Fuck me heels

This is a little joke that is long running amongst myself and a couple of my friends, each of us have a specific pair of heels that we swear by when we plan on getting lucky. Mine are a golden pair of elevated stilettos.

diorcristian_dior_spring_2009

My latest discovery gives a new meaning to the idea entirely. Paging through the January Vogue I came across a shoe that I would sell my mother for. (Incidentally my mom didn’t like these shoes, so maybe I should get rid of her anyway, is she even my real mother?)

John Galliano has given women of all religious persuasion all over the world a reason to worship the demi god that is Dior for yet another season in a row, with the creation of this super amazing coincidentally sexy fertility heel. Inspired by a recent trip to Africa, Galliano has gone tribal chic.

The shoe is made up out of a tribal fertility figurine, as the heel. Go figure. With straps that look like they are slowly snaking their way up the ankle. All that is left to say is Wow!

The shoe in the magazine had an Ivory heel, now  that is the only thing that is slightly off putting, I would like to know if it’s real, but knowing Dior’s stance of fur, urm gulp… yeah.

Showcased in Paris spring summer 2009, these little investments will retail at around R 9000.00, if you are one of those that believe a good shag is priceless, what better than a fertility heel to guarantee a high (heeled) return.

Is it fear or courage that compels you?

Today I resigned from my job of three years.

Let me try to explain the feeling I had this morning driving to work. I recently jumped off a 65m high bridge, yes with ropes strong enough to hold a 2 ton elephant, but I willingly jumped, actually more like stepped, off a 65m high bridge. “What if? this… doesn’t work.” was only one of the thoughts in my alarmingly calm mind, alarming because of the nervous peace, the freedom to also think “If this is it… it’s okay, it was all good so far, no regrets.” A dead calm, a fast flickering heart beat, no sweaty palms, but a rush of thought.

And then. Wind in my face, giggles bubble from somewhere, “who is that laughing?” I am alive! “Oh! It was me!”  I feel the rope pull tight, I’m safe, still laughing, maybe a little hysterical.

That is the closest thing to what I’m feeling at the moment, but I’m still in free fall.

So what made me do the craziest thing one can do when the world is in financial melt down? I recon, fear and a little courage. Fear because I’m hitting the big two five in about a month, and I have yet to discover my vocation. (Not vacation, as one of my friends laughingly hinted.) I have to sell my car, pack my bags, kiss my boyfriend, dogs, friends and family good bye, and go discover myself, see the planet, until I’m dirty, broke, deadlocked,wise, fulfilled and worldly.

Then courage, because it’s obviously crazy to currently be, self -unemployed, but more because I fear that this is actually it, and what if the feeling, the fleeting moments of passion, the grace of god, the secrets of the universe and people and love, what if it does not exist, what happens if I get to know myself, and find I do not like the person I know I am.

I suppose, at least then I will be able to speak Spanish, will have seen the great wall of china, the rock of Gibraltar, been to Ernest Hemingway’s house and seen Havana before Fidel Castro died, not to mention the Spanish steps, the pyramids in Egypt and Mayan temples, oh and a big huge brass Buddha, and have eaten lamb vindaloo in India, and lastly sat at the feet of the humongous Jesus in Brazil.

This is just something I know I have to do, for me to be a good daughter, girlfriend, sister, best friend and one day mother, I need to fall, feel and stay alive. I’m helluva excited, I can’t wait.

What I'll see

What I'll see

The Christmas Tsunami in Cape town

The night before christmas

The night before christmas

The streets are quiet, not a soul in sight, covered in a light filmy sea mist, it’s 23:13 on a Saturday night in Cape Town, South Africa.

This may sound like the beginning of a strange ghost story, but you would be wrong in thinking that. It’s actually the scene that passed by my car window as I drove to meet a friend for a drink in Camps bay last night.

Two new restaurants have opened in Camps bay, Kove and Bungalow, we decided to test drive Bungalow. Now the first thing we both said as we sat down was, this place better make enough money in season to survive winter. It is blue and white, and on an unusually cold summers night, it gave us a taste of what winter would be like here, plus the waitress attending to us was doing us a real favour by being there, seriously, attitude as remote as Siberia.

Amazing interior, a suspended mermaid sculpture in a hue of electric blue and pearl.  I think someone finally caught on to the whole casino restaurant vibe, I’m a sucker for life size things! Except, their larger than life prices, they are charging a good 25% more on their wine list than the other restaurants on the strip. I cast an eye over their dinner menu, but we arrived too late for dinner (I was confidently informed as I asked for the menu) a couple of interesting ideas, like the pomegranate mojito, and a coconut pineapple butter-fish (I love butter-fish, just a shame about the repercussions-but that is another story) but I doubt I’ll be rushing back to sample the food any time soon.

That leaves the Kove, which was uncharacteristically dead,  mildly put, for a new restaurant in Cape Town summer. Now that starts uncovering a niggley feeling that I’ve had for a while, “Where are the tourists that usually swamp our streets, restaurants and shopping malls?” I reckon… hold your breath Cape Town, the big wave is coming.

We are four days shy of Christmas, and the oracle in me has a feeling that everyone is waiting to the last minute to make a move, to get a better deal.

I can see it now, in neon colours and tinsel! Tomorrow and the day after and  the day before Christmas, every day till then will bring more and more and more people, and soon the city will be upturned in chaos and season cheer, people will sweep through like a swarm of locusts leaving a trail of empty cocktail glasses and gift wrapping cutoffs in their wake!

Then suddenly, peace is forecast to come in between the seventh and fifteenth of January 2009, leaving Cape Town with a yummy economic afterglow, broken hearts the orphaned fruit of sexy summer flings with some stud from Joburg or Paris (not in the free state), and post holiday denial, which encompasses credit card payments and a string of um, questionable photo’s on thunda.com!  Ah, sigh… the most glorious two weeks of every year is finally on our doorstep.

As they say in hitchhikers guide to the galaxy, A towel is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have, and don’t panic! Oh and keep a full four season wardrobe in the boot of your car, it is Cape town after all, you should be ready for the beeg wave!

Die Afrikaanse revolusie in my.

Die stem van Francois Van Coke spook by my, soos wat ek nou hier sit en skryf, kan ek eintlik nie help om op te staan om die cd te soek en te speel nie. Wie sou kon raai dat ek, wat somtyds so skaam kry vir Afrikaans wees, dit ooit sou oorweeg om n standpunt in te neem aan die boere kant van die lyn.

Ek het besluit om hierdie artiekel in Afrikaans te skryf, omdat nie-afrikaanse mense in elkgeval nie gaan verstaan waar my gedagtes vandaan kom nie.

Ek voel ek het n stem gevind in Fokofpolisiekar, dit voel asof ek die ouens ken, asof ons saam op skool was en dieselfde vriende gehaad het. Daar is well n paar verskille, ek kom van Pretoria af en ek dink hulle is dalk n biejie ouer as ek. Maar terselfde tyd is daar baie dinge was ons in gemeen het, soos ons ontevredenheid met n kerk wat ons oor gefok het, en die gevoel dat ons hoort in n land wat al lankal nie meer bestaan nie.

Ons generasie het groot geword in n tyd, wanneer Afrikaanse mense, almal se gunsteling ding was om te blameer vir die foute in ons land, en dan praat ek nie eers van ons liefde om van onself n gat te maak nie, ek kan myself partykeer dood skaam vir die advertensies op TV van “somer sokkie 2007” en “die braai album van die jaar”.

Wat het ooit geword van die kunstenaars van belade vir n enkeling, die TV programme soos sonkring, agter elke man, Torings, en Konings, en die een van vos haar kind my meisiekind (ek was baie klein okay, ek kan nie presies onhou nie.)

Dit het my so gepla om Afrikaans te wees dat ek tot vandag toe, nog nooit met n Afrikaanse ou uitgegaan het nie. My Engels is so vlot, as jy my nie ken nie sou jy nooit kon se dat ek n Afrikaanse boere, well… Pretoria meisie is nie.

Ek voel n diep pers frustrasie soos n lekike blou kol na n paar weke, hoe meer ek dink daaraan dat die media, die koerante, mense van oorsee, en ons huidige regering ons so uitgemergel het uit ons trots op n nasie wat n land kom bou het uit niks, en nou is ons die kak.

Dan praat mens nie eers oor die dooie oorlog wat van ons pa’s en oom’s op die grens gaan veg het nie, waar is dit in die geskiedenis boeke, wat leer die kinders in die skool vandag, ek wonder, want ons het skaars van die voortrekkers geleer en ek was in n Afrikaanse skool.

Hoe meer ek sit en luister na die woedende skreeu stem van fokofpolisiekar, voel dit of daar stoom in my aare pols. “Prioriteit no 1, kom lewendig hier uit,  Jou merke sal getuig van n aktiewe wanhopigheid, jys gofok en nou fok jy ons”. En dan breek die gedagte tot my deur… Ek is trots, trots op myself en om Afrikaans te wees, en dankbaar vir die revolusie in my.

As ons voorvaders kaalvoet oor die drakensberge getrek het, dink ek  dit wys al klaar waarvan ons gemaak is, ons is amper soos die Duitsers, net met baie grooter harte. Daar is niks so lekker, as om ander Afrikaanse mense te onmoet wat die selfde voel as jou eie familie nie. As my Afrikaanse seuns vriende by my ma hulle kom kuier,  noem hulle my ma tannie en staan saam met my pa by die vuur en praat en drink en kuier.

Doen jouself n guns en gaan kyk die musiek video van “Hemel op die platteland” dadelik herinder dit my aan my kinderdae, my ma se broer en susters was in die weermag en in my geestes oog sien ek my oom in sy uniform, vroeg in die oggend in my ouma se roos tuin in pretoria.  Kaal swem in die dam op perfek kamp, lantern bekruip op laerskool, O genade volkspele by kleuterskool vir ouma en oupa dag, op die gras le en kyk na die blou lug bo, terwyl die donderweer waarsku van somer middag reen.

Die dominiees en die kerk en die onderwysers en skole en tannies van die kerk wat so vas glo fokofpolisiekar is die duiwel moet hulself dalk n guns doen, en n cd gaan koop, met n koppie tee gaan sit, hulle ore oop maak en luister na een van die beste dinge wat uit ons geledere gepop het in die laaste 20 jaar, hulle is iemand se kinders wat groot geword het saam met julle kinders, hulle gee ons n stem, en is braaf genoeg om dinge te se oor regstellende aksie, hoe verlore ons somtyds voel en hoe bang ons regtig is.

Dit is n inspirasie, en in die skaduwee brand Suid Afrika, soos hulle se. Ek dink dis tyd om regtig aan die brand te slaan, en weer te probeer, vir almal te wys waar die gekweste indringer regtig tuis is, dis tyd om ons eie plek oop te kerf in hierdie land van ons. Ons het al soveel baklei, hoekom sal ons nou gaan le?

Vir jou Suid Afrika.

Cape Town Concubines

It is a curious thing seeing your friends get older, and doing things you never thought they’d do, and when random rich fifty somethings start popping up in “who’s fucking who” dinner conversation radar, you know you’re hitting the quarter life sector.

I read a piece in Marie Claire earlier this year about socially acceptable mistresses, and thought “what a bunch of Ho’s”. The article went on to explain the rules and benefits of being a mistress to said rich old man with a  Rolls Royce. Some of these benefits include expensive gifts (to buy your silence) weekends away to secluded spas (if you want to play hide the salami, and actually be the salami?) an apartment in a nice part of town (not the same town as the wife) a luxury car (so he can kick you out of bed at 6am, but doesn’t have to give you a lift) and some even got a credit card (and I thought redemption was only for sale by the catholic church, go figure.)

Then the rules come into play, he dresses you, you are not to see anyone else, your phone bill goes tho him with itemised billing, you are absolutely not, and i mean not to ever ask anything about where or how or what he was, not even to make conversation. And you are not to call him, and obviously also not his wife.

This 2008 version of Roxanne, lady of the night is up for show at any upmarket hangout in Cape Town, go peek in to any overpriced eatery and you will find them there, sporting Cartier and Mr Price, hanging on the arm of some old fat man with too much money for his own good.

This sadly adolescent behavior has caused many a public scandal in Cape Town, including rows at the Cape Grace, brutal beatings of twenty something beaus in a Camps Bay club, divorce, children running away from home to the transkei and also a suicide, charming is it not.

Which brings me to the ugly rationalizations of the mistress in the mag, she labours under the illusion that she is doing the wives of these men some kind of favour saying “when he gets to me, he is all wound up and angry, I relax him and he talks to me. In a way I prepare him for his wife, so when he goes home, he is care free and can enjoy his family in peace.” Ah sweet.

Are these chicks on crazy pills, why doesn’t she just go sign herself up at the loony bin for extended accommodation. Wonderful service to the family, the husband never talks to his wife, never fights, never feels properly, it’s all just days of our lives a la Camps bay.

Which brings me finally to my point, I was disgusted to find myself sitting at a dinner table sharing meal with one of these sluts, and the worst thing about it, was that once upon I time I thought I knew her. She is a Woman that used to be my friend! I hate seeing her in this Campari prison, I just hope we find the key before all the potential good guys disappear.

Living Limbo

feeling again

After a bottle of superb white wine and some reflective conversation, I yet again find myself feeling a familiar unease about my future. Not in the sense that I’m fearing for my financial life or that I am standing at the door of any major decisions, but more that there is a lack of major decisions…

I have the distinct feeling that by now I probably just sound like I have gone off the reservation but I will make a valiant effort to explain myself. (And then hope I am not alone in feeling this way)

I am scared.

There, I admit it. I’m afraid that I’m not living. Okay, and I know that in some parts of the world this fear of mine is considered a luxury, and that some large millions of people just plainly fear for their actual lives every day, be it a war, or famine, genocide, cholera or aids. But this is my own personal war.

In me lives an adventurer, with a lust for hedonistic self discovery, every fibre of my being I pines after freedom. To be the female version of captain Jack Sparrow, see what there is to see and be everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

But then reality comes in a white envelope around the seventeenth of every month, and reminds me of my car, and cards. And it just kills me! I’m not even married yet, I don’t even have kids, but it just feels like in in this tiny little gray box that has air holes just so you can peek at what you are missing, smell the horizon, but never quite touch it.

Further more, I never talk about it, I try really hard to forget about my dreams, and then on warm summer nights like these, I just go “Screw this! Who am I not to dream and feel and want?!”

The dull ache of “tried to be forgotten” teen hood dreams, the archaeologist, the game ranger lion vet, the writer, food critic, yacht sailing star navigator and more recently the glamorous “all of the above” wealthy philanthropist and UN ambassador slash best friend of Angelina Jolie.

In my every day life (well dull version of what my life should be) I manage to suppress these wild urges to be simply spectacular, but from time to time all it takes is another person to remind me, to unlock within me quite simply – myself.

People need people to catalyze life within each other. Which while I’m on this tangent, leads me to love. How much of each kind of love lies within every person? Does our capacity to love another romantically wear thin after your heart has been broken a sufficient amount of times? I think it does. That however doesn’t mean you’ll end up loveless, but I do believe one would need to find a person that can love enough for two.

I want to experience full blown feeling again, like putting your feet in the water at Llandudno on a cold winter morning I never thought I would want for pain as much as joy just to be sure I am really still alive.

Someone hand me lightning rod!