Meet Odysseus. Odi designs under his own label called ArnReuby. His dresses are now available at MeMeMe in Long Street. Ask to see ‘the Jesus Dress’. If they kick up a fuss, tell them I sent you. Here’s his blog.
Friends and I were out and about in the inner city last night, looking for a quick bite, something comforting and filled with carbs. I suggested we try a little eatery I drive past often on my way home, but have never properly investigated. It looked like a sedate little affair. It was called Aubergine, which to me implies comfort, rich colours and rounded edges, much like the vegetable. It sounded like a restaurant you could hug. I imagined they’d make a good moussaka. Have I ever been so wrong?
Aubergine. Beautiful.
We should have known things would get awkward when the head waiter looked at us askance when we announced we didn’t have a booking.
“Not a problem. Take a seat at the bar while we make up your table,” he said.
We ordered drinks while we waited. Not being a ‘drink every night’ kinda gal, I ordered a Coke Zero and gamely paged through the winelist, some 400 bottles strong. After the first 3 pages I felt drunk. We were then told our table was ready.
But it wasn’t so much ‘ready’ as ‘reclining in splendour, awaiting our presence’. The way it was laid out was a work of art in itself. Which is when the warning bells went off.
“It doesn’t look like they serve pizza here,” friend whispered into my ear, hoisting self onto seat made from the hair of baby angels, no doubt. Then the menu came and all doubts were cleared. Aubergine was not, in fact, a ‘restaurant you could hug’. Aubergine is an experience in dining akin to a complicated full-day spa treatment. Filled with food equivalent of hot rocks and flotation tanks and sorbet in between meals. Basically, you’ll want to plan a meal there, preferably weeks in advance so you can get excited for it. But to stumble upon such a magical food wonderland was really too much on a very pedestrian Thursday night, and we decided to leave, completely overwhelmed.
Mindblowing. A whole other level of eating out happening here.
Figured honesty was best policy. Informed head waiter of our surprise at finding selves in symposium of culinary wonders, and that we would return some day, once we were better prepared, and better dressed. Waiter looked from male companion to me, and made eyes as if to say ‘Don’t worry, not many men get our food’ and very graciously said he understood. We made our exit quietly, and ended up in Saigon, where we ordered Tom Yum and prawn California rolls – unintimidating and comfortingly predictable – and, always up for a good gimmick, marvelled at fact that you could order a massage while you eat (cue slappy-slap-slap sound as masseuse pounded patrons intermittently throughout evening). Last night wasn’t the night for Aubergine. But we’ll be back. Soon. Very soon.
Slappy slappy slap-slap: Alice, we're not in wonderland anymore.
I’ve been blonde once in my life. I was fresh out of high school and was finally ‘free’ – meaning I could change the colour of my hair without ‘getting grounded for being a slut’. So I did what any self-respecting brunette would have done: I died my hair blonde.
Being young and headstrong, I didn’t ask for much advice on the matter. People said to ‘go have it done properly at a hair dresser’ – but why would I listen to them? It was my hair. And I was going to be blonde. That’s all that mattered.
So I got me a box of Garnier Nutrisse, spent 30 minutes marvelling at the fruity ammonia aroma, and the remainder of the day gingerly combing what was left of my hair – once lusciously shiny and dark, now a scraggly, fried crow’s nest. It was blonde – very blonde – but for the most part it looked like this:
I lived with it for 2 weeks before my mother, sick of me waking up and crying for 2 hours in front of the mirror every morning, dragged me to the hairdresser to have it all re-pigmented. And that sated the desire to go blonde for almost 6 years. But now, like a nervous tick that’s lain dormant for years, the desire to be blonde has flared up once more, intent on driving me crazy through indecision, inducing the odd ill-timed twitch.
Now that I am older, I realise that there are more options on going blonde. I wouldn’t go for that bleached out toffee vibe this time round. This time, I’d go for more of a Gisele:
Maybe a ScarJo:
But importantly, I am ready to listen to the advice about getting it done at a hairdresser.
And now for the most important question of all: Who does the best blonde in Cape Town? Hand? Scar? Love? Mooi? Tell tell tell!
I have 2 ongoing internal debates. The first is ’should I go blonde’ and the second is ’should I get a tattoo’. Today’s post is about the latter. Now, a beautiful tattoo can be inspiring, but the problem with tattoos is that they slot you into a certain box, whether you like it or not. Which means that while you may be a pure-hearted, loving, intelligent, generous and kind person, if you have stars tattooed across your cheeks and weird-ass flame shiz in place of your eyebrows, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that most people will think you’re a freaking idiot.
Personally, I’m not into face tattoos. The tattoo I’m thinking about getting is a small universal symbol on the back of my neck, or a well-thought out, beautifully illustrated design on my right hand (because I am right-handed and somehow having a symbol of integrity on the arm I write with will make everything I write possess integrity… ja, see tattoo logic is flawed in that it tends to sound like airie faeirie mumbo jumbo… which it is…). But every time I experience ‘the calling’ and I line up an appointment at Metal Machine, I see someone with a disaster of a tattoo and a shudder of relief makes its way through my body that I don’t have a tattoo and I cancel my appointment.
A small part of me wonders whether I won’t do a 180 when I’m 30 and decide to get an MBA and ‘get a real job’, and my armpit shark tattoo will then jeopardise my ‘place on the board’ by being a little ‘too witty for business’. Look – the sudden lust for an MBA is unlikely, but probably more likely than the lust for children, which, let’s face it, will do more damage to my career in the long term (via children being needy and burping milk up onto my Marion and Lindie work wardrobe and *seriously* cutting into my makeup time in the morning). So tattoos trump kids, at least.
But the main reason I’m hesitant to start doodling on my skin is that, from what I can tell, tattoos have a similar effect on people as the effect having children has on people. By this I mean, apart from exceptions to the rule, childen / tattoos generally suck, and those who have either feel the need to convince others that having the tattoo / kid does not, in fact, suck. Look, now and again you luck out on a baby who sleeps 12 hours and doesn’t cry, but most kids are sickly, needy and pukey. The same goes for tattoos. Not everyone has training in basic artistic principles, so more often than not a tattoo is badly placed, average or completely lacking in concept and continually seeking approval. People who have tattoos and show them do so because they WANT you to comment on how awesome it is. They also spend a lot of time convincing themselves that the gay unicorns they got as a joke when they were 18 are a ‘timeless piece of classical body art’, instead of a warning flag for ‘emotionally unstable and unlikely to ever make management’. No doubt I’ll get flack for this but similarly, people who ‘choose kids’ have no option thereafter but to convince themselves – and everyone around them – that breeding really is the meaning of life, and that ‘a life without children is not a life at all’. I beg to differ.
Dang. Wrote this post hoping to feel better about getting a tattoo, but now I feel less like getting a tattoo than I ever did, and am convinced that children are a disaster akin to having permanent flames gouged into your face with a buzzing needle. Maybe y’all have some valid points that’ll help me make a decision?
Glorious weekend. As y’all know we had a major heatwave here in the Cape, but we weren’t lacking in ways to deal with it. There was Vida.
There was Llandudno beach.
Like the bag? Click here to buy it.
There was drinks by the pool.
There was 4 hours of Sunday soaking (after hiding in Cavendish to escape the 38 degree heat all morning)
And there was generally a lot of this
And a hot and bothered Harvey cat
How was your weekend?
Dating. It’s quite a thing, especially in Cape Town, where it’s 7-million *pretty* girls to one *possibly straight* guy. But, like filling up with petrol and feigning asthma to cut in line at the Country Road sale, it’s a necessary evil if you don’t want to spend the rest of your Friday nights at the Garden’s Centre, lamenting not having booked True Blood (again) and being stuck with Heroes (again). (Can someone please explain to me what’s going on in Heroes BTW? Because I’m freaking confused. I thought Sylar died? Twice?)
So I end up at restaurant with this guy, let’s call him Mr Ham. All’s going well and Mr Ham is funny (which is why accepted invite in first place) and next thing Mr Ham drops this pearler:
“I love how you’ve done your hair. It reminds me of Silk Spectre.”
Uh… excuse me?
“Silk Spectre? From Watchmen? I’ve got the figurine.”
Promptly whipped out iPhone, googled ‘Silk Spectre’, found this (below), faked emergency involving a dog and left, within a time frame of 7 minutes flat. Because that, my friends, is how I roll when the man I’m having dinner with compares me to an S&M doll.
Yes yes – no doubt some of you will say ‘it’s not a doll, it’s a collector’s item figurine from a groundbreaking graphic novel…’ – you are welcome to your opinion, but in the world of facts, we call this a doll.
Had he compared me to ‘Feist’ it may have turned out differently. Even ‘Wednesday from the Adams family’ would have been better. I might even have settled for ‘my mother’. But ‘Silk Spectre’? Seriously? Fuck! A friend of mine has a general rule against men who collect anything except ‘money and holiday houses’ because she says it implies ‘universal neediness sprung from fear of not having enough’. ‘Enough what?’ I ask. ‘Enough breast milk’, she says. Same friend, upon recounting this tale remarked ‘he probably used to watch his sister getting dressed’. God. That might be pushing it, but you know what? Issokay. Am cool with being single a while longer.
I’m not very tolerant when it comes to people and their bullshit, I’m the first to admit. But there is a certain subspecies of human I really struggle to indulge, namely the Pity Party Animal. Everyone knows a PPA. They can be easily identified by their calls (vary between subspecies, but essentially the same sort of warble):
The I’m-soooo-tired subspecies: “Oh I am sooooo tired! I am soooo overworked! I’m just soo tired and exhausted.”
Really? Because you seem to have plenty of energy to spout that boring drivel about being tired. And it’s a biological fact that the less active you are, the more tired you are, so you’re not fooling anyone. Unless, of course, you smoke your oxygen away and drink your circulatory system into a funk. Then you have a valid reason for being tired – you’re an idiot. But please, shut up with the moaning.
The Squirm Out Of Paying The Bill subspecies: “I am sooo broke! How am I ever going to pay off my debts?”
This is usually said while playing with strap of new Guess handbag, and then conveniently ‘not having cash in wallet’ when it comes to paying the bill at the end of the meal. “I’ll get the next one,” they say, and of course, you don’t see them again for six months. When you do see them again, they are wearing a new pair of Marc Jacobs heels yet they order ‘water please’ at Vida. When you say ‘why water’ they say, “I’m so broke. I just can’t afford coffee” in the hopes that you will pick up the tab. Which you do. Not because you feel sorry for them for feeling broke. But because warbling around about how broke you are with your hugely expensive highlights is almost comedic, if sad. You’ve earned your coffee.
The My-Job-Sucks subspecies: “I hate my job! I wish I could do something else! I work so hard, seriously. You don’t understand how much it sucks.”
Dear god, this is my worst. Really? Is your job really so bad? Are you shovelling shit? Are you opening your legs to strange men? No? Then best you see your job for what it is – an opportunity. No one’s forcing you to stay in a job you don’t quite like. You can always use your experience to move onto something better. You ARE allowed to complain about a shitty job if you are making a plan to do something else. But until then, best you quit whining. Because this dead-bloated-cow-on-a-hot-highway look in my eye? It means I’ve stopped listening.
Being an established Lomo fan (or Lomographer) myself, my breast was rather aflutter when I saw this floating around the twittersphere. If you’d like to buy it, you can click here. For those of you who are not familiar with the Lomo brand of camera, where have you been? You can pick up one of many kinds of Lomo cameras at Exposure Gallery at the Old Biscuit Mill in Woodstock. May I present some of the shots I have taken using my Lomo Diana Mini, My Lomo ActionSampler and my Lomo iPhone app:
ActionSampler
Diana Mini
ActionSampler
Lomo App
Diana Mini
Amazing hey? There are no limits to the awesome. Thanks Marc.
Am avid runner. Is funny, because always swore ‘would never run unless absolutely necessary’ (via Richard). But am now complete addict who can barely go a day without it. If you don’t run, it can seem like quite a hectic thing to get into. It is, but my friends, your iPod is your friend. And since have been getting more and more questions about what I listen to when I’m running, I thought I’d start posting my playlists here. Now y’all can laugh (yes, there’s Miley Cyrus), but first look at this picture of me in a bikini, then laugh. Will be updating The Run Diaries more often now, so stay tuned if you want to get into it, or if you just want some musical inspiration.
Hilarious, isn't it?
What I’m running to at the moment:
Lady Gaga – Bad Romance
Die Antwoord – Wat Pomp Julle
Rihanna – Disturbia
Beyonce – Sweet Dreams (Harlan Pepper and Ag III remix)
Beyonce – Ego (remix feat Kanye West)
Beyonce – Diva (Karmatronic Club Remix)
Die Antwoord – Ritch Bitch
Britney Spears – Toy Soldier
Britney Spears – Get Naked (I got a plan)
Lady Gaga – Just Dance (feat Akon and Colby O’Donis)
The Ting Tings – That’s Not My Name
Daft Punk – Human After All
Ciara ft Missy Elliot – Work
Miley Cyrus – See You Again (Johnny Coppola Dance You Again Remix)
Die Antwoord – Enter The Ninja
David Guetta feat Akon – Sexy Chick
Lady Gaga – Starstruck
Sad I missed Martha Stewart’s talk at Design Indaba, as she has been Week’s Biggest Bitching Topic in CT circles. Y’all don’t even understand. People been bitching about her glitter crafts.
They been bitching about her hairstyle.
They been bitchin about her glitter turkey.
They been bitchin’ about her ‘self-aggrandising’, her dogs and their blogs.
They been bitchin’ bout ‘how she’s not creative enough to be billionaire’.
They been bitchin’ about her ‘bad taste’.
They been bitchin’ bout the dead snake look in her eyes.
If Martha Stewart actually turned out to be Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, Mary and Michael Jackson (miss u) all in one, holy crap y’all can bet they’d be bitchin’ bout that too.
If y’all know anything about Cape Town, you’ll know not being able to take part in Week’s Biggest Bitching Topic means am basically social outcast. Am nobody. Might as well be the ’sad l’il bro who’s pretending to be me with my old twitter name’. Would kill myself, ‘cept then who would give Georgia her steam treatments?
What to do y’all? Maybe Retweet some of the bitchin’?
RT @Marklives: Smother me with a Stenciled Hawaiian Flower Cushion
Dunno. Kinda arb. Kinda need ‘1st hand poison’ to ‘get my bitching game on’. Also bit skeptical about whether can generate enough poison to actually hate someone who fed noodles to Mr T. Think am just gonna hide out til the ANC Youth League issues another statement and I can ‘look people in the eye again’ (via being on an equal bitchin’ platform to them).
Missed u Martha. Next time.
