Shame

Maybe it's time for a little public humiliation? Let the food diaries commence!

Monday, 9 July

• Tea with fat-free milk and sugar
• All Bran flakes with fat-free milk
• Instant (plain) oats with honey and cinnamon
• Tea with low-fat milk and sugar
• Thai chicken soup from Crave with fresh bread (and butter – fuck)
• One measly Granny Smith apple
• Two poached eggs on low-GI toast (with Flora – again, fuck)
• Tea with fat-free milk and sugar and three rusks

Okay a) far too much bread and b) really Jade, rusks after dinner? Are you trying to win Porker of the Year?

The elephant in the room

Sigh. Rubbish morning.

My fight with the mirror has nearly reached its 2006 proportions. Getting dressed is the biggest effort these days. The square metre in front of my full-length is getting to be a war zone. It's a pretty fraught place to be, squaring up to my disappointing reflection.

How could I have let this happen? I weigh roughly 10 entire kilos more than I did this time last year. How does that just sneak up on you?

I'll tell you how ... when you pull the wool over your own eyes and laugh about eating three cupcakes in one sitting and how you really should go to gym.

Oh isn't it all so devilishly hilarious two kilos in. The vista, I'm afraid to say, is a lot less humorous from where I'm sitting now.

I wish I could go back to the days when I just thought I was fat, when there wasn't irrefutable evidence to support my whining.

I'm almost feeling nostalgic for a time when looking like this was all that occupied my thoughts:

Still too bleak at being back in the city, in the rain, to talk about my Madikwe trip last week. Instead, here are some pictures.

Understand?

Downton

I've finally jumped on the bandwagon and started watching Downton Abbey and my god how could you all have let me miss out on it for so long?

And secondly, my god, how can there only be two seasons (and a Christmas special)? What am I going to do without Lord and Lady Grantham and their convoluted family and malcontent servants?

I'm going to become obsessed with pictures of them, of course.

You mean you don't wear gloves in summer? Whatever is the matter with you?

I know there's a war on, but please just look at my sleeves. Aren't they marvellous?

Why yes, my hat is fantastic, thank you.

I left Downton to become a secretary,
but all I really wanted to do was walk
around saying 'John Snooooow'.

One does get a little tired being so rich and well bred and beautiful.

All husbands should have to sit on the stairs when they've been naughty, don't you know?

I'm on a horse.

'Why must every day involve a fight with an American?'

A little silliness, for a Thursday morning

I feel like I'm kind of living my life again. At last. Work's still crazy busy (it just never seems to end) but I have discovered that by waking up at 5 am, I can fit more me-stuff into my day.

Like arriving at work in an outfit that isn't the same one I wore yesterday just in different colours.

And blogging.

And making weekend plans. For example:

The weekend that was:

• Friday night on the couch with Le Boyfriend and wine and general relaxation and not thinking about work
• Saturday afternoon at Fairview with the rest of the madhouse (also known as my friends), tasting cheese, tasting wine, buying cheese, buying wine, eating bought cheese and bought wine on the first available patch of grass we saw in Franschhoek (bergie picnic).
  Also discovered that Franschhoek is not a five-minute drive from Fairview, as we'd originally (in our somewhat wine-addled brains) thought.
• Saturday night at a (slightly) debaucherous prop party at Kill City Blues recording studio for the RobFather's 35th. Partied like it was like 2009, only better, because there was no queue for the bathroom and there was no almost-break-up the next day.
• Sunday – Father's Day – involved a walk up the back of Signal Hill, a family braai (miss those) and then more couch and wine (and Magnum) time on the couch with LBF.

Equal parts relaxing and drunk. Perfect combo.

That brown bag, which originally contained lemon bread,
ended up around the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
Because it's not a bergie picnic, without a papsak.

And then, the weekend that will be:

• A comedy festival
• A day at the museum with my bergie picnic accomplices

So far so cultural. Fear not though – I'll crowbar some wine in there somewhere.

Okay, time to get start work. And ... go!

Poor, poor abandoned blog

I'm the worst blog mother in the world. I've left my word child here, all alone and abandoned and uncared for, for, what, weeks? Months now?

Oh for shame, Jade.

But here I am. After two days' leave in the middle of a work week, I feel like I've finally come up for air.

Which means I may be able to find a few minutes every now and again to take out the jumble that's in my head and splash it (none-too-artistically, I'm sure) across this blog space.

If you're wondering where I've been, it's the usual – magazine deadlines coming out of my ears, early mornings and late nights at the office, and zombie-ism over weekends during which the last thing I want to do is look at a screen or use words.

Yeah. I'm lame. You can say it.

Let's talk about something fun instead, like the fact that it's the weekend (baby!) and that, for a change, I'm not working at some point over the next two days.

Let's also talk about my flat. It's been nearly two months since I moved into my little slice of real estate heaven. Who cares if it's bankrupting me, or if I've been subsisting on cheese on toast for a while (that's another story though). I love it. Having never had more than a bedroom to call my own (yes, I know that's a lot more than most), having my space all to myself is like hearing The Beatles for the first time – you suddenly realise this was what you were looking for all along.

I can bake a cake at midnight if I want to. I can run between my bedroom and the bathroom and back in my undies, and nobody is there to see me. I can have nothing but Brie and a bottle of bubbly in the fridge and not hurt anyone (actually, if you add a bag of Granny Smiths, that's exactly what's in my fridge at the moment).

But anyway, I'm rambling. Probably the result of not having anything of real import to say.  Except, hi, I'm back, don't call blog services on me, or anything.

Stay frosty kids. Lord knows it's cold enough...

Your word for the weekend...

...is 'contronym'.

I'm sorry, it's so cool, I had to geek out. (Or maybe it's just really early?)

A contronym is a word with two meanings, which are the opposite of each other.

So, for example, 'dust', which can mean 'to add fine particles' but also means 'to remove fine particles'.

Or 'left', which can mean 'departed from' but also 'remaining'.

I mean, really, if that's not a good way to start your Friday, then please stop visiting this blog, we have nothing in common.

Well hello there.

It's been a while.

Just a day shy of a month, to be exact.

Don't feel bad, little blog. I also haven't seen my Twitter feed in forever, can't remember my last Facebook status update, and Pinterest is but a distant, misty-water-coloured memory.

In short, I have been out of touch with the social media world at large. This is because every waking moment that has been spent in front a computer screen has been taken up with work (some would say that's as it should be, but you know, some people say anything).

Phew. And it's not over yet. The manic month of May is only just upon us, which is why I'm typing this at my office desk, at well before 7 am, while it's still dark outside and most people I know are only shortly to be woken up by their alarm clocks.

Yeah, yeah, woe is me.

In the intertim, this is what's been happening...

• Blogger appears to have changed its interface. Apparently I am well out of the loop.
• I am all settled in to my spanking new flat – really, red-wine-sodden house warming done and everything. Now if someone could just pay off my credit card and buy me a bookshelf, I'll feel like a real adult.
• The ruling party has declared that it will NOT be a criminal offence for whistle-blowers to leak classified information, provided it exposes criminal activity, so well done to the ANC for making a non-cringe-worthy decision for once, and well done to all the Secrecy Bill activists who stopped that madness in its tracks. 
• *spoiler alert* Diana Payne is actually NOT Chuck's mother, nor is Jack his father, but Bart is actually still alive and William is Lola's dad.

I mean, that's all the important stuff right?

Flat-tastic

 As of this morning, I am the proud renter of a beautiful one-bedroom apartment.

It's so exciting, I need to pee every five minutes.

Or it will be, and I will, if work stress eases off for, oh, I don't know, five seconds? (Yes, yes, I see the irony of blogging when I protest I don't even have time to feel emotions. Shut up.)

Okay Wednesday morning, let's work this out like adults

Gah!

Wednesday mornings can be the worst, can't they?

This morning was a prime example.

I snoozed my alarm one too many times, which meant that by the time I got up, someone else was already hogging the bathroom. 'No matter,' thought I. 'I shall make tea instead.'

Headed to the kitchen. Stubbed toe, mighty painfully. Rolled around on the floor, moaning in agony.

Made it into the bathroom to discover it is a Bad Hair Day. Also discovered face wash is running out. Had to attack tube with scissors.

Stared balefully into cupboard 10 minutes later, to find it is also an I Hate My Entire Wardrobe day.

Checked weather. Going to be hot. But have not got around to painting my toenails, therefore must wear pumps instead of sandals.

Drove to work and heard on the radio that Ryk Neethling's ex has written a tell-all book, entitled In the Water They Can't See You Cry. This cheered me up immensely, because it reminded me that the world is a stupid, crazy kind of place, filled with some really stupid crazy kind of people.

Thank you, Amanda Beard. You've reminded me to laugh at myself and my first-world morning problems.

Oh, and at you.

Hands up now, who else is feeling depressed today? I mean, I know for a fact it can't just be me who struggled to get out of bed this morning. Things seem bleak bleak bleak my friends. It's that kind of holiday hangover that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with disbelief at being back on the daily grind.


That's it. I'm starting a new religion, and its primary doctrine is that all weekends should be four days. They should also, preferably, contain chocolate bunnies and sugar-coated eggs.

Fantastic things that happened this weekend include, but are not limited to:

• Spending the weekend at a gorgeous Camps Bay mansion. Now that's a staycation.
• Having a sleepover with Le Boyfriend and another guy, and having them cook bacon and eggs in the morning, and then clean up afterwards. Well trained, very well trained they are. 
• Rehearsing and rehearsing and rehearsing and then performing with On Pointe and iKapa Dance Theatre on Saturday night, in Summer Stages.
• Hearing someone sing 'Can you feel the drugs Fernando?' instead of 'Can you hear the drums Fernando?'.
• Sleeping for 10 solid hours, two nights in a row. 
• Sitting in a hot jacuzzi, sipping a gin and tonic, holding a pink umbrella while it pours with rain around us. 
• Eating chocolate for breakfast.

Happy Easter everyone

Here's to a four-day weekend filled with chocolate.

The weekend that was

Between dinner at The Pot Luck Club and Gallery on Friday night (hands down the best meal I've ever eaten in my life), nine solid hours of gin at Tjing Tjing bar on Saturday night, and a garden party that included Beach Party yesterday ... well, let's say, I don't remember much of the weekend that was, apart from that it was amazing.

A year, six months, who's counting?

So, as of this morning, it's official: I am now heavier than I've ever been in my life.

This I attribute to:

• Slacking off on any real exercise while my knee's out of action
• Eating like a motherfucker
• Drinking like the same

Of course, given that being at my official highest weight ever means I can no longer fit into my jeans, something really needs to be done.

And done today.

I think, if I lost 10 kilos by next summer, I may finally achieve that blissful state of being happy with my body. Six months should do it, right? Therefore, by 26 September 2012, I will be 10 kilos lighter than I am today.

And since I can't go on Jolly Mollies, or get liposuction, or send myself on some three-week detox retreat, I suppose instead I shall go about it the old-fashioned way: eat less, exercise more, try not to spend every weekend at the bottom of a bottle of wine.

Sounds reasonable right? I'll keep you posted.

Sand, sand, everywhere

So in keeping with the idea of 2012 being a year of new experiences, I signed Le Boyfriend and myself up for a sandboarding trip a little while ago, and we finally got around to it on Saturday morning.

Now, I'm not a total clutz, but I'm also not the kind of girl who, when you look at me, you automatically think 'adventure sports lover', so this was always going to be an interesting morning in the dunes. While Le Boyf got the hang of standing up speeding down a dune strapped to a plank quite quickly, I bit the sand at least three times before I mastered it. There's a somewhat amusing video of my more spectacular bail out, too.

Of course, once I'd figured out how to do it, I didn't want to stop. The problem then, is that dunes, unlike ski slopes, do not have chair lifts. Which means that after 20 awesome seconds of hurtling down the sand (upright, for a change), you need to hike your way back up to the top of a soft sand dune to do it again. Which at the time didn't seem too terrible, but your quads know all about it the next morning. I'm still having trouble with stairs. Lord only knows how I'm going to manage my strengthening session at Sports Science at lunchtime.

But enough with the whining. Sandboarding was, all in all, really pretty rad. Radder still, was showering afterwards. A windy day in the dunes (yes, okay, and tumbling down them with your ankles over your head a couple time) means you have sand in all kinds of special places, where one should never have sand. Getting undressed (which I did standing in the bath) produced my own personal beach. I'm pretty sure there's still a grain lodged somehwere behind my right eyeball, and I keep accidentally winking at people while trying to dislodge it.

After my Pity Party Tuesday, it's now officially No Negativity Wednesday.

And in keeping with the theme of today, I have decided to spend the day looking on the bright side (regardless of how annoying I usually find endlessly optimistic people).

So, today, instead of being frustrated at my inability to find The Perfect Flat, I will instead focus on being happy that I can finally afford to live on my own, in somewhere that isn't a hole.

Instead of being all bleak about my knee injury, I will instead be happy that's it's fixable and doesn't require surgery.

Instead of being bleak that I couldn't make quiche last night because I seem to be the only person who doesn't know that shortcrust pastry comes frozen and needs to be defrosted before being used (Jade's foray into cooking), I will instead be happy that it means I'll be having quiche tonight instead. (I realise this quiche obsession seems a tad odd, but someone made it for me, it was super delicious, apparently it's super easy to make, and it will mean that I have officially cooked something other than popcorn or toast in 2012. So there.)

Still creaky

Okay so I was going to post today about the absolute awesomeness that was Two Door Cinema Club on Saturday night (also, the absolute drunkenness) but since you've probably read about it on every other Capetonian blogue there is, I've decided instead to have a little pity party.

Yes, lucky you.

Remember how I said I had to stop running because of the pain in my knee? And how super bummed I was? Well, it now seems my double-jointed hyperflexed spastic joints have absolutely nothing to do with the pain after all.

Hooray!

Not so much.

Turns out that my tiny little bit of running training was, in the words of Dr van der Merwe at Sports Science – that's Dr Knee to the rest of the medical profession – 'a little too much, too fast'. Which is ridiculous, because, really, if I had been building up any slower, I would have been running backwards.

Anyway, he gave my knee bits a squeeze, declared I probably had garden variety runner's knee as a result of thinking I was an athlete when I so clearly am not (no, not his actual words) and then dispatched me for an MRI to confirm. And while I was having a jolly time in my MRI cage and enjoying a little lie down in the middle of the work day, it never crossed my mind that when we looked at the images later he would say:

'Oh. You've done some real damage there. See that dark spot? Your bone is bleeding.'

Yeah. I didn't know bone could bleed either.

'So that's bad?'

'It's pretty bad.'

'So no running?'

'No running.'

'So no gym?'

'No gym.'

'No, um, no dancing?'

'See that dark spot there?'

'Fine.'

Pause

'How about Pilates?'

'How badly do you need to stretch Jade? How badly, really?'

'Fine.'

Sucks to be me, right?

Anyway, so now I have to see a biokineticist three days a week for six weeks, and try to conceal the fact that I need to rehearse for our show in April (and, oh yeah, perform in the show) which will require a vast amount of pointing, jumping, stepping, bending and generally throwing my body around all over the floor.



Note Boyfriend had just informed me that apparently bleeding of the knee bone is somewhat common. He also reminded me about the 30th birthday party we attended laaaast Saturday where the host tried to kick the chandelier, tore all the ligaments in his knee and will be on crutches for months. And then he reminded me about his colleague who on Thursday tore her meniscus playing action cricket. So I guess the message there is, Dutchman up Jade. A little bleeding bone never hurt anyone.

Creaky me

So as if having a spastic knee weren't bad enough (and it's pretty bad, considering my MRI in March is going to cost me around two grand), I have now also definitely pulled my hip flexor.

This is a problem for a few reasons.

One It hurts. I consider pain to be pretty up there on my list of priorities.
Two On Pointe's next show is on 7 April, which means I have about six weeks to get it sorted, otherwise there will be no chasse-coupe-jete-rolling for me, oh no there will not.
Three In order to fix the problem I'll probably have to resort to rest and/or physio. But given the four kilos I appear magically to have gained, not exercising doesn't seem like an option any more. As for physio, well, let's just I reckon after the MRI, my MSA will be O-V-E-R.

Yoikes.

The party weekend in Langebaan

The memories
'Eliminate the colon. Font differentiation is the way forward'
Deciding to all go to Nepal, to meet the long-dead Tenzing Norgay, apparently the first man on the moon (I think by this stage we were already severely addled)
Partying in the lounge
'Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, yeah. I'm 30 and I know it!'
Dance pizza
Rolling up to the sokkie in a limo
An introduction to the world of langarm
Getting lei-ed
The breathalyser 'game'
Top Gun
Justin's beach soccer wipeout

The damage
Six names, officially thrown
A couple grand down on the credit cards
One cracked windscreen
A collective R450 lost at the casino, in the space of 15 minutes. 

Never to be repeated
Turning 30 Seconds into a drinking game
'Let's go to Kaktus'
'This place is like a cockpit'

Happy ♥ day

Pulls on your heartstrings, doesn't it? Sorry, you know I love a bad pun.

Love Valentine's? Did you get spoilt rotten by your other half? Is the world all butterflies and unicorns with rainbows coming out of their bums for you today?

Nobody cares.

Hate Valentine's? Are you spouting off statistics about how many trees get cut down so Hallmark can print pink and red cards containing worthless platitudes? Or informing everyone you know about how the origin of this nauseating holiday lies in the death of a Roman priest?

Nobody cares.

Everyone just keep calm, eat a heart-shaped chocolate, and carry on. Okay?

Besides, not only is tomorrow Hump Day, you can probably also smash all of those Woollies pink foil-covered goodies into your face tomorrow for 25-50% off.

Knees up

So, remember how I was all excited about starting running? How fulfilled I felt about having a goal? How excited I was about entering that race in March?

Well, about a third of the way into my Couchto10K programme, and after buying lovely New Balance trainers, my doctor has just told me I may want to forget about the whole running thing.

You see, since I was born, I've had slightly spastic knees (and hips and elbows), in the sense that they bend slightly The Wrong Way (scientifically knows as hyperflexion, or genu recurvatum).

This is a normal range of knee
motion, apparently. Whereas mine goes
an extra 10 to 15 degrees past 0.

It's caused by ligament laxity and, long story short, can cause all kinds of problems, like bone grating on bone because my joints extend past where there's cartilage. It's also hard to fix, because ligaments, unlike tendons (which are attached to muscles), can't be strengthened or tightened or whatever, so there's no real way to correct the laxity.

Not ideal.

Not that that there's any bone-grating action happening at the moment. But in the past two weeks or so, running became somewhat painful on impact, and my interval runs became more like long limps back to the car, which is why I thought I'd consult a professional. That professional has now referred me to another professional, who seems to be Mr Uber Knee Guy at Sports Science.

Sounds like a long and expensive road, but if I ever hope to wear in my new trainers, and one day get to my 10k, I'm going to have to limp my way down it.

Meh.

Up the creek, baby!

A road trip, a pit stop for The Best Pies in the World, camping, drinking, listening to bands, eating, drinking, listening to more bands, spending the day in a river drinking, drinking while you go back the campsite to get more drinks, drinking in the river again, eating some more, watching bands while drinking in the river and eating, passing out napping, drinking some more, watching some bands, eating, drinking ... you just have to love music festivals, don't you?

So what if it was super hot? So what if I felt nauseous both nights? So what if my hair looked like Helena Bonham Carter's after The RobFather sprayed me with his water pistol? So what if my knees and my knees alone got sunburnt while riding my crocodile (this is all starting to sound dirty)?

It was still rad as rad can be. And that's pretty rad.

I have this to say (Peggles, Sleeping Beauty and BestePomp, I hope you're reading this)...

BLAP!

Do the lyrics still shake your fucking soul?

One of my all time favourites from I Wrote This For You. It makes me smile and want to cry at the same time.

'And when we speak now, seldom as that is, the old language returns. I wonder if it makes old names make guest appearances in your mind. If you can feel the skin of my neck near yours one more time. Do you reach across the bed for a shape, no longer there. Do you remember it clearly or is it all just memories of memories. Is there still warmth from my fingers tracing the contours of your skin, left somewhere in your body. If you smell the smell of how I used to smell in a crowd, do you think of these things. Is something missing in everyone else's or someone new's voice. Will they never know quite how to laugh or breathe just behind your ear. Do they know what you look like when you want to leave a party, when you've had too much of people. Could they rebuild your body out of clay if they needed to, because they've touched it so many times. Does your back still arch the way it used to when I still kissed you.

Does an old singer sing an old song on an old radio.

Do the lyrics still shake your fucking soul.

Did it sound like this?'

Cock-knockers

Look. I'm so bummed, I even pulled a hipster move
and wrote my emotions on my hand, then took
a photo to show you my angst.

Ever had a day that was supposed to consist of two hours of work, a fancy spa pedicure and a long boozy lunch, but then ended being two hours of work, a monumental fuck-up brought to your attention that's all your fault and will cost your company tens of thousands ... and then a fancy spa pedicure and a long boozy lunch during which you have time to Think About What You've Done?

I have. Thanks today. Way to go messing up what was supposed to be an awesome week for me.

Also, fuck you whoever came up with horoscopes.

That is all.

Gimme! (the pink edition)

Anyone kind enough to buy or steal any of the following for me,
will have my undying love and affection. 

Oh please, Please please please. Just think of all the cupcakes
I'd make for you, in my fancy KA mixer...

Micro pigs are the new pink AND the new black.
But I'm not just jumping on the bandwagon. I've wanted
a pig since I first read Charlotte's Web. I'd like to think
that's how I got my childhood family nickname
'Porky', although it's probably not.

Sorry, just had to nail the cute point home.

Because I'm tired of cheap nail polish.

Yeah, they're not my usual seven inch style,
but they're going to sort out my shin splints,
and they're not exactly the cheapest.

This is going to be a fantastic week

(Well, apart from the fact that my department – which today consists of two people, including myself, due to various others being on leave or in day-long meetings – is deathly quiet with approximately zero work having come in so far.)

The rest of the week is definitely looking up though. Here's why:

• It's a three-day week for me because...
• We're team building on Thursday, which means spa, then wine tasting, then lunch, and...
• I've taken Friday off because...
• It's Up the Creek this weekend. Hello to spending all day in the river on an inflatable crocodile, all night watching live bands, and every minute of the day with a Hunter's Extreme in my hand.

Yes, happy dance indeed. Oh and let's not forget all the marathon and very delicious grooming that shall be going on this week. Nothing this blogger likes more than grooming herself to the nines.

4x4ing is not for sissies

Even if you're not the one driving.

Did 'a little 4x4 trail' with Le Boyfriend and a couple friends on Saturday, in God knows where   beyond the boerewors curtain out Durbanville way. The scenery was pretty. Getting out of the city was nice. The sight of Boyfriend's monster v8 Hilux stretching its legs over all the obstacles and putting everyone else to shame was pretty cool too.

What wasn't cool, literally, was the heat. It's official. I'm not built for warmth. Especially not 40 degree mountain type heat. There was much swacking and also gnashing of teeth. I think we consumed about five litres of water between two of us, and by the time we were heading home, myself and another member of our intrepid band of travellers had been reduced to grunting as a form of communication.

Be proud though – I managed not to get myself sunburnt. So yay me. Suck it, skin cancer.

Spent the rest of Saturday recovering in the cool of Boyfriend's loft on his lovely couch in front of his massive T,V surrounded by its, er, surround sound. In a towel. After a long, cold shower.

I'll reiterate. 4x4ing, my friends, is not for sissies. And clearly I am one. 

That is all, as you were

Back in the black

Well, hello pay day, so nice to see you again. It's been a while. I've missed you. Really I have. I know some people may say I only look forward to seeing you when I need something, like MoroccanHairOil or tickets to Up the Creek, but that's ... okay, well yeah, that's true. But hey. We can still be friends, right?

It's so nice to have a positive bank balance and (nearly) zeroed credit card again. Wow it feels good to have more than two digits at the bottom of my internet banking statement again.

Let's face it – as rad as getting paid early in December is, January sucks a little when you run out of disposable income around the second (especially if you spent most of your remaining ZARs on bubbly – hard to subsist on that stuff, or put it into your fuel tank).

Anyway, today, despite it being the middle of the week, is a good day. Here's to No-negativity Wednesday!