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...

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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...