I have been harbouring a serious crush for the past three years. Actually, harbouring may not be the correct word, since everyone who knows me, knows ALL about my crush.
For the purposes of my blog – he will be known as Rock God. He is perfection – tall, dark, great eyebrows, amazing nose, endearingly shy, sensational guitar player and the voice of…well… a Rock God.
It all started one Thursday evening at the Blues Room. I had gone there with a couple of mates to watch the Parlotones. The Blues Room is always sneaky in the way that they cram in a whole bunch of crap opening bands before the main feature, in a desperate bid to develop a fan base for some struggling teenage band trying to sound like The Calling. So, understandably, I wasn’t paying much attention to the opening band setting up, and focused instead on my mates and Jack Daniels. Suddenly, a chord was strummed… the stage lit up… and there was Rock God. I was hooked.
Three years later, I still haven’t recovered.
In the past three years, I’ve been through two relationships (one serious, one not), moved out of home, finished varsity and found myself a career – yet still haven’t managed to get over my infantile crush on Rock God.
In some ways, it’s kinda fun. I get to rally up a group of mates, head over to the Blues Room, and get that butterfly-in-the-stomach, weak-kneed, light-headed giddiness of being in the vicinity of Rock God – all the while, trying to look blasé and unaffected.
The blasé and unaffected stance has been selected as the winner – in terms of my own self-respect, as I’ve moved through several different phases in my encounters with Rock God.
The first phase involved the initial conversation – I had just started playing guitar, and decided this would be the best way to break the ice. I strutted up to Rock God, and happily proclaimed: “Hey, great set. You’re awesome on guitar – I’ve just started playing…. Here – feel the calluses on my fingers!” Later, I decided this approach was a little too happy-go-lucky and not the one to go for – despite Rock God giving me his number after this encounter, which remains on my phone, unused.
The second phase was the drunken, inhibitions lowered, tactless approach. This involved me stumbling up to Rock God towards the end of the evening, and saying… actually…. I don’t remember what was said. And I’m quite happy about that.
Finally I settled on the blasé and unaffected approach. This involves Rock God coming up to me to say hi, and I in return look half-interested and bored. I’m not sure why I’ve settled on this approach, but it is the only one that leaves me with a smidgen of dignity.
I'm sure I'll get over it one of these days - but until then... rock on rock stars!
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
…Ek is ‘n loslappie!
So this weekend I got to go to my first ever Afrikaans wedding. A girl from my office was getting married to her boyfriend of the past eight years, and invited a couple of peeps from my office to witness the event.
This was without doubt the strangest wedding I have ever been to for several reasons:
-Apparently, at Afrikaans weddings, shorts, khaki socks and veldskoene are perfectly acceptable attire.
-The dominee kept calling the groom the wrong name.
-A completely uncontrollable giggle attack at the beginning of the reception, during the prayer ‘vir die ouers’ – so weird! The DJ slipped a cd into the hifi, with this plinky plonky music and this breathy female ethereal voice saying the prayer for the parents -just cracked me up.
-N and I learning all the words to Kurt Darren’s “Loslappie”… you guys know it… “Ek wil nou huis toe gaan na mama toe….”
-Getting the bouquet chucked right at me and watching it land directly at my feet.
-Being subjected to nothing but movie soundtracks until the sokkie music started at 10pm (think Chariots of Fire, Wind beneath my wings, Can you feel the love tonight – but with pan flutes replacing all the vocals)
-Discovering that Afrikaans people can langarm to ANY song – seriously, anything!
It was all so weird that I'm even beginning to rethink my lifeplan of marrying an Afrikaans guitar-playing game ranger.
Friday, January 26, 2007
The crazy woman downstairs
I moved into my apartment about two and a half years ago. I couldn’t believe my luck - spacious, sunny and secure… what a find!
Everything moved along swimmingly, until one evening, I heard screams coming from the apartment underneath me. It was a couple caught in the middle of a crazy argument, and initially I was intrigued. I turned down the television and listened closely to try and understand the gist of what they were fighting about. Little did I realise that this would happen all night, every night…
Crazy Man: You’re making me crazy!!!
Crazy Woman: Why???
Crazy Man: Shut up!!!
Crazy Woman: Why???
Crazy Man: Get away from me!!!
Crazy Woman: Why???
You get the picture.
I learnt to live with it and block it out, until one early evening, a group of friends were having drinks at my place and we were laughing and chatting. The next thing someone started bashing hysterically on my door. Me and my complete lack of survival instinct, opened the door, only to find Crazy Woman looking crazier than ever on the other side. She proceeded to march into my lounge and accuse my poor mates of being too rowdy. Eventually, the threat of her imminent arrest managed to get her out of my apartment.
Since then she’s left me alone, but I’ve come to realise the true craziness of the Crazy Woman. I’ve seen her talking to trees, walking around the communal gardens in nothing but a bra (still trying to get that image out of my head), and commenting to men moving furniture out of a truck that she loved their horse.
I think television series like Melrose Place are to blame, but I always imagined I’d be living in a complex filled with young, attractive and dynamic people. At no point did Crazy Woman (or Crazy Man) fit into the picture. I think there should be a system in place where potential residents should fill in forms and provide full length body photographs to determine whether they make the grade. It would be nirvana in the middle of Sandton. Paradise.
Everything moved along swimmingly, until one evening, I heard screams coming from the apartment underneath me. It was a couple caught in the middle of a crazy argument, and initially I was intrigued. I turned down the television and listened closely to try and understand the gist of what they were fighting about. Little did I realise that this would happen all night, every night…
Crazy Man: You’re making me crazy!!!
Crazy Woman: Why???
Crazy Man: Shut up!!!
Crazy Woman: Why???
Crazy Man: Get away from me!!!
Crazy Woman: Why???
You get the picture.
I learnt to live with it and block it out, until one early evening, a group of friends were having drinks at my place and we were laughing and chatting. The next thing someone started bashing hysterically on my door. Me and my complete lack of survival instinct, opened the door, only to find Crazy Woman looking crazier than ever on the other side. She proceeded to march into my lounge and accuse my poor mates of being too rowdy. Eventually, the threat of her imminent arrest managed to get her out of my apartment.
Since then she’s left me alone, but I’ve come to realise the true craziness of the Crazy Woman. I’ve seen her talking to trees, walking around the communal gardens in nothing but a bra (still trying to get that image out of my head), and commenting to men moving furniture out of a truck that she loved their horse.
I think television series like Melrose Place are to blame, but I always imagined I’d be living in a complex filled with young, attractive and dynamic people. At no point did Crazy Woman (or Crazy Man) fit into the picture. I think there should be a system in place where potential residents should fill in forms and provide full length body photographs to determine whether they make the grade. It would be nirvana in the middle of Sandton. Paradise.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
The Test Drive
K is one of my dearest friends – she is one of those people who you can laugh with, cry with and most importantly… drink with. K will be turning 27 this year and is yet to have a serious relationship. One Saturday afternoon, we sat down to discuss how this could possibly be…
It was then that the ‘Test Drive Theory’ was born, and it goes a little something like this…
You may want an SLK… long for its sleek form, solid rear and unlimited endurance, but does this mean you should just wait, without any form of transport, until you can finally get that SLK? What happens if you always thought you wanted a SLK, but once you get it, you realise you may have been better off with a Golf GTI? This is where the value of test driving comes into the picture.
K wanted an SLK – and wouldn’t consider anything less. I convinced her, that she should give the Golf GTI, who had been begging for a date, a chance. So off she went, and had a fantastic time. Everything was looking great, and I felt I had really opened K’s mind up to a whole new world full of possibilities. That was until the Golf GTI took her out on Monday and told her that he didn’t want a serious relationship.
On Tuesday my inbox was flooded with emails from K asking – “If I can’t even get a Citi Golf (he was demoted after his behaviour) how on earth am I going to ever get a SLK?!?!
This got me thinking… Is it ever acceptable to drop your standards and just settle? Almost all my past relationships involved me overlooking some blatantly dodgy behaviour or compromising on what I really want. I’ve learnt a helluva lot out of it, but I’m beginning to think it’s time to stay transport-free until my SLK arrives.
It was then that the ‘Test Drive Theory’ was born, and it goes a little something like this…
You may want an SLK… long for its sleek form, solid rear and unlimited endurance, but does this mean you should just wait, without any form of transport, until you can finally get that SLK? What happens if you always thought you wanted a SLK, but once you get it, you realise you may have been better off with a Golf GTI? This is where the value of test driving comes into the picture.
K wanted an SLK – and wouldn’t consider anything less. I convinced her, that she should give the Golf GTI, who had been begging for a date, a chance. So off she went, and had a fantastic time. Everything was looking great, and I felt I had really opened K’s mind up to a whole new world full of possibilities. That was until the Golf GTI took her out on Monday and told her that he didn’t want a serious relationship.
On Tuesday my inbox was flooded with emails from K asking – “If I can’t even get a Citi Golf (he was demoted after his behaviour) how on earth am I going to ever get a SLK?!?!
This got me thinking… Is it ever acceptable to drop your standards and just settle? Almost all my past relationships involved me overlooking some blatantly dodgy behaviour or compromising on what I really want. I’ve learnt a helluva lot out of it, but I’m beginning to think it’s time to stay transport-free until my SLK arrives.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
A delayed review of the weekend…
I’m trying to force myself to be more diligent about posting onto my blog. I can’t even claim that my week long silence had anything to do with the amount of work I’ve been doing, because I’ve still managed to find vast amounts of time to read other people’s blogs. Anyway, enough is enough – and I can’t move forward without looking backwards and discussing what was a pretty darn fabulous weekend.
Friday involved dinner at Espressos with K, and later on A. K and I were happily sipping on our mojitos, when A phoned to inform us that her boyfriend had just dumped her via sms. A then joined us at the restaurant, and K and I, fuelled by mojito-induced madness proceeded to trash her ex to bits and pieces. At one point, a poor gentleman sitting behind me turned around and asked me why I was so angry. We worked ourselves up into a total frenzy – cigarettes were being smoked, mojitos were being spilt, and the sound of three angry 20-something women was sending men fleeing in every direction.
A called on Saturday to let K and I know that her and the ex had reconciled. Oops.
Lesson learnt: No matter what kind of bastard-like behaviour has prompted your friend to end a relationship – never ever assume that they won’t be getting back together! This can only lead to the creation of a highly awkward situation the next time you are face to the face with the man you have repeatedly referred to as a passive aggressive and emotionally superficial asshole. Oops.
So I put that behind me, joined K and A for some trashy reality tv and went out for dinner with the folks, followed by a chilled night at home watching tv.
Sunday I was up bright and early for a tree top canopy tour in Magaliesberg. K, her cousin, A, The Ron, his girlfriend and I spent the day in our sexy harnesses sliding along a zipwire across a gorge.
Fabulous.
Friday involved dinner at Espressos with K, and later on A. K and I were happily sipping on our mojitos, when A phoned to inform us that her boyfriend had just dumped her via sms. A then joined us at the restaurant, and K and I, fuelled by mojito-induced madness proceeded to trash her ex to bits and pieces. At one point, a poor gentleman sitting behind me turned around and asked me why I was so angry. We worked ourselves up into a total frenzy – cigarettes were being smoked, mojitos were being spilt, and the sound of three angry 20-something women was sending men fleeing in every direction.
A called on Saturday to let K and I know that her and the ex had reconciled. Oops.
Lesson learnt: No matter what kind of bastard-like behaviour has prompted your friend to end a relationship – never ever assume that they won’t be getting back together! This can only lead to the creation of a highly awkward situation the next time you are face to the face with the man you have repeatedly referred to as a passive aggressive and emotionally superficial asshole. Oops.
So I put that behind me, joined K and A for some trashy reality tv and went out for dinner with the folks, followed by a chilled night at home watching tv.
Sunday I was up bright and early for a tree top canopy tour in Magaliesberg. K, her cousin, A, The Ron, his girlfriend and I spent the day in our sexy harnesses sliding along a zipwire across a gorge.
Fabulous.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
The Broken Arm saga continues…
So everyone is entitled to a little silliness on New Year’s without fear of retribution, right? Wrong!
SMS from The Ron in first week of Jan:
“Just a reminder about Sun City next weekend”
SMS from MsMozi:
“Are you sure you don’t want to just have a romantic weekend away with the girlfriend?”
SMS from The Ron
“ :D Actually… it’s me, girlfriend, Broken Arm, you and another couple…”
Now by this stage, post-New Years desperation, I had realised the total foolishness of my shenanigans with Broken Arm. So had he, I’m sure. I was quite comfortable in the fact that he would probably be disappearing to work in some far off country, like he usually does, in the near future, and we would be able to avoid the awkwardness of seeing each other again for at least a year. Wrong.
Not only were we going to have to see each other again, just two weeks after the New Years silliness, but we would be spending a whole weekend together…. and sharing a room. This is the kind of ridiculousness I have come to expect in my life.
With much trepidation I headed off to Sun City on Friday afternoon. The first evening was only mildly uncomfortable – as I numbed my apprehension with alcohol. Unfortunately, in the process, I numbed my judgement too, and ended up hooking up with Broken Arm again.
In the morning, I woke up in a blind panic. I had to get out of the makeshift bed Broken Arm had created by pushing the two couches together, immediately. I treated him like he had the ebola virus, the entire day. If he went outside, I went inside. If he sat down, I stood up. There was no pushing together of the couches on Saturday night. There were, however, what felt like hours of uncomfortable silences, as the two loved up couples we were on holiday with disappeared into their rooms to ‘click their backs’ throughout the day.
Karma…. What did I do to deserve this?!
SMS from The Ron in first week of Jan:
“Just a reminder about Sun City next weekend”
SMS from MsMozi:
“Are you sure you don’t want to just have a romantic weekend away with the girlfriend?”
SMS from The Ron
“ :D Actually… it’s me, girlfriend, Broken Arm, you and another couple…”
Now by this stage, post-New Years desperation, I had realised the total foolishness of my shenanigans with Broken Arm. So had he, I’m sure. I was quite comfortable in the fact that he would probably be disappearing to work in some far off country, like he usually does, in the near future, and we would be able to avoid the awkwardness of seeing each other again for at least a year. Wrong.
Not only were we going to have to see each other again, just two weeks after the New Years silliness, but we would be spending a whole weekend together…. and sharing a room. This is the kind of ridiculousness I have come to expect in my life.
With much trepidation I headed off to Sun City on Friday afternoon. The first evening was only mildly uncomfortable – as I numbed my apprehension with alcohol. Unfortunately, in the process, I numbed my judgement too, and ended up hooking up with Broken Arm again.
In the morning, I woke up in a blind panic. I had to get out of the makeshift bed Broken Arm had created by pushing the two couches together, immediately. I treated him like he had the ebola virus, the entire day. If he went outside, I went inside. If he sat down, I stood up. There was no pushing together of the couches on Saturday night. There were, however, what felt like hours of uncomfortable silences, as the two loved up couples we were on holiday with disappeared into their rooms to ‘click their backs’ throughout the day.
Karma…. What did I do to deserve this?!
Friday, January 5, 2007
The countdown
I hate New Years.
Every year I get the overwhelming feeling that I would be better off just sleeping through it. I usually manage to convince myself that this really is the best plan, until the afternoon of the 31st. Then I start picturing all my colleagues asking me what I did, and how much fun I had – and me having to fess up that I saw the year in at Club Duvet. So this is followed by the panicky phone calls to friends, desperately trying to make plans. Eventually, I’ll find something that sounds vaguely interesting, and I end up having a completely crap time, while wistfully imagining my pillow and duvet. This is been my pattern for at least the last three or four years.
This year was no different.
I arrived back from Zanzibar in the afternoon of the 31st. I had decided that I would go out for dinner with my folks, and spend the night at their flat, blissfully unconscious for the countdown. This daydream lasted for about 30 seconds, until the driver of my shuttle back from the airport asked me what exciting plans I had for New Years. As I started to explain to her that I was planning to sleep through it… I already began changing my story. By the time we pulled up to my apartment, I knew I was going to have to go out.
So I called The Ron. The plan was drinks at his place and then…. Manhattan. New Year’s at Manhattan. This place makes me want to whip out a grenade and take out the entire establishment at the best of times. But I needed a party story for 2007 – so with my bottle of Zanzibari Conyagi in tow, off I went to The Ron’s house.
My party companions comprised of The Ron, The Ron’s Chick, and Broken Arm. Broken Arm had just ended things with his very long term, on again, off again girlfriend. Broken Arm is extremely good looking, very successful and a psychological train smash. When discussing Broken Arm with The Ron, I have referred to him as a sociopath. But of course, the New Year’s curse reared its ugly head once again.
The countdown has begun… 10…9…. (Oh my god, everyone on the dancefloor has paired off!!!)…8 ….7 …. (What will it mean if I see 2007 without a kiss!?!)….6….. 5….. (Will it be an indication of what the entire year has in store for me??!?!)….. 4….3…. (damn Broken Arm is attractive)….2…..1…..
So I gave Broken Arm a hug and what was supposed to be a Happy New Year’s peck – but it didn’t quite turn out that way. Apparently Broken Arm had been having the same internal dialogue during the countdown.
So now this puts me in a very weird position… All my conversations with Broken Arm, in the 5 or 6 years I’ve known him, have centered on me ripping him off and visa versa. How the hell do I talk to him now? Is it acceptable to punch him in the arm and tell him he’s a loser and then move in for another snog? While these thoughts are swimming around my head I realise I’ve been silent for at least 5 solid minutes. AWKWARD! I need to say something!! We need to speak!! Suddenly he starts talking about fishing, and I’m so damn relieved that there is some conversation going that I find myself confessing to being an amazing fly-fisher. This is, of course, a complete and utter lie. I’ve fly fished once and got the line stuck in a tree.
After much uncomfortable conversation, it was finally time to go home.
Another disaster of a New Years.
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