You know you're old when one late night of awesomeness knocks you out for a few days following. And when the car guard calls you 'Lady' instead of 'Girrrrlie'.

Turning 23 soon. Can't I still be 'girlie'?

In other news, it's the company Christmas party tomorrow night. My very first opportunity to behave inappropriately and embarrass myself in a work environment. Not going to happen. I will be the picture of professionalism. I will be Grace Kelly meets the publishing world at a pretentious bar in Camps Bay.

Am I lame that I'm kind of excited?

Of course, that could be because Boyfriend is coming down this weekend specifically to escort me to said function. Very nice of him, especially given partners are only allowed into the damn thing at 10.30 (it starts at 6, kill me now, will have to protect myself from being engaged in conversation by anyone from sales for four and a half hours).

Barely working tomorrow either – we're disappearing just after noon to a celebratory lunch for one of the magazines, and not coming back (ever).

Love December. So much of party. So little of work.

Saw the Killers last night.

Hands down the best concert ever.

In a word, electric.

In five, holy god fuck me wow.

'I can't help falling in love with you.' (If you were there, you wanted to marry Brandon Flowers at this moment.)

Despite the mission out to Franschhoek and the killer three-hour traffic just to get out of the actual wine estate and then the long drive home ... I would go again in a heartbeat.

'Let me know, is your heart still beating...'

Again, holy god fuck me wow.

Oh how I chuckled...

If you're anything like me and are over the whole Cape Town cool kid phenomenon, you'll laugh yourself silly at this blog.

If you're tired of my low self-esteem stop reading now

So it's exactly two weeks tomorrow morning until I get on a plane, fly to the Banks, spend the night with Boyfriend and then we all pile into two '90s Hiluxes and set off on our two-and-a-half-week mission to Botswana.

And this time I won't roll the car like I did in Malawi last year.

Mostly because I won't be allowed to drive.

Getting very excited about it, but at the same time, shopping for suitable camping-type clothing is getting me down a little. For three reasons:

a) I must resist the allure of all the pretty floaty dresses and silky harem pants and flimsy sandals and body-con party dresses floating around.
b) It's taking me forever to amass said clothing – you'd think it'd be easy, but I've tried on about a million pairs of brown shorts and am now stumped as to what else people wear in the bush.
c) I am not the casually beautiful oh I just threw on a little vest and my bikini and some shorts and managed to look gorgeous girl.

Seriously, it takes advance outfit planning and heavy-duty grooming before I feel like I can reasonably be seen in public. I can only imagine what I'm going to look like after a few days' camping.

Not helping matters is that this time we're four couples, as opposed to the 8 to 2 boy-girl ratio of last year. And while I do play nicely with girls, this means I get to spend a few weeks comparing myself to a gorgeous blonde surfer-girl type, a British bean pole and one unknown, who, given the way things are going, is probably going to turn out to be an Israeli supermodel.

While I honestly like these girls (well, apart from the one I don't know of course), there's a special kind of downer that comes from knowing you're always going to feel like the ugliest person in the room (or desert, as it were).

And breathe...

Phew.

It's over.

Three long weeks of dreaming about tracking and waking up in the middle of the night with caption ideas and spending all day highly strung to the point of vibration in fear of having missed a font screw-up or an errant full stop (I thought it was a toast crumb).

Three weeks of trying to come up with a 100 different ways to say 'serves great cocktails', of fighting with designers to actually read our edit notes and of generally making sure eight magazines make it to print on time and as pretty damn close to perfect as is humanly possible.

And what better way to celebrate the end of all that than with Le Boyfriend, who flew down on Thursday.

Apart from a little sunburn and the actual circumstances of his visit (to go to a friend's father's funeral), the weekend was lovely, thanks for asking.

Finally getting into the swing of using my hooter

There are a few things on the streets of Cape Town that really (excuse the horrible pun) grind my gears, all of which I have encountered in the last few days:

1. Carguards/random street people who step out into the street in the dark so that you have to slam on the brakes and/or swerve to avoid hitting them and going to jail for culpable homicide or whatever screwed up law is on their side when they are so clearly in the wrong. It's happened to me no less then three times in the last week, and only half an hour ago I came close to ending a drunk bergie's life, or at least his legs, when he toppled off the pavement inches from me turning a corner. Used my hooter.

2. SUV drivers who come flying over stop streets, safe in the knowledge that, hey, if there was a car coming along, they'd come off second best anyway. Some dude in a double-cab hopped a stop sign into oncoming traffic (me) yesterday on my way to gym. Used my hooter.

3. Seapoint taxis. No need to explain. I can't drive to Noodle's place without my fingers getting cramps from gripping the steering wheel for dear life as these maniacs go flying up and down. I'd use my hooter, if I wasn't afraid of the possible ensuing of taxi violence.

4. People who think indicators are pretty flashing Christmas lights and, for instance, indicate they're turning but carry on straight, resulting in a near collision with the person pulling into the road who assumes (oh such naivete) that a right hand flashing indicator indicates one is turning right. Used my hooter.

5. Inconsiderate idiots who decide they can't possibly go around the block but must have the parking space currently being vacated on the side of a busy street, resulting in a ten-car pileup on uber busy Rheede Street while they wait for the guy to leave and then perform a leisurely attempt at parallel parking that holds up traffic for a full five minutes.

And yes, I know I may not be the world's greatest driver. But really now, with these idiots on the road, I think I deserve a gold star for pausing at stop signs and having fully grasped the complex science of Using Your Indicator.

Le weekend

Ok so number of minutes spent at Home Affairs sorting out this name situation: about 45, which actually included getting there fifteen minutes before they opened, waiting around for fifteen minutes after they should have opened for somebody to come and let us all in, and then a fairly quick and painless process in which I went straight for the person who looked like she was running the show and laid out my predicament (much to the chagrin of everyone else there I'm sure, but I'm sorry, in some circumstances my usually quite considerate nature goes out the window).

After this woman accused me having filled the form in incorrectly – because, you know, it would be impossible for holier-than-cow HA to have messed something up – she dug out a copy, discovered it was their own damn fault and assured me it would be rectified and that my ID would be reissued.

So that's that. Crises averted. Although you can be sure I'm going to be on the phone checking up on them every few days to make sure they don't suddenly drop my last name or something equally catastrophic.

The again, plain Jade Taylor has a nice ring to it.

In other weekend news, spent a rather lovely Friday night with Princess at The Mobile Boutique launch at the Biscuit Mill (working on Saturdays sort of precludes any Friday night shenanigans of the party party party variety). Some nice work by Cape Town designers, and, for a change, reasonably priced. Of course, the Princess and I got rather more worked up about an early edition of the complete works of Oscar Wilde than we did about most of the clothes, but that's English majors for you (sadly, it was only part of the display, and though we considered attempting a 'You flash him and I'll grab it and run' manoeuvre, we decided it best not to make a spectacle of ourselves).

Spent most of Saturday and Sunday working (work work and freelance work) but managed to slip in a Pickwick's milkshake (hello heaven in a glass) with Bunny, The Serbian and The Giggler on Sunday arvi. Why is it that whenever our old high school gang gets together we end up having hysterical this-could-only-happen-in-a-movie-or-to-us moments? Ah, what larks...

Then toddled off on my high heels to the Cape Town City Ballet's 75th birthday party last night for a lovely gala evening of nostalgia and theatre glamour – and, incidentally, a nearly crippling stomach ache ... was it the milkshake? Say it isn't so!

I don't get angry easily, but my fuck if I'm not going to go to Home Affairs tomorrow morning and throw my toys so far out the cot, those incompetent fuckwits won't know what hit them.

And let them try and be unhelpful or surly or patronising.

How hard can it be? Fill in 'Addition of name' form. Jade Cooke should now become Jade Taylor Cooke (my sort of second name that Mum only half settled on, and has therefore never been in any official documents). Simultaneously apply for new ID book, so name reads Jade Taylor Cooke (accompanied by more recent picture of me where I have discovered the flattering nature of a fringe, and learned not to over-pluck my eyebrows as in previous ID picture of fifteen-year-old, somewhat awkward self).

Called to check on application status today. Not only do they suddenly say it takes between six and eight months for a new ID book (I'm sorry? you said four months four months ago. fucker.), but I thought it decidedly odd this woman kept calling me Taylor.

Well fuck me if Home We're-so-fucking-inefficient-we-couldn't-find-our-own-asses-if-you-showed-us-a-map Affairs has not cocked the whole bloody lot up, and changed my name to Taylor Cooke.

Do you KNOW what this means if I don't straighten them out? I won't exist. I can say goodbye to my bank account, my medical aid, my IRP5 form, the whole lot.

And now, thank you very much, have to be up and in Wynberg at the crack of seven am tomorrow morning.

Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Oh the wrath...

(Sorry about all the 'fuck')

Tiny (JC Le Roux) bubbles ... so divine...

Only semi-deaf today, thanks to having my ear syringed yesterday (if you've never had this done to you, let me paint you a little picture: large, scary Victorian-looking steel syringe, meet my ear. Ear, I'd like to introduce you to Pain.)

Ouch. Not cool.

Less cool? Am going back tomorrow to have it done again.

On a much lighter note, not being the kind of person to let a hearing impairment and end-of-the-year fatigue stand in the way of epicurean delights, I toddled off to Liquorice after work (which, for anyone who doesn't know, is a digital ad agency doing some very hot stuff at the mo).

(Yes, that was shameful publicity-punting.)

Anyway, the lovely girls at Liquorice had organised a nougat and bubbles tasting for a group of us, including the lovely Anel from Spit or Swallow.

Two things:
1. Bubbly and nougat tasting = better than a chocolate and wine tasting. I'm serious (deadly so, because you know how much it would take for me to choose anything over chocolate). The nougat does this lovely little fizzy thing when it starts to tango with the wine in your mouth. Heavenly.

2. Though I'm not a huge fan of sweet sparkling wines, I'll challenge any girl's girl to resist the temptations of those teeny pink handbag-sized (does this make me sound like an alcoholic?) bottles of JC Le Roux La Fleurette. Of course, I was more interested in quaffing some of that new La Vallée Rosé, an off-dry Pinot Noir Cap Classique. With its pretty salmon blush, it looks like a girly drink but tastes like a grown-up bubbly. Best of both worlds...

Reasons to stay in bed this morning:

1. Am somehow exhausted and it's only Tuesday. We pretty much hit the ground running every morning on the work front these days, and I've started editing layouts in my sleep, so that could be the reason behind me waking up feeling as though I've only just closed my eyes.

2. Swam at gym last night and managed to seriously block my ear (was walking around going, 'What? What? Speak into my good ear!' like some parody of an octogenarian). Of course, being me, I couldn't just leave it alone – after trying all night to extricate whatever water was in there with my towel, my fingers and finally a cotton bud, I now have an earache from the inner circle of hell. It's entirely possible I have cotton wool clinging to my eardrum.

Reasons to get up and go to work:

1. Have a JC Le Roux tasting at Liquorice to go to tonight. Very nice. I do feel like this (sorry I have to say it) previously tacky brand has pulled up their socks and come to the sparkling wine party lately, with some very nice Cap Classiques being released. And I'm a sucker for anything as delightfully girly as pink bubbles.

2. Not going to work could result in death by avalanche of job bags tomorrow – even with us all coming into the office on weekends, we're still barely swimming with our heads above water.

3. If I were to stay in bed for the rest of my life I would never have the chance to wear any of the clothes or jewellery I bought over the weekend. And that would be a real tragedy...

Dear Milk Thief

Your identity is safe (lucky you), because clearly you are a well-practiced sneaky pilferer of dairy products.

Let me explain this slowly just in case you're on the same level of intelligence as the Cup Thief of October oh nine (although I suspect you are not stupid, just a bad person).

The reason I bring a litre of fat-free woollies milk with me to work on Monday and keep it in the office fridge with my name clearly marked on it is because I'm not exactly a huge fan of full-cream, long-life box milk (that's if this communal milk lasts past 10 am anyway) and I like to know that, come Thursday, I don't have to worry about going to the kitchen in desperate need of a cuppa, only to find there's not a lactose molecule in sight.

I do not do it so that you can help yourself willy-nilly to the milk that I have brought (and bought just by the way, so that's technically stealing) and then leave the tiniest of drops in the bottle so that it masquerades on the fridge shelf as actually containing liquid – that is, until I go to make a cup of tea...

I would be especially grateful if you didn't finish it by Tuesday afternoon.

I am not a selfish person. If you had asked me, I would have given you all the milk from all the cows in all the country. But no.

And now, being alerted to the existence of someone with such an intolerable sense of entitlement, I am keeping an eye on my cottage cheese, which appears to be disappearing rather a little too quickly as well.

You have been warned.

Regards,

The person whose name was clearly marked on the bottle of milk.

This evening, not 24 hours after I posted about the neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed to move out of home, my brother comes home to announce that he's found a flat and is moving in on December first.

Huh? What? Hello?

*sound of universe shattering*

Okay so maybe not exactly a huge surprise. I mean, he had been looking at flats on gumtree rather seriously for a few weeks now. And unlike me he's not vehicularly-challenged. But I always thought he was like me in the whole motivated-about-life stakes – you know, pretty half-assed.

Guess not.

Wow. My brother – who I always talk about appreciating more and spending more time with – is flying the nest. And given that I barely have time to wash my socks these days, how on earth am I going to see him?

Suddenly having all kinds of nostalgic memories about when we were little and he'd tie me up with duct tape and put me on my bike with my underwear on my head.

Ah brothers...

Co-habitation can be a bitch.

Especially if the person you're living with is acting like one.

I need (need need need neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed) to move out of home. Families are only supposed to drive you crazy for so long. There has to be a cut off point, and I reckon it comes just as soon as you jingle the keys to your first apartment – even if it is a two-bedroom hole shared with twelve and a half other people and a mouldy cabbage (which, of course, mine won't be, because I am picky as all hell).

Got into a screaming match with the Mother today. In the car. About laundry. I mean of all the ridiculously petty things to fight about...

I suppose it doesn't help that we share a car as well. Which is, really, the biggest obstacle to my whole move-outta-home thing.

Vicious circle much?

So, who wants to help me buy a car? Anyone?









Anyone?

So in my continued attempts to become a Responsible Adult, I went to apply for a credit card a couple weeks ago.

Mucho frustrating. The bank won't approve my application because I don't really have a credit record.

Um, yes. I know. I want to build one. That's why I'm applying for a credit card. What, did you think I just wanted some Jimmy Choos?

Stupid recession. (Yes, yes, I know the Credit Act is there to protect our economy. Still.)

Anyway, so got back on the credit horse this weekend, getting my affairs in order, redirecting my cellphone debit order, applying for a woollies account and all that jazz. So hopefully next time I go to visit the Absa Ice Queen (her real name is Bonnie, you'd think she'd be friendlier wouldn't you?) I won't feel like Carrie Bradshaw when the bank tells her she's 'an unattractive candidate for a loan.'

In other weekend news, I put in a day's overtime at work on Saturday. Which actually wasn't so bad, what with the miserable weather making being out and about in Cape Town less than desirable anyway. And it's for a good cause after all – overtime now = accrued in leave = taking leave in December = road trip to Botswana with Boyfriend and six of our friends.

uh huh uh huh uh huh. I know.

Popped to Fat Cactus last night for a quick dinner with Noodle and Darling. Saw some guy get his arm broken in an arm-wrestling match. Saw two thirty-something sisters pole dance on the outdoor umbrellas and get asked by the manager to pay their bill and leave. Ate a whole plate of quesadillas.

All in all, a good Sunday night's entertainment.

So we made a cameo (ah! the self-importance!) at Night of 1000 Drawings at the Word of Art Gallery last night. Pretty cool evening, what with all the art and arty people and art-tractiveness swilling about (seriously...how did Cape Town manage to produce so many gorgeous people?). Didn't buy a doodle, but possibly was only saved from that particular impulse spend by the fact that, by the time we actually arrived, all the good ones had been snagged by early birds.

It's kinda cool how well the Cape Town art scene is doing, even though I think a large portion of people who go to these things show up to see and be seen (so really, it's exhibitionism at its best then isn't it?).

Something else I'm quite excited about is PaperGirl coming to South Africa. Give it a click.

So anyway, The Vixen was there last night. This is a girl I sort-of-kind-of know, a friend of a friend of Boyfriend's who I've seen out and about a couple of times. The last time we saw her, it is my personal opinion (which, fine, may have been somewhat vodka-clouded, but still in good working order) that she ignored me completely and lavished all the talents of her big bambi eyes and pouty mouth upon the unsuspecting Boyfriend.

Now, I am not a jealous girl by nature (a sense of pride and all that). But when an exotic beauty sets her sights on your other half ... well, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Which includes pretending not to know the beeyotch at all following social encounters.

It's a well-practised manoeuvre: return her warm smile with a half-hearted (but still congenial – this is important) one of your own, combined with a slightly confused look, as if to say, 'I am ever-so polite, in the manner of Grace Kelly, and am therefore returning your friendly greeting but I'm so sorry dear, you are just far too unimportant for me to remember who you are.'

Okay, so no, in all honesty this whole mean girl thing freaks me out and ruins my evening, and it's not exactly a part of myself I'm proud of (or practised in, just by the way). But, well...every now and again I have to remember that I am a female, and play by the rules.

'I seriously believe that you should rethink the length of your sideburns.'

So everyone seems to be feeling the end-of-year burnout, even those of us who have only been working since August (hey it's not like I was on a beach for the first seven months of the year – unemployment is pretty stressful you know).

Woke up feeling absolutely exhausted – not exactly ideal after a full eight hours of sleep, even if I was dreaming about job bags. And slept through my alarm for the first time in forever (literally).

Lots of tea in the next few days methinks.

Spent last night in my bed watching Bridget Jones's Diary again for the first time in years. This may sound like the case of the Sad Lame Boring Person, but it was actually rather pleasant to ditch my workout, ditch dinner with the folks and just snuggle up alone having some me-time (with what some people consider a clever piece of uproariously funny social commentary just by the way, so don't you dare say I was in bed with a chick flick. What blasphemy.)

Things I learned last night:
- I weigh the same as Bridget Jones. WTF?
- Colin Firth can actually be sexy (when he's not doing his carrot/bottom thing).
- Bridget Jones's Diary really is a chick flick.

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?