THE ROAD GOES ON FOREVER AND THE PARTY NEVER ENDS

As much as I would like to apologies for my absence on these here digital pages and give a very valid excuse as to why I have not had time to write, I’m afraid I have no reasons other than the truth. My liver and lungs went on a massive binge session together about 2 weeks ago, obviously had a big falling out over something and I now find myself at the end of what has been an extremely interesting fortnight.

Liver: Let’s go out a have a drink.
Lungs: Okay, but only one and we’re not playing “flirt with the smoker”
Liver: Boring… why do you always have to be such a kill joy.
Lungs: Because if I’m not working neither are you.
Liver: Right, fair enough.

Needless to say, they both embraced my new found singledom with the fervour and energy of a small child on chocolate, proceeded to party like the rock stars they were in their previous lives and leave the rest of my body helpless and without the ability to move. Cue 1 week on the couch, Christian Troy’s devilishly handsome derrière and my lungs and liver never to be seen together again.

Thankfully, I am officially on the mend, 1 lung has sheepishly returned with a whisper of when I may expect the other, however I daresay he is still seeking asylum somewhere very far away from my liver. I am unfortunately back in the world of reality which means doing real work things like TPS reports and hanging around the water cooler, which at this stage pales in comparison to stalkbook and pretending to work while having sumo wrestlers hanging off your eyelids!

But alas, It’s Monday Peeps, the fight resumes with renewed vigour and I promise, more updates, less hangover induced injuries.

GEES LOUISE!

Goodness, to say real work is getting in the way of the rest of my life would be a ginormous understatement. I haven’t run the whole week, gorged on pizza or even had a chance to read my candy flossy escapism. Getting to work and leaving work in the dark is reminiscent of living in London, which while I was there could be justified because of the wonderful exchange rate, but in CT it seems just ludicrous! Also, on top of everything I find myself waking up in the middle of the night wondering where the hell I am. The amount of travel and living out of a suitcase I have done (and continue to do) has made me feel more like a forgetful gypsy than a corporate woman. My once prized elephant memory has now been solely consumed with anything and everything surrounding work. The Chef and I apparently had a lovely conversation the other night after he came home from a dinner for about 45 minutes, cannot remember a thing. And I can’t even blame it on drugs… drugs are enjoyable, work not so much!


So for the time being I have said goodbye to my social lucidity and reserved what I have left for lazy/stupid/irrational/British/South African suppliers who seem to think “Rush Job” means “go and have a long lunch, enjoy a surf and pretty much mess around until after the due date”! Departing together with my rational sense has been both my patience and composure… Not a great skeleton left to be honest. And to add insult to injury, my body has given up all resistance against the always expected seasonal flu and succumbed. Pathetic!

So I’m afraid Peeps, this little pity party can’t even bring herself to say TGIF, as I’m back to work tomorrow and The Big Smoke at the crack of dawn on Sunday. Farewell Friends, Sanity and Lungs… I hope we meet again on my return sometime in June!

PHEW!

Say it with me… Crisis Peeps, It’s Friday! Whoop whoop!

We made it. The disastrous nasty little week is over and we’re all heading for a weekend of fun fun fun. Thunder I know can barely keep her excitement in check because it’s GP weekend. (GP stands for Grand Prix for all those not in the know – including moi!). The Chef is pretty much in the same state as the Sharks and Stormers are fighting to the death on Sat (Go Stormers!) and I’m bouncing off the walls because a) I survived my first week back from leave and b) running a half marathon on Sunday where as opposed to a medal, you get a real live miniature tree! And c) have mothers day breakfast with the running family and mothers day lunch with the real family… so it’s a gastronomic fest all round!

I’m also due to fit some shopping in, some polite and elegant dinner conversation and sleep (bottom of the priority list at the moment!). Pint Size and Relax with Dax are coming round for dinner tonight to elaborate on the delectable qualities of wine cultivar and everything else that goes with those delicious fermented grapes we enjoy so much. Thunder and The Barman and joining the dinner on the basis that, although we don’t know how to talk about the wines, we certainly know how to consume them! And as is becoming to wonderful trend in my house, The Chef will be cooking for us all!

So a big cheers to everyone for this weekend ahead! And Happy Mothers day to all the mom’s out there who make our lives so special!

THANK YOU!!!

I’m off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Auz… except that I’m not seeing a Wizard or going to Auz, but I am off! Yip, I have been given the green light to fly to London tomorrow night for the epic adventure that is the London Marathon, hours of drinking champagne and chatting to girlfriends and a number of hundred pounds spent on buying clothes. Whooppeee!!!

I shall be leaving behind a plethora of work which will be studiously ignored in favour of the above, a seemingly excited Chef (excited to see me leave, or excited for me I have yet to figure out!) and a gaggle of ladies who I promise to spoil on my return! What I will be going to is another gaggle of ladies, congested tubes, £4 coffee and indecisive weather… THE EXCITEMENT IS MAMMOTH!!!

I want to say a massive THANK YOU to everyone who sponsored my charity. Thank you to The Globe Trotter, The Grandmother, The Parentals, The Parentals Friends, SuperMom, The Adventure Queen, The GBF, The Old Boss, 2IC, The Cousin, The Rider (soon becoming a runner), One Half of The Boys, Pop Tart, Thunder Struck, The Chef, The Barman, Running Mom, Pint Size, Glass And A Half, My JHB Partner in Crime, Sonic Hater, The Consistent One, Mr Lumps and Bazza! You guys are amazing, all the support and encouragement has been incredible!

Farewell All, Running Family no injuries please!

Mwah xxx

0 DAYS TO GO!

OMG! I just ran 56kms! And tripped over a cat’s eye while watching a dancing gorilla, and finished in under 6 hours, YAYAYAYAYAYAY! It was amazing. All the training, sore knees, absurd amount of carbs was totally worth it! I, Crazii Redhead, managed to complete the Two Oceans Ultra Marathon, battered and bruised, weak and with my most unhappy face on, but I did it. And by George I would to do it again in a second!

Thanks to SuperMom and all my running family, I made it through. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you guys, or The Chef, The Barman, Thunder and Pint Size. My amazing support crew kept me going for the glorious/agonising/heart breaking 56kms… I wouldn’t have wanted it to be any other way!

Thank you all, next stop, London Marathon!

EX vs. XXX

I thought for the sake of my readers sanity, I would deviate the topic today ever so slightly from running to a somewhat more salacious subject, that of ex’s. As fate would have it, a few months ago I got the most mysterious sms from a person I do not know. It said that we should meet, woman to woman and talk. Suddenly finding myself in a very bad soap opera (sorely lacking in the retarded cousin and spiritual guide), I responded with my usual sweetness and asked “Who the frek are you and what do we need to talk about”. Long story short and I found myself drinking tequila with the ex’s ex. Yip, hell hath no furry like a woman scorned and I’ll tell you what... you don’t want to mess with this little piece of dynamite. So there I was talking to the woman who, not 2 weeks ago, hated my guts and had visions of stabbing me to death ala Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. With a volume of new information acquired over the following 2 weeks and the ensuing break up, she felt the need to fully explain and talk to me about this man we both, clearly, had misunderstood.

Cue a 3 hour discussion, some highly enlightening and rather heart breaking realizations and we were kindred sprits. As apparently a number of other woman we needed to find would soon become. Yip, it would appear our supposed Mr Perfect turned out to be slightly less than perfect after all! Rather amusing for me and highly painful for my new found friend, we analyzed and over analyzed every inch of the past few years as only woman can do.

Since that fateful day when I aquired a new friend and sounding board, two realizations came to pass:

1) No matter what happens in life and love, woman will always be there for each other to wipe away the tears, call him nasty names and feed each other ice cream and pizza whenever the need arises. We will feel each others pain, laugh with each other in times of happiness and always hold each others hands when things seem a little to big.

2)  “A woman has got to love a bad man once or twice in her life, to be thankful for a good one” - Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

(3 DAYS TO GO!!!)

MEETING THE FOCKERS AND FREKKERS - Part 2

Right, back to Durbs… Not withstanding the incredible greenhouse that Durban is, we had a wonderful weekend.

I was abused treated to a run with a 10 x comrades runner on Sunday morning of 32 agonizing glorious kms through the colossal mountains undulating hills that make up this area of Natal. It was hot. I was sweating. Lots. By the time I arrived home, barely breathing and still trying to figure out how we started on a hill and ended running up a hill ala an MC Escher puzzle, I was drenched. I honestly looked like I had just stepped out from under a waterfall. Even The Chef said so. Thunder was so amazed by this event she wanted hard photographic evidence, which I’m afraid, along with my toned and tanned sports illustrated figure, did not materialize! What did however materialize was the realization that no matter how long and hard you train, nothing can beat experience and time on the legs. My comrades partner arrived home looking as fresh as a daisy with the perfect “sweat” glow, feeling relaxed and looking closer to the sports illustrated model than I could even come. And he’s male. And in his 60’s!

Shamed beyond recognition I shyed into the shower and tried to remember why in fact I enjoy this running thing so much. Getting your arsed kicked is one thing. Getting your arse kicked by someone on the wrong side of 60 doing the thing you think you may be marginally good at, is quite another. Not to mention losing all ability to remember what was discussed over those long 3 hours and hoping to all hell you didn’t put your foot in your mouth. Whilst I don’t literally remember tripping, it soon became apparent that that was not necessary to embarrass myself. Just open your mouth Crazii, that should do it.

So, ever so slightly embarrassed and very very tired, we headed to another first experience for me in the form of Church. I have not voluntarily been to church since… ever actually. At school it was a compulsory torture exercise so once I was free and clear from that institution I made sure I never did anything unless I wanted to. Religion and I (as I have mentioned before here) have a very civilized relationship. We do not get involved in each other businesses, comment on one another’s doing’s or try and change the other unless absolutely necessary for the good of each other. Cue The Chef and the whole concept of Divine Intervention. Which, it would turn out, I have obviously been lacking the last few years.

So I sat in Church, voluntarily, singing hymns and listening to people talk about God and Jesus. It was interesting. I understood some, but not much. It wasn’t painful or boring, just new and a little strange. It has now made me curious and I shall be returning to feed my curiosity as well as ask a lot of questions. Some I’m sure resulting in the not so uncommon foot in mouth disease, but others hopefully giving me an inkling of understanding into a concept and book that has the whole world talking.

More meeting of the Fockers, the Fockers Frekkers and some Focker ankle biters for good measure, I was well and truly exhausted come Monday morning. Having remembered all names from grannies to new baby cousins, boyfriends/girlfriends/parents/aunts etc etc, introducing myself several times and being thanked for getting the Chef back to Durbs, the beach was a welcome distraction. Warm sea, large umbrella and some quite time with the Chef was just what the doctored ordered. A leisurely lunch and an on time flight back to Cape Town ended one of the most fun weekends I’ve had in a while.

MEETING THE FOCKERS AND FREKKERS - Part 1

Meeting the Fockers is not a specialty of mine. I am not that wonderfully easily likable girl that can just smile and nod and listen patiently while people talk around me, or answer questions politely and demurely and without bias. Nope, no sirree. I am the nervous, verbal diarrhea, foot-jambed-so-far-into-my-mouth-I-can-barely-see-my-knee kinda gal. Yip, when it comes to meeting the Fockers I’m about as nervous as a Jack Russell puppy on speed! So at this point, 48hours after leaving Cape Town including 4 hours on a hot sticky bus, I have to thank the universe for sparing me the initial embarrassing first impressions meeting, as I was so exhausted breathing was an issue (this could also of course be from the RIDICULOUSLY humid, thick air of Durbs!). The universe had obviously done some prior calculations and figured that I’d never last Friday to Monday in Durbs without burying myself neck deep in “what NOT TO DO when you meet the parents” moments and thus postponed the inevitable just long enough for me to re-gather my momentum!

Prior to this (ie the foot in mouth disease moment), the Chef and I cleaned ourselves up a bit and got ready for a night out in Durban. 1st stop, the famous BBB. Known to Durbanites as Bean Bag Bohemia and the place that all your generalized ideas about surfer-dude-laid-back-durbanites become a reality. There is no equivalent in Cape Town, so to set the scene picture Keanu Reeves in Point Break just when he’s about to jump into the sea for his first surf. Now transfer that image of him into a restaurant, hair and clothing remaining the same. Am I painting a clear picture here? So basically what you get is a bunch of good-looking, very chilled people dressed for the beach, but in a rather chic space all just “chilling man…”. I mention this purely to illustrate my other very special quality of being able to stick out like a sore thumb. I am not from Durban, I do not do chilled, beach gear. I do 12inch heels and smart (usually black) tops that cover most of my glow in the dark pale skin. So not only am I overdressed in terms of “the vibe”, I am also literally wearing too much! Cue deep breathing exercises and confused looks from the Chef.

The Chef: Crazii, what’s wrong?
ME: Look what everyone is wearing…
TC: Yes?
ME: I’m completely overdressed! Why didn’t you tell me!
TC: You look lovely Crazii, calm down.
ME: But if you’d told me what Durban Dudes wear I would have dressed appropriately.
TC: Really, you have casual clothes?
ME: Well obviously I have casual clothes!
TC: What, your pajamas?
ME: Right, point taken. Let’s go in.

We go in and are shown to our table. I have calmed down to a mere panic and have started breathing again. We’re 5 minutes late (still a bit jet lagged from our train trip) and walk in to find EVERYONE there. All 8 other people, sitting round the table, waiting for us. Seriously, in Durban, the Capital City of Utter Chillness. This is all just too much for me… how did these people managed to get a balance between Cape Town chilled dress sense and Johannesburg time efficiency??? My utter discombobulation is obviously noticed by the Chef who promptly orders a bottle of wine and issues a “drink me” look. No problem.

As you can imagine, the rest of the night passes with little more surprises as I take my new task of consuming Alto’s Rouge’s finest with great conviction. The usual “How did you meet each other”, “where are you from”, “family siblings etc etc” questions are asked and then the kicker:

Frekker: So, how long you guys been together?
TC: Um… (looks towards me)
ME: Well, um (looking like a deer in headlights), it’s quite an amusing story really…
TC: Yes, (haha, nervous laugh) we sort of met in August… but only really got together in…
ME: Um, let’s call it September?
TC: And then we sort of, well..
ME: It’s complicated.
TC: Let’s say, give or take 5 months, all days combined
Frekker: Right… okay then…
(we evetually settled on December, so officially 4 months)

Embarrassing line of fire quickly diverted and it was back to the task at hand. Drinking and eating being a forte of mine, I was set on proving I could totally mingle with the like super cool people man. 2 bottles of wine down and I was totally making waves Dude (hehe, pun intended!). But seriously, dinner was lovely, all Frekkers are very cool and I managed not to talk unless I was spoken to. Success! Time to leave the now relative safety of BBB and head out to a new night club in Durban called Origin. Would you like me to tell you why this place is called Origin… I thought so.

3 dance floors, strobe lights, disco balls and smoke machines. Seriously, smoke machines… I felt like I was back in the 80’s when spandex, leg warmers and oh, wait, smoke machines were cool! Hence the name Origin – The beginning of the reason why we hated the 80’s. But wait, it gets worse. House music. Yip, the 80’s combined with the worst of the 90’s, with a little bit of Tent Top wearing girls thrown in for good measure(read here regarding my feelings on these). It was weird Man. So in true Crazii style, when the going gets tough… throw name. We danced and drank and chatted to people we didn’t know and had a ball. Durban may be weird, but it’s a flipping blast!

And what do we do best after a night on the town??? Consume food that when seen in the light of day would give you instant gangrene, never mind heartburn! A quick drive in a really fast car and we’re outside the local Cockroach Café… I mean Roti House. It’s at this point that I realize my wine and savanna induced bear goggles are doing much for my fear of giant bugs as well as my understanding of what a Roti is. One GIANT cockroach perching on my foot and a large thing wrapped in foil and we’re ready. For what at this point, I have no idea… but I’m excited!

It transpires that a Roti is actually a large baby wrapped in a pancake and smothered in spicy sauce and cheese. It’s delicious and just what is needed to try and salvage the remains of my name and future ability to talk. So with stomach’s now lined and eye balls ready to learn to focus again - bed time. Good night Durbs, thanks for an awesome first introduction!

CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG!!

Back on home soil and as much fun as we had in Durbs, there’s just no place like home (cue 3 ankle taps on glittery red shoes and a soft landing in your own bed)

So the Chef and I arrived in Durban in what can only be described as truly South African style. With our bags packed, cooler box stocked with liquid and non-liquid refreshments, we set off to the newly renovated, still post modern eyesore, known as Cape Town Station. It is at this point that I must digress slightly and outline both mine vs. The Chef’s traveling style. Crazii = small bag on wheels, book and calm demeanor. The Chef = heavy backpack with broken straps and nervous twitches. I travel quite regularly, I have yet to be left behind on any mode of transport, be it train, bus or plane. This was the Chef’s first experience on a South African long distance train and boy was he cute! We got to the station a full hour before the train had even thought about docking on the correct platform, never mind actually taking passengers to a pre planned destination. We were the first there, alone on Platform 24 looking overly keen and only slightly like a pair of rather sore thumbs.

The Chef: Crazii, what’s the time?
ME: It’s 5 o’clock Chef.
TC: What time are we leaving?
ME: 6 o’clock Chef.
TC: So where’s our train?
ME: Well, judging by the position of the sun, the number of passangers around and the frequency at which the electrical currents are travelling… Chef, sit down, calm yourself, and worry not for I promise our train will come in shortly.
TC: But where are all these people going, shouldn’t we follow them.
ME: Only if you’re a lemming and like the idea of living in Belville.
TC: How do you know it’s going to Belville?
ME: Sign, train number, neon lights saying “Belville 17:20”
TC: Smart ass

Needless to say, miraculously our train arrived and we boarded with great excitement and found ourselves lucky enough to have a 4 sleeper all to ourselves! Cue jumping up and down, high pitched screams and general all round happiness! A loud “Choot Choot” and we were off, waving farewell to our glorious mountain and heading to what I quickly learnt was the hottest place on the planet!

TC: Crazii, what are you doing?
ME: I’m waving goodbye to my mountain.
TC: Firstly, I don’t think you have entire ownership of the mountain and secondly, is it totally necessary to do it with ¾ of your body sticking out the window?
ME: Well firstly, he is my mountain and if you’re going to get jealous, I think this is something that needs to be discussed up front. Secondly, he won’t be able to see me just waving one hand out the window, the full body wave always works best.
TC: Crazii, you are barely inside a piece of fast moving machinery travelling at some unusually fast speed towards what can only be described as large dangerous objects, does it not strike you as peculiar that your are doing exactly what the 3 x bright red signs in our compartment alone are saying is ILLEGAL.
ME: Kill Joy.

So while modifying the words to “The wheels on the bus go round and round” we uncorked a bottle of red and relaxed into an evening of fine dining and great company. A bottle of red down, tummy’s having had their rather inelegant sufficiency and with hours of glorious conversation behind us, it was time to settle into pj’s and bed.

*BANG*CRASH*BOOM*WHAT THE F***!!!

TC: What on earth was that???
ME: I don’t know, let’s go see!
TC: Crazii, stay inside, you can’t go running around in the middle of the night in your pj’s.
ME: It’s fine Chef, the train has stopped, everyone is up now and the mystery begins…

(and off I run to see what all the fuss is about!)

TC: Crazii, get back on the train.
ME: Why, we’re in the middle of nowhere and the train is stationary.
TC: Exactly, we’re in the middle of nowehere and there are bandits about.
ME: Bandits! What kind of bandits?
TC: Train robbers Crazii, the bad kind.
ME: The kind like Jesse James kind?
TC: Yes Crazii, now please, get back on the train.
ME: No ways, I want be carried away under the starlight by Brad Pitt!
TC: Crazii, these bandits are not like Brad Pitt
ME: How do you know? Maybe he’s finally come to his senses and realized I am far better than Angelina.
TC: While I have no doubt you are far better than Angelina, I very much doubt that Brad Pitt has robbed the cables of the train just to secure the apparent love of his life in the ass end of some little town in the middle of the Karoo. So would you please, for the love of my patience and sanity, get back on the train.
ME: Okay, but only once I’ve found out what’s really going on…

(and off I run to see what all the fuss is about again!)

Exasperated and obviously not appreciating the glorious movie style adventure we seem to be in, the Chef finally manages to coax me back onto the train with promises that, although I may not be carried away ala Hollywood style into the night by Brad Bitt, he does promise to make sure at least I receive a parting kiss from the handsome bandit. As it turns out, we were not unfortunately robbed by Brad Pitt, but by some sneaky cable thieves who cut the electrical cables of the train, securing our abrupt emergency stop in Afrikaskop under a bright and brilliant milky way, for the next 7 hours!

You have to give cudos to Shosholoza Meyl at this point. While completely managing to tell everyone on the train absolutely nothing about what was going on, they did feed us and serve enough tea and coffee to keep us occupied until we were shunted into Ladysmith by an old but obviously more reliable diesel engine. From Ladysmith to Durbs we were bused into Durban station to a welcoming mob of people obviously patiently waiting for presumed lost family members and a warm welcome into the arms of The Chef’s family.

So now begins the story of how I met the Fockers, the Frekkers (as Chef calls his friends) and the Frikkin massive bugs that reside so happily in the humid hothouse known as Durban!

AND WE'RE OFF!

Goodbye All, The Chef and I are on our way to Durbs for a lovely well needed long weekend. We’re taking the train there and flying home on Monday, I will report on my return on meeting The Fockers, The Friends, The Climate and the giant size bugs Durbs seems to cultivate oh so well!

Happy running/drinking/sleeping to you all xxx

... STILL HAPPINESS

It would appear in the world of blogging, or at least the world that I read, we all seem to have slowed down a bit with regards to posts. This could obviously mean a number of things. 1) Real work has interrupted (hate it when that happens), 2) Life is not particularly note worthy at the moment and/or 3) Ours minds are on other things. With regards to yours truly, it’s a combination of 1 & 3. Work is totally screwing with my procrastinating mojo and my brain is currently like a sieve when it comes to remembering anything but feeling giggly and girly and happy. Yip, it’s true Peeps, I am once again re-united with myself and have found I wake in the morning smiling. It’s feels like that moment when you’re walking idly along somewhere and you catch just a slight wiff of something that reminds you of when you were young. You can’t quite remember what it was, but it makes your tummy do somersaults and the feelings when you where in that moment in time come flooding back.

I feel like I’m finally smelling the proverbial roses if you will, and by George do they smell amazing. Every sound and taste and touch feels extraordinary and I can’t help but smile at everything, even the thought of going to the Dentist can’t put a damper on these spirits. My dark cloud of oppression has officially blown away with the black south easter and I can assure you I have no intention of letting it manifest in these clear skies again. Armed with my newly acquired umbrella of wisdom and raincoat of pure joy I cannot be beaten. I also cannot be more lame but I don’t care.

The Chef has decided this nutty bag of peanuts is a rather novel accompaniment to his otherwise rather stable lifestyle and has promptly ignored all mention of the aforementioned black Sunday. The duly noted moment of insanity has been classified as such, put in a box to think about it’s behavior and dissappeard. Whooopppeeeee! And here stands, in it’s place, a very very happy woman indeed.

So, to all out there having a Blue Monday, do not despair as I promise “This too shall Pass”… I am living proof.

HAPPINESS IS...

Right, the craziness that is work has calmed down to a mere panic and I finally have some time to voice my thoughts and do a quick catch-up session. Right now, in this moment in time, I am happy. I have been happy for a whole week, I haven’t cried once and have managed a quiet equilibrium. I’m rather proud of myself, as is my head doctor, so now all I have to do is find a way to maintain in the long term.

I have been running a lot lately too, a crazii bunch of us got together on Saturday morning at sparrows to run 46kms, it was awesome! It was the most amazing mental head rush I have ever had. To finish off on the beach in Hout Bay and run into the ice cold water knowing my little stick legs have just carried me from Hout Bay through Newlands, Constantia, Kalk Bay, Fishoek and back was something else! Not withstanding the mental boost it gave to know that actually all I have to do now is run an extra 10kms and Oceans is totally under the belt!

I unfortunately also managed to break The Chef’s heart again seemingly in the way I do best. By being completely crazii, nonsensical and all round as nutty as a bag of peanuts. He seems to agree with that synopsis as well and although there were tears, this time round I at least managed to keep my comedy of errors under wraps. That was last Sunday, so no tears since then. I’m totally giving myself a Noddy badge.

The GBF has been wonderful and treated a bunch of us to Goldfish at Kirstenbosch yesterday. It was a truly wonderful day of good friends, champagne and much laughter. The heat was near unbearable and within 30 minutes Kirstenbosch started looking very much like a Nudist colony with bare chests and teeny tiny bikini’s all round. Not that I’m complaining mind, there were a number of extremely good looking eye candy’s strutting around to complement the champagne just perfectly!

But alas, here I sit on Monday morning losing body mass as we speak due to the amount of water escaping my body and trying to devise a plan to teleport myself into the pool! I'll let you know how it goes. I’m not hellavu confident but I have to try something to keep my mind from melting onto the floor with the rest of my body!

MONDAY vs. SATURDAY

Monday and I have resumed our fight to the death once more and today it feels like Monday is winning. Monday usually wins, so that's nothing new. Monday's a lot bigger than me and has a lot more experience in defeating others than I do so I'm not ashamed of the defeat. I've worked out that (if all goes well and nothing CSI-like happens) then I have about 54 years left of challenging Monday. That's 2 808 more Mondays left to face. Next week makes it 2 807 and counting...

I will win yet.

On a happier note, The Chef and I, plus 3 other dashing young men, found ourselves dressed up to the nines and experiencing the Met in a way this Crazii has never done before. I’ll be the first to admit I am a Met snob. I do not picnic, I do not find myself on the picnic side of the track crossing, I am never sitting at a height lower than 1m above the ground. I like perching on a high back (preferably bright) bar stool, champagne in one hand, canapé or ciggie in the other (depending on if there is smoked salmon or not) and being my blissful bitchy self about all the other posers surrounding my little bubble of heaven. Not this year. Oh no, The Chef was hell bent on making sure I experienced the Met the way he does it every year, quietly sozzled sitting under a tree drinking vodka and cranberry out of a plastic cup…

The Chef: Crazii, we’re going to the Met on Sat.
Me: Fab, whose tent are we in?
TC: Um, we’re not in a tent.
Me: A box, even better!
TC: No Crazii, we’re going to picnic.
Me: (Sharp inhale of breath, seeing spots, feeling very dizzy)… um, what?
TC: Yip, we’ll take a picnic and perch in the shade under a tree and people watch.
Me: Sweet lord.

I did it. Picniced I mean. I sat on a blanket on ground level and people watched. I drank vodka out of a plastic cup and even used the communal porter loos. I survived. I even had fun, quite a lot actually. I also won on the races and snuck into 5fm tent where the Chef found me a bar stool and there was champagne, it was awesome. We danced the night away, lined our stomach’s with nik naks and pies and found ourselves in bed by 12:30. All in all, a really great Saturday!

So Monday, although you’re a bigger and meaner than me, I will always have Saturday on my side and together we will eventually get the better of you!

CHILDISH WAYS

So, definitely feeling less fragile today, got to do my run last night and the agonizing argument between my iliotibial band and my knee cap was totally worth it! Have resorted to Lesson 101 in parental teachings, ignore the noisy children and they will eventually go away. Thunder and The Chef think this might be a juvenile way of dealing with the matter, namely that my ligaments and bone are not in fact children and can therefore not just be told off. My argument to them is that I am still a child (hence the manner in which I am dealing with the situation) and therefore my body and its parts are still childish and can therefore be treated as such.

I fear the retort coming hereafter will be not unlike being told off and asked to stand in the corner and think about what I’ve done. Except I’ll probably have to hobble to the corner, crutches in hand and a very miserable look on my face while being told ‘I Told You So’ and having my prized speed racers taken away! Thunder even went so far as to make up horrific scenes outlining how the ligament could start pulling away from the bone and eventually tear, causing excruciating pain and months on crutches… I mean, really. Really? Crap!?!?

Anyway, the point of the story is that today I am less fragile than yesterday, which is a good thing, especially when you receive an sms like this: Notice Issued on SARS eFiling. Miss Crazii Redhead. Balls! What does the most effective money siphoning system in SA want with me again! Apparently it would appear there is a discrepancy between my submitted return and what SARS thinks my return should look like. (insert a variety of colourful swearwords here). Really?!?!? Well Mr SARS big man, you can take your presumptions regarding my apparent tax return discrepancy and shove it up your ***!

I fear my childish attitude may not in fact get me out of this pickle, what do you think?

SWEAT AND SPANDEX: CH 2

Crises Peeps, It’s Friday! I know I say this with religious fervor every Friday, but I am especially excited about this one as it is the first Friday since I have been back at work and it has been hectic! Getting back into the work swing of things after a luxurious 3 week holiday is tantamount to having a root canal without an anesthetic! By a herbal healer. In the bundu’s. Using pliers!

Never-the-less, I have managed to survive and while I have no witty work horror stories to share, I do have a funny little trinket from The Chef. Thunder and The Chef train together. And by train I mean go to the hell hole sespit known as The Gym, lift weights, etc etc and act like proper healthy gyming professionals. They even sweat. (Refer to this to hear my thoughts on the matter). Thunder and I used to run together so she’s pretty much a super athlete. Anyway, it was decided between the gyming professionals that a new regime would be designed for 2010 and this would include cardio ie: running. Basically, The Chefs worst nightmare. I was rather amused at this whole thing as I would obviously run rather than step foot into hell, but I suppose the Chef feels that same way about gyming and performing the evil quad destroying sport I love.

Cue Wednesday evening and a very woe-be-tide looking Chef:

Me: What’s wrong?
The Chef: Thunder and I went running…
Me: Awesome, how was it?
TC: I don’t want to talk about it
Me: Wow, that good hey???
TC: Everything hurts
Me: It usually does when you overzealously try to do something you haven’t done in ages (grinning like the Cheshire Cat)
TC: And what are you smiling at?
Me: Nothing…
TC: You’re just smiling like that because I looked at you this way after you came back from gym, aren’t you!

Now, this brings me onto my gym experience. I know, I confess, I broke my own rules. But for very good reason. I am training for The 2 Oceans 56km Ultra Marathon. I’ve stepped over the Boundaries of Craziness, bypassed the Valley’s of Sanity and have dived head first into the realm of Completely and Utterly Bonkers. I’m okay with that, really I am. So the reason for gym was what is known in gyming circles as “cross training”. WTF??? Apparently “cross training” is good for my running because it’ll work on muscles I don’t necessarily use when running. Why would I need to work on muscles I don’t use!!! Anyway, I did it. Morally I wasn’t feeling great because I was breaking my own rules, but I was so excited at the time I just couldn’t resist. I had visions of being super-fit, hitting the pro-circuit and doing a Forrest Gump “Run Forrest, Run” without even glowing.

There is a downside to this, let me tell you. Lunging across the gym carrying weights heavier that a bottle of Champagne is clearly not ideal for my apparently ageing body. After my 3rd set of everything; I tried, with as much elegance and poise as possible, to escape the nasty mechanical filled area only to find I could not move! Elegance and poise out the window and a waterfall of profanity sweeping through the building, I clawed my way down to my apartment and waited for The Chef to arrive.

The Chef: Oh goodness Crazii, what now?
Me: What ever do you mean?
TC: I mean you've splayed yourself ala a spatch-cocked chicken across the bed and have every appendage raised as if you’re praying to the god of butterflied chickens everywhere.
Me: Your supposed to keep sore limbs raised about your heart.
TC: I think that's when there’s actually something wrong with them!
Me: There is something wrong, it’s called death by stupidity/cross training! This makes me feel better, rather that than the death inducing pain I was feeling earlier. It was like childbirth.
TC: Because you would know.
Me: I do now!
TC: What are you doing tonight besides being annoying?
Me: I'm thinking of teaching myself how to paint with only my mouth.
TC: Very funny. Well I'm going for dinner, want to come?
Me: Only if you have a wheel chair and promise to feed me?
TC: Sweet lord.

I haven’t yet broken the news to the Chef (or Thunder) that I think “cross training” is a bunch of bollocks and I will not be entertaining the idea again, unless of course I get to be wheeled around in a fancy chair and hand fed pizza and ice cream!

CATCH UP TIME

Crisis Peeps, 2 weeks without any word vomit at all, you have to know its bad when… There’s just so much to fill you in on I barely know where to begin. The installation of death, the date that renewed my faith in romance and of course, the mystery golf eating truck saga.

I’ll start at the very beginning, a very good place to start… kidding. So it all started with the installation to end all installations. The coupe de gra of my career, the big cahoona, the one that was going to make it all worth while… and ended 9 solid days later after 14 hour slogs with the installation (due to last of 5) complete and me sitting resplendent in my site clothes at the airport chomping at the bit to get on the plane to George (literally praying this pilot knew how to fly) where I knew my bestest Thunder would be waiting cosmo and heels in hand, she did not disappoint! So now I sit, relaxed to the max, phone thrown into the sea and totally getting my chill on…

The past 10 days have been the most manic I have had in my little pin prick on this planet. It has literally been a case of “If it can go wrong, it will, and in spectacular fashion”. 1 house, 100 men, 1 woman with a seriously determined look on her face and the likes of challenges not even the big man upstairs could conceive when he created Adam (because let’s me honest, you have to make a rough draft before the final product :). It was awesome, terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, but I wouldn’t want to do it again in a while. It knocked me sideways and it took all the strength and determination I had to pull through, not to mention a little help from a few special people!

That’s where the date that renewed my faith in romance came in. Totally topped up my depleted reserves of faith, personal ability and confidence. Not to mention had this Crazii Redhead totally and utterly speechless. Yes, I kid you not, dressed in a little black dress and heels, this little know-it-all was completely stunned. 12 long stem red roses, private wine cellar, candles, scattered rose petals… I know, right! Men take notes! It was incredible, the Chef really pulled out all the stops and I’m still unable to find the words…

So that only leaves my poor little blue baby girl and her surgery. Yes Peeps, we took her in before I departed for the heaven that is Plett and she is currently undergoing what can only be termed as a very traumatic but necessarily bit of plastic surgery. Cordie, we’re all rooting for you my little one and I’ll see you in a few days, shining as new!

Ciao Peeps, Merry Christmas to you all! If I find some time in between the sleeping and beaching, I promise to update on the colour of the sand, sea water temperature and number of mince pies consumed in one sitting!

Hugs and kisses all, to a brand new year of fun, excitement and completed hearts.

HALF THE DISTANCE, TWICE THE COURAGE

It is very strange in life how things work out. Emotionally very often, things that are within our reach are the hardest to see or grasp. Although we know they are there, there seem to be more obstacles to get across to them than things that we seemingly think are further away. In the same way, physically when we prepare for something we have never done before (ie: running a full marathon), once this is achieved small things such as a half marathon are assumed to be easy. This past weekend has been a very difficult journey for me. It evolved letting go of an immediate happiness in favour of a future greater happiness while at the same time running half the distance but experiencing twice the pain and resistance.

The Chef and I parted ways this weekend in what can only be described as a first for me. I have never broken up with someone before and didn’t really have any idea of how the situation was going to play out. It started on very amusing ground...

Me: Hi Chef, we need to talk.
Chef: What do we need to talk about?
Me: We need to talk about you and me.
Chef: Okay, why don’t you come round in about an hour?
Me: Ok, see you then

Now, as mentioned, I have never broken up with anyone before and therefore cannot take responsibility for what happened next:

Me: *knock knock*
No answer…
Me: *knock knock* again
No answer…
Me (in my head): Maybe he’s making me wait because he knows…
My Phone: *Ring Ring*
Me: Hello Chef
Chef: Hello Crazii, I’m here.
Me: Huh, what do you mean you’re there, I’m here?
Chef: What? I said I’d come to you
Me: No, you said ‘why don’t you come round in about an hour?’
Chef: No, I said 'why don’t I come round in about an hour?'
Me: Oh…
Chef: Oh…
Me: Right, so…
Chef: Why don’t you come back here and we’ll talk
Me: Right, okay!

Seriously, who does that! Who cocks up a break-up talk so badly before you’ve even had it. I called Thunder to explain the situation to her and her words of wisdom sounded a bit like this “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, only you Crazii, only you!”

Needless to say we had the break-up talk and Chef was great. Although rather surprised at the conversation and resistant to the outcome I was going for, he understood the reasoning behind it and didn’t make me feel like a complete idiot and/or cow! I want to thank him for that as well as showing me that sometimes the things you want in life are right in front of you, they just take more courage to reach.

UPGRADING IS NOT ALWAYS THE BEST OPTION.

With the total lack of creative inspiration circling my office this morning, I’m afraid today’s post is borrowed from the wonderful Chef. In true guy IT style, he sent through an email which can only be descried as hilarious and ever so perceptive for the male species.

Readers, please enjoy: Installing a Husband

Dear TECH SUPPORT

Last year I upgraded from Boyfriend 5.0 to Husband 1.0 and noticed a distinct slow down in overall system performance, particularly in the flower and jewellery applications, which operated flawlessly under Boyfriend 5.0.

In addition, Husband 1.0 uninstalled many other valuable programs, such as Romance 9.5 and Personal Attention 6.5, and then installed undesirable programs such as Cricket 5.0, AFL 3.0 and Golf Clubs 4.1.
Conversation 8.0 no longer runs, and Housecleaning 2.6 simply crashes the system.

Please note that I have tried running Nagging 5.3 to fix these problems, but to no avail.

What can I do?

Signed,
Desperate.



Dear DESPERATE,

First, keep in mind, Boyfriend 5.0 is an Entertainment Package, while Husband 1.0 is an operating system.

Please enter command: ithoughtyoulovedme.html and try to download Tears 6.2 and do not forget to install the Guilt 3.0 update. If that application works as designed, Husband 1.0 should then automatically run the applications Jewellery 2.0 and Flowers 3.5.

However, remember, overuse of the above application can cause Husband 1.0 to default to Grumpy Silence 2.5, Happy Hour 7.0 or Beer 6.1.

Please note that Beer 6.1 is a very bad program that will download the Snoring Loudly Beta.

Whatever you do, DO NOT under any circumstances install Mother-In-Law 1.0 (it runs a virus in the background that will eventually seize control of all your system resources.) In addition, please do not attempt to reinstall the Boyfriend 5.0 program. These are unsupported applications and will crash Husband 1.0.

In summary, Husband 1.0 is a great program, but it does have limited memory and cannot learn new applications quickly. You might consider buying additional software to improve memory and performance. We recommend Cooking 3.0 and Hot Lingerie 7.7.

Good Luck!
Tech Support

I know, I couldn’t help smiling either! So I sent it onto the wise Grandmother for comment. Here is what she had to say:

Grandmother: Loved this one, funny but very true!!
Me: Then in that case, remind me not to upgrade from Boyfriend 5.0 to Husband 1.0!
Grandmother: Husband 1.0 does have compensations though!! If it is a good system it will last for years, without too much in the way of up grades, and it is a comforting companion that one gets to know very well without too many undesirable programmes....However there will always be cricket, tennis or worse still RUGBY!! Or horrors of horrors...red wine and snoring!!! Husband 1.0 actually leaves Boy friend 0.5 way back in Windows 98.
Me: OMG Gran, you are amazing!

IN THE BEGINNING...

The past couple of weeks have been strange. Not strange in a bad way, just peculiar and maybe slightly out of the ordinary. Daily life has remained fairly the same, it’s just that the element of religion (so well ignored over the past few years) seems to have felt the need to make itself known. Now don’t get me wrong, I do believe in the fact that there is something bigger than us out there, I’m just not sure if it’s an old bearded man (be he in a Catholic Robe, Jewish kippah or Muslim jubba).

I do believe that any form of belief in any religion does give those believers a sense of community in what is often a very chaotic and terrifying world. I appreciate that and am more than happy to sit on the fence in any discussion surrounding the topic, or in fact play (a bad) Devils Advocate to the best of my ability (which is consciously limited lest I get trapped in a conversation with a fervent believer!). My general feeling towards religion is that it is a personal choice and as long as it is not pressed upon me, I’m happy as Larry. I have obvious concerns surrounding the more fervent believers and do think that religion in these kinds of circles causes more trouble in the world than in necessary; however we all have brains to think and mostly I believe that is what we should do.

The reason for these meanderings was initially triggered by The Chef (wonderfully religious in every sense and a joy to be around), re-iterated by The Grandmother (years of knowledge on the subject and forever committed) and finally pushed home by The Cyclist. The Cyclist’s religious beliefs run along the same lines as mine and have never had a hugely significant impact on his life… or so I thought. My mind was recently changed when I saw him with a book depicting the religious journey of a Jewish man. Now the fact that he was carrying a religious book was not what shocked me the most, it was the fact that he was returning said book to it’s original owner after having read it from cover to cover in 2 days! The Cyclist does not read books. Not because he is lazy, but purely because he enjoys the ramblings of magazines and online publications far more. Now I am an avid reader and go through books faster than I can eat a pizza (which is saying something) so I have always been an advocate for the wonderful gems of fiction that can take me away from reality for a long as I care to concentrate. Needless to say, he had finished this book, a religious book, and found it wonderful…

So maybe, just maybe, there might be a place for religion in this crazy world... it did get the Cyclist to read a book after all :-)