It was Girls Night Out everywhere around the world last night. And there was a run on Cosmopolitans as well. After watching Sex and the City on opening night like all good card-carrying thirty- and forty-something women and gay men, we headed for the nearest bar and ordered what else but Cosmopolitans. Our rotund waiter was clueless as to why the dark pink drinks were unusually popular last night. And so began, drink in hand, a post-mortem on Sex and the City, the most hyped, most publicized, most fashionably self-conscious and most self-consciously fashionable movie of the year.
I've been waking up to some amazing views lately. This morning, in Cape Town, from the patio of my fabulous room at The Dock House - a sublimely chic six-room villa-type boutique hotel in what used to be the Residence of the Harbour Engineer in the mid-1800s - I woke up to this:
Went to Switzerland and didn't ski but came back with a tan. So tanned that my children didn't recognize me when I picked them up from school. And so tanned that my older daughter cheekily pulled down my top to ascertain whether the sudden and uncharacteristic tan was an epidermal phenomenon limited to my face, chest and arms, or all over my body.
I tend to have an aversion to contrived holidays like Valentine's Day and, yes, Mother's Day. It's not the sentiment nor the intent behind the holidays that turns me off, but the over-commercialization of the occasion. But then again, perhaps coming from a family for whom the mere mention of a Hallmark card is enough to elicit a collective shudder, it's not that surprising that I prefer to steer clear of anything that involves syrup and schmaltz served up in a greeting card.