very fitting...

Wow, such a myriad of blogging topics this week to decide on. I could tell you about the article I read which was headed “Planking fad won’t last” (nooooo, who would have said?)  Or, I could go on about the sure evidence (poop, gnawed on hanky, more poop) that we found regarding the invasion of mice in our house (apologies to my niece who was sure she heard scuttling – I didn’t mean to not believe you.)

I also considered the topic of how our washing machine became a fireworks display, forcing us to purchase a new one. The new washing machine came with an instruction pamphlet, which said under DRY: “When you are not remove a loaf (surely not? a loaf?) of clothes from the dryer as soon as it stops, wrinkles (on me?) can form”. I dearly, dearly hope that this is a bad typo because I can’t afford any more unwanted wrinkles.  Perhaps they meant the clothes.

However, the winning topic this week just had to be TA DAAAA… light fittings. Because we all know how very exciting light fittings are.

There comes a time in every renovators life when you are called upon to choose light fittings. It’s like a calling from Satan.  Warning:  Do NOT take any kids with you to make your selection.  They will deliberately try and break things just to hurry you out of the shop. This is almost kind of them -  in a twisted, expensive way - when you consider the fittings that you have to choose from.

When I was still in the fabric industry (they are called fabrics, dahlink, materials are something you build with) we were coached on a particular saying - incase we thought our clients didn’t like our new range.  We had to tell these offending clients that “there are some people who just don’t UNDERSTAND our range.”  (In other words …“you are a total peasant if you think our new range sucks.)  

Lighting sales people do not have the gaul to have such a cheeky saying, because no one understands their fittings.  They should hand you a pamphlet titled  “To Zeff or not To Zeff” to help you make your selection – just so you can be sure what kind of zeffness you are.

To make matters worse, our house is a complete mixture of styles.  Part country, part contemporary, part pirate-ship messy (a far cry from the Caribbean ship-lap style I’d hoped for - not to mention the Caribbean lifestyle).  Artsy people call it eclectic, which is a fancy way of saying we couldn’t stick to a theme.

So whereas our country, slanted ceilings call for farmhouse chandeliers, the contemporary lowness of the ceilings means that chandeliers are a no go – especially if you for instance value your head. I’m kind of relieved actually, because if we could make it country, Best Kisser might insist on a wagon wheel table and one of those antler chandeliers (they really exist, trust me). Sorry, but we all know that straight men are big on cowboy-type décor. And things with blue in them.

So basically, my question this week is who exactly, buys those seriously shiny light fittings with loads of bling on them?  I mean I get the whole “ it looks great when the lights are turned on thing”  but I’m struggling to UNDERSTAND those kind of fittings. I can’t picture the kind of home that would match all that chrome and diamante trim. Could Russians own it?  Or perhaps it’s made for a specific kind of entertainment?

And BTW, I’ll only know in 10 years time whether the ones we chose are classic or zeff.  Damn.

(p.s. I had to post proof... See, they do exist)

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big hair day...

This week was my second installment of Project get-your-game-face-on.  Quite frankly, I had to take the hint. I was receiving an unreasonable amount of mail (not spam mind you, from people who actually know me) regarding Brazilian Hair Treatments.  So, despite my fear (and part-loathing) of hairdressers, I went to Moments in Time.

I should start by saying that any Salon called Moments in Time is a little bit of a euphemism.  A block of chocolate is a moment in time, a glimpse of a good-looking bloke is a moment in time, hell, even taking a pee is a moment in time.  The salon should be called “Lifetime Commitment”, because that is roughly the amount of time that one needs to spend in there, in order for it to make a difference.  That and of course, it’s also roughly the amount of money that one needs to spend.

Sigh. What can I say; I was seduced by the words “Brazilian” and “Special”.  I have a special affinity (a.k.a weakness) for all things Brazilian. It started when my best friend and I travelled there in our 20’s. You can only imagine my utter joy when I discovered that Brazilian men love buxom butts.  Hooray, that would make it a whole ONE COUNTRY that digs chicks with generous butts – making Brazil, my own personal Mecca.  

We thought we’d totally blend in (me with said buxom butt plus ethno-curly hair, her generally gorgeous with olive skin).  We didn’t.  We stuck out like sore thumbs, which was actually a good thing in the end because we were broke and we needed all the favours that the locals could provide to unwitting foreigners. 

Even including the flasher on the beach (who does that kind of shit?) it was one of the best weeks of my life.  Lets also not forget about Brazil nuts and Brazilian soccer teams – just to re-enforce the love affair.

But back to Moments in Time.    After the inevitable “you’ve recently done your colour” question (emphasis on the YOU - Oh the SHAME!), the utterly adorable hairdresser sits down next to me to explain the procedure.  Procedure, I think to myself, that doesn’t sound very quick.  He goes between sounding boastful (as in, yeah baby, look at the schiz we accomplish here) and apologetic (as in, you fool, you didn’t really know what was entailed, did you?) 

First, he says, we wash your hair twice. (it looks that dirty, I wonder)? Then, we rough dry it. I warn him how frightening my hair is when rough dried (think Cameron Diaz’s hair in the movie “Being John Malkovich”). Then, he says, we apply the mixture.  What’s in it, I say hopefully, Brazil nuts?

It’s at this point that things get a bit vague.  There’s a bit of mumbling about how the “mixture” doesn’t contain formaldehyde anymore (oh yay), just a derivative thereof (um, riiiight). When they apply it, I notice that they’re not going right down to the scalp (where the offending frizz is born).  Why? I ask.  Again with the vagueness.  “It’s just not good for you.  And it reaches the root anyway when the heat is applied.”

Ah, the dreaded heat.  How hot? I ask.  Well, it has to be set at two thousand degrees Celsius (OK, that part is an exaggeration. But hot, like in the 200’s).  After they painted the stuff on, painstakingly section by section, I am put under the climatizer  which is very sci-fi and not Brazilian looking at all. I can’t help but feel that some Brazilian music at this point might be helpful. You know, to complete the illusion of this being a fun activity.  And finally, it has to be flat-ironed seven, yes only SEVEN, times.

What can I say?  Hairdressers are Extremely Patient, Extremely Dexterous, Extremely Entertaining and Extremely Good at getting us to enjoy what is technically, another barbaric treatment. 

I’m so having a word with Cleopatra when I get to wherever she’s gone.  What’s up with all this near death experience shit all in the name smooth hair and skin? Next week I’ll let you know how the whole bathing in milk thing went.

P.S.  It really is a fabulous salon!

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sting deep...

I avoid beauticians and hairdressers at all costs. They’re always so snooty. And brutal.  Hairdressers normally wave scissors about in my face (think wand like movements) and say things like “I may be a fairy but I don’t work magic you know”. As if it’s my fault I was born with perpetual frizz. My aversion to hairdressers has an underpinning logic. You see once you start getting all precious about your hair, you know you are getting  really old.  True story. When I was little I remember asking my mom on a blistering hot day why she didn’t join us in the swimming pool and she said ‘because I’ve just had my hair done’.  Yip, worry too much about your hair and you can be sure that you’ve crossed over to the other side.

Then we get to beauticians. Their first question to me is always, "so what are we using on our skin”.  I normally try and make Lux sound like L’ Uxe to fox them, but what I really want to say is “WE are not using anything on OUR face because WE do not have access to lotions and potions at cost price like the OTHER WE does and because WE have to pay full retail price for hammed up Nivea that WE have worked out is close in cost to the GDP of a small country and that is why WE use Lux”. (BTW, Lux worked for Victoria Principal and Jaclyn Smith, right?)

After the predictable eye rolling I get, they get working on my face with medieval sounding things - steam, lances and tweezers.  It’s a vicious business and I don’t see the point because I end up walking out looking twice as bad as when I walked in.

Anyhow, I blame my most recent run in with ‘beauty people’ on my dermatologist, who recommended some treatments when I explained how it’s very rude that I’ve got wrinkles and pimples in the same year.  ‘Go for a course of 6 glycolic acid peels’, she says to me, ‘and rub on this cream every night.’ It’s called Differin cream. I assume they’re trying to get their point across that it’s differin to the rest? What she didn’t tell me (I finally googled it) is that along with this differin business comes an IB (Initial Breakout). I feel that words like ‘initial breakout’ shouldn’t come with any cream.  And if it does, the manufacturers should call it something more accurate like “Initial Breakout Cream that Eventually Leads To Marginal Improvement”.

So last week, I finally took my aging arse to a ‘beauty’ person.  Well, not my arse exactly (heaven’s no, I’d never subject anyone to that – except Dr. Oodit and BTW, sorry Dr Oodit for seeing my bum) and it was actually an Aesthetic Medicine Clinic not a ‘beauty person’ (Note to self, get lingo right).

The lady looked so nice.  How was I to know she was into torture? After lulling me into a fake sense of friendliness, she proceeded to put this acid on my face. Hoooooley shit!  I felt my heart rate shoot through the roof and I wanted to reach for a sharp object to stab her in the leg with. She tells me that this type of treatment has been around since ancient Egypt and I fell better as I imagine some granny  Egyptian passing on home beauty remedies. Untill she adds that some died of cardiac arrest because they ‘hadn’t quite refined the dose yet’.  Ah, bingo for the heart rate thing I think. She must have seen the panic-slash-hate in my eyes because she started fanning me with a fanning thing. This stopped the stinging momentarily but I was convinced that by this stage my face had melted off and we were now down to bone. I diplomatically explained that tattoos were far less painful – which was a big hint that she needs to look into some kind of effective pain-management for her clients.  Something like morphine or crack might do the trick.

When she finally finished (after applying a myriad of cooling gels and other weird smelling stuff), I went through to the paying area.  This should be a separate area. An area where no other people are.  Unaware that my face was now very shiny and very flushed, I chat happily to other clients who I only afterwards (upon catching a visual of myself in my rearview mirror) realised were thinking ‘Oh God, that poor woman’.

And to think, I actually pay people for this service.

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stuck on you...

I have a friend who I go swimming with from time to time.  Fortunately, we both have the ability to talk the hind leg off a donkey, which is good, because it keeps the focus away from the visual of me in Lycra. For someone like me, who has, how shall I say it, a complicated relationship with clingy clothes, I seem to spend an awful lot of time in Lycra.  This may be in part because I hope to portray the ‘sporty-girl’ look – as if split jumps or 100m sprint records are imminent.

I havn’t quite caught on (clearly stuck in some kind of 80’s twilight zone)  that ‘sporty-girl’ sportswear has progressed beyond Lycra, to cotton-lycra and weirdly stitched leggings called compression garments.  Hopelessly left behind as I am, I still cannot compete with  my swimming friend, Shorne*, who just this week was lamenting the fact that he needs to finally replace is nylon – yes NYLON – Speedo and that (who knew?) nylon Speedo’s aren’t available anymore.

After I’d finished rolling around laughing ,we both thought it only fair (to nylon manufactures) to compare these wonderfully synthetic fabrics. I feel at this point that I should first explain the design of Shorne’s Speedo.  I fell in love once (in 1984) with a lifeguard that wore one that was exactly the same.  White with navy stripes. A classic I’d say. I’m pretty sure if I pressed Shorne for details, he’d confess that his Speedo is also, in truth, from 1984.

I digress. Upon closer investigation, we decided that Lycra in fact, is just not to be trusted.  In his words, at least nylon doesn’t get that “just took a dump in my cozzie” look when it is all worn  out.  One point to nylon.  I added that (sexy as see-through lingerie is) I prefer my cozzie to stay thick and sturdy – especially around the bum and boob area. Why does Lycra go all thin in the places you need the most support? Two points to nylon.

What about the little bits of “rubber dandruff” that come of the cozzie, Shorne says, when the rubber starts separating from the other lycra fibres? Three points to nylon.  And lets not forget, I suddenly remember, how after the winter season you take your cozzie out and the stretchy bits that are supposed to grip your buttocks, have gone all un- stretchy. Instead of nice grippy bum elastic, you are left with a frilly edge, which doesn’t grip your buttocks at all but instead fans out like Joan Collins’ peplum jackets in Dynasty. Four points to nylon.

I chose not to mention how nylon leotards nearly chaffed me nipple-less when I was I kid (nipples are so over-rated, really), but did point out that no one has ever asked for my second hand nylon leggings. And for this, I think nylon wins points five, six and seven.

Just FYI, go feel up some of those “shark-skin” type cozzies that the Olympic swimmers wear. Very un-elastic. Very shark-skin-like but much, much thinner.  I also wouldn’t bend down to dive off the starting blocks wearing that – I’m just saying is all.

*Names have been protected for the sake of those that still wear nylon Speedo’s.

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snooty buns...

Such a toss up deciding what to write about this week.  Of course, there was the whole Royal Wedding thing (eternally bloggable – FYI Princess Beatrice did manage to make contact the mother-ship via her hat). What really got me thinking thought, was the spam I got from Makro. 

Somehow, I have landed myself on some spamy email list. Lucky me. Senders offer me things like American Citizenship. Lucky me again. I was also recently advised that I’d inherited 3 Million Dollars from a deceased, long lost relative whom I’ve never met, who is based in, surprise-surprise, West Africa (just send R100 000 to process the legal stuff.) Really, really lucky me.

Makro’s spam wasn’t offering me anything quite so ostentatious, but what they were offering (pre-Easter of course) was…. TA DAAAA…. Luxury Hot Cross Buns. The spin at the bottom read:

“Love at first bite (because Easter is that loving time of year?)

Scrumptious and ready to serve (Butlers are ready to serve, hot cross buns just get eaten).

A delicious new recipe (what was wrong with the old one?),

from us (duh!),

to you (thank you Captain obvious). 

Tuck in and indulge (sorry, but you’re competing with chocolate here)  

this Easter with your loved ones (because normally I share my religious holidays with total strangers?)”. 

These are all very bold things to say, considering they are touting confectionary that has cooked raisins. Know what I’m saying.

Anyhoo, the ad reminded me of a copywriting assignment that we did. We had to come up with a campaign to entice people to end a bad habit.  The usual culprits were there; smoking, drunk driving, TV watching, drug addiction etc.  However, one person came up with a very threatening habit.  Using the same pillow night after night.  Who knew this was so foul?  Our copy lecturer looked mortified and you could actually see his horror unfolding as he imagined someone trying to wrestle his favorite pillow from him. Ever the diplomat, he proceeded to ask a whole bunch of valid questions about the campaign and the imagery employed to convey the message.

Now this is where it gets interesting, her scamp (fancy word for picture) showed a pillow (foreground), top hat (mid-ground) and hat-stand (background). Motivation for the campaign was that pillows carry mites, (which to be fair, is true after all - hateful little buggers), and that you should ‘renew’ your pillow regularly with a “SABS approved, hypoallergenic pillow”. When asked what the top hat and hat stand were for, she explained that they were there to indicate the “luxuriousness” of the pillow.  Because, as we all know, luxury is always synonymous with top hats. 

Now while it might seem like I am dissing this classmate, I’m not.  She was just doing what loads of retailers do al the time i.e. get us to buy into the whole “buy-me-because-I’m-a-luxurious-snob” thing.  Like that wildly irritating Mantelli’s shortbread radio add. You know, the one that makes you want to whip the snooty sounding bint with her own ponytail.

It got me thinking.  If these truly are Luxury Hot-cross buns, then they would feel horribly out of place in my home.  These are the type of hot-cross buns that would insist on being served on Villeroy & Boch crockery. They’d only want to wipe their bums with triple ply luxury toilet paper (honestly, as if toilet paper could ever be luxurious) and would want to keep company with Salon-sold hair products (sorry, stumped for a name here). They would scoff at my Green Cross sandals, would tell me they are only holidaying in St.Moritz and would ask me if I really planned to go out “in that”? 

Honestly, it just makes me want to buy that “Extra Slut, Hard Pressed Olive Oil”. Just out of principle.

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once in a lifetime...

Words can’t explain how excited I was when Best Kisser booked tickets for us to go and see Cirque du Soliel.  It’s always been one of those really big-ticket items on my bucket list so, like a total kid, I was excited for weeks and weeks and weeks before. In my excitement, I become one of those irritating people who talk like they have any idea of what it takes to perform that stuff.  I don’t.  As if I could even begin to climb a Chinese pole…

As it was a once in a lifetime kind of thing, the shorties came along. I was well prepared with a) a lecture, should they even DARE to say that they are bored, and b) with duct tape, incase they got fidgety or chatty and need to be taped still or taped shut.  Actually, the duct tape had another potential purpose. It could also be used to subdue other patrons who might think of complaining about kids who get fidgety or chatty (er, it’s a matinee. Duuuh!)

I made sure I was wearing practical clothing as I have this fear of being pulled up on stage. With my luck my dress would be tucked into my pantyhose or butt-cheeks or something equally embarrassing. You can imagine how horrified I was, in a stoked kind of way (it’s Cirque du Soliel after all), when one of the performers picked me out of the audience and squirreled me (very hush-hush) to the back of the stage.

Once out of sight of the audience, I was told to don one of the brightly coloured all-in-one Lycra costumes, like the ones that Chinese Pole performers were wearing.  Luckily it was lycra, stretchy and for once living up to the one-size-fits-all name. They didn’t have time to put on all the fancy makeup, so a quick smattering of fuchsia lipstick on my lips and cheeks had to suffice. 

The lead pole person asked me if I could cartwheel.  Sure, I said.  Haven’t done one in a while but I’ll do my best.  What about an Arab spring?  Ja, I said uncertainly, I’ll give it a whirl.  I mean, I’m going to be making a tit of myself anyway, aren’t I? Last question was if I work-out at all.  Um, a bit I say, whilst sucking in my stomach and puffing out my chest.  Try as I might, my biceps will just not puff out.  OK, the lead one says, I think you might just be alright.

Before I have a chance to protest, they whisper, “just follow our cues and you’ll be fine”.  My heart is beating in my chest and all I can think is that I hope I don’t pee in my pants as I try to do what they’re asking of me.

Aaaand cartwheel, I hear. Three in a row.  Here goes. To my surprise and utter shock I am actually soaring through the air.  I end of with an Arab spring - just because I find that I can really do one -  and it feels awesome.  With two of the performers spotting my back, one says to me “front and backward walk-over. One after the other, with little smiley pause for the crowd in between”.  The last time I did an assisted walkover was in the early 80’s. I think to myself, what the hell - I’ve got health insurance, and I go for it.  Lucky for me, those Ukrainian fellows are strong.  I hear the crowd clapping and think, wow, this is the schiz man! I’m feeling a bit high with it all, and time is passing in a series of fast and slow motion. The crowd seems both near and far at the same time.

You’ve been so great, they say, we’re nearly done.  To end off you’re going to take a running leap onto the Chinese Pole on the left. There are two guys spotting at the bottom for you. When you get to the top, just lift your head to the audience, then fall straight back. We’ll have something ready to catch you.  I’m so far into this thing that I can hardly back out now.  My upper body strength is non-existent but I tell myself that I can at least clamp my thighs (er, the beefy strong part of me) and somehow stabilize myself.

Miraculously, because it’s nothing short of that, I manage to get to the top of the pole. I’m literally three stories up and as I look down, the crowd is cheering away fiercely.  My muscles are burning and I’m terrified of the height but I decide to get a bit fancy and brave a triumphant wave. As I look down, I see that the two spotters are ready to catch me. They look familiar but I’m so far up that I can barely make out their features. 

Ryk Neethling and Gerard Pique.  Arms open, smiling faces and mouthing to me “go on, jump, you can do it”.

Ah hell, I knew I’d blow it if I mentioned Ryk and Gerard . But hey, wouldn’t it be great if it were all true?

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what's that I hear...

It’s a well-known cliché that only people without kids, give kids noisy toys. so I should have known better.  I can only assume that the app inventors at Apple are all childless or they may have known better too.

Anyone who knows me, will know what a huge Apple fan I am. But, like most inventors, they clearly don’t put their apps to test where it counts. I’ve long been a believer that if you really want a product to show it’s true worth, it needs to be tested by kids.  All that “no stain fabric” business?  Means nothing till it’s gone through the short person household wreck test.  And bold statements like “durable under soles” are big fat load of lard till they’ve actually been put through the mill by real, live children.  (FYI, the skateboard/ substitute-bicycle-brake test is what’s called for here.)

But back to Apple. As another means to get our kids even more addicted to technology, we decided to download some “fun” apps on the iPad. Talking Tom was a winner - mostly for me. I mean have you made him sing “Copacabana”? Talking Roby (short for robot) was less funny, though typing in words like “bum” (which Roby then robotically repeats) made the kids fall about laughing.  I suppose I should be grateful they didn’t type in “arse”. (Er, actually they did, but I can hardly admit to that, now can I?)

But here comes the word of caution.  Do NOT, under any circumstances be tempted to download “Sound Effects”.  Because it’s not just about the sounds, which in real life are irritating enough. It’s about the myriad of irritating sounds you can make when you either a) push them quickly one after the other (Burp, Scream, Raspberry), or b) push one repeatedly before it has the chance to finish (e.g. Scream becomes Scr scr scr scr scr scr scr scr scr….) See what I mean?

And don’t think that innocent sounding Doodle Sound is any better. It has noises that imitate things like “bottle blow” (because that’s not an irritating sound at all). Predictably, the sounds  “Fart”, “Burp”, “Slamming door” and “Retro alarm” live up to their expectations. And finally, to keep things colloquial, there is “Hi Sexy” (all 6 year olds have opportunity to say this, after all), “Shut up”(which God knows they should never be taught) and “Get out, get out now” (which is kind of how I feel sometimes but still – you just can’t say it.)

I’m back to wearing my iPod all the time.

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