Vacation Me.

I need a holiday. There I said it. No, I am not overworked or overly stressed, I just need to get away from my life for a bit. I need to morph into this wondrous person that I call Vacation Me. This person is different. This person is everything I am usually not – friendly and patient and not easily annoyed. Mind you the time I spend on the phone with call centres or reading about religious anti-gay fanatics online is limited when I am on vacation so that helps to make Vacation Me appear, but even if… as Vacation Me I am gracious and compassionate and as long I have something to read I don’t even mind flight delays. Vacation Me likes little plane pillows and eye masks, movies on tiny screens and wine in tiny bottles, and yes, even airplane food! Vacation Me doesn’t mind being tired and jetlagged when dragging a too heavy suitcase into scorching temperatures while still wearing travel winter clothes. Vacation Me doesn’t even mind traffic and hooting while in a taxi driving through a new city. Vacation Me smiles a lot and asks a lot and listens a lot more. Vacation Me seems to be a better version of me and right now I’m as far away from being the Vacation Me as I possibly could. So you see – it’s time, I need a holiday.

I will see if I can start the holidays early, go home, and download books for the trip onto the Kindle. For some reason I think it may just get Vacation Me in the mood to come out…

The teenager in me.

I was quiet last week, because work stuck me at a stand at the Marketing Indaba for two days. Oh the joy! It ended in a successful pizza evening at Col'Cacchio where I was being adventurous for a change and 10 hours of sleep followed by a full yoga class. It was in fact so full that some new girls timidly asked whether the classes were always that full or if they could still bring more people along in the future.

I will write something more coherent than a weekend recap later, but did want to share something that my yoga studio just posted quickly. In general I hate motivational quotes on blogs, facebook, etc. and don’t like posting them myself but this stuck with me and just made me very happy:

Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of living, it doesn't matter
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come even if you have broken your vow a thousand times,
Come, yet again, come, come.

In case you wonder, it is by Rumi, who was a 13th century poet and Sufi mystic. I have decided that any quotes by Dr. Seuss and Rumi will get a carte blanche from me.

On another note – I got a lovely email from my sister this morning, praising my blog and my stories and my writing in general. Very sweet indeed. Then she suggested to put my stories in a book and name it something like “Experiences and life of a Teenie”. I’m unsure whether that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult. I am well aware of the fact that I do sometimes still behave like a teenager, but... I am actually not and quite happy about it. Do my stories make me sound like a teenager? Again, not so sure... Only few excitements actually happened when I was still living at home. I was in fact such a good teenager that my mother suggested I should ditch more classes and have more fun. Okay, she took that back quickly, but you get my idea. Either way, from now I on I shall indicate time and era of stories of my life more clearly.

P.S. The only “naughty” story I can remember, which my sister could relate to anyhow was the time I bought my 1001. Barbie. I was 11 or so and still needed an adult with me to go draw money from the bank with me. Since my mother said I had enough Barbies already (can one ever really have enough Barbies??) and wouldn’t allow it, I convinced my sister to go with. She took me to the bank and then to the store. I’m sure it was worth all the trouble she got in once we went into our sauna in the basement to see the glow-in-the-dark Barbie glow and my little face glowing as well.

Bookish revelations.

I have been lazy and glued to my DVD player instead of writing. I had an Easter story all planned and half written, but since it is already too late now I will just publish it in a few days. Maybe.

Today in preparation for my op on Thursday and to celebrate payday I went to my favorite bookstore. I could not bare the idea of being at hospital alone with Murakami who I have been fighting with for over a month now.

You may not know this about me, but I love reading. No big deal, because apparently everybody in this blogging world loves reading and can’t wait to finish their first novel overlooking some hills in Tuscany. I don’t think I’m one of them. I haven’t read a lot of classics or literary gems and most of the ones I did read, I didn’t like. I bought The Great Gatsby today, because I read that they are doing another movie on it. I was surprised by how small it was. For some reason I pictured an 800 pager. There my knowledge about the classics in a nutshell.

My taste in books might be considered common. I do read girly books and I own all of Harry Potter and I thought that Orhan Pamuk is not a nice read. Believe me I have tried. No, I’m not one of them and I don’t want to publish a book, I just want to read and bookstores are my happy place. Other girls buy shoes or chocolate when unhappy or in need of cheering up, I buy books. Nothing gives me more of a thrill than browsing, reading the first pages, discovering that a previously liked author has written another book.

The thing I always hated most when I moved and had to leave things behind was leaving books behind. I have also made a lot of movers very unhappy as I still haven’t learned to follow my mother’s advise to not pack the book boxes to the brim.

To sum it up and because I do like the lists and this was supposed to be a quick, before-bedtime-reading-post:

1. I sometimes do not buy books if they don’t have enough pages. I hate the idea of liking it and then there is just not enough of it.
2. I have read some of my favorite novels about 15 times.
3. I gained more historic knowledge about the War of the Roses through novels than through school.
4. I made my pregnant friend run all over New York to find an out of print copy of Margaret Mead’s Blackberry Winter for me.
5. I did at times choose reading over sex. Still do.
6. I dream of being locked up in a bookstore overnight.
7. The only public place I would fancy sex in is in a beautiful, old library against one of those sliding ladders.
8. I had an embossing stamp with my name made to stamp my books, only to realize that it tears the pages.
9. I will never own a Kindle, because I like to put bends in the corner of the page when I read something I really like.
10.  I get scared thinking about the fact that even if I tried, I could never read every book ever written before I die. 

Now go, turn your computer off and read a book. For me. And for you.

Anyversary post.

 The problem of going from being sick and slightly mentally unstable to being only sick a little, but quite clear in the head is as follows: one may have done something a bit silly while in the sick and unstable phase (Shall we just call it fraternizing with the enemy for the sake of this story?) and once feeling better one is unable to stop it, but now one has a brain back to think about what one is doing and what that may imply. Or something like that…we know that one!

I therefore take my mother’s advice and try to keep myself busy as my mind is not to be mollycoddled in any other way and will not shut up without the force of outward exercise. It is too hot to walk up Signal Hill. Okay, no, that was never the plan. But it is too hot to even walk around the block or better said I’m too hot and bothered and not in the good way (my favorite catch phrase these days…which is quite sad...I know, I know).

So here am I busying up a storm in my flat, which has gotten me so far to hang up the laundry. Afterwards I felt exhausted and had to sit under the AC for a bit and drink some Gatorade. Energade. Whatever.

Random thoughts that occur to me while I’m getting a brain freeze:

Can a DVD wear out after too much viewing and will the rental place be able to prove it and hold me liable?

I just hung up laundry on my balcony wearing only a tank top and briefs. I was wondering if anyone could see me - in the parking lot my balcony overlooks - and then decided that I was wearing more than I wear on the beach and I could explain that to the security guard quickly in case he was wondering what the half naked girl is doing on her balcony.

I actually just didn’t care.

I love plane food. Maybe not today. Nah, actually even today I don’t mind the idea.

Is wine advisable for a post - food poisoned stomach? If yes, is white or red better? That is a serious question and the answer yes would make my Monday.

I have a label labeled "annoying people". Hehe.

I was going to call this little interlude 'Sickling part II', because it would have been appropriate as I am still pretty sick - head and stomach - and because I couldn’t think of anything better. Luckily I remembered that this is post 50. Hurray me!

Now I will give the Internet some alone time, take some amusing pictures while the light lasts and get some James Bond DVDs I haven’t actually seen. But first I’m giving the 5 o’clock nap two thumbs up.

Sickling.

Ask me how my weekend was. I dare you to.

It sucked. After a pretty crappy week I thought uncharacteristically optimistic that the weekend may get better. No such luck. To make a long story short: I cried during meditation. Then thanks to the parts when I didn’t cry but had to hop up and down, I am now so sore that I can barely manage the spiral staircase in my flat. Which becomes a problem when you wake at 2am on Saturday and realize that you may have food poisoning and will need to frequently use the bathroom for the next 10 hours. The bathroom being on the on the opposite end of the spiral staircase. I do not lie - my legs have never been so sore in my entire life and I could have laughed about myself if it wasn’t all so tragic. Big sigh. To top that all of I think I have gotten the food poisoning from a lovely ball of Burrata mozzarella from Giovanni’s, my second favorite food in the world and meant as a Saturday treat to cheer me up after the week and the more than slightly traumatic meditation in the morning. Now I have the looming suspicion that I may never want to eat Burrata again, which makes me sad just thinking about it, even though I can’t really think about it now as the thought makes me slightly nauseous. It least last time it happened it was just from chicken Lo Mein and I have lived very well without it for the last 9 years.

I also realized once again that when I am sick I turn into a boy. A whining, the world is bad place, I want my Mommy and I want her now - boy. It didn’t help that I had to unseen movies or shows, no Gatorate and no salty crackers in the house and my cousin then called to invite me for a ride on the rubber duck and a braai. I missed it all and no mother in sight either. Mind you, I actually do not like Gatorate.

So with all this fragility going on inside and out, I can be forgiven for indulging in a little text conversation with the Frenchman especially since I had finally broken off ties with Dr. Maths Saturday afternoon just in time before I got too sick to do anything that makes sense. I swear it was the nausea moving my hands, writing somewhat witty replies and I just couldn’t help it. Quite frankly it was a very liberating feeling as was feeling too yuk to even judge myself. Maybe not a bad thing. Nobody should be judgmental anyhow…

The new day is spent, feeling very drained but much better, on the couch. Drove myself to the Engen, no mother needed, for some crackers and Gatorate and realized that they call it Energade here. But unfortunately it tastes just as bad. I will drink it up though as for the time being my good mood is returning and the rest of the week spells wine tasting, bubbly tasting, dinner date, dinner party and the weekend is not even included. So therefore quoting my favorite show (which I may have watched a bit too much of the last 24 hours): I am energading up!

Nostalgia in a bottle.

When I came home for my first college vacation I had arranged with my brother that I could stay in his new girlfriend’s (now wife and mother of the great Jakob) flat for the two months. Xenia was mainly with him anyhow and the times she was home we got on fabulous. We had fun days together when we put mud packages on our thighs and wrapped them in cling wrap to fight cellulite (I even think there might be photographic proof hidden somewhere), and cooked rice, which was all we could manage when my brother wasn’t around and we wanted to be healthy. Usually we could be found on her brown 70s leather couch in the otherwise empty lounge though, eating Joey’s pizza, drinking red wine and talking about boys. The boy talk got a bit problematic at times as she was obviously talking about my brother. There are certain things a sister doesn’t need to and in fact should never know.

Xenia was great though and everything my 21 year old me ever wanted to be. She worked as a stylist back then, always wore really cool clothes, was happy to share her closet and wisdom and even hired me as her assistant to style a music video. We had a blast and even thought it was a cheesy song, everyone loved it in the summer of 2001 and it was played everywhere.

 

I guess it was at least catchy, because even weeks later I had the strong urge to adjust someone’s collar when it came on at a club.
The other thing we shared was the very girly past time activity of painting nails in each other’s company. Xenia introduced me to a L’Oreal colour which could best be described as orange/coral red and vaguely resembles the colour of this font. She would disagree as for her it was a distinct L’Oreal shade and irreplaceable once they discontinued it. I disagreed with her and have been on a mission ever since to proof her wrong. Over time his led to quite an assortment of nail polishes.

The picture doesn’t do the scenario justice as I forced myself to throw some old bottles out the other day.
A few weeks ago I took out my nail polish bag, apparently it is quite dark in there, and grabbed my newest purchase. Or so I thought. I was getting a bit suspicious when the paint came out gooey. That was a new nail polish?? Then I looked again and I realized that the new bottle was still in the baggy, untouched and wrapped. I lined all 7 bottles of red nail polish up and realized they all of the exact shade of orange/coral red. ALL THE SAME. I swear. It seems that whenever I buy nail polish, I am so thrilled when I think I find the colour being exactly like this old L’Oreal shade, that I don’t realize I have quite a few of them already.
With this knowledge I am not sure whether to shake my head at my own stupidity or smile at the nostalgia of it, because I still buy more. Either way Xenia started a trend on my nails, but was right – the original L’Oreal could not be matched as it went hand in hand with a beige couch and Joey’s pizza.

P.S. I think the mechanic, who looked at my car before I bought it, wanted to put on his sunglasses when he saw it.

Mechanic: That is a very very red car.
Me: I know. Isn’t it great? It matches my nail polish!
Mechanic (thought bubble above his head): Women!

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.

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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.

Yup, April fooled.

The day is not going as planned, but certainly as expected. And what can you except on April Fool’s?

Then my friend Nele came unknowingly to the rescue by sending me a very belated birthday present. Mind you it says urgent on the packet.

Not that either the German or the South African mail would care. It did in fact already arrive yesterday, but I was too lazy to fetch it from the post office. Thank you me for being such a lazy bum once in a while. It was much more needed today.

It also had on it a poem. Which may explain why it took so long to arrive. I would guess that the respectable packet handlers were filling their lunch breaks reading it and then discussing the true meaning amongst each other. The South African ones probably had to get a dictionary first.

This is important for customs and a bit out of focus, because my now I just want to tear the whole thing open. It reads ‘headphones’. So I can skype with Nele. Haha, clever one!

Remember the times when we all had sticker albums to collect and trade stickers? Nele totally indulged me today. Best part - the card.

Love the card. Following my post from yesterday – girls, this is how it’s done. Thank you, Nele!

Instant gratification. Or not.

This is a story for the girls. Mainly because I think and hope that guys don’t indulge in silly mind movie fantasies like girls do. Don’t we all? It may just be me, but I sincerely hope not, because that would mean I am making a complete fool of myself here. I will take the risk and be it for the reason that tomorrow’s post will be written already and I can actually use my lunch break to by that spare tire instead.

I did something right tonight. Something very right and all my girlfriends will rejoice and hit me on the shoulder (you know like guys do when they tell their buddies they got laid). I spoke the truth once again. And this time it’s forever.

Here is the question now: Why do we rarely get the same emotional satisfaction from doing the right thing as we get from doing something stupid? Why is there almost never an instant gratification when we do something right? Sure we know that we are doing the right thing, but we are usually doing it with tears pouring down our face, feeling really, really kak. Of course later we see reason. Days, weeks or months will pass and we will say with a little knowledgeable smile: Well, I just knew I was doing the right thing.

Really? And that knowledge helped us through, right? Right? Bu-fucking-hu. No, of course it did not.

Because now I sit here and what do I want most in the world? After that beautiful moment of speaking the truth and doing the right thing…I want to be Cina-stupid-rella. Here is how the story would go:

·         I hear a car fast approaching and coming to a screeching halt in front of my building.

·         Close-up on him, jumping out of the car, barely slamming the door shut, running to my house and ringing the doorbell like there is no tomorrow.

·         Then he runs up the stairs, me standing in the doorway.

·         I look surprised, only a bit distressed (to make it more realistic), but still dramatically beautiful. The raccoon eyes of smudged mascara have magically turned into luminous smoky eyes. Which always helps to look dramatically beautiful.

·         What does he want? Oh, of course he wants me and only me. Now and preferably forever. He has just realized what an idiot he has been all along.

·         (And then I will be the idiot, only we won’t call it that, because it’s in my head and therefore perfect.) I will sink into his arms, kiss him and forgive and forget.

·         Happily ever after can commence.

If the doorbell were to ring now we would make for a really tragic ending as I would have a heart attack. No such luck. Instead I get an SMS, which says: Sorry, talk again when you feel better about it.

Great. Life is just really great. But at least I can say I did the right thing tonight. Right?

A little update for all of you who care – I walked into the office this morning and my boss asked whether I had been naughty again (Meee? Naughty? Never!). Obviously I had been quite the opposite of naughty, but she said I had a twinkle in my eyes. This is what I’m talking about – instant gratification.

Dr. Seuss' wisdom.

Men are like cigarettes and breaking the bad habit can be impossibly hard. Once you think you have done it and quit, don’t be fooled by thinking you may just have a sneaky one for a special occasion slip a few weeks later. You will be right back in it head over heels.  I have realized that yesterday. I’m trying to quit and not the cigarettes. So there I was thinking I could pull a sneaky one and wham! Smacked over the head, I realized that for me the sneaky ‘once in a while and will do no harm’ occasion does not work. Unfortunately I am an all or nothing girl. I know that moderation is the key to everything, even though my Mum would not agree how I twist her principal here to make it suit my mood. It doesn’t matter though, because I’m just no good at it and that blows.

So now I am attempting the nothing and having realized that lots of smokes and wine only help so far, I am trying to go the get busy and organize route. Organizing the outside always organizes my inside. Even when I was a child the last resort to save a crappy day for me was to sort my Barbie clothes and accessories. It always worked like a charm.

Due to a sad lack of Barbies in my life I started here with new colours and layout. I wasn’t feeling the girly, balmy lavender anymore, but was craving something more electric and eclectic. For the time being at least. I am one of these people who frequently move their furniture around to get a new perspective on things without moving (well, I frequently do that too, who am I kidding). I decided I can do the same with my blog. There you have it. I was able to take my sunglasses off after a while, so no worries, your eyes will get used to it. I’m also trying to infiltrate some energy into myself and my writing which I am not feeling right now and thought some bright colour may help. Will see how it goes. For now I just wanted to share something I found in my little notebook, which I use for ideas and inspirations, yesterday. It makes me smile and it makes me feel like everything is going to be alright.

“We are all a little weird and life’s a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.” – Dr. Seuss

Rain, vacation and now I want chicken McNuggets.

This is for my sister and my Dad and a box of Pringles, my good companies on a dark New Year's Eve. I love you guys!

 

I overslept this morning by two hours. My co-worker texted me at 09h30 asking if I was coming in. I think my boss must have thought I wasn’t sleeping alone, because she just greeted me with a big grin when I finally stumbled into the office. Nice of her for not scolding me, but unfortunately I managed to oversleep all by myself. What a waste...

Now a few hours later I am still tired, it is still grey outside and I dream of Africa. Better said of vacation in general. To cheer me up I made the grave mistake to look at vacation pictures, which made my mood worse and now I’m crying. I want to go away! I want, no I really, really need a vacation. Just a mini vacation. A little weekend somewhere else by myself, just a tiny road trip. Pretty please, because my self-portrait vacation collection needs updating*. Common sense is prevailing, because I need to save my money and spend it wisely on:

 

a. Spare tire

b. Cirque du Soleil ticket

c. Dinner at The Roundhouse with RG

d. All of the above

 

Not really a question now, is it?

 

Anyhow, so I came across my pictures from last year’s vacation in Namibia with my sister and Dad. I thought I should share some of our memorable moments. For example when I taught my Dad that he mustn’t indulge in the German cliché and take his socks of when he wears sandals.

My proud Dad - isn't he cute?

He did not know that as he didn’t previously own a pair of sandals. He adapted quickly to the newly learned fashion wisdom and managed to look quite dashing in his Yves Saint Laurent-esque safari outfit with sandals sans socks. Unfortunately he also managed to get sunburn on his feet. I managed to get a lizard stuck on my ear; in fact he was biting it.
Our tour guide thought that would be hilarious for everyone to watch and make a good photo op. I must agree he was right.

 

Noteworthy also on this trip were the lessons we learned regarding celebrating New Year’s Eve in a place like Walvis Bay. We learned the following:

1. If you see some bottles of Dom Perignon the day before New Year’s at a lovely French restaurant, ask them if you can buy them. Pay any price! The restaurant will be closed on 31st, but at least you have something decent to drink. Otherwise you will learn the hard way that:
2. Namibian supermarkets only sell J.C. Le Roux. That should be forbidden. By law or something.
3. Buy enough juice to make the J.D. Le Roux drinkable.
4. Say no, when your guesthouse host asks you whether you want tickets for the Portuguese New Year’s party at the town hall.
5. If you do end up in the town hall (because you didn’t listen to point 4), take your own wine. They may run out an hour into the event. Know that Portuguese are worse when it comes to punctuality than Capetonians, so come full.You may have to wait for 3 hours till they serve dinner as they need to wait for the last Portuguese to arrive.
6. Portuguese are easily impressed – everyone was in awe when I carried three plates at a time out of the kitchen to our table. And no one seemed to mind that the meat was greyish. Maybe that’s a good thing in Portugal.
7. Take the tea light candle decoration to make it worth the R 350 per person you spent (excluding wine – so there was really no good excuse whatsoever for it to run out) and to give ambience to the real celebration later.



The real party starts here!

8. Walvis Bay, please build a 24 hour Mc Donald’s! I don't want to eat any more Pringles as my New Year's Eve feast.

This is a true story. So next time you think you New Year’s sucked. Think again.

 

 

January 1st - better food = more fun.

 

*An annoying habit of mine, which others don’t mind, because they don’t know about it as I only do it when alone for obvious reasons. No results on show here as they always turn out crap. My nose grows by 50% in any given self portrait.

First timer's curriculum.

I stumbled across a blog called My First Time. While the most recent post was about parents getting divorced and therefore a bit too depressing for a foggy Tuesday, it is still a great project and got me thinking. Thinking about my firsts. Not the too obvious ones like kisses, dates and loves, but some more and admittedly random ones, which are however memorable in my life.


Economics
My first time I bought pair of shoes which cost more than $100. A lot more actually. I saw them on a lady I worked for in New York and had to have them. I played a game of tug and war over my credit card with the sales assistant. He won and I asked: “What’s your return policy?” Apparently they do not appreciate this question at Barney’s. Unfortunately for my credit card it was a first, but not a last.


Arts & Culture
My first time I remembered a French phrase without seeing it written up on a blackboard. Fais de beaux rèves. It took only five nights. My Dad always taught me the best way to learn a language is to be in bed with a native speaker. Always listen to your father.


Communications
My first time I realized communication is vital in any relationship was in Malta. I was 13, he was 15. I spoke English and German, he spoke Maltese and Italian. A relationship can only go so far when you are forced to look into each other’s eyes all day without saying a piep. That may be for a girl at least. We like to talk.


Journalism
My first interview was with an actor who was the lead in my home town theatre. I had a major crush on him and decided interviewing him for our school paper was the perfect way to get close to him. Not sure what the catholic, all girls, nun school would have thought if they knew I was just using the school paper as an excuse to get to shag the local celebrity. Not that that ever happened, but a girl could dream.


Geography
My first time I was trying to drive from town to Claremont ended at the airport. Don’t ask. N2 and M3 turn offs are confusing to newbies. I ended up seeing the Springboks in their team bus though. That made for a reasonable excuse to any guy who didn’t know me better. “Yes, I looove the Springboks. In fact I drove all the way to the airport to wave them goodbye.”


Creative Writing
My first letter I wrote to my mother was written in pencil on my pink Hello Kitty note pad. She was visiting a friend for a weekend and I was devastated she was leaving me alone. I put on a brave face and wrote: “Dear Mummy, don’t be so sad that you are leaving, you will be back soon.” I put two of my favourite stickers on it, stuck it in a little ink cartridge box from my fountain pen and added two of my milk teeth. I think the teeth were quite a big deal - since I was giving them to her, I couldn’t give them to the tooth fairy ergo no present for me. Also my first time of true selflessness.


Anatomy
My first time I taught yoga went actually not so bad. Except my sweet Germanican accent managed to say ‘use your breasts*to massage your stomach’. Which would be quite an accomplishment if you think about it. If you want to have a good laugh in a yoga class, come to mine. I still say it at times.
*Breaths was actually what I was trying to say.


PE
My first time I bought a vibrator. My flatmate and I realized the only place where shops are open on a Sunday afternoon is on the Reeperbahn. In the attempt to be discreet the shop put our ‘products’ in an unlabeled black bag. We then realized that every shop on the Reeperbahn does the same. Open secret I call it. We realized that too late though and only when a bouncer in front of a strip club shouted: “Honey, did you get batteries as well?”


Gotta love firsts. And then luckily you live and hopefully learn.

Admirable Me.

After short but intense negotiations, the French-German relationship has officially come to an end. Not through mutual agreement by both parties, but it has also been confirmed from German side that any relations are literally off the table now.
Therefore it is now the beginning of the official Admirable Me week to celebrate the, well, admirable me. After getting an earful from Thekla for only publishing my funny faces, I hereby commence celebrations by showing the world my not funny face. Oh, yes, I also realized that this blog only shows my picture very, very tiny and I thought I should at least once show why we went through all the hardship of making me smile in front of a camera.

In addition my apparently very admirable bucket list, published. Whoop, whoop.

http://www.beingbrazen.com/2011/03/on-my-buket-list-by-annika.html

Now I am off, starting the week. Off to conquer the world as usual. Thanks to all my friends, who love Pinky and the Brain, and have quoted this to me (volunterily or not) many many times.

Funny face.

This is for Jazmin, who always says I have a funny face.

Like everybody I know, I hate having my picture taken. I blame my brother. He, a professional fashion photographer, agreed to take my passport picture when I was 16. I was obviously hoping that he could do what the official passport picture machines never manage: make me beautiful in 35x45mm (standard German passport picture size in case you are wondering). I saw my picture which he took, hated it and accused him bitterly of being a bad photographer. His reply: A photographer is only as good as the model he has. My ego was bruised and ever since I blame him for my unwillingness to be in front of a camera.

Last weekend I decided it was time to grow some balls though and finally have my picture taken for this blog. I chose the best person possible for this mission impossible: my friend Thekla. Some knowledge about photography, a good camera and most important of all – she always sees me with a loving eye and tells me when to lift my chin.

A couple of hours later it was mission accomplished and it didn’t even hurt. Here are the funny face take-outs:

From top left: Funny fish face, Why is the sun always shining?, Yes, I am a supermodel, I ate too much pizza, What the heck is he doing?, Get it off!

The picture I finally decided on will be up here soon. It was a hard battle to pick the right one, but in the end I picked that ONE because it is just very me: Sporting a slight ironic smile, showing bra strap, messy hair up, and sunglasses* – me in a nutshell. And also it is quite cute.  At least I like to think so. Dare to disagree!

*Another item on the What I Wore Today list which I forgot and is quite essential. I think I need to re-do that list...

Queen of Tarts.

Just needed to share this picture from my birthday:



I was 'forced' to put my pink cake bow in my hair and chose a little bow in bow style. Nikki said I looked like a tart. I felt a bit insulted as I do not consider myself a very tarty person at all and was wondering what alternative hair styles there are with a pink ribbon involved. Nikki suggested to put it around my forhead to which I replied that I am neither a Native American nor a Hippie. She looks at me, looks at my bow and says: "No, you are not a hippie, you are a tart!" And laughs. Happy Birthday to me!

Let me eat cake.

Sorry for the cliché headline. There is just no other word for yesterday. It seemed like the birthday Gods wanted to make up for 31 years of celebrating without a cake. My family is not big on cakes. They are big on cooking, but I have not seen either of them to ever bake a cake (my mother will debate this fact vehemently, but for the sake of the story: my family does not bake).

When I was a child we had a housekeeper, who I lovingly called ‘Frau Waldi’, from a tiny village outside my home town. Whenever they had birthday celebrations there, apparently the whole village gathered and baked cakes for the birthday girl/boy. Each baked one. So on any given Monday morning Frau Waldi may appear at our house with a big container of left over cakes. What a feast for a little cake deprived child like me!

Even for my birthdays I would not get cake. I got sweets instead. Don’t get me wrong – I loved it. My Mum would put a huge tray with all my favourite sweets together and we would sing and gather around Haribo, Kinder Schokolade, and Mikado chocolate sticks. One year she even put lychees on the tray, a rare treat for a girl in the middle of nowhere Germany. I loved lychees. One for me and each child invited. I lucked out, because most of my friends had never seen a lychee before and refused to eat theirs. More for me – hurray!

What a surprise it was that upon moving to Cape Town I realized that the South African side of my family also doesn’t do birthday cakes, but trays. The only difference is that they add biltong on top. Apparently the kids would refuse all the other sweets without it. I think biltong on my trays would have made for another lychee-esque experience amongst my friends.

Getting to the point here...yesterday things were different. The birthday Gods became cake Gods and they were smiling. Thekla who cooked me birthday dinner had already told me she was making me cake. Quite a big thing coming from her as she is usually not big on cakes. Excitement starting already pre-birthday...

Next thing I know it was 9am birthday morning and I was starving. My stomach didn’t like the fact that it had not been fed any pizza the night before and was growling (more on why I am officially addicted to pizza these days later...). Man to the rescue – I got a call asking me to come downstairs. There he is with the most amazing piece of raspberry deliciousness from Cassis and a pink candle...because I’m a still a little pink loving girl at heart (not that he knows that there was a time when my entire wardrobe was Barbie pink). Breakfast delivery in the most perfect way.



I devoured it, so sorry only the candle
was left by the time I got to picture taking.

An hour later I spot my boss walking in with another little purple box. More excitement for me in form of a little Cassis chocolate bomb. Or whatever the French, probably more elegant sounding, equivalent would be called.



My hands slightly shakey in excitement..



And a pink ribbon too!

Then things started to get really exciting. I was  on the phone with my Dad when aforementioned friend Callie from Cakebread walked in with a job recon. He was waiting by my desk for me to finish and a cheeky question of ‘Where is my birthday cheesecake?’ was on the tip of my tongue. He beat me to it: “Happy birthday! Your cheesecake is in the oven and I will deliver it later.”

Aaaaaaawwwwh. I was in official cake heaven. Thank you cake Gods, you rock my world!