It was a perfect weekend.

That is all I will say on the matter.
 

Cape Town's weather is being typically contrary – two September days of rain and storm clouds and counting. Ordinarily I wouldn't mind (what better excuse for spending the whole weekend snuggled on the couch with popcorn and a blanket than miserable meteorology?) but I had been hoping for a little sun over the next three days.

Why, you may ask...

Because I'm taking tomorrow off work and then Boyfriend and I are heading to Franschhoek to celebrate our two-year anniversary.

Sorry, just pausing quickly to savour your jealousy.

Where was I?

Oh yes, three days of heaven right around the corner. I can hardly wait. I can hardly work. I can hardly ... pack.

Why is this always such a problem for me? I consider myself a pretty good packer (I'm neat, I'm thorough, I hardly ever forget anything), it's just that it takes me forever. I started yesterday afternoon and while there are neat piles of clothes all over my couch and regimentally lined up toiletries on my dresser, there is nothing actually inside my suitcase yet.

I am one of those people who cannot bear being caught on the hop, therefore packing to go anywhere for more than a night involves imagining every eventuality and then putting together an outfit for it.
I once packed an umbrella and a bikini into the same overnight bag, just in case. Do you see the problem here?

So despite the fact that I still live with my parents (my secret is out), I am finally, at the ripe old age of 23, starting to feel like a grown-up.

You think this kind of thing happens when you turn 18, or 21? It doesn't. In fact, I'm fairly certain that even when I'm 40 I'll still be stumbling along through life waiting to become An Adult.

Still, feeling marginally less adolescent. I have a degree, a job, a credit card, a chunk of debt, my own car and, as of yesterday, a financial advisor.

We had coffee at Vida and talked about unit trusts, risk categories and provident portfolios. We also talked about backpacking around France and paying for gin and tonics when you're retired, because, well, I can't help but try to make people in suits into human beings.

So now I have a money guy. Never mind the fact that I have about zero rand to invest right now... It's not even a week since payday, how am I already in the red??

I'm an idiot

I must be. Because really, what's the point in being such a slave to the step machine, and at the mercy of my alarm clock, when I ruin it all by behaving like, let's face it, a candidate for Secret Binge Eaters Anonymous?

The past seven days have been disastrous food-wise. I won't go into the shameful details, suffice to say this is the weekend in numbers...
Friday: 900g away from this coming Friday's goal weight
Today: 2.6 kg away

That's because, among other things, there are six slices of toast, a cupcake, a pizza and a tartufo sitting in my tummy. And yes, that was just yesterday.

So, the plan (and only two days away from the first day of spring!) is to eat like an anorexic, carbophobe bird for the next four days while continuing to gym my ass off.

Can you say, damage control?

Elin formerly-Woods, will you marry me?

R741 million rand, and a few properties in Florida and California – and you know those aren't studio apartments or single-storey cottages.

I think I would sign up to have my husband's many sleazy affairs splashed across the tabloids if that was the payload at the end of it all. Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy servants, expensive shoes and international travel, which is really the same thing in my book.

In other news, it's humpday, so apart from sitting here planning how to get a ridiculously wealthy international sports star to marry me, cheat on me, divorce me and give me half, not too much exciting is going on.

Oh and to the green Uno on Buitengracht yesterday: it's called an indicator because you use it to indicate that you are changing lanes. Just a tip. From the person whose Biscuit you nearly maimed.

Some random Tuesday musings

Baking a massive chocolate tart over the weekend means it will be your downfall on Monday, the day you're supposed to go back to the eating equivalent of boot camp.

If I had a body like Lady GaGa, I too would film all my music videos in my scanties.

Meringues are surprisingly low in kJ. Who knew?

Martha Stewart's Cookie of the Day emails are going to be the end of me. So much to bake, so little time. Maybe I should try to swing a Julie & Julia book deal.

JD Salinger and Vladimir Nabokov seemed to have similar world views re little girls.

Editing an overly wordy writer first thing makes me abandon ship and waste time blogging instead.

The Weekend in Numbers

Number of rands in my bank account: 51.51. Scary. Let's leave it at that.

Number of slabs of chocolate that went into the filling for the epic Jamie Oliver double chocolate tart I baked on Saturday afternoon: four and a half. Scary. Let's leave it at that.

Number of meringues you can make with two egg whites: nine. My first successful meringues – yay me. Being stuck at home in miserable Cape Town weather puts me in the mood to bake, can you tell?

Number of slices of toast consumed on Toastday (known as Sunday to some): six.

Number of minutes early the Athlone cooling towers came down: four. And you know I was the idiot looking at the time at that exact moment. 'Four minutes to go peopl ... huh? Where'd they go?'

Number of kilos gained between Sunday morning and Monday morning, more than likely thanks to the baking spree and toast binge: 1. Dammit.

TGIF

I really mean that. Not that this week's been particularly stressful – things are whirring along nicely on the work front, and a lull in freelance assignments means my evenings have been my own. I'm actually just looking forward to two days of sleeping in, which for me now means anything past 5 am.

Mission accomplished. I managed to hit the gym all five days this week, four of those times being before work, hence the waking up at sparrows. Let's see how long I can keep this up...

In other news...

One in five Americans mistakenly believe that Pres Obama is muslim, according to a recent survey. You just know it's all the hick states of middle America who were polled, people who marry their cousins and can't accept the fact that just because his middle name is Hussein and his last name sounds so much like Osama, doesn't make him a muslim. Maybe it's his cafe au lait complexion.

Really now, is it possible for a people to be that ignorant? Really?

Carrots not carrot cake

The new copy editor brought a huge slice of carrot cake back from lunch for us to share. It looks, in a word, deliciousdivinedelectable.

Somehow though, I am managing to say no, and munch my carrots instead.

My halo arrives next week.

Just one of those mornings...

Hit snooze twice at 5 am because was feeling shattered after Pilates last night, and therefore missed the start of the killer abs class this morning so only did my obligatory 30 minutes of cardio instead and was therefore home, showered and ready for work earlier than usual.

Because of this, I decided today was a good morning to stop at the post office before work to collect a parcel waiting for me. Called to check what time they opened and was told 8 am. Got petrol (Biscuit was beeping that she was thirsty) and after the friendly petrol guy washed my dirty windscreen I arrived at the PO at two minutes to eight.

At 8.15, after knocking somewhat impatiently on the door, was tersely gestured to read the sign (that had been in front of my face the whole time) telling me that on Wednesdays they open at 8.30 (incidentally, the time I'm supposed to be at work). Felt decidedly sheepish after having mounted my high horse and muttered under my breath for a quarter of an hour about tardiness in state institutions (don't you hate when that happens? when you get all up in arms only to realise you were the one being a twit all along?). Decided to wait it out, all the while being whistled at by homeless people under the bridge. Uncomfortable.

(If you're wondering why I was so super keen to get to the post office, it's because there are few things I love more than Receiving Mail, especially when said mail is A Package.)

Finally got back on the road to work, taking a 'short cut' that included about fifteen red lights, one cab driver who clearly bought his licence last week, and two apparently suicidal pedestrians.

Smelt something funny. Funny, like vomity funny. So not funny at all.

Realised that last night some drunken reveler must have tossed his or her cookies into the windscreen washing bucket that the petrol pump attendant used on Biscuit this morning.

Seriously? Seriously? Sigh.

How did I immediately and so astutely surmise that this was what had happened? Because it's happened to me before. Why universe, why?

The Weekend in Numbers

(Including Thursday, because I can.)

Number of Cape Town Fashion Week shows attended: 1, a joint affair between Suzanne Heyns and Coppelia. I know the fashion world is all about cultivating a cool exterior of ennui, but I must confess myself to have been excited, not least because I finally had a reason to wear my grey, peep-toe, fold-over ankle boots somewhere they'd be understood. The show itself was fun (even if I didn't quite 'get' the clothes) what with the lit-up runway, the models' jutting hipbones and all the fashion mag eds in the front row. Thanks to ThatUlandaGirl for the invites.

Number of episodes of House watched on Friday night: 4. I rented them from the DVD store and stayed in with my blankey, a big bowl of popcorn and a Magnum Death by Chocolate. Because that's how I roll these days apparently.

Numbers of raging all-nighters complete with tequila shots and that ole rock 'n' roll music: 0.

Number of pairs of shoes bought on credit: 2. Whoops. 

Number of foreign-language films watched at Cinema Nouveau with the dear (albeit a little sad) Miss Lane: 1. HelloGoodbye. Was charming.

Number of unexpected gifts from the long-time-not-seen but actually quite missed Bunny: 1. Star-shaped cookie cutters. Some friends just know you inside out and upside down don't they?

Ah Miss Lane, thank you thank you

For everyone who said that I was responsible for getting 'Do your Ears Hang Low' lodged in their heads this morning, here's the (ahem) cure. Clicky clicky.

For some reason I have that primary school ditty 'Do Your Ears Hang Low?' stuck in my head this morning.

Am feeling a little invisible this week. Nothing like someone you've met about seven times consistently forgetting your name to make you feel unimportant. Also, yesterday an automatic sliding door wouldn't open for me. I  practically had to walk into the glass before being allowed admittance to the building. So even machines don't notice me.

Do you ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro...

Am a bit wobbly today. My legs, they hurt something awful. (Wait, no, that's no technically true. They only hurt when I require them to perform unreasonable leggy tasks, like say, walk. Or sit down. Or stand. Any of the above really.) Only upon leaving the gym this morning after some nice hardcore cardio (not that it'll make up for the three rusks I ate last night, but whatever) did I realise that it was less than 12 hours since I'd left the gym yesterday after Pilates. I'm not sure whether to be proud of my regular-gym-goingness, or admit that it's just a teensy bit sad.

...can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow...

Bought a giant wire-work teacup this weekend. It's lovely. It doesn't quite fit on my shelf and I really shouldn't be spending frivolously (Biscuit bankrupted me this month) but I love it.


...can you throw them over your shoulder, like a regimental soldier...

As much as I love tea and lemon cake at Sidewalk. As much as I love four-day weeks. As much as I love the fact that I'm going to a show at Fashion Week tomorrow (yeah anyone can name-drop, but it takes skill to event-drop).

What, if any, is the point?

Went to see Inception last night (to jump on the bandwagon – yes, it's amazing, go see it) and I thought, 'Hey, it's Phuza Thezday, you're allowed to go a little crazy' so I treated myself to some movie popcorn for dinner instead of my usual veggie soup. (Accompanied by water just by the way, not Coke and Whispers.)

Hah! Apparently there is no such thing as a little leeway for me, if this morning's weigh-in is anything to go by.

I nearly crawled back into bed to sleep off the frustration of it all, but dutifully got dressed instead and went to Pilates.

Really though, this doesn't strike me as fair.

I subsist on all-bran, rice cakes, rye bread and cottage cheese, carrot sticks, almonds and vegetable soup. I eat 2/3 the amount of kilojoules recommended for my age, weight and height every day. I exercise 4-5 times a week. I hardly drink any more (which I make up for in bottles of wine while Boyfriend's here but still). I drink my 6-8 glasses of water a day. I mean, this is the MO of someone who is losing weight yes? So why aren't I?

My three month goal of losing five kilos is fast approaching, and I've still got ... oh right! Just over three to go.

So what's next? The Danish Royal Hospital Diet? ABC?

I tire of not seeing results.

Saw the most annoying ad while midway through my morning ritual of Hi-fibre Bran and The Times.

Absa's launching a new car finance website aimed specifically at women. Why? Apparently, to make things 'super simple' for us, and it'll have all kinds of helpful information, like hints on how not to scuff the heels of your favourite shoes while driving.

Excuse me? Did I accidentally board a time machine and get flipped back to the 1950s?

I'm sorry, but what the fuck? I don't want to get all feminazi on you this morning, but hands up now, which independent female out there applying for car finance would like a nice big serving of patronising to go with her competitive interest rate?

I stared at the twee little pic of (okay admittedly wearable) high heels next to the copy and just couldn't help thinking, 'How dare you assault my subjectivity like this?' (which unless you've read Irigaray or spent any time with Natasha Distiller won't make too much sense I know, but you get the gist).

Grr I say. Grr grr.

The site goes live on 20 August, so I guess we'll have to wait till then to see just how badly Absa has fucked this one up.

Let's just talk about the elephant in the room quickly

Hint: it's to the right of this post, matches none of my blog colours and is really quite obnoxiously large and obvious.

I don't expect to win an SA Blog Award. I don't even expect anyone to nominate me of their own free will  (that's what friends are for – blackmail and/or emotional manipulation should get at least a few clicks). But I figured, where's the harm right?

Now click, all of you, click! Like you mean it!

Happiness.

I won something.

This something to be exact.

It's on its way to me in the post as we speak.

This is very exciting, as a) I rarely win things and b) I love receiving packages in a very big way.

So yes, happiness.

Tee gee eye eff

So I've finally made it through this very odd, slightly disastrous, very unmotivated and entirely out of whack week.

Congrats to me. Here's what I've learnt:

• My healthy eating and gym plan goes right out the window as soon as life becomes a little less ordinary and I have things to do like going to work dos and getting ready to welcome Boyfriend home. 
• I should stop getting attached to peripheral people in my life to avoid feelings of abandonment when figures such as my Pilates instructor or personal waxer move away.
• One should never go to an editorial lunch without planning an escape clause that forces one to leave at a decent hour. At least not when one has a whole list of things that one had planned to get done after said lunch.
  On Wednesday evening I somehow managed to wash my hair, clean and vacuum my place, bake and ice cupcakes, and paint my nails – after about nine bottles of Chocolate Block and Haute Cabriere between six people. It was difficult, to say the least. I alternated between Miss Energiser Bunny (the two trying-to-sober-up double espressos catching up with me) and Miss I Am Holding On To The Bedroom Carpet So That I Don't Fall On To The Ceiling Duh.
• I will never again drink and dial (or whatever the equivalent is for texting).
• Sometimes, I am a complete idiot.
• Five weeks is far too long to go without seeing somebody you love.
• Eating a real meal after three weeks of soup for dinner can cause stomach pain.
• My Mac weather widget can't be working properly because it is forecasting sun for today and it is not sunny outside.
• One does not catch up on one's reading by watching House every night before bed.

My apologies

My last post was possibly the most boring What I Did On My Weekend-type ramble ever.

I feel it may have been an attempt to a) keep up the regular posting and b) make 'motherfucker' not the first word a visitor to the blog would see.

In any case, my apologies.

Far more composed than during Friday's rant. To cut a long one, Biscuit is all better, is having a couple newfangled security bits and bobs added to her, and is starting to smell less like new car and more like Stay Soft.

In other news, Boyfriend is arriving on Thursday evening (yippee!) and I've lost two kilos since two Mondays ago (now let me try not to fuck it up). These are Good Things.

...as were these:

• Having my fringe trimmed for free on Saturday morning (I love you Karen at Scar, marry me)
• Seeing an unfortunately swollen but no less lovely Princess Lara for tea on Saturday afternoon
• Finally having a drink with RobFather on Saturday eve
• Going to see The Castle on Sunday at noon (hilarious, and a bit of Aussie, erm, culture)
• Having sushi in the sunshine at Tank with Bunny, Frankincense and friends later that day

All in all a decent weekend. And no, just because I didn't mention them doesn't mean I didn't manage to watch about eight episodes of House as well in the last 48 hours (the first step is admitting you're an addict).

Fuck ass motherfuckers pieceofshit bastard asshole fucker fuck fucks

Yeah, most of the time I try to channel Grace Kelly, but last night was not one of those times, as I alternated between leaking through my eyeballs (some people call it crying) and swearing at the state of our nation, the human race at large, and whichever motherfuckingassholebastardshits ruined my evening last night.

They broke into Biscuit, snipped her little lifeforce (the battery) so she couldn't even cry (the alarm didn't go off) and then disemboweled her (ripped the radio – sans face I might add – out).

Hence the extreme vulgarity.

I know this shit happens to everyone all the time, but for me it was a massive crises. Not only because I gave myself the creeps afterwards (Did they watch me arrive at the twins' flat for book club? What if I'd left early and disturbed them in the process and they'd bundled me into the boot? And how could I have gotten into the car like a total idiot before realising anything was wrong? There could have been someone waiting inside.)

No, also because I hate being wrong. Certain people warned me not to get a citi golf, that it was just too easy for thieves to snip the battery and steal the thing, but I didn't listen because I wanted my Biscuit.

Oh poor, poor Biscuit. She's getting all fixed up today. She's been to the police station, the battery centre and the alarm/radio guys already this morning.

At least the (see aforementioned string of dirty words) didn't steal her Stay Soft refill.

Life in a fish bowl

(Yes aren't you loving my creative and intriguing post titles that turn out to be nothing more than a hook to getting you to read about my fairly quotidian goings-on?)

So, I'm wearing my contact lens today.

Yes, that's lens, singular. Why can nothing about me ever be normal, but always has to have some spastic twist? On the bright side, I suppose having 20/20 vision in one eye and, um, non-20/20 vision in the other means I save 50% on contact lenses.

Anyway, after giving up on them years ago, my eyes (eye?) have (has) been straining a bit of late, so I've decided to give them another go. Not too sure if it'll take. I'm having this weird fishbowl feeling, like I'm seeing the world though the glass of an aquarium. I may be hazardous in traffic.

Maybe I should just stick to my reading glasses. Pity I lost them a couple weeks ago...

Shopping list:

• Yoga mat (the gym mats are starting to freak me out a bit, crawling as they are with the bacteria and sweat of others)
• Reading glasses
• One of those stay-soft refill things to put in Biscuit (when I finally get her back that is) to make her smell purdy and less like honking eau de new car.

Good news or bad news first?

The Bad News

• Biscuit is still not fixed properly. This involves another round of trips to the dealer and to the AA. Hopefully by next weekend I can officially say, 'I have a car' and really mean it.
• I'm sitting in the office when I should have left ages ago because somehow there is just always one last job bag outstanding for this particular client on a Friday afternoon. I am going to kill the CEO of a large hotel chain, and then be arrested and forced to eat prison food. Sigh.
• Our router is broken at home, and since it's horribly expensive and still under warranty, we're opting to have it fixed by the manufacturer rather than buy a replacement. Means no internedi for 10-14 working days. I ask you.
• I have still not lost weight (according to my frenemy the scale).

The Good News

• It's Friday.
• I'm going to a three-hour dance class tomorrow.
• I nearly have a car.
• Um, that's about it really...

Biscuit is going for surgery today

I took her to the AA for a technical check on Saturday, and they found all kinds of things wrong with her. Not hugely bad things – nothing engine related – but bad enough.

Like a half-existent handbrake, for a start.

Luckily she's still under warranty, so the dealer is coming to pick her up today and take her to the doctor. Poor Biscuit. I actually forgot to say goodbye to her this morning (see? I'd make a terrible mother). I'm hoping though, that this is the beginning and end of my car trouble. (Nothing wrong with a bit of wishful thinking.)

In other news, I 'Hup Holland Hup!'-ed with the best of them last night, to no avail. Oh well, I'm not entirely bummed that Spain won (least it wasn't Uruguay – what's that? fourth? oh shame...). Good for them.

However, I do wish Puyol would tie up that hair of his, rather than swinging it wildly at the ball every time he's close to a cross. I just want to hand him an elastic band and explain that if he doesn't at least consider hair accessories then he will only have himself to blame when one day that curly mop gets up off his head and slinks away of its own accord

It actually kind of reminds me of our new cleaning lady at work, whose unruly hair extensions keep falling out and ending up in places you really don't want to see them, like the dish drainer.

Did you just involuntarily shudder? I did.

You know your're sad when...

...you spent most of this rainy Saturday cuddled under a blanket on the couch with tea watching Californication (then again, Hank Moody, who can blame a girl?).

...there's a 99% chance you're not going to move from here until you get into bed later.

...you're giving Taylor Momsen's band a listen and thinking, 'Hey, this annoying little trampy dresser is not actually half bad.' Although, granted, 'Make Me Wanna Die' is still a very teen angst-ish title for your first single.

...someone you used to be close to recently questioned your continued existence.

Sometimes when I wear just leggings and a jersey, I worry people who don't get it behind me are saying to one another, 'Did that girl forget her pants?'

Happy Friday everyone. Here's the latest...

The Good
It's the weekend.
There are two very exciting footie matches coming up shortly.
I'm finally getting used to my non-power steering.

The Bad

Service at Minato last night was shocking. Resident waitress Miss Miserable was in top form, which is to say, Surly McSurly Pants.

The World Cup will be over come Monday, and I'm actually kind of sad. Also, I have no idea who to support now that Ze Germans have been knocked out. I could quite happily cheer for both teams on Sunday night. In fact, I may do just that, and paint each country's flag on either cheek, like other ambivalent supporters I've seen.  

The Ugly
Despite my efforts to the contrary, what with hitting the gym four times a week and trying to eat as healthily as possible yet, you know, remain a sane person, the scale, she won't budge. How (how?) is this possible?

Take that, Meesterrr Forrrrlan

You broke our hearts, but the Dutch kindly stood up and paid your retribution. Van Bronkhorst, Sneijder, Robben, you beauties you.

Sorry Diego, you sneering, crazy-eyed, blonde-locked lookalike of a Euro villain from a bad Stephen Segal movie – and sorry for your daddy too. Now neither Forlan (fall-en?) has been victorious against the Dutch in a World Cup.

Hah. That's all I have to say. Hah.

My preciousssssssssssssss

I'm broke. I'm going to be broke for a while. But I have a car.

Yes. Finally.

Can you handle it? I can't. It hasn't hit me yet and I am still calmly going about the details such as registering it into my name and getting an alarm fitted and all the other bits and bobs.

Oh my god, it's just hit me. It'll be in my name.

Mine. Mine mine miiiiiiiiiiiine miney mine mine meine, mien, miento mine mine.

Okay, I'm a little excited.

Typical me, I drove it for the first time to gym where I somehow managed to park it. Not having power steering anymore is going to take some getting used to – I think I pulled a muscle just turning a corner. But who needs a functioning right arm when you have a car? Not me, that's for sure.

The upholstery has little outlines of cars all over it.

As for a name, still undecided. I like Biscuit. Boyfriend wants to call it Jessica. We'll see.

Nip/Tuck

As you can no doubt see, the blog has undergone a little cosmetic surgery. Enjoy!

I need a project

I don't know what kind of project, just something I can put myself into, divert my energy to. Nothing work related, probably not even writing related.

Thought about taking up French again, but who has the time – or more importantly, what with the car and everything, who has the money?

Something I can do with my hands perhaps, something that doesn't require my brain.

Last winter I took up knitting. I am the proud owner of five balls of wool and one 15 cm-long scarf sitting somewhere in the depths of my cupboard. So maybe not that.