I don't know who she was...

... but Pearl S Buck said something damn intelligent once:

The secret of joy in work is contained in one word – excellence. To know how to do something well is to enjoy it.

Yip, yip. Totally agree. And I thought it was just my perfectionist streak that always made me completely dissatisfied with work unless I'd done something hands-down, 100% poi-fect.

Argh been a bad blogger this week. Seriously just too busy/lazy/uninspired to write. Quick update then...

Work
Getting crazy busy – we've eight magazines to finish within two weeks in November. Double print dates are no laughing matter. Will be working Saturdays through next month, and I foresee large quantities of tea and banana bread in our future.
In other work news, my three-month performance review is this morning. Will keep you posted.

Weekend
Glorious sunny day in the Mother City today, made all the more glorious by the following:
Boyfriend coming home last night.
Restaurant opening to attend tonight.
Bikini shopping tomorrow morning (horrifying, yes, but also means summer might actually, finally, be here).

Wimple
This word makes me laugh. Almost as much as ruched snood.

Water
Okay so it's a bit of a lame one, but this week I decided to try kick-start some healthy habits for summer by guzzling two litres a day. So far so good (apart from constantly needing the loo).

Wardrobe
As in, what to wear tonight, what to wear...

Dear Cup Thief

(A note for the reader: this letter serves only as my non-confrontational need to vent, and will probably expose my numerous neuroses and occasional small-mindedness. Therefore, if you like me at all, it is advised to stop reading now. Thank you. Otherwise...)

Dear Cup Thief

In our office on the eight floor of the MetLife building there is a kitchen. It's a small one, but it serves its purpose. In this kitchen are two shelves, upon which you will find a selection of cups.

Now listen carefully, this is where it gets complicated.

The lower shelf is stocked with plain white porcelain cups. These are provided by the company for office use. This means anyone in the office can use them. Want a cup of tea? Here, use a white mug – nobody will mind. (I'm not sure how much more fully I can explain this).

The ones on the upper shelf are slightly different. Observe the array of around twenty patterned mugs of different shapes and sizes. Notice the homely-ness of each. Little pictures of shoes and handbags. The NYC skyline. 'I heart cats'. 'World's biggest idiot'. Clearly these are cups brought from home by employees who are quite attached to their creature comforts and prefer to drink only from something designated for their own personal use. This is not out of the ordinary – it happens in offices around the world. It is in fact a fairly common occurrence...

...which is why I fail to understand the level of stupidity that prompts you to repeatedly help yourself to my cup. How dense can you be not to know that this mug belongs to someone. Were the white ones just too boring-looking for you? Was it the pink vine motif of mine that made you select it from the shelf every morning this week?

Perhaps I'm being insensitive. Perhaps you have a rare strain of colour-blindness that makes it impossible for you to discern patterns as well.

Perhaps I'm not. Perhaps you are just retarded.

Oh, and when I iChat you after a week of cup misdemeanors, please – for the love of god – do not say, 'Oh sorry! Didn't realize [with a z] it was yours.'

The point, my dear, is not that it is mine, but that it is quite, quite obviously not fucking yours.

Regards,

The girl who gets pissed off by general stupidity, inconsideration and having to sip her tea from chipped office-slut mugs.

The things you don't want to have to see at gym

(all of which I saw tonight ... sigh)

The Gym Couple
Matching outfits, matching iPods, matching killer bodies. I sometimes wonder about the advantages versus disadvantages of going to gym with your sig other. A built-in gym partner, someone to keep you motivated, sure. But what about the whole sweaty, flushed face, panting ... oh wait, starting to get it. Still, 'Squeeze baby! Work those glutes' isn't my idea of foreplay.

The Model
Flailing limp-wristedly at the air with her spaghetti arms. What is this girl doing in a Kata Box class? (Or the gym at all for that matter.) One needs to have consumed more than carrot sticks for the past few weeks to attain the necessary degree of aggression such a class requires.

The Perfect Girl
You can't hate her being a waif, but you can hate her for having the perfect 'normal' body (read: not underweight, but very fucking far from your average), shiny bouncy hair and not a sweat drop in sight. And she looks better in her gym vest than you do after an hour's grooming for a night out.

The Chubby Girl
...who for once in this hub of toned, taut bodies makes you feel slightly superior. And then immediately after like the worst human being in the world for having such uncharitable thoughts.

A Kauai Cappuccino Muffin
I literally ran to the car to escape temptation. They shouldn't spring that stuff on you.

Moose Knuckle
Enough said.

Word of the Day

Fugacious
(fyoo-GAY-shuhs)
Lasting but a short time; fleeting.

Learn something new every day kids...

I've been a shamefully irregular blogger this week (and I mean irregular in terms of infrequent posting ... stop sniggering, your toilet humour does not amuse me).

So, time for a quick update before the madness of Monday begins (gosh I remember when that phrase applied to Mercury drinks specials, not production dates and print deadlines. Funny how quickly things change).

The Trivial
My hair is turning brown. I'm thrilled.
My ghd came home last week. It was received with all the love and affection usually reserved for kittens rescued from trees. It's settled – I'm a hair-obsessed materialist.
Swam 50 lengths at gym today. How is it that I'm seemingly swim-fit but still can't climb more than a flight of stairs without being a litle out of breath?
I've developed a dirty little lunch hour habit of Vida and fashion magazines. Not only is it terribly indulgent, I'm having stabs of guilt at what it's cost me in both pennies and kJs this week.

The Tragic
Boyfriend is coming home next Thursday, but is being whisked away for just about the whole four days he usually spends in Cape Town by his company for their end-of-year celebration, which is taking the form of an employee-only weekend away. I ask you...

The Tranquil
A 6 am pilates class on Friday morning. Yes, I was as blown away by my dedication as you are. I haven't been up so early to exercise since swim practice in high school.

And so far as ringing in the changes goes...
Last week things kind of got away from me, what with the Daisies recovery and the disappearing Boyfriend sadness and the work-getting-busy stress, and I kind of, er, forgot to think of a change for the week. Which means I also forgot to make one. Whoops.

So looking ahead...this week I will: learn to accept a compliment. Not that they shower from the heavens or anything, but from now on instead of saying, 'It's just these pants/It actually needs a wash/I'll tell the people at MAC/I was just lucky anyone could have done it/Oh this old thing?', I am going to actively remind myself that refusing a compliment is actually kind of rude (you may as well say the complimenter's opinion means nothing to you) not to mention annoying, that accepting compliments is a damn easy way of building some self-esteem and that Grace Kelly probably never turned one down. And just imagine how many she got.

From now on it's the gracious smile-and-say-thank-you all the way. I'm going to go practise in front of a mirror. Sleep tight bloglings...

Okay so I finally feel recovered enough to post about the weekend.

And what a weekend it was...

Rocking the Daisies 2009 was a little more chilled than last year – everyone kind of just doing their own thing, lying by the dam, napping, listening to the music. None of the 10 am funnelling or falling asleep clutching an empty tequila bottle that characterised 2008's debaucherous festival (only the second part of that was me, I swear).

Even better, there was none of that pesky mud, and the portaloos were actually bordering on hygenic, so that was nice. Really nice.

Seattle coffee was a godsend too. As was a bacon-and-egg-and-toast breakfast on Saturday morning courtesy of Simone and Shannon. Thanks guys. You are, hands down, the knees of the bees.

Of course, the icing on the cake (I can't use the cherry-on-top metaphor, like ever, because I don't actually like cherries) was spending the weekend with Boyfriend. Sadly our usual four days together are being shaved down to barely 48 hours lately. Long distance...don't try it at home kids.

So now for a little numbery numberness:

Number of hours spent searching for wellies I didn't actually need: too many. And then there was no mud after all. Fuck murphy. (Sorry, last 'fuck' for the week I promise.)

Number of self-administered anti-histamine eyedrops: about a bottle. Pretty much abused them, but what with the sneezing and the itchy eyes and the runny nose, well ... how can you stick to the three-a-day prescribed amount? I mean really now. Rocking the Hayfever ... sigh.

Number of vodka redbulls/limes/lemonades (not all together obviously) consumed: innumerable.

Number of showers: one. Can you handle it? This is me we're talking about.

Number of painful oddly shaped sunburns: zero. Laugh all you want at my SPF 50, I will not be having a repeat of the ankle embarrassment.

Rah-rah-rah-rocking the Daisies

Hello weekend – you're finally here.

Forty minutes and counting till I get to ditch the office for Darling (after wading through Friday afternoon traffic of course). Boyfriend arrived last night and we're off to frolic at the Cloof Wine Estate for the next couple of days – with about 11 998 other people.

Oh yes. Daisies here we come.

Trivial much?

OK so it has just occurred to me that my last three posts have been about my hair.

Have I always been this superficial, and maybe just didn't realise it? I mean, Noodle and I have been known to while away a good fifteen minutes' worth of conversation talking about hair ... but in the public forum? Bad Jade. My apologies everyone.

And in the midst of the black-hair-miserable-Jade saga I've all but forgotten about my little regime of weekly changes. Tsk Tsk.

So obviously last week I became a blood donor (finally). I'd say that counts as a good thing? And it's something I fully intend to keep up. I even have the little card that tells me when I'll be due for another donation (29 November, if you're wondering). See? I'm a fully paid-up, card-carrying saint, I am.

This week ... hmmm. I was thinking about something esoteric (curb my bouts of self-pity?) or something body-conscious (stop eating bread for a month maybe?) but I've settled on...

This week I will: improve my vocabulary.

If you know me, you know how much I love the written word – or words in general really. One of the reasons I love iGoogle so much (apart from the sporadic Katherine Hepburn quotes – 'Life is hard. After all, it kills you.) is that it gives me dictionary.com's word of the day. It's like a mini intelligence booster on my homepage every morning. Some of the words are boring (burgeon? ameliorate?) but some are pure tongue-tingling loveliness. Like this morning's for example: foofaraw – excessive or flashy ornamentation; also, a fuss over a trivial matter (for example, I made a bit of a foofaraw over my hair the last few days).

See? It's easy. Pretty soon nobody will be able to understand me. I'll be spouting off sentences like, Oh what a crapulent weekend, I was downright esurient. Pity my ankles are still rather incarnadine, but no need for a foofaraw, I'm sure they'll ameliorate.

Moohahaha.

OK enough

I agree. Stop with the self-pity (yes, I know you were all thinking that after my last two posts, don't deny it).

I'm trying to look on the bright side with this whole hair dye story. Although, for me, looking on the bright side means looking on the dark side – I always try to imagine all the horrible things that could have gone wrong, trying to lessen my perceived severity of whatever pickle I'm in. Usually works too. The human mind is ocassionally amazing in its stupidity.

So:
My hair could have come out orange, instead of black, which has been known to happen when you fuck (sorry) around with chemicals and hair.
I could have fallen prey to some horrible scalp-eating bacteria that caused all my hair to fall out, leaving me bald and forced to wear bad barbie wigs for the rest of my life.
I could have been hit by a bus crossing the road to the salon, meaning I would have died with mousy brown hair. The horror.

So when you weigh up all the horrible things that could have happened but didn't, really I'm in quite a good position with this non-orange hair that's still attached to my head which hasn't been knocked off by a bus.

How's that for positive thinking?

Also, the lovely people from ghd sent a courier to pick up my straightener today, so it's on the path to being fixed. Now we wait...

Well washing didn't work. My hair is still about three shades too dark.

What I wanted was Catherine Zeta-Jones. Rachel Bilson. Charlotte from Sex and the City. What I am is Bellville emo kid.

Fuck fuck fuckitty fuck fuck.

I really don't want to spend another year growing this out, so I might have to call my hairdresser and ask her what we can do to rectify the situation.

This is something I'd rather not do. Not only do I have a fear of confrontation, I also do believe it's not her fault (we had to do the colour twice because it didn't come out the first time, which I think is where things started to go black ... literally.). I haven't complained to a hairdresser (or anyone really) since high school when my mom's stylist got scissor happy with me the day of my Valentine's Ball.

The clock is ticking though. Boyfriend will be here in two days. Boyfriend who begged me not to dye it in the first place.

Also some nasty little spider has bitten me on my cheek.

Oh and also it's raining.

Sigh.

Tragedy has struck

My ghd is dying.

Was trying to use it this morning and something funny seems to be happening when the cord swivels. Not so much funny actually as catastrophic. The little 'on' light goes off and it lets out the saddest little buzzing sound, like it's in pain.

Only other ghd devotees will understand the magnitude of this situation.

I now have to check that it's still under warranty (which is probably isn't) and then package it off to Durban for two weeks to be fixed (if, by some miracle, ghds come with a five-year warranty I don't know about).

Thank God and Meryl Streep that there's another straightener in the house. Can you imagine if there wasn't? I'd have to stay inside for the next two weeks or more, which would seriously ruin my Rocking the Daisies plans.

Add to that the fact that I spent an obscene amount of money having my hair dyed this weekend, only to find that instead of the lovely sophisticated chocolate brown colour I wanted, it is in fact bordering on black. I'm hoping it'll lighten after washing and spending some time in the sun, but I fear that's overly optimistic – my hair tends to hold onto colour in the same way my hips hold onto toast, so it's more likely I'll have to grow it out.

Why why why?

All makes for a pretty gloomy Monday.

OK so the whole blood donating thing was slightly anti-climactic. It really was just one little prick (two if you count the iron test). And while watching your blood pump out of your arm and into a little bag is weird, there were no dramatic fainting spells or anything.

The juice box and cookie combo is a nice touch though. I firmly believe that doctors should give adults a post-visit lollipop too. Sometimes we need the comforting more than kids do.

Anyway, I feel like I did a good thing, maybe swung my karmic balance into credit again.

And what do you know? Woke up this morning and my blotchily sunburnt ankles have faded from blood red to a pinky colour, which is nice.

Just a little prick

Going to donate blood this afternoon. Apparently the national shortage has reached critical status again and they have something like two days' worth of blood left – which means if you have an horrific accident on Saturday, sorry for you.

So off we go, copy eds minus one (disqualified for beginning a new love affair within the past four months) to have our veins harvested. Gulp.

This is the first time I'm donating – though not for lack of trying:

Attempt 1: too young, no permission slip
Attempt2: had a piercing too recently
Attempt 3: had a tattoo too recently
Attempt 4: iron too low

If I manage to get all the way there without chickening out and they turn me away again, I might just accept that the universe doesn't want me to do this.

I'm also kind of hoping they'll tell me I'm not allowed to go to gym tonight. Is that wrong?