The above photo was taken at Hello Sailor in Observatory. I’d definitely recommend the baked cheesecake.
My one year old niece recently learnt a new word: “dirty”. A few weeks ago she saw some homeless people and said, “dirty”.
Can we take a second to talk about the book, “Gone Girl”? Because holy crap is it good! I’ve made it to the second half of the book and knew that there was a twist in the tale, but man was this unexpected.
If you’re currently reading the book or plan to read the book, stop reading this blog post now. Coz spoiler alert! I am going to quote one the weirdest passages from the second half of the book, so scamper off. If you’re looking for an alternative source of entertainment, may I suggest the following?
And now I shall commence with the spoiler/extract. You have been warned.
“Nick loved me. A six-o kind of love: He looooooved me. But he didn’t love me, me. Nick loved a girl who doesn’t exist. I was pretending, the way I often did, pretending to have a personality. I can’t help it, it’s what I’ve always done: The way some women change fashion regularly, I change personalities. What persona feels good, what’s coveted, what’s au courant? I think most people do this, they just don’t admit it or else they settle on one persona because they’re too lazy or stupid to pull off a switch.
That night at the Brooklyn party, I was playing the girl who was in style, the girl a man like Nick wants: the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.”
I ran two races this week. I ran the 10km on Saturday and 21km on Sunday.
Saturday’s Race – Elsies River
The race on Saturday was the Oprah of races. “You get a PB. You get a PB. Everyone gets a PB.” I completed the 10km in 51 minutes. That’s 4 minutes faster than my previous PB. To be fair the route was 30 meters short of 10km, and if had been the full 10km I’d probably have completed the race in 53 minutes. That is still a PB.
(2014 has been a really great running year for me. I’m managed to rock PBs for the 10km, 21km (2:01), 30km (3:19) and 42km (4:52). And I’m not done yet. I’m still gunning for the sub-2, and definitely plan on improving my marathon time.)
My new PB for a 10km means that I qualify for a C seeding for the Two Oceans Half. But I’m not planning on running the half next year. I’m planning to sign up for the Ultra (56km). Or I was planning on running the ultra until Sunday’s race.
The downside of Saturday’s race was that the front runners were robbed. The perpetrators threatened the runners with a brick if they didn’t hand over their watches. And the cars of some runners were broken into.
Sunday’s Race – Landmarks
Sunday’s race was so hard. There were lots of hills and by the time I’d reached the 10km mark I was so over it. I kept thinking about how hungry I was, how hot it was and all I wanted to do was eat a waffle with maple syrup. I was in a bad space. Just so miserable.
But the race wasn’t all bad. I’m thankful for the Petrus, who ran the last 1km with me. He kept encouraging me, telling me to breathe, and to take small steps. I’m thankful for the man who ran passed us and shouted to Petrus, “Don’t leave her. Make sure she comes in. She’s a strong runner.” That same man would come up to me later and hugged me. (I think he told me that I could be good or that I did good.)
And at the end of the race, I stuck around for the prize-giving ceremony and was rewarded with a R250 gift voucher from Bihari, an Indian restaurant.
I’m currently reading “Gone girl” by Gillian Flynn and I am absolutely intrigued.
The novel is about Amy, who disappears one day. The police suspect her husband, Nick. The chapters alternate between Nick and Amy’s point of view. Nick’s side of the story is told the day Amy disappears. While Amy’s story is narrated from her diary, written the day they met five years ago. I at the point in the novel, where I think Nick is a total douchebag, but I’ve been forewarned that there’s a surprise ending.
Anyway, here’s an extract from the novel:
“I go home and cry for a while. I am almost thirty-two. That’s not old, especially not in New York, but fact is, it’s been years since I even really liked someone. So how likely is it I’ll meet someone I love, much less someone I enough to marry? I’m tired of not knowing who I’ll be with, or if I’ll be with anyone.
I have many friends who are married – not many who are happily married, but many married friends. The few happy one are like my parents. They’re baffled by my singleness. A smart, pretty, nice girl like me, a girl with so many interests and enthusiasm, a cool job, a loving family. And let’s say it: money. They knit their eyebrows and pretend to think of men they can set me up with, but we all know there’s no one left, no one good left, and I know that they secretly think there’s something wrong with me, something hidden away that makes me unsatisfiable, unsatisfying.
The ones who are not soul-mated – the ones who have settled – are even more dismissive of my singleness: It’s not that hard to find someone to marry, they say. No relationship is perfect, they say – they, who make do with dutiful sex and gassy bedtime rituals, who settle for TV as conversation, who believe that husbandly capitulation – yes, honey, okay, honey – is the same as concord. He’s doing what you tell him to do because he doesn’t care enough to argue, I think. Your petty demands simply make him feel superior, or resentful, and someday he will fuck his pretty, young co-worker who asks nothing of him, and you will actually be shocked.”
Once I’m done with this novel I’ll probably reread “To kill a mockingbird” or “One flew over the cuckoo’s nest”. Or I might purchase the latest Irvine Welsh novel.
A few days ago, I went to Newlands Rugby Stadium to watch the final Currie Cup match. This was my third time at a rugby match. The first time I went, about two years ago, I referred to a “try” as a “goal”. My knowledge of rugby hasn’t improved much since then.
Me: Go, go, go …. Wait, wrong team.
Yes, I actually cheered for the other team.
Fear and loathing
Last weekend, I finished reading “Fear and loathing in Las Vegas” by Hunter S Thompson. I think this is my third or fourth time reading this book. Anyway, here’s one of my favourite paragraphs from the book:
“The big hotels and casinos pay a lot of muscle to make sure the high rollers don’t have even momentary hassles with “undesirables.” Security in a place like Caesar’s Palace is super tense and strict. Probably a third of the people on the floor at any given time are either shills or watchdogs. Public drunks and known pickpockets are dealt with instantly – hustled out to the parking lot by Secret Service-type thugs and given a quick, impersonal lecture about the cost of dental work and the difficulties of trying to make a living with two broken arms.”
Since finishing “Fear and loathing in Las Vegas”, I’ve moved onto “Gone Girl” by Gillian Flynn.
Last Saturday I attended a show at the comedy club, “Jou ma se comedy.”
Comedian: I’m often classified as a coconut. A coconut is someone who is black on the outside and white on the inside. I don’t mind being called a coconut if it means that I get BEE contracts and get to sleep with white women. I get a white man’s salary and have a big dick.
Yesterday a few friends and I scaled Skeleton Gorge. The hike starts at Kirstenbosch Gardens and ends at a dam on Table Mountain. The hike was gruelling (up, up, up) and the weather was HOT (totally glad we started at 08:00). It took us two hours to reach the top and another two hours to reach the bottom. We wanted to take Nursery Ravine down, but after 30 minutes of wandering we decided to stick with the route we know.
I’m hoping to hike to Elephant’s Eye from Cecilia’s Forest before this year is over.
Cape Town is absolutely gorgeous.
This weekend I celebrated a friend’s birthday at at Kleinplaas Dam, in Simon’s Town. Kleinplaas Dam is found at the top of Red Hill. If you find yourself driving pass a squatter camp (informal settlement) then you’ve gone too far. It took me an HOUR to drive from Plumstead to the dam. And when I arrived, I found that I was the first person to arrive. The others would all arrive an hour later. My spent the time reading “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” and praying that a large, dangerous snake (Cape Cobra, Puff Adder) would not cross my path.
Swimming isn’t technically allowed in the dam. And if caught, you are liable to pay a fine.
Last night, I accidentally introduced my dad to YouTube. And when I say accidentally, I mean that I was sitting in my parents’ living room, eating their free food and using their free WIFI to watch THIS awesome video of Beyoncé and Jay Z’s Paris tour, when my dad walked by. (Please note that my dad thinks Beyoncé is Britney.) After watching the clip twice, my dad said, “Play some Nicki Minaj. That one where she sings about her boom boom.” (He was of course referring to Super Bass.)
My one-year old “niece” can say a few words. In her vocabulary is “charger” and “money”. I can’t take credit for teaching her that, but I do plan on teaching her to say “wifi”.
A few days ago, I was having lunch at Amy Bun’s place when a beggar rang the doorbell.
Me: We don’t have anything.
Him: Can I speak to the boss please?
A few weeks ago, I attended Dizzy* and Juan’s housewarming party. At some point during the evening, a friend of Juan’s told the group that he’d heard this pick-up line and would like to share it with the group. Being the fun loving bunch that we are, we enthusiastically agreed to hear him out. We soon regretted our decision.
Him: Do you have pet insurance?
Group: Erm … no.
Him: Because tonight your pussy is going to get a pounding.
I was paging through my sister’s Instagram account (stalking) recently*, when I came across a photo of my dad, my sister and myself. The photo was taken by her husband as we ran/walked/stumbled through Durban city centre towards the Comrades finish line. (My dad had entered the ultra-marathon. We were simply loyal supporters.)
Looking at that photo I realised how badly I wanted THAT. I want to run the Comrades Marathon – all 89km of it. I know that it’s going to be tough and that I will need make a LOT of sacrifices, but I can’t help wondering what is possible. I want to know what I am capable of.
But it won’t happen anytime soon. I’m a crawl before you walk kinda girl. So first I’m going to concentrate on obtaining that sub-2 for a half-marathon. (This will happen before year end, of this I am certain.)
“That everything you want to happen, will happen, if you decide you want it enough.”
I will also run a couple of marathons and then attempt the Two Oceans Ultra (56km). Once, and only once, I’ve completed the Two Oceans within the cut-off time, then I’ll seriously consider training for the Comrades.
*Thanks to my sister’s Instagram account, I also learnt that she visits the golfing range on a regular basis and has changed her surname recently. And when I say recently, I mean 10 months ago. When she got married.
I took this photo weeks ago at the Waterfront. It’s been a while since I picked up my camera.