nutritional neurosis and food kerfuffles...

(Unedited sourced from www.howsweetitwas.wordpress.com)

On the rare occasion that my parents would host a dinner party (my mum doesn’t like entertaining because “things get messy”) my mum would caution my dad to  “stay away from sex, politics and religion!” If she were inclined to host any dinner parties in 2013, she’d be wise add to that list “and food, for the love of God stay away from talking about food!” 

Who knew that food and nutrition could be the topic of such heated debate? If you’d have told me when I was a teenager that I’d be sitting around at dinner parties sagely discussing the ins and outs of what passes through our digestive systems, I would have scoffed in disbelief. Yet, here we are.

In fact, it would seem that food and diet is THAT much of a hot topic (hot, that is unless you’re a raw-foodarian or a fruitarian) that folk simply cannot agree to disagree.

I was reminded of this a few weeks when I went to a friend’s house for a braai. One of the moms was warming up her baby’s food. This was enough of a cue for another one of the moms (let’s call her “Perfecticia”) to launch into an ‘enlightening’. “Oh, I’m so glad you didn’t nuke it” Perfecticia quipped. I immediately wondered what she would have said if the other mom HAD chosen to nuke it? As I silently tallied up the thousands of things I’ve nuked in my life, I considered pointing out – in my defence so to speak – that our home-economics teacher DID, after all, tell us that nuking was both the most nutritional AND economical way of cooking. (True, she didn’t use the word NUKE, she said microwave, because it was the 80’s and people were more concerned with the size of their shoulder-pads than nutrition.)

Instead of adding my two cents, I immediately came down with a fierce attack of FOGI (Fear of Getting Involved) because I know from experience that these conversations have a way of luring you in, only to leave you with bad indigestion. Oh the irony!

Lets see, there was the time that BK and I got into a discussion about margarine vs. butter.  He’d been told that his cholesterol was a little high and that he should switch to “magic margarine” (it’s not really called that but I’m not allowed to say what it IS called or I’ll get sued.) I won’t tell who was batting for marg and who was batting for butter because that will only spark more fights in cyberspace, but what I will say is that things got THAT heated that Mr. PP has banned us from having the Margarine VS Butter discussion EVER AGAIN. To quote: “I don’t want you and Dad to talk about margarine and butter EVER AGAIN.”

Then there was the time that BK and I mentioned at a family dinner that we’d just read Tim Noakes’ book, ‘Challenging Beliefs’ (ehem, the clue is in the name). We expressed that we found it interesting - food for thought if you like. Well, things got uncomfortably animated – so much so that that we all imposed a silent, autonomous ban on ever discussing food ever again at family dinners. Does food wield enough power that even mentioning a high-fat-no-carbs diet can cause a family rift?

But back to the braai. After the nuking comment, I glanced at my tumbler of whiskey, furiously hoping that it looked like freshly squeezed apple juice. Little did I know that things weren’t going to rest at nuking. Perfecticia was on a roll and her next point of attack was …. honey. Apparently (I didn’t know this ~ the honey-Philistine person I am) unless honey is pure and raw and made through the efforts of tiny eunuch bees who journey to flowery pastures that are untouched by human hands to harvest virginal pollen from wild blossoms, honey is a no-go. ‘Fuckit’, I thought, ‘is this woman going to ruin EVERY food group for me?’ The next day I went to price some of this “holy-honey” and all I can say is it would be cheaper to buy a honey farm, redecorate it and host an enormous pool party, than buy 500ml of raw honey.

The alarming thing is, I actually used to consider myself healthy but nowadays, I just can’t compete. I can’t compete with lettuce grown in soil that is aerated by a million tiny Buddhist earthworms that chant as they go about their business. I can’t compete with raw vegetables washed in the tears of a thousand doves (peace doves, of course.) And whereas I’m happy to buy Himalayan crystal salt (more for the fun colour of it), I’m not entirely convinced that those cheeky little Himalayanese don’t cook up crappy store bought salt, add a touch of cochineal and laugh like drains as they rake the cash in at our expense. I mean who is to know it even comes from the Himalayas? And if it DOES come from the Himalayas, surely that makes it even worse? Won’t the Himalayas just cave in one day because all the salt has been removed from their inner cavities?

Although people like Perfecticia make it sound as though they’re colluding with you, blow me down if it doesn’t come across as more of a lecture. Food-snobbery in disguise. Don’t be fooled.  Not only is it a lecture, but it’s actually a kind of a boast. Which calls to mind dear old Gwynny Paltrow’s cookbook that suggests ingredients I’ve never even heard of, let alone can actually buy. And the ingredients I can get my hands on, cost as much as private schooling for all the children of a small country. Naturally (see what I did there---) this puts food into a WHOLE DIFFERENT LEAGUE.

And all I can say is my mom has no bloody idea how lucky she is to have been a meal-maker in an era when serving frozen veg to your kids was considered healthy, because truly, there is only so much insanity around food you can endure before you become completely insane yourself. Though for me, in truth, it may already be too late.

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chef off...

(Via www.theage.com.au)

Travel wanker alert… BK and I recently(ish) returned from a short stint in Bali. I was a little anxious about going because I knew (being a conference and all) that I would have to make small talk for a certain amount of the time and I can only make small talk for so long before feeling claustrophobic and need to be on my own for a bit. Small talk aside, I was very excited about the trip because a) it was a 5 star and all expenses paid b) it was Bali, and I was born for island holidays and most importantly, c)  I would not have to cook for 6 days.

One of the cool things about the trip is that the conference organisers made sure that all details were a secret – all very cloak and dagger. All we knew was that there were a few soirees and two mornings of planned conference type activities with the spouses doing a special “spouse activity” on one of these mornings.  Of course, this led to speculation about what the organisers had up their sleeves. I was hoping that it didn’t involve things like obstacle courses on the beach or – horror of horrors – a Sexy Spouse Competition.  I jokingly commented to one of the other spouses that in actual fact, the only thing worse than a Sexy Spouse Competition would be if we were to take part in some kind of cooking event.

You can imagine my alarm then, when they announced that we were to spend the morning with none other than Adam Liaw, winner of MasterChef Australia 2010. (Truth is, up till then I’d never heard of him but I’m getting slightly name droppy here.) I got all sweaty under the armpits when I imagined that he might ask each one of us to volunteer the dish we most like to cook, given that my culinary skills extend mostly to fish fingers. For that reason, I headed to the furthest point from his demo table.

Now don’t get me wrong, as appalled as I was at having to spend a morning in paradise cooking, I was very interested in what Adam had to say. After all, I like to think that he’s more than earned his cooking stripes and I was banking on him imparting a lot of “short cuts to brilliant cooking”. Not only was he a mine of information but he genuinely came across as a really lovely man. (Though quite honestly, any man that can cook is lovely, innit?)

No sooner had we sat down when two of the women opposite me started WHISPERING. No, not in subtle, muted tones. In LOUD WHISPER tones which, as you know, is practically the same as shouting.  At first I was forgiving.  Perhaps they were very excited about Adam Liaw and were sharing their excitement. Perhaps they were SO excited that they needed to pee and were clarifying the direction of the WC.

As the LOUD WHISPERING progressed, I tried to zone it out. You know, be the bigger Bali cook, so to speak. But when the LOUD WHISPERING got sharper and more animated I could no longer stand it. To make matters worse, it was now highly punctuated with a nasally whine.

By now the entire table was privy to the fact that both of these LOUD WHISPERERS had had argie-bargies with their spouses. (Surely it’s illegal to fight in a paradise? Surely you can put it off any kind of arguments until real life resumes?) We came to the conclusion that the LOUD WHISPERERS had mislaid their sense of decorum in transit, somewhere between the countries of Self-Absorbedoon and F#%&ing-Rudonia.

I attempted some deep, meditative breathing. It didn’t work and as I could truly no longer zone out their chatter, I thought I’d give a discreet EHEM. Nope, no response.  Not even a blip on their radar. By now, all the other women at the table were wriggling in their chairs, pained expressions on their faces, willing the other two with all their might to SHUUUUT THE FUUUUCK UUUUP.

Finally, one of the other (non-whispering) women at our table declared, “I think the bar’s open, perhaps we should have some wine”. I wanted to kiss her. Unaccustomed as I am to drinking before noon, I saw no other way forward and promptly downed one Bintang and three gin and tonics. Sadly, I don’t remember how to make Malaysian Chicken Satay’s but I do remember that Adam Liaw is lovely and that you should never talk during a cooking demo.

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the voice...

(via www.datingdaredevil.com)

As I was leaving yoga class the other day, I got chatting to one of the other class members. After a while, I realised that I was using a “voice” on her, specifically, a “gushy-uber-friendly” voice. This got me thinking about all the different types of voices we use in different circumstances.

As the youngest of four children, many of my mannerisms and speech habits have been infused with those of my older siblings – so much so that when all four of us are together I suffer a bit of an identity crisis.

When I’m with my oldest sister I use my slightly theatrical voice, because that is how she is. When I’m with my other older sister, I switch and use my philosophical voice, because that’s how she is. When I’m with both of them at the same time I have to keep switching between a theatrical and philosophical voice. Sometimes, but not always, one of them will make it easier and switch to the other one’s voice so that we’re all using the same voice. Finally, when I’m with my brother I use my “dude-all-about-the-bro” voice, because he’s a dude and a bro.  He’s also a headmaster though so sometimes our voices get a bit headmasterish. Unlike his, however, my “headmaster” voice isn’t very convincing.

I good voice to start with is the “telephone voice”. I know for a fact that EVERYBODY has a “telephone” voice. Take my Dad’s telephone voice, for instance. It’s very loud.  Though I’ve tried to explain that the very point of the device is so that one doesn’t, in fact, have to shout, he insists on using his LOUD voice. As you can imagine, this gets worse when he’s talking on a cell phone because as you know cell phones are less connected than landlines so you have to be LOUDER. In fact, the LOUD telephone voice is common to lots of men. Sometimes it is accompanied by what I have affectionately named “the-tea-pot-arm”.  I’m not sure what purpose the elbow in the air serves but I suspect it might be some kind of make-shift antennae. You know, so you don't have to shout quite so loud.

Naturally, the type of’” telephone” voice used depends on whom you’re calling and why.  If it’s a professional call, I like to sound as if I single handedly run the JSE. It’s a very “all-about-business” voice. However, if I’m phoning someone I need help from (like Telkom or M-Web), I’ll use a cross between my “business” voice and my “Being-so-nice-to-you-you-have-to-help-me” voice. This is not to be confused with a “begging” voice, which is mostly used on traffic cops. My middle older sister is very good at the “Being-so-nice-to-you-you-have-to-help-me” voice and no matter how annoyed she gets with the person on the other end, she manages to hold her “angry voice” back until after the call has ended and then all kinds of hellish potty mouth language breaks out.

Another common voice is the “nice-to-meet-you” voice.  As it’s name implies, it is used most prolifically on first meetings. It’s a complicated voice to perfect - you have to project equal amounts of confidence and humility. You also have to sound genuine, which is difficult because you really don’t know if it IS nice to meet someone until you get to know them a little better.

Sometimes, people get confused and use an inappropriate voice for the occasion. This brings us to the “know-it-all” voice.  This often sneaks in when people meant to use their “nice-to-meet-you” voice but their confidence has overridden their humility. However, it has to be said that this voice is definitely adopted by most people at some point and by some people all of the time.  It’s generally accompanied by body language such as: wagging fingers, leaning forward, leaning back or hands on hips, or all of the aforementioned. The paradox with this voice is that it’s normally used at exactly the moment when the speaker doesn’t, in fact, “know-it-all”. As proof of this, I can’ honestly state that I have often used it can confirm that I know almost nothing about anything.

Then there’s the “I’m-not-a-complainer” voice.  This is normally saved up for health professionals but can be used anywhere, not just in the doctor’s rooms.  It’s a mix between a “slightly-sick” voice (you know, the one you use to phone into the office when you’re on “sick” leave) and a “sigh-that’s-just-the-way-life-is” voice. Sometimes, people are so good at this voice that you don’t realise until after they’ve gone that they’ve actually been having ONE BIG, FAT WHINGE.

The “hipster” voice is mostly used by hipsters on hipsters, on young people by young people, or on young people by old hipsters. The latter is the most funny because the old person thinks that if they use their hipster voice on young people, the young people will mistake them for being young. For optimal results, this voice goes hand in hand with appropriate young-person slang (words like “sick”, "random" and “awkies”). I try out this voice a lot and I have to say that it hardly ever works.

Last but not least, there’s voice that’s my pet hate. It’s the “fun-girl” voice and I think we all know someone who uses it. It’s generally used by a certain kind of girl who is not fun at all. She will mostly use it around blokes and the subtext is: “I’m so fun, I’m like one of the boys but so sexy that I’m irresistible”. This voice is heavily encoded with innuendos and will make use of suggestive phrases such as, “Oh dear, I forgot to put on underwear today” or “Do you think this dress is too see-through?”. Strictly speaking, all women should have outgrown this voice in their early twenties but blow me down if I don’t see full on “mature” women trying to use it. No matter how “fun” they may make it seem, don’t use this voice. Ever.

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up with yoga...

(image from www.yogaandtea.com)

Sjoe*. It’s been a while.  I took an unpaid leave of absence from my blog ( -- laughs hysterically at the word “unpaid” --) given that nothing really newsworthy has happened of late.  To be fair, there was the recent event when BK** did a grocery shop and came home with four, yes FOUR, blocks of cheese. He’s either privy to some important developments in the cheese industry or he’s planning on abandoning the family, taking mostly cheese with him. (He has also gone quite mad with Blitz firelighters. Is there to be an embargo on them?)

Other noteworthy events involve injury and operations. My Mom and Dad have both had back operations, my father in law has had a knee replacement, BK has to have a shoulder operation (thanks to ‘self-coaching’ himself at snowboarding), my sister has torn her calf muscles and I have foot issues.  I’d just like to make it clear that all of these things have absolutely nothing at all to do with getting older.

Because my foot has forced my hand, so to speak, I’ve had to quit teaching my “Jane Fonda” classes and seek out new forms of exercise that don’t include any “jumping type” moves. It’s probably high time that I tried something new anyway - heaven knows the other shit hasn’t been working. Thus, I embarked on what will be known as my YOY, otherwise known as my Year of Yoga.

My only previous brush with yoga was when I was around 9 years old.  I went to a class with my friend “Rebel” because our moms used to attend yoga classes twice a week and they once invited us to come along. At the time we thought it was because they desperately wanted us to join in but retrospect I realise it was just because it was school holidays and they had no one to babysit us.

Honestly, they could have warned us about the chanting. We started off the class with an Aaaaaaauuuuuuummmm and Rebel and I just couldn’t stifle the giggles.  Apparently giggling and yoga don’t go because it’s tricky to balance when you’re shaking.

But back to my YOY. I looked up times of yoga classes and found words like “Hatha”, “Bikram” , “Ashtanga” and Vinyasa. To me, these sound like spices you might add to a curry…. “Just add a teaspoon of bikram and a pinch of ashtanga to bring out the hatha in your curry”.

Then I saw one class called “Kundalini”. Now “kundalini” is one of those words like “epiphany” or “existentialism” – I sort of know what they mean but even so, I keep on having to look them up.

I realized my first mistake as soon as I walked in. My shiny lycra leggings were hopelessly out of place, glaring even, amongst the sea of yogi’s who were all dressed in flowing, white garments. Then I noticed that everyone was seated in a circle. As we all know, circles can only mean trouble because circles are expectant things as there’s always that pressure of “you’re next” and not knowing what “next” would entail, I was a little on edge.

To make matters worse, the instructor and some of the other yogi’s were wearing white turban type things allowing no hair to show. Were these needed for cushioning when we stood on our heads? Did this mean that my unruly hair was offensive? (Though to be sure, for someone with my kind of wild hair, a turban is actually a great solution.)

I did my best to look very at home - as if I do this sort of thing all the time but at another yoga studio - but I couldn’t keep the panic at bay when the chanting started. Unconvincingly, I pretended to know the words but

that feeling of being at church and not knowing the psalm lyrics came flooding back to me and I hoped like hell that the circle didn’t mean that we were chanting “in a round” where the person next to you sings a little bit and then you have to know the bit that comes next.

Luckily for me it didn’t come to that, but what it did come to was a series of breathing exercises that in kundalini circles are referred to as “fire breathing”.  It involves a lot of short sharp breaths and the tricky part is that you have to suck your tummy in on the out breath and push it out on the in breath. This is all good and well when done at a leisurely pace but done at speed, it made me feel like I was trying to rub my tummy and pat my head at the same time.  What followed was a series breaths that sounded as if I was sobbing as I tried to co-ordinate my tummy going in and out. By the time we were done with the “release the ego” set I was a hyperventilating mess of bulging eyes. The only thing that I was pretty sure I’d released was my muffin top.

Then there was more poses and more chanting but these are all a blur as I was feeling a little lightheaded by now and though the “frog squats” weren’t entirely unfamiliar (think peeing in the bush), the other stuff just seemed reeeaaaalllly uncomfortable.

Finally, instructor got us in a pose that I will refer to as “the exorcist”. We had to kneel (as if in prayer – it should have been a sign), push our pelvis forward and drop our arms down to our sides and backwards so that they could grasp our upturned heels. I’ll say that again…grasp our upturned heels. It was all very well getting in to that position but after two minutes of posing like that, there was no bloody ways I could get my body out of it again.  It was as if the wind had changed and my body would stay bent backwards like that forever. I remember smiling at the person next to me, silently begging them to push me over on to my side so that I could release myself. As I saw it, it was the only way. No one helped me and I’m pretty sure I heard some sniggering. 

I realise now that aiming for a whole YEAR of yoga is a bit ambitious. However, I will continue to search for my inner yogi. After all, you never know when you’ll have to do a back-bend to reach for something in the grocery store.

*This is a SAFA word for “wow” or other similar exclamaition. It’s pronounced as if a Frenchman says “Shoe” (the ‘oe’ part said a little clipped)

**BK a.k.a BestKisser, for those that are new to the blog

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snow joke...

I couldn’t write this earlier. I had to wait until now to make sure I’d made it back intact. I can hardly believe it’s been months – yes months - since our BIG SNOW ADVENTURE.

I was nervous about going in the first place. You see, I’m not exactly new to snow holidays – oh the irony – I actually used to sell snow holidays.  Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

I made friends in Grade 1 with a girl who was the “only rich kid in the village”. All the same, she was very nice and wherever she is in the world today, I imagine that she’s probably still very nice, though I have no idea if she’s still rich or not.  

Anyhow, what made them rich amongst other things (such as serving Yorkshire pudding on Sundays), is that they were the only family I knew that went on ‘skiing holidays’.  Let's call this rich girl “Leggy” because she had fabulous, long legs (as you know, being rich just isn’t enough.)

Growing up, I didn’t know exactly what a ski holiday entailed but one time, at a sleepover at Leggy’s house, such was the fun we were having that she asked her parents if they could take me along the next time they went skiing.  Woop! Was I the kind of fun sleepover person that people spontaneously invited to tag along on family holidays? I don't think so, I think kids are just weird that way.  (Incidentally, this was the incident planted a seed of fantasy in my mind, one that continued to grow into my teens when I met Exotica and mixed up the whole Luxembourg/Lichtenburg thing – please refer to postcards and other lies on 12 April 2012 for the full story).

Leggy’s parents looked like they’d been put on the spot but said yes, they would certainly think about it and at the time I was sure they meant it. A long family conversation ensued about “which slopes would be best for a beginner” and how “at Seefeld they have so many friends”. Months later, what with no firm travel plans having been made, I realised that her parents were just placating her. My dreams of swishing down the slopes were dashed.

Fast forward to when I was around 22 years old and desperate to get out of the boring admin job I was stuck in. I’d heard there was a job going at Leggy’s dad’s tour operating company and I was wildly keen to get a job in travel (what with invitations to tag along on family holidays not materialsing.) Bless his well-spoken cotton socks, Leggy’s dad told me at the end of the interview “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t” and hired me to be part of the ski-holiday team.

I could hardly contain myself when he said that I should ‘be prepared to take an educational travel trip' two weeks into my job so that I could ‘experience what I was about to sell’.  

Being new to the game, I wasn't prepared for the backlash from one of the girls in the office who took a fierce disliking to me upon news of the trip.  I finally asked one of my colleagues what the problem was and she replied,

“It’s because she’s been working here a whole year and still hasn’t got to go on an educational”. 

Come to think of it she was pretty cranky in general. I put it down to her really weird eyelashes. I used to stare at them for hours.

I was so amped for the trip. I imagined that I’d ski like an Olympic skier in no time.  You see I’d never actually seen someone learn how to ski. I didn’t know how fucking tricky it is. Weird eyelash girl did know though, because she could ski, so in the end she probably had the last laugh. 

For those who have never given it a whirl, it feels like you’re trying to control your limbs, that have been soaking in Novocain overnight, whilst trying to stay upright on a sea of writhing eel.

What I’m guessing didn’t help me was that I started off every skiing day a bit schizzeled. In the mornings before we hit the slopes (some of us harder than others) we did a quick tour of some of the pensions that our clients would be staying in.  With total disregard to the early hour we were greeted with a “welcome schnapps”. Yes, at EVERY pension we visited.  (Note of warning: this appears to be a popular custom in countries with cold climates). As my boss was diabetic and couldn’t drink, he’d slyly wait until I’d politely downed my shot and then would switch my empty glass for his full one.  My hands were tied. He was my boss after all. So whereas everyone else had, say, five early morning shots, I had ten.

Over those 5 short days of skiing I managed to cause untold mayhem. I imagine that some person in Austria is blogging about it as we speak. I succeeded in halting several T-bar lifts by falling off them. I regularly managed to cross my skis on the journey up (a special talent particular to only me, it seems) causing me to fall off the lift, mostly into the deep snow alongside.  Every time the instructor looked at me he looked nervous and slightly upset - on one occasion he was nearly reduced to tears.

I spent more time on my arse and on my face making facedown snow angels than anyone in the history of skiing. People think I’m kidding when I say this, but I was such a clumsy idiot that absolute strangers would buy me drinks in the bar at après ski hour because they mistook me for someone who was employed for their entertainment. The clown of the slopes if you will.

To add insult to injury, my hair totally frizzed, and then froze in the frizz, broken only by my ear warmer headband thingy. This made me look almost exactly like John McEnroe in the 80’s.

I’m still traumatized by my skiing experience and as a result gave snowboarding a try on the recent BIG SNOW ADVENTURE. I have a few words of advice for people if they ever see me in the snow…clear the fucking slopes if you value your life.

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old krump...

A few days ago I posted this as my facebook status:

Next time someone asks me in a job interview what I consider to be my biggest strength I'm going to say ‘krumping’.

A bunch of folk commented and posted videos and stuff in response. It was cool and it reminded me of my first encounter with krumping.

Best Kisser had taken Mr PP away to visit his folks for the weekend and I was home alone for the first time since he was born (TFTF wasn’t born yet). I was very excited because I was going to cram all the things into a weekend that you can’t do with a toddler around, starting with going to the loo alone. 

Cycling, tick. Breakfast with the girls, tick. Walk on the beach, tick. Afternoon nap, tick. Rent dance movie, tick. 

The dance movie I hired is called Rize. For those who haven’t seen it – and many haven’t it seems – it’s a documentary about krumping. Well it’s also about stripping (not THAT kind of stripping), popping, clowning and all sorts of other street dancing, but mostly it’s about krumping.

Having never experienced this particular dance scene, I was enchanted by it. It seemed slightly dangerous.  The music was hard hitting and rough but not in a Metallica kind of way. More rap. More ‘brothers-in-the-hood’.

I watched it for a while and thought to myself, I wonder how hard it is to do? It didn’t look wildly technical like say, ballet or ballroom dancing. What I did notice is that it must be pretty bloody tough because those krumping bodies were buck man. I knew that my body, for instance, looked nothing like theirs.

I’m sure a lot of folk who watch krumping think it’s a load of old toss. For instance, I knew exactly what my Dad would say if he was watching the movie with me. He’d say something like “it just looks like a bunch of people waving their arms in the air and throwing their bodies around the floor (actually, it does look slightly like that to the ‘untrained eye’) but (knowing better) I’d correct him and say “No Dad, that would be performance art. This is krumping.”

Anyhow, after watching it for a while I thought I might give this krumping shit a whirl.

Meanwhile, our elderly neighbour had heard what he later called “loud, ghetto, music” coming from our side of the fence. He thought we’d all gone away for the weekend and was very alarmed to hear activity in the house.  Thinking he’d investigate before sounding the alarm, he’d sneakily snuck up to the front door and was peering through the glass pane.

It was at that moment that I was breaking out my poorly executed krumping moves. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement at the door and I tried to disguise what I was doing as best I could, which was pretending that a giant spider had crawled down the back of my shirt and that my flailing arms were attempting to claw it off my body.

Immediately I dashed to the front door and sheepishly greeted our neighbour. All the dear chap could say was “Oh. It’s you. I thought a whole bunch of home-blokes (I think he meant to say “homies”) had broken in and were throwing a party”.

I couldn’t look him in the eye for weeks after that and I swear, every time he saw me I could see the twinkle in his eye.

(This post is dedicated to our awesome neighbour, Riz. We still miss you and I’d happily make a krumping arse of myself again if it meant we’d get to share a glass of wine with you.)

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hirsutes nobody

(via www.vintag.es)

I don’t know why I did it.  I knew better, but still I did it. I suppose Blondie inspired me – she’s always so darn well groomed. Her head of hair is always sleek and as for facial hair, well, it’s non-existent. She tells me her secret is threading.

I know I’m being naff, but the very idea of someone ripping out my hair from the roots, brings tears to my eyes.  So does the thought of applying hot wax to my face but hot wax was the ‘good idea’ that I had today because it’s “so easy to do at home”.

The fact that there’s hair growing on my face at all is a mystery to me.  I just don’t get it from an evolutionary point of view (hint to God, please send an obvious answer - cloud writing would work). I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s been a fuckup in the messages to the hair follicle department, causing the hair that’s supposed to be growing on my eyelashes to grow on my mustache instead. It’s the only way to explain the imbalance.

To be true, I have tried other solutions for facial hair in the past, specifically, bleaching.  I thought that if you bleached your facial hair it wouldn’t be noticeable.  I was wrong, of course, as Vikings have already proven.  Such was the outcome that I ended up with a resplendent blonde moustache, shiny as Playboy pinup’s locks.  Every time I moved my mouth it looked as if there was a tiny stripper caterpillar writhing around on my top lip.

The wax kit I bought today looked innocent enough from the outside, though in retrospect if I look closely at the drawing on the box, it shows a lady sitting in an awkward pose. She’s either looking down (at her nether parts, I wonder?) or is sitting in a ‘pose of pain’. She might even be crying. I’m going with the latter. 

(Exhibit A)

The kit involves a small metal container that you heat on the stove till it’s soft enough to apply.  Never a fan of reading instructions, I didn't take note that it shouldn’t bubble.  I also didn't note that if are foolish enough to overheat it, you have to wait a while for the wax to cool before applying it.  Duh.

I applied the scalding mixture to my mustachy bits and howled in pain.  For the hundredth time, I just don’t get people who like S&M.   As for the whole Brazilian waxing thing, it’s inconceivable to me. (I’m working off the assumption that the skin on my face is tougher than ‘down there’. Brutal, bloody brutal, is all I have to say.)

After waiting for the wax to cool down, I applied it to my movember.  So far so good. Then came the time to remove the wax. Holy schiznick, the pain was worse than when I applied the hot wax in the first place!  I could already tell that there was no way I was going to make it though to the end.  Inexplicably, the wax was removing several layers of skin whilst actually leaving the offending whiskers firmly embedded. WTF??!?!?

I realised that there was no way in hell I could continue ‘peeling’ till the movember was completely gone.  Panicking, I looked around for a solution. Ah. Nail scissors!  I could cut the wax off.  But no, this turned out to be a high-risk solution. I came dangerously close to cutting my lip clean off.   

In the end, I had to run a basin of hot water in an attempt to 'melt' off the wax.  It was a whole new level of torture when I had to repeatedly submerge my chin, mouth and nose into the boiling water. Still, it was nothing compared to ripping off the wax.

I now have a hairy, red, blotchy mustache show for my efforts and all I have to say is, pluck that shit, I’m not doing this hair removal crap anymore.

Pose o Pain

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