My Christmas Weekend

Ten Things I Did This Christmas



1. Spent the four day weekend with 40 of my closest family members at the Alpine Heath Resort, which is set in the heart of the glorious Northern Drakensberg Mountains. It was fun, peaceful and relaxing, with none of the drama of last year's trip, thank goodness.

The majestic Drakensberg Mountains

2. Ate more ice cream in one weekend than I did the entire summer. I don't want to see another Paddle Pop again - or at least for the next week or two ;)

3. Got my yearly dose of Vitamin D by spending an enormous amount of time relaxing by the pool, in the scorching midday sun.

The serene view from the spa 

4. Indulged in blissful treatments at the heavenly Alpine spa, which overlooked a tranquil lake and resplendent green mountains. It was so r that I only left because I probably would have been forcibly removed if I didn't.



5. Watched 'Home Alone' on Christmas Day with six of my adorable little cousins. I remember seeing it all through my childhood years. It's still the best holiday movie around.









6. Befriended a peacock who took shelter at our chalet during a rain storm. It was the first time I've seen one of these magnificent creatures up-close. They are truly beautiful.



7. Got hoaxed into going for a hike. I seriously don't know how this happened, as I am the least outdoorsy person around.



8. Wore harem pants after I swore that I wouldn't in this post. What was I thinking?

A view of the resort

9. After winning 3 consecutive games of 30 Seconds in a row, my team (aka The Gossip Girls) lost the grande finale against the team of underdogs (aka Our Mums aka The Desperate Housewives), who until that moment had lost every other game. And there were a lot, believe me. They even beat out our main competitors - aka our brainiac dads, whose team was aptly named The Big Bang Theory. Looking forward to next year's championship, we will come prepared for victory ;)



10. Most importantly, I spent quality time with my awe-inspiring family over good food, good laughs and we created great new memories. And there are no amount of gifts in the world which can top that.

*All photos taken by me, except the reception area.

Frills & Thrills First Birthday

365 days, 52 weeks, 12 months...is it one year already?

I am not the ceremonial type, but I think 'mentioning' that today is my first blog birthday doesn't steep too deep into the pool of vanity. My dream of being a fashion designer never materialized, so I figured that those who can't sew, blog. Frills & Thrills sums up the two things I am most passionate about - fashion and writing. Upon seeing my blog for the first time, people who know me personally say "It's so you!" Initially, I had no idea how to regard this overused phrase, but over the year, I've formed a clearer idea of what it means. 

Frills & Thrills is personal extension of who I am. A lover of pink (in refined moderation), an admirer of fashion (from runway to red carpet), the girliest of girls, a devisor of words, and a teller of tales. All this served up with a spark of enthusiasm, a spoonful of sarcasm and a sprinkling of fairy dust from the closets of Vogue. I may only have the smallest bit of space on the World Wide Web, but it is a space that's I am delighted to call my own.

So thank you to my friends and family for your unconditional support and encouragement. I am always elated at receiving your calls, emails or smses about something you've seen and liked here on Frills & Thrills. And most importantly, thanks to you, reading this right now. Even if you've stopped by just once, whether you're in transit to some place else, or if you're a regular reader...I am so thrilled to have you visit this frilly space I call home. I don't like the word 'Follower', because in order to be 'followed', one would have to be a leader. And that I am not. Instead, I consider you to be a good friend with whom I can share my thoughts, views and perceptions on all things style-bound and fashion-able.

Here's to the very first Frills & Thrills birthday! I will now proceed to cut the virtual pink vanilla cake and share a piece with all of you. The best thing about it? No added calories ;)



*Images found via Tumblr & Google Images. Collage created by me.

Reluctantly Reunited

This weekend I attended a terribly organised high school get-together. I say 'terribly' organised, because there were no invitations sent out for the event or, if there were, most of us didn't get one. Unless that was the point...hmmm. I ended up going anyway, sans misplaced invite; where a meagre 25 out of our entire class of 150 students turned up.

I heard about the gathering from a few friends – some of which refused to attend, claiming that they “didn't want to see those people again”. I see that high school politics don't just stay in school. It can follow you through life long afterwards. Initially, I didn't plan on going, but at the last minute, curiosity got the better of me as I wondered what everyone from our class had gotten up to in the past few years. It took me ages to walk the short distance from my car to the Sporthius (sports centre). I must have stopped at least five times on the way, freezing in 5 degree weather; thinking, “Should I go? Should I turn back? I haven't seen any of these people in ages. How awkward is it going to be?"

By the time I made it there (after much debate), most of the folks were merrily punch drunk, so if any of them didn't recognize me, I'm assuming it's because they had blurry vision. I must also admit that I (in my completely sober state) could barely recognize anyone either. Who would have thought that people I'd known my whole schooling career could change so much in such a short time. The ones you'd least expect (and who used to slack off at school) have established high-powered, successful careers, and the ones I never thought would settle down are now married, with kids. Some are living their big city dreams, while others found contentment in the simplicity of small town life. No one was surprised to find out that I am still somehow 'involved' with fashion. 

It was marvelous catching up with good old friends, and even better to see that they have remained as warm and wonderful as I remembered. It was also unfortunate to see that the people who thought that they were better than everyone else back then, still do. Every high school cliché that you watch in the movies truly does exist; each person I met at the reunion is living proof of it. It's funny how certain titles stay with you for the rest of your life.



I'm actually glad that I went, it made me look back and appreciate how easy and uncomplicated things were. All we lived for were those 30 minute lunch breaks and school holidays; and the most stressful thing we ever had to encounter was the next maths exam.

All those awful Accounting lessons, Physics extra class and Shakespeare essays were almost worth it in the end. Almost. High school was just a drop in the ocean of life...we all have so many more seas to swim, paths to travel, storms to face and rays of sunshine to bask in.

A Weekend Wedding in KZN

Close family weddings are always something to look forward to. They don't happen often, but when they do, it turns out to be a wondrous and unforgettable event. This weekend, I attended the wedding of my dearest cousin, (who is more like a brother to me), in sunny KZN. We were more than happy to leave the bitterly cold weather behind and travel across the country to the warm and welcoming coast.

The wheel of festivities starting spinning on Thursday, with an intimate luncheon for 60 people; and it didn't stop from there. We held function upon function, all remarkably organized by my Aunt Nas, who is an events co-ordinator extraordinaire. She could easily take over from Colin Cowie. On Thursday night, the guests were all surprised by a show and dance, led by the groomsmen. We were in stitches when they showed up in wigs, dresses, stockings and stilettos. I must admit they dance better in heels than I do. It ended with the usual fun tradition where everyone was caught in storm of talcum powder. 

Friday had us scurrying around, as we had two pre-wedding events to set up. A huge lunch and later that evening, a braai bash for 400. It took a small, dedicated army three hours to transform an empty hall into an exquisitely decorated venue. Amidst all the chaos, my cousin Ray and I still had to write the wedding speech. We used the Bed & Breakfast as a boardroom and with the help of a few family members, the speech was drafted into quite an epic one.

The anticipation finally culminated on Saturday at a grand wedding reception for a thousand people. We all love an excuse to get dressed up in custom made gowns and have our make-up and hair done. Although, my curls fell apart even before I reached the venue. I think the stylist used water spritzer as hairspray. The vintage styled decor came together elegantly with ivory lace over lavender tablecloths, antique gold frames and mirrors, crystal candelabras and pink and lilac roses. The bride was gorgeous in a fully beaded fishtail gown with lace veil, and the groom handsome in a black tux. The smitten couple were unfazed by the large crowd and constant flash photography.

In a short five hours the beautiful ceremony was over and our lives had to sadly go back to normal. In an attempt to extend the weekend, we decided to throw an 'after-party', which didn't work out according to plan, as we couldn't find a venue open after 12:30am. Eventually, the beachfront Elangeni Hotel lent the thirty of us their second floor lounge and room service menu. It took one and a half hours to get our order - toasted cheese and coffee has never tasted as good as it did at 3 in the morning.

With the whirlwind of a weekend over, we returned home and back to the cold yesterday. I woke up this morning with a massive hangover, aching feet, a terrible migraine and a bronchitis. But it was all worth it. I had a chance to bond with my awe-inspiring family, spend time with my adorable little cousins, pose for dozens of portraits, mint our own money, share tears after a heartfelt speech, laugh till our sides hurt, and create wonderful memories that we'll talk about when we're all old and grey. 

The Suitcase System

One of my pet peeves is packing. I think has something to do with my indecisiveness, I can never make up my mind on what to take and what to leave out. Also, I am a minimalist packer, I only take what's absolutely necessary and nothing more. I once met a girl who had her entire weeks' outfits planned on an Excel spreadsheet, down to the last sock. This seemed a bit extreme but maybe it's good to be that organized. So, to save on time, I developed my own 'Suitcase System'; which is a foolproof plan designed to make the agonizing packing process a smooth and easy one. Now what used to take me hours to pack a bag for a weekend away, literally takes ten minutes.



My Suitcase System works as follows:



*I only pack outfits that I have worn before and know look decent and fit well. This saves me from trying on a million different things.

*My failsafe outfits include two pairs of jeans or tights with a few pretty tops. One casual for daytime, one dressier for a night out.

*I stick to creaseproof clothes in the same colour palette, so that I only have to pack one or two pairs of shoes to match. 

*I take one neutral coloured handbag that will go with everything.

*A few accessories that can multitask with all outfits. 

*A black tailored jacket that works well over anything.

*Four items of make-up. 

*I also keep a vanity bag fully stocked with all the necessities, so I never have to pack one each time I go out. 



It all goes into a small lightweight bag that can easily fit in the passenger seat of a car. This packing procedure proved to be successful every time...until now. This week I have the daunting task of packing a bag for a 4-day wedding weekend. I tried applying the above rules to this mission, but it just doesn't work. The whole system crashed! I will tell you why.



This is what I have to pack:



*Four casual day outfits - four tops or dresses and four pairs of jeans/tights.

*Two semi-formal outfits

*Winter jackets

*A couple of cocktail dresses

*One evening gown, actually two, incase the first one doesn't pan out

*Eight pairs of shoes

*Three handbags and three clutch bags to match each outfit

*A hair iron, hair dryer and hair products.

*A clothes steamer

*A box full of fascinators

*Accessories to match each outfit. Belts, earrings, chains, bracelets and rings.

*A make-up bag with half the contents of a MAC counter.



I have begun packing 2 days in advance but haven't gotten anywhere. With all the pre-wedding events and unpredictable coastal weather, I have no idea what to pack. So I'm taking as many options as possible. At this rate, I will be hiring a trailer to lug my luggage 300km across the country. You think I need luck now...just think about when I have to come back home and Unpack.

A Small Town City Girl

Growing up in my pink little bubble in Small Town, SA, I was quite oblivious to the bigger and some what intimidating world out there. Although not technically a farm, we have the luxury of breathing in fresh, unpolluted air, live amidst green open fields, peaceful streets and picturesque mountains. The furthest you have to drive to go anywhere is 5 minutes, In fact, you could even safely walk to your destination. The only kind of traffic you'd have to worry about are the small herds of cows or goats, that harmoniously reside amongst the lush meadows and cozy residences. Everyone knows everyone in the hamlet, which can be advantageous, because theres always a helping hand literally around the corner. On the other hand, it can be slightly annoying with the entire population always knowing your every move.



City Slickers live under the misconception that we on the countryside, or 'rural areas' as it's been called, don't have basic amenities such as electricity & running water. This is far from the truth, as we have most of what they have, just on a much smaller & simpler scale. We may not be able to pop down to Woolworths Food to purchase organic strawberries, but better still, we can get it from our local grocer, newly picked from a nearby farm, and at half the price too. Another countryside component people ask me about is how we survive without any malls, cinemas and fancy restaurants. I suppose when you grow up without extravagant entertainment options, you make the best of what you have.



My school down the road, not only offered a solid, dual medium education, but also provided a social playground. Kids grow up playing outside without fancy gadgets and without shoes, riding their bikes across leafy streets, camping out on weekends & enjoying the innocence and beauty of childhood. Instead of shopping for designer clothes to wear to the movies, friends got together to play sports & boardgames, or watch DVD's & have slumber parties. It didn't matter what clothes you wore, what kind of mobile phone you owned or if you even had one, or what social background you came from. You were accepted and liked for who you are. It was a blissful, carefree life, the only one I had known...well, until I began the “Campus Girl” Chapter of my life.



Moving to The City had me wrapped up in an anxious knot, excited by relocation but also fearing the unknown. I had often made many weekend visits to the City of Gold, and vacationed at the Cape & KZN Coast, but actually living in a city left me feeling a little jellyfish out of water. My first week of orientation as a bemused Bachelor of Arts student was a complete culture shock. Verdant valleys & picket fences long forgotten, I had stepped into a concrete world of shadowing skyscrapers & reckless roadsters. Besides the smoggy air clogging up my lungs, the nightmarish traffic turned a 20 minute journey to university into an hour long, snail paced drive. The cool crowd on campus would only be friends with you if you 'fit in' to their savvy city lifestyles; wearing the right brands, cruising around in fancy cars and hanging out at the hottest venues, all armed with street conceit smart attitudes. I refused to be consumed by it all, afraid I would lose my sense of self & forget the unpretentious world I came from. I became disillusioned with the bright lights, fast lives and freeways. Far from what I had anticipated, I began to research the benefits of long distance learning.



Upon receiving the campus diary & lecture schedule, I tried to decipher the cryptic subject codes & allocated time slots. I longed for straightforward school days where your form teacher told where you had to be at what time and that ENG 154 was just English and not linguistics or lexicography. My spirits were drowned, rather than dampened when I found out, in order to receive the required credits, I needed to take up 26 modules. In One Year. I had back to back, overlapping, hour long classes in different, distant venues & adding to the stress of it all, poetry at university level made my entire Matric syllabus look like a preschool nursery rhyme. Returning my copy of Norton's Anthology, I took up Anthropology instead. It was then, I wondered whether if it was too late to take a gap year.



However, once my the first set of lectures began, a new wave of creative encouragement aerated my deflated aspirations. I was inspired by the compelling contents of my study material, knowledgeable lecturers, and even the vast, dusty lecture halls filled with students just as confused as I was. It was here that I met my kindred spirits, both also studying Journalism. Once the initial 'Hello's' and introductions were exchanged, we instantly clicked, connected by our love for all things Glamour, Cosmo, frills and thrills. They became my support system, my home away from home, ensuring that my 4 year stay in the city was an unforgettable one.



My metamorphosis from Small Town to City Girl became an amazing adventure, fulfilled by mall-hopping, class skipping, note copying, faithful friendship and of course, some studying in between.



I realised that living a city life doesn't change who you are, as I will always a small town girl at heart.

Wedding Season

Wedding Season...a time for dress-fittings, hair styling, gift buying, tantrum throwing, shop hopping, floral arranging, food tasting, table setting, crash dieting, disaster dodging and complete fits of mania. And that's just the guests. Can you imagine what the bride goes through? 



My weekends have been spent traveling around the country attending these fabulous little affairs. By little, I mean a 400-guest-event. A thousand people is usually considered a 'fair' amount. The most interesting element of beau monde weddings are the people. It's not the bride or groom; but the guests that really pull the whole show together. 



The venue, bridal couple and decor may be different at every wedding, but it's the guests' conduct that's always the same. As an observant wedding watcher, I am going to tell you a little about what goes on behind the traditional society wedding. 



When it comes to fashion, every woman will plan on what to wear for months prior to the function. Something that was just 'lying' in her cupboard simply won't do. She can't buy a dress off the rack; imagine the horror if someone else pitches up in the exact same outfit. So the next best thing is to fly over to Dubai and buy a gorgeous gown that she knows no one else in South Africa will have. If that's not possible, she will buy R3000-a-metre fabric and have one of SA's leading designers make her a customized gown. And it doesn't end there. There are matching shoes to be bought, clutch bags and jewellery. There are also all the pre-wedding parties to dress up for. Once the outfits are organized, hair appointments and make-up trials are set up for the week. One really has to look their best at someone else's wedding. It's like an episode of 'The Real Housewives of Elite South Africa'.



The wedding reception is a place to celebrate the blissful union with family and friends, and also to dissect every little thing in between. And I mean every thing. The wedding-guest-turned-critic will break down and analyze every tiny component of the reception - the serviette holders, the colour of the tablecloths, the welcome drinks, the height of the centerpiece and the future mother-in-law. Then there's the food. Every guest somehow turns into a judge from MasterChef, fastidiously tasting and reviewing each dish with their newly 'evolved' palette. It's a rare occasion when all parties are entirely satisfied with the meal.



Weddings are also the perfect hunting ground where doting mums search for prospective daughters-in-law (without their son's knowledge or permission). Having a creamy complexion, green eyes and brown hair will put you on top of the eligible bachelorette list. When approached, the first thing these young single ladies will ask, "Is he cute? What car does he drive?". Weddings *sigh*...the site upon which solid and sincere relationships are built.



Finally, there's the dreaded but amusing chitchat. It's funny how the exact same conversation loom arounds every wedding I attend. Gossip is the actual centerpiece of each table; shadowing it with an equal amount of flattering and disparaging remarks. There are standard questions and comments that spread through the voluble (female) crowd. 



If you don't speak wedding talk, this is what you can expect to hear:



^Did you see what she's wearing? It's lovely/hideous.

^Who designed her gown?

^The bride looks like such a sweet/sulky/ person.

^They make such a nice pair or 

^She's far too nice for him. Probably just married for the money.

^The food is so bland/delicious.

^Don't they have anything else to drink?

^What's for dessert? (Usually said right after a hearty 5 course meal)

^Have you seen any nice patterns?

^The decor is so old fashioned. Have they not heard of stretch draping?

Said to young pretty lasses:

^Are you single? Can I hook you up with my nephew/cousin/son/grandson?

^You're taken? When are you getting married?

^You're married? When do you plan on having kids? 



That's just the word exchange within the first fifteen minutes. I suggest you take some Aspirin along, you may need it after the 4-hour-affair. I have five more weddings to attend this season. Wish me luck!

Pet Names

People have different ideas and preferences when picking out a name for their pet. There are so many special and distinctive names out there, that it's difficult to decide on just one. So how do pet owners go about it?



Most commonly, names that are chosen reflect the appearance or colour of the animal. Like Fuzzy, Flopsy, Smudge, Fudge or Snowflake. Gender-specific names are popular too, like Coco Chanel for a girl and Louis Vuitton for a boy. Names are also based on a pet's personality: Sassy if it's cheeky, Bashful if it's shy or Scamp if it's mischievous. Others associate sweet confectionery with their pets, like Oreo, Biscuit and Cupcake. Sometimes, a pet name can go beyond just the physical aspect or cuteness factor. It can stem from something, well, slightly different. That's how I found a name for my pet.



I got my cat when it was about 5 months old. It had sadly been abandoned by it's previous owners. I immediately took to this lovable & adorable feline with fluffy white fur & ginger points. Being the first time I had a real pet (goldfish don't count), I had no idea what to call it. Fluffy was too common, Gingersnap reminded me of a Spice Girl. I considered giving it a name according to it's gender. As I am completely ignorant (and unwilling) to find this out myself; I called upon a close and self-proclaimed animal lover, who was also an Anatomy major at university. He professed that my new cat was a girl. I looked up all sorts of girly names for her. Tinker, Mitzy, Trixie, Buttercup, Minx - I just couldn't decide. 



I then got some inspiration from an event I was planning at work. It was an Egyptian themed Women's Day function, to which my bff and I dressed up as Cleopatra. That's when I thought, hmmm, Cleopatra - Cleo for short, that's a pretty name. And my cat has this curious way of always sitting like a little Sphinx. Perfect, I will name her Cleo. Everyone I know gushed and 'awww-ed' when I introduce them to her.



Two weeks after Cleopatra moved in, she got really sick, and for the first and panicked time, I had to locate a vet in Small Town, SA. I found out that there is only one vet in our town, and it was lucky that I got an appointment. Cleo had a thorough check up and a few vaccines (I couldn't bear to watch). With eyes closed in the consultation room, I asked the vet, "Is she going to be okay? I just got her." He courteously and unflinchingly replied, "No need to worry, he is going to be just fine." He? Cleopatra is a boy?! I can't tell you how embarrassed I was. Poor Cleo, no wonder he got sick, it's from the gender-identity crisis I had caused him.



By then, everyone was already used to calling her him Cleo and so the name kinda stuck. It could have been a lot worse. Imagine if I had named him Lulubelle or something frillier. Although pet names are a personal choice, it should at least indicate whether it's a boy or girl. And don't rely on so-called animal lovers to figure this out, always ask the vet, that's why they studied for 6 years.



I wanted to post a picture of Cleo, however, he refused to put his paw print on the photo release forms. He is just mortified since this whole incident. So I had to get a body double to pose in his place. The cutie below looks slightly similar to Cleo and it seems that they have the same pastime.

A Newsless Newspaper

In Small Town, SA, nothing noteworthy really happens. We do have occasional offenses, minor political problems and some farm related issues. When these incidents occur, you can read about it in our local newspaper. 3 weeks after it happens or, most likely, not at all. 

I recall the first thing I learnt about 'the news' in a Journalism lecture at university. That it's new, topical and based on current events that are significant to the society it is aimed at. That does not apply here in Small Town, SA. Our local and only newspaper has been running since 1903, and since then, the only thing that has changed is the introduction of colour photos. It comes out once a week, which is too often, as there is nothing relevant to fill the pages. Actually, there is, but you would probably hear about it from your next door neighbour, not your newspaper. I have no idea why they completely omit 'the news', as there is news to report on. Wherever you go, no matter how small or boring a place is, there will always be something to write about.

During the medical strikes of last year, our newspaper failed to report about the seriously ill patients that were turned away from the hospital, or the extent to which innocent people suffered. During the school strikes, there was no mention of the worried teachers, panicked parents or rebellious students. Nor the vandalism and intimidation that came with it. Two years ago, I heard over a national radio station about a major uprising against the mayor in our town. Our newspaper seemed oblivious to the riots and homes set alight. A string of violent crimes took place recently, but that too, of course was not important enough to feature in our local paper. So what then is? 

Well, each week, the front page story will almost always have something to do with the local high school. Students that did well in exams or victorious sports teams, cheerleaders, concerts or any other trivial school event. The next page will be a religious note, followed by 2 more pages of school news. Then a 'Women's Page' with copied-and-pasted health articles and really unappetizing recipes. This is followed by the last few pages, which reports on local sporting events. By sporting events, I mean school rugby and hockey matches and weekly results from the golf club. In between all the 'news', there are promotions, classifieds and adverts, which finance this publication. There are more advertorials than there are editorials.

I shudder to think that if the high school or golf club closed down, we may not have a newspaper at all. Maybe that's actually not such a bad thought. Perhaps you're wondering why I never applied to write for our paper. When I completed my Journalism degree, it was the first thing I did. However, they told me that they didn't need any 'journalists' to write for their paper, and they were doing pretty fine just as they were. At least I tried, so now I don't have to feel guilty about not informing the community every time something newsworthy does happen. That's what we have neighbours for anyway, right? To tell us about the news. Newspapers are so 1903, they have become obsolete :P

So, as this farm-town newspaper has no real use, I have decided to collect my weekly copies and turn it into something fashionable. I'm going to use the picture below as inspiration ;)

Party in Small Town, SA

7 days, 70 guests, 2 birthdays, 1 party. This weekend proved that it is possible to plan a party in just one week. In Small Town, SA, we have no event planners or decor hire, nowhere to buy party clothes or birthday gifts and no available venues. When two of my close friends decided to throw a combined 21st/18th birthday party, no one thought it could be done within the time limit. We couldn't find a venue that was not falling apart, booked out or overpriced in such a short time. After much searching, pleading and negotiating, we managed to book a venue that included a roof, tables and some chairs. Everything else had to be done ourselves. 





In a whirlwind of a week, we organized everything from invitations, decor, music, menu, food, drinks and all the little trimmings that take an event from drab to fab. There were many nerve-racking are-we-going-to-get-this-done-on-time moments but, with the help of friends and family, all the party plans finally fell into place. We transformed the dreary venue with dazzling decor in black and red. Buffet tables were deliciously lined with braai favourites, delightful drinks, mouth-watering desserts, cookies and cakes. After far too much good food, the band of bewildered DJ's set up their decks (aka a Hi-Fi and computer) and tried to get the crowd to liven up a bit. This was actually more of a mission than planning the entire party, as no one likes to stand out in a crowd. Luckily, the Birthday Girls stepped in and set a spark to the dancefloor, and others slowly started to ease up and join in. The rest just turned their seats towards us, hoping to catch some free entertainment in the modern-day Small Town version of Saturday Night Fever. As they say, if you can't beat them, join them. If you can't join them, pull up a chair and stare.





Party Round-Up:





Theme song of the night: Only Girl In The World by Rihanna

Best dressed: The Birthday Girls of course!

Most delicious: Creamy coffee marble cheesecake

Most surprising: Seeing people you'd never expect busting their moves on the floor.

Most awkward moment: A bar-style brawl breaking out over some mindless miscommunication and attention seeking.

Most annoying: The unpaid paparazzi capturing our every move on film.

Worst decision: Wearing high heels. Our feet were aching after just 10 minutes in.

Best decision: Kicking off the high heels and walking barefoot.

Worst revelation: Realizing that walking barefoot was not such a good idea, as the carpet was covered in all sorts of unidentifiable gross and sticky things. My galpal Ms Mocha advised us to wash our feet with Dettol & Domestos when we got home, to prevent any infection.

Best line of the night: Don't talk to me, talk to my Blackberry.





I am happy to report that the party was a huge success. The night was lit up with some much needed excitement, fun & laughter with the presence of great company. I would like to say that we partied until the sun came up...but we only had the venue until midnight. A minute after that, and any Small Town Cinderella may turn into a pumpkin ;) Oh yeah, and the security guard would've had to chase us out.

Happy Anti-Valentine's Day!

If you are completely love-wrecked and have hearts in your eyes and butterflies in your stomach at the thought of receiving chocolates and roses today, then please don't read any further. If all the above makes you feel nauseous, then Happy Anti-Valentine's Day to you! I have never celebrated or partaken in the heart-filled holiday that is the 14th of February. Don't get me wrong, I am certainly not a melancholy, all-black wearing, Nirvana/Coldplay listening, gloomy Goth Girl who has an evil vendetta against the heart-shaped world. I am simply against the commercialization of a pretty little thing they call L-O-V-E. 

Every year, come Valentine's Day, a romantic epidemic breaks out, where people (who can't even spell sentimental), spend hundreds of Rands on dozens of red roses, boxes of chocolates, teddy bears, balloons and corny cards, all in an overbearing shade of red. They plan romantic getaways, soppy surprises, fancy dinners, and on this love-licensed day, become the ideal, charming and chivalrous partner who says and does all the right things. One day where people have a valid excuse to live out their Notebook equivalent of a love story, without being made fun of. And what happens on the other 364 days of the year? Absolutely nothing. 

There shouldn't be just one day in a year that permits you to be an impassioned, affectionate swashbuckling soul. Sometimes the sweetest of gestures are most surprising and appreciated when you least expect it. Anti-Valentine's Day should happen just once a year, but the essence of Valentine's Day should be celebrated everyday. 

So Happy Unimaginative, Consumerist-Orientated and Entirely Arbitrary, Manipulative and Shallow Interpretation of Romance Day. 

(No, I did not write that message myself. I read it on a card)

You didn't think I'd leave you empty handed on Anti-Valentine's Day, did you? 

Here's my gift to you:

P.S I still haven't figured out why people buy the largest amount of red roses on the one day of the year when it's the most expensive. 

Awards Show Anatomy

Awards Season is well underway in all it's glittery, frivolous glory, where actors, directors and producers are made out to be far more important than they really are. I cannot bear to watch another 4 hour dreary display of dull humour and lengthy speeches, endured by bored audiences, who senselessly applaud every spoken word.





You don't need to keep track of every awards show to realise that the formula has stayed exactly the same since the 1920's. VIP guests get dressed up, interviewed and photographed by worldwide media, then proceed to the exclusively designed auditorium. I wonder what it would be like if they didn't spend hundreds of thousands of wasted dollars on creating the show, decor, food, gifts and gowns. Can you imagine celebrities dressed in organic, natural fiber non-designer dresses, surviving in an un-airconditioned community hall, with specially carved wooden planks as awards. Definitely not.





Every year, the chosen presenter will try to entertain the unamused crowd with terrible jokes, and they are always terrible. The funniest thing about these shows is when the winner of each category in announced. Each of the 5 nominees will sit on the edge of their seats, wishing and praying that it's their name called out. When it's not, they will smile politely, gritting their teeth and fighting back the urge not to scream or even whisper any curse words - especially since the camera focuses directly on their disappointment. When the winner goes on stage to collect his/her award, the first thing he/she always says is, "I can't believe this! I never expected to win!" Followed by, "I haven't even prepared a speech..." but then they suddenly burst into a 10 minute perfectly prepared paperback novel, thanking every person (by name, nickname and title) of their 500-member team "who have made this possible." Throw in some tears and you have tomorrows front page entertainment news story. It's always the same, trust me. 





Award ceremonies are just an excuse for the rich, fake and famous to get fabulous free gowns and parade around, waving at crazed fans and posing for the camera with wide smiles pasted onto their faces. That's why I only watch them for the fashion ;)

Under Construction

Any homeowner or flat-letter would know that a house is never really complete. There's always something to be done - new furniture to be bought, redecorating, recolouring, redesigning and renovating. Those are redevelopments that we willingly choose to do. We put our creative ideas forth, start a home refurbishment fund and set a systematic plan into action. The outcome is (usually) what we imagine it to be. And then there's the unplanned upgrades. You know, the ones that sneakily spring up on you, like the leaky roof, cracked tiles, chipped paint and broken window. It happens when you least expect it and has to be fixed without delay, or else the problem worsens. The cycle of repair and restoration never seems to stop, whether it's by choice or mere bad luck.

These little household fractures require you to hire a hard-to-find construction team, buy all sorts of expensive building material you've never heard of and have your home turned into ground zero. The site of construction is a nightmare, covering all your belongings in a desert of dust and dirt. The end result takes weeks, sometimes months to become a reality and by the time it's done, you will discover that there's something new to be fixed. 

With all the torrential rainfall recently, we had to have our roof redone, as it was turning our upper level into somewhat of an indoor swimming pool. It took ages to find a reliable contractor in Small Town, SA and when we finally did, they could barely work a day a week due to the storms. They got ahead eventually and retiled the roof; however in the laborious process, the ceilings were badly affected by the leakage and fell apart. I had a skylight in my room without even asking for one. This meant we had to redo our ceilings - another unplanned event with many more woeful weeks of building. We were knee-deep in rubble and wreckage; displaced from most of our rooms and needed to wear safety helmets, as the 'sky' literally fell down onto our floors. It was a stressful and straining experience and I thought Hurricane Home-Improvement would never end. 

When it was time to put up my new ceiling, I had an interesting design idea. I thought, why not use this predicament and turn it into something beautiful. I had my eye on a crystal chandelier I'd seen in a catalogue and always wanted but never had the appropriate opportunity or reason to purchase it. Since my lights were slightly damaged by the fall, this was the perfect time to get it. The agonizing months of decor disaster was actually worth it in the end, as with a flick of a switch, my room (and day) was lit up by the grand chandelier. Sometimes, all it takes is a small significant change to uplift your home-space and spirits.

Renovating your home is a lot like renovating your life. We too go through break-ups & breakdowns, crumbling complexities, splintered emotions and shattered dreams. We feel so despondent and down in the dumps during the difficult times, that we often can't see past it. With a little ray of hope, revived vision and some constructive thinking, you can mend your mindset and you will realise that something better and more beautiful is destined for you. It may sound cliché, but there is light at the end of every tunnel, or in my case, a chandelier.

Dear Prank Caller

I'm sure most of you have been prank called before. 90% of the time, you will never find out who is bored and creepy enough to call you up with no number at odd hours of the night. Occasionally, these practical jokers choose my friends and I as victims of their utter stupidity. You would think that these stalkers would have something better to do then spend their free valuable time and airtime making calls to innocent listeners. They call, we answer, they don't say a word, we get agitated and slam the phone down. After 5 minutes, the same thing happens again. This time there are curse-words involved. This doesnt seem to bother our dear prank caller at all. They have the safety and security of never being caught out, as they have activated the 'hidden identity' option on their phone. So sadly, you may never find out who woke you up from your sleep at 3 in the morning, ringing you up 55 times in a row, with nothing to say.





Being a 'good' stalker means that your identity should never be revealed. That's why people hide their phone numbers when making prank calls. However, there are some strange people out there that are really dim or just haven't moved with the technologically advancing times. They have somehow missed the memo from Phone Stalkers Inc, that every cellphone they call will display their Caller ID unless they hide it, and most landlines these days provide the same service. 

Last week, a number I didn't recognise called me. I answered, thinking it was the bank or the usual annoying phone salesperson. But even they're smart enough to call from a private number. "Hello" No answer. "Hello....Hello?" Still no reply, but I could hear shuffling in the background. Again I asked, "Hello? Is there anybody there?" Clearly there was, as I could hear muffled whispering. Tired of playing this prankster's game, I put the phone down. A few minutes later, as predicted, the same number called again. This time, I was prepared. I answered, "Hello" No reply. "Hello? Hey, is there anybody there?" Silence still. So I smugly said, "By the way, I can see your phone number. You've forgotten to hide it." A voice from the other side of the line..."Uh OH!" and Slam...engaged tone. I would have called the number back, but that would render me as bored and bizarre as they are. I have not had a prank call since :) 

The Other Side Of The Fence

One of my BFF's and I decided to take a mini road trip to our previous place of employment, which is about 45km from Small Town, SA. The intention of our visit was to catch up on all our friends and workmates we hadn't seen in almost 2 years. Turns out, this journey would serve a far greater purpose for me.

The first thing to jog my memory about working in a far out place was the early mornings. I had long forgotten what it was like waking up before the sun does, at minus 8 degrees in the middle of a frosty winter, barely making it on time to catch the shuttle bus. I grimly recalled the endless road works, which added an extra 30 minutes to the drive. I also recalled the 7:30 coffee with colleagues every morning, which always made up for agony of getting there. I had remembered a place where I loved my job, where I had found something I actually enjoyed doing, while getting paid to do it. Had I been foolish to leave all this behind? 

Driving through the entrance of my old workplace felt so unfamiliar, it was a place I used to know so well and now I was a complete stranger to it. A sea of faces I didn't recognize greeted me. New offices had sprung up where there used to be open spaces. Progress had been made on things I had starting working on before I left. There were, however, minor touches of the past; the odd poster I had designed on a wall, a picture frame on a friends desk and an emblem I had stuck on my old office door. It was nice to see that a little piece of me was still there.

Our surprise visit was long overdue, as our old co-workers were just as excited to see us. Warms hugs and shouts of glee filled the quiet office corridors. Everyone tried to look busy and content, but the cracks beneath the surface were evident. The hallways were soaked in stress and the pressure of meeting deadlines had taken it's toll on them, showing through strained smiles. The first thing they all asked was "What's it like out there?" They were eager to find out what opportunities lay on the other side of fence, wishing that they too could leave the iron gates of this establishment. The first thing I asked was, "What's it like back here?". I was eager to find out what I had left behind. The replies were all the same, "Busy, as usual", with an added, "You should come back." I wanted to respond by saying, "You'd like me to return, yet you're so desperate to leave." But I knew better not to. 

Before this visit, I had been thinking of all the fond memories I had at work, wondering why I had left. On seeing the low morale & languid labouring, it made me (kinda) appreciate my current jobless state. The workmates left behind yearned for the greener pastures they think we enjoy. Why is it that we always seem to want what other people have? It maybe true that the grass is greener on the other side, but we forget that wherever there's grass, weeds are sure to grow. No matter which garden route you chose, there will be stress and difficulty. Often we focus so blindly on other people's lives that we lose sight of what's right in front of us. So, instead of longingly peering over into someone else garden, nurture the one you're in.

Friends For Life

Making new friends in Small Town, SA is virtually impossible, as new and interesting people don't move here, they move out. Far out. Once you turn 18 and get your golden ticket for finishing high school, young adults leave the safety of the small town and move to the city to fulfill their dreams. Most of them don't ever return but a few do come back, loyal to the hometown that raised them. I am one of those few patriots. After four years in the Big City, I came back to the place that will always be my sanctuary. 

The hardest part about leaving the city was leaving all my friends behind. I feared that living hundreds of kilometers away from social civilization would mean that our relationships would change. They would still get together and hang out every weekend as usual, while I lived a solitary small town life. They would be there for each other at every turn and exciting milestone, while I would miss out on every delightful memory. I was afraid that their lives would all move on, without me. Their recollection of me would slowly fade away, we would lose touch over the years, have absolutely nothing in common anymore and eventually, all we would be are just random strangers. When I look back now, I realise that all my fears were unwarranted and I should've had fate in the foundation of true friendship.

As we all live in different parts of the country, I only get to see some of my best friends once every few years. Each time we meet, it's as though nothing has changed between us. We're still the same group of lively, giggly, gossipy girls; just slightly older and a little more wiser. We can spend hours filling each other in on our current lives and laugh, cry and cringe as we reminisce about the past. So much has happened in our lives during the time in between, but the bonds of sisterhood remain as strong as ever. Lives have moved on, we're up, we're down, sometimes lost, but always found again. We've experienced life, love, loss, failure, success, complications and conquests. All this may have changed who we are as individuals, but it hasn't changed who we are to each other. Caring confidantes, considerate companions, sympathetic sisters and selfless soul mates. 

Sometimes, we are lucky enough to meet a few precious people in our lives, who leave their imprints on our hearts and make an extraordinary and everlasting impression on us. These are the most special kind of friends; and even though you only get to see them every 2 years, it feels as though not a day has passed since you were apart. If you've also had the good fortune of meeting such supportive and inspiring souls; hold on to them, as friends like these are few and far between. 

In Search of Sustenance

Besides for a starburst of sparkles in the sky, New Year's in Small Town, SA was pretty much uneventful. So, we decided to take a 50km drive and spend the day in Much Bigger Town, SA. Things there were quiet, all shops were closed and streets were empty but evident of the massive party the night before. While most revelers were re-enacting The Hangover, families picnicked in the park. I was looking forward to eating out at a fancyish restaurant, seeing that we have none in my hometown. Arriving at the empty parking lot of the designated restaurant; we found closed doors, chairs up and shutters down. It was disappointing, but we decided to try another place on the other side of town. 

As we drove up to the entrance, large letters inside read “Sorry, we're closed.” That's not a problem, we thought, we'll just drive around and find somewhere else to eat. That clearly was enough optimism for the first day of the year, it actually was a problem, because everywhere else was closed. Alright, alright, I would be lying if I said absolutely every eatery was closed. Mcdonald's was open, but no one was in a mood for an MSG overdose and a tasteless, trans fatty, super-sized slice of cholesterol. Trying to find an open restaurant on New Year's Day is like trying to find sense in a Wayan's Brothers movie. There is None. 

It was past 3pm on our hunger hunt, when we came across a small eastern restaurant. Someone in our group suggested that we try it out, just for the 'experience'. Faint and famished, we all agreed. We entered hesitantly, looking around and realising that we were a tad bit overdressed for our dark and dingy surroundings. Walls that were once cream and orange had a dusty brown tinge, burgundy chairs and plastic covered tables lined the sticky floor and all that separated us from the kitchen was a faded floral curtain. Sweltering in the 30 degree heat, I wondered how many food safety and health regulations were being violated in the dining area and kitchen. 

The menu had an identity crisis, offering traditional dishes from all over India, Pakistan and China as well as modern fast-food favourites. I chose Chinese chow mein, while everyone else settled for peri peri chicken made on an open fire outside. Maybe hunger is the best spice, as once our flavourful meal arrived, we couldn't get enough. You really can't judge a book by it's cover, or in this case, a restaurant by its dilapidated décor, as the results can turn out to be far more pleasant than you thought. The aromatic dishes were a delicious end to our good food quest and a spicy start to 2011.