Beauty spot

So, a lot went on in preparation for the big celebratory weekend away, but I'll spare you the details of, among other things, my four-hour packing marathon and just move on to...

Gelish!

Okay so the name could have used some work, but this is the next step in the nail revolution that seems to be sweeping the beauty world. Here's what you need to know: Gelish goes on like nail polish, but hardens like gel (without the telltale hump though). There's none of that horrible over-buffing that goes on before you get acrylic or gel nails, and you don't need to soak your fingers in acetone to remove it. There are a ridiculous number of shades and bits of bling you can add, so go bananas kids. Best bit is, it supposedly lasts two or more weeks (I'll keep you posted how mine does).

The (anniversary) weekend in pictures

We went to this...

which was here

with these

and these

but we stayed here.

We did this...

and ate this

with these

and plenty plenty plenty of this.

We had one of these...

and a bit of this kind of thing

followed by this

and something like this for breakfast.

And there was plenty of this...

and then, like I said, shedloads more of this.

Happy Spring Day!

 

 

 

September first is finally here. And in true Cape Town style, it's cloudy and cold in the Mother City on the day that's supposed to signal the changing of the season and the onset of warmer weather.

To be expected, I suppose.

Oh well, happy Spring Day anyway, and happy Friday and happy long weekend to me!

Okay that was unusually mean-spirited, wasn't it? Forgive me, I'm just a tad excited at the prospect of having tomorrow off, waking up late tomorrow, having a manicure and then heading off for two nights in Franschhoek with Le Boyfriend to celebrate three years of The Jono and Jade Show.

The prospect of this weekend is so happiness-inducing, that it nearly mitigates the fact that:

• I owe SARS more than R2 000
• I drove at 90 km/h through a speed trap in a 60 zone on Sunday morning.
• The nett outcome of my weight fluctuations since January is four kilos. Four! Good lord, let's hope the beginning of spring sees some kind of difference in my willpower. I have plans for you, tummy, and you're not going to like them.

Okay is it time to start the weekend yet? No? Well, roll on 5 pm please...

Me and him

Three years today. 

I'm all smiles.

I want to like Don Draper.

I really do.

He's Handsome in a way Humphrey Bogart should have been, his voice is hypnotic and he makes smoking a pack a day and celebrating client approval/coitus/humiliating Pete Campbell/9 am with a tumbler of whisky look sexier than Chuck Bass does.

But, midway through season two, I can't help myself coming to the conclusion that this man, this wonderful, honey-voiced man, is actually a douche.

He appears to be such a prince among men, the happy ending of a bad beginning, defender of Freddy Rumsen's pants wetting and knocker-off of hats when a lady enters the lift.

But when it comes to poor, desperately perfect Betty Draper, he is a cad supreme.

My cupcake dress does not protect me from the pain of your philandering, Don.

Cheating on her is bad enough, but hey, it's 1960, who's not cheating on their devoted housewife? Cheating on her, and then organising a dinner during which Betty unknowingly sits and makes small talk with the woman he's cheating on her with, is downright disgusting. Lying to her face and pretending she's having a hysterical meltdown when she confronts him about said woman... Well, that's my tipping point.

Why, Don, why? I was in your corner. Now I want to punch you.

TGIM

Okay this is going to be one the stranger things that comes out of my mouth, but sometimes ... I kind of like Mondays.

Yeah they suck mostly. Playtime's over, you may still have a hangover from Saturday night, it's back to seriousness and work, and there's a full five days before it's the weekend again.

But occasionally, Mondays are good. Like coming to after a bender and finding you don't have a hangover, you didn't do anything stupid and embarrassing the night before, and there are no unexplained bruises anywhere on your person.

Take today, for example. After the fun and games of a looooong weekend, a three-day week and another weekend, it's almost nice to get back to reality, get back on top of work things, head back to the gym ... you know the drill. Pull up my socks, roll up my sleeves and be productive again.

Yeah, maybe I am a little strange after all.

Because everyone loves to poke fun at a hipster from time to time

Cute no? No. Edgy, maybe. Existential even. But never cute.

Before his time?

The long weekend in numbers

Miss me? Here's where I've been and what I've been up to lately... 

Number of days in my weekend: four. Which makes this a three-day week for me. Bliss.

Number of hours spent working on Boyfriend's car on Saturday: a few. I'm his spanner bitch, and I'm strangely okay with that.

Number of big, drunken girls' nights out: 0. With half our posse bailing on our Deco Dance mission on Saturday night, the three remaining musketeers opted to stay in, in bed, in our pyjamas, with popcorn, ChipNiks, Cadbury Top Deck and hysterical girly chatter. Awesome throwback to our teenage years. 

Number of cocktails consumed during lunch at Beluga on Sunday: one. Look at that restraint. (Although I made up for it by having promised to go back next Sunday purely for martinis and that ridiculously decadent Lindt chocolate Sundae – it's all about moderation you see.)

Number of artery-choking meals on Monday: one. Le Boyfriend and I finally took a wander down to Kalk Bay harbour for fish and chips at the water's edge from the wonderfully dingy Kalky's. Trans fats at their oil-dripping best. Plus I could finally tick that little outing off my 'fun Cape Town things to do with Boyfriend' list. 

Number of lifelong dreams fulfilled on Monday night: one. Well, to be fair, it was the lifelong dream of my 19-year-old self, but let's not quibble over details. Went to see The Used at Grandwest Arena and sang my little heart out to Taste of Ink, sandwiched between my fellow former emo kids, back in our black eyeliner and red lipstick of yesteryear. Fan-bloody-tastic.

Number of picnics in the sunshine on Woman's Day yesterday: one. Boyfriend and I headed into the sunshine of Kirstenbosch to lounge under a tree and nibble on an assortment of goodies. It may have been somewhat less relaxing then intended, what with the screaming children and hipster teenagers everywhere, but at least I got to tick another item off my abovementioned list. Oh and thanks Mother City, for organising such spectacular weather for my long weekend.

Number of times I hit snooze this morning: twice. WedMonsday mornings are no fun.

Busy researching comic-book hero movies for a feature in our teen magazine, and it hit me how many have been made (and remade) in recent years. And not just the biggies, starring our friends Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker and Clark Kent. Between Iron Man, Thor, Green Lantern, Hulk, Captain America and The Avengers (sort of Marvel's answer to DC's Justice League), it's like an all-you-can-eat buffet for comic book fans. And while I don't profess to know the name of every single member of SHIELD, and sometimes forget who's in which camp in the endless DC vs Marvel debate, I do enjoy a good comic book romp a lot more than, say, Valentine's Day (but then, who wouldn't, really?).

Anyway, all the spandex and superpowers got me to thinking about my very first crush. What can I say, I was that weird little girl who much preferred her brother's He Man and Ninja Turtle action figures to her own vapid-expressioned dolls. From the day my brother rented Batman Returns from the VHS store instead of Care Bears (like I'd asked) I was hooked.

And so, my first stirrings of underage adoration were not for Dominic Telo, like every other girl on the playground, but for this man, Remy leBeau, aka Gambit:

Who could resist a flaming playing card and headband in the Nineties?

Perfection, sheer perfection.

And yeah okay so he was shacking up with Rogue in X-Men the TV show (when she was a fully grown woman, not a teenager with a bad dye job), I still loved him dearly, and used to imagine him rescueing me from all sorts of dangers, like learning to write in cursive.

Sigh.

And no, poncey Taylor Kitsch, who played Gambit in 2009's X-Men Origins: Wolverine, just didn't measure up.

Sorry blog, and blog readers.

Clickity clicks for brickety bricks

Even I have to admit that there are some problems in our world that can't be solved with a cup of tea. Not many, mind you, but a few. One of these is not having a roof over your head, despite the fact that your government promised you one, or the fact that shelter is a basic human right.

Fixing the status quo is a a massive project, to be sure, but the good folks at Property24.com have teamed up with Habitat for Humanity to take a step in the right direction and raise the R91 000 that's required to build a single home. That's a hefty total though, and they need your help.

But here's the best part – you don't have to get messy laying bricks or mixing cement. You don't have to get out your wallet. You don't even have to move from that chair you're sitting in. Here's what you need to do:

1. Click on the Clicks for Bricks banner on the side of this page. It'll take you to the Property24 Facebook page.
2. Like the Property24 Facebook page.
3. For every 'like' they get, they'll donate R5 to the grand total, and you get to watch the cool little infographic of the house getting built steadily day by day.
4. You can only 'like' the page once sadly, so after you've done that and patted yourself on the back, you need to get your friends involved, so shout it from any rooftops you have access to, and maybe we can get a family in need their own one.

Great so, I want to hear some clicking guys. And ... go!

Oops, I'm a little tardy...

Goodness gracious, busy busy busy.

How quickly did Monday go? Really, how quickly? Could be the sunshine, the afterglow of a lovely weekend ... either way, I think Mondays should always be in fast-forward. Who's with me?

Weekend in numbers très vite...

Number of sunny days: trois

Number of braais in the sunshine: deux

Number of shopping sprees: one. Was putting together the fabulous hamper of accessories Luxury Cape Town is giving away on their Facebook page. Spending someone else's money in all your favourite shops is rather enjoyable.

Number of glasses of wine on the couch on Saturday night with the lovely Boyfriend, watching XMen First Class on a, frankly, ridiculously large TV: can't remember. One of the bonuses of being in a committed relationship is that when you a) have cash flow problems because you accidentally went into Forever New and b) subsequently don't have exciting Saturday night plans, you can get drunk together on the couch and it somehow feels like an awesome party.

In other news, I had cake for breakfast this morning, and will be eating oysters live on air later. My life is starting to take on a somewhat surreal quality, but I can't say I'm not enjoying myself...

And as a completely unrelated aside, here's my favourite thing of this morning, via Miss Kris:

Everyone should have one of these buttons. Go here if you feel the need to push it.

 

Pink eye is the new black

ARGH! Not only is an eye infection super sexy (no, not really), but it also stops one from being allowed to look at a computer screen, and therefore from blogging.

Well, that's my excuse anyway for my blogabsenteeism this week. I was away from my laptop, being goddess-like (no, not really) with a red, swollen eye and having fun with my eye dropper and anything that didn't require clear vision, such as laundry and drinking wine.

Fun times.

On the bright side, I can legitimately go shopping for a new mascara now.

Hey man, look at me rocking out, I'm on the radiooooooooooooooo

Not with Danny and Lisa though. Close. With Josie and Luca, on 2OceansVibeFm's Lunch Munch show.

Well, it's not really me. The Luxury Cape Town girls – for whom I have the pleasure of writing – now have a fortnightly Tuesday slot at 1.15 pm to chat about our outs-and-abouts in the Mother City.

You can listen here if you feel the uncontrollable urge.

I was quaking in my riding boots yesterday morning, convinced I was going to fumble my words and make a tit of myself on air while everyone else was being very cool, calm and collected but it was actually SUCH fun, and I almost can't wait to get headphone hair again.

Nearly called in sick today

Well no, not really, that's not quite how I roll. But I was a little late for work, thanks to a wardrobe crises.

Haven't had one of those in ages. You know, when you stand in front of your cupboard in your bra and undies, freezing because it's 13 degrees outside, but can't see a single thing you feel like wearing. And then you try on a whole bunch of outfits but everything seems wrong or unflattering or just plain ugly, and then you're back to the staring contest, wearing one boot and an earring, surrounded by clothes in heaps on the floor, only this time you should have left the house ten minutes ago already and you seriously, seriously wonder if you'd get fired for arriving at the office in your Sheepy Time pyjamas.

Hate those mornings. Could have something to do with the fact that the sight of my wardrobe causes Imogen Heap to spontaneously break into song in my head: 'And all of my clothes feel like somebody's old throwaways / I don't like it...'

I feel like going home this afternoon and donating all of my clothes to charity and buying an entire new wardrobe. Of course, as it stands, I can hardly afford to keep myself in moisturiser at the moment for some reason, let alone go and clear out Country Road and Jo Borkett.

What's a girl to do?

The weekend in numbers ... er, creatively.

Feeling too lazy to write proper full sentences, and since my concentration's at an all-time Monday low, you won't even be getting half-assed ones. Instead, for your reading/viewing pleasure, here's a word cloud...

Courtesy of Wordle.net

And it's even more exciting, really, because for all you know, this weekend I may have invented something called Telly Toast or had croissants on the couch with Johnny Depp in my Wonder Woman panties (was he wearing them? was I? that's what you get for bad sentence construction).

A fat attack

This morning I got up at the crack of dawn for gym, and nearly dived back under the duvet to go back to sleep after standing on the scale.

My highest weight ever. Again. How did I get back here?

Oh yes. Six months' worth of eating pretty much whatever I felt like, whenever I felt like it.

After some furious scrawling in my dairy along the lines of 'What the fuck is the point?' and 'Maybe I should just accept that I'll never be skinny?', I dutchman-ed up and headed for the step machine, mulling over my dismal weight situation along the way.

I think the problem is that I delude myself into thinking that I eat fairly healthily, because I live on cottage cheese, nuts and Ryvita at work. But you don't have to be Patrick Holford to realise that letting go on weekends (need I remind you of the three pizza nights?) makes all that pretty much nul and void.

I've had at least six dozen fresh starts in my life when it comes to my struggle with my weight, but driving home from gym this morning (so perhaps it was the endorphins?) I suddenly had all this clarity. Being at my highest weight might suck, but it also means that I'm exactly 10 kilos away from my ultimate goal weight now. Being somewhat OCD, numbers like that appeal to me. Plus we're nearly exactly halfway through 2011, which means I can put the first half of the year behind me, and embark on a serious mission to lose these 10 before I turn 25 on 1 January, almost another six months to the day from now.

I'm feeling very now-or-never about this all of a sudden.

But please, whatever gods of skinny are out there, make it now, and not never.

The long weekend in numbers

Number of days of weekend: four. Took Friday off. I could get used to this whole being on leave thing. Considering taking a whole week off sometime in the near future...

Number of pizzas consumed: three. I'm not even kidding. One at Woodland's Eatery on Thursday for a birthday dinner, one ordered in from Butler's on Saturday night for dinner and a movie on the couch to cheesily christen Boyfriend's new flat, and one last night with the family for Father's Day (and I know I could have had pasta or a salad, but really, who – who? – goes to Bacini's and orders a salad?).

Number of times I got to say 'I'm on a horse': two. Once on Friday at a riding lesson, and again on Saturday during a two-hour outride on Noordhoek Beach. And I didn't fall off, not even when my horse took off down the beach at what I'd like to say was a gallop but was probably more of a canter. Look at me go!

Number of lovely, thoughtful presents received from Boyfriend to say thanks for helping him move and sorry for being such a nightmare (you may remember this post): one. This one

How lucky am I? It's from Hello Thula, on Etsy.

Number of minutes' stirring it takes to make real Hollandaise sauce from scratch for a Father's Day eggs Benedict breakfast: at least 20. I thought I was going to get a repetitive strain injury. 

Number of times I had to snooze my alarm this morning so I could go back to sleep and pretend for a while it wasn't Monday morning, and a five-day week: three. Sue me.

I've been a lax blogger this week. My sincerest apologies.

But more importantly ... it's the weekeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeend bay-bee!

Hello to four whole days devoid of the office, my office email, job bags, advertising clients and endless edits.

i may even end off this post all in lower case. because i can.

Okay really now...

When I said TGIF this morning, I really, really meant it. This week has not been kind. There was...

• The team-building fail on Monday
• The dead car battery
• The R725 to replace the dead car battery
• The fact that I can no longer pretend my muscle stiffness is from Pilates – I think I'm officially sick.
• The three-hour delay of Boyfriend's flight from Joburg last night
• My first ever speeding fine, with a nice little picture of me dashing home from Boyfriend's house on Mother's Day to cook my mater breakfast.

All in all, not the best of weeks. Still, I'm choosing instead to focus on these positives:

• It's Friday
• It's not raining or windy in Cape Town today
• Boyfriend is staying at my place this weekend while my, er, housemates, are away, so for once I don't have to worry about packing after racing home from work this afternoon (seriously, how am I supposed to decide on a whole weekend's outfits, when all I want to do is find my way to bottom of the nearest glass of Pinotage?)
• Being sick has taken away my appetite and I've hardly eaten the past two days
• I am now all stocked up on fabulous ghd products, thanks to the lovely Eloise Dreyer
• My speeding fine is only R100
• Tonight's plan so far begins with pizza at Borusso's and at least half a bottle of Diemersfontein

Yes please...

Moving and Mondays, two things that suck

On Friday le Boyfriend became the proud owner of keys to his new flat (he also owns the flat, in case you were wondering). This was very happy news, which we promptly celebrated with too much sushi and wine on Friday night at Wasabi.

Spent the rest of the weekend moving beds, couches, a fridge and various other paraphernalia, and enthusiastically painting the bathroom and gawping at the ridiculous price of curtain rails.

Sounds fun doesn't it?

Some of it was. As for the rest, I'm sure moving must be responsible for the dissolution of more relationships than infidelity. Couldn't decide whether to break up with Boyfriend or murder him, but I know which one would have been more satisfying. And given his exasperated sighs and very carefully controlled voice, I'm sure he was thinking the same.

By Sunday we'd cuddled (that's a euphemism for sex by the way) and made up. He should be all moved in by the weekend with a bit of luck. Happy days. Picking out cushion covers is far less taxing on our patience than 'Turn it, turn it ... NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Which way are you going? UP! This end ... this end ... okay, here we go ... NO, COME ON! You dropped your end...'

In other news, we had another copy eds' team building day yesterday. You may recall the two hikes I went on, somewhat against my will, last year? Well, this time my junior copy ed ally and I suggested horse riding, which was amended to horse riding and a boozy, three-course lunch at The Food Barn by our boss. Great plan, we all thought.

Well, it was certainly a team building exercise. We weren't mounted for two minutes, and not even out the paddock, when Yam (no, that's not her real name) fell off her trusty steed and snapped her wrist.

How's an afternoon at Cape Town Medi-Clinic for office morale?

And after an abbreviated lunch with what was left of the crew, I tried to head off to gym. Cue dead car battery, AA call-out and a replacement cell at R725 I had planned to spend on Chocolate Block and shoes.

Sucky Monday much?

A piccie quickie

(I'm on deadline okay?)

Please tell me you've seen these fantastic pencil journeys into the mind of Katrin of Berlin (originally South Africa). No? Then make Mischief Champion a bookmark on your browser k? Because you need these in your life.

'Mischief Champion is a collection of regularly updated drawings based on my everyday experiences and thoughts,' says Katrin. 'Sometimes these drawings are harsh, sometimes silly. Other times, they're quite insane.'

Agreed:

Better than va-va-voom

For anyone who isn't following me on Twitter (my cue to say, well, why aren't you? @jadetaylorcooke), last night was my VW Date Drive (click here for details on the campaign and competition if you've been living under a rock).

Omg.com

(Yes, I just said that.)

I've never been a car person, never been able to get excited about kW and Nm and torque and horsepower and gearboxes and turbochargers and whatnot. But bless my six-inch heels, the Polo GTi changed that. It was beautiful. It was like driving a bottle of your favourite pinotage – smooth, deliciously throaty and with a surprising kick you don't notice until you're cruising in seventh.

Or that's the analogy I'm going with at least.

It's fast. really fast. Seven gears, three different gear options (automatic, automatic sport mode – hells yeah – and manual), seat warmers (I've never had such a toasty bum before), steering wheel shifting paddles for when you're in manual (like a rally car, innit?) and and and ... oh I forget, but it was pure animal ... in an Armani suit. Or something.

VW provided us with a box of goodies including perfume and an ironic CD of classic love songs to play during the drive, and the curvy coastal road to Hout Bay for dinner at Pure Restaurant did the rest.

Had to drop it back at the 12 Apostles Hotel this morning, but I managed to find a little bit of M3 to open her up to 150 km/h 120 km/h (that's our speed limit right?) and really enjoy the purr (I know I sound like a right Jeremy Clarkson wannabe but I don't care). That may not seem impressive to anyone else, but being not the bravest of drivers, and also night blind, it was like a thrill ride for me.

I nearly clung to the keys this morning. In fact, I got so reluctant about handing them over, I sort of made to shake my VW contact's hand instead, but since the keys were still in my palm, it ended up looking like some sort of shady drug deal.

Whatevs. I think I'm in love.

There's nothing* worse...

... than going to the loo, dropping your jeans and sitting down, only to discover you have plonked yourself on to the cold, grimy lid of the toilet and not the actual toilet seat as intended.

Anyway, apart from that rather unfortunate meeting of my bits and a piece of industrial plastic, life's looking up at the moment. Here's why:

• It's Friday (you can sing it if you want to)
• I'm feeling lucky – recently won a bottle of YSL Belle d'Opium courtesy of the awesome beauty website Pretty 24/7 and got a call yesterday to say I'd been picked for a VW Date Drive for next week Wednesday. Boyfriend and I don't really do date night in general, but when someone offers you the new Polo Gti for a night, you take it. 
• I am the proud owner of a full-length mirror for the first time in my life (I know, right?). Being able to see myself from top to toe hasn't turned out as badly as I suspected it might either. In fact (though I haven't ruled out that possibility that the mirror may just have a particularly slimming effect), it turns out I'm not as obese as originally thought. Who knew? Happy dance (in my skanties).
• Got all kinds of fun planned for this weekend, beginning with beer tasting this evening and the Good Food and Wine Show tomorrow. 
• This week is finally over. The past few have been busy, stressful and I think I may have developed ADHD as a result, but Monday should bring a tiny bit of reprieve. Here's to breathing for a change.

*Okay sure there's cancer, and nuclear war, and genocide, and not having enough milk left for a cup of tea, but you know what I mean.

Cravings

You know how sometimes it's the middle of a boring afternoon, or the early hours of the morning after one too many Jack and limes, and you have those weird ping! moments when you think, 'I need to have a KitKat/peanut butter sandwich/bubblegum Steri Stumpie right now'?

Well, this post isn't about those kind of cravings. I mean, food cravings make up a big part of my day, writing about them may get a little tedious.

But sometimes I get 'thing' cravings. An avid consumer (who isn't?), I often find myself fixated on items of a material nature, and I get the same rabid, must-have-that feeling one gets when one visualises, say, a Cassis macaron or warm avocado on toast.

At the moment, I'm thinking that the following may change my life for the better:

It's like happiness in a bottle. Possibly my second-favourite fragrance (nothing in the world tops Marc Jacobs' Daisy I'm afraid)

Do I need a reason? Just so pretty. Love the rough-hewn effect. (from Hello Thula's Etsy store)

I wear a pair of (fine, faux) pearls every day. Pity one slipped from my ear somewhere in Betty's Bay this weekend. Must go and replace asap. My lobes feel nekkid.

Had my credit card details and address and everything filled in before I saw that this was out of stock on ASOS. I nearly cried. The hunt for my new handbag continues.

I blogged a little while ago about buying big girl jeans (saying goodbye to my jegging days). I've found the perfect fit with Levi's CurveID range, they just don't seem to make them in a plain blue, only horrid faded patterns and other silliness. Anyway, when I one day find them in the right shade, this is what they will look like. I'm hoping the flat stomach and shoes come with them too...

Well, we're all still here. Rapture that. Most embarrassed by the whole nobody-disappeared-and-the-world-didn't-begin-to-end mess must be whoever put that billboard up on the drive through Somerset West. Next to giant lettering spelling out the time and date of Judgement Day was a jaunty little yellow flash sticker (the kind they have in Checkers that says, 'Milk R4 less!!') reading: The Bible guarantees it.

That's not the kind of thing you can go back on, your holiness. Unless you had some fine print in there somewhere, and I didn't spot any.

Unfortunately, the fact that the world didn't end means it's Monday again somehow. Really, how does this happen? One minute it's Friday 3.30 pm in the office and everyone's talking about their weekend plans, and then suddenly your alarm is causing a commotion next to your ossicles and it's time to get up and start the week. A five-day week this time too. How will we survive?

Luckily I got a whole lot of R&R in over the weekend, first with Mexican food and margaritas at El Burro on Friday night and then by disappearing to Betty's Bay for the weekend – no TV, no radio, no cars, no crime, no internet, no laptops, no work .. nada. Just me, Boyfriend and another two friends, a few (very short) walks and a whole lot of reading, Rummikub and 30 Seconds.

It may be a far cry from the party Jade of old, but I must say I was feeling pretty blissed out by Sunday night, and started looking forward to my retirement years. I'll be a ripe old 25 in January, so only 40 to go....

How did that happen?

One minute I was hitting 'publish post' on last week's Weekend in Numbers, and the next thing I knew I was falling asleep last night thinking, 'I can't believe it's Monday tomorrow...'.

Not entirely sure where the week went. Got swallowed up somewhere between deadlines, rain, a couple of rather nice but very PRish events, and exercise. Not exactly the most exciting of lives I'm leading at the moment.

And now here we are. Monday. Again. Terrible that it comes around once a week isn't it? Luckily it's only a hop, skip and a Tuesday until yet another South African public holiday, so don't get too depressed alright?

I'm sure you're all doing the right thing and voting on Wednesday so I won't even mention it (not really).

Since my weekend was largely spent vegetating with Boyfriend and series, and hiding from the cold, I haven't got one of my usual, uproariously funny (why are you smirking?) Weekend in Numbers lists for you. But I will say this:

I love Karen at Scar. She makes my hair do nice things. I have a fringe. And it looks rather swishy if I do say so myself.

And this:

The burly, rugby player look is not usually the one I go for, but I urge all ladies to go and see Thor as soon as possible. The comic book nerd inside me enjoyed the movie in itself, but there's also a set of abs in there that are worth getting a gander at. On the big screen. In 3D. I'm just saying.

The weekend in numbers

Number of glasses of wine at Lara Lane's 23rd birthday sleepover party on Friday night: I'm going to round it down to about a bottle and a half (yes, I said down). The night started out innocently enough, with cupcakes and manicures and party games and a scary movie, then we all got drunk and invited boys over. Like high-school all over again. Reliving our youth. 

Number of successful pancakes made by us the next morning in our PJs: zero. Way too hungover for batter mixing and stove watching. Ended up with one charred pancake, one two-finger thick monstrosity that looked like an underdone crumpet, and something with lumps that caused Lara to make a beeline for the bathroom. Instead we lay around for a bit and tried not to think about our heads hurting.

Number of hours spent at Taste of Cape Town with Boyfriend on Saturday night: not too many. An outdoor festival in the cold makes for a short outdoor festival, even if the culinary delights and wine tasting are usually right up our alley.

Number of happy mothers on Sunday: one (well, one of mine at least, I don't know about you lot obviously). This is a very good thing. My mother is someone for whom you can buy the Wrong Flowers, which makes Mother's Day a bit of a panicky affair for my sibling and I. Anyway, Brother and I cooked her brunch, went for a walk in the new Greenpoint Urban Park (you have to go, it's gorgeous) and she's getting one of these today:

Thanks to @CapeTown_Girl for the recommendation

Number of kilos officially gained since Christmas as of my weigh-in this morning: five. FIVE. Fuck. Can you believe it. Heifer.

I was right!

Saying those awful things out loud (ish) made me feel a little better. Or it may have been the cup of tea. Probably a mixture of both.

Anyway, I couldn't leave you such a stormy post to kick the weekend off either. And this kind of made me smile:

Boyfriend is sporting a tache again (someone stop him), though I somehow doubt I'll be wearing it to ballet anytime soon.

From the same tumblr came this:

Isn't that funny. I was always worried about my split personality, but it turns out I'm not alone.

Last one:

Good morning... Yeah? What's good about it?

Hmmpf. I'm feeling very un-Rebecca Black about today.

It may have something to do with the tragedy of me getting on the scale this morning. Not that I expected any dramatic weight loss after only a week of officially getting back on track. But I certainly didn't expect to be at my highest weight ever.

Having words like 'fat', 'round', 'disgusting' and 'failure' floating around your head at 7 am are enough to ruin anyone's Friday (Friday, gotta get down on Friiiiday).

And then my mascara clumped. And then I decided to wear jeans to work, which only makes me feel more obese. And then I dropped my iPhone while taking it out of my bag. On gravel. Chipping the screen in the process.

And then I got to work. And everyone else was happy. And singing Friiiiiday.

(And yes, I'm aware that elsewhere in the world people are waking up starving, or victims of abuse, or in the middle of civil wars, or dying of terminal illness. And I should be happy about my fantastic life. I'm aware this makes me a horrible, self-centred, selfish person.)

They say sometimes the only way to obliterate your negative interior monologue is to get it out (so you can replace it with a gentler one). And since I can't actually say this out loud to people without them getting upset, rolling their eyes or telling me I need to see a shrink ... well, lucky you, blogosphere:

I hate that I've gained weight.
I hate that my hair is just long and fluffy and awful at the moment and it's a week till I can get it cut.
I hate that my stomach resembles that of a fat 45-year-old and not Kate Middleton's.
I hate that my skin has decided to have a panic attack at the ripe old age of 24 instead of in my teens when I would at least have had solidarity amongst my pimply peers.
I hate that I am a 34DD.
I hate my man calves.
I hate that my thighs touch.
I hate having to avoid mirrors, even when I'm brushing my teeth.
I hate that this monster in my brain can ruin a perfectly good Friday, when in all likihood I'm going to leave work early and then go to a lovely friend's lovely birthday party and eat lovely cupcakes that are going to make me feel worse.