The Whale Tale

In the early hours of Saturday morning, a pod of false killer whales (at first misidentified as pilot whales) beached themselves on Kommetjie beach. There were about 55 of them in total. This kind of mass beaching doesn't happen very often - about once in 10 or 20 years, so we took a drive out there to witness the spectacle.

Quite something to behold - the whales were not all the humungous animals you would have expected - some were smaller than dolphins.

The volunteers and rescue workers battled most of the day to get the whales back into the water and out to deep sea. Those animals that were water-borne didn't stay there for long. They either turned back right there and made for their beach graveyard, or drifted further up the coastline to beach themselves anyway. Many of the land-trapped creatures were stressed, dehydrated and experiencing suffocation due to the great mass of their own bodies crushing their lungs.

The rescue workers were dedicated to their task. We watched their tireless efforts for about 20 minutes before officials started requesting onlookers to evacuate the beach. Euthanizing whales is possibly not the best public display on earth, so they were trying to make it easier for everyone: the onlookers, the whales and the guy that had to pull the trigger. By that time, it was reported that 10 whales had already died on the beach due to stress or suffocation.

As we turned to leave we heard an emotional cry from a concerned spectator calling for another chance for the whales. She so badly wanted to save them.

Today the discussions around the incident are about how the public made the beaching far more traumatic than it needed to be. I actually heard a report claim that some whales suffered due to the fact that there were distressed onlookers in the vicinity. Another complaint was aimed at the media for making a spectacle of the beaching and encouraging people to go to the beach to see the whales.

As for the public: we left before the shots started ringing out, but I can imagine that it would have been a terrible thing to witness. I know of no reports that confirm that any of the whales survived that day. They either perished due to the nature of their predicament, or their suffering was brought to a quick end by some poor soul with a pistol.

 concern is this: This phenomenal event happens so infrequently. It's a natural occurrence. The chances are that most of those visitors to Kommetjie Beach on Saturday will never again see anything like that. Who's to say that the whole event should have been covered up? Hush-hush? I felt a bit annoyed when the workers and police started asking people to leave. Since when did a natural disaster become a privately owned affair?I say nonsense! If people were able to experience that, so much the better! Yes it was tragic. Yes it was emotional. Yes it was difficult. But there is no doubt in my mind that every person who walked away from that beach that day was reminded about the fragility of life. Whether they agreed with the euthanizing of those awesome animals, or were working fervently to release them back into the Atlantic, each individual there that day cannot deny that witnessing creatures of that magnitude give up their lives on that beach is an event that will not soon be forgotten.

Princess Pepper

This is our dog.

She eats scuba divers for breakfast.

The way things are now

They say that you should be careful about the things you wish for.

I was wishing for something to happen. Something to change things. Something great.

Well.

Something did happen. Something to change things. Something great. But not in a good sort of great way, more like a big sort of great way.

The 4 month old dalmation puppy, Princess Pepper, who has been in unfavourable repute with the mother of the house for ripping clean washing off the line and dragging it frivolously through the mud, caught, overpowered and dissected Holly, 14 month old Angora bunny.

T-Bird, my heart's greatest beat, discovered the carnage and how I wish she hadn't. She found the mutilated body of the friendly little bunny just before bath-time. Both girls were heart-broken, and wept for three hours flat.

We had a simple burial complete with kind words and offerings of fresh flowers and little trinkets - frugal donations from little people wishing the world were a different place.

***
When T-Bird was born, my mom said that from that day on, my heart would live outside of my body. And she was right. Seeing both of my children so desperately unhappy was indeed an emotionally taxing and physically painful experience for me. How I wished I could have saved them that loss, that pain, that violence. I wished I could keep them safe and ignorant of the hurts of the world, the reality of death, the truth of life. Oh for that elusive bubble-wrap to protect my dear, sweet, innocent progeny!
***

So something happened - my children were exposed to a reality of life in a very violent way. Things have changed - the dog is now the only pet on the premises, and my garden has a slightly better prospect at surviving. It was a great, and painful learning experience. For all of us.

The truth about Kids and Dogs

These are the simple truths I have learned in the first five weeks of owning a puppy. And perhaps, whether you are a dog owner or a kid owner, you might be able to relate:

1. Kids and dogs poop. A lot. And while you don't need to pick up kid-poo in the garden, you do still need to wipe.
2. Kids don't pull the washing off the line and drag it through the mud. This is a lucky thing for them, because if they did, they would be in serious trouble.
3. Wet kids don't smell like wet dogs.
4. Both kids and dogs will fart unashamedly when you're watching TV.
5. Dogs get fleas. Kids get lice. Both of them get worms.
6. It is less alarming to find worms in your dog's poop than in your children's.
7. Vaccinating a kid costs about the same as vaccinating a dog.
8. You don't have to put your kids down if they get really sick.
9. People won't question you if you make your dog sleep outside. They might if it's your kid.
10. Kids are more likely to ignore you when you call them. A dog will never.
11. Kids and dogs bite equally painfully. But you can only make one of them let go by whacking them on the nose.
12. Both dogs and children get wet noses. Both types of wet nose will leave a silver slimy streak on your black trousers.
13. A dog will never complain that you've given them the same thing to eat three nights in a row.
14. A dog will wee on the carpet. A kid will wee in its bed.
15. You can't rub your kid's nose in it.
16. Both kids and dogs love going for a walk.
17. A kid will seldom wet themselves if "barked" at by a bigger kid. A dog, will.
18. Dogs should not eat off the table. Kids should not eat off the floor.
19. A dog and a kid can observe each other for the longest time, nose-to-nose, without either of them blinking.
20. Both creatures shed whenever they have sat for any length of time. Dogs shed hair. Kids shed toys, shoes, sweet wrappers and sand.
21. A dog will contort itself to lick its hard to reach bits because this is what dogs do. A kid will contort itself to suck its toes because it thinks it's funny.
22. It is hygienically imperative to wash your hands after handling either your dog or your kid.
23. Even if you yell at your dog, it will love you the next day. Kids are the same.
24. If the truth be told, you are never really ready to have a kid. Same applies for dogs.
25. A dog needs a kid. A kid needs a dog. A mother needs a break. Make it work!

Seeing spots

On the morning of the day we were to collect Princess Pepper (our sweet baby dalmatian who is keeping me so the hell up at night I am rapidly losing my grip on reality), we stopped by the local vetshop (where I have been in and out of a number of times before and never ever experienced the kind of reception that we got on that morning).

The shop assistant asked how she could help. We said we needed puppy stuff.

Oh my! Clean-up on aisle 5! Someone give the nice lady a tranquiliser, please.

"Ooooh, a puppeeeeee! Arrrrrrr. That's sooooooo sweetie-peetie-pipey-pie! Let me give you this, and this and some happy little bit of this. You're going to be sooooooo happy! I'm so so so very happy for you." And also some other blubbery stuff along the lines of I-don't-know-you--and-we've-just-met-and-now-we-can-be-best-friends-forever!

Um.

Well, I get that "dog people" might think that other people with dogs are also"dog-people", and that there might be some kind of secret "dog-people" handshake and special "dog-people" language, but I wish to set the matter straight. For me.

I am not a dog person.

Also,

I am not a cat person.

And so,

I think,

I might not be much of an animal person at all.

There. I said it.

Make no mistake; I've tried, really I have, to be an "animal person". But, and it really hurts a bit to say it, I've failed miserably.

I remember once, a tree-hugging-kitten-saving friend of mine said that you can tell so much about a person by knowing how they are with animals. Only people who genuinely love animals are worth the time of day, in her opinion. Wow! Talk about putting pressure on little old not-an-animal-lover-me!

Can I just say this? Cats make me sneeze. I feel incredibly dirty when a dog is around. No, puppy breath is not delightful, it makes me feel a bit queasy actually. I do not get a thrill from being "kissed" hello, by an overly zealous and extremely slobbery hound. I really hate that sniff-in-the-crotch canine greeting. When I've been around animals everything feels dusty, smells a little dank, needs a wash.

If you're into stocks and shares, let me give you a little "heads-up": buy Dettol. 

I am going through so much hand soap and disinfectant at the moment! I think my hands have shrunk, I've washed them so much. Seriously! My wedding ring (which I don't take off much because I'm afraid I'll lose it) has been polished and scrubbed so much that it is shining like it did when it was new - and that was more than ten years ago!

So why the puppy then? you ask. I nod my head slowly. Look, I think she's really sweet, and cute in particular and a very handsome dog in general. It's not that I don't like her. I'd just like to like her from a distance, so I can preserve my  private bubble - keep it smelling like me and not like veterinary formulated puppy pellets. I'm alone at home a lot, and recent neighbourhood events have stressed the need for having an extra pair of eyes on our property - without getting all "ooh-the-crime-in-SA-makes-it-worth-changing-your-nationality". We needed a dog, and I don't know that I'd have taken more kindly to any other kind of dog than a dal. 

So here we are extending our family with a spotty puppy (who, by the way, is near impossible to see when she's standing on a sheet of newspaper). Give me time to adjust.

On Pets. Again.

Well, I wish I could go back about a year and lead you into this the way it has been gradually approaching me, but I think I was in denial and tried not to really consider it too carefully, and because of that, Wham! we have a new puppy. Just like that. So meet the newest addition, Princess Pepper:

Also, we very nearly had a new tortoise too, but he pooped all over the car and my hubby, so we tossed him out the window. No! Of course we didn't. The real story is that we rescued the reptile as he was crossing the road, and while we were deciding what to do with it, the owners appeared looking for it. But the pooped in the car on my hubby bit, is pretty damn close to the truth. We had brought a small tortoise into the car, but we passed a small tortoise plus precariously dangling excrement out of the car into the awaiting hands of its owner. Phew! Don't think I could manage with two new creatures' fecal output at the same time, anyway. Even just the one is a huge deal for me. Seriously. I even made sure the pooper scooper is blue and pointed out to my hubby that blue is a boy's colour and I hope he's aware of his responsibilities here. Ahem. So maybe I'm a bit uptight, but I'm allowed a little leeway, surely? seeing as I'm generally so low-maintenance as it is. Right?

I must just point out that we have gotten off to a shaky start as little Pepper has yet to adjust to being away from her bumptious brothers and sisters. She woke so many times through the night that I lost count. But it was often after hourly, and sometimes half-hourly, intervals. Also, within her first 12 hours here, she has pooped 4 times. That works out to 8 poos a day. 8 little landmines waiting to infiltrate someone's soles. 8 ways for me to gag. 8 chances for my hubby to make use of HIS blue pooper scooper. I'm so no ready for that...

(I'm not sure how this is going to work out, but hopefully I'm in one piece at the end of it all.)

Another name board has been handed over. Here is a pic:

Not my child

T-Bird (while regarding the wildlife in the TygerHills Nature Reserve): Mom, that tortoise is just like me.

Me (trying not to laugh): And why is that?

T-Bird (dead pan face): Because I also eat grass.

On Pets. Real. And, er, not.

It's not true that we only have pet rabbits. We have another, er, pet or two. You know, like the Adams Family have a Cousin It? Well, we have a pet Gloopy, and a pet SuperB.

Some of you have met Gloopy, danced with her even. Some of you have received gifts of fresh apples and celery from Gloopy. There are even some who receive a daily visit from ol' Gloops. There may be, amongst you, one or two who might even have noticed variations in Gloopy's appearance from week to week. Apart from her outfits (cute as they are!), her home and even her fur get a make-over from time to time.

What makes Gloopy and SuperB particularly important to our family is that they probably receive (estimation here) about 15 times more love and attention than our angora bunnies, Holly and Jasmine. In fact, once a day, there will be some kind of squabble over who's going to feed them, who's going yo change their clothes or who's going to give them a bath.

Gloopy and SuperB are virtual pets, created through an application on FaceBook called Pet Society.

So why am I telling you this again?

Well, since the creation of these multicoloured creatures resembling something in the species of Dog, my children's computer skills have taken a huge leap forward. I have noticed improvements in both their basic understanding of PC working, as well as mouse control. My kids are using words like "Logon", "Download", "Timeout" and "Internet" in intelligible conversation. They know how to start up a session of Pet Society, as well as see to all the requirements of the virtual pet's day to day care, and then logout when their session is over.

Now, maybe that doesn't seem fancy in most Japanese kids' resumes, but I think it's pretty nifty that my girls are creating a relationship with the PC like this. Yes, it might be another computer game, but a virtual pet offers more than your usual levels of game skills in most computer games. Week by week new objects are offered for the pets to interact with, or purchase. Part of playing long term involves building a home for your pet that increases with size as you progress from level to level. While interacting within the Pet Society framework, your pet earns coins which can be accumulated to purchase clothing, trinkets, furniture or make-overs for your pet.

Watching my kids playing with Gloopy has also raised my awareness of how money-unsavvy my girls are. I'm talking: Hide the Credit Card! On the upside, it has given us a platform from which to address issues of spending, saving, and wasting money.

All in all, I have to say I am grateful for our virtual pets, and I would recommend those of you with kids (and FaceBook accounts) to try it out too. If you don't like it, you can always get rid of it, but I dare you to give it a try.

The Pet Dilemma

Ok. So let's review the bunnies, shall we?
You haven't heard much about them for some time, and it' s really not because they died and I was quietly hoping that no-one would notice.

No, the bunnies are alive and well.

Rewind a couple of weeks.

I started worrying that something was dreadfully wrong with the rabbits. They seemed aggressive. They would scratch and bite and even growl everytime I came close to them. Which was every day. Yet I persevered and touched them and stroked them and bunny-cuddled them despite the welts and grazes the left all over my body.

Deep into the night I would puzzle over their changed behaviour, when one night it struck me, I need to let them out of their cage!

Now their hutch is quite a large home. Bigger than most bunny cages around, but lacking in natural vegetation, if you know what I mean.

So about a week ago, the bunnies were released into the garden. And what a change! They really did become happy. I could approach Holly without any problem and stroke her and cuddle her while she munched on lush green lawn grass. And, may I just add, that two sparkling white balls of fluff hopping around a currently GREEN garden, is incredibly aesthetically pleasing.

But aesthetics only go so far. At what point, I wonder is a happy bunny more important than a happy green pepper plant, for instance. Or a happy daisy bush? Or a happy Sweet pea? Or a happy lawn without big fat burrows tunneled through it? That's right, the bunnies are doing what comes naturally. I've lost a number of veggie and herb plants, there's a tunnel under the roots of a recently moved palm that I've been very careful with for the last 4 weeks, and my daisy bush is without daisies all of a sudden.

So my garden is in grave danger of an overhaul, but the rabbits are on cloud 9.

What to do? What to do?

I said, She said

(Alternative title: Because you're tired of the New Age mumbo)

It became clear to me, a while back, that AirBear is lacking on some crucial four-year old information. In particular: names of baby animals. So I dedicated the half hour that she and I shared yesterday while T-Bird was at ballet, to rectify the matter.

This was our conversation:

Take 1:

Me: Airy, what do you call a baby cat?
A: A cub.
Me: No.
A: I don't know.
Me: Starts with a 'k'.
A: A cub.
Me: Rhymes with 'mitten'
A: I don't know.

Take 2:

Me: Airy, what do you call a baby bird.
A: An egg.

Take 3:

Me: Airy, what do you call a baby cow?
A: A cub.
Me: No.
A: Yes.
Me: No.
A: But Aunty B said so.
Me: No. Aunty B would not say so.
A: Then it was Oprah.

Take 4:

Me: Airy, What do you call a baby frog?
A: I don't know.
Me: Starts with a 't'...
A: hmmmm...
Me: 'taaaa'....
A: A tampon!

Sigh.

Give me a break, already!

I thought we had an understanding, Mother Nature and me. Seems like all deals are off.

You heard about the spider bites, right? Well, the last count was right leg: 8, left leg: 7, sundry: 2. But I put that all aside. I thought that hey, maybe I could be to blame. Maybe I should have worn wellies and armor plated leggings while watering my garden. Sure, I suppose I could have.

Then. An overcast, windy day found me weeding the garden. Removing the gunk and muck that threatens to destroy a healthy lawn. And what did that get me? A sunburn. Deep. Maroon. Sunburn. A sunburn that is bullied by bra straps and tank tops. This is the kind of sunburn that begs to be left the hell alone. No clothing. No water. No touchy. No nothing. And somehow, apart from the usual back and shoulder burn, I am sporting a truly strange knee burn too. Both legs. Mid thigh to lower patella. Don't ask me how. Just cry with me every time a little person clambers on to my lap. Damn you, Ozone.

And then, as if that isn't enough, my worst nightmare. No, not the one about the giant tarantula and the melting ice-rink. I'm closing my blinds at the end of the day when something white and fluffy in the street catches my eye. A bunny. Not one of mine. I feel sorry for the poor thing. Lost. Alone. Frightened. Carefully I open my garden gate, a mere 3 meters from where it sits nervously munching on the weeds in my lawn. Leaving the gate, I go all the way around the house, through the front door and out into the street, to encourage the poor dear into a safe harbour, namely my back yard. Well. Number one. The poor dear has scampered up the road in the headlights of a Fiat Uno travelling at a snail's pace so as not to ride over the creature. And number two, in stepping out onto the grass of my front lawn, eyes locked on a fluffy white tail bounding up the hill, I step, barefoot, into a massive dog turd. I mean, come on! What more?

So I figure the old gal's got it in for me. Just what else she has hidden up her sleeve, I have no idea. I guess if it can't kill me it will only make me stranger. No spelling mistake.

Bug Food

This last week has been just louse-y. I am seriously only half the woman I was last week Thursday. In the space of five days, I have been savaged, guzzled, gnawed upon by nasty little creatures.. I have nine spider bites! NINE! WTF?!?!

All of these war wounds were picked up in the garden while I was doing my bit for mother nature and tending to the plants of the earth. These buggers have trespassed into the confines of my clothing, and munched away on my tender flesh. Damnit!

By the looks of the bites, I would have to conclude that I am particularly palatable to those bloody creatures. We're talking more than a mere flesh wound here, people! These bites swell. They blister. They ache. They ooze. (Hmmm, attractive picture I'm painting here, I know).

Last Saturday, I had to dance an evening away on a right foot that had swelled to twice it's normal size. My cankles had cankles. And bruising. And pain. But anything for a little getting down on the dance-floor, right? And then, surprise, surprise! The following morning the bite had healed, and I had suitably shaped ankles again. Guess those ballerinas hit on something after all in the Tarantella...

So I figured it would be just another notch in the belt. Me versus the arachnids. But, Tuesday comes along, bringing suitably outdoorsy weather with it, and another ravenous arachnid somehow manages to creep its way into my clothing. My shirt, this time.

Now I have a third breast. Seriously. It's quite perky and curvaceous, and it juts out of my ribcage just under my bra strap. It's also tender and inflamed. And it's beneath and slightly behind my left arm. So. Whoopee! I'm deformed. I can't even recruit this knob to some serious WonderBra activity.

The Chef suggested I go to a doctor.

"What for?" I was grumpy. And itchy. I shouldn't have snapped at her.

"An injection, or something." At least she cares.

"What? To make me taste worse to arachnids?" Seriously, that would be the only thing I'd go for at this stage. Seeing as they seem to clear up after a couple of days without an anti-biotic, and stop itching after a buttering of anti-histamine ointment, I'm good for now, thanks.

And to make matters worse, my spider bites now have spider bites. I have been double bitten on my leg. The original bite was not severe, and didn't even swell, but those buggers came back and made a right flesh feast of me. Now I have three new bites around an old one.

So I was thinking.

If this is how I am to get my super powers, should I complain?

But truthfully. I. Hate. Spiders.

Inflatable Fun

So seeing as our president has been displaced, and the economy sucks, and some kids got swept off into the ocean off Mossel Bay, I'm not up to much inspirational discussion. I'm taking a bit of a wait and see what happens approach. So, we'll wait and see. Ok?

In the meantime, the school holidays loom ahead. I have no idea what the weather is going to be like next week, but as far as I can see, we will have summer on Saturday, and possibly Sunday. But thereafter, there are no guarantees. So I've been trying to come up with a couple of fun (cheap) things to do with the girls, and I thought that I might share a couple of the things we've tackled so far with you. Just in case you're short on ideas too.

Seeing as T-Bird has been on holiday for a week already, and what with the rain we've had this week, we had to come up with something to do indoors (again).

The girls enjoyed this activity. On a scale of 1 to 10 for fun, it probably scored about a 7. And it was easy enough for both of them to get into without much guidance from me.


I drew templates for feet, which they coloured and cut out. They each blew up their own balloons with a little hand pump, and decorated them with faces. Balloon knotted and slotted into a tiny hole in the foot print, and... Voila! Balloon pets.


The only downfall is, because they were so easy to make, the girls each made several, and I now have little bobbing, bouncing balloon animals ogling me from just about any perch left in my house (the ones that don't have piles, of course!)


And I do actually hate balloons...

Womankind vs the Entire Arachnid Species

It was around a heavily laden coffee table that the conversation took a turn for the worse. A complicated collection of mothering souls were drowning their Monday morning blues in bottomless coffee and carrot cake. And somehow, the topic of spiders crept into the bleary eyed gabfest. A sudden hush descended upon the group, and the volume was lowered, almost imperceptibly, as each matriarch lent forward to offer wisdom and take of that which was offered.

"I can't stand spiders," admitted one. "I'll take a barrel of snakes and a room full of rats, but don't give me spiders."

A nod of agreement traveled around the table and stopped at a young, and fairly new addition to the group. "Spiders. And pray mantises," she almost choked on the words, and hurriedly washed them away with a sip of her cafe latte. A moment of quiet reflection followed, and then the roving nod continued on its way.

One by one, the mothers offered hair-raising stories of their personal encounters with the eight legged demons. As the stories unfolded, each woman perceptibly drew her shoulders up and tucked her legs underneath her - well, on the inside anyway. One mom started nervously biting her finger nails.

The next in line to offer a story of breath-taking escape and bravery above and beyond the call of duty was a roly-poly mom of two.

"I've heard that if you don't have Doom," she proffered, "Hairspray will do the job too."

A muffled sigh of amazement and bemusement evaporated out of the huddle.

"Shew!" smiled a beautifully made-up blonde. "At least that's something I always have around!"

Now I wish to stop this story right here.

Can you humor me for just one moment? Can you imagine the scenario that led to this fantastic discovery?

A woman gets up in the morning (it has to be a woman, of course). She plods into the bathroom to wash her face. Eyes closed, water dripping off her eyelashes, she reaches for the towel next to the basin. The same towel that a huge (and by huge, I'm thinking at least the size of a full toilet roll) rain spider has been lurking on all night long. Her fingers brush against three spiky legs that immediately crimp away from her groping reach. Water or no water, she opens her eyes to see what she would only expect in a bad dream. The monster watches her with eight glistening eyes. She screams. If he could, he would too. She is definitely the scariest thing he's ever seen.

Still screaming she starts grabbing at anything she can get her hands on. She pulls the handsoap off the basin. It smashes to the floor. She opens the bathroom cabinet. Cough syrup, toothpaste, Dettol all get ripped off the shelves and tossed into the basin.

The spider watches with eight wide eyes. He feels nervous. Making plans to prolong his life, he decides it would be best to find a new vantage point to this hysteria. He lowers himself on a strong single thread down to the tiled floor.

Dripping wet woman is engrossed in finding something useful in her cabinet. She is still screaming. For a moment she glances back at the perch above the hand towel. Her nemesis has disappeared. A moment of silence follows. In which she takes a deep breath. And then. She scream swears. It is at this precise moment that a large shadow passing over her foot grabs her attention. It is also at this moment that her hand still scratching wildly in the cabinet finds purchase on the cool, reassuring cylinder of hairspray. A primative instinct equates the shape of the can of hairspray to a can of Doom. Screaming and swearing she places her finger on the trigger, and in a nano second of irrational violence, she fires.

The unsuspecting arachnid is covered head-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe (only seven because he lost a foot in a minor altercation with the neighbour's wife and a broomstick the previous afternoon). He is immediately held in place by sticky globlets of complex polymers. Unable to take a step due to the never-ending shower of alcohols and silicone, the spider takes his final breath and succumbs to that overpowering cloud of fumes that tends to fill your lungs whenever you fix your coiffure.

The woman stops scream. She still swears a bit. Taking a huge step over the lifeless exoskeleton on her bathroom floor, she starts shivering and shaking. She can feel a million bugs crawling all over her skin. And despite how awful she is feeling, she has made a truly helpful discovery to all womankind henceforth.

Now put that in your back pocket!

Wonky Donkey

T-Bird: Mom, is petrol very expensive?

Mom: Yes.

T-Bird: How much does a car cost?

Mom: I dunno. About one hundred and twenty thousand rands, maybe.

T-Bird: Is that more than a thousand?

Mom: Yip. Quite a bit.

T-Bird: How much is a donkey?

Mom: I dunno. Maybe four thousand rands.

T-Bird: I think I'm going to get a donkey instead of a car!

Mom: Really?

T-Bird: Yes.

AirBear: And a donkey is friendly. I'm going to get one too!

Mom: And what if it rains?

T-Bird: I'll take an umbrella with.

AirBear: And a raincoat.

Mom: And where will you keep your donkey?

T-Bird: I'll build a huge huge huge stable.

AirBear: And I'll have a huge huge huge garden. With carrots in it.

Mom: I see. And what about the petrol?

T-Bird: Ha Ha!

The problem with Angora Bunnies...

...is the angora. 

Oh. My. Life.

The super-soft hair on both our little hoppers has matted and knotted and made tight pouchey-things (especially collected around their arses). Help! Holly was sporting a fine matte of hair around her knee that was actually impeding her hop - 'strue, I swears. Jasmine was taking the teased updo approach, instead. I'm still working on how she got hold of all the hare-spray needed to keep the mass of hair in place.

This afternoon I spent a whole hour combing and brushing and cutting out wads of horribly tatted hair. And where did that get me, I ask with fluff in my eyes? Well, one painful bunny nip to the knee (that's definitely going to leave a bruise or get infected - I haven't decided which yet) and enough fluff to make a whole new bunny. Sure it doesn't have eyes and ears and a tail, but it feels just as soft and doesn't bite (discounted due to lack of appendages - any takers?)

Another 50 Things about Me

Just to bring it to a nice round one hundred:

1. I LOVE pyjamas. I could wear pyjamas day in and day out. I am happiest in my pyjamas.

2. I hate balloons. They're untidy. They look awful after a day or too. They take up too much space. I secretly pop every balloon my kids get within about 24 hours of them bringing those cursed latex spheres home.

3. I can't tell my left from my right. I have to point the forefingers of both my hands upwards to decide which is which. (The hand whose forefinger and thumb make an "L", that's the left one - try it, you'll love it!). In fact, when I did my driver's licence exam, I nervously held onto the steering wheel with both forefingers pointing at the windscreen awaiting the examiner's instruction as to which direction I should turn.

4. I answer my phone: "Jessica Hallo".

5. I got married when I was 20. My dad had to sign consent for me to do it, and that was so embarrassing! I was doing this grown-up thing, but I wasn't grown-up enough to do it on my own - I actually had to get permission. Oi vey!

6. Whenever I see our national flag, I think of y-front underpants.

7. I am seriously addicted to Terry Pratchett.

8. I had a crisis of faith. Now I don't know.

9. My dad dropped me on my head when I was a few months old. In front of a LOT of people.

10. I can read and write backwards. (But I don't think it's because I was dropped on my head as a baby.)

11. I was born the same year that the first test-tube baby was born. Sometimes I wished that it was my claim to fame too.

12. My butt is always ice-cold.

13. I love walking in the rain, but I hate being wet.

14. I usually snore.

15. I used to get grumpy when I was tired. Now, I'm tired so often that it's too much effort to be grumpy.

16. I puked pretty much through my entire first labour. After 12 hours of hurling I ended up having a Caesarean section. Which I didn't throw-up in.

17. For most of my childhood, my nickname was "Flea". I have no idea why.

18. I love singing under the influence of helium.

19. I like hats.

20. I only wear hats when I'm having a bad hair day.

21. I sort my laundry into colour piles: blues + blacks, pinks and reds, whites, oranges, yellows + browns.

22. I could always have another cup of coffee. Thank you.

23. I've never had an imaginary friend, but I did once see a fairy.

24. The first time a boy really kissed me, I nearly choked. It was awful.

25. I don't mind catching frogs, moths or Christmas beetles in my hands.

26. Stupid irritates me.

27. I usually sing in the car.

28. I doodle whenever I'm on the phone. If I'm not driving, of course.

29. I have never been able to stick to a diet.

30. I don't like how people smell. You know, when they're all crowded together. Hot and many.

31. I will not swim if I can't see what's in the water. This includes night time dips in the pool (there might be sharks!)

32. I hate it when people call me Jessy. It's messy. And it sounds like they're calling their dog.

33. I dislike the word "penetrate". It too is messy.

34. I don't like doctors.

35. Everyday I am afraid that people will find out what a loser I really am.

36. Manners are important. If I fail at everything else, at least let my kids be polite.

37. I am not an animal person. I don't mind animals in general, but just not all over me. It took me a really long time to agree to the bunnies.

38. The only time I have been hospitalised was for the births of my children.

39. Acapella intrigues me.

40. I enjoy conspiracy theories.

41. I was bulimic in my final year of school. Not having the will power to deny myself food, I resorted to bingeing and purging in order to get skinny. Eventually I gave that up too, because it was just too much schlep.

42. I have pierced my belly button. Twice. Neither piercing is currently present. Just a nasty scar.

43. I don't like eating breakfast.

44. I love my Mac.

45. I once greeted an egyptian gardener with a "Shalom" instead of "Sa'laam". My husband dragged me away before the poor  guy had time to respond.

46. I had a huge scrapbook dedicated to Princess Diana when I was a young girl. She was just spectacular, and I was sure I would marry Prince William.

47. I used to frequently jump off the roof of the church into the prepared, or not, arms of my childhood hero. I was 5. He was 15. He was everything!

48. I hit a slump everyday at 14h30 and 21h30.

49. My recurrent nightmare as a child was about a giant panda escaping from the Jo'burg zoo.

50. When I sneeze, I implode. I don't know how I do it, but I somehow swallow my sneezes so that it sounds like I'm sniffing. Backwards.

Bunny Banter

Those bloody bunnies!

Today was a beautiful warm autumn day, so, being the kind person I am, I let the bunnies run free. All morning. Soaking up the sun and having the garden all to themselves, they reveled in the warmth and beauty of the day. Also, they got to exercise those hare hocks of theirs which lead to very fast bunnies by the time playtime was over.

Holly was a bolt of lightening to catch. She's been really pleasant up until now, but she has become as dashing and daring as her sister.

Talking of whom, Jasmine really got into my bad books today. The one's that have bookmarks for rabbit stew and rabbit skin slippers. She chose a new hiding place - behind the scrap wood planks leaning against the wall in the shed. I spent one and a half hours on my own unsuccessfully chasing her out and chasing her back in again. Add to that the fact that my spider-radar was on high alert the whole time, so I wasn't keen to put my hands behind the planks and make wild grabbing attempts at her. It was eventually thanks to T-Bird's unfazed take on spiders, webs and dust that managed to get that fluff ball out from behind the timbers. Looking completely innocent, of course. Like it hadn't taken the last two hours to apprehend her. Like I didn't have better things to do with my time. Like I hadn't got my index finger painfully jammed between a tarantula and the shed wall, and broken two nails in the process. I had to bite my tongue to avoid releasing a barrage of curses aimed at rabbits in general, but only because my kids were delighted to have been present at the time of capture, and were dancing and singing around my ankles somewhere.

So, of course, the bunnies have been grounded. No garden outings for a week! (I think I'm stricter on the rabbits than my kids... I can't re

member ever grounding my own offspring...)

While nursing my damaged digits I happened to look out of the kitchen window and caught a glimpse of bunny fluff in the rabbit hutch. It isn't a very good vantage point, I'll admit,  but it's just enough to check on them when there's a reason for not wanting to go outside - like rain, or hawks, or really big spiders. What I (thought I) saw made me choke on my post bunny-hunting cuppa. Two rabbits, inflagrata, bonking like bunnies! I dashed outside despite the rain/ hawks/ really big spiders, only to find the two dears preening and cleaning themselves on separate sides of their cage. 

Am I going mad? Or blind? 

"Did my eyes deceive me?" I demanded from the two shivering fluff balls. "They better have! And besides, you guys are SISTERS. Hellooooo!!"

Someone keep a note of the date please, because I am too busy watching that those two don't get too friendly with one another.

And just in case you were wondering why I've let myself in for the whole pet-schlep thing, it's this:

A Blog about the Bog

My life is run by poo.

If I'm not wiping bums, I'm scraping dog poo out of shoes (THE main reason for not having a dog!), I'm cleaning overspray in the toilets, I'm sweeping out bunny droppings (can anyone please explain how it is even remotely possible for so much crap to come out of such small creatures in the space of such a short time - at this rate I may invest in some compost franchise - once I have my own lawn nicely fertilized, of course!) or I'm getting the owner of the last intoxicating fart to admit to it, and learn that it would be far more polite to step away from the dinner table/ cooking area/ my bed the next time it's going to happen. I feel like I'm fighting an unending battle here. As long as there is life on planet earth, I will have poo to deal with. Guess we can include it into that whole saying of "The only thing inevitable is death, taxes and poo."

I think that half the reason for my postnatal depression 3 years ago was poo. (The other half can be equally divided between sleep deprivation, anemia and, uh, poo).

I had two babies in diapers at the same time. When the second one arrived, I made it a point to potty train my firstborn as soon as possible. Changing nappies in stereo is a depressing and soul destroying task.

The next fecal challenge I had to address was an infant who refused to crawl. She bum-shuffled everywhere. At 15 months she still hadn't assumed the position, and I was starting to get a little worried, when all of a sudden, my child stood up and walked. But during the interim, what all that bum shuffling meant for me was, a full diaper was in danger of being squeezed out in a snail trail throughout my house as my darling cherub wiggled from one room to the next. Add to that the fact that the child in question had serious tactile sensitivity issues and remained on a pretty much liquid diet until she was about 18 months, so her digestion was relatively uncomplicated and her excretions regular and, er, wet (?). Mopping down my passage twice a day with a solution of water, Domestos and Dettol became the norm. The day that child started walking I felt like a huge load had been lifted off my shoulders.

For a while things ran smoothly. Then, all of a sudden, child Number 2, now on solids and trying to do anything and everything her older sister could do, climbed onto the toilet. I admit, I was relieved. If I could get her on the loo, (skipping the whole potty step, because really, rinsing out potties is a lot like scraping dog turd from your shoes) and out of nappies,  my life would be made! And that's where everything came to a thundering, earth shattering, mind splitting halt. Everything. Her pipes got blocked. Truly. That post natal depression that had been lingering on the outskirts, sort of saying its goodbyes, suddenly returned like an annoying visitor who just doesn't know when they've outstayed their welcome. Only, by now, my nasty little visitor had shed its "post-natal" title and was full blown MrD.

I had a constipated daughter, and my work was cut out for me. We stressed and squeezed and suppositoried and laxatived and massaged and fibred and tried to keep that child regular. At my wits end, I took her to a paediatric surgeon who had it all figured out. He was going to do everything imaginable to my little girl's gut. From the initial x-rays to the full blown rectal probes and oesophageal rotation (to deal with her reflux). I panicked. Surely she wasn't that ill? We didn't go back for the follow-up appointment.

For a year I sat and cried with my baby each time her tummy worked. It was so traumatic for her and so heart-breaking for me to see her go through that. I would embrace her as she sat on the loo, weeping into my shoulder. My body would be wrapped around that cistern, trying to offer her as much comfort and support as she made her painful deposit. It was hell. No wonder I was depressed!

Our saviour was a homeopath who suggested a surprise change to her diet ("Include carrots," she insisted, "Wherever you can!") and a couple of tissue salts. Suddenly her daily toilet trip became easy and a sort of calm settled over our home. Between my two offspring, I would wipe a bum here and there, but, in general, poo was not much of an issue anymore. Phew!

The seasons changed. The moon waxed and waned. Christmas, Easter, New Year's and Mardi Gras all came and went (though maybe not in that order). After some time, and countless responses to the all too familiar yell of "Mom! I'm finished!", I started wondering when it was that children are able to wipe their own derrieres. My eldest had started at a 'big' school and I was a little embarrassed to actually admit to the fact that I was still doing paper duty to my fellow-mothers. So I approached my little princess herself, while she sat on the throne.

"Tell me," I asked. "Do you go to the toilet at school?"

"Uhuh," se looked bored.

"Who wipes your bum for you at school?" I inquired.

"Me," she gave me a blank stare.

I was a little off guard. I wasn't quite expecting that. I had been hinting and suggesting for the last 6 months that she assume full responsibility for her ablutions, but had never received any acquiescence on her part.

"So why must I wipe your bum if you can do it yourself?" I asked indignantly.

"Because it's gross, mom! I don't like doing it!"

Needless to say, that was that. I promptly ticked her off my list. From then on, I would only be wiping two arses, my own and my youngest daughter's (the latter being on a limited time- frame basis).

(I am still curious to know at what age kids should be toileting completely on their own...)

And now, with the arrival of the rabbits, I have a whole new load of crap to deal with. Just the other day, in the space of 20 minutes, Holly dropped 9 pellets on me - aarrgh! Returning her to her just-cleaned cage where her sister was waiting, I was alarmed to discover that Jasmine had been pretty busy too, and had doubled her sibling's offerings. I'm apalled, really I am. Is there no discretion?

On the positive side, however, I find rabbit feces far more tolerable than the canine equivalent. Yip! Still not ready for a dog...

The Rabbit Joke

* Although some offense may be provoked, no real rabbits were hurt in the making of this post.*

You know that really funny joke that so-and-so told you, but you just can't remember how it goes? And then you give so-and-so a call just to be reminded of the joke so that you can pass on the humour it bares.

I once heard a theory about this problem. The problem being that we tend to remember the stupid jokes and can never remember the funny ones. Well, the theorist in question suggested that laughter (being good medicine, and all) helps people forget.

So, the more you laugh, the more you forget. Thus, the funnier the joke, the least likely you'll be to remember it. Hmm, interesting, no?

Which brings me to a joke I do remember (decide for yourself how funny it is). A friend came over for coffee last night and I felt it was necessary to introduce him to Jasmine. They got along famously, and while she was sniffling in his post-workout armpit, he shared this story of the rabbit and the bear:

The rabbit and the bear were walking through the forest when the bear asked, "Rabbit, do you have that problem where your crap sticks to your fur?"

"Yeah!" said the rabbit, "All the time!"

"Oh, good!" said the bear. He picked the rabbit up and wiped his bum with him.