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Personal Torture, um, I mean 'training'...

My latest attempt to de-jiggle comes in the form of a pint-sized pocket rocket who claims to be a personal trainer but, in my opinion, is actually a highly qualified practitioner of jedi mind tricks. You see, not only has she managed to get my wobbly butt and withering calves (not being able to run or wear heels will do that to a girl) to the gym bright and early on a Monday morning but she has managed to make me see wine o' clock as the enemy (Re-read that last sentence if you think you imagined it...) Basically, I'm starting to equate my favourite Sauvignon Blanc with lunges, squats and other forms of legal torture required to undo the calorie consumption. Bearing in mind that I gave my partner in crime at the gym the nickname of 'The Drill Sergeant' a while back (courtesy of the fact that she single-handedly managed to take me from a coughing, spluttering, sweaty mess who couldn't run 3km's to a half-marathon enthusiast in just six mon

If you thought you saw a pig fly past your window

last Saturday, there's no reason to assume your next purchase will be a straightjacket or that a mushroom courtesy of Fleetwood Mac found its way into your lunchtime wrap. You may very well have seen a flying pig because, you see, the unthinkable happened...  Hubby spent an entire 8 hours shopping without so much as a whinge, a whine or an 'I've had enough' pout. Surprised? So was I. In fact, if I didn't have fabulous new patio furniture, a 12-piece mirror installation and a couch order to show for it, I too may think that it were all a 'shouldn't have had cheese before bed' dream. In the three years that I've been a Mrs I have never seen the man on such form. He was a shopping, price-comparing, interior design referencing machine. From Wetherly's to Sutherlands, from Sandton City to Kramerville, from Mistry's to Mr Price, hubby took retail therapy to a new level, putting even this seasoned shoppers stamina, agility and Sales Consultant r

Garfield and lasagne...

the two things go together like fake tan and cruise ships, like merlot and stinky cheese, and, most recently, like my pavement special pooch and my being overseas for two weeks. You see, on my arrival back home a few days ago I flung open the front door, let my hand luggage thump to the floor and assumed the position for maximum welcome home cuddles from my adorable puppy. What followed was quite unexpected...

Those who know me...

know that I am what you'd refer to in Sandton circles as 'a heels girl'. Few things set my pulse racing quite like a sky-high, streamlined, expertly fabricated pair of stilettos. When it comes to pursuing calf-defining height I am a purist. Sure I'll mix it up once in a while with a wedge or a solid cowgirl-esque boot but I believe that kittens belong in pet shops and cones are best served up with ice cream.  So, on a recent trip to the UK, the fact that the footwear department of my luggage contained mostly heels shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Now before you get the urge to chuckle and tease this blogger let me clarify that I left the six-inch skyscrapers at home and made a concerted effort to pack my 'sensible' heels, the kind that I can run up escalators in and are perfectly suitable for chasing after my puppy in the park if need be. As I made the tough calls between black or tan Aldo boots, between Nine West or Europa Art wedges and between ma

Because sharing is caring...

Every season I pick up a few great items from my mom-in-law's neighbour, Andy. You see, every quarter she transforms her home into a retail therapy oasis – rails and rails of seasonal fashion, great basics, some gems from overseas and fab accessories. I always walk away with several pretty things and for months afterwards I get the "That's gorgeous. Where'd you get it?" response to my purchases, which doesn't only put a spring in my step it reminds me that when the next Fashion Open Day rolls around I mustn't forget to spread the word. So here it goes...

Leaving the mothership's overrated

Few things inspire panic in a Northern suburbs woman quite like a shopping emergency. With just two weeks to go before hopping on plane to play bridesmaid in Cambridge I got call from the bride-to-be casually saying that she’s decided it best her entourage pick their own dresses for the nuptials. The advantage? I get to avoid looking like the victim of a cupcake explosion. The freak-out? Shopping under pressure is not for the faint-hearted. After activating the fashion emergency phone tree (most stylish friend, bargain-savvy mother in law and a handful of people who should put ‘professional bridesmaid’ on their CV) I had a plan of action. My mother and I were going to venture out of Jozi, beyond the familiar cobbled streets of Melrose Arch and the freshly revamped corridors of Sandton City, we were going to flex our shopping muscles in Pretoria – and we were going to do it via Gautrain...

What a difference a week makes...

This time last week, I was in possession of all ten of my toe nails, my most recent half marathon time was 02:13 and hubby was planning his next round of golf with his beloved set of clubs. 1. Toe-ing the line As I type this I am wondering if I will ever have the guts to present my beaten up feet to a beautician for a pedicure again. A punishing run/hobble down Knysna's Simola hill has rendered my feet a little worse for wear. It's only a matter of time before the deep purple toe nail on my right foot bids me farewell. Gross, I know, but just be thankful I resisted the urge to post a picture! 2. The PW (personal worst) My feet aren't the only thing that took a bruising last Saturday... My ego got a tad 'klapped', too. After a promising start, the Drill Sergeant and I launched out of the starting blocks at a comfortable, well-trained pace. It would later emerge that our pace was somewhat impressive as the boys (The Great Dane and 'Brenda') confessed t

Alice in Wonderland (PART 1)

I feel like a cross between Sarah Jessica Parker and Alice in Wonderland, with a little urban hippie thrown in for good measure. Since 8am this morning, Cape Town's city centre has been my oyster and let's just say I'm making the most  it... My first stop was AFRAID OF MICE, a curated vintage wonderland that describes itself with the line: "the clothes you wish your mother had kept for you"... Located at 88 Long Street, Afraid of Mice has been featured in Elle and often gets raved about in the blogosphere. I was so keen to try on this little gem myself, that I made it the first must-see on today's vintage shopping hit list. I wasn't disappointed...

Barking mad

I buy my dog outfits. A habit which I thinly disguise as being an absolute necessity and definitely not a Paris Hilton moment. The following conversation recently took place at my home after I was distracted en route to Pick n Pay by new stock in the Vet & Pet window... "She really has no body fat," I said to hubby, " and this is a particularly cold winter." "Mmmhmm," he said, knowing exactly where this train of thought was headed. I continued, "I know she already has two but the retro 70s jersey is a bit small and her Sharks jersey isn't lined..." Hubby interrupted briefly to remind me that Sadie is in fact a "d-o-g" but recognising the 'yeah, and your point is?' look on my face decided to give me the benefit of the doubt and relented:  "Kay, let's see it..."

I'm not the only one! *happy dance*

As I type this, I am sitting on a Mango flight from Lanseria to Cape Town thinking about 8-month old Sadie and feeling a bit bad that I didn't do a better job of saying goodbye to her as I juggled handbags, luggage, keys and iPad on my way out the front door this morning... No, I didn't leave my 8-month old child at home to fend for herself... Sadie is a dog. And yes,  in case you weren't aware, I am one of 'those' people. Why blog about this blush-inducing fact? Well, I just came across an article in the in-flight mag called 'Smooch with you pooch' and the article is a city by city run down of dog-friendly restaurants for those of us who have been known to choose our Sunday brunch spots based on which gives Sadie the best water bowl/treat combo (Kay, you can stop laughing now!)

The naked truth

If you've ever paged through a lingerie catalogue or almost walked into one of those life-size cardboard Wonderbra model cut out thingees in a department store, then you've probably found yourself declaring that your diet starts tomorrow or something similarly reactive. You see, lingerie models are a special breed... Immune to wobbly bits below the belly button, completely unaware of the existence of the ever-present armpit fat roll and they seem to be produced with cookie cutter accuracy in perfect sizes. Oh, and when they sit, their taut tummies don't wrinkle like the rest of us mere mortals' do. Or at least these are the things I believed a week ago...

Twice as nice...

Hubby and I have just declared our current 10-day getaway in Hermanus our second honeymoon. Not that there was anything wrong with our first... it's just that since we said 'I do', our 2-week Mauritian festival of romance is the last time we can remember that it was just 'us'. Between weddings and building businesses and family holidays, the past two and a bit years have flown by in a whirlwind of flights, drives, '30-seconds' re-matches and 'who's turn is it to dash to Spar?' self-catering accommodation.  Over this Easter weekend, a time when grace, mercy and a heightened awareness of being blessed abounds, hubby and I have found ourselves smack bang in the centre of a little piece of heaven. You see, apart from the fact that we have an awesome glass-fronted 'beach room', we have a jacuzzi (I know, very 80's, but still such a treat) that sits on the 'edge of the world'. Located at the most extreme point of the en suite dec

Little red riding hood

was onto something... not the whole bringing baked goods to granny and dodging the wolf bit, but the wearing red thing. Ever since opting for a red Essie nail varnish shade called 'Forever Young', I've been a tad obsessed with the colour. This morning I pulled a Gwen Stefani and painted my lips in Estee Lauder's red lip gloss. I'm not talking subtle, I'm talking fire engine red – the shade that doesn't knock before entering, it just arrives. There's nothing like blood red lips or nails that remind you of Dorothy's ruby red slippers, to put a Marilyn-inspired spring in your step. Like the little black dress, red is a classic – if an outfit's the sentence, then a slick of red gloss or a dash of crimson varnish, is the punctuation mark. Every few seasons red makes a comeback... 

Exactly a year ago today...

I took the plunge into fully-fledged self-employment. I had been 'unemployable' for quite a while, but on 31 March last year I decided to quit being a 'jane of all trades' and put all of my energy into becoming a master of one. Ever since leaving full-time employment at the foxhole in March 2008 I had dreaded the question; "So, what do you do?" You see, I didn't have a neat, one-sentence answer... I made my living in dribs and drabs, some smaller dribs, some bigger drabs as an 'art consultant/ diamond dealer/ painter and (sometimes) freelance copywriter'.  Somewhere between designing engagement rings, throwing paint around in my studio and suggesting art for housewives with waaaaay too much free time on their hands, I found myself being given more and opportunities to write, something I'd always had a knack for but never, ever thought I'd make a living from... well, wrap me up and call me Christmas, I was wrong...

Marie Claire, you beauty!

Browsing the magazine racks at Woolies en route to pay for a week's worth of food picked with the best intentions (the spinach that'll probably never be salad-ified, the green teabags that'll end up gathering dust behind the never-to-be-cooked wheat-free pasta)... I realise that I have a problem: I am a glossy mag junkie. It's almost impossible for me to leave a grocery store without a last minute impulse buy. My drug of choice? Magazines! It's very rare for me to bring home groceries without some new 'reading material' in hand. You see, I don't have just one mag I buy monthly... oh no... mid-week it's Elle and/or Marie Claire ;  post-gym it's Shape or Runner's World , pre- or mid-roadtrip it's Fair Lady (LOVE the crossword) and at the end of the month, when the card's close to melting it's (guilty pleasure) Heat or if the pickings are really slim, You magazine for the 'what were they thinking?!?' pics at the back. 

What I wouldn't do for a...

steaming hot, delightfully frothy  Woolies  Red latte with two white sugars right now *oh-woe-is-me sigh*. You see, somewhere between my last blog post (and yes, I know I've been shirking my duties as of late) and today I have managed to get myself on a meat-free, dairy-free, wheat-free, (practically) carb-free and (gasp!) wine-free eating plan. I know, can you spell 'i-n-s-a-n-i-t-y'?!? grape-free expectations The wine was always on the cards. It had to go. I had to give up something I would really miss for lent... and anyone who knows me, knows that I love (yes, I use that term thoughtfully) LOVE a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc every now and then. When my mom asked what I was giving up for lent and I answered 'wine', she responded by bursting out into laughter (true story). This reaction was partly because I'm not sure she knew I was being serious and partly because lent (the 40-day run up to Easter) falls over my birthday – a day that I like to use as an

Sitting pretty

I spend a lot of time scouring cyberspace for beautiful design, which means that I spend a lot of time sitting – at my desk, at a coffee shop, at home on our L-shaped faux suede (pet fur covered) sofa – and so, as a side effect of what I do for a living, I have become a bit of an expert on seating, based on both comfort and aesthetic merit. Basically, I don’t care how good the ‘must-have’ fair trade coffee is at the newest mid-morning hotspot, if the seating is just plain ugly then I’m not going to be sitting there long enough to order, let alone snack on a low-GI muffin. This fussy-ness served as the inspiration for The Furnishing Touch's latest blog post . Check it out – would love to hear your comments!

Yet another manic monday...

which is why all I have to offer you (my very patient readers) are these links.. .  Not just for students... my take on the  sleeper couch  for The Furnishing Touch An ode to the colour purple , courtesy of  guest blogger  Cathy Nolan  It's time to go 'greige' ... no, that's not a typo, it's a hot new colour combo (apparently) Art that you can eat off? That's delicious! And so is this  beautiful new blog And if you want cold, hard, online evidence of what's keeping me away from my (once upon a time) daily therapy sessions (oh, those were the days my friends)... here are links to recent wordmith-ery for Socrati  and Ocean Basket . Warning: It's work stuff, so if my blog's neon pink, then it's more dusky in hue. 

Taking it personally...

Since last Friday I have had a neon pink post it on my MacBook that reads 'hubby's PA. I [heart] her. New blog post.' Which in case you're wondering translates as 'must do blog post on my husband's PA'. Why dedicate an entire blog post to a woman who works for Hubby? Well, she's literally a legend in her own lunchbreak and beyond, a source of calm in the storm that is hubby's workspace, and a much needed dose of organisational expertise in the organised chaos that is hubby's attempt at admin. Hubby has many strengths, many talents and many gifts, but admin is simply not one of them...  This is where superwoman a.k.a Simone, comes to the rescue. Not only does she conquer her mammoth 'to do' list with grace and the kinda efficiency that makes Kim Kardashian's make up artist look ineffectual, but inbetween doing her job she fields calls and emails from her boss's wife.  Yes, I am one of 'those' wives, the kind that occa

This could get hairy...

As I type this I look like a cross between a scarecrow and a spaceman. There is steel circular thing (it kinda resembles a UFO) orbiting around my head which looks ready to be popped in an oven and baked at 180 degrees. There's more tin foil on my head than hair. In case you're staring at the screen with a confused look, thinking "Sherinne has finally lost it, better put in an order for a designer straightjacket," let me just clarify: I am at the hairdresser. Every three months I bite the bullet, pick the least battered looking credit card and book myself into Carlton Hair at Nelson Mandela Square for a little lock maintenance. I have been coming to the same hair salon and chatting about Britney's/Miley's/(and most recently) Charlie's tabloid adventures, with the same hairdresser, since late 2005.  Rudi is my go-to guy, the hairdresser who earned my trust one great blow-dry at a time, as I shed the trauma of a string of really bad haircuts courtesy of

Just a few more furnishing touches...

and then we're good to go. I am like a kid at Christmas – seriously excited about the official launch of my latest adventure into the blogosphere. For the past month I have been up to my keyboard in trend forecasts, furniture catalogues and interior design website URLs, scouring cyberspace for bits and pieces of content for  The Furnishing Touch .  I love a trend, I love great design and although I'm not an Interior Designer I am an artist which means that I have a keen eye for colour, composition and well-executed mediums... so, providing almost daily content for a fabulous blog, backed by an even more fabulous brand is the kind of work that doesn't feel like work. In short, I am one happy Social Media addict – getting to talk about Twitter and Facebook and blogging as a legitimate part of my day job is a cyberdream come true.  It's my mission to translate the trends for our readers, breaking down the fancy shmancy industry jargon into bite-sized chunks that you don&

Taking the Plunge

This coming Sunday I am being baptised... I will stand in front of a church full of people and publicly declare my commitment to the Lord, and His will for my life. I will literally take the plunge. This is out of character for two reasons...  Firstly, this Sandton girl usually avoids getting wet, especially on days when the locks have been straightened and the eyeliner freshly applied, and secondly, I don't do public speaking... Not out of a lack of confidence or a fear of crowds, but rather due to the fact that my unreliable vocal cords always hint at the possibility of a verbal traffic jam. My stutter isn't as constant a companion as it was in my younger years but it still likes to pop up and remind me that it's there once in a while. Reading the previous paragraph back to myself, I realise how silly I sound, but aren't we all a bit silly? Don't we all make excuses instead of just confessing what we're afraid of? Instead of just handing our fear over... T

I have a confession to make...

I have been cheating on my blog. Yes, it's true... the reason that a tumble weed has been blowing through this blog for the past week or so, like a scene from an old Western movie, is that I have branched out into a different part of the blogosphere.  Blogging it would seem has become my day job (doing a mental happy dance as I type this) with a new little adventure called The Furnishing Touch. Now, while we don't formally launch until March, I have decided that you, my valued readers (I really do love you guys!) deserve a little sneak peak... so click away:  You're welcome   An introduction to The Furnishing Touch. Got a thing for pink?  You've gotta love a colour called 'Honeysuckle'! Translating the trends  Cos those 'experts' do use rather big words... The upside of upcycling   The alternative to hugging a tree... Work from home? It's time to do your homework   Live it up! Your living room will thank you    four trends, for you...  What's co

'twas a beautiful day (and night) indeed

I always knew that my first trip to soccer city, the opening game of the 2010 soccer world cup, would be a tough act to follow. I figured that it'd be many years until I felt anything remotely similar to the surge of emotion brought on by Tshabalala's goal... The first of the tournament. Well, on Sunday night among 100,000 U2 fans (under a blanket of African sky, in the heart of Soweto) an unexpected rendition of Amazing Grace came pretty darn close to topping my first experience of the calabash. After a visual feast that left me speechless at times, live performances that had me shouting well known choruses at the top of my lungs, and particularly poignant footage of one of Madiba's speeches, I was doubtful that the show could get any better... It was too good, too slick, too mindblowingly impressive and about as dynamic as a live show can get. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, all the bells and whistles were silenced, all the flashy imagery dissolved and the stadi

A clothes call...

Standing in front of my wardrobe this morning, freshly washed hair tightly wrapped up in a towel turban, I faced the age old question of 'what to wear?'... But today's answer had more than usual riding on it. There is a fine line between looking like you've made an effort and looking like you are trying waaaay to hard, and striking the balance is easier said than done. For a day full of big meetings, two of which looked at odds next to one another in my diary (one being all fashion and fabulous, and the all bottom line business) I needed an outfit that could easily look as appropriate on corporate barbie as it could on fashion barbie. Alas! This is not a scene out of 'The Devil wears prada' and there is no Stanley Tucci character to escort me into a sample close full of designer label possibilities, so, my wardrobe would have to do...

Pee-lease don't leave me...

I just got a mini taste of how working moms must feel... A) leaving their baby, all big eyed and 'please don't go, mommy' at home while they rush off, laptop bag in hand to the office; and B) coming home to a hyperactive, super clingy little creature who is sooooooo happy that you came back. The only difference is that I am pretty sure working moms (ones with real, human children) don't come home to a sprinkler of pee... Thankfully, children have nappies to catch a little excited leakage. Sadly, puppies do not. I arrived home just now (after having to leave our new puppy alone for eight hours) to a phenomenon that is equal parts icky and impressive. My pooch was spinning around like an over zealous ballerina while simultaneously emptying her bladder... The result was a steady sprinkler-like stream of golden pee spinning around my kitchen. Not even my loyal following of The Dog Whisperer prepared me for it.

You gotta be in it to win it...

Madiba spent his life fighting for it and Americans rocked it and put a first lady with serious style onto the world stage... I'm talking about The Vote. The little ink cross that makes a big difference. The ever-fabulous Drill Sergeant, as responsible a running partner as she is a South African citizen, just peeked out from the super chic Chinese paper fan she was fluttering around her perfectly coifed head, to remind me to REGISTER TO VOTE THIS WEEKEND for the municipal elections. I have been living under a rock where deadlines breed mould, and seem to have missed this VERY IMPORTANT piece of info (yes, I am blushing while I type this)... And if I have missed it then maybe you have, or maybe you haven't missed it but you're contemplating going for that much needed pedicure instead of queueing to do your Civic DUTY. Doll, the toes can wait...

Delegation... It's dee-licious!

For the first time in pretty much my entire twenty-something life, I have put a gag order on the control freak within and spread the love. The not so starving artist has realised that it's all well and good to be putting steaks in the fridge but if there is simply not a spare minute in the day to eat one's tender juicy fillet with an ice cold sauvignon blank, then, well, what's the point? Which brings me to today's big news and the reason that I actually have a chunk of time to blog about it... This morning I let o of the reins (just a little... Baby steps...) and delegated. I have only just tasted the sweetness of knowing that, not only am I keeping my 'as fragile as a meringue from Tasha's' sanity, but the job is getting done.

If Sydney were a three-course meal... (Part III)

The  starter  was tasty simplicity , the  main course  was a little unconventional and now all that remains in my attempt to sum up Sydney is a sweet ending... and it doesn't come much sweeter than coconut mojitos and Tim Tams. These two treats for the tastebuds will always make my tummy rumble and my brain waves take a trip down memory lane. Having explored Sydney's CBD, sampled its nightlife and taken a bite out of the backpacker's handbook, the last chunk of my time in Sydney was spent exploring the bits that most people neglect. Your average visitor to Sydney tends to hover around the harbour, taking in the iconic sites and steering clear of the parts of town that aren't quite as polished as the pics on the postcards.  For me and my fellow cocktail stalkers, landing up in a 'dodgy' part of town as a result of our 'accommodation' turned out to be a stroke of luck... a little bored of the city centre (and a little more cash-strapped than the day we a

Jackie O was onto something...

There are few things in life that put a spring in your step quite like a great accessory... Especially when said accessory is something you picked up on a whim at a vintage store in Melbourne for the 'so cheap it's almost robbery' sum of five Aussie dollars. I always knew that a Dior-esque scarf with pink and red and green print framing a stylized saddle and stirrups with gold sparkles in the fabric would make me smile, but I never thought anyone else would like it. It turns out that I am not the only woman on this planet who thinks a scarf can take an 'I can't be bothered, it's raining outside' outfit from drab to fab. Since leaving the house today my outfit has received the nod of approval from two of my co-workers... And I am pretty sure that my brown v-neck charity shop jersey, skinny jeans and neutral flats combo can't be given any credit. All credit must go to the scarf... The wardrobe staple that added some oomph to Audrey's classic white

My mom has this theory

Well, it's not really a theory she thought up it comes from some other clever psycho-something expert. Basically, my mom was telling me that to be an expert in something you need to have spent 10,000 hours doing it. People like Bill Gates didn't just happen to be good at the thing that made him a household name, his bright idea didn't come out of nowhere... No, he had been fiddling with computer-type stuff, namely programming, for years. Similarly,a young Mozart practiced music "with ferocious intensity for years" and Bobby Fisher's "utter obsession with chess" is well documented. You can read about the 10,000 hour theory in more depth by reading Michael Gladwell's 2008 book titled 'Outliers' or just having the modern day knee jerk reaction and 'Googling it', but harping on about the theory is not what this post is about. It's more about a realisation I came to recently as a result of what my mom mentioned.

Some things are just better padded...

T-shirt bra's, cycling shorts, certain types of hospital cells and yes - you probably saw this coming - even cutting edge technology. If I could add a sound byte to this post you would be hearing the pidder padder of tiny electronic feet because... Drum roll, please... I am the proud owner of an iPad. Yip, I have the big daddy of all toys at my fingertips and am just dumbfounded by the cleverness of those innovative dudes at Apple Mac HQ. Yesterday, I actually smiled while doing my banking and did a little dance around my desk when I figured out how to zoom in on my Discovery credit card statement. Now if that's not a bizarre turn of events then I don't know what is. Admin that usually bores me to tears (honestly, sometimes my credit card statement makes me reach for the budget chardonnay) has become an excuse to play with my new toy and have another 'that's just soooooo clever!' moment.