So yesterday I spent the afternoon with Bunny and the Serbian watching lame but, given the present company, uproariously funny chickflicks. Seriously, it's all about who you're watching with...else in what world could House Bunny come close to topping Miss Pettigrew in terms of walking around quoting for the rest of the day (okay, rest of the week probably)?
Anyway, somewhere between the end of the movies and the raiding of the kitchen, we got to contemplating how all three of us are in long term relationships, an incredible fact that still takes us by surprise from time to time, given the fact that in high school we thought we'd have to marry each other and share bed pans when we turned ninety (of course, this could still happen).
Inevitably, talk of relationships turned to 'Remember when we were single...' reminisces, which turned to wondering when we'd next (or, in one of our cases, ever) be single again, which began a tangent we'd have to call Sowing Your Wild Oats, based on the fact that the word 'oats' was probably used more times in one ten-minute conversation than an entire history of Jungle cereal production.
Popular topics included:
How many oats one should sow before settling down
Who had been the most prolific sower of said oats
Most fertile places in Cape Town to sow one's oats
Best year and season for oat-sowing
And, inevitably...
'All this talk of cereal is making me hungry. What's in the kitchen?', which led to the discovery of cheese and crackers, the Boondock Saints DVD, and the possible patent on Norman Reedus and Sean Patrick Flannery-flavoured oats.

Intelligent things I did yesterday...

1. Sat waiting to turn left behind a guy at a stop street for AGES before realising he was actually parked there (way to go, tosser in your ugly little half-loaf Daihatsu, really good idea parking in the actual little white-outlined stop street box thingy-majigy).

2. Substituted wax paper for baking paper while being a good girlfriend and making double dark chocolate chip and nut cookies for the returning Boyfriend. Figured they were pretty much the same thing. They're not. Something very Ghostbusters happened in the oven.
(Don't worry baby i made a fresh batch.)

3. Ate nothing all day apart from licking the bowl of chocolatey goodness and 'sampling' (numerous times) both the cookie dough and the finished results (yes, even the Chernobyl ones). One might think living on nothing but chocolate for the rest of one's life sounds like a dream come true - it's not. I now know the truth.

4. Went to a 90-minute Zumbathon at my beloved Virgin Active...it's like this crazy workout come latin american dance class come lesson in embarrassment (for the first few minutes at least, until everyone realises it's simpler to just, really, dance like nobody's watching). This in itself was a Good Idea, just maybe not so much after the cookie dough.

This weekend I discovered my secret super power (soon to be a little less secret). Everybody has one, you just have to figure out what it is, and then start using it to your advantage.
My friend the Energiser Bunny has periods of time when she controls the universe...seriously, everything she says is going happen, happens. Unfortunately, she wasn't really in tune with it the first time and, feeling a bit pessimistic about the world, made mostly dire predictions. What a week.
So anyway, my newly discovered super power is my incredible ability to look Wednesday afternoon sober when, in fact, I am absolutely, Friday night shmangled.
(Yes, I discovered it this weekend, when I was out drinking, which I said I wouldn't be doing, but bugger my resolution, it's only five days until the GFAW Show anyway.)
I don't need to tell you how handy this power is, especially in situations that are:
a) Really inappropriate to be drunk in, but
b) Nigh impossible to survive without being drunk
How fantastic...

One should always wear a bra...

...and one should never believe the Butler's pizza phoneline lady when she tells you how long your pizza will be.
At first I thought it was a coincidence, but I've come to believe that she must be enacting some kind of passive-aggressive revenge on her innocent callers (or possibly just me). How many times has she told me that my hunger-succouring disc of cheesy wonder will be a mere twenty minutes, so that I've waited, stomach digesting itself, in forty-minute-long anticipation by the front door? Or worse, given me a forty-five minute estimation, so that when the door bell rings after only twenty-five, I'm caught on the hop...usually jumping out of the shower and answering the door in a towel, my hair plastered to the side of my face with unrinsed shampoo while the pizza guy giggles into his overly large tip (I try to bribe them into forgetfulness).
She struck again last night. The brother figure should have been back from the DVD store to pay the pizza guy, but why should things go right for me? At least I was fully clothed this time...in my pajamas and, obviously, minus one bra. Perfect.
It gets better: I party with the pizza guy, who has now seen me au naturel, on a regular basis.
Remember that resolution not to drink? I might extend it to not leaving the house. Then again, it seems I'm perfectly capable of embarrassing myself right here at home anyway.

House hunting...

Alas not as glam as it sounds; was helping a friend view houseshares yesterday so her boyfriend has a place to stay when he moves to Cape Town. Thought it might be fun, a little preview of one day when someone finally offers me gainful employment (please god) and I can move out of my parents' house.
Well, let's just say living at home suddenly not seeming so bad. Feck it, living in Bogota in the 90s might be preferable (or at least, I wouldn't have to be there long).
These places were bad. The words 'student hovel' spring to mind. Two things, to help you visualise the scenes, and then I can go back to blocking them out:
1. What I suspect was a more-than-week-old cabbage, on a plate, in the living area...as 'art'.
2. Picking my feet up, pony style, so as not to soil my pumps with the seemingly omnipresent dog poo.
I kid you not.

I’m swearing off alcohol – well, until the Good Food and Wine Show at least.
And yes, I’m sure you’ve all heard me say it before, but this time I’m serious, largely due to the effects of what I believe was my very first forty-eight hour hangover.
Apparently, on Saturday night, my hand had a mind of its own, lifting glasses of wine and champagne and shots of tequila to my mouth at regular intervals without any input from my brain.Which might not have been too bad a thing, considering my head was switched to Autopilot itself: Jade is not in right now. Please leave an appropriately detailed message. And hand me another glass of wine.
Saturday night at Andy Warhol’s Factory - aka Princess Lara’s twenty-first - neared the hedonistic proportions of its original life in the sixties, and I have the blacked-out spaces in my short term recall to prove it. Nuthouse would be an accurate description.
Highlights of my evening, as detailed in the harsh light of Sunday morning by the incredibly patient, forgiving Boyfriend:
- Tequila
- Tying back the birthday girl’s boyfriend’s hair while his champagne made an urgent and unexpected exit
- Saying goodbye to birthday girl asleep on dance floor on brother’s mink bolero
- Insisting to Boyfriend after we’d left that the night was still young and that we either a) wake up his friend to go visit his house in Camps Bay for a dip in the jacuzzi or b) hit House of Rasputin (thank god Boyfriend has some sense of decorum unlike hooligan girlfriend and drove us straight home despite my screeching to the contrary)
Incredibly, when I woke and staggered in search of liquids (the Morning After Thirst having arrived with a vengeance), noticed I’d somehow managed to remove every scrap of my professionally applied MAC makeup before passing out. Further investigation revealed false eyelashes nestling safely in their dinky plastic container. Now how did I manage that? Autopilot is good for something…