So I'm off to Europe

Just like many other people who have finished years of tertiary education, I have buggered off to travel around the world for my "gap year".

I was going to don some ski's and head to the slopes but the more I thought about it the more I realised that the cold and I are not friends especially with the severe number of bones I have broken. So I decided that sunshine and water was were I should go. My heart got set on the French Riviera, namely the tiny town of Antibes.
Shit it was a shock that the day actually came around. For quite some time it had just been a date that waited in the forever coming future. i think the worst part was the whole saying goodbye to the love of my life. My Lord that was the most painful feeling, never mind the embarrassing teary walk through the passport check. I walked through those gates feeling like an empty glass.

Thank God for the happy 9 hour stopover in Dubai where I had the pleasure of visiting my TP for a nice fat catch up and hugs. Travelling looks so much easier in the movies. I slap myself when I say things like that.

While waiting at the airport I hear the familiar South African accent so inevitably I was drawn to it.
Amazingly these people, 2 of which I knew from old days, would help introduce me to life in Antibes.

Once we had eventually gotten to Antibes from Nice airport I was on my own again. off to JPL (or Juan Le Pins) where I had booked my stay for the next few days. A large room, no sheets, nothing waited for me. I was suddenly thrown back to the goodbyes at the airport from JHB, tears immediately  Obviously the train was late, obviously I have no phone to contact anyone, obviously the food stores closed before I could go get anything. Great.

The rain didn't help.

The next day was so much better. I hopped on a bus to get to Antibes and met some more South African yachties. They were going to a yacht show and were nice enough to give me a ticket to go with them. it was at this rather boring yacht show that I bumped into yet more south Africans who I knew! AND the beginning of better times in Antibes began that very instant! All the unsettling feelings of loneliness were replaced with ones of happiness and support.

So my first two days I learned two things
1. Antibes is pretty much a South African Village that a a lot of French people work at.
2. Go with the flow and somehow things will work out.

That old couple

I have always felt kind of sorry for “those couples” that have been together since they were teenagers. I know how cruel that sounds but in all honesty this is what goes through my mind when people tell me they’ve been together since high school: “holy crap that is unnecessarily long, they probably love each other the way they love their pets. Sigh... there is no way that they still have sex”. But because I’m polite, I respond “wow that’s so wonderful”.

On Sunday the 21^st of October I celebrated 5 years of being with the love of my life. Now I'm one of “them”. Sitting on the other side of the relationship fence. The side where people love to ask me for relationship advice like I'm some kind of expert. The side that archaic people think it’s okay to ask ridiculous questions like are we going to get married? If we do, how many children? Would we live in Cape Town or go back to Johannesburg? Bla bla bla.

It’s actually really tough to dodge these questions politely. Sometimes I don’t quite manage. Sometimes I don’t even try.

As one of “them” I can sincerely say that when you get to 5 years, it doesn't seem long. Not even with the three years of JHB-CPT “see you one weekend a month” long distance.

I used to tell all my friends not to do this long distance thing, but now I'm glad that none of them listened to me. Long distance somehow brings you closer, makes words clearer and makes promises stick. These past 5 years seems like a few holidays, dinners, tears and laughter.

Even so, I know that the next person who hears “it’s been 5 years” come out of my mouth will be thinking “you poor thing, you guys have been together for so long that you definitely don’t have sex any more.”

To ‘you people’, I say fuck you.

Goodbyes are painful

Okay so its done. In a space of 2 years one little happy family by the name ‘Tripple D house’ has changed. It now stands that I am the last D that is in South Africa never mind Cape Town. It seems my little happy family have all grown up a smidge faster than me and have moved to places to better their careers.

Farewell's seem to be our speciality  with My Robyn’s farewell putting us in the most hated neighbours list and now we say goodbye to TP.

The latest person to Leave is my best friend TP. She signed the contract, moved out of her apartment, sent her stuff to jhb and packed all within a month.

Seems pretty quick but what this actually means is that I had a full month to prepare my tears and as I have mentioned before: I am a massive cryer.

Her farewell dinner was organised with 12 of her closest friends at a larney restaurant in Moullie Point.

I firstly noticed something strange when I was the first to arrive. 

Me.

Early.

There was definitely something wrong, I should have suspected something from that first punctual second.

As the rest of the farewell party trickled in, they bring news. I soon find out that TP is in hospital after running down lions head she hurt her ankle. At first I did what I’m sure you just did: “Pffff, its just a sprain, she just needed to walk it off”. Then I felt guilty because apparently they heard a pop (a runners term for a torn ligament) and had to be carried down by buff strangers.

Luckily, TP had for her waiting a pair of crutches. You see we had another friend whose ankles also decided not to pull their weight at a little festival called Tomorrow Land. Anthea had progressed from her shiny crutches to the ever attractive moon boot. At least that was one thing covered.

something occurred to me: I, the normally injured Dana put a spanner in the stars with my abnormal punctuality which obviously lead to the injury of ‘always-on-time-TP’ and her being a few hours late to her own farewell dinner.

From now on I swear to be the tardy injured one in friendship circles, if either of these traits change it seems the people I love get wounded. So next time I’m late for something just remember that I’m probably saving someone from a terrible or painful experience.

I’m doing it for them.

"Catchups"

It’s always interesting to bump into a friend that you haven’t seen in years. I don’t know how guys work when it comes to this but this is the general scene structure for girls: one of us recognises the oblivious other in a crowded area and makes a huge effort to get to her which means that somebody’s little dog’s tail will get stood on. There’s a great moment of recognition when they make eye contact and then.... the scream.

It’s definitely annoying to listen to but far too much fun when you are the one screaming.

I had no idea I was a ‘screaming –with-excitement’ type of girl ,I always thought I was a simple word shouter, you know like one of those people that scream out “yay”. But not the day I saw my best friend from standard 3. That day I was transported back to some year in the 90’s where I was screaming and dancing around hugging  like it was the start of term and we were reunited after the holidays. Perhaps that’s why girls scream with excitement. 

Hmm ...  anyway so we sat down and we had the ‘catch-up’ talk which goes like this: “So?”. And your friend responds “so?” then you both burst into what you’re doing, where you’ve travelled and how happy you are to see each other. 

And then nothing.

Awkward, silent nothing.

Once the catch up is done it’s almost as if all we had to talk about was the past, our present selves aren’t friends so all we have to talk about is when our past selves were. Unfortunately our past friendship was prepubescent so we both evidently didn’t remember much past ‘that time at school when’ and that other time ‘I came to your house to play and’.

Solution: high five and bugger off.

Almost pretty lucky

My life is generally pretty lucky, I’m the person who wins those random magazine competitions, get my phone returned to me even when I leave it on a shelf in pick ‘n pay and I’m often in the right place at the right time. But I think my lucky fish existence has had a bit of a spanner thrown in the works. Something in the universe is wrong. All of a sudden I’m getting parking tickets, I can’t find both socks, I burn popcorn and recently I sat on a GHD.

This last one struck my lucky ego quite hard. I love my GHD. and in a normal universe it loves me back.

This magnificent device tames even the wildest hair with its sheer brilliant mechanics and shiny exterior, this baby heats up to a whopping 220 degrees. It gives control to busy and stressed out women all around the world, every day. What is not to love?

But I sat on it. It obviously hates me and the universe is not a fan of mine. I had just come out of the shower and I didn’t see the bugger lying pleasantly on my bed before I sat my bare butt down on its scorching metal parts. I screamed bloody murder before checking to see the two gloating lines that formed across both butt cheeks. What a way to start the week.

The lines have progressively welted, scabbed and bruised. With every explanation as to why I prefer to remain standing, every dab of ointment and every snigger of my misfortune my ‘lucky ego’ welts scabs and bruises too.

Apparently according to my sibling sources I am being a touch too dramatic about my soon to be butt scars and my declining Luck ego.

So in light of her genuine annoyance concern she has made me “set the universe right” by finding other uses for my GHD. I don’t know how that would work but at the time it seemed rather brilliant.

This is what I got:

1)      It straightens or curls your hair

2)      It makes a great door stop

3)      It’s a nice shoe stretcher

4)      Iron’s out the wrinkles in your clothes

That’s it. That’s all I got to.

It didn’t make me feel better at all.

Screw the universe, maybe I was destined for 7 years of bad luck, looking out for ladders and black cats and never being given my lost stuff back again!

Sigh... then I found R200 in my jeans and I forgot about it.

The Grump Zombie

My day started like the way many fairy tales do: happily.

I woke up this morning in the most comfortable slant where my pillow was moulded just right and my blanket hugged my body in a cool non creepy way. My brain replayed scenes from my adventurous dream while the air floated happily around me summoning me to consciousness.

 In every possible way this was me waking up on the right side of the bed. It was one of those days where my hair and I were friends and I kept the first outfit I tried on.

And then I was bitten (metaphorically of course) by the grump zombie. My sister.

Grump Zombies didn’t decide to become monsters, it just happens when they are bitten by another zombie. She turned over night it seems. She had a crap night, crap dreams, woke up in a crap position with her socks sliding off her feet and BAM! She turned into the grump that would make other happy peoples days turn into one big bad mood.

The theory of the grump zombie is more of a cycle than an irritable take over, it’s basically the movement of grumpiness from person to person. Grumpiness is a package that gets passed around, the only way to get rid of your grump zombie that takes over your power to resist an eye roll is to pass it on and make some happy person around you your victim. This morning it was me.

I was the bitten this morning over untouched dirty dishes that were made the night before.I repeat, the night before.  I made the mistake of not backing down when I should have. The grump set in.

 Once I  turned,  I  later I bit my boyfriend’s head off for having the audacity to tell me to change into a slower lane. There was metaphorical guts everywhere and they weren’t mine!

Then once the most hideous of Grump Zombie’s  had settled within him, he was like a hybrid Grump Zombie. He didn’t have the warning of a dark cloud that I did above his head. In fact, he looked normal, acted normal (mostly) and then BAM his grump zombie was all knives and ropes.  His flat mate  Dixi didn’t stand a chance, especially after  not doing the laundry.

And so the cycle continues, but what do I care, that’s someone else’s problem. For now.

New adventure for the Triple D's

The triple D household has sadly been segmented because our landlord decided to crush our fun and sell his apartment. Selfish git. So it was with sadness and nostalgia that we all said goodbye to our home and the year of fake family before leaving to go on holiday. The only catch is that we would return the next year homeless.

And the fun begins: 6 people fill the walls of my boyfriends’ tiny 2 bedroom tamboerskloof pad. A new dynamic had arrived, as well as truck load of clothing, shoes, make-up and hair straighteners. Everywhere.  A blow up mattress would cover the floor of the lounge and clothes would cover the rest for an entire month. It was an epic mess but what followed could only be new adventures.

The first ‘sub-heading’ shall we say to our adventures was the new relationship with our rather unimpressed downstairs neighbour.

The problem only came about because of the forever deflating mattress. This meant that my twin sister Abby would have to hand pump it up every night before bed. It would slowly deflate during the night and every morning two bodies would appear to be sinking into the bottom of the floor like they were flies in doe. The creaky wooden floors squeak rather dramatically as she pumped it up, which would be followed by some banging from beneath us. It soon came to our attention that the banging was from the neighbour directly beneath us who thought there was some kind of raucous love making happening in the apartment. Strike one.

The second incident was that the godforsaken wooden floors made an even louder noise (if that was even possible) if there were high heels being clip-clopped around the house. There are four of us girls living in the house so this happened frequently. We received a lovely note which read: “your heels make a helluva noise. Please take them off when you get home. Its annoying”. Strike two.

Strike three would have been a bit more handlable (if that was a real word and if) had the circumstances not been so un-soberly. You see the first few nights of loud balcony commotion had been fine but the final straw had been that Saturday night. After the pre-party noise on the balcony we ventured out and had one of the craziest nights in Triple D history.  Upon returning home we had brought with us two stragglers and so if the walk up the road to the apartment hadn’t been rowdy enough, the three flights up the echoing stairwell definitely was. As we walked I attempted to quieten everyone down with the traditional “shh”. This could have worked as one half of the clan silenced themselves and the other half loudly “shh’d” back at me repeatedly. Need I remind you, it echoes.

 So strike three occurred when the downstairs neighbour opened her door with furious urgency and screamed “you guys aren’t the only ones living here! Shut the fuck up”. Once again this would have been okay had everyone not burst out laughing and mimicked her like she wasn’t really there.

The next day we left “we’re so sorry” letters under the 5 doors in the block.

Needless to say, we haven’t been invited over to any neighbours since.

Complainsh complainsh complainsh! (the porra way)

Airlines suck. All of them. I have written about Velvet sky being on the top of the list but as of late I am finding Kulula to be coming in close second. So feeling ballsy and a tad unfiltered in my manner I replied to yet another “we’re so sorry for the delay” with no compensation message. I wrote this message because after yet another ridiculously long, uninformative delay I have experienced, this flight was the ‘unfunnest’ due to the obviously gatvol and critically rude hostesses. I also wrote it under the pretence that no one would read it.

So for your enjoyment I present to you my own unreasonable attempt at being “thee brat”:

Hi Heidi
I understand there can be delays and there are technical issues but ultimately I was upset by the attendants on the plane who were equally as upset but needn't treat others so rudely. 
As far as compensation goes I have never been compensated by Kulula in my monthly flights between jhb and cpt in any of the delays for the past three years! This has included everything from a 9 hour delay due to a bomb scare to number of cancellations. Over the years what I should have gotten was a free ticket or even a coke, but so much disappointment has mounted to a whole holiday which I'm sure as per usual I will not get. 
 
So ultimately Heidi no, I don't care how funny your ads are, I do not accept your apology on behalf of Kulula, not that anyone will even bother reading or replying to this message.
Regards
Once again disappointed unfan: Dana Rodrigues

And so it seems being ‘thee brat’ in some circumstances can be really helpful and may just get you a free flight. Thanks Kulula, you’ll definitely be hearing from me as soon as this flight decides to delay itself.

Once again at dinner

Sunday night feedings have become rather a hit with us and our mates that it now moves from house to house. It’s almost like a proper grown up dinner club.

So once again the setting for today’s story: at a dinner party. This time it is hosted by the lovely and soon-to-be-successful- model Tina B. Like a proper Porra she understands the importance of a good feeding and did her heritage proud that night with a tasty bacon, pesto pasta with cooked broccoli. She gets a very definite 7, especially because of the malva pudding and ice cream dessert as well as the non-shortage of wine.

I’m surrounded by such a civilized bunch of people, it really impresses my juvenile self and hopefully my parents.

 At this dinner, stories of ‘your most terrible moment’ just HAD to make an appearance. There must have been something in the light fruity red Van Loveren wine we were all nursing that brought on this delightful topic.

This particular night, my Robyn made it her absolute mission to tell everyone’s stories for them, even if she wasn’t there or merely just heard about it from someone else. This can occasionally be a very broken telephone like situation.

She happily retold the story of TP’s magical attempt at pulling up her pants and instead she managed to give herself a major wedgie. No one would have known what just happened had she not drawn their attention s she yelped out in pain and supplemented it with the perfect picture of discomfort painted on her face.

Then it was on to me. My Robyn happily retold the story of a rather inebriated Dana, wearing the couch dweller Cait’s tiny dress and tripping into a club only to realise that her dress had ripped from the bum to the bra strap. Even worse is that it took 20 minutes for someone to buck up the courage to tell her before wrapping her into a table cloth.

As you can imagine, I was as pleased as punch to have everyone know that story.

So when it came round to my Robyn’s worst moment, the lovely Tina B intercepted and decided sternly and playfully that this was one story that she would tell. It was time to take her down. The tale was an enthusiastic and well told one, peppered with gruelling detail about my Robyn’s run in with the effects of punch on a party bus. The bus window wouldn’t open enough to let her stick her head out, and instead everything that came out, returned with gusto. It swished back in her face until she left the party bus as “that girl that vomited on herself”. PRICELESS!

Ultimately there were no cool points gained at this little gathering.

Moral of the story: let people decide on their own stories and no one gets their ego’s hurt.

Let your troll bridge down

Ever had the line “a mate of mine is coming over later” sprung on you?

Well today I did. We had a visitor, after a lovely girl’s day complete with mince and veggie dolmades’, hummus, guacamole and corn chips, ALL MADE from scratch by the lovely Leb immigrant TP and the couch dweller Cait.

Troll's are so cliquey.

TP is a rather friendly lass that is always keen to invite new people into our little Diggs circle so when her old bud she hasn’t seen for yonks asks to come over she didn’t hesitate. I on the other hand, being a troll guarding the bridge to my homey flat with protective zest, was rather sceptical.

I conceded, and her one mate (singular) brought 6 of his mates (plural)  to “chill” and smoke hubbly. As I walked in, I hear that this group of friendly strangers has already heard how odd I can be before I had even met them. I arrive to find out that these people chuckling on my couch know that my day began by brushing my teeth with soap because my ridiculous lover left for P.E with his toothpaste. Apparently the need for fresh minty breath isn’t as great a one as I had initially thought. My life is rather ridiculous when I think about it or rather when strangers point it out.

At first I was a touch apprehensive but it was actually a lovely few hours of getting to know a whole bunch of new people. We laughed, we smoked, we swopped stories, we laughed some more and then: a guitar was found.

This is obviously a cue for a bit of an HD home concert.

What was special about this private showing was that my Robyn joined in on backing vocals and one of the ex-strangers also supplemented the already pretty entertaining concert with some beat boxing. It was excellent to watch, it was even more excellent to watch through the eye of my Blackberry, and even most excellent to have my blackberry’s eye caught by two other Black Berries also recording this random group ‘jam-session’.

Moral of the day : Some times its okay to let down your Troll bridge.

White woman driver

There are always those few things that apparently should not be spoken about during polite conversation. This obviously includes politics and religion, but if you are a girl then it might also include weight gain, ex boyfriends and boyfriends’ ex-girlfriends.

At yet another Sunday night feeding, I discovered another thing that should be tackled rather lightly: Driving abilities. Or rather lack thereof.

My Robyn is a renowned bad driver but somehow manages to make it home alive in her daily run around’s so my mates and I tend not to take the piss too much. But this was the one dinner party that all our inside jokes about the deathly driver would come out.

Story 1: She hit a curb today and didn’t notice.

Story 2: She ran a red light and looked at the law abiding drivers like they were the arseholes.

Story 3: She did a U turn across two lanes of traffic without looking. Yes she crashed.

Story 4: At a braai in Stellenbosch, she fell asleep after having too much wine (also known as passing out). When she wakes up announces to her 5 passengers how pleased she is that she isn’t drunk anymore. The best part of this is that on our 30K journey back, while the rain trickled down on the windscreen, and the car fogged up (because she didn’t know how to turn the defogger on) while the hearts silently pumped with anxiety in the backseat, and sweaty hands wiped the quivering thighs of its owner, my dear unknowing, unsuspecting Robyn asks why everyone is so quiet. The response received from everyone via BBM was “because we are all praying”.

Apparently this is only funny to everyone else, because apparently my Robyn had absolutely no idea that she was what we academically and thoughtfully classified as unaware yet happily spatially damaged driver.

There’s always a stereotype attached to driving. My Robyn fills the dangerous woman driver generalisation but all I can say is it could be worse. She could have the generalised driving ability of a black woman driver. This is one rather non-PC generalisation I shamelessly (and humorously) agree with, especially since all of my most hilarious driving moments have involved a black woman driver in a giant BMW or Bentley.

Hey it could be the same woman for all I know but in every case, there has been nothing but hooters, angry people that are late for something and at least one graceful bumper bash.

So when this one woman, decided that she was lost mid intersection, she just stopped.

Yes STOPPED.

 She then proceeded to turn her car off.

Yes she turned the mammoth car OFF in an intersection.

The best part was the no hazard lights decision or the use of anything minutely helpful to the fellow drivers sharing the road. Then she got on her phone and had a conversation for directions while blatantly ignoring the hooting and shouting before starting her car again and moving on.

If I look at it this non-PC-yet-extremely-correct situation, then I can happily be grateful for My Robyn and her non-driving skills which seem almost minor by comparison.

Those 'creatives'

I studied theatre and performance for a whole tertiary year of my life and I absolutely loved it. I am now an avid play goer. It helps that my Robyn studies theatre and performance at UCT so I always know when all these cheap plays are and what they’re about. My Robyn tells me about the third years’ movement exhibition on Friday night.

This is how my brain works: R20 + potential entertainment= Good idea!

 IM IN!

I invite my long time high school friend Kelso to come along. She’s one of those very logical, yet creatively comedic know-it-all characters that enjoy the small things in life. She’s ‘that friend’ that occasionally blurts out some really great and unforgettable bloopers like “I think I’d be an excellent mathamatologist”. I heard her say this 6 years ago, and it’s definitely one of her best.

As everyone knows with theatre: it’s in terpretive and not everyone enjoys it. These performances were no different. The first performance was ridiculous. I didn’t mind the gas masks or the tormented and staggered breathing, or even the surplus of mirrors. It was just pointless and it felt like it went on for a few hours. Hours of strange twitches and swinging arms, instead of the 7 minutes it really was.

After that performance I was curious to find out what the logical Kelso’s feelings on the performance was. She merely looked at me and smacked me with her classic humorous charm: “Dude, we’re in that episode of Friends where Joey performs in the worst 3 hour play ever and everyone has to pretend they enjoyed it. Well I won’t do it! I refuse to be a part of that episode!” Ah Kelso, so clear, so concise, so obviously a film buff.

Thankfully we were happily entertained by the next 6 performances. They had everything a semi grown up could want: exotic chorus’s to supplement the movement of a man acting as a bull, jumping castles, elevation equipment, shadow fights, love stories and best of all nudity.

We managed to discuss the pieces like real grown-up’s. Kelso even managed to drop her filmic jargon and replace it with some proper thespian phrases and interpretive words like “juxtapose”and “narrative”. I’m so proud!

"The pattern"

The house of the triple D’s is much like a family: large, intimidating and noisy. Even the extra’s are like distant relatives with all their weird quirks and knowledgeable advice on everything. We definitely take turns on being the parents. Often the parent of the day organises a family day trip. I’ve identified a pattern: we begin the outing by doing something we deem ‘productive’ then we get distracted and will most likely end up somewhere with a bottle of wine to discuss our day’s accomplishments.

Last Saturday was not our normal hangover ritual of mopping up left over stomach curdling booze with a delicious and cheap cafe Sophia breakfast. Instead the day began at the hope street market. Apparently we were there to see the clothes and jewellery stalls (the “productive” part). The double date gang arrived with couch dweller Cait and met up with a few great friends and ultimately ended up trying the samples of all the food at least twice before settling on something to eat (the “distraction” part).

This was a different kind of trip because we seemed to have messed with the pattern by leaving out the breakfast. Somehow this meant that we wouldn’t find wine, nor would it find us, instead we would find another “productive” activity to ultimately continue with setting the day off its destined wine course.

We went to the company gardens where in true grown up style we played on the art work, fed carnivorous ducks and eventually resolved to go eat again somewhere else.

No “distraction” part still.

Even worse: no wine.

I would not allow this strange change in the pattern to defeat me! Some good was going to come out of this day! Some wine SHALL be drunk (by me) at some stage!

We were heading that night to a party I would never ever forget. It wasn’t unforgettable for the right reasons. Rather it was a night that could easily have been a nightmare—that one horror dream situation where you buck up the courage to fully commit to dressing up to a theme and NO ONE else does...

My Robyn, the couch dweller and myself all dressed up to the nines in the playboy bunny themed attire only to arrive at the party as the minority. Thankfully we were in such a scarce group that people thought we worked there and demanded photo’s. We should have charged, then the party would have been worth it.

Instead of following the simple pattern for pre-destined happiness, we went off the course and in my eyes nothing was achieved!

Next time, I will bring my own wine, that way I WIN! (And oh boy, do I like winning)

Sunday feedings

To you this is just a picture of young people being civilized around a table where cutlery and placemats are being used instead of fingers and laps. But to me this the most competitive day of the week: Sunday night feeding.

The triple D’s house hold is not just a three man digs. It’s at least a five man digs but every Sunday our house is more of an 8 person situation. You see, on a Sunday we have a dinner where a few of our friends come through and we feed them. Ooh my spidey senses tingle even when I write it.

I’ve been called what is termed a ‘feeder’. It’s not my fault though; it’s in my genes from both sides! Porra-Jew genes are particularly lethal. After a friendly ‘please stop feeding us’ intervention the extra flatmates or house dwellers have placed me on standby and instead have decided to take turns to be the feeders every Sunday.

So they cook, and the original three flatmates invite. It’s an excellent compromise!

So Sunday’s are a lively experience that have ultimately become one of the most enticing days of the week. Last week the resident ladies man began and topped the weeks before him by a) buying his groceries from Woolies (a student treat) and b) cooking from scratch (no just add meat). So the 6 of us there that night took it upon ourselves to be the master chef judges. We picked our characters and judged his meal on presentation, texture and flavour. So we ate a “delicious, although slightly overcooked, chicken stir-fry with crunchy fresh veggies. Its coconut twang was explosive especially added with the balsamic toasted sunflower seeds that were sprinkled on top for presentation and added texture.”

The best part of this meal is that my Robyn is a vegetarian and in true gentlemanly style the ladies man tried to keep the poultry and veg separate; he even cooked them in different pans. Brilliantly though when it came time to judge the meal he got so excited and cocky, as men do, that he mixed all of it together anyway. So My Robyn spent her night picking chicken bits out her dish.

A solid 6 but a +1 for effort. Cue the polite golf clap please

This past Sunday my flatmate that lives on my couch decided to top Dixie’s dish by feeding an extra two people (+1 point) and she made desert (+1).

Hmmm, I can’t wait for this Sunday.

Monica's House

I live in a three woman digs, but no one would know that just by judging by the constant amount of people that we always have over! It’s like Monica’s house in Friends but instead of a cast of thirty something’s ; we have a bunch of energized, confused friends that have either finished their degrees and are beginning “real-life” or friends that (like me) are attempting to further their studies.

Our house has been dubbed the triple D’s.  The name started out as a Cocky comment initially made by some smart arsed boy-man, but its stuck and we all chose to embrace it. Eventually.

My blog will, as of now, be an in depth exploration of some of the interesting happenings of the Triple D house hold.

But first it is imperative to understand the strange yet perfectly working dynamic we have. So there’s a Porra-Jew (me), a Pole (my Robyn) and a the Leb (TP). All social, distinctively different yet equally dramatic philanthropists that enjoy playing with life, and don’t share the same tastes in series or movies and food (due to vegetarianism and wheat intolerance). Our favourite group activity in the house is organising activities and especially the good old tea-hubbly-popcorn combo.

I’ll explain our dynamic in a simple way:

My Robyn hears about a play coming out.

 Myself and TP want to come.

 TP wants to invite everyone. So My Robyn invites everyone.

Dana wants to drink before.

 TP and My Robyn want to eat before

And so what we eventually had was 16 very different people at Primi’s for a cocktail special and dinner before all marching off to go watch Defending the Caveman.

 What followed the play was only the most historical gender show down that Cape Town has ever seen. The game: 30 seconds, the teams: Girls vs Boys, the prize: respect.

Who would win?

The girls (DUH)

The girls managed to dominate using our creativity  and “our ability to not allow logic to hinder us” as the play so happily pointed out. We had some real beauts in this game! Lexi, the master of riddles says “He’s an actor and his name kinda sounds like what a dog wears around his neck”.

Wtf right?!

And yet somehow I managed to get out of the Lexi riddle: Colin Farrel

Years of practice.

  

That was just on Thursday.

Detox shmetox

I just completed a 13 day detox and I’ve got to say... it’s really not great. Its especially tough because my lovely flatmates organise on weekend one to have one long binge weekend that starts out with baking delicious pastries and drinking the frothiest hot chocolate and ends with wine and free hors d’oeurve’s and pizza.

Torture.

I managed to suffer through the temptation by relying on millions of flavoured herbal tea (no sugar or honey or sweetners) and hubbly bubbly! Not really much of a compromise!

I’ve quickly begun to realise that being an anorexic must suck immensely! Everything we do as human being surrounds the topic of food or alcohol.

 Like: movies (popcorn is part of the experience)

 Lunch with friends

Dinner with friend or with a boyfriend

 Catching up over a cup of coffee

Having a glass of wine with dinner, or after a long day, or while you’re out, wine tasting, or when you need to relax... Okay so the amount of things a person can do that includes wine is ENDLESS!

(needless to say I quite enjoy wine)

Basically, all the social and generally entertaining things that we engage in as humans surround food. It must be crazily boring to be anorexic, I mean yes you can (sometimes) fit well into your clothes but where will you wear the clothes?  To your kitchen where you won’t be eating? What fun.

Apologies if you think I’m being crass, I just feel a sort of connection with other self deniers. Perhaps I’ll start chewing ice and sniffing chocolate bars to attempt to keep my hunger at bay.

To Cruize or not to cruize

After being on a contiki tour for 4 days around Greece with some of the most interesting natives of Australia and New York, my contiki group boarded the Aqua Marine cruise ship where we would “party” our way around Turkey and Crete back to Athens.  At least I am pretty sure it said that on the brochure. “Awesome” I thought; there’s a whole bunch of fun things to play with and do! There’s a pool, a gym, two bars, a casino, a basketball court plus breakfast lunch, dinner AND snacks! At this stage my mind is short circuiting at all the awesomeness that I will endure at the hands of the mighty Aqua marine!

Alas, all this proved to mean close to nothing. The boat was made in the late 70’s and unfortunately that was also the era of all the passengers’ heyday. We’re talking about the two step, an over abundance of speedo’s and mom jeans galore!

 Even worse is that somehow there were groups of even older people on board who were (a) always lost (b) non-English speakers and (c) taking up the whole narrow corridor. What this ultimately means is that you can’t pass them in the corridor and when you do happen to politely ask them to move their only response is an attempt at asking for directions. Directions?! The Aqua Marine is a maze of random paths going in all sorts of directions; no wonder so many people were trapped inside when the titanic sank.

Myself and the other young’uns huddled  together in the casino for safety and cocktail specials. We were the life (support) of the ship together, shouting and laughing and sticking cards to our faces, as one does. If we weren’t being shushed or glared at we were being joined by these twilight-zone characters. They would come out of the wood work sporting their  ‘night rider’ gear usually complete with moustache and leather jacket. It’s not that I’m judging, they obviously liked this era quite significantly. But it is now over, and has been for a few decades.

Thanks to the hot Mediterranean atmosphere, I was struggling to keep my dress from sticking to me, so I can only imagine how Starsky and Hutch in the corner were feeling!

I keep questioning why there was so many old people travelling on this mammoth ship all alone and where the heck have all the young people gone?!

And then I felt it: the tingle of a conspiracy theory coming along!

Maybe these twilight zone characters have persuaded other youthful members to follow them into their cabin for a drink, a spliff or for some lemonade ( I don’t know why, but maybe). Then this twilight-zone moustached man would pounce and drain the youthfulness out of his victims, then leave the  now old and decrepit victim to wonder the ship’s narrow corridors, so weak they appear not to speak English?!

YES! It makes so much sense!  It seems to be  the only explanation why the old would be attracted to the vast amounts of sport and entertainment facilities that the cruise ship offers. I didn’t have time to investigate my youth eater theory, I had a game of black jack to win and a party to make.

So somehow I dodged the two steppers and remained incognito doing the mash potato and the twist as my young friends and I relived an ancient era.

 It was the next day I realised why there was a particular scarcity in the youth market. Sadly it isn’t as interesting as the youth-eater theory. Its plain and simple - a hangover on a swaying ship which has a maze-like interior isn’t a grand idea especially when you spend your mourning trying to find the breakfast buffet.

The Roommate...

I’m just not one of those people who enjoy scary movies. I react similarly to a toddler: I cover my eyes and simultaneously watch the film through my parted fingers. I don’t blink. I scream out loud. And like a toddler I go to sleep and dream about the horrors. They affect me to the point that the horrific memory  follows me into dark rooms, behind doors and even some sound effects make a frequent appearance in my overly stimulated mind.

Fully realising my complete inability to handle any form of scary movie, my lovely Flatmate selected “the roommate” for us to watch on a movie night at home. It was about an obsessive university student clings on to her res roommate and essentially starts interfering in her life to the point that she starts trying to control who she speaks to and results in aggression and even murder. This characters glances and stares were nothing short of shrilling. I’ll admit it wasn’t the greatest film of all time but it was enough to freak me out!

My flatmate began with the torture by simulating those glances and stares; she even interrupted me when I was talking to another friend to announce that I was not allowed to talk to anyone but her. Her glares, although hilarious, began to creep me out to the point that I couldn’t even look at her. My laughter quickly turned to nervous squeaks.

Her determination to become the character was impressive! When I returned home I found a lovely drawn picture waiting for me on my pillow. It said Dana and Tara 4ever with a picture of me in the centre and a drawn picture of my boyfriend with a knife in his chest.

It was hilarious! I laughed until I fell to my knees, tears where in my eyes and my cheeks ached. Tara had fully transformed into my fears, strangely she did this in the most unbelievable abdominal workout kind of way.

I’m far less reluctant (although still pretty reluctant) to watch scary movies and I think my lovely, and character driven flatmate helped me overcome some kind of fear.

Weird way to help your friend, but hey, it works!

FACT: Aging is not an option

I was going through some photos in a big unorganised box in my big unorganised garage at home. I came across some photos of my mother when she was about thirty. She had one leg over a bicycle, tiny high wasted shorts at the top of her toned legs and a white vest covering her miniature waist. I look at this photo as her 22 year old daughter and wished that I looked that, now!

Hear ye hear ye!

The quest for eternal youth has begun!

Taketh as many youth aids as possible to ensure your life long youthful appearance.

you will be graded upon death in terms of how young you looked throughout your life span.

 Compliment + “for your age” = compliment/2

Eg: You are absolutely gorgeous, for your age.

When I was watching Oprah, as one does at three in the afternoon during the week, I was lucky enough to watch an episode on aging super models.

There sat four women ranging up from 40 to 63, spilling the beans on the challenges of being seen as the most beautiful in all of the land and then barely being noticed.

As they sat and shared their stories I would never have called any of them average. Beautiful is the word I would have used.

Why do we choose to place such terror over the aging process?

It’s going to happen!

 I have come to realise that there are different levels of beautiful. Beautiful when you’re young means classic appeal and lifelong attractiveness but when you’re an older lady ‘beautiful’ means that you’re still attractive but not as attractive as you were when you were young.

The solution- try look as close to the way that you used to when you where 20. Impossible right? But now due to cosmetic surgery everything is possible.

So now we see toned legs, bums up to backs, six packs, and melon size breasts holding onto tiny frames and faces that have seen a few too many hours in the fake sun.

So essentially, from behind we have gorgeous, yet slightly muscular, teenagers. At the front we have a menopausal woman that looks as if she is trying to sneak back into high school.

I can’t preach to anyone about how we should accept aging, but I do hope that when I grow up I will be happy with the stories the lines on my face tell.

Bummed out

I don’t really know what to think of this. I thought we were in a world that sold sex in advertising not a world that made you think pulling pieces of toilet paper out a simulated bum is acceptable. Because its not. Ever.

Somehow I feel that an advert with naked skeletal models slash humans (that have great hair and fake breasts,) covered in bees advertising a perfume, seems a bit more socially acceptable.

This advert offends me. They may as well have been handing out pooh stained toilet paper. That might better communicate the 100% recycled factor.

Imagine showing this to your parents and explaining that this is what you do for a living. Would they laugh? Or would they think “excellent, I’m so glad how smart my child is”

There are a lot of unnecessary advertisements that use shock factors that rely on gross bodily functions to do it. This is one of them.

I feel like I was there when they were coming up with this ambient. The idea probably started out like this:

Fv1: Ok let’s brainstorm how we can communicate how soft this toilet paper is

Mv1: Soft toilet paper doesn’t rub your skin off when you have the shits.

Fv1: Errrr... nice insight but I don’t think we should communicate that too explicitly.

Mv2: No way! Let’s shock the shit out of them!

Fv1:  As long as we don’t stick bums onto the toilet paper dispensers.

Mv1: Brilliant!

Mv2: Let’s do it!

In terms of being environmentally friendly and low budget I give it 10 out of ten. In terms of creating desire to use the toilet paper I give it -2.