How the times they are a-changing

If I, as a 4 year old, back in the early 80's, had been caught singing anything other than "Edelweiss" and "Jesus Loves Me", my parents would have definitely raised a disapproving eyebrow or two and warned me not to repeat the refrain in public.

If my grandparents had ever caught a whisper of "Blue Suede Shoes", or, heaven forbid, "Wake up Little Suzy", well, there would have been some serious scolding to follow I'm sure.

But oh, the times have changed, haven't they? Not only do my children sing the entire ABBA album backwards, they've cottoned onto some more recent artists too. Mika, Katy Perry, and the girl who sings "Mercy" are all hot favourites amongst the girls. (Note my musical expertise coming through. Ahem. - what's that chick's name, anyway?)

And it's not that they just hum along, but we actually get them to rehearse their version of a particular song for the mild amusement and listening pleasure of our friends. (See, this is why we even have kids: cheap entertainment!)

So then, is something rotten in the state of Denmark? By encouraging the wild musical flavours of the current times are we nurturing rebellion, low morals and social disintegration? I don't think so. After all, we grew up with the music of the eighties. And even with the birth of techno and grunge mixed into the brew of our musical nutrition, we didn't (all) turn into delinquents, criminals or rodent sacrificing satanists.

Perhaps our generation has learnt that sticks and stones can break our bones but words can never harm us? It's an understanding our parents never quite had, fearing our souls would be lost forever if we listened to too much rock 'n roll or heavy metal. Maybe we don't regard words with as much fear and respect as our predecessors did. Maybe we are more flippant and careless with the language we use. Maybe.

But, when all is said and done, you have to admit that it is still a hoot to watch your parents cringe at words like "Fart", and even more so when it's your tiny little angel saying it.

Yes, we have less fear of the effects of music and lyrics on our offspring. Our concerns are more focussed on technology and the internet and what effects cellular phones will have on our children's lives. And who knows, maybe in twenty years time our kids will scoff at our concern over things like radiation. Maybe they'll put their babies in their microwave ovens to warm them up on a cold day, and joke about how we react to that.

Maybe.

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?

Warning the Chicken - a poorly paced poem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frenetic Genetics

I just ate a slice of chocolate-peppermint cake off the same plate I had my anchovy toast off, and inevitably got the flavours mixed up. And while that was a pretty traumatic experience in itself, it got me to thinking about the differences between men and women.

(Ok, so no, it didn't, but it was a good story, right?)

Men and Women. The battle of the sexes. The toilet seat up or down? Beauty versus Braun. Mars and Venus, bras and penis. No matter how you call it, we're Just. Plain. Different. My suggestion is: Don't waste your time trying to understand it, just accept it and go forth and multiply. Or something like that, anyway.

So God made Man and Woman. And when he made Man, he used frogs and snails and puppy dogs' tails. And muscles. And fish gut. And screwdrivers with magnetised ends. And string. A very useful commodity in any home. And the string was a bit longer than he had planned it to be, so he left a little bit. Dangling. And Man was useful.

And when he made Woman, he used sugar and spice and all things nice. Like Chanel No 5. And cashmere. And rose petals. And lace. Not useful stuff like fish gut and potato peelers. Just pretty things that ought to look nice when you dust them off and hold them up to the sunshine. And while God was busy putting her together, he discovered that the lace was just a little bit too little. So he left a space. And Woman was pretty.

"Go forth!" God commanded. And the man and the woman got a little sheepish look on their faces. And man said, "Is there a bog around here? You know? When you gotta go you gotta go!" And the woman nodded and said, "Please could you show me where the little girls' room is." At this point she was doing an uncomfortable little shuffle, and the man was grabbing wildly at his crotch.

And God, in his infinite wisdom, seeing Man's obvious discomfort, handed him a pill to swallow. It was the gift of being able to pee standing up. And the man immediately took to peeing on tree trunks and fire hydrants and off of bridges, straight into the wind.

The woman, still pinching, eyes watering ever so slightly, but looking fabulous, quietly found a discreet bush and awkwardly squatted behind it to take a leak, anguishing over not getting anything on her stilettos. Once she was done, the woman pulled herself together and, noting the man writing his name in the snow with his own urine, went to talk to Management.

"It's not fair!" she insisted (whining ever so slightly) pointing at her partner who by now was having a pissing contest with a chimpanzee. "He gets to wee standing up. What do I get?"

God looked a little uncomfortable and fumbled around in his pockets. "Er, I do have this.." he said holding up a flaming pill.

The woman said, "I'll take it!", snatched it out of his hands and swallowed it. At that point Multiple Orgasms entered the woman's intrinsic make-up, and never again did she complain about the standing to wee thing again.

Fresh Perspective

The other day I got caught up in blog-hopping You know, where you go from one blog to the next, clicking on the links that other people find interesting. Well, I hadn't been hopping long, when I reached a really absorbing site. www.kyahsjourney.livejournal.com  got me reading well into the night. Now before you go clicking through, let me warn you that it isn't for everyone. Not me even. And yet, it was the most moving, and thought-provoking site I have come across in an eternity.

Basically, the site is a journal that has been kept by Kyah's parents for just over a year. It documents their ordeal around Kyah's diagnosis with, and journey through neuroblastoma cancer. It is heart-wrenching. So raw are the emotions on a day to day basis, and typed with such honesty and openness, that I just couldn't put it down (or so to speak). It's a terribly tragic story. Kyah is in the final stages of what seems like an incredibly painful and brutally unforgiving experience. Her parents record her every day, reporting the good, the bad, and the obscenely ugly, in clear, yet fragile, terms. Their baby is dying, and they have to live.

Now why I did that to myself needs to be explained. Reading this disturbing tale is not recommended, but I just felt so moved by her parent's honesty, that I was glued to my screen for hours. Mostly I read through tear-flooded eyes, but sometimes all I could do was cover my mouth in utter hopelessness at their situation. The thought at the back of my mind always: what if it was me? What if my baby was suffering such an unfair and merciless disease? What would I do?

One thing in particular stood out for me. In the early stages of her diagnosis, when chemotherapy and radiation therapy were being considered, Kyah's parents were concerned about the side-effects these treatments would have on her (naturally). Among these side effects were growth retardation and sterility. How appalling to have to weigh these things up when considering your child's treatment. A little into her treatment, and as her condition worsened, her mother made a comment that really rang a bell for me. She said something along the lines of gladly accepting the side effects of retarded growth and inability to bear offspring just to have her baby back.

Wow.

Something about that really struck a chord with me. There are so many times when I wish things about my children. I wish they were more obedient. I wish they were tidier. I wish they were more musical. More concerned about punctuality. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I feel really ashamed. I am so so very fortunate to have two beautiful, radiant, happy little girls. I am so so so very lucky that they are healthy, and growing, and bright, and funny, and just like little girls should be. And I have realised, thanks in part to the beautifully honest writings of Jason and Shanell Milne, that I don't need more than the wonderful blessing I have in my daughters. I cannot possibly ask for anything more than these two wonderful sunbeams. I can't tell them often enought how much I love them, how glad I am to spend time with them, what fun it is to be together with them, talking, laughing, singing, playing. It is a drug for me. It keeps me wanting more.

My heart really aches for Kyah's family. I wish that there was some way to make it all better. I wish there was some way to wake them up from this torment and say, "Hey, it was really just a bad dream, folks. Now go on a nice vacation with your little family, and you'll all feel better." But all I can do, like so many others, is to sit by and watch this awful tragedy unfolding, offering cyber-sympathies and digital encouragement as they approach the greatest loss of all. 

And as they face this unspeakable episode in their family, familiarising themselves with death, and the things surrounding death, I can't help but think that this tiny little mite, not even three years old, has reminded me of why I want to live.

Thank you Kyah. Your story has touched me deeply. I wish you great peace.

Human Evolution

Today on Talk Radio, it was mentioned that human evolution is pretty much coming to an end. Some clever scientist has figured it all out, and suggests that this is about as good as it's going to get for the species homo sapiens. 

How disappointing!

I have so many great ideas for improving on the standard model human. For instance: the third hand. As a midwife the need for a third hand somewhere around my belly button became apparent early on. Just to hold onto things like stethoscopes, catheters, umbilical cords and kidney bowls. It was when I became a mother that the need for a third hand became more urgent. You know, to hold a nappy bag while steering two kids across the road, to catch the cup that your toddler knocks over while you're busy cutting their chicken into bite-size pieces, or to scratch around for your car-keys while hanging onto your sugar overloaded kids after a party.

See? The third hand evolution is still an important development in perfecting the human.

More recently I have become more concerned with another flaw of the average person, namely the opaqueness of the head. It is becoming more and more frustrating for me to guess at what's going on in a person's mind. I find myself second guessing every move and word and action, trying to work out what people are actually saying. Just when I think I've got someone figured out, they completely pull the carpet out from underneath me, and I'm left back at square one, no closer to understanding this individual than I ever was.

So. The solution, I figure, is a transparent head. One that you can see deep into and get to the core of what's actually making the wheel spin. Oh yes. And coloured thoughts. And a key to decode them. Like pink thoughts might mean: gee, I'm really craving marshmallows. And a brown thought might mean, you're a complete idiot, you make me sick, but because we're in the same lift club I'm just being polite and putting up with you. Blue thoughts may mean I'm not a total moron, I'm just not very good at showing you I care. Orange thoughts might mean I like you, but your body odour is pretty intolerable right know. And yellow thoughts might mean, it's not that you're boring me right now, but I need to pee so badly that my eyes are watering and I can't stop wriggling in discomfort.

You know. Something like that.

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!

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?

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.

I wonder whether the Weather will Work with me..

Dear Mother Nature

So, thanks for the grass and the trees and the fact that my newly planted herb garden is still growing. I really appreciate that - quite surprisingly it does a lot for my self esteem knowing that I can keep 15 plants alive.

The reason I'm writing has to do with the weather. I realise that someone is going to have to get your cold shoulder from time to time, and that this winter was our turn, and part of the complications of living in Cape Town is dealing with winter rainfall. (For the record, I personally, do not hold that gainst you in the slightest). 

You've given us a break now from the rainfall, and I can only assume your complaints department insisted that you dried things up a bit for the Western Cape, considering how much people have been moaning about the wetness. But I need to ask you to turn on the taps again, please.

At this point I can only imagine that you feel damned if you do, damned if you don't, and as a woman, and a mother myself, I extend a sympathetic arm of comfort.

Back to the reason for my correspondence:

My issue has nothing to do with you, mind you, but with some lousy homo stupid sapien who has taken it upon himself to relieve himself on my front lawn. I have recently become aware of a nasty urine smell lingering over the lavender when I return home from my errands, and am completely mortified that some sorry excuse for a human is pissing in my petunias (to coin a phrase). 

The problem, Mother Nature, is that I can't pin-point the exact bush that has been the recipient of this vulgar behaviour, and thus I'm asking for your help to rinse off this filthy poison like only you know how. Of course I'm aware that I could get the same results by putting on my sprinkler system and running it for half an hour, but I figure that if you do it, chances are the reprobate who has generously fertilised my flower beds will not take to leaking in my lavender in the pouring rain. A deterrent, if you will.

Please consider my request. Even if it's just for the sake of making another mother's life that little bit sunnier (metaphorically speaking, of course!).

Yours sincerely.

J

xxx

You say Masseur, I say Masseuse

So here's the question: when booking a massage at a REPUTABLE establishment (before you go getting any weird ideas now), and the lady on the phone asks if you'd prefer a male or female therapist, what is the correct answer? Anyone?

I mean either way, you could be making a major social feux pas, right? Whether you're a man or a woman, is there actually an appropriate answer to this question?

I mean, as a woman, if I ask for a female therapist, does she think I want a bit of girly action?Does she compare or judge my wobbly bits during the massage? Is she thinking, "Thank Heavens my cellulite only covers my thighs - this chick's hardly got a patch of flat firmament." And would I prefer for a male or a female therapist to take note of all my bodily flaws, anyway?

Or if I asked for a male therapist, well, what would my husband say, right? And what if the therapist's quite nice? And what if it feels kind of weird having some other (quite nice) guy running his hands over otherwise spoken-for territory. Call me prudish, but it does pose a mild dilemma, in my book. And anyway, isn't a masseur more like a physiotherapist, anyway?

And if I was a (straight) man, would I really ask for a male therapist? Could I really, willingly request another man to rub the knots out of my back? And if I ask for a female, does she think, "Ag shame, poor guy needs to pay a woman to touch him"? And consider for a moment (but really, JUST a moment, please) that other little matter that may arise. For a man. You know which one I mean. Yes, that one. Does the female therapist get a kick out of that? A bit of an inside joke, if you will. And the male therapist? If I were a (straight) guy getting a massage from a male therapist and I had an unplanned uprising, well, just how would I deal with that? The masseur sure as heck isn't blind, or dumb. I mean, how do you go about explaining that? Or do you go into the whole experiencing thinking, "Me nan on the bog, me nan on the bog" (Thank you, Ali G), and get so focussed on preventing it from happening, that you actually can't relax?

And, what if the tables are turned? What if the masseur has a physically apparent reaction to the giving of the massage? Look, it's not likely going to happen in my case, but if I was a perky petite 20-something, or a strapping athlete-type, and I caught the therapist's eye, well, what if I lifted my head at just that moment, and came eye to, er, eye(?) with the therapist? Which would be worse? If I was a woman? Maybe that would be like one of those highlights of your week, where you know you've got the goods. But if I was a (straight) man? No matter how comfortable in my sexuality I was, it would be quite a testing circumstance, I think. Or does the male therapist go into the massage thinking, "Me nan on the bog, me nan on the bog, Pick up some milk, blitz and toilet paper on the way home"?

Ok, ok! I hear you! They're all so professional and there isn't anything 'funny' about their therapy, but come on! People are people, and people think things all the time - the massage therapist is not a brain-dead machine performing a pre-programmed service, right? And the customer also is not comatose (although, depending on how things turn out, they might wish to be).

Fortunately, this is not a problem I have to deal with often, but it has come up recently, and I am having trouble trying to make my mind up about it...

I'm going to live to be 100

Ok, Ok, I know it's getting a bit tiring having me harp on and on about my birthday and turning 30 and getting older and all that, but, it has sort of been filling my mind lately, and I've had some really profound thoughts about ageing over the last week.

T-bird asked me how long people live for. I said 70, 80, 90, and maybe even 100!

She thought a bit about that and then said, "Do you think I will live to be 1000?" Er, it's unlikely.

But it got me thinking. So I hooked up with me old pal, Googs, and did a little research on old people. What fun reading, that was!

My newest hero is Madam Jeanne Louise Calment, who lived to the ripe old age of 122. What a character this girl was! She rode her bicycle until she was 100, and kept a fantastic sense of humor right to the end of her days. (Note to self: rethink bicycle riding...)

One of the comments she made (and which had me stitches for a whole evening) was, "Je n'ai jamai eu qu'une seule ride et je suis assise dessus." TRANSLATION FOR THE LESS THAN FRENCH: I've only got one wrinkle, and I'm sitting on it!

Another little anecdote linked to this fiery matriarch was that she sold her apartment to a man who promised he would pay her $500 a month until she died. He had paid twice the market value for the apartment before his own death 2 years before she passed away. Of this incident, Madam Calment is reported as saying, "In life, one sometimes makes bad deals!" - clearly!

One thing is clear through all the researching of the world's oldest people: they lived simple, happy lives. Madame Calment said, "I took pleasure when I could. I acted clearly and morally and without regret. I'm very lucky."

I'm lucky too.

What joggers DON"T talk about

I just heard the grossest thing from a self-professed-not-so-professional-jogger. 

Professional runners, the marathonians, can't afford taking two ticks out of their time when racing, that they will respond to the call of nature as they run. This is why it is common to see a marathonian dousing himself (male, because I can't believe a girl jogger would ever do this!) with water as he runs. Gee! And here I thought that the poor guys were just hot and needed to cool off as they ran.

And, the self-professed-not-so-professional-jogger continued, it get worse still. If the call of nature requires something a little more solid, (a number 2, people with kids), they will do that too, as they run.

Er, excuse me? Are you for real?

I was under the impression that more strenuous excretions require a little concentration and some, er, squatting, to help things along. Could I be wrong here?

So, defiantly disbelieving, I googled it. True's nuts! They do. Number's one through two - on the trot.

Aargh.

My first thought was: thank heaven's I don't have to do that laundry!

People watching

Today my family and I went to Wimpy at Canal Walk for breakfast. I did a little People-Watching, and this is what I saw:

I saw a man that looked like a woman.

I saw a woman that looked like a man.

I saw a baby that looked like a teenager.

I saw a teenager that looked like a baby.

I saw a boy kissing a girl.

I saw a girl kissing a baby.

I saw a baby kissing a dog.

I saw a dog following an Easter Bunny.

The Easter Bunny looked like a teenager, but I couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl.

A man who did not look like a woman followed the Easter Bunny.

The man looked like Father Christmas.

Father Christmas did not like dogs.

The woman who looked like a man called the dog.

The dog's name was "Claude".

The baby's name was Tyrone. Tyrone got into trouble with his mother (who looked like a woman) for kissing the dog, Claude.

Father Christmas called the Easter Bunny "Sam". 

I still couldn't tell if Sam was a boy or a girl.

Father Christmas kissed a girl. 

The girl called Father Christmas "Daddy".

The girl asked Father Christmas if they could have a dog. 

Father Christmas said "No."

The girl kissed Father Christmas, turned and followed a woman who was eating an Easter Bunny.

An Easter Bunny without ears looks like a dog.

Busy people

They say that if you want something to get done, you should ask a busy person to do it. And it's true. A person who isn't busy doesn't have the same drive, momentum, or inspiration to get the job done as a busy person does. A busy person, well, they always seem to be able to cram that little bit extra into their already bursting programs.

Everybody knows what I'm talking about. If you yourself are not a busy person, you definitely live or work or put up with or, sometimes, idolise a busy person.

Busy people. You know the type - they can't sit still for 5 minutes. Permanently taking on new enterprises. Not enough hours in the day type of people. Running large corporations (in 36 hour a day kind of management positions) whilst maintaining a home full of children, animals and appliances as well as supporting needy charities with blankets (they knitted themselves) and volunteer work in soup kitchens (the soup, of course, an old family recipe passed down over generations and home-made in their pristinely tidy kitchens). They juggle an inordinately large number of balls, and never seem to drop one. Busy people have very full lives.

I do not fall into the busy genus. The number of tasks I complete in any given day cannot begin to compare to a busy person's daily schedule. Even so, I like to think that I might be a closet busy person. Whilst not appearing to be noticeably busy on the outside, I am quite busy on the inside. On the inside I have a permanent jumble of plans, ideas, to-do lists, and blueprints happily (and busily) bubbling away in my little melting pot of schemes and dreams. Sometimes these inner broilings are so complicated and elaborate that I feel quite exhausted after a full day of, well, what? Is the day over? Already? I'm the kind of person that doesn't get around to doing things because I have a lot on my mind. 

Fortunately I married a busy person. And this has made all the difference. My busy husband is a go-getter; which is useful since my get-up-and-go got-up-and-went a long time ago.

I really admire busy people. Busy people emanate a warm energy that I for one am addicted to. I seem to have surrounded myself with busy people as a sort of survival mechanism. When you're around busy people, you can't help but be caught up in the turbulent warmth of accomplishment, the glow of the job well done, the satisfaction of ticking off the to-do lists. 

Busy people don't say "No". To themselves or to others. Busy people are "Yes"-people, "Sure I can"-people, "I can squeeze that in between dropping the boys at karate, playing the organ for my little sister's wedding and addressing Parliament with my proposal for an earth-friendly, sustainable answer to the power crisis"-people. And it's not that they CAN'T say "No", it's just that the thought doesn't ever strike them that they might not be able to do whatever it is.

I'm not like that. If I bite off more than I can chew, I gag. I do well with small bites. Delicate mouthfuls of activity. I'm the slow and social eater and not the grab-a-bite-on-the-go kind of girl. 

My sensitive gag-reflex has cured me of taking on more than I can handle. I am sensible and responsible. I don't like to stretch my boundaries. I don't need to test my abilities. I am not a busy person. Besides, there's got to be some balance, right?