My first internet date …. when I was still wide eyed and filled with hope ….

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So the guy’s name was and probably is still Leonard.  I am going to skip pseudonyms here.

I was happily sitting  chatting on dating sites. I thought I could keep this cyber chatting going for almost forever.  I know me.  My social phobia and my fear of meeting new people, will keep me glued to a keyboard and a screen, happily hiding there.

After a few drinks (when all good decisions are made) – I drink alone. It’s  not quite the 12 step programme, but it is less than 12 steps from my computer to my bed, so it is sort of the same thing.

I decided GO ON A DATE!  And then I had this internal monologue.  I often do it out loud so I am not sure how internal it is, and I convince myself that I need to “grow a pair” and just go out with people.

These people.  Just go.  Pick 10. Even if randomly, and go on 10 dates.

If after 10 dates it is still as much as a cluster fk as I anticipate it will be, then I will say fuck it all, eat chocolate until I am as wide as I am tall, and stop brushing my teeth.  And get cats.

That people is my plan.

I ask Leonard out.  Remember this is my first step out into this rather strange space.  I have not been able to set up my “rules” my “codes” that I stick to when meeting strange people in strange locations.

We book a time, Saturday 16h00 – my thoughts are I can be out of there whilst the sun is still up.

I make the mistake of letting him select the place.  Never made that mistake again.

He selected The Fat Cactus in Mowbray.  Should have been my first clue.  I was giddy with the excitement of it all, and forgave a lot of details that right now would not pass the muster.

I got myself ready for this date, like I was going to meet Leonard and we were going to run away and live together on his private estate, forever and ever and ever.

Yep, that is the way I was pitching this in my head.

I had not been on a date in more than 20 years.  Unless you count the time the plumber came over.  And I do.

I was channeling Cinderella and Snow White. It was all going to be magical.  Little woodland animals would come along and clean my house after I danced around with them in a clearing in the woods to music by Mr Bolton himself.

I arrive at the venue.  Early.

I want to make sure I have all exits mapped out.  I want to check out the toilet, see if I can fit through the toilet window if push comes to shove.  Shove being the operative word.

I am sitting at the “restaurant” and I got a sense of being 22 and drinking too much tecquila – it’s that kind of place, where you are singing “Come on Eileen” at about 11pm with people you don’t know, but whose sweaty armpits you are sort of leaning in to.  The decor leaned towards a grungy homeless shelter than say a place one magically meets their prince.

Again, I am trying not to be too judgey.  Be cool.

The table top was particularly sticky. Once I found a position where my arms were comfortable they just sort of stuck there.  Adhered there.  I kept it looking casual.  {I am not 100% sure what the sticky was, but I decided not to look at it too closely …..}

I am thinking about all the preening and stupid things girls do when getting ready for a date, and then this guy walks in.

He is the exact opposite of what a girl does to get ready for a date.

I cannot confirm, or deny, but he looked like he had been in that set of clothes since this morning,.  And at some point had had a relaxing deep afternoon sleep in those clothes on his gomma gomma couch.

Was woken up with a fright, no time for grooming, donned a white hat —- a fedora I think — I can’t make this shit up people, and appeared there before me.  Visions of stallions and being swept off my feet leaked away quietly.

It turned out he was my date.

Lucky. Lucky me.

I unglued my arms and said hello.  Now already any expectations have flown out the window.  Not up to the sky in wonder, but straight into the tarmac making that thunk-thunk sound like an injured pigeon does as it tries to tarmac dive after being in the sun too long.

I have long started regretting I got a full body wax for this, and the new underwear is starting to creep.

Anyway he introduced himself, Leonard, and I said hi and then he started to talk.  About himself mostly.  He did ask me a question, and as I tried to answer, he sort of cut me off and answered it.  For me.

I felt it was going so well we were finishing each other’s sentences.

By that I mean, I just ordered Millers and thought I would focus on drinking them.  I would let him speak. He seemed to have a lot to say.  Nothing really interesting, but with enough Millers things that are loud can turn int a quiet drone. I have done the field work, trust me on this.

Almost the first thing he said was that he did not carry credit cards – he only paid in cash.  I got a strange “Big Brother Conspiracy” going on —– but as said I did not have much time to ask questions —- or answer any.

He told me he owned his own home and car — which of course countered my initial sense that he was tres cool and homeless.  But I left it.  I thought that is sort of odd in this day and age, but hey white old folks be crazy, so I will just decided to go with the flow.

I knew that this date was not going well.  It wasn’t to the point where I felt I needed to throw a candle at the alcohol stand to form a fire ball so I could escape in the chaos that ensued.  I realised that at least I had a back up plan because the only thing going down here, was my expectations and hope of this ending soon.

As he talked he name dropped.

The problem with name dropping is if the person sitting across from you is not suitably impressed then stop fucking name dropping.  Name dropping is not cool if you have to keep explaining who the name is.

To the person drinking Millers sitting across from you.

I stopped opening my mouth to explain I did not know who so-and-so was, and realised I was not really going to get a word in, so I shrugged and ordered another Millers.

I looked around for something to read and found a menu.  I quickly jumped in with “I am starving – I am going to order something” and he then agreed and continue to tell me things about the menu.  It appeared he was a regular here.

Efficient and friendly server arrived, we ordered, and again I sat and drank my beer.

I was alarming sober.  I had fallen into that comfort level where I no longer cared. I started looking around and found things that amused me.

Food arrived.  It was really good.  Great mexican food – really enjoyed it.

He ate his. I think he ate what I didn’t eat. Or something else equally as endearing.

I thought okay, I have gone about as far as I was with this one.  I think I ordered another beer – and asked him if he wanted anything else, he said no.

I said great, I am going to call for the bill, which I did.

Leonard started to tell me that he gets 10% discount at this particular establishment.

If you have known me for 13 minutes you will know telling me you get a discount for anything is akin to making my vagina dry up, shrivel and catch the first taxi home.

I looked at him in my most convincing “listen here mate” look I could muster and said “it is fine really…”

And he kept saying it. 10% discount.

I was now wondering if we had moved into a sort of autism territory.  I kept staying IT IS FINE but slower and louder, because well, it was fine. The quicker I can get the fuck out of here, the quicker I can get home, phone my friend Judith and drink wine.

That was my short to medium term plan at this point.

Then he goes “I don’t have any cash on me……..”

I offered him what I though was a withering look, it might have just being “DUDE YOU ARE FUCKING SHITTING ME RIGHT NOW …..”

I did actually glance around waiting for Ashton Kutcher to appear and scream “PUNKED…”  He didn’t.

I am not sure how many seconds had passed  he said “I will run across the road and draw some money”

I looked at him and said “YOU ARE NOT FUCKING RUNNING ACROSS THE ROAD. TO DRAW MONEY.  JESUS.  I WILL GET IT.  I MEAN SERIOUSLY …….”

{key note:  the issue is not that I am paying.  I am fine with that.  Fine.  It is the fact that he announced he had no credit cards, then announced he had no money —– surely anyone in their sort of half right mind comes to a date with some money, or a cow to barter, or maybe some beans to barter for a cow …….. something dumbass….}

I was thinking that inside my head but it slipped out and I said it aloud.

I took control of my voice, stood up went to the bathroom, had a bit of a laugh and thought, well you know 9 more dates cannot be worse/stranger/more disappointing than this…. right?

I got back to the table.

He was still talking.  The server returned with the credit card machine.  He kept muttering about his 10% discount.  I wondered if I hit him against the side of the head with the credit care machine it would stop his bleating.

I know your frontal lobe controls conversation so it might need to be a full frontal head butt with an iron.

I paid the bill, said thank you and stood up.

My aim here was to leave, fast.  Avoid any contact.  ANY.

He insisted he walk me to my car.  Yeah, not.  I pointed to my car and said it was fine, it was right there, it was broad daylight and I would be fine.

He invited me back to his car.  I was a little unclear of where this was going.  I have not dated in 20 odd years, lots of things could have changed.

I agreed, only because I thought if I walked him to his car, that means I could leave him AT HIS car, walk to my car ALONE and be able to snigger uncontrollably the entire way.

I get to his car —- and this is a true story —- he takes out a brochure and starts to sell me something.  Not something interesting like a vibrator that gets 200 km to the litre, but cleaning products.

I shit you not.

I just stood there.  I took a deep breath. Smiled as politely as I was able, said thank and good-bye.

I walked back to my car – a little bit unsteadily.  It was not the beer, I was wearing heels that made me walk like a new born Kudu calf.

I called my friend Judith and told her to get her raggedy little arse over to mine as I seriously just needed someone to talk to.

She came over and we laughed, and then screamed with laughter and drank too much wine.

The next morning I checked my phone — I am that person who puts their phone down and then does not look at it for 15 hours.

There were a list of messages from Leonard.

They started off with “thanks, it was lovely to meet you” to “lets do it again” to “do you dance?” and then moved on to the more uncomfortable ones “why aren’t you answering my messages” and “okay, okay fine….”  There weren’t hundreds, but there were say 11 or so – but they got decidedly more needy as they went on.

How on earth could this guy think or feel that what he had just experienced would be considered a good date?

That I would want to repeat.  Maybe he was just following up on his cleaning product order and see if I was going to order 25 litres of Handy Andy or VIM.

I realise I am niave and a tad low on street smart, but for fuck sake, dude ………. dude!!  Even I know when a bomb is a bomb.

Needless to say I wished Leonard well, and said we would not be seeing each other again.

He did ask again if “we could go dancing … as friends”

Bless.  So that was my first time.  Done and dusted.  No more dating virgin here.  I owned that!

Yes, and some days it is just shit-a-holla ….

divorce_fuck you

 

I hate it when people ask me “so how are you doing…” and not add the “with the divorce thing, you know” …..

I still don’t know what to say.

Some days I am super happy. I have the remote control.  I can make star angels in the bed, and can poo with the door open. The world is pretty much my oyster.

The next day I don’t want to get out of bed.

I am not sure if I miss or hate Kennith.  It could be a bit of both.

Yesterday evening driving home I saw him running along the side of the road.

In a split second I had two thoughts “drive the fucker over” and “shame, I should stop and give him a lift” ….. but I understood that both would probably have a knock on effect to him running the Comrades, and instead chose to just drive on.

I hate that he has toddled out of this relationships straight into another.  And seems happy.

I want to kick him in his hairy little face and say “look what you did fuck wad….” but I guess he did not do it all by himself.

Why can he not have a relationship where they are fighting and throwing cat food at each other?  But in a non sexual way!

Why can’t he be muttering “she is a dumb bitch” under his breath ….. instead of looking so delightfully peaceful?  I am seriously ……….. seriously

I want to ram a fork into his shoulder, just to see if he will react.  I will blame her of course.  I know I can do it, I figured out how to sneak into their house …. I know which door squeaks, I know where the forks are kept.

I can be in and out of them in under 8 seconds ……. at the moment I am still at 14 seconds.

But I train two or three times a week, and my times are getting better.  I am only going to stab him with a fork, it’s not like I am going to shoot him whilst he is on the crapper. Relax people.

You will know when I am unhinged, trust me, you will know.

I hate that my kids keep telling me how wonderful she is – I don’t know her, and I still want to drive her over.  If my kids compare her to me one more time, I am seriously going to start to take Xmas money away from them and tell them J stole it.

On other days I sigh and I think how peaceful life is and I am glad K is not lonely, and I am glad he is dating someone who seems to be nice to my children.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

I never think that.  I’d like to.  That would mean I was potentially a nice person.

I just lie there and go fuckity fuck fuck.  Fuck it all ….. “now bring me wine and chocolate” I scream at no one in particular.  Hence I get neither.

I am fine for several days, and then I am not.  It might have nothing to do with Kennith it might just be PMS, but fuck that, I am blaming him for it all right now.

I do not want Kennith back.  I do not want him to die.  I do not want him to explode into 1 000 little pieces.   I am not sure what I want.

I lie in the bath and sip my wine – I have changed it up to a rosé – it makes me feel pretty and girly.  And I still get drunk at about the same rate, so that is really all that matters right?

Life is good.

Life is kak.

Life just is.

My constipation was pretty bad on the weekend ….. just filling space here people, just filling space.

Some days I am so happy I sing along to really shitty songs.

Some days I cry at radio adverts.  While the radio is off.

Other days I have MUSIC going so loud in my ear phones, I physically prevent myself from being able to think of anything.  It also drowns out the sound of my kids arguing in the car, so really it is a win-win all round.

Last night I climbed into bed.  The girls were already in my bed – this is kind of where they sleep most of the time.  Sadly it reflects on my social life.

I got into bed, I was tired, exhausted, and the cat was trying to find a spot.  Isabelle’s chubby slightly damp little hand came over my shoulder and held onto my arm, and for that little slice in time, I forgot everything and felt pure joy.

Then the cat clawed my foot, and I tried to kick him, missed and kicked the end of the bed, and the moment was just that little bit less magical.

As said before, fuckity fuck fuck.  With a double fucker fuck fuck at the end.

 

At your lowest, it is still not this ….

So I am internet dating. No secret.  It still bears a stigma, so we do not talk about it in polite company.  I think it might be more acceptable to say I am a prostitute.

I do not go around wearing a t-shirt announcing it – the internet dating, not the prostitute thing — keep up now.  The reality is what are the chances of me meeting a semi-stable male person who is single, or not in jail?

I will tell you incase you have not done this experiment, the chances are almost nil actually.  I can’t quite meet people at work ….. I work for myself, you see how that is weird?

I have to fling myself onto the cattle market that is internet dating and die a thousand deaths.  Daily.

My friend told me she saw her friend’s husband on a site once.

Well that got awkward fast.

Internet dating, by it’s sheer ludicrously, allows for several hours of funny stories, a few really embarrassing ones, and several that I prefer never to talk about unless I am on some sort of strong medication and restrained by a medical professional (not the one mentioned further in this piece just so we are on the same page here)..

You meet some lovely people.  You meet some questionable people, and then you meet the people who will hold your hair back whilst you are up-chucking. I am stylish like that, see.

Which basically means I am chatting to people who could be the 12 year old boy next door or a 78 year old woman in Geneva.  It is all pretty Dating in the Dark stuff – and you need to keep your wits about you.  I firm dose of humour, and always keep Barney’s words in mind “Stranger Danger.”

{does it bother you, or maybe raise an eyebrow that in that show there is a character called BJ.  Of all the names they could use, they settled on BJ, why not just go to the next level and call him ANAL?  Maybe I just do not understand the market they are trying to appeal to}

There are so many lows in the process that I can’t even list them.

I had a theory that I would sit and jot these down one day, but that day is never going to come.  Things have got so murky, my lines in the sand have been smudged so badly, that I am starting to doubt whether some things I recall actually happened.

I got this message today – with a few photographs:

Hi, I read ur story. Interested in you. I am Dr *******. South Korea medical Dr. work at khaleitsha area. prevent Hiv.Aids person. I majored gynaecology for female. Recently I looking for good friend.

I am not sure what to make of this.

He is looking for a good friend, he has majored in gynaecology.  I like the way he is specific and says “gynaecology for females” …. as opposed to?  Say ….. is there any other kind of vagina doctor I don’t know about?

Anyway, I am going to say thanks, but no thanks.  And then try to find the door to get the hell out of this rather strange place. For today, I will be back tomorrow, I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame —- a large petrol fueled flame!!

I am sure he is wonderful.

I am sure he is.

I am sure that I am never going to find out.

Good luck strange doctor guy.  Good luck.

Me – cheese and riced, I really need to take stock of my life sooner or later.

InternetDating

Dick pics …. when is it a good time …..?

{Part 1 of a series …… not sure how many in this series}

I am almost sure that this is a question that plagues many of us.

There are several very helpful articles —- several hundred in fact, so this must be a question around which many people are confused, terrified and are in need help.  Clarity.  Possibly some boundaries.

I thought that maybe I was losing touch with the cool kids so I ran the question “when is it a good time to send a dick pic” – Google was not shy with the helpful articles it had on supply around this exact issue – about 39 300 000 results (0,34 seconds) – that is a large figure.  When I ran the same search but based on “how to deal with anal leakage” the results seemed small/insignificant in comparison – 1 890 000 results (0,41 seconds) .

I am not wanting to compare the problems of anal leakage with that of whether to share dick pics.

One you are not going to take a picture of and send it to what you think might just be a “hot babe” whilst the other seems to be something you do take pictures of, then share with random people.  Totally random people, who you think need to see your dick.  In a pic.  Without a cat.  On a mat.  With a rat.

That people is a lot of people talking about dicks, photographing them, and then deciding on which distribution channel is going to work best, or at all.

I need to come out at this juncture and add that I do not personally have a dick/penis/prick or what ever is the right word.  It appears that there are more than 174 names/words in use that are used instead of the word penis.

That is unbelievable, if you consider the Eskimos only have 100 words for snow – and they see snow all fucking day, and all fucking night.

It actually cannot be proven that the Eskimos have a 100 words for snow, it is a bit of a legend and we just repeat it enough so now it sounds factual.

Lots and lots of snow, miles of it.  Piles of it, stretching out as far as the eye can see.

Falling from the sky, hitting you in the eye, ruining your hair, making your lips chapped, spoiling your lovely blue dress.  You never know how much there really is going to be — and it is always too much or too little, and seldom just the right amount.  Different shapes and sizes of snow flakes, no two the same.

Random people holding sticks on television in front of a map telling you how deep it is going to be – or that it might get slippery.

All of this and only 100 words for this phenomena of nature versus 174 for a dick, but now I have digressed.

To get back on track — here is a flow chart that helps answers the question of  “Should you send that Dick pic?”:

dick pic-flow chart

Source:  http://www.collegehumor.com/post/6910070/should-you-send-that-dick-pic

I have my own story around Dick Pics but I sort of wanted to create a base from which to operate or start the story, because as you all know, for me it is all atmosphere and background.

The details, the details – the story is always in the details.

Tune in again to read more on this fascinating topic.

 

The upside of Divorce …… that no one tells you

There are few perks to divorce, but if you do not focus on them, and try and relish in the small thing, there is a good chance you might end up with a sawn off shot gun, and an alcohol binge session that is not going to end well for anyone at the post office.

So here is my non-comprehensive list of shit that is good after a divorce:

1.  You can use it to stop a “call centre” operator in their tracks.  I had a call yesterday from Old Mutual and an operator was trying to set up an appointment with a very nice financial planner, to plan my life.  I said “you know I am at the end stages of a massive divorce, right now I can’t plan for next week {I did make it slightly more dramatic than it is} ….. I really can’t do this right now.”  I could hear him flicking through the “cards to use to deal with difficult customers” and he came out with nothing.  He apologised, wished me well, we might even have held hands symbolically and sang kumba-ya-ma-lord for a few moments.

2. Twice the cupboard space.  Not something I really factored in at all.  I left K’s cupboards pretty much untouched for a month or two, and then I thought, hey wait a minute maybe we can put my jeans here, and my jackets here.  And then I pretty much took over all the cupboard space. It makes me smile nearly every morning to open all those cupboards.

3. I have access to the remote.  Now, I can’t quite explain this emotion. It still makes me choke up a bit.  Unless you have lived with a man, you do not realise that has a woman, you just do not get remote control benefits, and if you do, then what ever you select to watch is deemed as shit/junk/this crap again.

4.  This is also connected to the DSTV remote.  I change the sound on the DSTV remote.  The rule was we only change the sound on the TV remote and you will be cast into hell if you dare change the sound setting on the DSTV remote.  I now do it with reckless abandon.  It is still quite a heady experience.

5.  I get every second weekend off and one night a week.  Let me say that again, every second weekend, I have no kids, no responsibility and the same is repeated one night a week.  I love my kids, but holy shit balls I like them so much more now that I get a break from them.  It is creepily fantastic.  I know I should be lamenting how I miss them and how I can’t live without them, but I am too busy fiddling with the sound on the DSTV remote.

6.  Isabelle sleeps in my bed almost every night – Georgia sometimes comes along.  There is something delicious about that warm, moist and sweet smell of your children close by.

7.  It is such a relief to not find shoes fucking everywhere.  Everyone puts their shoes into cupboards.  I no longer have to pack shoes away.  I did all the options, leave the shoes out, and see if “all” the shoes will eventually be left randomly all over the floor, and throw a shit fit, and then do internal anger.  I tried it all.  It appears the only solution to the shoe issue is divorce.

8.  Every day —- every solitary day —- K either takes the kids to school or fetches them.  I don’t wish to mention that at one point he had no idea what school or grade the kids were in, but it helps to give a balanced view of how fantastic this present arrangement is.  It means on two days a week, I can get up at 08h00 if I want — and I always want.

There are lots of negatives.

There are lots of things that are still shit.  There are lots of things that feel like I am being punched in the diaphragm and vagina simultaneously, but there are some ups …… there are some things that still make me skip around the house like a lunatic in happiness.  You know some days you need to cling on to the slithers of happiness in the madness, or you will lose the plot.

And stand screaming on your drive way.  I choose to get excited about the remote and changing the sound, without any repercussions.

great loss

Jean Claude Van Damme invented black. In fact, he invented the entire spectrum of visible light. Except pink. Tom Cruise invented pink.

I am coming off an insomnia bender of more than a week.  This is my third night of sleep, and I am beyond overjoyed at the prospect that I can go to sleep and remain so.  I am giddy with the excitement of it all.

The hamster on the tread-wheel in my head does not slow down much and I have been having some graphic dreams with incredible detail.  HD stuff.  Which makes distinguishing between real life and sleeping life a bit tricky.

Last night I had this dream – I probably had several, but this was the one I could remember, because it ended with me being on the floor.

So {in my dream} I arrive home and find that Kennith is there with a group of people, and they are having dinner.  In my house (in case you have been away for a bit and missed the details – Kennith and I are divorced and living separately as you do when you are divorced).

Dinner party is in swing, without my permission, or knowledge.

I am a bit gob-smacked, and then when I see his significant other {we will refer to her as Sparks or it will make trying to discuss this more awkward than it is already} sitting at the dining room table, in the chair I would usually sit in.

I am like “what the fuck!!?”

All of this blows my mind and I start ranting at Kennith about how inconsiderate he is being, and also how fucking inappropriate this all is.  Just totally in-a-fucking-propriate.

I am freaking out — but I have moved away from the dinner party, you know so as not to disturb the imaginary dream dinner party, with Kennith’s friends and his significant other.

I can’t recall what Kennith was saying – but the attitude he was giving me was that I should just calm down and what is the problem.

Nothing quite escalates an argument than telling the person who is losing her rag to “just calm down.”

I am not quite sure of exactly what happened in the precise order, because there was a lot going on.

Me screaming at Kennith.

Kennith being a dick.

Sparks coming over to introduce herself —- er, maybe not the right time wouldn’t you say?  {please keep perspective that this is my dream, this is not real life}

For some reason there is a room full of boxes, which were also freaking me out.

So, what happens next (both in real life and in my dream) is I take my hand and pull the duvet away from my left leg, to free it up from all those restrictive blankets.

I am dreaming, but I can feel and know I am doing this.

Then I launch a kick – I am not sure if I was kicking any of the characters in the dream, or the door or the boxes.

I am not sure.

I kick with all my might.  I got height and direction.  And enough velocity to pull me out of my bed.  And deposit me on the floor next to my bed.

Nothing quite wakes you up like hitting the floor.

{this is how I pictured I looked}

high_kick

On a non related matter, what the hell is going on in this picture and should we be calling animal protection services?

JEAN-CLAUDE VAN DAMME

I can’t poop if someone is near me and they know/think I might be pooping ….

I am physically unable to poop if someone is nearby.

That someone could be anyone.

I used to be at boarding school – I did not go to the toilet from Monday through to Friday – because you have these large rooms of toilets and showers, and there is just no way you are in there alone.

I used to try to wake up at 3am, but true as nuts I would be terrified someone would walk in, so totally unable to go.

By Friday I was bleeding from my eyeballs!

I still cannot go to the bathroom, if there is someone in my home, or if I am in someone’s home, or in a public bathroom.

I will literally be crying, knowing that if I took too deep a breath I would shit in my pants — but still I would hold out, I just cannot go.

This picture is exactly what happens when I go to a public bathroom, and that is just to wee.

 

waiting to poop

 

A few months ago, I was at a very dodgy bar.  It really was past the point of where dodgy was dodgy – what ever is the word to be used for “most dodgy”.  Any the who, at a certain point I had an overriding urge to urinate.

The type where if you do not go NOW you will actually just pee in your pants.

I was standing outside the one stall bathroom for women – past hopping from foot to foot – to the point where I was pleading to be permitted to use the bathroom.  I think I might have already been making nail scratches in the door and begging in a very high pitched voice.

Eventually the cubicle door opens and said girl looks at me and says “you really sound desperate” to which I reply “yes, I am going to pee in my pants ….. right now …… please I really need to use the bathroom”

She opens the door wider, and I notice she is not making any movements to leave the cubicle, whilst I use the facilities.

Normally this would be awkward beyond awkard, and I would stand there and mumble.

But this night was not one of those, this was, if I do not pee now, I am going to be pee’ing in my pants.  And no matter how dodgy this bar was or is, a girl peeing in her pants is not going to be overlooked, as just another low point of the evening.

I decide to just shelve my issue with pee’ing/shitting in front of someone.

I have no idea why she was still in the cubicle, with me.  On the upside the cubicle was considerably big, so it was not like we were pressed against each other.  We could have served snacks and invited a few other people to join in.  I was part the point of delving into the mystery of what exactly was going on here.

I had about a liter of urine that needed to be removed from my body immediately – else my jeans were going to become a large in efficient sponge.

Dropped pants, sat on the commode, and felt that relief you do when urine is not being poured into your pants.

I could barely speak for the joy and relief.  Bliss is a word I would throw around here.

At some point, once the initial pressure had subsided it gave me time to take in my surroundings, and notice that this girl was still in the cubicle with me.

When you need to pee, you really start to bring your standards down quite a few notches.

I looked around at her, she was behind me, I smiled, and said “thanks so much” — and she said “not a problem” and then continued to snort cocaine off the cistern.

I knew that this was not normal.  I felt she could look at my lilly white arse whilst she was snorting off the cistern.  I am not sure which part of this I found more disturbing.  I was sort of thankful I had decent underwear on.  I think it is a girl thing.

I also knew I had flashed my ass, and all the other bits to a stranger I had never met, and who appeared to be making very different life choices from me.  At the time.

I however still had about 340 ml of urine to get out – so I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

And so this strange “friendship” was formed.  I finished what I needed to do, wiped, flushed, washed my hands, thanked her again for her generosity of letting me into the cubicle, and wished her a good night further.

Okay so that ranked as one of my stranger experiences of that particular week.

The one where the woman got kicked in the face …. because of me

Yesterday something happened which will remain with me for quite some time.  Forever possibly.  It’ll be that thing that I lie awake at night thinking about and wondering if I had acted differently would the outcome have been affected.

I interview at public places – so it might be a McDonalds or a Mugg and Bean or a where ever.  It’s convenient, and I also like the fact that I am in a public area when I am meeting someone who I do not know.

Yesterday it was at a McDonalds, I use the same one regularly and I know the staff at this point, and it is comfortable.

My social anxiety does make it a challenge to interview, and added to that if I interview in an unfamiliar place it makes it more so.

As with most of these places there are usually several self appointed car guards, who exchange their time of staring at your car to ensure that no harm comes to it, for a few rand.

Now, the idea of car guards is not an issue for me.  I am a good tipper of car guards, and especially the other guys who help push your trolley and unpack your bags into the car.  Those guys I love!!  Especially when I have bought a few 25 kilogram pool salt bags.

So we have established I have no issue with both these entrepreneurial arms of the work force and the services they render.

These particular “car guards” who frequent this particular McDonalds are more of the class of vagrants, who have nicked day-glo green bibs and stand around looking like they are in various degrees of enhibiration the later the day gets.  But hey, who am I to judge.  Leave me in a parking lot staring at cars with a bib, and odds are I will be drinking wine through a straw by 09h00.

I don’t expect much from “my” car guards. I like them to say hello, and then make overtures of how they are going to protect my vehicle against what ever might happen (I don’t necessarily believe this sales pitch), and then when I return I like the person to match me to my car – because that tells they remember me, and maybe they have actually taken superior care of my car.

Then I also expect “my” car guards to not be fighting and screaming and screaming things like “jou ma’s se poes” (for those outside of South Africa, it is basically a reference to your mothers genital area ——- and you know when someone lays that down, that this shit just got real).  It is often the preamble to “what are you going to do with that knife?  Stab me?

The car guard “syndicate” at this particular parking area is made up of two men, and one woman.  I often hear the woman going off pop, and screaming things that make me smile and also sort of make me walk faster to my car to get in and push the automatic lock system.

Yesterday it happened again.  I had seen a skirmish had started between the one man and the one female.  Her appearing like the aggressor from my vantage point. She was the only one throwing things, smacking and swearing. The guy sort of stood there and stoically took his beating, with that look on his face that said he had already given up on this life shit ages ago.

I looked at this and figured, if they remained where they were I could walk past and get into my car and not get involved.

There was a lot of “jou ma se poes” going on and a few other colloquialisms which I did not quite get.

When I reversed (whilst the car guards were showing me how to reverse …. its a service I don’t particularly need, but I leave them to do what ever they feel comfortable with} I rolled down my window and said to them that I am a regular here, and I see them often, and generally I do tip.

I explained that whilst they fight and carry on in the parking lot like this, I am not going to tip them.  The one man mentioned something about the woman, and how she was the other man’s girlfriend.

{The woman was not there at the time, she had sauntered off after the screaming and swearing}

I told him I did not care whose girlfriend she was — and this is where I made my critical error in judgement: “Whilst that malletjie (mad person) is here and carrying on like that, I am not going to tip you guys.  Sort your shit out.  Everyone in the restaurant can see you and it really is not cool.  Get your shit together guys.”

I drove off, and they waved, and I thought “okay that’s done” – I was then sitting in a queue where there is an exit onto the main road out of the restaurant parking lot.

I see some movement to my left and I take a look over.  I see the woman from earlier sitting under a tree, doing what ever you do when you are homeless and are sitting on your mattress under a tree in a McDonalds parking lot.  She was moaning and swearing and gesticulating with a certain amount of fervour.

The guy (possibly her boyfriend) was walking over to her and he too was swearing and gesticulating.

I thought to myself, she is going to get up and beat the shit of this guy, pretty much like I saw her do before in the parking lot.

I was wrong.  Not for the first time on that particular day it would seem.

This guy walked up to her, I could not hear what they were saying as I was too far away and my windows rolled up.  I saw him kick her – right in the fact.  She fell the floor trying to move into the fetal position. He then continued to KICK – with all his might – KICK HER in the face.  She barely had time to bring her hands up to protect her face.

She tried to scramble away, but that exposed her abdomen and he did that kick thing when you bring your foot down and stamp someone rather than kick them.

I sat there horrified.  And mute.  And paralysed.

I am not sure what else happened, as the cars infront of me had moved and the cars behind me were hooting.

There was no where for me to pull off on the side and go back and try and do something.

I was horrified, and realised that my telling the guys that I was not going to tip them whilst they acted like hooligans, was directly translated into “while that woman is making a scene you guys are not getting any money!”

I drove away shaken, not knowing what to do. And feeling this deep veil of guilt that I had been the cause of this woman getting the living shit beaten out of her.

I also could not go back by myself into that situation.  By myself.  If that guy was happy to beat the living shit out of someone who he appeared to have as a girlfriend, what would he do to stupid me stumbling in being all moral high road and shit.’

So, no I did nothing.

I did not call the police.  I was sure telling them there were two bergies/vagrants who were having a fight would get about as much interest as whether the fire pool was really necessarily over at the Zuma Manse.

I am sorry I got involved. If I had kept my mouth shut, it probably would not have happened.

that thing

Valentine’s Day Gift Ideas ………..

Its a tricky kind of year – what to get that man in your life when it appears he has everything.

You just bought him shit for Christmas, and that was hard enough because he seems to only have one interest — and it will usually be something that either requires golf clubs, cycling shorts or a fishing rod.

As a selfless gesture and to assist you not wasting any further time out of your daily schedule to try and find something for that guy of yours, I have found the gift of gifts.

Valentines Day

 

It does come in three manly colours.

It also has the added purpose of being great if you every notice “plumber’s bum” on your guy.

I do have a question about the press studs though …. but this picture does not feature that level of detail.

 

I seriously don’t make this shit up ——->> order yours here.

Road Trip Friday ….

I have three bottles of wine, two bags of olives, two bags of chips, and some Diddle Daddle popcorn – what do you think I am packing for?

Road trip to Pringle Bay to meet up with some friends.  

I am so looking forward to this trip – it is the light at the end of the tunnel, of a week, that just should not be lived again.

 

*sprinkles fairy dust* …. to make my wish come true.

We are going to be staying at Sea Villa | Glen Craig — it is gorgeous and has just enough mountain and sea views to keep me comfortable lying on their couch and staring out the window.

I often dose off and have been known to drool a bit on their pillow, but they are so nice they don’t seem to mind.  Sometimes someone comes and puts a blanket on me.

{The website does not do them any justice, is is so much more beautiful than the site shows}

Girls with too many stories to tell.  Too much wine and a few bags of olives …. how do you think this is going to go?

Fortunately there will be no driving involved, and we can sort of stumble/trip/dawdle to our room.  The last time we did this, we ended up with three girls sleeping in one bed — it was actually quite pleasant.

I hope I have not under estimated how much wine I will need.

Have a good weekend, where ever it takes you!!

Glen-Craig-Pringle-Bay

The one about the plumber ….. I really need my plumbing attended to

waterfall_TLC

I had a burst pipe — as you do …… and there was sufficient water cascading over the street, to make me think of “Waterfalls” by TLC.

I blamed the neighbour and thought it was their problem.

Unfortunately it appears that my taps and important things connected to my water supply is on their property.  The pretty rainbow that was forming from all the water exiting my property, though pretty, was going to start to get expensive in terms of water usage.

I am normally quite a resourceful person, but when I am under a bit of strain and stress, then my reaction is not dissimilar from Chicken Little and screaming about THE SKY IS FALLING.

 

cartoon-end-of-the-world

I seriously turn into a total imbecile with few skills and no ability to problem solve.

My neighbour called me this afternoon and made it clear that  the water was from my water mains (who knew I had water mains) was rather a lot.  And I needed to action it in with a bit more vigour than I was presently attending to the matter.

I called a friend – as you do when you are sitting waiting for your son’s cricket practice to finish {at the exact same time a cricket ball hit my car.  I am not sure which I was more suprised at, the cricket ball hitting my car, or the fact that these boys could hit a ball.  Which travelled that distance.  That besides.)  Friend gives me various numbers of plumbers in the area.

Trying to contact a plumber after 17h00, and trying to keep hysteria out of your voice is quite a trick.

Anyway, called three, found one who would pop around tomorrow afternoon — like quite late.

I was not sure that I had that much water in which ever reservoir water comes from. I tried to sound desperate – easy to do with three kids in the car, all going ape shit, whilst you are trying to have a phone call.

What is it about kids and escalating noise and total madness that ensues when you make or take a phone call?

They won’t speak to you for 4 days other than the grunts and the requests to wipe their bum, take a phone call, make a phone call and suddenly all three are orators of fever pitch proportions?

This story is starting to go off on a tangent.

I arrive at home and there is this guy standing next to his bakkie, and I think “please let this be my plumber ….” or if that is not working, then “please let this guy be my stripper instagram I booked for myself.”

And it was.  The plumber, not the stripper.

You know you expect Homer Simpson to arrive – the standard jeans a bit too low on the arse, the shirt fitting a bit too snugly, and not quite covering up the beer boep, and that general sense of “disregard for good grooming and body hygiene” one has become accustomed to when you call a plumber?

This guy. Did not get that memo.  It was all a bit giggly and arms flapping, and using a squeaky voice. That was me.  He was all calm and smiles.  At some point I think I offered to buy him a drink …. I decided at some point to stop speaking and just stare at him.

I told my friend and she said “why didn’t you take a photograph” — yep, that would have been less weird.

I think at some point I was hoping he would not be able to fix the shower of water and it would wet his shirt …. and you know your mind sort of wonders off when you are standing in a cul-de-sac with three children, and your shirt on back to front (because you dressed wrong this morning, and have just realised that it was actually back to front.)

I have never been one to google my plumber and hit the images button, it seems that everyone eventually gets to this point.  I am at that point.

I have been thinking about walking around my house and randomly breaking things, so that I can call a plumber to come over and sort out my plumbing.

{apologise if this post went off a bit randomly …….. I have been self medicating, and I don’t always get it right}

Oh for fox sake …..

I have really been struggling to sit down and compose a blog post that I actually publish.

I have written dozens of “almost posts” and jotted down all sorts of shit and stuff — but I have not got to the point where I feel comfortable to post anything.

There is a lot of things running around in my head at the moment.

To be blatantly honest most of the things that are creating noise is me trying to adjust to this new life being a “divorced person” in a relationship that is over, and all the fine details hat comes along with that.

Getting divorced is pretty easy.

Being divorced is a bit of a fucking dog show, without the dogs, but with all the shit left on the field.

In the bigger picture I have been struggling with what I can talk about publicly and what I should hold close to my chest.

I am not a big fan of airing dirty laundry, and there is seldom a way to do it in a healthy manner.

At the moment I feel quite raw, exposed and vulnerable.  All the usual bravado that I try to wear as a protection is seriously dented and lacking.

I keep thinking okay I will write about “that” and then when I start to jot down some words, and those words form sentences, and now and then paragraphs, then I look at it and go “no, I can’t put that out there….”

Then I sit there quietly as the inside of me is this bubbling chaotic space, and my mind feels like it is being knocked around inside my skull.

The part I used to love about blogging – is now the thing I am struggling to remain true to.  I have always believed that you should blog what you feel, blog what you think — what you really think — blog with honesty and integrity – ignore who you think may read your posts.

I do not blog for the people who read my blog, that has always been a slippery slope to venture along.  I prefer to blog and ignore who may or may not read it.

It sounds selfish, but for me it is the backbone of what I love about blogging.  And what I love about reading some bloggers work.  Honesty, and blogging for the sake of writing what is running around inside your head.

Today was a difficult day.  I felt really gutted today. I felt a bit beaten up.

I felt a bit like life had taken me by the gonads (yes I imagine I might have them on some days) and swung me around so that my head kept hitting the wall of the very small square imaginary room I felt I was in.

It’s 12:10 am, the day is at it’s end.  Thank fuck!!!

I have spent the better part of the last 5 hours covering school books.  That wasn’t the reason for the stress, and mental confusion – it was actually the task that kept me focussed and prevented me “going off the deep end.”

I took some time out and went to sit outside – it is a lovely evening weather wise, and stared up at the stars, sipped my wine and thought duckety fuck, duckety fucking fuck!!!

Then I stood up, brushed some of the dirt off my pants, and thought “bitch, get your shit together, GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, you do not need this level of kak …. and you need to go and pour yourself some more wine, because you have bought some crazy arse beautiful wine glasses …..”

And then I said “fuck yes!”

oh for fox

 

 

Actually Facebook, I do not want to do a photo montage of my great year …..

I was looking at some photographs of myself earlier today — and I realised how tired, exhausted and life weary I look.

I was smiling in some of those — but the smile was not a real smile, it was that strained kind you are forced to do, usually in group photographs and at birthday parties.

I zoomed in closer and really scrutinized the look in my eyes and it is of utter exhaustion.

It looks like someone on the edge of a nervous breakdown — or a Game of Thrones binge.  Or who is about to eat the entire pack of lemon meringue cupcakes from Woolworths.

It is not the kind of weary that can be cured by a good’ish bottle of wine and a 14 hour nap, but the sort of weariness and exhaustion that etches into your very soul.  And then oozes out of your pores.

It’s been a good year in some ways.

It has not been a good year in many others.

It has been a “fuck really ??? really” year in many more more I am afraid.

I have been really good at putting my stuff into little boxes and packing them neatly away.  I have been a high functioning {insert correct word} for much of this year – I am not sure if that was the impression I created with others, but that was definitely the vibe I thought I was creating.

Me. Sorted.  Keeping it together.  Getting shit done.

For much of this year, I have been proud of myself and my ability to just button down and get on with the stuff that needs to be got on with.  I have tried this “normal” thing and I think for the most part I managed to really give the illusion of getting it about right.

Sure there has been the odd “well that was unfortunate” and “yes, I got a lift home with Bennie the tow-truck driver because I could not find my car” — but hey who does not have those nights weeks every so often, right?

I started to feel the cracks this month — the cracks started to show and then the cracks got bigger and then I started to cry.

It really got going on Christmas Day – like the lurching jerking kind of cry.  For absolutely no reason.

I have cried myself a fucking river at this point.  I am crying now.  My guess is I will cry tomorrow.

I am actually not sure of why I am crying, nor what exactly I am crying about — but it has made reading or keeping a buoyant attitude really trying, and the red eyes are just a permanent fixture at this stage.

Sorry I have not been blogging – I have so much to say, so much in my head, but at the same time nothing.  I am also trying to pick my words wisely, and be aware of what I say or spew.

To those who have been my support this year – and really been there even in the smallest way I thank you — like really big.  Your late night SMS’s and funny images have been appreciated.

It is often not the big gestures that get you through the day, it can sometimes just be someone sniffing you and saying you smell good.

Granted when it is a strange guy at Pick ‘n Pay who does not respect the personal circle of trust, then it gets a bit awkward, but anyway.

I will blog again, don’t give up on me totally.  Watch this space.

 

dowager meme

 

 

 

 

School applications, Sherlock Holmes and the Holy Grail ….

I seem to have spent the last 13 years looking for schools.

It has become my “other job” – the one that drives me crazy, and at the same time excites me no end as I take on the digging and researching that would drive Sherlock Holmes to a happy ending.

{I do know that Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character, but I like to think of him as Benedict Cumberbatch and that makes him pretty real to me}

At the moment the aim is to get Connor/Child Number 1 into High School for Grade 8.  I can only apply between February and April, and then the school advises us during June – September as to whether you have been accepted. Or are going to just be home schooled.

The problem with the system is that because you find out so late in the year, if you are not accepted by a school what are you going to do?

So the system forces you to do the other thing, which is to apply to several schools “in case you do not get in” and thus in itself further adds to the fact that schools will let you know you have been accepted, give you a period of time to respond/accept/make a deposit and if that is not forthcoming then they move to the second tier of desperate parents who are sitting starting at their phone waiting for it to ring.

Schools worry me, because I have had to deal with them for so many years.  I understand how the lists work, and the waiting lists, and what it is like to wait for the acceptance letter.

The result is for Connor we need to apply to 4 – 6 high schools.

We are English-speaking, to find sufficient English schools in our area, has become akin to the search for the Holy Grail.

I applied a great deal of pressure on Connor during these last exams that the grades were the ones that schools were going to look at on his applications. I really need him to get straight A’s, or very close.

Next year I will also have to do the bit to get Isabelle/Child #3 enrolled for Grade 1.  She also starts at a new school in January 2015, in Grade R – they did not have space to take her this year.

I assume that Isabelle will go the same primary school as the other two, and she will get accepted based on a sibling criteria (her siblings both are at or went to the same school.) but that does not make me sit very easy until I have the letter in my hand.

I have seen a few status updates on Facebook where kids were accepted to such and such schools and it is always “oh, congratulations child so and so” when in actual fact it should say “Mom, seriously high 5 for the months of research, sorting out application forms, stalking people who may be well-connected to get you ahead of the queue.  Basically spending the last 1 – 3 years worrying, fretting and orchestrating this process to get your kid accepted at the school you wanted your kid accepted to, and not always the one he wants to go to….”

School application time sucks huge rocks!

141203_Grow up

I don’t like making plans …..

141126_premeditated

Is it me or do things just feel a bit f*cked up as of late … ?

Apologise if you have been “double clicking” on this site and wondering why it does not refresh with a new blog post.

Yes, about that.

I have had so much in my head, but really have sat here rather wordless and unable to get anything to fall out of my mouth or head that makes any sense, or could be construed as vaguely nonsensical, so there has just been no blogging going on.

My head, it is safe to say, is a bit of a mucked up place right now.  Four seasons in a day ….. or something of that nature.

I read this post by Laura over at Harrassed Mom earlier this week about perspective, and how we get swept up in all our kak, and often we are unable to look around and really appreciate what we have, or where we are in our lives.

{puts up hand to indicate guilt}

This post really struck a nerve with me — especially when Laura listed all the “not so great things” that she sees, and then she compares them with her home situation and goes “actually my shit ain’t so bad …..”

{I am ad libbing but you get the idea right?}

I hate this time of year – so much to do, and try to finish, and there just not seem to be enough time in the day.   And enough money in the bank or my wallet.

I am not a fan of Xmas in a good year — there is just a lot of pressure to be happy, joyful and think appreciative thoughts.  And say “ho ho ho” and then there is Boney M and “The Little Drummer Boy” playing ….. and that scary sensation that sooner or later you are going to hear Mariah Carey doing a song, about Xmas or some shit.

I will happily do Boney before I do Mariah.  And I mean that in all the ways that that sentence could be interpreted.

This year is my first Xmas AD *after divorce* and well it is a bit uncertain, and it is making me feel weird, and strange, and quite stressed.

I am sure it will be fine.

I am sure it will not be too weird, but it will be a bit weird, but this is life.  I need to get my big girl panties on, possibly by stained, but still well fitting bra, and just get my shit together.

Kennith and I need to work out where the kids will be, who will have them for Xmas eve and who will have them for Xmas day …… and then there is the fucking Xmas tree to put up.

That is traditionally Kennith’s job —- to be honest, I am not sure who got the existing tree in the divorce settlement, it might actually not be an issue, because it might be up at Kennith’s house.

See the stuff that runs in my head?  The way I solve it is just not to go and look for the tree …..I just delay going to figure out if is it there or not.  All pretty helpful and possibly not so sane.

Okay, back to Laura and her well timed and well written post.

I really would like to ignore the mounting bills, the financial uncertainty.  The odd summons for late payment and the other things that are going on that probably are really not a big deal in the greater scheme of things, but impact my life and day in a rather profound and deeply unsettling and stressful manner.

I would like to take my stuff that seems to big to me, but really is just a tiny inconsequential blip on the greater scheme of things.

Today for a few hours,  my attention was well and truly diverted as I considered a few things happening not to far from where any of us live.

This morning I woke up to three stories — they made me step back and rethink that no matter how complicated, a bit screwed up and maybe not quite the picture of normality my life is …. maybe, just maybe it is not so bad.

{look at me and my shiny optimistic fucking attitude…}

There are three families out in the world who have far more to deal with than I could ever begin to grasp, understand or appreciate.

No matter how I try to paint my day as being difficult, challenging and sometimes worthy of an afternoon lie down.  On the floor.  Behind the door.  Clutching a make-do Linus blanket.

It does not even begin to hold a candle to what other people are going through.

Lisa-Marie Watling lost her husband, Travers, this week.  Suddenly, without warning.  Her life changed for ever as the love of her life was ripped from her.  It has been all over Facebook and social media.  I think that there are hundreds if not thousands of people who collectively shed a tear, and felt such a weight of sadness. loss, shock, and a thousand other painful emotions for Lisa-Marie and her Isabella.  The world became a significantly sadder place this week.  Nothing I can say can even hint or fully comprehending what Lisa-Marie must be feeling.  How does one “get over this” without shaking your fist to the sky and screaming all sorts of obscenities?

No, I don’t know either.

Today on KFM, on the Grant a Wish segment there was a story about Caitlin, who had drowned in her family’s pool about 5 weeks ago.  A tragic accident.

We all know how difficult it is to come to terms with a sudden accident… especially when it involves a child. Madeline wrote to us about her friends Traci and Justin, and their 22 month old daughter Caitlin. Last month, Caitlin managed to venture out of the house on her own… and fell into the swimming pool at their home. Traci, her husband and her mom were inside the house at the time. When they found Caitlin, she hadn’t been breathing for 7 minutes. Caitlin’s father Justin managed to resuscitate her, and rushed to Hospital. Caitlin was put into an induced coma for a week – before doctors gradually brought her out of the coma so that they could assess the damage. The damage on Caitlin’s brain is irreparable… Earlier this month Caitlin underwent her 1st operation to insert a tube into her stomach to feed her. On top of this, she still faces months in a rehabilitation centre. Medical bills are piling up for the treatment… and on top of this Caitlin now needs a special chair so that they can move her around. She has lost all her movement… and can’t even lift head.

I listened to the story and wept as I drove.

As parents we are constantly vigilant, and always trying to ensure our children’s safety.  As a parent, can I say that I have not taken my eye off the ball, for what ever reason, for 10 minutes or more?  No.

Traci and Justin, and Caitlin’s lives have changed in an instant. In an instant.  How is that right?

How does that make sense?

Earlier today I read the newspaper and sort of skimmed over what is happening in the world.

6 year old girl was discovered being raped by a 13 year old boy. A close family friend.  It appears this has been going on for some time. George has been arrested.  6 year old girl is upset because she can’t understand why George has been taken away – she things she is his girlfriend.  Where where where on this greenish blue earth can you begin to understand what happened in that home.

How it happened, why it happened, and how this family and this 6 year old girl will ever live a “normal” life after this.  The girl is also now HIV positive ….. anyone want to explain to me how this is all part of a plan, some great mystical plan that makes sense, or is for the best or part of something we mere mortals don’t understand ……

Anyone?

I know there must be a thousand other stories that happened this week – but these are the three that reminded me that “no matter how smelly your shit is, when that shit is put in a brown bag and thrown in the air, you want to pray to catch your own shit and not anyone else’s when those bags fall down again” ……. granted not quite Chinese Proverb stuff, but still rather apt and wise.

Is it me or do things just feel a bit fucked up as of late …?

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On a non related note, Georgia held a sea shell up to her ear today and said “I can hear an owl….” {still not the strangest thing she has said today}

Maybe princes shouldn’t kiss dead girls in the forest ……. just saying

maleficent

 

This evening I was watching a trailer for Maleficent.  Georgia had seen it already and I needed to remind her that she mustn’t spoil the story for me, as I had not watched it as yet.

Georgia told me that her favourite princess was Rapunzel (both share hair of a ridiculous length) and that Sleeping Beauty came in a close second.

I looked at Georgia and felt the overwhelming urge to remind her that “she did not have to be saved by a Prince….”

She is clever enough, strong enough and street smart enough to save herself, and get herself out of nearly any situation by using her smarts.

A prince on a white horse was not needed.

She nodded and still stared glazed eyed at the images on the screen.

I decided to not let this moment pass.  I reminded her that wasn’t she the best at Math in her standard – wasn’t she the cleverest and most creative girl we knew?

Wasn’t she brave and determined enough to get herself out of nearly any situation, without the aid of a prince.  On a horse.  Who needed to stop by and kiss dead girls in the forest?

A guy who  would make life altering decisions based on whether a shoe fitted someone?   Because he seemed to be unable to recognise the women he spent a few hours dancing with.

I am not anti fairy tales, I love the whimsy and the total abandon.

I am however aware that every fairy tale has a princess, or fair maiden waiting for a prince to rescue them.

I think it would be great for a prince or princess to rescue any of my girls if they were in a predicament.  My sense seems to revolt at the point where as girls, they are cast as the damsel in distress, and they need to have a prince to rescue them.

I know it is a silly and probably irrelevant differentiation, but I want my girls to grow up knowing, and believing they are capable of anything.

Even rescuing a prince who happened to have his finger pricked on a sewing needle.

Alternatively questioning a prince who would ride past and kiss a girl who for all intense purposes who seemed to be dead.

A prince who can’t recall a visual nor the name of the person he had danced with the night before.

These are princes who you do not actually want to mix any DNA with.

Happily ever after is a challenge.  At best choose a prince who can do facial recognition, does not want t to kiss every dead girl he rides past, and most importantly appears to have some sort of an income where he is not dependent on his parents.

Otherwise, as you were.

 

I hereby pronounce you ….. divorced {throws confetti?}

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As you may or may not know, Kennith and I are going through a divorce process.  It has not been a horrible divorce, but it has been a divorce, and ending a relationship that has been in existence for the last 20 years.

We have three children,.  We have a shared life that overlaps in many aspects.

We have been in a relationship with each other for our entire adult lives.

Sitting and breaking that up into a spreadsheets and pieces is traumatic.

No matter how nicely you “play with others” and no matter how much you try your utmost to act like an adult, the process is really awful.

It is often not the big things that leave you bereft and licking your wounds, but the tiny almost insignificant things that you realise are actually pretty significant, that make you cry and sob.  I remember when Kennith was meant to collect the rug that is in our bedroom, I felt like if he took that rug I was going to break into a thousand pieces.

It’s a rug — it really has no sentimental value.  But when he arrived to collect it, I really felt this was the time when I was going to break.  {In the end he left it, because he could see I was upset…..}

The last ten months have had me work through every possibly emotion.  Which includes sadness, denial, pain, indecisiveness, happiness, relief, anxiety, euphoria, being numb, pain and despair, confusion, rejection, chicken licken’s fear of the sky falling, and any thing else you can add to the mix.

For the most part I have tried to appear composed and that I have my shit together.  I am not sure why it was important to look like I am keeping my shit together. I think possibly because I felt that if I started to slip, it would be all over and I would be a crumpled heap at the bottom of the white cliffs of Dover.

There have been several moments where I have felt like I had taken a walk over to the dark side.  That there was no way I could actually hold on to this little ledge of sanity that I am clinging to.

That feeling of panic and irrationality often pops up at the exact moment where I think I have got this all under control.  To remind me in no uncertain terms that I am actually a minefield of emotions right now, poor decisions and sometimes immense sadness, fear and self loathing.

I cannot imagine what my life is going to be moving forward.  I am stuck in looking back, and am struggling to lift my eyes up off the floor and really get a good look at the horizon.

I am scared.  I am afraid.  I am still a bit shell shocked to be honest.  I referred to Kennith as my husband the other day … then I just stood there and stopped speaking mid-conversation ….. because I was not sure what to say.

Kennith attended court last week – it was an uncontested divorce, so I did not have to go along.  Kennith let me know when he was at court, and then let me know when it was over.

Wednesday was a very surreal day.

I knew what was going to happen. I had participated in all the decisions and the processes, so I was well up to scratch on what was happening, the how, when and what.

When it happened, I really felt like I had been sucker punched.  Like something in me had just caved in.

Last Wednesday left me feeling sad, scared, with a sense of profound loss.  Twenty years and it was over.  Officially.

It is difficult to explain — it is difficult to articulate.  Last Wednesday was an important milestone in my journey of life.  I am not sure yet whether it was a good milestone, a bad milestone or just a milestone.

 

Quotes about life and maybe a bit about divorce, that resonated with me:

 

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And the two I liked the most

 

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The stuff I learn from the Crime Investigation Channel ….

I like documentaries.  Unfortunately reality television has managed to find it’s way into nearly every channel, and reality television makes me want to bang my shin against the coffee table — really hard.

There is no History on the History Channel.  But if I have any interest what so ever in Pawn shops, then it appears it is the place to go.

I could also complain about most other channels in the same way.

The only channel that has not been affected, is the Crime Investigation Channel — well except for the show “The First 48 Hours” which I am not a fan of, but I digress.

Watching a documentary about Donald Piper who is eventually convicted on two counts of murder – however is suspected of at least four.   The women often work in the hotels, as housekeepers and they are killed whilst cleaning the rooms.

The MO is the same, and it is not limited to one hotel, it is happening across various hotels.  Each time he commits the crime he gets a bit more clever, and is leaving less and less information about himself.

Now the problem with hotel rooms is that there is a lot of “traffic” there – so it is not like they have to rule out the people who live there and discard those fingerprints — nope there is a few hundred fingerprints all over the room of different people, so these detectives are really have a difficult time of it.

I can’t recall if the perpetrator was killing these women, and posing their bodies, or also sexually assaulting them.

The crux of my story is that at some point the evidence team decide they will take the bed spread, wrap it neatly in plastic and take it to the evidence laboratory and then check it to see if they can find any evidence on it that will give them some sort of a DNA trace.

This is not the actual bed spread, but it is similar in that it has that wild crazy busy print.

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The technician, who looks like he has just learnt a valuable life lesson, explains that they unwrap this bedspread, they black out all the lights and use one of those blue lights to show up semen on the bedspread.

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It shows semen on the bedspread.  Initially they think “win we have evidence” —- and then they realise this bedspread lights up like a Jackson Pollock painting (see image below for a visual reference)

There was semen on the bedspread.  There were 120 DIFFERENT SEMEN STAINS.

“Waiter, bring the bill please …. I need to go now.”

It seems hotels do not wash their bedspreads as often as they should – hence the need for crazy designs.  On average once a year.

Yes, I retched a bit as well.

Tip 1:  Never stay in a hotel unless they have white linen.

Further in the same show, they suspect this guy who is the Maintenance Manager for a few hotels.

They approach him and ask him if there is any reason why they would find his semen in a particular room, where one of the women were killed, and it turns out that him and his wife had stayed in that room before and had sex, and that would be the reason his semen was in the room.

{let’s exclude the questions you and I are both asking about WHAT THE FUCK  IS HOUSEKEEPING doing in these establishments??….}

Any-the-who, same Maintenance Man phones the investigator the next day and says, well you are probably going to find semen in the rooms, the bathrooms and on the light shades or nearly every room.

Investigator:  “well thank you for telling us …. but why?”

Maintenance Man: “I used to go into every room in the hotel and masturbate on everything ……”

Investigator: “someone bring me spoon to dig out my inner ear so I can act like I never heard that….”

Tip 2 :  If you ever hire a Maintenance Man for a hotel chain, you may want to have an “excessive masturbation” clause as part of your employment contract.

Tip 3:  Invest in one of those black light numbers.

120 DIFFERENT SEMEN STAINS …… and you used to get all creeped out by your mattress having bed bugs.  It’s all about perspective.

 

This post is actually not about breast cancer, it is about praying.

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Someone who is very close to me told me she was diagnosed with breast cancer when she went for her last check up. (Let’s refer to her as Pamela, to make this easy.)  She had some issues with her one breast that had continued for some time, and at the time she and the doctor felt it was related to breastfeeding.

She had stopped breastfeeding, and had gone back to the hospital, and the hospital had run tests.

She told me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer about two weeks ago.  The doctors were running a battery of other tests to see what the severity was of the problem, and she needed to return to hospital yesterday for those tests results, and go through another set which would assist them to decide on the best treatment for her.

I was devastated for her.  She is a mom, and she needs to work.  She cannot be ill, and not earn an income.  But more importantly she cannot die.  I wondered to myself why is this happening to her —– for crying out loud.

I have never tested positive for cancer, so have no idea how it must feel to have someone across the table from you confirm your worst nightmare.  I have no idea how that feels.

I had to have something cut out of an area right next to my eye – which my dermatologist was concerned might be cancer.  Tiny little spot, minor surgery to take it out and send it for a biopsy.  I still sat and thought to myself “is this how it starts, you get a small spot somewhere which turns out to be a cancer that has already spread, and there you are staring at your spot going, it’s only a spot…”

Either way my totally inconsequential spot really scared me, because the word “cancer” had been used.

It turned out to be an inconsequential spot.

Pamela had an appointment yesterday to return to the hospital for her results, and then for them to run more tests and make a decision how aggressively to proceed.

I held her in my thoughts all day.

I have always admired her for the strong, controlled woman she is -and the way she deals with the punches that life throws at her.  She does not fall down in a wet heap, but works through it, stands up, dusts herself off and comes out of the corner with her fists up.

This post is actually not about breast cancer, it is about praying.

I thought to myself yesterday, is it enough to keep Pamela in my thoughts, or is it important that I pray for her?  Or ask other people to pray for her, say via Facebook?

I am agnostic, so praying is already a bit of an issue for me.

I wondered, that if God does exists, in which ever form he/she may be  (I am just going to use he, as this is going to get cumbersome) – and knows everything and is all powerful, then surely he would know the fight that Pamela is going through already, and he would make a decision whether to assist Pamela or not to.

Would praying change the outcome for Pamela — would God be swayed by prayers?

Is he like a cricket umpire who makes a decision, and only reconsiders his decision when the players run up into his face screaming OUT or what ever they scream.  Or does he stand there unmoved, because his decision is his decisions, and he is the umpire?

It started to remind me of IDOLS or America’s Got Talent, and that a person could only move forward if enough people phoned-in in support of that person.  Is the concept of praying sort of the same?

What if no one prayed for Pamela?   Would God still assist her as much or as little as he was going to do anyway, and it was irrelevant whether 1 person prayed for her or 1000 people prayed for her?

There I sat yesterday wrestling with this beast called religion —– and prayer.

I started at one point to reason, what if I prayed for Pamela, even if I technically did not believe in a god, surely then I would still be praying and well that would be good for Pamela.

I reverted back to my proposition that if God was all seeing and all knowing, then he would recognise an insincere request from someone who is not sure whether he exists or not.  Would that count against how he had already decided how Pamela’s results were going to go?

I am not sure.  I really am not.

Pamela had a full day of testing, and the results though still breast cancer, were not as disastrous as she had initially been told.  She is booked for a biopsy on the other breast, so that they can decide on the treatment and do it all at once.

I am not sure how prayer works.

I am not sure how life and the universe works either.

I do like the power that can emanate from people who are collectively thinking the same thing, or hoping for the same thing ….. and no I am not sure how that works either.

If you want to bear Pamela in mind for the 17 November when she has her biopsy please do.

 

 

 

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