This isn't home sweet home. Adjust.

She smirks at me from the glossy pages of the woman's magazine. Her smug countenance proving that she is, indeed, a domestic goddess. In fact, THE Domestic Goddess of the Year. All toffed up in a glammy outfit, perfect hair, perfect make-up, all perfectly posed in front of a perfectly set dining table where a perfectly glamourous meal is to be consumed.

Blergh.

Woman like that make me want to pull out their perfectly crimped eyelashes and accidentally spill Jik (household bleach) on their silly satin saris. All hoity-toity posing next to their (apparently) well-fed husbands. The only thing missing from the photo is the Royal Rosette of Utter Perfection that women like her, no doubt, have pinned to their outfits at all times - just in case you were wondering. Hm, they must have photoshopped it out - probably didn't bring out the bling that she had painstakingly embroidered on the hems of her sleeves.

She obviously doesn't have kids, for a start. She never had acne as a teenager. She was born with a radiant complexion which never needs a touch of sunshine to spruce up. She is naturally tanned. And she obviously has nothing better to do with her time than crochet napkin rings and tissue decoupage dessert bowls.

Her perfectly interior decorated lounge is enough to make me want to spill my drink on her soft white rug. All this feng shui nonsense of minimising clutter to allow energy to flow freely through a room! Blah, blah, blah. Messy houses are happy homes. In which case, mine is delirious. 

My home could never grace the pages of a glossy magazine. (Mainly because the dust would make the pictures blurry). The dust-bunnies under the couches multiply uninterruptedly. Better a life lived to the full and a messy home, than a spotless carpet and no stories to tell, right? And hey! If you feel like leaving messages in the dust, you go right ahead - just please don't leave the date...

Where her door mat says WELCOME, mine says HELP WANTED: EVERYONE QUALIFIES.

Where she wakes up spontaneously in the morning all made up and beautiful, ready to wow the world with her wondrous flair, I succumb to a sense of guilt triggered by setting the SNOOZE button off so many times that it woke the kids. I peel myself out of bed and slog over to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror I read the sign I stuck up last night just to be on the safe side. It says, For Instant Human Just Add Coffee. A moment of vague excitement leads me to the kitchen where I search for a spoon (in the sink) and a cup (also) and the coffee (instant) to mix up the magic starter fluid. (Damn! I forgot to boil the kettle. Oh well. Caffeine is caffeine, no matter the temperature, right? *downs cold coffee* Wrong!)

Unimpressed, I flip through the article about this domestic goddess who hosts dinner parties twice a week and bakes health bread for the local old-age home, when it strikes me. Yip. I sure could have a claim to fame too. I could spread my wisdom all over magazines like this. Ok, so maybe not this one in particular, but there's bound to be a magazine that would like to do a story based on the other side of the coin, right?

Just imagine... moms like me competing for the coveted title of Domestic Antichrist! We could compare depth of ice build-up in our freezers, number of weeds per square meter in our lawns, number of mornings per week our kids are late for school and the likes. Anyone up for the challenge?

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.

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?

The measure of success

For a long time I agreed with what I had heard at a marketing seminar: that people believe they have become successful when they are just slightly better off than their own parents. It made a lot of sense for quite some time that your own private measure for how well you perceive yourself to be doing would be based on your own personal life experiences. 

Oprah (who I would vote for if ever she decided to a. be a South African and b. run for president - because she is one of the few people in the world who could actually decide either of these things without being challenged on it) said that you would know you were on the road to success if you would do your job and not be paid for it. Guess that would make me fairly successful, right? I mean not just me. Any mom, really. In fact, if it were a truly accurate statement, there is probably not very much that can be considered more successful than mothering, except, perhaps the inspired few who have actually arranged someone to pay them to look after their own kids.* (Smells a little of Moses in the bullrushes, doesn't it?)

*I've not officially ever heard of any modern day mom who managed to get paid (more than a monthly grocery budget) for rearing their OWN children, but I do know of a granny that charged her daughter 20 bucks a day to watch the grandkids while Mommy worked a double shift at the local Shoprite. It's true! Shocking, but true. I mean what granny doesn't get with the program the moment those sweet little offspring of their offspring make their first appearance? You would think that a Granny's one true desire in all the world is to dote on her descendents, the bearers of her legacy. You would think it, but apparently, it just ain't so.

But back to the success issue. You can't think you have become successful just because you're slightly better off than your parents AND you aren't being paid to be there, now can you? What is success really? Is it tangible? Does it have a solid way to measure it?

What stops day-to-day accomplishments from being a measure of personal success? For about a year and a half I was convinced that the fact I had gotten through (another) 24 hour period without running away/ killing myself/ killing somebody else was a pretty good sign that I was OK. Are you successful then, just because you actually do get to put your head down on your pillow at the end of the day? Surely if you hadn't actually made it to the end of the day, you would have been unsuccessful, unless, of course, it had been your plan NOT to make it to the end of the day, in which case you would have been very successful in deed.

Too many people measure success by the reward they receive for the work they've done: the prize, the promotion, the salary. But what about the stay-at-home mom, who isn't receiving a prize, a promotion or a salary?

There are small pleasures that signpost the road to success for the stay-at-home mom: the first time your child wipes her own poo-bum WITHOUT getting crap on her fingers or the toilet seat (trust me this is major league success!), the triumphant co-ordination of a dentist appointment, a ballet recital, a trip into town to drop of your husband's forgotten sarmies, the weekly grocery purchase and getting both kids innoculated while remembering all the words to the Heffalump song all in the precious space of an afternoon - I'd say that's pretty successful, simply getting the parking spot closest to entrance 5 at Tygervalley - yip! Successful! Having supper ready before 7 o' clock - almost succesful, if it's supper with four different veggies - getting closer, if the kids actually eat it ALL - you've hit the nail on it's successful little head!

At the end of the day, one thing is true about success - you can't buy success and receive it Whump! in your lap. No. Success is acquired little by little. You pay for it in installments every day. Bit by bit. Gathering it in a box of memories, an album of accomplishments, an after dinner table of happy, satiated tummies.