Gifts and Gratitude

I am a rather simple chick.  I have no illusions of grandeur and my wishes are verging on the dull and darn right boring.

• I wish the Alien would listen to me the first time I say something (Not a difficult request surely?)
• I wish my cats and dog would stop shedding hair everywhere (I am drowning in their hair, people.  HELP!)
• I wish alcohol didn’t give me a hangover (How can something so delightful be so punishing?  It’s cruel I tell you.)
• I wish TV adverts weren’t so bloody loud (They are at least 1000 decibels louder than the programme you just fell asleep to.)
• I wish women could stand together and force feminine hygiene companies to bring down the prices of sanitary towels/tampons (Come on, it’s a rip off.  I expect to see cotton wool prices after gold and oil prices on business news.  It is clearly a rare commodity)

When it comes to my birthday I am therefore totally cool with just a well-worded card or an e-mail or a phone call.  No mess, no fuss required.  I am over 40 remember.  As long as Chicken Man and the Alien remember to give me an extra hug and kiss (and exempt me from cooking dinner) I am a happy camper.

We have a no-gift policy in our family.  One of my brothers does not conform to this policy however and, together with his wife, always gets me the most apt and amazing gift.  I was nursing the last fumes in my perfume bottle and VOILA – they gave me perfume for Christmas. I was growing crow’s feet like ostrich feet around my eyes squinting against the Durban sun and VOILA – they gave me sunglasses. So it goes on...

This year they gave me something that I have wanted since the product first hit the market.  My obsession for reading has never been a secret.  So, when I opened their gift to me last night, I could not contain my tears of gratitude.  I have a Kindle! 

What more can I say?  A fantasy comes true. I’ll ignore the cat and dog hairs and pay full price for tampons as I lose myself in my love for the written word on my new toy.  Thank you Herman and Michaela.

My joy cannot really be captured by Kodak but thank you Vernon for sending me this pic.

The Alien is no longer Alienated

The Alien turned 15 in December.  Of course, all she wanted was a Blackberry.  Every other need and want paled in comparison to her desire to have BBM (Blackberry Messenger)

I stuck to my guns of not getting her one - with difficulty though.  The nagging, tantrums, depression and blackmail would have had the most hardened Marine SEAL crying like a baby!

Her joy when she received a Blackberry from her Uncle and Aunt was a sight to behold though.

The look of love as she clapped eyes on her BB for the first time almost brings tears to ones eyes??

Then there is the "look Mom - I have a Blackberry.  How cool am I?" stage.  Pouting is of course compulsory.

This is followed by the far away stare of an Alien plotting all the possibilities opened up to her thanks to finally becoming a part of the BBM generation.

The Blackberry has been surgically attached to the end of her hand since she received it.  

Quick question: Is there medication I should be giving her or counselling sessions available to ensure that she is emotionally prepared to get through the first day of school without it tomorrow?

Makes You Think, Doesn’t It?

The Alien’s plea for a Blackberry in order to make her life whole has not waned since I wrote about it here.  

She has quite a sense of humour that kid.  When all the children in her class were told to place their phones on the teacher’s desk prior to writing an exam – she placed her calculator on the desk.  She had written” Blackberry” on the calculator.  At least the teacher appreciated her humour and informed the Alien after the exam that she did not have any missed calls or BBM’s.

The Alien still does not have a Facebook account so, when I read this little piece she had written, I took a look at myself.  Was she suggesting something?  Am I a neglectful wife and mother?  “Nah, this seems to be how everyone is these days.” She said.  Phew.  Still – it makes you think, doesn’t it?

Modern Times – guest blog by the Alien

I wonder why your faces don’t change colour from staring at the light coming from your screen all day.

Your daily dose of exercise is poking people?

You are following him, she is following you.  Who is actually the leader in this whole following pack?

Your laptop is an upgrade of your husband/wife.  It goes wherever you go.  You tell it all your feelings and it responds with about 100 comments.

And if your computer shuts down – your life shuts down.  Oh no! Now you have to talk face-to-face!

I’ll give you some pointers about real life.

•   You don’t poke people when you want their attention nor do you put up your thumb and say “like” when they say something interesting. 
• When you get bored of the conversation, you can’t shut down.
• You don’t actually follow people wherever they go because that doesn’t lead to friendship – only restraining orders.
• Your computer is NOT your life.            

Alrighty then, best I listen to my daughter and sign off, pack my laptop away and GET A LIFE.

Overworked and Underpaid

I have been feeling sorry for Chicken Man of late.  He is under so much stress, running around like a headless chicken to keep his customers and bosses happy.

Like most companies, those higher up in the pecking order are the ones that reap the rewards of his moo-tivated and egg-zacting hard work.

But no matter where on the food chain we are – we all need to stop for a good chirple every now and again...

Raising Teenagers is Like Nailing Jelly to a Tree

School holidays are starting tomorrow.  I have stocked up on wine and informed everyone who knows me that I am available for coffee/lunch/anything that will give me a couple of hours break from being a taxi driver with an onboard ATM and fast food outlet.

I have very generously offered the Alien a couple of really awesome activity options available during the holidays.  The ungrateful eye-rolling and “Ag Maaaa” was all the thanks I got.  Fine!

I have found a solution which will hopefully elicit at least an "Oh Cool" response from my darling Alien...

Is there a Doctor in the House?

This was the subject of an e-mail I sent out to all my friends who live in Durban North.  I was gatvol with my doctor and was looking for another “quack” to give my hard-earned Rands to.

Just like with mechanics, plumbers and electricians,  we do not question doctors because they are so very qualified and clever and can sprout words that make absolutely no sense what so ever to us.  I strongly object to being treated like an ignoramus and so I make sure I do my research (thank you, Google) before and after every qualified person appointment.

So, the Alien had a cough.  No big deal I hear you say, except the cough continued for months. Our now ex-GP treated me like I was a neurotic, overprotective, Munchausen by proxy freak. 

A general warning: Don’t mess with any mother with more than 1 brain cell, clever people!  We are genetically programmed to protect our young. We will kill for our offspring even if they are teenagers.

Once ex- GP finally started taking my concerns seriously I was exposed to the overwhelming and scary concept of spending money quicker than you can earn it.  How do these specialists and laboratories decide on their exorbitant prices? Are they based on their Mercedes and Ferrari repayments?

After 3 weeks of emptying my purse, bank balance and life savings, selling a kidney and gaining shares at the Pharmacy besides the frustration of not knowing what was wrong with the Alien - I have a healthy daughter and a newfound respect for radiographers.  Doctors and specialists do not even look at the “pictures” that radiographers take. They base their decisions purely on the reports the radiographers send them (and how much money they need for their next overseas vacation)

To the folk who took such ...errr...revealing photos of my daughter, you are my heroes. You may have the crappiest selection of ancient magazines in your waiting room but you were the voice of tangible, understandable reason through the medical nightmare I have just emerged from.  A bargain at the price. 

What Lies Beneath

I saw a competition on the Umhlanga Life blog just a day or so after meeting the charming Fred Felton. Always game to enter anything – I submitted this story. The rules where that the story had to be 100 words or less. Not as easy as you think or is it just me who likes to waffle on and on?

Nevertheless, this is what I wrote...

She moved cautiously but with purpose. She knew exactly what was lying beneath but her focus was on getting love and attention and she had finally pinned down the person she adored the most. She was prepared to stand on dangerous ground.

There was a stirring and a rumbling that grew louder and fiercer as she approached. She paid it no heed. She needed to feel cherished. Fear was not going to stop her.

The infuriated puppy eventually poked her head out from under the warm duvet and glared at the cat as if to say; “Go away, she’s mine!”

Word Count: 100

This is what I have to deal with every night by the way. Roxy the Foxy sleeps under the duvet and Cuddles knowingly steps on her as she makes her way towards me for strokes and loves. That cat likes to live dangerously! One day Roxy is going to make the effort to get more than just her head out from under the duvet and then there will be hell to play!

The Alien is Alienated

“I am a looser”
“You just don’t understand, my life is over”
“I am not going to have any friends”

All these passionate, sometimes hysterical pleas from the Alien have been getting the same standard response from me:

“Ag Shame”

I hear your gasps of horror from here. This mother has an emotionally disturbed, possibly unstable teenager and her response is “Ag Shame”? Relax! I did take the time to listen to the reason why her life was teetering on the brink of extinction.

The child does not have a BlackBerry.

Can you believe it? Even though she has a perfectly good Nokia somethingorother phone, a computer, the choice of 2 TV’s with DSTV and a DVD player, a pleasant roof over her head, a swimming pool, 3 adoring cats, 1 devoted dog plus a cupboard full of clothes – the child’s life is a misery because she does not have a BlackBerry Pin Number.

How sad is that? I am not totally heartless, you know. I was once a teenager and understand about peer pressure and all that psycho babble. It really is pathetic that a beautiful young girl can feel that life is passing her by because she does not have a particular make of phone. Talk about a fickle society.

Apparently all the kids who used to be on MXit have closed their accounts and are BB Messaging each other now. SMS is clearly so last week and actually calling a person and talking to them is what old people like me do. I suppose I could alleviate her misery just a tad if I allowed her to have Facebook but I see what some of these teenagers do and say on Facebook so question if I want to expose her to all that.

So, until her contract is due for an upgrade, I will just have to endure the endless whining and complaining. The advantage is that, because she no longer knows what is going on in the world around her because of her forced isolation thanks to her BlackBerry’lessness (cool new word that), the Alien can spend more time moping around me.
Hang on...did I just say advantage?
Anyone getting rid of their BlackBerry? Anyone?

“What’s for Dinner?”

The innocent sounding sentence that fills me with dread and gets me hyperventilating even more than; “Just listen to me before you say anything”
It is not because I want to reply “whatever you are making.” I like cooking, really I do. I just despise deciding WHAT to cook every night. I can rustle up a pretty decent plate of food if only someone would tell me exactly what to cook - and Chicken Man has purchased the ingredients of course.

Use a recipe book I hear you say. Problem with recipes is that they list ingredients that I have never heard of and they tell me to do things to food that sounds positively indecent. They also expect you to use more than 2 pots. For 1 meal? That is just excessive. Besides – if you have outsourced your shopping to your husband like I have, you cannot present him with a shopping list that has any variables to the routine. Crickey, I can’t even ask for coriander without him demanding a picture, full description and a rough idea as to what aisle he will find it in.

And then one has to consider what the family members eat and don’t eat. If I could find enough recipes for mince, rice and pasta and serve that every night for a year I would not get a word of complaint from Chicken Man. As long as it is accompanied by a salad, Chicken Man would be quite happy.


The Alien was such a dream eater. I started feeding her everything we ate from about 6 months old and she happily devoured olives, feta, calamari...basically anything except prawns. Since her abduction she suddenly doesn’t laik this and doesn’t laik that. Flippen hell, I am tempted to feed her what I never fed her as a baby. She can darn well eat jars of Purity baby food which all taste the same whether they are beef or chicken, pasta or dessert. I believe a lot of superstars are partaking in this baby food diet so The Alien will be only too happy to oblige. Imitating role models is important to teenagers.


And me? I’ll pretend I am rich and famous and eat what every self respecting South African celebrity eats. Nuke-able Woollies meals for one.

Great, my “What‘s for Dinner” dilemma has been partially sorted. Thank you. Now, what happens when I have guests over for dinner....????

Marriage is not Crystal Clear

I recently celebrated 15 years of marriage to Chicken Man. 15 years! That means that we celebrated our Crystal Wedding Anniversary. How apt to look back and reflect on just how opaque and fragile marriage is.

At our wedding 15 years ago, our guests were taking bets as to how long our marriage would last. I kid you not! Yes, them of little faith saw the vast differences in us and assumed that the marriage was destined to end in shattered glass.

It hasn’t though. Why you may ask? Ummm... not really sure but sometimes differences can be beneficial in a marriage:

He is crap at braaing (barbequing)
I love to eat meat that is not cremated or raw hence have become an expert braaier.

He loves making salads
I do not like fussing with leaves so whilst I braai – he makes salads.

He is a pushover with the Alien
I stick to my guns and instil the discipline a teenager requires

He feels guilty for doing minimal chores all week long so becomes enthusiastic about the most mundane of household tasks over the weekend.
Because I do it all week long – housework is not a priority over the weekend

He stresses about EVERYTHING
I’m a “every cloud has a silver lining” type of person.

He is thin
I am not

He does garbage
I do not

He will pick up dog poop
I will not

He can rid the house of snakes, birds, geckos and cockroaches
I do not do wildlife indoors.

He is a technophobe
I love computers and technology and even know how to backwash the pool, change a lightbulb and fix the toilet

He loves “slit your throat” country music with a smattering of Pavarotti for light relief
I love jivvy 80’s music

He drives like a Grandpa
I drive like Michael Schumacher

He thinks our dog is the queen of the household
I know that our cats rule the roost

He can’t tell the difference between a weed and a rare orchid
I can identify alien invasive species and everything I plant seems to grow.

He is a hoarder
I get rid of anything and everything when no one is looking

He compares price per Kg and knows what stores have what on special hence does all the shopping
I know where my nearest Woolworths is when we run out of necessities and luxuries

He wakes up at 4:00am because he goes to bed when the sun goes down.
I go to bed whenever so wake up as late as possible

He talks the hind leg off a donkey incessantly. He needs to share EVERYTHING in detail
I talk when I have something to say. I’ll tell you what you need to know, okay.

He takes long baths
I shower in 2 minutes flat

He watches crime and reality channels
I watch cooking and series channels

He likes hanging the washing on the line and taking it off
I like feeding the washing machine – I keep forgetting the washing on the line.

I have never seen him drink a cup of coffee or tea nor eat a sweet, chocolate or cake.
I survive on copious cups of coffee and enjoy the odd piece of milk tart or fudge.

He is dark – I am fair...and so the differences go on.

But we are still together after 15 years of marriage. I reckon those folk speculating at our wedding all lost oodles of money if they honoured their bets. Marriage is a gamble and the odds are against couples these days considering the statistics are that almost every 2 marriages end in divorce

So how have Chicken Man and I made it for so long? Friendship. Above all else, Chicken Man is my best friend. I look forward to his return from work every afternoon and love spending time with him (when he is not irritating me, off course)

Sure, we are not the couple depicted in fairytales but we make our lives together work.

One thing we have in common is that we share the same star sign. So as we 2 mountain goats (Capricorns) scramble over the rocky slopes of life, I know that we will eventually reach the summit. And when we do, we will be side by side. There will be no winner as we are not in a contest. We are partners and will hopefully be so “until death us do part”

Mothers Day Maudlin

Mothers Day is yet another of those pesky Hallmark holidays like Valentine’s Day, Secretaries Day and Bosses Day designed to sell cards, get rid of excess chocolate stocks and deplete the earth of fresh flowers.

Yes, I am a mom and I do appreciate the fact that the Alien does not backchat or whine at me on that one day of the year. She also makes me a card because she knows that I appreciate a personal card (and some semblance of tidiness in her room) more than any material gift. Her response to a comment I recently made that she should make a card for a teacher who was leaving was met with extreme horror.

“Ma, we just don’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

By “we” she was probably referring to the rest of the Alien population. Such a pity.

As much as I enjoy the perks of Mothers Day like “Ma, would you like some coffee” with absolutely no prompting or nagging, I do tend to get a bit weepy on this day.

I, like all moms, think of my Mother on this day. I lost my Mom when I was 15 and although I do not need a Hallmark Day to think of her, it is difficult to not dwell on her life and my memories of her and feel more than a little resentment. Why did she have to die so young? Surely the Big Man could have let us have a few more years of her down here on earth?

So this message is for all those mothers who have had the privilege of sharing all those “big girl” experiences with their Mom: Your wedding day, your pregnancy, the birth of your children, advice on how to deal with colic/teething/temper tantrums/hormones. Appreciate your Moms, cherish your time with her no matter how much she may irritate you or pass judgement on the way you parent her grandchildren.

Now, if someone can advise me how to make the Alien appreciate everything Chicken Man and I do for her and offer to make coffee for the other 364 days of the year, I promise I’ll make you a big Thank You card with hearts and kisses, glue and glitter and everything...

What is Love?

This, my friends, is what they call a guest post. It is a very special guest post as it is written by The Alien. For those new to my blog - The Alien is my 14 year old daughter. You can read about her here
She may not have actually experienced true love as yet (at least I blerrie well hope not!) but this poem is poignant and an interesting insight into Alien thoughts. I love you, my precious Alien. May your future be filled with Love.

Love is strong,
Love is not wrong.
Love is a light that switches off in fright.
Love can hurt,
When the boy’s a flirt.
You’ve got to stay strong,
stop listening to that love song.

Loves first kiss
Is truly the best.
Love is broken with words unspoken.
Love is not hatred,
Love is sacred.
Love is not set,
Love is not a pest.

It makes you fly
When you don’t even know why.
Love is amazing, graceful and true.
You will know it is love when it hits you

The Furry Four are taking over...

We do acknowledge that Mom makes reference to us in the intro of her website, but she really has not given us the attention we deserve. She meows on about The Alien and Chicken Man but has not given us the web time we deserve.

Hence this take over. We would like to introduce ourselves.

Cuddles

I am rough and I am tough and I come from a building site on the Durban Point. I take no sh#t and that scares my Mom. I am not afraid to challenge the pesky monkeys that invade our garden every day (bloody cheek - those freaks are the same colour as me) I am in charge. No-one stands in my way. That neurotic Patch tried to get me to respect her authority but, give me a break, she is a fruitcake! She turns to putty with one side glance. As for that Candy chick! Thick as a brick and too easy for me to even get my fur in a knot. This recent fox terrier dog addition I am still unsure about. A dog? Bloody ugly thing makes a hell of a noise and keeps chasing me around trying to scare me with its superior set of teeth. Give it up you woessy dog. I am the boss. Yes, I am gorgeous on top of it and could have made a fortune if I was left to my own devises at The Point (for those of you not from my province – The Point is where all the prostitutes and drug lords hang out.)

Patch

I have been forced to do this by Cuddles. I hope I am not offending anyone? I know that if Mom knew the true level of my phobias and psychological problems I would be at weekly therapy. Mom and Dad keep questioning Why? Why should a cat who was born on their bed and has had the life of Riley be such a nut? I cannot answer that but my life has been made hell thanks to that Cuddles thug. I have to fight to get a spot on my Mom’s lap and seem to spend a lot of time in the roof cowering away from that bully. Oh, I love Roxy. She thinks she is a dog but she really is a big pussy cat. Mom’s name for me has become a concern. Patch became Pitch Patch which became Pitchy which became Bitchy. Bitchy seems to have stuck but I promise I am not a bitch. Yes, I lash out occasionally but what is a girl who is scared of her own shadow to do??

Candy

I r not cleva. I r very cute and all but must hav suffid lak of oxygen to my brane befor I was rescueded and brout to my howse. I r beautiful and likes to rap myself around Maw and Paw legs when thy cum hom. I wil trip them up one day. I likes fuuuud a lot. Meeety nuggets r my besstest. I luff all the udder furry ledies in the howse.

Roxy

This is an insult! I am not a pet! I am one of them human beings! Don’t I sleep under the covers between Mom and Dad and have my food microwaved to get the temperature just right? I have heard the rumours that I came from a breeder in Dundee but seriously, my Mom and Dad is all I have known since the tender age of 5 weeks so until I see the adoption papers, I will deny my dog heritage. Now, as for those three furry 4-legged other people in this house... They are all certifiable! I keep trying to bite their heads off but they think that I am playing with them! What does a girl have to do to get respect around here?

It’s Squishing Season!

October is Breast Cancer awareness month. Yes, you have been bombarded with pink ribbons and pink just isn’t your colour, Sweetie Darling, but are you getting the message?

I added SheeBeeGee and BecauseIcan’s twibbbon to my Facebook and Twitter avatars because I liked the simple message it relayed. “Feel Ur Boobies” Sure, it could lead to random dirty old men asking if they can cop a feel but that is a small price to pay for the awareness it raises. Some of us poor suckers don’t get let off that lightly with just self examining our breasts. Some of us have to go through the dreaded, annual MAMMOGRAM.

What would I know, I hear you ask? I am on the right side of 45 (just) so, at a push, have had probably 1 mammogram so far? No such luck. Let me explain my history. Stop yawning, I haven’t started yet! My grandmother had breast cancer when she was a young woman and had a breast removed. They were somewhat clueless in those days and so she lived with an arm that was double the size of the other that needed to be “hung” every night so that the fluids would drain. My beautiful grandmother lived a good life and died in her 70’s.

Her daughter, being my mother, also had her breast removed but even with all the advances in medical technology, she died at the age of 47 - the day before her 48th birthday. She never got to see her eldest son turn 21. I was 15, the youngest of her 4 children. Show me a person who has ever met my mother and doesn’t say that they loved her and I’ll show you a liar. She was the most special human being. Enough said.

A few years later, whilst living in London, I got a phone call from my cousin. My beloved, sweet Aunty Andy had died. She too had had a mastectomy years before but, like with my Mother, they had not caught it in time. I remember the clothes she used to sew for me and my brothers and the yummy “boerekos” she used to cook when we visited her in the Cape. She was as short as my mother was tall. What a unique couple of sisters they were! Both had hearts of gold and so much love to give.

2 generations of women dying having suffered from breast cancer. Surely it must skip a generation? So you’d think. One of my 2 cousins, even with regular mammograms, discovered a lump in one of her breasts and had a mastectomy just before her 40th birthday. I know that her early discovery and swift action will spare her the fate met by our mothers.

History lesson over. Are you still with me?

Thanks to that history, every year since my early 20’s I gather up my ever expanding folder of past mammograms and schlep off to the radiographers to have my boobs squashed and squeezed in-between cold, hard plates. “This shouldn’t hurt” Yeah right! Why do they have to make the room so darn cold? You don’t know whether you are shivering from fear or because you are developing frost bite on all your sticky-out bits.

After listening to my history the radiographers are always extra cautious and take a few extra “photos” at angles that one cannot believe ones boobs could possibly be extended to. At my first ever mammogram, the radiographer politely asked if I minded if all the students watched as they don’t often get to see such young patients. I was 23 so of course “I nearly died” as my boobs were examined by a bunch of young male student radiographers. They even got to feel them so that they could tell the difference between young breast tissue and old breast tissue.

Horror stories aside, a yearly mammogram is a small price to pay if it means that I get to see my daughter turn 21; walk down the aisle; hold her own child; achieve all the dreams she has for her life.

Ladies, when all the pinkness of October starts to make you feel like a bag of marshmallows with the white ones removed, please remember what it is all in aid of. Feel Ur Boobies or go for your Mammogram. It’s like paying your TV license.....the right thing to do.

An open letter to the creators of the teenage female aliens.

Before anyone gets all huffy with me – let me say that I love and adore my daughter with all my heart. She is the most important part of my life and that is why I can say what I say without any guilt or fear of a call from Child Protection Services.

If you do not have a teenage daughter – this could alarm you. I feel obliged to warn you in advance. Sensitive readers should turn away now.

Teenage girls are scary, believe you me! However, it is not their fault. It is because they are not really human...

At some point (round about when boobs start to appear and zits mean that bank balances are drained by cleaning and beauty products) sweet, innocent young girls are abducted and taken away from us! It’s true! Can you imagine the horror? Of course, all hell generally breaks loose and parents the world over want their daughters back.

So the abductors kindly give us a substitute. There is a note attached to their ever expanding chests saying:

We thank you for the use of your darling child for ongoing research into the human species. We hope that this replacement will suffice in the mean time. Your real daughter will be returned to you after a process called Puberty

The aliens sure got a lot wrong with the programming of these replacements. Some of the standard default settings need urgent adjusting.

So, to the folk who create these replacements – here are a few tips for future models

To: Whomever it may concern
Address: Some or other far away and seriously peculiar planet somewhere.
Subject: Suggestions, defects and upgrade requirements for current teenage models.

Humans generally maintain a particular mood for periods longer than 5 minutes.

Parents do not suddenly become idiots and ignorant morons. They probably were from day 1 but unfortunately on our planet they still have to be listened to and obeyed by their offspring.

There is a clear difference between a bedroom and the rubbish bin.

By its very definition, a bedroom requires the use of a bed to sleep in. A bed is not just a depository for every item of clothing the replacement has been begrudgingly supplied with. (Your planet must be quite backward. Us humans nailed the use of cupboards vs the floor and beds many years ago)

You got the cleanliness part right. They will spend hours in the bath. So why do they choose to wear dirty inappropriate clothes? Yes, maybe placing clothes in a washing basket is a tall order but could you install something called self respect into your next generation upgrade? It would be great to not have to send them back to change 5 times before they look decent enough to leave the house.

Their hearing is clearly defective. Repeating the same command over and over again should not be necessary. Once you have fixed this manufacturing fault, please could you do a recall of existing models to rectify?

Is it a necessity that they be plugged into some form of electronic device 24/7? Surely you can make their battery life longer so that they can step away from cellphones, TVs and computers for longer periods?

There are pitch and volume issues as well. When speaking to parents they tend to mumble and slur and yet when there is a human male within 10 meters or a picture of some vampire- wannabe boys in a magazine, their voices become high pitched and inappropriately loud. I’ll let you off the hook regarding the strange words and language that they use as this seems to be a universal phenomenon. Male teenagers are just as difficult to understand.

Please change the default facial pose from pouting to smiling. This could alleviate a lot of aggravation.

You are welcome to take my model back for a few days if this will assist you in making these changes.

I look forward to your speedy response and getting my own daughter back in due course. I really do miss her and besides, all the wine I have to drink to calm my nerves at the end of the day is making me put on weight.

Yours Sincerely

Mother to a teenaged alien.

When Hubby goes on Holiday

If any of you work from home - you will know that one becomes accustomed to the peace and independence, the freedom to do things in your own time and in your own way.

My hubby (aka The Chicken Man) had not taken leave for over a year. You know how people like him are? They feel that the company, with a R 9 billion annual revenue, will come to a grinding halt if they are not at work for a day or two. Admirable, I do agree, but somewhat frustrating when you can see the man you love turning into a wound-up wreck due to excessive and relentless stress and pressure.

So when Chicken Man agreed that he would take 3 whole uninterrupted weeks of leave I was elated. Finally he could unwind and return to his normal happy-go-lucky self. There was only one problem. People who work in a corporate environment have this notion in their heads that people who work from home don’t ACTUALLY do any work. They feel that unless you jump into your car every day and fight the traffic to get to the office by 8H00 – you can’t possibly be contributing to the GDP of the country.

Oi vey, every 5 minutes; “What are you doing?”; “Hey, just come and watch this on TV”; “Why don’t you come and swim with me?”; “Let’s go have a drink somewhere”; “You don’t mind if so-and so comes around do you?” and my all time favourite chirp (whilst I am engrossed in a project) “ARE YOU WORKING????” Aaaggghh.

No sweetie - I am sitting at my computer on this glorious sunny day, cursing at the screen because the internet is particularly slow, my back is aching thanks to my crap chair, and the beads of sweat are running down my face because I have a deadline on this job…and you want to know if I am working???

No sweetie darling, this is what I do for pleasure! Real work can only be done by people who drive to offices, right? I haven’t ventured into my car so of course I am not working. Sure honey bun, let’s go and have a drink shall we? Because that involves getting into a car and leaving the home – would it be fair to say that going for a drink with you is work??

Now I just have to figure out who I can bill for “drinks with hubby” and Chicken Man and I can eagerly look forward to his next couple of weeks leave. It is such a pity his company can’t cope without him though and leave will not be possible for another year or so…How very sad.