Thursday, September 16, 2010
Last night I had the strangest dream…
No really, this week has been absolutely spectacular in terms of dreaming. Of course, I wake up every morning completely exhausted because it honestly feels like I dream all night long.
Monday night’s dream, while not being particularly prophetic or deep, was amazing. I was stuck at the back of a queue in Woolworths (the long snaky one) staring at all the impulse-buy items. They had tasters on display of EVERY DIFFERENT CHOCOLATE! And not just little bits, but bowls and bowls of lindor and cote d’or and so on. I felt like I ate chocolate for an entire night. It was incredible. I woke up and basically broke down the door to go to gym because I was sure I had managed to pack on the weight of an entire Backstreet Boy overnight (that being said, you can’t put on weight from dream chocolate, right? Right?)
Last night’s dream was, ok a little disturbing (since it featured Bob Kelso and a Nag(?)) but also strangely comforting. I had possibly the most vivid dream about having a baby. Of course, my mind clearly thinks how it wishes it would be, because in my dream labour wasn’t some excruciating ordeal. Rather, they put me under anesthetic and when I woke up a soft little bundle in a blue blanket was placed in my arms. (I have no desire for a sweaty, painful experience and then a screaming little gremlin covered in placenta).
It was the cutest thing I have ever touched. He was so soft ( I called him Joshua) with tiny little eyes and tiny little fingers. If I close my eyes I can still smell his soft baby skin and the non-existent little hairs tickling my nose. So apparently I am so broody that not only do I basically want to snatch every women’s baby that I see on the street, now I am dreaming about having them and holding them. Naturally I would have to change my whole lifestyle, but, and here's the kicker, I wouldn't mind!
I sincerely hope the boy doesn’t read this, because I’m pretty sure one of the “Rules” for catching a man is not to give any inkling that you want to breed a little farmhouse full of children. Well, tough. Denying it is not going to change my craving for a baby.
Monday night’s dream, while not being particularly prophetic or deep, was amazing. I was stuck at the back of a queue in Woolworths (the long snaky one) staring at all the impulse-buy items. They had tasters on display of EVERY DIFFERENT CHOCOLATE! And not just little bits, but bowls and bowls of lindor and cote d’or and so on. I felt like I ate chocolate for an entire night. It was incredible. I woke up and basically broke down the door to go to gym because I was sure I had managed to pack on the weight of an entire Backstreet Boy overnight (that being said, you can’t put on weight from dream chocolate, right? Right?)
Last night’s dream was, ok a little disturbing (since it featured Bob Kelso and a Nag(?)) but also strangely comforting. I had possibly the most vivid dream about having a baby. Of course, my mind clearly thinks how it wishes it would be, because in my dream labour wasn’t some excruciating ordeal. Rather, they put me under anesthetic and when I woke up a soft little bundle in a blue blanket was placed in my arms. (I have no desire for a sweaty, painful experience and then a screaming little gremlin covered in placenta).
It was the cutest thing I have ever touched. He was so soft ( I called him Joshua) with tiny little eyes and tiny little fingers. If I close my eyes I can still smell his soft baby skin and the non-existent little hairs tickling my nose. So apparently I am so broody that not only do I basically want to snatch every women’s baby that I see on the street, now I am dreaming about having them and holding them. Naturally I would have to change my whole lifestyle, but, and here's the kicker, I wouldn't mind!
I sincerely hope the boy doesn’t read this, because I’m pretty sure one of the “Rules” for catching a man is not to give any inkling that you want to breed a little farmhouse full of children. Well, tough. Denying it is not going to change my craving for a baby.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Weekends in the Sun
Cape Town makes me happy. Cape Town makes me glad. Cape Town makes my heart all full and is seldom ever bad!
As you may have gathered, I spent the weekend in Cape Town. Idyllic, perfect and absolutely magnificent, Cape Town. That comment I made a few weeks ago about now being able to withstand peer pressure until all my friends started getting engaged? Well, it happened again. Hoofseun proposed to his pretty girlfriend! I felt it was time we partook in the food and vine again, so headed off to the big city.
Back in the day, I used to be a little Cape Town girl. Now, however, it’s a case of Plaasmuis vir Stadsmuis kom kuier. I am a little-town country hick of a bumpkin (I cannot drive in the CBD). I ventured into the colourful (in terms of both culture and quite literal colour) area of BoKaap. Two bottles of wine down, we had pretty much caught up to where we left off.
Friday was another perfect morning. We woke up in Camps Bay and headed along one of the most beautiful coastal routes in the country. Luckily we had our passports on us, as we had to enter into the Republic of Hout Bay. Dutifully rewarded, we went down to the harbour for what Hout Bay is known – fresh fish. My snoek tasted as though they had caught him seconds before putting him in the batter. Honestly, I almost felt bad about how fresh it was. Almost. Then I smashed that whole fish in my face with sheer bliss. To wash down the carcinogenic dare which was our breakfast, the boy and I decided that a long-overdue visit to the Constantia vineyards warranted our attention.
We were not wrong.
I was desperate to show him the port that Napolean drank, that is mentioned in Sense and Sensibility and that was hoarded by the nobility of Europe. I seem to remember that it was at Groot Constantia. It wasn’t. So we tried High Constantia. It still wasn’t. Eventually we headed to Klein Constantia, where it was. We were rewarded with not only the port I had been seeking, but a charmingly sweet young woman who poured us beautiful French Bordeaux, Methode Cap Classique with yeasty oat flavours and a well-rounded Cab to finish us off.
Friday night yielded the pizza party which was silly, fun and a good send off for a dear friend. This song seems to sum it up for me: Start wearing purple After a late night visit to Dizzy’s, our CT experience was complete. Thanks for the wine, the song and thank goodness the season is not gone, but has only begun!
As you may have gathered, I spent the weekend in Cape Town. Idyllic, perfect and absolutely magnificent, Cape Town. That comment I made a few weeks ago about now being able to withstand peer pressure until all my friends started getting engaged? Well, it happened again. Hoofseun proposed to his pretty girlfriend! I felt it was time we partook in the food and vine again, so headed off to the big city.
Back in the day, I used to be a little Cape Town girl. Now, however, it’s a case of Plaasmuis vir Stadsmuis kom kuier. I am a little-town country hick of a bumpkin (I cannot drive in the CBD). I ventured into the colourful (in terms of both culture and quite literal colour) area of BoKaap. Two bottles of wine down, we had pretty much caught up to where we left off.
Friday was another perfect morning. We woke up in Camps Bay and headed along one of the most beautiful coastal routes in the country. Luckily we had our passports on us, as we had to enter into the Republic of Hout Bay. Dutifully rewarded, we went down to the harbour for what Hout Bay is known – fresh fish. My snoek tasted as though they had caught him seconds before putting him in the batter. Honestly, I almost felt bad about how fresh it was. Almost. Then I smashed that whole fish in my face with sheer bliss. To wash down the carcinogenic dare which was our breakfast, the boy and I decided that a long-overdue visit to the Constantia vineyards warranted our attention.
We were not wrong.
I was desperate to show him the port that Napolean drank, that is mentioned in Sense and Sensibility and that was hoarded by the nobility of Europe. I seem to remember that it was at Groot Constantia. It wasn’t. So we tried High Constantia. It still wasn’t. Eventually we headed to Klein Constantia, where it was. We were rewarded with not only the port I had been seeking, but a charmingly sweet young woman who poured us beautiful French Bordeaux, Methode Cap Classique with yeasty oat flavours and a well-rounded Cab to finish us off.
Friday night yielded the pizza party which was silly, fun and a good send off for a dear friend. This song seems to sum it up for me: Start wearing purple After a late night visit to Dizzy’s, our CT experience was complete. Thanks for the wine, the song and thank goodness the season is not gone, but has only begun!
The Bishop
Someone close to me once told me that I only open my mouth to change feet. For the sake of upholding tradition, I felt that a meeting with the new Archbishop of Cape Town shouldn’t be any different.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that the first time I spoke to him (albeit over the phone), the name was a little foreign to me and I may have treated him with a tad too little formality. I thought I should continue the trend over dinner.
The wonderful part about being young (yes, I have changed my tune since my lamentable updates about my age) is that you know absolutely everything. As my dad points out, blogging belongs to the realm of the young, when you still know everything and the solutions to life’s most pressing issues are merely a matter of common sense. Bigotry is also something of second nature to me. Hence, in a moment of perhaps careless folly, I made the (not uncontroversial) statement that “Men who live on their own become strange and tend to end up as weird old bachelors”. Who knew that I had touched a nerve? Of course, I meant men who become the strange old neighbours upstairs (I am thinking now of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Most Peculiar Man”music, or the strange guy who used to come into the pub I worked at and order a beer, just to sit somewhere else and curb the loneliness). In this context, women are as prone to become strange old cat ladies because, wait for it kids, humans aren’t meant to live alone. We are not leopards or Japanese fighter fish. We are community-loving, huddle-together-for-warmth, lets-stick-together animals, whether we like it or not. Now the Bishop, while he may live alone, lives within a wider community and becomes a ‘father’, a ‘brother’ and an integral part of the family. Hopefully that part of my disastrous slur will be apparent to him.
As my mother so kindly says “All the world is mad but me and thee, and I think I have doubts about thee." The truth is that we are all a bunch of wierdos, some of us are just better at camouflage. I love weirdness and I think its application in everyday life is so underrated. Oscar Wilde so memorably reminded us that there are not good and bad people, merely interesting and tedious ones. I pray that I am always one of the interesting ones.
The upside of the debacle is that the Bishop is now keen to read my blog. Talk about advertising! I can just imagine the slogans now: “Dogmatically Compelling”. “Of Cardinal Importance”. “Read this Religiously”. “One hell of a good read”. Sigh. If only.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that the first time I spoke to him (albeit over the phone), the name was a little foreign to me and I may have treated him with a tad too little formality. I thought I should continue the trend over dinner.
The wonderful part about being young (yes, I have changed my tune since my lamentable updates about my age) is that you know absolutely everything. As my dad points out, blogging belongs to the realm of the young, when you still know everything and the solutions to life’s most pressing issues are merely a matter of common sense. Bigotry is also something of second nature to me. Hence, in a moment of perhaps careless folly, I made the (not uncontroversial) statement that “Men who live on their own become strange and tend to end up as weird old bachelors”. Who knew that I had touched a nerve? Of course, I meant men who become the strange old neighbours upstairs (I am thinking now of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Most Peculiar Man”music, or the strange guy who used to come into the pub I worked at and order a beer, just to sit somewhere else and curb the loneliness). In this context, women are as prone to become strange old cat ladies because, wait for it kids, humans aren’t meant to live alone. We are not leopards or Japanese fighter fish. We are community-loving, huddle-together-for-warmth, lets-stick-together animals, whether we like it or not. Now the Bishop, while he may live alone, lives within a wider community and becomes a ‘father’, a ‘brother’ and an integral part of the family. Hopefully that part of my disastrous slur will be apparent to him.
As my mother so kindly says “All the world is mad but me and thee, and I think I have doubts about thee." The truth is that we are all a bunch of wierdos, some of us are just better at camouflage. I love weirdness and I think its application in everyday life is so underrated. Oscar Wilde so memorably reminded us that there are not good and bad people, merely interesting and tedious ones. I pray that I am always one of the interesting ones.
The upside of the debacle is that the Bishop is now keen to read my blog. Talk about advertising! I can just imagine the slogans now: “Dogmatically Compelling”. “Of Cardinal Importance”. “Read this Religiously”. “One hell of a good read”. Sigh. If only.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
In an effort to prolong my youth, I am rapidly aging myself.
Why am I getting old? This seems entirely unfair and something that was sprung upon me without consent. That’s an unfair term! Universe, you cannot unilaterally dictate conditions in our agreement without my knowledge.
Being the brave intrepid explorer that I am, I decided to climb up Table Mountain on Sunday afternoon. 5 years ago I would have done this without thinking, bounded to the top and been at the bottom with a beer in no time at all. It was hardly that easy. However, after we were finished it was a great experience and I was quite proud of myself.
Until I had to get up on Monday morning. And Tuesday morning. And yesterday. And (for CRYING IN A BUCKET) this morning. That’s 4 days. Of DOMS (Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness, or as I like to call it, Damn Old Mortality Sickness). What is up with being stiff for 4 days? The scary thing is that it shows no signs of abating any time in the near future, despite me having stretched every day and gone to gym. I even tried to combat the symptoms with ethanol (in the bad old days it was thought that stiffness was caused by a build-up of lactic acid, which is the animal-cell equivalent of fermentation). Despite knowing that that is now completely discredited as a theory, I thought I would give it a shot. No such luck, just other parts of me are now stiff.
In any event, I am attempting to climb again this weekend so wish me luck!
Being the brave intrepid explorer that I am, I decided to climb up Table Mountain on Sunday afternoon. 5 years ago I would have done this without thinking, bounded to the top and been at the bottom with a beer in no time at all. It was hardly that easy. However, after we were finished it was a great experience and I was quite proud of myself.
Until I had to get up on Monday morning. And Tuesday morning. And yesterday. And (for CRYING IN A BUCKET) this morning. That’s 4 days. Of DOMS (Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness, or as I like to call it, Damn Old Mortality Sickness). What is up with being stiff for 4 days? The scary thing is that it shows no signs of abating any time in the near future, despite me having stretched every day and gone to gym. I even tried to combat the symptoms with ethanol (in the bad old days it was thought that stiffness was caused by a build-up of lactic acid, which is the animal-cell equivalent of fermentation). Despite knowing that that is now completely discredited as a theory, I thought I would give it a shot. No such luck, just other parts of me are now stiff.
In any event, I am attempting to climb again this weekend so wish me luck!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)