I seriously believe...

...that all weekends should be four days, like the one I just had. Added bonus: Boyfriend home for just about all of it.

And now for some numbers...

Two: the number of days leave I took to make my four-day supercalifragilistic weekend.

One: the number of beers I drank at the Hyundai Fanpark during the Portugal-Brazil game on Friday afternoon. This is an accomplishment for me, the ultimate non-beer drinker. I really don't mean to be prissy, it just won't go down (which is interesting considering the Black Label guzzling that constituted a large portion of my, shall we say, younger youth).

Five: the number of Americans seated beside us at dinner at Minato on Friday night, who subsequently paid our bill and welcomed us into their rented apartment to watch Chile versus Spain and drink their booze. Say what you will about loud yanks, all we experienced was some good ole-fashioned American hospitality. In my drunken state I offered to guide them up Lion's Head this weekend in exchange for board and lodging should I ever visit California.

Two: the number of scoops of Sinnful ice cream consumed while walking along Muizenberg Beach in Sunday's unseasonable sunshine. Delicious (the triple chocolate and butter pecan, and the weather).


Innumerable: the number of hours of series and movie watching completed over the weekend. Can still blame the chilly weather, but I also suspect this is becoming a bad habit.

Two: the number of cars I am torn between buying. Either way, will finally be the proud owner of a little citi golf by the weekend. Is very, very exciting.

Four: the number of slices of toast I had for dinner last night.

Forty: the number of minutes of cardio I put in this morning before work to offset the weekend's indulgences. Back to early morning sweating it out and munching on rice cakes and cottage cheese for this blogger. I have a goal weight and a goal date and nothing – nothing – is going to stop me this time. (Did that sound a little manic? I think it did. Sorry)

There's this little old lady who's always at my Wednesday morning Pilates classes. Fair enough. Helen is worth getting up at the crack of dawn for, perhaps even if you're retired. But this morning I also spotted her creaking it out on the cardio machines with the rest of us (comparitively) spring chickens.

Call me lazy, but when I hit 70 and there's no way anyone will ever see me scantily clad in public again (and I have the option of wearing jogging suits as casual wear and am perfectly entitled to eat cupcakes for breakfast and expand as much as I please in what remains of my life), well ... I rather don't think I'd get up at five every morning to be at gym.

Would you?

Don't you hate...

...ill-fitting shoes?

Just saw two bottle blondes stalking across the street – you know, that sort of leaning-forward gait that says, 'I am so uncomfortable right now and am about to sit down on the pavement if a chair doesn't present itself soon'. You could have given them a black cloak and a scythe and they'd have had the grim reaper look down (from the back at least).

Then, coming back into my building, another example of bad footwear purchasing tottered her way past me in platforms that made her ankle do that weird bending-to-the-side thing that makes all lookers-on wonder when they're going to hear a snapping sound.

I'm still listening out for it.

On a lighter note, I saw a pair of boots in a store just now and caught myself thinking, 'Oooh those are pretty, I should try them on' before realising I bought them a couple months ago already.

Retarded, but in a happy way.

So as I was munching my cottage cheese on low GI toast lunch (hey? hey? look at that healthy eating right there...) I realised I've been a lax blogger.

Of course, the fact that there's sunshine outside and South Africa is about to play possibly our final match in the World Cup, yet we're sitting in the office waiting on a final few job bags before we can run away home to watch, well ... brain is currently only functioning in terms of 'Tea ... nap ... tea ... nap ... Oh look an email ... Spoon.'

However, a few thoughts did cross the empty cranial abyss. These were:
1. What happened to the weekend in numbers? I know I did something interesting this weekend...
2. Why won't an Ikea store open in South Africa? Preferably in Cape Town. Preferably right down the road from me. Perusing the online store is my porn. Laugh all you want, some of us were born to worship storage solutions.
3. Oh the joy! The delight! The happiness! Am taking leave from lunchtime on Thursday til Tuesday to spend the weekend with Boyfriend and then mope in the comfort of my own home when he leaves on Monday morning. I am now full of cheer and goodwill to men tralalalaaaa.

The Weekend in Numbers

Number of hours spent at the office on Friday: 3 and a 1/2. And let's be honest, only about 30 minutes of that was actually spent working.

Number of live games watched: one. France vs Uruguay at the Cape Town Stadium. I'm going to sound stupid if I say, wow it was just like on TV only better.

Okay there, I sounded stupid.

But really, it was amazing.

Would have been nice if there was a goal though. And maybe a hotdog.

Number of nights spent in five-star luxury at the Lanzerac Hotel and Spa in Stellenbosch: one. Parents' 40th wedding anniversary celebration. A massage, a chocolate and wine tasting, a three-course dinner, beautiful room with an en-suite the size of my bedroom at home ... they had to pry me from the bath when it was time to check out.

Number of minutes it took me to get used to the whole five-star luxury thing: about five. On returning home yesterday afternoon I was taken aback that there was suddenly nobody to park my car or carry my bags to my room or fetch me an umbrella when it started raining and I needed to walk somewhere...

Yes, spoilt, I know.

Number of spaces ahead of everyone else in Thirty Seconds at games night at Bunny's place last night: plenty. The Bunny and I are the machine Thirty Seconds team. Just you try beat 18 years of shared experiences.

Number of minutes of cardio this morning before work: 30. Getting the hang of this early morning gym thing finally. Which is good, considering I had two muffins with breakfast at the hotel yesterday.

Yes, that's with. Not for. With.

May the gees be with you

So it's half an hour to go until the opening ceremony, and the city is alive.

We downed tools at eleven (did we ever really honestly pick them up?) for a little World Cup office party, catered with doritos and dip (for the Mexicans, gettit?) and boerie rolls braaied last night by our publishing director himself.

I won a vuvuzela in our little lucky draw. Who knew winning something for once (even something plastic that honks) could be so exciting?

Also drew Uruguay as eventual winners in our office pot, which is ironic considering I'll be supporting France at the Cape Town stadium tonight.

The beauty editor painted my fingernails yellow for Bafana Bafana. I officially have gees.

Went to see SATC 2 last night so I suppose it's time for me to add my two cents about it to the blogosphere.

I did not love this movie.

I didn't hate it either. In fact, it's probably best to say I went into it with middling expectations and they were all met.

This is unfortunate. Perhaps I should have said this first, but I am not a hater. I was (am?) a huge fan of the series. Both my brother and my boyfriend at the time bought me the complete box set for my birthday one year. I've watched it twice. I draw eerie parallels between the Boyfriend and I, and Carrie and Big. I have a Carrie necklace (only mine says 'Jade').

But this movie didn't do it for me. And not in the way the series or the first movie didn't do it for stuffy, intellectual, I only watch thinking cinema types (because if you can't see through the shoes and the dirty sex to what the show was fundamentally about then you're really not quite so smart as you like to think you are).

But SATC 2 had none of the series's charm, none of its edge.

Miley Cyrus makes an appearance for godssake.

Having said that, I did laugh out loud in parts and okay, yes, I probably would watch it again. But you won't catch my buying the DVD.

To the Gods of Weight Loss

I understand that the kilo and a half I've gained since the beginning of the year has nothing to do with any vindictiveness on your part and everything to do with my having been participating somewhat too enthusiastically in the food and drink olympics of late.

However, there are a few other complaints I wish to lodge.

Firstly, when I decide (as I did on Monday) that it is time to take myself in hand, eat healthily and start exercising regularly again, if you could rather not send yet another half kilo my way (as I discovered you had done when weighing myself this morning, and after three days of restricting and gym), that would be great.

Also, if you could not position a bambi-legged mother and daughter team right in front of me at a mostly invigorating, quite challenging and somewhat disheartening body conditioning class before work this morning, that would be very much appreciated.

Thirdly, when – when, WHEN? – did I acquire cankles? Please remove at your earliest convenience.

I lay these requests at your mighty, bony feet.

Sincerely,
Jade

Went to Pilates this morning.

No I didn't.

I went to Bend it Ma Bru.

Virgin Active has jumped on the soccer bandwagon with the rest of the country, and has added a twist to some of its classes to help members kick it up a gear during the month of the World Cup.

There's the not-as-exciting-as-it-sounds Streaker Training (toning and tightening so you look great should you decide in a flight of fancy to shed your clothes and dash across a pitch naked at any given time), Supa-Socca Circuit (some sort of forty-minute, non-stop, super-circuiting madness) and this morning's Bend It Ma Bru ('Learn to enjoy compromising positions').

Well, I'm broken. I was all ready to spend 6-7 am on my back squeezing my pelvic floor muscles (or as Aussie Amber from Monday morning's class calls it, my 'pee-hole'), but instead Helen, our instructor, whipped out a combination of Pilates, yoga and Tai Chi (yoga-la-chi? chi-pila-gah? I forget).

If I sound negative it's only because of the effort it took to raise my hands to the keyboard and type this. The class was challenging to say the least (at one point I collapsed out of my plank and whispered feebly to my mat, 'Please, no more, no more...') and my body's filing formal complaints, but if endorphin levels are anything to go, then it was definitely worth it.

Hands-down favourite has to be the Tai Chi prone flying bird. I'm just going to leave that one to your imagination.

That's my third gym session this week by the way, and it's only Wednesday. Boo-yah!




(No, I can't believe I just said that either.)

Back on track

So Boyfriend has left, and it's all very sad and all, but I've decided to distract myself by using this week to give my health a swift kick up the pants.

Seriously, after eating out every night for more than a week – not to mention the drinking that went with all that eating – my body has started lodging complaints. My eyes are playing all kinds of funhouse mirror type tricks on me when it comes to scrutinising my thighs, and my mood of late has been a little low.

So, the plan now is to get back to the gym routine I've been so lax about lately and basically to push the healthy eating to just this side of extreme (for at least this week).

Work is finally quiet on all fronts, so it really is time to sort out the rest of my life.

Like losing weight.

And sorting out my tax.

And finding a car.

And trying not to finish the entire season three of Californication in one night.

Some definitions according to Google

Communication (n) the activity of communicating; the act of conveying information.

Convey (v) make known; pass on, of information; 'He conveyed the message to me'.

Information (n) a message received and understood.

Twiddle twiddle

Phew so after the madness of the past few weeks, I am now twiddling my thumbs at work.

Ain't that just the way...

On the bright side, this means my boss and I are working in shifts tomorrow, so I get to come in at the lovely late hour of 1 pm and leave again at five.

Other good things include waking up next to Boyfriend this morning (even if that meant getting up, getting dressed and getting on the road by 6 am to make it back to town before traffic) and the fact that it's unseasonably warm outside today. And as Boyfriend and I are playing unofficial after-hours tour guides to the group of non-Capetonian guys who are on course with him this week, I am looking forward to what the rest of this afternoon/evening has in store.