http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za/images/cosmo_logo_toolbox.gif Money en-us catherined at cosmopolitan dot co dot za Copyright 2009 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-dilemma-of-dating-gps
Technology has made us this way. See, depending on how ‘new media’ The Guy You’re Seeing is, at any given time you’ll be able to ascertain if he is awake (Skype), online (iChat, Yahoo, AIM, Google Talk, Facebook), what he’s doing and with who (Twitter), and even the exact moment he opened your last BlackBerry messenger or SMS. (Really. They’re called delivery reports. Proceed with caution.)

Now, there’s a good chance you don’t actually want to know these things. However, as anyone with an Internet connection and a propensity for social networking knows, this information is hurled at you whether you want it or not.

It’s like a GPS system, only for dating. But, unlike that nice woman with the British accent in your car, this system isn’t quite as wonderful as it appears. Sure, it’s feverishly exciting when you first meet, but ‘dating GPS’ can morph into cruel and unusual punishment when the relationship tapers off.

It begins innocently enough. When you’re infatuated with a guy, you can’t know enough about him. You’re a big, fat, thirsty sponge, soaking up every little drop of information on him you can find: his star sign, his job, who his friends are, who his ex-girlfriend was... It was always like this, well before MacBooks and MySpace, only back in the ‘old days’ we had to do our stalking verbally by subtly asking about him to people who knew him, hoping it wouldn’t get back.

(Obviously, stalking via Google in the privacy of your own home is far more convenient, not to mention more beneficial in maintaining that crucial allure of indifference. With one simple search, you have photos, a place of work, comments he’s made on blogs or forums and, most importantly, his finishing time in the 1999 City2Surf.)

Mesh this hunger for knowledge combined with our addiction to being in touch with everyone we’ve ever met, and we begin to amass a constellation of communication channels for The Guy. We get their number. Then e-mail. Their BlackBerry Messenger pin. We find them (or they find us) on Facebook, AIM, iChat, Skype and Twitter. Pretty soon, we have an impressive dossier of communiqué and, before long, we’re scooting between the various mediums with great speed and familiarity – an e-mail here, a wall post there; a Skype here, an instant chat there... (And to think, 10 years ago, all we had was a landline and a street address for throwing rocks at windows at 4am. How utterly primitive.)

The appeal, l must concede, is strong. Logging on and seeing that he, too, is online creates a little shiver of excitement. Will he see that you’re online and contact you? Will he wait for you to contact him? Who goes first? Someone has to – I mean, you can’t both be online at the same time and pretend you haven’t noticed. That’s just silly, right? While you are waiting, you might just check his Facebook wall...

Of course, the downside to having access to all of this information is that the more ways you have of knowing where they are or what they are up to when you’re smitten, the more torturous it is when you’re not smitten. Instead of logging off disappointed he didn’t contact you when he was online, you log off pissed off. It’s like SMS Reply Rage, but worse, because you know he’s there and therefore can’t even make the excuse that he must have gone for a surf and so isn’t near his cellphone and that’s why he hasn’t written.

With devastating velocity, the fun and excitement that accompanied tracking their online life turns into impatience, insult and rage. How is it that he has no time to respond to your SMS when his Facebook status says he’s hungover and glued to the lounge? It’s like an office relationship – working together is the best fun ever when you’re in love, but not so fantastic when the love has gone and you want to stab each other in the eye with a fork.

Whenever a friend of mine saw her man come online, she’d pounce. He pounced equally, and it was a gas. But then he backed off. Started calling less. Became elusive when asked about weekend plans. Which made it awkward when my friend saw he was online. Should she contact him? She defiantly hadn’t SMSed him, but was online different? Trump the usual contact protocol? I mean, they both knew the other was right there at their computer, so it would be weird not to message him, right?

Uh, no. lf you see your mom pop up on your Skype list, do you automatically feel you two should chat? No. Just because he’s online, don’t mean it’s chat time. The key to navigating these waters calmly is to remember that, for every communication channel you enter with a man, there may come a time when the two of you aren’t so chummy, and that it will be tender to see he’s online or what he’s up to.

Of course, the obvious (slash most difficult) solution when things go bad is to simply delete him from your online contacts, Facebook friends and phone so you no longer know or care. However, this is often the time when you want to stalk him the most. Which is precisely why you shouldn’t; you should stalk a new guy instead – loads more fun! ]]> Thu, 29 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-the-party-dont-stop
Winter is on its way out it seems. This means I must get out too, naturally. Last week the Interwebs were abuzz about VUZU TV’s first birthday party. The gossip and entertainment channel has become a favourite in many households and of course, they were going to celebrate it in style.

The VUZU party happened to fall on the same day as the boyfriend’s birthday. Now while the boyfriend doesn’t believe in celebrating the same way every year, I do. So I tried to compromise (after all it wasn’t my birthday) and dinner for eight it was.

After treating him to cake and laughs the day, we headed off to O’ Galito at Benmore Shopping Centre. Because the dinner was intimate, animated conversation was a welcome guest (as opposed to the screaming matches we usually have in clubs). After the happy birthday song and watching everyone chow down on chocolate mousse cake, we decided to hit the VUZU party.

Even though the night was still young, on the way to the party I was left feeling the cake had been spiked. I accidentally rear-ended my beloved Nina into a friend’s car. Luckily the damage wasn’t too bad and we could laugh about the situation, instead of exchanging insurance details.

Finally reaching our destination at Turbine Hall in Newton, we were greeted by a crowd of musicians, models and everyone else linked to the entertainment industry in Jozi. Booze was free, local artists were on the stage and Johannesburg socialites were more than keen to have a good time.

Fashion was a big part of the evening too; lots of short, sequined dresses paired with killer heels and eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. And a trend the city seems to be catching on to must be big hair (much like Janelle Monae) and mismatched outfits. I spotted at least six girls who looked identical.

Then I spotted the best weave I’d ever seen. However, the head the weave was attached to had a very deep voice and after closer inspection, I discovered it was a man! Fabulous! Here’s this man in a black suit and high black boots, in the ladies loo! Soon everyone was alerted to the extra Y chromosome in their presence and the conversation turned to his extra ‘member’ – whether he has one, or if he’s gotten rid of it. Quite expectedly, he shrieked at the drunken ladies, saying he’s basically a girl and we should mind our business.

We danced until the early hours of the morning, while watching partygoers take pictures with their favourite celebs from Nonhle to Khuli Chana. But every party has to end, so we dragged ourselves outside, headed home and as I tucked the birthday boy into bed I smiled at the thought of the weave again, thinking that this city is a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.

]]> Wed, 28 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-baggage-handler
The first is the Twelve-Year-Old, which means the guy in question is too young/silly/inappropriate to be anything other than a bit of fun. (No meeting of the parents.)

The next is Not The Father Of My Children, meaning he’s good on paper, is definitely relationship-able, but falls just shy of being The One. Perhaps you just don’t ‘feel that spark’. (Fine to meet the parents.)

The third is the Baggage Handler. He could be The Father Of Your Children, except for the fact that he’s hauling around a mountain of issues that may include, but are not limited to: the ghosts of ex-girlfriends, deeply entrenched insecurities, or a pathological inability to commit. (Will freak out at the very idea of meeting the parents.)

The BH’s issues, which are initially hidden beneath veils of infatuation and lust, will inevitably stop your fling from developing into a relationship of any substance. You’ll be forced to eventually write him off, citing intense head-screwing as the reason. (Provided he hasn’t already written you off.)

Maddeningly, it’s often these confusing suitcase-carriers that we like the most. Their nonchalance and unpredictability become addictive and, even if we know in our hearts it can amount to nothing, we keep buying tickets to their performance.

Maybe we like them because of that human reflex to gravitate towards a challenge. In theory, we all eventually learn that the nice guys are the ones that deserve our attention. But until then, we will dance with men staggering under baggage so heavy they can barely see what’s in front of them, let alone you standing right beside them.

Curiously, they’re aware they’re carrying baggage. In fact, they wear it like an accessory – it defines them. And they almost always warn you, if you choose to notice. They cloak you in affection and SMSes one day, and cite a need for ‘space’ the next. Their baggage causes them to be cautious and unreliable, because… they’ve been heartbroken or ego-stomped previously.

They tell us they might have feelings for their ex, and still we hang around. Sadly, fewer things are more compelling than a slice of lukewarm rejection. But it’s not our job to unpack their bags. Don’t be fooled by his veneer of being tortured: it’s self-indulgence propelling him to play victim, and if you’ve dealt with your issues, he can face his.

Of course, it isn’t just the boys loading up the Louis Vuittons. We too are guilty of flitting around Single Town with handbags full of unresolved emotions. But generally, it’s the boys who fail to properly exorcise their relationship demons.

Invariably, the Baggage Handler will collapse under the weight of his own load. And if you’re not careful, you’ll come tumbling down with him. Because he will go back to his ex; he will rack off overseas; he will find another girl to distract him. It’s just a question of when. Don’t doubt the word of a boy who tells you he’s unfit for loving. If he doesn’t know what he wants, how can he possibly give you what you want?

Until the Baggage Handler finds a way to lose all that excess luggage, you’re better off with a guy holding a slick little carry-on – he’s got a free hand to clasp yours and he’s able to stand up straight to see that glorious, clear blue sky.

]]> Thu, 22 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-things-that-make-big-girls-cry
I know that he’s been gone for more than a week now, but like I said last week, he left some excess baggage behind – mainly on my butt. So while I’m working through my post-Phillip-blues, I’ve embarked on a high protein, low carb diet, recommended by a professional.

When I first looked through the diet I was shocked at the amount of vegetables I was expected to eat. I haven’t eaten veggies since the 90’s – that’s the last time my mom had a say over my diet. I do, however, eat chicken and mushroom pies as well as potato chips, so technically I am getting my veggies. And for my greens? Well, a can of Crème Soda does the trick.

But back to the diet.

I did ok on Monday; the first three days consists only of protein. Deadlines made sure I didn’t think about food and I was feeling pretty chuffed with myself. Then I got home. While I picked at the lonely, grilled chicken breast on my plate, my boyfriend stuffed his face with cupcakes. I went to bed hungry, grumpy and snugly wrapped in my ugliest winter pyjamas. If I couldn’t have some sugar, neither could he.

The next day was hellish, and I was miserable, to say the least. The day dragged on and the fact that I was excited about eating two boiled eggs for lunch made me feel worse. By Thursday I was a nutter, but at least I could now add veggies to my meals. This would normally make me cringe, but after three days of eggs, chicken and fish, I was ecstatic!

That night while cooking dinner, I felt like Nigella. Who knew veggies actually taste good, and cooking can be fun, especially when you have a goal in mind.

These days I’m not starving (I actually feel pretty full), but I’m moving off the hardcore healthy stuff. Two kilos have disappeared from my frame, my skin is looking healthier and I’m more determined than ever. I figure if I keep this up and turn to Billy Blanks for a little more help, then when Spring rolls around, I’ll be confident and showing off my healthy curves.

Here’s to healthy living. ]]> Tue, 20 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/superman-sheets-syndrome
Why? Because you want to be able to make out on the couch without being busted. Because you don’t want to have to play the Polite Chitchat game with Mom in the kitchen every time you go over. Because your own flatmates are repellent and you crave some peace and quiet (instead you get three siblings, two dogs and arguing parents).

Of course, if you’re both still living at home, you’ve got all the makings of a hefty Outrageous Public Indecency fine right there, haven’t you? Because when The Couple has nowhere to go and enjoy sordid activities – without the fear of getting busted – The Couple may be forced to get creative in automobiles.

I asked some friends what grinds their gears about Superman Sheeters. There were a lot of these: ‘It’s annoying that to have our “own space” we have to leave the house’; a considerable amount of these: ‘He always has to check in with the parents’; and a whole lot of these: ‘It affects your sex life. You can’t relax and you can’t make noise.’ But I think the real reason the boyfriend-living-at-home thing gets to us is because we fear that if/when we move in with them, they will have shuffled from one woman’s care to another’s. And the last thing we want is to become a mother figure. Of course, if we ladies still live at home too, who are we to preach? But the thing is, when we move in with a guy, generally we’re the ones relegated to the role of housekeeper, not the brat who leaves dirty towels on the floor for Mom to pick up.

But there are some positives. For instance, if he’s living at home to save cash, that overseas trip/flat/Ferrari is going to come a whole lot quicker than if he were renting. And if he’s living at home to look after Mom/Dad/Granny? Shows he’s a caring soul, doesn’t it? And at least those Superman Sheets will always be freshly washed.

It’s worth noting that l myself have done my time with a Superman Sheeter. His parents had a nice place and gave us so much privacy that they virtually ignored us. But still l complained. SS swore he’d move out as soon as he found the right place, and he kept his word. But still I found something to complain about. (Neighbours/noise/no parking.)

In any case, next time a guy fervently insists on going back to your place, be very wary. Odds are he’s going see those Hello Kitty sheets of yours.

]]> Thu, 15 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-post-phillip-regrets
And this is why I couldn’t fit into my jeans a few months ago. I managed to fix it though by adding Tae-Bo to my life. Initially I was so excited, and even worked out with a little sports bra because I’d somehow convinced myself that seeing my tummy when working out would push me to do more.

Then Phillip arrived and partying swayed me off the fitness track – because who really has time to work out when there are foreigners to meet and soccer matches to watch? So, it was burgers, pizzas and curries. Bliss!

Now, Phillip is gone and I’ve taken a break from partying. The only thing that’s left behind is a small tyre around my waist and a few uninvited dimples on my thighs. I want to commit to healthier eating, more Tae-bo and less gin. But how many times have I had this conversation with myself? In an attempt to fool proof my plan, I’ve created an army of weight watchers. They too went overboard with burgers and wine and are now paying the price. So three friends and I on a mission we’ve dubbed ‘Operation Summer Bunny’.

All four of us have had many botched weight loss missions before but this is the first time we’ve had to encounter post-Phillip regrets. To celebrate the beginning of this journey we headed to the Alex theatre in Braamfontein to catch Blk Sonshine on stage. The group only performs locally about once a year because one of the members has relocated to the US. It was evident Jo’burg had missed their local music because the venue was packed, and as we sang along Blk Sonshine proved they were as talented and charming as Jozi remembers.

Later we headed to Catz Pyjamas in Melville, they’re the only place that serves a decent meal after midnight. So, in celebration of ‘Operation Summer Bunny’, we had meat platters, pizza, and other yummy treats that we’d have to say goodbye to for a while.

With just under 12 weeks until the sun starts shining again and we shed our layers of clothing, what are your plans? Do you have your own ‘Operation Summer Bunny’? Please share with us; I need all the help we can get.

]]> Wed, 14 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-its-1991-and-i-like-pancakes finally de-cluttering my childhood bedroom after, ooh, about 27 years of putting it off. I haven’t lived there for five years and my dad is itching to turn my room into a study. Like any spring clean, it was cathartic – and The Salvation Army now love me for the six bags of loot I wrestled through their door. But by 10pm that evening, I was still thinking about what I’d discovered in the bottom of the wardrobe. Coated in two inches of dust and nestled beneath my birth certificate was my 1991 diary.

It was red, faux-leather and handily fannypack-sized. My gran had handed it to me on Christmas Day 1990, uttering the immortal words, ‘You’ll never regret keeping a diary.’ I didn’t believe her. I was 10 years old and, quite frankly, annoyed because I’d wanted a pair of roller skates. But now, as I sat cross-legged on my stupidly narrow single bed, wondering how the hell I never fell out of it, I realised she was right. Harking back to the days of yore was comforting. Back when the most important things in my life were fish fingers, going to Brownies on Friday and climbing trees with Ann next door. What’s more, apart from my dad, brother, granddad and Jason Donovan, men didn’t feature.

These days, however, my diary would run something like this: ‘Had meetings all morning. Tried to sort electricity bill – failed – try again tomorrow. Thought about calling him – hid phone in drawer to stop me from SMSing. Booked bikini wax. Stayed late at work. Arrived late for pub quiz. Almost SMSed him during the music round.’

Thankfully, life wasn’t always like this. In fact, my diary entry on the exact same day, 18 years ago in 1991, read: ‘Played my recorder. Done Roman numerals at school. Mum made pancakes again. I like pancakes.’ Wasn’t life simple when all you had to do was write about pancakes, pull on your Tommy Takkies, fix a ponytail to the side of your head and skip next door to knock for your best friend? A day in the life of me, aged 10, was little more than a procession of meals, hobbies and hanging out with whoever my favourite person was that day.

The truth is, life only started getting complicated when I discovered boys. I haven’t written a diary since 1991, thank goodness. I can’t imagine anything worse than stumbling across an Adrian Mole-style record of my angsty teenage years. (‘Do I take my retainer out to kiss him? Why, oh why, won’t Levi Bailey notice me? He’s, like, the coolest boy in school!’) I’m not about to start keeping a diary now either. These days, I barely have time to write down appointments and friends’ birthdays, let alone my innermost thoughts and feelings or what l had for lunch. I’m quite happy to forget the more recent string of disastrous dates or the moment l was dumped by SMS. Why would I want to document this kind of information? Just in case l wanted to reminisce about it one day?

Likewise, l don’t need a hardback day-to-day diary in order to remember my happiest, most life-changing experiences from the past 27 years in all their technicolour glory.

I’m not saying I want to go back to 1991. After all, I had bad hair and a flat chest. And boys? Well, they smelt. The older and wiser me now knows that boys turn into men. Yes, they can still be nothing but trouble, but they’re also the source of much excitement, mystery and passion. What’s more, some of them are gorgeous and, even if they’re not, they can still make you laugh and treat you like you’re dead special. Some don’t smell too bad either.

Yes, now I like boys. And boys like me. Not often the ones who I want to like me but that’s all part of the challenge, right? Which is why today’s diary reads something like this: ‘Hit YDE for a new outfit for tomorrow’s date. Thought about calling him but decided to send an SMS. Watched Greys. Ate Romany Creams. I like biscuits.’

]]> Thu, 08 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-all-partied-out
After three weeks of this, I finally figured out why party girls have an expiration date. Partying is hard work and like everything else that requires hard work, wear and tear is inevitable.

When my party run began, it would take me 45 minutes to get ready. Makeup was easy to apply, outfits easy to pick out, and then I would hit the Jozi streets running. A few drinks every night eventually equalled too many drinks when calculated over a three week period. This means more time needed to recuperate; the fact that I’m no longer 18 probably does nothing to help my cause.

Two weeks into my late nights, early mornings and at least two gin and tonics a night, I noticed my skin wasn’t glowing. At all. This meant more bronzer and more concealer for those dark circles under my eyes. And picking outfits became harder because I’d gone through my cutest outfits already. Sigh.

My wallet was taking quite a beating as well. If you pay R45 for a drink and you have more than one a night, it adds up. Add to that my regular pit stop at the 24-hour Wimpy on my way home from a night out. It doesn’t take a mathematician to figure out doing this four to five times a week had me in tears. I don’t mind spending money, but I do like having something to show for it. The only thing the last three weeks has given me is memories (which I appreciate), a puffy face and an empty bank account.

I figured I had enough smarts and energy to keep going. Even though my get-party-ready routine began stretching to 90 minutes and I started testing how far I could drive with the petrol reserve light flashing, I marched on. I wasn’t as lively as before and I found myself spending more time sitting rather than dancing. But last Thursday was my breaking point.

I went to the Blues Room for a night of live entertainment and good conversation and I found I had zoned out and was losing my mind – literally. Too many gin and tonics and lack of sleep turned me into that loud-mouthed girl who doesn’t know when to go home and refuses to listen to anyone. Everyone knows that girl and more importantly nobody likes that girl. Even my usually patient boyfriend gave up on me.

I woke up on Friday, head pounding with regret (and those gins) and looked at my mug shot in the mirror. This reminded me that a real party girl knows when it’s time to stay home and she knows when it’s time to detox.

So this party girl has gone on a hiatus, even though the World Cup parties are still roaring. I’m sure there will be lots of other fun things to do next month. When I find them (and I will), I’ll impart my wisdom and save those party girls from themselves. No one wants to stray from party girl to that party girl.

]]> Tue, 06 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-just-because-youre-married
The night started well. I’d applied some sparkly goo to my eyelids, slipped into my favourite frock and headed to the reception with that excited anticipation only a single girl gets when faced with a party. But as I walked through the door, I got the feeling that I was missing something. After subtly stroking my hip to check that I’d actually remembered to put pants on, I was still stumped as to what was lacking. Halfway through the Jive Bunny megamix, it clicked. While all of my old classmates had come along with added extras – a baby bump, a toddler knee-skidding on the dance floor – all I’d taken to the proverbial table was my new French Connection beaded clutch bag, which until that precise moment, I’d been really excited about showing off.

This fact alone wouldn’t normally bother me – I’m a seasoned pro at being ‘the single one’ in a crowd of couples. But this time, I found myself talking to a heavily pregnant ex-classmate who I hadn’t seen since I was 16. It went like this...

Me: ‘Wow, look at us all grown up.’
She-who-shall-not-be-named: ‘I know! Where’s your other half?’
Me: ‘Oh, I don’t have one right now.’
She: [Head cocked to the side with a sympathetic half-smile] ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll meet somebody soon.’

She may as well have ruffled my hair, turned to father-of-the bump and said, ‘Bless’. What I should have said is, ‘Actually, I’m waiting on a call from a guy I met last night, I had a fantastic date with another one last week and I have a gorgeous-but-dim man on speed dial should I have any special requirements.’ But instead, I lied and said something about being too busy for a boyfriend, then nodded along for 20 minutes as she wittered on about baby names.

I’m sure she’s very happy and didn’t mean to offend me, but I don’t want to be doing what she’s doing. I don’t want to settle down with a man and find the one thing guaranteed to get our pulses racing is a change in the interest rate. Don’t pity me while I’m having fun at the moment. Why all of a sudden has marital status become a measure of success? Isn’t this 2010?

Because, for a minute, I thought I was trapped in a Jane Austen novel, bringing shame upon one’s family for still being single at (gasp) 27. When did singlehood become the social equivalent of last place? Had Mamas & Papas’ poster couple looked beyond my bald ring finger and asked where I’ve travelled or what I do for a job, they’d realise I’m far from stuck on life’s starting blocks. I can handle smug couples. I can even handle being patronised. What I can’t handle is the realisation that I’m expected to have physical evidence – a joint bond or at the very least a boyfriend – as a trophy to prove my life’s worth (and no, a hangover doesn’t count).

Facebook doesn’t help – every week a friend uploads wedding snaps. While I’m chuffed for my settled-down friends, I can’t help but feel like we’ve been forced into competitive life syndrome. My friend Ann just returned from a holiday of a lifetime with her boyfriend of seven years. She told me: ‘I went into work and the girls crowded around my desk saying, “So, anything to tell us?” Apparently they’d had bets on whether I’d come back with a rock on my finger. Even though we’d had a lovely holiday, to them, I’d failed. Why is everyone trying to marry us off when I’m happy as I am?’

My married friends are the same. They choose to drink lemonade minus the vodka and suddenly everyone’s speculating that they’re ‘expecting’. Now, I’m all for a bit of competitiveness, but shouldn’t we give each other a break? I thought life was supposed to be a marathon, not a true-love trolley dash. What’s the rush? After all, the tortoise trounces the hare – every time.

]]> Thu, 01 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-forever-young
While I was busy living the life of a young and fabulous Jo’burger, things changed in my life. I became an aunt, which changed me in unimaginable ways. A little man entered my life and made me see things differently; he truly makes me a better person. Extra money that I would have blown of seven bottles of Essie nail polish now goes to the cutest baby stuff I didn’t even know existed. Then I realised that I was now officially Aunty Zam. Aunty? Me? Surely I was too young, and quite frankly too hip, to be forced to wear such a label? I’d prefer to stick to Louis Vuitton and Christian Lacroix – thank you.

Then, every month I found I was attending a baby shower, engagement party or receiving a wedding invitation. The engagements and marriages didn’t scare me much; after all, beautiful, young people fall in love all the time. I was wearier of the baby showers, they represented a new generation of people who would one day think I’m old and uncool. My tales of wild parties and random kisses shared with foreign men during the World Cup would bore them. Attempts to make them follow my tweets (so they could see how interesting) I actually was, would have them dozing off.

I spent the next week reaffirming my youth by doing the respectable thing… partying. Thursday night I headed to Latinova, a club in Rosebank. I watched performances from SA’s hip-hop greats – Jozi, Maggz, L-Tido and Zubz. Afterwards I danced like an oompa loompa on a sugar rush and then went home at a ridiculous hour. I wasn’t happy to wake up two hours later, jump into the shower and head to work (remember that responsibility part of adulthood). Friday night was supposed to be recovery night but I partied at a friend’s house instead – further making me feel like I could still hang with the best of the young and exciting. It turns out shots of tequila at any age are a dumb idea.

This rush came to a screeching halt on Saturday. It was time for quality time with my new nephew. He didn’t care that I have a cool job or that I was partying up a storm the night before. He wanted love, affection and his milk.

Sunday was no different; I headed to a friend’s house for her son’s third birthday party. I was surrounded by jumping castles, a Winnie the Pooh cake and children high on fizzy drinks. After almost having a panic attack, I looked around and realised I was also surrounded by my friends, the people who make me laugh and hold my hand when I cry. I realised that even if the demonskids who were running around like certified lunatics didn’t know or ever appreciate that we were so funky and hip, we would always know it.

We would always remind each other of who we were and more importantly who we are growing to be. So maybe all aspects of adulthood have their place. I do, however, draw the line at not partying at all. I am, after all, a bona fide COSMO girl.

]]> Tue, 29 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-aussie-men-want-you-and-me
DATE 1: James, 27
WHERE: The Aussie Outback
I had no time to get ready as I met James straight from my 24-hour flight, feeling jet-lagged, with a face puffier than a packet of in-flight crisps. He was a whopping 1.8m to my 1.2m. ‘Wow, are all Aussie men gigantic?’ I wondered as I half-walked, half-trotted to keep up with him. James took me on a rickety, four-man plane across the Aussie outback to the world’s most remote cattle farm. In an attempt to impress, I ordered cow’s tongue for lunch, then felt distinctly like a Z-list celebrity. I asked James what he thought of South African women and almost choked on my tongue (and the cow’s) when he replied, ‘They’re brash, overweight and unhealthy, aren’t they?’ I spent the rest of our date speaking in my poshest accent, holding my tummy in and claiming I just love playing netball, even though I haven’t thrown a ball since I wore a PE kit. Maybe we’re not the healthiest nation but I objected to being judged. After all, I grew up on Home And Away but I didn’t expect all Aussies to wander around with corks hanging from their hats á la Alf Stewart. That aside, by sunset, I’d fallen in love. Sadly not with James, even though he turned out to be fun and even suggested hitting the beach together tomorrow (a second date already?). I’d fallen for the Aussie outback, tinged only by the disappointment that I didn’t have somebody special to share it with... yet.

DATE 2: Andy, 26
WHERE: Kangaroo Island
Andy’s another six-footer, but given the wild kangaroos, wallabies and dingoes roaming the Aussie bush, I was happy to be protected by a big, strong man. I’ve never dated a guy tallers than 1.7m back home, too paranoid that we’d resemble DeVito and Schwarzenegger in Twins. But maybe bigger was better. Joining Andy and me on our date was Brenda the tour guide – so much for a romantic trip for two! I usually know if I like a man within 60 seconds of meeting him, but after two hours with Andy, I still wasn’t sure. He was a true gent and when Andy told me I was his first date in a year, I felt a) Pressure to make it good and b) Relieved I’m not the only person in the world still looking for love. I knew Andy wasn’t holiday-romance material when Brenda chirped, ‘Look at the size of his feet. Good sign, huh?’ They were huge, but while I giggled, Andy blushed like a self-conscious teenager. Laughs come before sex appeal and spontaneity on my man wish list, so I wasn’t convinced Andy and I were compatible. Lovely as he was, I couldn’t help thinking I’d have enjoyed the date equally if it had been me, Brenda and a stuffed koala.

DATE 3: Paul K, 25
WHERE: Adelaide’s Nightspots
Thus far, the men had been overshadowed by our stunning date locations. So I chose simple, Friday-night drinks for my date with Paul – the kind of date I’m used to back home. When I spotted Paul across the crowded bar, my first thought was: He. Is. Hot. Paul looked like a sexier Adam Sandler, with Wynand Olivier’s rugby-buff body. I managed 10 minutes in his company before dashing to the bathroom to scream silently and SMS my best friend the good news. Paul was flirty, charming and a total heartbreaker, I imagined. I loved his honesty when he confessed to looking me up on the Internet before our date (I passed the test, apparently) and he was upfront about enjoying singledom and all its perks. I’m not sure if it was the red wine or the knowledge that I’d be jetting back to reality in two days’ time, but I was equally open with Paul. I suddenly realised that knowing exactly where you stand makes dating fun and easy instead of an anxiety-ridden ordeal. Stop worrying whether he’ll laugh at your jokes or call you the next day and you’ll have a brilliant time. Paul and I partied until 5am before he walked me back to my hotel in a haze of tequila and drunken kissing. It didn’t take much convincing to let Paul come in and prove that Aussie men have better bodies and more stamina than our South African boys. As the sun came up, we agreed that whilst finding The One will be amazing when it happens, there’s nothing like enjoying the scenic route getting there. We certainly did.

DATE 4: Paul S, 21
WHERE: Adelaide’s Marina Pier
Move over Coleen, I’m trying my hand at being a football WAG for my date with AFL (Australian Football League) player Paul S. His team, Port Adelaide, are the Manchester United of Australia and Paul is their Ronaldo. But if I expected him to share our Premiership players’ penchant for bling, busty glamour girls and Chinawhite nightclub, I was wrong. Despite the attention Paul attracted – because he’s handsome and a local celeb – he was shy and endearingly unpretentious. His dedication to his sport was admirable and he stuck to a healthy diet of meat, veg and zero alcohol. I was glad to give my liver a break after last night, but I couldn’t help thinking I’d get bored with this healthy lifestyle if I were to become Paul’s girlfriend. No wonder WAGs develop expensive shopping habits to pass the time of day. I countered Paul’s shyness by talking enough for both of us but our five-year age gap was obvious. I predict he’ll step out with a Hollywood supermodel next – somebody much more in his league than an over-talkative 26-year-old with a stiff neck (dating tall men should come with a health warning).

DATE 5: Peter, 31
WHERE: Vineyard, Adelaide Hills
A picturesque backdrop, fine wine and a man who knows how to use his hands: what’s not to love about my date with Peter the winemaker? I was intrigued to learn about Australia’s finest export – wine, not men – and should Peter and I hit it off, I need never stand in a bottle store looking confused again. It wasn’t until my date with Peter that I realised I’d missed the South African sense of humour. He had that same cheekiness and wit that always attracts me to guys. And after he pulled an expensive bottle of champagne and two glasses out of his car’s cubbyhole whilst driving through the vineyard, I felt suddenly sad that my romantic Aussie adventure was coming to an end. Giddy after sampling 10 varieties of fine wine, Peter dropped me at the airport, promising to call when he hits South Africa next year. And you know what? I hope he does.

Tempting as it was to ‘accidentally’ miss my flight home and stay in South Oz forever; I was excited about coming home, armed with a new approach to love. South Africa was the same as ever but it somehow looked different, in that way your bed looks bigger when you get back from holiday as a kid. I hadn’t quite left my heart in South Australia, but I’d brought back a much clearer idea of what Mr Right will be like when I am finally ready to meet him. Maybe I’ll see Peter again. Maybe I’ll have a sexy reunion with Paul K some day. Maybe I won’t. But I do know that no matter what corner of the world you’re in, there’s always romance, dating disasters and unforgettable flings to be had. And that’s what makes being single so damn exciting, right girls?

]]> Thu, 24 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-world-cup-euphoria
The spirit of the World Cup is so infectious that even those who want to ignore it can’t – except maybe Cape Town, but they’ve always been a country on their own and I don’t want to get political. When it was announced that Jo’burg was going to show their support for our team two weeks ago, I figured I didn’t want to miss out.

Thousands of people lined the streets of Sandton as the Bafana bus drove around the block. For me it was a true representation of our country and the illusive concept of the rainbow nation has never been more real to me than it was that day. No barriers between the races or classes, just sheer pride at the fact that we were all lucky enough to be experiencing this part of world history. It was also the fist time I’d held a vuvuzela to my lips, after months of sneering at it.

When I finally came down from the high of the parade, I receive a call that lifted me back up there. I’d been given a ticket to the World Cup concert, one of the most exciting shows to hit our shores! So the next day I headed out, with my All Star takkies, friends and the excitement levels of teenage girls at a Justin Bieber concert. The Park and Ride system was smooth sailing and Orlando stadium, which is 5 minutes away from where I grew up, was buzzing. Foreign cuties, and young and old South Africans filled the venue and enjoyed a show I can only describe as a once in a lifetime honour to attend. I never thought I’d see the day when Alicia Keys performs Brenda Fassie’s ‘Too Late For Mama’ alongside Blk Jks. The sight of flags waving furiously as K’naan sang his ‘Waving Flag’ will live in my memory forever. I never thought Tumi would share a stage with Shakira and I definitely never even imagined that a stadium full of people of all races would toyi toyi to Blk Jks ‘Join Umzabalazo’. Despite the criticism that there were too many American acts on stage, it was no doubt an African celebration – one that will live on for many decades to come in the memories of even the most jaded. The opening celebration concert cemented that we, South Africa, had indeed done it. We’d forever go done in history.

That Friday of the opening match, my missions sent me to Innisfree Park, one of the many fan parks that will keep the spirit of this tournament alive. Driving around Sandton was a joke, so we walked, in numbers. The streets were a sea of green and yellow jerseys. When the national anthem was sung, tears were in the eyes of many and national pride was the order of the day. Tshabalala’s goal not only got the whole country on its feet but it’s yet another moment for the history books. The first goal of the first ever World Cup in Africa was scored by an African, a South African.

Now, I basically live in my soccer shirts, I pay attention to matches (instead of just the cute faces) and my vuvuzela blowing skills are pretty impressive. I no longer care if we win or lose because in the bigger scheme of things, Africa has won. This one is ours and if you haven’t already joined in, I strongly recommend you do. If nothing else, go out, meet people, and show them just how amazing our country is. Feel it, it is most definitely here.

]]> Tue, 22 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg--the-naked-truth
Imagine this: you creep from under the duvet, step away from the family-sized tin of Quality Street and brave the outside world. There, you discover a semi-naked male model, magically transported to your front door by gale-force winds, Mary Poppins-style. What do you do? Invite him in to test your mattress springs or tell him politely that you’ll have to decline? After all, it’s chilly June, and this is not the month for sex. Right?

Wrong. I know it’s unlikely that a D&G hunk-in-trunks will come knocking (unless you head out to the Fifa Fan Fests or World Cup stadiums) but that’s no excuse for a defeatist attitude to dating. Mr Right can be found in all manner of places – on the train on your way to a stadium, queuing in the bank to extend an overdraft (‘You’re skint? Me too! We have sooo much in common...’). June doesn’t have to be a man-free month. You just have to look that bit harder to find him and, most importantly be prepared for the moment you do.

Last June, I met Danny – cool, fun, ruggedly sexy – through a friend. I liked him immediately and, by the end of the night, our tonsils were well acquainted. But when he asked me back to his place for a drink, I found myself backing off with excuses of an early start in the morning. For me, sex on a first date is a no-no, but Danny was a test of any woman’s willpower. The real reason I didn’t go back with him was that my body was in no shape for sharing. Murphy’s law dictated that Danny didn’t come into my life when I was at my summertime sexiest. My body hadn’t seen daylight for months and I’d missed a waxing appointment. Typical!

Getting naked in front of a new man is always scary. Doing it in June is truly terrifying. When you’re in a long-term relationship, sex is a given, so you’re always ready. Even if you let your grooming slide, it won’t matter, as he loves you. But sex when you’re single is unpredictable and much more high maintenance.

A straw poll of my male friends reassured me that my concerns were in vain. While women everywhere are busy worrying about lighting plans that will flatter our cellulite, you can guarantee all that’s going through his mind when you strip off is, ‘Wow, she’s actually naked and I’m about to have actual sex with her!’

When it comes to body fascism – I hate to say it, ladies – we’re the guilty ones. A friend of mine recently confessed to a one-night stand with a guy who had such substantial man boobs she almost felt obliged to lend him her bra. Not that he cared – he was getting some action. But with scrutiny like that, it’s no wonder men are becoming the new women, enrolling in the David Beckham school of male grooming. So I think it’s time we took up the old male mantra of enjoying the moment instead of getting side-tracked with body hang-ups. And who knows, this could turn out to be your sexiest June ever. Countless books, films and ageing relatives have taught me that love happens when you least expect it. So expect the unexpected – and book yourself a Brazilian and a spray tan.


]]> Thu, 17 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-single--skint
‘I think somebody’s defrauded my card,’ I declared, torn between crying and cursing. A quick look at my on-screen statement and my toes started to curl with embarrassment. Some thieving swine hadn’t sadly racked up R500 in a swanky bar, R1 000 in Woolworths and R1 500 from an ATM in Sandton City. I noticed the bank manager’s raised eyebrow as he clocked my shiny new handbag and I had to confess who the culprit was who’d played fast and loose with my bank account: it was me. And now all I had to look forward to was endless nights at home, with nothing but my expensive new bag for company.

There’s only one thing worse than being broke. And that’s being broke and single. If you’re a cash-strapped couple, at least you can spend evenings cuddled up on the sofa or weekends in the bedroom. But when it’s only you, a bottle of cheap red and a Jackie Collins bonkbuster before bedtime – well, that’s just rubbish.

Worse still is being asked on a date when your bank account is redder than Dorothy’s ruby slippers. If a man asks you out, chances are he’ll pick up the bill, but I like to at least offer to go Dutch. Secondly, the key to a hot date is in the preparation: a new outfit, a haircut – hell, even a bikini wax if you’re feeling really hopeful. Finally, what if you need a get-out clause? There’s nothing worse than being stuck on a date-from-hell in a remote bar without enough cash for an emergency taxi home. Trust me, I’ve been there for four hours and it wasn’t pleasant.

I’m not against budget dates – some of my favourites have been low-cost picnics in the park or strolls on the beach. But I’ve learnt that scrimping on a first date can be a recipe for disaster. Like the time l agreed to go on a blind date set up by a friend: Date Boy told me excitedly beforehand, ‘There’s this amazing Chinese restaurant I’d like to take you to.’ Brilliant, l thought, as l headed to meet him with an empty tummy and a head full of expectation. But when we arrived at a café-cum-kebab-house, with neon signs screaming, ‘Two courses and a drink for under R50!’, I half expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out and tell me I’d been ‘punk’d’ (if only). I spent the next two hours sitting in a plastic chair, eating chow mein out of a polystyrene dish, wishing I’d worn my jeans instead of my best party dress. And, sadly, my date turned out to be more bland than my sweet-and-sour chicken balls.

Thing is, I don’t expect to be whisked away in a chartered helicopter for a first date (although that would be cool). It’s just that cutting corners from the start doesn’t bode well for the future. Like my date with Internet Ian*, a guy I met on a dating website. Minutes after spotting him and before I could say, ‘Hi,’ he piped up with, ‘Just so you know, I’m in the middle of buying a house right now so I only have R100 left in the world. How does it feel that I’m spending my last hundred on you?’

Actually, it felt really uncomfortable. All I could mutter was a meek, ‘Er, shall I buy this round?’, followed by some tedious small talk before he told me at 9pm that he’d ‘let me go’. Thanks, I thought, after nursing a vodka and orange (bought by me) for two of the longest hours of my life.

You see, I think first dates should be seen as a long-term investment. We devote time, energy and money to building a great shoe collection, or saving the deposit for a flat. So why not put the same expenditure into your love life? J.Lo might insist that Love Don’t Cost A Thing, but I beg to differ. When it comes to relationships, you get out what you put in. And I like to think I’m worth slightly more than a crumpled hundred Rand note.

*Names have been changed.


]]> Thu, 10 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-the-party-never-stops
Last Thursday the boyfriend (who is a rapper – I know, I know, I’ve been warned) was going to be performing so I couldn’t get out of making an appearance despite being exhausted, bloated and forgetting where I’d put my makeup bag. Zubz was hosting his Golden Mic Nights, which have become quite popular among those who love live music and hip-hop. On this particular night, he was featuring Tumi of Tumi and the Volume fame. The crowd was a balanced mix of arty types gone corporate and hardcore hip-hop-loving types. The scene was set by Pops Mohammed who performed alongside Zubz and Ntsiki Mazwai with a combo of the Kora, hip-hop and poetry. Tumi then jumped on stage, telling stories with a hypnotising flow. He featured the beautiful and talented Zakii Ibrahim, Pebbles, MXO, Brickz and HHP. Over drinks and good music, I discovered the maze that threatens my sanity is sometimes necessary. This particular event always seems to leave most of us feeling good about hip-hop, specifically hip-hop in Africa. If you’re in Jo’burg and like the genre (or hope to pick up a rapper - I kid, I kid), this is the only place to be every first Thursday of the month.

The Friday night trap caught up with me before I’d even gotten over Thursday’s ‘festivities’. Puma was hosting a party in celebration of the World Cup and their headlining act was Die Antwoord. Exhaustion was looming and the realisation that I’m no longer the party machine I was at 19 set in. During the night I found wondering if my I’d switched my electric blanket on or not. But back to the party...

As soon as the Newtown venue filled up, my excitement levels shot through the roof. Roger Goode got the crowd warmed up and by the time Die Antwoord took to the stage, the masses were literally buck wild. Pushing to the front of the stage was the bravest thing I’ve done in years. Rugby-player sized men (and women) were jumping up and down and trying to squeeze my Smurf-sized self between them seemed like a suicide mission. Eventually I gave up and did what any self-respecting vertically-challenged girl would do, I jumped onto the ottomans to catch a glimpse of Die Antwoord. Sadly, the rugby players were still blocking my view. Now I’m checking to see when their next show is so I can arrive early, on stilts.

The combo of exhaustion and disappointment at not being able to see the stage didn’t take away from the fact that Puma hosted a great gig. As I was about to head home, I received two more invitations to events that were happening the next night. ‘Parties or sanity?’, I asked myself.

Luckily I manage to manoeuvre out of that maze. Then I headed home for a weekend of sleep. ]]> Tue, 08 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-dating-tips-from-around-the-world
Mind you, small-town singledom is just as tricky. Dating in my tiny home town was like an episode of Days Of Our Lives – any potential new man had usually slept with Lisa* from the beauty shop, cheated on her with Katie* who runs the local bar and kissed my best friend before meeting me. Unless you live in Cumbria – where there are 10 men to every lucky lady – it's pretty much slim pickings.

I don't want to blame geography for my ongoing singledom, but I did wonder if all women around the world have the same dating dilemmas as me. Surely if I lived in Italy I'd have been seduced by an Armani-clad hottie called Fabio by now? Or maybe it's just as complicated wherever you are. To find out, I sent a shout-out to all the global editions of COSMO, asking single girls everywhere for their dating advice.

So, where does Mr Right hang out? In Croatia, COSMO singletons tell me, 'We're more likely to find Mr Right in unexpected places, like the grocery store or on a bench, enjoying the view.' Sadly, my local park bench doesn't look out over the Adriatic coast. It overlooks a car park and is usually occupied by a bunch of hoodies.

In Brazil, 'the best place to meet men is in dancing bars, where you come across as fun and carefree, not desperate.' Clubs are a good place to pull in Korea too, where women entice men with dirty-dancing moves known as the 'Bubi Bubi'. But, sadly I'm no Beyoncé – I was booted out of ballet school and my Jason Donovan dance routine only came fifth (out of five) in a school talent contest.

Maybe I should take advice from the Aussie COSMO girls: 'We've learnt not to take dating too seriously. Enjoy meeting new men and remember there's nothing wrong with being picky.' Ah, music to my fussy ears – as was German COSMO's attitude: 'If you're after a relationship, sex on the first date is a big no-no. But a lot of women just want casual fun, so they should go for it!'

Not everywhere is so carefree. If I'd grown up in India, my parents would've chosen my husband for me. Cue visions of being shoved down the aisle at 18 with my cardigan-wearing neighbour. What's more, in some parts of Africa I'd be forbidden to make the first move on a man. And in Russia, I wouldn't even be allowed to hold a guy's hand because it's 'unfeminine'.

Suddenly I feel lucky to live in a country where decisions about men, dating and sex are all mine. The city may be too big and my home town too small, but at least if I want to date five men a month, or one man every five months, I can.

Most single girls have moments where they feel they're the only ones left. Mine was last week. Gathering for a group photo at a friend's party, all the couples were wrapped around each other while I had nothing but an empty wine glass to cuddle up to. But the truth is, I'm not alone. Because if you're enduring an 'I want him but can't have him' phase, or revelling in an 'I know I shouldn't but he has a huge penis!' moment, chances are that millions of other single girls are
too. Whether you live in Norwich or Norway, Inverness or Indonesia, Leeds or Latvia, being a single girl in today's world is empowering, exciting, sometimes heartbreaking but never, ever dull. And if things slow down on the man front, treat yourself to a long weekend in Cumbria...

*Names have been changed ]]> Thu, 03 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex-and-the-city-reunion Sex and the City. These two institutions played a role in shaping the woman I have become. They have also been with me through terrible dates, some pretty great dates, engagement, marriage and even the harrowing experience of divorce. Throughout my journey, these two companions have stayed with me – never judging me and offering words of wisdom. So it’s a great moment for me that I'm now 26, working for COSMO, and writing about Sex and the City.

In 2007 I went to the premier of the first movie. Back then my friend and I waltzed in and met like-minded women who were also keen to reconnect with their old friends – Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte. I, like many other die-hard fans, loved the first movie but when news of a sequel was released, it was just another opportunity to reconnect. At the reunion this week, undoubtedly their lives had changed, much like ours.

The fashion conscious, savvy women (and gay men) of Johannesburg came out in droves to Hyde Park. Armed with faux fur, killer heels and designer grooming, the VIPs sipped on Moet and Cosmopolitans while the red carpet was lit up by Lee-Ann Liebenberg and Khanyi Mbau as I lost count of the amount of air kisses that were exchanged.

Anyone who is a fan of SATC will enjoy this movie, no doubt. The four ladies (immaculately dressed as always) once again share experiences many will relate to – stale relationships, babies, jobs that kill your spirit etc. Abu Dhabi sets a great backdrop to the ever evolving lives of the fabulous foursome. I don’t want to give anything away but there are twists, turns and various truths that can only be shared with those you trust and love. I found that like some friendships, people’s personalities and quirks do become irritating over time as I found myself annoyed at Carrie's behavior at times. But like best friends do, you simply get past it.

Eye candy comes in the form of sexy shoes and even sexier men – including Big, who seems to get sexier with age. I also found myself thinking how hot it would be to make out with a sexy Arabian in his guthra (figuratively and literally).

So, if you do anything over the next two weeks, round up your group of girls, head to the best cocktail spot you know and then reunite with the Sex and the City gang. This ideal girls night out will remind you that age, circumstances and life’s hurdles are never a reason to stop being the fun fearless female you are – especially when you have the love and support of your girlfriends. ]]> Thu, 27 May 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/how-to-get-a-new-wardrobe introduction class, and now I can't go without getting my fix on a daily basis.

Make no mistake, after four weeks my muscles still take a hammering but that actually reminds me that I am in fact getting a proper workout as opposed to just hanging around gym ogling other gym hangers. Now I don't have a dormant muscle in my body and it shows when I walk, I sit more upright at my desk and a lot of my old slouchy aches and pains are gone. Yes truthfully, that tightness in my neck and shoulders after a day at work has disappeared. After just four weeks I've lost 4kg and 4% body fat.

In all honesty, I don't like all the exercises – for instance, pull ups. I am rubbish at them and still can't even do one. But that is the beauty that is CrossFit, I'm allowed to do jumping pull ups. That means a box is put under the bar which allows me to reach the bar and from there I jump up and grab hold to complete the motion. One drawback though, is if the class calls for 21 pull ups, I have to do 42 jumping pull ups. From not being able to even engage my shoulders, I can now pull my feet about 10cms off the ground. (Watch this space for the day I complete my first full pull up.)

As a child I never took part in the skipping games. I think was lazy to sing and count and I wanted to only jump not swing the rope. Now that I have to swing the rope for myself it shows. I look like a grade one kid: big steps and slow swings. I very quickly acquired my own skipping rope and can now jump at a steady pace. No, no double unders yet, working on that and the front of my shins tell the story. It's like giving yourself a whipping, just not for fun…

With the help of my new eating plan, a daily class and the knowledgeable coaches, I'm already rediscovering my wardrobe. It was sadly neglected for the last year since I was unable to squeeze all of me into quite a few items patiently waiting on their hangers. I was also shocked when I saw what my body-fat percentage was, but more about that in the next blog.

My body and mind are in a wonderful state and my energy levels are way up, but while I'm sounding all Zen, I have to admit I'm even sleeping better. Best of all, people around me are starting to notice the change.

Pretty soon I'll have to invest in a completely new wardrobe! Isn't that every COSMO girl's dream? The only drawback though, is your shoe size always stays the same. ]]> Thu, 27 May 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-germiston-calling
When I received my invitation to the Smirnoff Experience party featuring DJ Tiesto and Blk Jks, I decided to relax my rules (a little) and head out to Germiston. I SMSed the people I love telling them I was about cross over to the other side and asked the boyfriend to check that I was in bed by 4am – if I wasn't, he was to send a search party to all the white diamante kitten heel shoe shops in the area as I might have been brainwashed.

The venue was Sky Raiders at the Rand airport, which is pretty different from any other party I'd been to. The only time I've been at a party anywhere near an airport was when my cousin and I drank too much on a flight to Cape Town. And speaking of Cape Town, the crowd was gay. Not Ricky Martin gay, just super duper happy to be in the presence of the world's number one spin master, DJ Tiesto.

The music was brilliant. Or so I was told. I'm one of those people who never understood dance music; I always used my high melanin concentration as an excuse. After a few minutes of feeling awkward and left out, I slowly got into the mood, or should I say groove. After a while I entered a 'zone', which I assume this is the place trance lovers go to when the number one DJ in the world entertains them. I was chilled but excited, tipsy but not drunk and the music was moving me in strange ways. On any given day you couldn't pay me enough to dance to sound without lyrics, but this night was different.

By the time I finally snapped out of it a few hours later, I still had a Smirnoff in my hand, I'd somehow taken off my jacket and I felt like a new person.

Unfortunately, like Cinderella, I had a curfew for leaving Germiston. But I left a changed woman. I hadn't fallen prey to the lure of the white diamante kitten heels but I'd realized that there's nowhere in South Africa I can't have a good time, especially when I open my mind and let the music take over.

]]> Tue, 25 May 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-popping-the-question
I've never asked a man on a date, slipped a guy my phone number or told a stranger I'm into him. Which is kind of shocking in a world that's bred such feisty, go-getting women as SATC's Samantha Jones and Angelina Jolie. Women today are striving to be equal in every way. And we're brave – we can even ask a new boyfriend if he minds taking a trip to the clinic before we ditch the condoms. But asking a man if he would like to spend a pleasant, flirtatious evening with you in a bar? You must be kidding!

I realised I wasn't alone on a recent girls' night out when my single, gorgeous and über-successful friend Emma suddenly shrieked, 'Wow, check him out!' We all bruised our chins on the floor when we spotted the male-model type who looked like he'd just stepped out of an Markhams catalogue. 'Go over there,' nudged one of the girls. To which Emma replied, 'No way, I'd never make the first move!' And I couldn't help but feel the same.

Thing is, this means I've let many an opportunity slip through my fingers because I was unable to grab life by the, ahem, balls. Walking to work one morning last month, I almost caused a 10-person pile-up when I stopped to ogle a husky-voiced busker sporting skinny jeans, bed hair and a sexy grin that made my tummy flip (in a good way). I smiled all the way to the office, imagining what would've happened if I'd dropped my phone number into his guitar case. In my head, it was a fantasy of being swept off my feet and into his bed. In reality, I simply didn't have the guts. But why not?

It could be that I'm shy. But given that I share my personal life with thousands of COSMO readers every week, I can't play that card. It could be that I'm afraid of rejection. But I've met my fair share of 'he who never calls' and rejection is par for the course. The real reason I – and, I suspect, a large proportion of the female population – won't ask a man out is simply down to good old-fashioned romance. Who wants to do the chasing when you can be pursued?

A straw poll of the office confirmed my suspicions. One of COSMO's designers, agreed, 'When I was single I never made the first move. I reckon most men would say yes to a girl. But if he's gone out of his way to pursue you, it's a sign he's really interested.' For me, there's nothing sexier than a man who takes the lead. Even if you don't fancy a guy, you still get a warm, fuzzy feeling when he asks for your number or offers you a drink. And if you do fancy him, there's nothing better than him taking your face in his hands and planting a long, lingering kiss on your lips like they do in the movies.

Of course, if you have the courage, taking the initiative can be empowering. One of the staffers from our fashion team says, 'I used to sit opposite the same gorgeous man on my train home from work every day. We exchanged smiles for weeks but I didn't have the confidence to say anything. Then, when I saw him in a bar, I downed a glass of wine, strode over to him and said, 'Hey, you're the guy who gets on the 5.45pm on platform 11...' We ended up going on a few dates, and he told me how impressed he was that I'd made the first move.'

I remember finding my courage once... at the bottom of five mojitos. I'm not sure if I was overcome by alcohol or just by how damn pretty he was, but I walked up to a guy to tell him he had beautiful eyes. And you know those movie kisses I mentioned earlier? Well, he gave me one of those that I won't be forgetting in a hurry. Neither of us made the first move; we just met in the middle. And maybe that's the secret. I still felt desirable and he still felt like the hunter and protector. So, while women have in many ways, thankfully, achieved equality in our work, financial and sex lives, there are times when it's OK to leave the role of date hunter to the men... and keep that little bit of romance in our lives.

]]> Thu, 20 May 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-subject-you-have-one-new-admirer
It started like this... My editor: 'Tracy, you must try online dating!' Me: 'Gulp.' But two days after posting the glowing profile written for me by my mother and best friends, 48 men had ticked my 'Yes, I'm interested' box and I had 17 new messages. Yes, I was terrified and, yes, it was a minefield. But I have lived to tell the tale and if you've been considering downloading yourself a date, read this first for all you need to know.

RULE 1: Lose Your Inhibitions
My clammy hand was shaking as I clicked on 'submit' to post my profile and admit to the world, 'My name is Tracy and I'm looking for a boyfriend.' (I'm still cringing as I write this now.) My first thought was, 'What if somebody I know sees me on a dating website? Worse still, what if my ex-boyfriend sees it?' (It doesn't exactly fit my fantasy of bumping into him with a sexy new man on my arm, exclaiming, 'Ooh, have you met my new boyfriend? His name's Orlando. He's in films, you know...') But I decide to take the plunge and be the kind of strong, independent woman that Beyoncé sings about.

RULE 2: Honesty Is The Best Policy
I have to confess to a little false advertising on my profile. In my defence, I'm competing with some gorgeous single girls, all cheekbones and pouts. So, I 'accidentally' put myself in the 1.5m to 1.8m height category. I didn't mean to, honest. I just thought telling potential men that I barely scraped 1.4m might mean they'd write me off as an Oompa-Loompa with a wardrobe from Ackermans Kids. Trouble is, when Tony*, 1.9m, asked me out, I couldn't find a pair of heels high enough, so I bottled it. But the truth is, if a guy didn't like me in all my smallness, then he wouldn't be Mr Right anyway. Plus, Aldo has some fabulous skyscraper wedges this season.

RULE 3: Be Selective
The joy of window shopping for men from your laptop is that you can ogle the hotties and delete the duds, without feeling too guilty. Admittedly, I was more likely to click on guys with cool hair, a cute smile or a ripped torso. Let's be honest, you've got to fancy him, right? And if he follows it up with a witty e-mail, even better. For me, the upside of meeting men in cyberspace is that it's much easier to make the first move. I'd never dream of asking a man out in a bar, but adding Stu*, the sexy snowboarder to my 'I fancy you' list was easy-peasy. And I didn't even feel rubbish when I never heard from him (well, not much anyway).

RULE 4: Talk The Talk
As a cyber-dating virgin, I had no idea about the etiquette of flirty e-mail banter. But I quickly learnt which messages left me hitting delete. Firstly, there were those sounding like they'd been written by Blazin' Squad ('Sn ur pic. U luk hot. Wanna hang?') Seriously, what?! Then there were the messages with added 'look how fun I am' icons – think smiley faces :-) or worse, winking faces ;-). Instead, I actually found the most attractive e-mails I received weren't trying to be clever, but just fun. Like the guy who referred to the daffodils in my profile pic by asking, 'Did you steal those from a roundabout? He went straight into the 'yes' pile. So keep it simple and just be yourself.

Since closing the lid on my laptop hunt for love, I've learnt that, while cyber-dating may not be the direct path to true love, it's certainly the scenic route. I'd say go for it and don't take it too seriously. Even if you don't find The One, you'll have a good laugh looking. So how did I fare? Well, I've got a date next week with sexy Sam*. He's in a band and has a cute smile. All achieved while sat on my couch wearing Winnie the Pooh PJs. And hey, one out of 48 ain't bad ;-)

*Names have been changed

]]> Thu, 13 May 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-weighty-matters
I hit rock bottom last week, when the jeans I'd been squeezing into for the last six weeks decided I needed a wake up call. They simply refused to go over my hips. This couldn't have happened at a more inopportune time. It was early in the morning (and I am not a morning person). So I tried again. And again. When it finally dawned on me that my hips had increased in diameter and that my jeans did not shrink in the wash, I had a melt down.

There I was, a grown woman weeping on the floor like an infant with jeans around my ankles. My boyfriend, who is usually very excited at seeing my jeans around my ankles, soon realised this was not one of those happy moments. To a man who claims to not know the difference between a size 30 and 38, understanding comes with difficulty to him. His response: 'Why not just buy a bigger size, these are a ridiculous size anyway. You're a great size; those jeans are just made for children.'

I wanted to beat him and kiss him at the same time. Beat him because if the solution was that simple I'd have thought of it myself and kiss him because he sweetly forgot those jeans had once fit me.

After much deliberation, I roped in my fellow COSMO colleagues. We are now embarking on a very public fitness and weight loss quest for winter – public food diaries, public weigh-ins and meetings every two weeks to track our progress. It sounds a bit extreme but when the enemy is love handles and dimply thighs, we need all the ammunition we can get.

So wish us luck on our quest for toned thighs and bright smiles.

]]> Tue, 11 May 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-single-girl-wltm-rock-star
So when my editor challenged me to create the ultimate 'single girl' profile and, gulp, post it on a dating website, I was feeling sick – like you do when you bump into an ex while wearing your tracksuit bottoms and no makeup. l mean, I have friends who've found true love online, but I can't help cringing at the prospect of having to PR myself as a potential girlfriend. And could I really fancy a man who falls for it?

However, never one to refuse a challenge (or to say no to the boss, of course), I log onto a dating site to see what, and who, I'm up against. The first thing I notice is how attractive the other girls are – I've got serious competition. My initial reaction is to pick up the phone to see if anyone has an airbrush I can borrow, but maybe I'll settle for a haircut and a spray tan instead. If I'm going to do this, I might as well do it properly.

The second thing I notice is that, to my surprise, the men don't all look like my old geography teacher. A few of them are actually rather gorgeous. I make a mental note to revisit Stu*, the cute surfer-come-snowboarder; Chris*, whose comedy moustache makes me laugh (at least, I think it's fake...) and Ben*, who looks like an Athena poster boy in his black and white portrait. What's more, the guys' profiles are written by their best mates, so they sound cool and fun, rather than sad and desperate, or big-headed bores. Maybe I've been missing a trick all along.

Being a cyber-dating virgin, I have no idea how to write an online profile to win the hearts of hundreds of handsome men. All I can think of is: 'Single girl, almost 1.5m, WLTM rock star with GSOH.' And, quite frankly, I'm as likely to land a date with this as I am to stumble into Johnny Depp when he's next in town. So I decide to rope in my nearest and dearest to write my profile for me. They know me better than anyone else, right'? Here's what they had to say...

My best friend, Debbie:
'It isn't often in life that you come across somebody who has a good heart and also makes you laugh uncontrollably, but that's Tracy. I know everyone thinks the world of their friends but, honestly, I love this girl and any guy lucky enough to spend time with her will soon feel the same way.'

My mother:
'What can I say about my daughter without being biased? Tracy has filled me with so much parental pride for who she is and what she has achieved... except in the boyfriend department because there haven't been many of those recently! That shouldn't put you off, though. She's lovely, thoughtful and smart, except for when she put a stone up her nose and told me it "fell" up there. But she was only four. Nowadays she's funny, caring and pretty much the worst cook I've ever met. That aside, any man who captures her heart needs to treat her with love, respect, understanding and humour. If you manage to do this, you'll be rewarded with a very special young lady indeed. And I'll personally throw in a copy of Delia Smith's How To Cheat At Cooking for the lucky winner.'

My friend, Richard:
'Tracy is one of the funniest people I know, and a pleasure to be around. She's intelligent and can talk about pretty much anything, especially after a few beers. She's a beautiful girl and doesn't notice how much attention she attracts when we're out. I'm hoping she meets someone who makes her realise how fantastic she is.'

My housemate, Andy:
'There's nothing stereotypical about Tracy. She dresses well (but has appalling taste in slippers) and makes a mean cup of coffee. She has to stand on a chair to reach the microwave, but they say the best things come in small packages.'

How embarrassing – but I didn't pay them. Even if my cyber-dating doesn't land me the man of my dreams, it's made me realise how lucky I am to have such fabulous friends and family. Who knows, this time next week, sexy Stu the snowboarder might just have landed in my inbox...

* Names have been changed

]]> Thu, 06 May 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-the-new-boy-in-my-life
When I was 12-years-old, my luck changed. My heart didn't just belong to one anymore. The boys have been plenty but some of my experiences have been nothing short of dodgy. Never one to be deterred by obstacles, I've dated all kinds of boys and am now armed with more experience, including a starter marriage.

This love for boys grew the most when two days after my 26th birthday another one entered my life. Unlike previous boys, he came into the relationship in tears. But I loved it. All I wanted to do was protect him. He was beautiful and had that moody, artist vibe about him. He didn't say very much – actually he said nothing at all, but I was smitten, already planning our future together.

When I was told the two of us could spend a weekend together, just the two of us, I was so happy and was envisioning a weekend of cooing and cuddling. So I left my house, armed with comfortable but cute clothing, a good attitude and butterflies in my stomach.

The first few hours we delightful, I looked into his eyes and he gazed back at me. He would smile at me and my heart would melt. He smelled so good I just wanted to hold him tighter. It was a lot like a cheesy, romantic comedy. As the weekend progressed my new boy proved to be a lot like my exes. He demanded my attention and couldn't stand it when I was doing something else. He woke me up for no good reason at night, wanted to be fed at odd hours and was constantly trying to grope my breasts. He even pulled an R. Kelly move – he peed on me, more than once. I'd always told myself that golden showers were a no-go area for me, but with this boy my morals went out the window.

The experience reminded me that watching too much TV will delude even the smartest women about what life really is about. I, for the first time, understood why some women leave the house looking like they'd just rolled out of bed – and not in the sexy, TV ad kind of way. I even found it in myself to not judge women with chipped nail polish.

It turns out motherhood is no joke. My baby sister's new baby boy, 7-week-old Bo, reminded me why I love boys, but he also reminded me why the ones I prefer are house trained, potty trained and able to do more than cry. Am I still in love with boys? Yes, more than ever. But I was happy to leave Bo with my sister again and head home to my other older one, the boyfriend. Although he's not perfect (who is), he speaks and has been known to cook the odd meal. But most importantly, he knows better than to ever think about peeing on me. ]]> Tue, 04 May 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-hes-lovely-so-why-cant-i-fancy-him
It had started out so well. After the holiday, we exchanged flirty SMSes and I was enjoying that nervous/excited feeling before our first date. And as far as first dates go, it was good. Paul was interesting, fun and cute in that shy-boy kind of way. In fact, apart from a dubious beaded necklace, everything about him was perfectly nice. But something was missing. And it wasn't just the sunshine and sangria.

'You might as well give him another date,' said my friend Jess. 'Maybe he's a grower and was just nervous.' She was right, he was a nice guy and I wasn't exactly batting away admirers, so I arranged to see him again. After all, my friend Julie says she never fancied her man until the moment he kissed her and then all sorts of feelings were let loose and they're getting married this year. Maybe I just needed to wait patiently for that light-bulb moment.

By date five, I still wasn't feeling it. Not when he kissed me goodbye, not when he took me to see one of my favourite bands and not when he told me he was looking for a serious girlfriend and hoped I was her. The thing is, Paul was missing the sexy gene. He was like Russell Brand without the big hair and skinny jeans, or Simon Cowell without the smirk. Yes, he'd make a lovely boyfriend, but not for me, sadly.

I knew l was running out of excuses when I'd missed four of Paul's calls and left three SMSes unanswered. I'd used the 'manic at work' trick – it was true; things had been busy. Then I tried the 'I'm moving house' excuse (also true; it was a stop-gap nightmare that involved three long weeks of squeezing myself into a 13-year-old's bed back at my parents' house).

I could see five dates turning into five pointless months if I wasn't careful. I felt icky just imagining him naked – how could I face the live show? So the Johannesburg lie was an option, but the trouble with lying is that it creeps up on you. I couldn't risk bumping into Paul in Camps Bay two weeks after my supposed departure to the City of Gold. I had to tell him the truth. But how?

There was the 'ignore him until he gets the message' plan. But I've been on the receiving end of the silent treatment and it's not nice. Last January I cured the winter blues by getting snuggly with a gorgeous music producer-type called Sam. All was going brilliantly for two months – he even talked about me meeting his mother and the romantic trip to Greyton we were going to take. Frankly, I liked him. So imagine how gutted I was when he blew out our date on Sunday, forgot to call on Monday, ignored my SMS on Tuesday and left me single by Wednesday – it was like Craig David in reverse and it was depressing. So I knew I couldn't leave Poolside Paul in limbo. Honesty had to be the best policy.

Armed with a glass of wine, I sat down to thumb the text message I should've sent weeks before. I figured if it were me, I'd rather be ditched (gently) by SMS than be forced to make awkwardly pleasant conversation in a phone call. Twenty minutes later I'd crafted something about not wanting to give him the wrong impression. To my relief, Paul replied with a very sweet, 'I had a feeling you were going to say that and it's a shame because I really liked you. But thanks for being honest.' I realised I liked him a little bit more for being so understanding. Had I made a mistake? Would he turn out to be Mr Right if I gave him one more chance?

Just in time, I managed to stop myself before SMSing him to take it all back. I forced myself to de-friend him on Facebook and wiped his number from my phone. Because now I had to be honest with myself and I couldn't imagine a future with Poolside Paul when all I could picture was him naked but for his beaded necklace. And I still wasn't feeling it.

]]> Thu, 29 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-freedom-is-the-real-party
I was attacked by a super flu. Usually I'm grateful for a little down-time and maybe a little weight loss, but my last week was nothing but antibiotics, missed-deadlines stress and not a single kilogram lost. I was cooped up all day and night, and had to turn down quite a few invitations to all sorts of parties. Which got me thinking: what is the ultimate party for a COSMO girl like me?

Before I could draw any conclusions, I received an invitation to attend Kelly Rowland's event. It seems the international superstar is collaborating with a few local artists for an official MTN Soccer World Cup song. As a diehard Destiny's Child fan, missing out wasn't an option. Dragging the boyfriend wasn't that difficult either because the hip-hop fraternity was also out that night. Unlike most media parties, I ran into quite a few corporates decked in power suits and poker faces. Jozi jumped on stage first, impressing the crowd with their talent and charm – a big feat considering we all know how hard it is to impress the Jo'burg crowd. By the time the main attraction took to the stage, we were all well warmed up.

To say Kelly Rowland is stunning is an understatement – flawless skin and legs that go on for days. Kelly's talent is authentic; she doesn't need funny effects or gimmicks to distract from her voice. A little nostalgia set in when Kelly sang a few Destiny's Child singles, but then mixed it up with her solo hits and was joined by rappers who make Africa proud. The World Cup song is fun and encourages the spirit of the unity – the room was filled with energy I hope will come alive when the World Cup starts.

Boyfriend and I finally left the party in the early hours of the morning, which is rare for me on a week night. The truth is, I didn't want to leave. After saying 'We'll leave after this song, I promise,' for the 20th time, he literally had to drag me away from the party.

Once I'd recovered from the party and the super flu the next day, I had time to rethink my thoughts on what really makes a COSMO girl like me happy. My answer is a simple as freedom. The freedom to go out until dawn on some days… and to stay in my pyjamas on others.


]]> Tue, 27 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/crossing-the-fitness-line
Jobst, the only level two qualified CrossFit* coach in the country, took me through an introduction on how it all started, and then introduced me to the other coach Roland. The two guys seemed to know their stuff, judging by their qualifications, but once the niceties were out the way, things got a little less nice afterwards…

Every student gets taken through an 'introduction', which is timed to give the coach and idea of your fitness level – from this he'll be able to know how far to push you and also track your progress. My torturous introduction went as follows: 500m row (on a rowing machine), 40 squats, 30 sit ups, 20 pushups and 10 pull ups. Sound easy? Not so much. Before CrossFit I'd been going to gym pretty regularly, so the introduction didn't scare me too much. (Well, apart from the pull ups.) I climbed onto the rower as Jobst counted me down and pulled away with gusto. After what felt like at least an hour I was breathless as I struggled to free my feet from the straps.

Now while you're allowed to catch your breath as often as you like, the clock never stops. So I quickly moved on to the squats and then pushups. Cutting corners when I'm exhausted has become a habit, and I was more than pleased to not hear Jobst shout 'that one didn't count', especially after my chest didn't quite touch the floor during the last few pushups – see there are advantages to having big boobs. By the time I was rigged for the pull ups, I was ready to roll over and do nothing but breathe.

In reality the introduction workout lasted just short of 15 minutes. Not in my mind though. Slouching on the floor and inhaling water, Jobst proudly announced me a 'beginner'. Nothing I didn't already know…

Today my muscles are singing (not a lullaby, something more emo) and I've re-discovered a few muscles. As I type this without trying to move my arms too much, I do know one thing, I will be back for more. The endorphin rush is comparable only to my first bungee jump and rafting down the Zambezi River. But, watch this space. Chris Brown isn't the only one who can transform himself.

* CrossFit is definitely not for the fainted-hearted. Find out more here. Then watch Zoopy's take on it… ]]> Mon, 26 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-my-celebrity-boyfriend-almost
I've been fortunate enough to interview Paolo four times (unfortunately, my editor won't let me talk to him any more than that through fear of a restraining order). I even saw him play live twice in one day. I didn't mean to – l had an unexpected second invitation and, well, it would have been rude not to. But I knew my crush was spiralling out of control when my friend Marie spotted the Paolo Nutini wallpaper on my cellphone. I was busted. And she hadn't even seen the wall beside my desk...

Suddenly I was embarrassed that, while most other COSMO girls have loved-up snaps of their boyfriends taped to their computers, I have a work area bedecked with my favourite 'celebrity men I want to sleep with'. Had I been single so long that I was now living in fantasy land?

A little concerned, I decided to quiz my coupled-up friends: so, do you still have celeb crushes when you're attached? 'Hell, yes,' says Laura, who's been with her boyfriend for two years. 'When I'm on the train, I daydream that Peter Bishop from Fringe sits opposite and makes flirty eyes at me before slipping me his phone number. It makes the journey go quicker and my boyfriend need never know!'

Reassured that I'm not alone in fantasy land, I headed for a night out with my girly friends. All was going well until Paolo came on the jukebox and I suddenly turned all misty eyed. (In my defence, I was only half joking with the girls when I conjured an image of Paolo and me skipping through cornfields, hand in hand.) My friend Kath sighed and said, 'But aren't celebrity crushes only meant for teenagers?' Well, yes, I did dream of marrying one of the 'N Sync boys at 13. But, at 26, my celebrity fantasies are altogether more X-rated and somehow more do-able – I mean, I'm old enough to get into bars and everything now. Still, was I mad or just man-starved?

With only one way to find out, I called psychotherapist Emma Gold, under the guise of it being 'work' (because I don't think l need therapy just yet). She said, 'Fantasies are a good thing – they help you work out what you really want so you can go and get it, or at least something similar. The only downside is that the reality is never as good as the fantasy.' And you know what? She was totally right. I know that from experience...

My fantasy goes something like this: a chance encounter in a hotel bar with Paolo, followed by drinks in his hotel suite and staying up until sunrise talking about life, love and the universe. (I know what you're thinking, but the sex doesn't happen until date number three and I can tell you it's worth the wait.)

The reality, however, is more like this... Last year I succumbed to the charms of a cute, rather cocky 21-year-old I met in a club. Like Paolo, he was five years my junior, so I thought I'd find out if dating a toyboy would actually work in the real world. Now I'm not in the habit of seducing young boys, but my last three boyfriends were all pushing 30 and that clearly wasn't working out, so this was worth a shot. His SMSes were flirty and fun – a refreshing change from the Mr Hard-To-Gets I'd been used to. Maybe toyboys were the way forward? Then I remembered what my friend Claire had said to me: 'The thing with toyboys is that they're great kissers but they're terrible in bed.' And, well, she wasn't wrong. Turns out he wasn't too gifted in the brains department, either.

So, armed with this special knowledge, I'm setting off to find myself a nice man, aged 28 or over, with massive, messy Paolo-style hair. And I guess I'll just have to live with the fact that he might not be able to write me a love song... Then again, didn't Katie Holmes admit to having a childhood crush on Tom Cruise? ]]> Thu, 22 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-wanted-mr-perfect
This is me, the girl who once ran out on a date after discovering he had a belly-button piercing. I had visions of his penis resembling a rusty breaker's yard and, quite frankly, I wasn't about to hang around to see if my imaginings were accurate. After him, there was Chris – with the body of a COSMO Guy Candy but the charm of a chimpanzee. Then there was Too-Short Steve, Clingy Gavin, the list goes on…

So, yes, I guess you could say that I'm fussy. I know you shouldn't judge a guy by his T-shirt, but the truth is, I do (vintage rock = yes please; tennis whites = game over). First impressions count, and I bet I'm not alone in this.

I've never seen the harm in aiming high. But here's the thing – I've been single for three years. There, I've said it. OK, in that time I've had the odd three-month fling, been 'seeing someone' for six weeks (six hours in one case), I've had 'friends with benefits' and an ex on speed-dial for times of need. But a bona fide, meet-my-parents, spend-Christmas-together, share-a-toothbrush boyfriend? Zilch. Nada.

I haven't been brave enough to admit my ever-increasing relationship drought, until now. Maybe because I didn't want people (read: men) to think I was the unsexiest thing since flannelette pyjamas. Faced with the dreaded question, 'So, how long have you been single?', I've generally shaved a year off the true length of time.

So why am I still so fussy? You need to know my boyfriend back catalogue to understand. It reads something like this... First there was Lee, the coolest boy in the school, who dumped me after two months, even though I'd let him get to second base. I was 15 and spent the next six weeks crying to the soundtrack of Phil Collins's Against All Odds on my Walkman. Then there was 'A', my first real love, with whom I shared my teens and early twenties. My mother hoped I'd marry him, but I wanted to explore the big, wide world and, sadly, his idea of adventurous was a Friday-night braai and sex with the lights on. After a mending period, I hooked up with Ryan – all flowers and romance for three months, until he acrimoniously dumped me by e-mail. And so began my dating dry spell, and the start of a boyfriend-checklist that would soon spiral out of control.

The trouble with a man checklist is that the longer you're single, the more specific it gets. So what began as 'Wanted: someone fun, thoughtful and great in bed', has morphed into this:
• The sex appeal of Jared Leto
• The wit of Dane Cook
• The charm of Clive Owen
• The danger of Colin Farrell
• The self-assurance of Simon Cowell
• The mystery of Johnny Depp
• The body of David Beckham

OK, maybe I'm punching above my weight, but you wouldn't buy a pair of shoes it you didn't like the look of them and were worried they might hurt you. So why settle for that in a man? In a panic, I turn to my brutally honest (and happily married) best friend, Debbie, for advice. 'It's all well and good having high standards,' she says over dinner, 'but how would you feel it a guy dumped you because of your ugly big toe?' She's totally right – about the toe, which is hideous, and about my shallowness. While I'm waiting for my brooding rock star, I'm writing off another potentially fabulous boyfriend because of his ears/iPod playlist/navel architecture, before I've even got to know him properly. That's the real reason I've been single tor three years.

So, although I don't intend giving up on my knight in battered Converse just yet, I have decided – for now – to ditch my ridiculous checklist. And to prove it, this week I've agreed to another date with the smart City-type my friend set me up with. Now, if only there was something I could do about his too-shiny shoes... ]]> Thu, 15 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-bundu-bashing
After what seemed like forever getting out of Jozi's traffic, road works and fellow irate drivers, I was finally off the highway and in the bush. The kitsch décor of my lodgings reminded me that in the bush, modern style isn't always the first thing in mind. But the fresh air resurrected the free-spirit in me and I was happier than I'd been in a while. Until I was on my way to the actual show and I almost drove Nina (my beloved car) into a ditch. Shaking off my city manners was harder than I thought as I forgot all about my newfound calm and caught myself cursing my dark surroundings.

Luckily RJ Benjamin saw to it that my blissful mood was restored with an impressive show; he, his dancers and guest artists created a memorable night for a very enthusiastic crowd.

Once the enthusiasm had died down and the gin and tonics set in, the boyfriend and I conversed with a few other city people (we seemed to have been drawn to one another) and it made me wonder just how much the concrete jungles we've come to worship are changing us.

Then we drifted towards the more arty group of musicians, writers, film producers and poets, who decided for some bizarre reason to play charades, the bush version of 30 Seconds (who needs the board and cards when you can improvise with a pen and paper) and then a pretty slurred (read drunken) round of word association.

On the girls' team was myself, an amazing musician called Pebbles, and Nandi, a film producer. On the boys' team was rapper Zubz, a bassist named Saki, and Kabomo, who happens to be a musician, former magazine editor, poet and now film producer. We all figured we were pretty clued up, so you can image how tense the situation became. But the girls had intelligence, oestrogen and the country air on our side so, naturally, we won.

That night, I like to believe, I made new friends; ones I hope to keep for a while. Who knew a bunch of arty city types who barely have time to grab lunch together could bond over great conversation, much laughter and the fresh night air.

Sunday morning, we all headed back to the city, grateful for the clarity the bush had given us. But after two hours on the road, I realised I actually missed the city with its bright lights and Blackberries (especially seeing that I had tons of messages to reply to). So after a long shower and a wardrobe change (my bundu outfit wasn't quite Sandton chic), the boyfriend and I were off to Red Bull's picnic at Innisfree Park. The conversation might have simmered down to laidback banter, but the company was still great. ]]> Mon, 12 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-so-long-to-singledom
But I won't gloat about how great it is to be loved up. In fact, this is a warning to all singletons suffering from 'grass is greener' syndrome. You see, the whole falling-in-love thing happened so naturally in the end that I didn't have a chance to think about what I was giving up. Not until I arrived at his flat with all my belongings. Then, all the best bits of my single life flashed before my eyes. Not obvious things like first kisses, an SMS from the guy you swapped numbers with the night before or random flirting on Internet dating sites, but the little privileges you take for granted when you have only yourself to think about. The single-girl privileges I didn't know I'd miss include:

PRIVILEGE 1 – Soft furnishings
11am: Unpacking my boxes at Tim's flat

Tim: 'Oh, you're unpacking those?'
Me: 'My cushions? Don't you like them?'
Tim: 'Well, yes, but are you planning to arrange them "carefully" on the bed?'
Me: 'Yes, like I had them on my bed. Why?'
Tim: 'Well, it just seems a bit pointless. Isn't that what pillows are for?'
Me: 'They weren't there for practical reasons. They were there for visual effect.'
Tim: 'But you used to throw them on the floor as soon as you got into bed because they were in the way.'
Me: 'Fine. They're all I'm adding to your decor to make me feel at home – but if you think I've got no taste, that's fine.'
Tim: 'No, no, go ahead. Sorry. I like them.'
Me: 'No, it doesn't matter. You've put me off them now.'

PRIVILEGE 2 – Irrational eating habits
3pm: Our first supermarket shop

Tim: 'Shall we have pasta for dinner?'
Me: 'Not pasta. I don't eat carbs after 5pm and I don't eat wheat.'
Tim: 'What?'
Me: 'I don't eat wheat. It makes me bloated.'
Tim: 'Well, it didn't stop you last night.'
Me: 'What do you mean?'
Tim: 'You had four beers. And beer's got wheat in it.'
Me: 'It hasn't. Anyway, liquid's different.'
Tim: 'Well, it didn't stop you eating half my pizza at midnight either.'
Me: 'OK, we'll have pasta... Ooh, chocolate brownies. Chuck them in, too.'

PRIVILEGE 3 – My powers of seduction
9pm: Time for bed

Me: 'Mmmm, this is nice, isn't it, kissing on our couch…'
Tim: 'Mmmm, it's lovely.'
Me: 'So... shall we go to bed? I thought we could have an early night.'
Tim: 'Yeah, good idea. I'm knackered after all that moving.'
Me: 'Tim... I didn't mean let's go to sleep. It's nine o'clock on Saturday night!'
Tim: 'That's OK, sweetheart – it's your home too now. You can come and go as you please, stay up for as long as you like...'
Me: 'Whoever said the passion dies when you move in together, eh? I've just had a scary vision of me knitting in bed with you snoring away next to me.'

PRIVILEGE 4 – My tales of mischief
10pm: Going through old photos

With Tim out for the count, I carried on with the unpacking, only to stumble on a photo album I'd compiled in my single days. Each page brought with it a new set of memories. People used to queue at the office water cooler on a Monday morning to ask what I'd got up to over the weekend. But how can 'I bought a new laundry bin at Mr Price Home' compete with, 'I gate crashed a fancy-dress party at 2am and woke up with Batman…'?

PRIVILEGE 5 – My Sex & The Single Girl blog
Ever since I was a teenager, I've had two dreams: to be a relationship blogger and to fall in love with the perfect man. Little did I imagine the two would have to be mutually exclusive. But I can't complain because, after weeks of spilling the secrets of my love life, I've ticked the blogger box. But there's only so long I can ban my man from reading it. And, as I discovered when he woke me up on Sunday morning, the knitting phase hasn't kicked in just yet.

So it's time to hang the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the bedroom door and pass on the single-girl mantle to someone new. Who wants to read Sex & The Nine O'Clock Bedtime Girl? Coupled-up life is pretty good – but single life makes much better reading. ]]> Thu, 08 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-will-he-say-those-3-words
OK, so sitting in silence with unshaven legs and hair-bleaching cream on your top lip isn't everybody's idea of a romantic vision – that's why so many people find the honeymoon period the best bit. But, sadly, I'm not one of them. I love being single and I love being in a long-term relationship. However, the journey from one to the other means being in a state of blind panic. And that panic is always about three key words: the F-word, the G-word and the L-word.

The F-word: Does he fancy me?
I'd already said the F-word to Tim when I confessed I had more-than-friends type feelings for him. Fast-forward to the next morning and this is what went through my hungover head on waking up (although in real time this process took approximately four seconds):

'Ow... what was I drinking last night? That wallpaper is making me feel a bit queasy… Where am I, anyway? Oh yeah, Tim's friend's house... Oh my God, TIM… NO…! I told him I fancied him last night... I'm never drinking again... That's 14 years of friendship down the drain... he's probably halfway back to Johannesburg right now. Hmm, what's that noise?... it's snoring... Tim's in bed with me! Hang on, it's kind of coming-back to me now... yes, there was kissing, yes, definite kissing... he must fancy me, too... but then what? No, it's no good, it's all a blank... oh, hang on... I'm still wearing my top... oh, and my jeans... and my shoes? That's not a good sign. Wait, ooh, he's putting his arm around me... he must like me. Then again, he can't like me that much if I'm wearing my shoes in bed...'

The silence was deafening on the drive back from home, and l still couldn't work out if he fancied me or not. Work the next day was no less agonizing. I eventually crumbled at 4.46pm and sent him an SMS: 'Hey how's your day?'
Two minutes later, he texted back: 'Fancy a drink after work'?'
I won't bore you with the details of our impromptu night out, but let's just say the F-word question was finally laid to rest.

The G-word: Am I his girlfriend?
We saw each other almost every night since then, but nothing was really said about what was going on. Was l his girlfriend? Was he allowed to see other people? How could I find out without losing my cool exterior? And then I hit upon the perfect excuse: my blog. So the next evening, at dinner, I brought it up. 'Hey, I was just wondering... You know that blog I write?'
'Yes,' he replied, cautiously.
'Well, if it was up to me I'd take each day as it comes and not over analyse, but the blog's called Sex & The Single Girl – not 'seeing someone' girl or 'hanging out' girl or 'going with the flow' girl.'
'Right...' He wasn't getting it.
'Yes, I mean imagine if the newspapers get hold of it – COSMO Single Girl Not Really Single. So to preserve the reputation of COSMO and the heritage of the blog, I need to know where we stand. I have a meeting tomorrow with my editor and if I'm, well, a girlfriend now, I kind of need to know by 9.30am.'

Tim laughed for about five minutes before saying, 'Of course you're my girlfriend, you numpty.'
Phew! Stage two complete. Thank you, COSMO.


The L-word: Does he love me?
Will we live happily ever after? It's too early to comment because I don't want to tempt fate. Let's just say that my future as COSMO'S resident single girl hangs in the balance. And I really must wind things up now because I'm bursting for a pee! Tim's in the bathroom brushing his teeth, but he won't mind if I nip in there quickly. I don't know where the future lies but all I do know is, for now, Tim's in it. And that suits me just fine.

Is this the end? ]]> Thu, 01 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-girl-power Battle of the Sexes album launch at Moloko. The hip-hop heads came out in droves, and even the swanky Rosebank bar/lounge had to relinquish its strict dress code – trying to get rappers into square-toed shoes is futile. Good music and overpriced alcohol made it feel like a normal night out, but then a nipple was shoved into my face. Judging by the cheering, no one else thought it odd. Now I generally have no problem with nipples, and I've been to a strip club or two, but maybe I was a little naive in thinking there wouldn't be any nipple action while sipping on cocktails at a hip-hop party. From there the night turned into a 50 Cent music video – charming ladies in miniskirts squatting at the request of Metro FM DJ, T-bo Touch. Clearly these actions aren't limited to American music videos, but that got me thinking – is this what sexual liberation is about these days? Surely not. Being in touch with your sexuality is one thing, but parading (and degrading) yourself for the sole pleasure of the man next to you is another. Surely?

But, after venting about my night of nipples on Twitter the next day, life went on. I needed a pick-me-up and as fate would have it, I was invited to the Essence of a Woman at Cantare in Monte Casino. Scarred by my nipple experience, my faith in the emancipated woman was restored by the event which was a celebration and affirmation of women, and not in a creepy kumbaya way. Well-dressed women of all ages enjoyed music by Idols' Kesha (from the all-girl NKD group), a discussion reminding us that as women we can overcome any adversity, tasty food and a tasty goodie bag – bonus!

Next up on my diary was the VUZU launch party for a new season of Vixens. In a nutshell, it's about six attractive girls tempting a man in a committed relationship to cheat. Obviously not the most dignified of shows; I'm still cringing at what television 'entertainment' in South Africa has become. Shuttled to the vixens' villa in Fourways and welcomed by the third season contestants in skimpily clad in French maid outfits, the male members of our press contingent were a little more than simply delighted. It felt like I'd walked onto the set of The Girls Next Door – the stunning villa is kitted with a love den, outside bar and Jacuzzi. The journalist in me put aside my reservations and I spoke to a few of the French maids (it seems they live in lingerie for the show's duration), who said they have boundaries but are all determined to be the most seductive in the house. (If you'd like to catch a peak at what I experienced, the steamy show premiers on Wednesday 7 April at 7pm.)

This past week's adventures may have sent me on a journey analysing (and maybe judging, just a little) the behaviour of my fellow sistas, but has 'feminine freedom' evolved into doing whatever you feel is right for you, even if that means flashing people in public? Quoting Ludacris himself, what happened to being a lady in the street but a freak in the bed? For now I'll stick to being a prude by day and a vixen by night. ]]> Mon, 29 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-my-dating-dilemma-club How To Pull 10 Men In 10 Minutes. I thought being bombarded with e-mails the second my Internet-dating profile went public meant I was a man magnet. Mistake!

David, my first online date, sounded great and by the time we met I'd already started planning the decor of our starter flat. I clocked him immediately, sitting at the bar with a draught. I walked over and leant in for a peck on the cheek but, as I did, he slipped off the bar stool and vanished from sight. His eyes were now level with my cleavage.

Yes, David was shorter standing up than sitting down. I felt a wretched mixture of guilt (how could I be so shallow?) and disappointment (how could he be so small?). He was lovely, though, and the Parlotones gig was amazing, but I found myself wondering if I should offer to let him sit on my shoulders. It just didn't feel right.

'Of course you're not being too fussy,' said my friend Tim the next day. 'If it's not right, it's not right.' Tim and I had known each other for years, but as the last standing singletons in our gang, we'd been spending more time together lately. He was having a work dilemma and had called to ask if I'd mind lending an ear in return for dinner. His timing was impeccable – I couldn't think of a better antidote to a disappointing blind date.

Two bottles of wine and two courses later, Tim thanked me for helping solve his problem. If I'm honest, he lost me in the third sentence – all I did was smile, nod, frown and shake my head between mouthfuls of duck breast, but I think he appreciated having someone there to listen. And I appreciated listening. Weirdly, it was much more fun than talking about my favourite band with David.

But I wasn't going to let my disappointing first date put me off. I decided quick-fire elimination was the key and booked three dates in a row for the week ahead.

Monday: After an hour of Phil droning on about his ex-girlfriend, he lunged towards me for a kiss. I pulled away, knocking his drink over his crotch. 'I'm so sorry,' he sobbed, while his eyes welled with tears and his groin welled with Guinness. 'You just really look like my ex. That's why I contacted you – I thought it was fate.' I left Phil with a hug and a packet of tissues.

Tuesday: When John said he'd buy me a drink after work, I assumed he meant a glass of wine, not a bottle. I was even more surprised when I returned from the loo to find he'd bought another bottle. 'I'm having one more glass and that's it,' I said. When I returned from the loos a second time to see two sambucas, I said, 'Rohypnol would have been cheaper,' and left. I didn't want to sound flippant but I knew what he was trying to do.

Wednesday: I was tired, hung-over and over it, but when Mark walked into the bowling alley, my jaw dropped. He was hot, funny, charming – and my God, didn't his bum look cute when he was bowling?

Thursday: I stared at my phone all day waiting for a text from Mark. I received one at 11.30pm. It read: 'Sorry, probably should have told you, but I kind of have a girlfriend. You're cute, though. I could come to your flat.'

Friday: I e-mailed Tim with the subject 'Dilemma Club', as it was my turn to swap dinner for a dilemma. As I recounted my week of disastrous dates, I noticed he looked really sexy in the T-shirt he was wearing. If he'd only give Internet dating a go, he'd be a huge hit. 'It sounds like my idea of hell,' he said. 'I mean, I admire your enthusiasm, but why don't you slow down? These things happen when you least expect it.'

I'm taking his advice and am keeping this week date-free, but I can't relax – something is bugging me. When Tim called last night to ask if I fancied house-sitting at his friend's place with him, I felt relieved.

'What's missing?' Tim said at dinner. 'I know – we need a dilemma to solve.'

'OK, how about this,' I said, feeling a sudden surge of nerves. 'What do you do when you realise you see one of your best friends as more than just a friend?' ]]> Thu, 25 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/jozi-nights-moonwalking-in-heels
Live shows in Jo'burg are usually characterised by dingy yet trendy venues where jeans and sneakers are the order of the day. Imagine my (and my new sling backs') delight when I was invited to a show featuring musicians from East and South Africa and the invitation christened the dress code as smart casual.

The scene was Cantare restaurant at Monte Casino on a balmy Saturday night. The restaurant is upmarket without being pretentious and usually reserved for those who are part of the supper club, but this night it was filled with trendy art types. I spotted the odd dashiki, but at these kinds of events they're bound to emerge.

The evening was laid-back and talent-filled, and reminded me of the abundance of talent our continent possesses. MXO and his raspy voice, an amazing guitarist named Bheki Khoza and stunning model look-a-like Liz Ogumbo from Kenya called their showcase South East Soul, celebrating music from the two regions. Conversation for the evening turned towards to arts and culture, a topic I always find easier when I'm armed with cocktails. Liz Ogumbo impressed me with her rich voice and chocolate legs that seem to go on for days.

The following week was quiet; no weekday events to fill my calendar but Friday more than made up for that. I was invited to one of the biggest parties of the year – MTV Base turned five and the DSTV channel wanted to celebrate. Big. The weather threatened to spoil well-planned outfits, but MTV Base's fully-stocked open bar ensured no one was cold, or cared about getting a little wet.

Not far from bling-filled Sandton, some of SA's best artists (Flash Republic, Jozi, JR, Tear Gas and The Parlotones) graced the stage at Urban Tree. DJ Switch and Milkshake hit the decks, making sure there was never a moment of silence amongst the fascinating mix of Jozi's fine and fabulous. If there was ever an ideal rainbow nation, this crowd was it. Rappers, rockers, comedians, businessmen, socialites, poets and everyone else worth knowing in this town rocked the birthday bash. Thankfully everyone brought their modest attitudes with them.

Now while JR's 'Show Dem' is a big hit on radio playlists across the country, it was an even bigger hit at Urban Tree. So much so he had to perform it twice. We were all having too much of a good time and my friends and I figured we'd stay until the bar tab closed. That didn't happen and we danced the night away, literally. When the sun threatened to come up, my beautifully-heeled feet threatened a go-slow. Saturday morning was difficult to say the least but worth every moment. This was by far one of the best parties I've ever been to.

Next week I have Selwyn's album launch at Club Inc., a freaky play Foreplay and whatever else Jo'burg wants me to explore. ]]> Fri, 19 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-how-to-pull-10-men-in-10-minutes
A couple of hours after Sarah's phone call, I was facing a single girl's worst nightmare – a Saturday night in by myself. My flatmate Lucy was on a romantic weekend away and my new pulling partner had bailed out on me at the last minute. I caught a glimpse of Lucy's laptop in the corner of the lounge. Were there really loads of men like Leather Jacket Guy online, looking for a date? There was only one thing for it – I poured another glass of wine and reached for the laptop.

I was slightly alarmed by the first site. The last time I'd seen so many oddballs in one place was when I walked past a queue outside a Star Trek convention. But I wasn't going to give up just yet. After all, I loved finding hidden gems on eBay, so surely 'heBay' could be fun, too. I began scrolling through, scanning the images for good signs (scruffy hair, stubble, a vintage T-shirt). Nothing was jumping out at me but I did notice a number of common themes...

The black and white moody shot: Everybody looks good in black and white, particularly when their face is hidden in shadow. But what are they hiding? And what kind of man has a professional photo taken for his Internet-dating profile?

The extreme shot: Man standing on top of a mountain, man flying through the air on a snowboard and man surfing a giant wave. Men with no fear have a definite sex appeal but we'd probably be incompatible because my own idea of extreme is running for the-bus in four-inch heels.

Then there's the best friend's wedding shot: l must have seen at least 15 burgundy waistcoats and white carnation buttonholes. I've never been one for the groomed look – give me a pair of battered Converse any day.

Decoding the language of Internet daters was becoming quite addictive but it was just a bit of fun, until l found David. l don't know whether it was his big brown eyes or the opening line ('Primarily what I'm looking for is someone who's prepared to lie about where we met'), or maybe it was the fact that I'd just polished off a bottle of wine, but before I knew it I was typing in my credit card details and whipping up a profile of my own.

I uploaded a picture of myself laughing, carefully cropping out my Sienna-lookalike friend. I kept the profile short, sweet and enigmatic.

I wrote, 'Ideally, I'd like to meet someone with the wit of Stephen Merchant from The Office and the rock 'n' roll sex appeal of Razorlight's lead singer Johnny Borrell. But, failing that, cheeky banter with anyone who has a sense of adventure and mischief, and is passionate about music and film, would be a good start. NB: Black and white shots will be considered provided the look isn't too pensive and wistful. Sunglasses are OK provided they're not worn indoors, and topless shots need not apply.'

I hesitantly clicked on David to add him to my favourites list and popped to the bathroom to brush my teeth. By the time I'd come back, I already had 10 e-mails waiting, including Donald, whose opening gambit was, 'l know I'm 20 years older than your 38-years-old limit...' and Hans, a German taxidermist who invited me to his house to see his 'collection'. Hmm, complete stranger + non-public place + dead animals? I'm thinking no. Then I saw another message... oh my God, David! His e-mail simply said: 'I've got a spare ticket to see Kings of Leon on Wednesday. Fancy joining me?'

Forget lounge bars – my favourite pick-up joint is my own lounge. I have a hot date next week and scored it while brushing my teeth. ]]> Thu, 18 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/stsg-man-wanted-sundays-only
Don't get me wrong – I wanted to be happy for her, I really did. She is, after all, the girl who once pretended to be me on a blind date to help me out with a double booking. But I couldn't help feeling, well, a little bit pissed off.

My single life had been supercharged, thanks to Lucy. In a twist of fate, she was dumped the same weekend that Matt ditched me, and for the first time in 10 years we found ourselves minus the men, sharing a flat again like we had in the old days.

Single life was sweet – I had various men's numbers in my cellphone and a 'friend' in my drawer to look after any physical needs. And for all the fully-clothed, no-tongues, 'coupley' stuff, such as moaning about work, having dinner, going to the cinema and nights out in town, I had Lucy. It was a win/win situation... for a while.

For the first few days after the L-word announcement, Lucy and Craig tiptoed around the flat as if the floors were covered in broken glass. If I walked into the living room and they were cuddled up on the sofa, one of them would dash across to the uncomfortable chair to let me sit down.

They started inviting me on their dates and Craig even bought me flowers one day. I wanted to say, 'I'm not sick, you know.' I knew they were just trying to make me feel loved, but it made this sulking business difficult.

Once I realised that being resentful towards the happy couple wasn't giving me any pleasure, I settled into a routine of quiet and self-contained misery. I replaced Lucy with soap operas – 7de Laan, Isidingo and Scandal!. I could always rely on the residents of Horizon Deep to join me in my abject depression.

Then one night, a few weeks later, while I was sitting in bed consuming a family-sized Top Deck, Lucy came in looking more miserable than Pauline Fowler at a wake.

'What's up? I thought Craig was taking you to that swanky restaurant tonight.'

'He is. The thing is, we ate out for his brother's birthday last night, we're out for dinner again tonight and I've missed my gym sessions all week – I've put on half a stone. Plus, my room's a mess and I haven't had a chance to do any washing, so I've got nothing clean for tomorrow's meeting at work. And I snapped at him last night because I was tired and he didn't reply to my text. I think he might have gone off me. Do you think it's that half a stone? Anyway, I'd better go. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Craig's fit friend Mike is out on Saturday night and he's gagging to meet you. Wear your red top.'

Maybe my life wasn't so bad, after all. I certainly didn't have anybody getting in the way of my independence. If I wanted to stay in, watch crap chick flicks and stuff my face with chocolate, I could. More importantly, 'fit Mike' wanted to meet me.

For the first time in ages I felt really lucky to be single. When you're attached, you don't get that intense feeling of hope and nervous anticipation before you go out. I figured that if I went 'nil by mouth' for the rest of the week (well, no chocolate) I'd be looking pretty hot by Saturday.

Unfortunately, my pre-date butterflies fluttered off five minutes into my first chat with Mike. He seemed more interested in his own reflection than me. Red top? He wouldn't have noticed if I'd been topless.

I woke up the next day feeling a bit deflated, and when I saw Lucy and Craig chilling out with the Sunday papers, it hit me. What I really want is a boyfriend for Sundays only. During the week I love my freedom, on Saturdays I want excitement and on Sundays I just want to be loved. Oh well, six out of seven days isn't bad – and until I meet the Sunday man of my dreams I can always live vicariously through Paula's love life in the 7de Laan omnibus. ]]> Wed, 10 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-textual-healing
Lucy consoled me the next day. 'You know what those tortured artists are like,' she said. So l was pleasantly surprised when he texted me that night. In fact, he texted every night that week. But texting was all he did. The distinct lack of 'meeting-up' talk from Dan was beginning to concern me. Was he just looking for friendship? On day eight, my question was answered, in four little words.

I was performing my bi-monthly home hair-dyeing ritual – and while l was waiting with a plastic bag on my head for the colour to take effect, my phone beeped. It was Dan - 'What are you wearing?'
If we were sticking to the truth, the conversation would have gone like this:
Him: 'What are you wearing?'
Me: 'A Snoopy T-shirt, a Tesco carrier and a pair of rubber gloves.'
Him: 'What are you doing?'
Me: 'Rubbing milk into my head – a dye-stain removal trick.'
Him: 'Are you wet?'
Me: 'Yes, there's milk and red dye all over the place.'

But dating isn't about the truth, is it? I'll spare you the details of the conversation, but let's just say the words 'milk' and 'head' were replaced with 'baby oil' and 'breasts'. And that marked the start of a beautiful textual relationship. I was too busy stressing about my hair to get any physical satisfaction, but I certainly got satisfaction from the knowledge that I could turn a man on with just a few words. It was the perfect post-break-up ego boost. It did the trick for Dan too, because from that moment, we were 'virtually' inseparable – for an hour at bedtime, on the train to work, in my lunch break... And as our textual relationship grew, so did our confidence. The more experienced we became at dirty talk, the more addictive it was.

Dan had a vivid imagination and a way with words. More importantly he made me sound like a goddess, because in his mind I was a goddess. No cellulite or streaky fake tan – imagination comes with an airbrush facility. In our fantasies, he had Superman's stamina, I had the moves of a pole dancer.

Of course, when we agreed to meet up after two months, the reality was very
different. Dan turned up at my place and pulled me straight into the bedroom, but he was clearly embarrassed about his generous descriptions of his vital statistic, and the sight of me looking nervous in a pair of slouchy vintage boots didn't quite match his vision of a dominatrix in thigh-highs. The sex was pedestrian, and so our first date marked the end of our relationship.

That's not to say I regret it – if you're over the worst of a break-up and dipping your toe in the dating pool again, no-strings text is perfect, as you can indulge your sexy side without any messy mixed-up feelings. But before reaching for the phone, take heed of some textual wisdom: one – 'Dan' is one letter away from 'Dad'; two – 'lick' comes up as 'kick' in predictive text; three – text sex in your lunch hour is a tease, text sex before a meeting is torture. And lastly – cybersex is best kept in cyberspace. ]]> Thu, 04 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-every-type-is-my-type know your bus driver is single? (Jumping red lights = frustrated = not getting any?). And second, what exactly is my type, lady? Because you and I both know l don't have one.

No, l refuse to be typecast. There's no 'Tall, dark and handsome for me, please!' When it comes to dating, no type is safe from me – for l have been out with them all! A 6ft 4in ex-St Stithians; a bald, heavy metal-loving music journalist; a blond high-flying City boy; a squat-living crusty; a depressingly beautiful sound engineer who was 10 years my junior (please don't judge me...) And the list goes on. Now, you could think me insufficiently discerning, or really rather cheap. But I'd prefer to say I'm just exploiting and enjoying one of the most wonderful aspects of being single – that you can experiment with all types of men until you find The Man.

And why not? Why limit your experiences to only one kind of man (even if he has multiple-personality disorder, there's still a limit to what one 'type' can show you) and deny yourself a thousand different adventures? I can see why some women get stuck with a type; it's easily done. Your first love was an Ashton Kutcher lookalike? Then of course you'll be drawn to crazy pretty boys in the hope that heart history will repeat itself. You grew up in a family of builders? Then, yes, muscly men with rough hands will be reassuringly familiar. But there's a wide world of men out there and restricting yourself means you'll miss out.

If I hadn't dated the ex- St Stithians l wouldn't have met his 'from another planet' friends. (Friend: 'You should've put a bet on that horse.' Me: 'Why, did it win?' Friend: 'No, because I own it.') If I hadn't dated the music-industry boys, I would have missed out on brilliantly glam backstage parties (I once drunkenly invited Travis's entire entourage to impregnate me). I wouldn't have dined in expensive restaurants (thank you, City boy), or been entertained by exotic tales from abroad (thank you, crusty), or had a song written for me (ah, bless you, young pup)...

Of course, there were some downsides: the ex- St Stithians nicknamed me Class Warrior Lynch because I didn't have a friend who owned half of Port Alfred; the crusty would make me get on night buses; and the man-cub came to pick me up in his 'wheels' – which, honestly, turned out to be a skateboard. But it's all experience, right?

Best of all, you can learn stuff about yourself, too. I was surprised to find I have quite a strong sense of self; it doesn't matter who I'm seeing, I'm still me. I don't adapt my dress sense or my behaviour. I also learnt that I could never, ever enjoy heavy metal. But the man who taught me that could just as easily have introduced me to politics. This is the thing: different men have different interests that may resonate with different aspects of your personality. If you stick to one type, you may never discover those bits of you.

So has this all-embracing approach got me nearer to finding The One? Well, I think that's missing the point. Yes, a big love would be a sweet PS to my story, but I'm more interested in enjoying the journey. I didn't start dating like this deliberately, it was just in my nature. Dating (and falling for) a zillion different types of men has taught me there's no specific 'type'. It's all about the individual and anyone out there could be The One. And you'll have more chance of finding him if you haven't ruled out 99% of the male population! Do the math, as our American friends would say. Ooh, an American... Now I haven't dated one of those yet… ]]> Thu, 25 Feb 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-the-sex-that-got-away
My best friend Rachel and I had spotted Eric in a bar a few nights into our trip. Six feet of rippling bronzed muscle, messy blond hair and cheekbones you could cut your lip on. What's not to like? Rachel in particular went into lust overdrive.

Then, one evening, I went for a stroll along the beach and found Eric sitting by himself. The night was balmy, the sky was red and the waves were lapping at our feet. It was everything my cliché-loving 18-year-old heart could desire. Eric put his arm around me, looked into my eyes and kissed me, before saying, 'I've been wanting to get you alone for ages. I've never made love on a beach; have you?'

I stared at him, my mind still reeling from a kiss that had gone straight from my lips to my knickers. Then Rachel's face popped into my head. She'd kill me. I just couldn't do it to her. So I made my excuses, leaving alone probably the sexiest man I've ever met. I went back to our hotel feeling gutted and frustrated, but at least I knew I'd Done The Right Thing.

Rachel turned up the next morning, bright-eyed after going at it all night like a frog in a sock with an Israeli named Ofar. I admitted what had happened with Eric. Her response? 'Are you crazy? You so should have shagged him!'

She had, of course, got it right. She'd seized the day with Ofar and had a fantastic time, whereas I simply had a massive metaphorical bruise from where I'd been mentally kicking myself – and I carry it around to this day.

The thing with 'the sex that got away' is that the reason you let it go seems so ridiculous the following morning. By which time, of course, it's too late to go back and do some retrospective ripping off of clothes.

The second time it happened I was at university. Cassie and Steve were in their late twenties and ran the local club. I thought they were the sexiest, coolest couple I'd ever met, so I was flattered when they befriended me and invited me out partying with them. One night the three of us ended up back at their (achingly hip) flat.

'You can stay if you like,' said Steve. I wondered why Cassie was stroking my leg.
'With us, he means. In our bed,' she said. Huh?
'We think you've very cute,' said Steve. Cassie leant over and kissed me. Steve stroked my hair. What the…? Call me naïve but I hadn't seen that one coming at all. I was also tempted and very curious. But a little voice in my ear kept saying, 'What if it's a disaster? What if your mates find out?' So I legged it. I've regretted it ever since.

It's not just me either. In a survey, British pensioners were asked what their biggest regret in life is – and what did they say? That they wished they'd kicked more ass during the war? Put more money into their pension? Nope. They wished they'd had more sex. With more people. While they still could. Similarly, I've lost count of the number of friends who, about to get hitched to their long-term love, confess to feeling a little miffed that their younger selves hadn't put it about a bit more first.

While we all hope we'll eventually find The One, there are advantages to living life to the full before that happens. Experience is what makes us, after all, and as long as it's safe and doesn't hurt anyone, single girls should grab every opportunity they fancy.

Because who really wants to be old and incontinent, thinking, 'If only I'd jumped that gorgeous guy while I had the chance... Now what time's Egoli on and where the hell did I leave my teeth?' Not me. I learnt long ago that the only sex you should regret is the sex you didn't have. ]]> Thu, 18 Feb 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-live-single-y-ever-after
Just as picking the right man can make you live happily ever after, actively opting to go solo can, too. It’s the other happy ending. But to do this, you have to accept that being single isn’t something that just happens to you, like measles or a bad day at the office. It’s something you choose.

I can’t remember the specific moment I made that choice. It could have been the first time a married friend complained about the money rows she was having with her husband. Or the day l raced through the city doing back-to-back job interviews, then collapsed on the sofa with a magazine and thought how nice it was not to have to answer a single other question – not even ‘How was your day, dear?’

But being deliberately single doesn’t always mean moments of big revelation. Often it’s the result of the small, medium and super-size decisions we make every day, such as where we live, work or work out. For example, if you don't religiously frequent target-rich environments, such as trendy gyms or dating sites, you could subconsciously be choosing to remain unattached.

And although I may feel like it, I’m not really the last girl in the world to live that way. ‘Why not be single?’ says my friend Laura, 29, a pharmaceutical sales rep. ‘The choice isn’t marry or die!’ The fact is, her life’s too full to worry about scoring a man. Her ‘before-I’m-30 to-do list’ includes playing billiards like a pro and scoring a Marc Jacobs bag. Other friends are focusing on their careers, their friends or just themselves. They don’t subscribe to the myth of ‘the unchosen’; neither should you.

I’m not saying it’s always the easiest choice. I’ve been pretty solidly solo since my divorce 10 years ago. I missed clinging to a warm body at night and hated the ‘poor baby’ looks I got from friends. But like getting out of bed in the morning or forcing yourself into the gym, being single in a coupled-up world was excruciating at first, then it became a healthy habit I couldn’t kick. I painted the kitchen fiery red; I went away for the weekend and didn’t tell a soul; I invited friends over for reality TV marathons. Finally, I admitted to myself that I’d come into my own as a party of one.

Single-by-choice doesn’t mean man-free. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the company of the opposite sex; it’s just that I’d prefer to commit to a few hours rather than a lifetime together. And without the pressure to settle down, I’ve realised that good men aren’t that hard to find – and you don’t need to hold on to one just because he shows up and likes you. Letting go is OK.

So go ahead – value your single-mindedness. Where the between-boyfriends brigade sees endless evenings alone, you see endless options – and our multiple-choice view lets us amuse and delight ourselves.

Choosing to be single means not being captive to the tyranny of ‘We’. No asking for permission or begging for forgiveness; you can have a better life than you ever thought possible.

Am I against marriage? No. Will I tie the knot again some day? Maybe. But, right now, I’m choosing to be single. Tomorrow, I may change my mind. That’s the great thing about singledom – the decision is always yours.

*Names have been changed. ]]> Thu, 11 Feb 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-why-no-strings-means-no-deal
Instead, I decided to enjoy dating as a sport. I tried to fit in as many meaningless dinners and anonymous encounters as possible and spent in-between evenings with friends, raising large glasses of wine to self-reflection and trying to work out why the hell I always end up falling for Mr Unavailable. Not unavailable as in ‘taken’; just not available to me.

My first boyfriend Alex started the trend when I was 18. He always maintained his aura of unavailability by being cold, aloof and downright mean on a regular basis. It’s been downhill from there: Dave, Jim, Mike... I’m talking about you.

My friends, who are all specialists in broken-heart surgery, decided on a remedy: I was to make myself Miss Unavailable for a year. Dating was allowed, but I had to tell my suitors (early on) that I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. And I had to mean it.

For a commitment-craver like me, dating someone but not planning to spend the next five years with them felt quite refreshing – and, at the back of my mind, I knew men would love a girl who played by their rules.

The dating experiment began last August with Chris, a guy I met at a party. After a couple of dinner dates, I told him straight: ‘You know I’m not looking for a relationship, right? I’m still getting over a break-up.’

‘Yep, you said.’ he replied. I waited for his eyes to light up. ‘Did you mean it?’ he asked. I confirmed that, yes, I did, but his eyes remained firmly un-illuminated. What was going on?

Then he dropped the bombshell. The thought of a no-strings lust-fest just didn’t appeal. ‘There’s no point in us seeing each other, then’ he said. ‘I’m not waiting months for you to be ready for a relationship.’

I was totally bewildered. Here was a man walking away from me because he wanted a relationship. The broken-heart brigade dissected this strange behaviour over more wine and decided that Chris was a complete freak. It was time to try my new approach with some more willing candidates.

Enter John, a handsome friend of a friend who maintains he’s not looking for a relationship. We’ve been on several dates now but, truthfully, I’d baulk at actually calling him my boyfriend.

Thinking the boundaries had been set early on, I felt no guilt – but on our last meeting, John uttered the fatal words: ‘There’s not much point in us seeing each other anymore if you don’t want a relationship.’

Is it me or has the world gone mad? Just to clarify, John also had previously professed to not wanting a relationship. But it turns out that he’s only interested in girls who’d want a relationship with him if he wanted one, which he doesn’t.

So guys only want ‘no strings’ relationships if they’re the ones holding the strings in the first place. When we women steal the approach, the relationship’s suddenly much less attractive – mainly because the men aren’t willing to put in the effort with a woman who may not be that into him or the relationship as a whole. Which has got me thinking... Maybe it’s not me who needs to raise a few more glasses to self-reflection... ]]> Thu, 04 Feb 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/earning-my-stars-and-stripes
7.45pm: Beer goes down too easy. Order another. Only have $20 in my purse.

8.15pm: Order a captain and coke. Decide to make it a double. Open up bar tab.

8.16pm: Ask bar lady to please not let my bar tab exceed $50.

8.23pm: Bar tab exceeds $50.

9.02 m: Tell bar lady she has pretty eyes.

9.03pm: Old guy next to me tells me I have pretty eyes.

9.07pm: Order another double captain.

9.30pm: Ask bar lady with the pretty eyes where's a good place to party in NY. Somewhere where the tourists won't find me.

9.31pm: Bar lady suggests I go to Arlene's Grocery on Bleeker Street in Greenwich Village

9.55pm: The captain pulls up a seat next to me at the bar. I decide it may be time to leave.

9.45pm: Close bar tab. Cry a little on the inside as I sign credit card slip.

9.49pm: Hail cab.

9.50pm: Ask cab driver to take me to Arnold's Laundry.

9.51pm: Cab driver looks confused.

9.52pm: Ask cab driver to take me to Arlene's Bakery.

9.53pm: Cab driver looks irritated.

9.54pm: Run inside to find out the bar's name again. Meter is ticking.

10.07pm: Cab driver drops me on a random road with no clubs. Tells me to get out. He is parked behind an NYPD patrol car. I don't think it's coincidental.

10. 08pm: Have overwhelming desire to ask the NYPD where the vic was found and if they have any leads on the perp.

10.09pm: Instead ask if they know where Arlene's Grocery is.

10.09pm: NYPD look irritated.

10.15pm: Find Arlene's Grocery on my own.

10.20pm: Think I may have discovered the coolest club in the world. Looks like Mercury. Smells like Mercury. Is not Mercury. Awesome.

10.21pm: Pay cover charge.

10.22pm: Find spot at bar as band begins.

10.23pm: Think I may have discovered the coolest band in the world.

10.46pm: Think the band could rip Korn another one.

10.47pm: Think the lead singer is the hottest guy I have ever seen.

10.46pm: Send tequilas to the band. Open up another bar tab.

11.27pm: Band come over to thank me for the shooters. Suggest more.

11.28pm: Order more.

11.31pm: Drink more.

11.49pm: Tell band manager they absolutely have to come to South Africa.

11.55pm: Tell band manager that I will actually organise their South African tour.

12.07am: Tell band manager I could get thousands of people to their shows.

12.08am: Think I should possibly not talk anymore.

12.28am: Sit outside smoking with my newfound friends.

12.48am: Think they are the coolest guys I have ever met.

12.52am: Think I want to be naked with the lead singer.

12.53am: Think I should possibly not think anymore.

01.08am: Bid my newfound friends goodnight.

01.09am: Hail cab.

01.10am: Pretty sure it’s the same cab driver as before. Grateful that it’s not the NYPD from before.

*SIDENOTE: The club’s name is Arlene’s Grocery and really is that cool. The band’s name is afreudianslip and really are awesome. Check them out on MySpace. ]]> Thu, 28 Jan 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-are-you-his-dirty-secret
With Ian, 25, I’d fallen hard before I realised the halo around his head had a red hue (perhaps l was too engrossed in his body). It was months before it struck me that we only ever saw each other on our own. We were having an affair, but neither of us was married.

‘That happened to me, too,’ my friend Alison, 33, said. ‘I really liked him and introduced him to everyone on my side, but he kept me separate. He wouldn‘t let me meet his friends.’

Friends weren’t the issue for me; after a casual complaint, they were phased in. No, it was everyone else. He still lived at home, in the same city as me, but I wasn’t allowed to visit him there or meet his family. His office was near mine but l never saw it or met his colleagues. And, thinking about it, the friends I had been allowed to meet were recent acquaintances, not the oldest, ‘we go way back’ best-man-material sort.

There were no two ways about it – I had been compartmentalised. He denied it, of course, and talked about ‘taking it slow’ (well, that’s just a red light masquerading as amber). That’s when I started thinking of myself as the ‘capsule girlfriend’ – I seemed to be the human equivalent of an item in a capsule wardrobe. I was on the hanger labelled ‘sex and fun’, but always worn on my own and washed separately.

Of course, we’ve all experienced some form of dating segregation: weekends only, work nights only, no Valentines or Christmases… Then there’s what I call ABH (Anything But Holidays), which was what got my friend Jo, 28. She and her man were inseparable until she suggested the two of them spend a week in the sun. ‘He looked at me as though I’d just fouled on the pavement. Then he said, “But I always go away with the boys!” After that, he became really distant with me.’

Distant is one thing, but behaving as though you’re on a witness protection programme is another. With Ian, I discovered little lies, like when he said he was away for work but had really been in town. He never wanted to sit at tables outside bars or hold hands in the street. By this time, l wondered if Ian was even using his real name. Why was he being so paranoid?

After six months, the answer was revealed: his mother. She was a Victorian throwback who could vaporise modern-day floozies like me with a single glance. Of Ian’s three sisters, one had been disowned for her choice of partner and the others remained at home under strict jurisdiction. They were all, in her mind, virgins until marriage and boys were not exempt from this rule. He was protecting me, Ian said, not her. Better we went on like this than come clean; she’d only force him to get rid of me. Strangely, l swallowed this explanation, but the relationship slowly petered out.

Looking back, I wonder if the monster-in-law angle was just an excuse. A capsule girlfriend is a convenient arrangement, after all – as handy as the wrap dress, ready meal or PVR. Get what you want, when you want. None of those nerves the rest of us have to deal with over important introductions: when, where, what food, what wine. No embarrassing farts from Grandpa or sharing of cringe-making childhood stories.

But the point is to share, of course – to share yourself and everything that makes you you, farts and all. Ian didn’t get it.

I asked a male friend why men do this. ‘Some men,’ he corrected me, looking insulted. Then he said, ‘I guess they just think, well, is it worth the trouble if it’s not going to last?’ Ouch. ]]> Thu, 21 Jan 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-a-girls-real-best-friend
Of course there are many nice things about having a boyfriend other than 24-hour access to his penis, but even taking into account the loving companionship, heady romance and mental stimulation a relationship brings, I think regular nookie is the best thing about being partnered-up.

So, faced with an empty bed each night, what’s a single girl like me to do? Go and pick up a man, of course, and hope I get lucky. The problem is, it isn’t always easy. In fact, I’ve found many drawbacks to this random approach. Finding a decent shag is hard; it’s a shame men aren’t available for purchase in a supermarket – life would be so simple if they were. ‘Would madam care to peruse our “finest” range? We do have a delectable selection on offer. Or is madam feeling cheap today? If so, our “value” range may be of interest to you.’

No, even with all that choice, a girl’s got to be picky or she’ll bag an ‘own brand’ version, disguised with a flashy label.

This means meeting men in bars or nightclubs is usually out. Who’s to say that charming man you’ve spotted will be any good in the sack? Once, I fell for the best-looking guy in a bar, only to find out later that his bedroom talents consisted of being able to get to level five in Super Mario Bros (the only moment that night when someone scored). It taught me that good looks aren’t a guarantee of sexual prowess, and ‘cockiness’ should not be taken literally.

Another night, I tried picking up a guy on the Internet. Minus the bar-room bravado and with the safety of the keyboard to hide shyness, we had the freedom to talk in a relaxed way. Plus, my feet didn’t hurt from being squeezed into stilettos all night – an added bonus.

Post-chatroom, we met up in a cafe, where I realised there’s no substitute for a ‘live’ encounter. Though he’d seemed intelligent online, face to face he could barely converse. Not a sexy trait, in my opinion, and I knew instantly I didn’t want to bed him. Giving enough time to be polite but not long enough to give him the wrong idea, I beat a hasty retreat.

Now I think about it, it was sort of like scheduling a delivery from a catalogue; even down to the realisation that when it arrives, it isn’t what you ordered. Back to the drawing board again...

If you’re desperate, there’s always the possibility of resorting to using an ex to fill the gap, so to speak, but in my experience men are history for a reason and they should stay that way – even if you have had four martinis. You could call an old shag-buddy to do the ‘honours’ but I’ve discovered dabbling with those is also risky. Mine frequently imagine the sex means more than just a little fun – even if I don’t.

So, for the single girl, casual sex can be complicated, hard work and with no guarantee of a decent climax. The answer, in my mind, is quite clear: if you want some fun, there’s always one thing you can rely on, one route to regular pleasure – a decent sex toy. Guaranteed to satisfy, always available and never inconsiderate, a good vibrator is certain to create delight as and when you need it most. And with daily orgasms as part of the package, it’s the best way to ensure you always get what you need in bed. As long as you don’t run out of batteries. ]]> Thu, 14 Jan 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-like-a-virgin
For nine years, if I wanted sex all I'd had to do was turn over in bed and give my partner a nudge. But the rules of seduction had changed now I was single. It would take effort, it would take cunning – it would take skills I'd lost long ago. I tried to remember what I did when I was last single but I seemed to be suffering from sex-etiquette amnesia. I'd been a different person then and it seemed like the whole dating/having sex scene had changed, too. I felt like a born-again virgin and incredibly nervous about sleeping with someone new. I needed a whole new education.

So I bombarded my more experienced single friends with questions. Is it OK to make it clear you want sex? How do you bring up the subject? And if I'm dating someone, how long do l wait before sleeping with them? Is it A) three dates, B) one month, or C) until I've finished dessert? My friend Tania, 35, a graphic designer, recommended option A, but Sam, 29, a solicitor, told me to wait until I was sure the relationship had an 'after-sex future'. Definitely not C, then.

'Internet dating,' suggested another friend, Martha, 33, a fashion buyer. 'It's the perfect way to get laid – you get the getting-to-know-you part over and done with by e-mail and have sex when you meet up. It's very efficient and makes for a really cheap date,' she promised. I felt even more out of touch; since when was cheap date a good thing?

Undaunted, I signed up and, although l wasn't exactly swamped by eager e-mailers, there was a man who did stand out. We were developing a flirty cyber-banter so he suggested meeting up.

Why not? I wrote.
Are you going to wear Lycra? the reply came.
Er... no...
Don't you like the way it feels?

Internet flirting is one thing, but we'd gone straight from Internet chat to Internet foreplay and there was no way I was ready for that.

I decided to go back to the old, time-honoured dating method – hang around bars with friends until you meet someone you like the look of. Sure enough, after three months of singledom, on a visit to a friend, l was introduced to James. He was cute, 36, and he made me laugh. It was the first real male attention I'd had since the break-up and I thought, perhaps, I wouldn't mind going on a date with him. That was the point I should have stopped drinking.

Instead, the whole group of us went back to the flat I was staying in and James and I started kissing. Then, to cut a long (and slightly blurry) story short, we ended up in my bedroom. It wasn't until he started to strip that I sobered up and reality hit. There was a near-naked near-stranger in my room and I'd only been with one naked man for nine years. I felt sick, horrible. I was physically shaking and told him he had to go.

That's when I learnt one rule hadn't changed: Do not take a man to your bedroom if you don't want to play doctors and nurses. James didn't come out and say it but I could see he was angry, and I was angry with myself, too.

I'd allowed myself to get so caught up in re-learning sex etiquette that I hadn't stopped to decide what my own rules were. And here's rule number one: I'm not going to have sex just to get back in the habit. It'll be with the right man at the right time and, until then, I'm saving my energy for girls' nights out. ]]> Mon, 11 Jan 2010 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl--its-single-season
This was two Christmases ago, and that’s when l realised the truth: that despite romantic visions of sipping cocktails poolside, having a boyfriend for the festive season isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You half-kill yourself looking for that perfect present (to me, cashmere socks are a luxury; to him, the scratchy underwear he’d bought me was ‘sexy’ and ‘chic’). Then you argue about whose friends you’ll spend New Year with. The season of goodwill becomes about as relaxing as the scrum on the first day of the January sales.

I was happily single again by the following Valentine’s Day, and since then I’ve enjoyed Christmas solo. In fact, there’s no better time to be single than in December. What other month gives you the excuse to go to two parties a week, blow hundreds of pounds on sparkly outfits – and get rip-roaringly hammered without anyone batting an eyelid? Then there’s that great bastion of singleness, the office party, which gives you carte blanche to make a play for the hot guy in design you’ve been bumping into in the lift all year. And if he ignores your advances, you can both come back after the Christmas break and pretend it never happened.

That’s the beauty of the festive fling; it’s truly disposable. For my friend Paula, 31, it’s a tradition to hook up with at least three wildly inappropriate men every December. Come January, she lets them all go with the handy line, ‘I’m sorry, I want to start the year with a clean slate.’

As a couple, you’re on the wrong side of an apartheid system. You go to parties and spend the whole evening talking to each other, or other couples. Go single and you can talk to anybody. And the segregation gets worse: take a New Year break I spent in St Lucia. The couples were consigned to one cottage, which also contained children. They went to bed early. In the singles’ house, we stayed up all night. My engaged friend Sarah, who was in the couples’ house, was livid. She spent most of the trip being forced to bond with other people’s toddlers.

Of course there are ordeals for singles, too, like that midnight moment when you desperately look around for someone to kiss. But pity your coupled-up friends who may well find their partner doing the same. On that St Lucia holiday, we spent the big night itself at a pub and on the stroke of midnight my friend frantically searched for her man, only to find him stumbling around grabbing everyone but her. She then experienced another classic bit of seasonal couple hell – saying ‘Happy New Year!’ to your man, quietly suspecting you won’t be spending the rest of it with him.

So here’s my advice: if you’re single, make the most of it. Have a pre-Christmas dinner with your girlfriends and get the presents you really want (stockings from Agent Provocateur, please). Go to every party you’re invited to and feel no shame about owning that mistletoe. And book a New Year trip somewhere hot. Last year, I was sipping cocktails by a pool in Zanzibar with a friend. Sometime in the future, I could be spending the season arguing over in-laws and buying socks, so I’ll enjoy my freedom while I have the chance. ]]> Thu, 24 Dec 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl--the-boys-of-summer
I’m a neurotic writer who is incredibly focused on my career. Mark, meanwhile, was permanently chilled, hadn’t read a book in years and admitted he was still ‘finding himself’ while living – wait for it – at home. But he was 30, tall, kind and had a perfect six-pack, so when he invited me to a day out with his friends, I happily agreed.

I’m still not sure if it was the sunshine or the bottomless jugs of sangria, but the braai wasn’t the only thing that turned out to be cheap and easy that day. Because, five hours after watching him racing his super-fit friend to reach the ball, I was tackling him into bed.

Personally, I blame summer. Every year, after coming out of months of winter hibernation, I lose all sense of reason and am completely focused on the hedonistic pursuit of pleasure. For me, a hot-but-totally-inappropriate man has become as much a must-have summer accessory as flip-flops, denim shorts and the perfect pair of sunglasses. Though said boys may not be Mr Right, indulging in a short-lived fling feels like turning the pages of a trashy beach novel. I’m on holiday (well, in my mind anyway!) so it’s guilt-free and even to be expected.

I’m not the only one – a lot of my friends also believe dating is easier in the summer, when tantalising glimpses of flesh cause us to lose our inhibitions more easily. As the days get longer and warmer, the possibilities for social and sexual interactions seem limitless. It must be all that serotonin the scientists are always talking about – sunlight triggers you to release more of this feel-good hormone, which has been depleted all winter.

Whatever it is, I'm not sure that my relationship with Mark would have lasted a week if we’d met in June. Like winter fashions – cashmere sweaters and luxurious leather boots – dating is inevitably much pricier once the weather turns colder.

Once April rolls around l start craving creature comforts, like downing morbidly expensive bottles of wine at swanky Italian restaurants and snuggling in a taxi home. But in December, Mark and l bonded at an outdoor music festival, where the noise kept conversation to a minimum. At least until we hit the bedroom, where talking wasn’t really required. And I'm not sure our late-night walks on the beach would have seemed quite as sexy in freezing weather with hail the size of golf balls pelting us.

But in summer everything’s easier and more casual. Many of the rules of holiday romances – when his sell-by date is stamped on my return ticket – seem to apply at home, too, and with everyone trying to schedule around their holidays and weekends away, it’s easier to juggle several men at once.

But girls on the prowl would be wise to remember that what goes around comes around. My friend Victoria went out with a guy last year who told her he was moving back to his native Italy in three weeks.

‘He made this huge deal out of saying how we had to make the most of every moment and “live for today”,’ she said. ‘Then l randomly ran into him a couple of months after he supposedly went home – it turns out home was actually in Essex! Luckily I was able to laugh it off – he was a bit too cheesy for me anyway.’

Summer is also the perfect time for a quick fling because there are loads of newly single people on the market who couldn’t bear to pull the plug on failing relationships in winter. But once the days start getting longer, they break free – and with their libidos in full bloom, it starts to feel like hunting season.

As for Mark, our relationship had run its course by the end of February. It was an amicable split – he went to Spain to surf and drink Schnapps, while I started dating an entrepreneur who thrived on intimate conversations by the crackling fire in his flat.

That said, I’m single again this year, so if l run into any beautiful boys I’m totally game. Our romance may fade before my tan lines and the relationship may be completely shallow and based on sex. Still, I’m going to relish my moment in the sun. ]]> Thu, 17 Dec 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-three-strikes-and-hes-out
Except it wasn’t. When is it ever? Halfway through, my date (let’s call him Jamie) said, “This
is going well, don’t you think?” I said l did. Jamie was handsome, funny and confident. He paid the bill, made me laugh, flattered me and put me in a taxi home – alone. The next day he phoned and arranged a second date. He called the day after that to see how l was, and the following day he rang again because, l think, he felt that by then it would be weird not to. Suddenly, just one date and five days after meeting, we were in a relationship. By our actual second date, having sex seemed long overdue, so we did.

But the only thing we had in common was that I’m in the market for a single man and Jamie is a single man. I didn’t grasp that on our first date, because first dates can be deceptive. They run on their own energy – likewise second dates can survive on the coat tails of the first. But third dates? When Jamie turned up on my doorstep that third time, all l wanted to do was slip out of the back door.

Third-date break-ups tend to follow a torturous rhythm, taking a never-ending evening to complete. All you are doing, after all, is rejecting someone nice and attractive enough to have warranted two dates. You can’t row about anything because it’s unlikely either of you have had time to behave badly. Instead, I greet my date with half-hearted enthusiasm. I verge on being cold, or at least preoccupied.

‘You seem different?’ he says.
‘Mmm,’ I say, with a forced smile.
‘What's wrong?’ he asks. Then, after a silence, I add, ‘I feel a bit weird.’
Finally I come out with a lot of rubbish about wanting to be alone, it not being him but me, and so on and so on...

This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Before Jamie, I’d had three dates with a man who worked in TV and another three with a gardener. Sometimes I wonder why I go on a third date if all I'm going to do is stage a break-up. But often the end of a fledgling relationship happens when you’re not looking, in between dates two and three. It’s like that bit of cheese in the fridge that’s just on the turn but not yet ready to be thrown away. Only next time you fish it out it has, sadly, gone green and furry.

Third-date break-ups are similar. You know in your heart that the date is a non-date, yet you still go through the motions. You make some, not extensive, effort in dress. Jeans, low heels, underwear that’s basic and comfortable. The venue is a low-key bistro or noodle bar – painfully public for a break-up, but on the third date you’re not at the takeaway and TV stage.

Some people get past that problem by prolonging the dating process. I once got to date five with a college lecturer and was enjoying myself. I wasn’t in love, but I hadn’t come out in my usual third-date allergic rash. That night we shared a curry at home, then went to bed and didn’t even have sex. That’s how far we’d come. We snuggled. We slept. When I woke up I could feel his body was rigid.

‘I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,’ he said. ‘You’ve been snoring.’
This did not bode well.
‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ l asked. Then I noticed the mouldy cheese expression on his face and knew what was coming.
‘Because it seemed a bit mean, only to tell you that I don’t think we should see each other anymore,’ he said. It had finally happened. Mini break-up karma had caught up with me. ]]> Thu, 10 Dec 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-meeting-the-new-you
Despite our differing attitudes, Samantha put me at ease. We're both Ian's 'type' – dark, chatty, slightly obsessed with our nails and careers. Meeting the new woman in your ex's life isn't always this easy. Having too much in common can make women competitive rather than cosy. And it's only natural to size up your successor. I check out Samantha's waist-hip ratio because it's the weak spot on my body. Looks aren't my only concern, though. I always hope my ex won't be as gossipy about me (with her) as he was about other women with me. How realistic is that?

As the ex, you still have an advantage – you know all those things that she has yet to learn. One ex, Brian, introduced me to his fiancée, then mentioned he was taking her home for Christmas. I couldn't suppress a smile as I recalled the holidays I'd endured with Brian's mother, a meddling alcoholic overflowing with (well-meaning) advice.

You might feel pangs if your ex has 'upgraded' to a younger model, but if you're over him, she's no threat. More often, it's you – the ex – who's the threat, as my friend Melissa discovered.

At first Melissa was relieved when Helen, the 'new girlfriend', took her hyper-sensitive ex off her hands. 'Until then, Alec was intent on winning me back,' she says. 'He was even forwarding me the romantic e-mails I'd sent him in our first year of romance.' His ploy was working – up to a point. 'I felt guilty about falling out of love,' she explains. 'Then Helen came along and distracted Alec from our messy break-up.'

Alec might have been distracted from Melissa, but Helen wasn't. Within weeks, she was invading Alec's laptop, reading his archived e-mail, exchanging messages with him – and copying in Melissa. 'She told him she knew where I lived! People who met her said she was obsessed with me.'

Negative attention can be perversely flattering but this was too much, and Helen wasn't helping Alec to move on. When he finally met someone who did, Melissa was grateful, but she's not ready to thank his latest girlfriend in person. Or meet any of her exes' new girlfriends ever again for that matter.

Sometimes you can't avoid encountering your ex-boyfriend's fiancée or your new boyfriend's ex. Unfortunately, there aren't any rules to get us through this increasingly prevalent rite of passage. My friend Lewis recalls an ex-girlfriend who came to a dinner party and 'jokingly' told the new (and enraged) apple of his eye, 'Some girlfriend YOU are'. Every woman handles 'ex-hood' differently.

If you have to meet your ex's new girlfriend, try to put yourself in her shoes. There's a temptation to come across as Her Royal Ex-ness but I think that's a mistake. Would you want to hear a woman from his past calling him darling, as if he's her perpetual romantic subject? If you still see him in that light, by all means keep him in your life as a former flame, but don't feel obliged to meet his new love interest. ]]> Mon, 07 Dec 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-308-cc-way-to-have-fun
That is what I did for three days, and nearly cried when I had to give it back.

I know that girls read car reviews different to guys. There's no talk about antilock ABS and torque and 0-60 in milliseconds. It's all about the luxury, the beauty and the serenity that surrounds you, and of course the pull. And believe me, the new Peugeot 308 CC is packed with pull.

Here's my list of 10 reasons why you need to get yourself a Peugeot 308 CC:
1. There are way too many black and white cars on the road, don't follow the sheep. The 308 comes in Abysse Blue, Babylon Red and Ocean Blue.
2. It takes the press of one button and 25 seconds to take the roof down (or put it back up). It's a hard top that folds itself neatly away.
3. Yes, there is enough space in the boot for your beach bag, umbrella, glamour kit and another outfit even when with the top down.
4. You won't need to splurge on a petrol bill. The 1.6 turbo charged engine keeps up with the other bigger toys on the road while it lightly sips on unleaded.
5. Summer or winter, you'll feel snugly surrounded by the tunes of your choice. The 308 comes MP3 ready.
6. The leather interior not only smells good, it looks gorgeous. But don't leave it in the summer sun too long, else you'll think you've forgotten to switch off the seat warmers.
7. Even if have left it in the sun too long, that's what air conditioning is for. The 308 allows you and your co-driver to individually control your temperature settings.
8. The two-door design gives the car a racier look, but there is ample space in the back and you can easily fit in three friends on your road trip.
9. Your lights and wipers turn on automatically when it gets too dark or rainy.
10. The 308 is comfortable to drive, park and get in and out of.

So there we sat early on Friday morning overlooking the ocean in Mouille Point, the Associated Magazines PR manager and myself. We were having an early breakfast after little joy ride on a stunning summer's morning.

'You know what?' says Jaco-Louis.
'No I don't, but tell me.'
'If we drive to Riebeeck Kasteel, have tea there and then drive for another five hours, we will be across the Namibian border. We both have Namibian passports, what's holding us back?'

Oh the temptation… But then my mom did always say I had to give other kids' toys back after I played with them. Thank you Peugeot, one day I might just appear at the dealership's door.

Take a look at the pictures we snapped when we took the 308 CC for a test drive. ]]> Mon, 30 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-snap-up-a-second-hand-man
Then I met Andy. He had the pertest buttocks I'd ever grabbed and a need to disprove his ex-wife's bitter accusations about his performance in bed. All it took was one night and I was a convert to sex with someone else's cast-off.

Andy didn't stick around for long, which suited me in the end. He put on a Variety Performance worthy of Westlife every night and it was costing me a fortune in cranberry juice. I felt less like a lover and more like the bendy doll I'd owned as a child, whose limbs twisted in any direction, until the day her knees snapped. Andy was never up for those half-asleep, 'but I haven't shaved my legs, oh all right then' quickies. He'd had his fill of them with his wife, so we parted company. But my appetite for second-hand men had been whetted.

My friends were skeptical. 'Too much trouble,' one told me as we waited for a phone call that never came from her commitment-free toy boy. Boys versus men, she said: 'It's like the difference between a cute little puppy from a pet shop or visiting the SPCA and choosing the sad-looking specimen that cowers slightly when he sees you.'

I soon became an expert in SHM-spotting. In clubs they'd either have that rumpled look (because they couldn't use an iron) or they'd be bouncing around the dance floor in newly acquired 'trendy' gear, with a grin that screamed 'just divorced'.

And I quickly learnt that you need to carry your own condoms if you plan to pull an SHM. Most doubt they'll ever get laid again so they never come prepared. On the plus side, they're well prepared to make you come, but that could be down to years of tinkering with one careful owner.

Occasionally, I did wonder whether the faraway look of a lightly used lover was ecstasy or a nostalgic memory of the ex. But don't go there. The most dangerous thing you can ask an SMH is, 'What are you thinking about?' If she dumped him, he'll be thinking, 'I hope I'm good enough' and dreaming up new ways to prove it. But if he dumped her, he's probably thinking, 'so many women, so little time'. Great if you're after the same thing, not so good if you want a keeper.

So can an SHM ever commit again? Yes, but not necessarily with you. One sure sign you're not heading for a happy ending is Body Double Syndrome. I don't mind if he shouts out her name at the crucial moment (mistakes happen), but once I was with an SHM who kept licking my eyelids. When I protested for the third time, he said, 'But my ex used to love that.' A ménage á trois with his ghost-ex wasn't top of my fantasy list. In the end, I left 'them' to it. If his technique hasn't changed since he was someone else's guy, it's game over.

But that didn't put me off. I kept trawling the second-hand market until I found the perfect SHM. A bit tarnished at first, but he's scrubbed up well. And, in case his previous owner is reading, no, you can't have him back. Finders keepers! ]]> Thu, 26 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-dont-leave-home-without-her
I protested vaguely, but she was having none of it. 'Chelsea,' she said, 'I understand you've been through a very traumatic experience, but that guy isn't going to make you feel better. One: he's not your type and he's shorter than you. If you want to pull, at least let me find someone who won't make you feel nauseous in the morning.'

By that point in the evening feeling nauseous the next day was inevitable, but she was right. There was no point in adding fuel to the fire. Lydia, my wing woman, my faithful pulling-sidekick, understood this.

A wing woman is a precious thing. She can scan a bar and know within seconds which men you'll fancy. When a relationship breaks up, a good wing woman will retrieve your belongings from your ex's house, and a great wing woman will dunk his toothbrush in the toilet, for good measure.

I was 14 when l first discovered the power of the sidekick. I had a crush on a boy named Antony who sat behind me at school and was playing hard to get. So my friend Teresa and l devised a plan in which she 'happened to let slip' that a boy named Douglas was going to invite me to a party (a lie). This information sent Antony into a tailspin of envy. Not only did he ask me to the party that very night, he also ended up being my first snog. A snog so bad that it made me consider becoming a lesbian, but my first, nonetheless.

As you grow older and more mature, your wing woman's responsibilities mature, too. She becomes the friend who will force you to go out when you feel fat, lonely and depressed; the girl who reminds you why it's important to shave your legs even if you're feeling unattractive, because you never know how the night will end.

Of course, as with any relationship, there will be ups and downs. Like the time I begged my friend Ivory to talk to a cute man for me, only to be left alone for an entire hour at a party where I knew no one, while they chatted and exchanged phone numbers. 'It's not like you were dating him,' Ivory said in her own defence. She did have a point, I thought, after I'd had a few hours to calm down.

But then came an incident I couldn't overlook. I was talking to a boy all night at a bar, only to take my eye off him for five minutes and come back to find him lip-locked to Ivory. 'I didn't think you liked him; you fell asleep on the sofa!' she said. 'I was resting my eyes,' I protested.
'And I was interested.'

That wasn't the last time I've fallen asleep in a bar, but it was the last time Ivory kissed anyone I was interested in. We took a long break from our friendship after that night, which allowed some time for a little self-discovery. And what I discovered was that nights out aren't nearly as much fun when there's no one to laugh about them with afterwards. So, two months later, I called Ivory. She apologised for her kissing offences and we agreed that, in future, whoever spotted the guy first had first dibs and that was that. Our friendship was far too important and far too much fun to let some man ruin it.

To make it easier, we decided I'd get the dark-haired men and she'd get blonds and redheads. And it does work – kind of. Because we both understand that, while men come in and out of our lives all the time, a great wing woman is irreplaceable.
]]> Mon, 23 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-decent-single-men
As a result, our expectations are lower than a rapper's pants and moaning to our friends about having no date/disastrous dates has become the only part of the process that's any fun. But what if, by nurturing such a date-negative attitude, we're wrecking our chances of meeting a decent guy? I mean, I spent many years either out with my friends having the 'all the good ones are married or gay' conversation or going on mercy dates (the man's wrong but you've been single for sooo long) to stay in the game, which only seemed to confirm there was no one out there.

But then I thought maybe l was setting myself up to fail – a bit like wanting to stick to a diet, then buying food at the petrol station while drunk on the way home. After 10 years in London, the only men I ever met were more interested in drinking than dating, and all of them had serious baggage. But after crawling out from a particularly nasty relationship, l decided enough was enough: no more getting by on 'relationship patches' (like nicotine patches, staving off the desire without satisfying the need); I was going to establish if DSM really existed

I resigned from my job to undertake an exhaustive search. l wrote a 'relationship resumé' to trace the pattern of my dating history, then a 'soulmate job description' to outline Mr. Right.

'I'm 5ft 10in and want to meet a man tall enough to put his arm around my shoulders... who makes me laugh... tells me things I didn't know... doesn't smoke but absolutely does drink... has books on his shelf (self-help and sci-fi don't count)... a waist bigger than my thighs... and is not a pothead or a poet – if I want to see the beauty in anything I'll go to the YSL counter.'

Seeing it all written down on paper, I realised I wasn't looking for the impossible. I didn't need an Adonis or a multi-billionaire; I just wanted to meet someone normal. Someone like me. My date-wrangler friends around the world e-mailed my description to their friends and, within a fortnight, I was getting up to 200 e-mails a week from DSMs. Seriously, these were lovely guys. They didn't have 27 kids in Idaho or believe aliens were 'behind it all'. They were like us: singletons who had their fingers burnt but still hoped to meet someone they liked and fancied.

After years of being date-negative, I was suddenly a date-positive lady as I slapped on the mascara and set off to meet my 80 DSMs from around the world. Obviously, not every date was what I expected: Italian Davide (Date 21) was in love with a woman after seeing her picture... on her gravestone. I spent a cold evening counting 4 500 penguins during my date with the Australian penguin ranger (Date 68), and part of my foot was accidentally cut off during the reflexology date (Date 72) in China. But dating swoony Anders (Date 5) on his floating sauna on the Scandinavian archipelago, watching the sunrise over the Champs Élysées with Olivier (Date 12), floating lotus flowers with Toi the Thai supermodel (Date 58), plus all the other amazing dates l went on, made me forget about the SFR (Single For a Reason) duds I'd met.

I know I sound like a smug-date-hog, but acting positive (believing in DSM and tracking them down) transformed my dating experience from train wreck to dream ride and, two years on, that's still the case. Think of it like the tooth fairy: put your hand on your heart and say, 'I believe in Decent Single Men' and, suddenly, you'll find... they really do exist. ]]> Thu, 12 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/sex--the-single-girl-the-wedding-planners
It sounded ridiculous, but the more I thought about it, the more I admired her determination. After all, while most of us are reluctant to admit it, who hasn't set a deadline to find a man- whether in five hours ('I refuse to go home alone tonight?') or five years ('l will be Mrs X by 30')?

I know a lot of women who have been so determined to find a husband, they've embarked on the kind of strategy once reserved for job hunting – putting a 'CV' on an internet dating site and enduring a string of intensive 'interviews', before narrowing it down to one candidate. But can you really fast-forward a genuine connection?

As your deadline approaches, there's a danger of dropping your standards – less a case of 'I do' than 'he'll do'. We all know someone whose boyfriend seems to have 'compromise' stamped on his forehead. One friend of mine, a wild, party-loving actress who could drink Johnny Vegas under the table, recently married a bloke who makes Alan Partridge seem exciting. 'Well, he's a decent, caring man,' she says. But what she doesn't say is he's the love of her life. That's because, unfortunately, love doesn't run on a schedule. You could fall in love at 16 or 60. And I learnt the hard way that a wedding is only the end of the story in a Jane Austen novel.

I was so set on getting hitched in my early 20s that I shoehorned my first serious boyfriend into a husband-shaped gap. On paper, he was perfect: handsome, clever and considerate. I ignored the lack of passion and the fact that sex was merely a pleasant bedtime routine – like moisturising. The result? We drifted apart and the marriage petered out.

When we split up, I was desperate to meet someone within a year, because then I'd just be a hot divorcee between husbands, rather than a 'real' single person. When I went out with friends, I chose the venue according to its hot–man ratio. A movie was a wasted flirting opportunity; a meal at a friend's flat meant missing a valuable night out. I was one of those annoying people who pretend to listen to what you're saying while scanning the bar for prey. I spent a fortune on clothes and actually believed that by dolling myself up, I'd net a (preferably wealthy) second husband.

Of course, l only succeeded in attracting sleazy pick-up artists. At the end of the year, all I had were cringe-worthy memories of one-night stands, the mother of all hangovers and an enormous overdraft. And I was so focused on my goal, I hadn't even enjoyed those nights out with my friends.

The trouble with deadlines is you're concentrating on the future rather than making the most of the present. It's natural to feel anxious – especially when another New Years Eve rolls around and everyone's snogging at midnight, except you. But putting all your energy into a manhunt – Instead of living in the moment – is a waste of time.

Deadlines worked for Anna – she joined several online dating sites and found someone who did fit the morning suit. And, by all accounts, she's blissfully happy. But I've decided to confine my deadlines to work. Forget about getting a man – it's time to get a life. ]]> Thu, 05 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/thoughts-on-therapy-8
And as dreadful and scary as those days were, the most empowering thing about that low point was the confidence I found to pick myself up and dust myself off when I was ready. It was to know and understand myself and my emotions that much more deeply and honestly. It was to learn the methods of acknowledging how I feel but not letting that own and destroy me and my life. It was to know that my feelings were valid – no matter how enormous, selfish or freakish they seemed.

After those dreadful days, we spent a bit of time in therapy mopping up, interrogating the outcomes and putting it all to rest – as far as is possible. And then it was time to move on. Over the months I had come to a new and more healthy relationship with my mother. We had always had a wonderful closeness, but at times it had seemed overwhelmingly pressurised. I felt like my mother was my responsibility and my actions were directly connected to her happiness. But therapy helped me set up some more realistic boundaries and now I feel like I have all the goodness of the relationship but only a small amount of the sense of obligation.

I had also come to understand that I have trouble asking for my needs to be met. I feel that somehow I am being overly demanding when I ask for something. I am not sure that I really am deserving of someone else putting themselves out for me. I have some work to do in this department but last week, as I had lunch with some friends at a cafe of my choice, I realised that I did not feel guilty and responsible when the service was particularly bad. Whereas in the past I would have been mortified that I had somehow been responsible for the discomfort my friend felt when she didn't get her drink order, now I see that it is not actually my fault.

I also found myself confidently asking an intern to do some work for me, without apologising for the request. There was no 'Sorry, but can I ask...,' just a simple request issued with respect and expectation that it was what she was there to do. Considering how long this small thing has been plaguing my life, I can't tell you the liberation I feel as I have come to understand it and start to get to grips with it. I now marvel at how something so small could have brought me a lifetime of unhappiness and stress.

So last week I started the discussion with The Mighty Therapist about how we disengage with this process. How I feel that the journey has come to a natural break and that maybe it is time for me to go it alone again. I know that she is always there for me when I need her. I know that this process works for me and that it can be very helpful. But for now, it is time to stretch it out and begin the solo portion of life's climb once more. It's a bit scary, but it is exciting and hopeful. Wish me luck.
]]> Mon, 02 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/thoughts-on-therapy-7
And so on Saturday morning I met up with my girls for brunch, as ever. I really didn't feel like it. I just wanted to be alone at home feeling the sadness that had enveloped me in the couple of days before. If I was going to really feel the emotion, I was quite nervous about doing so in public.

The girls were pretty concerned. I thought that I was covering up quite well, but their genuine niceness and tender manner made it quite clear I was not fooling anyone. They were tripping over themselves to make sure I was ok, to make suggestions for outings and activities for the rest of the weekend and to make sure I felt looked after and supported. They really are a wonderful collection of friends.

And yet, all I felt was guilty. I felt incredibly uncomfortable being the object of conversation, the focus of their concern, the burden that they seemed to want to help carry. In fact, I was quite irritated and short with all their efforts to offer comfort and solace. And then I felt bad about that. This situation was spiralling out of my control pretty rapidly.

And so I declined all their offers and took myself home to the relative safety of my sofa and bed. And there I stayed for the rest of the weekend, licking my wounds and comforting myself with frozen yoghurt and pizza. I allowed myself to feel the sadness – to really mourn everything that I felt I had lost in the past year. I allowed myself to be very, frighteningly present in my emotions.

And so it came to pass that by Tuesday morning, on hearing my alarm, I lay in my bed and tried to think of any reason at all to get out of it. I tried to find something to get excited about, something to motivate me, something to look forward to and I could think of nothing. In four short days, my sadness had taken over completely and had eradicated all the positivity and joy that I had worked so hard to ensure was present in my life. And as I lay there I decided that this new approach simply was not working. That as helpful as my lovely Therapist meant to be, she underestimated the power of my negative emotions and the reality of allowing them free reign. Right there I decided to revert to my former position and banish the sadness. And it was then that I could get myself out of bed.

Of course I discussed this 'failure' with the Shrink. And she worked with me on a process that allowed me to acknowledge (not deny) negative emotion, and then move to deploying distraction techniques, as they are called in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy so that we didn't have a repeat of this experience. And I am much more comfortable with this approach, much more confident in its success for me and my life. Therapy is not a perfect science. You have to take some risks to get the right answers for you – but it also teaches you about yourself and how instinctively you know how to survive even when you don't know why. ]]> Mon, 26 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/thoughts-on-therapy-6
Of course I felt bad. I didn't want to make my therapist unhappy – nor did I want to do anything to destabilise the good relationship that we had developed. After extolling the perfection of our match, the last thing I wanted was for her to break up with me – in a doctor-client kind of way, of course.
I looked at her and could tell that she had several responses for me. She started with, 'Why on earth would you apologise to me for my own feelings? You have to stop feeling responsible for other people's happiness. You had no control over how I was feeling and you needed to be true to your own emotions and you were. You don't do this nearly often enough so this is a good thing, please don't apologise for it.'

She wasn't done yet, but she let me reflect a bit on what she had just said. Having spent a lifetime feeling responsible for my mother's happiness, sadness, anguish, confidence, love and anxiety it was hard not to assume that my behaviour and actions directly reflected on the way others feel. And surely I express my emotions all the time – I am practically a gaping wound of emotions, all out there for anyone to see. Apparently not. According to my therapist, I don't allow myself to feel negative emotions. I forbid it unless I can control it and this means that they are going to come out in other ways. This is not a good thing, I am told, but a subject for discussion another time. As I said, she wasn't done yet.

She explained counter transference to me then. And how it was a useful therapeutic tool to gauge the honesty and strength of my emotions by tapping into them rather than distancing herself from them and looking at them analytically. She could literally feel my sadness rather than feel sad herself. I kind of felt exposed at that point and couldn't decide whether giving in to how I was feeling or continuing to fight it off was the way to go.

I just don't understand why one would voluntarily choose to feel rubbish. I don't understand how one feels fear or depression or anxiety and decides to stay feeling that when they know that a change in thoughts or a shift in action will make it go away. Why wouldn't you protect yourself from these negative emotions? And what would happen if I allowed myself to be anxious – a panic attack surely? If I allowed myself to be sad, a spiral of depression seems an obvious outcome.

But in the quest to grow as a human being, today I am allowing myself to feel sad. I am trying not to distract myself, not to go for a brisk walk and work it out. I am just going about my day with the knowledge that I am sad and that it is ok. That if I just let myself feel this way, it will follow a natural path and I will come out the other side a more settled person, without all the suppressed feelings threatening to explode. Who knows how this will turn out, but this time I am going to try.
]]> Mon, 19 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/my-weeks-of-chemo-4-first-day-of-spring always a down-side. I let myself get sucked into it while I sat on the patio on those warm spring evenings watching my cat (Kimbo the Warrior) pounce at moths in the garden.

It didn't turn out quite as expected though, because what I was missing in my analyses is unfortunately quite central to the new season. Heat is not the friend of a cancer patient. I realised this when, after four months of using it, my wig suddenly felt horribly uncomfortable. It really does get helluva itchy in there, and you can't just scratch and be done with it. Firstly, it's far more effective if you're able to scratch under the wig, but it kind of defeats the purpose of wearing one if you're willing to just give yourself away in public like that. Also, at least with my wig, the initial putting-on is quite a process. It has to be arranged perfectly and well brushed into position. It's then relatively easy to keep it looking good for a couple of hours, if it's just been washed and you have place for a hairbrush in your handbag to use throughout the day and when you do use it you're careful not to pull the whole thing off the back of your head (that was embarrassing!). My wig is long and beautiful (think Natascha McElhone as Karen in Californication) but there's not much point in trying to look pretty if you get itchy and sweaty and a pounding head to make it happen.

More important than aesthetics though, is the issue of bed. Bed has become of utmost importance to me over the past months. It's one of the few things I can boast about – while the rest of Johannesburg has been keeping up the fast-paced slave-labour lifestyle, I spent a good 60% of winter snuggled up under covers (and much of the remaining 40% in front of the heater on the couch). I got PVR and just about every series box-set on the planet and focused on entertaining my 20-minute concentration span, while the rest of my friends and family were doing some kind of work or probably freezing somewhere. There's not much that can make you feel lucky as a cancer patient, but waking up at 6.30am when it's dark and chilly outside and simply rolling over and knowing that you can sleep for as long as you want is just the kind of sick gratification that can make a real difference to a very ill person's life. And now summer will rudely snatch it away from me.

It's only spring and already I find myself spending half the night rearranging the blanket so I don't get too hot, but have enough cover to feel like I'm still in bed. As before, I spend a lot of the day horizontal, but who's ever been jealous of someone being on bed? Being in bed is where the money's at. Worse still, it's pretty much the end of cuddle season. Where once we were spooning, my boyfriend and I now slowly levitate towards opposite ends of the bed in an attempt to avoid body heat. Occasionally our feet may touch, but it really is difficult to make sleeping back-to-back comforting.

The days are getting longer, the nights more exciting, yet I'm stuck on my bed trying to bide away the hours until an acceptable sleeping time (in my case at the moment around 9pm). Whereas last month I would think of my friends out enjoying themselves and think 'But it's so cold, what would I even wear?!' I now look at my stack of pretty summer dresses and know that it probably would be more fun being out than at home watching the third season of How I Met Your Mother, again.

But the worst part is that I had thought (illogically, without any proper medical proof) that it would all be over by now. I liked the idea of my new life beginning in the spring time. I pictured it being like the end of the Lion King where, out of the desolate, hyena-ridden mess, the sun starts to shine and the grass grows greener and all the lovely baby animals come to pay homage to the new prince. With a few minor exceptions, spring this year would be just like that for me. I would have finished my treatment, and everything would be fresh and new and wonderful.

I know that sooner or later that day will come and until then I'm just going to have to learn to deal with the heat and the discomfort that comes with it. I love wearing pretty floral dresses as much as the next person, but sometimes there's nothing better than snuggling up in bed with a movie, a nice boy and a steaming cup of tea. Still, for now I need to focus on the leafy oaks and the summer storms and the fact that even if it's not quite the same when it's light and warm outside, I'm still one of the few people who never has to wake up to an alarm.

And I know that when I do get better, whether it's in the middle of summer or into next winter, it'll feel like the first day of spring all over again.
]]> Wed, 14 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/thoughts-on-therapy-5
All those hard deadlines at the end of a session are frustrating when you feel you have really got into a meaty subject. But actually the benefit of these is that it gives you what I have come to call 'digestion time'. You can reflect on the stuff you have been hammering out and let the modifications in thinking actually bed themselves in. By the time you come around to your next session, you have pretty much assimilated this budge to the left and can build on it.

Having said that, some of these re-alignments are a bit harder to take than others. Sometimes you have held a notion too true and dear to your heart that letting go of it and replacing it with a more sensible, realistic and helpful truth actually doesn't seem like a fair trade off. Today in my session I was forced to confront something so dazzling in its profundity, but so fundamental to me that I really struggled to reassess it and make it real. And, let me tell you, it is based on a very tenuous premise – one that I am actually a bit embarrassed to tell you about.

But of course I will, in the spirit of total self humiliation and over-sharing. So here is the thing. My star sign is Cancer. It is a water sign. All my life I have subconsciously surrounded myself with other water signs – for those of you unfamiliar with the 'science' of astrology, these are Pisces and Scorpio. It has not been a deliberate move, simply an unassailable truth of my life. I come across another lovely human being – find them to be 'my-kind-of-people', bond and share, develop relationships, recognise the chemistry – and then discover that they are Pisceans. Just like that.

There have been housemates, new BFFs, the oldest of my BFFs, workmates, employees (I know, odd) and of course lovers, boyfriends and an ex-fiancée. And I have loved them all. Like a moth to a flame, stick a water sign person in front of me and I will fall just a little bit in love with them no matter who they are. Just like that.

And yet, it appears that in intimate relationships – you know the ones I really, really wanted to last the distance – these water people are not actually the most ideal match for me. Every single one of my significant girl-boy relationships in my life has been with a water sign. And they have all failed at some point. And it has taken me this long to realise that maybe the very core of what I have believed to be our fundamental bond, is in fact the very reason for the failure. Seriously? Seriously.

So far in my life, any list of ideal characteristics for a future husband would have included a notation on star sign – Cancer, Pisces or Scorpio. And yet, what is clear is that these people are wonderful as dearest friends, but must forever more be stricken from my list of potential husbands. I must seek out someone with characteristics that bring out the best in me and can meet all my needs. This is my new life truth. One that I am going to struggle to assimilate, but in the interests of growth and development I am going to do my best. Know any lovely single Capricorns people?
]]> Mon, 12 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/my-weeks-of-chemo-3-from-20-to-retired
I miss being able to exercise, being in the sun, getting dressed up and going out with my friends. I miss being able to go out in public without worrying about picking up all kinds of diseases because my immune system has been destroyed. I miss being able to go an hour without worrying. I miss my eyelashes. I miss not being tired all the time. But the irony is that these things only matter to me when I'm really doing well, because when I'm sick or I'm sore then nothing matters except for not being sick anymore. Sometimes I feel like I would be able to deal with anything if only the painkillers would start working properly, or the inflammation in my mouth would go down, or the horrible underlying nausea would go away.

Last week I sat next to a wonderfully inspiring granny in the lazy-back chairs while we were both plugged into our drips. The worst part, she said, was losing her hair. She described how one night in the shower her hair gently parted down the middle and wrapped itself around her arm; and that was that. She admitted she only came to talk to me in the first place because she was insanely jealous of my slightly patchy number 3. As we got talking I found out that this was a woman who had been, in her words, 'disgustingly healthy' up until breast cancer hit her in her late 70s. Last year she was climbing trees and swimming in lakes on her farm with her grandchildren. Now she is 77 and makes it through the day with humour.

Still, neither her mastectomy, nor the very real possibility that she may not be able to play with her grandchildren as she did before are as scary to her as what she looks at in the mirror. I've heard that many women feel this way, though to be honest I've never really understood it. I've come to terms with the fact that I look more like an alien every day, and only managed to convince myself that I was pulling it off like Natalie Portman for about a week. I packed away my GHD and shaved off my beautiful blonde hair. I cried for hours, but for me the hair was more symbolic than anything else. I was now a cancer patient, and my life would never be the same.

I've never dwelt on wondering 'Why me?' because I know it can just as easily turn around and say 'Why not me?'. I was always one of those children who couldn't understand why I was lucky enough to be born to my parents while others were born to drug addicts on a street corner, and I know that in the greater scheme of things I really have been exceptionally lucky in life. What I can't understand is why such bad things have to happen at all and if they do, then why now?

This question of why is aggravated by the obscurity of it and many other types of cancers' origins. While there is speculation, there is no proven cause. It is not definitively hereditary, nor does it stem from lifestyle factors (like smoking/bad nutrition) or from external exposure to carcinogens. So it's almost inevitable to at some stage blame yourself or believe that you're being punished for something. I've searched through my life, trying to find the moment that could have caused this. I heard a story about a guy who awakened a tumour by hitting his head hard and for a while I settled on that because I'm seriously clumsy and always knocking my head on things. Even though I know logically that it's not true, I still get really angry with myself every time I bump into something (which is probably a good thing for the breakables at home). But I think I've reached a point now where I can see that bad things happen without explanation sometimes and that trying to assign blame is a lost cause.

Many people have tried to tell me that these things happen for a reason. I don't believe that for one second. I cannot believe that the God that I trust and have faith in would make bad things happen to good people to teach them a lesson. I think that bad things happen and that if you're strong enough, and lucky enough to have proper support, then you can use that bad thing and get something good out of it.

No matter how young or old you are, cancer changes everything. And there are many common experiences that draw together all patients, regardless of age or any other factor.

I know that I am so lucky to not have the responsibilities of children or a steady career or even being on my own medical aid. But at the same time, I am so horribly scared that I will never have to be responsible for those things. There is the possibility that I'll be infertile, but then I suppose there's also the possibility that I'll die. Deep down though, I know neither will happen. Well, at least I think so. ]]> Wed, 07 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/thoughts-on-therapy-4
The sofa this week was less about doing all the hard work to try and uncover my issues, and more of a chat. I was feeling sad in the last few days because of some stuff that had been going on and I really didn't feel like talking about it. The Therapist got it immediately and didn't push which was such a relief. And sometimes you just need that – someone who gets you.

The only problem is that I am paying many genuine South African Rands an hour to get this. I am starting to feel like a prostitute's john. I totally understand how people fall in love with their therapists because you really do develop an intimate relationship, where the ebb and flow of your honesty and communication is critical to its success. Actually it sounds more like a marriage – albeit one in which you get invoiced for your partner's time.

My therapist is a woman, however, so I am unlikely to have that problem. But it did get me thinking about how lucky I was to find someone so perfect for me immediately – and how rare this probably is. I also thought about real intimate relationships and how serendipitous all the best ones are. You just never know when you are meeting someone for the first time, that this person may turn out to be one of the most influential and special people in your life.

I guess the lesson in this is to always be open to possibility and accept even the most peculiar or boring invitation because you never actually know who you are going to meet. But I prefer the Paris Hilton quote, which has now made it into the dictionary, 'Dress cute where ever you go, life is too short to blend in.'

If I had set out to find a shrink with a sense of humour and a finely honed appreciation for footwear in the beginning, it would probably have been an almost impossible quest. The fact that I found someone that seemed nice and kind and appreciated my intellectual prowess and sense of purpose seemed good enough to start with. I accepted that this was more than enough for the process. That she has now turned out to be so much more, so subtly appropriate for me, is a gift and one that I would never have come to if I had just taken a recommendation from a friend.

And aren't all amazing relationships – with friends or boys – also wonderful, delightful, unexpected gifts? And to stay open to more of these we should probably accept a base level of decency from everyone we meet rather than being prescriptive about what they should be to us from the start. I definitely went through phases in my life when I believed that I had more than enough friends, but today I think differently. Everyone we meet brings something new into our lives, and can probably teach us a few new things. This week I feel really positive and open and I can't wait for next week when we can talk more about how this can impact my life. ]]> Mon, 05 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/biker-chick
I was excited and nervous – not so much for the ride but about being ill prepared in an unfamiliar situation. As soon as I arrived at the Harley Davidson dealership, however, all my reservations vanished. The Harley guys were absolute honeys and kitted us out with everything we'd need: helmet, jacket, gloves, the works. (I also spotted a super sexy pair of stiletto boots – I'm definitely going back for those!)

We set off from Cape Town, heading towards the Bainskloof Pass, and one of the first things I noticed is how I experienced the ride through all my senses: the smelly farms, the temperature dropping as we headed into mist, etc. Going round a corner, leaning into the bend, I almost felt like sticking my arm out and running my hand through the little waterfall next to us.

There were nine bikes in the pack, a couple of which were the new 2010 Electra Glide Ultra Limited touring bike, a very large, super comfortable ride with all the technology you could ask for. My rider Louis was the leader of the pack, so he used a GPS pre-programmed with the route and a shortwave radio to stay in touch with the other riders, and, of course a radio and CD player.

For the first few legs of the trip we did not listen to music and I loved the luxury of riding in silence for a few hours. Thinking and listening to all the stuff in my head and making sense of it all. And doing all of this while the beautiful landscape was flying past. Later, Louis did put on some music. And his choice proved that he's probably not that tough after all – he chose Katie Melua.

Riding pillion is rather intimate, and there may be a few ladies who wouldn't enjoy holding onto a stranger all day long. But I'm a very affectionate, tactile kind of girl and really loved the way our bodies bonded and communicated while riding together. I do get the feeling that the more in sync you two are the safer the ride is, although I was told it wasn't necessary to hold on. I chose to hold onto my big biker boy and really appreciated the occasional squeeze on the knee, a thumps-up from him as a question and then a thumbs-up from me in response. Clearly if you could do this with your man, it would be 100 times better.

I had a good laugh at this peculiar tribe we call the male race, though. They really are something else. As Louis was the leader of the pack, he briefed all the other press riders carefully on the rules of formation riding before we set out from Cape Town. After the second stop he agreed that they could go ahead of the pack at times, once we hit the open road, to test the new bikes, but hey, give a boy a pinkie... Try as he might to rein them back in again, he soon realised that it was very difficult the keep this pack in formation and had to eventually throw in the towel. These boys were just given a new toy and they were not going to be harnessed in. They wanted to hit the road and hit it hard, and so they did!

I must admit I enjoyed being one of only two ladies surrounded by 12 awesome guys – nothing wrong with that. And, much as it was wonderful to arrive the afternoon, jump in a shower and transform into a pretty, sexy, feminine lady for dinner, it was awesome to just be a biker chick during the day – no fuss, just one of the boys, riding the Harleys. I learned there was a club (or a chapter as the riders call it) called the Ladies of Harley. It would be interesting to go on a similar ride with them and see how different the vibe might be, though.

When we arrived at our final destination in Knysna, I was a bit perturbed to see three girls in the new group of journalists were all glitz and glamour – and about to join us on a sunset cruise. I knew my hair was mess when I took that helmet off and the last time my lips saw lipstick was 9am that morning. But then I realised none of this really mattered. I was on such a high from the two days of riding, that I really couldn't care less about my hair or dirty jeans. I had arrived! I felt an amazing sense of achievement. I was one of them now. I'd fallen in love with riding a Harley and couldn't wait to get back onto one. Lipstick or no lipstick. ]]> Fri, 02 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/my-weeks-of-chemo-2-lifes-plan Desperate Housewives at the time intended. I'd go for a long run (and by that I mean slow jog, bordering on quick walk) four times a week and yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I had home-made fruit salad every morning, except on weekends when breakfast generally became a quarter pounder with cheese after a night out.

By my 22nd birthday, my Greater Scheme of Life plan was pretty much worked out. I had two years left to study and had been assigned articles at one of the most prestigious law firms in the country. I had (and still have) a wonderful boyfriend, but was giving myself four more years before I started thinking about settling down. I had no reason to doubt that things would work out perfectly because they always had.

This whole cancer thing can only be described as obnoxious. I can no longer believe that the world will fall into place around me, and can't rely on myself anymore to make it happen. Life as a whole has become uncertain. When I was first diagnosed, after the shock and fear wore off I managed to convince myself that I was actually really lucky to have gotten the cancer that I did. Hodgkin's is very curable. My doctor gave me an 80% chance of a complete cure after six months of treatment. I felt like I had won the cancer lottery. I got through each session knowing that in six months time I'd be able to start my life again. I planned a holiday to stay with my best friend in Mauritius, and pictured myself back in December with a tan and a short head of hair.

I thought I was envisioning an end, keeping myself going through the longest months of my life. What I was really doing though, was setting myself up for serious disappointment. After my first CT scan at two months my doctor told me that I would definitely need four to six weeks of radiation after my treatment. In hindsight this ranks only about a three on the scale of one to shit, but at the time it was a blow that warranted an afternoon of crying.

After my second scan I was convinced the battle was over. My allotted six months would soon be up, and I knew that it was expected that I would be tumour-free at this stage. Unfortunately, I hadn't quite grasped the nature of the beast. I may have been lucky in comparison to Lance Armstrong, or Izzy on Grey's Anatomy, or even Britney Spears (I know she never had cancer. I'm just really happy I'm not her), but I still have a life threatening illness and it would be a little bit moronic to expect never to be scared. Last week we discovered two of the tumours in my chest haven't shrunk at all in the last couple of months. It seems they have become resistant to the treatment, but I won't know for sure until I've finished my last couple of sessions and had another scan. There is now a real possibility that I'll have to get a much stronger kind of chemo, with stem cell transplants, and other scary things I don't really understand. The scariest thing though, is realising that I have absolutely no control over this at all.

Two weeks ago my boyfriend's father had a heart attack. He was 57 and healthy. There was no warning, no reason. He was here, and then was gone – along with the countless unmade memories of holidays, of retirement, of grandchildren… Unfortunately life has another plan. And it really, really sucks.

Everyone at some time will be confronted by the fact that, whatever the power of the human body and spirit, life is truly fragile. One moment you're planning a fishing trip, the next you're mourning a father. If I have learned anything so far in this experience it's that no matter how hard you try, you can never write your own story. You can only take what you're given and use it as best you can and hope that, somehow, you get what you want from life. ]]> Wed, 30 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/thoughts-on-therapy-3
And so when I got to the rooms for my designated time and plonked myself down on the couch, luxury coffee from across the road in hand, I really couldn't think of anything to say that really progressed our discussion. All I could really think of was how much my assistant at work was annoying me and how she never did anything that I asked of her. Really. Nothing. Even when I said please and thank you a lot and told her how much I appreciated her help.

'You mean you thank her for not doing what you asked of her?' The Therapist enquired.

Even worse, actually, I mostly apologise for even asking it of her. 'Sorry,' I say, 'but please could you...'

Now you may think, based on this pathetic little exchange, that I am some sort of doormat, that I am a simpering, shy and retiring sort of gal. Let me put that to rest – I am quite patently not. I am a kick-ass chick who strides through life with plenty of confidence and a clear sense of identity. I am the girl that has been accused by her family her entire life of being 'difficult and demanding'.

But, you see, I am also the girl that was put into a management position in my brief life in England and was then systematically bullied for being South African in my tone – to the point where I was told to put the word 'please' in the front of the sentence rather than at the end, as this syntax contributed to my perceived 'bad tone'. I started to apologise then for asking anything of anyone and it has now become stuck.

The wise and lovely Therapist shook her head and said no. No, it did not start there, you see. It actually started long before when I was made to feel as if I was being demanding by asking for what I needed as a child. When you are three and you ask for something, you simply think that it is a need that must be filled. You have no other agenda at this age. When I was labelled as 'difficult and demanding', I was just asking for my needs to be filled but soon learned that this was too much to ask for. It was, in fact, then that I started to apologise.

Well, well. Now isn't that interesting.

And then came the breakthrough. I realised in that moment that I am too scared to ask for my needs to be met in relationships as well – just in case I am exposed as 'too demanding'. And the net result of this is that I am not true to myself at all in these circumstances and I am actually a doormat. Bloody hell, my worst nightmare.

And so how does this relate to understanding what my value is in a relationship? Well, unfortunately we have to examine the links next week because our time is up for now. ]]> Mon, 28 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/my-weeks-of-chemo-1 I'm too young for this, but the truth is that every person in the world is either too young or too old for chemotherapy. Yet it's as unexpected and as petrifying regardless.

At my last chemo session I overheard one visitor speaking about what an eye-opener being there with her friend was. (As cancer patients we are allowed to eves-drop. We're also allowed to spend money recklessly and lift our wigs in public places to guilt people into giving us good service. I swear, it's in the rule book.) This woman reminded me of what I'd already discovered from so many of my friends: if you haven't had chemo, you probably don't know a thing about chemo. And you really can't learn it from Grey's Anatomy. This is quite scary considering that, according to my fabulous oncologist, approximately 20% of us will have chemo in our lifetime.

I hope my blogs will demystify the process a bit; give the clueless at least one clue. I don't want to go into all the gory side-effects, but suffice it to say that it affects everything and that as soon as you feel normal something else happens and you realise that you're not.

A TYPICAL DAY AT CHEMO…
Step 1
I always arrive on time for my appointment and always wait for around an hour and a half. My doctor is brilliant and deals with a lot of dying people. I can wait.

Step 2
Get my blood taken to make sure my white blood count levels are high enough so I won't peg if I get the chemo. Don't want to peg. If they're low, I inject myself with bone-marrow stimulating medicine and go back in a couple of days.

Step 3
Go in for my appointment. Get chemo script and top up on painkillers and good doctorly advice on the side-effects. Always get reminded I'm doing well. (I really love her!)

Step 4
Play the authorization game. Right now I pretty much hate my medical aid company, even though they're coughing up a couple hundred thousand to keep me alive. I suppose I would also be reluctant if I was them, it's a lot of money, but I'm skeptical of institutions that make it more difficult for cancer patients to start their treatment because they want to save money. Luckily the centre I'm at organises just about everything for you, and even the lady that consults with the medical aids for us is lovely.

Step 5
Give the chemist the script. They mix the drugs wearing so much protective gear they look like they're about to take a space walk. Stoked that this stuff is going into my body. Awesome.

Step 6
I get my miracle anti-nausea drug. I have had some incidences, but in real terms, I have not thrown up once. I'm completely amazed that anyone survived chemo four years ago, before this drug was available. Sometimes, when I can't imagine feeling any worse, I think about that and count my blessings. The chemist is, as I'm sure you've guessed, lovely.
The medical aid is now refusing to authorise the miraculous anti-nausea drug because it is expensive. Clearly the company directors feel that cheap movies and gym memberships are a fine consolation.

THE CHEMO
I am now under the jurisdiction of the nurses. Somehow they're always cheerful and remember all the details of my family and friends. They also seem to know everything about every treatment, which is really impressive considering the hundreds of different cancers out there. They are one of the few things I'll miss when I'm done.

The room has about 20 lazy-back chairs and three beds for the really tired guys. One of the (lovely) nurses puts a needle into my hand, the drip is attached, and it begins. I have two anti-side-effect bags first, followed by the four chemo bags, taking about three hours in all. I'm lucid for about an hour before I begin getting spaced out and a headache.

I spend a lot of my time dreading the last chemo bag. It's called DTIC and one of the doctors described it as 'a pot scourer on the veins'. Firstly, I'd like to thank him for a wonderful mental image. But in all honesty, it hurts like a bitch. Sometimes it feels like needles repeatedly stabbing me all over my arm; like it's under a sewing machine.

But all treatments are different, and all people are affected differently. One woman sits across from me most sessions and always wears smart suits and beautiful shoes. She comes straight from work and seems to spend her time responding to e-mails. Thereafter she apparently goes to Woolies to do her weekly shop. I'm very impressed, and a little bit jealous.

Most of the people you meet at chemo are amazing. Each patient has a story to tell, whether heart-breaking or encouraging. The truth in the room is virtually tangible: some can be seen in strength, and some in a resignation that can only occur in people who have really been through it. I haven't quite decided on my story yet. I know that this has been the hardest period of my life so far, and right now can't believe that I will ever experience anything harder. But the message of the masses is that we get through it. Life gets back on track and a new stream of patients are forced to deal with the Big Life Questions. The real sadness is that the care and respect found in oncology rooms is not reflected in the world outside. As scary as it is being here, I'm a little scared to return to the world. I can only hope that I learn a thing or two. ]]> Wed, 23 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/thoughts-on-therapy-2
And so over the first few weeks we have ascertained that I have some key issues that need some work. Uhm, yes. That was the point I suspect.

The first and most fundamental of my particular brand of crazy is broadly an issue with my intimate relationships. Boyfriends are an area that I don't appear to be getting right and we need to find out why. Secondly, my relationship with my parents, most specifically with The Mother, needs a bit of tweaking and possibly a bit of loosening of the ties that bind. And finally, we have most recently uncovered a twist here and there with my new career and who I am in this new milieu.

And so last week we were starting at the very beginning, because, I am told, it is a very good place to start. We were chatting about relationships – what my expectations were and how I had landed up where I am currently – on the brink of ending my twenties, alone and mostly just confused.

You see, while I am definitely not a conventional person, I do actually want to get married. I grew up always believing that I would get married, and despite my un-maturing revolutionary approach to life, I still want the big wedding dress (and shoes, more specifically) and the whole dancing in the moonlight as a bride on my special day shtick. Then I told The Therapist something that I had never admitted before. I told her how there were girls I knew from school who were not very fun or interesting and really not terribly pretty who had got married and that it really confused me. I simply couldn't understand how that could be fair.

What? Seriously, I said that. I knew that I sounded like a complete brat, but really, if they can find someone willing to marry them, how come I am single? Short of stamping my foot and folding my arms aggressively across my chest like a sulky teenager, I had pretty much exposed the very worst of my character. But it really was what I was thinking and there really isn't any point to therapy if you are not going to go into it, warts and all.

The wise and lovely Therapist just nodded, asking what getting married really represents to me.

'I want to be chosen,' I explained. 'I want someone to love me enough to choose me, to stand up in front of all our friends and families and publically say that from all the girls in the world, he has chosen me to love and spend his life with. I want to be that girl for someone.'

And that is why I am so hard on the ones that have got this right. By being single amongst all my peers, I feel like the girl who is left standing there once all the other girls have been chosen for the teams on the sports field. I feel like I am not good enough but I don't know why.

The Therapist made some notes, 'Defining your value in a relationship is something to work on next time, but I'm sorry our time is up for this week.' ]]> Mon, 21 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/thoughts-on-therapy-1
The idea of using a therapist that someone else had used seemed akin to the sharing of a toothbrush – way too intimate and just a little bit unhygienic. So I really did want to find one of my own. It's funny how one can be possessive over something as professional as a head doctor, but there it is. No sharing allowed in this department.

I set about it in the age old tradition of deploying Google. With a degree in psychology, I was au fait with the jargon that was used to describe types of therapy on offer – and I was quite clear that I didn't want to go the route of Freudian or Jungian therapy. Mostly because I have little patience for attributing all quirkiness to the failure of our parents to raise us right. But also because these are somewhat intense therapies that require a LONG investment and many months before a breakthrough is achieved. And this can be a super-costly approach, something I cannot really afford.

So I found a cognitive behavioural therapy practice a bit of a trek from home-base that no one else had suggested. I felt that this was my choice, my safe place, and duly called up and made an appointment. I got one right away.

I was pretty trepidare on arrival for my first session, especially when greeted by a room that was tastefully decorated with a large sofa, prominently positioned, accessorised only by a large box of tissues. Now being a gratuitous crier in situations where it has no real importance (like in movies, adverts, happy greetings at airports, etc) and gloriously stoic in the great tradition of my British parents in all appropriately traumatic ones, I was slightly offended by the tissues. But I took my place on the sofa and thus began my journey into self awareness and a tiny bit of self actualisation.

The first order of business was, of course, to make absolutely clear that this was not to be a self indulgent couple of years of navel gazing. I may actually have used those exact words when I introduced myself The Therapist. I had a few small problems that needed fixing, in the most practical way possible, and I wasn't about to re-mortgage my home to pay for this. It needed to be swift, pragmatic and focussed. Oh, and I wasn't about to make this an exercise in crying either, so the tissues were unnecessary.

It was the way she smiled sweetly at me that made me realise that I was maybe saying a bit too much about myself and my control issues right off the bat. I stopped and then started again saying, 'Sorry, I hope you understand that I can't afford to be in therapy for more than a few months, and I really want to work some stuff out. But I trust that you know more than I do, so please take what ever approach you need.'

Then she smiled properly and told me that we were probably going to be fine on this journey together.
]]> Mon, 14 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-handshake
That doesn't mean I don't want to sleep with him. If anything I think the only way to get over this one is to get under him – because until I know if he's any good in the sack, I will always have the suspicion that he isn't.

The gang and I headed out to a bar and were jostling for position between some of the nicest, straightest-looking men anyone of us has seen in a long time. I've always had the suspicion that somewhere in Cape Town there was a place where all the hot guys were going, I just didn't know where it was. We might have found it or maybe it was the Jack and lime.

We were talking to two cute boys when Grace poked me in the ribs. There across the room was Blue-Eyed Boy. Shit. He spotted us, and headed over. I had to practically bite my tongue to stop myself shouting: 'Why haven't you called?!' Instead I told myself, 'Be cool, Lola.'

Seeing him again changed my mind about how hot he actually was. Was it all in my head? But the ensuing conversation made me realise that there was definitely something about this guy. Maybe it was just the challenge of him clearly not being that into me or maybe it was because it's been a while and I am a sucker for blue-eyed boys.

I lost interest in the two cute boys I was initially chatting to and thinking back, it didn't matter how many other better-looking, more appropriate men there were in that heaving bar of hormones – it was Blue-Eyed Boy or bust. When his mate came over, I tried gingerly to make conversation, but the bromance didn't allow for a blonde gal's interference. In the end his friend won, and off they went into the throws of the crowd while The Killers asked 'Are we human, or we dancer?'

By then my stiletto boots were killing me. I had stupidly arranged breakfast with a girlfriend (which was only a few hours away), and the only thing between me and the exit was Blue-Eyed Boy.

'So, I'm going to head on out now,' I said as I crossed his path.
'Where else you going?' [Is it only South Africans who always have to have somewhere else to be going to? Can we not just go to one place and stay there?]
'Nowhere, I'm going to continue the evening on my balcony.'
'Oh, we're going to J--------'
'So, does that mean you're not coming home with me?'
'No, I can.'

Score!

Or so I thought. The next thing, from out of nowhere appears Giselle Bundchen mixed with Halle Berry.

'Blue, you're still here. I came back, the other place was closed and I wanted to see you,' she says. 'Oh, hi,' Halle Bundchen finishes, finally noticing me, and reaches out to shake my hand.

Blindsided in the second-last minute of the game, damn. There was no way I could come back from this one – sucker punched with the handshake. The handshake! The ultimate weapon in the art of war. Nothing says 'you are not a threat to me and I will win this one' more than the handshake. I know because I have successfully played this maneuver on previous occasions.

Outplayed and outclassed, I conceded defeat. Another unrequited rhymes- with- luck! Oh well, as a Stormers fan I know you can't win them all, but at least I have fun playing! And who knows what next week will bring?
]]> Wed, 09 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-10
It's been 10 weeks now and I feel mostly fine. Sure, I still think about him and get a bit sad or angry. Actually I feel sorry for myself for a little while on most days – but I don't cry or wail or anything like that. And even if I just found myself a rebound fling, I know that it wouldn't really change the way I feel inside. Although almost certainly it would put a spring in my step!

I just feel that I haven't completely squared away what happened. Because I can't apply any logic to it, I really don't know how to rationalise it, understand it and see the outcome as real. Oh, don't worry, I know he's not coming back – and I am not sure I would take him back if he did – I just can't really seem to make any sense of it and move on. See, it's pathetic, I know.

But then something happens and I think that the picture is so much bigger than just the everyday trappings of a relationship. For example, I was reading the Saturday papers the other day – the property section just for fun. And I came across a picture of his sister's house. It was up for sale. That's some big news. I spent a lot of time in that house over the years and his sister and I were close. We don't talk anymore because it's too hard for me and too complicated for her, but selling her house... that's big news. And I only found out because I read about it in the paper.

Over the years the month of Ramadan was always an interesting time for our relationship. As a Muslim, he used to mostly observe the practices of the holy month and as an agnostic, I used to respect these and participate in quite a lot of the eating parts. But it always shifted our actions and behaviour in some way and we used to land up spending quite a lot more time with his family. It's very alienating to be on the outside of this now. I miss his dad and I know that this year would be particularly hard without his mom's cooking as she passed away just eight months ago. But I can't offer any support or comfort. I have no part to play in this anymore and it feels very isolating.

I spoke to the shrink about this in our last session and she said that as long as I am actually having emotional responses to these things, I am not over him. But she also said that just because I have not moved on yet, does not make it wrong because everyone moves at their own pace. So why did that feel like a platitude? And why do I still feel desperate to be completely over him?

I realise that I still have a lot of work to do to work through this – particularly my own responses to it. I am intrigued as to why I seem to feel the loss more around elements relating to his family, traditions and practices – and therefore what this says about my own sense of self and security. And then I realise that I have stopped worrying about him, per se, and am now focused, as I should be one how it relates to me. I am now the object; it is no longer about the demise of the relationship. And I think that this is moving forward. It is moving forward in a constructive way and I am just a little bit proud of myself.
]]> Mon, 07 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-locals
The initial excitement and nervousness was replaced by anxiety and remorse. I shouldn't have made such a big deal about the cockroach. I should've laughed more at his jokes. Did he even make any jokes? Maybe getting into an esoteric conversation with our tourist guests about reincarnation, astrology and astro-travelling was a little bit too out there for a private school boy? If it was The Secret that had brought him to me, would it be this revelation that took him away? Maybe. And we were such a good astrological match. I'm Virgo. He's Taurus. I really was prepared to take the bull by the horns.

I sent an SMS saying 'Great seeing you and next time drinks are on me'. I haven't heard back. So I was glad to get out last Wednesday night and attend a birthday party at Caveau. Being with my girlfriends and drinking copious amounts of wine has always put all ills right.

At the table next to us were a bunch of Brits. I have always been partial to foreigners; there's something about a man with an accent. My friend, Jenny, jokes that if a man has eaten airplane food in the last 48 hours I will find him. I have fallen in love with men while standing in the queue at Pick 'n Pay just listening to them talk. Of course as soon as they turn around the illusion is shattered, but it was always great while it lasted. I once had a brief affair with a French man just because I liked the way he said my name. After a while the whole accent thing started to feel affected.

But back to the Brits. The guys were eyeing us and we were eyeing them. I took one for the team and tapped the one closest to me.

'Hi, can I borrow your light.'

'Ja, sure hey,' says this straight-out-of-Pretoria accent.

WTF?! False advertising! He was wearing an England Rugby shirt and I would've sworn I heard a British accent. I excused myself to the bathroom and let my friends deal with the local. Thank goodness we aren't all accent-snobs.

On my way back from the loo I saw the damndest thing. I saw Jesus. Seriously. This bloke was sitting with long hair and a beard in a tan-coloured jacket, eating a burger. It always amazes me who people channel and how there really is something for everyone. I can't remember which dead guy said 'One man's meat is another man's poison', but he was right! I have seen umpteen Tom Cruises (personally a bad look at any stage) and lately High School Musical-looking boys, but seeing Jesus was a first. Joan Osborne was right, what if God was one of us?

When I got back to the girls I saw our table had merged with the boys'.

'Lola' Grace shouted. 'Come meet Paul, he's from London'.

Big deal, she's met someone who lives in the same town as the Queen. I just saw the son of God – but he couldn't tell me if Blue-Eyed Boy would call next week.
]]> Wed, 02 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-9
I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the heaviness of the air around me, the feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me to run away as quickly as possible so that this conversation couldn't happen. I remember the look on his face and the tension in his body. I remember thinking that I really didn't have time to have my life turned upside down because I needed to go and see a show from a new designer in 20 minutes.

Then there was the blur that set in from that moment till about three days later when, starving and broken, I headed back home from the fashion week, with my life utterly different from how it was when I had set out only 10 days before. The pain was so raw and the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again, so strong. And that was when I decided to start this blog and write down how I felt, no matter what. And just this short time later I find myself back at another fashion week, unable to stop thinking about the last time. I find myself unable to stop wishing it all away so that I could return to who I was when I arrived at that one, happy and in love.

But of course I can't. And so getting through this past week has been a bit tough. I have cycled through all the emotions again – disbelief, anger, sorrow and resignation. Surviving on sleep deprivation and the worst type of canteen food, I have pushed aside all the dark thoughts and just focused on getting through it. I sat in the shows, remembering how it felt as if it was happening all over again. And then the shows were over, the set started coming down, the models stripped off the hair, makeup and fantasy garments and everything went back to real life.

And so I sit here at my desk, reenergising and rebuilding, and I realise that I have actually completed an entire cycle. I have passed in, though, and out the other side and I am still standing. I am still able to laugh with my friends, still able to work and focus and commit myself to new projects. I have caught up on long conversations with my mother, sister, friends and work associates and am now back on track with my life.

I actually think that I am now ready to spend some time on my own at home – not rushing around filling up my time with work and friends. I think that this week really will be the one where I reflect a bit and take time to be present in my thoughts and maybe do a bit of cooking and tidying up around the house and feel at peace again with who I am and my place in the world.

I know it will be scary facing up to being alone, but it has to happen if I am to move forward. My shrink is right, I need to get some balance back in my life and so this is the week to start this process. By the way, my shrink also thinks that we need to start a list for all the issues we need to tackle in our sessions. Now that is really scary. But I can't think about that right now. Maybe next week?
]]> Mon, 31 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/squashed
I never got a reply back.

Surely he got my message? Right? I don't have the function on my cellphone that tells me if a recipient received my message and read it. Note to self: get that function. That has to be the best application, ever. Never mind Caller ID. By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was pretty anxious. I took my life into my Nokia hands and SMSed him: 'So, we on for tomorrow?'

Instant reply: 'Yes, how about a drink at Winchester Mansions.'

Winchester Mansions is halfway between our respective abodes, reinforcing my first impression that he's funny, sexy, smart and considerate. At that point it dawned on me that there is a God and that he has forgiven me. Needless to say I was a jack rabbit at work on Thursday. By the time 8pm came along it was a miracle my shaking hands could get the key in the ignition, let alone drive me to the hotel.

We arrived at the same time, from different directions. Blue shirt, blue jeans, blue eyes and as tall as I remembered. The awkward peck on cheek and nice-to-see-you over with, we searched for a table outside, but then acknowledging that I was actually cold we ventured indoors. The main room was full, but from previous visits I knew of a semi-private room near the bathrooms. It was empty. Just me, Blue-Eyed Boy and two roomy leather couches.

The 'date' began simple enough, getting to know each other and talking about our travel experiences. And then out of a corner of my eye I saw it. A cockroach crawling across the floor. My toes immediately curled up and the rest of my body hopped onto the couch. 'Cockroach!' I practically shrieked.

Blue-Eyed Boy just looked at me. 'I hate cockroaches,' he said, but refused to kill it.

'What?!' I thought. 'This is Sea Point dude; there are trillions more where this one came from. They will outlast all of us in a nuclear war. Kill. The. Cockroach.'

What did he do? He got up and shooed it away. You shoo dogs and cats, not cockroaches.

Maybe he was just trying to show his sensitive side, and the cockroach was gone after all, so the conversation resumed. But then it came back again, crawling towards me. Jiggling my open-toe-stiletto-clad feet a little in its direction, the cockroach made a diversion. Back to talk about Thailand.

A few minutes later and halfway around the world, I needed the loo. As I stood up, the cockroach reappeared, as if to escort me. I prayed Blue-Eyed Boy would turn his back a little so I could scrunch the damn thing as I walked past. Except then I would feel its gooey death on my little pinky toe. Urgh.

At that moment a group of tourists walked in, and nearing us, I warned them of Sea Point's wildlife. Thankfully, one of the gentlemen in the group promptly stood on the cockroach. 'Damn, did I just emasculate Blue-Eyed Boy?' I asked myself. Frankly I didn't care; I was finally able to relieve myself and when returning, would be able to concentrate on every word he said.

When I got back I saw my savior group of tourists was now sitting on my side of our couch, engaging Blue-Eyed Boy in conversation. So I did the only thing I could do. I sat down and joined in.

So much for concentrating on his every word... I'll fill you in on the rest next week.

>> The Locals

]]> Wed, 26 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-8
And so from an emotional stand point, I'm finding this long process of becoming whole again just grindingly hard. It's been eight weeks since we broke up and I am still hurt and confused and sometimes it's just easier to push all of the dark thoughts aside and get on with things. Sometimes I don't really want to be growing and becoming a better, more complete person. Sometimes I just want to forget and go dancing.

Luckily I have friends who are more than happy to go dancing with me. And I'm finding that I'm actually having fun. There's a wonderful pleasure in finding you're able to laugh from your belly again. Taking comfort from the gentle teasing of girl friends that just want your happiness and success – but don't let you get away with too much. There's an unparalleled joy in going out into your city and rediscovering all the congenial places and fun activities it has to offer.

And most of the time I can forget. Of course he comes up in conversations every now and again. And there's a relief in realising that I'm not alone as the girls always seem to have a story that beats mine – from which they have recovered. But for the most part we go out and laugh at people and their funny outfits and the guys who dance like their dads and enjoy some delicious food and totally overpriced cocktails and just have fun. And then I get home and crawl into bed and sleep.

It's these moments that make me realise my life is going to go on and it's actually not all bad. I forget sometimes about the joys of coupledom and relish the freedom and fun of living the single life. I remember what it was like before, when I lived loud and proudly solo, just totally independent and self sufficient and whole. And I know that this is not a bad place to be. I'm definitely starting to piece it all back together.

But all this living it up is also taking its toll. And I am exhausted. The shrink is concerned that I'm not taking enough time to reenergise – by just being in my own space and centred in my own thoughts. I'm concerned that just being alone quietly at home will become a safe habit and that I'll never want to go back out there again. But I'm so very tired. Emotionally and physically, this process is just a little overwhelming at times and I know that I need to rest.

And so, next week I need to find a place of compromise. I need to continue to go out and have fun and try and heal through laughter and the love of friends. But I also need to introduce some spaces in between all this gallivanting to reflect and restore, to shore up my energy and emotional resources so that the process of rebuilding can continue. But right now I've got to run. It's dinner with old mates in Camps Bay and you know it's going to be a laugh. I will tell you all about it next week.
]]> Mon, 24 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/in-bed-by-10
When I got invited to one of these 'parties' this week, I tried fooling myself by thinking I was really just going out for a couple of drinks with the girls at someone's house, where maybe I'd meet someone or maybe I wouldn't. But the 'BYOB (bring your own booze) and a single person of the opposite sex' invite made me cringe. Also, if I had single straight men to bring, would I need to be at a singles party? And don't we know all each other's friends anyway?

I had somehow managed to convince myself that I was really going just to support my friend, Grace, and that it would only be a bunch of friends getting together and therefore I really wouldn't have any expectations. But I still spent a considerable amount of time on my makeup. And had my hair blow-dried. And tried on a whole lot of clothes. Because you never know. Maybe, just maybe, I would be telling people the night 'we' met I had no intention of going out and really didn't think I'd meet anyone. So with all that in mind, I finally decided on the purple dress and Spanx underwear – the ones that make my boobs look bigger and arse smaller.

I didn't have any single guys to bring, so with a couple extra bottles as consolation I kept my eye on the door for the blokes other friends had roped in. And in He walked, Blue-Eyed Boy. 'Be cool, just be cool,' I told myself. Yes, he was tall, dark and very handsome. Who was this guy and which friend of mine had been hiding him?!

And then, without even trying, there he was, in front of me, talking to me, and only me. Of course I had to play it somewhat cool and excused myself. Had to make sure my lipstick was on my lips and not my teeth, and had to appear to mingle and not be too available. These damn rules! I don't believe in them (I don't even know most of them, I swear) but at times of extreme attraction I find myself playing them.

Eye contact continued from across the room and it was pretty 'coincidental' how we both found ourselves at the kitchen table pouring glasses of wine.

'Last one for me,' I said, trying to sip provocatively.
'It's still early,' he countered.
'Yes, but my mother says: If you're not in bed by 10, go home.'

OK, just for the record, my mother would never say anything like that. My birds-and-bees chat was me coming home one day from school with a book Everything A Girl Should Know placed on my pillow.

'So will you take me home?' he asked coyly.
'Um, well (Shit! I'm wearing Spanx!)… I can certainly give you a lift if it's in my direction.'
'Ok.'
'OK.'

I surreptitious eyeballed high-fives with friends and we drove off in my car. One of the good things about Cape Town is that it's a small place, so you can pretty much get anywhere in 15 minutes. When you're riding in cars with hot boys, it's also a bad thing.

Idling outside his house, he asked if I'd like to come up. But I just couldn't go in. I had an evening bag in which my cellphone barely fit, never mind the Spanx, and there was no way in hell I was taking them off in front of him. Damn these modern chastity belts!

But even after being rejected, he took my number! More about that next week…

>> Squashed

]]> Wed, 19 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-7
It has now been just over seven weeks since my forever came to an end. Is seven weeks enough time to grieve over the passing of such a significant emotional investment? Is it enough time to move on, let go and plan a new future? Is it enough time to be ready to make a fresh start with someone completely new? For me it is definitely not. I can't imagine how it could possibly be. Of course I don't think of him as much as I used to. I have made wonderfully empowering strides forward in terms of letting go and moving forward. But they are just steps on a much longer journey.

Some of my friends think that it is just rebound sex for him. They keep reminding me that men are different to women. And that they move on to move on, rather than having it be an emotional process. Of course. And that would be very helpful if I didn't know him as well as I do. If I didn't know that he is an incorrigible and gratuitous romantic who just adores the whole being in love thing. Who loves to be all coupled up, who dreams of weddings more than most girls do.

Most of my friends think that a spot of rebound sex would also do me the world of good. Again, most helpful of them. As if the movie-version of my life was playing out in front of them, and all I needed to do was walk into a bar/restaurant/work environment/location of choice and a suitably hot and single man would gaze at me wolfishly and off I would go for a bit of restorative rumpy pumpy. But that really doesn't work quite so well when all the men at work are gay and most of the men in bars and restaurants are married or pretty skanky. Even if I remotely wanted to.

And yet, giving testament to the healing process, I remain relatively glass-half-full. When I was told the news of the new girl, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I continue to be undoubtedly confused as to how he has managed to move on so briskly. And I am quite sad as I need to process a fresh reminder that this relationship is now well and truly over. But I am also a bit relieved. I simply cannot pretend that he is coming back to me. I can't sit around waiting for him to come to his senses and bang down my door to get back together with me.

And that realisation, that he is definitely not coming back, is liberating. It gives me permission to really let go. It frees me to stop focussing on what happened and start honing in on exactly what I want my new future to look like. It is motivating me to concentrate on what I want from my future loves. And that no longer scares me like it used to.

Lord knows I am not ready to go into new man-territories yet, but I am certainly ready to get ready for it. It may even be a bit exciting. All that brokenness is starting to heal, and who knows what new discoveries next week will bring.
]]> Mon, 17 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-6
It's bizarre how, when you have a traumatic experience like this, you suddenly find so many other people in your orbit that are going through similar experiences. And you inevitably start to drift closer together. In the past six weeks I have become friendly with a girl who is also trying to cope with the end of a long-term relationship. We actually laugh together (a lot) and compare notes on our shrink experiences and know what it's like when you have a sudden memory of something that you did together. It's comforting to know you are not alone.

But as bad and harrowing as my own break up has been, hers was so much worse. And in that, I can't help but feel a guilty relief. He promised me forever, and meant it. We made plans for our life and family and home and travels. We dreamt of a life that was as intertwined as it had been for the nine years we had been together. But in all this, we had not made specific plans to marry in front of our friends and family. We had not finalised our children's names and how we were going to raise them in a mixed-faith family. We had not shared our finances and most expensive possessions with a certainty of an integrated, interdependent existence. We couldn't, because I always needed to feel strong and independent. And now I am so glad that I insisted on it.

My friend's relationship ended three weeks before her wedding. She told me how, on the day she was supposed to get married, she went and sat in the church and pictured how the day should have been. But wasn't. She told me how she had leaned on her mother to unravel the year of wedding planning in the small time frame they had available. How she had to get her own flat in a hurry, with no furniture. How she was still driving her ex-fiancé's car but had to get her own now. How the thought of him not being in her life has incomprehensible and so she would simply wait for him to come back. And I really hope that he does. She is beautiful and clever and funny and great at her cool job. But, for now, she is broken. Just like me.

Something tells me that there is a lesson in this. Holding on to your independence ensures a much less painful split, when it happens. But can you ever really commit to another person if you are holding on so tightly to your 'me-ness'? Isn't a forever relationship supposed to be about 'we-ness'? And maybe this realisation teaches me more than anything I have learned at the shrink so far. Maybe I was never 100% committed to my own relationship because I was always protecting myself just in case we broke up. And so we did.

Maybe I had more to do with this breakup than I ever realised. And, with that realisation comes the question of whether I would have been different had I known this is what the end result would be. And if I am honest, I don't actually know that I would. Would you?

  Week 1: In the beginning...
  Week 2: Cry me a river
  Week 3: The angry phase
  Week 4: Something begins to shift
  Week 5: Happy birthday to me

]]> Tue, 11 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-10
But the harrowing fact that I'll soon be spending countless hours in the gym trying to shed that last schwarma/bowl of homemade hibiscus ice-cream/syrupy waffle/caramel pancake I just couldn't resist will not get me down. I've resolved that there will be many transgressions today and that 'It's my last day!' will be the justification for every single one of them.

Somehow I manage to abandon my much-loved Egyptian cotton sheets and my Ultra pillow 'fitted with soft hollow fibers' at 5.40am to amble down to the quiet beach and catch the sun as it rises over the Red Sea. It's a spectacular sight as the red orb of the sun pulses up over the horizon and colours the entire ocean a throbbing red. This bold, red painting is actually one of the reasons for the Rea Sea's name. There's also the justification that it comes from the Bible when Moses crossed the 'sea of reeds', which then became the 'Red Sea' over time – amongst other lengthy, historical explanations which are probably best left for Wikipedia to explain (yawn!).

Next is a hearty breakfast of slices of yummy watermelon, orange and pineapple, rounded off with a caramel pancake (cue: 'It's my last day!'). My next mission is to fry my skin round the pool. I've unfortunately been a bit over-zealous with the application of sun block since we arrived so I'm not sporting a killer tan and have decided to take drastic action. Gulp, I'll just have to avoid my killjoy dermatologist for the next few months, as I know 'It's my last day!' won't cut it with her. (Wait a minute: guilt isn't allowed in heaven or on last days – ha!)

I get a bit of a shock though, when I go to reception to finalise my bill. I only called my Significant Other six times (and the longest call was a mere 11 minutes) but I'm being charged almost R1600 for the necessity! Stern note to self: either bring Significant Other along next time or dump him.

But undeterred ('It's my last day!'), and clutching my frugal Egyptian pounds, I head for Port Ghalib's Marina to plunder the curio shops bursting with obligatory souvenirs such as Sphinx and pyramid statues, intricate backgammon sets, delicate perfume bottles, camel toys and Sheesha pipes.

I pick up some beautiful silver and turquoise Ancient Egypt-themed pendants for a steal (about R100 each), two mini black and gold pyramids and then can't resist buying a statue of the black-skinned god Min. He's the god of fertility and orgiastic rites, and proudly clutches his erect penis in all depictions of his splendour. (I can already hear the COSMO staff tittering over their new mascot and the endless discussions his huge member will illicit.)

Later, we enjoy the most incredibly memorable last night. First the COSMO SUMMER Swimwear crew and I watch the sunset from the beach, then languish over our last Egyptian banquet and finally return to the jetty to watch the swollen full moon dapple the dark sea with dancing light. I've never seen a full moon like this before and I know I never will again. Heaven on earth indeed…

Somebody please kick me before I lose my COSMO street-cred and collapse into my weepy-gushing-Gwyneth-Paltrow-accepting-an-Oscar routine! But, it's been real.
]]> Mon, 10 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-9
In an effort to save my body and skin from irreversible damage and make sure I survive our last two days in paradise (if only barely), Rebecca has ordered me to the hotel's exclusive Six Senses Spa. Of course I protest (albeit a bit limply), but as COSMO's business development manager, Rebecca doesn't take no for an answer (and could probably even teach pyramid hawkers a trick or two).

We decide on a Cleopatra Facial – after all, the legendary queen of Egypt reputedly had flawless skin because she often bathed in milk and honey – to be followed up by a back massage.

My therapist Bua, from Thailand, is an absolute angel with a firm, feather-light touch and treats me to the most wonderful facial. She exfoliates my skin with crushed almond, smothers it in a milk and oat mask, refreshes it with cucumbers and rejuvenates both my face and arms with a languorous olive oil massage.

Thankfully though, she doesn't torture me with a Thai back massage – I had one of those in Krabi in Thailand two years ago and suffered back and neck pain for three days afterwards! No, Bua gives me one of those soothing deep massages where afterwards you toy with the idea of blowing your entire salary just to keep the masseuse's hands kneading your body. Yes, I'm an unapologetic massage whore and the way to my heart is through my shoulders and neck (swoon!).

Two hours later I emerge as my old self and famished from all the relaxation (I assume?). It's Egyptian night at Souq Al Hana restaurant so we're all in for a real feast. I also happen to be a pudding whore, so unfortunately I spend a large part of every meal hovering around the pudding buffet – in fact, I always visit the puddings first to satiate my greedy eyes and then retreat to the main meal options.

Tonight the tables are groaning under traditional Egyptian puddings. There's Konafa, an angel's hair pastry topped with whipped cream and crushed pistachio nuts, the coconut cake Harissa and Becklawa, which are little round balls that taste just like koeksisters. But I must behave myself so I peruse the main meal tables and load my (first) plate with Koushari, a combination of rice, spaghetti, macaroni, black lentils, chickpeas and onions, Okra Tagine, which is a tomato stew containing the local marrow okra, and Calamari Tagine. One chef opts to inform me that calamari is 'good for six'. I finally manage to work out that he means 'sex' when he elaborates further with 'You can go all night'. Priceless information indeed.

But the winning dish of the night is undoubtedly the Beef Schwarma. Chef Mustafa Mohammed explains that the beef is marinaded for an entire week in a mix of orange and lemon juice, white vinegar, nutmeg and garlic. Rebecca and I can't help but load up on two of them and manage to find out that they will be served the night before we leave Egypt – such luck!

The rest of our evening is spent watching dancers perform different traditional dances including a regal pharoah number, a Nubian jig and sensual belly dancing. Triple wow!

P.S. If you want to know more about what InterContinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort has to offer you, click here.
]]> Thu, 06 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-8
Nearly every single morning since our arrival in heaven, their call time has been just before the crack of dawn, so photographer Anthony Friend, his assistant Jonathan Gooch and videographer Roland Sweet can capture the beauty of our environment and the sizzling models in the perfectly clear light of sunrise. Any time after 8.30am in Egypt, equipment and makeup literally start to melt.

Yes, most mornings these worker bees arise at a criminal 4am so makeup and hair artist Huey Tilley, COSMO's Special Features Fashion Editor Robynne Kahn and her assistant Petro Steyn can primp and preen our hottie models into even sexier versions of themselves (I tend to not stand anywhere near their enviably toned bodies in my bikini if I can help it).

Today we're shooting a COSMO Swimwear cover option and Hang Ten. Model Maritza Veer is up first – she's from Worcester and has been affectionately nicknamed 'Casper, the friendly ghost' (aka Spokie) thanks to her pure-white skin, which almost shines when she poses next to Brazilian Olivia Redmond and French-Senegalese-Moroccan Jessi M'bengu. But once Maritza dons her green, white and gold bikini for her cover shoot, she's the ultimate staggeringly sexy swimwear model with her long blonde locks and lithe body. I almost start grinding my teeth though, when Olivia and Jessi explain that they can't gym too often, as they build up muscle too quickly (gimme a break already!).

Of course it's great fun watching Zack van der Merwe from Port Elizabeth and Curtis Hardin from Ontario, south of Los Angeles ('Not Ontario in Canada,' the hunky American explains), beef up before every shoot with pushups et al…

Anthony and Robynne work closely when it comes to the direction of each shot and they've certainly had their fair share of challenges including a renegade camera light pole nearly skewering Anthony's left eye, a wayward horse, a few grumpy camels and chubby Egyptian kids with inflatable sharks threatening to mess up their perfect shots. But everyone knows Anthony has captured the shot when Robynne delightedly shouts, 'Fucking gorgeous!' – and thankfully she bestows this ultimate accolade at least five times a day.

Today's specific challenge involves emptying the popular hotel jetty of its holidaymakers (and a fully-covered Egyptian girl determinedly clutching an inflatable crocodile) so we can shoot Zack jumping into the sea off the jetty. Thankfully they're excited about the shoot too and happily accommodate their exile. Zack has to hurl himself off the jetty six times but then 'Fucking gorgeous' rings out across the jetty and it's a wrap.

To celebrate another successful day of shooting, the team congregates over a chilled glass of white wine in the swanky Look Out Bar, while Maritza and Rebecca surprise us all by singing and playing the bar's piano like pros... Wow!
]]> Wed, 05 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-7
But what an expedition it was! Just outside the marina, which can house up to 1 000 larny yachts, we spotted not only five spinner dolphins gliding through the luminous blue waters but also our first turtle. It was incredible watching the turtle sail past us through large panoramic windows built into the bowels of our yellow submarine. Thankfully the bowels were air conditioned, although we did start feeling a bit seasick after an hour of avid watching.

The submarine's windows actually contain magnifying glass, so we were able to get rather intimate with loner balloonfish and schools of angelfish, trumpetfish and zebrafish, amongst many others. The reef is a veritable veggie patch filled with vivid-coloured coral including Mushroom Coral, Cabbage Coral, Leather Finger Coral and the aptly named Elephant Skin Coral. It was a bit unnerving getting so close to the coral, as it looked as though we were going to crash into it thanks to the magnifying glass – a crew member explained that it was in fact three metres below us. At one stage it even looked like we were going to flatten a scuba diver below us but thankfully he waved and smiled, so we knew he was safe.

We'd also been hoping to spot an elusive Dugong, which is a large grey mammal related to the manatee and elephant, but this enormous vegetarian obviously wasn't very impressed with the variety of veg in this specific patch of Red Sea.

To celebrate another day in paradise, Rebecca and I decided a sunset cocktail at The Palace's Look Out Bar, which looks out over the picturesque saltwater lagoon, was long overdue. I couldn't stop giggling though when Rebecca asked our waitress what cocktail she would recommend. 'I'm sorry but I'm not a professional alcoholic,' the young Muslim woman replied sweetly, completely oblivious to the shocked then guilt-stricken reaction on Rebecca's face. Lost in translation indeed.

Thankfully though, our waitress's strict religious leanings didn't influence the yumminess of my Nefertiti cocktail (vodka, watermelon liqueur and pineapple juice) and Rebecca's Banana Daiquiri. After all, both Rebecca and I are devout COSMO girls and what is a beach holiday without the worship of wicked cocktails?
]]> Tue, 04 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-6
Of course, COSMO's business development manager, Rebecca Whisson-Smeda, and I instantly regretted our gung-ho decision to ride these eternally-grumpy animals as soon as we spotted their 2m-high humps up close on Saturday afternoon. The fact that one particularly disgruntled camel was snapping aggressively at its owner Franco when we stepped out of the safe, cool confines of our van just added to our growing hysteria.

As it happened, this particular camel was mine and he'd been misnamed the innocuous 'Charlie' – 'Devil's Spawn' seemed more appropriate somehow. The lead camel, ridden by the slight Franco, had been dubbed Moses, and Rebecca got to ride Mike (hilarious name choice again, especially considering 'Mike' is Rebecca's dad's name, she pointed out).

I started giggling hysterically as soon as I straddled Charlie's colourful Bedouin-carpeted saddle. Even when he turned his long neck towards me and glowered, as only camels can. I couldn't quite suppress my fit of giggles. Rebecca, who looked almost colonial in her sweeping hat and beautiful scarf (all thanks to her mom's strict orders to keep herself covered at all times lest the sun fry her olive skin), was a lot more contained as our camels hoisted themselves off their knees in a seesaw motion onto their impossibly long, scrawny legs… although she did threaten to abort the mission immediately if there wasn't a rider to steer her camel. There wasn't – there was just Franco in the front on Moses, then Charlie connected via a rope to him and then Mike.

But, as our torturers started their sedate trip along the shore line and into the desert, all hysteria and threats dissolved. Both having ridden horses before, we were expecting to hang on for dear life by gripping with our thighs and feet. But camels are not known as 'the ships of the desert' for nothing. Their surprisingly smooth and rocking gait is thanks to the fact that they move both legs on one side and then both legs on the other. We just had to perch on their wide saddles with one hand holding onto a saddle handle for a bit of stability, but could allow our legs to swing freely.

Amazingly, their feet are also padded and absorb the shock of walking. In fact, I think Rebecca and I spent half of our two-hour trip chatting about the fabulousness of their incredibly soft-looking huge feet.

Thankfully Charlie and Mike turned out to be the best rides of our life (excuse the innuendo), and when we rolled off their backs as the sun set over the desert we wanted to thank them. But, as I was about to pat dear Charlie, Franco blocked me and told me I'd be safer stroking Moses – one look at the hatred in Charlie's impossibly big left eye showed Franco was right.

Rebecca gave Mike a good stroke or two but unfortunately also stroked over some sticky, foul-smelling black goo plastered on his neck. Only later did we realise this was the putrid liquid spat straight out of a camel's stomach – and there was no doubt in my mind that Grumpy Charlie had spat at poor Mike. Just glad I hadn't been his next victim!
]]> Mon, 03 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-5
Ok, so this last week it was my birthday. I am a birthday kind of gal. We all are in my family. You know, lots of presents, high levels of fuss, pre-birthday meals, drinks, parties and maybe even some tea somewhere posh before the birthday week is over. Because no birthday goes unnoticed in my family, and we all stretch it out as long as possible. I love birthdays.

In all the years that we were together, the ex never fully embraced the extent of our family birthday festivities, but he realised that once a year it was his turn too, and so he did his bit. Even though we have not spoken much in the five short weeks since the breakup, I never expected that my special day would pass by unacknowledged by someone who had been a part of my life for so long. I didn't expect actual physical presence, but I did think he would call at best, maybe only send a text message at worst. I expected that he would think of me, if only for a few minutes on that day.

And so my birthday dawned bright and clear. My mother woke me up at 06.55am because she is crazy and because that was the exact time of my birth. But I bounced out of bed and set about enjoying my day. I had more than 100 calls, texts, e-mails and Facebook messages. I had flowers delivered and a wonderful meal with my family. And by the time I went to bed that night – looking forward to another three or four days of various celebrations – I had still not had any contact from him.

I brushed it off. It was entirely possible that, without me to remind him repeatedly in the days leading up to my birthday, it may have slipped his mind. But I did expect that I would get a fraught and apologetic communication the next day. Almost even better, I thought. Make him squirm just a little bit. But the next day passed, and the next, until it was a full week and all my parties and presents were delivered and done. Still I had heard nothing. And so last night I thought that I would call him. Again. I just wanted to know what was up. I wanted to know why we had not chatted for a couple of weeks and why he hadn't wished me a happy birthday.

I could hear the phone ringing. And ringing. He didn't pick up. He didn't return the call. I sent a text, putting these questions into words in a light hearted way. No response. I'm not stupid, I get it. He has severed contact with me entirely. And he chose to mark this new phase in our (non) relationship with my birthday. Who. Does. That?

The irony of this situation is that, had he just sent a message last week, I would have continued to move forward with my life. I would have been sad, but carried on taking baby steps into the future. Instead I am angry and obsessing about him. Ah, the cruel twistedness of it all! Maybe next week I will figure this all out. But until then, I am furious – I just don't understand it at all. Do you?


  Week 1: In the beginning...
  Week 2: Cry me a river
  Week 3: The angry phase
  Week 4: Something begins to shift
  Week 6: More than 21 days

]]> Mon, 03 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-5
Yes, it's remarkable how a delightfully torturous Egyptian adventure can help a headless chick(en) all the way from Johannesburg rediscover her playful sense of humour and every single idle bone in her body. This has got to stop! But not until I've snorkelled at least seven more times.

I've never seen such an incredible array of fish so close to shore. There are the elongated trumpetfish whose tiny fins make a dash to safety near-impossible, the yellow goatfish with their beards, the cheeky orange and white clownfish, the multi-coloured angelfish and the coral in burst of purple, red and yellow.

'Barracuda' (aka Mabrouk Abdel Fattah), the lifeguard, also promised that we would see turtles and dolphins from the jetty before we returned home – and maybe even manta rays and sting rays. That's the beauty of Marsa Alam, you don't even need a scuba diving course under your belt to experience the rich diversity of the Red Sea's oceanic life (and the incongruous sight of devout local Muslim women snorkelling fully clad in black trousers, long-sleeved shirts and scarves!).

But you do need to preserve your skin, so it's always best to snorkel before 11am and after 4pm here. In fact, most of us spend the early (and not-so-early) afternoons holed up in our chilled rooms working on blogs, catching up on e-mails, watching Egypt's version of MTV Melody Tunes ('All Engleeesh all the time') on our plasma TVs, or paying a visit to Club Duvet (DJ Pillow plays guaranteed killer tunes every afternoon at about 2pm).

Another side effect of the blistering heat and the change in environment for us Egyptian first-timers is the inevitable traveller's tummy bug. Yup, unfortunately most of our team have come down with it and have been sharing Imodium, Valoid and Rehidrat liberally amongst ourselves – thankfully I can report though, that the messy business is under control. Hey, what is heaven without a bit of hell? And at least now we won't be going back home fat, just happy… Don't hate me?
]]> Fri, 31 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-4 Coolest Couple winner Chad organised a candlelit dinner for his blonde sweetheart Lera and proposed. (Of course she accepted!) The two hadn't seen each other in months, as Lera was visiting her family in the Ukraine, so Chad had decided that COSMO SUMMER's exotic adventure was the ideal opportunity to propose to his four-year long girlfriend. Kind of sad though, because they're leaving at the end of the week and won't see other until October. But congratulations nonetheless guys!

And I'm happy to report the day only got more memorable. It was time to head into the desert to explore Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort's Bedouin-experience encampment, Fustat. Thankfully we didn't have to brave the mountain bikes parked outside the front entrance – an air conditioned bus was at our disposal.

A plain clothes' army officer Khaleed had also been appointed to accompany us – Egyptians take the safety of their tourists very seriously and in Cairo there's even a special police force to keep an eye on us fumbling foreigners. Khaleed assured me his presence was just a precaution though, but I was hoping for a free helicopter ride, as he also informed me that we'd be airlifted out in an army helicopter if anything went wrong.

But nothing could go wrong as the only living things in the Eastern Desert we traversed were five lonely trees. Curtis and I decided to dub our trip a 'tree safari' – we decided that being lucky enough to spot a hardy desert tree was akin to spotting one of the Big Five. But our arid safari was quickly shoved from our minds when we swept into the mountainous valley of Fustat. Tucked up against one mountain was a stunning stone amphitheatre surrounded by thick walls and castle turrets. It had been constructed from the mountain's rocks, explained The Palace's senior PR officer, Ramona Rack. Inside there were terraces, where on designated nights, guests could enjoy the snaking hips of belly dancers and other entertainers while lounging on deep cushions and indulging in a feast fit for a pharoah.

Amazingly, this entire area is safeguarded by a Bedouin clan – the once-nomadic clan had settled here with their camels and goats. We were introduced to the clan's newest member, a baby camel, who moaned incessantly at our presence and tried to tuck into model Maritza Veer's blonde locks when she cautiously posed next to him. We were then invited to try a Bedouin speciality, gabana (coffee). It's made out of a green, caffeine-less desert herb and is mixed with cinnamon and other herbs in a tin container over an open fire. It tastes like an incredibly pungent coffee and was a delicious accompaniment to a mesmerizing desert sunset.
]]> Thu, 30 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-3
I couldn't believe my luck – there wasn't a soul in sight so I didn't have to worry about blinding anyone with my luminous winter skin. And I wasn't disappointed when I waded in. The water was purrfect: not too hot like lukewarm Durban's sea and not Camps Bay-freezing either. The sand is soft, the waves almost non-existent and the salt content high enough, allowing you to easily bob on the surface. Which is what I did for half an hour, letting the long trip ease out of my bones.

I then strolled over to the hotel's jetty, which stretches almost 200m into the sea. Peering over the edge, I was completely blown away by the clarity and depth of the deep-blue water. The shelf drops off 17m and you can almost see all the way to the bottom of the ocean. Colourful angelfish and parrotfish circle the reef and you don't even need a snorkel and mask to spot them.

Barracuda, the jetty's lifesaver, somehow managed to coax me into jumping off the 2m-high jetty into the stunning sea below. I'm normally a complete wuss when it comes to flinging myself off heights, but today felt like one of those days where anything is possible, thanks to the staggering beauty that surrounded me. I've swum in Zanzibar and Thailand's seas but I can honestly say the Red Sea completely blows these two out of the water. I guess Belinda Carlisle was right when she rocked the '80s with her hit song, 'Heaven Is A Place On Earth'.

I did have to tether myself to earth again though, as today was our first shoot – and it was a tough one. COSMO SUMMER's photographer, Anthony Friend, and special projects fashion director Robynne Kahn decided to start shooting at 4pm, but the sun was so blisteringly hot that makeup artist Huey Tilley had to continually reapply makeup and hair products that almost slid off the (melting) models.

There was the added challenge of working with a grumpy Arabian mare for the Davidoff Cool Water's Coolest Couple shoot – she'd just had a foal and was detesting being parted from it, and wasn't scared to show it. Poor Davidoff winner Lera had told us she was scared of horses and now she had to stand next to one and still look superhot and unflustered. Fun, fearless female indeed!

But these little obstacles didn't deter Anthony's uncanny eye, Robynne's innate sense of super-sexy COSMO-styling and Huey's inspired makeup – the COSMO SUMMER team still managed to pull off the most incredible shots.

Of course, we all collapsed exhausted again later with only the silence of the desert and the hum of our air conditioners to accompany our sweet dreams. And I'm certain I grinned the whole night through…

• COSMO SUMMER Swimwear 2009 - Day 4

]]> Wed, 29 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-2
And just five minutes up the road from Marsa Alam is the oasis of Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort – our unbelievably luxurious five-star home for the next two weeks. Originally built by magnate Sol Kerzner's Sun International, it was taken over by Intercontinental six months after being completed. And like The Lost City, it specialises in pure luxury (somebody pinch me please).

We're greeted by a long row of staff members handing out glasses filled with Hibiscus tea and the traditional Egyptian beverage Dome, and cool hand towels to mop our sweaty brows. It's tough to hide our collective gloating when the hotel's senior PR officer Ramona Rack shows us round the Arabic-styled hotel. There's a massive man-made salt-water lagoon, a huge pool and a myriad restaurants to choose from, as the Crowne Plaza has two hotels flanking Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort.

The private beach stretches as far as the eye can see and there are piers where you can dive straight into 17m-deep waters. We each get allocated a beautiful room – some with views over Port Ghalib's beautiful marina.

We celebrate our arriving-with-our-bums-in-the-butter at Souk Al hana restaurant with its frighteningly extensive dinner buffet. We get to choose from Asian, Indian, Italian and Mediterranean dishes and then round it all off with puddings even Willy Wonka would be proud of (coconut tart, apple torte, brownies, coconut biscuits, banana-nut pudding, ice cream… gulp, we're in trouble).

Hey, even COSMO SUMMER's sizzling models tuck in and conveniently forget about their imminent swimwear shoots – yes, contrary to popular belief, models do appear to imbibe solid food. I'm just not sure where they put it all (I'll keep my eyes peeled and report back to you about this oddity in two weeks).

And then it was off to a bed bursting with big, fluffy pillows. In fact, this is the kind of hotel where you get to choose your favourite pillow: Downy, Extra Soft, Midi Pillow, Comfort, Ultra or Buckwheat. Niiiiiice!

At this rate, there's no doubt we're all arriving back home well-rested, tanned, fat and happy (and jobless, in our potentially size 10 models' cases)!

• COSMO SUMMER Swimwear 2009 -  Day 3

]]> Tue, 28 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-summer-swimwear-shoot-day-1 Coolest Couple winners Lera Koryt'ska and Chad Meihuizen and five sizzling models, and more than 35 pieces of bulging luggage (weighing in at 600-odd-kg) all met up at OR Tambo International in Jozi on Friday evening. Our destination was Cairo, and Egyptair was going to get us there in style.

Eight hours later we were whisked through Customs and stepped out into the blistering 40-degree heat in Egypt's capital, sleep deprived but determined to absorb as much of Cairo's ancient history as possible before jetting off to our ultimate destination, the Red Sea.

I'd been warned that Cairo's infamous traffic congestion and daredevil drivers put Johannesburg's rush-hour traffic and kamikaze taxi drivers to shame, but thankfully it was a long weekend so the streets were relatively open and safe. That said, it was still unnerving getting my head around the fact that Cairo's drivers use hooting to indicate left or right instead of their flickers!

We crossed the lifeblood of Egypt, the Nile River, into Giza, which plays host to Egypt's most fascinating treasures, the pyramids. Our tour guide, Yasser Elsayed from Excel Travel, pointed out the silhouettes of the very first pyramids any of us had ever seen peeking out between the rows of high-rise flats. Everyone in our group exclaimed in wonder – it was just so surreal seeing these ancient wonders we'd only ever spotted in the media and heard about in history class.

Our first stop was Sakkara, the 'City of the Dead', which served as a burial ground for Egypt's ancient capital, Memphis. It's also home to the famous Step Pyramid of Djoser, which was designed by high priest Imhotep (villainously characterised by Arnold Vosloo in The Mummy) and was the prototype for all pyramids.

Then it was on to Egypt's most spectacular attraction, the Giza Pyramids, which include the Sphinx and the Pyramid of Khufu, the largest pyramid and the only remaining wonder of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It doesn't matter how well-travelled you may be, these marvels will astound you with their tales of god-like monarchs, the thousands of men who took at least 20 years to build each pyramid (with stone blocks that weighed anything from two to 15 tons) and the theories behind the loss of the Sphinx's once-perfect nose.

Just a head's up, watch out for the hawkers who haven't learnt that 'no means no' when you've already declined a ride on their camels/horses. A few will even attempt to shove a 'free souvenir' into your hand and then demand to be paid for their beads. Hilariously, Californian model Curtis Hardin also proved a hit here – countless Egyptians were enamoured by his accent and skin and almost-reverently dubbed him 'Obama'.

'We love Americans, Obama,' one infatuated Egyptian raved, while Curtis flashed a winning politician-like grin.

Then it was lunch (our first Egyptian banquet) at a local restaurant called Andrea – think freshly-baked pitas, garlic-infused brinjal spread, delicious lamb meatballs and succulent grilled chicken. Stuffed and content, we had to race back to Cairo International Airport to catch our flight to Marsa Alam on the Red Sea. Next stop: the sumptuous five-star hotel, Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort…

*Keep checking back for more from the COSMO Swimwear 2009 shoot in Egypt. Videos to follow soon!

• COSMO SUMMER Swimwear 2009 - Day 2

]]> Mon, 27 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-4 had actually changed.

Sure I was still feeling deeply sad and a bit confused and angry. And of course I was still living with this great, big boyfriend-sized hole in my life. But as I sat there in the light of the tea candle, I realised that I really had moved on emotionally. Even if it was only just a tiny little bit.

The joy of discovering something about yourself by accident, the tentative emerging of hope for the future, these are the grand triumphs of my days at the moment. They seem like things we take for granted, or are of only minor importance in the landscape of a whole life. But for me right now they are the finger and foot holes in the scramble that I am making back up the slope of a life gone unexpectedly awry.

I have to say that The Therapist is certainly helping with this. It's funny, I always saw therapy in one of two ways – either as a self indulgent, navel gazing crutch for the weak or something I advocated for people I cared about who were teetering on the edge of total annihilation. I never really saw it for myself. My self-image has always been of a strong and resourceful woman, one that is a survivor and sensible enough never to get into a situation too deep to get out of. But somehow the emotional brokenness that I have recently come to identify with myself is apparently able to live side by side with these other personal characteristics.

And so once a week I have been sitting on a sofa and chatting about my life, the characters in it including family and friends, choices that I have made and the way that I feel about stuff. I have come to realise some pretty fundamental things about myself that are in no way earth shattering for anyone else. Like, I understand how much I like to be looked after – who knew that? It's not really something that anyone would identify with me, but there you are. It changes nothing really but my own understanding of myself. And almost certainly how I will move forward with any future relationship, my expectations of it, and the way in which I relate to the other person.

And that is where the real change has emerged. You see, I am actually thinking that one day I may find someone else with whom I will form a trusting relationship. I am no longer terrified of a lonely and empty next 50 or 60 years, without this one person. I am starting to believe that I may find someone else to love and nurture – and who will look after me.

And then I start to panic a bit. I am nowhere near ready yet to start that journey. But the first tiny steps have been taken the past week. I still cry all the time, but the tentacles of lightness and hope have started to form deep within. There is still much work to be done on that sofa and who knows what I will learn about myself and my relationships this week? I'll let you know...

  Week 1: In the beginning...
  Week 2: Cry me a river
  Week 3: The angry phase
  Week 5: Happy birthday to me
  Week 6: More than 21 days
]]> Mon, 27 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-3
I started out strong and determined to get on with my life. I thought about the prospect of new possibilities and focused firmly on never having to listen to him snore again. I lifted my chin and stood up straight, ready to face the world. I channelled all my energy into regaining some control on my life and embracing a different – and maybe even exciting – future. But then this positive outlook somehow faltered.

On Tuesday evening my chest felt like it wanted to explode. I was missing him so badly I could barely breathe. I didn't understand. How was this possible? Just two days before I felt everything would be alright, like my world hadn't crumbled around me. A mere 48 hours later I felt worse than ever. Suddenly, the tears I had held at bay for a while came flooding back, with a vengeance. But these tears were different. These tears weren't the pathetic kind – they had an edge to them. These tears signalled the start of what my friends had warned me about: The Angry Phase.

By Wednesday night I was in full flight. I called him up. Yes, we all know it's a stupid thing to do, but I did it nonetheless. What we want to hear in these situations – the reason we call – is that he's realised what a terrible mistake he made letting us go. We want to hear that he's suffering and he desperately wants to come back to us. But, no, this isn't what we hear. Well, it certainly wasn't what I heard.

What I heard was quite to the contrary. Of course he was so sorry he had hurt me; he never meant to (do they ever?). He was sorry I was struggling with the breakup and 'really' sorry he was the cause of my unhappiness. But what he wasn't sorry for was ending it. He was even surer it was the right thing to do and he had, in fact, already met someone he thought was intriguing.

And, so, I got angry.

It started small – a sarcastic comment. (He didn't respond well to that.) And then I felt myself give in to the words that came pouring out my mouth. The frustration and the hurt and the confusion and the resentment all manifested into words and spilt over into the telephone receiver. I said things I really, really meant but never thought I would say out loud. I said things that were true and honest and not remotely mitigated by a need to please or hold back. I said exactly what I thought and I was incredibly, ridiculously and unashamedly angry – and so I said so.

Ultimately the anger led to tears. The frustrated kind, the kind that exhausts you and leaves you feeling spent. Even now, a couple of days later, I feel raw and fragile – and not altogether myself. It's almost as if I still have more in me that needs to surface. When it has, only then will I be freshly reborn, and I will start to learn how to live my new life.

And so, this fourth weekend of the breakup, I have a plan. I am going to watch the last four episodes of Grey's Anatomy back to back. It's going to make me cry and wail and beat my fists on the arm of the sofa. But that's the point, because when it's done I hope I will be a little closer to the new me.

So far my plans have not been terribly successful – hopefully this one changes the pattern.

  Week 1: In the beginning...
  Week 2: Cry me a river
  Week 4: Something begins to shift
  Week 5: Happy birthday to me
  Week 6: More than 21 days

]]> Mon, 20 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-2
So this weekend I attempted to eliminate everything from my life that made me cry. I thought it would give me something to focus on and the ritual of cleansing would help me start the process of letting go. Or so I thought. Before I could begin the cleansing I needed to know what to rid myself of. I decided to make a list, a list entitled THINGS THAT MAKE ME CRY, and it went a little something like this:
1. Songs on the radio that remind me of him, our time together, our jokes, our conversations, our fights, our serious times... well pretty much everything. (It was as if we had a soundtrack to our lives and the soundtrack had all of my absolute favourite songs on it. And now they all made me cry.)
2. His towel on the back of the bathroom door (which I hadn't noticed before).
3. His sister sending me an e-mail to tell me how sad she was that we weren't 'family' anymore. (That resulted in some hard-core crying.)
4. An old, miniature kist (inside which I have stored all my love letters from him).
5. Any kind of emotion-inspiring advert on television. You know like the one that is a rousing celebration of South African sport. (That makes me cry all the time.)
6. The phone not ringing at 8.30 am. (He used to call me to say 'good morning' properly then – when we were both fully awake and about to dive into our respective work. My day only really began after that call. Now I just sit there. And cry a little.)
7. The thought of not being able to make him laugh with the phrase 'The Russians' (from the movie Burn After Reading. It was a part of our short-hand language, a kind of shared vocabulary that only we understood.)
8. Photographs. (Hundreds of online photos that rotated randomly on my desktop. Photos of our holidays together. Photos of him in contemplation. Photos of his brothers and sister. Photos of his gorgeous little nephew. Photos of us together. Mostly that one. Just thinking about it makes me...)

It was at this stage that I abandoned the list. I was too sad to complete it, let alone find the energy to deal with removing each of these things from my life. I know that crying has a function. And I know that it can be therapeutic and a release. But I feel like I have a strange crying disease – and no one wants to be around the pathetic girl with the crying disease.

So I have retreated back to my cave. Technically, it is my lounge and more specifically, my sofa. I have seen through my third weekend of the breakup by barely moving from this spot. I have licked my wounds and allowed myself to be sad. I have not tried to stop the crying and I have indulged in self pity.

Because tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow I will start the process of drying my eyes and dusting myself off and starting all over again. Tomorrow I will square my shoulders and lift my chin. Until then I am here on my sofa with my box of tissues and my television for company. Tomorrow is a different day. I will let you know how I get on.

  Week 1: In the beginning...
  Week 3: The angry phase
  Week 4: Something begins to shift
  Week 5: Happy birthday to me
  Week 6: More than 21 days

]]> Mon, 13 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/diary-of-a-breakup-week-1
Of course, that's normal. Ever noticed how keen people are to tell you how normal your feelings are? If I flew into a violent rage and ran across the street to the construction worker and snatched the jackhammer out of his hands and started beating the ground and crying to the heavens (and I so desperately want to because the noise is driving me insane), I'm quite sure someone would put their arm around me, lead me tenderly back home, whispering, 'She's just had a rough week. A break up, you understand.' And then with a sorrowful smile and maybe a wink, the construction worker will nod sagely and whisper back, 'Well, it's normal to feel like that then. Rather get it all out.'

What? No, lovely people, it is not normal behaviour. It's sheer craziness. And breakups make you dip into the crazy pot a little bit, I should know. So I decided I would handle this one a little bit differently. It's been a while since the gut-wrenching horror of my previous break up and I had forgotten how the hideousness of it can send you to a place where you question your self-worth, your value as a woman, your place in the world and your future. But, of course, you know it is really and truly not you – it really, really is actually him and all his unresolved, male stuff. As I keep telling myself.

I decided this time I would get hand-holding help. My wonderful and wise girlfriends always play that role so well, but this time, I think a professional perspective may be useful. So I deployed the Google-ator and found a shrink practice that seemed level. I called and was quite surprised when they felt the need to get me in to see someone as soon as possible – something in my voice maybe? Those tears that are still choked at the back of my throat threatening to erupt at any moment? Especially the moments in public? Well, it must have been something and so, with a whole lot of scariness and just a little bit of hope, I went to see My Therapist yesterday in a bold attempt not to repeat the mistakes of breakups past.

And, we chatted. About me, which is always fun. She nodded and smiled gently and told me my feelings were normal. I almost cried a few times. I could have, it wouldn't have been that embarrassing. I felt sad that I was proactively taking steps to let him go, even though I really didn't want to. She told me this was normal. And you know, despite all my cynicism, I did feel as if it was quite normal – terrible, gutting and heart-wrenchingly sad, but absolutely normal.

Now I just need to get through this weekend somehow, with nothing much to do but cry. I have no idea how I am going to make it.

  Week 2: Cry me a river
  Week 3: The angry phase
  Week 4: Something begins to shift
  Week 5: Happy birthday to me
  Week 6: More than 21 days

]]> Mon, 06 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/meet-the-parents
I decided to drive and tried my luck taking the wrong off-ramps to delay the premature inevitable. After a few not-so-pleased looks from my passenger I stopped fighting it. But it seemed the drive was far worse than the actual first encounter with the parental units. You try listening to a more-than-slightly distressed boyfriend giving you directions to his family home. With each 'turn left' and every 'turn right', I gripped the steering wheel tighter as he sunk lower into his seat. In an attempt to ease the tension, he turned to me and smiled. Half-heartedly. It wasn't reassuring, at all. Then his nervous twitch kicked in and we both looked at each other thinking What the hell are we doing?! But it was too late to turn back.

Somehow, as he nervously patted his leg, I'd managed to drift and zone off to my happy place. Barely 10 minutes later my thoughts were abruptly interrupted. 'We're here, and my parents are peeping out the window,' he squawked.

But before I could begin hyperventilating, again, he was out the car. Oh, fabulous! I thought, no time for a quick hair and make-up check. And no time to make sure there was no evidence of my earlier poppy seed muffin binge.

I resisted the urge to run screaming in the opposite direction, put on my brightest smile and strutted towards the front door. I was the English girl meeting the highbrow Afrikaans parents.

And there they were. We shook clammy hands and smiled broadly at each other for a few awkward minutes. After a bit of Tannie-this and Oom-that, 'Pa' pottered off into the garden and 'Ma' moved through to the kitchen with a not-so-subtle-wink, leaving the two of us alone to breathe in post-introduction relief. Clearly, they'd been through this torturous process before and understood that we needed a moment or two to compose ourselves.

And that was it. We just kind of sat there. For 45 minutes. Alone.

It's easy to over analyse these situations. Your imagination runs wild with visions of dark-room-spotlight interrogations, but it all seems so silly in the aftermath. Once it was over we all sat down together, drink in hand, and watched the Springboks kick Pommy butt. ]]> Tue, 30 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/square-eyes
Having our bedroom redesigned to fit onto a mezzanine level wasn't as appealing while my tight uniform and cute heels made balancing large glasses of water, plates of food and bottles of pills a nightmare. Every now and then the meds would actually kick in and I'd be able to kick off the heels without puncturing the precious fantasy I had good-naturedly (but thinking back, rather foolishly) created.

Now usually, our weekends are spent out with friends, so having 48 hours to myself surfing TV channels had some sort of appeal. Or at least it did until I tried to find something worth watching.

Friday night is Reality Night, but these shows have been edited so heavily the only reality left was that I was wasting my time watching them. Did I know who the main sponsors were? Yes. Had the annoying jingles ear-wormed me? Yes. Had I actually learnt anything? No. I've been more entertained and educated watching Pumpkin Patch and Bananas in Pajamas. I gave up at 10pm, checked in with the patient and made my bed on the couch. (Would you sleep in the same bed as a germ cesspool?)

Saturday morning brought breakfast duty (I'm beginning to understand why hospitals charge so much) and then back to the square box for me. I flipped through a movie, Ryan Seacrest filled the world in on some celebrity scandal, and I caught something about someone being the sexiest somewhere. Then I got hooked on the Discovery channel. They make great commercials to lure you in. So great in fact that I'd set an alarm to remind me about the discovery of new scrolls in the Dead Sea. But while these kinds of programmes begin with promise, they leave lots of unanswered questions. After the first ad there's a three-minute recap (in case I anticipated the break and made for the loo early?) then more unanswered questions, another ad, and then another three-minute recap. In the final two minutes the scientists shrugged their shoulders admitting the scrolls were fakes. The day and then the night wore on, but when I accidentally flipped to etv the ridiculously soft porn told me it was time to say goodnight.

And then there was Sunday. Infomercials-and-13-episodes-of-Generation-Kill Day. The show is a great programme filmed throughout southern Africa, but the 10-minute infomercials which followed every 20-minute episode of the miniseries drove me to tears. Does this drivel actually convince people their lives aren't complete until they pick up the phone and order the exercise dance routines on DVD with Shaun T's six exhilarating workouts to tone, sculpt and firm your abs! And what's with the decimals? Why advertise killer abs for R999.90 instead of R1 000? What difference is 10 cents going to make? After the 13th episode I was no closer to having curves in all the right places – no, I didn't buy the Trim n Lift for R159.90. I don't have it, so I guess I won't flaunt it. But my patient was very happy with the frequent checkups.

I'm glad to say that a weekend of television has forever cured me of my yearning to become a full-time couch potato. Come Monday morning, the inside of the gym had never felt so good. Soon I was running off into the sunset on the treadmill while watching BBC News on the screen above me.
]]> Tue, 23 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/beam-me-up-scotty Brothers & Sisters), the 'running man' and a bottle of tequila have in common? Absolutely nothing, really. But if you imagine all three of them together, you'll have a fairly good idea of how my evening turned out last night.

Luke and his equally adorable co-star Dave Annable (Justin) were in Cape Town this week promoting the show, and COSMO couldn't miss the opportunity of showing them the city – our way.

We started at Wakame, a popular beach-front restaurant in Mouille Point. The boys had been out the night before and had had a day packed with media interviews, but their stamina showed no signs of fading. They were full of energy as they arrived.

Both guys are the friendliest, warmest, most sincere celebs I've had the privilege of meeting. And cute. The 'it's-hard-to-breathe-around-them' kind of cute. We instantly tumbled into conversations about their trip to Cape Town, my recent trip to the US, their new president, our new president, and more. They're both enthusiastic travellers. Grass-roots travellers at that. They told us they would choose a tent over a plush hotel any day. They asked me which animals are in the Big Five. I couldn't remember (I am such a city girl!). I rambled off a few animal names, trying to sound knowledgeable about all things bush-related. They didn't look convinced.

Our meal was fantastic and the champagne was even better. Not ready to call it a night, we suggested they join us at Jade, a drinking spot in Green Point.

Jade was heaving when we arrived. In true Cape Town form, few people made a fuss about the boys (we are too cool for that down here!). But there were a couple of mandatory squeals from enamoured fans catching sight of their favourite TV hotties for the first time. And the guys were gracious and obliging, chatting to the fans who encircled them.

Beers were ordered. Tequila was ordered. Pictures were taken. More beers were ordered. Assurances were made that we would get them to the airport in time to catch a flight to Jo'burg in the morning. Champagne was ordered. More tequila was ordered. I started to regret the assurance I gave them that we would get them to the airport in time to catch a flight to Jo'burg in the morning…

Luke and I informally challenged each other to a dance-off. He came with a shimmer shoulder. I came with the 'running man'. In heels. No contest – I won. Hours of dancing and singing and high-fiving and partying followed. And then their eagle-eyed publicist suggested it was time to go home. (I'm sort of grateful that at least one of us had the good sense to call it a night…)

The boys did make it to the airport on time. I, however, was a little late for work. ]]> Mon, 15 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/mini-crises
A mini crisis is a far more common sort of crisis in most of our lives than a major one. And that's what makes dealing with it (properly) really important. Mini-crises come round more often, and can pull you down if you don't bounce back properly. I can't stress enough the importance of having a loving someone to give you another angle on such a situation. Jacqueline reminded me that bad things happen to everyone, and that I should focus on replacing it as soon as I can, instead of on the loss and violation. I saw her wisdom, and got to work on fixing what I could. (Doesn't help that the camera cost more than my car.)

And yet, there's another angle to this loss. On some level, I feel a little lighter without my camera. It was worth a lot to me, but all the photographers I know have had equipment stolen at some stage. The reality of having such a tool is that you have to constantly watch it, and those five (tipsy) minutes when friends arrive at a pub and you neglect it is when it walks out the door. That's the pressure of owning something precious – you remain aware of it on some deeper level all the time. (What was the first thing I grabbed when I had to evacuate my house during the mountain fires in Cape Town? My camera. I am still mourning the loss, and I hate the idea that somewhere, someone is fingering something that belongs to me, but at the same time I've been relieved of that responsibility, and suddenly don't run that risk.

Years ago a similar thing happened. A thief stole all my CDs and electronic equipment. Once I got over the initial loss, I laughed. And never painstakingly decorated my blank CDs ever again. The lesson then was of course to insure stuff people like to steal. Then it's only a sentimental risk. Unless of course you've taken naked photos – that's a social risk.

Luckily I have learnt to download after every session, whether it's in bed, or in the boardroom. And to back up, too. Pity I didn't name the files more cleverly… but that's another story. ]]> Tue, 02 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/trains-planes-and-halitosis
Cue a big plane with small seats.

When travelling, I will bitch slap anybody for the window seat. Stick me in the middle and I'll wilt like last week's celery; add jabbing elbows from both sides and some twit kicking me in the back and you have air rage on your hands. Just that little bit of extra space saves me from turning seriously violent. Now, if I were flying from Cape Town to Johannesburg, I might survive, but anything longer than two hours and I'd have to fake a serious illness to either have the jabbers removed or for me to be moved. Preferably to first class.

Recently I went on a European holiday. I'd secured the window seat on five of my flights, but it was the sixth and final one (from Dubai to Cape Town) Murphy had decided to intrude on. I'd been travelling for 12 hours by then was not only tired, but also irritable, grubby, jet lagged and had eaten crappy airline food.

Before our flight, my travel buddy and I hung back, read magazines and waited until the last possible moment to board our plane. As fate would have it, all the rows were relatively empty, except ours. There he sat, in the aisle seat. Not only strapped in, but tray out, game console on, movie started and earphones plugged in. Tapping him on the head (he clearly wasn't going to hear my polite 'excuse me'), he sprang up and tried to organise the mess he'd created, only to be pulled back down by the seatbelt still strapped across his lap.

After much fuss we settled in, fluffed our mini pillows and opened our blankets. And then I sniffed the air. I looked over at my partner in the middle seat who rolled her eyes towards Mr. Isle. My forehead scrunched into a question mark as I tried to read her lips: h-a-l-i-t-o-s-i-s. My heart sank further into my feet when I realised he was a 'mouth breather'.

I started thinking of possible solutions: feed him mints, had none; take a sleeping pill, was too hungry to sleep; call the air hostess, they don't like it when we make our problem their problem; kill him, I will never see SA again.

So I did nothing. We buckled up, covered our mouths and noses with blankets, squashed ourselves as small as possible and tried to sleep towards the window. We got two meals during the flight and those were the only 10 minutes during which normal breathing was possible.

When we finally taxied at Cape Town International I prayed that the universe would never challenge me with a halitosis friendship. I have never been so glad to breathe fresh air and promised myself that I will never ever complain about a garlic kiss ever again. ]]> Tue, 19 May 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/a-broken-heart
Recently I've been through a rough romantic patch. No sorry, that should read 'recently I've had my heart torn out of my body through my eyeballs'. In the absence of understanding and the abundance of the obvious fact that he's not going to answer my calls, I did everything you're supposed to do: long baths, walks in nature, comfort dressing (it's the perfect season for it), watching copious comedies. But it all made me cry.

Being plagued by unanswerable questions would have killed me weeks ago if it weren't for my ladies who mopped up my tears and reminded me that it's not the why, it's the what – not the reasons but the actions (and the choices behind them) that count.

'Love is as complicated as we make it,' was one wisdom from a beautiful babe in Johannesburg. That's hard to argue with, but it's also hard to accept when you're riddled with doubts about whether you loved someone enough for them to see safely into your soul. But my ladies listened lovingly. They were gentle when I argued against their insights. They took me out, they fed me (food, wisdom and comfort) and they helped me understand my process as they watched on worriedly. They didn't demonise the darling who disappeared after declaring his love to me. In fact, they may have helped me understand him more, and understand that love is about taking care of yourself as much as others; no less, no more.

Knowing this makes it no less painful, but no more than it needs to be, either. So the next time somebody rolls their eyes when I am moved to tears by a sad film and says, 'You're such a girl,' I might just turn around with those burning eyes and say between sniffs, 'You're quite right!' before unloading my popcorn onto the ungrateful oaf's lap and finding another seat. ]]> Mon, 11 May 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/time-to-change
I simultaneously had one of those uncomfortable, cringe worthy moments when I remembered a few other things he'd saved me from. Anyway, we reminisced.

'I remember!' he said, patting my face, 'You had curly hair, and you were so sweet.' I did not, and I was not. We all like to think of ourselves as ball-busters in retrospect, but never in the present. With a dozen years of ball-busting experience behind me, he was half as charming and as long-winded as he'd been 11 years ago. By his own admission I'd become 'a lady', so that meant he wasn't going to make a move on me, at least not overtly.

For all intents and purposes, he came across as a nice enough guy, just different. He tried to impress me with talk of his celebrity friends. (He and Bono are like this, hey.) But what impresses him now just amuses me. What impresses me now is people not trying to impress me.

Chatting about him later with a mutual acquaintance, we were amazed at how time has flown by, how much we've learnt or as he posited, how much we've forgotten. And I had to laugh at myself – I've changed, yes, and become 'a lady', sure, but like the long-lost almost-lover, my hair hasn't.

I wonder if it's time to change something a little more superficial about myself...
]]> Mon, 04 May 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/deathlike-sophistication
Unfortunately, an unroyal Caesar salad the day before gave me food poisoning, so I'd been up most of the night and felt suitably disgusting. I would much rather have been horizontal than staring at the mountainous horizon, but my friend had travelled more than 10 000km for her holiday – who was I to ruin it? So, with her and my man debating whether to spit or swallow, the three of us drove off to sample Stellenbosch vino. Iron will, yes. Iron stomach? No way.

From farm to farm, they spoke of the 'boo kay', blends and harvests. When questions about wood and vats came up I had to sit down. When they lifted their glasses I had to lie down. They swished and swilled and I groaned and turned green. They clucked and cooed about the nose, while my own nose twitched and twisted. A few times my jealousy got the better of me and I hauled myself up to have a whiff of whatever they were sampling. Once, I even managed to taste some – and ceremoniously spat it into a silver dish, feeling both deathlike and kind of sophisticated at the same time. A messy combination.

Luckily, pain killers, anti-nausea pills and other medication helped keep me conscious, and we ended up at a delightful, young farm where they laid it on thick with über-European charm – much to my friend’s disappointment. She wanted 'lions!' on her trip. 'And dolphins!' But tasting handmade, homemade chocolate with their wines gave the experience certain flair and it was a brilliant way to end to a beautiful (if agonising) day.

My friend bought a sparkling white wine, I bought a slab of dark chocolate with bits of salt in it and we played Boules with heavy iron balls. Well, they played. I lay on the edge of the fountain and wrote my last will and testament.

So while the wine tasting was an exercise in endurance and taming the green-eyed monster, I do look forward to another round when my stomach and my nose can agree on a blend. And anyway, I still got to taste the best of the crop in the comfort of my own home a few nights later.

RELATED LINKS
- How to choose good wine
]]> Mon, 27 Apr 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/moonwalking
The drive was spectacular, being ferried across rivers of freezing water. But it wasn't long until we started the hike towards our hotel, trailing bags of ski boots, jackets, more jackets, pants, goggles, more jackets and snowboards. I've always wanted that cool 'skier' look the ESPN regulars at the Winter X-Games have on TV. But in real life, it's unwieldy – our gear weighed tons and we still weren't fully equipped and had to rent more.

The next morning I strapped, wrapped and zipped myself into everything and looked chic enough for the X-Games. That's when the problems began: I couldn't move my ankles in my almost-knee-high boots, my pants whistled when I walked, and could barely fasten my helmet because my gloves were too thick. But trudging up almost a kilometre from the hotel to the ski lift was the biggest.

It was -12 degrees and all around us people were milling about with skis and climbing gear and snowboards, from barely-walking toddlers to vacationing pensioners. As we piled into our gondola and were carried up towards the Matterhorn, the beauty of the Alps struck me as I wondered what would happen once my orange board finally hit the snow.

I fell on my face is what happened. Again and again and again. Until I wanted to cry and stomp off down the mountain. My only saving grace was "The Magic Carpet" – the little travellater three-year-olds use to get back to the top of the Learners Slope. After what must have been my 100th time to the top, I was exhausted and frustrated, but unfortunately unstrapping my feet while still standing turned out to be not such a good idea.

I lost my grip, the board escaped and picked up speed as it zig zagged towards the mini Michelin people on skis. I screamed, in English of course (my German's not so good), and some hero daddy caught the board as it nearly sliced a little helmet with legs in half.

As I moonwalked down to collect my board from the unsympathetic parent I realised snowboarding is not something that can be learned in a couple of few hours. The next morning rigor mortis set in, and as I inspected my snow-goggle tan I realised one should not believe everything you see on TV. I am sticking to golf. ]]> Mon, 20 Apr 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/pretty-words-ugly-truths
Months back I invited a long-time on/off lover from abroad to visit. Spanning ten years and three countries, our trysts were ambiguously erotic but never set in stone, so I didn’t insist on it being a romantic visit. He, on the other hand, ran himself through an emotional-rollercoaster. He came full circle, first demanding we be exclusive lovers for ten days of sex, then saying he wasn’t coming because he’d met a girl he didn’t care about. And then insisting he'd come as a friend only because sex makes things so complicated. So, like, ten days of staring at the stars?

I was exasperated and told him so in no uncertain terms, and that got him really excited. Really excited. I think he just about had an orgasm on the spot. Luckily Facebook doesn’t have an application for that sort of thing. I should've known then that he was only in it for his own entertainment and he had no concern about my thoughts, plans or feelings while he indulged his own.

So he finally declined the offer to visit with some excuse about a new contract at work and that he’d get back to me in a fortnight. (No one who really respects you gets back to you in a fortnight about anything; they get back to you in a few days.) And then signed his rejection e-mail with 'love and kisses'. As if.

Two months of silence ensued, which didn't bother me because actually, who needs all this emotional see-sawing for something as simple as a holiday. Then suddenly, last week, an e-mail popped into my Inbox.

'There are more and more gorgeous pictures on your site,' he began, 'Are you improving with age?'

He tried lathering me up through my ego, possibly the oldest trick in the book, and then the truth was revealed. He’d met this girl, who's 'very sweet and stimulating and filthy in bed… what more could one want?'

A man with integrity, perhaps? I wish her luck, but I want none of what she’s got.
]]> Mon, 13 Apr 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/more-than-a-manicure
So after yoga one morning, I popped into a beauty salon. I met Marie, a warm, witty lady with a rounded body and very Frenchly-rounded vowels. It seemed fitting to ask for a French manicure.

While her colleague brought me coffee, Marie got started filing and shaping, and we ended up having a lovely chat. The topic? Relationships, of course, we were in a salon after all.

First coat of varnish: I began by moaning about how washing dishes makes my nails break. 'Git ze glervs', she recommended with a raised eyebrow, as if everybody knew that already. My tales of domestic unbliss got her laughing about her friend who just started dating a hot guy, but can’t seem to handle how genuine he is, except by being controlling. 'Olriddi shizz traan tew change hees theengs,' she marvels, and clucks some more. 'Yew no, hee not liking thees. She must git respect fo heem.'

As the story goes, Marie's friend's hot guy rather unceremoniously removed Marie's friend's girlie things from his house after she'd snuck in a 'few' of her possessions and delicately decorated his place with her trinkets. He put them back in her car, gently kissed her and asked if they could put a hold on the home improvements as they’d been dating less than a month. It was my turn to tsk.

Second coat: 'And shi complain thett he never col her on the phone een the day'. Ah – that old thing. I’ve read men’s magazines where relationship gurus insist a man must call his girlfriend or wife if he plans on staying in the relationship.
'Maybe it’s because women are more communicative and men more prone to external activity,' I proffered.

Top coat: 'We are virry diffren, the men and thee wimeen. Maa husband – he kunt wash deeshes, he try. These ees gut. If you lerv somewaan. Ees gutt, but I do thee deeshes by maaself.'

Finally all done, I wriggled my newly capped fingers. Lovely. We kissed cheeks once, twice and thrice, and part ways. Little did I know the very next day I would be back for more wisdoms. Nothing stays on my paper thin nails, though everything stays in my head. The dishes, unfortunately, will stay in the sink.
]]> Mon, 06 Apr 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/i-have-to-set-you-free
We have been together for the last three years and it was so easy. We very quickly became comfortable with one another. There were racy moments, there were times of quiet contemplation and there were a lot of sexy times. My friends even said we suited each other perfectly.

But the last few months have not been good and Clio's been to the doctor more times than I can afford. As I made that unforgiving call to the dealer this morning, I felt like a deserter. There was my pretty little chariot, dark blue and faithful, with her lifesaving aircon and demon heater, and I am deserting her.

I know this is not how it is supposed to be, one should never fall in love with inanimate objects, especially not cars, but hey, it happens. Honestly though, I believe that if you treat it well, look after it, wax it, vacuum it and love it, it will love you back.

So, after having thrown a mountain of money at it, the time for goodbyes has come. I will miss your tunes, the feel of your safe embrace, and it will take me a while to not look for your dark blue shape patiently awaiting my return to the parking lot. I will have to get used to the new sounds; I knew yours so well and even understood when on cold winter mornings you needed a little more nursing than usual.

So, to whoever becomes the new owner, look after Clio and she will look after you. Don't smoke inside or near her, she's not that type. Don't slam her doors, close them tenderly. Be gentle with her front left safety belt, sometimes it has a stutter.

This is my goodbye to you Little Blue, it's not that I don't love you anymore, it's just, well, it's time to move on.
]]> Mon, 30 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/boys-night-blues
She was outside cellphone in hand.
'Michael, can you hear me!' at the top of her voice. She is a few years older than him.
'Hallo, hallo Michael? Answer me! Michael, for f**k sake, talk to me.'

Hmm, I thought as she disappeared into the house, thank goodness that was over with. Not quite. A few minutes later I hear a commotion in the street, decide to go downstairs to make sure everything's hunky-dory and I just manage to catch the tail end of a police van driving off. But I think nothing of it because we're used to vans patrolling our area pretty regularly (we have a tik house on the other side of our street) and walk upstairs, ready to snuggle back into the blissful sleep of a Sunday morning.

By this time, Michael's walked up to the door where she is waiting for him. I peek out of the window, just to make sure everything's still hunky-dory, and it looks as if he's had a very good boys' night.

'Michael! Why didn't you answer the phone to let me know where you were?!'
'Shhh, I was with the police, I could not answer my phone.' Michael gestures, along with his slurred speech.
'What do you mean you were with the police? I phoned you six times in the last half hour and you never once answered your phone!'
'But I…'
'You are four hours late, why did you not phone me to let me know where you were so I could pick you up, you should not be driving in this state.'
'I told you, the police brought me here and I was with friends.'
'That is not the point, why did you not let me know where you were?'

Michael now sits down on the bench, blinking into the sun, he can't stand anymore.

'Why are you allowed to get trashed with your friends but I am not?'
Exasperated she stomps her foot, 'It's not about that, it's about you not letting me know where you were and that you were going to be late.'
'No, that is so unfair; when you come home trashed I don't fight with you, why can I not party with my friends?'

At this point I'm ready to go next door and give her some advice about what I've learned. Never argue with a drunk person. They do not understand, they do not remember and mostly they do not really care. This particular argument with Michael carried on another half hour or so and then peace returned to the early morning.

I was lying in bed wondering why she just didn't wait until he was sober before she sat Michael down. Little did I know she cleverly saved that part for after lunch, when Michael woke up feeling not so well and mistakenly thinking all the speed bumps had been smoothed over.

As I sat outside enjoying a cool drink, I heard her picking up where she had left off.

'Michael, I really thought we were going to spend a nice day together next to the pool.'
'But I am here, we can do that now.'

I had to fight myself from bursting out laughing and tried hard not to swallow a block of ice. Instead I quietly went inside to give my partner a big hug. Sometimes we just need to learn that boys will be boys and it's best to let sleeping dogs lie.
]]> Mon, 23 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/below-the-belt
Getting out of my car I began to argue with the hem in the hopes of subduing it long enough to get inside my building. The hem wanted up; I wanted down. We managed a compromise, and I stepped out into the street to be faced with a full audience of lunchtime souls taking a cigarette break on the sidewalk. Walk tall, I kept telling myself, Dance like nobody's watching. So I glided by, clutching the cotton to my thighs and nobody really noticed.

Until I passed a lamp post one young 'gentleman' was helping to hold up. Just then I realised I'd left my laptop in the car, and as I spun around on one foot I caught the 'gentleman' leaning towards me, arm stretched out, trying to take a photo under my skirt with his camera-phone.

Walking past him I sliced him with a glance. 'If you take that photo, I will sue you.'

'No-man, lady, man, I was juss checking my connection,' he stammered.

I smiled.

Back at my car, the wind picked up. Loaded with my laptop, the wind got wilder and my hem became even more insistent on climbing up my thighs. I believe it was intent on getting to my waist. Clutch, clutch, tug, tug. Ok, we're good to go. Turning to my audience and with a sardonic smile only I can understand, I offered them a bit of dark humour on the catwalk.

'Take two,' I called. They laughed and off I walked. But this time, it was really awkward because I was fighting hard not to reveal my underwear to everyone.

'You nearly gave that old man a heart attack,' scolded my paparazzi admirer.

'And the young one, too,' I retorted.

Turning the corner I was so glad I at least chose the right underwear this morning, if not the right skirt.
]]> Mon, 16 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/does-my-bum-look-wet-in-this
Whisky is less beautiful when followed by red wine, then white wine, then Red Bull. And another Red Bull. It's 10.30pm and The Dirty Skirts are about to punch a hole in a Saturday night – just for a change, since every other Skirts gig I've ever attended has been on a Friday (what's up with that anyway?). It's raining. And suddenly my hangover kicks in. Serves me right.

I abandon The Skirts and Wonderboom, who are meant to play next, and stumble up the hill towards my tent. I find it – a minor miracle. I also manage not to wake my tent-mate, MacLuvin, as I gulp down two painkillers and collapse on the (by now seriously deflated) mattress. Close eyes, check. Pitter patter of rain, check. Pass out, check.

Wake up. Music still playing. Pitter patter. Pass out.

Repeat four times.

Fifth time… hang on, my arm is wet. What the…? I've rolled off the mattress, blessedly not onto MacLuvin, but towards the tent wall. Upon closer inspection, I find that my arm is, indeed, wet. It's not a dream. Leg is also wet. And big toe is wet. And mattress is wet. Why is it raining in the tent?

I wake MacLuvin. 'We need to move towards the centre of the tent.' We do. Kind of. She goes back to sleep. I pass out.

The phone rings. It's a friend of ours, Landie Man. It's 3.30am. He's at Mercury Lounge in Cape Town, about to trip and fall over his own bad decision – the one that spurs him to drive to Swellendam in the middle of the night. MacLuvin gives him directions in a semi-daze. I'm miff and very wet, and in the kind of mood that makes me whinge with gusto, regardless of the time of day.

'You don't get to go back to sleep,' I tell her as she gets off the phone. 'I'm awake now and I need an audience.'

Whinge whinge whinge whinge. And some more whinge. You had to be there, I guess, but it went a little something like this:

[3.45am] 'This leaky tent is putting a damper on my spirits… not that I have any spirits left, since I consumed my own weight in whisky today.'
[SMS to Jimmy, the owner of the leaky tent, 4am] 'You suck. And so does your leaky tent.'
[4.10am] 'But what I really want to know is… does my bum look wet in this?'

The hill is alive with the sound of cackling as MacLuvin and I succumb to hysteria. We briefly wonder whether the people camping around us can hear what we're saying, then decide we couldn't give a continental. Cackle cackle cackle. We shuffle around the tent to move further away from the wet wall, until we realise we're moving too close to the other wet wall. Four-man tent? In which universe, Jimmy?

There's another sound in the darkness. The sound of wind. No, not that wind – that wind. It takes a lot to silence me; this has succeeded.

'Was… was that you?' I ask MacLuvin hesitantly.
She falls about laughing.
'Le… hehehe…'
'What?'
'Le… he… he… hahahahahaha…'
'WHAT???'
'LEGLESS!!! It was Legless!' He's sleeping in the tent next to ours, clearly letting off some festival steam. 'How could you say that about me? I would have at least apologised!'

Oh sweet heaven. I need to sleep now. Before I start picturing in my head what Legless's tent must look like after that particular cracker.

Pitter patter. Pass out.
]]> Mon, 09 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/finally
We've established that this boy is a slow worker. Three dates and no kiss proves that. He phoned on Saturday morning while I was taking a champagne breakfast very seriously.

Wine Merchant: Where are you?
Baglett: Are you ever going to kiss me?
WM: I'm a gentleman Baglett
Baglett: Well take a day off.

So the poor guy was under severe pressure when he arrived at my place on Saturday night.

Having come straight from an eight-year-old's birthday party, I was covered in cream soda (sans Cane), the insides of Caramello Bears and was walking funny from two straight hours on the jumping castle so was in desperate need of a long shower. I left him to his own devices, which included looking at my assortment of books (I have a WW2 fascination and he was slightly perturbed at my Stalin collection) and looking through my DVD collection, which consisted of Dirty Dancing, Muriel's Wedding and The Sound of Music. Thankfully some guy had left a copy of Pulp Fiction behind so I didn't look like a complete asshole. When he opened the fridge to chill the vino, I cringed as he brought out various containers that were all harbouring different fungi, of various colours. Convincing him I was one humus tub away from finding a cure for cancer, I lured him back onto the couch.

We sat there on our separate cushions for at least half an hour both pretending to watch the movie. I may as well have been 12 years old again with my mom popping her head round the corner asking if I could see without my glasses. At one point he yawned and I was pretty much expecting an arm to extend over my shoulders. I won't tell you what lengths I went to get this boy to kiss me, but he did. He was 10 seconds away from being enrolled into the Gay Fairies Association.

And no he didn't fall through my ceiling. There's more chance of the food in my fridge having a scientific breakthrough.

Baglett.
]]> Mon, 02 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/hot
Problem was the sheer, crazy heat man. No honestly, Stellenbosch is in direct parallel with Hell, temperature-wise.

Jeez Darryl, I was sweating.

So much, I started to hallucinate and dropped a c-bomb in front of a group of older people. (The whole talking-to-oneself outbursts don't stop at weddings). Everyone was melting.

See, there's heat right. Then there's the fiery blazes of hell. The kind of heat where two metres in front of you looks like a mirage. Where you're worried when you get off your seat, you have two perfectly formed ass-shaped lakes. Where there's a sweaty crazy funk going on in your belly button. Where you wonder if you'll ever make it to the dance floor to cut some shapes, but the clawing across the floor will take all your energy once and for all.

So, yes, it was hot.

Dry, baking heat that makes me relieved I was never a student in Stellenbosch. Hell's tits.

Luckily the heavens opened and dumped a load of water on everything, because the heat was apparently partly due to a whole bunch of raging veld fires going on around us.

It was festive, up until I put my wine glass down on the table a little too confidently, and it broke, driving the stem right into my finger.

When, after one or two, or maybe four glasses of wine, the concept of free-flowing blood exiting from your finger is almost quite fascinating. I just kept on staring at it in complete disbelief until someone jammed it into a bowl of ice and wrapped a napkin around it. And then grooved around like Edward Scissor Hands, except minus scissors plus towel, wrapped around the offended finger.

For more PEAS ON TOAST visit her blog at http://www.mushypeasontoast.blogspot.com.
]]> Mon, 23 Feb 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-cosmo-call
My first day at COSMO was breathtaking in both the figurative and literal sense. Figuratively, because of my excitement and awe at how fabulous everything was, and literally, as my first task was transporting boxes of old magazines from the first to the fifth floor. But despite my peep-toe wedges taking on a little more exercise than what they are used to, I had no problem putting in a little sweat (and, of course, took my shoes off later in the day when no-one was looking).

Champagne and cupcakes, pink and orange walls... some dreams really do come true. My first Friday on the job brought with it an early ending and spur-of-the-moment edible gifts for the few staff still working through the festive season. A delicious surprise and I'm sure a source of encouragement for those of us who couldn't help thinking about all our friends and colleagues on holiday.

But getting to know the team was the best. The office always felt welcoming, comfortable and fun. And even though compiling a good issue is hard work and it's something like 15 women to one man (wait a minute, there is only one man here) the oestrogen levels, scanning, typing, printing, photocopying, emailing, filing and sorting were all more than bearable.

Looking back, working for one of the world's best-selling women's magazines – be it only for a short while – was one of the best experiences of my life. In less than two months it feels as if I've absorbed enough knowledge about what it takes to bring just one month's issue into production to fill a house.

My passion for the media industry has been heightened and I feel more certain that I was made for this line of work. All that's left to do is finish my studies and then it's back to the fast-paced world of glossy magazines. See you soon!
]]> Mon, 16 Feb 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/pets-and-partners
Let's say, for argument's sake, that my current cat somehow accepted another male in the mix and they got on great (hey, why not? The more the merrier, right?), there are other cats in the immediate vicinity that would object. Probably at the tops of their lungs in the middle of the night. Cats are territorial. For real. They spend large parts of their lives doing one of three things: eating, sleeping and fighting for their territory. Cats lift their tails, and men lift the roof when they think someone else is trespassing.

Even if I did get the two puddy tats to play nicely, they'd both want to sit on me at the same time, fill any available space on the bed with their bodies and weave tai chi–like between my legs every time I stumble sleepily to the loo. The male version of that is needing affirmation, confirmation and information.

And so the lesson is, maybe some things work well only in your imagination. I mean, if I coveted a friend's man, what then? Same story. There'd be territorial issues, fights and ruined nights. And if I could get two men to share? I'd never have a moment spare.

Maybe I'll just get a dog. Men aren't like dogs, are they?

Oh, and I asked my neighbour what the cat's name was only after I'd fallen for him. 'Gracey,' she replied. Gracey? He's a she?! Maybe I'm after the wrong sex, not the wrong species, after all…
]]> Mon, 09 Feb 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/dont-forget-to-remember
Remember much of the New Year's celebrations? Me neither. Not surprising, after throwing back the season's cocktails. But what do you do if you don't remember anything at all? You stick close to your friends, is what. That's exactly what one young Captain learnt after a prank on the super tube went quite wrong on Avontoer.

Avontoer is an annual music phenomenon sponsored by MK and organised by De Plate Kompanje. It's a rock 'n roll road show deluxe – two busses and 10 bands swept the Western and Eastern Cape coasts for a fortnight in December. They drowned holiday towns in good, clean rock music and spent a lot of time in the sun. With hot, young acts like New Holland and The Pretty Blue Guns, established ones like Foto Na Dans and veterans like Tidal Waves gigging almost every night from Langebaan to Jeffreys Bay, it's not something you easily forget. Or, in some cases, easily remember.

Cape Town band Captain Stu are a wonderful, rowdy bunch. The kind of party band that keeps you on the dance floor long after you've run out of energy. And they've got a fixation with bums and taking their pants off in public. So it's Super Tube Day in Mossel Bay and two of the Stus jump on a slide with the bright idea of swapping their board shorts on the way down (we'll never understand why). But things didn't go quite as planned. Perhaps it's the general lack of sleep and excess alcohol that is synonymous with touring, but one of the poor lads whacks his head halfway down and lands in the pool, unconscious and with his lily white bottom in the air, giving new meaning to the term 'bottoms up'.

After fishing him out and reviving him, he looks around and can't remember who anyone is. Least of all himself. For days he wanders around the campsite with the names of his friends written onto the back of his hand and with the general emotional turmoil that must accompany waking up in the presence of a bunch of hairy animals otherwise known as rock stars. But he coped well mostly because a lot of people kept an eye on him when his raucous band mates couldn't. (The ingestion of inhuman volumes of a strange muti called Tassies makes babysitting a bit difficult.)

He had coped well until the naughtiest and nicest of girls felt the need to take 'advantage' of the situation.

Very soon after he returned to camp, bewildered and beleaguered by his general situation (the showers attack you and so do 15- year-old groupies), Eloise walked up to him. Eloise is not 15; she is my very mischievous and delicious tent mate. So Eloise asks him wide-eyed and innocent-like if he remembers the other night. 'You know… you, me…' she gestures awkwardly with some weird hand movements that resemble chickens doing the tango. (We practiced animal puppet shadows on our tent ceiling late into the night.)

'I've hit my head and lost my memory and I'm on tour with my friends,' he answers, bemused.

'So you don't remember anything?' She asks starting to look horrified.

'No, I'm sorry, I don't.'

He's confused, sincere and apologetic. Her hands are in the air in a defensive gesture and she says with an insulted, pained look. 'I'm just going to walk away…' Exit Eloise stage left. Drama queen supreme. We pack up laughing.

The bottom line? It's all fun and games, until someone knocks their head and forgets to remember something that never happened, instead of everything that did.
]]> Mon, 02 Feb 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-art-of-spaghetti-stretches
I was keen, but after a year of indolence I was a little apprehensive about a new yoga class. However, I'm naturally supple (in certain places, we all are) and always game for a challenge. What I didn't know was the parts of me that are the least flexible are in my mind, not my body.

We're in this lovely, peaceful room, with mantra music playing. We've done a sun salutation, the downward dog, the upward dog, the eagle, and now for squats. Okey dokey, I can squat. But what the hell is that? My yoga teacher's wrapped her arms around her legs and woven them into her groin, only to have them join somewhere by her ear? No, wait, that's her knee. Is that even legal?

'Come on, what is it? Trust yourself,' she calls, noticing my frown and sudden stillness. Trust myself? I don't trust her is what. Maybe she can do this because she's been a dancer for more than twenty years. And maybe I'll just sit this one out.

'You've done so beautifully so far, I think you're more than capable of this one,' she says looking at me with the kind of authoritative kindness you understand in military situations as a do-or-die order. So I do.

I don't even want to know what they'll put on my gravestone if I break my neck in this posture. 'R.I.P. Snap, Crackle, Stop'?

After breathing out and extending, the twist is easier than it looks and I'm suppler than I seem. Presto! I'm Miss Pretzel, and I'm loving it. The class applauds me, because you know these yoga people, they're like so aware and stuff. We get to playtime and she pairs me with the hottest guy in the room, whom I have a secret crush on. I'm glowing from the satisfaction of having bettered myself. Don't you just love unisex classes?
]]> Mon, 26 Jan 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/
What few of us may have thought about, as we let a social networking site reduce our communication to comments, notes, photo tags and a million little applications, is that it is also channelling our behaviour – into very unsubtle and sometimes uncouth patterns.

Gone are the days when you dug around in your social circle to find out about your crush or paid said person's little sister to drop your name at the right time. With Facebook you can decode the dirty and trawl the trails people leave. It is wicked entertainment, and sometimes in a not-so-cool sense. Because, back at my friend's profile, I'm picking up a pattern.

He has gone around commenting on images of a particular(ly beautiful) friend of mine. In one night, he has left a series of silly comments on about five different acquaintances' photos. All of her. I've seen that sort of behaviour before. Post a pretty profile pic and everyone leaves lame posts on your wall, asking how you are, what are you doing these days, stuff like that. The sort of self-concerned shallowness that makes the social networking world go round.

Now, if he hadn't recently changed his romantic status a hundred times, this might have escaped my attention. But I know he's going through emotional upheavals, and I know boys when they do this – they go wandering, in the unconscious hopes that some action will re-centre their romantic dial.

So before he lets things get out of hand on this very public platform of self expression, I send a suggestion that he not expose the inner workings of his soul to the 400 odd souls connected to him who probably don't give a toss. And what does he do? He posts his raw feelings about love's labours in his status update, and a plethora of positive comments are left, proving me partly wrong and partly right. Wrong about which Facebook attributes would work for him, but right that he, and everyone else on its books, is a bloody voyeur. So to save face, I posted a status update: 'Jezebel is in a relationship with Facebook'.

*Jezebel blogs because if somebody doesn't say these things, insights go awry. Of course, because she and COSMO get on so well, her friends are starting to be slightly better behaved around her. Slightly.
]]> Mon, 19 Jan 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/housemate-woes
It's not that he doesn't do his dishes (he doesn't, but he doesn't dirty an awful lot of them so I don't mind). It's not that he leaves the lights on (he does, despite power shortages, but I switch them off). And it's not that he leaves his dirty swimming trunks in the middle of the bathroom floor for me to pick up (last time I took a picture and put it on Facebook, he doesn't do it anymore).

It's that he's a pyromaniac.

Either that or he's a moron. Anyone who repeatedly leaves candles burning, stoves on and incense burning is missing a few chinks in the brain chain. And I'm not being paranoid; I've had my apartment burn down before because of someone else's neglected tea-light candle. Four people lost everything in 40 minutes – except their lives fortunately. Being lax about flames is asking for trouble. From me. So I gave him trouble.

But he made me laugh, the bastard. (How does he do that?) I wasn't asking to be entertained, I was asking for a sober awareness. But maybe that's where the trouble lies – in sobriety. This is a guy who starts and finishes the evening with gin and tonic. So maybe he's not a pyromaniac; maybe he's an alcoholic.

I suggested he make a mental checklist every time he leaves the house or goes to bed: 'Thirteen steps to domestic bliss' I called it. And I poured the gin down the drain. In front of him.

*Jezebel blogs because if somebody doesn't say these things, insights go awry. Of course, because she and COSMO get on so well, her friends are starting to be slightly better behaved around her. Slightly.
]]> Mon, 12 Jan 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/working-it-out
But it's not just tying up loose ends in preparation for the end of the year that's taking its toll. I'm caught between trying to make up for the time I'll be taking off over the holidays while making plans for them as well.

Friends keep calling, inviting me to laze on the beach or celebrate so-and-so's second cousin's birthday. Others need confirmation on a camping trip, and my growing to-do list won't even allow me to commit to sleeping late on Saturday mornings. At this rate, my deadlines are going to kill me if I don't kill them. Part of me is beginning to wonder if it's still a metaphor.

It's doubly ironic that there's loads of advice and warnings about holiday indulgences and activities, but very little on how to survive working weekends and double volume workloads. Right now, instead of planning for the future, it's time for some tips on surviving and still having the energy to party like Paris on New Year's Eve.

So, I've taken it upon myself to create the COSMO Girl's Pre-Holiday Checklist.

• I will take a break (and not a Kit Kat) because frequent resting and stretches are better to rejuvenate your energy supply than the tricky sugars of processed foods.

• I will not skimp on exercise. Staying active means staying invigorated and engaged. I might have to cut my running time down or try more intense exercise for shorter periods, though.

• I will clear the clutter – from my desk and from my mind. It'll be easier to focus and find things.

• I must budget my time and energy. There is only 24 hours in a day and our bodies have a limited amount of energy to burn. If there are certain tasks you can put off until the new year, leave them until 2009. This will help you maintain a sense of control.

• I either do it or delegate it. If you can't handle something, maybe somebody else can. Rome wasn't built in a day, but more importantly, it wasn't built by one person.

• I must be realistic about deadlines. If you can't make your deadlines, you let yourself as well as your boss and colleagues down. Set deadlines that are within reason given the extra workload and skeleton staff over the December period.

• I will learn to say no. There'll be ample opportunity to party this holiday season. For now or until you take time off, focus on your work priorities and make the extra effort.

Good luck with your end of year rush and happy holidays.

*Jezebel blogs because if somebody doesn't say these things, insights go awry. Of course, because she and COSMO get on so well, her friends are starting to be slightly better behaved around her. Slightly.
]]> Mon, 05 Jan 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/my-first-time-with-james
He dresses stylishly, has the best manners, drives fast cars and you can even take him home to your parents. Unfortunately I have also come to know him as a flirt and a bit of a bragger. And then last night the inevitable happened… we met. I imagined my first time to be special, something I would treasure, but I'm sad to say this was not the case. Let me explain.

Last night I was invited to meet him. At the venue, my girlfriends and I were having cocktails and eating off roving platters that floated by, but I had my doubts. I had a second cocktail to ease the tension and help me relax so I could make easy eye contact with the other people in the room. Slowly we made our way into the dark room, away from the noise.

His blue eyes popped into view and his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to keep the Aston Martin on the road while several baddies fired machine guns at him. He was in his signature black suit and white shirt and getting grubbier by the minute. It was loud, very loud, and the camera darted all over the place trying to follow him and his pursuers. Things exploded, cars crashed, people drove off cliffs. And as I expected, there were other pretty women in the picture. But with James' good looks, who could resist? We started our journey in Italy and then jetted to Bolivia. It was all just too much.

The scriptwriters were clearly taking it easy. The stuntmen and special effects guys on the other hand were working overtime. I was losing interest fast and was begging Bond to do something (anything) that would bring me closer to that edge of ecstasy I was promised. I tried not to think of England, I changed position in my seat, I even breathed slower. But that just made me want to fall asleep.

And then I gave up; 007 did not do it for me. Quantum of Solace ticks all the Blockbuster checkboxes: beautiful cars and countries, deafening explosions, pretty girls, boats, busses, airplanes and hordes of villains. Yet, this girl walked out of the cinema unsatisfied.

I felt like the guy Daniel Craig left behind in the middle of the desert with only a can of motor oil to drink. It slipped down his throat easily, but it still left him thirsty.
]]> Mon, 29 Dec 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/no-grey-area
And the programme, I suspect, that has caused quite a few of the mostly female viewers to pick unnecessary fights with their guys. Senseless fights. 'Why don't you love me as much as he loves her' fights. 'If you ever cheat on me like he did, we're over' fights. Fights where the question 'seriously?' punctuates every senseless point we make.

Or maybe it's just me.

I've always prided myself on being pretty level-headed when it came to dating. But this week, something changed. With the weather in Cape Town as gusty as it has been, I found myself watching a Grey's omnibus of note. One particular scene between McDreamy and Nurse Rose triggered something in me. They had slept together and – because of his plethora of surgeries – he had not made contact with her in the days following. Nurse Rose was mad.

And, suddenly, so was I. Days before I had hooked up with a boy who I have been casually seeing for just over a month. I had sent him a message, but heard nothing back. 'How dare he not get back to me?' I thought. The cheek.

I slammed pause, grabbed my phone and called my dearest guy friend for advice.

'Goddam boys,' I wailed. 'I don't know what's wrong with you lot. I saw him a few days ago, sent a message and have heard nothing. Nothing. What do I do? Leave it to lie or call him on it?'

'I think you should wait until he contacts you,' was my friend's (in hindsight) sound advice.

'But I don't want to wait. It's important that he knows how I feel.' And then I did the embarrassingly unthinkable. I actually stole Nurse Rose's line from the episode and used it – rather dramatically – as my own. 'I wish I was strong enough to pretend my ego isn't bruised but I'm not.'

It wasn't my words. And my friend knew it.

'Cath, what have you been doing tonight?' he asked sceptically.

'Watching Grey's Anatomy,' I sheepishly replied.

'Aah… Grey's Anatomy. Again, wait until he calls.'

But I couldn't. That scripted one-liner had got its claws into me and I fired off an accusing text, questioning completely irrelevant things from when we first met and actually ended off the message with the question 'seriously?'

After an hour of listening to the crickets, my phone went.

'Hey there. I didn't get your message, sorry. Was wondering what was up but because of the casual nature of us I thought you were busy too. No harm intended. I apologise.'

I could actually picture his puzzled face trying to figure out where the onslaught had come from. Because he was right. Many times before we had gone days between seeing each other with no contact. Why was this time any different?

Honesty hour with myself followed. Was I mad before I started watching Grey's? No. Had it really been plaguing me for days? Hardly. I pressed stop on the DVD, closed up the box set and placed it back in my cupboard with a post it note on that read: 'Proceed with caution'.

Because seriously?
]]> Mon, 15 Dec 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/yes-we-can-register-to-vote
What she meant was Barack Obama won the United States 2008 presidential election race. The shift from conservative to liberal leadership in the U, S and A suggests that those stars and stripes really do stand for something positive. As the world's largest social networking tool, Facebook, of course, had its say too.

In six days 1,745,754 people registered with its handy Election Rally application, which 'borrowed' a user's status to encourage voting. It sent 4,919,071 motivational messages out across the earth.

The Facebook rally told everyone who and how thoughts were being picked up on. And those thoughts spread faster than 100 000 people an hour. Sure, you could say it is part of the opinionated, voyeuristic formula that makes Facebook so popular, but it also points out that virtual, social mobilisation is making waves in the real world. Online social mobilisation plays a major part in the spirit surrounding elections. This year saw record numbers of previously apathetic American citizens go out and vote; many of them are young and restless like you and me.

But why should we care – Obama didn't become the president of South Africa, did he? No. But what turned out to be the largest online rally in history has set a precedent for our own chances of choosing a president (or a party) we actually want.

In a global display of high jacking, Obama's name came up whether or not people's status's actually mentioned anything vaguely political, and lots of concerns about our own upcoming election were expressed. And the same can be done for South Africa and our 2009 presidential elections. All we need to do is harness the power of social media and we too could encourage fellow South Africans to vote.

This weekend we are registering to vote. It could change your life.

Check if you're registered online or to find out how, where and when to.

Now what Facebook can't explain is the woman in my bed. I remember a lot of Southern Comfort and lemonade going down my throat the night before. Maybe all I'll ever know for sure is that it really IS a woman's drink…
]]> Mon, 01 Dec 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/trouserless
Breezing by a comfy couch that should have swallowed the guy standing on it, I came eye-to-eye with someone's boxers. Picture it. His jeans are around his ankles and his friends are around his podium, brawling and braying just as inebriated as he is. 'Ok,' I wonder, 'What is he going to do next...'

Before I could finish my thought and in an alarmingly deft display of dexterity for someone so drunk, he whips out his willy. It's a gregarious display of God-given manhood (the kind of moment that would normally make me laugh), but being drunk he gets titillated by his gumption. Within seconds I am suddenly less than half-a-meter from a waking willy.

So now I have a bone to pick with this poor fellow. The Penis is a national symbol of sex and sexiness, of longevity and length, of love and lust and longing. But it's also an icon of inanity when silly men who can't quite help (or control) themselves do the Full Monty in public. Kind sir, next time, consider giving your audience a choice of how far from your genitals they'd like to be when they stare at you open mouthed. I know, now that I've put it that way, you're going to be hard-pressed to comply. But if the truth is not too hard to swallow, you might appreciate that your performance will probably involve less spitting that way.
]]> Mon, 24 Nov 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/could-i-speak-to
ME: Hallo, Janie speaking.
FEMALE CALLER: Hi, can I speak to Andrew.
Shaking my head, do people ever listen?
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Don't know Andrew, goodbye.

ME: Sorry I don't know Andrew.
FEMALE CALLER: Who am I speaking to?
Irritation creeps up my spine.
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Did you not hear me when I answered the phone and gave you my name?

ME: It's Janie speaking.
FEMALE CALLER: Is this your phone?
Should I burst out laughing now or later?
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Oops, no, sorry, you caught me out. I just stole this from some other guy, maybe his name is Andrew, hold on, I will see if I can find him.

ME: Yes this is my phone.
FEMALE CALLER: Are you sure?
Ok, surely someone is trying to string me along.
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: No, not really. In fact, this does not look like my phone at all. Wow! How did you figure that out?

ME: Well it's in my hand and it looks like my phone.
FEMALE CALLER: How long have you had this number?
Unreal, this is when it becomes hard not to dish out a full serving of sarcasm.
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Not very long, I still have to write it on my hand in order to remember it, but it's getting easier every day.

ME: I have had this number for 15 years.
FEMALE CALLER: Are you sure?
I'm struggling to remember my breathing exercises to keep from exploding.
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Well if you will just hold on for a minute, I will dig through my drawers and see if I can find my original contract. Sorry for the inconvenience, one moment please.

ME: Yes I am sure and I don't know Andrew. Goodbye.
I hang up and look forward to those numbers again.

Why can't people just learn from me? When I dial a wrong number I try to apologise and end the call as soon as possible, no use wasting any more time or money. Thinking back, I'm glad the call came through during the day and not in the middle of the night. It might've gotten ugly.

Andrew, next time tell her you don't want her to call you instead of giving her a wrong number. Or, if you have to, please refrain from using mine.
]]> Mon, 10 Nov 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/street-sense-and-soft-hearts
But let's clarify. Patrick wasn't your average guy. Hunched over his crutches with his leg in a cast, asking for a little assistance at the roadside, he seemed one of those unfortunate souls who didn't belong on the street. My policy is never to give money to beggars directly as it encourages dependency in the long run. It's far better to donate food, old clothes or even your free time to a progressive, development agency or charity that supports and empowers people living on the street. But when Patrick was on the beat, my resistance to beggars would vanish.

Once I scanned his traffic intersection for that smile and a friend rolled his eyes at me from the passenger seat, mumbling sympathetically, 'Everyone has their bergie'.

'Cynic,' I thought to myself, but when I reconsidered the idea, I had to agree. Everyone has someone that represents the underdog to them, the beaten-but-not-broken side of their psyche. That someone pricks their heart and brings out their inner philanthropist. And don't those 'entrepreneurs' know it.

I lost my bergie. Not to unjustified police incarceration or the winter weather or alcohol abuse. I lost him to reality. Last week, driving no less than a block and a half from his haunt, I saw him striding strongly along in the sunshine, crutches under his arm like props and not prop-you-ups. It made me wonder about his business savvy. He knew most people would forget him the second they drove past that traffic light and he'd be able to swindle a few bucks at the next intersection, perhaps even from the same drivers. I'm not most people.

I'm over it now, but I'm still worried; my eyes have seen his ruse, but my heart is blind.
]]> Mon, 27 Oct 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/ladies-love-poker-too
Up until recently, I played the odd game online from the anonymity of my living room. But last night my confidence was pretty high and I decided to indulge in a bit of Texas hold 'em and brave real, live poker faces.

Registration went smoothly enough, but my "stay calm it's only a game" mantra didn't hold up very long in the smoky, noisy room when the players at my table sat down and the intimidation began. Before the cards were even dealt everyone had their game faces on and the trash-talking began. The guy on my right, dressed in a three piece suit no less, was speaking in code with his buddy across the table. Behind me was a guy who refused to take his hood of his jumper down for the three-hour duration of the tournament and at another table was a woman whose game plan seemed to include annoying other players with her incessant chatting.

I was so busy taking in the different characters around me I didn't notice my rapidly diminishing chip stack. Every 20 minutes the blinds (the amount you have to pay to play the round) were raised.

But I grinded it out and soon five people at my table were out, including The Suit.

It was then I realised the real game had only just begun. Pressure began to build as I was shuffled to a new table and started gathering supporters. Impromptu fan clubs formed and suddenly it wasn't "only a game". I had to make it to the final table. I couldn't disappoint my fans; I couldn't face the walk of shame. My new table's players seemed to share my feelings. No eye contact, no trash talk, just cold emotion. A few times I actually thought someone would physically launch themselves at the dealer because the cards weren't dealt fast enough. I shrank deeper into my seat, hoping no one would notice me.

And then there were eight.

When I reached the final table the music was turned up and the '80s classics that placated the crowd earlier was replaced by metal rock. The atmosphere had changed, the air became electric. Onlookers perched on top of the tables surrounding us, egging on their favourites. I felt like I was playing for a million dollars and the World Champion title.

At this point I couldn't have cared less about my poker face, there was way too much action at the table. Two people were suddenly eliminated and I was the only woman left. I won't lie, it felt pretty damn good.

Then I got ballsy. I made a King pair and had an Ace kicker. I went all in... And then The Hooded Recluse laid down a straight. Crap!

I was pretty amped as I stood up to leave, but I thanked everyone that had supported me and headed straight for the door. I must admit I couldn't sleep that night. I kept replaying my different hands, dwelling on the decisions to check, raise or fold and grinning at the egos that were on display. It was the most fun I had for free in a long time and I'll definitely be back next week. If you can't beat them, join them.

If you're ever in Cape Town, you have to Play the Nuts. And if you find yourself in a poker game (cashless or not), here are my tips: be careful of too much booze; don't pat yourself on the back too soon; and most importantly, have fun!
]]> Mon, 13 Oct 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/
The irony is that the hidden art of body language is decodable if you're paying attention, so there's a lot more to that social kiss than meets the eye. Or the cheek. Men's body language in public tends to reveal the inner workings of their private lives (or their private parts). I'm no behaviour analyst, but I've noticed my male friends' kisses are directly related to their relationship status, and you don't have to check Facebook on this one.

Last week I had a business meeting with a client. In past meetings it's been purely professional. In past meetings he had a girlfriend. This time he greets me with open arms, a broad smile (which is normal) and kisses me hello in customary Cape fashion. But his lips can't decide if they're on my cheek or on my mouth, so I get a half-and-half. 'Hmmm,' I wonder, half amused and half confused, 'something's changed with his girlfriend.' We're already halfway through our lunch when he tells me she left him. I cough, wipe my lips and try not to smile. Lip service indeed!

If your guy pals' lips start slipping from your cheek to chin and settle on your lips, start wondering where his mind is. Obviously, it's not in his cranium. You don't need a ruler, but you do need some rules!

If you suspect something's up (and it's not your eyebrow), remember:
- It might be unintentional, he is a guy after all so he probably hasn't thought about it.
- Just like his smile, the motion behind it is broad so it's mostly about him, not you.
- He might still have a girlfriend, even if they're on a 'break'
- You kissed him on the cheek, not the lips.
- If you're picking up on his hidden messages just make sure you're tapping into your own and not sending signals you don't want returned.
]]> Mon, 29 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-new-dating-scene
I couldn't have been more surprised had I been warned. I wasn't even at the entrance turnstile when I felt eyes all over the place casing me. I made it to the changing room feeling like my every move was being watched and dressed as if I was on display in a glass box. My six years of monogamy was beginning to show and I felt my palms getting sweaty as I plugged in the MP3 player. Surely earphones would send the message to those vultures that I was here for a serious workout?!

I'd barely made it up the stairs and was flashed the biggest smile – which made me turn around thinking I might actually really know this guy but no, I didn't. He happened to turn around at that exact moment, which unfortunately made it seem as if I was 'interested'. I hurried along and stationed on the treadmill. Finally I could breathe easy, and had a look around.

It was the afternoon crowd. Some were working out, others just hanging around beside treadmills and here and there people were standing in groups chatting – no sign of a bead of sweat anywhere. I kept scanning the room and found these little interactions everywhere.

I was still digesting what I was seeing when I felt a tap on my arm. This time it was someone I knew and quickly unplugged my ears. Yes, he confirmed, this is the new place you go to find a hot date to share a glass of wine, dinner or maybe more with. He laughed at the shock registering across my face as I relayed what happened during the last 10 minutes. But he retorted pretty fast: 'Come on, look around you. Beautiful people, friendly faces and if you are single, why would you not take someone up on an invitation?'

So I've concluded that in the mornings it's about fitness, reaching a goal. In the afternoon, it's about a different goal altogether. Well, at least this way you know and can see who you're chatting up – no fantasy avatars, no Photoshopped photos, the real deal wrapped in a bit of gym garb that barely covers the necessary.

One way or another, you'll find your preferred exercise routine.
]]> Mon, 22 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-nicest-gift-ever
'Mmm, wait. Water isn't just good for bad moods,' I replied. 'Run her a bath with her favourite oils, and sprinkle the petals all over the water. Just because.'

He did. He even made a trail of petals leading to the bathroom. I can tell you it got them in the mood! But then again, you never can tell…

I once met a hot, Californian, lover in the sultry city of Istanbul and was surprised to find myself drowned in gifts. It was a gift enough to see his face, his arms and his smile again after five months apart. He gave me clothes, trinkets from San Francisco and even Jelly Bellies (which are hot property on the sweet tooth market, mind you. Especially on the edge of the Middle East, where oil is gold and water is diamonds!). Feeling like I'd just gotten the cream and the cat, I looked at him in wonder and wondered what next. Then he dropped the bomb. He'd had more lovers in our few months apart than I'd had in my whole life and he hadn't bothered to tell me, as we'd agreed. He'd also decided that as much as he wanted a fairytale adventure with me in the land of blue turbans and bright skies, he didn't want a relationship beyond that – even though he said he was 'deeply in love' with me.

His guilt – not his love and adoration – had prompted him to spoil me and that really spoilt it for me. But being a slow learner in the Art of Love and a bit of a sucker for the promise of love (even when it's just been broken), I gave in to the illusion. But after Turkey, and a lot of heartbreak, I gave away all his lovely little gifts. To bergies (and friends who'd warned me about him).

The lesson? The real gift is in the intention. Find out why he's doing what he's doing before you gush your 'Thank Yous'. And if you really mean it, spoil him right back with something sublime.
]]> Mon, 15 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/bag-of-contradictions-part-two
There we were at a thumping club on Long Street. Well, actually, no, I lie. It’s a wicked music venue with a bar and a balcony known for bird watching. It was funky Fong Kong Bantu Sound System Saturday night, with thumping beats and hunky guys and hot... uh... birds. We were two ladies with our own hunky guy (a friend, mind you) and we were all loving it – close encounters, wiggling hips, jiggling bits, real get-down and dance stuff.

Of course, it was hot and sweaty and at this point my friend peeled off her (rather sizeable) handbag like a banana skin and handed it to our hunk with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow. He smiled his brilliant, pearly smile in triumph as if he’d just won a prize, and with a twinkle in his eye slipped it onto his shoulder. And carried on boogying.

The irony? Said Bag (with studs and dangly bits) became a babe magnet. No, seriously. He went to the bar to fetch us beer and came back with babes on his arm instead. Incorrigible. Ok, they’re foreign, and they don’t speak much English, but sexy is sexy, right?

I was left a little in awe with how natural some men are about things. A real man doesn’t need to prove his masculinity; he needs to prove his femininity, a fact quite lost on the last Manbag Who Wouldn’t.
The Cambridge Women’s Porn Cooperative has a point when they suggest that it’s the small things that are sexiest. Guess who got lucky?
]]> Mon, 08 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/bag-of-contradictions-part-one
The other night I needed a man. Actually, no, I just needed an extra hand, and I happened to have one with an ego in disguise as a date next to me. So I asked him to hold my bag for a moment... he refused. His reason? He doesn’t hold anyone’s handbag, because “the next thing they [the bag’s owner] are off and distracted and don’t come back and you have to carry on looking after the thing, like a bedraggled poodle.”

This isn’t really about inconvenience, is it? It’s about masculinity. Even if I did trot off to the bar to get him a drink and left him with The Handbag, it’s smaller than a croissant and has no frills. It would have fit quite comfortably (and unnoticeably) under his armpit like a good little puppy till I came back.

Funnily enough it didn’t occur to him that he’d gain points by helping me out, but being the Grrrl that I am, I gave him a slicing look, flicked my hair back, pinned The Handbag between my legs (thinking it was probably the wiser thing to put there) and pulled off my cardi. Standing like that made my bum stick out a bit, of course, which he didn’t miss, and my bet is it only made him sorrier that he’d just lost major kudos, and the chance to hold anything else of mine! How inconvenient.

Watch out for part two of Bag of Contradictions: The Man Who Dared.
]]> Mon, 08 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/taxi-idols
There are two different culprits here. Everyone should be familiar with the sing-along-er. This is the person who competes not only with the original artist by trying to surpass their highest notes, but also the sound system, and usually wins because the drivers are too polite to turn up their volume.

Then there are the ‘pod people’, who seem to exist in a little world inside their Ipods, where belting out your favourite tune is as natural as, well, auditioning for Idols. They’re the worst to come across because they sing along to music that no one else can hear!

But the worst is yet to come. The nightmarish result of these ungodly performances is that their particular song will get stuck in your head, looping incessantly. Except it’s the pod person’s voice instead of the artist. By the time you eventually get to work, you’ll be frantically googling the song on Youtube to get that person out of your head. An excruciatingly unnecessary punishment for public commuting, don’t you think?

So if you’re one of the culprits – stop! Think before you sing, and consider this. As suped-up as taxis are these days, I have yet to see one with a microphone hooked up to the cigarette lighter waiting for its next karaoke star. So take a hint and save your song for the parents’ fiftieth anniversary, I’m sure they’ll appreciate it more.
]]> Tue, 09 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/dan-in-real-life
And then there he was.
He walked past our table, heading for the little boys’ room. Much nudging and pointed noises ensued from my friends – Q, Kraai, Japie, Jons and Orca, who had all come to Cape Town to watch the game with me at Newlands – as if there was any doubt that I had already spotted the most beautiful man ever to walk the earth. I barely had time to draw a breath and Q was off after Dan, stalking on my behalf.
Three minutes and a fortifying Jägerbomb later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I don’t know what Q had said to him (and I don’t think I ever want to), but my future ex-husband was standing behind me. He was shorter than I expected, but the smile designed to sell underwear and stop female hearts was the same. I reached for his hand, fully intending to shake it and reassure myself that I wasn’t having one of my very involved fantasies. He was having none of that. He leaned down, possibly dragged by the irresistible force channelling through my arm, and kissed me on the cheek. I could actually feel my eyes crossing.
Our conversation went something like this:
Ania: Hi!
Dan: Hi, nice to meet you.
Ania: It’s a privilege to meet you. You’re a rugby genius and the hero of millions, and it’s a pleasure to watch you play. In fact, it’s a pleasure just to watch you….
Dan: Thanks, that’s very kind. Did you enjoy the game?
Ania: Not so much [the Boks had crashed to a depressing 19-0 defeat]. But I’m having an excellent evening now….
Etc etc etc; cue soppy music, diamonds, white dresses and flower girls.
At least, that’s how it happened in my head. What actually came out of my mouth was a strangled sound caught somewhere between a whimper and a wail, with a bit of a ‘gah’ thrown in for good measure.
Not my finest hour.
I recovered quite brilliantly, I thought, by flashing a winning smile and directing his attention to the rest of the table. He chatted with Q and Mrs Q, and I snapped a champion picture of him with Japie – a coup, considering I had lost all feeling in my arms and legs, and needed the command of all my limbs to line up the shot. But when Kraai tried to point out that I might want a photo as well, I balked. I was barely breathing as it was; another second of physical contact with the stuff my wildest dreams are made of would have surely killed me.

Yes, I’m an idiot. But I’m a giddy idiot – and I might never wash my face again….
]]> Mon, 18 Aug 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/room-for-rent
With Paul’s bad energy and even worse hygiene habits gone (plus a few hundred sticks of incense later), Jen and I set out to find a new, fabulous digsmate. We were unaware that the chance of finding the ideal guy in the middle of the year is about as high as us getting lucky with Wentworth Miller. Especially with only three months left on our lease. We didn’t think our criteria were particularly strict. We thought we would easily find a somewhat attractive, single (lesson learnt), well-educated, balanced, party-loving, car-driving, self-sufficient, useful-around-the-house kind of guy with plenty of hot friends, and who could socialise but also give us our much-needed female space. That’s not too much to ask for, right? Um, apparently it is.

We began the interview process with a dazzling example of what’s available in the digsmate market. He was an older guy who had dreams of commuting to work and back on his bicycle – from Gardens to Table View every day (about 10-15 km). We believed him when he said we would never have to drive him anywhere (because we weren’t intending to), but the cyclist took more interest in our cleavages than the rent. Freaky. Next option, please! We were introduced to Kyle, who just happened to have been thrown out of his last house and from his university for drunken behaviour, illegal substance abuse and theft. Perfect! But four very unusual and wayward men later and Kyle seemed a highly tempting option. We met men who adored women a little too much, a man who hated women and a man who I think actually was a woman. One guy even asked whether he could stay without paying us on a monthly basis – he promised that at the end of the year he would pay us what he owed us. ‘Yes, okay, no problem, please stay free of charge and then run off with all our worldly belongings in December. Welcome home!’ I suppose it makes sense that with the weak offer of only a three-month lease, what you get in return is a small pool of interesting guys. And not the good kind of interesting – the weird kind. Even though we felt for these roomless men, we had no intention of opening up a mental ward any time soon.

At the very least we got to meet some, er, different guys, and learnt some lessons in living – no more random roomies or jealous girlfriends. At least we got in some girlie giggling at the end of the day. We still haven’t found our perfect male roommate and have begun thinking about converting the extra room into our own gym which at this rate would be more useful to us than any of these, potential digsmates!

* Name has been changed
]]> Fri, 25 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/its-a-wrap
Port Louis is the capital of Mauritius and this is where we headed for a bit of local culture. As a standard the roads all over the island is really narrow and speeds limits are quite low but it does not help much. If there is a truck loading or off-loading, it has to stop in the middle of the road this also goes for busses, taxis or any other vehicle. The road has no shoulder full stop.

With the wind and driving rain all of us had our eyes on the road, not that it helps the driver of course but it does for peace of mind. Cyclists are really vulnerable and a few times I looked back just to make sure the poor chap is actually still pedaling as we zipped past.

The city traffic is exactly the same and we eventually stopped somewhere in a side street in order to depart. From here there was a subway that allowed us passage without having to brave the traffic on foot.

I was overwhelmed by the smell of fish as we approached the market. Not sure if I should breathe or rather just suffocate I slowly reminded myself to concentrate and breathe normally. It became better until I actually encountered the fish stall with several kinds of salted and dried fish on display. The stall owner explained to us that the fish is cooked for it to rehydrate and is then eaten with rice or bread. I might turn into a super model within a few weeks if that was my daily meal. I find fish most attractive in an aquarium, as biltong neither the look not the smell attracts me in the least.

On sale there are baskets, spices, sarongs, t-shirts and every other conceivable piece or memorabilia ever thought of. Dodo’s carved from wood or stone, cast in metal, with or without feathers and even with a bobbing head. Every single price is negotiable. Just a bit further up from the market are the street sellers and here as in every country I have ever visited Chinese imports are at the order of the day. Watches and perfumes along with sunglasses seem to be the favourites.

The fresh fruit and vegetable market on the other side of the street was a feast to all the senses. All displayed in little or huge pyramids the reds, greens and yellows mixed with the voices of the sellers and a myriad of smells wished for one on my local street corner back home. At one stall I noticed at least four different varieties of tomatoes for sale. Another one was mainly made up of potatoes and unknown root veggies. All sold by weight it is constantly busy and people have a friendly disposition unlike the trinket sellers that are desperate and over powering.

An experience not to be missed. If you feel like discovering a different world not too far from South Africa, visit this island, you might be pleasantly surprised.

Thank you to Le Telfair and Max Factor for making the 2008 Swimwear shoot a great experience. Don’t forget to buy the November issue to see all the new must have fashion for summer.
]]> Fri, 25 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-wheels-of-the-bus-go-round-and-round
Sights and smells are stronger when in the saddle, as opposed to rushing by behind the window of a taxi. It was late afternoon and we could smell the household dinners being cooked. People were coming back from work and children were on school holidays so they all greeted and waved as we cycled past. Owners of restaurants waved enthusiastically at us in the hope that we would remember them on our way back for a dinner stop.

We stopped for some fresh coconut milk - straight from the shell. The top is skillfully whipped off with a machete. Just enough was lopped off so that a tiny hole is created, a straw is inserted and wha-la, it’s ready for consumption. Of course, for a few extra rupees, something a little bit stronger can be added - from coconut cooler to coconut cocktail!

At the halfway point we casually asked how far we had cycled. 'What? 12 kilometers?', we all cried. This meant we now had to cycle back the same distance, without the wind pushing us nicely along.
That’s when the down-pour gave us a last good soak.And seriously, this was one of the best afternoons spent on the island. You couldn't wipe the smiles off our faces.

We are here courtesy of Le Tellfair – www.letelfair.com
]]> Thu, 24 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/fashion-victim
In my normal daily life, I prefer to keep my feet on the ground. In flats.

But a special occasion called for special shoes: Only the biggest horse-racing event in the country. There’d be cameras, hot men and most importantly, other women in teetering heels.

Race day arrived. I found myself flirting fabulously with the fashion crowd. But no matter how many ‘lurve your stilettos, dahling’ came my way, all I could focus on was the burning and throbbing down below.
I felt alone in my pain.

I looked at the well-heeled crowd around me. Models and actresses prancing and posing with gargantuan grins plastered on their faces, all footloose and fancy-free. Why wasn’t I smiling? Was I the only one in foot hell?

I blame you, Carrie Bradshaw. You who made me believe, believe, that external glamour was worth any kind of excruciating torture. I even purred ‘Hello, lover’ just like you did, when I first laid eyes on said foot-wreckers. (Of course, Carrie was talking about Christian Louboutins. I was wearing… anyway, that’s besides the point.) Irresponsible propaganda, I say. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t bitter… I was blistered.

Then… a revolution. It could have been the copious amounts of champagne. But as night fell, the conversation in the fashion tent shifted. The glamazons started talking about their feet. More importantly, the pain in their feet. I wasn’t alone anymore. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. (I still thank God that I hadn’t.)
Two weeks later, my feet are slowly returning back to normal. The scars are fading and disfigurement is minimal.

I may even wear my 6-inchers to a party this weekend.
]]> Wed, 23 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/salade-du-millionaire
Carl showed us how to prepare three of the local dishes. On our recipe sheets the difficulty-rating was average but you should have seen the ingredients list!
He started off with a Crab Meat and Palm Heart Salad. I don’t think I have ever eaten palm heart and our video guy was a little twitchy at the thought of eating ‘heart’.
The specific palms do not grow far from the Chateau and when the outer bark is stripped off, the middle is white. Palm hearts come from the White Palm which is now cultivated on the island specifically for gastronomic use and can be eaten raw or cooked.
The salad is given the pompous name of Salade du Millionaire, probably because the trees need to grow for at least six or seven years before they are cultivated. Once the tree has been chopped off, it’s head never grows back.

“This you have to marinate quickly, otherwise it goes brown,” he explained about the slices of palm heart, in a thick French accent. Once the crab and palm heart has been marinated separately, they are then combined and served with sliced tomato.

The main meal he prepared was chicken curry. With a large part of the island’s population being Hindu or Muslim, chicken or fish is the preferred staple. Beef, lamb and pork is imported from Australia, New Zealand or sometimes South Africa. It was a mild curry given a bit more of a zing with the addition of a side dish containing chopped onion, tomato and green chilli. Served with some plain white rice or bread, the flavours were inviting and the food colourful.

He ended the demonstration meal with banana flambé with rum and cinnamon. To make the dessert would require four bananas some sugar, rum a cinnamon stick and orange juice. Served with vanilla ice cream it turned out to be the favourite dish of the three.

What was there to take from all of this? The simplicity of the ingredients. Nothing is over complicated, nothing is spiced to death, it is a combination of flavours that work well together. And of course presentation which I think is an art but something that can be taught.

We are here courtesy of Le Telfair – www.letelfair.com
]]> Tue, 22 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/day-6-blue-from-every-vantage-point
They were inside streams making sure water can run freely, taking care of weeds and clipping edges with tiny little scissors that one would expect to find in a hairdresser. The course manager says that insects and fungus are their biggest problem and takes the most time. There are huge snails all over the grass. They are pencil shaped and much bigger than any land snails I have ever seen. I was particularly careful not to step on any of them, could not imagine that it would be a pleasant experience.

We also had the opportunity to be taught by a golf pro during a golf clinic. The golf pro is another ex South African that now lives and works on the island. It can be a very intimidating sport to start with no experience and I have been told by quite a few people that they would never even try. The three newbies that took part in the clinic was loving it. The approach is more an explanation than turning you into a snap champion. What makes up a golf swing, some of the myths around what you should or should not do and the opportunity to hit 25 balls while he helps you a bit. I think I might see a few new faces on the driving range when we get back home.

When visiting it is also nice to know that the golf is included in the room fee so visitors can book and play as often as they like. Should a golf buggie be required that is charged extra and hitting balls at the driving range is also a few rupees extra.

Today we are taking part in a Mauritian cooking course and I will be telling you all about that tomorrow.
Check out today's pix.


We are here courtesy of Le Telfair – www.letelfair.com
]]> Mon, 21 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/work-the-light
To actually get to a location with all the necessary props, clothing and camera equipment is easier said than done. We used two mini buses to transport 11 people. One is basically filled with boxes full of sunglasses and jewelry, bags of swimming costumes and hard cases containing camera equipment.

At the location we piled all of this into boats and were taken out to the catamaran. This is where the real hard work starts. All the models, hair and make-up, fashion editor and assistant stay on the main boat. The photographer and his assistant work from a smaller boat on the sea. The photographer sets up the shot with the models telling them what he has in mind before pushing off. Now it is the job of the skipper to angle the catamaran so that the sun is on the models and behind the photographer.

He approaches the models in the smaller boat, gets ready and as soon as he is close enough starts counting to three and then shoots. He only manages about two to three shots before they have to turn around, get away from the main boat and then approach once again. For these shots he also uses what is called a ring flash which basically sits like a silver dish around the lens of the camera and gives him better illumination. Everytime the clouds move in front of the sun he has to wait and the models try to contain their hair and their footing.

For the afternoon we were on a different beach where a horse was booked to be part of the scene. He was dapple grey and had quite a strange name, Pigeon Post. Then I learned that he is actually originally from South Africa and loves to swim, so the model riding him had to be very careful with him in the water since she was wearing a expensive chiffon dress that is not really made to be submerged in the sea.

While I was sitting on the beach watching the photographer and his assistant use a gold bounce (backboard of gold material that reflects light onto the model’s skin) to use any available light, I noticed some men out at sea. What was strange was that they were on foot and very far out, I would say nearly a kilometer but only submerged up to their hips. The owner of the horse explained to me that because of the coral reef the sea breaks very far out, I actually noticed that the first day we arrived. The front shallow bit is referred to as a lagoon. The guys in the water were fisherman, they know their way through the coral garden and because they do not own boats, they walk out to the break to go and fish. I was perplexed as to how they get back in the dark? When I asked he just smiled and said they walked back. I felt the tips of coral the other day and they are sharp as nails, I do not know how they do it.

Every last little bit of light was used and as the sun sunk completely behind the horizon before the photographer was happy and announced that the day was a success. Having never been at an outdoor shoot I realized how much planning was necessary and how much easier it is in a studio. Yet, I looked at the pictures once they were downloaded onto the laptop and were told that there was still a lot of work to be done.

It seems like the need for more or less light never ends.
We are here courtesay of Le Telfair - www.letelfair.com
]]> Sun, 20 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/wrong-way-round
Try new things are our motto for the story. So we snorkeled on a, no I lie, next to a coral garden and quad biked up a mountain. We saw parts of the original Mauritian forest and heard all about the Dutch introducing sugar cane (for Rum and not commercial sugar), as well as pine apples.

Rebecca had blisters from hanging on as we raced through mud puddles but in the next instant being speechless at a water fall. For me personally finding out that hunting was a big tourist attraction was a tad too much, but that is easily avoided.

Mauritian people must be some of the most friendly, helpful and generally content human being I have ever met. Hindu, Muslims, Buddhists and Christians live and work peacefully in the same space. Always with the aqua marine backdrop of a sea with waves breaking far out.

Both Stuart and Mike celebrated birthdays. Look it’s not often that a person gets an Italian chef to prepare a gateau sporting your name. Getting the chance to enjoy this at the top of a hill on the veranda of a 150 year old Chateau is nearly making it feel unreal.

We have days filled with lots of hard work and laughter. Here is our second video that Roland put together for us.

It is a pleasure creating COSMO Swimwear for you. Let us know by commenting if you have questions.

Visit our location at www.letelfair.com
]]> Sat, 19 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/5-star-frenglish
So as one does when staying at a 5-star hotel, I call housekeeping and ask for an iron to be brought to my room.
The housekeeper, alarmed at my request of wanting to do my own ironing, tells me she will send someone immediately to collect my suit.

`No dear` I reply, `it is not a suit, but three suitcases (I don`t have the heart to tell her about the crates). `No problem Madame. I will send someone immediately.`

Well I don`t know if that someone came and saw the amount of ironing and fled in fear, but I am still waiting for her to arrive.

The second fashion challenge arose when trying to order a Sundae as a prop for the Pringle swimwear shoot, and the bartender had no idea what I was on about.
`Please can I have a Sundae?`
`No, it is Thursday.`

Fashion is a tricky business.

Check out all the photographs, shot by our official photographer Anthony Friend. And these are the pix we're not going to use...

Visit www.letelfair.com for great accommodation offers.

Day 1
Day 2
]]> Fri, 18 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/cosmo-swimwear-shoot-day-2
Rebecca and I were given the Le Telfair grand tour and we were surprised to learn that there was another three tiers of suites; even more luxurious than ours. It became clear to me why people come here for honeymoons and naughty holidays!

Door 1604 leads to a private sitting room and through the glass sliding doors on the doorstep, a little beach. A personal butler is at your beck and call. He will run a bath dotted with with floating flowers and surrounded with candles. He’ll also make sure that my favourite brand of chocolate is sitting neatly on my fluffed pillow each evening. Nice.

If you don’t have at least three saucy ideas in your head by now, you need to read the paragraph again.

While we were oohing and aahing over the hotel, fashion ed. Robynne and the crew were shooting poolside glamour. I have never seen so many people clean one bit of water. But it sparkled! Roland was ever-present with his video camera and put together a highlights package for your entertainment - watch it now.

Tomorrow Rebecca and I may be sipping cocktails, poolside, or dipping our toes in the sea or even strolling along the white sand – who knows? Check back to share the excitement.

Visit www.letelfair.com for great accommodation offers.

Day 1
Day 3
]]> Wed, 16 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200 http://www.cosmopolitan.co.za//Play/Blogs/the-cosmo-swimwear-crew-on-location