I used to be a boob-less wonder. I was the subject of cruel jokes and snide comments most of my high school career! Boys would ask me if I would wear shoes if I didn't have feet and logically arrive at "why do you wear a bra then?". Horrible stuff.
But as my 20's arrived I was blessed with an uncanny feeling of satisfaction in myself. For a brief period of time I was happy with who I was. My body loved me! I could skip breakfast for 3 days and drop a dress size before the weekend! I subsisted on alcohol, cigarettes and caffeine. I hardly got a pimple and cellulite was a swear word I had to look up in the dictionary! Everything I wore looked fabulous but I looked better naked anyway! Where did those days go?
Then (kaboom!) roll on 30's. 1 Baby later and EVERYTHING changed. After the shock of a c-section and the entire birth itself wore off I realised with a fright that sometime during the last year someone had stolen my body! It's like they left my head on but took all the good bits. My previously non-existent mammaries had swelled during "udder duty" and whilst I held out of hope of them remaining as perky ,they simply deflated leaving me with nipples on 2 saggy gym socks! My bum had been replaced by a tub of cottage cheese and I now had "mommy" arms. Gone was the defined triceps and biceps of my past and vests had to be evicted post haste. You can ask his majesty, I literally culled everything and started again - I now have a reeeeeeeeeally really small selection!
You see, mine was a terrible pregnancy. I had no sickness. I had no pain. I had no run-of-the-mill pregnancy issues besides heartburn. I just got fat. Quickly! I still shudder when I look back at the photos and see myself. But there is nothing you can do whilst you're preggers! So I vowed to get my revenge on the adipose tissue post partum.
We invested in a treadmill when I had only just fallen pregnant and I pounded the pavement on that thing right up until the week before I went into labour. It was all quite relaxed and within the healthy range of exercise but that did not seem to have any effect on my growing bulk. My sister on the other hand has squeezed out 2 sprogs in quick succession and looks like a Sports Illustrated model in her cozzie. Cow! I try to hate her but I have only the genes to blame.
I now crave my 40's. Not because I am wishing my life away but there is something to be said about most 40 something women. They seem to have got over all the "teething problems" of the previous 2 decades and finally come into their own. They eat chocolate and don't care. They write about having the greatest sex of their lives! They are uber-moms. They just seem to have it all figured out. As if it's training for 50, when you really don't give a flying (insert own word)!
I am shattered when I pick up a Cosmo and flick through the beauty pages. I used to scoff at the fact that my age group didn't even feature but now I find myself turning page after page after page until I get to the dreaded three ough! How far I have fallen!
So for now I have 8 years left on my 3rd Decade dance card. I have lost my baby weight and then some but it left me an entirely different shape. Low-rise jeans snigger at me from the hangers. My hair no longer obeys and has become a limp and lifeless mass I threaten to lop off each and every day! I know I will finally come into my own on the eve of my 40th birthday and all this faffing will have been for nought. There are just days when I feel like I missed the memo. Why do all the other girls in my "category" look so well adjusted. Was there a crash course I missed somewhere along the line.
Well I can still do the splits and touch my toes. I still fit into my wedding dress 9 years on and his majesty still likes me so I must be doing something right.I am trying to be the best me I can be (erm?). Some days I fail and other days I do such a good job of bluffing that even I believe myself. It comes back to that old saying - I wish that I knew what I know now when was I younger.
Good old Rod Stewart putting it all back into focus for us!
Adios!
1 June 2011
29 May 2011
I would kill for shoes, no I really would!
I have a disease and it all takes place below the belt. Now, now, now all you voyeurs! I elude to my feet. Toosties, the "soles.
Being a full-time mom, I am now officially a non-contributor to our household turnover. I am now unable to walk past the Nine West outlet and handover my credit card in wanton abandon, just because I can. My shoe collection has suffered immeasurably. I was once likened to the notorious Imelda Marcos! I was honoured! At the height of my addiction the collection clocked in at nearly 50 pairs! And I loved them all.
I mean, one never agonises over your choice of shower gel as much as you carefully contemplate the acquisition of a new pair of shoes. And I can be a real agoniser when it comes to shoes.
I liken buying shoes to a near on spiritual experience. The Dalai Lama would be proud. There is just something about the lighting on the display that speaks to me. I imagine myself wearing the pairs. I imagine all the jiggery pokery I could get up to in them. I fantasize about the things these new shoes will see. They are the perfect accomplice. They can never tell on me!
If you didn't know this about me before, I have, by my own standards, large feet. Size 7 to be exact and sandals just don't cut it in my world. They just look like twin pontoons waiting upon a torrential downpour when they will float me to safety. So I have found curious solace in boots.
Now there is no science behind it really but boots are less likely to make you look fat. They bulk up your feet to match your pant size if you choose them correctly! I always err on the side of "the bigger the boots are the smaller the bum looks"! This mantra has stood me in good stead thus far and I pray it continues. I mean, you don't ever hear your husband chiming, "nah, those boots make your bum look big". But any husband worth his salt wouldn't offer up any comment recognising this as being a loaded question anyway!
I think my love affair started at 18. I had been saving the money from my first real job (web-designer at SASOL!) and whilst the masses were flocking the local chain stores too get their fix, I was able to pause...............................and take my lolly to an exclusive joint and marry a pair of black suede platform pull-ups! It was better than sex. That being said I was only 18 and didn't really have much to go on in the sex department. But this shoe lark I sure could get used to.
So there I was, 18, and having just spent a stupid amount of money on footwear. Now my father, frugal Scotsman, was livid. He is of the school of thought that you save your money for rainy days but I simply, in all my naivety replied that there was a downpour in my soul! He was speechless.
And boy the things those boots and I got up to! Whoa. Something magical happened every time I put them on. I almost felt all I needed was a moulded rubber catsuit and Gotham would have a new face in town. I had my heart broken for the first time in those boots. I danced on tables. I slipped into exclusive clubs and VIP rooms in those boots. I was woo-ed in a Maserati in those boots. I think I may have even smoked my first cigarette in them too. I was invincible. Good times.
But those days are over now. The boots have gone to the beautiful shoe-heaven in the sky. The are kept good company by Gianni Versace and Alexander McQueen so I know they are far from lonely.
Now at present my meta-tarsals yearn for Italian leather with a tassle detail and hand-stitching. I am now stricken as to what shoes to wear with what because post baby I had every conceivable type of boot known to man. Black suede, brown faux, grey anklets and too many more to mention (notwithstanding that I lived in a place where the ambient temperature seldom dips below 25 Celsius, in winter no less!). Also, I am no longer in a place of financial freedom to keep up this lifestyle. I have also run out of grannies to trade!
But I am still a shoe slut. I perve over peoples shoes when we are out and about. I found myself doing it on Friday night at a friends house. I am terrible!
Menopausal women can get injections. Chocoholics can have hypnosis. Smokers can have a patch. I think I can imagine a patch to help me too. It's plastic, rectangular looking and shiny and has VISA stamped on the corner!
Best foot forward peeps!
PS. Donations welcome. :-)
Being a full-time mom, I am now officially a non-contributor to our household turnover. I am now unable to walk past the Nine West outlet and handover my credit card in wanton abandon, just because I can. My shoe collection has suffered immeasurably. I was once likened to the notorious Imelda Marcos! I was honoured! At the height of my addiction the collection clocked in at nearly 50 pairs! And I loved them all.
I mean, one never agonises over your choice of shower gel as much as you carefully contemplate the acquisition of a new pair of shoes. And I can be a real agoniser when it comes to shoes.
I liken buying shoes to a near on spiritual experience. The Dalai Lama would be proud. There is just something about the lighting on the display that speaks to me. I imagine myself wearing the pairs. I imagine all the jiggery pokery I could get up to in them. I fantasize about the things these new shoes will see. They are the perfect accomplice. They can never tell on me!
If you didn't know this about me before, I have, by my own standards, large feet. Size 7 to be exact and sandals just don't cut it in my world. They just look like twin pontoons waiting upon a torrential downpour when they will float me to safety. So I have found curious solace in boots.
Now there is no science behind it really but boots are less likely to make you look fat. They bulk up your feet to match your pant size if you choose them correctly! I always err on the side of "the bigger the boots are the smaller the bum looks"! This mantra has stood me in good stead thus far and I pray it continues. I mean, you don't ever hear your husband chiming, "nah, those boots make your bum look big". But any husband worth his salt wouldn't offer up any comment recognising this as being a loaded question anyway!
I think my love affair started at 18. I had been saving the money from my first real job (web-designer at SASOL!) and whilst the masses were flocking the local chain stores too get their fix, I was able to pause...............................and take my lolly to an exclusive joint and marry a pair of black suede platform pull-ups! It was better than sex. That being said I was only 18 and didn't really have much to go on in the sex department. But this shoe lark I sure could get used to.
So there I was, 18, and having just spent a stupid amount of money on footwear. Now my father, frugal Scotsman, was livid. He is of the school of thought that you save your money for rainy days but I simply, in all my naivety replied that there was a downpour in my soul! He was speechless.
And boy the things those boots and I got up to! Whoa. Something magical happened every time I put them on. I almost felt all I needed was a moulded rubber catsuit and Gotham would have a new face in town. I had my heart broken for the first time in those boots. I danced on tables. I slipped into exclusive clubs and VIP rooms in those boots. I was woo-ed in a Maserati in those boots. I think I may have even smoked my first cigarette in them too. I was invincible. Good times.
But those days are over now. The boots have gone to the beautiful shoe-heaven in the sky. The are kept good company by Gianni Versace and Alexander McQueen so I know they are far from lonely.
Now at present my meta-tarsals yearn for Italian leather with a tassle detail and hand-stitching. I am now stricken as to what shoes to wear with what because post baby I had every conceivable type of boot known to man. Black suede, brown faux, grey anklets and too many more to mention (notwithstanding that I lived in a place where the ambient temperature seldom dips below 25 Celsius, in winter no less!). Also, I am no longer in a place of financial freedom to keep up this lifestyle. I have also run out of grannies to trade!
But I am still a shoe slut. I perve over peoples shoes when we are out and about. I found myself doing it on Friday night at a friends house. I am terrible!
Menopausal women can get injections. Chocoholics can have hypnosis. Smokers can have a patch. I think I can imagine a patch to help me too. It's plastic, rectangular looking and shiny and has VISA stamped on the corner!
Best foot forward peeps!
PS. Donations welcome. :-)
25 May 2011
so that's 9 is it?
Today is my ninth wedding anniversary. Shocking I know. Firstly because I found someone daft enough to marry me and secondly because he hasn't yet killed me and hidden the evidence.
So what is marriage? Well there is the Oxford's hoity toity definition and all I can merely sum it up as having a live-in witness to EVERYTHING you do.
Now this doesn't mean that after nine years, his majesty is privy to how I work, inner mechanisms and all. It merely speaks volumes for his pain threshold or more like his willingness to consciously instill pain upon himself.
Nine years ago today, I, all of twenty two (!), was given away by my father. I still wonder if money changed hands and if so, who got the better deal.
But it's been fun.
We spent eight of those years childless and in hindsight were granted a period of "getting to know each other". Although, some days I think I don't know his majesty at all! We had fabulous holidays, adventurous trips scuba-diving, canopy tours in trees, rearing countless animals, building a home and "nesting".
It has been a time of learning, growing-up, changes and many, many tears. They have often been tears of joy but they too have been moments of sadness and frustration.
In this time of instants - instant noodles, instant cash, instant subscriptions - I feel we have become an anomaly. I mean, who stays married, happily, for nine years. By choice no less!
Our relationship is by no means perfect. It is not problem-free. It too stagnates sometimes and needs some sparkle injected back into it. But it works. The main reason being, his majesty and I decided to put each other first before all others, even ourselves. To strive to be the best we can be for the other. To pause for a moment whenever making decisions about anything, to consider the other. This has often been difficult. But is has been a work in progress. There are days when I battle to put his majesty first because I'm feeling selfish, and those are the days when I feel the most guilty.
My fervent wish for the "marrying" youth of today would be that they not give up on these relationships. Irreconcilable differences is truly an escapist reason for divorce. To end a marriage simply because we're too caught up in ourselves to try. That is simply my opinion and seeing as Oprah hasn't exactly contacted me to do a self-help segment, I wouldn't get your knickers in a knot over my rantings.
To his majesty - I love you dearly and while I hold you personally responsible for every grey follicle on my noggin, I somehow can't imagine a day without you. You drive me nuts and push my buttons on purpose but I can't think of anyone I'd rather have do it that you!
Live long and prosper friends............
So what is marriage? Well there is the Oxford's hoity toity definition and all I can merely sum it up as having a live-in witness to EVERYTHING you do.
Now this doesn't mean that after nine years, his majesty is privy to how I work, inner mechanisms and all. It merely speaks volumes for his pain threshold or more like his willingness to consciously instill pain upon himself.
Nine years ago today, I, all of twenty two (!), was given away by my father. I still wonder if money changed hands and if so, who got the better deal.
But it's been fun.
We spent eight of those years childless and in hindsight were granted a period of "getting to know each other". Although, some days I think I don't know his majesty at all! We had fabulous holidays, adventurous trips scuba-diving, canopy tours in trees, rearing countless animals, building a home and "nesting".
It has been a time of learning, growing-up, changes and many, many tears. They have often been tears of joy but they too have been moments of sadness and frustration.
In this time of instants - instant noodles, instant cash, instant subscriptions - I feel we have become an anomaly. I mean, who stays married, happily, for nine years. By choice no less!
Our relationship is by no means perfect. It is not problem-free. It too stagnates sometimes and needs some sparkle injected back into it. But it works. The main reason being, his majesty and I decided to put each other first before all others, even ourselves. To strive to be the best we can be for the other. To pause for a moment whenever making decisions about anything, to consider the other. This has often been difficult. But is has been a work in progress. There are days when I battle to put his majesty first because I'm feeling selfish, and those are the days when I feel the most guilty.
My fervent wish for the "marrying" youth of today would be that they not give up on these relationships. Irreconcilable differences is truly an escapist reason for divorce. To end a marriage simply because we're too caught up in ourselves to try. That is simply my opinion and seeing as Oprah hasn't exactly contacted me to do a self-help segment, I wouldn't get your knickers in a knot over my rantings.
To his majesty - I love you dearly and while I hold you personally responsible for every grey follicle on my noggin, I somehow can't imagine a day without you. You drive me nuts and push my buttons on purpose but I can't think of anyone I'd rather have do it that you!
Live long and prosper friends............
11 May 2011
Are you there God, it's me Margaret?
The title of a book by famed tween author, Judy Blume. And one which I read repeatedly from the age of 11.
In a nutshell the books deal with a girl's coming of age and how she thinks these changes are divine retribution for some sin and how she keeps asking God what's going on with her. Comical to the fault but a deep read which has recently made me question my own faith.
I haven't prayed in quite a long time. I sit, eyes open in church, while everyone else mutters their thanks and requests and seem thankful for that which I recognise as karma and calling it prayer. As cynical as I sound, I've stopped asking for things. I've stopped being thankful to a deity who seems to have forgotten my number. I feel unloved and neglected for all my goodness and rudimentary attempts at obedience. I am a good person, honestly. I am by no means the poster-child of perfection, but like us all, I try.
But something sinister has been afoot in our home recently. For the last 2 days the princess has exhibited a tearful night time ritual of crying and laying awake in absolute terror. And as I entered the nursery each time, I would play the day over in my brain trying to pinpoint the moment when I failed as a mother and something scary happened to upset her so. But to date nothing. I am not of the habit of shouting at Imogen. I find it pointless really. She doesn't understand me - it just leads to tears from her and insurmountable guilt on my part.
Last night, after his majesty had been to her bedside numerous times I decided to go in and lend a hand. And as she catapulted from his arms to mine I realised how incredible the responsibility of her spiritual well-being is for me. And as I sat there on the rocker with her little eyelids fluttering at me I felt nothing but sadness. I had let her down. By cooling my own faith and not remaining vigilant, I had allowed someone to enter our home and rock her world.
Okay, don't call me cuckoo but I am of the belief that children see the world on a whole different plane to the adults. If you don't agree then please explain the imaginary friends or the ramblings of a 3 year old who tells you someone was in their room last night talking to them? When Imogen was a teeny baby she would continually stare past us at something or someone else in the room. She would smile and gurgle and derive great glee from interacting with whomever it was. His majesty still reminds me of how I would say she was "talking to the angels". Hey, don't judge but I still cling to the belief that they are out there.
So, if there's good there's got to be bad, right? Otherwise the universe would be off kilter and everything would be out of whack, cosmic balances and all.
The last few months have been far from easy for our little family. Crippling expenses, spending months apart. selling most of our possessions to afford to move, leaving our beloved pets in another's care and being the "new" people, it hasn't exactly been a joyride!
My heart has been crying out these last few months for God to contact me. Send me a divine sms via the cosmos and let me know that I am still on His speed dial. I have been a virtual flounder. Stuck in the spin-cycle which is my life but then again it would appear that selfishness has reared its ugly head again and I'v made it all about me!
Perhaps the going's on the last few days have been God trying to make contact. I will never know. Quite honestly, I would've settled for a phone call, a sneak peek at the next chapter!
When I spoke to his majesty about all of this last night, he asked that we pray together at her crib each night and I think I am finally in a place to give it a try.
Whatever it is, it has me scared too. I worry, always have and always will but maybe now I can do it without the trenches on my brow growing any deeper and the grey taking over my whole head!
Faith 101 - there is a manual, but it's in Hebrew, and I'm far from fluent.
As my father frequently quips - stop counting sheep and start speaking to the shepherd!
Later alligators. . .
In a nutshell the books deal with a girl's coming of age and how she thinks these changes are divine retribution for some sin and how she keeps asking God what's going on with her. Comical to the fault but a deep read which has recently made me question my own faith.
I haven't prayed in quite a long time. I sit, eyes open in church, while everyone else mutters their thanks and requests and seem thankful for that which I recognise as karma and calling it prayer. As cynical as I sound, I've stopped asking for things. I've stopped being thankful to a deity who seems to have forgotten my number. I feel unloved and neglected for all my goodness and rudimentary attempts at obedience. I am a good person, honestly. I am by no means the poster-child of perfection, but like us all, I try.
But something sinister has been afoot in our home recently. For the last 2 days the princess has exhibited a tearful night time ritual of crying and laying awake in absolute terror. And as I entered the nursery each time, I would play the day over in my brain trying to pinpoint the moment when I failed as a mother and something scary happened to upset her so. But to date nothing. I am not of the habit of shouting at Imogen. I find it pointless really. She doesn't understand me - it just leads to tears from her and insurmountable guilt on my part.
Last night, after his majesty had been to her bedside numerous times I decided to go in and lend a hand. And as she catapulted from his arms to mine I realised how incredible the responsibility of her spiritual well-being is for me. And as I sat there on the rocker with her little eyelids fluttering at me I felt nothing but sadness. I had let her down. By cooling my own faith and not remaining vigilant, I had allowed someone to enter our home and rock her world.
Okay, don't call me cuckoo but I am of the belief that children see the world on a whole different plane to the adults. If you don't agree then please explain the imaginary friends or the ramblings of a 3 year old who tells you someone was in their room last night talking to them? When Imogen was a teeny baby she would continually stare past us at something or someone else in the room. She would smile and gurgle and derive great glee from interacting with whomever it was. His majesty still reminds me of how I would say she was "talking to the angels". Hey, don't judge but I still cling to the belief that they are out there.
So, if there's good there's got to be bad, right? Otherwise the universe would be off kilter and everything would be out of whack, cosmic balances and all.
The last few months have been far from easy for our little family. Crippling expenses, spending months apart. selling most of our possessions to afford to move, leaving our beloved pets in another's care and being the "new" people, it hasn't exactly been a joyride!
My heart has been crying out these last few months for God to contact me. Send me a divine sms via the cosmos and let me know that I am still on His speed dial. I have been a virtual flounder. Stuck in the spin-cycle which is my life but then again it would appear that selfishness has reared its ugly head again and I'v made it all about me!
Perhaps the going's on the last few days have been God trying to make contact. I will never know. Quite honestly, I would've settled for a phone call, a sneak peek at the next chapter!
When I spoke to his majesty about all of this last night, he asked that we pray together at her crib each night and I think I am finally in a place to give it a try.
Whatever it is, it has me scared too. I worry, always have and always will but maybe now I can do it without the trenches on my brow growing any deeper and the grey taking over my whole head!
Faith 101 - there is a manual, but it's in Hebrew, and I'm far from fluent.
As my father frequently quips - stop counting sheep and start speaking to the shepherd!
Later alligators. . .
4 May 2011
Confessions of an OCD Perfectionist
For as long as I can remember I have been this way. Anal-retentive. A know-it-all. A perfectionist. And seeing as how I have been this way for such a long time, I know no other way to be. My earliest recollection of this syndrome was going to Friends houses and tidying up their rooms. Needless to say I didn't gain many popularity points for this behaviour.
Now, being a perfectionist is an easy feat when you're solo. No one can comment on you insane habits. Well maybe the cat starts to give you odd looks and the neighbours avoid you but generally you can exist in happy oblivion.
Then, kaboom a spouse to the equation and you life suddenly gets very complicated. I mean, I do still maintain that I am fairly easy to live with? Apparently not.
The first real adjustment I had was sharing a bed. Though simple as it sounds I had a real tough time adjusting to this. The odd allowance being made for "sleepovers' post marriage, carnal passions and all, but this arrangement was going to be long-term. How do you share your bed with someone else when you've spent the last 5 years mastering the art of cocooning yourself up in the duvet and 4 pillows. It is an art, really it is. But alas one that Husband 1.0 did not appreciate. To this day he will swear on his granny's grave that I still exhibit this behaviour.
Another terribly OCD trait I display is I cannot bear to open packets, of anything, with the label upside down. I swear the crisps taste different. But then again true to my perfectionist self I usually dispense said crisps into a bowl as I cannot bear the awful rustle of the packet every time I grab a handful.
I sort my undies according to type, size and degree of nakedness. I honestly do, you can come and check at any time. There they all are, black with blacks; creams, beige's and other "fleshys" all folded cup over cup; and virginal whites on a crisp, neat pile.
I pack rolled up newspapers into all my boots and arrange them in order of "leather-ness".
I pack teh trolley with military precision when I go grocery shopping.
I cannot sleep if there is a crack in the curtain. I can see the light poking though even when my eyes are closed.
I was so bad that there was a time when I arranged my books in colour order so that they created a rainbow of spines on the bookshelf.
I cannot bear to have fruit and veg in the same drawer in the fridge! I am not really sure what they would get up to while I wasn't looking but you never know.
I have an inane fear of running out of lip gloss and as a result own more tubes than I can ever use before they expire.
I cannot sleep on an unmade bed. In fact I will make it before I get in to sleep. Which leads me to another dilemma. In our co-habituating, his majesty and I have come to an unwritten schedule in the mornings and it would be that he would disembark the coils and head off to shower whilst I made the bed and weekends the roles would reverse and he would be left to make the bed. But me being me, an untucked corner, a crease, a squiff pillow case and I would be stripping off the lot and starting again. He later confided that he simply stopped trying in light of my unattainable standard of bed-making!
I cannot fall asleep unless the maximum amount of electrical appliance have been shut off. I swear I can hear the hum of the DVD player in the lounge 5 houses down!
I am fixated with the towels. They have to be folded and stashed in the basket (sans rail) like little perfect sardines!
And the loo paper. I am sorry but its got to come up and over, not out and under! Really, I can't bear giving the loo roll a yank and the whole lot goes merrily rolling of the roll (no pun intended!). Up and over, people, up and over! Honestly how difficult can it be.
And if you think these OCD tendencies are restricted to home, pfffffffffft, NOT! In what would have been my longest job, I displayed the same shocking attentiveness.
In part I think my behaviour stems from my maternal grandfather. A Polish POW who survived the holocaust and spent many years on the line in Europe. You see, my grandparents would come and stay and as all parents do, mine would play the "grandpa" card on us with regular alacrity. So when we had made our beds my mom would send grandpa up to check them, which sounds harmless. But, he would produce from his pocket a coin of no particular importance, and then bounce it on the bed sheet. Now, in the army the inspecting officer would come round and do this on your bunk each morning and if it wasn't up to parr your bed would be stripped and you'd have to start again until the coin would produce a suitable degree of bounce-back. I can still remember the first time my grandpa did this to my bed - it was winter and we had on our thick flannel sheets. The coin hit the mattress with a disillusioning "thuddd". And before my eyes he stripped the bed and made me start again. It was also during this visit that I learnt what a "hospital-corner" was! To this day I will regularly carry a coin in my pocket to bounce on the bed. Don't tell my mother but I still do it to her beds when we stay there! Naughty, naughty!
Now after reading all of this you may start that old yarn that I get myself into an overwind about all these seemingly meaningless rituals which not only waste time but will inevitably shorten my life, but ha, bully for you! I am quite happy being this way, and as previously mentioned, I know no other way to be.
I stick to the firm belief of "disorderly space, disorderly mind".
His majesty has been exceedingly patient with me, or me with him, the jury's not yet out on that one! A case of whose training whom I ask?
To coin the old cliche' - I am still a work in progress, watch this space.
Now, being a perfectionist is an easy feat when you're solo. No one can comment on you insane habits. Well maybe the cat starts to give you odd looks and the neighbours avoid you but generally you can exist in happy oblivion.
Then, kaboom a spouse to the equation and you life suddenly gets very complicated. I mean, I do still maintain that I am fairly easy to live with? Apparently not.
The first real adjustment I had was sharing a bed. Though simple as it sounds I had a real tough time adjusting to this. The odd allowance being made for "sleepovers' post marriage, carnal passions and all, but this arrangement was going to be long-term. How do you share your bed with someone else when you've spent the last 5 years mastering the art of cocooning yourself up in the duvet and 4 pillows. It is an art, really it is. But alas one that Husband 1.0 did not appreciate. To this day he will swear on his granny's grave that I still exhibit this behaviour.
Another terribly OCD trait I display is I cannot bear to open packets, of anything, with the label upside down. I swear the crisps taste different. But then again true to my perfectionist self I usually dispense said crisps into a bowl as I cannot bear the awful rustle of the packet every time I grab a handful.
I sort my undies according to type, size and degree of nakedness. I honestly do, you can come and check at any time. There they all are, black with blacks; creams, beige's and other "fleshys" all folded cup over cup; and virginal whites on a crisp, neat pile.
I pack rolled up newspapers into all my boots and arrange them in order of "leather-ness".
I pack teh trolley with military precision when I go grocery shopping.
I cannot sleep if there is a crack in the curtain. I can see the light poking though even when my eyes are closed.
I was so bad that there was a time when I arranged my books in colour order so that they created a rainbow of spines on the bookshelf.
I cannot bear to have fruit and veg in the same drawer in the fridge! I am not really sure what they would get up to while I wasn't looking but you never know.
I have an inane fear of running out of lip gloss and as a result own more tubes than I can ever use before they expire.
I cannot sleep on an unmade bed. In fact I will make it before I get in to sleep. Which leads me to another dilemma. In our co-habituating, his majesty and I have come to an unwritten schedule in the mornings and it would be that he would disembark the coils and head off to shower whilst I made the bed and weekends the roles would reverse and he would be left to make the bed. But me being me, an untucked corner, a crease, a squiff pillow case and I would be stripping off the lot and starting again. He later confided that he simply stopped trying in light of my unattainable standard of bed-making!
I cannot fall asleep unless the maximum amount of electrical appliance have been shut off. I swear I can hear the hum of the DVD player in the lounge 5 houses down!
I am fixated with the towels. They have to be folded and stashed in the basket (sans rail) like little perfect sardines!
And the loo paper. I am sorry but its got to come up and over, not out and under! Really, I can't bear giving the loo roll a yank and the whole lot goes merrily rolling of the roll (no pun intended!). Up and over, people, up and over! Honestly how difficult can it be.
And if you think these OCD tendencies are restricted to home, pfffffffffft, NOT! In what would have been my longest job, I displayed the same shocking attentiveness.
In part I think my behaviour stems from my maternal grandfather. A Polish POW who survived the holocaust and spent many years on the line in Europe. You see, my grandparents would come and stay and as all parents do, mine would play the "grandpa" card on us with regular alacrity. So when we had made our beds my mom would send grandpa up to check them, which sounds harmless. But, he would produce from his pocket a coin of no particular importance, and then bounce it on the bed sheet. Now, in the army the inspecting officer would come round and do this on your bunk each morning and if it wasn't up to parr your bed would be stripped and you'd have to start again until the coin would produce a suitable degree of bounce-back. I can still remember the first time my grandpa did this to my bed - it was winter and we had on our thick flannel sheets. The coin hit the mattress with a disillusioning "thuddd". And before my eyes he stripped the bed and made me start again. It was also during this visit that I learnt what a "hospital-corner" was! To this day I will regularly carry a coin in my pocket to bounce on the bed. Don't tell my mother but I still do it to her beds when we stay there! Naughty, naughty!
Now after reading all of this you may start that old yarn that I get myself into an overwind about all these seemingly meaningless rituals which not only waste time but will inevitably shorten my life, but ha, bully for you! I am quite happy being this way, and as previously mentioned, I know no other way to be.
I stick to the firm belief of "disorderly space, disorderly mind".
His majesty has been exceedingly patient with me, or me with him, the jury's not yet out on that one! A case of whose training whom I ask?
To coin the old cliche' - I am still a work in progress, watch this space.
19 April 2011
There is no "I" in P-E-T . . .
I am always baffled by the statement, "I'm not a dog person" or "I'm not a cat person". I am just a plain animal person.Hello, where have these people been living. You are an animal you crazy monkey
I retain a natural respect for all of God's creatures. I swim in the ocean but know there are things down there that want to eat me and will, given half the chance. I have holidayed in wildernesses and been a spectator to the rhythms of the circle of life. I am by no means a saint. I have killed a stupid amount of mozzies; not that it had any effect on the population whatsoever- but it was good for stress-relief, and am guilty of whipping out the doom and killing a fair amount of ants. I tolerate many creatures, snakes, spiders, the praying mantis that keeps coming through my study window!
All this aside, I need to confess, I...am...a...pet-owner! There I said it! Phew I feel so much lighter now.
I have been guilty of letting a bevy of non-descript castaways into my heart! And as something expensive happens, I bang my fist on the table and declare "That's it! I'm not doing this again, it's just too painful". But the words haven't even gone cold on my lips when I find myself again saying yes to just one more!
I acquired my "first" in 2002. A Jack Russell terrier whom I called Bentley (as in the car!) and he was the love of my life. My "kalulu" as his majesty jealously announced. We lived in a garden cottage at the time and even though the landlord had animals of his own he was gracious enough to grant me this one wish. Bentley went to daycare at my mom-in-law on weekdays and was waiting at the window every afternoon when I went to fetch him. He was the first dog I had all to myself and I taught him tricks and loved him and walked him and so on. I was always envious of people who travelled everywhere with their pets and now I was one of them! Yippee! It was a cool club to be in! I went to the deli and he was the picture of charm in the trolley. I went to the bank and he sat at my feet. I went grocery shopping and he charmed the vegetable weigher-person! Sadly due to a freak accident in 2007 he passed on. I cried for weeks. Though he was my first he sure wasn't my only or my last!
There has to be something said about the unwavering love from my pets. Is it the way they seem to hear my car coming from miles away and all lay in wait in the driveway? Is it the way they will settle at my feet no matter where I am and what I'm doing. Is it the way they greet me so emphatically no matter how long I've been gone (even if its just to the cafe and back!). I swear if they could bottle the stuff I would buy it by the gallon.
And what's in a name. I find that pet names are as personal and expressive as tattoos. You can tell a great deal about people from what they call their pets. There are the slaves to the ordinary who opt for Lucky, Lady, Jessie, Blackie, Whitey, Duke and Sandy. Then there are the uber cool place name-ers coming up with Malibu, Dakota, Orlando, Paris, Skye and to on. Not to mention the brand-labellers who tote Levi, whiskey, Morgan, Prada and the like.
Erm, then there myself and his majesty. A hopeless pair we are so we ended up with Hannah, a dachsie mix of extraneous proportions. Diesel a staffordshire bull terrier and Jock-of-the-bushveld lookalike. Osca, simply from an ad on telly his majesty saw, whose punchline was "Does that mean Oscar can stay?". He simply spelt it differently so to be able to deny his addiction to telly. And Orson, his majesty's first love, a Jack Russell terrier who aptly lives up to his name - a french translation meaning "Little Bear". Oh and not forgetting the cat, Rumpleteaser, from the musical Cats. No imagination, I know!
All of this talk of animals brings to mind an email that did the rounds a few years ago. Written from the point of view of a pet owner to a non-pet owner. Whilst rather lenghty the gist of the message is love me love my pets. They live here, you don't. If you don't want fur on your clothes then don't sit on the sofa. And so on. Very good, could almost hear the furry author sniggering.
I can relate. With the acquisition of each new pet his majesty and I collectively lay down the law, mostly to ourselves, and say, right, no animals sleeping inside, no pets on the furniture, no animals on the bed. Pfffffffffffffft! That lasts all of about 24 hours of their arrival and admittedly his majesty is usually the first to crack. Oh ask him, he'll deny it to the death but it's him who caves in at the first "spca" stares he gets. He's hopeless.
On the subject of the spca, this is how we got most of our animals - apart from the ones we took on from emigrating friends. I have a hate of store bought animals and firmly insist that to purchase them is not a form of emancipation but merely stimulating the trade. Not the mention the mindless masses who say they are merely going to let their pet have one litter and then have them sterilised. Imagine if you will that you were allowed to have sex only once and had the means and method removed. Surely you would live out the rest of your days missing it right? I say nip and neuter in puppy hood then the poor beast has no knowledge and cannot miss what they don't know about! And the SPCA do so much with so little.
I promise, all of the mix breed, lost soul, pavement specials we have adopted over the years have turned out the be the most fantastic animals imaginable.
And if you ever find yourself in the company of someone whose just remarked that they are not a "pet" person, I dare you to look them from head-to-toe and tutt as loudly as you can. They deserve your pity. Life without an animal is lonely. Even Adam had the birds and beast to keep him company.
Note : - If you are the "NOT-A-PET-PERSON" reading this blog then no offense but please go and get a dog, you mammal. You will be happier, its a medical fact. And if you don't, know that right now I am tutting at you in pity.
Til next time. . .
Bark out loud :-)
I retain a natural respect for all of God's creatures. I swim in the ocean but know there are things down there that want to eat me and will, given half the chance. I have holidayed in wildernesses and been a spectator to the rhythms of the circle of life. I am by no means a saint. I have killed a stupid amount of mozzies; not that it had any effect on the population whatsoever- but it was good for stress-relief, and am guilty of whipping out the doom and killing a fair amount of ants. I tolerate many creatures, snakes, spiders, the praying mantis that keeps coming through my study window!
All this aside, I need to confess, I...am...a...pet-owner! There I said it! Phew I feel so much lighter now.
I have been guilty of letting a bevy of non-descript castaways into my heart! And as something expensive happens, I bang my fist on the table and declare "That's it! I'm not doing this again, it's just too painful". But the words haven't even gone cold on my lips when I find myself again saying yes to just one more!
I acquired my "first" in 2002. A Jack Russell terrier whom I called Bentley (as in the car!) and he was the love of my life. My "kalulu" as his majesty jealously announced. We lived in a garden cottage at the time and even though the landlord had animals of his own he was gracious enough to grant me this one wish. Bentley went to daycare at my mom-in-law on weekdays and was waiting at the window every afternoon when I went to fetch him. He was the first dog I had all to myself and I taught him tricks and loved him and walked him and so on. I was always envious of people who travelled everywhere with their pets and now I was one of them! Yippee! It was a cool club to be in! I went to the deli and he was the picture of charm in the trolley. I went to the bank and he sat at my feet. I went grocery shopping and he charmed the vegetable weigher-person! Sadly due to a freak accident in 2007 he passed on. I cried for weeks. Though he was my first he sure wasn't my only or my last!
There has to be something said about the unwavering love from my pets. Is it the way they seem to hear my car coming from miles away and all lay in wait in the driveway? Is it the way they will settle at my feet no matter where I am and what I'm doing. Is it the way they greet me so emphatically no matter how long I've been gone (even if its just to the cafe and back!). I swear if they could bottle the stuff I would buy it by the gallon.
And what's in a name. I find that pet names are as personal and expressive as tattoos. You can tell a great deal about people from what they call their pets. There are the slaves to the ordinary who opt for Lucky, Lady, Jessie, Blackie, Whitey, Duke and Sandy. Then there are the uber cool place name-ers coming up with Malibu, Dakota, Orlando, Paris, Skye and to on. Not to mention the brand-labellers who tote Levi, whiskey, Morgan, Prada and the like.
Erm, then there myself and his majesty. A hopeless pair we are so we ended up with Hannah, a dachsie mix of extraneous proportions. Diesel a staffordshire bull terrier and Jock-of-the-bushveld lookalike. Osca, simply from an ad on telly his majesty saw, whose punchline was "Does that mean Oscar can stay?". He simply spelt it differently so to be able to deny his addiction to telly. And Orson, his majesty's first love, a Jack Russell terrier who aptly lives up to his name - a french translation meaning "Little Bear". Oh and not forgetting the cat, Rumpleteaser, from the musical Cats. No imagination, I know!
All of this talk of animals brings to mind an email that did the rounds a few years ago. Written from the point of view of a pet owner to a non-pet owner. Whilst rather lenghty the gist of the message is love me love my pets. They live here, you don't. If you don't want fur on your clothes then don't sit on the sofa. And so on. Very good, could almost hear the furry author sniggering.
I can relate. With the acquisition of each new pet his majesty and I collectively lay down the law, mostly to ourselves, and say, right, no animals sleeping inside, no pets on the furniture, no animals on the bed. Pfffffffffffffft! That lasts all of about 24 hours of their arrival and admittedly his majesty is usually the first to crack. Oh ask him, he'll deny it to the death but it's him who caves in at the first "spca" stares he gets. He's hopeless.
On the subject of the spca, this is how we got most of our animals - apart from the ones we took on from emigrating friends. I have a hate of store bought animals and firmly insist that to purchase them is not a form of emancipation but merely stimulating the trade. Not the mention the mindless masses who say they are merely going to let their pet have one litter and then have them sterilised. Imagine if you will that you were allowed to have sex only once and had the means and method removed. Surely you would live out the rest of your days missing it right? I say nip and neuter in puppy hood then the poor beast has no knowledge and cannot miss what they don't know about! And the SPCA do so much with so little.
I promise, all of the mix breed, lost soul, pavement specials we have adopted over the years have turned out the be the most fantastic animals imaginable.
And if you ever find yourself in the company of someone whose just remarked that they are not a "pet" person, I dare you to look them from head-to-toe and tutt as loudly as you can. They deserve your pity. Life without an animal is lonely. Even Adam had the birds and beast to keep him company.
Note : - If you are the "NOT-A-PET-PERSON" reading this blog then no offense but please go and get a dog, you mammal. You will be happier, its a medical fact. And if you don't, know that right now I am tutting at you in pity.
Til next time. . .
Bark out loud :-)
7 April 2011
How Imogen arrived . . . and it wasn't by stork!
Righty, so it was on this very day a year ago that I ate 2 consecutive mutton bunny chows in a futile attempt to oust my now 1 year old daughter from my then very tired and honestly, exhausted womb. Thinking back I am sure my parents were in shock. Firstly at my ability to devour practically an entire loaf of bread by myself and secondly the fact that I was no longer "charmed" at incubating!
Well, a bit of a back story. Imogen is the result of fertility treatment. A long and emotionally charged journey that culminated in what I can only deem as the best sentence I had heard in a very long time - the king delivering the news "My love, you'd better book your maternity leave because we have a bun in the oven". Phew now with that came a technicality. We had a gem of an obgyn we had seen in Durban, who after numerous visits, had the eta at the 12th April 2010. And after transferring to an obgyn closer to home, he set our date at on or around the 6th April 2010. My awesome parents planned a holiday to be here in time to meet the new arrival. So the 6th came and went and still nada. I was just very tired and very "over" this whole experience by now. I could tell my dad was shattered, in fact I do recall him asking me jokingly if I couldn't just will myself into labour? You know, I would if I could!
With their imminent departure that Saturday we were running out of time, so on the Friday I suggested that we go to the mall and have a cuppa and some cake and just call it quits. And my mom being my mom she wanted to hit a "few" shops while we were at it. So there I was now officially overdue, waddling the mall from north to south. Phew, I was buggered! That evening we were throwing a braai for my in-laws to say cheerio to the folks.As always, a very sedate but lovely affair but man, I was kaputt. I recall spending the entire evening on a wicker chair on the patio with my feet up because I just couldnt' muster the energy to move. Once everyone had said their adieus I went to shower, stubbed my toe on the shower stall and was attempting very limited gymnastics to sort the said toenail, like a whimsical contortionist. Imagine if you will a heavily pregnant woman trying to reach her toenail with her leg bent back behind her knee. Stretch, grunt, hmpppffffff and. . . oops! My water broke! Yikes, so there I was on the eve of my parents departure, wandering into the lounge where they were all chilling and very calmly saying "um, I think my water just broke, could you stay another day, I think the baby will be here by tomorrow?!
I am not famous for cosmic timing. I am exceedingly punctual, nauseatingly so but as to the grand designs of the timing of the events that occur in my life, I must admit defeat and give in to what they call Irish Luck! Like starting my period on my wedding day (argh) and always getting a HUGE pimple on my nose the day we want to take family pics! Typical.
Long story short, a hurried car ride the 2 seconds to the hospital, a very loooooooooooong night and 17 hours of labour later the obgyn gave the orders and my pain was relieved and I could breath again. Epidurals are grand things, given the choice I would have one every 28 days! I was stubborn and wanted to give this natural malarky a bash but had to give in when my cervix failed to dilate! Stupid thing, this is after all what it was designed for, the whole meaning of its existence. Anyway, that aside, I was whisked away to theatre, past my family waiting in the lounge! I have no idea how and when they arrived but I am pretty sure they heard every four letter expletive that I had vented from the active labour ward in the last few hours! I still cringe when I think about that! I do recall whipping out all the cuss words my Polish grandfather had taught us too! Argh, how embarrassing!
Into theatre, stripped and having my body subdivided was the strangest sensation. I remember the king being on my right and me constantly picking up my head trying to see over the curtain as to what was happening. He later told me that in my delirium I asked him if he could see my insides, which had the entire theatre in stitches (no pun intended!). Shoving, grunting (from the obgyn), huffing and puffing and ..........the pleasant sounds of a baby crying followed by the sniffles of the king himself. Dilemma for me though. I wasn't allowed to wear my glasses and so couldn't actually see my baby. I may have even asked if she was next to that "gray thing" under the warming lamp? I also commented that she looked nothing like the cactus I was sure I was giving birth to earlier. Oh wait, seeing as I was in a room called a theatre, I felt obliged to perform so when the obgyn was putting my bits back together he jokingly asked if I wanted a tummy tuck while he was there, to which I replied a drunken "Noooooooooooooo, take it all off my bum!" Ever the clown , I swear you can't take me anywhere!
I was wheeled off to "RECOVERY", an awful artificially lit morgue of a place where the aircondtioning is too cold and they don't have enough blankets. All this while the family were now meeting and greeting our arrival. I was returned to the ward where I slept off some of the drugs and was awoken by my dad poking his beaming, smiling head around the corner and telling me well done, followed by my ma whom I had never been so happy to see. And I finally got to meet her majesty. Such an overwhelming moment looking at that pink crumpled person squinting up at me.
I could go on about how cute her hands were and how she had the chubbiest little chin and how here eyes were looking at everything and and and. But that's it in a rather large nutshell really. The cliff notes version. The short and sweet story of it.
That's the story of how Imogen arrived. And not a stork in sight. Pfffffffft!
Well, a bit of a back story. Imogen is the result of fertility treatment. A long and emotionally charged journey that culminated in what I can only deem as the best sentence I had heard in a very long time - the king delivering the news "My love, you'd better book your maternity leave because we have a bun in the oven". Phew now with that came a technicality. We had a gem of an obgyn we had seen in Durban, who after numerous visits, had the eta at the 12th April 2010. And after transferring to an obgyn closer to home, he set our date at on or around the 6th April 2010. My awesome parents planned a holiday to be here in time to meet the new arrival. So the 6th came and went and still nada. I was just very tired and very "over" this whole experience by now. I could tell my dad was shattered, in fact I do recall him asking me jokingly if I couldn't just will myself into labour? You know, I would if I could!
With their imminent departure that Saturday we were running out of time, so on the Friday I suggested that we go to the mall and have a cuppa and some cake and just call it quits. And my mom being my mom she wanted to hit a "few" shops while we were at it. So there I was now officially overdue, waddling the mall from north to south. Phew, I was buggered! That evening we were throwing a braai for my in-laws to say cheerio to the folks.As always, a very sedate but lovely affair but man, I was kaputt. I recall spending the entire evening on a wicker chair on the patio with my feet up because I just couldnt' muster the energy to move. Once everyone had said their adieus I went to shower, stubbed my toe on the shower stall and was attempting very limited gymnastics to sort the said toenail, like a whimsical contortionist. Imagine if you will a heavily pregnant woman trying to reach her toenail with her leg bent back behind her knee. Stretch, grunt, hmpppffffff and. . . oops! My water broke! Yikes, so there I was on the eve of my parents departure, wandering into the lounge where they were all chilling and very calmly saying "um, I think my water just broke, could you stay another day, I think the baby will be here by tomorrow?!
I am not famous for cosmic timing. I am exceedingly punctual, nauseatingly so but as to the grand designs of the timing of the events that occur in my life, I must admit defeat and give in to what they call Irish Luck! Like starting my period on my wedding day (argh) and always getting a HUGE pimple on my nose the day we want to take family pics! Typical.
Long story short, a hurried car ride the 2 seconds to the hospital, a very loooooooooooong night and 17 hours of labour later the obgyn gave the orders and my pain was relieved and I could breath again. Epidurals are grand things, given the choice I would have one every 28 days! I was stubborn and wanted to give this natural malarky a bash but had to give in when my cervix failed to dilate! Stupid thing, this is after all what it was designed for, the whole meaning of its existence. Anyway, that aside, I was whisked away to theatre, past my family waiting in the lounge! I have no idea how and when they arrived but I am pretty sure they heard every four letter expletive that I had vented from the active labour ward in the last few hours! I still cringe when I think about that! I do recall whipping out all the cuss words my Polish grandfather had taught us too! Argh, how embarrassing!
Into theatre, stripped and having my body subdivided was the strangest sensation. I remember the king being on my right and me constantly picking up my head trying to see over the curtain as to what was happening. He later told me that in my delirium I asked him if he could see my insides, which had the entire theatre in stitches (no pun intended!). Shoving, grunting (from the obgyn), huffing and puffing and ..........the pleasant sounds of a baby crying followed by the sniffles of the king himself. Dilemma for me though. I wasn't allowed to wear my glasses and so couldn't actually see my baby. I may have even asked if she was next to that "gray thing" under the warming lamp? I also commented that she looked nothing like the cactus I was sure I was giving birth to earlier. Oh wait, seeing as I was in a room called a theatre, I felt obliged to perform so when the obgyn was putting my bits back together he jokingly asked if I wanted a tummy tuck while he was there, to which I replied a drunken "Noooooooooooooo, take it all off my bum!" Ever the clown , I swear you can't take me anywhere!
I was wheeled off to "RECOVERY", an awful artificially lit morgue of a place where the aircondtioning is too cold and they don't have enough blankets. All this while the family were now meeting and greeting our arrival. I was returned to the ward where I slept off some of the drugs and was awoken by my dad poking his beaming, smiling head around the corner and telling me well done, followed by my ma whom I had never been so happy to see. And I finally got to meet her majesty. Such an overwhelming moment looking at that pink crumpled person squinting up at me.
I could go on about how cute her hands were and how she had the chubbiest little chin and how here eyes were looking at everything and and and. But that's it in a rather large nutshell really. The cliff notes version. The short and sweet story of it.
That's the story of how Imogen arrived. And not a stork in sight. Pfffffffft!
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