Turned 32 today. Must admit it doesn't feel any different to 31. Ask me next winter when the aches and pains of injuries inflicted in my youth kick in.
Special day. What I thought was going to be a sedate tea and cake with a few family members turned out to be a very hush-hush gathering of mates near and dear, all of whom I thought were busy with Christmas and families if their own.
Spoilt rotten. Again. His majesty gets better at this year after year and I am always left feeling like a queen, albeit for a day. The elves come at midnight to fetch the pumpkin and tomorrow I am back to a mere commoner.
But, his majesty is on leave until mid-January so I can ease off the childcare a bit and maybe get a break in myself.
Three more sleeps 'til Christmas. Then it's another round of presents and family and fellowship.
I blame my parents for being hippies and having me during the festive season but I get to be showered with stuff, barely find place to pack it all and then it'd round 2.
Lucky me.
Now off with you all to baste turkeys, bake gingerbread cookies and overdose on sellotape and tinsel.
Toodles.
22 December 2011
16 November 2011
Fashion Faux Pas
I don't get the fashion these days. I have sadly fallen into a clothing abyss which has rendered my present wardrobe a collection of jeans, boots and functional tops. Mom camo I call it. Heck most of the time I'm too tired to care what I'm wearing. Too poor to shop better and anything I own is destined to be fouled by the inevitable banana smear that won't come out.
On a rare moment of solace, I took the time to browse the mall and was so bewildered by the 5th shop! What madness has overtaken the planet? Are all the retailer buyers doing acid during lunch because nothing seems to be made with me in mind. mWhat trippin' fool decided that Mercurochrome orange is the colour de jour this summer? Unless you have a deep, cancer-inducing tan you just look jaundice, or at least I do. Am I the only one?
The trends have all gone elasticated-ankles on us. Unless you're built like Madonna, it just looks doff. And why on earth would someone want to marry workout gear with the hallowed jean in the first place? Does Levi know of this travesty? I'm sure there are photos stashed in an old biscuit tin of my mother sporting this look in the late seventies and I am of the firm opinion that some trends go away to die in shame and this must be one of them. I also nominate the ever appearing catsuit be cremated too! Argh, they are awful. They are now making them in a hot-pant version so not only am I treated to a camel-toe exhibition but it now comes complete with a cellulite sideshow! Unless you're built like a stick insect in which case I'm just jealous so could you please stop parading your perfect body around me and go and eat a doughnut!
Know you limits I say. I would never don a micro-mini knowing that my legs are on the "heavy" side and I just end up looking like a plus-size hooker. So why are big girls wearing leggings (another nemesis!)? They must take forever to get dressed - hours in a hot bath, melting their thighs down to pour them into pants that are too tight! They always end up looking like they've got a corset on their bums! Now don't misunderstand me, I am not dissing the curvy among us, I am merely observing that just because its being sold in a size 40 doesn't mean it looks good.
About sizing. I have an issue with this. Mr Price would get a whole lot more of my patronage if they adjusted their clothing back to "real people" size! Most times I've got to take a 14! Not very good for my fragile, female ego. Hell, if I fitted into anything labelled 30 I would by seven in every colour they had just for the rush every time I got dressed.
Incidentally I was trawling the factory shop mecca in the south and ambled into a real swishy label outlet and the kind assistant asked if she could help. I said yeah sure I'm looking for jeans, I'm usually a 32/34. Then she committed the ultimate sin and handed me a 30! I told her I was flattered that she gauged me to be so skinny but that they wouldn't fit. She just winked and said huskily "just try them on would you". OMG, they fitted and I was shrieking in euphoria in the change room. I had a total Heidi Klum moment. Sadly they were too short (I am a rather tall animal - at least that's what everyone tells me) darn darn darn! But yikes it was lekker for a nanosecond. And ding dong...Vanity sizing.
This made think back to my aunt visiting from Canada a few years back and blowing the lid off what they term vanity sizing! A concept I can't say I'm against. So in South Africa you're a 10, in the UK you're a 12, in North America you're a 2 (mercy me!) but in China you're still a XXXXXXXXL! Like I say, wouldn't you want to stock up clothes labelled in Barbie size? Good way to start the day. Cheaper than cocaine. I still can't figure the size zero girls. What size is a zero anyway? Are these real people or do they inhabit lala cuckoo-land (again, just jealous!).
I am no fashionista. Post-partum I struggle to find anything vaguely flattering. It's like revenge of the body snatchers. Let's just say that bits and pieces didn't quite go back to where I expected them to. In a nutshell I ended up boobless with a muffin top! The King gets so mad at me because at the beginning of every season I just hit the cheapest outlet and pick up 5 t-shirts in different colours and choose a new skirt or two. I wish the cast of What Not to Wear lived in cupboard. I worship the ground Trinny and Susannah walk on. I must just add that it's no fun going clothes shopping solo. I need another bundle of oestrogen to tell me how wonderful I look and hear those coveted words " you have so gotta buy it!".
I need a new cozzie and funnily enough today I was chatting with 2 mates about this. You see I talked my dearest mama into buying a magic costume. She looks fabulous in it too. Basic black and I imagine her in her sunnies and wide-brimmed hat doing a Sophia Loren at the poolside. Now she's lucky. She's got a killer pair of pins and since having her gall bladder removed a year ago has lost a million kilograms! I am going to have to eat humble pie, gird my loins and go and try one of these cozzies on for myself. Sauce for goose and all. I am just weary that the science behind the costume will "magic" all my bits inside it. It's the bits on the outside I'm worried about. Perhaps I could suggest that they make an ankle-to-armpit version? They could make it all flesh toned and just make the cozzie bit a colour. Anyone got contacts at Woolworths? And as I write this the King quips from the sofa that if all else fails I can always just wear my scuba wetsuit!
As always, we can't all be perfect.
On a rare moment of solace, I took the time to browse the mall and was so bewildered by the 5th shop! What madness has overtaken the planet? Are all the retailer buyers doing acid during lunch because nothing seems to be made with me in mind. mWhat trippin' fool decided that Mercurochrome orange is the colour de jour this summer? Unless you have a deep, cancer-inducing tan you just look jaundice, or at least I do. Am I the only one?
The trends have all gone elasticated-ankles on us. Unless you're built like Madonna, it just looks doff. And why on earth would someone want to marry workout gear with the hallowed jean in the first place? Does Levi know of this travesty? I'm sure there are photos stashed in an old biscuit tin of my mother sporting this look in the late seventies and I am of the firm opinion that some trends go away to die in shame and this must be one of them. I also nominate the ever appearing catsuit be cremated too! Argh, they are awful. They are now making them in a hot-pant version so not only am I treated to a camel-toe exhibition but it now comes complete with a cellulite sideshow! Unless you're built like a stick insect in which case I'm just jealous so could you please stop parading your perfect body around me and go and eat a doughnut!
Know you limits I say. I would never don a micro-mini knowing that my legs are on the "heavy" side and I just end up looking like a plus-size hooker. So why are big girls wearing leggings (another nemesis!)? They must take forever to get dressed - hours in a hot bath, melting their thighs down to pour them into pants that are too tight! They always end up looking like they've got a corset on their bums! Now don't misunderstand me, I am not dissing the curvy among us, I am merely observing that just because its being sold in a size 40 doesn't mean it looks good.
About sizing. I have an issue with this. Mr Price would get a whole lot more of my patronage if they adjusted their clothing back to "real people" size! Most times I've got to take a 14! Not very good for my fragile, female ego. Hell, if I fitted into anything labelled 30 I would by seven in every colour they had just for the rush every time I got dressed.
Incidentally I was trawling the factory shop mecca in the south and ambled into a real swishy label outlet and the kind assistant asked if she could help. I said yeah sure I'm looking for jeans, I'm usually a 32/34. Then she committed the ultimate sin and handed me a 30! I told her I was flattered that she gauged me to be so skinny but that they wouldn't fit. She just winked and said huskily "just try them on would you". OMG, they fitted and I was shrieking in euphoria in the change room. I had a total Heidi Klum moment. Sadly they were too short (I am a rather tall animal - at least that's what everyone tells me) darn darn darn! But yikes it was lekker for a nanosecond. And ding dong...Vanity sizing.
This made think back to my aunt visiting from Canada a few years back and blowing the lid off what they term vanity sizing! A concept I can't say I'm against. So in South Africa you're a 10, in the UK you're a 12, in North America you're a 2 (mercy me!) but in China you're still a XXXXXXXXL! Like I say, wouldn't you want to stock up clothes labelled in Barbie size? Good way to start the day. Cheaper than cocaine. I still can't figure the size zero girls. What size is a zero anyway? Are these real people or do they inhabit lala cuckoo-land (again, just jealous!).
I am no fashionista. Post-partum I struggle to find anything vaguely flattering. It's like revenge of the body snatchers. Let's just say that bits and pieces didn't quite go back to where I expected them to. In a nutshell I ended up boobless with a muffin top! The King gets so mad at me because at the beginning of every season I just hit the cheapest outlet and pick up 5 t-shirts in different colours and choose a new skirt or two. I wish the cast of What Not to Wear lived in cupboard. I worship the ground Trinny and Susannah walk on. I must just add that it's no fun going clothes shopping solo. I need another bundle of oestrogen to tell me how wonderful I look and hear those coveted words " you have so gotta buy it!".
I need a new cozzie and funnily enough today I was chatting with 2 mates about this. You see I talked my dearest mama into buying a magic costume. She looks fabulous in it too. Basic black and I imagine her in her sunnies and wide-brimmed hat doing a Sophia Loren at the poolside. Now she's lucky. She's got a killer pair of pins and since having her gall bladder removed a year ago has lost a million kilograms! I am going to have to eat humble pie, gird my loins and go and try one of these cozzies on for myself. Sauce for goose and all. I am just weary that the science behind the costume will "magic" all my bits inside it. It's the bits on the outside I'm worried about. Perhaps I could suggest that they make an ankle-to-armpit version? They could make it all flesh toned and just make the cozzie bit a colour. Anyone got contacts at Woolworths? And as I write this the King quips from the sofa that if all else fails I can always just wear my scuba wetsuit!
As always, we can't all be perfect.
9 November 2011
Why do we do it?
I am by no means a model mother. In fact I am still waiting for the zen-earth-mother-experience to set in!
Her majesty is onto that testing stage. Old enough to babble, too young to be understood. I akin her frustration to that of stroke victims whose minds are still able but whose tongues are unwilling.
Not a day goes by that I don't consider quitting. Motherhood ain't for sissies and God only knows why I signed up for it full time. I must be some kind of stupid. Or secretly made of tough stuff I just haven't discovered yet.
I wonder how my mother muddled through without killing my sister and I at toddlerhood! But I can now relate to her then perceived moods.I commented to a friend on Facebook the other day that I wonder how people have more than one child. Are they mad????? Are they daft???? Are they seriously gluttons for punishment or did I miss some cosmic memo that promises a pot of gold and a day off?
I have learnt/am learning that children are embarrassing. Until they are old enough to understand social graces and decorum they basically make you cringe in a corner picking snot off their fingers with a smile on your face whilst hoping nobody noticed that they discovered the all-you-can-eat buffet up their noses.
Her majesty has just taken to licking the grass in our back garden. Hello? We have four dogs ranging from ankle height to jugular range. And they poo and pee all over the place. Why on earth would she want to ingest it? Is this normal? And yet I am often tempted to let her do it and get it off her to-do-list! Eat poo - check. Stick fingers up dogs' bum - check. Pull wings off a fly - check. Madness.
And all this being said I am thankful that I am surrounded by many other women at a similar life stage whose kids are being just as gross if not worse. Phew, thank heavens for that. While everyone is watching little Fred doing a Picasso likeness with his own poo, they haven't noticed that my princess has walloped an unsuspecting child with the xylophone and then dropped it for something seemingly more interesting. Attention span of a gnat!
I envy all those women swanning around in perpetual serenity. How do they do it? Do they have a closet drinking habit to help them cope because they must be doing something and you can't tell me they rely on the power of prayer and meticulous journal keeping. Lies lies lies I tell you.
In an effort to up my parenting ante I invested in the Supernanny book. I hold it in very high esteem. For a woman who has no training or children of her own she sure has the toddler brain sussed. Her techniques really work, if you have the inner strength to see it through. We now have a naughty spot and it works so well I am sometimes tempted to banish the king to it! Don't judge. It works for our family but it may not work for yours.
Life is fraught with struggle I am learning and for the most part I can take it all in my stride. I have a frustratingly understanding husband who is ever patient. But some days the wheels come off and I run out of funny. That obscure moment when you instantly lose the ability to laugh at yourself and situations and crumble like a cracker. This happens often too. I swear when I had my Caesar the doctor removed my coping mechanism!
But like all other full time moms I wouldn't change it for the world. I am tired all the time. I haven't had a full night's sleep since 2009. I can't remember when last the king and I went on a date. My beloved pets have been downgraded to just being dogs. I tend to bark orders like a Sgt, Major and have discovered my "Mommy Voice". I am a terrible person but this is what having children does to you.
PS. I think my bum is getting bigger. As if I don't have enough to worry about.
Toodles
Her majesty is onto that testing stage. Old enough to babble, too young to be understood. I akin her frustration to that of stroke victims whose minds are still able but whose tongues are unwilling.
Not a day goes by that I don't consider quitting. Motherhood ain't for sissies and God only knows why I signed up for it full time. I must be some kind of stupid. Or secretly made of tough stuff I just haven't discovered yet.
I wonder how my mother muddled through without killing my sister and I at toddlerhood! But I can now relate to her then perceived moods.I commented to a friend on Facebook the other day that I wonder how people have more than one child. Are they mad????? Are they daft???? Are they seriously gluttons for punishment or did I miss some cosmic memo that promises a pot of gold and a day off?
I have learnt/am learning that children are embarrassing. Until they are old enough to understand social graces and decorum they basically make you cringe in a corner picking snot off their fingers with a smile on your face whilst hoping nobody noticed that they discovered the all-you-can-eat buffet up their noses.
Her majesty has just taken to licking the grass in our back garden. Hello? We have four dogs ranging from ankle height to jugular range. And they poo and pee all over the place. Why on earth would she want to ingest it? Is this normal? And yet I am often tempted to let her do it and get it off her to-do-list! Eat poo - check. Stick fingers up dogs' bum - check. Pull wings off a fly - check. Madness.
And all this being said I am thankful that I am surrounded by many other women at a similar life stage whose kids are being just as gross if not worse. Phew, thank heavens for that. While everyone is watching little Fred doing a Picasso likeness with his own poo, they haven't noticed that my princess has walloped an unsuspecting child with the xylophone and then dropped it for something seemingly more interesting. Attention span of a gnat!
I envy all those women swanning around in perpetual serenity. How do they do it? Do they have a closet drinking habit to help them cope because they must be doing something and you can't tell me they rely on the power of prayer and meticulous journal keeping. Lies lies lies I tell you.
In an effort to up my parenting ante I invested in the Supernanny book. I hold it in very high esteem. For a woman who has no training or children of her own she sure has the toddler brain sussed. Her techniques really work, if you have the inner strength to see it through. We now have a naughty spot and it works so well I am sometimes tempted to banish the king to it! Don't judge. It works for our family but it may not work for yours.
Life is fraught with struggle I am learning and for the most part I can take it all in my stride. I have a frustratingly understanding husband who is ever patient. But some days the wheels come off and I run out of funny. That obscure moment when you instantly lose the ability to laugh at yourself and situations and crumble like a cracker. This happens often too. I swear when I had my Caesar the doctor removed my coping mechanism!
But like all other full time moms I wouldn't change it for the world. I am tired all the time. I haven't had a full night's sleep since 2009. I can't remember when last the king and I went on a date. My beloved pets have been downgraded to just being dogs. I tend to bark orders like a Sgt, Major and have discovered my "Mommy Voice". I am a terrible person but this is what having children does to you.
PS. I think my bum is getting bigger. As if I don't have enough to worry about.
Toodles
26 September 2011
What's for dinner?
I am a self-diagnosed OCD perfectionist. I am sure I may fall short of the actual medical requirements but if spending your life feeling like a loopy headcase is enough then I most definitely qualify.
In line with this behaviour I agonise over what's for dinner each night. True. Some friends (you know who you are) may argue that it's simply because house-wifery is dead boring and I obviously have nothing better to worry about. What with everyone else breaking their noggins over world peace and the state of the National Health System, I feel I can leave well enough alone. But alas, dinner is one of my top frets.
When I do the weekly shop I break the week down into meals and try to shop accordingly.
When I open my wee lids each morning, one of my first thoughts is "what's for dinner?". Forget the need to be thankful that another beautiful day has dawned and I am alive.
When I'm at a mates' having a cuppa I wonder what's for dinner.
When we're eating dinner, I ask his majesty what he wants for dinner tomorrow.
And if his majesty surprises us all and arrives with dinner then it really throws me off kilter. It takes me days for my mental menu to get back on track.
What's for dinner, what's for dinner, what's for dinner?!!??!?!?!??!
Tonight it was crust less tuna pie......very yummy. And tomorrow its pork steaks with roasted veg and tatters. Just in case you were wondering.
I am I the only daft fool who does this?
I gingerly add that I also worry that none of the "black" in my wardrobe matches. Life is too short some may say but unfortunately this is how I am wired.
In line with this behaviour I agonise over what's for dinner each night. True. Some friends (you know who you are) may argue that it's simply because house-wifery is dead boring and I obviously have nothing better to worry about. What with everyone else breaking their noggins over world peace and the state of the National Health System, I feel I can leave well enough alone. But alas, dinner is one of my top frets.
When I do the weekly shop I break the week down into meals and try to shop accordingly.
When I open my wee lids each morning, one of my first thoughts is "what's for dinner?". Forget the need to be thankful that another beautiful day has dawned and I am alive.
When I'm at a mates' having a cuppa I wonder what's for dinner.
When we're eating dinner, I ask his majesty what he wants for dinner tomorrow.
And if his majesty surprises us all and arrives with dinner then it really throws me off kilter. It takes me days for my mental menu to get back on track.
What's for dinner, what's for dinner, what's for dinner?!!??!?!?!??!
Tonight it was crust less tuna pie......very yummy. And tomorrow its pork steaks with roasted veg and tatters. Just in case you were wondering.
I am I the only daft fool who does this?
I gingerly add that I also worry that none of the "black" in my wardrobe matches. Life is too short some may say but unfortunately this is how I am wired.
12 August 2011
Senseless
I am now getting over what was either a millions bouts of mini-colds or one REALLY long one.
Anyhoo this one really did a number on the old bod. And quite literally rendered me senseless.
Firstly, my sinuses were so clogged and backed up that I honestly was convinced that I may never again enjoy smelling my supper. Or my really expensive Dolce & Gabanna perfume. I must say I would've been more shattered over the perfume actually.
I am also just getting over the loss of hearing. Because of the pressure in my noggin, my ears got blocked with fluid - the left one is still not playing nice yet! - and I couldn't really hear much. The hearing loss just had to coincide with Sissa's 30th birthday weekend and a mega gathering which, while charming, brought me to a social impasse. Because I was temporarily deafened I kept asking people to repeat themselves. The "pardon me?" and "excuse me's?" were beginning to wear on peoples nerves. I could tell. I also have a keen sense that my Father Darling thought I was scuppered! Looking back I think I mustv'e looked sozzled too!
This also added to strain between His Majesty and I. You see I normally maintain that he suffers from selective deafness, a terrible male disorder. But when I kept asking him to repeat himself I could tell he was loving this shoe-on-the-other-foot skit. All at my expense I add!
Another funny thing happened during all of the fluid and mucous and such-like wonderful side effects. I lost my sense of taste. This was new. It also had to happen on the day when I made a super-duper coffee mousse. The entire time I was eating it I kept repeating to myself that this must taste like chocolate surely. My tea tasted like boiled water without the trimmings! And His Majesty was pushing me to test the scientific research that suggests when you can't smell anything you can't taste it either. Well, luckily I stuck to my guns and the onions got a reprieve. But even I was tempted.......just to try!
All of this sensory deprivation also needed to take place on a day when it was so bone-achingly cold that I couldn't feel my fingers or feet. Just my luck! So bye bye touch!
It was also the week I lost my precious specs. So I was blinded, to a certain degree too.
And His Majesty being a real boy wanted to try the funky monkey with me in this state! I did a double take?!?!? Like, I can't believe you want to play the nookie card when I'm feeling like death with legs! He maintained that a good bout of exercise would exorcise the virus from my system. What is it about men who can rationalise just about ANY daft and would be catastrophic situation as a reason for horizontal experimentation. I am neither going to confirm or deny whether the act took place. We can talk about that one a whole 'nother day.
Tally - no smell, no taste, no proper vision, no hearing and practically no touch - although thank heavens that was just temporary!
I have consumed enough ginger to make Asia blush. Gone through what seems like zillions of homeopathic "pilluiles" and enough triple ply tissues to keep the Carlton/Twinsaver company in the black for a very long time.
Tick tock 'til the next infection. I am trying to be a good girl and eat my vegetables but some days the wheels come off and I know I am going to get sick anyway!
I am much better now. I am doing research on music therapy. I have found that a mix of Alice In Chains and the Muse seemed to make me feel a whole load better. Now I just need to compile a hit list for tummy bugs and I'm set.
Anyhoo this one really did a number on the old bod. And quite literally rendered me senseless.
Firstly, my sinuses were so clogged and backed up that I honestly was convinced that I may never again enjoy smelling my supper. Or my really expensive Dolce & Gabanna perfume. I must say I would've been more shattered over the perfume actually.
I am also just getting over the loss of hearing. Because of the pressure in my noggin, my ears got blocked with fluid - the left one is still not playing nice yet! - and I couldn't really hear much. The hearing loss just had to coincide with Sissa's 30th birthday weekend and a mega gathering which, while charming, brought me to a social impasse. Because I was temporarily deafened I kept asking people to repeat themselves. The "pardon me?" and "excuse me's?" were beginning to wear on peoples nerves. I could tell. I also have a keen sense that my Father Darling thought I was scuppered! Looking back I think I mustv'e looked sozzled too!
This also added to strain between His Majesty and I. You see I normally maintain that he suffers from selective deafness, a terrible male disorder. But when I kept asking him to repeat himself I could tell he was loving this shoe-on-the-other-foot skit. All at my expense I add!
Another funny thing happened during all of the fluid and mucous and such-like wonderful side effects. I lost my sense of taste. This was new. It also had to happen on the day when I made a super-duper coffee mousse. The entire time I was eating it I kept repeating to myself that this must taste like chocolate surely. My tea tasted like boiled water without the trimmings! And His Majesty was pushing me to test the scientific research that suggests when you can't smell anything you can't taste it either. Well, luckily I stuck to my guns and the onions got a reprieve. But even I was tempted.......just to try!
All of this sensory deprivation also needed to take place on a day when it was so bone-achingly cold that I couldn't feel my fingers or feet. Just my luck! So bye bye touch!
It was also the week I lost my precious specs. So I was blinded, to a certain degree too.
And His Majesty being a real boy wanted to try the funky monkey with me in this state! I did a double take?!?!? Like, I can't believe you want to play the nookie card when I'm feeling like death with legs! He maintained that a good bout of exercise would exorcise the virus from my system. What is it about men who can rationalise just about ANY daft and would be catastrophic situation as a reason for horizontal experimentation. I am neither going to confirm or deny whether the act took place. We can talk about that one a whole 'nother day.
Tally - no smell, no taste, no proper vision, no hearing and practically no touch - although thank heavens that was just temporary!
I have consumed enough ginger to make Asia blush. Gone through what seems like zillions of homeopathic "pilluiles" and enough triple ply tissues to keep the Carlton/Twinsaver company in the black for a very long time.
Tick tock 'til the next infection. I am trying to be a good girl and eat my vegetables but some days the wheels come off and I know I am going to get sick anyway!
I am much better now. I am doing research on music therapy. I have found that a mix of Alice In Chains and the Muse seemed to make me feel a whole load better. Now I just need to compile a hit list for tummy bugs and I'm set.
11 August 2011
Struggles
Dear Fans and followers
Sorry about the long leave. Between losing the goggles and family visits I simply havent had the time.
I am working on my next piece as we speak!
Sorry about the long leave. Between losing the goggles and family visits I simply havent had the time.
I am working on my next piece as we speak!
11 July 2011
The Help
Now I am not a stupid girl. I also used to be one of independent means too. I had no want for anything really. But being an utter and total control freak I have never been able to hand the state of our household over to anyone else. I also get a creepy feeling at the thought of someone other than his majesty knowing where I keep my "kinky knickers" if you know what I mean!
Sometimes life has cruel quirks. After vehemently denying the need for a a maid/servant/domestic for years I have now found I have inadvertently become one.
His majesty is a very spoilt boy in some regards. He will argue black is white that I am Hitler incarnate but the way I see it he's got it pretty cushy.
Back to controlfreakamania - I am wanting to get this named as a real syndrome. I do EVERYTHING in our house. Not only did I give up my most precious possession, aka my body, to bring forth our offspring but I am starting to believe I lost a fair amount of my sanity too! I will give you an example of an average weekday. Weekends sometimes go a little off kilter because of the excess of testosterone lounging in my bed at 7am, but this is a story for another day.
Righty-o -here we go :
Hear the princess babble from her room
Lie in bed in attempt at denial
fall out of bed, trip over his majesty's discarded work boots (that he left out whilst dressing this am and couldn't be bothered to put back!)
Knock shin on kist at foot of bed
Use the s-word against my better judgement as princess will start chirping it in a matter of seconds
Go and see to the princess
Dress the princess
Drag my sorry ass to the kitchen where I make podd-idge for the little miss and attempt to procure the biggest serving vessel i can find for a cuppa for myself
skip breakie, as usual, crave a cigarette (old habits die hard!)
feed the princess and try to drink my cuppa before she can pour it over me
go to bedroom and attempt to dress
have to repeatedly hand the princess things as she keeps pointing to the wardrobe and babbling incoherently
succeed in slapping on a pair of jeans, t shirt, cardie and some boots - somehow got the undies on too without too much hassle - her majesty likes to put my knickers on her head and run away (this is alarming for the neighbours as I have to chase her to get them back)
Brush teeth with madam grabbing my toothbrush
try to have a wee - not easy with an audience, albeit helpful as she keeps trying to pull up my pants
back to kitchen to wash dishes from night before and breakie
sort laundry and out a load on to wash
entertain madam
try to hang out laundry while madam screams for kitchen gate - i do not let her outside because i just cant face picking up doggie do at 7am!
the rest of the day pretty much consists of entertaining the madam, cleaning up after her and doing the odd bit of housework, spiriting up fab supper from next to nothing most of the time, and some days even slapping on some panstick before his majesty arrives at the door and gives me the what-have-you-been-doing-all-day look.
I get tired just listing it all never mind doing it.
I clean the loo, I wash the windows, I do the laundry, I have even been known to whip out the iron on the odd occasion too, I feed the dogs, I polish, I scrub and I don't ask for anything in return. Well, at least not often.
I must be some kind of stupid. I ask myself this daily. Whilst men scoff that marriage is the last legal form of slavery I often wonder if they have considered the gender roles reversed. Is it us keeping them at heel or the other way around.
Yes, I have deduced that I am indeed a slave. I work for a minor and sleep with the boss. I get no pay, no allowance, no severance of any kind. I am not entitled to sick leave and right now I am convinced that the only vacation I will ever get may honestly start in a morgue.
All things considered, I DO THIS WILLINGLY! Shocking I know but it's true.
And tomorrow I get to do it all over again, RINSE, LATHER and REPEAT! Yippee lucky me.
Sometimes life has cruel quirks. After vehemently denying the need for a a maid/servant/domestic for years I have now found I have inadvertently become one.
His majesty is a very spoilt boy in some regards. He will argue black is white that I am Hitler incarnate but the way I see it he's got it pretty cushy.
Back to controlfreakamania - I am wanting to get this named as a real syndrome. I do EVERYTHING in our house. Not only did I give up my most precious possession, aka my body, to bring forth our offspring but I am starting to believe I lost a fair amount of my sanity too! I will give you an example of an average weekday. Weekends sometimes go a little off kilter because of the excess of testosterone lounging in my bed at 7am, but this is a story for another day.
Righty-o -here we go :
Hear the princess babble from her room
Lie in bed in attempt at denial
fall out of bed, trip over his majesty's discarded work boots (that he left out whilst dressing this am and couldn't be bothered to put back!)
Knock shin on kist at foot of bed
Use the s-word against my better judgement as princess will start chirping it in a matter of seconds
Go and see to the princess
Dress the princess
Drag my sorry ass to the kitchen where I make podd-idge for the little miss and attempt to procure the biggest serving vessel i can find for a cuppa for myself
skip breakie, as usual, crave a cigarette (old habits die hard!)
feed the princess and try to drink my cuppa before she can pour it over me
go to bedroom and attempt to dress
have to repeatedly hand the princess things as she keeps pointing to the wardrobe and babbling incoherently
succeed in slapping on a pair of jeans, t shirt, cardie and some boots - somehow got the undies on too without too much hassle - her majesty likes to put my knickers on her head and run away (this is alarming for the neighbours as I have to chase her to get them back)
Brush teeth with madam grabbing my toothbrush
try to have a wee - not easy with an audience, albeit helpful as she keeps trying to pull up my pants
back to kitchen to wash dishes from night before and breakie
sort laundry and out a load on to wash
entertain madam
try to hang out laundry while madam screams for kitchen gate - i do not let her outside because i just cant face picking up doggie do at 7am!
the rest of the day pretty much consists of entertaining the madam, cleaning up after her and doing the odd bit of housework, spiriting up fab supper from next to nothing most of the time, and some days even slapping on some panstick before his majesty arrives at the door and gives me the what-have-you-been-doing-all-day look.
I get tired just listing it all never mind doing it.
I clean the loo, I wash the windows, I do the laundry, I have even been known to whip out the iron on the odd occasion too, I feed the dogs, I polish, I scrub and I don't ask for anything in return. Well, at least not often.
I must be some kind of stupid. I ask myself this daily. Whilst men scoff that marriage is the last legal form of slavery I often wonder if they have considered the gender roles reversed. Is it us keeping them at heel or the other way around.
Yes, I have deduced that I am indeed a slave. I work for a minor and sleep with the boss. I get no pay, no allowance, no severance of any kind. I am not entitled to sick leave and right now I am convinced that the only vacation I will ever get may honestly start in a morgue.
All things considered, I DO THIS WILLINGLY! Shocking I know but it's true.
And tomorrow I get to do it all over again, RINSE, LATHER and REPEAT! Yippee lucky me.
5 July 2011
Razor
I sometimes whine to his majesty that I want to be the boy! Just without all their fiddly, delicate plumbing.
I can see it, no having to do your make-up, agonising over whether you need to start applying your winter foundation because your tan has gone into hiding. No having to whip out the self-tanner because your skin has now taken an oddly green palour due to vitamin D deficiency. No having to shave 96,4% of your body hair either.
Who deemed that girls had to be furr-free anyway. I bet it was a man. I bet it was the same bloody daft tool who gave us waxing and eyebrow tweezing too.
I have bony legs, or knees at least. No matter how podgy I get above or below the patella, my knees remain knobbly and un-shaveable. I end up with copious blood-loss and serious sense of humour failure just trying. And won't you know it if his majesty will always notice that I my knees are fuzzy. "I see you skipped a spot" he will always say.
I have tried most things. Hair-removal creams that reek. They create a cloud around you that seems to announce "I-HAVE-JUST-USED-DEPILATORY-CREAM-KEEP-AWAY!". It stinks when you use it and stink for days afterwards. So that's a no. Same goes for self-tanner quite honestly.
I have tried the preferred method of the celeb and saved my follicles for waxing. The concept is horrible and the pain is blinding - especially your armpits! What they don't tell you about waxing is that after they have wrenched you precious downy hairs from your legs and other regions, it makes the roots super sensitive. So you don't just get the goosebumps, you get the SUPER goosebumps...You only get it on the waxes zones. So if its cold a blustery day and you've had a Brazilian only 5 sleeps prior you may produce an odd smirk when the wind changes because the SUPER goosebumps are kicking in!
So that leaves shaving. Now I have tried many types of razor. The fancy ones with the guy-wires that are meant to save your life, pffffffffffft NOT! I have even used his majesty's open blade, purely for academic reasons of course. He says I blunt the blade with my wiry leg stubble. Suppose now is not a good time to inform him that I have used it on the nether region too(?). I just can't get no satisfaction in this regard. I by no means have high faluting standards on grooming, I am merely after a happy medium.
So at the start of every winter I declare that I have shaved my last til spring. I imagine all the millions we will save on razors and loo paper (to patch my knees). I fancy I can keep warm with all the extra body hair I will be conserving and I will no longer agonise on how to keep my socks up my legs - they can simply grip onto my "wigglies". But his majesty, true to form, wishes me well but add that I will de-fuzz before the week is out because I just can't take it. And he's right.
I feel like a failed feminist. I must also add that I decided to stop wearing a bra too, on account of the fact that my boobs have all but disappeared. This is not going well either.
I am such a girl.
I can see it, no having to do your make-up, agonising over whether you need to start applying your winter foundation because your tan has gone into hiding. No having to whip out the self-tanner because your skin has now taken an oddly green palour due to vitamin D deficiency. No having to shave 96,4% of your body hair either.
Who deemed that girls had to be furr-free anyway. I bet it was a man. I bet it was the same bloody daft tool who gave us waxing and eyebrow tweezing too.
I have bony legs, or knees at least. No matter how podgy I get above or below the patella, my knees remain knobbly and un-shaveable. I end up with copious blood-loss and serious sense of humour failure just trying. And won't you know it if his majesty will always notice that I my knees are fuzzy. "I see you skipped a spot" he will always say.
I have tried most things. Hair-removal creams that reek. They create a cloud around you that seems to announce "I-HAVE-JUST-USED-DEPILATORY-CREAM-KEEP-AWAY!". It stinks when you use it and stink for days afterwards. So that's a no. Same goes for self-tanner quite honestly.
I have tried the preferred method of the celeb and saved my follicles for waxing. The concept is horrible and the pain is blinding - especially your armpits! What they don't tell you about waxing is that after they have wrenched you precious downy hairs from your legs and other regions, it makes the roots super sensitive. So you don't just get the goosebumps, you get the SUPER goosebumps...You only get it on the waxes zones. So if its cold a blustery day and you've had a Brazilian only 5 sleeps prior you may produce an odd smirk when the wind changes because the SUPER goosebumps are kicking in!
So that leaves shaving. Now I have tried many types of razor. The fancy ones with the guy-wires that are meant to save your life, pffffffffffft NOT! I have even used his majesty's open blade, purely for academic reasons of course. He says I blunt the blade with my wiry leg stubble. Suppose now is not a good time to inform him that I have used it on the nether region too(?). I just can't get no satisfaction in this regard. I by no means have high faluting standards on grooming, I am merely after a happy medium.
So at the start of every winter I declare that I have shaved my last til spring. I imagine all the millions we will save on razors and loo paper (to patch my knees). I fancy I can keep warm with all the extra body hair I will be conserving and I will no longer agonise on how to keep my socks up my legs - they can simply grip onto my "wigglies". But his majesty, true to form, wishes me well but add that I will de-fuzz before the week is out because I just can't take it. And he's right.
I feel like a failed feminist. I must also add that I decided to stop wearing a bra too, on account of the fact that my boobs have all but disappeared. This is not going well either.
I am such a girl.
29 June 2011
Flashlights
I often maintain that his majesty and MacGyver were separated at birth or possibly even just closely related. I am in awe his majesty; at his ability to fashion some semblance of fire out of what appears to be garden detritus and how he can spirit up a walking stick out of a warped twig and a grotty old shoelace. He is also of the distinct mantra "be prepared" and as such ours is a home often kitted out to Armageddon-ish degrees.
Thus, we have often got a surplus of flashlights - or had before we moved. Torches. Call them what you will.
Now I am by no means unreasonable with his majesty's insistence at keeping these, I merely develop great irritation at the fact that they seldom if ever are in working condition. And they usually display the said broken down tendencies at stupid 'o'clock. When you really, really, really need them to work.
The Mother-In-Law (hereafter referred to as the MIL) graced him a million candle power specimen for his birthday one year. I still argue what a townie like him would possibly need a million candle power torch for? But hey, what do I know. And whilst it was in working order (albeit brief) the local wildlife were subjected to nightly raids of their privacy. I am quite surprised we were not sued by some passing owl for retinal scarring and loss of condition due to starvation, a direct result of it's inability to hunt.
Or how about the G**E special he bought that never worked and he kept meaning to return and simply never did.
Or the lantern-like item we got for the power cuts of 2008 whose battery just died one night and has never been able to charge since. Yes, still got that one!
The list goes on. At the height of his collecting zenith his majesty had about 8. And only 1 was ever able to sputter out a barely visible flicker. I think I could've shoved a lightbulb into my belly button, clicked my heels 3 times and produced a far superior glow!
I am a practical person of form and function. If something breaks, fix it, replace it and if it beyond feasible correcting then for heavens bloody sakes CHUCK IT OUT. But nooooooooooooo. You see I married into a family of hoarders. The MIL's very own house is populated by mutilated figurines of hippos missing legs, carvings cracked and split out of years of moving, broken furniture, chipped ornaments and dented silverware. But you can't throw any of it away! Shock, horror! And my own family is just as bad. My father (now partially cured, thank goodness) would replace appliances as they broke, but...he would keep the old one, you know, just in case he needed it say for I dunno, a reunion of old tedelex tv owners?!?! Wait for it. He still has the component HI-FI he bought in 1982 (?). I am doubtful as to which bits are still functional, but he's still got it.
Back to our flashlights. Post move we cleared out, reduced our possessions to a mere third of what we originally owned. Heartbreaking though it was for me, I think his majesty suffered most. You see he was forced to rid us of some of his beloved torches. Now, one would think the old, damaged, not working, never-going-to-find-a-new-battery-for-it, etc ones would go. Guess again. We are now left with a black ensemble that can either be used a free weight or doubles as a nightstick ( I swear you could kill someone with it if you tried) - this one does not work at present. Nor will it ever because it takes those HUGE round batteries that look like silos and cost a fortune. We are also left with a quaint green version of the black night stick. It too does not work as years ago the glass thingy above the bulb broke and after the little madam had at it recently, the bulb blew. This too will never be fixed as it has been relegated to his majesty's cupboard - a place I like to call "The-Place-Where-Broken-Things-Go-To-Die" so I don't figure seeing it anytime soon.
So I am now left to rely on my cellphone back light in the dead of night.
The flashlights now lie, broken, in the cupboard for our next move. No they will not be disposed of, they will not be repaired, they will simply become one of those annoying items that just moves with you wherever you go.
Thus, we have often got a surplus of flashlights - or had before we moved. Torches. Call them what you will.
Now I am by no means unreasonable with his majesty's insistence at keeping these, I merely develop great irritation at the fact that they seldom if ever are in working condition. And they usually display the said broken down tendencies at stupid 'o'clock. When you really, really, really need them to work.
The Mother-In-Law (hereafter referred to as the MIL) graced him a million candle power specimen for his birthday one year. I still argue what a townie like him would possibly need a million candle power torch for? But hey, what do I know. And whilst it was in working order (albeit brief) the local wildlife were subjected to nightly raids of their privacy. I am quite surprised we were not sued by some passing owl for retinal scarring and loss of condition due to starvation, a direct result of it's inability to hunt.
Or how about the G**E special he bought that never worked and he kept meaning to return and simply never did.
Or the lantern-like item we got for the power cuts of 2008 whose battery just died one night and has never been able to charge since. Yes, still got that one!
The list goes on. At the height of his collecting zenith his majesty had about 8. And only 1 was ever able to sputter out a barely visible flicker. I think I could've shoved a lightbulb into my belly button, clicked my heels 3 times and produced a far superior glow!
I am a practical person of form and function. If something breaks, fix it, replace it and if it beyond feasible correcting then for heavens bloody sakes CHUCK IT OUT. But nooooooooooooo. You see I married into a family of hoarders. The MIL's very own house is populated by mutilated figurines of hippos missing legs, carvings cracked and split out of years of moving, broken furniture, chipped ornaments and dented silverware. But you can't throw any of it away! Shock, horror! And my own family is just as bad. My father (now partially cured, thank goodness) would replace appliances as they broke, but...he would keep the old one, you know, just in case he needed it say for I dunno, a reunion of old tedelex tv owners?!?! Wait for it. He still has the component HI-FI he bought in 1982 (?). I am doubtful as to which bits are still functional, but he's still got it.
Back to our flashlights. Post move we cleared out, reduced our possessions to a mere third of what we originally owned. Heartbreaking though it was for me, I think his majesty suffered most. You see he was forced to rid us of some of his beloved torches. Now, one would think the old, damaged, not working, never-going-to-find-a-new-battery-for-it, etc ones would go. Guess again. We are now left with a black ensemble that can either be used a free weight or doubles as a nightstick ( I swear you could kill someone with it if you tried) - this one does not work at present. Nor will it ever because it takes those HUGE round batteries that look like silos and cost a fortune. We are also left with a quaint green version of the black night stick. It too does not work as years ago the glass thingy above the bulb broke and after the little madam had at it recently, the bulb blew. This too will never be fixed as it has been relegated to his majesty's cupboard - a place I like to call "The-Place-Where-Broken-Things-Go-To-Die" so I don't figure seeing it anytime soon.
So I am now left to rely on my cellphone back light in the dead of night.
The flashlights now lie, broken, in the cupboard for our next move. No they will not be disposed of, they will not be repaired, they will simply become one of those annoying items that just moves with you wherever you go.
10 June 2011
Waxing LYRIC-al
For as long as I can remember I have had music in my blood. Born this way I suppose.
I blame my parents - my early exposure to Jethro Tull, Styx, Alice Cooper and the then-banned Spanish Train by Chris de Burgh. Sunday afternoons my dad would rig up the turntable and he and my mom would take a trip down memory lane with us kids lying between the vinyls. Bliss. For the most part the Sissa and I were just captivated by the covers. When the sale-ability of an album was decided predominantly by the artwork on the cover.
I remember too the advent of the digital age. When music became available on CD, hark. I remember the day my dad bought his first CD player. And one cd - to play - just to make sure the player worked. It was Phil Collins. I have the CD now. And when I was permitted at the age of 13 to loan digital media form the library. Depeche Modes' Songs of Faith and Devotion. I was smitten. I had discovered a genre that was dark, macabre and best of all, my parents hated. Puh-leese, what are you teens for if not to irritate (this will come back to bite me!)
If my life were a compilation I would surmise it would look something like this :-
Sister Don't Cry - Collective Soul - to Sissa and Gecko. Because we used to sing it all summer holiday and get on everyone's nerves but we didn't give a sh*t because we liked it.
Down in a Hole - Alice in Chains - because its moody and poignant
Higher Love - Depeche Mode - because I used to believe I was going to marry Dave Gahan
Dig - Incubus - because I miss Gecko and this makes me think of her - 1999 was a tough year
Nothing Else Matters - Metallica - because I can play it on the guitar and it's a classic
Wicked Game - Chris Izaak - music to shag to!
Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve - I dream
Hold me thrill me kiss me kill me - U2 - seeing it live was awe-some! And I touched Bono's hand.
Wonderwall - Oasis - the Anthem of an Age. And everyone and every pub anywhere knows all the words. So when you're pissed as a coot you still sound ok.
Linger - The Cranberries - what Dolores did for rock music is priceless.
Flood - Jars of Clay - I found this tune whilst in the grips of adolescent depression and it helped.
Sweet Sacrifice
December - Collective Soul - to the first boy who broke my heart. I thought you were a schmuck when you left for the UK and left me behind. But I got over myself. And you. And now I know you're a good person.
Everlong - Foo Fighters - the year 2000. Times of change
Tusk - Fleetwood Mac - because I'm an old soul.
Sparkle - LIVE - reminds me of meeting all his majesty's mates. Good times.
Porcelain - Moby
Come Along - Tityo - reminds me of the times his majesty and I would go horse-riding by ourselves. Magic. Leather and long-grass
Everyday should be a holiday - The Dandy Warhols -
Come Back Down - Bush - because if he hadn't met Gwen S then I would be Mrs Rossdale!
Mmmmmmmm - Crash Test Dummies - its high school all over again
Butterfly - Crazytown - its got a wicked beat! It's almost like a superhero theme tune
Smack my bitch up - The Prodigy - this is not an ode to wife battery but a lament to misunderstood boys.
Right Here Right now - Fatboy Slim
I would die for you - Garbage - Leo as Romeo and Clare as Julie - this movie attained cult status on 1996. And like any hot-blooded teenage girl I was hooked.
The roof is on fire - The Bloodhound Gang - just reminds me on someone I used to know
It seems like every "rite of passage" in my life has been marked by some piece of music. Perhaps my brain does this subconsciously - maybe its taking note of whats going on and putting it away for reference later.
High School, first dance, matric, first kiss (which was before matric in case you were wondering!), losing a lover, finding another lover, meeting his majesty, honeymoon, holidays, argh, all of it a string of music playing over in my head. And as new memories are added so too is more music.
The list could go on. Its shocking. I haven't even got started on the rest of my collection. Pathetic I know. Its funny how I cannot walk through a noisy mall for fear of GBH but I can relax when I am cranking up the volume on my mp3 player. Auditory zen!
Newsflash - at the tender age of 8 I picked up the guitar for the first time and have never put it down again. Again I blame my father, twas he who inspired me to a certain degree. Until I learnt the fine art of tablature and could show him a thing or two, albeit briefly. Well I am no Hendrix, I can twang a tune or 2. And his majesty adores my skills so as previous stated, if he digs it then nuff said eh?! I hardly have a vast repertoire, but crack the nod to come on over and I will gladly whip out the strings and flick a ditty for you. Now to work on my singing skills and I may yet be the complete package.
Why not leave a comment telling me what your fave tune of all time is? Would be fun to see!
NOTE! To my friend, Peter Sargent - I still reel at you graciously allowing me to play your Ovation Adamas
I blame my parents - my early exposure to Jethro Tull, Styx, Alice Cooper and the then-banned Spanish Train by Chris de Burgh. Sunday afternoons my dad would rig up the turntable and he and my mom would take a trip down memory lane with us kids lying between the vinyls. Bliss. For the most part the Sissa and I were just captivated by the covers. When the sale-ability of an album was decided predominantly by the artwork on the cover.
I remember too the advent of the digital age. When music became available on CD, hark. I remember the day my dad bought his first CD player. And one cd - to play - just to make sure the player worked. It was Phil Collins. I have the CD now. And when I was permitted at the age of 13 to loan digital media form the library. Depeche Modes' Songs of Faith and Devotion. I was smitten. I had discovered a genre that was dark, macabre and best of all, my parents hated. Puh-leese, what are you teens for if not to irritate (this will come back to bite me!)
If my life were a compilation I would surmise it would look something like this :-
Sister Don't Cry - Collective Soul - to Sissa and Gecko. Because we used to sing it all summer holiday and get on everyone's nerves but we didn't give a sh*t because we liked it.
Down in a Hole - Alice in Chains - because its moody and poignant
Higher Love - Depeche Mode - because I used to believe I was going to marry Dave Gahan
Dig - Incubus - because I miss Gecko and this makes me think of her - 1999 was a tough year
Nothing Else Matters - Metallica - because I can play it on the guitar and it's a classic
Wicked Game - Chris Izaak - music to shag to!
Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve - I dream
Hold me thrill me kiss me kill me - U2 - seeing it live was awe-some! And I touched Bono's hand.
Wonderwall - Oasis - the Anthem of an Age. And everyone and every pub anywhere knows all the words. So when you're pissed as a coot you still sound ok.
Linger - The Cranberries - what Dolores did for rock music is priceless.
Flood - Jars of Clay - I found this tune whilst in the grips of adolescent depression and it helped.
Sweet Sacrifice
December - Collective Soul - to the first boy who broke my heart. I thought you were a schmuck when you left for the UK and left me behind. But I got over myself. And you. And now I know you're a good person.
Everlong - Foo Fighters - the year 2000. Times of change
Tusk - Fleetwood Mac - because I'm an old soul.
Sparkle - LIVE - reminds me of meeting all his majesty's mates. Good times.
Porcelain - Moby
Come Along - Tityo - reminds me of the times his majesty and I would go horse-riding by ourselves. Magic. Leather and long-grass
Everyday should be a holiday - The Dandy Warhols -
Come Back Down - Bush - because if he hadn't met Gwen S then I would be Mrs Rossdale!
Mmmmmmmm - Crash Test Dummies - its high school all over again
Butterfly - Crazytown - its got a wicked beat! It's almost like a superhero theme tune
Smack my bitch up - The Prodigy - this is not an ode to wife battery but a lament to misunderstood boys.
Right Here Right now - Fatboy Slim
I would die for you - Garbage - Leo as Romeo and Clare as Julie - this movie attained cult status on 1996. And like any hot-blooded teenage girl I was hooked.
The roof is on fire - The Bloodhound Gang - just reminds me on someone I used to know
It seems like every "rite of passage" in my life has been marked by some piece of music. Perhaps my brain does this subconsciously - maybe its taking note of whats going on and putting it away for reference later.
High School, first dance, matric, first kiss (which was before matric in case you were wondering!), losing a lover, finding another lover, meeting his majesty, honeymoon, holidays, argh, all of it a string of music playing over in my head. And as new memories are added so too is more music.
The list could go on. Its shocking. I haven't even got started on the rest of my collection. Pathetic I know. Its funny how I cannot walk through a noisy mall for fear of GBH but I can relax when I am cranking up the volume on my mp3 player. Auditory zen!
Newsflash - at the tender age of 8 I picked up the guitar for the first time and have never put it down again. Again I blame my father, twas he who inspired me to a certain degree. Until I learnt the fine art of tablature and could show him a thing or two, albeit briefly. Well I am no Hendrix, I can twang a tune or 2. And his majesty adores my skills so as previous stated, if he digs it then nuff said eh?! I hardly have a vast repertoire, but crack the nod to come on over and I will gladly whip out the strings and flick a ditty for you. Now to work on my singing skills and I may yet be the complete package.
Why not leave a comment telling me what your fave tune of all time is? Would be fun to see!
NOTE! To my friend, Peter Sargent - I still reel at you graciously allowing me to play your Ovation Adamas
1 June 2011
20, 30, 40!
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!
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!
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!
18 March 2011
Failure to Navigate
I can't say I'm too attached to useless gadgets. I just find that at the rate technology develops these days, something bigger and better is going be released tomorrow so honestly why bother! This does go without saying that today I took my first, virgin drive into the city solo. Well, Imogen was in her car-seat but its not like she was offering too much argument as to which route to take.
So post installing her majesty into her chair, I set the GPS (brand not mentioned, but you know who you are!) and head off. Might I add that "Emily" then chose this time to develop a most terrible case of laryngitis. Perhaps the fact that the jolly thing missioned off the windscreen only 50 meters up the road should have been an omen. But being the tenacious, stubborn, Staffordshire Bull Terror type that I am, I persisted. Well only so far. About 6kms into my journey I threw the fecking thing into the cubby, drew a deep breath and prayed I could remember the route.
Ok, now I digress, but only for a moment. The journey is much different from the passenger seat! When I am riding shotgun I know every landmark, remember every road number, in fact I could navigate the Vatican on Prozac whilst blindfolded and drunk. Heck I know it all. In fact this has been the source of many arguments between the king and I over the years.
But, put me behind the wheel and its like my internal road map goes "ppoooofff" and it all disappears. My brain turns to jelly. I'm rendered lost. Directionless. Rigting beduiweled as they say in Afrikaans.
I am also one of those weird creatures that functions better when driving if the baby is on mute and the radio is blaring at a thousand decibels. I don't know what it is but I create these mental maps that seem to be etched into my brain by music.
Ok got to destination all safe and sound. And actually think I may have enjoyed the trip. And Must add the I consider the only contributing factor is the fact that the king made me drive there just last week.
Righty. Ahem. Trip back. Not so lekker. After fiddling with the "equipment" for more than an hour at my destination I was thrilled. It seemed I had not only cured Emily's elective mutism but I had also trimmed about 15mins off my journey. Oh yippee, lucky me (sarcasm intended!)
So, bundle her majesty back into the Suzi-ooki, say our cheerios and head off. And wouldnt you believe it if the sodding thing goes blank before the end of the road! So there I am on what I feel is possibly the narrowest street in Cape Town with my hazards on, looking like a real "ma-plotter" whilst I fiddle behind my seat and locate mandatory charger, proud of my forbearance at remembering to pack the thing in the first place. Plug in said charger and still blank screen. So for the second time today I inhale deeply and tell myself, "it's okay, I'll just get the GPS on before I hit the M5". Ya right!
Ok well the M5 ain't that bad. But the route that promised to "trim" 15mins off my journey involves the Koeberg Interchange. A tangled spaghetti mess of highway that the Cape Town city metrepol thought wasnt complicated enough so they decided to revamp. Three lanes moving (barely) 6kms in an hour. Yes, I really wanted to sit thru my ENTIRE CD collection in traffic. Thanks for making that happen.
And without the GPS, I would now have to swallow my pride and actually remember where I'm meant to be going. Its here that I refer to my previous point about my bum and the driver's seat and sudden memory loss. So suck it up, sister. And after a reassuring call from the king I was on my way. With her majesty now asleep in her seat. What I would've given to snooze all the way home.
And as you can probably tell I made it home fine and well. Albeit a 20min journey took almost and hour and a half.
Now its round about now that I would wax lyrical about the vestiges of NOT buying these gadgets. How they are total crap. Over-priced. Just another 'thing' to cart in and out of the car. Yada, yada, yada.
But after all of this, I did learn a lesson today. No jokes. A real lesson. And it is...brace yourselves.
Pay more attention when you're so busy being the know-it-all passenger!
PS. Emily survived, but today she did get an free introduction to her private pilots license. Sorry, some habits die hard I'm afraid.
So until we meet again.
Bon ca, Mon coeur!
So post installing her majesty into her chair, I set the GPS (brand not mentioned, but you know who you are!) and head off. Might I add that "Emily" then chose this time to develop a most terrible case of laryngitis. Perhaps the fact that the jolly thing missioned off the windscreen only 50 meters up the road should have been an omen. But being the tenacious, stubborn, Staffordshire Bull Terror type that I am, I persisted. Well only so far. About 6kms into my journey I threw the fecking thing into the cubby, drew a deep breath and prayed I could remember the route.
Ok, now I digress, but only for a moment. The journey is much different from the passenger seat! When I am riding shotgun I know every landmark, remember every road number, in fact I could navigate the Vatican on Prozac whilst blindfolded and drunk. Heck I know it all. In fact this has been the source of many arguments between the king and I over the years.
But, put me behind the wheel and its like my internal road map goes "ppoooofff" and it all disappears. My brain turns to jelly. I'm rendered lost. Directionless. Rigting beduiweled as they say in Afrikaans.
I am also one of those weird creatures that functions better when driving if the baby is on mute and the radio is blaring at a thousand decibels. I don't know what it is but I create these mental maps that seem to be etched into my brain by music.
Ok got to destination all safe and sound. And actually think I may have enjoyed the trip. And Must add the I consider the only contributing factor is the fact that the king made me drive there just last week.
Righty. Ahem. Trip back. Not so lekker. After fiddling with the "equipment" for more than an hour at my destination I was thrilled. It seemed I had not only cured Emily's elective mutism but I had also trimmed about 15mins off my journey. Oh yippee, lucky me (sarcasm intended!)
So, bundle her majesty back into the Suzi-ooki, say our cheerios and head off. And wouldnt you believe it if the sodding thing goes blank before the end of the road! So there I am on what I feel is possibly the narrowest street in Cape Town with my hazards on, looking like a real "ma-plotter" whilst I fiddle behind my seat and locate mandatory charger, proud of my forbearance at remembering to pack the thing in the first place. Plug in said charger and still blank screen. So for the second time today I inhale deeply and tell myself, "it's okay, I'll just get the GPS on before I hit the M5". Ya right!
Ok well the M5 ain't that bad. But the route that promised to "trim" 15mins off my journey involves the Koeberg Interchange. A tangled spaghetti mess of highway that the Cape Town city metrepol thought wasnt complicated enough so they decided to revamp. Three lanes moving (barely) 6kms in an hour. Yes, I really wanted to sit thru my ENTIRE CD collection in traffic. Thanks for making that happen.
And without the GPS, I would now have to swallow my pride and actually remember where I'm meant to be going. Its here that I refer to my previous point about my bum and the driver's seat and sudden memory loss. So suck it up, sister. And after a reassuring call from the king I was on my way. With her majesty now asleep in her seat. What I would've given to snooze all the way home.
And as you can probably tell I made it home fine and well. Albeit a 20min journey took almost and hour and a half.
Now its round about now that I would wax lyrical about the vestiges of NOT buying these gadgets. How they are total crap. Over-priced. Just another 'thing' to cart in and out of the car. Yada, yada, yada.
But after all of this, I did learn a lesson today. No jokes. A real lesson. And it is...brace yourselves.
Pay more attention when you're so busy being the know-it-all passenger!
PS. Emily survived, but today she did get an free introduction to her private pilots license. Sorry, some habits die hard I'm afraid.
So until we meet again.
Bon ca, Mon coeur!
14 March 2011
You're not always wanted, welcome or needed - vol. 1
Monday already. Where did my weekend go?
This morning started out as one of those really "odd" days. You, know, when something just doesn't feel right. Well, after draaaaaaging myself out of bed at 6am, I started my day shift for Monday. It was at 9am when Imogen (my daughter of 11mths) was still fighting the nap I was determined she needed that I eventually gave in. Gave up. Caved under pressure.
I found myself simply telling her that if she doesn't want to sleep, then today I am not going to force the issue. She can meander around the house until her eyelids slam shut. I am in mood to be battling the wills.
So being what I perceive to be a sensitive mom, I felt very bad so plonked my behind down next to her in the nursery ready to entertain and generally have some fun when she looked up me at with me with her little eyes and burst into tears. I was flabbergasted. I mean, I meant to be her whole world. Without me she is meant to go to jelly and have a fit. But for the first time I experienced her emerging independence. It was like she was telling me to leave her alone. And jeepers, did it hurt.
So with ego dented and jilted, I now sit here at my PC while her majesty, Princess Imogen, entertains herself. And she must be having fun because I hear to odd coo of delight from the room.
I have been to the door to peek in once or twice just to make sure everything is alright. The last time I did this, she saw me and quite casually waved me "Bye Bye" and went back to what it was she was doing.
So there you have it. At 11 months, this little person let me know in no uncertain terms that, yes, mama, thanks for letting me use your uterus, but there are days when you are not always welcome, wanted or needed for that fact.
Lesson #1 of more to come, I assume.
Lets hope I weather the rest with sanity intact.
This morning started out as one of those really "odd" days. You, know, when something just doesn't feel right. Well, after draaaaaaging myself out of bed at 6am, I started my day shift for Monday. It was at 9am when Imogen (my daughter of 11mths) was still fighting the nap I was determined she needed that I eventually gave in. Gave up. Caved under pressure.
I found myself simply telling her that if she doesn't want to sleep, then today I am not going to force the issue. She can meander around the house until her eyelids slam shut. I am in mood to be battling the wills.
So being what I perceive to be a sensitive mom, I felt very bad so plonked my behind down next to her in the nursery ready to entertain and generally have some fun when she looked up me at with me with her little eyes and burst into tears. I was flabbergasted. I mean, I meant to be her whole world. Without me she is meant to go to jelly and have a fit. But for the first time I experienced her emerging independence. It was like she was telling me to leave her alone. And jeepers, did it hurt.
So with ego dented and jilted, I now sit here at my PC while her majesty, Princess Imogen, entertains herself. And she must be having fun because I hear to odd coo of delight from the room.
I have been to the door to peek in once or twice just to make sure everything is alright. The last time I did this, she saw me and quite casually waved me "Bye Bye" and went back to what it was she was doing.
So there you have it. At 11 months, this little person let me know in no uncertain terms that, yes, mama, thanks for letting me use your uterus, but there are days when you are not always welcome, wanted or needed for that fact.
Lesson #1 of more to come, I assume.
Lets hope I weather the rest with sanity intact.
12 March 2011
Welcome to blogging
Alrighty, here I go. People have often told me have rather inconventional views to everyday happenings so I have been regatly encouraged of late to start my own blog.
This is it.......I will try and add a few words and anecdotes on a daily basis. But that may not always be possible seeing as I'm a full time mom to our earth-child, Imogen.
Stay tuned on for new scribblings.
GB
Tiff
This is it.......I will try and add a few words and anecdotes on a daily basis. But that may not always be possible seeing as I'm a full time mom to our earth-child, Imogen.
Stay tuned on for new scribblings.
GB
Tiff
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