B is for Braids...been there, done that, experienced the pain!

I’ll start by admitting two things:  Yes it was shit sore and yes I took my own comb and F.Y.I I don’t feel bad about admitting to either of the two.

Last Saturday The Husband, Mini Male and I took a trip to Bellville Station to get my hair braided.  I had heard at a school party that I didn’t need to venture all the way into the city centre to have braids done, I could simply make my way to the station and find someone who would do my hair.  The Government Shufflers friend’s mom also gave me some other valuable info in case I was taken advantage of because clearly the people doing my hair would know it was my first time.  So I found out the price for braids was about R120 and if they used artificial hair, it was R10 a strand… so with this info I made my way to the station.

The Husband came with me because he felt I need “protection” – from what I don’t know – killer combs perhaps?  Maybe a wayward strand of possessed fake hair would suddenly wrap itself around my neck and he would gallantly save me from sure strangulation?? 

We had barely parked our car and crossed the road when we saw all the little makeshift salons standing proudly if what unsteadily on the pavement.  As soon as I crossed the road… I entered the competitive world of the “pavement braiding business”. I was immediately approached by a lady who asked me “You want braids baby?” and a substantial catalogue was shoved under my nose.  Let me just mention there are many many ways to braid hair and these ladies can do whatever you want with any type of hair under the sun!

The colourful world of pavement salons!

So I explained that I did and described what I wanted.  When I asked the price, it was somewhat higher than my “contact” had advised me, but I just said OK (so much for the new assertive me!) .  Then The Husband (Financial Advisor/Bodyguard) said that that’s not the price we heard and we’d go some where else – needless to say, the braids were done for R120! 

So I sat down on my plastic garden chair (no fancy movable salon chair here) and took in my surroundings.  I was one of 5 ladies having my hair done and we, along with our stylists (one with a baby on her back - even informal traders have "bring your child to work day") managed to fit into a little tent-like structure roughly 5m x 2m.

A happy mix of Customers and Stylists!

The Salon is run by 2 very talented French speaking “sistas” (who also happen to be sisters) from the DRC. (Well I’m just guessing the DRC… I didn’t get to talk to them much, I was much too busy trying to find my happy place during all the hair pulling and plaiting.)

aaaaah... happy place found!

What I did learn from the experience though is that I missed my calling.  I should have been a spy – because if I could survive the braiding process without uttering so much as an ouch, I would be able to survive any given method of torture if I was ever captured by the enemy.  Finger nails being pulled by pliers – piece of cake.  Eyelids being cut off with blunt scissors – no problem.  Toes being cut off one by one ... bring it on! Having my hair braided made me realize that my tolerance for pain is very very very (very) high! 

Smiling on the outside... screaming on the inside!

The camaraderie at the salon is very infectious.  Customers and Stylists alike call out to passing people to come in and their hair braided.. if I was able to come out of my happy place I too would have been shouting "Braids Baby" along with the rest of them! 

For just over an hour I was part of this happy braiding salon, where everyone helps each other out.  If someone goes to the shop, all the other customers hand over money so that one person can bring back cold-drinks, snacks etc!  The lady next to me had to hold her own strands of artificial hair and pass them on to the stylist when she needed them.  I also had to contribute to my style and at the end was found holding my beads and elastics... at that stage I would have done anything to get the process over and done with, so I didn't mind!

Assisting the stylist...

While the braiding itself was painful (to say the least)... the end result is awesome and sooooo easy to maintain! No more brushing, ponies, hairbands, knots etc!  love it!  But there has been one down side......

Like Samson, I think my writing mojo is in my hair. And with it all so tightly braided up and constricted, I'm finding it very difficult to "write" !  So posts for the next few weeks may be infrequent and lack lustre.

However, at least now I can cross a letter off my ABC list.... B is now done and dusted! Bring on the next 25 letters because fulfilling them will never be as painful as fulfilling the first!

Living in the "Smallest House" in the World!

Let me just start by saying we live in the “smallest house in the world”.  We also have the unfortunate distinction of being “the only house in the world” that doesn’t have a pool.  My poor “poor” kids – how are they going to become productive, valuable, contributing members of society when they’ve had such an unfortunate upbringing!

The Government Shuffler is the main culprit here, while I am pretty sure she wasn’t switched at birth, she definitely has an inbred taste for the good life and she’s realising more and more that the “good life” isn’t at 101 small house Crescent! In fact when I read her Christmas List the other day the first 2 items on her list were 1. A big house and 2. A swimming pool ????  Luckily for me no. 3 was “Breakfast in Bed” – now there’s something Father Christmas can deliver on!

It’s tough though.  How does one get the message across to your child that big isn’t necessarily better? (Well in most cases anyway!) After a recent play date the Government Shuffler announced that she wanted to live in the house we had just been to “forever” and that they had “extra rooms” – not just enough rooms like us (enough in our case being a room for each child, 2 lounges, 2 bathrooms and a kitchen??) – I am not entirely sure what she’d want to do in the extra rooms, but anyway – we don’t have them!

I explained to her that if we wanted to live in a big house it would mean that I would need to work in the afternoons and that she would need to go to aftercare.  But I think at this stage the Government Shuffler would happily see me working till 12am every night if it meant she could have extra rooms (to do what in I don’t know) and a pool.  So when that angle didn’t work, I asked her what she would do differently in a bigger house.  She said she’d swim…. I kinda see her point, but then again not all big houses have pools.  So! 

I asked her what she would do differently in a bigger bedroom?  She didn’t have an answer.  I asked her would she still play with her Barbie Castle, Barbie pool, 11 Barbies, copious amounts of kitchen utensils and about 101 games.  She said she would, it’s just that her room would be bigger.  So I tried yet another angle… I said a bigger room, would mean more to tidy up.  More cupboards would mean more to “tackle” when we did our monthly big tidy and chuck out day. She still wouldn’t bite!  So then I brought out the big guns.

I told her that our domestic’s daughter LOVES (absolutely LOVES) coming to our “small house”.  Even though she’s 12, she spends all day playing with the Barbies, reading the books and generally faffing in the GS’s room.  Why?  Because she doesn’t even have a room of her own.  Even though my domestic worker has built a house, it still doesn’t have internal walls and her ENTIRE house is roughly the size of our lounge and kitchen. 

So it really is a matter of perspective – I am pretty sure a homeless person seeking shelter under a bush at night, would find my domestic’s house an unimaginable luxury.

With the kids in a Private School, they are going to have to get used to the fact that a lot of their friends are going to have more than they do.  But that’s life – there is always going to be someone with something out there that you think is bigger, better, faster, shinier etc.  How does one get a 7 year old to understand that “things” aren’t important – it’s a concept I think most adults find even hard to grasp.  Does “keeping up with the Jones’s” ring a bell?

But nevertheless even though we have a small house and no pool, play dates are a regular occurrence here.  Yes, I need to be a little more creative on hot days – but hey, so what!  So last Friday when I had 5 hot kids running around, I grabbed the hosepipe, put on the sprayer and voila, instant fun!  Lots of screaming, shouting and general merriment AND I didn’t have to worry about any of the charges drowning…. Well except if the water pooled up, but we have pretty good drainage, so I knew I was OK.

For 4 hours the kids ran around like hooligans in our “small garden”, had endless fun cavorting under the sprayer, choreographed and performed dances, plays and “music videos”, dressed up, played dolls, played Super heroes and the list goes on and on! 

So while the GS may say she wants a big house with a pool, I know that deep (deep) down she loves the fact that her mom is able to take kids to her (small) house in the afternoon, come up with creative games, let’s them cause havoc in the house, paint, decorate cookies, dress-up and generally have a good time.  Well, that’s what I like to think anyway!

Going Commando - The Underpant Saga !

There are just some things that as a mom  one needs to check before the kids leave the house – are their teeth brushed, is their hair brushed, are their clothes clean (well, cleanish at least), that kind of thing… but with my son I have now realised I need to add something else to my check list.  “Do you have underpants on?!!”  And it was really only by chance that I discovered I needed to ask this question. Recently I realised that when picking up his clothes after he undressed for his bath there were never undies amongst the pile.  So I would politely enquire if he had worn jocks that day and low and behold the answer was no! Nice!

I should have been expecting it because the Government Shuffler went through a similar phase and on one or two occasions we’d find ourselves somewhere and she’d be cartwheeling to her hearts content with her lady-bits on display for all the world to see.  But she quickly cottoned on to the idea that once the nappy came off something far more comfortable and convenient replaced it.  Like with all things, the tiny male in the house, is taking a little longer to grasp this idea. (Never mind the fact that he was potty trained at two and a half and recently turned five!!)

I guess it’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t wear under-rods, I mean he is a guy after all and going commando is just something guys do apparently??  But I think the problem is more that while I don’t mind the fact that he doesn’t wear “jundies” (as my brother calls them), I don’t want the infamous “they” or “them” thinking that I don’t dress my child properly! What if he hurts himself at school and while he is being cleaned up “they” notice he has no briefs on – what a terrible mother, they’ll think… she doesn’t even make her child wear underwear to school!  What if he goes on a play-date and needs to change and the other mom notices he doesn’t have jocks on – what will “they” say at the next party or parking lot gossip session! Dreadful dreadful, underpant forgetting mother!

It’s the same with weeing in the garden.  The mini male loves to wee in the garden – as does his dad and come to think of it every other male at any braai I’ve ever been to. (We get it guys; you can pee, anywhere, anytime, anyplace!)  In fact as soon as we come home the little piddler is suddenly bursting for the toilet and simply can’t wait the 30 seconds it will take to get inside, so he has a quick (or in his case usually a really really long) wee next to the wall.  The problem arises when we visit friends and the government shuffler comes running in to tell me that the mini male is watering the friend’s flowerbeds because he can’t walk the 5 meters to the toilet!  I then have to put on my shock and horror face and pretend that this is the “FIRST TIME HE HAS EVER DONE SOMETHING LIKE THIS!!”

How does one teach a child what’s acceptable at home (e.g. going commando, walking around naked, weeing in the garden, picking your nose), isn’t necessarily ok when you’re out and about (unless you’re a student because well then let’s face it anything goes – you’re considered an oddity if you’re not caught at some point naked, peeing in a garden with a stolen stop sign under your arm - even the guys!)

So each day I lay out the mini male’s clothes and make sure the jundies are on the TOP of the pile… but still I need to check because he might see them, he might even put them on, but now I’m faced with yet another underpant dilemma………. !  (Picture below was not Posed)

The Day my Funny Bone and Humerus went AWOL

My Funny bone deserted me soon after I arrived at work today.  I think after the 30 minutes I had just spent bouncing around like a bobble head on the power-plate, it decided that that was no-way to start a week and unceremoniously took leave of my body. 

Trying to work without a funny bone is well, no laughing matter.  In fact, I barely made it through the day and considering my “work day” is all of 4 hours it just goes to show how vital this bone is in getting me through the day. 

Everything and everyone annoyed me today.  My poor colleague had to put up with my endless eye-rolling, cryptic 1 word emails (WTF? FYI! CYA!) and continuous sighing.  Things became even worse for her when some ignoramus dared to ask me a question – One would swear I had Google stamped on my forehead. She would then be subjected to all three simultaneously… the sigh would be followed by the obligatory eye-roll as soon as the person bent over my laptop and then I’d follow it all up with a one word email, my favourite today being WTF ?? -  generally in red, bold, underlined and in font size 72 (followed by about 100 exclamation marks!!!)

12pm could come soon enough!

I managed to make it to the school in one piece, still just missing the funny bone. Five minutes after collecting my son, he pulled a toy out his pocket and proudly bragged that he’d had it at school all day – note to self, tell the Husband (again) toys are not allowed at school.  Anyway, I lectured the rascal on how lucky he was and that next time it could have got lost/broken/stolen.

It was then that the little Sh%t told me he did in fact take another toy and that one was indeed lost or stolen.  It was then that my Humerus decided to join my Funny Bone at whatever Orthopaedic retreat it had escaped to earlier.  So off we marched to the teacher… who rightly so, was not too sympathetic because she has being tell the kids (mine in particular) not to bring toys to school for the last 11 months!! 

It wouldn’t have been too big a deal if it was some crap old car or something, but it was one of his Spy Gear toys he got for his Birthday, so I was suitably annoyed.  But what could we do – so home we went accompanied by much sighing and eye-rolling.

With both a Funny Bone and Humerus now missing I was in no mood to even negotiate who was sitting where, who was climbing in/out the car first and sped home like a “Humerusless” woman.  And what should we find as soon as we stepped into the house… but of course, the toy that was supposedly lost/stolen at school?

Had my laptop been nearby I would have opened my email, sighed, rolled my eyes and sent my colleague this simple, yet powerful 1 word email : WTF??????!!!!!!!!!

I can like to eat at the SPUR!

You’re either a SPUR person or you’re not.  But even then, for those who say “they’re not”, you still get some closet Spur people who publically renounce the Spur, but secretly travel to a Spur outside their neighbourhood to eat a good old Spur Burger and chips.  I don’t judge them.  I’m happy to admit, I’m a Spur person – I’m a person with a taste for life!

It’s hard to put my finger on exactly what it is about the Spur that makes it a fun place to go and eat.  It could be perhaps that it’s one of the few places the kids can run around like the crazy animals they are and no-one else bats an eyelid because their equally monstrous offspring are doing exactly the same thing.  It could be that’s its ok to spill Fanta, chips, ice-cream (very often at the same time) on the table, couch or floor and again, no-one bats an eyelid, because it’s been done a thousand times before.  In fact, we are so sure that a cold-drink will be spilt during our visit that we usually order an extra one to begin with… because with children (as with drunk students), you learn to accept that spillage happens. 

And talking about students… in my student days (some 17 years ago), the Spur was a favourite (and cheap) place to go and eat.  Cheap, because it really was a cheap place to get a meal, I think they had a burger special that at one stage was like R9 or something.  But it was also cheap because many of the waiters (I won’t mention names, they know who they are!) were fellow students, who were able to provide fellow Students (not me of course) with “freebies” - apparently!  If memory serves me correctly, it was things that couldn’t be counted, that could be pillaged – so cokes would be topped up for free, chips would be added to plates and there'd be free ice-cream - or so I've heard!  It might not sound like much – but to a poor, hungry (and frequently hung-over) student, a second class of coke and extra fries would have been like manner from heaven – and in all honesty as long as it was free, it could have been expired and turning a shade of green and it would have been eaten! Aah those were the days!  (FYI I was never a waitress at the Spur!)

The Spur also offers good value for money.  Now culinary snobs might pull up their noses at Spur food, but the Spur is one of those places where you know what you are going to get.  A spur burger tastes the same whether you’re eating it in Poffadder or Dar Es Salaam (Kinda like Wimpy coffee – Wimpy Coffee is Wimpy Coffee no matter where you buy it!)

And did you know the Spur has a Senior’s Menu?  We discovered that last night.  I was so intrigued when I saw the people at the table next to us perusing theirs that I asked the Manager if I could get one.  Now the Spur’s prices are fairly reasonable, but their Senior’s prices are REALLY (REALLY) reasonable!  This got me thinking….

A birthday celebration at the Spur could work out really cost effective if you go on a Monday for instance (Buy 1 Burger get 1 free night), the birthday child gets a free meal (and if you are clever like us you space your kid’s birthday vouchers out carefully so that you can use them at the same time – they have a 3 month expiry date – that way BOTH kids eat for free), if Grandparents come with, naturally they will order from the Senior’s menu – hey, you might find at the end of the evening the Spur actually owes YOU money!! Not bad!

Then there is their Mexican food section.  Now when that came out many years ago it was a very confusing time for me.  I had just returned from a year in Texas and having spent time with a family who owned a Mexican fast food restaurant, I considered myself an expert in all things Mexican – particularly the food!  So I for one was delighted when I saw the Mexican Food added to the Spur menu.  But when I saw the confused look on the waiter’s face when I ordered a “Fa – heee – ta”, I suddenly doubted my Mexican culinary knowldge . It was then that I realised what I should have been ordering was a “Fa – CHEETHA” and “Quesa – dee – as” were ACTUALLY “Quesa – diLLAS”.  So it was me who had to get with the program, so I too soon started ordering “Fa – Chateehas”.  Thankfully, that has all changed and now “Fa – hee – tas” are thankfully “Fa – hee – tas” once again….. but it did take the Spur waiters a while to get the Mexicanism right!

But to get back to just how firmly the Spur is entrenched into the average Saffers life, consider this story. Colleagues of mine recently travelled to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania on business. One night they bumped into a fellow Capetonian holidaying in Dar Es IN THE SPUR! Here they were, South Africans miles away from home and true as nuts they bump into each other in a SPUR in Tanzania !! Now if that isn’t a feather in the Spur’s cap then what is!

So while I agree the Spur won’t be classified as fine dining in a “where to eat” guide, what it does offer the average family is a place to bring noisy, unruly, crazy kids and let them run wild with other noisy, unruly, crazy kids, while enjoying a burger, onion rings and fries (eaten with my hands – because it’s the Spur after all), a Savannah or two and watching the Springboks lose to Scotland (because in our case, now that we’ve disconnected DSTV, the Spur is one of the few places we can watch the rugby WITH the kids in tow!)

P.S. and besides whether you’re 4 or 44, there’s just something about a bunch of waiters clapping to a beat and singing “hey hey it’s your Birthday” while a sparkler crackles on a melting blob on ice-cream!

BOOK CLUB - Or whatever it is you want to call it!

Tonight I have Book Club – we’ll that’s what we call it anyway.  Although I have a feeling we might need to do a re-branding exercise soon because a “Book” Club we are not.  Now I can just imagine the ladies out there must be fuming and silently cursing me for being about to reveal the inner secrets of what “book club” is actually all about.  While at the same time, I can imagine the guys who are reading this, are more than likely grinning smugly, thinking “I knew it!”  Sorry ladies, but I have to come clean as to what our “Book Club” is really all about.

Firstly, we are a group of ladies (obviously), who try and meet every 2^nd Thursday of the Month (this isn’t always possible, considering we are moms, wives, employees, business owners, private investigators, chefs, bottle washers etc….. but we try anyway) and we read books…. well that was the initial idea 2 yrs ago.  But at book club tonight we are ... wait for it… making Christmas Cards! 

Last month our “Book Club” went bowling and the month before that we made Gratitude Journals (oh and before that we painted pottery).  To be honest I don’t know when last I took a book out from Book Club, I don’t think our book club has ever discussed a book and yet once a month we meet at someone’s house, pay our money and attend, for all intents and purposes, “Book Club!” We have 2 big crates filled with books that I think by now have a very fine (or perhaps not so fine) layer of dust on them!

It just goes to show how desperate we as moms are to just get out and have a night off and hey if we must call it “book club”, then so be it!  So tonight our little group will meet. And we are a little group – our numbers have dwindled slowly but surely.  I’m starting to think that maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that our “Book Club” isn’t really a “Book Club” anymore, if you know what I mean!

But I’ve been having a fairly good week so far when it comes to ladies nights out!  On Tues night a group of 16 of us went out watch “Rocking around the World” at the Barnyard.  What fun!  We were an assortment of women; moms from the school, ex teachers of our children, friends of friends, basically a bunch of ladies (especially the moms in the group) who seldom get to go out, let down our hair and get to sing along to “Sweet Caroline” attempt to do that Greek dance thingy everyone does to Greek Music and clap along to an awesome fiddler as she played her Irish ditty faster and faster.  What an evening!

The Girls

Luckily we were seated on the terrace so we could get up and dance and boy did we dance!  I don’t think the terrace floor is ever going to be the same again and neither are my toes for the matter.  I had the Zumba Dancing Queen boogying next to me and while I started out the evening with all my metatarsal bones intact, I think 3 or 4 may have been fractured thanks to the Zumba Queen's killer heels.  No worries though, the evening was worth it and I’ll soon learn to balance using my remaining 7 functional toes!

Dancing Queens (Including the Zumba Queen and her Killer Heels!)

Our Favourite ex-Teacher - Teacher Courtney!

So, even though my little gathering tonight is technically meant to be “Book Club”, I’m pretty sure I’ll once again be going home with no books! What our “Book Club” really is, is a bunch of tired moms who get together once a month to sit, chat, have a moan, not have to cook (well except for the host), not have to tidy up (except for the host!!), not have to put kids to bed for the night, to just have one night where we have no-one else to worry about but OURSELVES! 

Now if we could just convince our husbands that Book Club was something we needed to do once a week… then we’d be in business and we might actually end up actually taking out a book or two!

Decisions Decisions on a perfectly perfect Cape Town day!

It was one of those absolutely perfectly perfect Cape Town Summer days.  Not a breath of wind, cloudless skies, warm shiny sun, the possibilities of what to do were endless.  And when you live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world visited by thousands of tourists annually, the possibilities of what to do literally are endless.

A train trip to Simons Town, hike up Table Mountain, picnic at Kirstenbosch, stroll along the Sea Point Promenade, cocktails at the Waterfront, pizza at Blue Peter, squirrel feeding at the Gardens – decisions, decisions?  Not to mention the wine farms……. Oh my word, picnics, wine tasting, and, and, and… so in the end, I decided to clean my kitchen cupboards.

Now for a small house, we have a surprisingly big kitchen with a crap load of cupboards – so I had my work cut out for me.  I started with the double cupboards under the sink… a set of cupboards that judging by what I hauled out of there, hasn’t been cleaned since we moved into the house 8 yrs ago.  You name it, it was under there.  Old fashioned snackwich maker, check.  Wonder steamer, check. Packet filled with bits of congealed play dough mixed with what I am hoping was water, check.  About a million pegs, check.

I must be honest I was ruthless in my tidying.  Anything that hadn’t been used in the last 6 months was tossed and to be honest eventually that time period was narrowed down to 3 months.  If I hesitated for even a second when I asked myself if/when/how/why I use something, in the bag it went.  Like I said – RUTHLESS!

I then worked my way around the kitchen until I came to our “paper cupboard” under the microwave.  This houses our phone book, concertina file with documents, school letters, forms, bills, notices and about 101 pieces of Artwork.  Now this was where my biggest dilemma of the day arose.  What the hell does one do with all the Artwork?

Now I am no Suzy Homemaker, but even I have a “memory chest” where all the kids important certificates, mother’s day cards, photos and other odds and ends are stored.  It also contains a generous amount of Artwork that the kids have done during the various stages of their lives.  But what does one do with the rest?

As an example my “paper cupboard” produced a painted picture of a dinosaur, a dot-to-dot dinosaur, a dinosaur made with recyclables, a dinosaur made by blowing paint out a straw, a hand drawn dinosaur, you get the picture (no pun intended).  Each picture is obviously gorgeous and clearly highlights a natural ability that made me realise that not only is my son a budding sports star, actor, singer and genius, but artist ASWELL!!

But in all seriousness, if every piece of artwork that is produced for the next 12 years is kept where will we end up?  I realised if I don’t start sorting out the wheat from the chaff then one day I am going to find myself opening the door to a smiling flower wearing Niecy Nash telling me to take a big girl pill and throw out the damn artwork (and while I am by no means a tidy person, if there is one show that highlights the dangers of not tidying up regularly, it’s Clean House).

So I looked through the copious amounts of Art, selected a few good pieces that might make me some money one day and got rid of the rest.  But, before you judge, I didn’t just scrunch them up and toss them into my overflowing black bag, I treated them with the respect that they deserved.  I folded them up neatly, and placed them carefully deep deep (deep) down in the bag (I didn’t want to have to explain to little people why Artwork was being thrown away).

Granted, this was not the best way to spend a gorgeous summer’s day.  But let me tell you something, de-cluttering is rather therapeutic (and much cheaper than actually therapy) and while it might have been a waste of a perfectly perfect Cape Town day, at least I know that Niecy, won’t be paying me a visit anytime soon.

My 1 Hat Hour

I’m up at 5am.  The mothers out there might say, big deal, I’m up at 5am too, who isn’t - that’s when the day starts… dishes to wash, lunches to pack, washing to fold, clothes to iron. But I’m up at 5am and for 1 glorious hour, the ONLY HAT I wear is my “ME HAT”. 

I ignore the dishes from the night before, make a path between the clothes and toys, blocks and dinosaurs, army men and Barbies, put the kettle on and make my first cup of coffee for the day.  Then for 1 very quiet hour, I only think about 1 thing – ME!  I love it! (FYI today I thought about the 2 grey hairs I recently discovered and what to do about them – should they stay or should they go – but that’s a story for another time!)

As Mothers we wear way too many hats and generally none of them are fashionable.  Once our offspring awake we become chefs, waiters, dressers, packers, private investigators, lawyers, policemen the list is endless.  Then we drop them off at school and more hats get added (class rep, tuck shop volunteer?), then for those of us who work, even more hats get balanced on an already teetering pile. 

From conversations with friends I have realised many women believe there isn’t time in the day to put aside for themselves.  Well I disagree.  Time definitely isn’t just going to jump out and present you with a free hour to soak in the bath or enjoy an uninterrupted early morning cup of coffee.  As moms what we must do is MAKE TIME and YES THERE ARE ENOUGH HOURS IN THE DAY to put aside some time to indulge in some “Me Time”!

In my case, I wake up a little earlier than the rest of the family. I’m a mornings person, so I don’t mind setting my alarm and getting up an hour before the rest of the household.  Drinking my first cup of coffee surrounded by nothing but the sounds of birds is worth sacrificing an hr of sleep for. 

I recently saw a funny badge that said “A clean house is a sign of a wasted life” and I couldn’t agree more!  I have learnt that leaving dishes overnight (over 2 nights) is not the end of the world if it means the time was spent EXPERIENCING life with friends and family – or for that matter indulging in some well needed ME TIME doing something for nobody else but yourself!

The P in my Journey - Getting Published!

I have decided to start working on the “P” on my list and have submitted an article to Shape magazine.  Now I know what you must be thinking, what the hell could I possibly write about that would interest “Shape”.  That is clearly not my area of expertise. But what I am going to do is contribute to their “My Story” section.

I am going to share my relatively short-lived (thankfully) although frightening OCD experience with their well-toned readers. I know it’s a little out there to write about such a personal topic especially one as bizarre as mine, but I’m over it and moving swiftly along (Thanks to the wonders of therapy and little white pills). 

Unfortunately I don’t want to give away too many details, but even when I re-read my story, I think WTF??  Although it’s something I’m able to smile (and even laugh) about now, seeing it all on paper, does leave me with just one word – CRAAAAZEEEEE!

But nevertheless, it’s written and submitted and if Shape doesn’t publish it then I will definitely “publish” it on my blog. Then everyone can read it, re-read, read it again and incredulously say WTF? 

Getting Nailed by the Dead Sea Spell Casters!

It’s no secret I love a bargain.  In fact retailers have marketing departments because of people like me.  When an ad says “Two for the price of One”, “50% off” or “Free gift with Purchase”, you can bet your bottom dollar I am there … even if the two for one promo is actually targeted at those doing underwater basket weaving, I’ll peruse (and generally buy) whatever’s on offer .  I’m a “What If” shopper… “What if I want to do underwater basket weaving one day” – well, if I do, at least I’ll have the supplies!  That’s my logic anyway and who can argue with that??

But back to my story.  For a while now I have managed to avoid the “Dead Sea Product” promoters that have set up camp in the passageways of every mall in Cape Town (and I’m assuming elsewhere in SA as well).  I always wave a decidedly un-manicured hand at them and say “No thank you” and walk confidently on my way.  Not even ME (a sucker of note when it comes to that kind of thing) was going to fall under their “miracles of the Dead Sea” spell.  That is until the Government Shuffler and I went shopping on Saturday.  

As we were walking by a good looking guy (obviously) with an exotic accent (they all have one) said hello and was about to start casting his “Dead Sea” spell, when I smiled and politely said “No, Th..” and that’s as far as I got.  He took one look at my hands and said “What eez it that you do with theez hands?” – I told him and that was the beginning of the end.

I blame the Shuffler for this one.  Like a Lion who spots the weakest Zebra in a herd, this immigrant sorcerer spotted a “Mom” with her offspring (an obvious weakness), noticed that we were two girls “shopping together” (we were so ripe for the picking) and he just went in for the kill – we didn’t stand a chance.

Now unlike me, the Government Shuffler is a girly girl.  She is definitely an argument for Nature in the whole Nature versus Nurture debate.  She paints her nails, faffs with her hair, applies endless amounts of make-up just for fun and changes clothes about 5 times a day.  She gets NONE of this from me… NONE!  While I was up front and centre in the “sensitivity” queue, she was right up there in the “vanity” queue! But again, I digress….

I won’t even go into the gory details of how they go about demonstrating their product and making you believe the miracles it will perform, but let me just say this: they are MASTERS at their trade, MASTERS!!  At one point, I was still in control and saying no, but when he looked at the Government Shuffler (by this time he knew her name) and said “Emma, don’t your mommy’s nails look beautiful?” – I knew I was on the brink of losing the battle. 

So what does he say next?  What does this foreign wizard say to my nail-polish loving, make-up applying, hair-brushing, mirror staring daughter? “If your Mommy buys a pack, you know what?  I’ll give her another pack for FREE - just for YOU!” Well, she lit up like a Christmas tree and I swear I think she might have even levitated a little.

So there’s no big surprise on how THAT demo ended!

But the story doesn’t end there.  We then needed to somehow tell the husband why we came home with no groceries and what we spent that money on.  The husband thought the story was kind of sweet until the Shuffler mentioned the price (Note to self: Teach the Shuffler never to tell The Husband how much “stuff” costs – especially girl stuff!) Now The Husband is asthmatic and I swear I was mentally locating an asthma pump because for a minute there I wasn’t sure if he was going to breathe again.

No matter how much I tried to downplay it or say it was an “investment” (my favourite word when I spend too much money on something that might not be entirely necessary - it usually isn’t!) or that it would be bonding time with the Shuffler…. The concept of spending that much money on “cosmetics” is just too much for the male brain to comprehend – Ladies, don’t even try – TRUST ME!

So, long story short, we didn’t have food this weekend BUT the Government Shuffler and I have beautiful shiny nails thanks to the wonders of the Dead Sea!  And in the Shuffler’s world discovering the secret to beautiful shiny nails is akin to discovering a rare insect the world last saw a million years ago – so I’ve made peace with the expensive nail buffer and I’m going to file this one under “Investment”

First step to getting a Tattoo: Admit you don't know Jack Sh#t

I’ve never pretended to know anything about getting a tattoo or the like, but it became  glaringly obvious that I really and truly know nothing about the process when I went to enquire about a tattoo over the weekend.  In fact, I was so sure it was a simple procedure that with my camera woman in tow (my 7yr old government shuffling daughter), I headed to the tattoo parlour to “get inked”.  I very soon made my FIRST (and not last) mistake.

My camerawoman wasn’t even allowed inside!  Did you know it is illegal (ILLEGAL) for anyone under the age of 16 to go into a tattoo parlour and I don’t mean to the back where they do that tats, just stepping over the threshold can get you fined! Anyway…. with the government shuffler now posted like a sentry outside the store…. I ventured in!

There I proceeded to make mistake number TWO.  I stupidly asked how much a tattoo costs; I even added “more or less” to make it easy for her to give an estimate.  Well, I shouldn’t have even bothered… because the cost depends on the size, shape, colour, texture, length, my maiden name, country of birth and level of ignorance (Mine was clearly going to cost a Foooooortune!) 

So, I spoke a little slower and tried to explain that could she just give me an indication of what a simple, small, non-coloured,  little tattoo would cost “more or less”…. !  So then she asked to see my picture – enter mistake number THREE.

Picture?  Uhmm… nope, I thought they would have a catalogue I could peruse – clearly I was wrong.  Another sigh, tap tap on the p.c. and she showed me some pics, thanks to the wonders of Google, I saw a sample of what I would like “more or less” and she was able to quote me “more or less”. 

I had to wonder though how hard that was to do in the first place but anyway! But I wasn’t going to argue with a woman who might soon be repeatedly sticking me with a needle for an extended period of time…. In this case, the best reaction was NO REACTION!

I still wasn’t done – I had to show them that I was REALLY (REALLY) dumb and asked if there was any particular place that was more sore than another (Mistake number FOUR). Once again with eyes rolling I was told each person was different, no place was “more sore” but if she was forced to say (one would swear I was holding a gun to her head and periodically dunking her head under water), then she would have to say a women’s lower back is the most sensitive area…. But she very quickly added that she has a major big design there herself…. So clearly, it wasn’t actually “that” bad (well either that or she’s just a bad ass Bee with an Itch). Well, I wasn’t planning on having mine on my lower back anyway – so I guess I’m in the clear.

Since things are best done in 5’s, I had no choice but to make FIVE big mistakes, so I asked how long it would take and could it all be done at once or is it done in stages…. Well, this was clearly my most pathetic question because for this one she needed to bring in a visual aid and called some inked up dude who was hovering close by and asked him to lift his shirt and show me his “ribs” and by “ribs” I actually mean big fat beer belly!  I think there was a design of sorts, I didn’t want to stare to long, for fear of going blind, but she said that was all done at once… well why wouldn’t it have been – no-one would want to have to look at that TWICE!  But I got her point.

So I didn’t get my tattoo. I now need to find a pic, email it to her, she will scale it, then she’ll quote me, then I must make an appointment (yes… I can’t just walk in like I thought) and then “all at once” I can get my tat, oh and the “government shuffler” must stay behind, but hopefully the designer beer-belly will be there to document the process. 

I realised the tattoo business isn’t big on Customer Service, perhaps they are used to people coming in knowing what they want or their particular clientele don’t really have a big need for relationship building – hygiene and a steady hand are probably higher priorities, who knows?

So while I still don’t have a tattoo, what I do know for sure (forgive me Oprah) is “Been there, Done that, Don’t Know Jack about the Tattoo Industry!”

Home Affairs ... the Journey begins!

This is true in more ways than one.  Firstly, renewing my passport is one of the first steps I’ve taken on my B4-Forty journey and technically for anyone who travels, your journey generally starts at Home Affairs.  Well, for everyone except my friend-with-a-life who “doesn’t do Home Affairs” and has someone COME TO HER HOUSE where fingers prints are done, forms filled out and payments are made all in the comfort of her own home with no doubt (in her case) a glass of wine in one hand and the YOU in the other!  (… as much as I love my life, when I heard this story on Friday, the first thing out my mouth was “I WANT YOUR LIFE!”) … but I digress, we’re not all master delegators like her, so the Beckley clan were up at dawn on Saturday morning to check out Bellville Home Affairs!

(Before I start let me just say we had a great experience.  We were there 40min before the doors opened, went in at 8:30 and out by 9:30.  So by all accounts – not a bad day at the government office!)

This is what I learnt:

White People Can’t Queue

We arrived 40min before the doors officially opened and already the queue was snaking out the building.  We took our rightful place at the back, but I did send the husband to check out how far back we were and where exactly the queue began.  Once that was established, we waited.  After maybe 30 seconds the kids started whining, then they were both starving (we had eaten breakfast maybe 20min earlier) and both needed the toilet??????  Now I don’t generally like to differentiate between race groups, but for the purpose of this piece it is necessary – so bear with me.  I noticed that it was generally South Africans of my race that would walk to the front of the queue, sigh loudly, mumble, moan, glare and then reluctantly stand at the back… like standing at the back of a really long queue was the end of the known universe.  Everyone else, arrived, children in tow, took up their place “at the back of the queue”, no sighing, no moaning, the queue was what it was.  I realised then that I (and perhaps certain other people) are just not used to waiting in queues. I know I sigh when the queue at pick n pay has more than 3 people in front of me and I instantly scan around for a shorter queue, when I need to get medicine and I see more than 5 people in the queue, I go to another Clicks and try there!  Maybe I’m wrong… but I just think we’re not used to waiting for things; we want things to happen NOW!

Information is Key

We arrived at Home Affairs with our photos in the correct format i.e. non-smiling, no caps, no hair in face, no personality).  We had also filled out the correct forms, had certified copies of all the correct documents, in short, we were sorted – thanks to the wonders of the Internet!  Because of this – we went straight to the Passport queue.  However, the queue at “Information” was a mile long. So these poor people wait in that queue to enter the building, then wait in another queue to find out what they need, then in all likelihood need to go home and get the right documents, then come back and queue up again!  Perhaps you’re wondering why they don’t just phone and enquire… well the husband phoned on our behalf on 12 different occasions and only got through once!  Enough said.

The Government Shuffle

The funniest thing about queuing up with hordes of other people is that you have to do what I call the “government shuffle”!  If you’re sitting on a bench and the person in front gets up then everyone sliiiiiiides along to their new position!  Similarly at the payment section, the benches were replaced by chairs and each time a person got up everyone would move up one, like some new form of musical chairs but instead of someone losing a chair on each round, a chair was gained!  It’s hilarious – but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  Sliding along or getting up every few seconds was just too much for me.. so my poor daughter had to do it (I’m learning from my friend-with-a-life on how to delegate!).  I stood at the side and when she reached the front, I joined her and went up to the counter.  Next time you’re at a government department… look out for the “government shuffle” – CLASSIC!

Death and Marriage – one and the same!

One of the funniest things we saw (and I still can’t believe I didn’t take a photo – I might just need to go back in order to get one!) is that that the queue for registering Deaths and Marriages is the same!  They had all these signs where they explained the various sections and what you do where and true as bob – they lumped Death and Marriage in one!  So hey… whether you’re there to register a death or your marriage in the eyes of Home Affairs – it’s pretty much the same thing! Ha ha

But in all fairness, our experience at Bellville was surprisingly pleasant.  Friendly people, they opened on time, it was relatively quick and painless (for us anyway) – so now all we do is wait for the passports!

We could have driven out to Malmesbury, like most Capetonians seem to do and walked in and out their Home Affairs office in 10 minutes but I’m glad we didn’t. Going to Bellville reminded me again how much we take for granted and that standing in a long queue really isn’t the end of the world and the next time I’m faced with that prospect instead of looking around for a shorter queue, I’m going to enjoy the extra 5min I have to spend just standing around doing NOTHING!! 

Flap your Wings

It has taken me almost 37 years to realise that people don’t spend nearly as much time talking about me as I thought they did – it was a sobering realisation!  It was then confirmed by my “friend-with-a-life” at our Sports Day Breakfast, who in no uncertain terms said to me “I’d hate to break it to you, but you’re not THAT special” – when I told her about my recent epiphany.  I was devastated…. all this time I had thought that other people’s worlds revolved solely around ME! 

On a serious note though, when God dished out “Sensitive” and “Taking things personally”, I was up front and centre in the queue!  I have wasted so much of my time (and energy) worrying about what everyone else is thinking, I've forgotten to actually just enjoy living life!

How many of us worry about what others will say about what we’re wearing, saying, doing, eating, our children’s manners, our children (period), our expanding waistline, and and and……. The list is endless! How many times have you been part of a conversation and although the person is talking about “someone” or “something”, you think they are actually talking about YOU!!  Then you go home and stew for hours and hours about a conversation that was probably not even about you in the first place!  Why do we do that to ourselves?

In his book, A New Earth, Eckhart Tolle, explains how ducks “flap their wings” after a fight to get rid of excess energy and then swim off peacefully together.  That’s what I’ve decided to do…..when faced with a situation that would normally leave me wasting my time and energy “stewing” and “brewing” I’m going to “flap my wings” and move along swiftly.  I'm choosing not to "sweat the small stuff".

My 5 year old son is very lucky to have a teacher with the right kind of attitude… her response to a catty comment at a recent 20 year school reunion was “The awesome thing about being me is that I don’t have to care what you think”.

I have decided that life is too short to waste my time worrying about what the proverbial "they" are thinking.  At the end of the day, I want to be able to say “been there, done that, EXPERIENCED LIFE!”

I'm MAD...... the M in my Journey!

Well now it’s out there – I’m M.A.D.  Well, not in the conventional sense mind you (that’s a story for another time - been there, done that, taking the meds).  While lying in bed thinking about my ABC list last night, it struck me that nowhere on my list was I giving anything back.  So I started playing around with acronyms and asked myself “Are you M.A.D?” – Which in case you still haven’t worked it out means “Are you Making A Difference?” I was very proud of myself for “making that up”… but something was niggling in the back of my mind, so I googled MAD and low and behold the legendary Francois Pienaar had thought of it first! So not only is he a fantastically gifted sportsman, a South African Legend and chip eating hero, he has a heart too (Was leading the 95 SA rugby team to WORLD cup victory not enough for the man?)  I mean, unlike the recent Baseball World Series, the Rugby World Cup actually does involve beating teams from around the WORLD!

But back to my story, the MAD Foundation does some awesome work (www.themadbunch.com) so I figured all was not lost with my M.A.D idea, even if Francois had beaten me to naming it!  Then I read further on their site and there was my sign….. each year members of ”The MAD Bunch” cycle the Argus for charity.  They are currently registering cyclists for 2011 – clearly I won’t be joining them this time around – I am still “sans bike”!  But since they do this every year, I have decided that in 2012, I will ride the Argus along with MAD!  For a (sizeable) donation to charity you get to cycle along with “The chip eating hero” and “other celebrities” – I LOVE IT!  For those who have bikes and want to sweat alongside SA Celebs sooner than 2012 have a look at their website for more details!

Anyway, for those living in the CT area we are all aware of the KFM’s LEAD SA campaign (www.leadsa.co.za) and it just made me think about what I do each day to Make A Difference.  I’ve realised it’s not just about the big things.  We don’t need to “Change the World”, but what we can do is make a change in our little corner of the world – no matter how small.  It really is the little things that count – smiling at a stranger (even if they look dodge), letting someone into the traffic during rush hour (yes, even a taxi), waving to a sticky bored child in the car next to yours, picking up an empty coke tin thrown on the pavement – the little things do Make A Difference.

No matter how busy you are… and I know how we moms like to moan about ALL THE THINGS WE HAVE TO DO… but I challenge you today, to step back and think about what YOU have done to make a difference.  So, when you’re buying your morning coffee today, pay for the person next to you, smile (and mean it) when the cashier gives you your change, Laugh with your child, thank your child’s teacher for all that they do, the list really and truly is endless. 

Starting today, I’m going to say “I’m M.A.D” with pride!  Because each day when I go to bed I want to be able to say “Been there, done that, Made A Difference!”

ARE YOU M.A.D?

How sad is this?

10 years and I repeat 10 years ago my husband (then Fiancée) and I got passports.  The plan was to get married, go somewhere exotic on honeymoon (obviously) and then possibly travel, who knows!  But whatever our plans were, they would most definitely involve passports!

Well, 10 yrs., 1 house, 2 kids, 2 cars and 2 careers later…. Our passports are about to expire and they don’t have a single (and let me repeat that too) SINGLE stamp in them.  What’s up with that?

I often tell friends about the power of “The Secret”, that what you put out into the universe is what you’ll get back, like attracts like etc etc.  While I do firmly believe in the power of The Secret, I’ve never really put it into practise.  Well, now I am!  Come hell or high water, my next passport will have a stamp in it (preferably more than 1) and hopefully from somewhere exotic!

I’m so sure that in the next few years we’ll be travelling (after all, I’ve publically committed to going to Zanzibar and the USA – no turning back now!), I’ve decided to not only renew our passports, but get some for the kids as well!  So come Saturday morning, the whole Beckley clan will be paying Bellville Home Affairs a visit – I’m sure that’s going to require a blog post all on its own!

While the aim of my blog is about me “getting a life”.  I’m also hoping that people who read it, will examine their own lives and perhaps challenge themselves to experience life a little more.  Why should having a bond, car payments and kids in school signal the end of experiencing “life”?  Surely, a month away from school to tour Europe is far more worthwhile than reading about it in a text book?  Well, that’s my thinking anyway. 

The Secret says one shouldn’t worry about the “How”.  All we need to do is put it out there and the universe will respond accordingly!  Well I’m putting it out there.  I’m not worried about HOW we’re going to get to the States, Europe or even East London in December!  All I’m saying is that before I’m 40, I will have been there, done that, got the passport stamp!

So no more “coulda, woulda, shoulda” – now it’s just “I’m gonna”.  While “I will not die an unlived life” – I sure as hell am not going to die with an unstamped passport!