Stuck on a desert island

For more than 24 hours I have had no access to the internet. I am half way across the world away from my home and family and suddenly I was cut off from blogging, from facebooking, from googling, from cyber-surfing. Ouch! Can I even begin to explain how uncomfortable the last day has been? It felt a lot like having your tonsils out. Without anaesthetic. While you've got a wedgey. In the front. And your socks are too tight. And there's a bug trying to attract the opposite species from the confines of his cozy new home which he's just set up in your ear. And your hands are tied.
No amount of coffee, sleep or crafting has been able to relieve my anxiety.
But I'm back, Baby! And I am breathing easy once more. Phew!
My separation from the Holy Grail that is an internet connection lead me to think of times gone by. How on earth did we ever, ever survive without internet, without mobile phones, without satellite TV, with Apple? How did mankind plod along for thousands of years worrying about building their pyramids to imitate the stars and connecting them to life out there somehow, when they could have been chatting up a storm on Skype?
The thought of paying a runner with a cleft stick to take a message home to my peeps did cross my mind briefly, but in the dash across my mind, the runner tripped up on some of the mental debris I have been sorting out lately and twisted his ankle. So much for that then. I also thought about writing a letter to post off, but my handwriting seems to have deteriorated, I'm ashamed to admit, but what with the advent of the PC, well, the keyboard kinda killed the caligraphy star, didn't it?

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Sometimes leaving the past behind should be just that - left behind. Sometimes it is NOT a good idea to casually finger through those memory files labelled "Done and Dusted". Sometimes picking up on a past story or explanation is more like picking open an old dried scab to release a bloody explosion of unrefined feelings and and undisclosed regrets.
At this point please do not refer to a blog on this site labelled "Living without Regrets", because I take it all back, I am a world-class hypocrite, I cannot for the life of me bring myself to regret nothing that ever happened to me, nothing ever said to me, and nothing I ever did as a result of trying to figure out how this quagmire of complexities called LIFE is actually supposed to work.
I have regrets. I have hurts. I am angry about things that happened to me. I am disappointed by events and situations that I had no say over. I need a stronger anti-depressant. And I'm not even pre-menstrual.
That, or maybe I'm a little Hhhmschk (she mumbles from behind her hand). Sorry? You didn't get that? I said I'm a little hmsishuh,uh (she sips some water). OK OK, already! You want to hear me say it? Homesick. There! Happy? Yes, I miss the kids. Yes, I miss my husband. Yes, I miss my house. Even the neighbourhood dog who always leaves a fragrant parcel on my front lawn - ok, so maybe I don't miss the dog. Do I regret being nearly 6000km from the center of my universe? No. Is my inner CEO getting a little wobbly? Sure. Would I prefer the sound of suburban traffic to five Calls-to-Prayer a day? Not really- it's a bit nostalgic, just like the sound of a mosquito near your ear reminds you of fun times camping outside on the garden lawn when you were a kid. Would I change anything about this very moment right here and right now? Of course yes! I would give a whole sand-castle cemented together with A-grade camel dung to have my most important people with me.

Is the voice in my head bothering you yet?

I have come to the realisation that I have lost two very important components to my integral being by becoming a parent. The first is time. The second, a decent portion of my sanity (including short term memory), and the third, my waist-line. I think that the second factor has delayed my realisation of the third factor for a long time, which, thanks to the first factor, I didn't have anyway.
While taking in an episode of Dr Phil (over a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich), I was brought to a point of enlightenment like never before. The good doctor was berating some tear-stained 17 year-old for having a condition known as BDD - Body Dysmorphic Disorder - it's where this fairly attractive pubescent girl looks in the mirror and sees "an ugly, overweight cow" (Dr Phil's words, I swear).
Later, upstairs, I stood in front of the mirror and tried to out-stare my reflection. My reflection blinked first. I took a couple of steps back and had a good look at what I saw. I turned left and checked my profile. I turned right. I faced away from the mirror and craned my neck like an owl, trying to see what I look like from behind. I turned back again and smoothed my creased shirt down over my twice-gravid belly.
The penny dropped. Time stood still. My reflection blinked. Again.
I suffer from Body Dysmorphic Disorder.
The truth was, and is, that my hormone bedevilled skin, my dried out split-ends, my extra weight evenly distributed between boobs, belly and bum, my vagrant eyebrows, my years of poor personal attention leading to chipped nails and hobbit hair on my feet, well all of that stuff, I kind of didn't see. As I stood in front of that mirror, all I saw was absolutely fabulous!
So there you have it, I know what the truth is, but, due to my lack of time and increasing insanity, I just haven't really being seeing it at all.
When I get up to go in the mornings, if my shoes match, it's a good day. I apply my make-up in a poorly lit bathroom and leave home thinking that I'm good-to-go. If I happen to catch a reflection of myself in a car window or mud puddle during the day, still I'm happy with the way things are. The real problem comes into play if I happen to find myself in a change-room at Woolies or, worse still, before the mirror in the baathroom at the pre-school at Delivering or Collecting time. For some reason the mirrors in these places seem to pierce through my apparant view of the way I see me, and reveal an apparition that blinks at me through the glass. Her hair is standing up, she has tomato sauce dried on her chin, next to a whopper zit, her eyeshadow has rubbed off, but a smear of mascara is staining her cheek, primary wrinkles are appearing around her neck, her bra is far from supportive (Parents Against Early Ageing would do a better job), clothing creased, but her shoes match. Hmm! That's me!
I turn away, take my sunglasses off the top of my head and breath over a lens. Wiping the mist off on my sleeve, I tilt the shades so that I can just catch a glimpse of my face reflected in the lens. My reflection winks at me. Looking good, Baby!
Now wouldn't I just completely blow all of Dr Phil's boats out of the water?

Starting with a Pang!

Meet Moni. Moni is possibly one of the strongest woman I have ever met. Moni is a massage therapist at Saad Clinic. Moni is no stranger to suffering. She is well-trained in inflicting great deals of pain. But Moni carries a little bit of Heaven in her hands.
She established the pressure that was comfortable, and then proceeded to apply 7 times that to parts of my body that have never been massaged before. Like, for instance, that spot just under and behind my armpits. I think what she did is considered deep lymphatic drainage, but if I could actually see the spot (I can't; I've tried) I would be telling you just how bruised I am. Now when I move my arm like this, it actually buzzes a little bit.
Included in Moni's Swedish massage therapy was a little Vietnamese torture ritual that goes something like this: offer your client a BIG glass of water before you start, be sure to make her comfortable lying on her stomach, let the faucet drip nearly imperceptibly in the background (just beneath the volume of Enya's sweet serenade), every now and then apply a little pressure in the vicinity of her bladder - increase gradually. If done correctly your client's bladder should be bursting by the time the massage is over, making it practically impossible for her to relax completely. Good job!
OK so it sounds bad, but it wasn't really. I feel like a new woman (just like a lump of Play-Do can feel like a dog or a cat after some molding and hammering). I admit that I have been kneaded into a mild state of holiday. I know I insisted that this venue was as far from a holiday spot as possible, that in the heat and the sand it's more like a touch of Hell (and really I did this to try and make it easier for the dear individuals I left behind), but I think today Moni sprinkled (read as rammed) a tiny bit of Heaven into Hell, and I am all the better for it.

Travelling with(out) Kids

I am SO relieved to have done the last 30+ hours on my own and without the burden of children.

(This can now also be called the Bad Mom Blog).

As I made no less than three (all delayed) flights to my final destination, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the babies in arms, toddlers and little children tied to their mothers (and some to their mother's luggage). With a 9 hour stopover in Dubai where I happened at one point to find myself neatly wedged between two very gay Philipino lovers and a Kashmiri with VERY bad personal hygiene, I was so relieved that I didn't have the extra stress of little people.

Now don't get me wrong, I would give my favourite, er, camel (?) to have my brood neatly tucked under my wings in the land of sand, but the actual getting here part, well, we may have to wait for a sandstorm resistant laser beam to transport them here in a nano-second of Business-Class comfort (in-flight entertainment included).

The boredom of little children at the airports going round and round in rectangular squircles on the passenger conveyer belts to pass the time, was tragic to witness. Their parents with dark rings under their eyes trying to maintain some semblance of sanity on a maximum of 2 hours sleep in a cramped economy class seat.
I tried to help out one desperate mother who's unruly two year-old was having a world class tantrum 4km above the earth's surface. Admittedly he had been pulling my hair each time he flung his arms over the head-rest (mine) of the seat in front of him, so it was becoming a little difficult ignoring the pesky little greek. I drew faces on my fingers and played out a very amateurish finger puppet show behind my head to entertain the tyke. It worked for a bit, until I had to magically invent easter eggs for the Easter Bunny to find in my now matted hair, and my left wrist cramped and the show was called to a sudden halt. Alexander, the not-so-great, took to kicking the tray in front of him, and behind me. Even though I was developing a real pain in my neck with all the kicking, I was somewhat relieved that it wasn't a child of mine that was in need of 8 hours of entertainment.

So I find myself child-free in a giant sandpit. Torn between the guilt of leaving my darling little family and the joy of revisiting a time and place that was truly significant in the development of my family and creating new memories with dear friends.

Let's see how long this sand-castle princess can keep her pose...