My new home

Some of the obvious, and not so obvious, things that have stood out since I got here:

– The air-conditioned bus stops

– Your glasses/sunglasses misting up as soon as you step outside your car/a building

– Insect spray called Pif-Paf

– Doors that say “pull” but still open when you push

– The price of petrol (so cheap)

– The price of bottled water (so cheap)

– The price of cigarettes (so cheap)

– The price of alcohol (so not cheap)

– The cars people drive

– The way people drive (terribly)

– How quickly cars get dirty

– The shopping – especially now with the summer sales

– How confusing the road system is (maybe that’s just me)

– The brunches here (insanely decadent)

– The interesting mixes of cultures and nationalities (clichĂ©d, but true)

Dubai by night

That’s all for now.

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Bitchin’

I hate:

– that congealed rust-brown goo that forms at the top of a tomato sauce bottle when people don’t clean up the globs that drip down after they’ve finished saucing up their fries/burgers/other foodstuffs

– that congealed yellow goo that forms at the top of a mayonnaise jar when people don’t clean the globs that drip down after they’re finished mayo-ing up their salads/chicken schnitzels/other foodstuffs

– that crusty white sediment that forms around a toothpaste tube’s cap when people don’t squeeze out the toothpaste properly

– people who put out their cigarettes in an ashtray halfheartedly (inevitably when you’re eating), leaving that stale smoke smell to waft around the table for 15 minutes thereafter

– people saying EC-cetera instead of ET-cetera

– people getting ‘their’, ‘there’ and ‘they’re’ confused

– drivers at stop streets who see you approaching, hesitate to go juuuust long enough for you to think you’re in the clear, and then suddenly pull away like there’s no tomorrow, engine revving and tyres screeching, cut in in front of you, and then slow down to 40 km/hour for the next five minutes while you’re stuck behind them

– people who slow down to 12,5 km/hour, 150 metres before a speed bump

– people who walk in the middle of a pavement/corridor/aisle at a really, reeeaaally slow pace and then somehow seem to, unknowingly, weave left and right, leaving you to counter-weave in an attempt to get past them

[NOTE: The consequent frustration is directly proportional to the number of people doing the block-weaving]

– trying to get a double/queen/king-size duvet into its duvet cover

(Why hasn’t someone invented something that does this for you?! WHY?!)

– girls wearing high heels, and trying to look all chic and effortless in the process, at any kind of outdoor- festival or party

– pseudo-intellectual types who claim to read certain authors and listen to certain bands because they somehow seem to think that everyone is going to think they’re cooler and/or smarter and/or more “avant-garde”

– people phoning you and having nothing to say, resulting in one awkward silence after another

– being put on hold and transferred from one operator to another for 15 minutes (read: MTN and Standard Bank helplines), and then getting cut off just as you f-i-n-a-l-l-y hear someone answering your call

– people psycho-analysing me when I don’t want to be psycho-analysed (i.e. 99,9% of the time)

“White Snakes”

Kirk was the poster boy for the Durbanville skate scene.

Apart from the fact that he was one of the country’s most promising skaters, he was also good-looking, intelligent, funny, kind and incredibly artistic.

With an infectious laugh, an amazing sense of style and a cocky comeback for everything, it was no surprise that he was one of the most popular guys around.

This past Saturday marked the six year anniversary of his tragic death. As his dad said at his funeral, “Kirk lived fast and died fast”.

This is dedicated to the scruffy kid with the sandy blonde hair and big brown eyes who used to steal my pencils in art class, do the robot with me in the middle of Manor Tavern’s dance floor and, against the odds, always look good in a Fairmont High school uniform.

I still miss you and think about you all the time.

R.I.P.

“Moats and boats and waterfalls…”

Been a little homesick this week.
I think it’s all about only really realising what you have when you no longer have it. Or rather, when it’s no longer so easily accessible.

It’s the small things: getting the SMS that asks why you weren’t at the party the night before; an impromptu two-for-the-price-of-one-Mojitos-session (with Curly Fries, of course); a call to ask if you’re up for a smoothie and a catch up at Kauai; four-for-R22 Mojo shots with your trusty blonde (nail-biting) sidekick; sitting at Shack, looking around and realising that you’re surrounded by some of the most incredible people you could ever possibly hope to call your friends. Even the whines of the angle grinder that filter into your room at 09h00 on a Saturday morning. And the barrage of questions about your weekend plans.

Those are things that I miss.

This, from one of the most important people in my life. Hopefully he won’t mind my using it to convey how I feel about the aforementioned incredible people. He shouldn’t though; he’s one of them…

And then…

This sums up my sentiments quite nicely. I guess it helps that it’s a killer song:

“H” is for Helvetica.

Just because…

Merci, Pattypan.

Why not?

Always cool hanging with you.

Tasty treat. Nom nom nom.

Snap!

It's true, I do.

There's always a party pooper.

And that, boys and girls, is that.

Good night y’all.

Presenting… the Rock ‘n Roll Cowboy

So, this blog hasn’t even been up and running for two weeks, and I’m already not managing to stick to my goal (philosophy?) of writing at least one post a week. Oops. Clearly not off to a very good start.

It’s just that I’ve got so much going on at the moment – new city and all. Plus there’s the fact that after being expected to churn out fresh, original ideas and copy for eight hours a day, five days a week (sometimes more), I can’t say that the idea of sitting down in front of my computer when I get home and starting to hammer away on the keyboard really fills me with much excitement or enthusiasm. Plus, did I mention the fact that I’m pretty good at procrastinating?

Alas, I digress. The purpose of tonight’s post is to present the elusive “Rock ‘n Roll Cowboy” to you. Yes, I mentioned him in my last (and only) post, so I’m sure it at least piqued your curiosity. It didn’t? Oh, okay. Well, just go along with it…

So, ever since I was a little girl – I think around seven or eight years old – I’ve had a bit of a penchant for men with ponytails, in stonewashed jeans. I think this may have something to with a certain mullet-sporting Tennessean and his “Achy Breaky Heart”. Yes, you read correctly.

Yessss. Look at that attitude; that confidence; that sex appeal.

I don’t really remember how or why it happened; I just remember my stubby little fingers excitedly tearing away at the wrapping paper separating me from my BRC (that’s Billy Ray Cyrus to you). You see, after doing some pre-birthday snooping, I had discovered that my mom had bought me the Billy Ray Cyrus cassette (yep, I’m an 80s baby) for my birthday. Hells Yes!

And so the seed was planted.

Next up on the list was one Nick Slaughter. Tropical Heat anyone?

Yessss. Look at that....chest hair.

And then, another brunette…

Yessss. Look at that...sword. And the kaftan-smock. Mmmm...

“I am Duncan MacLeod, born four hundred years ago in the Highlands of Scotland. I am immortal and I am not alone. For centuries we have waited for the time of The Gathering, when the stroke of a sword and the fall of a head will release the power of The Quickening. In the end, there can be only one.”

Well, hel-lo.

It was then back to the blondes for a while…

Yessss. Look at that horse; that silky mane blowing in the wind... (Erm, I'm referring to Sully's, of course)

And, while I am aware that Sully was more Native American than cowboy, for the purposes of this post, that teeny detail will be overlooked.

So where does that leave me?

Well, seventeen years later, I somehow still seem to find myself drawn to members of the opposite sex who happen to sport ponytails (or longish hair at least), and pull off a pair of (preferably bleached and slightly ripped) jeans that would make a Calvin Klein model green with envy. Okay, okay – maybe I’m being slightly dramatic here, but all I’m saying, is that some things stick – and it seems this is a case in point.

Sure, the style of the jeans might’ve changed, and I admit that I did go through a phase when I felt myself drawn to U.S. Navy SEALs with bulging biceps and neatly clipped crew cuts (I blame JAG), but somehow I always seem to find my way back to Rock ‘n Roll Cowboy territory. And what a good territory that is.

So, with that, I leave you with two prime specimens of modern day cowboys who, literally, rock my world.

Sergio Pizzorno, surely one of the most beautiful men to have ever walked the planet. Sigh.

And then, for some visual and audio stimulation, a music video. Yay! Introducing the smokin’ hot (Tennessean again) Jaren Johnston, lead singer of American Bang.

Enjoy – I know I will.

Why, hello.

After a year and a half of procrastinating, I’ve finally managed to get my act together and start my blog. Pat, pat, pat on the back.

This is going to be a short and sweet  introduction – but I promise to up my game with my next post.

After a long week at work, five days in a new flat and three weeks of living in a new city (that still seems like a complete maze to me), I’m a bit tired.

So I’m planning to go collapse on my big white bed and (hopefully) dream of flying and swimming and shopping. Oh, and my rock ‘n roll cowboy. Because I know he exists. That’s right.

Thank you for helping me to get this going – this first post is dedicated to you. That said, you’re probably the only one reading it anyway. Oh well…

Nom nom nom

Nighty night.