The best of me

For the longest time, I’ve wished that I could feel tipsy all the time. Not in a bourgeoning alcoholic way, but in that warm, everything’s ok, everything’s funny, I’m funny and relaxed and happy kinda way.

I’ve just got back from an extended lunch, and I had a bit of wine. I need to put this in context for you: I’m a cheap date. I’m a two-glass-and-girl-down kinda girl. Bridget Jones said: Now that I’m in my 30s, at least I can hold my drink. I’m 32 and I had to get driven home from a party last week because I couldn’t place one foot in front of the other, let alone string a coherent sentence together. I’m not proud of myself. In fact it took the entire long weekend to put the whip away and be kind to myself – but there in lies the rub.

The sober me is cool but leans towards being serious and tense. I’m fairly tightly wound. I am a work in progress. (And my oldest friends will tell you that I’m much better than I used to be!)

The tipsy me, is fabulous. (Or is that the tipsy me telling the tipsy me that?) I shudder to think. But when I do think about it, I feel so much better about myself when I’m a little lubricated. I’m chatty, I’m confident, I’m naughty, I don’t really have a care in the world. And that’s how I want to be always. No holds barred. No bars held. It’s the perfect balance between lucidity and fuzziness that takes the edge off and makes things look brighter. (For instance, I’m still able to type and spell correctly, and for those of you who know me well, know that spelling, even when I’m sober is not one of my fortes.)

The point is: I like me better when I’m tipsy. And if that’s the way I feel, surely everyone else will? Then again, we are own worst enemies! And my friends are quite forgiving.

Now if I can only get the hang of staying tipsy for longer, instead of plunging headfirst into amounts of alcohol that turn me into a pariah… watch this space.

Everything's changing but I still feel the same...

I think, for the first time, I get that line in Keene's song.

Rob and Tink got married, Alv and Lin got married. Rob's off on an extended Indo adventure. Georgia's pregnant. Diane's pregnant. Mike and Georgia are talking about Australia, and Ally and Craig are talking about New Zealand.

And so it goes... change. I'm still trying to work out how I feel about all of it happening at once. It's the age, it's the time.
And sometimes I get an attack of the "what about me-s?" and sometimes I'm happy to stay right where I am. There was a
time when everything happened together - passing matric, passing your drivers license, turning 21 and graduating. Going
to London and coming home. And now we follow our own paths, banking on friendship circles and for those further afield,
the internet. Or maybe I'm feeling romantic and nostalgic.

Did you know that the pattern on that Keene album is actually piano hammers? Look closely. I think that's cool.

Wax On :: Wax Off :: Part 2

(If you’re a little naive in the ways of waxing, see the glossary at the end of this post.)

A trip to the Hollywood Hills

It’s not what you think. It really amounted to a miscommunication, or non-communication. And, it probably was my fault. But really, before smoothing hot wax on to one of the most sensitive areas of the female body, let’s just double-check, shall we?

I needed a wax. I made the appointment and I went. It all happened within hours. I didn’t have time to plan what kind of underwear to wear. (Yes, you’d think I’d learn the first time. Shut up.)

She left me to undress. This is something I don’t really understand. Why do they bother to leave? They know you’re there for a wax. They know they’re going to spend at least 30mins hovering over your groin, as you lie spread-eagled, submitting to torture. Let’s hurry it up, I’ll whip off my shoes/skirt/jeans and jump onto the bed and you can start. I don’t want to wait for you to come back after a disproportionate amount of time. And how long do you think it takes for me to undress anyway? We’re not talking about seduction.

As she turned to go, I remembered that I was wearing French knickers, which look more like hot-pants, and are not at all ideal for waxing. So I asked her, in an awkward manner unusual for me, whether she had those disposable panties I could wear or whether I should just take it all off. She’d run out of those handy throw-away pants, so all-off it would have to be. Okay, no problem, I thought only too quickly.

When she started trimming my pubes, I should have known something was up. Perfection is something I like, so I thought I’d leave her to it. Then she started waxing, in places she really shouldn’t have been for a standard bikini wax.
“Stop!” I cried, “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” she looked startled, hot wax dripping onto my only crop of curls, “I thought you said all off?”
“Nooooo” I wailed, “I was talking about my panties.”
“Oh shit! I’m going to have keep going here, and even it up.”
“Okay!” I squeaked.

At which point we both packed up laughing till we cried. It was a good cover! And I knew it’d be a story I’d tell. And there was no doubt; it’d be a story that she’d tell. And I might have limped a little and opted for commando to allow a brief recovery! But now, I’m very clear, short of actually drawing on a line. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

Bikini Wax: waxing along the bikini line
G-String Wax: a little closer to the lady-bits, waxing along the g-string line
Brazilian: Also known as the landing strip – most off, with a little thin patch of hair
Hollywood: All off. Yip - all of it. Nothing left. We’re talking Lolita here chaps.

Don’t Feed the Animals or Fight & Flight

I know, I know, we all have airport horror stories to tell but it never ceases to amaze me how boorish people become when they are at the airport. Somehow, any sense of logic and calm is left in the parking lot and is rapidly replaced by panic and psychosis. And it breeds. Faster than you can say: .

There is the elderly woman, overly made up with her ill-fitting wig that self-righteously jumps the queue. Back off granny, I’m just as tired as waiting as you are. The Fabinani-suited businessmen that would put hurdlers to shame when check-in for a flight is moved to another counter. The crush of ticket-flapping travelers waiting for the gate to open and of course the ones behind you when boarding and disembarking a plane.

They’re a special kind of quiet violent. I know that the only reason that they hold back from flattening you and using you to wipe their shoes on, is because they know they’d be arrested. Instead they find release in acts of subtle (they would call it accidental) barbarity like catching you behind the knees with their laptop bags. There isn’t enough space for a roundhouse kick, so they’ll settle for klaping the back of your head as they store their carry on in the overhead compartment. And even though you’re in the row in front of them, they’ll find a way, short of climbing over your chair and kneeing you in the groin, to get into the aisle and off the plane before you – all it takes is a swift blocking maneuver with their hang luggage, so you can’t even get up in your seat.

I’ve seen people shoot out of their chair, seconds after landing, reaching for their stash, so they’re off the plane first. The plane hasn’t even parked! If I was the pilot, I’d hit the brakes, just for fun and watch them domino rally down to the door. But I'm spiteful that way.

But when I'm at the airport, all I can do is plug in my earphones (The Magnetic Fields are perfect for such occasions) and brace myself. I might make it out scratched and limping, but if I play it right, I’ll make it out alive.

And I’ll let you in on a little secret, a well-positioned porti bag is a great shield. Okay, okay, weapon. But only in self-defense!

Wax On :: Wax Off :: Part 1

(Not for the faint-hearted or wussy boys.)



This will be a collection of stories of some of the hilarious positions I’ve found myself in as a woman, trying to tame her pubic hair. (If you’ve already shuddered or shrieked at my candor, then may I suggest you stop reading here, and try: Catnip or A Stiff Upper Lip)

When it comes to bikini (et al.) waxes, I’m not a prude. There’s only one way for the hair to go, and that’s to let the beauty “therapist” (hmm) do her job, and help her where you can! Sometimes, the less you have on the better. Sometimes you need to twist in positions reserved for the most intimate of moments, and sometimes you need to lend a hand. It’s all part of the process.

Where You From, You Sexy Thing

She was one of the best beauty therapists I’ve ever had. She came from the UK and had a gentle voice. I liked her straight away. Not too sullen, not too chatty. Just right for someone who’s going to be slapping hot wax on down there. She graciously gave me time to undress and get ready. As I slipped off my skirt and glanced down at my panties, I prayed (something I don’t do often, ever) for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. A raspberry red swept over my face as I realized that I was wearing panties with Sexy Thing in big blue letters on the front. My beauty therapist, I told you she was one of the best, didn’t bat an eyelid (I tried to reassure myself that she’d probably seen a lot worse than my cotton number) and went about doing an excellent job.

I’m still not very good at choosing the right panties to wear to a wax. To be honest, I don’t really think about it. But I have not bought “message panties” ever again. Because let’s face it, actions speak louder than words!

SNLV: This blog may offend sensitive readers

S: Snobbery N: No holds barred L: Loathing V: Vehemence

Sunday was a beautiful day. It was sunny and hot and although it’s early March, there is already a feeling of “make the most of the good weather while you can”. I off course woke up (when it was) too late, having been at a wedding the night before, and in no mood to rouse myself for a beach or other mission. Clearly I’m getting better at not feeling guilty for not worshiping the outdoors on sunny, windless days. Hurrah!

That evening, my friend Ash came through to town, for a chilled night of DVD and girly chatter. She was suffering from cabin fever, and I was suffering for laziness, so we decided to take a walk on the Prom in Sea Point before settling in for the night. The air was heavy with crisp, salty scents and it was strangely misty, but not cold. We went for a short stroll before making our way to Winchester Mansions for a sunset drink on their terrace.

Winchester Mansions carries itself with an air of grandeur. And I often wonder what we’d see if we were invited to a flash of summer soirées from years past. It’s an up market hotel, with seaside luxury and Victorian charm. So, when we pop in there for a tête-à-tête with a sea view, we expect our fellow patrons (mostly foreign tourists) to conduct themselves accordingly.

Oh, how horribly mistaken we were. The reality was so far from the truth that the after The Event, Ash and I found ourselves spiralling through a quagmire of sheer disbelief and disgust right through our dinner and DVD.

As we mounted the steps, we found ourselves behind a man that ambled his way to the last vacant table on the terrace. I thought his languid gait was in the spirit of a lazy, hazy Sunday afternoon, and although frustrated that we didn’t make it to the table before him (there was no way to pass him, without being rude) I didn’t take much more notice of him until the rest of his family arrived. That’s when the fun began…

The wife/mother: I’d put her at 40-something. And I’m betting that she got her new breasts for her 40th birthday. I’m also willing to put money on the fact that it was hubby’s idea. Her baubles were so tightly bound by a tank top two sizes too small that their only means of breathing was to escape out the sides of her vest. Not a look I would go for, but possibly exactly what she wanted. Her mouth was permanently arched as if she had smelt something bad and her over-dyed hair wouldn’t lie flat.

The sons: were loud and obnoxious, pandering for their father’s attention, pulling out every bad manner antic they could think of to get a response from him. They couldn’t have been older than 17 and both were smoking and drunk. The younger decided to shatter a plastic bottle cap with his bare foot as a display of machismo. One of the shards hit my leg, and I wasn’t quiet about it. Of course, it didn’t really help, but I felt better.

The husband/father: it turned out, wasn’t walking slowly to his table, he was stumbling in a drunken haze. Poured whisky after whisky down is throat, stood up to demonstrate the fine art of doggy-style to his family and the rest of us, and lead the troupe in sing-a-longs. Upon leaving, he also ordered a Redbull, which he took, along with one of the bar’s glasses to his car where his family was waiting for him.

The Hotel Pool: At some point, the sons disappeared. We were delighted. Our delight soon turned to dismay, which soon turned to disbelief when the elegant hotel manageress came out to notify the father that his son had gone for a swim, that the pool was off-limits non-residents and that she had had to give him a towel to prevent him from dripping through the hotel foyer. “Did he drown?” quipped the father. “No” uttered the manageress while steeling herself for what she new would be an impossible conversation. “He’s a big boy, leave him” said dad. “The pool is only for residents, are you a resident?” The manageress kept her cool. “We’re checking in later.” I swear I saw his nose grow.

Ashely and I suffered through the entirety of their banal and tacky repertoire. Wondering whether they had lost their way to a sports bar in Milnerton and whether they realized they were on our side of the Boerewors Curtain. We preyed for them to be made examples of and asked to leave. We shuddered at their commonness and gagged at their boarish ways.

As a final swipe, Ashley mentioned to the bar’s manager that one of his glasses had been taken along for the ride home. I think she was hoping that if the guy had paid by credit card, they could still charge him for the glass. The manager stiffened visibly and thanked us. His eyes told us everything we needed to know; he was frustrated but thankful that they had finally left. I commend him though; he behaved, as one would expect manager to in an upper-class hotel to conduct himself, with restraint and respect.

Perhaps my mother is right: we need people like that in life to teach us how not to behave. I think it goes without saying that it wouldn’t even cross my mind to behave in that way. And I’m more than happy to say, at the risk of being called classist or a snob, that those kinds of people are not welcome. Go back to where you came from, and stay there. Please.