meet me...

I bumped into Lewis Pugh last week. Yup, he was practically on my doorstep.  I’d gone for a walk, which is something you do instead of running when you are incredibly crap at running.  He was surfacing from one of the subways that leads up from the tidal pool at Kalk Bay.  Just, you know, walking his dog and not wearing his Speedo.

It was bad timing for me as he caught me mid rapper-move. I was busy doing the one where you pretend to swat away the snout of an invisible dog that’s at your crotch. Gold-digger was playing loudly on my iPod and I don’t know why but I can’t listen to Gold digger without doing rapper moves, especially when it gets to the We want prenup, we want prenup, yeah! part.  I know it doesn’t really suit a white chick like me to get all gangsta but I can’t help it. It’s like hearing country music and not busting out a box-step.

Even worse than being caught mid rapper-move was that I didn’t have time to suck in my gut.  This is something that’s almost become a knee-jerk reaction when I’m in the company of athletic, sporty people.  I learned a long time ago, however, not to pinch in my butt.  For someone with a round, sticky-outy bum like me it just makes it worse.  So, I normally smile a shitload, hold my breath and keep the conversation short so that I don’t hyperventilate.  Sometimes, if I’ve already had my morning Joe, I speak really quickly, like that bloke on Trainspotting who dropped some Speed before his interview.  I find it rather effective as it takes the focus off everything visual and the exchange will only be recalled as an auditory one.

Of course, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen a celebrity.  I don’t like to brag or anything but I’ve totally met Ryk Neethling, like, two whole times - though strangely he’s never mentioned it in interviews. The first meeting was at his book signing and I had to stand in line twice. Once to get a book signed for me, and once to get a book signed for ‘my friend’. He and I were both very nervous and we had sweaty armpits, which made us feel slightly shy. Also, I’d been a bit heavy handed with the lip-gloss and my hair was uncomfortably glued to my lips.

The second time we met, it went a whole lot better. Hoo-farking-ray for us being on the same flight from Joburg to Cape Town as I got to stand next to him on the bus that takes you to the aeroplane.  His hand was resting on the handle of his wheelie-case and as his wheelie-case was on the floor and my foot was touching his weelie-case, we were practically holding hands. It was so romantic.

Anyway, I was really excited about seeing Lewis and was even considering concocting an elaborate story for the blog, like the one I did about Cirque de Soleil (sorry about the lie, but it was wicked fun.) But then it dawned on me that if I did talk to Lewis Pugh (even if only in my imagination) the conversation would be horribly short because other than the fact that we both have a body, head and some appendages, we have absolutely nothing in common.

Let’s see, for starters he’s trained SAS.  The most stupid thing about the SAS is that it’s SECRET.  What a waste. If I was to put myself through all that hoo-ha the first thing I’d want to do is tell everyone all about it. I’d go so far as to develop SAS swagger and cunningly drop SAS jargon into every conversation.

Secondly, he swims in arctic waters. Arctic waters I say! They call him The Human Polar Bear. The only time I’ve been mistaken for a polar bear was the time I fell asleep under a flokati rug at a party. I can’t see the point of swimming in cold water if you can swim in warm water.  It’s just not reasonable.

Thirdly, he’s one of those non-quitter types. I have a deep envy for people like that which boarders on obscene-mistrust. How people can stick with something, even when they hate it, just because they told themselves they’d see it through is beyond me. Well it’s not really beyond me, it just makes me feel like I need a stint in a South Korean self-denial camp.

Initially I was upset that I hadn’t tried to catch up with him but in retrospect I’m bloody relieved.  It would have been an awful encounter and he’d be blogging about how awkward it was instead of me blogging about how awkward it wasn’t. Besides, it might have made Ryk jealous.

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tweet it, tweet it, tweet it, tweet it .. no-one wants to be defeated...

A little while ago I signed up with Twitter.  Beeeg farking mistake. For someone as flighty as me, Tweeting is a horrible idea. Dangerous even.

One of the problems with Twitter is that it doesn’t come with a manual or a ‘Rules of the Game’ or even a ‘Tweet Etiquette for Dummies Guide.’ There seems to be an online help section where it covers all that stuff but I don’t want to read it, I just want someone to tell me about it in 140 characters or less.

Anyway, I signed up for this blasted thing having no idea how to use it, no idea who to follow or how I get people to follow me. It ‘helps’ you by suggesting you narrow down whom you’d like to follow by searching through categories. Even bigger farking mistake.

I thought that if I followed people like copywriters, we’d have something in common.  We don’t.  I’ve even reconsidered my line of work so as not to be associated with them.  Tossing hipsters, the whole bloody lot of them.

Even worse, I chose to follow people in the ‘digital’ field but quickly realised that this would only serve as a cruel daily reminder of my digital ineptness.  Those digi-geeks are .

What I understand about Twitter (after a bout on Wikipedia) is that it’s used on different levels for different things.  For some people it’s a self-promotion tool whereby you can:

1)    Show how smart, accomplished, funny, witty, sexy etc. you are

2)    Show off your depth of knowledge or how well read you are (here’s where you get all the links to interesting and not so interesting stuff)

3)    Show off how aware you are – of news, of politics, of sports, of issues and more issues of issues

By far the biggest slice of the Twitter pie chart however, goes to pointless babble and conversational content at 40% and 38% respectively. Well wadya know.

‘Course, that just tells you what Twitter is used for, it doesn’t tell you how Twitter feels. So here’s my analogy. 

Imagine that the Twitter platform is a really, really big cocktail party.  Imagine that a large portion of the people there are hipsters. Imagine that it’s bloody noisy because everyone is talking over everyone else in a very hipster kind of way.  Imagine that you don’t know why everyone is there and that you don’t even know why you yourself are there.

Imagine that it’s compulsory for everybody to take part in a cocktail-party-game of verbal one-upmsanship where you have to try to sound smarter and wittier and sexier and funnier than the person next to you. Also, many of the hipsters there have an avatar, so you think you’re talking to Jenny, a writer from Sussex, but it’s actually Clive, a serial killer from Calgary.

Now imagine yourself easing through the crowd. You approach maybe ten people and comment on the conversation that they’re not having with anyone in particular. Yup, they’re just standing there shouting up into the space above their heads. Occasionally, someone that knows them on the other side of the room picks up one of their messages. This person then acknowledges the other person and affirms how fabulous they are.  You don’t know that they know each other and you’re not allowed to butt in on the VERY LOUD conversation they’re having with one another or you will appear extremely uncool.

If you agree with what someone says, you’re not allowed to say things like: ‘right on’, ‘haha, classic’, ‘good one’, or ‘very funny.’ You just have to repeat what they have said and say ‘@cleverpants said this’. This part of the party game is called retweeting. Some people might really like what you have to say and will award you a gold star. This is called favouriting. If you get enough tweets favourited you get something but I don’t know what it is.  Possibly a big fluffy blue bird or a trophy of sorts.

Imagine that two out of ten people at the party ignore you, two out of ten reply to you, three out of ten listen to you but don’t reply and the rest either listen to you and roll their eyes or listen to you and simply can’t be sodded. Then imagine that some of those that reply to you, will volley-respond twice, after which time they just abandon the conversation mid sentence and move on to another next person.

Finally, imagine that you start feeling a crushing pressure to come up with equally witty, funny, sexy, smart things to say (which of course you can’t, because you’re just you). Imagine this pressure building up so much inside you that the only solution is to find a quiet corner where you can rock to and fro in the foetal position whilst sipping on *witblits.

That is how Twitter feels.

*Moonshine; 190-proof-could-kill-you-type-alcohol

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short, dark and frisky...

My mamma always said that air travel is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get.  The best you can hope for is someone clean-smelling, not too big in the shoulder area and friendly enough so that if you accidentally nod off on them they won’t shove you away.

This brings me to my NBF and slightly-good-looking-from-a-profile-angle traveling companion on the journey between Rome and Dubai.

 

I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to be funny but he spoke funny and chose funny things to talk about. Perhaps the non-verbal cues of when to politely bow out of a conversation got lost in translation, which is why I listened on for five whole hours. Also, I simply couldn’t cut him off because when an Italian speaks English, you get a little swoony from the lyrical inflection.  Besides, he was wearing a big diamond earring and it was the first time I’d ever met a man with such outstanding bling.

‘So,’ I say after hellos have been exchanged, ‘What do you make of this case involving the Vatican and the remains of a girl found buried near Piazza Navona?’

(Note to reader: there’s no way I’m going be able to keep up the whole Italian accent thing throughout so  you please-a to-a imagin-a all-a da time-a, huh?)

‘Those priest. They strange. They pay all kind of people to bring them all kind of people to do all kind of thing they not supposed to do and then they find the trouble. Why they make such a stupid a promise to no have – scusi for the rude - sex?’

‘Umm, no idea,’ I say, trying to look unfazed. (Fact: Sometimes when you show people that you’re shocked it just encourages them. You know, if they’re that kind of a person.)

‘They no even supposed to – scusi for the rude - wank’ he says. ‘But they wank. Why people lie about the wank?’

 I couldn’t decide whether I should play it prudish and say ‘What is this wank of which you speak?’, or if I should act all casual and reply, ‘Me. I never lie about wanking.’

Instead, I blurt out in a strained voice ‘I don’t know. I don’t know why they lie,’ all the while shaking my head slowly and wondering how I’m going to re-divert this conversation.

Despite my discomfort (and I confess, amusement) an academic sounding wank chat ensues involving phrases like ‘perfectly normal’ and ‘nothing to be ashamed of’ to which he adds, ‘I no time to wank. My wife, she Thai. She like the – scusi for the rude – blow job.’

My eyeballs battle to say anchored in their sockets but I blink hard and swallow. I then try to un-swallow, just incase it gave him fancy ideas.

‘Is too much,’ he proclaims and then adds (so as not to seem un-manly I assume) ‘is nice this, but sometime I just tired. Then I don’t want, but my wife, she spoil me’.

‘Mmm,’ I nod sagely, working hard on the image of a man saying to his wife ‘No really honey, no more BJ’s today.’

After we’d resolved what constitutes a reasonable amount of sexy-time with your spouse, both oral and otherwise, we moved onto clothes. I won’t lie, I was kind of relieved.

‘So,’ I say, ‘What’s up with the diamond earring?’

‘Is too much?’ he says.

‘No, no,’ I lie.

‘I do for my stepdaughter,’ he explains.

‘She scared to have hole in her ear so I say OK, I do first.’‘But,’ he clarifies, ‘earring in a right ear mean you gay and earring in both ear also mean you gay, but earring in left ear is OK.’

I can’t face getting into a discussion about how I’d be perfectly fine with him even if he was gay. I don’t want to find myself in any more uncomfortable conversations.

‘Cool necklace’ I say. It looks a bit surfer-ish and I want to talk about surfing now, even though I know nothing about it. Anything other than all this other skanky business. ‘What’s the G for?’

And then, thinking to be-a funny-a myself-a, I add ‘Giuseppe? Guido? Geraldo?’

He looks over at me slyly and says ‘Is for Gucci but aaah, you know this boys?’ 

‘No. No!’ I exclaim, mortified that he thinks I’ve been doing the hokey-pokey while away in Italy.  ‘No, no. I’m married. One man is just fine for me. I’m good with one.’ And then the penny drops.

‘Why?’ I ask, ‘do you hanky-panky on the side???’ to which he doesn’t so much as answer as makes a series of pained noises. At one point I think he may either cry or burst into song.

I found his revelation a little un-nerving because if Mr.-Bling-on-his-ear is getting jiggy outside the marital bed despite receiving – scusi for the rude - a daily BJ then what hope do the rest of our marriages have where we errr, maybe not-a spoil-a so much our spouse-a? (Moment of truth: he actually, he said he gets it more than once a day but I couldn’t bring myself to say it before now.)

It was a bizarrely surreal exchange. I felt like I was watching a cinema nouveau movie instead of having a real conversation with a real person.

Next time I fly I’m hooking up my iPod before I board the plane and not taking it off till I land. Still, he did make me laugh.

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the big wheezy...

I’m not travelling with anyone who can sprint. Ever again. Turns out that Exotica of Beaver-hat fame has been keeping her Usain Bolt talents hidden from me.  She’s always been a bit of a natural athlete (how annoying, if she weren’t so fun I’d divorce her) but the day she revealed her full potential, was the day we caught the train to Florence.

We’d already researched ticket prices at the station and had decided that we were happy with the 17Euro’s cost to travel on the (extremely) slow train to Florence. Exotica felt we could get a better deal as, fool I was, I’d showed her the Trenitalia website where it had shown ‘tickets from 9Euro’. 

So, while we were cocking around the ticket line for 9Euro tickets that don’t actually exist, our train to Florence was warming up, unbeknown to us, on the furthest possible platform from where we were standing. It might just have well been IN Florence.

Once Exotica had realised (I like to think that my newly learned Italian hand movements hurried along this realisation) that we would miss the train before we got even close to the front of the line, the fun started. 

With unnerving agility she released ‘The Bolt’, her silhouette becoming increasingly small as she pulled away with remarkable speed. Now, picture me bringing up the rear (both figuratively and literally). It was like one of those war movies where the slow person shouts ‘just go on without me!’ Except, I had the bloody train ticket so I somehow had to keep up.

I coughed up a lung that day and there it still lies, on Roma Fucking Termini Train Station, platform butt-fuck nowhere. I had sprint-induced asthma for the entire day, which was only very slightly relieved by our lunchtime beer.

Exotica thought this was hilarious and still had energy to trawl souvenir stalls to find the just the right ‘Ciao Bella’ T-shirt.  Ciao feckking Bella indeed. I just wanted more beer, broken only with incidences of wine.

I think it’s entirely unfair to tell your travel companion that you’re ‘soooo un-fit’ then pull a move like that. Rotten show-off.

Footnote:  I bought a ‘Universita Firenze’ sweatshirt that day but no-one’s falling for it. Damn.

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pwoah! buon-fokken-journo...

My recent sojourn (it wasn’t really a sojourn, I just wanted to use that word) in the land of Ferrari’s and cologne-doused men has left me with the conclusion that Italians are a charming nation of cigarette-fueled, carbohydrate-synthesising, love-machines (though I’ve no personal proof on the love-machine front - I’m just going on what we were told by a 70yr old waiter in Florence).

Phase one of the journey, naturally, was grooming for the flight.  Why in heaven’s name women do this, I’ll never know. It’s not as if when you check-in grooming police will ask to see if you’ve shaved your legs or not.  Nevertheless, shaved, clean and well scented is how I prefer to travel. Just as well really, because flying via Dubai requires you to practically strip naked before you’re allowed through security. Imagine the horror of stripping off to reveal body-hair. Oh the shame!

Possibly the best part about long-haul flights (in addition to the unlimited supply of Bloody Mary’s and not having to cook) is that it’s possible to arrive at your destination looking younger than when you left. I leave home with my face as naked as the day it was born so that when I reach the sample counters at duty free I can apply, with gay abandon, all the extremely expensive face cream that I can lay my hands on.  It’s a wonderful thing, this sampling business.  Have you seen how much that gold La Prairie shit costs?

Possibly, I take it one step too far with the perfume testers. I have to. When else am I ever going to smell of Dior?  So spray, spray, spray it is.  My travelling companion (Exotica of Beaver-hat fame) complained and developed instant hay fever just sitting next to me.

Romans are pretty wild drivers and consequently, crossing a road in Rome is by far the most dangerous thing you’ll ever do, second only to playing a game of toss-the-grenade in Baghdad. I’m not sure if their edginess on the road is as a result of their carb consumption (something insulin related I’m thinking) or the nicotine overload, but all I can say is that every driver has ‘Schumacher eyes’.  Yes, they see you trying to cross the road but give you the death stare, challenging you to the ultimate game of chicken.

When in Rome (excuse the pun) I remembered, a few times over, that shopping is an activity for which I have no stamina.  I also remembered, a few times over but all too late, that Exotica is quite good at it.  Worse luck, she has a penchant of second-hand shops, especially where the garments have been pre-owned by the very poor. Charity shops make me instantly bored and inwardly (OK, sometimes outwardly) I do enough eye-rolling to induce an epileptic fit.

However, the outings to something in the region of 14 charity shops was not all in vain as I came away with the useful insight that charity shops world-wide smell of crotch. Maybe because it’s impossible to launder leather trousers?

When I explain this to Exotica (who remained entirely non-pulsed by my eye-rolling), our lovely Italian friend and self appointed tour-guide CaraMia* says,  

‘Whata eesa crotch?’

I point to my nether parts. She nods sagely.  Exotica interjects, ‘they don’t smell of crotch, maybe just a bit of feet’ because after all, this is by far preferable to crotch.

‘Yes’, agrees CaraMia, sampling the air in the shop once again. 

‘Eesa mora ofa feet’.

As punishment for all the charity shops, I made Exotica come with me to all the posh shops on Via Condotti where I would have to say, the effort is somewhat disproportionate to the effect.  I realise that I’m a total Philistine when it comes to being fashion-forward but really, is all that embellishment and bling necessary?  Do I look like I’m about to turn all rodeo cowboy?

Here’s what else I noticed.  The kids there are all really smart. If you can believe it - they all speak Italian! What’s more, they all have sexy, husky, gravelly voices as if they too started off their day with a Gauloises Blonde.

Dog collars are big in Rome.  There’s even a touristy calendar you can buy of Vatican Hotties.  Not surprisingly, no such calendar exists for nuns. Their outfits are only half as fetching. Apparently, visible head-hair is the clincher when it comes to sex appeal. Visible facial hair, however, is permitted. We hatched a plan (behaving like total teenagers) to make a ‘Tourist Calendar of Hotties’ but got so over-excited when the time came to photograph the fellows that all the shots came out horribly blurred. Such a pity. They were to be Christmas presents for our girlfriends.

I’d go to Italy again in a heartbeat.  I can’t think of any other country that gets away with quite so many weird sunglasses, quite so much carbs, quite so many man-scarves, quite so many handsome men, quite so much aperitivo’s and quite so many pullover’s draped across shoulders.

P.S. TooFastTooFurious asked me this morning if I have any jewelry I’d be willing to sell as he’s saving up for an electric scooter. Mr. PP said he can’t get one because we all want things we can’t have. ‘Like Mom’, he says, ‘Mom wants a Lamborghini but she just can’t get one’. Still, do you think I need to hide the heirlooms?

*CaraMia is not her real name. I’m not telling you her real name. 

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to camp...

I got a red-card from TooFastTooFurious this morning.  I said the ‘F’ word and he said he was all out of yellow cards so I’d have to take a red card.

One of the reasons for my cranky outburst was that I’m feeling rather frayed after a weekend of camping.  The ‘To Camp or Not To Camp” argument has received far too much airtime in our house and the only reason I do it is for the kids and partly for Best-kisser (though he says he also does it for the kids but I know he’s lying.) 

You’re either a camper or you’re not.  I’m not. This is only made more so by what I call ‘Camper Snobbery’.   If you tell a camper you hate camping they don’t even bother to disguise their disgust.  They’ll normally retort something condescending punctuated with the words ‘princess’ or ‘royal treatment’, which I don’t find funny in the least. I mean really, a real princess wouldn’t be seen dead camping.

What you’re also definitely NOT allowed to ask a camper is ‘why don’t we stay in the adjoining chalets instead?’ I know this because once we went camping with a camper who said ‘who wants to stay in a chalet?’(all the while sneering at the happy-looking chalet-stayers.)  Naturally, my arm shot up quicker than an over-keen first graders, only to realise that her question was rhetoric. I had to act as if I was raising my hand in some kind of ‘Amen’ agreement.

In an effort to get my head around this camping business, I thought that I should research what makes campers tick.  It seems the most accurate conclusion is that it’s like playing a giant game of ‘Wendy-house Wendy-house’, which goes something like this:

Even though you have your own house with all the shit that you need and want, you pack up all your shit, and some shit that you don’t yet own, and some shit that you're thinking of owning. You then cart your shit to some wasteland – the very best sites are located in dustbowels (yes, deliberate typo) – and then you set up your camp. With all your shit. And then some more shit. Then you get to do all the shit you do at home, (like cook and wash dishes) but with none of the conveniences. It’s a refugee themed mini-break but without the break.

What shit you can’t bring though is the really useful shit. Like good food. It has to be food that can’t go off.  This includes culinary delights reminiscent of the war years, namely canned food and dry biscuits. Some fruit is of course is allowed, but you have to eat it quickly before it starts smelling rank.

Fortunately, alcohol doesn’t go off, though using booze as means to cope hasn’t always been successful.  I once got so shickered that I peed in my shoe.  Due to my reluctance to face the darkly lit pathway-of-death to the insect-infested ablution block, there was more force than normal which proved unmanageable.  My foot was partly frozen (and partly drunk) so I didn’t feel that my aim was skew and it was only when I felt my foot go comfortably warm that I realized my error. 

Naturally, one of the highlights of camping is always the ablution blocks.  They offer wonderful things, like cold showers, which are popular amongst many people. Mostly Thai prisoners.

What made this past weekend especially fun was that Best-kisser (luckily) won the game of Rock-Paper-Scissors for the best camping spot.  It was right up against the stables so we had a whole bunch of flies join us in the tent. They liked us so much that they simply refused to leave. Not only that, but we never felt alone.  Did you know that horses don’t really sleep?  Oh no. They spend most of the night chomping noisily, making farting noises with their mouths and kicking their hooves against something hard or hollow.

The one thing we didn’t take along was firecrackers.  Yes. According to the sign next to our site, this activity scores as ‘highly likely’ amongst campers.  It read, “ABSOLUTELY NO FIRECRACKERS ALLOWED”.  I didn’t realise that there were levels of firecracker allowedness. Some Firecrackers Allowed, Hardly Any Firecrackers Allowed and Absolutely NO Firecrackers Allowed.

I’m going to close this argument by saying that there’s a reason that shack dwellers choose shacks and not tents. They must think we’re absolutely do-lally.

P.S. A friend spotted WheelchairBoy canvassing for free 2nd hand leggings from another victim last week.  Things are getting out of control.

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shop till you drop...

Last week I went on one of my bi-annual trips to ‘the big mall’.  I loathe malls. OK, it’s mostly because I can’t afford all the stuff but also because it’s a total stimulus overload. On more than one occasion I’ve been found hiding out in the shoe bar. The people there are really nice and they don’t rush me along at all. 

Generally speaking, the trip was successful. Found frock; can conquer the world. I did find the magnificent pair of red velvet shoes I was after but then remembered how the last time I wore heels, the sharp bit got caught up in my wide leg pants, tripping me up spectacularly in front of a whole room full of people. On that basis I resisted. Sigh. In a parallel universe I can do it all. I also had a few epiphanic moments whilst on my outing that I’ll share with you now.

1. Ironically, maxi dresses only look good on mini girls.  It’s a horribly misleading name. Anything bigger than a mini girl and they look like a picnic umbrella (especially the tribal print ones) or super large parasol (if the dress has those frilly layers).

2. If it rustles on the hanger you can bet your rustling butt that it’s going to rustle on you.

3. If it feels scratchy when you rub it between your fingers, times that by ten when you have it rubbing up against your body. Lambs wool and mohair are living proof.

4. I’ve yet to meet someone who can afford to wear satin on their bottom half. Figuratively not financially.

5. No matter how ‘on trend’ a bow on the neckline is, it’ll always make you look like an airhostess (at best) or like a bank employee (at worse). They’re very noble careers of course but chances are that’s not the look you were going for.

6. Colour blocking is to 2012 what neon was to 1985. You will look back at photos of yourself and think WTF?

7. Skinny jeans. Cruelly, the hint is in the name.

8. Shoes with slippery soles will make you slip. That’s a given.

9. Pointy toes require pointy toes. You either have them or you don’t’.

10. Pixie boots belong on… ta daaaa… PIXIES!

11. Pumps that are cut too low in the front will give you a bad case of toe cleavage* or plumbers foot - depending on the severity of the cut. I’m just saying that if Victoria Beckham gets toe cleavage with her skinny-ass feet then just imagine what kind of no-hope the rest of us have.

12. Nude and beige should only be worn if you wish to be sent home from work because you’re looking wan. (Except of course if you’re dark skinned or are a deft hand at applying stage makeup.)

13. Mustard. Really?  I thought we covered this in the 70’s. As a percentage of the entire population, who exactly looks good in mustard?

14. Jewelry shops.  Has anyone ever seen anyone buying anything in a jewelry shop?  I know I haven’t.

16. Petit departments are rude. If you can’t shop there then automatically you don’t “fit in”.

17. Are all those shelves of makeup really necessary?  It’s deliberate beauty bamboozlement. Women feverishly reach for this collagen pump and that 24-hour miracle repair cream but they’re actually reaching for a dream. It doesn’t work. If it did work we’d all be using it, know what I’m saying.

18. 6” heels. No one can walk in them. Well, at least not walk well.  The evidence lies in strippers.  The real reason they erect poles in strip clubs is so that those poor women can get off their feet now and then. True story. And don’t let ramp models fool you.  They are considered to be high-heel athletes and are specially trained.  Also, they weigh as much as your average 6 year old who, incidentally, also walks better in your heels than you do.

19.  The final few notes are aimed specifically at Chinese manufacturers of clothing:

a) Only one trim is ever necessary per garment. Namely, you have to choose between the rhinestone, fur, diamante, sequins and the fabric flowers. You can’t use them all at once in the hopes that you’ll appeal to a wider range of wearer.

b) One size doesn’t fit all. Just trust me on this.

c) You can’t just gather the fuck out of a garment to make it go up a size. Believe it or not, you actually have to lengthen the cut.

d) We know well fitting garments isn’t your thing, but for the love of God please use pleats instead of gathers because you’re cocking up the gathers. No wait, you may cock up pleats too.

Feel free to forward this to anyone you feel needs the advice.

*Thanks to my friend Tam who taught me this phrase. I’m going to use it a lot.

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