Sour body parts

Few things excite me more than a bag of chewy, gummy, sour sweets. I am puckering and salivating like a bulldog before breakfast at just the thought. My dilemma is that my favourite brand of deliciously juicy ‘sour body parts’ (not the most appetizing name mind you) happen to only be sold in very select stores. The only place I have seen them is in garage shops.

Unfortunately, I happened to come down with a pretty severe craving for sour body parts at 9pm last night while sitting on the couch with ‘The Hot Fisherman’. The conversation went a little something like this:

Leggi: Hmmmm. Sour sweets.
Hot Fisherman: ?
Leggi: Hmmmm. Sour sweets.
Hot Fisherman: What are you saying?
Leggi: You know what would be awesome right now, is a packet of sour body parts.
Hot Fisherman: Sour body parts? I tell you what, I won’t shower for the next three days and then you can have sour body parts.
Leggi: That’s disgusting.
Hot Fisherman: Mwa-ha-ha-ha [Laughs nastily]

It was clear that I wasn't going to get anything out of 'The Hot Fisherman' last night. After sulking for a few minutes on the couch, I gave up and went to bed. So this afternoon I will be on a mission to find myself a packet of sour body parts which I shall place in the freezer for about an hour prior to consumption (so they get nice and hard). [Squeels like a little girl in anticipation]

Vampires and porta-loo's

I did it. I ran my first ever 21km on Saturday morning and what an awesome race it turned out to be. My housemate and I woke up at the crack of dawn (3:45am to be precise) to drive through to Hartebeesport on Saturday morning. We arrived at the race start at 5:00am, still no sign of light breaking on the horizon, and then stood in a queue for the porta-loo for half an hour behind the weirdest man I have ever had the displeasure of coming across. Evidently he had either been locked up in a dark cupboard with little human contact for a significantly long time or he was a vampire (which makes more sense because it was still dark). This dude could not stop staring at my housemate and me. So not only did we have to stand in a queue at 5 in the morning, with the smell of urine and poo-gas filtering through the air every time someone exited and entered a porta-loo, we also had to deal with a psychopathic, ex-murderer/vampire eyeballing us while plotting our deaths (he had by this stage conveniently done a 180 degree turn and was now facing us).

After losing the gawking vampire in the crowds, we headed for the starting line. At 6:20, the gun for the race fired and we were off. The race was relatively flat with views of the mountains and dam along most of the route. There were plenty watering stations along the way and on the whole, the race was very well organised. I noticed something during my run, however, which freaked me out. While running behind a man, I noticed him spraying his legs with sachets of water. This could only mean one of two things:

1. He was very hot and was trying to cool himself down.
2. He decided that running into the bush for a number 1 would take too much time and therefore decided to 'go' while running, and was rinsing off his legs while relieving himself.

I desperately hope it was the first. I also noticed a lady blowing her nose by blocking one nostril and forcefully snorting out the unblocked nostril (I was once again lucky enough to be positioned behind her), and also noticed how many runners spit. The road along the entire length of the race is splattered with lovely mucous patches which I had to run through. I can only imagine what is now stuck on the bottom of my Purple Nikes.
I completed the race in 1 hour and 56 minutes, averaging 5.5mins/km and had the most ridiculously tasty cinnamon pancakes at the end of the race (well worth running 21.1 km for). This is a race I will definitely do again.

Om die dam

Tomorrow is the fateful day. I will be jogging the Om-Die-Dam half marathon at Hartebeesport dam in my Purple Nikes. I have not been training for it and don't feel particularly confident. My self-belief baloon was slashed this morning after looking at a training programme for the race which commenced in DECEMBER. Not sure who designed the programme but the person was obviously smoking some good stuff. 12km on the first day?? An average of 42km a week??? Are you berserk? I have been averaging 25 - 30km a week. I can only shudder at the thought of meeting drill sergeant Om Die Dam. Hopefully he/she won’t be bringing up the rear with a whip and a loudhailer tomorrow…because I have a feeling I may be the ‘butt’ of the race group.

Vanishing act

I often wonder what Nokki, my domestic worker, does when left alone in our apartment. It must be tremendous. I can just picture her having a field day going through my cupboards and drawers, mentally filing away bits of information to profile my personality, like the state of my bra’s and g-strings, the stash of chocolates I hide from myself and the purple negligee I keep disguised underneath my pajamas. I know for a fact that she:
• Likes to watch the movie magic channel,
• Loves Oros,
• Unwraps and then scruffily rewraps presents that were bought for friends or family,
• Makes use of the toasted sandwich machine,
• Likes reading anything of a personal nature left unconcealed (I know she particularly enjoyed the Valentine’s day card the Hot Fisherman gave me which I left tucked away in my drawer and later found on my dressing table),
• Uses my housemates I-pod,
• Uses my housemates hair brushes (leaving short, curly evidence on the bristles) and
• Enjoys time-outs on our couch with her feet up on our coffee table.

I don’t mind that she does some of these things because if I were in her position I would take advantage too, but I can’t help but feel that she is invading my personal space when she unwraps birthday presents and reads my cards.

Yesterday I arrived home early from work (to my domestic workers evident surprise and irritation). She had been chilling on the couch, sipping on a cool glass of Oros, taking considerable pleasure in watching Will Smith in Seven Pounds. I said nothing and walked straight to my bedroom, closing the door quietly behind me and feeling like I had invaded her quiet time. I was too nervous to leave my room in case I found Nokki basking on the couch and wouldn’t know what to say, so I just sat on my bed for a while. I eventually built up the courage to emerge from my bedroom. Like magic, the TV had been switched off, remotes had been neatly stowed away and there was no evidence anywhere of her lunch or her Oros. It was like it never happened. Two seconds later, she appeared out of nowhere and asked if there was anything else I wanted her to do before she left. Then, poof…she was gone. Harry Houdini could have learnt a thing or two from my Nokki.

Once a pirate...

Need I say more?
I saw this sticker on the back of a car driving through Braamfontein this morning. I performed a James Bond stunt to attempt to catch it on camera especially for you. I can't believe the following I have already! Ok, ok...so maybe its a sticker for Orlando Pirates (the soccer team), but a girl can dream right?
If you are confused or you need a refresher, see my post: http://purplenikes.blogspot.com/2010/02/i-heart-pirate-hookers.html

Do you know the muffin man?

I had the most delicious breakfast on Saturday. I have to admit that fewer things in life beat a frothy cappuccino in the early morning. It was well worth waking up at dawns crack to meeting Snow and Slacky (physio varsity mates) at Tasha's in Melrose Arch at 8am. After hearing a muffled growl coming from somewhere beneath the table, followed shortly by something which sounded like earth-moving operations (which I soon realised were coming from my echoing stomach), I decided to have a quick squiz at the muffins on display. The muffin man was clearly not on strike that morning because the assortment of muffins that lay warm and inviting in the cake display cabinet were more exciting than popcorn and a coke at the movies (I have been known to go to movies simply for the popcorn and coke). There were blueberry, chocolate, carrot, banana and pecan and bran muffins all glistening invitingly with fancy assortments of decorative toppings. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The thought of ordering French toast or scrambled eggs after seeing that display would have been like hiring Fight Club to watch Edward Norton and looking away in every shot of Brad Pitt’s abs. I ordered banana and pecan and it was delicious. I am talking Meg-Ryan’s-restaurant-scene- in-When-Harry-Met-Sally-delicious. It took me several minutes to decide which flavour to go for, but that bad boy stood no chance once it was served to me on an icing-sugary platter. There wasn’t a crumb left and the manager even came up to me to ask if I wanted a second one on the house because he had witnessed the punishing of the first. I politely declined. Idiot!

No coincidence

My drive in to work this morning was pure bliss. The traffic had practically built up to my complex driveway; there were windscreen washers threatening me with squeegee’s and bottles of diluted sunlight liquid every direction I looked; and I got stuck behind a bakkie travelling at 30km/hour carrying 30 workers who all stared at me, blinking in unison, their heads nodding back and forth like the little bobble head dolls you see through tinted back windscreens of dodgy 1979 Mazda 626’s. Yes it was pure ecstasy, and I say this without a hint of sarcasm.

“Don't worry a-bout a thing, 'cause ev-ry little thing, gonna be all right.
Singing' don't worry about a thing, 'cause ev-ry little thing gonna be all right!"

Have you ever noticed how the lights of a robot are the same colours as the rasta flag? This is no coincidence. Bob Marley is THE man in traffic. "This is my message to you-hoo-hoo."

Gym fail

The benefits of exercise are blindingly obvious when you are sitting on the couch feeling guilty about eating yet another piece of cherry nougat. All I can think about at that stage is how much healthier I feel after exercise, how much better I eat after exercise and how wonderful it feels to be fit enough to run 8km’s in the mornings without keeling over half-way from exhaustion. I felt this familiar nagging sensation after eating a steak laden with creamy red wine sauce on Friday night, after polishing off an insanely scrumptious chicken lasagna with ‘The Hot Fisherman’ on Saturday evening and after licking my plate clean of any visible traces of chocolate croissant on Sunday morning. After spending a considerable amount of time weighing up the beauty and informational benefits of an extra hour of shut-eye followed by an hour of long-distance stalking of Will Smith through the E True Hollywood Story vs. going to gym, I finally let ‘The Hot Fisherman’ bundle me into my car late Sunday morning.


After spending a small fortune on two bottles of water (I chose an expensive brand of water which is supposed to be equivalent to taking vitamins – great marketing gimmick that) we finally loped through the turnstiles of the gym. Coughing up half a lung and sneezing from the insult of chlorine on our mucous membranes, ‘The Hot Fisherman’ and I ascended the stairs to the weights section. There, we performed a series of death defying exercises such as:

• A gazillion lunges with 6 kilo weights in each hand,

• Squats with weights,

• Quadriceps extensions,

• Hamstring curls,

• Abduction exercises or the ‘Yes/No machine’ as The Hot Fisherman refers to it,

• Leg press AND

• Ab exercises

Finally, after an hour of torture, ‘The Hot Fisherman’ and I limped out of the gym to the car.

The second day after gym is always the worst. The benefits of exercise are no longer relevant when you wake up in the morning with legs so stiff that the only way you can get yourself mobile is to walk with straight knees. I am a walking stick man...or woman. It looks like my legs have been placed in Plaster of Paris. Forrest Gump in braces has got nothing on my limp. Worse still, my bum is so stiff that every time I sit down I have to let loose a little groan of pain like an old lady after a hip transplant. I have to hold onto the railing when ascending stairs as I may pass out from the throbbing in my quads and I am considering buying some ice during my lunch break to attempt to reduce the inflammation in my calves (I had to wear high heels this morning because it was physically impossible for me to put my heels on the floor). This evening, I will most definitely make a date with Will Smith on my couch and that piece of nougat I have been saving will never taste sweeter.

Muddy socks

Official time: 00:32:07.
And no, I am not talking about the ‘Fit at 40: 32 Minute Advanced Workout’ or the 32 Minute Messenger Bag Tutorial from ‘The Diary of a Quilter: the confessions and obsessions of a stay-at-home quilter’. I am, in fact, talking about my time for running the JP Morgan Challenge last night.


Not bad considering:

• I was soaked to the bone from standing in the pouring rain at the start.

• I had to run through someone’s flower bed.

• I had to jump over several garden gnomes and,

• I ‘dodged, dipped, ducked, dived and dodged’ through hordes of people who all started the race in the sub-20 seed although it was pretty obvious that they had never seen a pair of running shoes, let alone run a road race in under 4 minutes a kilometer.

To those people I say this: Either shape up, buy yourself a decent pair of running shoes and actually DO some running or be a little more considerate and stand where you are supposed to – in the 40 to 50 minute seed.

My Purple Nikes are no longer purple, but now have a lovely reddish-brown hue to them thanks to the selfishes (a selfish person who is similar to a shelfish i.e. no backbone or brain) whom I had to leap onto pavements and trudge through mud pools for. P.S. You selfishes owe me a pair of Puma socks since mine are slpattered with enough earth to build an apartment garden. Okay? Lovely.

JP Morgan Corporate Challenge

Yes its tonight. SO much of excitement...


It’s, wait for it…not 5km, not 6km, but 5.6km. Because 5 km is not enough and according to some, 6 is too much.

Last year I ran it in about 36 minutes but I started in a batch that were supposed to run at about 5 min/km. However...there were some remarkably unfit and over nourished individuals in my batch and therefore I spent the entire race dodging the walkers, looping round trees to avoid the shufflers, ducking underneath the flaying arms of the boozers and completely ignoring the talkers.
But not this year…I have a cunning plan.

You see, my company sponsors our race entry and has a tent at the JP Morgan each year. Unfortunately, this is one race when it helps to be catastrophically unfit. What tends to happen is that all the booze in the company tent is consumed by the walkers DURING the race so that those of us who actually RUN the JP Morgan Challenge (why would they call it a challenge if it’s meant to be a gentle stroll) get nothing upon finishing.

Yes…so this year I have a plan. I received a little email communication from my company this morning to say that no alcohol will be served before the race. Mwa ha ha ha! So I shall be running…as fast as my Purple Nikes will take me, in the 4 minute/km batch (yikes) so that I can quench my thirst with a few ice-cold Sav’s (Savannah Dry) and wait patiently for my fellow ‘runners’ to join me. I know that people will have to pass me this year if they genuinely are hoping to finish in fewer than 30 mins, but that’s ok. I will pretend to have a stitch if they give me funny looks.

Love thy neighbour

Living in an apartment block has many advantages. There’s security, a garden service and friendly neighbours in every direction when you need to borrow a cup of sugar. But there are also distinct disadvantages, one of which is the close proximity of your neighbours…in particular, the close proximity of your bathroom window to that of your neighbours. I often picture my neighbor in his bathroom, sitting on the bog…mere meters from me while I brush my teeth. Our bathroom windows are so close that if I leant out of mine, I could probably see into his. This doesn’t bode well for either of us…because humans need privacy in a bathroom, a luxury neither of us have anymore.


I have grown quite accustomed to his routine, however. I know that my neighbor has fairly good oral hygiene. I know he brushes his teeth (probably a little too violently judging by the amount of scrubbing and brushing I can hear in the mornings) and I know he uses mouthwash – which is more than I can say for myself. I know that he takes baths and very occasionally showers (which is quite bizarre for a man) and that he is in there A LOT. I also know my neighbor lives with his wife/girlfriend because they have conversations through the bathroom door which I have the ‘pleasure’ of listening in to.

What is scary to accept is that my neighbours can probably hear everything that my housemates and I do during our own ‘quality bathroom time’. This was confirmed when we were Cc’d in an email from our neighbour to a glass fitter, requesting a special tint on their bathroom window which would make it less transparent. In the email, the question about whether this glazing would make the window more sound proof was also raised with a comment below it that made me chuckle. It stated, “Will the glazing assist in sound proofing our bathroom because this morning I could hear my neighbor sneeze?”

I think most people would agree that stage fright in the bathroom is a very serious problem when you think that someone could be listening in on you. So imagine what it’s like when you KNOW people are listening in on you.

Barbie and me

Last night I attended a class held at one of the local sweating holes with my housemate. I don’t have a membership at the gym we attended, but I managed to get in on the pretence that I was interested in joining. I was dragged along to the gym, thinking we would be doing our own thing and I would get the chance to do some much needed lunges and squats. Unbeknownst to me, on our arrival, I was whisked into the gym by my housemate and told that we urgently needed to ‘reserve our spot’ in the class. “Which class?” I casually asked. The response wasn’t exactly what I was anticipating. We were attending a ‘Running Class’. What is a running class you ask? Why, funny you should inquire, because that’s EXACTLY what I was pondering. Does everyone climb on a treadmill and run in time to music? Does everyone learn preparatory techniques like stretches and core strengthening exercises that will help improve your running? The answer is no…and no.


A running class, my dear friends, is literally a class where you either run on the spot or run in a circle around the class…FOR A FULL HOUR.

Okay, I am exaggerating just a bit. The instructor does try to mix it up by including lunges of death, suicidal squats and killer push-ups in between sets of ‘running’. My point is that these classes can’t be good for you because firstly, we ran in the same direction around the class each time. Don’t even ask what that’s doing to your knees and ankles. Secondly, the whole class is covered in floor to ceiling mirrors and therefore seeing yourself ‘running’ in the mirrors is unavoidable. Thirdly, there is a blonde Barbie ‘running’ next to you and she quite enjoys watching herself ‘run’ while thrashing her ponytail so wildly that every now and then you get a mouthful of hair or a whip across the face.

I will admit that even though I am skeptical about classes like these, I was pretty pooped afterwards. The best part about the class was the instructor. She kept us all amused with her pelvic gyrations to Mango Groove, hysterical screaming and the occasional inappropriate comment about her futile sex life. It’s no wonder her classes are brimming with people of all ages and sizes. I have to admit, if I get dragged to one of her classes again, I will gladly participate…as long as it’s not a ‘running class’ and I don’t have to stand next to Gym Barbie.