So despite the fact that I still live with my parents (my secret is out), I am finally, at the ripe old age of 23, starting to feel like a grown-up.
You think this kind of thing happens when you turn 18, or 21? It doesn't. In fact, I'm fairly certain that even when I'm 40 I'll still be stumbling along through life waiting to become An Adult.
Still, feeling marginally less adolescent. I have a degree, a job, a credit card, a chunk of debt, my own car and, as of yesterday, a financial advisor.
We had coffee at Vida and talked about unit trusts, risk categories and provident portfolios. We also talked about backpacking around France and paying for gin and tonics when you're retired, because, well, I can't help but try to make people in suits into human beings.
So now I have a money guy. Never mind the fact that I have about zero rand to invest right now... It's not even a week since payday, how am I already in the red??
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
I'm an idiot
I must be. Because really, what's the point in being such a slave to the step machine, and at the mercy of my alarm clock, when I ruin it all by behaving like, let's face it, a candidate for Secret Binge Eaters Anonymous?
The past seven days have been disastrous food-wise. I won't go into the shameful details, suffice to say this is the weekend in numbers...
Friday: 900g away from this coming Friday's goal weight
Today: 2.6 kg away
That's because, among other things, there are six slices of toast, a cupcake, a pizza and a tartufo sitting in my tummy. And yes, that was just yesterday.
So, the plan (and only two days away from the first day of spring!) is to eat like an anorexic, carbophobe bird for the next four days while continuing to gym my ass off.
Can you say, damage control?
The past seven days have been disastrous food-wise. I won't go into the shameful details, suffice to say this is the weekend in numbers...
Friday: 900g away from this coming Friday's goal weight
Today: 2.6 kg away
That's because, among other things, there are six slices of toast, a cupcake, a pizza and a tartufo sitting in my tummy. And yes, that was just yesterday.
So, the plan (and only two days away from the first day of spring!) is to eat like an anorexic, carbophobe bird for the next four days while continuing to gym my ass off.
Can you say, damage control?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Elin formerly-Woods, will you marry me?
R741 million rand, and a few properties in Florida and California – and you know those aren't studio apartments or single-storey cottages.
I think I would sign up to have my husband's many sleazy affairs splashed across the tabloids if that was the payload at the end of it all. Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy servants, expensive shoes and international travel, which is really the same thing in my book.
In other news, it's humpday, so apart from sitting here planning how to get a ridiculously wealthy international sports star to marry me, cheat on me, divorce me and give me half, not too much exciting is going on.
Oh and to the green Uno on Buitengracht yesterday: it's called an indicator because you use it to indicate that you are changing lanes. Just a tip. From the person whose Biscuit you nearly maimed.
I think I would sign up to have my husband's many sleazy affairs splashed across the tabloids if that was the payload at the end of it all. Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy servants, expensive shoes and international travel, which is really the same thing in my book.
In other news, it's humpday, so apart from sitting here planning how to get a ridiculously wealthy international sports star to marry me, cheat on me, divorce me and give me half, not too much exciting is going on.
Oh and to the green Uno on Buitengracht yesterday: it's called an indicator because you use it to indicate that you are changing lanes. Just a tip. From the person whose Biscuit you nearly maimed.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Some random Tuesday musings
Baking a massive chocolate tart over the weekend means it will be your downfall on Monday, the day you're supposed to go back to the eating equivalent of boot camp.
If I had a body like Lady GaGa, I too would film all my music videos in my scanties.
Meringues are surprisingly low in kJ. Who knew?
Martha Stewart's Cookie of the Day emails are going to be the end of me. So much to bake, so little time. Maybe I should try to swing a Julie & Julia book deal.
JD Salinger and Vladimir Nabokov seemed to have similar world views re little girls.
Editing an overly wordy writer first thing makes me abandon ship and waste time blogging instead.
If I had a body like Lady GaGa, I too would film all my music videos in my scanties.
Meringues are surprisingly low in kJ. Who knew?
Martha Stewart's Cookie of the Day emails are going to be the end of me. So much to bake, so little time. Maybe I should try to swing a Julie & Julia book deal.
JD Salinger and Vladimir Nabokov seemed to have similar world views re little girls.
Editing an overly wordy writer first thing makes me abandon ship and waste time blogging instead.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Weekend in Numbers
Number of rands in my bank account: 51.51. Scary. Let's leave it at that.
Number of slabs of chocolate that went into the filling for the epic Jamie Oliver double chocolate tart I baked on Saturday afternoon: four and a half. Scary. Let's leave it at that.
Number of meringues you can make with two egg whites: nine. My first successful meringues – yay me. Being stuck at home in miserable Cape Town weather puts me in the mood to bake, can you tell?
Number of slices of toast consumed on Toastday (known as Sunday to some): six.
Number of minutes early the Athlone cooling towers came down: four. And you know I was the idiot looking at the time at that exact moment. 'Four minutes to go peopl ... huh? Where'd they go?'
Number of kilos gained between Sunday morning and Monday morning, more than likely thanks to the baking spree and toast binge: 1. Dammit.
Number of slabs of chocolate that went into the filling for the epic Jamie Oliver double chocolate tart I baked on Saturday afternoon: four and a half. Scary. Let's leave it at that.
Number of meringues you can make with two egg whites: nine. My first successful meringues – yay me. Being stuck at home in miserable Cape Town weather puts me in the mood to bake, can you tell?
Number of slices of toast consumed on Toastday (known as Sunday to some): six.
Number of minutes early the Athlone cooling towers came down: four. And you know I was the idiot looking at the time at that exact moment. 'Four minutes to go peopl ... huh? Where'd they go?'
Number of kilos gained between Sunday morning and Monday morning, more than likely thanks to the baking spree and toast binge: 1. Dammit.
Friday, August 20, 2010
TGIF
I really mean that. Not that this week's been particularly stressful – things are whirring along nicely on the work front, and a lull in freelance assignments means my evenings have been my own. I'm actually just looking forward to two days of sleeping in, which for me now means anything past 5 am.
Mission accomplished. I managed to hit the gym all five days this week, four of those times being before work, hence the waking up at sparrows. Let's see how long I can keep this up...
In other news...
One in five Americans mistakenly believe that Pres Obama is muslim, according to a recent survey. You just know it's all the hick states of middle America who were polled, people who marry their cousins and can't accept the fact that just because his middle name is Hussein and his last name sounds so much like Osama, doesn't make him a muslim. Maybe it's his cafe au lait complexion.
Really now, is it possible for a people to be that ignorant? Really?
Mission accomplished. I managed to hit the gym all five days this week, four of those times being before work, hence the waking up at sparrows. Let's see how long I can keep this up...
In other news...
One in five Americans mistakenly believe that Pres Obama is muslim, according to a recent survey. You just know it's all the hick states of middle America who were polled, people who marry their cousins and can't accept the fact that just because his middle name is Hussein and his last name sounds so much like Osama, doesn't make him a muslim. Maybe it's his cafe au lait complexion.
Really now, is it possible for a people to be that ignorant? Really?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Carrots not carrot cake
The new copy editor brought a huge slice of carrot cake back from lunch for us to share. It looks, in a word, deliciousdivinedelectable.
Somehow though, I am managing to say no, and munch my carrots instead.
My halo arrives next week.
Somehow though, I am managing to say no, and munch my carrots instead.
My halo arrives next week.
Just one of those mornings...
Hit snooze twice at 5 am because was feeling shattered after Pilates last night, and therefore missed the start of the killer abs class this morning so only did my obligatory 30 minutes of cardio instead and was therefore home, showered and ready for work earlier than usual.
Because of this, I decided today was a good morning to stop at the post office before work to collect a parcel waiting for me. Called to check what time they opened and was told 8 am. Got petrol (Biscuit was beeping that she was thirsty) and after the friendly petrol guy washed my dirty windscreen I arrived at the PO at two minutes to eight.
At 8.15, after knocking somewhat impatiently on the door, was tersely gestured to read the sign (that had been in front of my face the whole time) telling me that on Wednesdays they open at 8.30 (incidentally, the time I'm supposed to be at work). Felt decidedly sheepish after having mounted my high horse and muttered under my breath for a quarter of an hour about tardiness in state institutions (don't you hate when that happens? when you get all up in arms only to realise you were the one being a twit all along?). Decided to wait it out, all the while being whistled at by homeless people under the bridge. Uncomfortable.
(If you're wondering why I was so super keen to get to the post office, it's because there are few things I love more than Receiving Mail, especially when said mail is A Package.)
Finally got back on the road to work, taking a 'short cut' that included about fifteen red lights, one cab driver who clearly bought his licence last week, and two apparently suicidal pedestrians.
Smelt something funny. Funny, like vomity funny. So not funny at all.
Realised that last night some drunken reveler must have tossed his or her cookies into the windscreen washing bucket that the petrol pump attendant used on Biscuit this morning.
Seriously? Seriously? Sigh.
How did I immediately and so astutely surmise that this was what had happened? Because it's happened to me before. Why universe, why?
Because of this, I decided today was a good morning to stop at the post office before work to collect a parcel waiting for me. Called to check what time they opened and was told 8 am. Got petrol (Biscuit was beeping that she was thirsty) and after the friendly petrol guy washed my dirty windscreen I arrived at the PO at two minutes to eight.
At 8.15, after knocking somewhat impatiently on the door, was tersely gestured to read the sign (that had been in front of my face the whole time) telling me that on Wednesdays they open at 8.30 (incidentally, the time I'm supposed to be at work). Felt decidedly sheepish after having mounted my high horse and muttered under my breath for a quarter of an hour about tardiness in state institutions (don't you hate when that happens? when you get all up in arms only to realise you were the one being a twit all along?). Decided to wait it out, all the while being whistled at by homeless people under the bridge. Uncomfortable.
(If you're wondering why I was so super keen to get to the post office, it's because there are few things I love more than Receiving Mail, especially when said mail is A Package.)
Finally got back on the road to work, taking a 'short cut' that included about fifteen red lights, one cab driver who clearly bought his licence last week, and two apparently suicidal pedestrians.
Smelt something funny. Funny, like vomity funny. So not funny at all.
Realised that last night some drunken reveler must have tossed his or her cookies into the windscreen washing bucket that the petrol pump attendant used on Biscuit this morning.
Seriously? Seriously? Sigh.
How did I immediately and so astutely surmise that this was what had happened? Because it's happened to me before. Why universe, why?
Monday, August 16, 2010
The Weekend in Numbers
(Including Thursday, because I can.)
Number of Cape Town Fashion Week shows attended: 1, a joint affair between Suzanne Heyns and Coppelia. I know the fashion world is all about cultivating a cool exterior of ennui, but I must confess myself to have been excited, not least because I finally had a reason to wear my grey, peep-toe, fold-over ankle boots somewhere they'd be understood. The show itself was fun (even if I didn't quite 'get' the clothes) what with the lit-up runway, the models' jutting hipbones and all the fashion mag eds in the front row. Thanks to ThatUlandaGirl for the invites.
Number of episodes of House watched on Friday night: 4. I rented them from the DVD store and stayed in with my blankey, a big bowl of popcorn and a Magnum Death by Chocolate. Because that's how I roll these days apparently.
Numbers of raging all-nighters complete with tequila shots and that ole rock 'n' roll music: 0.
Number of pairs of shoes bought on credit: 2. Whoops.
Number of foreign-language films watched at Cinema Nouveau with the dear (albeit a little sad) Miss Lane: 1. HelloGoodbye. Was charming.
Number of unexpected gifts from the long-time-not-seen but actually quite missed Bunny: 1. Star-shaped cookie cutters. Some friends just know you inside out and upside down don't they?
Number of Cape Town Fashion Week shows attended: 1, a joint affair between Suzanne Heyns and Coppelia. I know the fashion world is all about cultivating a cool exterior of ennui, but I must confess myself to have been excited, not least because I finally had a reason to wear my grey, peep-toe, fold-over ankle boots somewhere they'd be understood. The show itself was fun (even if I didn't quite 'get' the clothes) what with the lit-up runway, the models' jutting hipbones and all the fashion mag eds in the front row. Thanks to ThatUlandaGirl for the invites.
Number of episodes of House watched on Friday night: 4. I rented them from the DVD store and stayed in with my blankey, a big bowl of popcorn and a Magnum Death by Chocolate. Because that's how I roll these days apparently.
Numbers of raging all-nighters complete with tequila shots and that ole rock 'n' roll music: 0.
Number of pairs of shoes bought on credit: 2. Whoops.
Number of foreign-language films watched at Cinema Nouveau with the dear (albeit a little sad) Miss Lane: 1. HelloGoodbye. Was charming.
Number of unexpected gifts from the long-time-not-seen but actually quite missed Bunny: 1. Star-shaped cookie cutters. Some friends just know you inside out and upside down don't they?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Ah Miss Lane, thank you thank you
For everyone who said that I was responsible for getting 'Do your Ears Hang Low' lodged in their heads this morning, here's the (ahem) cure. Clicky clicky.
For some reason I have that primary school ditty 'Do Your Ears Hang Low?' stuck in my head this morning.
Am feeling a little invisible this week. Nothing like someone you've met about seven times consistently forgetting your name to make you feel unimportant. Also, yesterday an automatic sliding door wouldn't open for me. I practically had to walk into the glass before being allowed admittance to the building. So even machines don't notice me.
Do you ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro...
Am a bit wobbly today. My legs, they hurt something awful. (Wait, no, that's no technically true. They only hurt when I require them to perform unreasonable leggy tasks, like say, walk. Or sit down. Or stand. Any of the above really.) Only upon leaving the gym this morning after some nice hardcore cardio (not that it'll make up for the three rusks I ate last night, but whatever) did I realise that it was less than 12 hours since I'd left the gym yesterday after Pilates. I'm not sure whether to be proud of my regular-gym-goingness, or admit that it's just a teensy bit sad.
...can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow...
Bought a giant wire-work teacup this weekend. It's lovely. It doesn't quite fit on my shelf and I really shouldn't be spending frivolously (Biscuit bankrupted me this month) but I love it.
...can you throw them over your shoulder, like a regimental soldier...
As much as I love tea and lemon cake at Sidewalk. As much as I love four-day weeks. As much as I love the fact that I'm going to a show at Fashion Week tomorrow (yeah anyone can name-drop, but it takes skill to event-drop).
Am feeling a little invisible this week. Nothing like someone you've met about seven times consistently forgetting your name to make you feel unimportant. Also, yesterday an automatic sliding door wouldn't open for me. I practically had to walk into the glass before being allowed admittance to the building. So even machines don't notice me.
Do you ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro...
Am a bit wobbly today. My legs, they hurt something awful. (Wait, no, that's no technically true. They only hurt when I require them to perform unreasonable leggy tasks, like say, walk. Or sit down. Or stand. Any of the above really.) Only upon leaving the gym this morning after some nice hardcore cardio (not that it'll make up for the three rusks I ate last night, but whatever) did I realise that it was less than 12 hours since I'd left the gym yesterday after Pilates. I'm not sure whether to be proud of my regular-gym-goingness, or admit that it's just a teensy bit sad.
...can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow...
Bought a giant wire-work teacup this weekend. It's lovely. It doesn't quite fit on my shelf and I really shouldn't be spending frivolously (Biscuit bankrupted me this month) but I love it.
...can you throw them over your shoulder, like a regimental soldier...
As much as I love tea and lemon cake at Sidewalk. As much as I love four-day weeks. As much as I love the fact that I'm going to a show at Fashion Week tomorrow (yeah anyone can name-drop, but it takes skill to event-drop).
Friday, August 6, 2010
What, if any, is the point?
Went to see Inception last night (to jump on the bandwagon – yes, it's amazing, go see it) and I thought, 'Hey, it's Phuza Thezday, you're allowed to go a little crazy' so I treated myself to some movie popcorn for dinner instead of my usual veggie soup. (Accompanied by water just by the way, not Coke and Whispers.)
Hah! Apparently there is no such thing as a little leeway for me, if this morning's weigh-in is anything to go by.
I nearly crawled back into bed to sleep off the frustration of it all, but dutifully got dressed instead and went to Pilates.
Really though, this doesn't strike me as fair.
I subsist on all-bran, rice cakes, rye bread and cottage cheese, carrot sticks, almonds and vegetable soup. I eat 2/3 the amount of kilojoules recommended for my age, weight and height every day. I exercise 4-5 times a week. I hardly drink any more (which I make up for in bottles of wine while Boyfriend's here but still). I drink my 6-8 glasses of water a day. I mean, this is the MO of someone who is losing weight yes? So why aren't I?
My three month goal of losing five kilos is fast approaching, and I've still got ... oh right! Just over three to go.
So what's next? The Danish Royal Hospital Diet? ABC?
I tire of not seeing results.
Hah! Apparently there is no such thing as a little leeway for me, if this morning's weigh-in is anything to go by.
I nearly crawled back into bed to sleep off the frustration of it all, but dutifully got dressed instead and went to Pilates.
Really though, this doesn't strike me as fair.
I subsist on all-bran, rice cakes, rye bread and cottage cheese, carrot sticks, almonds and vegetable soup. I eat 2/3 the amount of kilojoules recommended for my age, weight and height every day. I exercise 4-5 times a week. I hardly drink any more (which I make up for in bottles of wine while Boyfriend's here but still). I drink my 6-8 glasses of water a day. I mean, this is the MO of someone who is losing weight yes? So why aren't I?
My three month goal of losing five kilos is fast approaching, and I've still got ... oh right! Just over three to go.
So what's next? The Danish Royal Hospital Diet? ABC?
I tire of not seeing results.
Saw the most annoying ad while midway through my morning ritual of Hi-fibre Bran and The Times.
Absa's launching a new car finance website aimed specifically at women. Why? Apparently, to make things 'super simple' for us, and it'll have all kinds of helpful information, like hints on how not to scuff the heels of your favourite shoes while driving.
Excuse me? Did I accidentally board a time machine and get flipped back to the 1950s?
I'm sorry, but what the fuck? I don't want to get all feminazi on you this morning, but hands up now, which independent female out there applying for car finance would like a nice big serving of patronising to go with her competitive interest rate?
I stared at the twee little pic of (okay admittedly wearable) high heels next to the copy and just couldn't help thinking, 'How dare you assault my subjectivity like this?' (which unless you've read Irigaray or spent any time with Natasha Distiller won't make too much sense I know, but you get the gist).
Grr I say. Grr grr.
The site goes live on 20 August, so I guess we'll have to wait till then to see just how badly Absa has fucked this one up.
Absa's launching a new car finance website aimed specifically at women. Why? Apparently, to make things 'super simple' for us, and it'll have all kinds of helpful information, like hints on how not to scuff the heels of your favourite shoes while driving.
Excuse me? Did I accidentally board a time machine and get flipped back to the 1950s?
I'm sorry, but what the fuck? I don't want to get all feminazi on you this morning, but hands up now, which independent female out there applying for car finance would like a nice big serving of patronising to go with her competitive interest rate?
I stared at the twee little pic of (okay admittedly wearable) high heels next to the copy and just couldn't help thinking, 'How dare you assault my subjectivity like this?' (which unless you've read Irigaray or spent any time with Natasha Distiller won't make too much sense I know, but you get the gist).
Grr I say. Grr grr.
The site goes live on 20 August, so I guess we'll have to wait till then to see just how badly Absa has fucked this one up.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Let's just talk about the elephant in the room quickly
Hint: it's to the right of this post, matches none of my blog colours and is really quite obnoxiously large and obvious.
I don't expect to win an SA Blog Award. I don't even expect anyone to nominate me of their own free will (that's what friends are for – blackmail and/or emotional manipulation should get at least a few clicks). But I figured, where's the harm right?
Now click, all of you, click! Like you mean it!
I don't expect to win an SA Blog Award. I don't even expect anyone to nominate me of their own free will (that's what friends are for – blackmail and/or emotional manipulation should get at least a few clicks). But I figured, where's the harm right?
Now click, all of you, click! Like you mean it!
Monday, August 2, 2010
Happiness.
I won something.
This something to be exact.
It's on its way to me in the post as we speak.
This is very exciting, as a) I rarely win things and b) I love receiving packages in a very big way.
So yes, happiness.
This something to be exact.
It's on its way to me in the post as we speak.
This is very exciting, as a) I rarely win things and b) I love receiving packages in a very big way.
So yes, happiness.
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