Merry Menses, Everyone!

Last night we wanted to show the Icelanders just how cool Jozi is. My huge personal bug-bear about our city is: there are no bars. And I say that because anything that comes in two’s, three’s or more doesn’t count – e.g. The Baron, O’Hagans or The Snooze Cafe. And hotel bars in international hotel chains with the atmosphere of a morgue, don’t count either. And anywhere where people don’t brush their hair also doesn’t count, so that rules out The Parkhurst Country Club. (Not my nickname for the Jolly, but a great one, methinks. Incidentally, it was coined by a man with the same surname as the Jolly, so thanks, Mr Rogers).

Anyway, I’d heard about The Attic in Parkhurst and decided to take advantage of the rain-free evening to check it out. The Attic’s cocktail bar and its Mojitos (especially its Mojitos) did not disappoint. My heart did go out to the poor Icelanders when it came to the Parkhurst toilet situation, however, so I decided to do a guided tour of the route to the toilets – through the kitchens, next to the dustbins, etc, etc – all the while trying to evoke the charm of simpler times and making up lots of lies about architecture, plumbing, south facing ablutions owing to the African sun, blah, blah, total hogwash. The two girls looked a bit skeptical but mercifully were too polite to start poking holes in my explanation. To make it seem as authentic as possible (and also because by then I was on a pathological role), I continued the history tour inside the actual cubicle, spewing forth about the special post-war ceramic used for the cistern etc, etc. And then (perhaps out of genuine curiosity but most probably to simply shut me up) one of the girls pointed to a business card stuck above bog. It looked like some sort of party planning company or something but the company name, the strap-line and the web address all went by the deliciously classy name of: “There’s a Party in my Pants”. “Contact Raul”.

Seriously, Raul, honey. Not a lekker name for your little business.

The name has been tickling me since last night (perhaps young Raul is smarter than I think and perhaps this is the whole point…). Anyway, because I wanted to share the joke, I’ve spent this morning trying to remember the exact URL and have been googling up a storm trying to find Raul’s party company on-line. I can’t say I’ve succeeded. There’s a Facebook group that goes by the same tasteful name (with a very sad number of members, I might add) and some references which indicate that There’s a Party in my Pants may be a band or the name of a DJ.

In my searches, however, I’ve just come across something absolutely priceless. A company in Wisconsin called (you guessed it): Party in my Pants. The company makes organic, cotton, panty pads. Yes: wash and re-use your pads and save money while you save the earth! And because Party in my Pants can be a bit of a mouthful, the company also goes by the abbreviation 'PIMPs'. How cute is that? The first lines on the home page read: “Has a tampon ever made you look forward to your period? Does your maxi pad make you smile? Nope. Most menstrual products only make the whole affair more uncomfortable. What's up with that? Women deserve better. Women deserve Party In My Pants.

You heard them, girls. You DESERVE a party in your pants!

If you think I’m making this up, go to And if all that isn’t enough to entice you, allow me to introduce the their special festive season range: “Merry Menses”. The hilarious, wet-your-pants copy goes like this: “Happy Holidays from Party In My Pants! If you're in search of unique gifts that your gal pals both want and need – plus are handmade, gentle on the earth AND save $$ – then look no further. Party In My Pants goods have all that going for them and more. Party In My Pants are terrific for teens, new moms and ladies of all ages, even grandmas.

If you STILL think I’m making this up, check out:

Merry Wednesday, everyone!

Brunettes Bite Back

The Husband and I watched Vicky Cristina Barcelona last night. About two seconds into the movie it becomes patently obvious that blondes have more fun. Granted, “blondes” in this case equals Scarlett Johanssen who is no ordinary blonde, but still…

I know the “blondes have more fun” thing has been a universal truth since before Marilyn, but I still think it’s unfair. Last night, I was feeling a tad more upset than usual about this state of injustice. Out of nowhere, I found myself throwing a tantrum in front of the TV, “I hate it! I’m Vicky, the boring brunette and the blondes get to be Scarlett. IT’S NOT FAIR!”

I’m not normally this unhinged (okay, not always) but I think I was feeling extra brown-haired and banal after a little episode the day before. I’d just finished a fun-filled Chardonnay lunch with two girlfriends and was dashing to my 3pm hair appointment when Ballito Babe (the little beetch has just fallen in love with a hot, older man and is upping and moving to Ballito this weekend – hence the name) goes: “Are you getting highlights? Get some highlights. No really, Nats, you should get some highlights.” I was trying to shoot daggers at her with my eyes for moving to Ballito, but now, she was insulting my au natural, aw so BROWN, hair-colour. Just to explain: when I first met Ballito Babe I went blondish for a couple of years. Just to test the “more fun” theory, you see. (And the answer’s yes, BTW. Men really are that shallow). After month 22 of peroxide sessions, I had a hunch that things were starting to go a wee bit pear-shaped in the hair department. But when my father (he’s a man of few words, to begin with, but when it comes to the topic of my sister and my appearance, he’s practically mute) said,”You look common,” I knew my blonde number was up. Ever since then, I’ve been brown and proud. Well up until last night, anyway.

When I announced that I was “Boring Vicky”, I did realise that I came across as a completely lame, self-pitying female. What I hadn’t bargained for, however, was The Husband’s response. “Great, so that makes me Dependable Doug!” (Doug is Vicky’s super dull, fiance). This may have been kind of amusing for five minutes, but instead, he sulked the whole way through the movie. No matter what I said, I could not convince him that the whole Scarlett/ Vicky/ blonde/ brunette thing had NOTHING to do with him whatsoever. To make matters worse, Doug’s character got more and more loathsome as the movie progressed. “I can’t believe you’d compare me to that guy!” I was like, “I’m not! This is so not about you”. And then the movie would flash to a shot of Doug in his neatly pressed fawn-coloured Bermudas, with his iron-over side parting and his preppie accent. He’d be boring Vicky and co. to death about his latest golf game. Snore. And I’d try again: “You don’t even play golf. In fact you HATE golf. You’re a sexy cyclist…”

“Baby………..?” I tried again. I have to say that his lip did start to pick up a bit when I mentioned ‘sexy’ and ‘cycling’ in the same sentence.

In the midst of all this, I was still silently seething as Scarlett’s character continued to, quite literally, have all the fun, as she lived out her sultry, romantic dream with Javier Bardem in balmy Barcelona. (Blonde beetch).

And then, all of a sudden, the brunettes bit back. Enter Penelope Cruz as Javier’s magnificent, fiery, talented, dark-haired ex-wife, Maria Elena.

Sweet revenge.

Even Scarlett’s character with her comparatively goody-two-shoes, all American twang was starting to look a bit washed out in comparison. (And that’s saying something). Of course, Maria Elena turns out to be a stark raving lunatic but by then, Scarlett’s Cristina character has been exposed as immature and flighty.

So maybe blondes don’t always have more fun.

Anyway, I will soon find out since four ice blonde Icelanders have just stepped off the ’plane and into my living room for a week-long visit to Africa. Two years ago, I spent four days in Iceland in mid-summer with chattering teeth and cobalt blue lips, while the North Sea winds whipped through every bone in my body. I don’t know if it’s universal karma but the torrential Joburg rains should have them feeling right at home in no time. Or perhaps it’s another form of revenge against the blondes?