Girl Talk

Dear Wives, Mothers, Sisters, Females of the Species

I write to you under the influence of fresh dog turd marched through my house on the shoes of my four year-old, and, as such, I cannot take full responsibility for what I may say now, as the fumes of canine excrement seem to hamper my normal functioning.

Sisters, ladies, sufferers of menstrual cramps and gynaecological examinations. My fellow wearers of tampons and corsetry. Women of the world, you busty and hormonal defenders of the meek, vaccuumers of popcorn kernels and likers of all things pink. Those of you that enjoy the pampering of a french manicure and delight in all things pretty. You who at some point in you lives have appreciated ballet and Hello Kitty. I summon you all closer so that I may divulge a little secret.

(All that gynae crap and lace and frills stuff was to bore the men and shake them off the scent of the knowledge which I am about to impart to my sisters).

You've heard the expression: Men, you can't live with them, you can't shoot them, right?Well, it's true. You shouldn't shoot men. In fact, please don't. Men can be quite useful for cleaning out the litter tray and opening tightly screwed-on lids. So we do kind of need them.

No, I am in no way condoning violent behaviour. Instead I wish to impart a coping mechanism to my sisters who share the burden of trying to see eye-to-eye with the men they share a life with.

We've all experienced that quandry when the charming beast of a man that you note as your significant other let's you down in a nose-dive of chasmic proportions. We've all looked into the eyes of this muscular chunk of masculinity and been completely unable to comprehend the inner workings of that mind that seems to be fueled by Formula 1 and rugby. At some point, we've all rolled our eyes to the heaven's and begged to be understood by the slab of testosterone that sleeps in our beds. And more than once, the cosmic differences between Mars and Venus have lead to disputes, arguments, and in some cases, nuclear jihad.

We just want them to get us. We want them to hold our hands when we're looking at a beautiful sunset, not start a game of tonsil hockey. We want them to put a comforting arm around our shoulders when we're teary, not to suggest we go talk to a shrink. We want them to wink at us across a crowded room, not order another beer. 

Ladies, let me tell you a little secret. And I mean this sincerely. From the bottom of my heart, with the utmost respect for the carriers of the y-chromosome:

Men are retarded.

Now don't get into a flap, everyone! Seriously. I say it with my greatest appreciation for that which is "Man". Men ARE retarded. Say it a couple of times, and suddenly it all makes sense.

Why do they watch a field of sweaty blokes chasing a chunk of dead cow? Why do the burp and fart in company? Why do they consider a beer and pizza as a decent meal? Why do they battle to sort the lights from the darks?

But what I think is most beautiful about this revelation is this: not only does it explain a man's short-comings, but far more valuable than that, it creates a sense of pity for our brothers. When you're pulling your hair out with frustration over the way your man behaves, just think to yourself, "Ag shame, he's retarded," and suddenly you can't be mad at him. Your anger evaporates like the morning dew, and instead you feel a sense of sympathy for your better half. You look at him with affection and mild amusement, and you know, in your heart, that he does mean to do things right, but he just can't quite get it right all the time.

And everything is ok.

Happy anniversary

1 Amazing man.

2 Gorgeous little girls.

3 Cities inhabited.

4 Places set at the dining table.

5, because there's always room for one more.

6 Pets.

7 Cars to take us around.

8 Relocations.

9 Employed positions between the two of us.

10 Years of marriage.

The beast within

The creature stirred again last week. It was jittery. Unhappy. Needing fresh air. Lacking attention, food, calming strokes, it raised its gargantuan head and peered through the walls of its enclosure.

They are weak walls. Not made of brick or stone. They are walls of resolve, determination, decisions mortared together with hope and a little denial. These were the walls made to hold a creature such as this.

The beast had been still for some time. Initially it was sedated and calmed. Rocked in a cradle of soporifics. Asleep. Dormant. Drugged. And this was the best thing for the beast at the time. The walls were flimsy then. Shaky, and in places paper thin.

In time, as the fortifications grew, the beast was released from its pharmaceutical bonds. It was caressed, stroked, petted by a nervous but accepting hand. It would not attack for some time. It had made its presence known, and its guardian took the responsibility of its care very seriously. She could not amputate the beast from its enclosure, nor could she deny its existence. That creature had been born there. I t had grown in that petty coop over so many years, that parts of the beast had meshed with its confines; growing to be a part of what held it back. To destroy the beast would be to destroy the vessel it inhabited.

Its needs were minimal. It needed acknowledgement. It needed room to breathe from time to time and a safe place to cry. But above all, it needed rest. A lack of respite would disturb the creature, causing it to howl and writhe within its measly confines.

For a while its slumber was poor and disturbed. It thrashed around, unable to breathe, unable to call out for what it needed so dearly. The guardian became subdued when she realised just how large a beast was living in the confines of her paltry enclosure. "This thing," she thought, "this thing. It is so much bigger than me! So much stronger even." She collapsed a little, and with that, the creature started to devour her. First her resolve. Her determination. Her hope. Gnawing away at her, the creature grew some more. Its cage was straining beneath its heaving mass. Even splitting at places where a claw would jut through, grabbing at the things the guardian held dear.

Her energy consumed, the guardian released a slow unsteady breath. "Help!" she whispered. Her timid voice collided with an empty space and shattered into a million diamond tears which fell around her like shards of glass. Broken, she lay weeping.

The beast, partially satiated, lay quietly at her feet. She opened her eyes and breathed in. Its eyes locked onto hers, and the two of them regarded each other for some time. She pulled herself up to sitting. The creature remained still, but never broke eye contact. She put her hand out, and placed it on the creature's brow. Neither moved again for some time.

Presently she became aware of a rock beneath and behind her. It was moving. Or, rather, her fallen tears were moving towards it, sinking into it, building it up. The rock grew up alongside her, and enveloped her tired body. It held her. Strong. Steady. Solid. She breathed out and closed her eyes.

On opening her eyes, the guardian noted how much smaller the beast seemed. It had diminished in size. It seemed weaker, almost as though it were cowering. She scanned the enclosure. All the "bricks" were still there, and as she watched, the walls seemed to grow of their own accord. Only, there was more than just her own strength and hope forming the ramparts. There seemed to be little bits of rock filling the cracks in her resolve, the dents in her self-worth. 

When it was completed, the new wall was strong. Steady. Solid.

The way things are

So it would seem that the bug I'm getting over, has found new lodgings in the Mother of Last Year (unfortunately the title of Mother of the Year is floating, and until proven otherwise, a temporary title will be used).

 The man was complaining of the all too familiar sore throat, blocked head and aching joints, when I stirred up a great concoction of vitamin C and anti-inflammatories to wash his malaise away. I held out the potion, and the whining started.

"I don't want all that stuff. I don't need it."

"Don't question me," I said, all maternal-like, "I am a nurse, you know."

"Really?" he said, eyebrows raised, taunting.

"Daddy," T-Bird interjected. "Mommy really is a nurse. Or she used to be a nurse."

A moment passed where we all exchanged glances.

"Mommy is a nurse who stays at home," she declared after a little thinking.

I nodded triumphantly at her father and shoved the medication into his hand.

"...and who goes shopping."

So much for victory lasting for any decent length of time.

PS. And it's not true, by the way. I do a lot of other stuff too.

Toothbrush Tales

While we stayed overseas, I would write regular updates back home to our friends and family informing them of all the new and fantastic things that were going on in our exotic lives. I happened to be going through these letters the other day, and found one that I think you might like. Here goes:

It was the night before last week Saturday, and all through the sandpit, not a creature was stirring, not even one of those really big geckos that cling to the walls around the compound.

 

Brett was in Riyadh for the whole of last week on a training course for work. For Brett this meant going crazy in a hotel room (because he didn’t know what else to do on his own in Riyadh) and for Jess it meant going crazy at home because she didn’t have a car to use for the evening Cinnabon gathering missions.

 

All should not be seen in a negative light, however. Brett did get a chance to work out in the hotel’s exclusive gym AND go for mid-week drinks at the American Embassy in Riyadh (by cordial invitation only, bar closes at 8pm). And for Jess… well this may take a little explaining.

 

Jess’s toothbrush is a sacred object. A holy shrine to privacy, if you wish. All too often, the pre-bed/ post-rise/ mid-morning ritual of toothbrushing in the Commaille household has been interrupted with Jess’s high-pitched squeals of utter disdain and disbelief at the sight of Brett sacrilegiously scrubbing away at his pearly whites with her toothbrush. Sometimes, if Brett gets himself together before Jess (also not uncommon), Jess may get to the bathroom to take part in her dental hygiene regimen only to be met by a dripping wet toothbrush, while Brett’s is bone dry.

 

These sins have been commonplace ever since, on the acquisition of our last toothbrushes, Brett refused to take the blue one (because “I always have the blue one”) and insisted on the green one. Needless to say, old habits die hard, and if them teeth are used to that old blue scrubber, there is little chance they will stay away from it.

 

Brett’s absence last week gave Jess a kind of respite, a truly orthodontic peace, knowing that her toothbrush was set apart for her exclusive use.

 

But, as we all know, all good things do come to an end. First night back home and Brett was happily scrubbing away with Jess’s toothbrush once again!

 

But this is not a tale of woe and sorrow. Oh no! Behind every trial we face, there is a lesson too valuable to ignore. Jess took action. Without saying a word (although if looks could spit, Brett would have needed a life jacket), she rushed her toothbrush to the dressing table and proceeded to paint it in Yardley Crushed Berry nail polish.

 

And that, folks, is what they mean by necessity being the mother of invention. At present an unusual calm rests in our bathroom – a sense of harmony, peace and dental well-being. The paint-job has worked beautifully. On more than one occasion Brett has stopped short realizing that he has grabbed the incorrect brush and thus avoided recommitting his serial offence.

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?

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!

And this is the way things are.

You know, I love men. Really I do. Especially my man. Having a tall, dark, handsome person around is good for the ego. And it's convenient - you know, for when you need to put stuff away in hard to reach places. Having a man is good. Just like having electricity and running water is good. Life is so much more comfortable. Happy. Sorted.

Except if the running water is a leaking washing machine, or a drip in the back of the toilet. No. That's just messy. And annoying. Sort of like a man can be too.

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't change my man for a whole bag of drip-free toilets. Not at all. I lurve the guy. I do. Couldn't breathe the good air without him. He is my rainbow sky. My adonis. My muse. I love being with him. I love talking to him. I love laughing with him. And I love to just look at him. He is my eye candy. For me, he is a chip off the ol' good-looking block. I think he looks great first thing in the morning. I think he's hot when he steps out of a steaming shower. I love watching him potter around.

But there are times... a day or two every month (by estimation) that I can't stand the sight of him. On these days I find him completely unpalatable. He. Just. Turns. Me. Off. He may try his silly cowboy stagger to get me to smile adoringly at him, but it won't work. He might toss me a nonchalant wink (with crooked eyebrow included), but I'm not buying it. He might just 'accidentally' flex a muscle in my general direction, but I am resolute in my unimpressed state. It is on days like these that I think how much better he would look if he were covered in an horde of rampaging army ants with his head on fire. I think how much I would rather he spend the night in a cage of pythons than share my bed with me. And quite frankly, I'm pretty sure, that on days like these, my long suffering husband would prefer the company of a venomous snake than that of the prickly wife he has back home.

Poor guy.

It only lasts for a day or two, of course. Then it's all fine again. We find each other again, and it's all a bed of roses for another 26. But the explanantion for the disruption of our happy equilibrium for those two days is hard to come by. But I have a senaking suspicion that it's all his fault really. Let me explain...

By day 25 something strange happens to that (mostly perfect) man of mine. While he's being all charming and pleasing and perfectly affable towards me, I start to notice a rapidly widening white ring around he's pupils. Like a deer in the headlights. Like a criminal at the gallows. And I can't be sure of this, but I get the feeling that he starts a frantic internal search. Like he's looking for something important.

On the outside he's all, "Hey, Honey. I made you a cup of chamomile tea. Would you like a foot rub?" But on the inside he's all, "Where did I put that chest plate? I know it was with my running shoes. Oh. Wait a minute. She did say something about always leaving those blasted shoes lying in the passage - doesn't she get that I might need them in a hurry? Think, man. Just think! Last time I used that chain mail, I had my head chopped off, gobbled up and regurgitated into the toilet. Right. There was bloodshed. Blood. Hmm. Did I get it back from the cleaners? Drat! Urgent Note To Self: stop by cleaners post haste! Oh, and maybe the hardware store for some spray-on fire-breathing-dragon repellent."

And back on the outside he suddenly becomes suspiciously animated. "Hey, my love-muffin," he croons with a slightly pinched edge to his voice. He starts to pick up the usual debris of poisons, chemicals and broken glass that is strewn across the lounge carpet. "I need to go to the hardware store, you know, for stuff to, er, fix the roof. Yes. The roof. I know, you've been asking me for months to check into that, and today's the day." He is placing padlocks on the gun safe, the fire place and the tin opener. "You need anything? No? OK then. You just put your feet up and stay right there, OK? Don't stress that pretty little head of yours now. You will stay there, right?" He's packing away kitchen knives as he speaks. I notice a flame thrower and a welding torch discreetly tucked into the back of his trousers.

"You alright, Sweetie?" I asked sipping on an heavily tranquilised cup of chamomile tea. "You seem a little um, distant." My tongue is feeling heavy and I have to wipe a river of dribble off my chin. Also, my back is starting to ache. I wriggle in my chair. I'm starting to feel very uncomfortable in my own body. My skin feels too tight. My hair is too straight. My toenails are too long. My fingers feel too much like, well, fingers. I stretch. Something pops. I look around and notice I have a horn on my left shoulder. Pop! Another one on my right. Pop! Pop! Pop! Several more burst out of my back. I stagger to the mirror to get a better look at what's happening to me. I look awful. I hate myself. Good grief! I'm thirty and I'm still getting pimples! The pimples explode. I am hideous. I run my awfully finger-like fingers through my hair, and catch a sulfurous whiff from under my armpit. I stink.

I'm ugly. I'm sore. I'm pimply. I'm oily. And I stink. Oh. And I have horns all the way down my back. This is not the way I woke up this morning. No. I was in a happy place. I was just fine. What happened? What made me like this? I spin on my fat swollen hobbit-feet and scan the room. And then I see it - that tea cup. That tea. He did it to me. It was him! Bastard guy!

I scowl. I growl. I howl. And I realise, too late, that the bugger has disappeared. He is outta here. I'm so mad I could... I could... well, I might just do something drastic. And to top it all off, that jerk has packed away all my poisons, my chemicals, my broken glass, my kitchen knives, my flame thrower, my welding torch. Dammit! I'm gonna kill him!

See? His fault! He's so lucky that I love him enough to forgive him all his shortcomings. Sigh. What a guy!

I am NOT a camper - sorry!

We've been talking about going camping during the December holidays. I was actually even starting to get into the camping vibe with self-speech like: it'll be sooo good for the kids; it's healthy; it's stress-free; we'll just get away from it all.

Part of the pre-planning planning stage of going camping, for us, was to erect the tent to see what bits and pieces we may be missing (another item on that end of year to-do list - CHECK!).

When Friday afternoon arrived, our four-man tent was erected in our back yard. We discovered that we were, in fact, missing two tent pegs for the shade cloth that fits over the whole contraption. At least we know - shew!

But an erected tent in the backyard - let's just get back to that statement right there, shall we? It was all the kids could do to not explode with excitement. Excitement which spilled over into anguished pleas to sleep in the tent.

What the heck, right? We might as well get a bit of camping practice in while we can, before we set out on a trip only to discover that we were not made to camp.

So we set up camp; the kids sharing on a spare mattress, and the mother of the year and me on the blow-up double mattress. With all the essential necessities (duvets, pillows, reading material etc), our whole family went to bed at 20h30 - but only because we couldn't put the kids to bed outside by themselves now, could we?

Sleeping in your garden poses a couple of, shall we call them, discomforts. Firstly, we live in South Africa. Secondly, our house is fully secured by burglar alarm, but sadly, our garden is not. Thirdly, we live in South Africa.

So the first thing I become aware of, is how bloody loud the traffic is when I am not surrounded by the volume control of brick and cement. I swear there was some kind of drag race down my street. All. Night. Long. No kidding. I woke up about six times due to speed freaks zooming past our house throughout the night.

The next minor irritation was the size of my shared sleeping space. I am accustomed to a king-size bed. I like to be able to toss and turn until I find my comfy-position, without rolling over into an elbow, an armpit or a forehead. And another thing about blow-up mattresses is that when more than one person is lying on one, the lighter of the two tends to roll towards the heavier one who is demonstrating far stronger gravity effects than the less heavy of the two. So I spent most of the night clutching onto my side of the mattress, trying to anchor myself and avoid slipping into the valley of the elbows.

There's that, and then also the fact that whenever your sleeping partner moves on a blow-up mattress, you tend to get bounced around a bit. And this is not conducive to good sleep.

And did I mention the bit about living in South Africa? Well, we do. And with that comes the constant awareness of crime. Every South African has some degree of cognizance of what kind of a target you may represent to a lurking criminal. And even more so when you're sleeping in your garden. Outside of the protection of your burglar bars and laser beams. Every little noise raises the hair on the back of your neck. Even the bunnies munching grass sound like ominous creeping feet.

So all in all, it was not an easy night. And by 4am when T-Bird had a bad dream and yelled out: "Daddy, look out! The bad guy's behind you with a gun!", I can honestly say I had had enough. As you can imagine, my adrenaline levels sky-rocketed. My heart was beating so fast I thought my sternum was going to disintegrate!

I settled my T-Bird, and placed her next to her (deeply sleeping) father. I climbed into (the single mattress) bed with AirBear and tried to while away the next couple of hours.

The discussion the following morning between my darling hubby and myself revolved around how much I do not want to go camping. That, and how flipping stiff my neck was. He assures me the problem lies with the mattress. But would you blame me if I turned down the invite?

A to Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Whenever I sit down to metaphorically put pen to paper, the first thought that springs to mind is "I'm tired". But I always seem to push that aside and focus on things less mundane than that to express per my keyboard.

But, I just have to say it. Just once, and then, maybe, it will be better. 

I am tired. Dead tired.

...

And I'm tired of being tired.

...

Nup. It makes no difference. Still tired.

I wake up tired. I plod through my day tired. I answer my mail tired. I make sarmies tired. I drive tired. (Yip, that's me swerving just ahead of you!) I get to the end of the day and fall upon my bed, you guessed it, tired.

For the longest time (Ok, 6 years and counting. Pretty much since I became pregnant for the first time), anytime someone has asked me how I am, I have had to fight the urge to reply, honestly, "I'm tired."

It's not for lack of sleep. I get my 8 hours as often as the next mother. It's just that I wake up tired. Sure, I went through those torturous nights with new babies, colic, and three-hourly feeding schedules, but surely I should be recovered by now?

It's not my iron. Last blood test showed it slightly low, so I swallow a tablet whenever I remember. But I'm still tired.

I'm not pregnant, before you get all diagnostic on me. That option was taken care of a long time ago.

It could be insufficient aerobic activity. Yes, I am a gym deserter. And one of the reasons for that is that gym made me feel tired. Go figure, right?

It could be my cipralex. So I changed the time of day I was taken that little happy pill. It didn't seem to help much. Over the last 2 months I have halved my dose, hoping that that would help too, but no luck. I'm still tired.

It's really not my kids. They are generally a dream to care for. Sure there's the whining and the bickering that can get to unmanageable levels, at times, but for the most part, they are easy kids and a pleasure to have around.

And while we're on family, it is definitely not the mother of the year either. That poor guy has had so little of me due to my flailing energy-levels, that he doesn't even try push his luck for more than dinner and clean underwear. Now don't you feel all sorry for the bloke. It's not like he don't get none. It's just that I'm kinda in a bit of a slump right now, and he maybe doesn't get none more often than he'd like...(?) Anyway, I mean it on a greater level than sex alone. Poor baby has had to do with dwindling levels of enthusiasm on all fronts, from affection to paying bills. Pretty much, I have been lousy company.

By tired, I mean depleted. I have to dig really deep to get my get up and go to get up and er, go. If I could, I would sleep wherever I happen to be. And sometimes I do - much to my daughters' amusement and my embarrassment (my apologies to the other ballet moms last week. Yes. I did. I know. How embarrassing, right?)

I don't even have to be excessively comfortable to fall into a near-unconscious sleep. I've lost count of the number of times I have tended to a restless child at night before I've gotten to bed, and ended up sleeping through the night in that child's bed. On about 30cm of mattress. With my belt embossing my belly, my underwires piercing into my chest cavity, my trouser legs twisted like climbing ivy around my legs and with only a smidgen of blanket to keep out the cold. Hmmm. I just read that again and a little light went on in the back of my mind. Briefly it flickered, but then the batteries gave in. Yip, still tired.

If you want to do something really nice for me, give me a pillow and a blankie, close the curtains, take everything and everybody away and leave me the hell alone for, say, three days!? That'd be a start, anyway.

People are Interesting, aren't they?

So I recently went out to a show. Yessirree! a bona fide grown-ups' night out on the town! Ok, Ok, so I won the tickets to the show (cheapskate), and the mother of the year and I were the youngest people at the event (that's what I get for listening to Talk Radio).

But the point of the story is that we took our seats (really good seats, too) after asking the couple who had taken our seats to move up (old fogies who couldn't read the seat numbers on their tickets in the dusky pre-show light. Oh, and this was AFTER the old guy offered me his lap for the duration of the show - Dirty Old Man  - I do mean that in a most affectionate sort of way!).

We had a couple of minutes to spare before the show started and, realising just how ridiculously young we were in comparison, and so, what the heck, I surrendered to the friendly banter that can rise up when seated next to a DOM. His partner turned out to be a vast pit of crazy and another whole double dose of giggles.

She was scratching furiously in her handbag, when she noticed  that I had been eyeing her out quizzically. I couldn't help it, really. It wasn't the discreet scratching of a woman looking for her lip balm. It was the crazed digging of a treasure-obsessed pirate who just found the X.

"I'm having a hot flush!" she said, by way of explanation.

I shook my head. "I heard they're called power surges." She chuckled and went back to her digging.

Suddenly she paused, smiled, and whipped out a tooth-brush. The DOM shook his head.

"You never know when you might not be going home!" she shrugged.

Good point, I thought and made a mental note to get me a toothbrush for my handbag.

She happily chatted away while her arm disappeared into the depths of her handbag. What she removed next, I had not expected. A condom.

"Like I said," she continued, "You do never know!"

She noticed the look on my face. "You want this, Honey?"

I shook my head. I think I did it too quickly. I was trying desperately to get the mother of the year's attention. But instead of his knee, I was squeezing the armrest of my chair.

The lady giggled. "Perhaps we can pass it around and see where it ends up?"

I was still speechless. I think I might have giggled a bit. I was trying to get my mind around the condom in an old lady's bag concept.

I pulled myself together. "You got anything else in that bag?" I inquired.

The DOM and his lady looked at each other and winked. Hovering over her handbag, she slipped her hand in and pulled out a silver pocket knife.

"I wanted to see if I would get through security with this, " she said. "It went through the x-ray and they didn't even say anything!" The two of them seemed rather pleased with their successful smuggle.

At this point, I could have given into an awkward nervousness, but I figured there were enough witnesses to be on the safe side.

I tried to add something valuable to the exchange. "Strangest thing I've got in my handbag is a moldy peppermint and a melted wax crayon." Silence. Polite smiling. She won that competition hands down. The look on her face told me so.

Fortunately for me, it was at that point that the lights went down, and the wonderful evening show started.

Since then though, I have been troubled by two thoughts. The first, obviously, is the condom. I mean come on! The woman's having hot flashes, for crying out loud! Unless, and this is truly troubling for me, she is a multi-partner player. And it troubles me, because she's older than my mom and it just feels funny.

The other little obsession I have brewing, is my interest in what people are carrying in their purses. I catch myself speculating as to what that woman's D&G handbag is holding, or what's lying at the bottom of that guy's backpack. Is this how "NOSY" starts?

Reinventing myself

At the tender age of 17 I had to decide what it was I was going to do with my life. I had no idea, so I applied for a bunch of things. Not smart enough to be a brain surgeon and too emotional to pull myself through an occupational therapy interview, and not allowed to do nothing, nursing opened it's sterile hospital doors and welcomed me in with gloved and gowned arms.

Off I went to earn a degree. To make something of myself. Out in the big wild world. And I was good. No, seriously. I was awesome. I was amazing on duty and excellent academically. I could have won my degree if it had been a competition for best nurse. It wasn't, but I still got a fancy dictation at my graduation. And so I qualified with my university begging for me to come back the following year. I declined the invitation - I thought it would be a good idea to focus my attention on my newly acquired husband.

I have often wondered what difference all the accolades and accomplishments made. In truth, nothing. I wasn't paid more. I didn't have better job offers. It was all pretty much just a nice little plaque in my memory. And nursing? Well, it just kind of happened to me. And now I am ready to shake off that career and try something a little different.

8 years later I am seriously questioning what it is I really want to do. Even now I'm not quite sure what I want to be when I'm big. But, I'm more likely to make a better think of it than I did at 17, right? This time around I can be sensible and practical. I can make a more intuitive decision regarding capital creation compared to self fulfillment, finding the delicate balance between the two. (There is no way that nursing completely fulfilled either criteria for me, but then, what did I know about that when I was a teenager?)

I am feeling highly positive for me about pursuing new territories and staking a claim of the professional pie, so to speak. And at the same time, I fear so for the young people who have to decide at a very tender age what they are going to be. Life is a tricky affair, and while some kids may be ready to decide what direction they will follow as they leave school, the rest should be told that it's actually ok to do something now, and change it for something else later. Don't you think?

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.

How I entertain my husband

The road was long. It was getting late. We couldn't let the kids fall asleep just yet, otherwise bedtime at home would be a nightmare. We'd played "Eye-spy" till our eyeballs were burning. The guessing game had covered every conceivable noun in the Webster dictionary. We were at a loss.

I decided that telling jokes would be a worthwhile endeavour. So I started.

I tried the Viper joke. AirBear was terrified - she had her hands over her ears for the greater part of the joke. And I had to still explain the punch line. The mother of the year swallowed his laughter.

I tried the Rabbit joke AFTER I explained what "revitalise" and "permanent" mean. Blank looks from the back seat. More stifled laughter from the driver.

The white horse named Eric joke - no effect. The frog and the chicken joke- absolutely no reaction. The little red man joke (which I went to great pangs to simplify) also needed further explanation.

In the driver's seat the tears were rolling down his cheeks. He took great pleasure in my failed comedy. At this point I had had enough. "Fine," I sulked, "You tell them a joke."

His offer was "Spooketti - a ghost's favourite food". The children erupted with giggles.

Hmph! I could out do that! "What's a sea monster's favourite food?" I interrupted the laughter. "Fish and ships!"

Silence.

A cricket chirruped.

Damn!

The mother of the year drove us home with a smug look on his face. Jerk!

Losing my Sense of Taste

I am losing my sense of taste.

No, really.

(Comments from the peanut gallery are unnecessary, thank you very much! Especially the murmurings of siblings.)

I really can't taste much anymore.

My tongue is all sore and burny. And, no, it isn't another MSG binge - I swear - I haven't had ANY Salt and Vinegar flavoured anything for ages. In fact, last night at the movies, the S&V flavouring was completely MIA. On all the flavour counters - absent. I checked. We ended up with a dash of cream cheese and chives which the mother of the year insisted would be a nice change. I can't tell you what an unfulfilling experience that was. It was like putting a spoonful of orange sorbet in your mouth, only to discover that someone froze cooking fat in the orange sorbet container. Blergh!

But back to my loss-of-taste-dilemma.

Since my baby was hospitalised, I, the mother, seem to have been afflicted with a mild case of, er, how shall I say? Stress, maybe? Unbeknownst to me the bloody stress gremlins set up fort on my tongue and have invaded individual taste-buds with serious consequences to the rest of the organ. The strongest muscle in my body has decided that the vermin in her tastebuds will bring all functioning to an abrupt and rather inconvenient standstill. This means that eating, swallowing, talking and kissing will from now on be left to the skeleton staff. And since my tongue has no skeleton, I'm in a bit of a pickle. (Not that I'd be able to know I was in a pickle for sure, being unable to actually distinguish a pickle's flavour from, say, the mouldy finger biscuit that's been carried around in the bottom of my handbag for the last millenium or so.)

The burning, swollen, blister-bedecked tongue I am punished with after a MSG binge is bearable. Because I deserve it. But this out of the blue affliction just seems so unfair.

In true nurse-style, I proceed to self-diagnose. Maybe it's gingivitis, on my tongue. I could try an anti-bacterial mouthwash. Or perhaps it's thrush. I'll need to doctor it with some anti-fungals. But there are these strange pock-marks erupting on the tip - like the tastebuds are dying. They are dying. I've got tongue-leprosy. I'm never going to be able to talk again. My tongue is going to fall off in my sleep. I'm going to choke on it. Is my will prepared? Have I got any outstanding "issues" to deal with? Unspoken regrets, unrequited loves, outstanding apologies, longstanding appointments to cancel. My personal matters seem to be in order. Well, enough that I can go to bed, anyway. Maybe we'll speak again. Maybe we won't...

Mother of the Year Award

Without getting all sickeningly drippy on you and going on about how I got the best one of the bunch (those kind of blogs make me a bit pukey), and without any flowery accolades, the Mother of the Year Award goes to, non other than, Mr (Jessica) C. (Please forgive the semi-emasculating title, but without it you wouldn't know who I was talking about).

This week required the splitting up of our family into two functioning teams. Mom and AirBear (in hospital) and Dad and T-Bird (at home/ school/ work). We're talking survival mode - batten down the hatches time.

In this time, Mr C was a better mother than I could ever have been. And trust me, I'm not just saying that, it takes a lot of humility to unpin my super-mommy badge and hand it over. This guy coped like, well, like a woman (without the tearful, moody, once-a-month madness, of course).

By the time I got back, for one, the house was still standing. Laundry was washed, sorted and folded. Beds were made. Accounts were paid (I think...). Bunnies were still alive, clean and fed. Dishes clean and packed away. Overall, home sweet home.

What's that you say? Any man could do those things (if they tried)? Yes, you're right. But, riddle me this: how many men can master the fairly-even-5-year-old-split-plait?

Exactly.

No more arguing. My hubby gets the prize.

(I know of a dad who was left in a similar situation for a week. Tying is daughter's hair up was a perplexing problem, until he discovered, if he placed the elastic band over the nozzle of the vaccuum cleaner, held the pipe over his daughter's head, turned the machine on, and slipped the elastic down over the sucked up hair, he would be able to put most of her fly-away hair into a cute little fountain atop her noggin. Guess these guys can do anything if they put their mind to it...)

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.

Dance like no-one is watching

The thought for the day goes: Work like you don't need the money, sing like no-one is listening, love like you've never been hurt, and dance like no-one is watching... and for how many days has that been the thought of the day? Google answers the question with a whopping 1, 540 000!

But that's not my point.

Last week at the James Blunt concert (cough), I watched as fans did just that: dance like no-one is watching. And truth be told, no-one should have been watching, because if they did, they may have diagnosed the scene as a mass epileptic seizure. And no, I'm not a judgmental person. I just don't dance in public because 9 out of 10 times it just looks stupid. It does. It doesn't matter if the jiggling, shaking, contorting individual is having the time of their life, it's silly.

Lucky for me, I married a man who has the x-factor in his genetic make-up. You know what I'm talking about, right? He is one of those (very few) jivers who can actually "get down" without anyone wondering if they should ask if there is a doctor in the house. This boy can groove. He shakes what his mamma gave him so that old man Richter would be impressed! And fortunately, if one half of a couple can boogie, and loves to boogie, then the other half of the couple's contribution to the dance floor (or lack thereof) is never questioned.

Sure, I dance. Me and the kids get jiggy on occasion. And it's ok because they've seen me first thing in the morning with bed hair and morning breath. But take me to a wedding, a party, or a concert, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to go with clapping to the beat and that's it. If this body starts trying to move with the groove in a public place we will have a completely ridiculous situation on our hands. So don't even ask me, ok?

So for me, I will dance like no-one is watching, only because no-one is watching.

50 Things about Me

1. For the first 17 years of my life, I was the youngest of 4 children. And the only girl. I always wanted a sister.

2. I have three adopted siblings. Two of them are girls. Both are young enough to be my own daughters. I don't really see them as sisters.

3. My middle name is Charis. Which is lovely. But I hated it while I was growing up, because my brothers often called me "Carrots".

4. I am married to my best friend.

5. Despite being a trained midwife, I birthed both my children by Caesarean Section. The first delivery was really complicated and I lost a lot of blood during the procedure. Which may explain why, on chatting with my husband later that evening, I said, "That was great! I want to do it again!"

6. I skipped a grade.

7. I can say the alphabet backwards.

8. I have spider-radar, and I am usually pretty accurate with pin-pointing the nearest spider in any given area.

9. When Nelson Mandela was president, I went for a joy-ride in his car. In my pyjamas.

10. I have swum with elephants.

11. I have a weakness for sugar. Often.

12. I am on the pill.

13. I hate being on the pill.

14. I have slip-'n-slid on the pitch cover of the University of Pretoria's cricket pitch shortly after a Highveld thunderstorm. Naked.

15. Try as I might, I just cannot eat snails. They always turn around in my throat and crawl back up.

16. I lived in Saudi Arabia for two years.

17.  I love going fast!

18. I was approached by a man and a woman at the Pretoria Zoo shortly before the Gert van Rooyen case became nation-wide knowledge. I recognised his picture when I saw the news reports on TV.

19. I suck at interior decorating and garden landscaping.

20. I have a bad habit of not completing the projects I start.

21. I worked in a frozen yoghurt shop for a year after school before I started studying. I have had my fill of Natural and English Toffee.

22. I only bath or shower in HOT, HOT, HOT water.

23. I studied nursing as a last resort. It was the only thing I could afford at the time. I paid for my studies myself.

24. I Hate (note: capital H) gyming. It hurts. It make me sweat. I would rather spend my time scrapbooking.

25. I cannot see 3D pictures - at all. I have been trying to see them since 13 February 1995, and I have had no luck. I think I must be special.

26. I have no idea how I remember the date in #25 above.

27. I once held a 7 year-old HIV patient as he drowned in his own saliva. When he took his last breath and his body relinquished his soul, I was actually aware of a little extra air in the room.

28. I can play the flute and the piano. Neither very well.

29. I have spent a glorious week on the island of Mauritius.

30. I have polycystic ovaries.

31. If it weren't for Gayle, Oprah and I would be the best of friends. I love, love, love Oprah.

32. I will kiss my own children's feet no matter how sweaty or stinky they may be. If there's a boo-boo there, I will kiss it better.

33. I still climb trees for fun.

34. I love MSG-enriched Salt 'n Vinegar flavouring. The stronger, the better.

35. I try to avoid MSG-enriched anything wherever my kids are concerned. Also: sodium benzoate and potassium sorbate. Just out of principle.

36. I have used laser hair removal. It really does work. If you can afford it.

37. I can't afford it.

38. I inadvertently killed my goldfish when I was 6 years old by lifting them out of their bowl each morning to greet them.

39. I am a stay-at-home-mom.

40. I have a money and meat inadequacy paranoia. This means that I always have to have some money and some meat stashed away for a rainy day. Currently I have more meat than money.

41. I was once drugged with apple tea in a Turkish carpet souk. It ended with me purchasing a 1m kelim for $75, which, at that time was equal to R562.50 - which was a ludicrous amount of ront for rug. So much for getting bargains in middle eastern bazarres!

42. I want to see Andrea Boccelli perform live. And even though he can't see to appreciate it, I would throw underwear.

43. I fear loss above all else.

44. I love photography and beautiful photographs. Few of the beautiful photographs that I love were taken by me. Ok, so none of them were, but I plan to take beautiful photographs in the future...

45. Bovril is the bomb. Marmite is mediocre.

46. I have breastfed somebody else's child. With the mom's permission, of course. It was a matter of life and death. Kind of.

47. I have always loved trampolines. After a good bounce, I especially love that still-bouncing feeling you get when your feet are on solid ground.

48. I saved a woman's life, who would otherwise have bled to death.

49. I am shy.

50. I have thrown myself (alright, I had to ask them to push me) off the Bloukrans bridge and in so doing, have experienced the world's highest commercial bunjee jump of 216m. I never have to do that again.

Salmonella sucks

Just when I was thinking that life without cell-phones would be impossible, my hubby goes and gets deliriously ill on the other side of the world (with a perfectly good cellular telephone in his possession) and switches the gadget to silent. Now I know that it's not the presence of mobile technology that actually makes life bearable, but the presence of an accompanying and competent individual to operate the device. So answer your phone! 

Dammit.

Trying to get information from this particular person when he is pyrexic is a lot like asking a 3 year old to help you with your algebra. Pointless.

Here's me trying to find out if he's ever going to come home (alive), and here's him passed out in the emergency ward of a hospital miles away from home. Oh yes, and here's the cell phone on SILENT!

I don't know where he is. I don't know how he is. He won't answer my calls. Maybe he's angry with me. Maybe he doesn't love me any more. Maybe he's dead! I don't know if I'll ever see him again. I don't know how to access his life-insurance policy. 

Here's me again crying, wailing, gnashing teeth. Here I am yanking things out of my wardrobe looking for suitably mournful attire. 

Eventually he returns my calls. It's well after I've started preparing the memorial service order of ceremony. He's going to come home on a different flight. Seems they might have saved his life. Doctor Wonderful said something about Salmonella poisoning. He missed his flight home and will be back the next day.

I breathe. Stupid silent function! Stupid business trip! Stupid multi-city country! Stupid miles and miles between him and me!

When he came home, I killed him.

(Just a bit.)