Monday, January 24, 2011

A night of "firsts"


Disclaimer: “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” – Cyndi Lauper circa 1980-something. Enough said.

It is an absolute cliché but this past Saturday night I think I may have lost my heart (and a healthy amount of cash) to a limber Adonis of stripper called “S” *sigh*

What?!

My girls and I had been planning this outing to one of Jozi’s reputable male stripper establishments for weeks. It turns out that getting a table dance has been inadvertently added to the “adult rites of passage” list (read: we were a small minority of individuals who hadn’t ever been to a strip-club before). Did we know what we were fully getting ourselves into? Absolutely not, but you only live once right?

Once our hysterical giggling had subsided and we had plied ourselves with copious amounts of alcohol we then proceeded to have an awesome, awesome time. Sadly enough pictures were taken to ensure that i will never, ever have a successful political future...should i ever feel that way inclined.

Here are a few things I observed from our raucous night out:

1. Personality: Strippers must be fit, but more importantly they must have some personality and be engaging. There’s nothing worse than a shy stripper or one who hasn’t figured out what his stripper alter-ego is (we had one, shame).

2. Ink, ink, baby: Body art of some sort comes with the turf...and it’s kinda hot...very hot.

3. Too much of a good thing is...: It must be both a blessing and a curse to be a Mandingo. The resident Mandingo was very generously “endowed”, but sadly his equipment did more to scare us ladies, than entice us.

4. Don’t judge a stripper by his colour: On arriving and finding out that all the strippers were Caucasian, I will admit I was a bit disappointed a smidgen. After all, as a resident of The Rainbow Nation I would expect a wider variety of flavours, if you get my drift. By the end of the night, I had become a believer...those fellas knew what they were doing.

5. Don’t touch me on my studio: I thought we wouldn’t be allowed to make any sort of body contact, however the fellas encouraged us to roam our hands over their washboard stomachs, broad shoulders and even a butt cheek, now and again. However, certain *ahem* bits were out of bounds (I thought I should just clarify that). One gorgeous specimen did tell us a hilarious story of how a bouncer had to save him from the yanking habits of an aggressive client, she apparently really liked what she saw O_o

6. Rude Boy: I didn’t realise we would see so much....seriously I didn’t.

7. Hide 'n Seek: According to our mixed-race waiter there is no such thing as a male Indian stripper. Not sure how far true that is?

All in all, it was a real eye-opener of a night. I definitely believe that male strippers have a better deal than their female counterparts. I can’t help but assume a female stripper is in that line of business as some sort of last resort, whilst men definitely seem to have some sort of choice.

I forgot to ask The Boys how they had ended up in this line of business, however, I did find out that one was a part-time graphic designer and that the resident Mandingo had realised his *ahem* talents at the tender age of 10 years old.

I may have to pay a second visit, for purely journalistic purposes to get some more answers to my mounting questions ;-)

Holla in the comments!

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In other news:

The second first: On our way back from the club my mate and I got pulled over by the cops. They were on the search for drunken drivers (read: they were trying to make some spare change). Never have I heard a person waffle around the obvious, this female cop spoke in circles...cleverly her intentions where implied rather than forthright, that way she could always deny eliciting a bribe from us.

Back in Zim I have always successfully managed to talk myself not only out of traffic fines but many a bribe. The difference back home is that i usually encounter male cops, who are easier to get around. Sadly, on that early Sunday morning our nemesis was a female member of the South African Police whom left us R100 poorer.

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How time flies! Here’s hoping you make the most of the last week of January 2011, chickens!

Love,

V x

Friday, January 21, 2011

Who gives a boob, anyway?


Disclaimer: Dear Fellas, i speak about noombies/boobs a lot in this post...but not in a way you'd full appreciate. You have been warned. Seriously.

The funniest things make the news these days. I guess when the average attention-span has been hijacked and overloaded with the more serious type stories (think: natural disasters, testy elections, shooting sprees etc) the media decides to relieve us with some non-newsworthy tidbits such as George Clooney contracting malaria (*crickets*) or resurrecting a long-standing debate.

This week the done-t0-death debate that was given a second-wind wastriggered by one model, Miranda Kerr. Ms Kerr debuted a photo of her and her new sprog, with said-sprog latched at the breast of his yummy mummy, who looked in full bloom (pun-intended).

What was meant to be a seemingly innocent picture of "mother with babe" got misconstrued as some subliminal breastfeeding campaign with Ms Kerr playing the role of the self-righteous protagonist. Baby-formula activists everywhere started foaming at the mouth at this implied snub and what i want to know is...

Who gives a boob, anyway?

The answer, it turns out, is not that many people. Breastfeeding shares ranks with the likes of garter belts, glitter nail varnish, Burt Reynolds and jelly shoes: i.e things deemed "unfashionable" amongst women of the current generation *insert eyeroll*

I understand not being able to breastfeed your nunu 'cause you just can't due to complications or that your little bub is refusing...but opting out of it because it's not your thing or you're worried about ithe impact it will have on your noombies....hah, i have no words.

Fair enough, breastfeeding is one of those activities that has been overly romanticised. The healthiest option for your baby it maybe, nevertheless, a pleasant experience for your noombies it is not. My co-worker recently got back from maternity leave last week and took great pleasure on filling me in on the rather alarming aspects of motherhood AFTER the laborious process of child-birth (yes, it only gets worse).

Phrases like "cracked nipples" and "veiny stretchmarks" had me crossing my legs extra tight and screaming for a gestational surrogate quicker than you could say "Nicole Kidman".

At the end of the day new mum's should just woman-up, breastfeed if they're capable of doing so and open a savings account to fund their future full C-cup noombies courtesy of Dr 90201 if need be...breast augmentations, i see you!

Holla your thoughts in the comments, chickens!

PS: I have a theory that the boy-child is never fully weaned from breastfeeding...err, but that's a story for another day.

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Have an awesome weekend, chickens!

To those of you in flood-stricken areas, keep afloat and to those of you in snow-ridden areas, keep warm....and to everyone else count your lucky stars.

Love,

V x

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Watch out for those blind-spots


Picture the scene: It’s a typical Monday morning and I’m whizzing down the M1S highway and negotiating traffic at a semi-decent speed. Noticing that I’m about to suffer the sad misfortune of being stuck behind a slow-moving skorokoro (read: dilapidated vehicle that was around during the Jurassic Age) I spot an opening in the lane to my right. With my indicator ticking away and poised to complete my swift exit from The Lane of Slowness, hectic hooting startles me and I realise that ummm, jah...the coast wasn’t as clear as I thought it was.*

Sometimes that darn blind-spot catches one unawares...and that’s no different when it comes to the blind-spot’s of Life.

Now I’m sure I’ve confessed my control-freakish tendencies on this blog at some point in time, but if there was any doubt as to whether I’ve attempted to Play God, erase those doubts right now. I was never an official girl scout, but I had taken up with such nonsense I would be the holder of many badges right about now. Be prepared is one of favourite mottos to live by. Take for example the crazy weather patterns we’re currently experiencing that have a couple big cities south of the hemisphere flooded to the nth degree. It has not escaped my attention that Joburg is currently attempting to join the aforementioned waterlogged cities at the rate it is raining over here, and I swear, I am contemplating where to get a rubber dingy**, some flares and whether to stock up on tinned food or not, lol.

Sadly there come some situations and experiences that catch you completely unawares, no matter how prepared you may be. These situations don’t happen that regularly (thank goodness) but when they do, there’s no first aid kit, horoscope reading or well meaning words of comfort that can detract from the shock of it all or the unexpectedness.

At times like these, I find myself:

a. Craving a healthy helping of Malva pudding;
b. Only wanting to listen to misogynistic hip-hop tracks with killer beats and rhymes;
c. Bartering with The Almighty (yes, yes, I know...I never learn); and
d. Frantically wishing time could stop for a bit.

Eventually, you figure out how to pick yourself up again from a setback and just get on with it, because there’s no point dwelling over that which you cannot fix.

My Top 5 Blind-spot situations are as follows:

1. The death of a loved one;
2. The end of a relationship;
3. Not getting the job you wanted;
4. Owing the Tax-man a whole lot of moolah; and
5. Getting a flat tyre.

Holla at me your blind spots or blind spot moments.

*No “women driver” jokes or any of the like will be tolerated at this point, thank you very much.
**China Mall in Jozi stocks them at “good price”...I checked J

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In other news:

Dear Mother Superior: In my experience, when people start classing a certain population group as being more superior than others, you are heading into dangerous territories...the kind that conjure up memories of a certain man, with a certain moustache...and a certain swastika.

So imagine my surprise at reading that a Chinese author has written a book about how superior Chinese mothers to mothers of other nationalities and ethnicities. Her theories are based on the fact that the average Chinese mother has high expectations of her children*, to the point that a 5 year olds daily activity schedule could rival that of a 4th year employee of Goldman Sachs.

Clearly Miss Author here didn’t cast her net far and wide and find out from research, that there are a plethora of non-Chinese, non-Asian mothers around the world who demand the best out of their children and will go to reasonable limits to ensure this. I don’t think Chinese mothers are more superior in any way, I think they’re just a little more....err, militant, about how they go about getting results from said-child.

Flashback to the year 1995 and I return home with a test result of 19/20 on a Maths test. The class average is sitting at around 14/20 and my sweet mother is harassing me about that ONE I didn’t get right *insert eye roll* ....and the thing is, my academic history was littered with experiences such as this.

My parents expected the best out of me (still do), if I could get 95% then it meant I could 100%...If i could get 100%, then I could maintain it. People will argue that that’s a lot of pressure for a kid, I agree...however, I would much prefer that type of scenario to one where nobody is expecting anything from you – that’s how we end up with national Matric/final exam pass-rates in the 60-odd % and applaud such nonsense (*side-eye* to SA’s Ministry of Education).

#RantOver

*I wonder if only being allowed to have ONE child in China has anything to do with all the concentrated fixation.

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Chickens, may this 3rd week of the not-so-new year bring you many blessings, and zero blind-spot type scenarios ;-)

Stay motivated and spread the love,

V x

Sunday, January 09, 2011

Where Guacamole trumps Romance...

It’s Day 9 and I’ve either broken or forgotten my new year’s resolutions, instead i’ve decided to relieve myself of the pressure to achieve this quest of self-perfectionism, and as an alternative, dedicate each day to mastering two things. Today’s two things entailed the following:

1. Learn how to make a mean guacamole; and

2. Do not dispense any romantic advice.

My first task came about from my new-found love for Avocados. After a rather painful encounter at the age of 10 years old involving avocados*(see footnote) I had sworn off the things. That is, until a friend of my mine made the most awesome guacamole ever...like EVER, since that time there’s been no turning back. Today I decided to snub my nose at the store-bought variety I’ve been subsisting off the last couple of weeks, and make my own batch. Sadly, it did not go so well and I will be back to the store-bought variety in no time.

The second task I hadn’t initially planned on until I was ambushed on Blackberry Messenger by a friend lamenting her man-less state and asking for tips and suggestions. As an individual who has spent more time as a singleton than in a relationship, I found myself spouting the usual clichés like “these things take time” and “get yourself out there”.

After 20-odd years on this earth, I’ve still got nothing when it comes to matters of the heart. Yes, I may be in a relationship but it doesn’t mean I always know what’s going on. There is no secret formula to this....unless there is, and I’ve been in the dark all this time...err, one of you is going to have to clue me up here :-)

Any who, after much faffing I gave her the best advice I could summon without Googling and that was “pray on it and then just get on with life”...and then vowed to steer clear of giving romantic advice in the future as I’m absolutely rubbish at it.

What’s the best romantic/love advice you have given, or have been given?
Footnote:

• My baby sister and I attempted to re-enact a Palmolive advert, we’d caught on TV that involved wearing an avocado mask. Except we left our masks on too long and proceeded to try and rip it off, one avocado strip at a time...instead of just soak it (don’t ask, we were young and foolish).

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In other news:

What’s up Doc?
‘Tis The Year of Our Lord 2011, aka The Year of The Rabbit (if you’re brushed up on your Chinese Astrology) and here's hoping it’s going to be a great year...the type that dreams are made of, that quickly become blockbuster flicks and novels :-D

Now this year has its work cut-out for it, especially in South Africa. With 2010 being the “Belle of the Ball” by housing the world’s most anticipated sporting competition (read: FIFA World Cup), 2011 is looking every bit like Camilla Parker-Bowles to an unforgettable Princess Di (read: 2010).

It’s early days yet, only time will surely tell.

Harry’s (Harare): I spent two long weeks at home over the holidays and was extremely excited to see that we (Zimbabwe) are creeping back on the map. Tourists could be spotted (why must they be decked out in their safari best, why?), the local arts and crafts industry was booming (check out Doone Estates and Avondale Flea Market if you’re in the areas) and there were a plethora of drinking and eating spots to pick from.

“Choice” and “joie de vivre” has returned to House of Stone.

Random sidenote: There was anomaly that haunted me during the hols at home, and that was this strange new weave being sported by one in five women. I’m guessing the original inspiration behind the do would be Rihanna (given the short sides and longish, curly middle side), however, it was the variety of bright colours and highlights that had me spell-bound. SMH!

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Have an awesome week back in the land of the living, chickens.

Shake off those holiday blues and start making those dreams come true.

V x