Hazy, lazy and crazy daisies

Feel flat and lifeless. Like this guy. Direct result of an entire 5 minutes' sleep last night due to searing leg and butt pain (thanks to retarded knee rehab). Also yesterday's fleeting heatwave meant I had to open the windows. Learnt very quickly that Greenpoint is nothing like Mouille Point ----> tranquil echoes of ocean, seagulls and laughter. Was kept conscious till stupid o'clock by car alarms, engines, cat fights (literal and figurative), and of course next-door neighbour's high heels and her post-night-on-the-town fry-up. Considered joining her for some bacon round 4am. Am so stiff and sleep-deprived today could be suffering from a living form of rigamortis.

Last night was set to do a review of Roberto's Signature Restaurant – exquisite Portuguese spot nestled on the corner of Long and Hout. Lovely summery temperatures meant Vivi&Lola and I discarded stockings and braved [recently de-Wintered] bare legs, and arrived sporting pretty dresses and calf-impaling heels. So excited by the prospect of summer were we that we pretty much polished off an entire bottle of Simonsig before we'd even been handed a menu. Enjoyed an extravagant feast of lobster thermidor and champagne and chatted late into the night about topiary trees, Christian Louboutins, and the mysteries that hail from Brakpan.

On an exciting note, it's Rugby World Cup Eve!! I shall hang up my rugby boot (takkie) tonight by the fireplace place (heater) and hope to find some biltong and beer (Hunter's Dry) in there in the morning...

Chick's pick

Heart my job... Yesterday morning, when everyone else was eating sad cereal at their sad desks moaning morbidly about their miserable monday morning blues, puffy eyes and pile of work, I was in the car oen route to one of my favourite spots in Cape Town for a launch: The Twelve Apostles. After pretty drive along coastal road, Ray-bans on, music blaring, the wind in my hair, sea glistening splendidly, I arrived and was chaueffered from parking spot to marquee, whence I had the above view. Realised immediately I a.) had no friends, b.) was totally under-dressed and c.) still had a stamp on my arm from the club on friday night (totally unclassy amongst a swarm of media representatives). Must've missed the dress code on the launch invite – surely along the lines of: 'Heels, highlights and nine layers of make-up. Boob jobs welcome.' Alone and famished, I proceeded to stuff face with mind-blowing mini brunch goods (which no one else was touching lest it spilt on their designer outfits... or, God forbid, went to their hips!) and stood roasting in the sun inhaling orange juice. (Sensibly decided to forego bubbly. It was 11am on a Monday morning. And I may have visited Caprice the night before. Enough said. Plus the amount of articles at work I would've edited that afternoon would've gone into the minus.) Left with a teeming goodie bag, a boep and a sunburn.

Have been invited away on luxurious retreat at 5-star resort/game farm end of this month. Five days. Eight girls. Unlimited bubbly and chick stuff. 1 x yoga instructor. 1 x masseuse. 1 x chef. 0 x men. Quad bikes. A boat. A pool. A bar. Pool tables... Sounds like some sort of woman's wonderland, a chick's heaven, a gal's pearly gates, a female's fairyland, a dame's dream world...

Before I'd even looked at the price (first mistake) or the fact that I'd have to somehow take a whopping three days' leave (second mistake), I clicked 'attending' and am now a surefire sojourner on said weekend, despite my bank card snarling nastily at me from the depths of my handbag. When I did discover the cost was a small fortune, I skipped lunch today and stashed the R20 in my new '5-Star Fund'. It's a start.

Am so excited. Am so SOoooo excited. Am picturing girls, sunglasses, bikinis, tall glasses of pink bubbly, lazing by the pool with books, gossip and hot tunes. Massages, early-morning yoga, the sounds of nature, the ocean and nail files. Health food, moisturisers... No time. No agenda. Man-free. Bug-free. Traffic-free. Preservative-free. And the best part of it all... A TAN!

Might have to sneak a couple of these Chocolate Cake Pops in my suitcase...

Screams, sweets and sequins

Watched the scariest movie of my life last night. Literally. And I suggested it! Told the boys – Dog and Skeet – I'd had enough of cars, spies and hot chicks in leather, that they needed to man up and watch a thriller. En route home from Simply Asia and DVD store, decided we needed something for the nerves (pudding). The tequila shop was closed so bought a tub of sour sweets from Woolies. There was enough sugar at the bottom of the tub for 17 cups of tea. Those things should come with a free dentist appointment. 

Got home, snuggled with boys under big sheep-skin blanky, tub of potential fillings on my lap and switched on The Strangers. A few minutes in I'd broken into a cold sweat and realised I'd stuffed four sour skateboards and two dolphins into my mouth all at once. After declaring in such confidence that I don't get freaked out by scary movies, refused to show boys I was on the brink on wetting my pants, and that I was imagining getting home later on (to lonesome bachelor pad) only to find murderer with axe banging on the front door. Would have to check back seat for masked blonde chick before I drove home. I pulled the blanket over my eyes whenever said masked murderer appeared on screen. Even let off a piercing scream and begged boys to make it stop. But they were totally into it. Or at least pretending to be. I definitely saw them jump when last night's hurricane katrina caused the windows to rattle violently!

Olive: "Oh my god. I saw a face at the window."
Skeet: "We're on the fifth floor Olive."
Olive: "I heard something in the kitchen"
Dog: "We can see the kitchen. Our flat is open-plan."
Olive: "Oh my god... Did you hear that?!?!?!"
Skeet: "Yes, it's your cellphone."


Whatevs... Bet they were so shit scared when I left that they slept in the same bed. Spooning.

Tonight am sporting sequins and feathers for Burlesque Night at Blakes Bar. Must go easy on the bubbly or may end up stealing someone's corset and busting out a Christina Aguilera-esque number on a bar stool. It's happened before...

BTW - have you heard about the film Constipation? It hasn't come out yet... ;)

'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'.