Wordless Wednesday ….. 31 August 2011

I could have made this myself – I am always looking around for lost babies.

And I always expect to find one.

True story.

This is more gross than it should be ….

It is what it is people … but if you are anything like me you will stare … blink a few times …. and then go from the top and relook at it … <repeat exercise>

My belly button is probably a mix of the last two.  Why are belly buttons such odd things?  And did Adam and Eve have one?

What does your belly button look like?

Acknowledge source:  http://madtess.tumblr.com/post/8217933287


Remember when …. Egoli … no seriously Egoli!!

Last night Kennith and I went for dinner at a local haunt.

We were chatting as we do.  I have no idea how this subject started but someone said something like, remember that guy from Egoli.

And then we sat trying to remember the guy’s name.  I think we were trying the recall the guys name who owned WALCO.

I initially said “John Edwards!” because I personally know a John Edwards, but then I remembered it was a “Chris Edwards!”

Well, from there the balance of the evening and most of this morning was spent trying to recall Egoli characters.  I have no idea why, just because that is what you do.

It was not like either Kennith or I were that into Egoli.

I used to watch it back in 1990 – 1994 and then I got a real job and did not watch it.  I really have not seen it in eons. I don’t even think it is running anymore.

We are not those closet ‘serial watchers’ who say we do not watch day time soapies, but really do behind closed doors.

Really I do not watch soapies.  I barely watch any television at all.  I watch Crime Investigation channel when Kennith lets me hold the remote, but that is pretty much it.

I love that feeling of when you have to sit and think of something or remember something.

You can actually feel the hamster in your head wake up, sniff around, get out of his straw bed, drink a sip of water and then get onto the treadmill and start running.

I adore trying to remember something, and Kennith and I often have competitions of who can recall something the quickest (yes this is where your relationship will be if your survive + 17 years.)

Kennith thought he would stump me: “If you can recall the dog’s name, then that will be impressive!”

Remember how they were always screaming out the door at the dog because he “blaffed” (Afrikaans for barked) or that the guy had to feed the dog, or take the dog for a walk.

The dog’s name was probably said about 30 times per show.

Dude I got the dog’s name. I was going to say “Dude I nailed that dog!” but then I realised all the negative connotations that would bring, so I opted out.

Anyway I continued to remember a whole stream of characters names (it totally dilutes the “fun” to google it in any way.)

The dog:  Chester (Ridgeback come Boerboel sort.  It was big and brown)

The guy who always fed the dog: Bertie

The guy who always fed the dog, who he always referred to in conversation, but who never was there: Pietie as in “Pietie said:……”

The guy who owned the the dog’s sister: Nora

The guy who owned the dog’s sister’s sister: Louwna (who appears to be come with the CEO position at WALCO.)

Chris Edwards children: Steven and Jane Edwards

Nora’s children: Bienkie and Nik Naudé.  I cannot recall the sister’s name who was the PA at WALCO and who always wore colour co-ordinated skirt-and-jacket-sets-usually-in-a-shade-of-blue-to-match-her-shoes.

The guy who originally started WALCO: Walt Vorster

The guy who originally started WALCO’s sons: Andre and Johan (I think).  One was the good one, one was the bad one.  My money is on André being the good one, Johan being the bad one.

If I recall the show started with Nik Naudé opening a jewellery shop and Tannie Nené’s daughter worked there as a jewellery designer.  The link to WALCO was that she secretly was pregnant with Johan’s child.  (you can alwmost here the duda-dud-dah music?)

The building everyone lived in: Marlboro Mansions

Where did Nora live: Brixton

I was totally stumped last night and could not recall the guy who was that stupid bloke in a black shirt and jeans, who was married to Candy.  The guy who appeared to be as thick as a plank, and spoke with an accent that made you want to pick up a 2 x 4 and smack him in the forehead with it.   They called their baby Britney (as in Spears) which was pretty typical of them, but his name escaped me.

I did eventually figure out it was Joe.  It took me ages, but I loved that moment as the name popped in to my head.

The guy who went from a PE instructor to a CEO of WALCO but who did not marry Louwna: Tim (he eventually called himself Tim Vorster, and I think was the love child of Walt’s sister and someone or another… that was Tim’s claim to fame.  Well that and the rather inexperienced dentist he used to cap his teeth.)

So that is the game I played in my head yesterday and much of today.

The common thread in this show:

Everyone in that show either lived with Tannie Nora or in Marlboro Mansions.

If you were CEO of WALCO you had to marry Louwna at least once.

If you were a PE Teacher with teach slightly too big for your mouth, there was a good chance you got to be CEO, and maybe sleep with Louwna, just once.

All the really big jobs – came with really big desks – three brown files to scatter on your desk so you looked busy – you also got a hat rack to hang your jacket on – so you could put it on to show you really had to leave quickly to go somewhere.

There was never a computer on your desk unless you were a PA.

PA’s loved to print stuff out, knock on your door, then stand an hold it while they told you something totally unrelated to the paper they were holding.

Everyone always asked if Chris was in.  If I was a PA and people kept asking me if my boss was in, I would seriously stab someone in the eye.

The Edwards even though they were super rich – and spoke about wings in their house – always appeared to operate from 2 rooms – sitting room and the library.  And all the guests at their lavish parties always came from Marlboro Mansions.

Being a PA was pretty good as odds are you were going to marry the CEO (I think that is how Louwna got started with Walt) or you were going to be promoted to VP of something.

In closing …..

I am totally blank to remember the Nora’s daughter’s name.  The PA girl.  I had Karin, but that was Steven’s wife, who was also the gay guys sister (and they both worked at WALCO at some point, being Head of something)

I realise it is a bit sad, but I thought I would share it with you, and then you can let me know Nora’s daughter’s name.  And thus put me out of my miseries.

Also the woman who went from a PA to the Head of Marketing or what ever.  The only black woman in the show.  She also lived in Marlboro Mansions.

But I thought I was smoking hot when I remembered the dog’s name … Chester …. I am rocking!

<spot Joan Collins in the Egoli picture — bet you forgot she was in it for a while>

RAPE is the problem, not our clothes!

On Saturday 2 000 people came together and staged a SlutWalk in Cape Town.

I only found out about it on Thursday,so I was a bit of a Jane-come-lately to the idea.

The more I find out about this campaign/project the more I like it.   I have spent a small portion of my night googling and stalking a few people on Facebook.

I was really sad that I had not known about it earlier.  At the very least I could tell the two people who read my blog about it.

They in turn could have worn their underwear and we could have hooked up.  It would have been awesome.

The original Slutwalk organiser saw it as a movement against “victim-blaming” and it originated after a police officer in Canada told a group of women that they should stop “dressing like sluts” to avoid getting raped.

These parades/demonstrations/walks are about sending a powerful message.

That women are judged as the cause of the crime IF RAPED BECAUSE OF WHAT THEY WORE.

I seldom use this phrase.  But I think I have been saving it for a special occassion.  How fked up is that shit?

I will confess to being one of the ignorant masses. When I see a scantily clad female, the little voice in my head goes: “Yep, she is asking for it!” I am a girl and that is the first message that pops in to my head.

How did I get programmed to think that if a girl or a woman chooses an article of clothing from her wardrobe, and she gets raped, then it is her fault?

How shocking is my mental “default stance?” 

I dress my children conservatively so they “do not become targets of rape or p.aed.ophil.es.”

I raise my eyebrow when I see a young girl dressed in such a way that she looks sexually appealing. Because my internal message goes “she is asking for it!”

Who gets to decide what provocative is?  Who gets to decide the line between “the right dress” and “the wrong dress?”  Who gets to be the clothing police?  And who gets to measure the “range” for what is acceptable?

What if it is Riaan Cruywagen and Patricia Lewis and they become the committe who decides?

I think this concept speaks volumes about the society we are in.

I really hope that this walk takes place next year.

As mothers and women who read this blog, you will consider taking part, and dragging your children along with you.

<Then you have to sit and start the entire conversation about what a slut is, and that alone must be a mine-field, but you have a year to work that skillfully into conversation. I am also not sure how that is going to go down when the pre-school teacher asks Johnny if he did anything interesting this weekend.>

These are some amazing images from the walk taken by the über talented Tarjei Langeland. 

If you are interested in finding out more about this insanely brilliant movement, join them on Facebook.

Excellent article here on the SlutWalk and why you should do it (or should’ve done it, in my case)

Officially a Mrs …….

One of the issues I had to throw around in my head when getting married was whether to keep my surname or take Kennith’s.

The other was whether 16 years is really sufficient in terms of courtship and whether we should not rush it, and wait a while.

Kennith and I got married last year July in case you were not aware, or are new to the blog.  We got married on our “16th” anniversary, 3 kids present, I wore white, we had wine being served while the ceremony was going on, it was that sort of wedding.

I can honestly say it was not an easy decision, but one fraught with imaginary potholes and other traumas, for me.

For Kennith it seemed “logical” that I would take his surname and just flip mine aside, like a giddy new bride.

I did in the end decide to take Kennith’s surname.

Part of the reason was that I would carry the same surname as my kids.

The other part of the reason was that I knew it was important to Kennith.

I really did not want to lose my surname.  It was part of me.  The part I recognised.

It was not quite right to make my surname a double barrell surname as I would still be “different” from the kids and Kennith, so that would sort of defeat a certain part of the exercise.

I settled somewhere in between where I could feel comfortable.  I opted to take his surname, and go through a name change so that my surname became my third name.

<note, this really confused home affairs officials, and their foreheads get a crease, and they need to call a supervisor over to deal with it……>

I also decided to keep my “surname” until my new ID came into play.

Then it was official.

I got my new ID today. Suffice to say the photo is this side of hideous.  It is pretty bad.

But I have it and I have my new name.  So I plan to use it from today onwards and also alter my signature.

I know to a lot of people this would appear to be an insignificant day and really not something to even fuss about.  But I am my name, or my name is me.  Well that is how I feel to a certain degree.

And today I have a new name.  According to South African Home Affairs at any rate.

<I stood in the queue today and there was a woman in the queue behind me who insisted on playing/fiddling with my hair.  I was too mortified to tell her to stop!>

Monday mutterings ….

Kennith and I acquired a car that definitely screams “Your Sexy is Never Coming Back!”

We officially look like a family of plumbers or electricians.

The issue being we wanted 7 seats and a boot.  Not two kids in the boot.  Which appears to be the default design for most “big family” cars.

Problem with some of the bigger cars/soccer mom vans was they did not fit into our garage.

Crazy people who built our house, ignoring things like standard garage size and good paint.

We test drove a white VW Caddy.  Decided that even though it did not drive us wild with excitement. It did appear to be very practical, and loosely within our price range.

We then explained to the friendly car salesman that we were interested in the car, but could we have it in silver.

The answer was yes, but we had to wait four months.  Kennith and I cannot feasibly juggle our lives and one car.

There was an alternate to the white one.  It was brown.

I realised my mental capabilities are flawed at the moment.

But seriously.

It must have been a very bad day at the VW Caddy factory when they decided that “brown” was a great colour for a car.

Brown is super for chocolate and some furniture.  I have seen pants and shoes that brown works for.  Tree bark is totally rocking in brown.   Baby poo is better in brown, than say green.

But not for cars.

I am not sure there EVER is a time when brown is a great colour for a car.  I might be wrong.  Maybe I have just never seen the right shade of brown on a car.


We are now the proud owners of a “very hot and happening” VW Caddy.  Please keep an eye out at your next robot.  Or call us on our new 0800 number.  We also do paving.

On another non-related story …

Wednesday I popped down to the psychiatrist for a little “how are those meds going?” visit.

The short answer was “not well.”

Things are definitely very out of control. In my head.  Not on the planet in general.  Though they could be.

I suggested we stop pea-shooting the charging rhino and bring out the big guns.  A bazooka or an uzzi is sort of where I am pitching this.  I am about done with the “wait and see” subtle approach.

Let’s get it on like Donkey Kong!


We have brought out the big guns.  They include several boxes from the pharmacist.

I would love to say they are working a treat.  I really would.

They have however left me shaking and mumbling under my breath, and well feeling pretty crappy all around.  I must confess that sleep is no longer a problem.

So far Kennith has made me about 6 cups of tea that I never drank. He offers. I say yes.  He walks to the kitchen. By the time he gets back I am mimicking a light coma.

If you challenged me in rock-paper-scissors I would get it wrong right now.  I might pull out wig-wam.

Wig-wam does not beat anything.

On the upside I am definitely less panicked.  Still anxious.  But less panicked.  Not a total win-win situation, as I have gained have several other interesting side effects which we can chat about on another post (None of them include anal leakage – have you noticed how the insert  on drugs always refers to anal leakage at least once occurring in one of the control groups?).

On Friday afternoon I called my pdoc (Pdoc is short for psychiatrist.  Tdoc is short of psychologist.  True story.) and explained my symptoms.  I really was not feeling great.  Grim might be an accurate assessment.

He suggested I keep on with the meds, and I have had a bad reaction.  Maybe Monday or Tuesday I would see a shift in the right direction as my body (read brain) settled down.

I explained to him that I am not a suicidal person.  But Friday morning had me working out a plan.  Like jotting it on the side of my box of anti-depressant type of plan.

Even I could see this was not a healthy direction.  For anyone.

He suggested I wait it out.  And not to worry as I was not alone.

He is off until the 12 September on holiday.  Ironic?

I wished him a good holiday. And hung up.  I decided a lie down and a cup of tea, was not my worst idea.  I redrafted my plan on my brown box.

Let’s see how Monday and Tuesday fare.

Overall.  Me = Not Great.

Wear Your Heart on your Stomach …love the idea ….

I thought more about the post yesterday after it was posted than before I pushed “publish.”

Partly due to some of the comments I received, and this link that Jess and Julz sent on to me.

It got me thinking, I’d love to have a good photo of me and my scar so that I can look at it and think of it fondly rather than in distress like I do at the moment.

I think of it as ugly and want it to go away – but I love the idea that we look at it as “wearing our hearts on our stomachs.”

Really love that concept.  I had a little mind paradigm shift there.

I would love to do some black and white photos of c-section scars or birth scars.

I would like to get a few moms into a studio and take some studio pics that they can have and also I can have in a gallery.

I think it would be even better to wait for better weather and do it outside in a private garden.

I am not 100% clear in my head of how to do them yet.  I figure I can work it out.  I want it to be something you would keep and cherish, rather than hide in the back of your underwear drawer.

If you are in Cape Town, feel like getting na.k.ed or partly clad in a studio or outdoors – and want to do this drop me a note.  My email address is along the side bar, or leave a comment and I will contact you.

I am thinking if I have 3 – 5 woman, I can rent a studio for 2 – 3 hours, if the ladies are keen to chip in to cover the cost of the studio, I will sort out the rest.

We can do wine and photography — I find that is not always the worst combination.

Drop me a note if you are interested in the idea.

If you do not want to do it with anyone else, drop me a note and we can see what we can do.

Or if you have a suggestion to improve on this idea.  I am not sure when I will do it, but it is running around in my head.

Here is Georgia’s birth on 20 June 2005 – first cut and final dab …. look away if you are squeamish …

<seriously – look away, stop scrolling ….>

Last warning.

Otherwise, have a good weekend. Happy Friday everyone!!

Stuff that catches my eye … and leaves an imprint on my brain

I saw this image recently — and it made my breath catch in my throat.

Both because it is so _ _ _ _ _ _ (insert your own word) as it is lovely and delicate and vulnerable and … I don’t know, gruesome and frightening, all at the same time.

It conjures up a whole lot of emotions in me when I see it.  (clearly the child standing is not the newborn, and there might be a newborn or sibling who is not featured in this image)

It just thought it left an imprint on me … and not in a negative way.

My eyes kept wanting to relook at this image, and stare at it.  My brain kept processing this image and seeing different things.

I recall how mutilated I felt after my c-section (the third one).

I was really sore and it was winter.

I felt like I had gone ten rounds with someone large and powerful, and I had lost. I really was sore – but it was also because I was older, had two other kids to run after, and could not take the time to lie in bed and recover as you should from major surgery.

I recall being very anxious on the day that Isabelle was born.

I was sure something very bad was going to happen  – and I coped with it my ignoring I was about to have a baby.  Even on the way to the hospital I stalled and got Kennith to go to the mall so I could pick out breastfeeding bras.

I was so far into denial that a baby was about to come out of my body that it was rather disturbing.  But I compartementalise very well.  I have neat boxes for most things in my head (most days, this by the way is not one of those days.)

I am sure having my body all stiff from being panicked and anxious probably did not help, and only added to the discomfort.

This image this may or may not have been that – and as said, odds are it is photo-shopped quite heavily — but I recall how “ugly” I felt and how ugly the scar was/is.

But it isn’t is it?

I still have my scar – I have keloids so I scar quite badly and it looks pretty grim for about a year before it settles down and does not look all red and angry. (My c-section scar always looks like it is ‘infected’ for the first year as it really looks red and is sore and it just not a happy little line.)

It is a white indent now – I do prefer not to look at it though. I am not sure why.  I seldom look at it directly or in the mirror.  I never touch it.

But it really is a bit of a war wound — and I won.

Maybe one day I will not look at it in such a negative light.

I am curious how other moms view their scars from child-birth – which ever route you chose/or had to go through in the end, and what ever the outcome was and whether these scars affect the way we view our bodies.


Please note:  I apologise I cannot credit the image to the source.  It is not mine – I had it on my hard drive and have no idea where it originally was sources from.  I am not sure of the context of where this original image was used and whether it is heavily photoshopped. 

I apologise not being able to credit it back to the source or the photographer.

You can win a cow … actual livestock …

If you really do not care for my opinion on Facebook status updates, please, I beg of you, click away now.


Click away now.  Go to where ever you need to go to keep you in your happy place.

If you continue reading, then it is clear that you are vaguely interested in MY opinion on this matter and are prepared to forego the warning  – the second one that I am now issuing.

I will miss you – but come and read another day …

<pause for effect>

Third and final warning.  I am reminding you that you are choosing to read this, even though I have warned you three times.  It will/may offend you.

Okay, so to you two who have hung around ……

The truth be told, there are certain Facebook status updates that really do my head in.

I love Facebook – well mostly.

I have been struggling with insomnia for some time, and there is always something happening on Facebook between 2am and 6am, of course that might depend on the sort of people you hang around with and their respective time zones.

No doubt you post some of these ludicrous status updates.  I probably post some Facebook updates that annoy ME and you equally!

These are a few that I see that raise my eyebrow slightly.

The “I love my husband more than anything” post – great, tell him yourself.

Unless he is in Alaska and the only way you can communicate is through Facebook.  But if you live in the same house, is it not just a bit odd?

<I will confess to posting a Facebook update to Kennith once, and asked if he could make me some tea.  In my defense I was in bed, and he was in the lounge and I knew he was on-line.  And I did not want to scream down the passage and wake the kids, nor did I want to get out of bed to go and ask him.  I did get my tea, so there are times when it does work if there is a clear objective.>

<I also asked Kennith on FB if he would buy us John Cleese tickets.  I felt I would get a quicker reaction has he have a very close relationship with his iphone….>

The only time this sort of Facebook status update is acceptable if your husband is Brad Pitt or George Clooney – then you mention him by name in EVERY SOLITARY FACEBOOK STATUS update.

But that status update is worth reading, because it would make me ludicrously jealous – and you have Brad or George, you really do not have to give a fig about what anyone else thinks and you can post pretty much anything you like.

You HAVE Brad or George!!

I am almost sure there is a link/study somewhere of the frequency that you must announce your love to someone on Facebook and the length of your relationship, or the time between the post and the pending divorce.

The “I am so sad” post – cryptic?  Yes, which means I have to ask why are you sad.  Me and 27 other people. Of course I cannot push the “LIKE” button as that will be weird.

So we all have to go “what is wrong sweetie?” and then the person picks one person and goes “Jane I will PM you …”

Fk that does not help the other 26 of us, because clearly it was favouritism, and I have been left out of the circle, unless I am Jane that day.

Use your 144 characters “I am sad because …. and then add something interesting… for instance “I am sad because I cannot access my tampon and need to get to the doctor so he can remove it” or what ever – just finish your damn thought already.

Why be cryptic?  You are not the international man of mystery.  Or are you?

Now that would be interesting.  But sadly the truth usually leaves us a bit disappointed.  Do not build up hype unless you have such a cool ending.

The “I am speaking to someone who is not on Facebook” post i.e. dead family member, your one year old baby or granny who clearly does not Facebook” – again… not sure how this works, but okay.

If you are wishing your child happy birthday – then do it with swagger, because really they are not going to read it.  Something like “364 days ago + 9 months I was having sex with Harry, and his sperm won the race and impregnated one of my ovulated eggs, and now we have Kerry!!  Cool day huh?”

Now that makes interesting reading.

The “I have just bought a goat in Farmville” post – seriously?  But yes, and it appears it is the coolest game around, with like a zillion players/members.  It is the most downloaded application.

Hey we all do things differently but if that sets your arse alight, well then clearly farmville/whoreville or what ever is fab.  It seems.

Maybe, just set it so that it does not update your status updates – because logic tells me that no one sees that and goes “Cool Jennifer has a new donkey, excelllent, good on her!  She is such a cool chick! I am so crushing on her donkey.”

My guess is most people (or it could be just me) are starting to think unsavoury thoughts of you and farm animals.

Well I am.  But again if Farmville is your thing, and you want the man in the dungarees pictured on your facebook wall, then rock on.

You have a few millions crazies with you on that one.

The “random copy and paste” if you know someone with cancer/bad breath/anal leakage” – again, I do not quite get how copying and pasting that is going to make one iota of difference to anyone’s world especially if you have cancer/bad breath/anal leakage.

I might be in the minority. These posts really do carry weight – because they get cut and pasted like mad – so they must make a difference. Especially if you put a ♥ after it or a dare “I dare you to post this if you have a super mom/dad/uncle/hairy neighbour or a spot of flatulence.”

I seldom can turn down a dare, but I can’t say I have ever been “enticed” to copy and paste a status update.  Well not yet, but I might be lured to the dark side sooner than you know.

I once joined a group “My wife said if I started a group and get 100 000 to join we can call my son Spider Pig.”

Do I think that husband was ever allowed to name his son Spider Pig?  Pretty unlikely.

But it made me smile enough to go along and click “Join.”  I did not believe it and I did not try to run around and get three dozen of my closest friends to vote either.  And I am quite fine with you judging me for it.

The thing that grates my frkn goat (at the moment) is the “please vote for my baby” – because it goes on FOR FKN EVER.  And it is everywhere.

Like a case of the clap on a Contiki tour.

Anyone can enter.  I am not 100% sure it actually has to be your baby.

Last time I checked the page count was a million pages and counting – of babies and babies and then some more babies.  I really started to dazed and confused by about page 10 of this.

I have always felt most babies look like each other – really!!!  I have often arrived to fetch mine and the only form of recognition is I recall what I dressed them in this morning!

So the competition is – you enter your child.  Then run around in a frenzy and get everyone you know to go to the page and “LIKE” your baby.  You paste the link back to every place you can. EVERY FREAKING PLACE!

There is no “DISLIKE” button I already checked.

And really the only thing that is happening is that YOUR baby is not winning.

YOU who has the most social media “friends” does, and I am using this term rather loosely.

Really your baby could be a troll, have three eyes, and a voice like Fran Drescher (from the Nanny) but if you can get 2500 friends to LIKE your baby, your baby wins.

Or goes into the top 10 or 50 I can’t recall – and then the crazy plea for voting starts again.  Everyone is down to zero and it is off again.

You are now within sniffing distance of the prize.  So it will be a frenzy and it needs to be on your daily Facebook status updates – because people can vote EACH DAY!

Oh my giddy aunt, can you say “panic on the dance floor?”

For the site who is running the competition – it is a simple – yet brilliant case of – advertising that gets you and your friends to go onto a page a thousand times a day.  Pushing up that page’s hit rate.

That page/product in turn can sell more advertising because they can say “our site gets 5 000 (or what ever) hits a day.”  They are a business, that is what businesses do – whether you actualy have the Best Baby is irrelevant, it is about who has the “most popular baby” or “who has the most deranged/driven mother.”

Even with my rather limited IQ, see this for what it is.

1.  A competition that is not about the Best Baby – because the Best Baby might belong to a mom in “impoverished area”, who has limited internet access, and 10 really great friends on Facebook – but she does not stand a chance.   So her baby can’t be Best Baby – sorry for you!

2.  The mom who is internet savvy, maybe who has a blog, or what ever, she can generate more Likes.  So odds are on her side as so to speak.

3.  There are FaceBook groups you can join – and then in this group, you are all meant to support each other and go and vote for what ever it is you are entering.  No seriously!!  You join a group of people you do not know, for no other reason than so they can go and LIKE what ever you have entered.

Here are a few you can go and look at – or join –  Exchange of votes here, Contests Exchange Votes/Likes, Vote for me / Vótame, 50 Likes or Votes – the bizarre thing is have a look around and see how many desperate moms (who enter these competitions) have these as groups on their FB pages.

Am I the only person who finds this strange, creepy and …. I was going to say desperate, but maybe that is not the right word?  Maybe it is all fair in competitions of this nature.

I like to win as much as the next guy.

Dude if you were going to give me R10 000.00 Huggies Nappies I would be way excited.  I might even do a few unsavoury things and poke a few friends on Facebook.

But I would sort of draw the line somewhere.  Joining groups of people I don’t know so they will go and vote me and I in turn “vow” to vote for them, might be one place I might not go.  But that is just me, it seems.

Moms dig this shit like there is no tomorrow.  Can someone explain why don’t dads get all excited by this crap?

I suggest if you do not like them – you keep that to yourself.  Moms who enter this type of thing get super charged about it, and best if you do not like the idea, to just shush.

Which brings me to the best competition that I have seen.

I saw a FB status update earlier this week to go and LIKE someone’s post on a National Braai Day competition so that they could win a cow.

A cow!  Livestock!  An actual moo-cow!

It gave me so much pleasure to go and vote for her and hope that she wins a cow, that it made me roar with laughter for several hours.  I used to really ♥ her, but now I adore her.

A cow!  She found and entered a competition to win a cow.  Oh my giddy aunt, it made my heart all sorts of glad.

We started picking out a name, and found the cow a straw hat and we had decided who was going to bring coleslaw.  It was seriously a great cheering up exercise.

She unfortunately did not win, there were a few other people who beat her.  But I believe the next win is a lamb. I am right behind that competition.

I like competitions.

I just wish there was a way that “sponsors” could make them more interesting.

Moomie is running a really interesting one now on “what I would do if I had more time on my hands…” clever competition.  And it needs a bit more thought than just voting yourself into a coma.  It needs a really interesting photo – and then the voting is done by the public and by three judges, so that sort of makes it a bit more fair, on the more socially-media-inept kids, which I like.

<Key note :  I am not suggesting to alter your facebook status in any way – for all I care you can wish a unicorn happy birthday and try to garner votes for it too. I am indicating facebook status updates that I do not enjoy so much.  It is YOUR Facebook and you can say what ever you like – just because I do not like it, does not mean in anyway that I am dictating what you should post.  Remember you wear big person underwear, so what is on your Facebook is your big person decision!  Try and remember that before you send me hate mail and sh*t yourself!>

Georgia’isms …. # 2

Driving home from school today.

Georgia: “I love the taste of my skin….”
Me – looking a bit distressed in the rearview mirror….

Georgia: “It’s got a bit of meat in it so it tastes really good.”

Me – remember to call the Jeffrey Da.h.m.er Support Society and see what their membership rate is like at the moment.

The best feeling in the world is when ….


<and the worse is when you get b&tch slapped severely … but let’s leave that for another day>

When I started blogging, I though I would read my blog, and Fred, a nice but unemployed man in Ysterplaat might log in when he gets some free time at the internet café.

That is pretty much how I had it pegged.  And at the time it was enough for me.

When I started blogging – I thought I was unique.

I was the only mom who blogged. I had never read a blog.  I did not realise that there was an entire community/sub-culture out there.

I emotionally vomitted several times.

Then when I thought it was over, I stopped blogging.  You know, I thought I had got that shit out of my system.  I said what I felt I needed to say, to get me through my “little episode” after having Isabelle.

And I thought, that I had also enough and Fred had probably stomached all he could.

Then I had dinner with Mike Shaw – and Mike asked how the blogging is going.  I was a bit surprised as Mike was clearly not the “unemployed Fred in Ysterplaat” so I was surprised he read it.

Then he told me a few things about what he had got from reading my blog, and maybe understanding some of the “difficult” times his wife had gone through.

I left the Spur, feeling a sense of heaviness in my stomach from the Goodie Burger I ate, but at the same time maybe to rethink this blogging malarky.

If it was not for Mike Shaw I might never have got started, again.

Today is my + 10 000 hits anniversary (100,027 at the moment…)

Or one guy who logged in 10 000 times, which ever way you want to look at it. or 5 fans and 9 995 people who hate my guts.

The statistics are difficult to interpret, and really spreadsheets do not excite me – in the least.

My busiest day was the 15 September 2010, with 2,986 views, so that was pretty good.

I realise that 300 – 500 people might read this blog every day, and only 5 agree with what I say, while the other 295 – 495 tsk-tsk and promise to send me hate-mail as soon as they are finished vaginal-birth, breast-feeding, co-sleeping and arts and crafts with their little loves, as well as making a healthy casserole for their husbands.

I have embarrrassed myself more times than I can count on this blog.

I do not blog for you. I blog for me.  (Well I keep telling myself that.  I also keep telling myself that I do not care what people thing.  But clearly we all know now I am a bald faced liar-liar-pants-on-fire!)

There is something in it for me, even when I PUBLICALLY humiliate myself.

Part of it is that I get to out myself first instead of worrying what people are going to say.  I admit to the fart, even if I did not fart, just so that I do not have to blamed and people snigger at me.

Which I do quite often. The casualties are Kennith and the kids who get dragged into this blog, against their will, often.

I have said some things that I do not always regret saying, but I often regret that someone was hurt by it, and considerded it insensitive – that was never my aim, and then I regret posting anything that made anyone feel funny (bad) and not always funny (good.)

I do often look back with my 20/20 hindsight and realise I posted something while being emotional – and one learns one should not send emails, update your Facebook status or post blogs posts while very emotional.

It seldom goes well.

I love every solitary comment I get – some make me laugh, some make me cry, some make me alert the police.

This was my first post about fnding out I was pregnant the first time (though it was a get pregnant on purpose, but I was still horrified)

I did a post about Mommy and Baby groups and I still think it is pretty good.

Not a happy post, but one I really “enjoyed” because I was expressing what depression was to me, when i tis such a difficult concept to explain.

Do you know?  Yes, learning exercise.  That JK Rawling based her characters in Harry Potter, the Dementors on how she experiencd depression.  The fact that they are these dark forces, that can find you no matter how hard you run and how far, and they literally suck the energy force out of you, until you are left alive but dead.

I do laugh at some of the crap that falls out of my mouth, but for some reason this post made a lot of people laugh with me, rather than at me, which was a delightful change.

I would like to give a shout out to Mike Shaw, because if it was not for him, I probably would not have carried on blogging.  (Granted if it was not for Mike and Anita, and how “cute” Matthew seemed, we probably would not have had kids either.)

I would tell him personally, but he ignores my emails, so maybe his wife will read my blog and pass on my thanks to him.  So this is a bit like those ridiculous Facebook status updates which someone posts, but the person it is aimed at is never on Facebook.

Thanks Mike!

Silent Sunday …

I saw this on this site and it made me snort a bit.

Kids for sale … or nearest cash offer ….

Yesterday in the car, Georgia reminded me that I have three children.

Good to know

She also suggested that if I sold all three of them I would have none.

She then stopped talking and looked out the window.


I drove on a bit, and thought, okay, good thinking.

But really maybe I should reasurre her that as desperate as I am for a bit more cash in my wallet, and as often as I have indicated I will “give you away” I should reassure her that I had no real plans to sell her.

I gave it some thought as to why she would have come up with this line of reasoning.

On Sunday while Kennith was in Pick ‘n Pay and I was trapped in the car with the kids, I was joking around with Connor and I hastily made a sign for him and asked him to go and stand on the corner with the sign.

Which he did.  (Points for children who obey, no matter how bizarre the instruction)

There were no takers, but clearly Georgia is beginning to think long and hard about her family situation … and sign making.

So the other day at the police station …..

I will confess I seldom have reason to go into police stations.  This might be a fortunate set of affairs, or it might be robbing me of some rich culture in my life.

Sunday morning I needed to go down and report my “stolen car keys.”  It appeared that if someone walked up to my car and went bleep-bleep-bleep and drove off with my car, insurance would not be so keen on having any further discussion with me unless they knew beforehand that I was no longer in possession of said car keys.

Kennith’s mom played taxi and first we went and checked my car was still where we left it.

It was – happy moment.

We then spent two hours combing the area I had been “just in case” I might have lost it.  No luck with “hide and seek” so off we went to the police station to open a docket and get a case number.

My first impression was that internal decor really could use some sprucing up.

I also like the guy in the corner who was checking his gun.

Then my eye rested on the officer taking statements in a full bullet-proof protection vest.   That made my mildly nervous that this might not be the safest place in town.

I finally got my turn and explained my situation.  Officer George was very helpful, a bit perplexed, and went to ask advise from a detective.

She then returned with a rather large wad of paper that we proceeded to fill in and sign.

Whilst this was going on – there were various characters entering and leaving the police station.

The charge office door was directly behind me – which always makes me nervous as I cannot see people entering.  They tended to fall in to the police station, rather than open the door and enter through it.

At one point this guy comes in and he is in a lather.  Basically his story is that he has been threatened, and some guys who live near his house have threatened him with death and a good bludgeoning.  He is afraid and needs help.

The police officers ask him to take a seat and calm down and they will be with him shortly.

Let’s call him Jan for ease of future reference.

He sits down, and then keeps standing up every 3 – 5 minutes having a total rant.

A lot of it is in Afrikaans and he is using a lot of slang, so I am getting that he is agitated and he has a gripe.  Jan keeps clutching his side, and I am convinced at this point he has an Uzzi in there and is going to mow us all down, or he has been stabbed and no one is attending to him.

I am feeling quite concerned for Jan. I am feeling quite concerned for my safety, and envious of the police man with the bullet-proof vest now.

The police officers keep telling him – in a real calm voice and calling him Sir/Meneer to “please sit down, calm downa  bit, and we will be with you shortly – just sit down, rest and catch your breath”

They continue with my statement – and I keep glancing at Jan, thinking that I feel sorry for him, as he is clearly in distress, but the officers seem to be acting like it is all business-as-usual.

Close to the end of my little “docket opening” the charge office bursts open, and there is this bedraggled women carrying about 12 really heavy shoprite bags.  Accompanied by another man with about 3 shoprite bags.

She starts screaming – and not using good Afrikaans – at Jan – but going off like, well what ever it is that goes off in the middle of Kuilsriver if you are missing most of your top teeth, and mix your languages with ease.

Police officers do look up now.  One saunters out the back and ask who are you “screaming lady in the very bright pink hoody?”

Let’s call her Mary.

Mary it seems is Jan’s wife.  Jan is very hungover and well a bit “gerook” as she explains.  The reason he is at the police station is because he is too lazy to walk back to their house and hopes to organise a “lift” with the policeman, by making up this story of being “stalked to be murdered.”

The man standing next to Mary is Jan’s brother and he confirms that yes Mary is Jan’s lawfully wedded wife (he actually used that exact phrase) and Jan is gerook, and he has left them to carry all the shopping by themselves as he is lazy.

Jan’s brother used several other colourful references which were lost on me.

Jan had another little episode, but another severe look from Mary, had him decide to get his arse off the white plastic chair and rethink this particular plan.

Jan left with his wife and his brother – I noticed still not carrying any of the shopping bags.

My guess is Mary is going to smack him over the head as soon as they are out of the charge office with the day old French Loaf she had in her packet.

My statement was done.  I was told they would sms me the case number and I could go.

No matter how bad my day was, my guess is Jan was going to be having a far worse one.

Happy Women’s Day ….remember 9 August 1956

Until this year I did not know what “women’s day” was really about.  Not sure why, I just didn’t.

Please take a few moments to “think” of the women that gave their lives/freedom and safety for some of our rights we value today.

I saw this description on this blog – and thought it was nicely said.

On 9 August 1956, 20 000 women staged a march on the Union Buildings in Pretoria to protest against the proposed amendments to the Urban Areas Act (commonly known as the pass laws) of 1950.

They left bundles of petitions containing more than 100 000 signatures at prime minister J.G. Strijdom’s office doors. Outside they stood silently for 30 minutes, many with their children on their backs.

Those who were working for Whites as nannies were carrying their white charges with them.

The women sang a  protest song that was composed in honour of the occasion: Wathint’Abafazi Wathint’imbokodo! (Now you have touched the women, you have struck a rock.).

In the 54 years since, the phrase (or its latest incarnation: “you strike a woman, you strike a rock“) has come to represent women’s courage and strength in South Africa.

I can’t really improve on that explanation ……

As usual Zapiro says it like no else ……

Dude, seriously who stole my car keys?

I am starting to wonder/believe that maybe we create our own karma.

I refused to read The Secrets and now instead of opening myself up and attracting all the positive energy in the universe, I appear to be attracting goats and trolls.

We can philosophise another day how we create our own fate and if you send out negative thoughts, negative things will happen to you.

Listen Karma – I am depressed, I only have negative thoughts!  If you can get the fkn happy fairies to come over and sprinkle happy dust on me, I will take a bit of that.

I will even snort it or put it in a vein or consider a suppository if you think that will work better and faster.

Today was yet another classic day in “the fk up that is my week.”

Busy day.  I had to get two kids to a party – separate parties, in different places at the same time.  I had a shoot to do this afternoon, and I really was not feeling the happiness and the enthusiasm one needs to be able to carry this off.

It also meant I had to interact with people and there would be a house full of people I do not know. Loud kids screaming and me feeling anxious and panicky.  Can anyway say trigger?

I was not going to cancel, but felt quite reluctant to face it this afternoon.

I woke up – and tackled the day, because I am a bloody trooper – and because my kids wake up at 6am on a Saturday, no matter what time you put them to sleep.

I started to sense the day might not go to plan when Connor started using the blanket I was trying to cover myself with, as I sipped my first cup of tea, as a fishing net.

He took it off me and was trying to throw it across the bed to mimic the action of a fisherman casting a net. (This is while Isabelle and Georgia were fighting over a Winnie the Pooh book that neither of them have shown an interest in since ….. birth!)

I suggest to Connor that really, mommy has not had her Xanax and Zoloft yet, so maybe take this “fishing net” malarky somewhere else. (I can totally get on board with play acting fishing nets. I am such a cool mom I can roll with almost anything.  But the blanket was meant to be covering me and keeping me warm.  Instead I am getting gusts of ice cold air everytime the “net was cast” and the corner either flicked me in the eye or knocked my tea mug.  Just not Ayoba no matter how you look at it.)

He nods at me in understanding and does it next to my bed (instead of over the bed).  Throwing the blanket that WAS covering me as a fishing net to show he can “cast a net!”

I am wondering why I do not walk around with an intravenous drip of Chenin Planc.  I really do not know.  My own will power astounds me most days.

I swear to the universe, I am in a series of Fawlty Towers and I am officially the Spanish waiter Manuel standing around going: “Iz thiz yur bal, keh?”


Got Connor off to the party he was going to.

Got Georgia to her one. Granted Georgia wanted to dress in her ballet outfit.  It was like minus 10.  I eventually gave up and let her wear what ever the hell she wanted – I did insist she wore her pink flower gumboots, as I thought it made the outfit totally rock!!

I really am past fighting with Georgia.  Really!  Right now I am doing the “path of least resistance…”

I drop Georgia off at her party – which is such a fabulous little party.  Her BFF Cara was turning 6.  Her mom had invited 6 kids (or there abouts) and instead catered for the mommies and the almost single dad.

10am and I was served champagne and little eats.  I was not going to stay, really I was going to drop and run.

Then I met Dorothy and Andrew and I probably had the most interesting conversation that I have ever had a kid’s birthday party. It felt like a cool adult party with interesting people. I could have laid down on the couch and totally abused Cara’s mom’s hospitality all day.

But I needed to run.

I had arranged to fetch them at about 13h30 as I knew I was going to be running late.

I do what I need to do at home – then I think okay, I have 20 minutes to drink some tea and I will read a chapter of my book and fly out again.

I do that.

But I fall asleep – like coma asleep.

I get woken by the father who is hosting the party Connor is at saying: “erm, when will you be fetching your kid EXACTLY!” (when he actually means “why the fk have you not fetched your child, we are sick to death of kids, and the fact that yours has hung around for an hour longer than the invite stipulated is actually rude and really annoying, but thanks for the great book you bought my son, it was fabulous and beautifully wrapped!)

I rush out like a lunatic.

I forget all Georgia’s sleep over stuff at home.

Fetch Connor, realise sh*t I have to go back home to fetch all Georgia’s stuff.

Fetch Georgia’s stuff, grab Georgia, throw them in the car to high tail it to my sister-in-law as I need to get to the shoot by 15h00 and it is already 14h30.  Georgia is sleeping over there and Connor is going to “visit” (read lie on the couch and play his Nintendo game) until I have finished at the shoot.

Connor drops the birthday cake that he was given on the car floor.  Georgia is talking about …. gawd I do not know.  Connor is screaming for a tissue and acting like the “cake on the floor” is attacking his foot.

It is cake, guy, seriously calm the hang down already!

I am desperately in a rush – and keep looking at the “please fill me up with petrol light” which has stopped flashing and now just sits there wanly in red.

I am driving – but still trying to maintain the speed limit.  I am highly stressed (you think?)

Drop Connor and Georgia off at SIL – Georgia is going to sleep over. I will fetch Connor after the shoot and him and I can go and have a quick dinner and do valuable mom-and-son bonding time.

(Isabelle by the way is asleep and Fortunate is babysitting, in the event you were wondering where child number 3 was in this plot.)

Throw kids out of car at SIL.  Drive like a maniac to shoot address.

Realise I have forgotten my diary at home!  Fkn hell – I recall the address but not the house number.  I drive with growing anxiety still staring at the “little red light of petrol” and I get a small dose of good karma as birthday party people have put balloons outside their house.

Fan.frnk.tastic.  Found house. Whoop-whoop things are finally going my way.

I throw myself out of the car and run in to the house looking like a rabid dog who desperately needs a vet visit, and a shot of what ever puts a family dog to sleep humanely.

It was truly a lovely party.  It was a boy’s first birthday and I have never ever seen a party with this much effort put in to it.

The family was there and I think there were 60 – 80 adults.  The nicest people I have probably ever met.  I had so much fun, and their happiness actually rubbed off on me.  Really really lovely people.

Anyway, shoot-shoot-shoot, good day, okay 17h30 I need to go.

I start to look for my car keys.

I start to frantically scratch for my car keys.

I start to throw the contents of my bag out on the lounge floor while astonished guests look on.

Party comes to a stop while everyone helps me look for my car keys.

I cannot find car keys.  No idea, they could be stolen …. I could have sold them for CRACK I don’t know …. I just do not have keys for my car.  Car outside their house.  Connor in Durbanville.  My house somewhere else.

Please mommy can I go home now.  (that is what the voices are saying in my head at this point)

Total Fail.

Eventually the only option is that one of them give me a lift home.

I am slightly/very embarrassed as instead of slipping out quietly like a professional service provider, the last hour was all about me and everyone finding my keys.  They were even lifting up the jumping castle as options.

I get dropped off at home.

I have now spent 2 – 3 hours searching for my spare set.

I either do not have a spare set OR I was not listening when Kennith told me where they are OR I have no idea where they are OR They are in the safe, which Kennith has a key to.

Have I mentioned Kennith is in Utah?

I find out that VW will charge me R3000.00 for one key – but I need to get the car to them.  Which is tricky considering it is in Kraaifontein and my keys are on planet fuck-knows-where!

I could not get Connor home so he has had to sleep over.  He has no sleep over stuff, and I was really looking forward to an hour of just him and I time.

I have torn this house apart looking for my spare key.  Without success.  I did however find an unopened box of Nuzak (which I accussed the pharmacist of not giving me … whoops my bad, and some Cataflam, and a flash drive I thought I had lost.

But zip on the car key front.  My car is still in Kraaifontein.  I have I mentioned Kennith is away and he wrote his car off on Monday?

Public Service Announcement:  Go and find your spare car keys NOW.  Put them in your underwear drawer at the back – now you will know where they are, no matter what happens.  Tell your partner/husband/wife/neighbour/sane person that is where you keep your spare set of car keys in the event you have an epic day and can’t find them.  I already checked my underwear drawer twice, it is not there.

I survived today …. tomorrow though is a different story

Well, that day is over.

I survived, though granted I am still trying to pull shrapnel out of my arse.

I can honestly say I had a total catastrophe/paranoid/worse case scenario/I might just lock myself in the grocery cupboard few hours.

Nothing changed.  Time just moved forward.  I calmed down. A bit.

Kennith is away. He is in Utah – we have spoken about him maybe seeing if he can pick up a second wife.  I am not quite cutting it right now, and I am now convinced that a second wife might not be all that bad.

At the moment I can only see the perks, though I must insist on my own bathroom – that is really where I draw the line.

I can call her my sister-wife.  It will be fine.  Kennith says he has not been actively looking but he will try if it important to me.

Georgia is officially trying to drive me further to insanity.  Today I told Connor that he is officially the “good one” because Georgia has been co-opted to being the “child who does not listen.”

On that note.

I decided to treat the kids to a healthy McDonalds dinner.  They like McDonalds.  Sure it dumps about a ton of crap into the landfill every day, but they can serve a burger and fries like no one’s business.

I ordered, we sat down.  Isabelle went berserk.

I am seldom embarrassed by my kids in public.  Isabelle officially made me embarrassed at McDonalds – and you must realise to be embarrassed at McDonalds must be impressive.

The problem with a two-year old who cannot/does not/chooses not to talk is that you have no idea why they have tears coming out of their eyes, and snot bubbles being issued from their nose whilst they are frantically pointing in a general direction and screaming.

After you have played the game “pick up everything and pass it to her and she smacks it away and screams louder” I finally twigged she wanted a cool drink she could hold, with her own straw.

Like her brother and her sister had.

I want to be very clear on this point, that the system of elimination to get to this particular result was quite wide and included (but is not limited to) : chips, a McDonalds toy, an old McNugget on the floor, Connor’s school jacket, my phone, my wallet, the McDonalds tray, the little white dish that holds the tomato sauce….

I gave Connor R20.00 sent him to the counter and said “just buy a cool drink quickly.”

Isabelle stopped crying.

I sat there and wondered exactly who was training who in this equation.  How has a two-year old managed to whip my arse so well with such skill, and not using any language what so ever?

On the drive home she wanted the cool drink.

I gave it to her.

She dropped it.

I tried to drive and simultaneously dive behind my seat (whilst still strapped in and driving the car) to grab the now spilling creme soda it so it would not spill more over my already dirty car – I do have some pride you know!

I took my foot of the brake.  The car lunged forward into a road.  Fortunately there was no traffic.  I screamed at Connor to help me.  He tried to lean into the back behind the driver’s chair without taking his seatbelt off.

Isabelle is screaming like her leg is being chewed off.

Georgia is singing about fairies in rain coats.

I am staring through the windscreen wondering why I have been forsaken in this manner, and then quickly trying to calculate how much time I have until bed time.

Retrieve cool drink.

Put it in drinks holder in front of car.

Isabelle screamed the entire drive home.

I am so looking forward to this day being over … though inevitably it means tomorrow has to start.

Saturday I have two birthday parties to attend, and one birthday party to photograph in the afternoon.

Me + happy screaming children + balloons + flammable liquid = not a probable good combination.

I am exhausted right now.  I need to go and wrap presents and make happy birthday cards for tomorrow morning.  I know I want to leave it to tomorrow morning but that will just be chaos.

<note to self, ask pill doctor to relook at my script, really not working on so many levels>

I love Epic Fail Moments … and I seem to be doing them regularly ….

Okay so what do we know about me.

1.  I have three kids, I am not your run of the mill mom.

2.  I work, and I work because I enjoy it and to remain sane – I do not think I could be a stay at home mom.

3.  I suffer from chronic depression, anxiety and panic disorder, possibly with a light touch of OCD or even Tourette’s thrown in for good measure.  I also have a social phobia – and added to that a touch of what you could call sensory sensitivity i.e. too much sound, light, noise, touch sets off a few triggers.

4.  I am scary honest even when I do not want to be.

5.  I drink way too much tea and wine.

6.  I would walk a mile for a bag of Chuckles.  (I am lying, I might walk to the end of my drive way, but it is still a very far way).

7. I abhor smiley face icons.

Great so we know that.  Nothing new there.  Just checking we are all on the same page.

I really do not mind who reads my blog.


Okay, I prefer it if my mom did not read my blog.  But anyone else, be my guest.  It is a public forum, knock yourself out.

I get countless emails and messages from “moms who struggle” to say thanks for saying what they think and feel, and for saying it out loud.  I blog because it makes me feel a bit more “normal” each day – but it is nice to not be the only person who “struggles” with stuff.

I have commented that I enjoy my job, and the people are great, and blah blah blah pancakes.

But the physical closeness of people and the amount of noise has had me making regular visits to a psychiatrist and a psychologist and basically had me shut up at home because I am “afraid” of being at work.

Slightly career limiting move …. you think?

Because it is setting off panic and anxiety attacks, I can only spend so long crying in the toilets, before people start wondering if I have a bowel problem or a urinary tract infection that needs to be addressed.

Recently there was an office shift and a staff member got moved next to me.  She is lovely and sweet and all of those things.  If my mother sat next to me it would set me off.  It unfortunately escalated “my situation” and I spent a bit more time in the toilet cubicle and started dipping a bit more frequently in my “lunch box of pharmaceutical approved medication” which is all not ideal.

I struggle if my kids are close to me, too much of them near me and I start to shake, rattle and roll. <yes, it is loads of fun to be me, I am a ton of fun at parties and get togethers>

I posted a note about this a little while ago.

You know that mantra “You never know who reads your blog!

Well, bottom line is you don’t.

And I don’t really consider it too much else I might not say anything, or I might start censoring what I say and then I might as well write for …. You Magazine.

So far, all okay.

But then someone at work reads my blog.  Someone forwards it to someone else who forwarded it to someone else.  All who work 2 metres from me.

And it was off ….. like …. I don’t know what goes off?

So now not only do a few dozen (I am being modest) people in cyber space know that I am a full on whack job – but now a few hundred people in my office complex know that I am full on crazy as well, and making judgements accordingly. <sigh>.

I know there should be a bright side here, but I am seriously not able to find one.  I will wait for Natasha to find a way to politely comment, as sometimes she does manage to say it quite like it is and can make me snort even in the face of full on disaster.

The irony is I spoke to HR and asked her to keep it confidential, because I like to give the impression that I am mildly sane, it prevents the goats from getting afraid and scattering.  Work has actually been great in understanding I am having a “bit of trouble.”

You really cannot actually write a better fail moment than this one.

I would like to say “hi” to all of you from my office who might be reading this, and really you should not be spending company resources reading non-company related material during office hours. 

It is strictly prohibited and frowned upon.  I can also check the URL/ISP details so know who you are.  (I can’t, really, so don’t panic.)

To those who are not from my office, but know me – this is what I would call an epic fail moment, or …….. no, it’s just an epic fail moment, of which I had several this year.

On the upside I have sleeping pills.  I am weighing up whether one or twenty-seven is a good number for this evening.

No, really I am fine.  This is not some tragic cry for help. I am not quite throw myself off a ledge yet, but I have developed a wonderful case of catastrophe and panic going on – as we speak.

If you are crazy and you know it, and mildly to extremely embarrassed clap your hands!!

Clap clap!  You know the rest of the song, so I will leave it to you …….

Woman’s Day …..9 August 2011

On the 9 August – Tuesday, we get to enjoy a public holiday.

If you are anything like me you take a public holiday with a sigh of relief and seldom give much thought to why it is there.

In case you did not know:  This day commemorates 9 August 1956 when women participated in a national march to petition against pass laws (legislation that required African persons to carry a document on them to ‘prove’ that they were allowed to enter a ‘white area’).

Very cool – very cool we get a day off.

Maybe cooler if we gave it some thought on the day.  I know I need to.  I enjoyed this piece if you are interested.

The only reason I “remembered:” that Women’s Day was on the calendar, was that Kennith forwarded me an internal email of a campaign the clever folks at Cape Union Mart are running.

Kennith’s company came up with such a great initiative to raise awareness and money for the day, I whooped when I saw it and thought I would share it with you.

This is of no benefit what so ever to you unless you work at Cape Union Mart, but how cool are these guys with this idea:

I seriously want to “high five” Cape Union Mart on this idea:

Ladies and Gentlemen, August is on the horizon, and you know what that means… A public holiday and an entire month, to celebrate and empower women.

Women’s Day will be commemorated on 9 August around the country, but on Friday 5 August 2011, Cape Union Mart Head Office will be celebrating with a very special event.


Yes, thats right! 9 brave men have decided to put themselves on auction, where you can bid to have them at your beck and call for the entire week.

Services such as personalised cooking lessons, one on one Muaythai sessions, freshly baked goods every morning on your desk and even a porter service to and from your car every single day will be up for grabs.

All money raised will be matched by Cape Union Mart, and will go to POWA (People Opposing Woman Abuse). So let’s get  bidding and have some fun!   Details below:

Date:        Friday 5 August 2011

Time:        14h00

Venue:      Canteen

Bring:        Bidding money (bidding will take place in increments of between R2 and R10)

More information to follow early next week! See you on the 5th!

How cool is that for a company initiative?  Very cool.

Georgia’isms …. # 1

Georgia is really a funny girl and makes me laugh – because she is so unique ….. maybe in a special class sort of way, but I know her thinking is not “wired” like the general populace.

I took out a subscription for Connor for Kids National Geographic- with the express instruction he share the magazine with his sister and not cut stuff out of the magazine.

The first magazine came with a plastic ball.

You blow it up and it has the globe on it.

Granted it had the globe on it before you blew it up – or it would have been a magic ball – but you can see the globe/earth/world when it is blown up.

First day Connor loved it.

Second day Connor forgot it existed.

Third day Georgia picks it up and holds it and starts singing “She’s got the whole world, in her hands, she’s got the whole world in her hands….” and continues through the balance of the song.

That girl needs an agent or at the very least a show on Thursday nights.