Reasons today is a good day

Reason one
Have finally finished a huge chunk of work that's been sitting on my head for the past couple of weeks. That whole weight-off-my-shoulders thing is really nice.

Reason two
Also finished my freelance work for the month. Happy dance.

Reason three
Got a little pressie from one of our mag's editors to say thanks for all the hard work (not just me obviously, all the copy eds). And I thought I was just doing my job. Bloody fabulous.

Reason four
Am leaving shortly to celebrate Noodle's birthday with a pink champagne and chocolate cupcake party at her place. Does that not sound like the definition of happiness?

Reason five
Its t minus eight days until Rocking the Daisies...

Reason six
...which means it's also only eight days till Boyfriend's back in Cape Town.


Six very good reasons to smile :)

I'm alive!

Which I am every Tuesday, yes, but it was touch and go for a while this week.

Went on a team-building exercise yesterday (read: copy eds looking for an excuse to get out the office). We did the Postberg Flower Trail in the West Coast National Park.

Yes that's right. A hike. A five-hour, fourteen-kilometre hike to be exact. And I enjoyed it. Me, the poster girl for laziness, walked for fourteen kilometres (a bit more actually, since we got lost a couple times and did a few loops to get back on track) and enjoyed it.

I'm as shocked at myself as you are.

Of course, we stopped for tea multiple times along the way (what did you expect?), and had lunch and a nap on one of the West Coast beaches. It was all very pretty, what with the flowers and the aminals (yes I said aminals) and the views and whatnot...

Sorry can we go back to the fourteen kay part? I like that part. It sounds impressive.

Scratched my ankles to pieces, and I have some of the dodgiest sunburn ever – why do I always burn in strange patches? why? – but even with that and my achy legs I still feel really good about the whole thing. Woke up exceptionally happy for a random Tuesday morning in the middle of September. Must have released a boatload of endorphins yesterday.

Can I say it again? Fourteen kilometres. Arm pumps for Jade!

Happy Heritage Day

This blogger celebrated with a family braai complete with all the trimmings – assorted salad, baked potatoes, garlic bread and enough meat to bring a Peta representative to tears.

I haven't been to a braai in aaaaaaaages, a fact evidenced by the way I was shovelling food into my mouth this afternoon.

Is it me, or are my jeggings getting tighter?

Now I won't bore the reading public (all seven of you) with my insecurity and body issues (read: self-loathing) but I will say that I am less than satisfied with my assorted cuddly bits and this evening (after the Heritage Day munch-a-thon) something went click and now all I can think is ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod it's
a) nearly summer and
b) nearly Rocking the Daisies.

Two events (can you call summer an event?) for which I'd hoped to finally be a bambi-legged waif, like the rest of Cape Town's female population. Instead, I am still more of a Renaissance painting – you know, all curvy hips and thighs and bum and breasts (oh sigh the breasts).

Please nobody say, Real women have curves. I will kill you.

Anyway so was thinking fuckfuckfuck (does reporting my thoughts count for the no swearing thing?) what am I going to do? And I've decided that since it's exactly two weeks till RTD (I have a thing for perfectly ordered time frames) I'm going to use those fourteen days to detox a little and whip myself into some sort of shape (again, anyone who says, Round is a shape – you're dead).

I know, I know ... two weeks probably won't make a blind bit of difference to how I look. But it'll sure as hell make me feel better than I do now, which is something like a cow stuffed with starch and marinated in chocolate.

Yes that's right – 'yuck' is exactly the same word I'd use.

I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.'

I think, Galileo, that in the case of Julius Malema, we're just going to go ahead and accept that he's not very well endowed.

This ignoramus and his increasingly ridiculous comments and exploits make me decidedly un-proud to be a South African. I try to ignore him as much as possible, but his latest little house party stunt – awash with Johnny black and Moet that you can be damn sure he didn't fund out of his own pocket – makes me growl.

Grr.
Grr.
Grr.

Read something quite interesting in Elle over the weekend:

'People who are excessively concerned with their hair,' says this writer in a feature about how our hair makes us happy, 'often have a deep-rooted anxiety about their attractiveness or appearance.'

Well.

There are moments in life when you read or hear something and it just makes sense. Something goes ping and you think, 'Hey, that's, like, me.'

This was one of those moments. I've been hair-obsessed (and I'm not even using the word lightly) pretty much since I was old enough to wash, rinse, repeat. My most prized possession for years has been my GHD, which I saved up for in unprecedented penny-pinching teenage diligence. The thought that I'll be minus my hair dryer this December holiday in Botswana has me quite, quite distressed. And, but of course, my hairdresser is one of my favourite people in Cape Town (She's lovely, she really is).

So this little line of text which I happened upon while waiting to board my Mango flight to Jo'burg sent a jolt of recognition right through me. It's me ... down to the ground. Other people add 'bad hair day' to their list of things going wrong on any particular day. For me, a bad hair day is a bad day. It's over. I may as well not get out of bed. No good can come of a day in which my hair is not shiny, sleek and straight. It's superficial. It's shallow. It's silly.

It's also, according to this article, self-esteem. Low self-esteem.

Hey at least I have an excuse now.

What a lovely weekend of lovely loveliness :)

Popped up to Jo'burg for the weekend to visit Boyfriend. Need I say more?

And as if being with Boyfriend wasn't giddy happiness-inducing enough, it was fantastic to be in warm weather for a change. Makes me all excited for summer in Cape Town – I'm already dreaming about this season's wardrobe. Think I'll go shopping this weekend (bad Jade).

So it's Monday, but it looks like The Weekend in Numbers is getting replaced by The Weekly Change for a bit. Speaking of which...

This week I will: be more decisive.

I'm sure everybody who knows me is doing a happy dance right now. I'm by far the most indecisive person I know, and it drives everyone around me crazy. I annoy myself sometimes even. One really shouldn't quibble for so long about the choice between a chocochino and a latte. That's fifteen minutes of my life I'm never going to get back.

It costs me money too, being so indecisive. Can't decide between two pairs of shoes? Easier to just get both and deal with the financial fallout from my comfort zone of not having picked the wrong ones (pop psych would probably say this fear of making the wrong choice is the very foundation for my indecisiveness). Worse, I recently bought two different colours of the same top.

There's also nothing more cringe-inducing than hearing myself say, like an uncertain timid schoolgirl, 'I don't know. What are you going to eat/drink/buy/see/wear.'

From now on, whether it's what to wear, what to eat, where to go or whatever, it's ruthless decision-making all the way...

I never hated a man enough to give his diamonds back.

Zsa Zsa Gabor

Favourite quote of the day.
Short post.
Busy girl.

Zzz

Tired of winter.

Tired of rain.

Tired of cold.

Tired of my winter wardrobe.

And also, just a little tired...

So in all of yesterday's numbery numberness, I forgot to mention what this week's little change is going to be (also ... I hadn't thought of one yet).

Drum roll please: this week I am going to make an effort to swear less.

OK so it's a bit half-arsed (whoops), but this week's already a killer and it's only Tuesday so I'm giving myself a relatively easy one. It is something I've been meaning to do less of though anyway. Not that I swear often, usually only when I hurt myself (which is quite often actually – I'm a little clumsy), but all the same, it's not very Grace Kelly of me.

And besides that, I think saving my expletives for those times when I really just need to have a good 'Fuck!' (that came out wrong) makes it all the more expressive than if I said it after every little stubbed toe or crashed program, or because it's easier than thinking of an adjective sometimes.

So I'll save it for when I really mean it. I'm sure even Grace Kelly said 'fuck' at least every now and again...

The weekend in numbers

Yes it's that time again. So...

Number of Friday night parties: 1. Sweat.X at Assembly with Noodle and Darling. Yes that's right, I – me, of the always bailing at the last minute because of late I love my PJs more than my vodka limes – left the house.

Number of creepy guys that hit on me: 2. So not cool. Something about being hit on by a guy no sane woman would touch with a barge pole makes me feel cheap and nasty. Not that I'm especially keen on the cuties doing it either (I have eyes for one boy only after all) but one of Friday night's charmers had serious sunburn and smiled a lot – not a good combo, it looked really painful.

Number of drinks at above night out: 3. See? How good am I?

Number of fathers returning from Scotland on Saturday: 1. Suddenly too many people in the house again. I need to move out...

Number of hours spent doing very overdue freelance work: 0. Sorry Charles. They'll get to you I promise.

Number of hours spent trying to make my iTunes folder do what I told it to: Too many. I heart Mac in a big way, I must just remember not to let it think for itself too often.

Number of Sunday Beluga sushi-special lunches: 1. Managed to get all five of our high school bestest best buds together in one room at one time for the first time in ages. Ladies, we need to do that more often, if only to keep the Beluga staff on their toes – who else would discuss their sex lives in graphic detail while the poor, innocent-looking waiter tries to put down the side plates as quickly as possible and make a run for it.

Number of laptop sleeves bought: 0. Really need to get on this, but most of them are desperately ugly and just as expensive. Does anybody know where I can find a cute, reasonably priced one? I want to take my baby with me to Jo'burg this weekend but don't want to resort to some kind of bubble wrap/jersey solution.

I'm such a nerd...

...but I am loving iGoogle. Maybe I'm the last person in the universe to cotton on to this latest ingenious installment from the Google Gods (Larry, Sergey, the world owes you) but I'm going to blog about it anyway because it is fan-bloody-tastic.

Welcome to Jade's iGoogle homepage ... whimsical Manolo Blahnik sketches scroll across the top behind the search field, multiple gadgets (with pink-topped tabs) populate the lower regions, including (but by no means limited to, and there are about a million different ones you can add) my email account, my GoogleDocs list, the weather, word of the day, reason-to-drink of the day, my blogger 'new post' window (oh yes, loving this), sticky notes (only Mac users will understand the genius of these), my to-do list (you know, the thing I live by)...

My goodness but don't I heart iGoogle.

Edit: Oh. So boyfriend has just informed me that iGoogle uses loads of bandwidth, which is why not everyone is as googley-eyed (haha couldn't resist) over it as I am. But while I won't be using it at home, I'm happy to indulge in my pretty, super-organised little page at the office. Sorry for everybody else.

Ranty ranty rant rant rant

Okay so I'm sorry, but it's time for a little rant.

It really bugs me when people who get paid to write – as in, for a living – turn in work that sounds something like, 'Blah blah blah ... brain fart brain fart ... oh look a fact ... blah blah blah ... what was I saying? ... oh yes ... blah blah blah ... whoops a typo or seven ...oh and let's throw in a sentence that makes no sense whatsoever just for fun ... blah blah fucking blah.'

And no, if they wrote properly, I wouldn't be out of a job. Copy editing entails fact-checking, knowing weird intricacies of grammar nobody else understands, checking consistency, being meticulous about layout and generally making sure everything is absolutely, 100% perfect being going to print.

Not rewriting entire articles because some people couldn't be bothered about things like – oh I don't know – general narrative structure and not using the same word six paragraphs in a row because they've suddenly decided it's their favourite combination of letters, like, ever (use a thesaurus for christ's sake).

Grr.

Some mornings I really wish I were a boy...

Just think...

No multi-step morning routine with GHD, makeup, choosing an outfit, choosing shoes, choosing a bag and all the rest

If it's cold you can shrug on a hoodie or jacket, without having to change your entire outfit to match

No wondering whether your coworkers will understand that these are leggings, not tights, and therefore function as pants and therefore this is a long top and not an inappropriately short dress

No complicated process of packing lunch for the day that includes counting out almonds and weighing slices of cheese (maybe this is just me?)

Nope ... just roll out of bed, pick a decent-enough-looking shirt to go with your decent-enough-looking jeans, run your fingers through your hair and run out the door (okay so maybe its a little more complicated than that for guys these days – but not much).

Look! My blog is white!

Yes I know ... incredibly bold change. Next I might start wearing multi-coloured underwear, or putting sugar in my tea after the milk. Can you imagine?

So anyway, I just got home from a lovely little dinner party with Darling and MichMash at Noodle's place and I'm full to bursting with good food, honey cake and tea (she and I are incapable of being in the same room without a cuppa).

Spent most of the evening – when we weren't alternately cooking and bumping into each other in the kitchen – laughing at people on So you think you can dance?

And then laughing at Mich, who knows she can't, but does anyway.

Random pointless blog entry ... to be honest I think I came online just for the little thrill I get from sitting on my bed with my pretty baby (that'd be my new MacBook for those of you who aren't following ... and really now, keep up) on my lap.

Time for beauty sleep though methinks. Especially if Photo Booth is anything to go by – when you look better with your head morphed into a square cartoon-looking shape than you do normally, you know it's time to call it a night.

The MacBook has landed...

Yes that's right. I am the proud owner of a beautiful, shiny, latest-edition MacBook. It's so lovely, I nearly kissed it goodbye this morning before work. It's all I can do to stop myself from periodically stroking it and whispering, 'My precious...'

And sure, I'll be paying back my financier (she also answers to 'Mum') for quite some time, but as a wise friend of mine said, 'It's not just an expensive toy, it's an investment in your future career.'

So I'm as pleased as the proverbial punch, and spent most of last night (nerd that I am) playing with iPhoto's scrapbook slideshow functions.

I <3 my MacBook.

So it's Monday, and in keeping with my spring resolution to make one positive change every week, this week's change involves taking a few seconds (I'm a busy girl okay?) every day to be grateful for all the incredible things in my life. I know ... it's very Oprah. But I get so ahead of myself all the time, thinking 'and then ... and then ... and then' and ticking off my innumerable to-do lists that I forget to stop and appreciate how good things are right now.

And they are good. Really, really good.

A few little-known facts about me

(that I'm sure you're probably never supposed to admit, let alone in the public forum)

I secretly indulge in chick lit, late night rom coms and vapid TV shows like Gossip Girl about beautiful people in beautiful places wearing beautiful things. Their lives are just so hard...

I have the incredibly politically incorrect wish to be Asian.

I can finish a whole pizza, and then, not ten minutes later, contemplate dessert.

I'm incredibly smug about managing to maintain a long-distance relationship for a year now.

I get irrationally and quickly irritated by having to repeat myself, even once.

Two of my goals, aside from a 19.5 BMI, visiting at least a quarter of the world's countries and finishing (okay starting) Crime and Punishment, include being published semi-regularly in a world-class glossy and having a novel or book of essays on bookshelves worldwide.

I don't eat fruit. No, not even an orange. No, not even strawberries. No, not even peaches with ice cream. (What part of 'no fruit' do you not understand?) Please don't try to make me have 'just one bite, I promise you'll like it'. I don't. I also abhor tomato sauce.

For an English major, I'm shockingly under-read. Proust who?

I'm quite materialistic. I get the same buoyant sense of joy from buying a new mascara that more worthy people get from, say, feeding the homeless. I'm not proud, I'm just saying.



Short, unflattering character sketch. I think I do this self-deprecating writer thing really well.

Okay so I'm lame...

but I'm really excited for this weekend.

Do I have big party plans? No.
Going away for a repeat of the magical, romantic weekend? Sadly, no.
Anything remotely special or exciting planned? Nope.

What I am doing is having my first ever (fine, maybe not ever, but not for a long, long time) two-day weekend, all to myself. That's right ... no part-time work, no urgent freelancing to do, nada.

I know this is a common, every-week affair for most people, but oh my god I get to sleep in. For two days straight. And I have all the time between waking up and going to bed to do with exactly as I please. I don't even have any banking to do or errands to run or don't-really-feel-like-it-but-must-go-out-and-see-so-and-so plans. Nuh-thing.

It's great to get excited about the little things isn't it?

Perspective

Last night I found myself in the middle (quite literally) of a rather interesting situation.

Was getting my fix of cardio and Sky News on the step machine at gym, the funny skiing one that supposedly gives you fantastic glutes ... although I secretly worry that what it's actually giving me is man calves. Can this happen? Does anyone know? It would be tragic really, to think I was slugging away at a perfect bum, and all the while I was putting myself in the running for Achilles Lookalike of the Year.

Sorry, let me continue...

So there I was, when two very different women got on to the machines on either side of me.

To my left, ladies and gentlemen ... short dark hair, a cute gym-bunny outfit and a body that looked like she'd been starving herself and/or throwing up her food since somebody called her fat in primary school. This woman was going for it, although what source of energy her body was burning is anyone's guess – it certainly wasn't food or body fat. On closer, side-eyeballing inspection, she looked old, but before her time, and tired, with sallow skin and sinewy Madonna arms. And yet there she was, still caught in a probably endless cycle of trying to get what she thinks is the perfect body.

And to my right ... well she wasn't skinny (let's say a few kilos above average, though certainly not a fatty). But she had shiny, bouncy hair, glowing (if somewhat flushed) skin and she looked like she didn't quite know how to operate the machine's fiddly minute-timing, calorie-counting, optimum-heart-rate-for-burning-off-vida-lattes touch screen – which leads me to believe she probably spends her time doing much more worthwhile things, like having a life.

And there I was, in the middle. As usual by the way. That's me – Jade, the ultimate average. But for once I was quite happy where I was. Perspective is a wonderful thing, especially when you find yourself smack-bang in the centre of it. I'm proud of myself for at least trying to maintain a healthy body by getting fit and losing weight, but I'm also sure as hell glad I'm not on the slippery slope to letting my appearance – or what I perceive it to be – become the sole concern that the rest of my life revolves around.

Having said that, I forgot to tell you yesterday what my change for this week is going to be:
Gym a minimum of three times a week, and like I said that's a non-negotiable until the end of the year. Thought it was a nice, healthy, non-obsessive, easy-to-do way to start things. Got it off to a good start last night...

Spring has sprung...

... a leak. Trust Cape Town weather for a miserable, misty first day of spring huh?

Nonetheless, I'm determined to be all very fresh start-ish today, despite the rain-threatening clouds. We've got exactly a quarter of the year left, and four months until I turn 23.

Some changes need to be made.

Luckily, I woke up this morning with A Plan – for the rest of this year, starting today, I am going to make one small change for the better every week. Yes that's right ... every week. And anything I change will stay changed, so if I decide I'm going to drink two litres of water a day or be nicer to my brother or not eat crisps, I'll have to stick to that for the rest of the year.

Now that's a plan. By 2010 I am going to be godly...