The Naked News …. no really ….

Okay, Kennith knew I was going to do a post about this.

He also indicated that the truth and what I say on my blog is not necessarily the same thing.  However  in this  instances everything is the truth, so help me ….. and then I take a seat in the witness-box.

This morning I walk into the room, and I look at the television – and there is a woman with not a hint of wardrobe doing the news.

Nope, nothing suspicious about that.

I had heard about the “Naked News” – Kennith and I both listen to 567 Cape Talk and John Maytham had mentioned it earlier this week.

The point is some one had reported it to the broadcasting police as being something so offensive and moral corrupt, well that it was just bad.

The BCCSA (Broadcasting Complaints Commission of South Africa) then said, and I para-phrase: “Listen Granny Murray, if you do not like it switch the fkn channel and watch something else.  If a woman feels that the job she wants is to read the news without her clothes on, with a well waxed bikini line, then let her. There is absolutely nothing degrading to women at large in reading the news naked.  If she is not fornicating or trying to pimp herself and it is after 11pm, when all good children should be in bed then it is fine. If you do not like it, just flick the goddamn channel.”

I heard the comments and it did occur to me that it was odd that people read the news in the nude, and then I thought or Riaan Cruywagen or Debroh Patter in the nik, and then I just felt awkward, and pushed the thought out of my mind.

However it would appear that Kennith is a different animal.

So back to my story – or my rendition of it.

I walk in to the room this morning and the Naked News is on.

I know this for two reasons: 1.  There was a naked girl (like totally naked) reading the news and 2.  There was a black and red banner on the screen telling you it was the Naked News.

I looked at it and then looked at Kennith, and asked the rhetoric question (with a slightly raised eyebrow): “What ARE you watching?”

Kennith goes: “The Naked News…”

Me: “Mmmm, I see that.”

I think for a few moments ……

Me: “Okay, but what is it doing on our television at 08h30…?”

Kennith: “I PVR’d it….”

Me: “You PVR’d the Naked News….seriously?”

Kennith: “Yes, they were talking about it on CapeTalk and I wanted to see what it was about…”

Me – looking at the television again: “Well it is clear what it is about ……… it is called the Naked News…”

Kennith:”I started watching it last night and started to fall asleep, so I PVR’d it to watch it this morning….

Me: “It is the Naked News, surely if you watched it for a few moments it might be ……… <Kennith cuts me off>

Kennith: “Shit, I just missed that…. I have to go back to see it again….”

Me: “What?”

Kennith: “There was a naked girl reading the news on a trampoline….”

Me: “Oh my gawd, seriously… you are rewinding to watch a naked girl jump on a trampoline?”

Kennith – in a very defensive tone – : “I am only watching this because they spoke about it on CapeTalk and I wanted to see what it was about… shit, where is that piece now ….. damn I can’t find it …..”

Me: “Kennith, you PVR’d the NAKED FKN NEWS …….and now you are rewinding in slow frame by frame so you can see a girl bouncing on a trampoline reading the news ………. seriously?”

I then felt I wanted to explain that if he walked in to the room and I was watching the Naked News as done by men, and I was violently rewinding on the PVR to watch a naked man with his p.e.nis sticking out jump on a trampoline, this entire morning might be a different conversation … bu somehow this entire situation is not a problem in his head.

But then I just got too tired for that and though I might just go to the toilet instead, because really he had PVR’d it and all.

Later in the day after our many many fights about Kennith playing computer games/iphone during suicide hour.

I chirp: “What was the statistic they mentioned in the Naked News about the amount of divorces attributed to the men playing computer games?”

Kennith: “……………..”

Me: “What was the statistic for divorce?”

Kennith: “You know I did not actually hear them say anything.  Were they actually reading the news?”

Me: “……………..”

A few moments pass ………

Kennith: “17% percent, I sure it was 17% percent………..”

No, it was 10% but nice guess.

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When mommies and daddies fight ……..

Last week Kennith and I had a humdinger fight.

EPIC. FIGHT.

We do not have huge fights often.    We disagree about stuff and then I call him names under my breath, but who doesn’t… I mean honestly?

I am not suggesting we skip around saying “love you noodle” and then telling everyone on Facebook how fabulous we are.

On a sidebar note, why do people feel they must tell everyone on Facebook how much they love their husband or wife?

Seriously, get off Facebook, and tell them yourself.

It is a about as sad as those people who phone in to a radio show to tell the disk jockey how much they love their girlfriend/boyfriend/wife/husband/person they are shagging/person they hope to shag, when the person is sitting behind them and you can hear them squealing with delight in the background.

I really do not give a shit how much you love your significant other, you go tell them.  How desperate are you to give the impression you have the perfect relationship when you need to announce it to Facebook …. constantly.

Any the way, I digress…. a tad.

Back to my story – I have been trying really hard of late to address an issue with Kennith instead of using my passive-agreesive-behaviour.

I do love a bit of PAB as much as the next gal.

I have found that standing with a baby on your hip, a glass of wine in your other hand and sighing in a very aggressive manner while your husband plays computer games during the evening suicide hour is not an effective manner for him to realize that he needs to put off the game and come and help with the kids/dinner/bath routine.

The only thing that it achieves is that you start looking too trailer park for your own good.  Husbands behaviour does not change.

So my story really starts here – my AF (periods for the uninformed) was a bit late, six days in actual fact.

Like most (all) girls if your AF is late you start wondering if you might be pregnant.

By 2pm of said day you start thinking you might be.

By 7pm of said day you are starting to suspect you are.

By 9am of the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you are really starting to think you are… for sure.

By 2pm of the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you are really sure you are.

By 9pm of the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you start to fkn panic because you know you are, but willing to wait for the next morning, as no doubt all will be right with the world.

By 9am of the day following the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you know you are.

By 2pm of the day following the day that follows the day-when-AF-was-due you have thought of a short list of names, have already mentally shopped for a pair of maternity denims, have started to feel pregnancy
symptoms that include sore boobs, swelling tummy, and irritability.

(I permanently exhibit 2 of the 3 symptoms all of the time, so this only feeds my slightly wild imagination.)

I was about 6 days late, and you can imagine how my brain had run away with me at that point.

If not, then let me enlighten you.

It was a boy, I had named him, already worked out where he would sleep, and how work was going to deal with my pregnancy.

I also had already mentally worked out how I was going to tell Kennith, and the total frkn explosion that was going to be and how he would suggest I viist a Marie Stopes Clinic, and I would cry and fall on the floor all prostrate and stuff.

Listen, when I am allowed to run about in my head, people get hurt.

I had popped along for a POAS (pee on a stick test) and it was negative and then my AF started, so I was relieved that I was not pregnant, which I also found odd as I do want to be pregnant (but we leave that for another post.)

I am regaling this story, because granted it has been a very stressful 6 days for me, to Kennith who looks decidedly green while I am telling him the story.  I am gabbing on and on and ……

The problem is that the story escalated to a full on argument that included, but was not limited to:

  • You leave wet towels on the bed.
  • No, you leave wet towels on the bed.
  • You never do anything with the kids.
  • Why can you not stop bossing me around.
  • I can’t go to the toilet in peace while you appear to be able to watch an entire rugby game on a Saturday afternoon, how does that work?
  • I will never change so stop trying to make me change.
  • Who do you think is the maid if the maid is not here and you continue to leave your shit all over the show.
  • You are a douche bag (okay maybe I just thought that).
  • You are a selfish bitch (I am sure that one was said out loud).
  • Fuck you.
  • No fuck you.

Any the way …. it got quite brutal and I must be honest I am not sure what we were fighting about exactly, but the wet towel seemed to be the fuel for the fire.

I actually learnt nothing from that fight, other than …..no, actually I learnt nothing from that fight, and I am still unsure what the point was.

I did learn that fighting with a woman whose period has just started is probably not the best course of action.

The thing with me is that after a fight, I am unable to just forgive and move on.  Resentment and anger lives
with me way after a fight has ended.  I am not really a bury the hatchet kind of girl.

I was so angry with Kennith – not about anything in particular, the fact that he was breathing was sort of making me angry.

I did calm down and I did sort of just “let it go” – but I am glad we do not have those arguments often, because they are harrowing.   I am not sure how people function in relationships where they argue all the damn time.

The next day Connor give me this little note …. shame poor lamb chop ….

Showdown at O.K. Corral

Okay so that was a bit of a hard weekend.

On Saturday night Kennith and I had a huge argument – a real doozy.

We really do not fight often, but when we do it is a bit of a screamer. I get angry really quickly and fight from an emotional base. Kennith tends to remain a bit more logical and likes to have a pie chart with a laser pointer when he fights – the boy likes to put up a good argument with visuals.

Any the who, there we were having a big old argument, all good judgment had left, all logic had abandoned us. I had started the argument, because I had had a total loss of humour failure – total, gone, missing in action stuff. It had been boiling under for just over a week.

The weekend before I had been left alone for the weekend as Kennith had quite a bit on. To add to the stress Isabelle was suicidal-ill. She was ill, I was suicidal. We also had house guests.

Kennith had not really weighed this all up and decided to invite 10+ people over on Friday for a braai thing, and then waltzed off without making any effort to clean up.

I have been blessed with many coping mechanisms, but the one thing that actually makes it impossible for me to cope is a dirty house. Any façade I had of keeping it together crumbles when I see unmade beds and unwashed dishes. If you throw a few towels on the floor, and a number two floating in the bowel because children cannot flush, it is like taking a long stick and poking it in a bull’s eye.

Last weekend was especially challenging to say the least. I came into this week still shaking a little and clutching at my bleeding soul. However the week progressed nicely as it does until I realized that I was facing a long weekend.

Like all other un-productive employees I share a certain joy of long weekends. However as a mom with kids, I get a little scared as I realize that my right-hand Robin to my Batman is going to also be away. (My maid is going to be on leave, for you who are not picking up on my cryptic message method.)

I started to get a slight twitch in my left eye at the thought of this weekend unfolding and knowing what a tip my home was going to descend to. Problem is that I had not had sufficient healing time from the trauma I had experienced last weekend. I was definitely showing symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

To cut a long story short, Kennith had been offered tickets to the rugby game on Saturday night. Eye really started to twitch now.

I knew he was going to go and I started to feel really angry that again I was going to be left with all the shit, while he happily skipped off.

I really tried to put on my big girl panties and suck it up. Just go with the flow, be a trooper, say “no problem!” when inside I was seething.

I said “no problem…..” I may or may not have managed a smile on my face while saying it.

Saturday came around and Kennith decided to use all his lavatorial knowledge to fix our toilet. This resulted in him sitting up close and personal with said latrine and taking it apart. “What a handy bloke you have around.”– you may say. It was difficult to really “feel the love” for the toilet being repaired as I was making beds, tidying up and trying to prevent our home slipping in to nuclear disaster. I also had not slept on Thursday night, so I was feeling pretty tired, which did not help.

Hours of toilet repair later, Kennith called a plumber, then sat and played computer games in the room while plumber was there “for security reasons.”

Kennith then went to rugby.  I got really annoyed that he had not helped tidy up, do dishes, empty the nappy overflowing dustbin prior to him skipping out of the house with his mates to have a few beers and watch the game.

I spent the balance of the afternoon and the evening swearing under my breath, and cursing the day he was born – as you do!

Unfortunately for Kennith’s sake, he came home.

He further decided to push the envelope on this and invited friends in for drinks. Not thrilled, but attempted to look mildly pleased and hospitable – was I feeling any love right then, fek no.

Kennith has been making this rather annoying comment regarding my drinking wine. Every time we unscrew/un cork something the says “You are just going to quaff this, you really do not appreciate it.” – or something of that nature.

I have been smiling like an idiot, and nodding in humour, but it has been grinding me so much that I want to scream. But Emily Post teaches one to smile in tense social situations.

As luck would have it, I had not been reading Emily Post that day – I had been doing dishes, and cleaning up – so when Kennith made his now-not-original-and-now-so-annoying little comments, I really lost sight of the entire conversation and just went off pop.

It was not dissimiliar to the little Dutch girl who pulled their finger out of the dyke. Catastrophic disaster and huge loss of life.

That is pretty much how the fight got started. I lost my rag and had an absolute shit-fit – totally

Unfortunately Kennith could not plug in his Powerpoint presentation fast enough, so instead decided to retaliate with being mean. It was really one of those ones where you go to sleep cross, and wake up exhausted but still really angry.

Ah, good times…

Sometimes when it is broke, you can’t fix it

Each session was harrowing, and I ended up either crying in the session or as I left.  As I am a natural talker about my emotions, and Kennith carries his cards pretty close to his chest, I found myself talking and talking and just blah blah blah – my friend Alice calls it emotional vomiting.

The result was that I felt there was this HUGE spotlight on me for each session and I just wanted to move some focus on to Kennith.  He would just sit there and listen. When the therapist would try to engage him, he would have a short answer and the focus would revert back to me.  I found it exhausting and did not find that we were making any real progress.  We just never seemed to get to the nitty-gritty of the problems.

In my mind I had rationalized that Kennith’s attitude was  that, if I only changed the way I behaved and my expectations, to come in line with his, then things would be great.  It felt like there was pressure on me to change and conform and adjust, but there was no pressure on him to do anything of the sort.

Many of my issues were wrapped up in emotional baggage, that I could not explain or express in neat logical point lists.  I often felt that “I wanted” or “I needed” something, but did not feel that those reasons were being validated.  Kennith is very logical and likes things in a list with definite pro’s and con’s.  He struggles with raw emotion as a decider in an argument – while my engines run on raw emotion.

The final straw came when we went out one evening.  We had agreed that it was his turn to drive, which meant that I could have more than two glasses of wine.  Maybe the fact that this was a Food and Wine Fair might have added some undue pressure.

After two drinks he decided to have some whiskey and some more whiskey, and was not really showing any signs of stopping.   I felt the only option was for me to stop at two, or both of us would be unable to drive.

I got really annoyed.  I felt he could not be relied on.  I felt he could not be trusted to stick to an agreement.  I felt that everything was about him, and what I wanted or needed was irrelevant when push came to shove.    Clearly there were more issues here than just us going to the Food and Wine Festival.

It is funny that is how women rationalize, discuss and argue.  It is never about the dishes being left, or the toilet seat not being put down.  There are bigger issues at play, and all the guy hears is “toilet” and “dishes.”  For us by the time we ask for something, it is a much more loaded argument.

I felt that we could not go out and have a decent evening.  We actually just did not want to be in each other’s company any more.  I am talking for myself, but that is how it seemed from Kennith’s actions, and from my point of view I really did not enjoy his company anymore.

A few days before this incident I had gone to visit a lawyer who specialized in divorce, as I wanted to know where I stood.  We were unmarried and had two kids, I had no idea what the laws was and what would happen in the event of us going our separate ways.

I had also met with an estate agent and gone to view alternate places to live.  My situation was quite bleak and I felt this was all going to implode really quickly, and needed to start making emergency plans.  Again my natural character of feeling better when I am doing something, rather than standing and just watching the situation and feeling helpless.

The day after the Food and Wine Fair incident, I sent Kennith an email – and cc’d our therapist – basically saying that I think we had gone as far as we could, and I wanted out.

I really had had enough, and felt that I could not communicate that verbally without getting very emotional and not being able to remain objective.

I knew that financially I would not be able to take the kids with me and move out.  I had mulled this point around for days in my mind, and really tried to work out all the possibilities of how this was going to work.

At this point, all I could think was “I need to get out” – I just could not see us fixing this and I felt like I could not bear another day in this situation.

I came from a pretty deprived situation, where my mother was out at work all the time, and had absolutely no time or urge to spend any time with us.  I felt that I did not want to be so pulled into the pressures of earning a living to support my kids, that I would not be able to spend any time with them, and have to rely on after care facilities and permanent daycare arrangements.

I calculated that I would need to work two jobs to support myself and them – and I felt that Kennith and I would not have an amicable separation. I had not discussed this with him, nor how far this had progressed on my side, so I had no real idea of how he would react or what his support would be, but I was fairly sure based on our present situation that things would be drastically strained and I would not be able to present a list of demands and have them met.

I had ruminated over this endlessly, and run this every possible permutation.  I did not want to leave Connor and Georgia, and had spent many weeks crying over it – but I felt that I had no choice.  If I took them with me to make me feel better, it would disrupt their lives, they would end up staying at aftercare until 6pm as I would not be able to afford someone at home.  It was all a waking nightmare!!!

On the evening of the Food and Wine Fair, whilst sitting outside waiting for Kennith and getting angrier and angrier, I had decided that if the worst was that I moved out, and left the kids with Kennith .  If that was the hardest decision I was going to make, then I needed to make it now and not let it stand in the way of getting out of this hell.  I was dying, and this situation showed no signs of getting any better.

I figured that at least the kids would have stability in their day and a safe home environment.  I had no idea how it would work and what it would really feel like having to leave them.  I knew that right now I just needed to get space between myself and Kennith and do it with as few casualties as possible.

Kennith was not a bad father, he was a little absent, but maybe when he took full responsibility for the kids he would change.

Once I accepted that as being the most difficult decision I had to make, and I made it, suddenly I could cope.