Who Put That There...

I was driving along all merry and content this morning, en route to work, flirting with Buff Neighbour (BN) in his fancy wheels who paced me for 8 km on the N1.
Fun times...

Now, my little car, she has no stereo... because I’m flat against nourishing SA’s crime problem with yet another set of speakers and front-loader. Three times is sufficient enough thanks.

I’ve made alternative arrangements and prefer to plug in and listen via the ‘lil ipod.

This also gives me an excuse to blatantly ignore bikers, “because I couldn’t hear them coming”

So with shuffle mode on, and massive flirt in progress, I sang along to some ABBA, Cinematic Orchestra, and all 9 minutes of Greendays Jesus of Suburbia.

FYI – my favourite snippet is 5:28 into the song...

Thereafter came the shocker!

Who the hell put Backstreet Boys on my ipod...

And why could I not bring myself to press “NEXT”...

The Music Video of Your Life...

One of my favourite quotes of all time is this:

Life is a music video; make sure yours is worth watching....

But what would my music video actually entail?

I know there will be NO 50’s stereotyped sequences of pregnant Crashlett, barefoot in the kitchen...

Instead, it will take the form of a cute and crazy looking little girl in a pair of too-big killer red heels, polka dot dress and skinny leather jacket; running around in circles with her hair flaming on fire...

Shot in de-saturated black and white, with technicolor dream sequences, filled with chocolate and candy canes, fluffy things, bubbles and wide open spaces where only tulips grow in black.

And the song that would play in the background? Well now that’s still TBD...

All I know, is that the baseline would carry you off in waves of euphoria, and the guitar riff would electrify your soul...

The Learning Never Ceases...

As I mature I’ve learnt a few things in life :

I’ve learnt that you cannot make somebody love you. All you can do is stalk them and hope that they panic and give in...

I’ve learnt that you shouldn’t compare yourself to others; they are more screw up than you think...

I’ve learnt that the people you care about in life are taken from you far too soon, and the less important ones never go away...

I’ve learnt that you can keen on vomiting long after you think you have finished...

And so the learning continues....

Driving Miss Daisy Batty

The boss  encountered car trouble this morning, so being the good citizen I am, I offered to lend a fake nail clad hand.

This involved me dropping IT off at the “one stop car shop”, during lunch to fetch their wheels.

Now, I’m usually up to assisting in such regard, but please people, when you get into my car – at least know where it is that you want to go.

It makes life easier If I can input it into the GPS and have Basil direct me via the bustling streets of the CBD at lunch, when everyone but their great aunt is on the road.

Do not –  I repeat, do NOT get in my car then  ohh and aah about which roads it is that I need to drive down, up or around. Not when the city is made up of one-way confusion zones.

Even better – when I ask where are we going – just tell me. Don’t say “no it’s ok – I will direct you”. Already I’m starting to wriggle in frustration.

So I spent 49 minutes of my precious lunch hour, driving around the CBD, in somewhat circles, because you couldn’t remember which road it was we were supposed to turn down! Aaaggggrrr!!

The actual distance it should have been was 1.6km. Instead, I clocked up 49 minutes of round-a-bout site-seeing.

And the absolute kicker... the bit that boils my blood over is this:

I raced back immediately to work, cracked open my lunch and was not even half way through inhaling my food, when you walk in, and comment in my vague direction : “isn’t lunch time over?”

Unleash the Cavewoman...

I’m not much of a girly girl at all!
In fact – I view myself more as a tomboy in heels. (heels only when necessary), otherwise I’m quite comfy in jeans, footie boots or playing in mud. Toit leather jackets suit me far better than dresses ever could...

But that’s not to say that I’m opposed to good hygiene and common decency to match my socks should I choose to wear any.

Nope......

But my ego is a little bruised and fragile, and I’m not even sure if I’m supposed to feel this way.

I have an acquaintance, from who I get the distinct feeling – thinks I’m superficial.

His perception oddly hurts!

Why I give a shit – is beyond me. Feel free to shed some light here readers....

So what if I choose to indulge in some of the rarities of female obsession that us woman (the better sex) are afforded.

Like the occasional massage, manis and pedis, GHD’ing my locks (see how I now use that as an actual verb/action – bliss). Besides – I’ve lived with men who owned a GHD before I ever did.

Stellies art students are a different breed!

I’m a woman – not a cavewoman!

I’m allowed to shave my pits. (although I personally feel this should be a general societal expectation, not an option)

I’m allowed to have false nails. – In my case they are maintenance free.

I’m allowed to hide a blemish under a mountain of MAC on a “fat day”.

I’m allowed to smell nice – although I’m yet to meet a man I’m keen on who ever compliments on this.

After all – the trackie pant and frizzy hair look went out in the 80’s... (fashion police – please do not repeat this monstrosity)

With my ego bruised, I went in search of the advice of Metro Man, although only with a pinch of salt – as he rarely deals in anything but extremes.

His professional opinion: I’m not superficial... I’m just well groomed.

Well then it must be so.... (haha)

After all – do you want to date a cavewoman, or do you want to date a woman...?

Final Arguments; as they say in the courthouse:

If you saw what I look like when I wake up – you should be thanking the creators of MAC, GHD and Treseme.

Tina Turner and the morning Afro have NOTHING on me....

Tarting Up at the Office...

OK here’s the thing – I love to sleep. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before.

If you’ve seen my bed, clad in woollies imported 500 thread count sheets and down duvet – you will understand! Trust me – you will!

This invariably means that I race out of bed at the very last minute on most days.

Come to think of it, if I could go to bed fully clothed for the following working day, I would – especially if it would save me 5 minutes of staring into the darkness of my cupboard, wondering; black... or black india... hmmm – decisions.

Now you understand why I pee in the shower. It saves precious precious time.

(see Early Morning Multitasking - 9 March)

As you can imagine, my morning routine is a feat of timed precision.

Skilfully crafted to minimise effort – and designed to ensure that I get to work 52 seconds before my boss each day.

The insight I wish to share here is this: I don’t put on make-up in the mornings for work.

Why should I?

Not if I’m going to spend my days in the office surrounded by the fairer race of equally unconcerned lasses.

I only primp and preen in front of the mirror with a flurry of brushes, powders and puffs  if I intend to see clients first thing.

Instead I let my skin breath for a good few hours each morning, and then at 12:30 daily, I waltz on down to the ladies,  make up bag dragging in tow.

I don’t take 15 minute smoke breaks every 15 minutes, so why can I not be afforded the luxury of extended bathroom breaks. Who cares what I do in there....

And besides... the lighting in the ladies domain – is far superior to anything I have at home.

It’s like it was designed for this very purpose.

So I take my 15... and treat myself to some “me time”....

But this unfortunately does not limit the remarks or snide comments that only women can engineer, nope – it fuels them...

The standard remark: “And who are you tarting up for today?”

Crash: myself...

Vote Sushi for Productivity....

Had lunch with my family from the office today... Sushi!

Ok - so the 3 of us have lunch together almost every day... who's counting!

Today the plans began with back and forth emails of "the countdown begins" , "only 2 hours left" , or a personal favourite "I've hit #11"

#11 is in reference to a list of things that ring oh so true in life.

At #11 it reads: You never quite know when it's going to happen, but there comes a certain point in a day where you know that you are just no longer going to do any more work....

I should probably mention - that these mails started circulating at 10am...

Lunch involved copious amounts of terrific sushi, sharing with Metro Man as we are both averse to avo-covered sheep. They are horrid.

Glamour Girl loves sushi - but doesn't eat fish. Yeah - work that one out on your own...

Someone made the mistake of ordering a pink cocktail equipped with little umbrella, and as the rest of us have no ability to deny any drink that is served with an umbrella, we followed suit.

It's amazing how a little time out of the office can brighten ones day, and encourage productivity - upon return to the office, I archived my e-mails, and organized my iTunes album!

Now that's what I call productive!

The Adventures of Friend Swopping...

Hold it right there - wipe that dirty thought out of your sordid mind :)

where were you born?

Metro Man and I have decided that an arranged meeting of friends is required - to broaden the pool of potential talent, or in his case the pool to dip his big toe into...

How else are we supposed to meet "decent" people in CT?

MM: You need to hook me up with your bunch of friends.

Crash: Why?

MM: I'm bored with mine.

Crash: You mean you've run out of chick friends to sleep with?

MM: Exactly.... I need a new cuddle buddy.

So guess what we are doing this weekend...

Not to worry - my gal pals have been fore-warned!

Dancing Ninja...

Forget dancing queen... I’m a dancing ninja.

The music pumps, the contingent jump around trying to all look sexy, and “The Engineer” (TE) shakes his cement tush like “Courtney from the ghetto” on the verge of a striptease clad in my cop hat...

Good times....

Yes – a typical Saturday night at a mad hatters birthday party.

All that was amiss was the mad hatter herself and ½ cups of tea...

As The Engineer and I broke down the rules of dancing, a pack of admires watched on in awe. (I wish I could say it was all me, but alas, flaring arms like an octopus on steroids doesn’t constitute attractive dancing. It was all eyes on The Engineer)

Apparently, I’m told – according to societal norms, he’s considered “OMG he’s hot, I can’t breathe when I’m around him he’s so yummy, did you see his ass – it’s like cement, oh wow, I’d never kick him out of bed, smoking hot sexy” .

In case you missed that – he’s a catch, and smart to boot.

Geez – I never noticed; I was always just preoccupied by those 2 little arrow lines on his stomach... and his divine teeth... mmmm.

Anyhoo, we were jiving and all looking super cool (of course) until an inevitable tumble which landed us in a pile or arms and legs and hair, hovering over one another, inches from the floor.

It was a case of the matrix-meets-adulttwister gone wrong, tangled in a web of bodies, shaking from laughter.

The oh so amazing factor; throughout the entire ordeal – we never spilt a single drop of goodness from a glass.

At least I know where my priorities lie...

I’ve now been dubbed – the “dancing ninja”.

Hooray; a new party trick!

Nom Nom Disruptions...

I have a complaint to lodge – no, it’s not against men...

(what a relief)

It’s against people who join friends for dinner – and then don’t eat.

In no way am I pointing fingers at those uber skinny gals who hold unhealthy relationships with food as the enemy, and survive only on ciggies and Champaign either.

Not today!

Today – I bitch and moan about people who gatecrash dinner plans, but don’t order a thing to eat, because they have already eaten.

Yes, I understand that 9pm dinners are a bit unusual, but an invitation to an impromptu last minute dinner arrangement is just a way for us to say “hey – we couldn’t be arssed to cook tonight so are eating out and chatting; come join us if you are free”.

It’s an open invitation!

If you are otherwise pre-occupied, or don’t want to get off the couch because of Top Gear reruns, then we do understand. We won’t hold a gun to your head and force you to leave the snuggely comfort of your flat and brave the CT storm.

But do not, for the love of food, do not join my dinner table (yes, it is mine; see that platinum engraved name plate) refuse to order a damn thing except 4 cocktails, and then hurry me through my dinner!

It’s a sure fire way to suck the enjoyment and fun out of my evening gluttony session.

This blog is not called nom-nom for nothing. Food and I have a very personal and deeply meaningful relationship. Don' disrupt it, or I will ninja your ass out of here!

Fun-sucker!!

Hushed Tones and No Privacy...

I’ve realised that my industry is in fact – TINY!!

It’s almost inbred!

Here’s why: Most people knew about my pending resignation before it even happened!

I’ve been getting calls from all sorts, hushed tones fill the hallway corners and general chit-chat has revolved round – “so you moving huh? Niiiice!”

Is there no such thing as office privacy?

Ice Ice Baby...

For those of you who live in Cape Town, you would have noticed that the past few days have been, well – FREEEZING!

So cold in fact, that my little car was covered in a thin layer of ICE this morning, from being parked outside in the street, after visiting the folks.

But not to worry if you suffer this same issue, as I’ve strategically come up with the perfect solution to this kind of thing:

it comes in the form of a MASSIVE PROJECTED WHINE...

aaaaaaaahhhhhhh! ... %$&$^#%@#*   ... with emphasis on lots of pouty lower lip action!

Result: Alpha male comes running in your direction to assist city damsel in distress.

In my case – he brought with him  a kettle of warmed water to defrost the evil ice.

I should probably mention that the man who came running, was in fact; daddy!

Semantics!

I’m going to try it on Buff Neighbour (BN) later this week!

Now What?...

So the World Cup has officially finished....

Gone...

Finitto...

No more...

I have a question: What are we supposed to do now?

After all, there is only so much snot and tranne I can manage from season finales in one evening.

My tear ducts have not yet recovered from the Grays psycho shooting episode.

And now I sit, starring off at the screen, like it holds the answers to my entertainment...

That’s it! I’m taking up a hobby!

Smoking No More...

5 weeks without a cigarette...

Yippeeee......

That accidental moment where I lit one up for a friend then coughed and spluttered for 2 minutes whilst my lungs bled and eyes watered – well, that doesn’t count!

No it doesn’t!

My life – I make the rules!

5 weeks... eeek....

An Influential Bubble...

I was told lately by one in my contingent that I am more influential than I think I am.

Apparently – when I talk – people actually listen (is that not the point?)

Oh, and it does not stop there – no!

More interestingly, I have a way of making people confide in me which is slightly unnerving apparently.

Who knew I had this ability – does it mean when I yell at my PC to work – it will now “listen”?

This guru called me an “influencer” – I view myself more as slightly brash, assertive or somewhat manipulative!

IE:

Crash: I bet I can make you drink that whole bottle?

Pal: Nope – only having a glass.

Crash: Wow – that’s responsible of you.

Pal: Thanks...

Crash: After all, because you don’t have it in you to drink the whole bottle.

Pal: Yes I do. I could finish it.

Crash: Really? You think you could? I highly doubt it.

Pal: OK, fine, watch me do it.

Crash: told you!

Pal: Shit!

But with this mini ego boost I suppose comes some responsibility. No more superfluous bullshitting!

He also tried to punt spirituality on me, divulged some content on his fragile relationship that I probably should never know and made me feel as if I was the only woman in the room in that very moment!

Why can’t men like this be single?

I hereby crown thee - Sex on Legs!

I apologies - I realise the error of my ways, and the revelation makes me oh so happy!

There is one more opportunity to perve over Thomas Mueller – Saturday nights playoff game...

Not missing that - ever!

Yippeeeee...

I hereby crown thee - Sex on Legs!

Yes, I am aware that it’s a little sad that I’m so excited about this – after all, he’s barely 21!

I’ve already stalked the FIFA website to confirm this!

Bus some things, well, some things will just be...

What’s for Lunch...

That’s it!

I’m ordering grilled German octopus with loads of lemon for lunch!

Murder is on the cards!!!

And a few beers!

If Only...

20 minutes into the game this evening I realised:

Michael Schumacher has a better chance of winning at Silverstone on Sunday, than the Germans have of winning the World Cup!

SCHIZER!

No more perve sessions of the barely legal Thomas Mueller...

Damn!!!

If only he weren’t suspended. The victory would be twofold.

1 – 90 minute perve session!

2 – supremely talented frontline of skilled and familiar feet wrecking havoc and running with the bulls...

 I say it again... SCHIZER!!!

A Pot of Colourful Bullshit!

I'm in full agreement that the theory of six degrees of separation is a true reality.

Never more so, than in this dear city of Cape Town.

In fact – I think it’s far smaller than 6...

I find myself at the middle of an odd triangle, one to which I have no real desire to be a part of, and which actually doesn’t even involve me.

There are 3 women I know in life:

A lifelong gal pal

A colleague pal

A new found friendship pal

All three of them know one another and have met on their own accord, or at least they are mild acquaintances...

The dilemma - all three of them are in the midst of a flirting frenzy; with the same guy...

... and they don’t know it.

The only reason I’m privy to such tasty snippets, is because as each woman receives sms’s or emails from said man-whore, they send them straight onto me / or holler down the hall – “Crash, your copywriting skills are required.”

Note: I’m not a copywriter, in fact, sometimes the English language evades me entirely.

On some days however – I surprise even myself with a quick witty chirp packing optimal impact.

Now I’m getting told the dirrrty details of all 3 salacious would-be/could-be encounters, and asked – “he said XXXXXX - what should I reply back?”

My standard answer is usually “you don’t”!

But the deadpan expression that particular response provoked wasn’t appreciated.

So I entertain their fantasies with witty and sexy remarks, and us girls giggle like teenagers at the subtle sexual innuendos in what has now become my “3 way text relationship with man-whore”

How am I supposed to look this okie in the face and pretend that I don’t know what’s going on behind the curtains? Every fibre in my being is itching to holler out to him “I know what you are doing, nah-na-na-na-nah...”

I must admit – the man has a very stunted imagination, as the messages are all from the same pot of colourful bullshit!

Strange"ness"...

People have strange habits...

People do strange things...

That’s what makes us so unique and individual.

Never... ever have I come cross this one before though!

Bought an extremely overpriced bar of chocolate at the local late night garage shop. R19.95!

Really!!

Was sifting through Best Gal Pals kitchen cupboards for a mini-me sized bowl to serve chocolate to guests in a late night sugar craving frenzy...

... and came across the oddest of oddest things.

An entire oversized plate of waffles! Just sitting there – happily gathering diseases/dust, uncovered, and hiding in the darkness of the cupboard.

I said “hello” ... “who goes there”, and because no-one answered – promptly devoured one!

Then hysterically pointed them out to BGP who’s only reply was... “oh, is that where I hid them?”

Individuality!

Football Fundays...

Watched ze Germans annihilate Argentines blue and white yesterday.

I even wore the overpriced scarf purchased roadside an hour before the game – to show that I’ve always been a firm supporter of the team, and that I’m not only pretending to be a fan just because they are doing well! *cough cough*

Also paid R20 for a beer.

Oops sorry – correction! I paid R20 for a can of sort of chilled cider!

So that’s how I miraculously “lost” R100!

Clarity!

Also peed in the mens’ – because the line to the ladies is well, let’s be honest, always far too long! After all, is it not just semantics?

Thanks to the lovely lad who kicked all the men out of their domain, guarded the door, and yes – insisted on chatting to me the entire time I was hovering trying to relieve the damage that those 5 ciders had caused.

Umm – yeah – that was an experience...

It's Present Time...

I love wingmen!

Yes –I say it again: I love wingmen.

They are especially at their best when they bring with them supersized presents!

When you are out with friends and they actually pick up people on your behalf, its as if God is watching from her perch somewhere, waving her sparkling magic wand and yelling: Go ahead Crash – this one’s for you!

The prize: My very own super sexy German tourist!

I got to play tourist in my own city for the past week; which according to the “unofficial official Crashlett tourist guide book”, included eating out at various “must see”  fabulous restaurants (read far over priced and under serviced), being educated on the wonders of German beer and very liberal German culture, and a few other perks – including driving a very sexy and smooth SLK...

Another week down!

Influencing Young Minds...

Wan't to hear a joke?

 

Ok – here’s a funny one...

Well – I think so; and that’s all that matters; ‘innit!

Somehow – I’m now a lecturer!

What?  - you may ask. Or scoff – in my parents case?

Yes – someone, somewhere within my industry, has decided that it would be a great idea to allow me, yes ME, to mould the young minds of my industry!

I now lecture this great thing that has become my vocation – to influencial young minds – at a rather prestigious college nearby.

Great jump in my career and street value...

But if they only knew....

Lastminutedotcom...

Have been a little off lately! Boo ha!

Will put it down to the fact that I have been crafting the perfect resignation letter!

This type of literature marvel takes time – 4 days precisely.

In my head it reads something like “ *&^%%$ ...I QUIT!”

In the real world, where I seldom reside, it’s more professional in nature and uses GIANT words like “enormity”, “provocation” "admonish" and "resplendent"...

It took me 4 days to write, and 3 days to muster up the courage to give it to Big Boss Lady.

I had to print it out each evening all over again – and adjust the damn date.  Apple or Microsoft or those peeps really should work out a way to “auto adjust” pre-printed material... come on!

Sorry trees!

Eventually – in pure “last minutedotcom” style – I gave it to her, on the final day of the month!

Concerned employee I am!

I had every intention of delivering it a week early, but my whole coward like behaviour got in the way a tad.

Yes... so I’m moving on... onwards and upwards so they say... 

Epic Recovery...

P.S – I recovered phenomenally well from recent DTM horror episode.

Apparently the recipient thought my late night antics were amusing not whorish. (pphhheew! thank goodness)

There may still be hope...

Flop Turn What...

It’s poker night!

It’s poker night!

Those were the squeals that came from the 3 of us ladies, as we “faffed” with canapés and uncorking bottles of pink champers courtesy of Bon Courage (wine weekend a few weeks back)

I use the term canapés very lightly – chunks of bree over baguette drizzled in honey isn’t “French” or “petite” enough to be considered a canapé – apparently!

The boys  were due to teach us to play, but being kind to the fact that we were all novices, the idea was poker with sweets!

No exchange of cash required!

Note to self:  do not play poker where your  “cash or chips” are edible!

Especially when your R100’s are the yummiest sweets around.

I was bankrupt 32 minutes into the game, and screaming FLOP and TURN in the RIVER hysterically, whilst munching on toffees...

I love poker night!

No More Texting Whilst Drunk ...

There is a reason that people should be prohibited from TWD = “texting whilst drunk “

If they don’t believe me – use me as the official case study! Go ahead – I give you permission.

After a pretty fabulous wine tasting evening – thanks uncle who owns vineyard -  we returned to the Best Gal Pals house. (BGP)

Shortly after bed time prep – which involved me climbing into bed fully clothed with boots still on - covered in CT street muck, (she must love me as she didn’t kick me out); I decided that now was the perfect time to chat to long lost little cuz via text.

‘lil Cuz is a tad bit younger than myself – which explains why she was in the midst of full party mode on a Friday night, whilst I was almost comatose snug in BGPs bed - at 10:30! – on a Friday night!

Double dose of lamo there!

It’s ok – I’m beyond the point of thinking that’s sad. I like sleep! – more than I like drunk people falling over me!

Anyhoo – ‘lil cuz was determined I come out and party. My brain and body were determined I did not.

So after a last good night text  - wishing her luck on the stalker drive-by of boyfriend to be, I ended our late night vino induced convo with: blah blah blah...."naked virgin tucked safely in bed!”

SEND....

SLEEP!!!

ZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz...

FYI – for all you sicko freaky type of peeps out there reading this - it’s a back in the day joke!

  

Take a guess... yes – I know you know what’s coming next!

I’m not that great at the “shock tactic” type of literature!

  

WRONG NUMBER!

Not just any wrong number...

WRONG NUMBER OF THE INCREDIBLE YUMMY MAN I AM TRYING TO IMPRESS FOR LONG WALKS ON THE BEACH AND POTENTIAL FUN TIMES...

but - I go through life blisfuly unaware as to the error of my ways...

I get a reply – blah blah rah rah blah... “I hope that you don’t normally sent those types of messages to people in the middle of the night – they may get the wrong impression”

You know the feeling; the one where you actually go COLD from fear, and then realization sets in? Yip - it attacked me like one of those Twilight wolves on heat...

ULTIMATE OUTCOME: COMPLETE AND HORRENDOUS DISASTER!!

Am now moving to the Arctic and going to hide in an ice cave somewhere – where it's too cold to be naked and there is no reception.. NONE!!!

The Weather Girl lied...

The weather girl declared it to be a sunny day in CT today.

Best Gal Pal (BGP) and I decided – that the best way to spend such a pretty sunshine Saturday – was to relax on the beach with champers and snackies, and watch the waves tumble by.
If it were summer – this wouldn’t be such a misdirected option. Bikinis here we come!

However – it’s the middle of winter, and the weathergirl lied about one thing!

Yes – the sun may be shining – but it’s still friggin' COLD out!

So we spent some time on the beach – curled up under blue blankie, with Champaign and stinky cheese yumminess.

...30 minutes later...

ME: ok, I'm bored now – can we go home yet?

BGP: no – we are being cultured!

ME: then why are we drinking warm Champaign out of plastic cups?

BGP: because they don’t know that.

ME: Who's “they”?

BGP: them!!! She punts ... eyeing the beach...

I looked around – all I saw was seagulls, and an empty beach... not a single person around!

ME: yeah – they are smart aren't they – THEY all stayed inside today!!!

10 minutes later we were packing up.

After shaking sand out of blanky – and onto EVERYTHING else, I wrapped my shivering body with pale blue lips on the verge of hypothermia up in the shelter of the fluff, and finally got back into the warmth of the car.

BGP: Hey Linus – you going to eventually let that thing go?

Me: NO!! NEVER!!!

Me: now let’s go – I want ice-cream!

BGP: %#$*&^%$ off!

Me: Love you too...