“The whole mall is fucked up …”

“The whole mall is fucked up …” truer words have never been uttered before by a spokesperson – alive or dead.

1607-Godfrey_Mashakgomo

Godfrey Mashakgomo, we salute you.  I have spend time stalking you, and I am really hoping this is the first of many many “take no shit” approaches to things that are fucked up.

You are our hero, our oracle.

I am not sure how you are still a Mall spokesman — I personally think you should be snatched up by a corporate who give you free rein.  They won’t need to tell you to speak the truth, because your truth is unquestionable at this moment in time.

I admire your use of the word FUCK.  Eloquent.  Not too vulgar, just the right amount of “see what happens when you put a few million liters of water on a mall roof” and I think we can agree that more people have read about Tembisa Mall that would have had you erred on the side of “right speak” ……

When you say “the mall is fucked up” I immediately understand the extent of the problem.  I saw the pictures of the roof, you are right that mall is fucked up …… there is just no better way to say it than you did.

I get it.

I see it.

If I had more PR companies that contacted me and said “listen this product is total shite, but give it a go, you may like it, we fucking hated it over here —- but see what happens …. write a review, don’t write a review, we actually do not give a fuck” ……….. I would probably be more inclined to actually read the press releases, and possibly even take a sniff of the formaldehyde.

Unfortunately their well worded emails bore the shit out of me, and I want to run them over with my car.  It would be a mercy killing.  They show no signs of life anyway.

Godfrey Mashakgomo — well done.  Well fucking done!!!!  You have put Tembisa mall on the map.

I hope that people are scrambling over each other to offer you spokesman position — actually fuck spokesperson positions, maybe you can just be a commentator on the political situation or something ……  I can’t think what, but I have a feeling we have not heard the last of you (I pray we have not heard the last of you).

 

its all fucked up

 

Read the original comments here:

http://www.news24.com/SouthAfrica/News/people-injured-as-roof-at-tembisa-mall-collapses-during-storm-20160726

And see the picture of the mall that is “fucked up” …………

Godzilla counts 1-Mississippi-2-Mississippi-3-Mississippi ….. and other coping mechanisms

Kennith has a significant other/plus one/special friend – I am not sure of the level of the relationship so not sure of the title.  She however is sufficiently part of his life, and thus my kids that I notice her on my children.

Yes, I know and you thought divorce was a fucking party from the beginning to the end.

I do not know Kennith’s partner – I really don’t.  I am not one of those people who go and stalk them.  Actually I am.  That is exactly who I am.

However in this case because I have decided to exercise some self restraint and I have opted out of this.

The less I know about her – the less material I will have to work with in my head (more on that later.)

My kids – for those who are new to this – is a 15 year old son, and then two daughters who are 10 year old and a 7 year old respectively.

My son could be living with Martha Stewart and he would still remain in his jammies until 12h00 and not give a flying shit whether his hair had not been washed since April.  He is not one of those kids who is overly concerned with his appearance.

The night before last I convinced him to take the dog for a walk.  In his jammies.  Initially he said “n0” and explained that these were his jammies.  I gasped in horror and said that he was looking rather snappy today, and there was no way I would have guessed his little ensemble was “ready for bed” attire.

Anyway he eventually took the dog for a walk.

I am sure one day soon he is going to spend hours on his hair and his get up, but that time is not quite now.  His idea of a great time is to go fishing for 12 hours straight.  The aroma of fish and red bait is hardly a deterrent to him.  He looks like a drowning survivor or a homeless person by the time I see him after a day with a rod, but he does not give a fig.

I can’t imagine anyone is going to influence how Connor steps out or presents himself.  Unless Kennith shacks up with a hardcore fisherman, then I think Connor will swoon and be forever in ecstasy.

The girls are girls, and have slightly stronger opinions on what they will wear, what they won’t and what they like.  They are not mad totally obsessed girls, but they get generally put together an outfit of one kind of another.  Georgia has a very odd idea here of what works, but sometimes we just let her go out as she chose to dress, and we praise her for her individuality.  And her bravery.

As time has moved on and Kennith has moved into a role of dressing the children, I have got used to what to expect in terms of what he chooses.

I know how he does their hair, and I can see when he has been in charge of “getting dressed, teeth brushed, hair done and out the door.”

Then there are the days I fetch the girls from school and I can immediately see that this is not all Kennith’s handiwork.  And I can recognise when there has been another person in this equation.

It’s such a stupid thing.

I arrive at school, and I immediately freeze.  I try to position my face into a sublime expression and smilingly move towards the girls for an embrace and hugs.  Sorry, I then proceed to sniff them — its really something I do.

So far I have not smelt Jessie on them, and for that I say a quiet thank you.

Jessie is Kennith’s partner and of course she is going to be involved with the girls.  Logically I can look at this and nod, and go of course.  Come on, its fine.

But the jealous those-are-my-fucking-children-monster unfortunately has more of this sort of a reaction …

godzilla01

My girls are young and they are loving friendly girls.

They are not highly suspicious of strangers, and a girl close to their age is going to appeal to them.  So to add to my “well isn’t that nice” I get to hear loads of information about Jessie.  And I can see (or I assume I can see) when she has had a hand in doing their hair or picking an outfit.

I am seriously only able to maintain my sweet and gentle demeanor because I know I am never more than 8 hours away from wine o’clock.

The other day I dropped by the house to collect/fetch someone/something and Isabelle wasn’t there, and I asked “where is Isabelle” only to be told she is out with Jessie.

Again the logical part of me goes, well isn’t that lovely.  Its so great Kennith has found a partner who likes the children and wants to spend time with them.  Right?  The logical side.

But then there is the other side that looks a lot like this …..

motherbear

Here is the irony in the Game of Divorce ….. it has been okay for Kennith to leave the kids with Jessie pretty much from when he knew her for 21 minutes.

There was no big issue. I definitely did not need to be consulted, and I was not really in a position to raise a flag and go “hey who the fuck is Jessie?”

However as I generally date people with penises, that sort of changes things.

If Kennith arrived and found out that the girls were out with someone who knew me, who owned a penis, there would be a shit storm of the size I could not even begin to fathom.

So this story really has no point really. It however does raise frustrations about having to deal with a “girl person” who is in a relationship with my children.  No matter potentially how nice that girl person is.

People with penises and people with vaginas are different in terms of how long you must know the person to leave your children with them.  That has been made quite clear to me.

Its a complicated formula, and I am not 100% sure of how it works, it just is, and that appears to be sufficient for it to exist as a law.

No matter how rational you appear, no matter how many times you count 1-Mississippi-2-Mississippi-3-Mississippi- you still cannot get used to some other woman being a part of your children’s lives.

And seeing the results on them.

Watching them physically being affectionate to that person is such an area of discomfort that I cannot even begin to describe it.  It does feel a lot like my heart is being fucking ripped out of your chest via my poop-hole and stomped on.

But I smile graciously and try not to shit in my pants.  Try.  Sometimes it leaks out a bit and that cannot be helped.

Yes, and you thought divorce was just about who got the big television!!

 

{One relief, and THE one AND ONLY relief only is that the girls used to give me a blow by fucking blow account of Jordan, Kennith’s previous girlfriend.

Everything I did was compared to Jordan.  I was reminded that Jordan also did this or that …. the word relentless comes to mind.

Sitting at the movies with my arm around Georgia, and her snuggling in to me, is sort of spoilt when she looks up to me and goes “this is just how Jordan hugs me…”

It’s freaking hard to sit there and smile and not rip the arm of your child off and fling it across the room screaming “Does Jordan do that??? Huh?? Does she???”

But that would be wrong.  I smile and go … great, super, happiness and again give thanks that it is never more than 8 hours away from wine o’clock.

The girls mention Jessie, but it is not as often and with the same intensity, and for this we can be grateful.}

Why do one punch when two punches will have a better chance of hitting it’s target?

I realise I may well be playing the world’s smallest violin in this particular series of posts.

But dude, I need to get this shit out of my head.

Part of me has been unwilling to write/post about this because I am consumed with who reads this blog and what they will think.

I took that entire situation under advisement and I have come back with a resounding “yeah, fuck ’em …” this is my story.

I get to create the scenes and the characters, if you do not want to read it or disagree, then please sir, may I show you the door?  Or the conveniently located “click away” button.

I may well regret things I say here today, later today or tomorrow morning.  This is how I feel at the moment.

I have always used this blog as a place to put things.

That no longer belong in my head.

I do not do well with bottling things up inside of me.  I can feel the cracks forming …. its time to just “blech” it here.

I realise that for some people who read this they are going to be thinking “Geez Louise that was ages ago, move on..” and that is fine for them to think.  Totally fine.

Unfortunately in my head things move at a different pace and time, and right now I have a lot of stuff that needs to come out.  I do not know how long I will need to “move on” and if my moving on appears too slow for your timetable, I wish to apologise that I cannot stick to your time table.

Not on this.

I am not planning on having a divorce pity party, but this shit has been simmering inside and it is starting to spill over the edges.

Today is one of the days I give in to this slimy shitty monster that seems to consume me on every level.  One of my many problems is that I get stuck in the detail.  A word, the way it is phrased, the way it is used.  Cuts.  Brutally.

>>>>>>>>>>>>> Being divorced from.

I realise this is semantics.  But semantics are important.

I did not do the divorcing.  I did not agree with the divorcing.  The divorcing was foisted on me.

I went through all the phases of denial, disbelief, cry to your mom on the phone, see if there is a chance that alcohol consumed in vast quantities will actually kill you, and every other way I thought could or would work to move into the acceptance mode and out of the “what the fuck just happened there?”

I was wrong.  None of the other ideas worked when one of the parties has made a decision.

We are not talking about choosing a paint colour for the en-suite we are talking about dismantling a life of twenty years and change.

I am still not sure which was the part that cut me the deepest.

Actually I kn0w. I just like to appear deep and soulful as if I have to bring up the memory.

There was the”I want a divorce” speech monologue, which actually did not have much in it, other than a killer fucking punch line.

Talk about stopping the world turning on it’s axis stuff.

Yes, very “show stopping” …. there was not too much in it of content.  But when you have an opening line like that, everything else becomes unnecessary.

Once that sunk in I could literally feel my teeth aching individually in my gums.

I am not sure when the next “big” announcement arrived, and I really cannot recall the exact situation, but the main thrust of it was: “I wanted to ask for a divorce last year, but then you had that mix up with your medication, and I thought I would leave it to see how it went……”

The key line here that carries the punch is “I wanted to ask for a divorce last year………” sorry, what again?

So not only have I been rebounding for the last few days/weeks with your big announcement but now you tell me that you have been THINKING ABOUT THIS FOR A FUCKING YEAR!!!

Listen I am seldom surprised.

The problem with anxiety disorder is that you are always thinking of every outcome and then every permutation, and then living through each of them.  The result is when I see a kangaroo steal a banana from a flower seller, and hop over a fence, part of me is thinking, yep, I saw that happening.

BEING DIVORCED FROM is really no fucking picnic when it comes to processing the information and trying to deal with it, so your fucking head does not explode.

Let me tell you when your other half tells you that he has thinking about this for a year —- an entire fucking year — and then you add that to the reasons who your head could fucking pop, it is a wonder that you managed to actually survive that moment.  Or that day.  Or appear normal in front of the kids.

It was a devastating blow.  I am not sure if it was meant to cripple and maim, but power to the people, that shit did massive massive damage.

I wonder about these things.

How someone feels when they drop a bomb, and whether they feel the same intensity of aftershock that you feel when you heard the information for the first time?

I must confess this particular “nugget” of : I was going to do this last year, but when the chemist fucked up your meds,  I thought I would wait it out and see if you got any better to remain married to…… was quite a lot to take on board.

I can tell you there is just no way you can be prepared for the blast of that information.

There is just no way to cushion the impact, when you have already been beaten and fucking mauled.

I am not suggesting that it might have been best if he just kept that shit bag to himself, but I am suggesting that that piece of information did nothing for me what so ever.

I wasn’t like “well, its great you gave this another year buddy, thanks man …..” or any other similar thinking.  I just kept going YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS A YEAR AGO ……. A FUCKING YEAR!!!! AGO!

I still use the label to describe myself “I was divorced from…” it conjures up a lot of emotion of not being good enough, not having worth, being the one that did something wrong, being the responsible party who could not hold this shit together.

>>>>>>>>>>>>> Being divorced from.

I know it is not a helpful title, and I know that I should discard it and not give it any more power over me.

I know that.

I know. That.

I. Know. That.

It unfortunately does not stop it denting my self esteem, my sense of self and how I value and view myself.  And having it run around in my head, bouncing off the edges – especially when I have suffered some emotional blow is debilitating.

I know it is not a helpful title.

160629-Theproblem

Raising Sue Heck …… and Sheldon Cooper’s love child …..

You know how you sometimes sit back and think “if I was a gazelle and had three gazelle babies would they survive in the wild?”

Okay, you may never had this exact thought, but I have.  I can swap out gazelle for pretty much anything, but today I would like to be a gazelle.

Georgia.

The best way to describe Georgia is just to say “Sue Heck” from The Middle, if Sue Heck and Sheldon Cooper had a baby, it would be Georgia.

suehack

 

suehack2

Georgia is unique in every possible way.

She is sweet, and kind, and does not have a mean bone in her body.

She is particularly excited by mathematics and science and she loves things that are no always “in her age range” – she really is a very sweet child.

But.  If we were in the wild.  She would not survive until 09h30.

I have never met someone who is so ill adjusted to every day life as this girl is.  It is not that she is “stupid” or “mentally challenged” it is just that she is so absorbed in what ever it is that she is doing that nothing else matters.

I would not ask her to cross our road, got to the neighbour and ask for a cup of sugar. There is just no way.  She would probably trip over the kerb and sustain a major head injury.  Or something similar.

So many things happen with her, I  sit there and think “this one cannot survive out there … she will need to live with either of her parents for ever…”

Last Thursday this happened.

It was getting kids ready to drop off at school, the three kids were sitting around the dining room table eating breakfast.

I sit behind Georgia and while she is doing breakfast I do her hair.  She has hair all the way down to her bum, so cannot manage it easily herself.

{her sister who is four years younger than her, has the same length hair, and can brush it and style it in almost any way possible …. but Georgia cannot brush her hair…}

I am brushing her hair, and I am making a high ponytail.

She is eating her cereal with milk.

She is close to finished her cereal, and I am at the ponytail plaiting part of the process.  Her hair is very long, so at a certain point, I push my chair away so I can stand.

These are big dining room chairs which when moved across the wooden floor, they make a distinct sound, so this is not clandestine chair moving.

I carry on plaiting, same procedure as every other day.  At some point Georgia stands up, so with my foot, I push the chair to the left, out of the way so that I can finish plaiting her hair and stand right behind her.

The scene.

Dining room table, all three kids sitting.

Georgia has stood up – she is finished her cereal.

I am right at her back —- because I am plaiting her hair, so she can feel me at her back.

I am plaiting her hair so if her body was working out where she was in relation to me, it would realise we are pretty close.

Then.  She sits down.

Not like a light sit. More like a faint – a direct, my legs are no longer interested in holding me up and I am going to collapse into this chair sort of sit.

This chair which has been moved away from her by me sliding it away – in a very loud manner as the chair scrapes the wooden floor.

The chair that could not be there because I am standing against her back.

I step back – still holding the plait, I am not giving this up for love or money.

I watch as her body moved past the table — it can’t really stop as there is nothing between the ceiling and the floor anymore, her head hits the spoon that is sitting in her cereal bowl.

An important point is that she has eaten her cereal and left the normal 100ml of milk in the bottom of her cereal bowl.

Just for detail. she is eating out of a white porcelain cereal bowl.

As her head zooms past the bowl, the spoon connects with her head or her head connects with the spoon.

I am watching this and for me it is all in slow motion, I might have still been plaiting.

The spoon somehow flies up into the air, but whilst in motion it has had the transferred energy to pick up the porcelain bowl which flips up into the air.

The bowl leaves the table, gets a bit of distance upwards, and then does a full 180 degree turn as it returns to the earth.

At this point Georgia has now discovered the floor.  She has started to apologise and say “I didn’t know … I didn’t know the chair was not there…”

At this point the cereal bowl comes down on top of her head, a bit like a fez actually.  An impossible amount of milk is now streaming down her head, all over her hair – somehow it managed to get a full 360 degree coverage, down her face and onto her school uniform.

All whilst she is in full amazement where the chair went.

The spoon in the meantime has been pushed into a trajectory, that I could not have imagined.

It had dumped milk on me, and then shot off across the room to again place an unimaginably amount of milk in a pool a few meters away.

Georgia stands up — bowl still on her head, milk coming down her face, not dissimilar from the scene from Carrie.

carrie

I did not realise we had that much milk in the house, let alone in the freaking bowl.

There was the usual clean up that ensued and Georgia’s amazement that the chair had magically disappeared.

If this had happened to any of the other children, I would have been amazed.  But with Georgia it is usually a case of “Oh Georgia…”

This child cannot survive in the wild.  Ever.