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Friday, 28 September 2012

Crazy is as Crazy Does

It’s a running joke in my family.

“Remember that time you dated that guy who thought he was the cause of a Tsunami?” My sisters both let out a gutsy giggle as I roll my eyes and auto respond “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” It’s all fun and games until we open up what I like to call The Ex Files, a portfolio of my most disastrous and bizarre suitors, sorted alphabetically.

There’s Adam (Narcissistic Personality Disorder), Blake (Used 2 names his Numerologist gave him) and Callum (Teetotaler who stole my wineglasses and my two cats). The list goes on all the way down to R for Rowan, the dillyest of them all.

I met Rowan at a cocktail bar and was intrigued by his wit and quirky sense of humour. He bought me a drink and then said with complete confidence and ingenuity: “Hey, you know that Tsunami that happened in Thailand? I feel really bad about this but… you should know. It’s my fault.” Now I know this is the point where one of those all too familiar little red flags should have popped up right in front of me and suggested an alternative route. Instead, I found myself enticed by his off beat charisma and laughed flirtatiously as we spent the night knee to knee at the bar.

It was about a week after meeting Rowan that I started getting the sense that his quirky jokes were in fact real grandiose paranoid delusions. Somewhere between telling me he was being watched and controlled through electronic devices and delivering the extremely premature “I love you” I started getting the heebie jeebies. I eventually confronted Rowan who casually responded: “I’m not all there; they think it could be drug induced schizophrenia”. Not exactly what you want to hear 1 week into a new relationship.

When Rowan met my boss and remarked at how uncanny the resemblance was between him and The King of Darkness I knew I had to exit Crazytown. Immediately. I called a drug hotline and got advice from one of the councilors on how to end things with this unstable, probably harmless but potentially dangerous fellow. And then I had a good look in the mirror, noticing how my white wrap around summer dress had started to resemble a straight jacket. I couldn’t help but think… Have I lost the plot? Am I two sandwiches short of a picnic?

And then I realized that in a world where pick up lines like “Did it hurt? When you fell from heaven.” are more nauseating than tax returns, bad sushi or Friday afternoon traffic, what’s a girl to do? The truth is I’d take a bucket of madness over a smidgen of normal and maybe that makes me an inpatient at the institution of incredibly bad decisions. Or maybe I’m just a curious calamity that believes that love – deliciously deranged at its best - should be somewhat extraordinary. Taking the chance to find someone weirdly wonderful to embark on that adventure makes perfect sense to me. 

So in celebration of all things cray cray, here's a cute little recipe I found on from Miss Charmings book of Crazy Cocktails. 

Lady Godiva’s Nude Martini

• Ounce the Godiva White Chocolate Liqueur
• Ounce the Vanilla flavored Vodka
• Double Ounce the cream

Do you think your taxes are too high, but don’t think that you can pull off a naked ride through your town on a barebacked white horse in protest? Then this is the drink for you! Grab that shaker tin of ice and pour in the Godiva White Chocolate Liqueur, Vanilla Flavored Vodka, and cream then ride that shaker hard. Strain it into a martini glass then say giddy-up horsey.

Tuesday, 18 September 2012

One of The Boys

Take the Wheel
Calm yourselves and don’t get too excited, I’m not talking about torque. Or horse power. Or turbo. Nope... sorry boys, this is a little summin summin for you about DRIVE. And I mean Sex Drive... still a little exciting right? Exactly.
Amongst the strange questions I get from your species, one that often comes up is related to a women’s sex drive and her cycle. Vroom vroom! Here are the facts:
You all know about testosterone right? It’s what makes you want to beat up anyone who looks at us like we’re a ripe juicy peach ready for the plucking. It’s also what makes you want to tear our panties off pretty much 24/7. You’ve got loads of the stuff, we don’t. Which is why, we are peaceful and delicate creatures... most of the time.
In our cycle we have 2 hormones doing a magnificent little womb samba – progesterone and testosterone. Here are some important dates to diarize:
Day 24 – This is slap bang during Aunt Flows visit usually and this is when the levels of testosterone begin to rise IE: our libido tunes, oh hectic... it’s time to get up again. Let’s do it! It will do this up until day 14 of the next cycle (2 weeks  after le period is finito), peaking on day 13... maybe this is a good time to organise that little romantic dinner you’ve been meaning to throw together? Yes?  Girls can I get a woop woop for day 13? WOOP WOOP!
After this, that little biatch progesterone kicks in and preps us for mood swings, mini sobs and irritable boyfriend syndrome. Also... lowered sex drive. 
I’m no expert, but that’s pretty much it. Now I know you want me to carry on saying things like PERIOD, MENSTRUATION and WOMB etc.  But I shan’t, I’m on day 14... so I have better things to do with my time.
Shake That
I think 99% of people have some form of intimacy issue. On a completely separate topic I think 99% of people are generally bored with the norm so... why not take your chikita for a little spin on the dance floor. It’s romantic, you’ll get your endorphins pumping (yes this is a good thing) and she’ll be living out her Antonio Banderas Tango fantasy. Huh? What? Nothing.  Call and figure it out, I can’t do EVERYTHING for you:
Not to be Missed
Sexpo is on this month kids – I can’t think of a better place to break the ice if you are flirting with the idea of a toy or 8. It’s at a new venue this year so I’m not too sure how full its going to get but, crazy or quiet... I think it’s worth a visit. If not only for the famous amateur strip show and to pick up a little nurse outfit of iets for yo woman. Plus there are some really informative sexperts who can help you out with ant technical questions you might have when it comes to the art of love making. Last year I bought 3 DVD’s (Not porn... I have enough of that, informative DVD’s)... There’s literally a waiting list of my friends waiting to borrow them.
Between The Sheets in September
I think I’ve said enough about the horizontal shuffle thus far so I’m going to tell you a few unconventional do’s and don’ts for between the sheets in September.
DO: Set the mood... us woman are sensory creatures.  A candle here n there, a slow jam CD playing, a bottle of champers on ice. I’m in!
DON’T: Neglect kissing... it’s what made us crazy about you. If you’re a bad kisser... get better. Like take notes and shit. After all it really is all about chemistry.

Thursday, 13 September 2012

Love and Revolution

It’s a Saturday morning and I have just sat down at my new office desk... a worn out wooden coffee table filled with mug stains and stories. I’m looking out onto 7th avenue in Melville from my new favourite writers corner and the sun has come out to flirt with the idea that spring is here. I’m at Love and Revolution, a teensy weensy little coffee shop in my old neck of the woods and have decided that Saturday mornings mean, amongst many things, that one is allowed a glass of wine before noon. 
I opened my email hoping to find one reply to the 23 job applications I have sent through this week. I figure it’s a win:win situation really; either I will open my hotmail account to find the following response:
“Hi Carly, we’ve just read your email regarding the writing supernova position with the exorbitant salary and without hesitation we’ve decided you are our girl. In fact we hadn’t even opened up your CV or writing samples because from the instant we saw your application, we knew we were dealing with a wordsmith extraordinaire, a savant scripting sorcerer, a kind of genie genius of the un-generic. Would you be so kind as to immediately join our team of whizz kids and may we call you Calamity Creative? P.S.  We encourage mid day drinking and irresponsible spending of petty cash here, I hope this is not going to be a problem?”
OR my Hotmail will look up at me with pleading seduction and say:
“Carly, I have nothing for you... because this Bohemian lifestyle looks good on you girl. You’ve stopped wearing make up on weekdays, you’re cardio workouts consist of hours of pleasure Pilates with Your Guy, you walk around all day licking ice creams and smiling like a dumbass, you’ve even become one of those arty trendy writer kids with no money cavorting from coffee shop to coffee shop in a pair of bruges and when you put your head down on a pillow... you ACTUALLY sleep. Ride the wave sister. Completely off topic... your high school reunion is coming up. SOON. Namaste”
No ways. It has not been 10 years since I left high school. That is impossible.
Carly: “Can I get a refill on his dry white please!”
10 years. 10 YEARS. I have to keep saying it to myself hoping that at some point it will sink in and I’ll accept that this time 10 years ago I was just leaving the security of school and taking a giant gallop into the unknown. Who was I back then? Who am I now? And where is my wine?
I close my eyes and picture myself as a young 17 year old... my long dark wavy hair, my heart bulging with innocence, my head somewhere up in the sky where nothing is complicated or serious in any real way, my world turning and me dancing along the equator  with a band of misfits alongside me. Some of those misfits went from being the centre of my world to very distant stars, far away enough that I only think of them when I’m looking up and far into the universe, but close enough that I still run my fingers over the faded scars we left behind and wonder if they’ll lighten enough for me to forget them. Funny how life moves us in circles and how everything spins you out and away from the apex of it all, into someplace that only just resembles the spot where you once stood.

I haven’t spoken to Layla in over 2 years... in time our once colourful cobbled path began to split until the small patch of grass between us became so big we could only nearly reach each others fingertips and then eventually she was so far away I could barely see her waving to me from across the universe. There’s a glorious glue that still keeps me sweetly sticking to some of the others, the kind of glue that allows you to slingshot away for ages and then shoot back as if you’d never even come unstuck. And isn’t it all to easy to get stuck... stuck on resentment for stolen boyfriends, stuck on stupid decisions, stuck at the starting block for a race you never entered and stuck on the middle of a desert island halfway between who you were and who you are.
Here I am 10 years later... My shoes off, toes squelching an unfamiliar muddy stretch of path between them. My heart broken and put back together a handful of times, now as beautiful as the antique wood I rest my empty glass of wine on, with a home and someone spectacular (really spectacular) to love and take good care of it. And in a way I’m exactly where I always was, holding the flag to my own revolution. About to gallop once again along the equator of my life, with a band of misfits (new and old) and gypsies to play the tambourine and sing “Let Change happen!” and I’m going to do just that.  In the words of Che Guevara “The true revolutionary is guided by feelings of love” and that’s all I have right now... I don’t have much of a clue about anything else. Does anyone?

My curser is blinking and I come back to 2012. There’s a slight hesitation and then I just do it. I RSVP yes to my reunion, to my revolution and to my lovely life.

Tuesday, 4 September 2012

Spit or Swallow

Readers be warned… this is not for those of you who button your blouses all the way to the top. For all you fella's that blush when someone says the F word. For anyone who thinks talking dirty is discussing laundry detergents. This one’s not for you… nor is it for anyone I want to still think I’m sweet, innocent and perfect in every way. Which I am… I just call it like I see it.  

Spit or Swallow

Yeah. They don’t tell you about that in the brochure of love making do they? Sometimes I wonder what this brochure that “they” put together would look like. I picture a fireplace, abstract shots of naked bodies (you know, a kiss on a collarbone, cliche stuff like that), champagne on ice, a rose knocked off the bedside table.  Eugh, really? I’d very much like to take over the role as Art Director for this particular brochure. Mine would look something like this: a pair of pants around one ankle, a 500 ml Energade perched next to a stack of condoms, and a 50’s style cartoon with a speech bubble reading : “Oh fuck, I’ve forgotten the safety word”. This is what I do these days; invent job descriptions that don’t exist.

So… Semen.

Do you know that there are +- 28 – I wanna say ingredients but that’s silly – chemicals in the stuff. In the pro’s column we have Zinc, Magnesium, Calcium and Vit B12 (And they ask me how I get all my vitamins as a vegetarian, pfft. I’m kidding... of course). On the con side there’s things like Ash (wtf?), Urea and Cholesterol. We’ve all heard the rumours about it making your skin smoother and giving you a good dose of protein. Seems there are some compelling arguments on the topic. Here is mine:

The term “spit or swallow” came about at a time in my life when many gross and inappropriate euphemisms were winding their way into my vocab. The wonderful years of sexual angst, teenage curiosity and experimentation. But to this very day I have not been able to wrap my head around this idea. Let’s go through it logically shall we? So you’re down there, face in crotch doing the penis in mouth mambo. You’ve spent the last 20 minutes or so with your teeth digging into your upper lip, trying to make a Job look likea glamorous ordeal when really we all know what a task it can be don’t we girls? Holler. I digress… so you’re there, and the moment of sumptuous insemination occurs. In. Your. Mouth. Are you really telling me that there are people who will get up and trot all the way to the bathroom (assuming there is one and you are having conventional foreplay in an actual bedroom) with – not to sound crude but we’re already down the rabbit hole – warm jizz in their mouth? Only to spit it out? Who are these girls?

Now I’m not saying one should do shots of DNA like it’s Tequila Tuesday. No No. Especially if your man has a braai diet consisting mostly of beer and boerewors, which in my opinion… can at times produce spunk that’s even harder to get down with a straight face than the previously mentioned Tequila shot. I’m just looking at the situation logically… it’s in there already, contraversial maybe but I say “Knock it back sister!” And perhaps give your man a few extra items for his grocery list that may help your situation:

As I sit here… how do I put it, taking a trip down memory lane, I can’t help but cringe at all the “short cummings” I’ve experienced in the bedroom, not just in those early self-conscious years of fumbling around clueless like a blind person trying to find the ripest avo on the grocery shelf. I’m talking about all the way up into my 20’s because let’s face it… sex, cough cough, I mean the art of love making…. Can be tricky can’t it?

As a woman I am learning that it all comes down to communication, something the female of the species is supposed to be superb at. And we are… to our girlfriends over coffee when we’re emoting about, well everything. Or to our beau’s when we have a bottle of Champers and verbally vomit how much we love them, want their babies and secretly watch them when their sleeping imagining never sleeping next to anyone else again, ever. Or to our shrinks. Or our mothers… aren’t they really the same person most of the time? But between the sheets, we often find ourselves with a mouth full of….. Teeth. Have we made communicating what it is we want in bed as taboo as the topic of semen ingestion? Do we mostly swallow what it is that we want, our deepest sexual desires, instead of spitting them out to be realized? I’m sure we all wish it was as simple as adding a few exotic fruits and spices onto our grocery list every month. Maybe it's time we started making verbalization our parsley, conversation our pineapple juice and include a daily dose of honesty in place of wheatgrass.

Or maybe we can passively wait until they invent a GPS for this kind of thing or make intimacy training as compulsory like serving your time in the army. Thats a long time to go sans orgasm.

To spit or to swallow… that is the question? It’s taken me a long time to realize that while a little shot of zinc a day may keep my skin glowing, prevent cancer (yes, seriously – ask Wikipedia), and increase fertility ( I know… crazy right), swallowing my thoughts and emotions has zero health benefits. For any of the parties involved.

So call me crass, call me crazy (I get that a lot actually), call me a courtesan if you will… But sometimes it’s better to just spit it out.