Perfect

Today is perfect. As perfect as it can be. There will be no attempts to change the past. To hold regrets about yesterday and what could have been is futile. Today is the only today I have. And it is perfect.

I am perfect in this day. There is not another day like this one waiting for me in the cubby-hole of the future. Today is the only one I'm going to get, and I will be perfect in this day, for this day. 

Tomorrow I will be a different person. A little older. A little stiffer. A little wiser. A little changed. But today I am perfectly me. Today, I cannot be more than I am right now. And what I am today is perfect. 

It is a good day to be me. 

It is good that I am me today.

And today I will make the most of this perfect day, for that is how I can be the perfect me. I will find the joy in each moment, I will appreciate the weather, I will look at the perfect people who call me "Friend", who call me "Lover", who call me "Mother". Together, we will be perfect in this perfect day.

Our perfection is accomplished when night draws a curtain on this perfect day, and this today melts into a memory called yesterday that we have no hold on. And at that very moment, the tomorrow that we could not control today, solidifies into the today that we are given. And what a perfect today it will be! We will live in this today as best we can, and we will be perfect in it.

I can only be the me I am now, in this unique space called today. I will not get a chance to repeat this day again. The trials and decisions I face today can only be dealt with by the person I am today. If I were the me I will be tomorrow, I may not learn from my trials, I may not appreciate a smile, a word or a gesture. I am perfect today to deal with today. It would not be better for me to deal with today tomorrow. This perfect day has called for this perfect me.

I cannot long for the me I was 10 years ago, that carefree, organised soul - that dear young woman of yesteryear would never be able to manage this perfect day. She could never face this perfect day with its perfect trials and challenges. She was perfect for her perfect yesterday. And I dare not long for the me that I will be in 10 years time - that perfect woman would have no care for this perfect day - her world would be so much bigger than this perfect little day. This perfect day would be a trifling splatter on her speeding windscreen. That amazing woman is perfect for her perfect tomorrow.

No. I must not. I cannot. I dare not look back or look forward. This perfect day has only me to tend to it. This me. This one here. This perfect me.

(Manic maybe?)

Just not that into me

I got stood up. This weekend, actually. Yeah, it was a date, of sorts. You know the kind: I bring my kids, you bring yours. Somewhere between the yelling and the wild antics, we'll pretend to have a "grown-up" conversation, then we'll wipe up the mess, pay for damages, and go our separate ways.

It was a once-postponed date, already. One that we had moved on by two weeks, five minutes before we were supposed to meet. I should have taken the hint then, I guess. Silly me! Trying so hard to be pleasant and accommodating.

We moved the date, true. It seemed like it would work out better for both of us that way, anyhow. The day before, I felt uneasy. I sent a message and got an appalling silence in return. And still, I refused to believe that I could be getting the boot. What? Me? But I'm so nice! As nice as a chilled mocha latte on a cloudy summer afternoon. Of course they want to meet with me.

On the day, I tried again. No response. My skull must be thicker than most, because the message just wasn't getting through. It did, however, permeate my cognition, when the date came and went. Just like that. The time, the venue, ignored in the heat of the day. It passed - as though it never happened. Well, it did never happen, but it was like it never did happened in the way of something that was never going to happen.

Ok.

Message received. Loud and clear. In a language I am not all too familiar with, but the cyber gestures assure me of the meanings. I think.

Sigh.

I am a nice person. Really.

Sometimes you just have to give in to OC

I was overtaken by some bizarre compulsion to analyse my FaceBook contacts. Why? you ask. I don't know, I say. I have no freaking idea what came over me. I just knew I had to go through everybody and find some kind of mathematical explanation as to how my connections, well, connect.

So I started. I drew up each profile and made a list of how many mutual friends I have with each contact. I know, I know. I hear you shaking your head at me in disbelief. I know what you're thinking, and I share your thoughts completely: NUTS!

There must be a way I can organise these contacts of mine, that they make sense, I thought. So I grouped them. Firstly, everyone who shares no other mutual friends with me. Then those of them that I have one mutual friend with. Then two. Then three. All the way up to 24. And my dear darling husband coming in trumps all on his own with 35 mutual friends.

Right, I thought, surely the people I am closest to will move in the same circles as me, share the same bonds... and... nope. It wasn't so. The people I think I'm closest to had in the vicinity of  5-10 shared contacts. Hmmm.

Family members shared an equal number, more or less, as we all know each other, and we know our cousins and they know all of us, so that doesn't really count either.

School friends scored the highest on average, as we spent 12 years of our lives getting to know one another in various classes, so we all know each other through a lifetime of education. No degree of friendship is really reflected through the number of mutual contacts we have. Sigh.

So far, my hours of toiling and sorting have led me to absolutely zero mathematically acceptable conclusion.

A couple of individuals stand out - the girl I've never met, but who I share 3 serious contacts with. The friend who I haven't spoke to for years as we've kind of drifted apart who, next to my husband, has the highest number of shared contacts - I'd kind of think that we would have more to say to each other, or at least more people to talk about!  I notice the mom who has a fair number of mutual contacts, who I haven't even had a proper conversation with. The handful of people in the "No Mutual Friends" group who I have chatted with for hours and hours on end. Perhaps we could have those conversations because they haven't got the low-down on me from anyone else? I can't help but think so.

It makes no sense! And I'm getting irritated. After spending all this time on sequencing and logistics I have absolutely nothing to show for it.

And then it hits me! I am doused in a wave of peace and acceptance: the answer I'm looking for is this: If I ever happened to throw a fantastically humungous party and invited everyone I know, and if FaceBook is a fair statistical reflection of the people that I know, THEN at least everyone will have one other person to talk to, and I'll introduce the O mutual friends to each other, or not invite themat all, whatever, and my hubby and I can mingle between them all. Short sigh - problem solved.

(Nothing)

...

...

I know, right!?!

...

Ok then.

...

She shuffles offstage.

...

And the madness continues...

My New Year's Wish

I've never been one for wishing that all your dreams come true and magic ponies in cashmere bubbles carry all your fears to the other side of the rainbow. Blergh! No. And because I'm not particularly taken by mystic bunnies that poop cotton candy, I'm not going to wish you the very best year you've ever had.

No.

In fact, I hope that your best year ever is still many years away and that the build up to THAT year is exciting and thrilling and possibly even a little adventurous.

As far as 2009 is concerned, I would love for it to be, for you, a bit like the opening act of a Shakespearean play - precocious and gripping, alluring and ever so enchanting. That it will put a wry smile on your face and tickle your curiosity just enough to get you interested in exploring it a little further.

I'm not going to wish you strength and courage and hope and prosperity. Sorry. If you're looking for those blessings, you might want to check out the Hello Kitty website. Nope. I'm not going to hope that all things change for the better. Uh-uh. If anything about you changes in 2009, I hope that it would be that you would become more adventurous, more daring; that you would take on the world with more Oompah! and that you would believe in your own abilities more and more.

I'm not going to wish you a perfectly happy year. A whole year of happy would rapidly become tedious. Instead, I wish you inner peace between the happy times. I wish that the gaps from one happy to the next will be short, and that as you pass from one to the next, you will remember that you are so much stronger than you think you are.

Sincerely

Jx.

Photo Infatuation

So here's something not many people know about me: I love looking at other people's photographs. No really, it's true. I do not get bored of pouring over albums that contain the photographic record of a holiday at the sea, or one marking the milestones of the budding family. Sure, anyone who's been to London has the same standard set of pictures (the lion guarding Trafalgar Square, Big Ben from across the road, The London Eye from below, and from inside, hovering over the Thames, the neon lights of Picadilly Circus, and a handful of silly poses alongside the inhabitants of Madame Tussaud's)). I suppose that once you've seen one lot of pics, you've seen them all, and yet I find browsing through these archives strangely engrossing.

I've mulled it over a bit, and there are a couple of reasons why I kind of fancy perusing people's piccies.

Firstly, I like to look for the pictures that work, and the ones that don't. This is a purely selfish reason of course, and all aimed at improving my own photographic ability. It's nice to get ideas for different photo shoots. Everyone has a selection of similar photos: there are the ones with the kids in the mud (or self-decorated with finger paint), the kids in the bath, the kids blowing out a birthday candle, or someone holding up a glass of booze and 'cheers-ing' the camera. But not everyone has a picture of their little girl ogling over a ladybug alighted on her finger, or of their little boy mesmerized by the planes at the airshow, or a picture of the filthy soles of little feet that have been "helping" in the garden. So I flip through albums in a creative research kind of mode.

I also like to check out how silly people used to look. You know, before I met them. Those pictures that you just want to die were ever taken? Well, I get a giggle from rating that eighties perm, those silly sunglasses that you thought were so cool, how young your parents were (Oh. My. Word. Your mom was Hot!), the practiced pose against the family room wall that was the official photo spot for the annual Christmas photograph. It's kind of cathartic witnessing the metamorphosis of the spotty geeky colour-retarded teenager into the fairly respectable lady sitting across the coffee table from me that I will not flinch being seen in public with. Great pal, aren't I?

But I suppose the strangest reason I enjoy other people's photos is this. I have this weird fantasy that one day I will be paging through somebody's archive of pictures from a time before we knew each other, and while I'm flipping through their pictures of their English holiday, or the wedding of a distant cousin, I'll see me in the background. And for once, I will have photographic proof of just how small the world really is.

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!

Am I reading too much into this?

If I invite someone over for a playdate, and they say, "Sure! Would you like to invite so-an-so as well?", what does that mean, actually?

Does she think that I would be happier to have someone else over instead of her? Does she not want to spend an afternoon alone with me? Will she catch my crazy? Would she rather spend the afternoon with so-an-so? Or is she just being polite? Does she want me to withdraw my invitation? Was she caught off-guard by my invitation, that the words just kind of spilt out before she thought about what she was saying? Should I ask so-and-so as well, so that she doesn't feel awkward? Am I just blowing it totally out of proportion? Again. Taking things too personally?

Maybe.

Friendship Fees

We always joke about friendship fees - you know - when a pal pops in for a cup of tea and brings a nice fresh milk tart with her - Friendship Fees. When you get you buddy a bunch of pink roses, just because you know that they are her favourite kind - friendship fees. When you stumble across a brilliant 2-for-1 special, but know you don't need the second (toilet brush/ tea strainer/ pot scourer) so you pass it on to a friend - Friendship fees. When nothing else is going to improve you buddy's day, and you slip her a Top Deck - Friendship Fees!

Friendship fees are fun to give and fun to receive, simply because they aren't associated with birthdays or Christmas or any other special occasion. They are just for fun. Just a way for a one pal to say to another, "Hey, I'm grateful for you. It's nice knowing you."

If you were to take the "Love Languages" principles into consideration, you can draw a suitable parallel between these expressions of affection and friendship fees too. It's not always about the giving or receiving of a tangible gift. Sometimes it's an affirming word. You pay your friendship fees when you tell you buddy which of two outfits is more flattering. Friendship fees are paid when you babysit so your pal can go to the hairdresser, or if you just sit together, quietly, when you know that she just needs you to be there. Sometimes the fee is in the form of a massage, or painting your way-too-pregnant home-girl's toenails for her, the night before her induction.

In joking about Friendship Fees recently, and taking to heart the mother of the year's all too wise words, I've come to the conclusion that being a friend is a lot like banking. You deposit time and effort. You invest. You make withdrawals. You grow your friendship over time. And hopefully, after years of careful capital control, your investment has grown into a substantial and solid portfolio.

Same with friendships. You wouldn't put your money in an investment that earns no interest, right? So why put your time and energies into a relationship that offers no interest?

I'm just saying... 's all.

Just not that into me

I know someone who is fantastic. She's wonderful. Kind, gentle, admirable in so many ways. From the day I met her, I thought of her as a friend. I felt like we connected. We view so many things in the same way.

Well. Punch me in the gut! Guess what? Having things in common is not what makes people friends. Who would have thunk it!

You see, I have cared for this person. Loved her. Comforted her. Spoilt her when I could. Loved her children. Supported her in the ways that I could. 

Sure, there were times where I thought she let me down. Thought she could have been more caring and supportive of me when things were rough. She wasn't. And sure, it hurt, but I put it down to the fact that she's a busy girl. She has a lot on her plate. A lot of people are expecting a lot from her. So I didn't put pressure on her to show a degree of commitment to me. I just blindly went on assuming that she was my friend.

And now I think I understand what the last few years must have been like for her (especially my down-in-the-dumps-months where I was verging on the edge of insanity). I think that me hanging around all gaga-like and playing "friend-friend" was like have a horny toy-pom trying to shag your leg in polite company. You try to shake them off, discreetly, but everyone tends to notice a tiny mammal bonking a flapping shin, so you stop. You quietly let the mutt get off on your ankle and hope that no-one's gaze drops below knee-height. That's how it has been. This gorgeous individual is the proverbial ankle, and I am the testosterone-driven canine.

It's kind of embarrassing really. She is just not that into me. Ouch. It's been a hard lesson to learn. But I think I've got the message now.

It's made me wonder about being so open about my feelings, my thoughts, my state of mind. Perhaps honesty is not the best policy after all. Perhaps putting my emotions into this blog is just stupid. Perhaps giving people a really clear view into my soul is more detrimental than not. People don't actually want to know about your short-comings. They don't want to know how you're struggling with issues from your past. The fact that you're on anti-depressive medication is shameful and frightening - if they spend too much time with you, they might catch what you've got too. And, if you are going to be honest about things, you had better have a lot of money to throw around to keep your "friends" close.

Guess I can't be friends with every superhero that walks into my life, right? 

Time to move on, Jessica.

The more we change, the more we stay the same

I met up with a friend that I haven't seen in 12 years. And before that, we had been friends for about 12 years too. Thinking about it, not counting family, she is probably someone who has known me longer than anybody else.

I felt a bit nervous meeting up with her. After all, 12 years: that's a lifetime! So much had happened in those years. So many things had changed. I am very different now to the person I was back then. And what about her? She would have changed so much too. She would be different too.

As I fretted about the impending visit, I reminisced about all I had been through with this person. We had been so close. We had spent every spare moment with one another. We had held midnight feasts in the top section of the closet. We learnt to plait our hair by practicing on one another. We roller-skated our way through primary school, writing love letters to one another and promising to be best friends forever. We grew. We got boobs together. We discovered boys together. Then we talked about them in a coded language that only we could understand. We laughed and played and giggled and lived and loved as we grew through childhood into adolescence. 

Then something happened to make us part ways slightly. I don't even remember what it was. And life continued the way it does, and we had grown up and moved on and married and worked and just were. And that slight offset of our paths, while it made little difference in highschool, in time, sent us to vastly different places. And as I prepared the meal we were to share, I imagined what the distance between us would be like when we reunited. Would it be like looking through a telescope across a large lake only to find that someone I once knew was standing on the distant shore looking back at me through a telescope and waving shyly...

When she arrived, I immediately knew that some things never change. I peered through my telescope at her, and she snatched it out my hand and threw her arms around me. There have been very few times in my life when I have actually leaped for joy, but this was one of those moments: nothing mattered except the excitement of reunion.

All of a sudden a dozen years melted away as two old friends looked into one another's eyes. We each recognised the soul sister looking back at us. We remarked at how the years had left laughter lines around our eyes, worry lines across our foreheads and a myriad of lines that cannot be seen in the creases of our memories.

All too soon, the evening was over. And even though I was sad to see her go, by reconnecting with this dear friend, one night became a bridge spanning hundreds of days. A kind of connectedness now rests somewhere deep inside of me. A fulfillment of sorts.

It's really encouraging to know that even though some things change, some things will always stay the same.

Taking Stock

Today I turned thirty, a good time to stop and measure up, I thought. Exercising the mathematical part of my brain, I set about quantifying my life.

Let's see...

Number of years on Earth:  30

... in days: 10,958 - wow, that's a lot!

Number of years married: 9 1/2

Number of years in Cape Town: 4 1/2

BMI: 30.8 = Obese

Feelings about last number: Never felt better about myself

Number of years it's taken for me to get to the point where I can say that, AND believe it: 30

Number of marriages: 1

Number of pregnancies: 2

Number of children I birthed: 2

Number of children in my house: 3

Number of times I was sure I was pregnant: 9

Number of those times this year alone: 4

Number of speeding fines: 1

... this year: 1

... worth: R200,00

Number of biological siblings: 3

Number of biological siblings who phoned me today: 3

Number of times THAT'S ever happened before: 0

Number of friends on FaceBook: 101

Number of friends overall: More than that

Number of friends with a face that can be read like a book: 2

Number of glasses of wine a week: 1 - 2

Number of glasses of wine tonight: 3

Distance to go to feed my tummy: 74,58cm

Distance to go to feed my heart: 7,458m

Distance to go to feed my soul: 7458km

Ok, the wine wins.

Hello Out There!

I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank my faithful readers for their support, and er, their reading. Without readers a blog is like a diary, except that you can't lock it and leave it under your mattress so your brothers don't find it.

Really, knowing that you're out there, reading away while you wait for your tea to brew, your nail polish to dry, your internet transfer to go through, your FaceBook instant message to actually send through to your friend who is already offline, your solitaire game to reload, the kids to come home from school, the 6 o'clock news, the housework to go away, your ship to come in, or just because you're bored out of your mind, or I've threatened you with life and limb to catch up with my latest news, or you're just curious to figure this chick out. For whatever reason it is that you end up here (on a regular basis), it's nice to know that you're out there keeping track of my life. Someone has to.

On a more personal note, B, I really think you need to pop around more often. A, don't take things so personally. R, whatever happened to you? Am I dog poo on the pavement, or just not famous enough to keep you interested? M, you should just say "no" - it will be good for you. T, remember to take me with your morning vitamin, or your evening contraceptive, whichever you're more likely to remember. W, nice to know there's someone who spends as much time on the net as me. Other B, you need to spend more time on the net - ask W. L, I hope this serves sufficiently in place of those restrictive text messages.  T, see, I can be a bit funny too sometimes. P, I hope I can provide you with a blog to grow hair by. Other T, thanks for not writing me off completely, even though you really know how crazy I am. G, I'm surprised you care enough to check in! Surprised, but glad. D, whenever you're ready, let me know. And last but not least, Another Other B, I don't mind your comments, just so you know.

Catch ya'll later, blogfans.

A letter to a Friend

You know, you're a really nice person. I've always thought so. That's why, what I have to say now, is so difficult for me. It's going to make you sound like a nasty person, when, in truth, you really aren't. You are surely one of the nicest people I know.

So why do I have to say it then, if it's going to depict you in a bad light? Well, it's sort of been eating me up inside for a long time. I'm trying to understand how our dynamic works, yours and mine. If I write it out, maybe I'll have a better idea of what it's all about.

You see, I just don't understand exactly what role it is you want me to play. On one hand, you say I'm your very special friend, but on the other hand, you just aren't there for me. When I told you I needed time out and you said you would be there for me, you weren't. You didn't call. You didn't check on me. And then you were surprised when I felt awkward around you. I felt awkward because I really didn't know what game it was you were playing with me. Maybe you forgot.

Whenever I ask you if you'd like to spend time with me, you always say "Yes." But I leave it in your court to tell me when it would suit you. And you know, it just never does.

Is it because you're just a nice person that you don't want to hurt my feelings? You just can't tell me that you don't actually have time for me? I know it sounds awful for me to say it, but that's just how it feels - most of the time - it feels like you don't have time for me.

And it's hard for me to understand. I thought I had demonstrated to you, countless times, how I care for you and your family, how much your friendship meant to me. But I never seem to get that same feeling from you. And I really can't imagine that you don't like me or you don't care for me, because you are a super person. But maybe, it's just that you have enough friends as it is? Maybe spending time with me would steal time form you being with the people you really need to be with.

It sounds so, so stupid. Like a whiney child saying "So-and-so doesn't want to be my friend!" But it really hurts, nonetheless. It feels like I keep coming back to you for more rejection (even though that may not be the way you mean it).

But for my sake, and my feelings, I think I should stop that now. Please don't be offended if it feels like I'm not paying you as much attention as I did in the past, I have to preserve myself. And it's not that I don't want to be your friend - I do, really - but you keep hurting me, so I'm going to slack off a bit, OK?

Maybe someday, when our situations are different, when we've moved on a bit and absence has made the heart grow fonder, we could try again? Or maybe before that, when you understand what it's been like for me. Maybe you don't even realise what it feels like from this side.

I miss you. Or the thought of you. I don't know. 

Jx.

PS: I realise it is a little unorthodox to present a personal dictation of this sort in a blog format, but I did it anyhow. The problem I foresee now is that every friend I have is going to think this letter is addressed to you. It isn't. Chances are the person it is intended for will not even read it (soon), and when they do, being the awfully nice person they are, will not realise it is addressed to them. So please don't panic. I still love you (all of you), I just had to get that little rant off my chest. Please don't take it personally.