Went on a girls night last night. We went to Gin in Greenside, a new hotspot, apparently. I enjoyed it, although the beginning was awkward.
I arrived in a marshmallow dress. It's part of my, like, new look. I think marshmallow dresses are the shizzle, so, who cares if I look like a human confection. Anyway I walk in, billowing like the Mayflower, and see this dude from the back, sitting at a table with 8 beautiful females. I'm certain it's this dude J I know. So from behind, I grab him in a bear hug....pull back... and yeah it's really really really not J. Hayzoos Christ, how embarrassing. (“J! Hello! How ARE you?”)
The thing with approaching people you're 90% sure are people you know, is that you actually have to be 110% sure. You have to actually double check. Or this happens, and it's blind. Even 10 years after high school.
Darted upstairs and pretty much stayed there the whole evening. Saw all my girls and we're restarting bookclub. This is good, even if everyone has only read the week's Heat and have to recount how Courtney Love's cellulite is out of control.
Also, Klo, being a professional in this department – no really, she's qualified – is going to be my personal interior decorator. She's going to help me pimp up my new apartment in 70s retro and Bauhaus furniture (think red perspex coffee table with white Flokati rug.......oh my God, get me a vibrator.)
We'll make it look good without me having to sell my ovaries to pay it all off, she assures me. Apparently Parys has good retro antiques for a steal. It's a drive, and it's an arbitrary dorp that's the Afrikaans derivative of La Gay Paree, but whatever.
If I was a millionaire, I'd assign her to the project over three weeks. We'll have to do it over 5 months, if I save enough and don't max out my credit card.
On the credit card, I've never wanted one. I've never intended to have one. I hate them. Even if I have R15.60 to last me one week, I'll do it sans credit card. You're not in the shitter until you have debt. That's my scenario. Skint without debt is still a privilege and a lucky financial situation to be in, frankly. At least that's how I think. I don't even have any 'accounts', like Truworths, garage or Woolworths accounts. Debt or die.
Until this month. I actually have to get a credit card, for overseas and et cetera reasons. I'm shitting.
Anyway, anyway. So we're at Gin, talking about perspex tables, vibrators, and giving up smoking (which I am in the process of about to do. Finishing off Allen Carr's book), and am looking around, and there are men everywhere. They're the artier types, the types I should ideally be associated with. Thing is, some of the men have full body tattoos, purple hair and wear crimpolene.
I just want to ask, because I don't really go to places where guys wear chino pants anymore. I used to. A lot. It's not the pants, it's what comes with the pants. I think. But I'm not looking to make acquaintances with crazy, alternative artist types either. I'm actually attracted to conservative men. Ridiculously enough. There are exceptions, with everything in life, before you jump down my throat. But where can one find a healthy balance of both in this town?
I dunno. I just want to go to a club where they play You Got To Show Me Love and Mr Vain, [circa 1992], but I won't go to The ManWhore anymore.
Joburg is repressive like that. There's not enough choice. Where does one go to hear such wonderful stuff, besides that vomit pit?
I'll throw a housewarming party after my trip, that's for sure. There's an opportunity for amazing 90s choonage.