Classic Manipulation....

Its 11PM...

I will tell you where I am supposed to be, before  I tell you where I actually am.

I am supposed to be dressed in 80s neon clothing, shaking my tush on a dancefloor to remixed Roxette, surrounded by my 7 best friends and a crowd of people I don’t know, with tequila and red bull flowing freely. I’ve been waiting for this night for 3 weeks. – all in the name of my birthday!!!

Instead, I’m in the hospital waiting room at shitty public germ infested hospital central, trying to force details out of the nurse who seems to think that by ignoring me I will actually go away. No chance there hunny!

The REA was in a car accident earlier. A minor fender bender - where his car didn’t survive. The issue however – is that he has not called a housemate or a friend to help – he has called his ex girlfriend.

So whilst I sit in the waiting room, on my crackberry smsing his mom and friends to let them know that yes, he’s on a backboard with a neck brace, but the doc has assured that he only has whiplash and will be fine, I am in fact missing my own birthday party.

The audacity of his friends to say “send him our love; we are going out partying” kills me.

What kills me more is the fact that he is asking for kisses, had not told a soul we are no longer an item, and has begged me not to go! I feel so sorry for him in a single moment. In the next moment I feel pure anger!

He used the oldest trick in the book – emotional blackmail! And I let him!

I cannot forgive that!

If that makes me sick or shallow or insincere – then call me names and shame me.

If the fact that I NEVER want to see him again after this episode makes you dislike me – stop reading my blog.

But the thought of how he manipulates disgusts me so!

The Ultimate Question...

Here’s one for you...

Q: what is the dumbest decision ever....

A: Breaking up with your significant other  4 days before your quarter life birthday... stroke of pathetic genius!

Not only do you have to spend your birthday without them, when you previously spent every waking moment prior to this with them, but you have to be asked by everyone at dinner where he is / why he’s  not there, and then you get reminded by some lamo chicky that “oh well I guess then he won’t be getting you anything cool as a present hey”.

Who invited you anyway? Do I know you?

Talk of severe depression!

CRISIS!!

Happy Birthday to Me

Happy Birthday to me


Happy Birthday to me


Happy Birthday to me....

An Announcement...

I have an announcement to make....

The Real Estate Agent and I have broken up.

No need for tears people, I’m ok with it!

This is no place to slag him, and I’d like to think I have enough class not to stoop to such levels... I said I’d like to think – I didn’t say that I do.

After all – he didn’t cheat, he cleans and cooks, and gives a damn good back massage. So if there is a lady out there who is keen for a sweet guy – let me know and I will pass on your dating profile to him. Those with EU passports may get preference.

It’s not exactly an amicable split, but sometimes you realise what you thought you wanted isn’t quite that. Sometimes change is good. Sometimes its shitty, but I suppose you don’t know until you experience it.

I was asked recently if I really loved him, and instead of that immediate YES response that you are supposed to spew out – I just stared at the one who had asked the question...... silence....

The answer was not what I expected myself to say.

End of story...

The Next Step

Peach and Rambo have boldly gone where none of my entourage have yet stepped foot.

They have moved in together... In fact - they've signed for a bond together!

We are talking full throttle, his and hers matching coffee cups, sharing the mortgage, what shall we make for dinner, I will be home late hunny, fetch me some loo paper… moving in together.

I commend them!!
I also think that they may be nuts for doing so.

Is life not a lot simpler when you just hang out at the b/fs or g/fs house all week with your toothbrush?
That way you get to leave when you want your own space, because in the end… that’s the crux. You both still have your own space.

The notion that personal space exists is like a hot water bottle on a fucking cold Londontown night… a necessary symbol of pure comfort.
But then again, if eating Saigon take-aways off paper plates on the floor, because you don’t yet have furniture, real plates or pots and pans for that matter, brings the two of you closer to a point that boarders on full "age 25 commitment"… then I suppose they really are the smart ones.

Go peach… the man has been conquered…

And go Rambo…as much as you may think you are the head of this new little co-habiting entity… always remember, while you may be the head, she is the neck. And she can turn the head any which way she pleases.

Now… when am I invited over for dinner….

Bathtime With Duckie…

Ok, here’s the thing – I don’t consider myself a complicated creature! I really don’t.
Although I’m not too sure that God devised the handbook for me correctly.

There are a few luxuries in life that I consider ultra important for my existence.
These are non-negotiable! One of these – is simply uninterrupted bath time..

There is a reason that BGP draws a hot bath filled with lush bubbles for me to sink into and sing Frankies “I wanna be loved by you” when in distress, or drunk! It’s the perfect neutralizer! If it could be bottled and sold – I’d be a billionaire…

I like long uninterrupted baths, filled to the brim with bubbles and scalding hot water that makes my skin scream, potentially with jet blasters, and decorated with a pink rubber duckie floating around.
It’s simple enough is it not?

One of life’s uncomplicated pleasures…

Unfortunately however, my private bath moments have been rudely invaded by a man who knows no barriers to privacy! He will pee in the loo whilst I’m in the bath (yuck; there are some moments couples just should not share), and insists on sharing my bath with me.

Yes, normally I know this is supposed to be cute and allow for important couple bonding time, but not at the opportunity cost of my hot bath… and my ability and need to stretch out and dissolve the troubles of life away.
I’m in full agreement – a shared bath once in a while is cute and romantic.
I just don’t want to share it with you EVERYDAY!

It strips the beauty and enjoyment from this once solitudional experience, and now what was once a way for me to relax, only causes stress and irritability.

I want my bath-time back!
I want my sanity back!

I beg of you… before I begin stomping my feet like the pouty lipped child I’m becoming at this very moment!

Just Not Into It Anymore...

Went out to the beach with the REA this weekend. The sun was melting my face as we walked.

Have become acutely aware at how people stare...

I’m used to people staring (no, not because I’m 5ft10 with perfect puppies – I wish – ha!), but I’m used to people looking and thinking (she’s different).

I’d prefer to blend into the background a little more if at all possible!

But now with the REA, when he removes his shirt, not only do people stare, small children also point, and old ladies remark in hushed tones. Even his friend comment.

He’s so covered in tattoos, it looks as if someone drew all over him in crayon whilst he was asleep.

When I was 21 – YES, I thought it was so very hot.

But, today I noticed myself looking and thinking; possibly for the first time; yuck! I couldn’t stop thinking- why would you think it was attractive and do that to your body?!?!

My stomach turned; because I realised that it’s no longer what I find appealing. It’s now what I find repulsive.

Small/few  tattoos – SEXY

So many tattoos  - just not my thing anymore!

Had to make an excuse later that eve to go home; couldn’t look at those tats any more.

Yes – I suppose this does make me shallow. To some, it apparently makes me “normal”!

Modern Age Fun...

Do you ever watch little kids scribbling on pieces of scrap paper, drawing with such commitment, fully engrossed in the masterpiece before them… and envy them?

For the young ‘uns, drawing and painting expands the imagination, occupies the mind and allows them to be absorbed in their own thoughts and fantasies…of dragon slayers, fairies, and little houses made entirely of chocolate and marshmallows….

But on the contrary, unless you are a designer, children’s book illustrator, art director, or otherwise art fundie, how often do you allow yourself to let go as unashamedly as they do?
My answer; not that often.

There seems to be a spazz social stigma against getting your hands, (and face and jeans in my case) covered in fuchsia pink and gold acrylic paint….
I had the incredible opportunity today to chuck the heels, don the French artists beret, and get down and dirty with all the bright colours of the rainbow in the mix.

Paintjamming it is called, and Wembley Square in i-Kape, lets you the adult kick back, relax and express whatever it is you have…in a fuuucking fabulous way.
You get the canvas, a lesson in technique and brushes, and as much acrylic goo as you can smear and splash and play with in 2 hours.

I’ve never proclaimed to be an artist with a paint brush or pen… I’m only capable of talentless stick men images that give hope to blind people everywhere, but that doesn’t take away from the pure enjoyment of it all… and besides… “abstract baby… abstract” is the only defence you will ever need.

It really is…dare I say FUN…..?
I know there are a hell of a lot of adjectives out there that build on “fun”… but that is exactly what it is… innocently childish FUN…

Fun like sucking on bunnylicks, till there is no sweetness left…
Fun like swinging at the park and touching the sky…
Fun like singing in the rain...barefoot….

So my artwork… I say this loosely… will hang in my place for all to see that some days it pays to just be free.. and get your hands (and hair and clothes) dirrrty…

Attack of the Man Flue...

Man Flue: It’s the most evil of all the types of flue!

It’s so severe that only men can catch it, and it turns even our ruggered cavemen into wussy little boys!

Currently I am surrounded by 2 such wussy little boys. 3 of us are housesitting a pals place whilst they are over in yummy Europe.

This was supposed to be a relaxing “holiday” or sorts – away from our own cramped spaces, kicking back with the luxuries that belong to a Camps Bay Manor.

Instead – I’m left running around after two children; each of whom whines out continuously with things like:

“Craaashhh, can you make me tea?”

“Craaashhh can you rub my back?”

“Craaashhh can you pass the playstation control?”

WTF!!!

I’m beginning to feel like I’m playing mommy to these two little boys. Right – this is the greatest birth control ever. Sorry b/f... If this is how it is – we are not having kids – not ever!

If they even think of muttering “craaashhh – he hit me”...

That’s it!!

It’s called Mansturizing...

I spent the evening at Metro Mans place this week.... He made  dinner, I drank wine.

We go “way back”, which explains why I actually let him cook for me. I can dictate what he’s supposed to do without fear of bruising his ego; and he gratefully accepts suggestion!

Bonus! – well trained!

I stayed over, considering his gorgeous view is a stones’ throw away from the office, and if I have not already told you – I love to sleep in.

Taking a page from the good little lass book – he reminded me that a pre-bed cleansing regime is not to be missed.

That should have made me wonder. Most nights I go from “out” to “bed” in about 5 minutes flat; and I tend to bypass bathroom en route entirely!

On a good night, my a pre bed regime normally consists of wash, tone and moisturize – to ward off those nasty wrinkles, and keep pillows white as opposed to mucky orange from base...

And like most women (those French lasses excluded), I have about 3-4 facial products that regularly find their way onto my skin; maybe a serum here or there, and a far overpriced eye cream too.

Wow – my mother would be so proud.

That’s enough isn’t it?

Apparently not!

Metro Man has an entire universe devoted to skin food.

No, it’s not a little shelf amongst the greater cabinet of mansentials like toothpaste, 3-in1 body/hair/face wash and the sorts.

It’s a mansized bathroom unit, stocked full of the latest and  most talked about products.

Eye cream, day cream, night cream, citrus serum, lift serum, plump-me-up-tonic, scrubs, treatments, skin food pills..... and the odd list goes on!

And on...

I’m not completely uneducated as to the necessities to good skin care, but some of these things I’ve never even heard about.

It was like staring into an infinite abyss.. it was never ending...

So whilst he sat with a set of whitening strips on his chompers, plucking at his single chest hair standing out so proudly, I set to work invading the abyss, to see what else it contained.

Apart from the obvious expected tube or 2 of toothpaste and some floss, it contained 3 body washes – apparently they all make him feel “different”,  a cream for this and that, organic non-soap soap, 3 organic shampoos, 2 conditioning treatments, body scrub, foot scrub, sugar scrub,  and much more.

There were 67 bottles of “stuff”  - I counted 32 facial products in total – 32!

When asked as to why he owned so many high end pretty prep products, and why on earth 32 facial godsends....

His simple answer... Crash – It’s  called Mansturizing....

By the way – it must be working...

The man is 32 – and does not have a single wrinkle or skin blotch in sight.

And no – he’s had no work done, although I’m sure he wouldn’t cross it off his “to do” list completely!

For the Love of Shoes...

There is the age old reasoning behind a woman’s love (in my case, mortal infatuation) for all things footwear-like.

The theory falls something like this ”a woman’s weight may fluctuate all her life, but her feet will forever remain the same size! So no matter how fat or ugly or skinny or bloated she may feel that day, her shoes will always fit just right”

If you fall within that hypothesis…good for you.

My love for shoes is based on a different angle however. I’m one of those “lucky bitches” per say. I hear that comment hurtled at me on a regular basis in hushed tones when I pass, (or eat for that matter). Sometimes I get “anorexic” comments, and enquiries into if I “work out”.

And I’m lucky enough to announce… I have an overly healthy appetite thank you very much, I don’t like to sweat …and chocolate is my best friend. I thank my Genes (or is it Jeans?) for this luxury.

But with shoes… I suffer.
Whilst its fairly easy to fit into a size 30, or an extra small, my size 5 feet do not share my physiques compliance.

I have ugly feet! No lets rephrase that… I have UUGLY feet!!

Childhood accidents (read over anxious brother / superman complexes / i dare you games) have left my 10 toes (5 per foot I still might add) as what I rather unaffectionately term scarred and crooked sausages. I’m somewhat a test dummy, with titanium plates in my ankles for support. Because of this physical disposition I don’t go barefoot…ever, as my souls are far too sensitive, my ankles get stiff in the cold, I lack full rotational movement so I can’t do the cardio instructor (swivel your feet clockwise, now anticlockwise people… yeah…feel the burn) I feel the burn on a daily basis you twit. And even if I jump and land unevenly, my feet from my heels to my toes, and up through my ankles… will burn in pain!

There are just certain things, I cannot do! So I’ve adapted my lifestyle accordingly.

And while most of you can eye out a pair of Jimmy Choos with lust and wonder, and slip your perfect tootsies into them with ease and delight, my heel shopping trips are restricted to those with back straps, or sling backs are a prerequisite, so my feet wont fall out, closed toes are the only option so I don’t have to showcase the sausage feet to the world, heels under 2 inches are as high as I can go, so I don’t lose balance and topple down… while strutting on level ground, and heels sturdy enough to distribute my unbalanced weight without the inevitable ankle buckle form the starting point for me.

But this does not deter the deep-seated love and desire I hold for killer heels… in every design and colour! AMOB’s are great, but FMB’s rock my world. (I credit BAGLETT again for these perfect terms!)

So imagine my lust and ultimate joy, when I do find a pair that allows me to “make it work” as they effortlessly say in the frivolous yet fabulous world of fashion. Bring on the FMB’s.

I become addicted, I fall in love and then I have to make then mine!

To date, since I’ve unearthed my inner burning desire for all things glamorous to trudge through the streets and kick up dust, my equivalent of centre stage at Fashion Week… I have accumulated a ludicrous 73 pairs of heels.

Its ridiculous.. I’m well aware…

And so today, after 3 days of agonising, I have packed up some of my girls, 32 to be precise, and am ready to say a final goodbye. Some will be sold, others given away… I just hope that whoever is privileged enough to take you on … treats you with the love, respect, fabulous occasions and suave entertainment you deserve ladies.


I feel as if il losing a child...Treat their feet well my girls… I miss you all already!

FYI….

AMOB’s
Ask Me Out Boots - Much tamer than "Fuck me boots" because the heel is shorter and less spiky. It is merely an invitation to ask me out and see how it goes. While less sexy than FMB they are much sexier than "Ignore me boots" (IMB’s).

FMB’s
Fuck Me Boots - Tall, tight footwear worn to nightclubs, house parties, bars, and other social locations, by women who wish to send the "fuck me" signal. Generally, the boots extend to at least mid-calf level, usually, to the knee. Obviously, these boots are worn with clothing that does not overlap, usually, a short mini-skirt, furthering the "fuck me" signal.