We live here.

My recent work project which included coming up with a cool pop-up card for our next mailing introduced some much needed entertainment to my daily routine. It also reminded me last time I made a pop-up card for a friend of mine. Shamefully I must admit that the card was never sent as it became part of a too-big-to-finish project, which I frequently indulge in. It was a card showing the layout of our first apartment in New York which Gladys, Marie and I shared.

The grand tour:


Bottom left
The bathroom. If you need the fax machine explained, please contact Marie directly as it is all her fault and I won’t say no more.


Top left
Marie’s room. The clothes are a bit misleading as we all worked in fashion, but her fashion job rocked the most that’s why her room gets represented by clothes.
It was at Roy’s Hosiery and each Friday was called ‘Sock Friday’ as she would bring left over sample socks for us. I don’t think I have bought a single pair of socks since Marie left college. When she came to visit Cape Town she lived up to the true spirit of Sock Friday and brought me about 30 pairs and it wasn’t even Friday. I love visitors!


Top Middle
Gladys’ room. Yes it did have a pop-up wall for real. That’s how you convert a 2 bedroom to a 3 bedroom in New York and charge 50% more rent. It also had the only TV and Thursday was Friends night. Marie and Gladys would sit on her twin bed, I was crouched in the corner of the window sill and we would watch the new episodes of Friends together. Who needs a La-Z-Boy or even a living room?


Top Right
My room. I had an original red iMac and a liking for Internet dating. Also did I become a professional on how-to-make-the-most-of-a-4m2-room in this room.


Middle Bottom
Kitchen/Living Room/Dining Room/Foyer/Gladys’ walk-in closet. Equally inhabited by Coronas, Enchiladas or other Mexican treats and mice.
The mice became a bit of a problem. In an attempt to be PETA friendly I not only decided to go Vegan for a week (I stopped after trying to eat soy parmesan cheese), but also asked them for a mice friendly way to dispose of mice. The answer is simple: One buys a little cage (preferably with handle), puts bait inside (preferably of the soy kind) and waits for the mouse to run inside (hoping the mouse unlike you will like soy cheese). The cage should be one where the mouse runs in, but can’t run out yet remains unharmed. Then you have a cage with a mouse and you can take the mouse to Central Park and release it. Someone explained that to me while keeping a straight face. To my question why I would do such a thing and surely the mouse would manage to run the 4 blocks back to my street and up the stairs into the apartment and how this would defy the whole purpose, I just got blank stares.
I am not proud to admit that we then decided on the least humane way: glue traps. Bad idea for both parties involved. For the mice for obvious reasons and for us as we underestimated how much a mouse can wiggle when glued to a trap. She can wiggle herself from her discreet trap hiding spot under the stove into the middle of the kitchen with the trap. By doing this it will cause the first person getting up in the morning to shriek loudly and the other two to wake up and know immediately that we caught one.
I will spare you the details of how we got rid of any mouse on trap, but it usually involved our trash shoot and the Yellow Pages.


Far Right
The zebra van which you already know.


Top Far Right
The address we would give the cabbies and then shout in unison: “We live here.”
Go figure, Mr. Cab Driver.

Codename "Mother"

A recent comment of Elizabeth got me thinking about postal services and the time my mother came to visit me in New York. You may spot the connection here later.

First question my mother asked after walking into our 30m² apartment of three (Sorry, writing in American here, there are no flats in New York, they are called apartments.): “Where is your liquor cabinet?” I was ashamed to admit that I did not have one, but quickly averted the blow by blaming the size of our apartment which wouldn’t fit one and the fact that there was a liquor shop just around the corner, which pretty much meant extended living room. So technically, no, I did not have a liquor cabinet, but a whole liquor store in my living quarters (apartment is a really long word and easily misspelled I find).

Off we went. Mother’s first purchase in New York: two bottles of white for her, two bottles of red for me. Her first argument followed shortly after when we tried to return a corked bottle. Good luck with that in New York.

The stock lasted for a day and a half and I think then she realized there is no point for me to own a piece of furniture dedicated to store alcohol. It will just be an empty something most times and that is sad.

The next day when we had run out I decided to go a bit more uptown (where they will take your corked wine back without calling you a bitch) and took her to the premier snobby Italian eatery Cipriani on Fifth. There I discovered something shockingly.  My mother is an undercover super secret spy. Almost most definitely. The conversation went as follows:

Mother: The guy over there is a bodyguard.

Me (reading the menu): Yes, mother.

Mother: No, really. Look at him.

Me (still reading the menu): Yes, mother.

Mother: No, really. Several reasons. Reason a) He is dressed all in black, very formal. Even too formal for a place like this at lunch.

Me (moving on to the pasta section): Yes, mother.

Mother: Reason b) He is sitting all by himself in the middle of the restaurant yet close to the door.

At this point it would have been just plain rude to ignore her further, so I looked up fainting interest.

Mother (triumphantly): And reason c) he is nibbling on a Coke. A Coke!

(I should explain here that you can use the word nibbling in German for pretty much anything, and in this case she meant taking tiny sips with his straw, so not really drinking, but pretending to, so no one will notice that he is in fact a bodyguard.)

Me: Okay, let’s assume you are right. Who is he body guarding?

At this point I am hooked and we both sank deeper into our chairs, hid behind the menus and looked what we thought was inconspicuously around. I couldn’t see anyone who looked remotely famous or even ridiculously rich when my mother got a predator look on her face.

Mother: It’s these two guys over there.

Some random looking men in their fifties in polo shorts. Nothing to write home about at all.

And before I could even tell her not to be silly, she had gathered all of her but few English sentences and courage and was chatting up the Bangladesh busboy.

Mother: Sir, look. This man sit over. There. Bodyguard. Yes? 

Busboy: Yes, madam.

Triumphant look towards me from mother.

Mother: And sir, who? Bodyguard with?

The busboy now looked over very discreetly to the older gentlemen in polo shirts and I of course got another triumphant look from mother.

Mother: Sir you know? Men famous, you know?

He did know. End of story my mother just saw an incognito Israeli minister. The type who is really important, but not easily recognized; one of those who actually do things, you know?

 Well spotted, mother! I would have thought she was an undercover spy if it wasn’t for the fact that she almost got us arrested outside. She took full five minutes to light her cigarette, lurking in a corner while trying to get a better view on Mr. Minister.

P.S. My Mum loved the Cipriani Bellini so much that I bought her two cans of the mix at Dean & Deluca and sent it to her a few weeks later by mail (as in postal service). The stuff is great. I thought she would just add some beautiful, vintage champagne and could feel like she was back on her secret mission at Cipriani. What did she do instead?

Mother: Oh, meine Liebe, the juice was soo delicious, I drank it all by itself.

It better be soo delicious if you pay $14 for a can of peach juice including shipping.