) you will find me here, marinading in tanning oil:

The rays will no doubt reflect off my pallid form at first. But just give me two weeks. Summer's version of The Jolly Olive will be back in no time.

Maybe we'll spot Beanie there, tanning his noggin...

Heatstroke in winter

I felt positively ghastly this morning. At first I thought it must be the whopping three Hunters Dry I drank last night (apparently I'm a lightweight) with my flesh-searing chilli poppers, and that rancid Blowjob shooter we ordered at the end (really? First year?). But then, a memory came flooding back to me...

It was 10 degrees when I got into bed last night. My in-built temperature guage told me so. (When the temperature drops below 15 degrees my eyes start watering and my nose turns a brilliant shade of scarlet.) I got into bed wearing 4 jerseys, 2 pyjama pants, a beanie and a pair of ski socks. I also had 3 fleece blankets over my bed, and I left the heater on. Not a good idea.

I floated into a wonderful, clown-free dream-filled sleep of freezos, Hunters Dry, bubbly, chilli poppers, healthy knees, dance, chocolate fondants, Tiger Tiger, sequins... Then suddenly I remember being so thirsty in my dream and I turned around to find one of those 5 litre bottles of water presented to me on a red velvet pillow. There was Hunters and freezos and bubbly there too. But all I wanted was the water! And I drank the whole thing. But I was so hot and so parched it wasn't helping and so I started to panic as I needed more water...

Seconds later I awoke... Drenched in sweat, I quickly removed my four layers, the ski socks, the beanie, and the 3 blankets. I saw the little orange heater light glowing away maliciously in the dark and I hastily switched it off. I grabbed the water next to my bed and drank... and drank... I filled it up... and drank. Three bottles later I realised what a banging headache I had and came to the conclusion that I was suffering from mild heat(er)stroke and severe dehydration – a lethal combination of scorching radiator air, Hunters Dry/Blowjobs and remarkably hot chilli poppers (which definitely turned everything in my stomach to ash)! I popped a pain killer, got back into bed, my stomach a swimming pool, and fell back to sleep. Needless to say I woke up this morning utterly freezing, numb toes, in only a T-shirt and no blanket on the bed, with some newfangled version of hangover/sunstroke. I think I need to go get a freezo.

'Girls' night' tonight. That's French for 'lots of fattening food, gossip, and a glass of pink bubbly'.

The bald and the beautiful

The most fabulous thing happened yesterday. I simply couldn't wait to get into work so that I could tell you guys. So much so that I even came in early (and I'm really not a morning person! Anyone talks to me before 8:30 and I respond with an acrimonious grunt). But in order to fully understand the sheer drollery of this post, you need to (if you haven't already) have read my last post Awkward Moment. So do that quickly, and we'll wait for you...

…

…

Right. Let's hop to it.

So yesterday after an extremely strenuous, laborious workout, I descended the gymnasium stairs, face aglow with perspiration, hair plastered to the back of my neck, provocative under-boob sweat patches, and I gripped the banister for balance as my knees were remarkably shaky after said taxing workout. As I reached the bottom of the staircase and started towards the exit, who else should emerge from the rotating doors but Beanie (!!) – sporting an unattractive plum-coloured wife-beater and far-too-short nut-hugger shorts – and he walked (invisible pineapples under his pits) in my direction. He's still wearing it?! I thought to myself. What could he possibly be keeping under there? His car keys? Leftovers from lunch?!

We made eye contact. I smiled lovingly at the man who offered me everything, and was about to run into his arms shouting, 'Beanie! It's you!', when his eyes moved away from mine and he carried on walking straight ahead. What?!?! How could Beanie not recognise me – this vision of sweat in hot spandex gym kit? I stood still as he walked past, contemplating tapping him on his naked shoulder and confessing, 'Beanie, it's me! I proposed to you, remember? You're pimping out my bachelor pad, remember? You're buying me a zimmer frame, remember??!?!?!'

As he brushed past me I turned to watch my beloved Beanie walk away. And suddenly... he did the unexpected. He slowly reached up... grabbed his beanie, and pulled it off!!! I stared in awe at the mutant before me. My dreams of soft, flowing chocolate-brown hair to match those emerald green eyes were shattered. I had to shield my eyes quickly from the gym lights reflecting off a very large, very round and very shiny, polished egg top before me. Bald? BALD?!

'YOU'RE BALD?' Shit... I'd said that out loud. 
He turned around, 'What?'
'Er, cold!!! Brrrrrr. I'm so cold!' I said spinning around (just in time to hide my face), and I slipped a hoodie over my head and ran out the gym door, leaving my bald, wife-beatered landlord standing dazed and confused behind me...

Moral of the story: never propose to a guy in a hat, beanie, sambrero, balaclava, panama, yarmulke (could be hiding a bald patch), or a fedora (trying too hard). You never know what they're hiding under there...

Awkward moment

Can I vent a little? I'm an active person. By active I mean I gym, I dance, I run, I skip, I hop, I squeak a takkie... Whatever it is, I make sure I exercise every single day. It makes me feel happy. I like to wear heels when I go out. I like to be able to jump around when I'm excited (the child in me) or stamp my feet when I'm grumpy. I like to be able to stretch in the morning while I brush my teeth. When I can't do any of these it upsets me. I feel useless. Immobile. Demotivated. Emo.

Before I start to sound depro (or is it too late) I'll let you know that a charming and rather good-looking young chap in a large beanie (which left far too much to the imagination – does he have hair? Does he not have hair? Is it grey? Is it pink? Curly? Straight?) walked into my flat on Monday night, which is currently on the market, and put in an offer. Not thinking my tiny studio was going to sell at all, I was immediately filled with worry and images of myself sleeping on a bench on the promenade, cuddling a pillow and my favourite pair of shoes. Until he told me he didn't want to live in it and was glad for me to stay on as a tenant. He then asked if there was anything I needed... Me being me, I instantly saw this as an invitation to pimp out my pad and promptly gave him a list of things I desperately required, everything from blackout curtains to new windows, a paint job, more cupboard space and an elliptical trainer (for the knees of course). But he wasn't taken aback, he simply said: 'I'm on it... '
I almost fell over backwards!
Me: 'Will you marry me?'
Beanie: 'What?'
Me: 'Er, I mean... will you carry me... to the couch. I have bad knees.'
He looked perplexed, then he grinned.
Beanie: 'How about I throw in a zimmer frame...'
 
Heading to El Burro tonight. For tequila tasting. Or as my friends call it: dinner. I've run out of pain killers (for my knees), so tequila will do just fine.

Love thy neighbour

Realised I am just never going to be as cool as my next-door neighbour. She knows how to party it up till dawn. I don't.

Remember my trail run? As I was leaving my flat at sparrow's fart for Constantia kitted out in running shoes, spandex and water bottle, she was only returning from her night out on the town, kitted out in heels, belt and bubbly bottle! (It was an awkward moment. I really wanted to stay and convince her that usually I'd totally still be out! But I still had to get to the shops for a banana before the race.) And then, on Friday night – after Vaudeville and Fez – I fell into bed thinking it was awfully late and what a daring diva of a party animal I now was, only to be woken a whole 2.5 hours later by the clicking of heels marching up the stairs, an inebriated giggle and the keys jiggling in her front door... I almost got out of bed, put on my heels and went back to Fez!

I wonder if we'll ever come home at the same time? I wonder if we'd hit it off? Maybe she'll invite me in for wine and we'll become best friends. And can cook hangover breakfasts together. And share wardrobes. And watch Friends and drink hot chocolate, or go for freezos...

Or maybe not.

Let's face it. I'm never going to be as cool. We wouldn't even be able to share taxis out because I'd fade at 2am and she'd still be shaking a takkie at 5!

She's probably ugly and mean anyway.

All work and much play

Je suis tres tres desolée that I haven't written all week. I don't think I've ever been this busy in my life. I barely had time to breathe let alone think up blogpost ideas. The pile of work looming on my desk just doesn't seem to be getting any smaller. Quite the contrary – it seems to be growing bigger... and bigger... I actually heard it laughing at me this morning. I swear I saw teeth. (Or maybe that was just a result of the preposterously strong pain killers I'm taking for my knee.)

This rain is doing nothing for my weekend plans. Me and my lovely girlfriends (including Vivi&Lola) are heading to Vaudeville later. I intended to wear my very small and very tight and very black, hold-my-breath-to-zip-up, no-lunch-allowed Kate Moss dress out on the town tonight. But screw that idea if the heavens are still open. It's back to winter skinnies. Luckily, in Joburg last weekend, I had a moment of sheer sagacity and realised I needed a new look to match my new socialite tendencies. Mother, who was even more excited about this than me, drove me straight to Sandton City and we spent the day looking in Mango, Forever New, Sissy Boy and Country Road for hot new going-out attire. She continued to load my changing room with everything from lace and sequins, to leather, silk and spandex, and I came home with a new eclectic wardrobe with which to grace Cape Town's nightlife. But what I find always happens is, my first night out arrives, and I actually struggle to put together an outfit as nothing matches! Or rather, the things I picked were so outrageous and daring (I must've been in a shopping trance) that I'm simply not brave enough to sport them out in public! Oops.

So I have injured my knee (blasted trail run... Or was it the stilettos and dance-floor moves?). This is shitty for a number of reasons. Firstly I can't wear heels. I know right – I mean WHAT in heaven's name am I supposed to go out in tonight? FLATS?? People will stand on me or mistake me for a drink stand! Secondly I am not allowed to dance for 2 weeks. Not only will the Tiger Tiger speaker suffer from severe withdrawel symptoms, but not being able to tap and do modern leaves me feeling very much unfulfilled at the end of each day.

 ...I am allowed to cycle. Whoopee. Let's have a cycle party. Not.

On top of that I have to endure an hour of pain twice a week as my physio pummels the shit out of my ITB and nails my glute muscles, while I cling to the bed with white knuckles and curse him for the agony he is causing me. I think to be a physio you have to have an element of sadism in your personality.

On Saturday a friend and I have decided to hit V&A. To find sequins. We crave sequins. And we have heard via the grapevine where we can find tops with said sequins. Unfortunately new sparkly tops means we must go out for 'Round 2' for world to witness new sparkly tops. After a Tashas lunch we intend to find some rose bubbly (and also create a new look for my blog because I am not vibing with the current design) and prepare for a second night of revelry. I'm so excited I would literally jump up and down if it weren't for my blasted shifted knee cap. I'll have to clap enthusiastically instead.

And last but not least, I got home last night to water cascading down the steps from my apartment front door. Staring stupidly at the sky to check if it was raining without me realising, I was soon to find that it was coming from my front door. Rolled up my jeans and waded through 4cms of water to fetch the mop and bucket and spent a good 2 hours playing char and flicking water out the front door, then doing an attractive towel shuffle round the kitchen to try soak up the remaining H20. Lame washing machine decided to implode in my absence and give me my very own indoor swimming pool. Had to read my book with goggles instead of reading glasses before bed. But swam a few laps before work today.

I must get back to the pile of work, which is now starting to lean to the left like Pisa. I've got till 5pm and a bag of muesli to get me through. Ready, set, go >>

BTW...

... I'm seeing THIS this weekend in Joburg. Jealous much?

Viva la Diva

There has been no internet all morning in my office. This is an epic fail in a publishing house for many a reason, but it certainly does nothing to help a fact checker (such as myself) check facts, let alone play on Facebook and update my tweets. So have been remarkably unproductive over the course of the morning, of course using the ‘free’ time to BBM friends about what’s going down this weekend. Incidentally, I must make sure that absolutely nothing is going down. When I go to Jo’burg I get a mild (okay, severe) case of FOMO and would much prefer if Cape Town somewhat froze in time for the weekend to avoid anything unforgettably bodacious occurring in my absence. Especially since I have become Cape Town’s spontaneously-social, slightly-unhinged, devoted and dashingly daring diva over the past couple of weeks. Anyway, thankfully it doesn’t seem like much is happening – I’m actually taking the party with me and have already organised an agglomeration of drinks, dinners and one night on the Jozi town with my Gauteng crew (yes, as much as I renounce the place, I do have a ‘crew’).

The trail run and the mortifyingly monumental night out last Saturday, plus a highly advanced and straining dance class on Tuesday has left me battered, bruised and exhausted, with a bad knee. Have spent the week wrapped in Transact (I look like a burn victim), which is so not cool when it’s so cold. Essentially I’m sitting in 13 degrees wrapped in ice patches, and I smell like a strip of spearmint chewing gym; am blue, shivering, limping and swollen. Can you say ‘attractive’?

Actually looking forward to being at home. What I love about my big family home nestled amongst the lilac jacarandas in Lower Houghton (and the murderers and thieves lurking on every Joburgian corner), are the heated carpets. I don’t have that luxury here in Cape Town, and probably never will... unless I marry a suit. I spend most of my day embedded in a fleece blanket, since Joburg refuses to budge from below zero, snuggled on the heated floor next to my boxer (best dogs in the world I might add). That and a glass of wine, along with the mindless chit-chat of my wonderful yet categorically crazy family, will do me just fine for a few days.

Managed to snag me a voucher on CityMob for Vaudeville next Friday. And somehow (and I’m still in disbelief considering Capetonians display phenomenal expertise in an inability to commit) I managed to get a whole six people to buy one too. For R130 we are off for a 3-course meal and show at the fiendish Fez. And I can’t wait. Yes I’ve been before but I would go every night of my life if I could. Talk about my dream night – I am obsessed with food. I am addicted to Champagne. I love my friends. I love the stage (hopefully this time I won’t attempt to actually climb onto it clutching a half-empty bottle of Pongracz mid-performance). And dancing is my life (the tappers are excellent). Put it all together and what have you got? Spectacular-spectacular – a shindig, a night of pure revelry, fabulous entertainment, drool-over food, breaking down on the d-floor post-show dressed in masks and adorned in feathers cabaret-style, inspired by the on-stage acrobats! Note to self: must drink less before the show even starts this time so can actually remember said performance. This will be difficult when I’m at a table with http://viviandlola.blogspot.com/. We share a similar passion for (or should I say dangerous infatuation with) rose champagne. Us two together = lethal combination.

Ok that’s all from me. I’m off till next Wednesday so I’ll see you then. Hopefully in one piece. And with some great stories.

A good run

So I did a trail run on Saturday. What they failed to tell us was that the run was in fact a killer 7km as opposed to the proposed 'easy-going' 6km in the email. And at least 1km of that was a very deadly, calf-and-shin-impaling uphill. And I should've taken better notice of the word 'trail'... After all my no-incline treadmill training, I don't think I was quite ready for dodging ditches, rocks and sticks, and nearly running into a wire fence. On a brighter note, it was a beautiful sunny day and running through the Constantia vineyards is probably one of the most serene experiences I've had in a while. Time for 'me'. To lose myself in the exquisite, tranquil surrounds. A much-needed time-out... A time-out primarily because I'm such a snail-pace runner that all my friends shot off ahead of me in the first 100m, when I was already complaining of a stitch and sore glutes! But I made it through and was applauded as I crossed the finish line by the boys, who were convinced they'd have to send out a search party for me, and had the ambulance's number on hand in case. Part of the package was wine tasting. Yes. At 9:30 in the morning. But after that run you feel like you're on top of the world. And that you've been running for hours and that it just must be midday by now. So we sat and sipped on Sauvignon Blanc in the sun as they did the prize giving... Numbers were picked at random and lots of people won hats, socks, T-shirts, watches, sports bands, wine... I won nothing. I left with sore shins and no present. I don't want to do trail runs anymore...

The day carried on in a similar fashion. We headed over to Pastis and watched the Boks get thrashed by those kiwis as we devoured buttery croissants layered with bacon and bree and avocado, and sipped on more alcohol (if you've already started why not carry on, right?). And then we went to Forries. And we left Forries at 8pm. Need I tell you the rest. Picture me, once again, atop a very large speaker at Tiger Tiger, rocking out to Pittbull like there's no tomorrow. And let me tell you. There was no tomorrow. I stayed in bed the entire day and managed to keep down half a piece of toast covered in melted chedder cheese by about 5pm. Never again.

Sorry for my lack of posts last week. Put simply, I had nothing to write about. I had so many restaurant and hotel reviews to write (Oh what a crazy night that was. I'm sorry I never got around to telling you about it but just think loft suite, free food, flowing champagne and friends. And of course a sneaky razzle out on the town) that I had no creativity left. Well, I couldn't be bothered. Anyway, am off to the dreaded Jo'burg this weekend again. It's that time again. Mummy wants me home. Back to hijack hell. For family time. And TLC. She's worried about me. I'm worried about me too. Only a small bag required - to fit in taser, mase spray and panic button. And thermal underwear. And a generator. Have already supplied Mother a list of things I need (face products, hair products, Woolies food, champagne, new clothes, essentiale, electricity...), and a number of appointments to be booked (hair dresser, dentist, optometrist, beauty treatments). May as well get the most out of this time! What are families for?

So apart from the fact that I can't walk today (worst shin splints ever, calf spasms, glute cramps, quad pain... liver pain) and am hobbling around the office like a hobo, I officially had one of the best Saturdays of the year and after 11 hours sleep I feel like a human being again. Bring on the week!!

Oh, and by the way: funniest film I've seen in a while...