December 29, 2011

Ode to tuna.

These days I find it sometimes hard to know what a person should or shouldn't eat. A dark grey zone for me is tuna. One that I usually tend to ignore the controversy, because I simply adore tuna. Today I may have gone over board a bit though. Starting with my dinner of a tuna tartare the size of my 2 fists together, I also had this for lunch:



In case you are unsure what you are looking at - it is of course rum punch accompanied by a tuna steak, medium rare, topped with two slices of foie gras. No kidding.

December 28, 2011

Vacation diaries.

Things got progressively better after the first incident of the airline almost loosing my luggage. Here is what you have missed so far...

I ate THE best macaroon ever. That is important, especially for my friend Julia to know. 


 I managed to taste myself through 5 sorts of rum punch so far, the highlight being our lunch chez Madame Cannibal yesterday where they offered over ten different varieties, all already stationed on our table.

The result: except for the very fancy lunch spot we found today, which offers punch at a shocking EUR 7 (to give you a comparison, they are usually about EUR 2), they all have too much rum, which makes them quite potent and quite delicious.

Though the travel guide was lying (“short stretches lead steeply uphill”), I managed to hike all the way steeply uphill to the place of 3 waterfalls and a scared the tourists who I met up there by jumping over rocks to get my pictures done. I thought after that hike the risk was worth it.

I escaped the fog and hiked up a little volcano, knowing quite well I would have to make my way up here again: 

I call it Biskop Steps to the power of ten. 


 I had my Dad tell me about 534 volcano jokes.

I learned that there are in fact mosquitos at 1500m height.

I had an afternoon nap here: 


 I managed to order red wine in French fluently. What more does a girl need to know?

December 27, 2011

House punch.

One would assume vacationing with your father in a tropical paradise and meeting a boy you really like are a sign of 'life can't get any better.' Especially since one would assume that being quite aloof and the perfect holiday version of yourself with the guy, will only work to your advantage on the short and long run.
I realized only today that life is not that simple and one needs a lot of Punch a la Maison aka rum punch to survive such endeavour.
The overall problem might be quite simple – you are not quite yet in love but very much in lust and sharing a room with Dad is just not all that exciting. On top of it all your luggage being lost for an hour at 6am local time, being 4am your time, doesn't help to improve the mood. The cute man in charge of finding the luggage only helps improving the mood when he actually, finally does indeed find your luggage. You enjoy the drive to the hotel all of a sudden, knowing that the shower awaiting can indeed be followed and enjoyed by a change of clothing.

A nap, a dip in the pool, renting a car is followed by the search for food. Difficult in a French department where apparently hair salons are more important on a Sunday noon than lunch. Thinking of Thekla and Adam I call the crappy lentils we have with rice for lunch, Dahl, and everything feels good with the world again.

The drive to Hell Bourg, a little Creole mountain village, is simply majestic, mystic, and mind boggling. We are swallowed by lush and wet green mountains, dips of rain, cascading waterfalls. If it wasn't for the narrowest roads and the craziest drivers, I would have asked my Dad to stop every 100m to take yet another picture.


When we arrive there is more rain. Sprinkling. The air feels thick and moist with or despite the rain. There is fog, clouds, and more lush green all around. Amongst all of this a little crappy garden gate with a nest of light pink orchids. I cannot recall ever seeing orchids in the wild.

Coming back to a room that smells like water (some people call it mildew, I call it ocean and I love it), I channel my friend Julia's poetic text messages. Or so I think. The reply seems a bit demure. Though I guess someone calling me 'baby' mustn't hate me. More rum punch helps my case. The mountains have disappeared in rain and darkness. I will now disappear in sleepy darkness and knowing that one maybe can have it all, yet having it all is always easier with punch.
Flowers after 2 glasses of punch.
My Hell Bourg "office". 

La vacation and butterflies.

So there - I feel like me again for the time being, getting annoyed by the flight attendant bumping into my arm for the forth time and the plane air making me freeze after almost suffocating us while we were still on the ground.

Life has been good. Life has been so good that I seemed to suffer from a little anxiety attack this morning. I think it was brought about from being too happy or something. No Christmas chaos and last minute present shopping was able to change this. Quite the opposite. Life has been so good that I am listening to countless Adele to remind me that it isn't always like this and one should cherish every moment of it. My life has officially become somehow quite perfect. I'm a calm sea of smiles with a few butterflies to go along with the smiles.

Just in case you haven't gathered what is going on … the flight attendant annoying me is on the plane, taking my Dad and me to La Reunion and the butterflies are curtesy of a guy. A guy waiting for me to return. Or so it seems...

December 21, 2011

Happy kitty holidays.

I wish I could sound all grown-up and cool and pretend I prefer Thanksgiving to all other holidays as it is in fact the least commercial one and I think should be celebrated by all, American or not. Saying thanks with family is simply nice and everybody should do it.
Alas, I cannot. I adore Christmas. I adore presents. I love giving presents and I love getting them too. When I was little I combined the two – I would use my pocket money to buy presents for my dolls, which ultimately ended up looking very much like things I had added to my wish list already. My mother had a hard time reinforcing her mantra to keep things excited for Christmas Eve – you mustn’t buy things you want, just because you can, when Christmas is approaching. Now that I have been out of the house and away from her watchful eye for some years, her mantra is completely gone. These days as most parental presents come in some form of money, it seems to reinforce my pre-Christmas shopping craze. Though I do love the fact that no matter how old I get, they still always get me something for ‘under the tree’.
My love for gift swapping hasn’t subsided since I moved here, but the overall holiday feel is lacking a bit. As much as I don’t want to exchange sunshine for snow, fair weather is just doing a bad job in creating a festive atmosphere for me. I have been less than enthusiastic to decorate my flat or even considered getting a tree; it just feels all wrong. That was till I went to Raith’s the other day, found this, and couldn’t resist:


A Knusperhäuschen was one of my favourite things during Advent when I was little and Hello Kitty, well, Hello Kitty just makes everything better anyhow.

That was the idea. This ended up being reality:

No need to point out that it has been a while since I decorated a Knusperhäuschen and yes, I truly suck at it. It doesn’t matter though, I love it, and the Kitty faces covered in icing sugar instead of being properly glued onto the cookies actually just make me laugh. So there – first cheesy holiday decoration in history, guests are actually allowed to laugh at…

Happy Holidays.

December 16, 2011

Eternity and silliness.

I want to travel, I want to be in New York, I want to write, I want to have intelligent conversations, I want to be someone else every day.
And then I want so much more. I want to feel a tiny bit crazy. I want to be just me. I want to have this beautiful knot in my stomach. I want to blush ferociously. I want to have a secret little grin on my face. I want to be exactly where I am. And just for this little second I want to capture the way I feel... for eternity.

December 14, 2011

Yeah yeah yeah.

I sometimes wish I was one of those people who could get away with writing or saying things like “Hell yeah, bitches!” It may not be very proper or polite, but sometimes it just feels appropriate. I am not one of these people though. It makes me sound like an idiot and I am fully aware of it. Today however is one of these days when I just have to make an exception and just go with. So here it is … a triple “Hell yeah, bitches!” for … my Dad arriving today… us going here on vacation here …




… and for pizza nights when it’s raining outside

December 9, 2011

Of weddings and vampires.

This was supposed to be a straight on wedding reminiscence and congratulations post, not sure how it happened, but the vampires just snuck in somehow…

Weddings, even when not your own, are a tricky one. The line between just going down to City Hall and a big white Hollywood thing a la Breaking Down is actually quite fine. I would say I don't want either, but I will admit I was completely mesmerized by those hanging tree branches covered with white flowers in the latter that made everything just look magical. Or for me magical as in vampires eating Mississippi Mud pie, which I totally dig. I know - no more True Blood for me. Anyhow back to the real weddings…

The only wedding I really remember is my friend's Deniz, who in fact went all out and avoided an either or scenario by simply having three weddings. One at City Hall in NY, classical with post-yes dry martinis; one in New Orleans, and one in Istanbul. I attended New Orleans and that may have started my Mississippi Mud pie wedding craving, because at that time no vampire except Brad Pitt or Buffy had ever be seen on a TV screen.
I remember it was beautifully hot and humid, everything we ate was fried, and we convinced Kervin to not only buy, but also wear a t-shirt saying “I have the body of a God (unfortunately it's Buddha)”. In addition we just spend an overall great amount lounging by the hotel pool, drinking Coronas, and convincing even the bride to cancel her hair appointment so she could join us for the fun. The outrage Gladys and I displayed when Ipek got us egg salad sandwiches instead of Po'boys for lunch that day still makes me giggle and long for a fried oyster Po'boy.

I was fortunate enough to never attend a traditional wedding, where a pink bow on my butt or similar scariness would have been required of me. It looks like my wedding luck continues as here comes the next bride who is so chilled in fact I seem to have more butterflies than she does. My amazing, wonderful, beautiful cousin, and best friend Thekla and her Adam are getting married. After some thoughts, a long engagement, some more thoughts, tomorrow now is the day. No big ceremony, no big white dress, no bridesmaids (I will just pretend a little bit and use it as an excuse to go to the spa). Simply two people saying yes, two witnesses, two kittens followed by champagne, family, friends…

Simple or not, I must admit I am still excited like a little child with the genuine feeling of complete selflessness – two wonderful people are getting married. Both are great. Together they are even greater. I believe in that and I will remind them if they will ever need a reminder.
Sorry, getting a bit teary here (not that you would actually know), but...that's okay, bridesmaid or not...it's a wedding!

Big kiss and the best wishes for your life together, Thekla and Adam Salmon!

December 2, 2011

Work and play.

It is an untypical Friday afternoon as the office is quiet and there are no last minute pre-weekend emergencies. Pure bliss and I am using the time wisely for a sneaky little post before getting into the inner debate of whether I should do a yoga class after work or drink wine.

Due to my co-worker getting very drunk last night and being m.i.a. till I got a very hung over SMS this morning at 08h30, I was thinking of what my Mum always told me: if you can party, you can work. An unfit translation, but I think it gets my point across and she got hers as I always stuck to this rule. Mind you there were definitely days I only survived with massive amounts of muffins, coffee, KFC/Mc Donald’s/Full English breakfast, but I always made it to work and with one half exception always on time. And so the story goes…

It was the night of Marie’s and my first going away party (yes, we had more than one) at a beautifully dodgy place somewhere in Alphabet City. I was due to fly for a last job to L.A. the next morning and little organized me had booked a shuttle for 06h00 to meet at my office to collect 10 trunks of wardrobe and take me to the airport from there. I am not quite sure if staying up all night was actually part of this plan and since I like my sleep I would assume not. The party though was too much fun and I don’t remember much except the Oreo cake someone had given Marie. This cake landed on the floor at some point. There is a picture of my red toe nails in navy Old Navy flipflops next to this cake. Luckily the cake was the exception to the rule and landed on the right side. Which Kervin didn’t know so there is also a picture of him pulling a face when Deniz tried to feed him with the cake after we had recovered it.

This incident actually sounded funnier in my head. Guess one had to be there…

The next thing I remember is sitting on my bed thinking it a wise idea to rather stay awake instead of attempting to sleep for 2 hours. Then my eyes closed and I was more or less woken up by a phone call from my frantic driver inquiring where I was. He was in front of my office with 10 trunks and well, I was drunk and in bed.
Sometimes I am amazed by my own organizational skills, who seem to be able to work on auto pilot when times are tough.

I: Shower and getting dressed.
Driver: Driving to my house.
I: Packing my personal stuff as in throwing random pieces of clothing in a bag.
I actually do not have a clue why I didn’t do that the night before, such a rookie error!

Driver & I: Driving to my office.
Driver: Loading 10 trunks and counting twice.
He could see I was in not state to do that, I didn’t even have to ask.

Driver: Hitting the gas hard.
I: Requesting him to pull over for Gatorate and a snack.
He didn’t even argue, he knew I wouldn’t make it out alive without.

Driver & I: Actually arriving at the gate just in time.
…to be told that if it was just me they would let me on board, but since it was me + 10, no sorry can’t do. Alas, this story only counts as a half exception as I still blame the luggage for having to catch the later plane and not making it to work on time.
Call it work and play German style and imagine my smug grin here. Though the Gods did punish me: still drunk plane rides are no walk in the park and neither are bright orange wallpapers in the hotel room once off the plane.
Therefore I will be eternally grateful that even in healthy and chic L.A. one can order a plain old greasy burger with fries for second breakfast.

November 30, 2011

Skipping along.

When does anything mean something?

Is there a rule for stuff? I am completely addicted to Olly Murs' Heart Skips a Beat. So many moments flush back to me when my heart skip, skipped a beat and I am loving it. Then again – did it mean anything? Usually no, it didn't. You can blame it on me being a teenager. Maybe.

These days? A bit more tricky. Emails don't matter. At least not if you have a girlfriend. Looks don't matter. Ever. Macaroons don't even matter these days. They are just friendly ammunition.

What does really matter? When do things mean something??

In case you haven't realized, I am confused and listening to the same song over and over while having Skype conversations I don't really want to have. C'est la vie.

November 27, 2011

The cowboy and the hedgehog.

Do you know the Cowboy phenomenon? I'm not sure because if you don't travel the subway daily it may not be very evident, but coming from years of subway travelling in NY I know it well. It is the way how most guys will pretend to be a cowboy, having so much in between their legs that they just can't keep them shut and therefore will take up two seats. I'm not sure what came first – cowboys for a lack of subway just walking with their legs wide apart to impress the ladies and regular guys these days just imitating cowboys or them actually being too, well, big to sit like a normal person i.e. girl. At least the cowboys were just funny to look at, these days it is just plain annoying and rude – especially if you are on an overcrowded subway with no air-con in summer.

Anyhow – today I have a lot more sympathy for the cowboys at least, because I spend yesterday afternoon on a horse and now need to move my leg with both hands when I want to cross them.
Needless to say that is was still very worth it, because trotting on a horse amongst vineyards with your friend on a fine Saturday is just a lekker way to pass time.

This got me thinking today about things to be grateful. Which I usually wouldn't share like this because quite frankly I hate these happy blog lists. No offense to people who do, they just always seem a bit forced to me – especially coming on a Sunday. But this week I really learned to count my blessings, alas here we go with things I am grateful for this week:

Having the only horse who ate vines and managed to pull out whole bunches while walking. I thought he was just really relating to me – I love wine, he loves vines.

Having the urge to run to a yoga class and managing to stay in the room though I was full to the brim with sushi. Though the urge part is probably what I am most grateful for. It is quite beautiful to really have the urge to do something, which will be somehow meaningful or just plain good for you.

Having a co-worker who buys me pink bubbly for no reason. I am still quite chuffed about it somehow. It sits in my fridge and it makes me happy to look at it. Thank you, Mark!

Changing my winter wardrobe to summer wardrobe and finding my old favourite dress and re-finding a dress I didn't think I would like anymore. Now I like it again so much that I am wearing it now and don't even mind freezing.

Reading “The Elegance of the Hedgehog”, a book so unbelievable beautiful it makes me laugh out loud, cry, and go to bed quite early so I can be with it.

That is that. and in line with my whole French practise I say merci for a grand week.*

*And yes, my French hasn't progressed any further than that. I know, I know...

November 23, 2011

Bedtime story.

Just a quick one as I have been really busy, but have also been feeling healthy as in getting 10 hours of sleep every night to make up for the busyness. That's why it has to be quick otherwise I won't make the 10 hours. Yes, I know my friends with babies will roll their eyes here and probably stop reading out of protest. Fair enough.
In addition to all the sleep I literally ran to yoga twice already this week and that even though I had to go to another studio which only offers 60 minute Bikram classes. The Antichrist of Bikram classes for me. Usually. What can I say? I still ran and I got a lesson in humility on the way.
Now I just had a fresh squeezed orange juice for dinner. Let me repeat slowly: Me. Voluntarily. Orange juice = dinner. Unheard of. Especially after strolling the aisles of Superstar for half an hour before class to get something decent i.e. pasta. I will write it off under healthy week for now, though me not wanting dinner is actually a bit worrisome.
The only unhealthy thing I did was smoke in my dream last night and it was actually quite yummy. But then it was bright daylight again and the smoking allure vanished when the only other person around me smoking today was on of the team members, I am looking after, and who is actually quite a bitch. So I wouldn't want to be associated in any way and be it just by sharing a smoke.

Other than that I can just say change is coming. Good change. Big change. I can feel it. Lessons have been learned (except the French ones – language that is for my trip of course) and now it's time...goodness is in the air. Just a little spark. For now I will smile, bow my head, and say night night.

November 17, 2011

C'est la fucking vie.*

*excuse my language.


I know I am supposed to tell funny stories. I guess that's why I am here, because that's why you are here. The wind is howling though and I do not feel funny at all. I am hormonal and emotional and I wish I was in New York. Chrisp air and sunshine, Mudtruck coffee in the morning and on a special day a raspberry scone from Dean & Deluca, and with all of it the clicking of high heels on the sidewalk. The fact that my spell check for mysterious reasons has changed the word sidewalk to pavement 3 times in a row and once more in this sentence isn't helping. I'm listening to a song talking about Africa and all I want is home. As in New York. Though my heart cringes in a good way when I hear the words about Africa. I am in Africa. And miss New York; silly me. There I would sit at Bua, having a Corona. After having a steak with thin fries at Mogador. Or a delivery of arepas from Caracas and Friends with my friends and Julian, the stinky cat.

I do know that even if I was there, all would be different. Two of my friends married with a little baby boy. A friend, my Mum wanted me to marry, living with his boyfriend. My bestest friend ever far away, back in Germany. So it is just me. Still dreaming of the same stuff. Everybody else has already arrived.
I was recently praised for my honesty. Praised from a guy who in the end wasn't all that interested in me. C'est la vie. So there I am with my honesty. I can't bear the thought of leaving Cape Town, I miss New York, and I don't know if I will ever … finish this sentence.  

November 16, 2011

Wasabi leaves.

The last weekend was fully planned to the brim with activities in honour of my friend Nele being in town. But as usual when there is me involved only the activities that included drinks really got to shine. Though in this case I am more than comfortable to blame the weather…

Due to a lack of heat Crystal Pools was promptly substituted with sushi and wine at the V&A. In hindsight we were quite happy that Sevruga didn’t seem to want our money as we ended up on the deck of the new Harbour House, me burning my left shoulder, enjoying wasabi leaves (you can tell by the title of this post that the leaves were clearly a highlight for me) and tour boat views.



Sunday plans were drowned in … rain. No big walk, but just big hang over and the aftermath i.e. pizza and red wine. Happy days.

November 7, 2011

Monday's bachelor.

No news about the fact that Mondays usually suck. It’s in their nature. Today is no exception. Today is the epiphany of a Monday. I went on a very civilized pizza date last night and returned with no voice and no idea whatsoever if the guy wants to see me again. To make it clear: I would very much like to see him again. Any idea how much it sucks and pulls on my patience (which is little at the best of times) to not know whether he feels the same?

Those are the moments when I love a concept like “The Bachelor” purely for its lack of mixed messages. You get a rose or you don’t. Rose great, he wants to get to know you better; no rose cool, you can move on with your life. No mixed messages. Also you get your answer within 24 hours, which I find crucial for my sanity. In real life things are all different and in my opinion quite messed up. There is no answer within 24 hour guarantee, it can take up to a week and still be acceptable in some cultures. Some answers aren’t even real answers. There is usually a lot of maybe floating around. Insane driving maybe. When was maybe ever an acceptable concept?

The other problem is that these days it is not even clear who is the bachelor and who the contestant. Am I supposed to sit around, just assume and wait or take the initiative and hand out a rose myself? And if a certain someone* decides to go against better judgement and hands out the modern day version of a rose aka SMS themselves, what is an acceptable time frame to accept or decline the token of interest? Answers please! And no, an answer with maybe in it, does not count.

UPDATE: I just got a lovely SMS from a certain bachelor, saying thank you, but no thank you. So here I am now - no rose, but happy to know that some men still have balls.

*Yes, we all know that would be me. I know, I know...

November 2, 2011

Happy landing.

I usually love fetching people from the airport. It doesn’t even matter who I fetch and that’s because just to stand in the arrivals hall makes me happy. My romantic heart can come out and play. You will never see a grumpy face, but lovers reunited, family gatherings, and even the people who just have a taxi driver waiting for them, are happy because they are finally off the plane. It’s happiness all around.

Last Sunday though it got a bit much and even my romantic heart turned cynic. First a lady, who was waiting, filmed another lady coming out. That one was screaming and shouting and waving her arms. I guess it made for a really good picture in her mind, though everyone around seemed a little embarrassed on their behalf. It got worse. Now another lady with her boyfriend/husband/whatever got out, started crying and hugging a probably long lost sister or something dramatic to that degree. The boyfriend/husband/whatever stood next to them and started to take pictures of the two. From all angles. I mean come on, they just got off a plane and the first thing he needs to document in Cape Town is that? Really?
I was barely done rolling my eyes, when I spotted my friend Nele and I hopped and skipped towards her. I was promptly ‘punished’ for my eye rolling, because when she saw me, she stopped dead, pulled a face and ... started crying.
Though to my surprise I realized – there was nothing embarrassing about it. I just wished I had had my camera to take a picture of her. Because in the end, cheesy or not, it’s the arrivals hall and people just cry sometimes after a happy landing, just happy to have finally arrived.

October 25, 2011

Happy pasta (holic) day!

I know I just did a pastaholic post, but I thought I quickly had to share the exciting news: It is World Pasta Day today. I must admit I didn’t even know such thing existed, probably because for me, every day is pasta day. In the vast sea of ordinary days and world something something days I couldn’t care less about, I am thrilled to know that such a thing as Pasta Day exists. It makes me happy. It shows me there are still things right in the world. Best of all –I can stuff myself with pasta tonight without feeling guilty one little bit. In fact I think I will have pasta for lunch as well in order to honour this day as it deserves!

From an old blog post, but so fitting for today.


October 24, 2011

Into the wild with YSL.

It is no big secret that I am not the most outdoorsy person. Outdoorsy in a South African kind of way. When it comes to the European or New York kind of way I am very outdoorsy. I am quite comfortable in any kind of sidewalk cafe with a glass of bubbly as well as running up and down Soho streets with a credit card in my hand. Unfortunately that doesn’t count in Cape Town.
The only appeal that the outdoors African style would have for me is the chance to dress up in vintage YSL safari gear. But again this doesn’t work here, South Africans just love fleece too much, whereas it gives me a visual rash.

You can tell me Dad is a different generation. Without even trying he had the YSL safari look down.
Namibia, Christmas 2009.

Despite the fashion factor, I tried, but getting into this kind of lifestyle has proven difficult for the simple reasons that my friends split into two groups: the group that would rather drink the bubbly with me and the group that is so crazy outdoorsy that any attempt to join made me feel completely inadequate and usually didn’t work. Even my attempts of getting into the whole big wild slowly i.e. in form of a festival or something didn’t end well. A torn ankle ligament finally proved that my cowboy boots are really no cowboy boots, but made for the city girl in me (in fact there aren’t even cowboy boots, but try to explain that to people like my uncle), and countless fights with my ex, proved to me that world peace would have a much better chance if there were proper drinks involved and no sleeping in a tent required.
My Country Road meets YSL safari version,
which I have to admit, is not really meant for the great outdoors.
So I have been sticking to the inside of my yoga studio or walks on the promenade if I need a fresh breeze in my face. I don’t necessarily like it, but I have come to accept it and when I secretly look up longingly to Lions Head when the moon is full, I remind myself of the one and only time I attempted to go up there and how I paid the price: One fully broken camera for getting up a half a mountain (not due to my inadequacy but to a really thick fog coming in).

Having that said, I was quite excited when my new friend Kate asked me to go for a hike with her yesterday. Kate is the perfect friend to go hiking with for someone like me – she is enthusiastic, knows her way around, but can take it easy and doesn’t roll her eyes when I grab for my water bottle.

With this plan in mind and the volcano of Reunion looming on the horizon I set out to conquer my nemesis: Century City. If Yves Saint Laurent could do it and make it chic, so could I – hiking boots were on my shopping list. I will spare you the details. There is nothing chic about getting into arguments with Cape Union Mart sales people. How do you explain to someone that you want indeed the pair that looks old and raggedy already? That it will spare you a few trips up the mountain because they already look like adventure and desert and ‘The English Patient’. Nope. He did not get it and neither did I. These boots that is. They were sold out everywhere in my size. So I had no choice, but buy the newish looking pair. I can proudly report that they already show a few scuff marks after my first venturing into nature yesterday.

I expect them to look fully worn, telling stories of the wild in no time. And should it take too long for my impatient mind, I think I can still remember a trick or two from my styling kit to make the new look old and cool...

October 14, 2011

Pastaholic speaks the truth.

I was working last weekend and was also quite busy over the week. My body and mind are not used to it yet after the long, lazy winter break so they were screaming for comfort after work. Comfort comes in form of pasta for me, so much pasta in fact I will not even put it in writing.
With all that deliciousness on my dinner plate a few things became clear to me over the last couple of days. I shall call it “The truth about pasta”. All really true and tested of course.

1. Different pasta shapes do taste differently. That is a fact.

2. Pasta without parmesan cheese is only half the pasta it could be with parmesan cheese.

3. Whatever you may have thought as a student, no Ramen Noodles (or Two Minute Noodles as you South Africans call it) are not pasta.

4. Pasta is like pizza (only better of course): they both taste great cold at 4am or for breakfast.

5. Pasta is universal. Everybody at least likes if not loves pasta (Unless you are Victoria Beckham, but I think even she would, if she didn’t have to look sexy for David all the time, who seems to like them extra skinny.)

6. Uncooked pasta is the best snack while cooking pasta.

7. Yes, even a pasta dish can be f***ed up. So pay attention while cooking the most glorious food of all!

8. Lady & The Tramp have already proven that pasta is perfect date food.

9. My last trip to Rome was a shocking revelation of the fact that you can easily eat pasta twice a day for a week without getting bored, fed up or even feel guilty.

10. Pasta and parmesan are the kind of love affair you always wanted, but never had. Except now, on a plate. Therefore one must cherish and write songs about it.

11. The only thing I hate about historic novels is that they never eat pasta. I never quite understand the excitement they show about the invention of something silly like ... say a potato.

12. I wish I could say the only pasta better than pasta is pasta with chocolate, but I actually don't believe that to be true.

Is it dinner time yet?

October 12, 2011

My high club.

Sometimes I get overexcited about silly, stupid, little things. Especially when there is nothing else going on in my life, deserving a proper amount of getting excited over. Last night that wasn’t the case. Last night was a bungee jump of excitement for me. The recipe for that was simple and didn’t involve great heights except the ones my mood went. All that was needed was a bottle of bubbly, a sabre, a bit of guidance, and voila I sabred* my very first bottle of bubbly. Two hours later I still felt the adrenalin rushing through me. Okay, maybe mixed a bit with one of the six glasses of wine I tasted after the sabring. Though they are definitely not main reason for the rush I felt, really. Just look at it:
My favourite bubbly and my newfound favourite way of opening it.
Mind you, Nigel was literally holding my hand and moving it, but he was quite nonchalant about it, letting me take all the credit.
The one day I had already been taking so many pictures that I got sick and tired of it and left my camera at home, thinking what excitement can possibly happen at a wine tasting? Am I really going to be taking pictures of Chardonnay? Hm, no. But Murphy’s Law would have it that I got the chance for a great photo op, though in my case it wasn’t so much chance as begging and pleading, and no camera in sight. It would have been a stunning picture since it was a proper sabre too. Engraved it came with a bag/case/whatdoyoucallitforsabres and looked all dashing and swashbuckling. Cathy told me that her husband can do it with a tea spoon. In a way that is quite impressive. In another way it is not. It is having high tea with the queen versus a drink with Jack Sparrow.

So there...I feel like I have moved to a new club - the mile high club of bottle opening.

*Yes, I know it's not, but it should be a verb too.

October 8, 2011

Rocket, flowers and a caramel truffle.

In case you wonder about my mental state after last week – I am a happy girl again with sunshine and light all around me. I am in fact about to draw little bunny rabbits on all over this page. Not. That wouldn't be very me, but I am all smiles and I don't even mind working this weekend. Mainly because a) it is a for a good cause and b) as it comes with the territory I get to be outside. I was on my way to buy sunscreen after a client meeting today to be able to enjoy my balcony fully when I saw my reflection in the mirror and guess what – I already got a 'tan' . Okay fine, I got burned.

No, no picture of my burned cleavage coming up here. Sorry.

What else can I say about this weekend? I realized I am a creature of utter and total habit – I found myself yet again at the City Bowl Market buying yet again flowers, 1 spicy sausage, 2 tuna steaks, 1 salted caramel truffle and 1 cappuccino. I also bought a sandwich for a change, which unfortunately caused my whole routine to crumble, literally, and I dropped my coffee.


Can anyone identify these flowers for me? They look like oversized differently coloured violets and they smell amazing.

I also read somewhere that if you grow rocket love will come to you. Now look at this:

That of course might be complete nonsense, made up by someone like me, but still I'm quite happy the rule doesn't apply to basil. I would be screwed and not in the good way.

So tonight I set up office on my balcony and it is stunning all around. Have I mentioned how much I love it to hear the sounds coming up from Bo-Kaap calling for prayer? It makes me feel I'm in a very exotic place, it is like vacation, adventure and a feeling of home all together. It also reminds me of New York, but that is a different story...Today I will just be a little blogger and one of those, saying: Happy Weekend and yes, yes early birds/bookies – good luck for tomorrow!

Did I spell bookie correctly?

October 6, 2011

A walk in the park.

Literally, that was the black out for me last week. Taking things as they come these days, I was actually quite excited to be unable to work or be reached and went to Company Gardens. I don’t go there ever, which I realize is quite sad, because you could call it essentially my extended balcony. Like Bua, the Irish Bar on St. Marks Place, was our extended living room when we lived in the East Village. Proximity so close, it’s technically part of your flat.
So I went and I thought it a perfect idea to finally visit the library – yes, yes, I am a nerd. I liked the thought of going back to the roots i.e. books when technology failed. I quite underestimated how far this technology had crept into all part of our lives: The library was closed – due to no light and no security scans possible. What a bummer, but the forced walk in the park made up for it and I learned loads too:

White squirrels are exciting and novel in real, but really scary looking in pictures.
I don’t mind tourists so much when pretending to be one of them.
As much as I love taking self-portraits when walking around with my big shades, they just do not work. Just believe me, don’t expect proof.
You sometimes don’t notice a sprinkler till it is too late.
Marie is still right – macro shots rock!









 

October 3, 2011

The Frenchman's final chapter.

Okay, so my weekend was less than peachy. The upside here is that now even a usually common Monday feels quite grand as I am just so happy the weekend is over. There is also a prego roll on the horizon for tonight. Yum.
This is just a short and sweet warning to girls anywhere in the world: Beware. Murphy’s Law works on weekends as well. I thought the bugger was off yesterday, so I left the house sans make-up, wearing sweatpants. After all it was just Sunday and what excitement could there be at Pick ‘n Pay? Excitement in a very tall, very French form right at the entrance by the baskets – voila the Frenchman. I thought it best to face him head on as I didn’t feel like hiding behind shelves for the remainder of my shopping. Off we went with the hugging and the niceties:

He: I thought about you... yesterday.

Me: Funny that. Me too. (Actually true, I was looking for a French translation.)

He: Reeeally? Accompanied by THAT look.

Dude. We are done and over. Do not give me THAT look anymore.

On we moved with our trolleys, talking about electric kettles. Next thing I am informed that he moved and his girlfriend helped him buy new furniture for his flat yesterday.

“Dear men everywhere, do not give a girl you once dated THAT look and tell her two minutes later you have a new girlfriend/ interior decorator. And dear men, on that note – don’t not ever pay for dinner and then tell me you spend a fortune on new furniture with your new girlfriend. Just don’t. Especially not after giving me THAT look. Sincerely, girls everywhere.”

I managed to lose him between aisle 12 & 13 and urged the cashier to hurry up. Exit now! At home I realized a glass of wine was in order, after all it was after noon, it was Sunday, and I had just had a bit of an exorcism, surely three good enough reasons.

Today I feel like phoenix from the ashes. A good feeling which even lasted after reading an email from him, telling me how good it was to see me. Still feeling good after reading a second email from him a few hours later, asking me if I want new episodes of our favourite show. But still...

“Dear men everywhere, do not give a girl you once dated THAT look, then tell her about your new girlfriend, and then send her emails. I mean – seriously? Just don’t. Sincerely, just me.” Just saying.

September 27, 2011

Of yoga and dragons.

I just put this on facebook: “i'm trying to write a post about yoga and dragons. i don't think it will make sense to anyone but me.” Consider it a warning, but I thought this post needed to be written.

Have I mentioned how much I adore the movie ‘How to Train Your Dragon’? And that I was running around for days after and told everyone I wanted to have a Night Fury? Yes, I know the film only came out last year, which makes me a fully grown up person with a slight dragon fetish. I also believe I would have made an excellent addition to the Harry Potter squad of dragon keepers. You can get the extend of my dragon love by watching this again – I mean, come on, I filmed an entire episode of Life with my camera to show you amazing sea dragons dancing.

So there I was with my affinity to dragons on my yoga mat yesterday, though feeling like a freaking knight sent out to slay the dragon. I was Siegfried* and no questions asked. I had dragons and demons and all other kind of creatures inside of me and on my mat, which needed banishing. Or so it felt. It was quite scary actually. A night fury on its own. On top of it all I got quite mad, because I didn’t find the peace I was looking for in my practise. One thinks that doing yoga will give you peace of mind, some spiritual awakening or light. I got nada and then quite pissed actually. Then even more scared. I almost cried quite a few times. I think for the past few weeks I have almost avoided my mat, because it scares me. The things that move in my head, that come up out of nowhere it seems, make me want to run for the hills and never stop or look back . Like facing the really scary kind of dragon, the Night Fury kind before you know that it is a vegetarian dragon.
So after weeks of feeling uneasy in a place that usually feels home to me, something happened last night. Complete Night Fury epiphany. Class was over. I was lying still in blue light. The dragon had curled up beside me and started to purr. Everything was well again and silent. The thing that I had been fighting in me - it turned out to be a good dragon all along. I just didn’t know and was too scared to look till it came running directly towards me.
I came home and for the rest of the evening I felt like I was on a cloud and glowing. I couldn’t sleep, but that sometimes happens after yoga, I call it yoga insomnia and it’s quite beautiful. I woke up this morning and the cloud was still there. It still is now.

So there – piece of wisdom for the day: Face your dragons, don’t run away, stare them in the eyes, take them home, screw meat-free Monday, and feed them meatballs. And if you still ask yourself what this post was all about, just think of me with a little dragon sitting on my lap, doing 108 Oms tonight – it may just make you smile.

*German dragon Siegfried, not American tiger Siegfried!

September 24, 2011

Gone Shopping.

My friend once gave me a little ceramic sign, which said 'Gone Shopping'. I have seen similar ones here saying 'Gone Surfing/Fishing', but shopping was definitely more appropriate for someone like me.

You can call it the final step or the last resort of getting over someone, but in the end it will always be this for any woman: retail therapy. Though the crowds at any mall on Saturdays scare me, I know it was just what my soul needed and buying flowers at the Hope Street market wouldn't suffice. I also debated briefly with myself over the state of my account, it being the end of the month and all, but guess what – I won the debate and so did my credit card, which was allowed to come out and play.
The end goal for this therapeutical approach is simple in theory: ignore price tags and come home with one or two, in fact as many fabulous items you desire and your world will be right again. Preferred are items that make you look and feel pretty as usual your ego can need it after rejection, but ultimately anything that will make your heart light for the day and give you a tiny smile will do.

The one problem with retail therapy – you need to actually buy something in order for it to work. I did not today.

I started at Country Road, tried on dresses, draped scarves around my neck, realized I needed a pedicure first before I should buy sandals, and finally decided that my mood wasn't low enough yet to spend R 300 on a white t-shirt, the only thing I really liked.
La Senza was skipped immediately, no one needs a reminder of beautiful lingerie just lying in the closet, when there is no one to see it on.
Bookstores were next as they are usually a safe bet for me. Buying books makes me feel a million times better than buying Prada shoes. Then I decided to be a tiny bit sensible and take a rain check as I have a huge pile of unread material next to my bed and on my shelf, so I didn't even enter to tempt myself and browse.
When I found myself at @home, starring at 6k espresso makers, actually contemplating how much I had on my savings account, I knew there was trouble. Luckily my eyes were pulled away by some nice outdoor tea lights, which I had to forgo, because who am I kidding I don't do candles and I live in Gardens so my balcony doesn't do candles either. Then I saw a very cute mini lime green braai. I don't know how to braai, I am not particularly keen on braaing and I don't even like green. So that was that. Finally I was starring at a box of miniature rubber ducks. Cute. And yes, I was seriously tempted.
I was down to the bottom of ideas and decided to buy sun tan lotion. If I wasn't going to the beach today, I would surely quite soon and it would be the ultimate daily cheer me up of a summer to come to have SPF 20 in my bathroom already. Again, no luck – I wanted the one that smells like Tropicana coconut and not the spray on that always slides out of my hand.

After this, I gave up and decided that the universe wasn't finished telling me something. I realized that sometimes in order to move forward, one just has to sit still and feel what there is to feel inside till the storm blows over.

September 22, 2011

Same old, same old.

Or so it seems right now. If your heart is heavy it does affect the head too. It makes holding it up high so much harder, yet one knows that is the only solution to the problem in the first place.

There is a new One-who-must-not-be-named in town (which you may have guessed after yesterday's post). At least for the week. The week is almost over and calendar settings have always helped me with matters of the heart, so I am hopeful that by Monday I will be my old cheerful self again.

In the meanwhile I allow myself to mope (if it gets too bad though, I blame PMS, otherwise I would feel pathetic on top of everything else) and enjoy waste amounts of tequila & co. I will also sarcastically call it a great coincidence that Air Austral has changed our flight times to Reunion for Christmas holidays so drastically that I basically have to rearrange the entire trip. This incident allowed me to call their call centre and yell at the representative. Not my finest hour, but I did blow off quite a bit of steam which was good.

To not aquire to much more bad karma by screaming at innocent by-standers who just happened to cross me, I have a simple, but hopefulle effective strategy in place to get me through till Monday:

In no particular order...instead of taking deep breaths...

Girls' night out

Chanel lipstick from Julia

Exhibit opening

Yoga

Family time

High-heels

A cute guy to flirt with a little to take the edge off

Watching Hanna (no one can mope or have any romantic thoughts when watching a movie about a teenage assassin somewhere in the Arctic)

Coconut fragrance


Okay, off now to get into the heels, back to my funny self on Monday.

September 21, 2011

A morning after tale.

I was about to post a list of my newest obsession, but then I got bored and started thinking about the concept of ‘the morning after’ instead. I decided it would make a far more interesting read, considering that my obsessions included things like carnations, chilli, and Thorn Birds.
The phrase ‘the morning after’ usually has a bad connotation and implies at least a bad hangover. For me it mainly just means confusion. As the night before usually entails some sort of ecstasy and the morning means facing daylight and its’ consequences. Been there? Done that. A typical morning after for me will include any amount of the following:
  • Wearing the same clothes to work two days in a row, hoping the boss won’t notice.
  • Engen hangover breakfast.
  • Staring at my phone, urging it to ring scenarios. I also tend to wonder what girls were staring at before there were telephones. Just out of the window? Probably a better view than staring at an iPhone.
  • Flashbacks of the previous night, which make me cringe. Did I really say that out loud? Ups. Must have been that second glass of whiskey talking...
  • Begging my co-worker to get me KFC lunch.
  • Flashbacks of the previous night, which make me smile.
  • Fruitless attempts to get any work done.
  • Lots of deep breaths taking and the realization that taking deep breaths is quite overrated.
  • Severe longing for the days when my bedroom was still next to my parents’ so mornings after had a whole different meaning and would just include a few curious looks from my Mum over breakfast.
  • Day dreaming about an evening of pasta and Friends re-runs.
Summing this list up, I had the grand epiphany that the single person’s worst enemy is not the first date, but the morning after.
Why we still do it then except for the obvious reasons i.e. the preceding night?
Because there is just nothing better than tired eyes that still sparkle and a tiny smile in the corner of the mouth, which lingers the whole day.

September 14, 2011

Rainbow coloured bookworm.

I don't think me and my life are very colour coordinated. My favourite is to wear black and navy together and I think that would piss off serious colourists. I guess I can put on a snotty face though and say I know better because of my time with Italian Vogue. Or I can just not care.
Lately I have been seeing lots of interior magazines though showing people's bookcases which have been colour coordinated. To me that is just as good a way of organizing your books as any other and it definitely looks prettiest. Mind you, most of these people have bookcases big like the entire Hogwarts library, but I just thought to myself – why not me too?
The whole plan was further inspired by Julia and our nightly trip to steal a ladder in Berlin. Sorry, I am not allowed to write this as we didn't steal it. We just took it with us as it was lying on the street and did not seem to have an owner, unless you think the neat pile of bricks next to it would indicate otherwise. Though I wholeheartedly agree with Julia, if you don't tie your things down in a city like Berlin, it is kind of your own fault if your ladder gets stolen in the middle of the night by two slightly tipsy girls on heels.
She wanted the ladder to use as a bookshelf. I should add that it was a beautiful, old, shabby ladder – very vintage chic. A few weeks later I got an email from her with a picture of the ladder/bookshelf. To make it look neater she had also covered all her books in uni-colour wrapping paper and re-labelled them in neat handwriting. I was quite impressed. I think last time I actually covered a book in paper, I was in primary school and one would get a lower mark if having uncovered school books. Also, I tend not to have the patience for projects like this (one mirror from the DIY project is still unpainted on the floor under the table; my attention span for stuff like this is just short). I did however have the patience to do this:
I think I got lucky that my local book collection isn't big yet and it took me all of 7.5 minutes. Otherwise more floor space might be occupied by books now. Now...someone please call ELLE Decor!

September 12, 2011

I ♥ U at midnight.

I thought it time for a little weekend recap again...It started nicely enough with an invitation for my company to stay at a swanky 5 star hotel. Lovely Thekla was my plus one and the hotel took it serious by putting up this lovely card on our room table:

Please note the honeymoon comment!
We had a good giggle with this photo op and used Thekla’s engagement ring to improve it even further. Mind you, the champagne was not provided by the hotel for the happy couple, but snuck in by ourselves.


The pictures are a bit random and I guess just prove what can happen when you give people free drinks all night. Though the latter I had to do sober or not, as I had promised Genie, my boss’ daughter to paint a moustache on ‘sleeping’ Mark. Luckily he is a real good sport and held very still while my shaky hand attempted an ‘I ♥ U’ without poking his eye out.

Saturday dawned gloomy, but was immediately smoothed over by a huge room service breakfast and Vampire Diaries, followed by the lunch of the century at Casparus. We had travelled to Stellenbosch to attend something which turned later out not to be a party, but a sit down birthday dinner at a student pizza parlour. Thank god for this lunch, making the carbon footprint worth it. There is a certain special delight of having a fancy lunch instead of a fancy dinner and now I actually wish I would have gotten my camera out. I, for once, actually chose to eat pasta, something I never do when eating out as I always feel I can do better at home. In this case though, we are talking linguini with salmon, prawns, crayfish sauce, and basil oil – no chance for the little pastaholic here. No chance for the linguini to be photographed either as I inhaled them...and the salmon mousse...and the bread roll...and the wine...and the tasting bites from my fellow diners. But since they call Etienne Bonthuys the wizard of sauces (or something to this regard, I just like the word wizard) I will definitely take my Dad there when he comes as he is a freak for sauces and will see if the food can stay on the plates for long enough to take a picture.

Sunday was as usual a bit blue, but all better after a yoga class and splurging on a bunch of tulips who I carried through Woolies for half an hour like a new born baby. I just thought they would make me very happy, which they did (imagine a smiley face here).

September 8, 2011

Égoïste translated.

Today should be Monday. It feels like a Monday. It is raining. I dreamed I went on vacation with both my parents, my brother and his family. If you know us, you will understand that this is not a pleasant dream. The Frenchman has a girlfriend. Big breath. Though I guess now the voodoo has no other choice but to work. For now I am still dealing with the ancient question of “What does she have that I don’t?” Has anyone in history ever gotten a satisfying answer to this question? Except the bitchy answer - she has the boy and you don’t.
Anyone? Anything? Come now, we can fly people to almost Mars these days, how is it possible that we haven’t progressed with this matter?
To find answers I started my own, small survey i.e. I asked my friend Naomi. Here is her answer: “Dude, don’t go there, it could be that she has smaller ears.... or she blows bubbles in his ear.” That’s why one needs friends! Before I could start arguing with her about ear size and such, I luckily remembered this piece of beauty and it made me feel all better:

I decided instead of whining around, asking stupid question, I will join the league of gorgeous women all over the world, call him a selfish prick, elegantly slam my imaginary shutters closed, and move on.

September 7, 2011

A non-reviewing review.

I’m not a writer, a food critic, or even a blogging socialite. The latter actually scares me a bit.

Despite being none of the above, I do have an opinion and I usually like to voice it. Sometimes at times, when I should better be quiet and in a way, which is ... let’s just say... a little blunt. I guess I can still improve on my people and opinion raising skills. Though not here. This is my blog and I can bloody think and write whatever pleases me. Today it pleases me to write everything I liked about the Toffie Food Festival. You may have gathered this is not an objective review, no one is paying me to write it, so I allow myself to gush over what I think was gushable and nothing else.

It started off well with the goodie bag. Like most people I’m a sucker for goodie bags, and this one was actually very neat. If one wanted to find something to complain, it would be the fact that it was full to the brim and therefore quite heavy to schlep around all day. Poor me. As usual I was way too early and therefore my goodie bag and me had enough time to wander the halls and see all that was on show. The exhibits were slightly quirky yet informative, and the piñata room even gave good advice by spelling out: DON’T HAVE UGLY KIDS.

Toffee or not, they all looked very yummy. I still don’t understand how anyone could have mulled over the fact that there was no toffee to eat when there was so much else. Plus the toffee beer SAB offered was incredibly delicious. On Sunday I started drinking way too earlier thanks to the German (If read ‘ze German’ one more time, I will be really upset. We all get it, yes, Germans have an accent. So do Afrikaners. Ours is nicer.) I was quite proud of the fact that involuntarily or not, he got the most laughs and defied the cliché of the humourless Bavarians. The free beer might have had something to do with that though. 
So afterwards it was straight into the beer hall. I believe in the all or nothing principal, which offered me the option to continue drinking throughout the morning without feeling bad. Mind you, I also had sausage and pie and Peruvian something something fritters, which in hindsight I should have taken home too. Or not. As I may have not had enough space in my stomach for my secret dinner. I drew quite the jackpot as I went to the SAB headquarters and was spoiled by Pete Goffe-Wood, whom I started to have an unofficial crush on after the first bite of the pork terrine we had for 2nd course. The crush became somewhat more official after two more glasses of beer and the baked rice pudding.
 Obviously the whole festival wasn’t all about stuffing my face, it was about the speakers. Except maybe for Anna Trapido’s talk about her book ‘Hunger for Freedom’ as it was accompanied by a 19-piece lunch pack, each item representing a dish with importance in Mandela’s life. One wanted to be careful though with munching too fast. A guy sitting next to me took a huge bite of the prison Christmas cake, just a moment before Anna warned us about how nasty the cake was.
The guy put on a brave face and swallowed without a sound; I was quite impressed.
All speakers were a beautiful mix of – “wow, I didn’t know this”, and “wow, I need to try this”, and “wow, now I’m crying”. I walked out with a new restaurant I want to try with my Dad, a new business contact, an overall feeling of inspiration, and thanks to a goodie bag voucher 2 beautiful, decadent Le Creuset espresso cups. Not bad for a day and half of sitting on rustling, brown paper covered chairs, which surely must have cost some poor interns some nerves.

September 2, 2011

Bad voodoo.

When I came back from vacation I was re-energized and full of new plans and ideas to turn my life around. This happens about every time when I go on holiday and my life has yet to turn around. This time I can proudly say that I have been more successful than usual: I quit smoking, I keep my beautiful flat somewhat neat these days, and I haven’t worn sweatpants to work once.
On the other hand I’m still very unsuccessful in letting failed personal relationships go. My heart still stopped the other day when I saw my evil ex-flatmate at the Garden Centre. I had to buy myself a bottle of bubbly to calm my nerves, which I know I shouldn’t need anymore as it has been over a year since we parted ways. And let’s not even dwell on the ex-males in my life and just say – it takes me forever and ever to get over someone. Argh. I hate it and don’t quite know how to quit. I’m not even talking about getting over a proper heart break. I mean getting over the annoying part that comes after the heart is mended, but I still think of someone and wonder and ponder just because I can. Unfortunately there are no books or Cosmo articles out there on this matter. So I just continue to feel annoyed, wait for months and years to pass, and feel a bit mental at times. Meanwhile always sincerely hoping I am not the only one who has these feelings. Am I?

Last night I tried a homemade recipe and attempted in some voodoo which included writing a list, checking it twice, tearing it into little pieces, and finally letting it go up in flames. Or at least that was the plan. The first three parts came along grand and I had the proper candle selected too, which could hold the amount of paper and ashes. Unfortunately I had forgotten that you can only hold a tiny piece of paper for so long before it will burn your hand. I had also forgotten that when you drop it next to a wicker into hot wax, it may not crumble and die, but continue to burn even higher and turn the formerly innocent candle into a dangerous device.
Photographic proof of how I suck at voodoo. To keep my flat safe, I decided to flush the rest of the pieces down the toilet. I figured water can have equally destroying powers as fire and might be much safer to use. Guess what? Pieces were still floating the next morning. Ergo: I really suck at voodoo.

Though you will be happy to hear that even if my execution was a bit crude, it seems to work like a charm so far. Maybe I should include some safety tips and write an article for Cosmo. Or maybe it is simply time to see my shrink again.

September 1, 2011

A hot combination.

I dream of yoga classes all the time, I guess it just comes with the territory. Last night was noteworthy though: Alexander Skarsgard alias vampire Eric from True Blood was in class with me, attempting to do Bikram yoga in a long white fur coat!
The girls where ooohing and aahing and gushing over him, but he just ignored us. To be fair we were there to do yoga not stare, but still... We therefore started discussing the other lekker options of men and fantasy creatures from the show. I guess we wanted to show him that he wasn’t the only one. The conversation got more and more heated and I even threw in: “Yes, and what about the hot pirates and werewolves?” Pirates?? Not sure where that came from, but I’m pretty sure with all creatures running around, True Blood has yet to introduce pirates. Maybe I was thinking Jack Sparrow was hot enough to be included in the mix...
The fun really started when the boys joined the conversation and listed the girls they liked. One guy described a girl character, which may or may not be on the show – after all this is still my dream – and said he liked her because she was so down to earth and economical. Have you ever laughed out loud in a dream? I did when I heard that.
I’m not even sure what that would mean for a girl, a car, yes, a car is economical, but a girl? How sad that you would make that your priority when dreaming about movie characters you will never meet in real life anyhow. Okay, I won’t get worked up anymore, it was only a dream after all, but down to earth is already one of my No.1 most hated phrases, but it was topped by economical here.

So this morning just for fun and in an attempt to find the true meaning of this dream I googled: “Vampire Eric doing Bikram yoga in a white fur coat”. The first link coming up was for Vampire Diaries, obviously completely missing the mark, but then I saw this: Yogaposeur. I am not sure how the blood stain remover relates to a cynical yoga website, but I thought that Google did quite well with this link. From there it led me to another vampire-yoga connection : The Twilight -New Moon Pose at Hipsteryoga (Which is a website awesome altogether.)

It seems like vampires doing yoga are everywhere right now. Wow, my dreams are so in!

August 28, 2011

Das Wort zum Sonntag.

In case you wonder what I'm doing on this beautiful Sunday evening: drinking bubbly and nursing a severe case of what I believe is a mix of PMS and Sunday blues. After conversing with two friends whether it was okay to drown my sorrows with bubbly all on my own, and the unison answer was yes, I opened the Old Man's Sparkle. The first glass is still a bit warm, as I usually tend to keep these R90 treasures in the cupboard for special occasions, not in the fridge for easy access, sorrow drowning drinking.

If you wonder what got me so blue, I'm actually not quite sure myself. My attempt at spring cleaning was not completely successful, but not a devastating failure either, so that can't be it. Mind you, not sure how non-cleaning would make me blue anyhow. I did watch a sad BBC show about the killing of tuna in the South Pacific, which spoilt my dinner a bit, which is therefore still untouched and marinating in the fridge. Though I know that I am not the Über-philanthropist (is that word even accurate when applied to tuna?) and will be happy enough again to eat it tomorrow.
I also did cut my finger quite badly while chopping croutons for my Caesar Salad. My finger is fine, but literally felt the impact of the huge bread knife for hours after. Plus this salad made me overeat and stuffed me too much to go to 5 o'clock yoga. Bummer.
Other than that? Nothing official. So I guess it may just be the usual amount of hormones, dreams, and unanswered questions that keep bothering me today. I will deal with it, but why suffer more than I should? I'll let the Old Man help for tonight and know that at least he is not French*.

*Have I mentioned that I have given up Gauloises? Which seemed to be less difficult to be given up than other French things I may add...

P.S. Here is what ultimately made me feel better yesterday: meet the sea dragons, my new favorite animals! I almost burnt my food, but I had to give in, film and share. Yes, I am well aware that this makes me a nerd, but I think they are just awesome and they made me laugh...


David Attenborough and BBC's Life rock!

August 25, 2011

The joke on me.

Today is a reasonably good day. There will be shopping, a massage, and the new Harry Potter movie all in one afternoon. I even got my ticket already with my perfect seat assigned so there will be none of my usual movie freak-outs, which usually cause me to wait 6 months to see a movie – once it is out on DVD.

Cherry on top of this day – my company got invited by a lovely 5-star hotel to stay the night and have dinner on them. Then I got a follow up email, saying they would like to extend the invitation to our partners. I think the Gods are laughing once again at me, high-fiving their beautiful timing to make an invitation like this come along when there is absolutely nobody, whom I could even remotely pass on as a partner. NOBODY. I guess it’s my own fault, I sent them all to the island...
P.S. In case you know me and feel like I have overlooked you as a potential 'partner' for this night, please contact me and I will apologize for the oversight and make it up to you with dinner & overnight stay. Maybe.

August 24, 2011

Island life.

One of my ex boyfriends is moving to Canada. In a way this is neither here nor there; we are long done and over with so I don’t really care where he lives, but I’m happy if he is happy. In general I do think it is a good idea for ex boyfriends* to move far away though. It should become an official break-up rule. Especially the ones that only recently became an ex and you realize that out of sight doesn’t immediately mean out of mind. I for once would like to bring some more distance between us to be on the safe side. The kind where you don’t need to wonder about running into him at the groceries in the standard scenario of – you un-showered, sweat pants, out to buy PMS chocolates and rent a sad movie – he with someone gorgeous, who looks like she has never even heard of PMS.
Of course I’m painting a worst case picture, but we all know it can happen just too easily. You can even avoid all familiar territory, but it’s still easy enough to just to run into an ex at a gallery opening, realizing you have common interests you never knew of, and choke on the olive in your martini. In my case this is unlikely as I don’t drink martinis anymore since I broke the martini rule – different story for a different time – and got sick, but you get my point. Murphy’s Law is having a field trip with running-into-your-ex-in-inconvenient-moments incidences. I once worked a promotion in Cologne for an audio book fair. We had to do a variety of activities wearing oversized Styrofoam headphones to show you can listen to audio books anytime. I got lucky and had to just lie on a couch in the middle of a busy shopping street. It was embarrassing enough I thought, but then I saw another girl who had to work out on a stepmaster with her headphones. Later she told us that on top of it all, her ex passed by with his new girlfriend.
In order to avoid any of these scenarios I wish ex’es would just move away. One could even make a television show, call it X-ile© and fly a whole bunch to a deserted island in the Pacific, where they can do no more harm. I don’t even mind if they get a nice trip and a better life out of it, as long as I can have my town back to myself. I also think it would make for a fun show, as long as you are watching someone else’s ex, so I think the ratings would be good too. It may just make for better television and a better world in general.
Island show or just moving to another place will also give the ex’es in question the chance to redeem themselves a bit by showing such courtesy and consideration. Depending on the degree they have hurt you (or just annoyed you in case you were the one breaking up) they must either cross one boarder, a continent, one or two oceans.

In case you are an ex boyfriend of someone and don’t care about being considered, just remember, karma is a bitch...

In case you wonder...I’m not sure what brought up this surge of cynicism on my side as I haven’t had any recent run-ins like the above. I guess the idea of it is enough to drive me a bit crazy right now.
I shall be off now, island scouting. And no, not to see if they are suitable for any ex boyfriends, but suitable for my Dad and my annual Christmas trip!

*I would also out of personal interest very much like to include what I like to call ‘unsuccessful love interests’ in this group. They should in fact put an ocean between me and them.

August 22, 2011

No sweet sixteen.

My friend Johanna has a wonderful pearl of wisdom about aging. She says you don’t realize that you are not 16 anymore while dancing the night away, but only upon waking up the next morning. She certainly has a point and I have proven it over and over again since out of my teens. Yesterday I did realize the upside of not being 16 anymore though. The hangover might be more severe, but now I can cure it with pizza and pinot noir at Massimo’s Sunday lunch and crawl back to back afterwards without anyone berating me. These are the moments when I love being a grown up.

The night which brought along this hangover started innocently enough at a friend of a friend’s house party. The host, a recovering alcoholic, welcomed us and told us where to find drinks. With a laugh she said, we shouldn’t expect tequila, making me think some beer or wine would at least be on offer (My definition of drinks contains alcohol, everything else should be called liquids.) No such luck, I got handed a bottle of sparkling pomegranate juice. The party wore on sober, but entertaining enough, though after a few hours of sitting in the cold with neither drinks nor smokes (It has been a week, thank you very much!) Thekla and I decided it was time to sneak out for a glass. We put on our most innocent faces to pull a quick ‘girls sneaking out of boarding school’ stunt and quietly slipped out of the door only to realize outside that our car was parked in. Stuck on top of a road on top of Highlevel Road we discussed options:

A) Go back inside and skip the drink.

B) Go back inside, trying to find the driver of the other car, potentially having the host find out and insulting her with our intended escape.

C) Walk and freeze as for the first time ever I wasn’t wearing a scarf (Why is another story. Ask my mother.)

Of course option C was the only real option for us and we fully admit we may just have a problem, especially considering that we ended up at The Spur for our red wine and tequila. It was loveliness on a fake cow hide bench. But as Thekla was predicting - at least I got a story out of it.

August 16, 2011

Back to school special.

I seem to be having a bloggers block since being on holiday. Argh. So, now I’m trying my hardest to get over it. Tell me if you get bored, but in the meanwhile I will give you another list to get myself going.

I am back home. Very happily so. Home as in Cape Town. Sorry, my German friends, but that’s just how it is. Nevertheless my trip was great. Even the things that weren’t great were in hindsight at least entertaining. As a holiday recap – highlights from great to worst:

Good:
Drinking champagne with Julia in the dingiest dive bar/burger place in Berlin. Her logic for ordering the wrongest drink for a place like this? It was my last night...well, she had a point and it actually felt very right.

Julia with dog from hell.

My & Elvis.
 Better:
Having the complete season 4 of Gossip Girl for the train rides.*

Best:
My Dad and I slurping our test tube soup with a straw in a 1-star restaurant. Loads of fun, which I highly recommend, just don’t try it at home as you will need an audience as in people at the table next you to stare for best slurp results.**

Bad:
My mother stabbing her toe on my suitcase so she wouldn’t have to walk up the Drachenfels. Obviously not great, but to think that she would sabotage her own toe so she wouldn’t have to walk is quite bad ass. We couldn’t take a donkey either; since her trip to Greece she feels bad for them because she saw too many ‘pale, fat German ladies riding poor little donkeys’ there.

Worse:
Stomach bug, followed by sore throat, followed by stiff neck and shoulder and no Enmasse or boyfriend in sight.

Worst:
Standing under a chestnut tree in a storm is not a good idea. I learned that the hard way of course.

Obviously there were many more highlights and non-highlights. I must say though, coming back and unpacking the day I arrived was the best part and very unheard of for me.

*Yes, I am worried about the frequency of my Gossip Girl mentions too.
**No picture of the slurpy soup. As per usual I left my camera at home. Bad photographer, bad!
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