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...

A little end of year ADHD

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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.

Observations of mild to middling Relevance

I attended a very formal, very larney function last night. It was an award ceremony for something-or-other (the wine was free, ok?) But what struck me as weird was that the whole evening was about giving someone an award for something, and the guy didn't even show up - in absentia! I mean really! There were the top brass of Stellies all kitted up, made-up, bejewelled and tied, and the oke sends a buddy to pick up the prezzie. So maybe he is a bigwig with more important commitments, but then couldn't they have just arranged the prize-giving for a time when he would be more, say, available?

Anyway, the food was good. The wine, not so much, but it seemed to improve as the evening progressed. The company at our table, sadly, did not. In fact, quite the opposite. It became rather embarrassing being seated at the table of what had started out to seem like some classy older folks, who turned into a pack of disrespectful, remarkably vulgar troglodytes as the wine and the speeches flowed. It raises the question for me as to why perfect strangers feel it is important to impress others with discussions over the size of their bank accounts? I really don't care about that. And for someone approaching the autumn years of their life, surely you would know better than to brag about your most recent investment. Is it just me, or does it come across as pathetic?

Before we had left home that evening, T-Bird had begged to come with us. "I'll be on my best behaviour," she had promised. Truth is, she would have been far better company and far more civilised than the gaggle we shared the evening with.

But, on the up-side, we had the pleasure of listening to a speech delivered by the Chief Justice of the Constitutional Court, Mr Pius Langa. Getting a chance to learn a little more about the blokes who make headlines and lead lives that feel very distant from our own is always an enlightening experience. They're only human too. Which is a refreshing revelation. And somewhat comforting for the individual on the road to self-discovery.

Party Politics

I brought the girls back from a fabulous party at the nature reserve where they explored the natural flora hunting for fossils and dinosaur eggs. I got seriously reprimanded when I took two tiny dinosaurs out of my handbag and was told that they had to stay there as that was their home. 

Er, I don't think so.

But it got me to thinking about the whole aspect of kid's birthday parties.

I can remember only two birthday parties that I had as a child. The one I remember because there are a couple of photographs stuck in an old photo album proving that it happened (6 candles on the cake), and the other I remember because I got into trouble after one of my invited guests smeared ketchup on the dining room wall. I don't remember how old I was.

I guess that it is because of this vast gap in my memory and photographic history, that the presenting of birthday parties for my own children has become such an important aspect of my own parenting self-evaluation criteria. Perhaps it's a little crazy, but I feel the need to host memorable parties for my children and have at least 100 photos of each event to prove to them that I cared enough to celebrate the anniversary. I realise that the only person who is stressing about the next birthday party is me, and half the time the kids haven't got the slightest idea of how much effort has gone into the preparation of their festivities. And yet it is so important for me that my children don't have "just another" birthday party that could have been anybody's party. The party HAS to stand out. They HAVE to remember it. And if they don't get it now, one day when they have kids of their own, they'll understand just how much I wanted to make their birthdays special for them.

Not that I'm trivialising the run-of-the-mill birthday party either. My kids have had tons of fun at very simple parties where there was no theme, no organised party games and no take-home treats. So why then do I labour and obsess for months in advance about the next birthday celebration? 

My children celebrate their birthdays in July and December, and believe it or not, on the evening of the last birthday bash, the next party's theme is decided and the mental planning commences as I lay my head down to sleep off the after-party hangover. 

I know. It's bizarre. But it's me. And the truth is that I love it. I love making things for the parties. Butterfly wings, fairies to hide in the garden, Spoonfuls of sugar, marshmallow mermaids, magic castles to make believe in. And each birthday holds a new idea, a new craft, a new challenge. Being creative helps, and I find that having a party to plan for provides  me with an outlet for my creativity. So, party planning becomes a bit of a hobby for me, keeping me challenged and productive throughout the year.

The downfall of fancy festivities is that the invitation lists are generally inflexible as I have to know well in advance exactly how many tutus and tiaras I have to make. 

Which brings me to the other aspect: Girls vs Boys.

The party themes so far have been: Pretty in Pink, Bubbles, Butterflies, Fairies, Princesses, Mary Poppins and Mermaids. Next on the list is Ballet. As you can see, generally the themes picked are really girly. The problem of accommodating boys to, say, the upcoming Ballet Party, really has me unsettled. If each of the little girls at the ballet party gets to dress up in a ballet skirt, dancing ribbons and satin slippers, and they get to dance to their little hearts' content to the Nutcracker Suite, what do the little boys do? Not having any boys of my own, trying to cater to boy interests while keeping the feminine theme really floors me. I don't even have boys stuff for the boys to do while the girls play Swan Lake (unless  they're into paper dolls and dress-up). And in that case, why are they invited to the party? 

Guilt. It drives the party industry.

You have to invite the people that invited you, right? Or, if they invite you, and you aren't planning on inviting them, do you not accept their invitation?

I have told my kids that they can invite 10 people to their parties (with the two of them it makes twelve, and twelve is a manageable number to cater for and to manage on the day of the event). The problem with this restriction is that once the cousins and extended family are invited, there isn't much space for anyone else. And you can't not invite family - they know when the birthdays are and sort of keep track of approaching anniversaries by inquiring how the preparations are coming along.

Recently, the whole issue of party politics has raised it's nasty head making it very clear that party invitations are actually remote control devices which can potentially set off little parent land-mines if aimed in the wrong direction. People seem to be really concerned about who gets invited to who's party. Which kind of puts a lot of pressure on the next party thrower who just about has to send around an approval list to make sure the date, theme and venue are suitable to everybody's liking.

So I stand in awe of the mom who nonchalantly extends an invitation at the last moment. "Come if you can," she says. "The kids are so welcome. There's plenty for everybody!" I couldn't do it. Jessican't needs the plan. Stick to the plan. Don't jump anything unsuspected on Jessican't.

Perhaps my obsession is ridiculous after all.