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.)

So I woke up this morning and hit the gym (now that I have an end date to my life of leisure I'm trying to make the most of every day) and am now wandering around my freezing house in a towel waiting for the hot water to sort itself out so I can shower my horrible sweaty self.

Fan-tashtic, no? No.

On a brighter note, the terrible Cape Town storm that everyone's been making dire predictions about hitting us today has...er...not. There is actual sunshine outside. Which makes a nice change from the sodding cold and torrential rain of late.

Okay time to try the shower again. If you hear some high-pitched swearing echoing around the country, you'll know it's me being doused in ice cold water.

Ask me what I do. Go on, ask me.

Usually to the inevitable 'So, Jade, what d'you do?' question (I wish people were more original, I really do), I simply say:
'I don't.'
Which has the desired effect and is a more than efficient conversation killer to that line of questioning.

But really now, ask me.

Because now I can reply,
'I'm a copy editor.'

Yes, that's right ladies and gentlemen, I am entering into employment, to be confirmed on 29 July, my first official day of work. Apparently - miraculously - my interview in the middle of my train wreck week last week actually went well, and they offered me the job this morning.

Can you spell H-A-P-P-Y?
(I can, but maybe that's because I'm a copy editor. hahahahahahahaha)

It's Monday and therefore time for....(drum roll) The Weekend in Numbers

Number of hours spent at work: 0. Had the weekend off. Lovely.

Number of boyfriends returning for the weekend: 1. Double lovely.

Number of Fringe episodes watched before we ran out of season and proceeded to mope disconsolately, wondering if life would ever be enjoyable again without such viewing pleasure: 2

Number of ridiculously delicious sushi dinners: 1. Wasabi, Constantia Village. Go. Now.

Number of newly discovered words to filthy: 1. 'Eruption'. Was used on the menu in the context of a Lindt chocolate ball dessert. Is now used in a vastly different context.

Number of times got staggeringly drunk and woke to embarrassing recounts of the previous night and a hangover so blinding it necessitated laser-eye surgery: 0. I'm turning over a new leaf. For real this time.

And (sneaking into the weekend tallies, because when you're unemployed you can count Monday morning as part of the weekend) number of call backs from last week's interview: 1. Please let this lead somewhere.

Well

Weekend: fuck up

Public holiday: recovering slowly

Today: another interview, for a different media house. Went alright. Cross your fingers, do your dances, as per usual.

Tomorrow: hoping for the best

(Apologies for the gloom. Let's pretend it's the weather.)

And the rain came down...

Which is typical really, since every day of the week - all those nights that I didn't go out - the weather was good (well, good for winter anyway).

I know...my social life is all a-tatters at the moment. Jade's rocking Friday night consisted of a belly-dancing class at gym followed by eating takeout and watching The Kite Runner for the second time. Not that I didn't enjoy my class. Quite the opposite actually. Our instructor, Desiree (what else?), is just lovely and laughs at all her own jokes. The only problem is that she keeps shouting 'And loosen girls! Shake it! Loosen! Loooooooooooooooooooosen!' but I'm seemingly inept in the looooosening department. Probably because of fourteen years of ballet, during which we were constantly entreated to 'Tighten girls! Pull up! Tighten! Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiighten' by a teacher who probably wouldn't have laughed at her own jokes, even if by some small cosmic glitch she ever happened to make any.

But anyway, of course it rains the one night that I have plans to go out and party like I'm seventeen again (except without my mother waiting up, on the verge of calling the police should I arrive a minute past my curfew). What will I do about my hair?

In other news, I think the test on Thursday went well. They must have thought so too, since I was contacted on Friday with inquiries as to my 'expected salary' (er...forty five grand a month should cover it guys, thanks).

It's D-day

9.51 am
Today is the day I find out whether or not I have a job. I have been on tenterhooks since early this morning (I really have, but also I've just always wanted to say that).

11.30 am
Wandering aimlessly around the house, too strung out to concentrate on anything, too lazy to go gym.

11.37 am
Have taken to carrying phone around in pocket of slouchy pants whilst meandering from room to room, just in case it rings and I don't hear it. Or worse, am in bathroom.

12.00 pm
Finished Love in the Time of Cholera. Feel I have somehow betrayed Gabriel Garcia Marquez by not really being able to concentrate on the last few pages.

12.05 pm
Back to wandering aimlessly.

12.10 pm
Realise that if call ever actually comes, am not even entirely sure what I'm hoping they'll say. A normal person would be gunning for a yes, I know. But who ever said I was remotely normal?
Possible reaction if yes: Hooray, have job can shop. Followed swiftly by The Fear, along the lines of, oh fuck can I even do this job? Is this what I want? What if something more me is out there?
Possible reaction if no: Relief. Can continue living in pyjamas, drinking too much tea and dreaming of finding The Perfect Job...ie not having to live in the real world. Followed swiftly by despair, along the lines of, will I ever find a job? Or will I slowly drink myself into insolvency and wake up one morning cold and alone and with no prospects (or nice shoes)?

1.00 pm
Seventy-fifth cup of tea (or near estimate). Decide it's time for lunch. Cannot settle on anything except rusks dunked in tea.

1.30 pm
Come up with novel idea of boiling an egg. Oh the excitement. However it did distract me for a whole five minutes, so thanks little egg. Sorry I ate you.

2.23 pm
Boyfriend kindly takes my mind off things work-related.
(No, not like that. Perverts.)

3.20 pm
Voicemail. Why oh why does my phone decide not to ring sometimes? Possible future employers want me to come in tomorrow to sit a test. Waiting finally over. Inner debate still rages, but have been given stay of execution.

Just got back from Hell on Earth (or, as the government persists in calling it, Home Affairs). What a fucking nightmare.

Now, everyone who knows me knows that I'm ever so slightly (read: to the point of psychosis) obsessive compulsive about, you know, organisation, cleanliness, that sort of thing. Therefore, spending an hour - minimum time it takes to accomplish anything in that vacuum of efficiency - in the kind of place that asks you to deposit your valuables into an empty beer box while you step through the metal detector...well, it really does my head in.

Swiftly was I robbed of any delusions I might have been clinging to regarding anything along the lines of a 'Q Here' sign. Bugger that, I'd settle for an actual queue.

The ninth circle of hell is reserved for those of us who dare request the issue of an ID document. Enter, the fingerprinting station. As if having my digits blacked and then plunged into the nausea-inducing bucket of cleansing gel wasn't bad enough, my happy little fingerprinting technician couldn't begin the process until he'd fiddled around on his phone and then balanced it on the counter, where it proceeded to blare Gospel music at me. Jesus loves me? Oh no, I rather think he does not.

Last but not least, please note that no gifts are 'excepted' at the Wynberg Home Affairs office. From this I assume we are to conclude that all gifts, without exception, are accepted? Maybe if I'd slipped someone a fiddy, I'd have been in and out before you could say 'corruption'.

EDIT: Well, colour me surprised. Home Affairs just SMSed me to acknowledge receipt of my ID application and to provide me with a reference number. Miracles do happen...

Career (hahahahaha) update

So finally, after months of sending applications and CVs and sample pieces out into The Void (also known as HR staff and recruiters who never get back to you), I had an interview with a media company this morning.

I like to think it went rather well, although cannot for the life of me remember any of the questions I was asked. Post-traumatic memory loss maybe? Probably, given the collection of vibrating nerves in a dress that constituted my person this morning.

At any rate, it's over, and I should be hearing from them, yay or nay, by Wednesday. Which is nice. Nobody likes the jury to be out for too long.

So hold your thumbs, cross your fingers, whatever you have to do. Because I need a job.

Like, now.

We're a little strange, my friends and I.

I sometimes wonder if it's a natural predisposition or if it comes from growing up together and spending far too long in one another's company, in a kind of strange plus strange equals stranger sort of phenomenon.

Either way, today after a dignified Sunday afternoon tea date (hahahaha not) we realised that at some stage we might have to integrate ourselves into society. Either that or start our own coffee shop, the reason being that apparently you can no longer say the word 'lube', fall off your chair laughing, or talk about suffocating into your breasts while doing a shoulder stand at yoga without people at other tables furtively signaling for the bill and beating a hasty retreat.

Heard about the most bizarre New Zealand custom yesterday. Only people in a country filled with sheep who have a prime minister with a name like John could have come up with this one.

Apparently, if you are single in New Zealand (and, I should imagine, not at all particular about your sexual conquests) you trawl the supermarkets with - please just listen to this - bananas in your trolley. People see your single-person-on-the-prowl bananas and sally forth to pick you up.

Opening lines probably include, 'Baaa baaa baaa. Wanna shag? Baaa baaa baaa.'
Not that I'm judging.

It gets even better. Possibly due to previous awkward, banana-related episodes, they've come up with a way to negotiate the tricky issue of sexual orientation. If you are heterosexual, please place your bananas into your trolley with the ends curving upwards. Jolly girls and boys, bananas curving down please.

I ask you...

Top 3 things annnoying me today:

1. Imaginary service delivery in South Africa. In general, but also in particular...how hard can it be to have a pair of boots sent from one branch of a shop to another, without them disappearing into an alternate universe (presumably one filled with shoes) along the way, so that now the staff at both branches claim complete ignorance and are looking at me like I might go Britney on them any second.

2. Club stamps that just won't come off. Is this just me? I mean, I shower a requisite number of times a day, and yet I'm still branded with the evidence of excursions of evenings past. Finally managed to de-ink my forearm by removing most of my epidermis, but hey at least it's clean again.

3. Jacob Zuma's face. Is nobody else worried that Mr Toad from Wind in the Willows is running our country? I keep trying to discern lily pads around his feet.




On a different note, a big thank you to Marc Perel and From the Couch for the publicity and advice. I owe you 1 x cup of tea.

Something I forgot to mention yesterday...

Number of times got paid this weekend for freelance writing: 1
Now according to a writerly friend of mine, what one aims to do when starting out in the business, is to cultivate an attitude of indifference, presumably so that everyone wonders what they're missing out on, and falls over themselves to commission you.
I'm finding this hard to accomplish.
The fact that somebody handed over actual currency for something I'd written...well it blows my mind and gives me the warm and fuzzies. Sure, I wasn't even credited, but I got paid. Clearly it's not critical acclaim and creative prestige I'm after...just show me the money.
Which, admittedly, wasn't very much, but I feel like I can justifiably call myself a writer now that there has been actual commerce involved. And a penniless writer at that, so it's definitely official...

The weekend in numbers

Number of boyfriends who came home from Jo'burg for the weekend: 1

Number of tickets to the Good Food and Wine Show won: 2 - and ps: wasn't I more excited than Janice Dickinson in a collagen factory? I never win anything.

Number of wine tastings - you know, those itty bitty sips they give you so you can swill the glass all knowledgeable-like under your nose, dribble some liquid into your mouth and then stare off into the middle-distance, pretending to distinguish certain bouquets or noses or topnotes (maybe that's perfume) or whatever when what you really want to do is whack the glass back onto the counter and say, 'Another one Barkeep, and make it a double this time' ... well, number of those it takes to get me on the express road to Smashedville: about six, apparently. Maybe five. What is happening to me? Perhaps indulging in some more of the Good Food and less of the Good Wine would have been an idea.

Number of spontaneous visits to Tiger Tiger: 1 (please don't tell anyone)

Number of vodka limes at said Tiger: enough not to remember how many. And then a couple more. Just kidding (no I'm not).

Number of cheesy 80s rock songs danced to on side of dance floor, attempting to drag Boyfriend onto floor with me: too many. Thank God he managed to resist.

Number of head-throbbing, seriously-contemplating-suicide, please-god-let-it-end hangovers at work the next morning: 1. But you could divide it into four, and they would kill a small horse each. Of course, it only kicked in at around ten, before which time hindsight reveals me to have still been drunk.

Number of rugby matches watched on Saturday afternoon after recovering: 1. Incidentally, my very first. Have managed to live in SA for twenty-two years without being forced to watch one. But figured I owed lovely, forgiving, saintly boyfriend this much.

Number of resolutions to really start taking it easy from now on with the drinking: 1, and full intentions to stick to it this time.

So yesterday I spent the afternoon with Bunny and the Serbian watching lame but, given the present company, uproariously funny chickflicks. Seriously, it's all about who you're watching with...else in what world could House Bunny come close to topping Miss Pettigrew in terms of walking around quoting for the rest of the day (okay, rest of the week probably)?
Anyway, somewhere between the end of the movies and the raiding of the kitchen, we got to contemplating how all three of us are in long term relationships, an incredible fact that still takes us by surprise from time to time, given the fact that in high school we thought we'd have to marry each other and share bed pans when we turned ninety (of course, this could still happen).
Inevitably, talk of relationships turned to 'Remember when we were single...' reminisces, which turned to wondering when we'd next (or, in one of our cases, ever) be single again, which began a tangent we'd have to call Sowing Your Wild Oats, based on the fact that the word 'oats' was probably used more times in one ten-minute conversation than an entire history of Jungle cereal production.
Popular topics included:
How many oats one should sow before settling down
Who had been the most prolific sower of said oats
Most fertile places in Cape Town to sow one's oats
Best year and season for oat-sowing
And, inevitably...
'All this talk of cereal is making me hungry. What's in the kitchen?', which led to the discovery of cheese and crackers, the Boondock Saints DVD, and the possible patent on Norman Reedus and Sean Patrick Flannery-flavoured oats.

Intelligent things I did yesterday...

1. Sat waiting to turn left behind a guy at a stop street for AGES before realising he was actually parked there (way to go, tosser in your ugly little half-loaf Daihatsu, really good idea parking in the actual little white-outlined stop street box thingy-majigy).

2. Substituted wax paper for baking paper while being a good girlfriend and making double dark chocolate chip and nut cookies for the returning Boyfriend. Figured they were pretty much the same thing. They're not. Something very Ghostbusters happened in the oven.
(Don't worry baby i made a fresh batch.)

3. Ate nothing all day apart from licking the bowl of chocolatey goodness and 'sampling' (numerous times) both the cookie dough and the finished results (yes, even the Chernobyl ones). One might think living on nothing but chocolate for the rest of one's life sounds like a dream come true - it's not. I now know the truth.

4. Went to a 90-minute Zumbathon at my beloved Virgin Active...it's like this crazy workout come latin american dance class come lesson in embarrassment (for the first few minutes at least, until everyone realises it's simpler to just, really, dance like nobody's watching). This in itself was a Good Idea, just maybe not so much after the cookie dough.

This weekend I discovered my secret super power (soon to be a little less secret). Everybody has one, you just have to figure out what it is, and then start using it to your advantage.
My friend the Energiser Bunny has periods of time when she controls the universe...seriously, everything she says is going happen, happens. Unfortunately, she wasn't really in tune with it the first time and, feeling a bit pessimistic about the world, made mostly dire predictions. What a week.
So anyway, my newly discovered super power is my incredible ability to look Wednesday afternoon sober when, in fact, I am absolutely, Friday night shmangled.
(Yes, I discovered it this weekend, when I was out drinking, which I said I wouldn't be doing, but bugger my resolution, it's only five days until the GFAW Show anyway.)
I don't need to tell you how handy this power is, especially in situations that are:
a) Really inappropriate to be drunk in, but
b) Nigh impossible to survive without being drunk
How fantastic...

One should always wear a bra...

...and one should never believe the Butler's pizza phoneline lady when she tells you how long your pizza will be.
At first I thought it was a coincidence, but I've come to believe that she must be enacting some kind of passive-aggressive revenge on her innocent callers (or possibly just me). How many times has she told me that my hunger-succouring disc of cheesy wonder will be a mere twenty minutes, so that I've waited, stomach digesting itself, in forty-minute-long anticipation by the front door? Or worse, given me a forty-five minute estimation, so that when the door bell rings after only twenty-five, I'm caught on the hop...usually jumping out of the shower and answering the door in a towel, my hair plastered to the side of my face with unrinsed shampoo while the pizza guy giggles into his overly large tip (I try to bribe them into forgetfulness).
She struck again last night. The brother figure should have been back from the DVD store to pay the pizza guy, but why should things go right for me? At least I was fully clothed this time...in my pajamas and, obviously, minus one bra. Perfect.
It gets better: I party with the pizza guy, who has now seen me au naturel, on a regular basis.
Remember that resolution not to drink? I might extend it to not leaving the house. Then again, it seems I'm perfectly capable of embarrassing myself right here at home anyway.

House hunting...

Alas not as glam as it sounds; was helping a friend view houseshares yesterday so her boyfriend has a place to stay when he moves to Cape Town. Thought it might be fun, a little preview of one day when someone finally offers me gainful employment (please god) and I can move out of my parents' house.
Well, let's just say living at home suddenly not seeming so bad. Feck it, living in Bogota in the 90s might be preferable (or at least, I wouldn't have to be there long).
These places were bad. The words 'student hovel' spring to mind. Two things, to help you visualise the scenes, and then I can go back to blocking them out:
1. What I suspect was a more-than-week-old cabbage, on a plate, in the living area...as 'art'.
2. Picking my feet up, pony style, so as not to soil my pumps with the seemingly omnipresent dog poo.
I kid you not.

I’m swearing off alcohol – well, until the Good Food and Wine Show at least.
And yes, I’m sure you’ve all heard me say it before, but this time I’m serious, largely due to the effects of what I believe was my very first forty-eight hour hangover.
Apparently, on Saturday night, my hand had a mind of its own, lifting glasses of wine and champagne and shots of tequila to my mouth at regular intervals without any input from my brain.Which might not have been too bad a thing, considering my head was switched to Autopilot itself: Jade is not in right now. Please leave an appropriately detailed message. And hand me another glass of wine.
Saturday night at Andy Warhol’s Factory - aka Princess Lara’s twenty-first - neared the hedonistic proportions of its original life in the sixties, and I have the blacked-out spaces in my short term recall to prove it. Nuthouse would be an accurate description.
Highlights of my evening, as detailed in the harsh light of Sunday morning by the incredibly patient, forgiving Boyfriend:
- Tequila
- Tying back the birthday girl’s boyfriend’s hair while his champagne made an urgent and unexpected exit
- Saying goodbye to birthday girl asleep on dance floor on brother’s mink bolero
- Insisting to Boyfriend after we’d left that the night was still young and that we either a) wake up his friend to go visit his house in Camps Bay for a dip in the jacuzzi or b) hit House of Rasputin (thank god Boyfriend has some sense of decorum unlike hooligan girlfriend and drove us straight home despite my screeching to the contrary)
Incredibly, when I woke and staggered in search of liquids (the Morning After Thirst having arrived with a vengeance), noticed I’d somehow managed to remove every scrap of my professionally applied MAC makeup before passing out. Further investigation revealed false eyelashes nestling safely in their dinky plastic container. Now how did I manage that? Autopilot is good for something…

Things seemed to be going incredibly well for a while. I had recently graduated, run off for the summer on my very first roadtrip (which came crashing down around our ears when I...er...crashed the car. But let's not quibble over details), and had come home to intern at a magazine I'd dreamed of working for since forever. Le Boyfriend and I couldn't have been happier, sushi and open bars seemed to be the order of the day when going out with friends, and I had another internship (a paying one this time, thank you to the God of Cash Flow) lined up for my return from a two-week sojourn in Jo'burg, where I got to wake up at ten, watch Sex and the City all day and finish a bottle of red wine a night with the delicious Boyfriend.
I should have known the gods were just lulling me into a false sense of security. The bastards.
Return from Jo'burg. Best Life magazine - of the paying internship loveliness - has folded. Fuck the recession.
Unemployed for a month now, and living with my parents.
Decided to ignore my serious lack of funds and go for sushi and cocktails on Sunday night with Noodle and Darling. Forgot to book, and waited an hour for a table. Decided to make the best of the situation by horribly embarrassing myself. Laughed and swallowed some PappySuckle Vinotini (I know...wtf?) at the same time, resulting in a lovely ten minutes of hacking coughing, frantically begging the none-too-interested barmen for water, and trying not to let my tears (of laughter? pain? I'm not even sure really) ruin my eyeliner.
And then at gym this morning had to deal with the shame of dying of exhaustion while the countless middle-aged moms surrounding my mat put me to shame doing crunch aftter crunch after crunch.
Something's gotta give.

My attempt at a Carrie Bradshaw/Cosmopolitan type sex piece

Lately I've been pondering the importance of sex. Apart from being necessary for procreation of the species, and giving us something fun to talk about over cocktails, how much emphasis do we, or should we, place on the Deed? Sex is everywhere these days - on TV, on magazine covers, in detergent commercials. There's no getting away from it.
But what about getting it? Twenty-somethings seem to have turned the pursuit of getting laid into an Olympic sport. And if that's the case, then what are the rules? And what are the records? After all, nobody likes finishing in last place. And when you've found somebody who'll run the race with you on a regular basis, what then?
Every relationship starts off with what my friends like to call the 'honeymoon phase', those magical first few months when you stay in bed for hours on weekend mornings (and not to read the Sunday Times) and if you get up at all it's to shower - together. You can't wait to see each other, just kissing him is better than having a whole slab of Pistachio Lindt to yourself and, of course, the sex is fantastic.
Of course, the honeymoon never lasts. Whether that's a good or bad thing depends on the relationship. Once the first fog of infatuation has cleared, and you really start to see each other clearly, you either fall in love...or fall apart. Fair enough...but if you do stay together, what about the sex?
Most experts would say that when you reach a new level in your relationship, the ripping-each-other's-clothes-off heat of passion is replaced by the slow burn of real intimacy, which is often more intense, rather than less. Not only are you comfortable enough with your partner to really give it your all between the sheets, but he's bound to have figured out (or have been taught by you) exactly how to push your pleasure buttons.
Quality aside, what about quantity? In those first few months, being in bed (or in the bath, or on the couch, or in the kitchen) together seems like more of an excuse to get each other naked than anything else. So when do things tick over to sex every night no longer being on the cards? All it takes is one night of you both being too tired for more than a goodnight kiss and the platonic sleepover wiggles its way into your repertoire of bedroom moves. You start sleeping together, without actually sleeping together.
I'm still undecided as to whether this is necessarily a bad thing, but occasionally I wonder if we should be using our sex lives as a measure for what's going on in our relationships. If there's a significant dip in frequency, should we drive ourselves crazy over-analysing and trying to figure out why? Probably not. Questions such as, 'Isn't he attracted to me anymore?', 'Did I do something he didn't like?' or even, 'Is he gay?' will only send us to the bottom of the nearest vodka lime. Sometimes he really is tired.
Having said that, there are a couple of bedroom red flags that are cause for concern in the bigger picture too. For instance, if it's you who's no longer interested in being sexual with him, ask yourself why. Are you letting other areas of your life intrude into the bedroom? Lying awake thinking about a deadline at work can make you oblivious to that tingling between your thighs. Or have your feelings for him slowly evaporated while your mind was elsewhere? You might not constantly want to rip his jockeys off, but some lust is necessary for any kind of functioning relationship.
Secondly, intimacy doesn't only mean sex. If kisses, cuddles and conversations have disappeared along with the sex, you have to wonder if things haven't downgraded from boyfriend and girlfriend, to just friends.
And, of course, if you can't remember the last time the two of you did anything remotely of a sexual nature, then chances are it's over and you're both just too scared to admit it. Man up, break up, and then hook up with someone else. Life's too short not to be having regular, good sex. And the rabbit doesn't count.