weekend tallies

Number of freakouts: 1

Had to drive into town on Saturday for a shoot with SL. And take basically the same route I took to my old work. Haven’t done this in over a year and thought I would be fine.

No, instead I had a proper freak out on Jeppe Street. All the memories came back, I pushed about 8000 beads, as taxis just surround you and people are walking across the road in front of my car…crisis I went through two red robots. I really thought I could handle it after all this time.

(Cool shoot though, they dressed us up in some awesome clothes, made some friends, posed, that kind of thing).

Number of faux pas’: 2

‘Wow, [feeling her stomach that she points to], how far along until the baba is born?
‘No I’m just bloated. Really bloated.’
‘Fuck……this is awkward. Well I guess you’d better….get something to sort out that….atomic explosion going on in your stomach. Sorry man.’

‘Wow! This dog is so cute, but GOD is he fat.’
‘That’s my dog.’
‘Oh.’

Saying desperately obviously wrong things. Was this in my horoscope this week?

Number of events: 3

This weekend consisted of this: write a story, go to a photo shoot, go to a party, write a story, go to a party, write a story, go to brunch. I’m on deadline for some of my freelance writing projects and that means, basically, I didn’t really have a weekend.

Number of engagement parties: 1. Congrats C2. Your heels looked fabulous. As well.

Number of farewell parties: 1.

It’s the end of an era most colossal. Poen is leaving town. She’s off to Kenya soon to live the Karen Blixen dream. With her hunky game ranger. She’s bought a wardrobe full of khaki and her bird watching skills are suitably advanced after months of Robertson’s Bird Book studying. My wingman and friend, she’s going. First it was Doc, now it’s Poen. Am super happy that she’s going to be with her dude and experience the Masai Mara at front range, but am also going to really miss my friend.

Number of winter hibernation tactics: 2

None of the parties got out of hand. Either we’re old or we’re cold.

As the night hits the third mojito, I am tending to experience flash images of my lovely, warm, cosy, quiet lounge and get all excited about departing a party early to watch Tom Cruise and Iceman chewing gum while flying fighter jets, or just having a romantic evening in with my vibrator. Basically, hibernation is key. And it’s not even depressing me. Even if Emo is all the rage.

Vom incidents: 1

Someone told me this weekend that she vomits on impact if she drinks alcohol. Her nickname is now Vom Girl. I vomited on impact after drinking a Super M.
Is it the same thing?