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...

Reasons why today is also a Good Day

It may be Monday. I may be beating myself up emotionally for something that's no longer in my control. I may be feeling that familiar twinge (more like TWANG) of regret at having spoilt things a little by being drunk and disorderly. I may be feeling sad at the fact that the weekend's over and Boyfriend's flown back to work and I won't see him again for weeks at least.

But...

What a weekend.

Finding yourself in a beautifully decorated, luxury self-catering apartment in Franschhoek with a jacuzzi and a kitchen thoughtfully stocked with supplies by the incredible boyfriend who's already driven up that morning to make sure everything's perfect and switch the jacuzzi on to warm ... there's not much better.

Unless it's followed by a lovely French dinner, a jacuzzi under the stars, a salmon and scrambled egg breakfast, a wander around picturesque Franschhoek, wine tasting at four world-class cellars, a leisurely lunch of cheese, biscuits and more wine, another dip in the jacuzzi and a dinner reservation at the must-book-weeks-in-advance Reuben's ... well that's even better.

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Reasons why today is a Good Day

(in no real order of importance, with the exception of reason number 1, which nothing can top)

Reason Number 7
It's Friday, and that's always a good day.

Reason Number 6
I slept the deep sleep of a girl who has painted her nails and fallen asleep with her fingers accidentally very close to her nose.

Reason Number 5
I woke up lighter today than I did yesterday.

Reason Number 4
The weather man has promised me a high of 23 degrees today. This means that summer might really be just around the corner.

Reason Number 3
There's a Woollies salad waiting in the office fridge for me for lunch. At 1600kJ it's a bit of an indulgence, but since I woke up at 5am, came into work early, am not taking lunch and have, with incredible self-discipline, been avoiding the other copy eds' toast runs all week ... well I think I deserve a little something something. And Woollies salads are right up there on the yum scale.

Reason Number 2
I'm at work early, which, though otherwise might not seem like a good thing, means I get to leave early too this afternoon. Why, you ask? Kindly see below...

Reason Number 1
Boyfriend is taking me away for the weekend to a surprise destination to celebrate our first anniversary.

I know...

Wearing a green sack today

Watched the Secret Life of Bees last night.

It's a great movie, it really is, but when I kept catching myself being distracted by long-shots of the now-fourteen-year-old Dakota Fanning and thinking, 'She's so skinny', I thought I might be kind of missing the point.

This happens fairly often. My obsession with thin (although far from that holiest of holy descriptions myself) drives me to distraction quite often. I lose whole threads of what intelligent women are saying because I'm surreptitiously (at least I hope it's surreptitiously) checking out their thighs or arms and wondering what they eat for breakfast.

It's a fairly mainstream preoccupation I guess. I mean, at least I'm not wondering what underwear they're wearing. Or what it smells like. But still, I can feel people getting tired of me. I'm tired of me sometimes.

You see, the thing is, while I have this drive for a waif-like body, and religiously count my kJs and hit the gym for a few conscientious weeks, they're swiftly followed by days of endlessly shovelling food into my mouth, then whining about how I've gained the measly two kilos I managed to lose in the preceding starvation.

Case in point, last night. Dinner and a DVD at the uber-petite Bunny's house. Veggie pizza, followed by popcorn followed by tea and rusks as a nightcap (we're hardcore like that). Rolled outta there.

Woke up at about 3am with my stomach in knots, feeling violently nauseated – an actual physical sign from my body that it's time to stop feeding myself.
First thought: oh fuck not swine flu
Second thought: gosh gee maybe you should have rethought that fourth rusk, idiot
Third thought: get a hair elastic ... if dinner decides to make a reappearance, better to be prepared. There's just not always somebody around to hold your hair back...

Luckily (or perhaps not?) the veggie pizza decided it preferred my stomach after all. Probably because so many of its buddies are hanging out there...

Are we the next Brazil?

South Africans are so hot right now.

(Well actually, at the moment if you're in South Africa you're likely to be ass-clenchingly freezing, but anyway.)

I fear we're the next hot foreign thing, like the world's love affair with Brazil after City of God, very personal waxing, a bikini design that lets it all hang out and the event that is Giselle.

It may be a few years since Charlize clasped that little gold figurine in her Benoni-paw, but in the meantime the country's slowly inching its way – sidling, if you will – onto the world stage.

What got me thinking about this this morning was the surprising success in the States of the all-South African cast, all-South African crew, all-South African concept movie release District Nine. Yay for a full SA cast ... no more half-Aussie-half-Austrian-fully-non-South African accents to endure (sorry Mister DiCaprio, you're lovely, you are, but you sound like a retard).

Oh wait, I just remembered the soon-to-be-released Invictus. Matt Damon, please don't let me down.

Anyway, with 'South Africa' being thrown around by TV CIA agents and pop singers more and more frequently, I worry that we're the next new thing. Sure it'd be great for tourism, raising the country's international profile etcetera etcetera, but the next new thing eventually becomes so five minutes ago. I don't want to be last season based purely on my nationality, do you?

Of course, a coworker's friend at a medical conference in the States was recently asked by an incredulous American, 'South Africa? But you speak English! How did you learn it?' – so maybe we're still underground cool, which is so the best kind to be.

ARGHHHHHHHHHHH

Yesterday saw me diligently hitting the gym for my Sunday afternoon twenty lengths of the pool (I have no idea where this 'Jade thou shall get off the couch and exercise' willpower comes from but I'm making the most of it).

This was all well and good except that I woke up this morning with a seriously blocked left ear. Argh. Feels as though I'm walking around with one of those fishbowl bubbles over my head, and hearing my own blood pumping is more than a little strange, not to mention the disorientation that comes with it. And yes, I've tried blocking my nose and breathing out, to no avail. Nearly braining myself with an earbud this morning didn't help much either.

The world is all bloop bloop bloop, and I have to constantly turn my head when people speak to me and shout, 'What? WHAT'S THAT? Speak into my good ear, if you care to be heard.'

Oh wait...development! I yawned and it's just semi-unblocked itself. Only now it hurts something well awful. Ouch.

Happy Monday all...

Just another Friday night

So bumped into somehow I knew from high school last night (yes that's right, I actually ventured out into the big wide world, which means I'm not really a hermit right?).

She looked vastly different, and I nearly didn't recognise her, even though for a few of my formative years we were what you could loosely call friends. She's always amused me...

Me: 'Oh my God your face is so much thinner, I nearly didn't recognise you! (Not my best opening line, I'll admit, but I was taken by surprise.)
Her: Yeah, it's because I'm not throwing up anymore.

And then we passed the next ten minutes catching up, not skirting around her months-long stay in rehab, her recent epic breakup that followed on the heels of him and her buying a R 1.5 million house cash up-front (suspicious boyfriend character much?) and her subsequent relapse onto the hard stuff (read: stuff you use with needles).

Now, I'm never sure how much of what I hear from this dear old friend is true. If half of these random chats we've had over the years have contained actual fact, she could sell the rights to her life story to Hollywood as a grown-up, no holds barred version of that movie Thirteen.

What I love about her is her total heart-on-her-sleeve candidness. Sure it probably makes some people feel awkward, but you can't have a boring chat with the girl. Maybe I'm being cavalier about something quite tragic, but so is she, so it feels quite harmless. And with such larger-than-life confessions being spilled into the night air, it makes it easy to let off a few of your own, which suddenly seem completely trivial and/or manageable. It's a great release...

So waking up at six o'clock on a chilly, wet Cape Town morning is not most people's definition of fun (certainly not mine), unless of course it's for a very good reason. And I don't mean something like work, or gym, I mean:
a. catching a flight to an exotic holiday destination
b. snuggly, half-awake morning sex
c. hitting the sales

This morning saw Mum and I waiting elbow to elbow with other shoppers outside Woolworths at the V&A, anxiously awaiting the 7.30 opening of the doors to account holders so we could gorge ourselves on shoes, accessories and cosmetics.

I know, most girls my age probably wouldn't admit to being a Woollies addict, but screw it, I love them. It's the old rule about buying good basics and building onto them with your trendy boutique buys etceteraaaaaah.

Sadly, Woollies let me down today. Not only were the Country Road heels I've been lusting after since the day I was born (I am meant to have these shoes I tell you) not marked down, there was precious little in the way of beauty booty. What happened to row upon row of discounted mascaras, eyeliners and delicious creamy things?

Sigh...

I am at peace with the world

The long weekend was fantastic, but what was even more ridiculously cool was coming in to work this morning looking forward to my massage.

Yes, you heard right.

My new job is awesome, as far as jobs go. As far as first jobs go, it's insanely, supremely hands-down the best. Not only do I work in a cool office on a spanking new MAC with nice people who feel the same way I do about a cup of tea and a biscuit (which is that the aforementioned combination could lead to world peace), we're also treated by our company to monthly massages.

I know. Please don't hate me. Something's bound to go wrong soon.

This may come as a shock to those of you who know me, because you'll know my obsession with grooming and pampering in general, but I've never actually had a massage before.

Oh heavenly god please don't make me wait a month for the next one. I could happily have stayed horizontal on that table all day. I would have skipped lunch for it...

In other news, this video made my night: clicky clicky yo
It's Taylor Swift (of teeny bopper Love Story fame...admit it, we all secretly love that song) rapping with T Pain.

What? What? I knit sweaters yo...

Must. Stop. Shopping.

Seriously.

Yes, I may be a working girl now, but that doesn't mean it's not still three weeks until I'm in the financial black - as opposed to this season's black, which is purple, which I am in, thanks to my latest little spending attack.

I try, I do. My plan this morning was to quickly pop to the shops to return a pair of shoes that I'd bought on a whim and since decided I probably won't wear after all (all very spendthrifty of me). I had every intention of dashing in and out, my purse slightly heavier upon my exit for a change.

Whoops. Returned the shoes ... and picked up a dress and some leggings. Then I popped to Woollies for a 'quick look' at their sale. I should know better. Left with pair of sandals and a really cute white top. That weren't on sale. And I can't even wear until summer.

I'm usually so good at living cheaply - I mean, I've had to, what with the joblessness and so on. But lately, I seem to be on a never-ending run of finding items I just have to have (you know how it goes). Most of them are pretty cheap, or on sale, but still, I have to stop sometime, before I end up like Isla Fisher's character in Confessions of a Shopaholic. Only not so pretty, not a redhead, and probably with a less happy ending.

I think - and here comes a psychological theory - that with winter and near-insolvency making me reluctant to go out partying and spend my money on booze and taxis, I'm drowning my sorrows in material things like clothes and shoes.

And really, what better way is there?

Besides, always having something in my cupboard that still has it's tags on means that, so far, I've managed to avoid any sartorial meltdowns before work. Which is worth running up a little debt for, isn't it?

to market, to market

Lunchtime rolled around and I headed out into the freezing weather that's hit Cape Town for a stroll. Ended up at the Food Lover's Market for a quick perv (yes, I look at food. yes, it's weird).

So there I am, walking at a glacial pace past the sushi counter, about to head over and make friends with the sight of the pizza/pasta deli, and then possibly visit the bakery for a quick peek, when I was accosted by a flamboyant Italian - 'Senorina, you are bee-yoo-ti-fool. When you are feenishhed you come haf a cappuccino with us,' indicating his tall, equally Italian friend.

Now I'm not in the habit of accepting spontaneous coffee invitations from strange European men. You'd be surprised how often it doesn't happen. But I was bored. And they seemed like fun. And the Market was busy, so the chances of my being kidnapped and sold into white slavery seemed minimal (the last time this kind of thing happened I was ten and some Egyptians tried to buy me from my parents during a family holiday in Cairo).

So we had a cappuccino. Who am I to turn down free coffee?

What a completely out-of-the-ordinary fifteen minutes. Little, flamboyant Gianni, it turns out, is here opening a lingerie shop in the Cape Quarter. Flavio, lounging in a very Italian fashion against the coffee bar, is an architect who teaches Salsa in his spare time.

I'm sorry, but seriously? Could they be more European?

Was all very entertaining and without the ickyness of feeling like you're being picked up - call me naive but I think they were genuinely just being friendly, as only Europeans can be. For a start, they were well older than me. As Gianni put it: 'You are so young! Like a leetle cheecken coming out of an egg.'

So as we're parting ways, Gianni is scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, which he hands me most ceremoniously in the midst of a chorus of 'Ciao! Ciao!'. Walking back to the office, I'm thinking, oh great, here we go, it's his phone number and there goes the lovely innocence of our spur-of-the-moment, friendly meeting after which we'll never see each other again and I'll just have a nostalgic memory of some random Italians I happened to have coffee with once. Now it's all ruined.

But unfolding the slip of paper, trying to decide whether I'd be able to sacrifice the amazing Market in an attempt to never run into them again and avoid having an awkward 'Why deed you neverrr tellyphone?' conversation, I see it simply says:

'Did somebody tell you today you are beautiful?'

Thank god. Sweet, self-esteem-boosting, and not expectant of anything in return. So there are still some moments in life that don't devolve into base hit-ons.

And yes, actually. Boyfriend tells me quite often. He's rather beautiful himself, and has an added bonus in that he doesn't speeek like theese.

It's Monday...

...and time for (drum roll) The Weekend in Numbers:

Number of Saturday morning tea parties, complete with teapot, scones and cream: 1 and it was pure loveliness, thanks Noodle and Twins.

Number of successful shopping trips: 1. Why is it that when I have an impossibly sad-looking bank balance I find all kinds of goodies that I must have? Anyway, picked up some fab-ulous jeans/leggings (London's hipsters are calling them 'jeggings' of course). Think uber skinny jeans but comfortable like leggings because - and this is the awesome part - they have elasticated tops instead of a button-and-zip combo. It's a miracle, but the elastic somehow contrives to be flattering, and it's a delightful return to childhood to just pull them on and go. I might go get a second pair just in case something happens to the first ones. Seriously.

Number of nights getting all dressed up, smoky eyes and everything, to go and see the Dirty Skirts at Assembly, and then ending up staying at home because my lift plans fell through and I couldn't bring myself to spend my precious little cash cabbing it back and forth, when I could just change into my sheepy pyjamas and snuggle myself into bed for an early night: 1. Winter makes me so antisocial...

Number of hours spent at work: 4. Yes, that's right, I'm still mining the rewards of part-time work, but only until the end of August and the arrival of my very first pay cheque.

Number of trips to gym: 1, and on a Sunday. How proud are we of me?

Number of kilos I can bench press: 7.5 - I had to laugh at myself.

Number of alcoholic drinks consumed in the last seven days: 0. Look at me go. Will keep this up until the two weeks are over, which shall be precisely after work this coming Sunday, upon which time I shall be found at Baraza taking full advantage of their R10 Sunday cocktail special.

So I've nearly survived my third day as a working girl (stop sniggering you know exactly what I mean).

Super conveniently there's been a bit of a bottleneck on the design side of the magazines, so our little copy editing corner has been rather quiet and we've left early every day I've been here. Which, I don't have to tell you, is a fabulous way to ease into this whole job/working thing.

Decided to brave the freezing outside world at lunch today (see? look at me go with this whole segueing into office life). I never drive around this part of town, let alone walk. Not that's it's particularly dodgey or anything - I've just never had a reason to, what with it being all office blocks and businesses. So I took a little wander about, and felt like a total tourist. Not only did I nearly manage to get lost (okay maybe not lost, per se, just had a bit of a sense of misdirection), I also found myself having a little fit of glee at each new coffee shop or eatery I happened upon – of which there were many. Who knew? I suppose all the tower block drones need somewhere to go to get away from their desks for an hour. Major discoveries included the existence of two sushi bars within walking distance, and the Food Lover's Market (I'm there, I am so there).

So anyway, was a rather successful little wander. Of course, when I decided it was time to stop a-walkin' and find somewhere to nibble my lunch I made another discovery: this city seriously needs some more benches.

Ended up in front of the fountain at the convention centre, sitting on an empty bench in the wintery sunshine, which to some people might seem like a very sad image but was really rather nice. So there.

PS: what on earth did I do to myself at pilates last night? Miss a few classes, go last night, and suddenly I'm a cripple...

psssst...

I have to whisper see, because I'm not sure how my new company feels about me blogging from work, even if it's during my lunch break.

So, update from the trenches...good things about work so far:
- My fellow copyeditors seem like nice sane people, not at all likely to turn suddenly homicidal
- I have a brand, spanking, beautiful new Mac mini, a ridiculously huge Samsung flatscreen and one of those awesome uber-flat silver Mac keyboards to work on
- Stationery was rained down upon me. And you all know my love affair with nice stationery.
- The work is eyes-closed kinda stuff so far

So not too shabby, but I'm going to refrain from judging till I've been here a week at least I think. Maybe till Friday...

I'd love to celebrate all this with a cocktail or four BUT I've decided that for two weeks (which began on Sunday...even though I only decided on Monday haha) I'm not drinking any alcohol. Just to see if I can...

My big girl job...

...starts tomorrow at 8.30









*tremble*

I know, I'm the worst...again with the woeful blog neglect. Soon it's going to think I don't love it, and start staying out late, falling in with the wrong crowd and vandalising public property in a bid for parental attention.

But I have a fairly watertight reason. Been playing house with Boyfriend up in Jo'burg for the last ten days, seizing my last couple weeks of freedom before I begin (squeal of excitement) the daily grind, and my laptoplessness means ixnay on the freelancing and blogging when I'm away from home.

Which also meant entire days bonding with Boyfriend's awesome couch (and kitchen) watching House while he was at work. So I'm not complaining.

And okay so I think it's time I stop being delusional. I say Jo'burg because that's where my plane lands, but in actual fact, my home away from home is a bit more than a stone's throw away from OR Thambo. Basically you'd have to pick up that stone, drive for just over an hour, and then you find yourself in the charming foreign universe called Witbank (which, yes I know, is in a totally different province even to Jo'burg).

Ah the banks...home of the two-tone-shirt-wearing, mullet-sporting Dutchman (as well as various other crimes against fashion), who fly around in suped-up Datsun bakkies and support something called The Bulls (can anyone help me out with this one?). It's a scary, scary place at times, and believe me, Boyfriend is not there by choice (pesky thing called work keeps him there, away from his native Cape Town).

Anyway, so that's the truth. But now I'm back (via a short divertion to George of all places when my flight couldn't land in Cape Town's fog), ripping up my last few days of freedom - it's T minus seven days till I hit the grown-up world of work. Boyfriend is following me home on Thursday, so all is pretty much fantastic in the world of Jade.

On that note, I think a weekend sabbatical is in order. Just hope the blog-child doesn't start smoking crack while I'm away.

So before I even start writing this I know everyone who reads it will roll their eyes and/or hate me.

But I shall proceed, undaunted.

I had a horrible day yesterday...like, well awful. And for no real reason either. Wrong side of the bed kind of day I suppose. Anyway...

Two things made me feel better about the world today.

First thing...was watching Miss Naked Beauty on BBC Lifestyle last night (for the first time I might add and only because I was trying to escape the ridiculous Michael Jackson funeral circus on every channel). I know, I know. Just about everyone else either cringes or laughs at it. After all, it is a bunch of 'unconventional beauties' (read, homely) parading themselves naked and natural (no makeup) and championing a less airbrushed, less underweight, less generally perfectionist kind of beauty. But for some reason, I shelved my cynicism for forty-five minutes last night and really admired those girls for their effort (and the sheer bravery it must take to display yourself au naturel on national television...when you don't look like a Sports Illustrated covergirl that is). It gave me the warm and fuzzies in an everyone-is-beautiful kind of way.

Of course, this morning, it's back to my GHD, the gym and general striving for skinniness. But you get my point I'm sure.

Secondly, was on my way home from gym this morning, driving up my ridiculously steep hill (seriously, we're talking like a 70 degree incline here) and for a change the car coming in the opposite direction was not some asshole in a Porsche Cayenne (what a stupid name for a car) forcing me off the road so that I have to pop a hill start halfway up. Instead, the nice guy in his old citi golf pulled to the side to let me pass, and when I waved a thank you he smiled happily and waved back. The sun was shining, I'm sure somewhere birds were singing, and I caught myself thinking about how nice the world would be if everyone was just friendly to one another.

Yes, yes, it was all very John Lennon. And I quickly reasserted the natural order of things by reminding myself that
a) the happy feelings were probably only endorphins being released after twenty laps in the Virgin Active pool
b) for all I know the citi golf guy is a child molestor. Or he had a body chopped up in the boot and was trying to allay suspicion.

Still...imagine all the people...

Oh to be a skinny bitch...

So last night over an AMAzing homemade veggie pizza followed by a slab of chocolate sitting in front of the fire, The Energiser Bunny, Birdy (aka The Serbian) and I got to talking - about a lot of things really, but in particular about weight, specifically, losing it.

These are the kind of guilty conversations that seem necessary after a healthy dose of cheese and chocolate.

So Bunny - who weighs about the same as a box of low fat crackers - subscribes to the everything-in-moderation, eat-when-you're-hungry-stop-when-you're-full school of weight loss. Then again she's also been known, when there's 'nothing in the kitchen', to survive an entire day on a stick of raw broccoli. So I guess some people are just blessed with some special gene which allows them to go through life simply being indifferent to food.

Her next bit of wisdom was from some or other pop-psychology book with a name like 'Gorgeous Me' (or possibly, 'If I pretend to love myself maybe nobody will notice I'm a fatass'). Apparently, since I gym regularly and don't eat like a famine victim at an all-you-can-eat buffet, it's possible that this is exactly what I'm supposed to look like - it's called my body's 'Happy Weight' or something.

Niglet, please.

If whatever higher power there is intended me to have a cuddly tummy, he wouldn't have invented bikinis or end of year holidays with everyone else's skinny girlfriends.

Spent the rest of the night trashing Birdy's mum, who has the indecency to have an overactive thyroid, meaning she's skinny no matter what. Some people have all the luck...

Happy first of July...

Apologies, I have been shamefully neglectful of my blog of late, and I know that the thousands of you out there who read me daily have been almost catatonic from withdrawal symptoms (sigh, don't I wish?).

Ok so we're officially halfway through the year. I seriously thought that by now I'd be:
- A few months into my first job
- Paying off a car
- Living away from home in some cute flat somewhere, bankrupting myself buying pretty linen and faux vintage popcorn bowls and gorgeous shoes and Elizabeth Arden 8-hour Cream Moisturiser (because really, what else does one need?)
- Skinny

But, here we are, entering into the second half of 2009, exactly six months away from my 23rd birthday (oh god, I'm sure I was seventeen a few minutes ago?) and I am currently not ticking a single one of those boxes. Not for lack of trying, mind you. The flaw in my great plan for the year was that just about every goal rested on the accomplishment of the first, ie getting a job.

But - as I'm sure you're all sick of hearing - that one's finally ticked (or will be on Day One, the 29th of July). I really feel like after that life can finally start. I know this is shockingly boring of me, but all year I've been dreaming of the lovely ordered bliss that will be working Monday to Friday, nine to five, looking forward to weekends, hating Mondays and getting paid at the end of the month like the rest of the world.

My dirty little secret is out. I am looking forward to being a happy little cog in the machine. (Don't worry, I'm sure this won't last past, say, my second pay cheque.)