The hills have eyes. And so do I (still)!

My mother refuses to play Bridge, or join a Bridge club, or even talk about Bridge, because she is afraid she will then be categorized as 'old'. She gyms lots, plays tennis and does active things. But, on Friday evening, I get a phonecall:

Mother: Darling!
Olive: I've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon! Where have you been?
Mother: Oh I've been having SUCH fun.
Olive: Do elaborate..
Mother: Been with all the girls playing Canasta!
Olive: Sounds like a kitchen utensil.
Mother: It's brilliant! It's this fabulous card game.
Olive. A card game??!!! What happened to you and never being an old woman who plays cards?
Mother: It's nothing like bridge, Darling. It's SO cool. Young people play it too you know.
Olive: Define young.
Mother: You should learn. Or come with us when you're in Joburg next month.
Olive: Ah dash it, I'm all booked up. Do you eat cucumber sandwiches? You do, don't you!!! You GRANDMOTHER!
Mother: ACTUALLY, we eat chocolate brownies. It's very hip.
Olive: You should be careful none of you pop a hip!
Mother: I'm done talking to you now.
Olive: Sorry, Im sure it's cool. Just watch those brownies. Your teeth might fall out.

Mother hung up after that.

So that was on Friday. After which I popped to a dinner at Takumi (see below)...

 (Cue drool)

... then went to Kelvin Grove post-Stormers game for un petit shindig. As per, it was filled with slimy, sweaty men in their 'WP Jou Lekker Ding' tops, reeking of beer, boerewors and bad breath, and the DJ couldn't get enough of 'Kaptein, span die seile'.

By about 1:30 I figured I best get home, especially since the lights had come on and the only 'men' left on the dance floor were old enough to be playing Canasta with my Mother. Now, no matter how utterly paralytic I am, I ALWAYS somehow manage to wash my face, brush my teeth and get into pyjamas. Even if I can't remember doing it. I will have done it. I have a diabolical fear of sleeping with my face caked in makeup. The result would be disturbing to say the least.

So I arrived home and went into the bathroom, simultaneously texting, pulling off my skirt and stuffing my face with a Lindt egg. I grab the blue bottle (which I assumed was eye makeup remover), smothered a cotton pad and lifted it to my eyes. It was about to touch down on my lids when I recognised the pungent smell of Nail Polish remover...

I looked to the shelf.

Omf.

I almost just took off my makeup with NAIL-POLISH REMOVER!

I ALMOST JUST KILLED MYSELF!!!

If I'd realised even a millisecond later I wouldn't have any eyes left to make up! I would've burnt a gaping hole though my eye lids and perished on the bathroom floor, writhing in pain, alone.

SO overwhelming was this thought in my inebriated state that all I could do was get into the empty bath tub and cry at the idea that I had almost singed my eyeballs. I then proceeded to try call everyone in my phone book (it was 2:30am) to tell them about my brush with death. Needless to say no one answered and by morning I had forgotten, and couldn't explain the 12 missed calls on my mother's, best friend's and optometrist's cell phones. It was only yesterday, when I decided to fix up my toenails that the smell of remover elicited the memory.

I cried again.

It was an emotionally taxing weekend. 

Do Not Disturb

Why do people come and say hello at gym?

LEAVE ME ALONE!

I'm not there for a social gathering. I'm there to make myself thin and hot for an actual social gathering. Where I will actually WANT to talk to you.

I have no make-up on, am sweating like a rapist, hair scraped back like a frigid ballet teacher, pushing myself to a potentially aggressive level, in the zone, pumping Avicii 'Levels', counting the calories as they burn off my body...

When I get a tap on my shoulder.

Annoying Person I Know: "Jolly Olive! Hi!"

Ignore.

Again:

APIK: "Yo Jolly Olive!"

Apparently very obviously irritated face means nothing, followed by slowly removing earphones, pausing hectic treadmill workout... stop, turn around.

Olive: "Yes?"
APIK: "Waz going down?!"
Olive: "My endorphins."
APIK: "You shvetting a little over there?"
Olive: "Who'd have thought."
APIK: "Not looking your best!"
Olive: "Did I not put on enough make-up?"
APIK: "So the knees must be better – you're running again?"
Olive: "I was..."
APIK: "We should do a run sometime."
Olive: "How about not."
APIK: "So is that your gym outfit?"
Olive: "No, my new dress was at the dry cleaners."

APIK then decides to get into a detailed explanation of his latest career prospects, oblivious to my annoyance. I start up the treadmill at a slow pace to make a point.

APIK: "That's pretty slow."
Olive: "So is this conversation."
APIK: "Do you run for long?"
Olive: "About as long as you've been talking!"
APIK: "Oh, er, should I leave you to it?"
Olive: "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

APIK is now APIDK (Annoying Person I Don't Know)... Coz he certainly no longer wants to know me.

The Master's Mare

I am currently living in Cape Town. But this is what went down at my home in Jo'burg in the early hours of this morning…

Lovely Brother decides: today he is going to get up extra early. Today he is going to wake up early so he can have a leisurely shower, enjoy a relaxing non-rushed breakfast of bacon and eggs, get changed into his ironed pinstripe suit and waddle off to work when he feels refreshed and awake and ready to take on the corporate day. Today he is going to not hit the snooze button on his alarm seven to eight times before moving, consequently waking up the rest of the house (something ALL men are guilty of!). Today he is going to get up straight away and take his time to enjoy the morning round The Jolly Olive household.

He walks sleepily, boxer-clad, to bathroom. Shuts bathroom door and hops into shower. Twenty minutes later, towel round waist, cleanly shaven, teeth brushed, aftershave applied, he tries to exit bathroom. But as he reaches for the door handle... the WHOLE STUPID THING COMES OFF IN HIS HAND!

Shit.

Now my mother is one to wake up early. Shuffling round the house, fixing flowers, opening the curtains, feeding the dog, opening windows, putting on the laundry. However, this morning, not feeling well she lay comatosed in a deep sleep, far away from the depths of the bathroom in which Lovely Brother now stood stuck in his towel. After trying everything in his manly power to open the door – kicking, scratching, pushing, pulling – for a good 40 minutes he began shouting… and shouting… and shouting. But Step Daddy was miles away in the land of Cape Town, and mother had drifted into Dreamland. When he realised his incessant screaming inside the house was going to do no good, he turned around to face the only other portal in the room – an eye level miniscule 10cm by 10cm window... He stuck his face through the bars and began yelling.

Fifteen minutes later, our faithful Thandi (who was getting ready for her day's work in the maid's quarters) became aware of a shreaking coming from outside. She raced out the door head-to-toe in the floral kit we gave her for Christmas, and realised it could only be the Master's voice. But where was it coming from?!?!?!

"Master? Master?"

She raced around the garden frantically, for fear of the Master's life, and came to the conclusion that it was coming form outside the front gate and he MUST be being hijacked on the street.

"Master, I'm COMING!!!!" she screams reassuringly as she presses the panic button, grabs a bread knife and hurries up the driveway.

She races on to the street to save her beloved Master, yet… he is nowhere to be seen. But the screaming continues. Thandi stands confused.

"MASTER? WHERE ARE YOU!?!?!"

It took all of an hour for Thandi to figure out that 'Master' was actually locked inside the house in the spare bathroom. By the time she arrived, Lovely Brother was shivering with cold, dishevelled, exhausted and had lost any sign of his voice after all the screaming.

Mother, who had finally risen from the dead, thought the whole situation was so hilarious, she could not stop laughing and promptly rang me to tell me about it, giggling so much she couldn't get the story out for a good five minutes. Lovely Brother was not amused, was late for work and is still not answering Mother's phonecalls.

It really was a fabulous start to my day.

The things I miss I at home...

Take the leap!

Happy Leap Day/Year to all. I thought it was any ordinary day until I read a tweet by Pongracz saying how lucky we are to have an extra day in the year to make memories, and that we should toast to it. I was going to attempt to be healthy at my braai tonight and forgo alcohol, but how could I ignore such an optimistic life-enhancing zealous tweet. So purchased a bottle of bubbles at lunch and am ready to jump this hump day.

So I went to this shoe shop today to fetch my favourite favourite sandals in all the world. My little gorgeous pink babies from Aldo have lasted me 3 years. I have walked them to hell and back, wearing them from everything to festivals, weddings, beaches, volcano climbing (yes, I did that once), promenade walks and Tiger Tiger. Last week, those poor lovely things, finally (I knew it was coming), literally snapped in half.

I was recommended a shoe shop. I took them to there. I paid a hefty amount and what I picked up this morning made my jaw drop...

What was a beautiful, thin beige sole, was now a revoltingly thick, heavy, flip-flop-type black rubber sole, which I am convinced was constructed out of an old car tyre. My delicate, exquisite sandals now resemble the frightening offspring of a croc and a strop. Any hope of wearing them to the wedding this Saturday has been dashed. If I dance too fast they'd melt. I'd have grip on an ice rink in those things. Anyone need a giant eraser? Tyre patch? A ping-pong bat?

F***

At least I won't ever be struck by lightening..

Tonight's bubbly is gonna go down even better.

What a drag

After a full day in bed post-hen party (at the infamous Beefcakes) I woke up Monday morning to see 'You have been tagged in 17 photos on Facebook' ...

SH*********T

Raced to work to find a number of disorderly images of an unrestrained Olive frolicking amongst topless men and drag queens, flourescent pink feather bower between my legs, a glass of Champagne in one hand, and a significantly large cucumber in the other...!?! Hastily detagged the erroneous evidence of inebriated lunacy, praying no one had yet seen said affirmation.

Mother had rung at 8am Sunday morning. In my unfathomably hungover state, and running on all of 3 hours sleep, I struggled to get out more than one word at a time let alone a coherent sentence.

Mother: MORNING DARLING!!
Olive: Ssshhhh.
Mother: What?
Olive: Head.
Mother: You were drunk last night.
Olive: What would make you say such a thing?!??!!
Mother: I got a text from you at 3.27am saying you'd ordered two golden retrievers off eBay.
Olive: Er.
Mother: And you sent your Father a photo of an enormous cucumber.
Olive: Um.
Mother: And then you asked your Father if he could pay you back for the golden retrievers!
Olive: Please... you're making my LC worse than it already is.
Mother: Go back to bed. And for God's cancel those dogs!

Cringe.

Had a hunch...

 WHY when you've been suffering for days and you finally book an appointment with a doctor, specialist, psychologist, physio, proctologist (hypothetically), whatever... that the morning of said appointment you wake up, and you feel absolutely wonderful. Stupendous. Like a million ZAR. The healthiest, strongest person alive. Midas.

If you had a sore throat, you feel like you could dominate the local karaoke bar. If you had a boil (sis), it's (hopefully) mysteriously vanished. If you had a sore ankle, you now feel like you could run up the 2430 metres above sea level to Macchu Picchu. (I'm choosing not to revert back to the proctologist comment.)

This whole week have had pounding head and sore ears due to severely aching back and knotted neck. Finally decided must pay visit to lovely physio for checkup, and... what do you know, I wake up this morning feeling like I've drunk the elixir of life (and not those 4 glasses of bubbly someone I was forced to drink last night).

Am attributing this to the fact that it is Friday and perhaps subconsciously one is automatically less tense on this excellent day.

But despite all, am very much still determined to get a massage, so have purposefully re-angled my screen (to cause significant neck strain). At one point was even caught banging my head against the keyboard in trying to find my headache. And have been sitting in particularly odd hunched-over positions all morning in a pathetic attempt to make back seize up again.

Realised how visibly absurb I looked when the IT guy shouted from across the office: 'Morning Quasi.'

In the spirit of things, I leave you with a joke for the day:

What's wrapped in plastic and hangs from the top of a bell tower? 

The Lunchpack of Notre Dame.

A mothful

Was lying peacefully under gale-force-winds fan on my couch last night (suffering from significant Sunday Blues after Cape Town Tens), in minimal clothing due to life-threatening heatwave, watching Downton Abbey (new favourite series) and scoffing down a Steers chocolate-and-caramel soft serve... when Mothzilla (directly proportionate to the size of a small albatross) flew in front on my fan and was blasted directly into my face! Of course, anyone's natural reaction would be to FREAK OUT COMPLETELY, THROW ICE CREAM ACROSS ROOM, PULL OFF VEST, MANICALLY SHAKE HEAD INCASE MOTH STUCK IN HAIR, RUN AROUND TOPLESS SPITTING OUT MOTH-WING DUST AND SLAPPING SELF RETARDEDLY INCASE MOTH FEEDING ON SKIN...

...Until finally coming to a halt and seeing giant human-eating Moth-ness Monster drowning in pool of runny icecream and chocolate sauce on carpet.

And yes, the neighbours were watching. Again.