Clever cost-cutting Techniques

It's holiday time, right? So the Mother of the Year has taken some leave, and we get to do all sorts of fun touristy things (which is easy when you live in Cape Town).

Yesterday we arrived at the V & A Waterfront, tried out the fun fair and went for a tour of the harbour. We ate fish & chips on the wharf and enjoyed soaking up a beautiful Cape Town day. On the way home, we stopped by at Century City, just to check out the toy store and make sure Father Christmas gets the right order. Ahem.

A cute Toyland train was huffing and puffing around the center court, taking lots of excited little people for a festive ride. T-Bird was enchanted. But it was late, and we were in a hurry to get home.

T-Bird: Please can we go for a ride on the train?

Me: It's time to go home.

T-Bird: Just a quick one?

Me: We're leaving now. And anyway, it's expensive, you know.

T-Bird: How expensive?

Me (I don't know the answer to her question): T, all these things we've done today, they cost money, you know. We've been on fun fair rides, boat rides, we've eaten out. A train ride will cost more money, and in the end it all adds up and becomes expensive.

T-Bird (mulling it over): Hmmmm. Well then, I have a brilliant idea!

Me: Hey?

T-Bird: A really very brilliant plan! (She starts bouncing up and down) What we must do is this: Air can stick to Dad, and I must stick to you. Then we must pretend that we don't know each other when we go on the train. And then we won't have to pay as much for the ride.

Me: Hey?

Nothing

There's nothing. Like standing on the edge of a precipice and looking down into a whirling navy depth. If I look down I am teased by the dark mystery of what fades away there, even though I know there is nothing.

I am not shaken or jittered walking this fine line. I can do it. I am strong. I don't need a rope, a hand, a pill, a friend. I am strong. I can do it. And anyway, there is nothing there.

I can't help but look down where it is dark and quiet. I wonder what that silence sounds like. I wonder if it would fill my ears like some cotton wool or putty. I wonder if I could touch it, that deep nothingness. Could I put my arms around some solid substance of nothing, pull it over me, dress myself in it? Sometimes I wonder what it would look like to look back from that pit of nothing and see the ledge that I stand on. Would it be like looking though a frosted glass window? Could I see myself in black and white? Could the nothing place reach into that real place somehow, and steal little bits of real, leaving little bits of nothing in its place? I think it might be possible, because sometimes, in the real place, I trip up over little bits of absolutely nothing. Sometimes I think absolutely nothing, where once I had very real thoughts. There are times where I look at familiar objects, people, places, and see absolutely nothing. Could there be another me in that black pit that takes these small bits of real from me? Sometimes I believe there might be.

Girl Talk

It sort of sucks, being a girl. Sort of.

Girls have got a lot of girl stuff to deal with. And big girls have got a lot of big girl stuff to deal with. And big girl stuff can be pretty off putting and uncomfortable at times.

Like, for instance, the annual pap and pelvic. I mean really! The price we have to pay! I don't know one person who actually looks forward to their gynae visit. And it's not about the gynae either, it's about assuming the position and having this person that you're paying a lot of money to, have a good ol' squizz and fiddle around your nether-regions. Bedside manner aside, no matter how professional or at ease the fanny-checker may be, there are a million and one things I would rather be doing than having the cells on my cervix collected for testing. (Like weeding. Yes, I would rather weed a soccer field than have that procedure).

I have a lovely lady doctor who is on a first name basis with my privates. Once a year they get together, shake hands, and wish each other well until their next appointment. I'm not really part of this exchange. I just take the goods for checking - I'm the delivery girl, really. Kind of like chaperoning a play-date. In fact, when my girly bits and my doctor get together, I look the other way while they do what they have to do. I'm not all too keen on witnessing the entire exchange, anyway. Having been on the speculum side of these little social calls myself for too many years, I really feel like my presence at my own check-up is sort of irrelevant. In fact, if I could courier my vagina to her office and pick it up when she was done, that would suit me too.

I guess the main reason that I would rather not be there is that my doctor, bless her, really tries her best to put me at ease before, during and after the procedure. If she only knew how much I just want to get this thing over with, she would refrain from making polite conversation. Especially asking friendly questions about my family at the moment of speculum insertion. At this point I have my eyes locked on a sliver of paint curling off her ceiling, and I'm thinking happy thoughts, like rainbowfairiesbunniesamongstthedaisiesflyingponies.

There I am, eyes fixed, fairiesbunniesbutterflies, when she switches her lamp on somewhere between my knees. Even though I can't see it (a cloth is discreetly placed over my well and truly raised knees), I know it's on because the heat of the bulb is toasting my inner thighs. Bunnyrabbitsstrawberriescrispapplestrudel.

"The kids on holiday?" she asks.

I'm pressing my lips together in preparation for that nasty little tunnel funnel. "Uhuh," I breathe. Daisiesponiesrainbowskak.

"And how's your hubby been?" she asks it as she slips her speculum into position.

I want to be polite, really I do, but now's not the time. "Er, fine!" I squeak. Daisiesdammitflowerscraprabbitspoodlesinpastryfarkingrainbows.

A moment passes as she collects the cells she needs. I relax a little. I clear my throat. "Oh," I say, in as normal a voice as I can manage, "actually it was a rubbish year for him. He nearly died of Salmonella poisoning, and since then he's not been a hundred percent."

The playdate is over. She hands me a paper towel to clean up with. She's got what she needs. The friendly chatter changes to focus more on medical stuff.

She wants to know how I've settled on the pill she prescribed to bring those polycystic ovaries under control. I think I'm ok, I say. It's just that my boobs are really sore for about 10 days before my periods. I'm getting dragon dementia for two days before my periods. I'm bleeding for 7 days, and I'm very aware of stabbing pains in my abdomen somewhere in the middle of the month.

She nods wisely. She tells me that ovulation pains and PMS worsen as you get older. And PMS is especially aggravated in cases of melancholic or depressive personalities. The boob tenderness, spotty skin and general crap associated with the menstrual cycle is all within normal limits. I'm really bummed.

"So what you're saying," I squint at her, "What you're saying is that this is the price I pay for being a girl, and if I get 3 days a month to feel normal, that's the way it's gotta be?"

She smiles and pats me on the knee.

"You don't get it," I continue. "I never used to be like this. Sure I was as regular as a tsunami, but I never used to want to set my husband on fire, drive over the nagging newspaper seller or put my kids on the edge of the driveway with a great For Sale banner floating above them. For the better good, I mean, really, if you love mankind at all, for public safety and possibly even the future of the human species, you have got to give me something to keep it together!"

And so I left my annual check-up with a wad of prescriptions tucked into my handbag, and a fanny that would prefer to go unnoticed by my acquaintances for another year or so.

Sucks being a girl, I told you!

Adding to the T-shirt portfolio

The Heart Wreath

Monkey Hanging on my Heart

Cacophony of Hearts

Rainbow Splat

A little end of year ADHD

So what do you call it again when you just can't quite focus? You know, when you're a little distractable. Geez, it's getting hotter at night, isn't it? Ok, so maybe it's a little bit more than slightly distracted.

I think I'm having a case of Decemberitis. No jokes, folks. (Didn't mean for that to rhyme, but I will be grateful for all I get). Novemberitis came and went as of 9 days ago. Now it's time for the next step. Wow, I really feel like candy floss right now. Yip, that would be awesome!

I think it has to do with the infinitely slippery slope to the final curtain of the year. I just can't seem to get a grip on anything. I've got so much to do, and I just can't seem to get going. And talking about going, I'm inspired to think about the gas price, and that leads me to wonder why the garden service haven't dropped their prices since the price of fuel came down. Anyone else notice that?

You have to wonder why the end of the year feels like such a great big full stop though. It seems as though there won't be a chance to address issues once the drunken revellers have done that countdown and kissed in champagne flavoured embraces. It's going to be too late when that fat lady is done singing "Aulde Lang Syne".

Every year feels a little like the Y2K syndrome. Everyone seems to hold their breaths as though time itself will come to an earth-shattering halt at 1 second past midnight. And things left unfinished are not destroyed in that magical moment, no matter how much you might hope for it. No. The morning sun of January 1 rises over all the undone odds and ends of the years before. And chances are that these incomplete projects get added to a growing pile of things to do.


It's a shame, really. It's these left over bits and pieces that lead to the making of new year's resolutions. So you're still spilling your morning coffee on the gym registration form? After 5 months of having it on your kitchen counter, you add it on the New Year's Resolution List - Number 1: Join a gym. A pile of unread novels consumes valuable shelf space. You just didn't get to finishing them. Add them to the list. But make it sound fancy: Like - Number 2: I will read at least two books a month. (That should get through the pile of books next to the loo by about August.) Still not fitting into those pre-kids jeans that you just can't get yourself to toss out of your cupboard? Despite the fact that you've been out of those jeans by 3 sizes for the last eight years, you still add to the list - Number 3: Lose weight. Wouldn't it be better to say something like - Number 3: Clear out wardrobe. Accept the way things are?

Look, I'm not being a cynic here. All I'm saying is that the sun will come up again. There will be another day, and another after that, and even more thereafter. This wild race to the end of the year is a bit farcical in my mind. Why the rush to cram EVERYTHING into the last 31 days?

And does anyone else know how long a baked birthday keeps for?

Sorry Story

I was raised with a guilty conscience.

A guilty conscience and a low self-esteem.

I'm sorry about that, really.

Do you have any idea just how debilitating a guilty conscience with a side order of self-loathing can be? No? Well, pretty debilitating is the correct answer.

You see, the problem with this little accidental glitch in my ingredients is that I always end up apologising. I apologise because I feel so damn guilty about everything. And feeling guilty about everything makes me feel like an idiot, which just goes to fuel my low self-image. A vicious circle, really.

My days are pockmarked with me feeling bad about stuff. I'm sorry I couldn't do more. I'm sorry you got stuck in traffic. I'm sorry I missed your call. I'm sorry I forgot your card. I'm sorry I didn't invite your kid to my kid's party. I'm sorry I parked so close behind you that you had to do a 15 point turn to get out. I'm sorry I smell like I've been working in the garden all day, it's just that I've been working in the garden all day. I'm sorry I can't help you next week. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my disease. I'm sorry I can't lend you something to wear. I'm sorry you sneeze every time you come over. I'm sorry for snoring, hope it didn't bother you too much. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Pretty lousy, no?

So why is it, then, that I can glibly analyse this maladjustment from the safety of my keyboard and still harbour it as a crucial part of my genetic make-up? I guess the difference comes in what you know with your head, and what you believe with your heart. These things can be so vastly different to each other, and the truth is, you tend to go with what you feel, more than what you know.

What you feel inside is a remnant of your creation. your forming. When you were being built up, bit by bit, in the early years, processes and ideas fell into the cement of your youth and became so embedded into your system, that they are still the things that help to define you.

When I was 12, I asked my dad if he thought I was pretty. Now this man, God love him, picked the wrong moment to flex his funny-muscle. He said to me, at that terribly insecure and vulnerable age, "There's nothing wrong with you, Daughter. Nothing that a panel beater couldn't fix, anyway!" What he said has stuck with me till today, and I have picked his answer apart so many times and have seen and understood it for the poor attempt at humour that it was, and yet it dwells in my foundation as a warped whisper constantly pulling at my certainty and security. I battle to see past my flaws. I struggle to accept that others see past my flaws. And I fear that this affects my relationships over time.

So why do I mention this? I don't know. I guess I wanted to remind myself of how impressionable my children (and yours) are. I want to remember that my kids will value everything they are told by me, whether it be the truth, or a joke, and my words will dissolve into the brick and mortar that builds them, and live on in them whether they are factual or false. My words are my gift to my children. I hope only that they will unleash incredible potential in my offspring instead of anchoring them in irrelevant concerns and angst.

Already I feel like I've failed more times than I care to remember, for which I do apologise. And I'm sorry I'm saying sorry again. It's really pathetic, I know. No-one wants to read stuff about people feeling sorry for themselves - so sorry!

See what I mean?

The Question Not To Ask

"I'm pregnant," I giggle over the phone.

"What?" says my husband, knowing how impossible this statement just is. He thinks a little and says, "With whose baby?"

"The hairdresser's." I'm bent over double. I start to relate the following story.

I'm not a fancy girl. I'm low maintenance. No frills. Plain Jane. I haven't had my hair cut in, like, forever. I needed a little spruce up before the holidays - just so those Christmas photos aren't totally disturbing. Not being a regular at any salon, I flit freely from place to place. No commitment. Just drop in, trim the edges, fly off. I like it that way. Don't start making me appointments six weeks in advance, thank you. I'm good to come and go as I please.

I drifted by a seemingly quiet salon - they looked like they might be able to mow the lawn before school came out, so I asked for a quick cut. They could do it - great!

All washed and waiting at the mirror, the hairdresser approaches. She has a tender, almost motherly look in her eyes. "Would you like a cupcake, dear?" she croons.

"Er, no thanks, just a trim, that's all."

She smiles.

"So how far is it?" she is dripping honey.

"Excuse me?" I ask, thinking that she may be talking about the length of my hair.

"Your pregnancy," she insists, "how far along are you?"

I just crack up on the inside, but then I'm faced with a bit of a dilemma - do I lie to make her feel better ie "4 months, thanks for asking, and I'm feeling fabulous!", or just come out with the truth. I can't lie like that.

"Er," I break eye contact with her reflection in the mirror, "I'm not pregnant."

Of course this ruins the rest of my visit with outrageously awkward silences to follow.

At one point she tried to make up for it by saying that she just thought, you know, because of the shirt I was wearing, well, it's such a lovely shirt (liar! it's a crap shirt!) and where did I get it from? I lie back. I can't remember where I got the shirt, I say (Pick 'n Pay on the half price sale rack). I lie because the truth would just make her feel more stupid about saying it's such a nice shirt. And anyway, are you completely dof? What kind of 'very lovely shirt' makes a slightly podgey woman look pregnant? Only bad shirts. That's it! NOTE TO SELF: burn shirt with immediate effect!

Of course, I got a pretty decent haircut out of the deal - I think if she'd screwed up it would have been a really tough pill to swallow.

But that question: How far are you? or When's your due date? These questions should be banned in ALL unfamiliar company. Even if the overdue woman is puffing and panting through her contractions and she's standing in a puddle of amniotic fluid in the queue at the bank, any strangers in the immediate vicinity should make light conversation only. Talk about the weather, for Pete's sake. Look the other way. You really can't be sure she's pregnant, can you? Whatever you do, don't ask the question until she drops the baby on the floor. Because the day will come, dearhearts, when that puffing panting woman is actually having an athsma attack, or that puddle of amniotic fluid is the result of an incontinent bladder, and wouldn't that be embarrassing for all concerned?

When I got home I changed my shirt. I stood in front of the mirror for a bit. I turned to the left. I turned to the right. I even turned my back to the mirror and wondered if the new shirt made my bum look pregnant. After all that self-examination, all I can say is: I have a tummy. Sure. My pelvic bones which used to proudly poke my waist band pre-kids have long ago been buried. But appearing pregnant? No! My tummy is way too weird shaped to be housing a bonny baby. Unless that baby was shaped like a Toblerone and half a BigMac, and the Toblerone had melted a bit.

Sigh.

Rule number 6

Welcome guest blogger MOTY:

I listened to world renowned speaker and conductor Ben Zander today who talks about Rule #6.
He tells the story of 2 statesmen in a serious political discussion. The door bursts open and a minister from the host president's parliament bursts in shouting wildly about some crisis. The president raises his hand and says loudly, please sir, remember rule #6. The man calms down and exits quietly. This happens a second and a third time with different ministers and different crises, each time calmed by the reminder of rule #6. Eventually the bewildered guest asks, "What is this rule #6 you speak of?" Says the host president, "Rule # 6 - Don't take yourself so god-damned seriously!"
"And what are the other rules?" "There are no other rules, only rule number 6!"

And so I pass on rule number 6, when someone gets themselves in a tizz about you, or someone or something else, or is all offended and self important, remind them of this crucial rule - which would go a long way to bring balance to the universe, life, love and la di da - Don't take yourself so damned seriously!

Go forth and spread the word - Rule # 6!

Warning the Chicken - a poorly paced poem

My dear little chicken, don't stir the pot
If you get too close, you'll just get too hot
And when you get heated, well, you know what that means
It means you get grumpy, and nasty, and mean
So dear little chicken, don't stir the pot.

It sounds like you're angry
You get angry a lot
You think the world's against you
But really, it's not.

You make mountains out of molehills
Mud puddles from a spot
Dear little chicken, please don't stir the pot.

This pot has been brewing,
A long time me thinks
Much longer than you, or I've used our inks.

It's bigger than us, this pot on the fire
You can't control what it cooks - just admire
There's plenty of time and even some folks' lives
That make up the stew that that pot gives

And if you start a-stirring
that big cauldren pot
Well, things may start happening
And I fancy them not!

Those people's time, their strength and their stories
Their pasts, and their lives have no roofies or floories
Only that pot can contain that huge volume
and when you start stirring, it boils like a mushroom.

It boils and it bubbles
It splutters and splats
And you, my dear chicken
will get caught in all that.

The stuff in this pot, this wonderous brew,
Is bigger, and hotter, and stronger than you.

Don't mess with the pot
little chicken, please learn
When you play with this pot
Well, this pot's sure to burn.