guest post

Last night I fell asleep on the couch. I was woken up briefly to have a look at this art. I appreciated it, but I was tired all the same. This email from Steve greeted me this morning, I thought I should share it.

So Felix was like, "Daddy I wanna draw you." And I was thinking, "that's a bit advanced for a three year old, what have they been teaching him at school?

" Then he was like "But I can't daddy, I don't know how."

I told him he could do anything if he tried, etc, but he kept saying he couldn't

So I said "well, don't worry Felix just draw anything.

" Then he said "Okay" and started drawing, he drew what looked like a head outline and said, "Okay daddy's head." I looked at it from the couch and true enough there was a head outline.

So I said, "Wow Felix that's incredible, now what about giving daddy some eyes, so he said, "Okay" and drew eyes (well okay, he drew three).

I was thrilled, "Now what about a mouth for daddy, Felix?" Sure enough he drew a mouth.

And I was like, "That's unbelievable Felix, now what about daddy's nose?" Bang! Felix drew a nose.

I grabbed him and kissed him and said what a wonderful child he was, then he said "No wait Daddy I need to give you sharps". I was like "it's okay Felix let's pretend that daddy shaved today, we don't need to draw the sharps."

So he said, "Okay daddy but I have to draw your ears" those are the little squiggles on either side.

Well I was so proud of Felix that I wanted him to sign the work so I asked if he could write his name, and he giggled "No daddy" all sheepishly. So I started to write his name and he got all cross and said "but you're doing it daddy, that's mine."

I looked up and asked nobody in particular "What's the date today?", he said, "it's Wednesday daddy." And sure enough Wednesday it is.

Anyway, emails like this only come from proud fathers, so I hope the pic doesn't disappoint, but I'm blown away by it, it was drawn entirely by Felix, unassisted, I mean the kid is THREE!

fears

I still live in NE Ohio. I've got no doubts about where I am geographically to be sure, but I still live in NE Ohio. This is easily evidenced by the fact that every day I download a half hour of NE Ohio news broadcast from Kent State's radio and listen to it either on my drive to work or my drive home from work. I know more about what is going on there with regards to politics, arts and culture, you name it. Plus when I am at work, I eagerly anticipate the rising sun in Cleveland - cause it means I get to hear whats going on in the social scene that I am missing as well.

On the other hand, I am loving life over here. I love my house run like a ship right now and now that school is done, things run so smoothly. Plus, I love my artists and my boss (its about time I supplied you with a name - Bethea). The other day when I decided I wanted to wear false eyelashes because the heavy eyeliner look would be vastly improved by having long lashes - one of our makeup artists put them on. Do you know what Bethea said? She asked if I'd ever worn false eyelashes before, told me to follow the makeup artist's instructions as to when to close and when to open my eyes and then she gave me instructions on taking them off. And then she proceeded to answer the phones as I had them applied. Then I found a picture of the look I was going for online. You see, the heavy eyeliner, dark look is actually the Keira Knightly look, which is in stark contrast to the other look I have been striving for - Jane Smith - not Angelina Jolie, but her character. I just like the clean smooth lines. But thats not the point, the point is that then I proceeded to have my hair done. It was the middle of the day folks, my boss should have been telling me to get to work, not how great I looked. And I have to add, its not like Bethea is some middle manager, she owns the company.

But back to NE Ohio, on the false eyelashes day, on my way home I thought about Gravity Hill. Can you believe it, Gravity Hill? Where did that come from? Then I started driving through Kirtland and Mentor in my head. Everything looked clear and consistent in my head, but its kind of strange cause some of the things I saw were from specific periods that have already passed. Like a sign I saw on my way to vote a few years ago that read "Vote Your Conscience, Not Your Fears". Okay, that was more than a couple years ago - that was prior to W. being elected the first time. I listened to the sign, I voted Green, I contributed to the dividing of the left. It happens.

And then it happened, I turned to my closet to pick out something to wear for a play we were going to that evening. Not formal, but not too casual. And then tragedy struck. Clearly that was the Jane Smith look, not the Keira Knightly look, but nothing was making me take off the eyelashes. Once I had regained the ability to open my eyes, I wasn't taking them off. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I couldn't find anything to wear. I was totally stumped. It was the first time that I had ever tried to match clothes with eye makeup, for sure, but I am so good with this suff normally. I tried this on, I tried that on, I really didn't like anything. I got confused and just decided on black pants, black shirt and a grey sweater. Highly unimaginative. The play, "Defending the Caveman" was great. Then I put a couple of rand down on roulette. I lost. But, I just couldn't bring myself to take off my eyelashes that night. So I slept on my back and was in the constant state of wanting to turn over and not letting myself.

I had just as much trouble getting dressed the next morning. What is clean that matches my eyelashes? And on my drive to work (listening to NE Ohio news) I was listening to the Green party candidate for Ohio governor speak. I was kind of irritated by this. I've been following the issues raised by Strickland v Blackwell. I've been trying, very hard to keep an open mind to both sides, though there is no doubt I am biased. And I still haven't mailed in my absentee voter registration, so there isn't much I can do about it anyhow. When Fitakis, the Green Party candidate says that for the first time in a long time, the lefties in Ohio are in a strong position to vote their hopes, not their fears. I looked around expecting to see South Mentor as I drove past. But all I could see was house after house with Joburg style 8 foot high walls (maybe these were the 10-12' variety, I was in Houghton at the time) topped with electric fencing and electric gates opening and closing while cars pulled out of them, some people blowing kisses out the window to their poor, trained to attack dogs were left to guard the fortress. (Mandela lives on that street, I don't know which one is his house, but I drive past it six days a week - but he doesn't drive, I've seen him at the pharmacy recently, he can barely walk.)

Vote your hopes, not your fears. I wonder what that means here. I shrugged my shoulders. I'm not tearing down our wall, its spikes or electric fence, I'm not getting rid of the guard dogs, I'm not driving around with my windows down and in lieu of that, its not like I can get on the next plane out of here. I shrugged again and tuned back into the the important political issues of NE Ohio. Maybe something unexpected will happen. Maybe something great will fall into my lap. I just hope its not one of my eyelashes. So maybe I should go back to the Jane Smith look. Its just one way to contextualize voting your hopes, not your fears.

two points

We have two little boys that come into our office every afternoon - Wallace and Mpho. They are about 10 years old. I have know their mom almost as long as I have been in this country. My boss has known their mom for a couple of decades. They used to live near our office, now they live near my boss. In any case, they are still enrolled in the school near my office, but there is no way for them to get home after school until their mom gets off work - so they hang out here for a couple hours.

Thats the background information. What has been happening lately though is that since last week these little brothers are fighting over which one of them gets to be my boyfriend. They keep demanding an answer, but what can I do? I don't want to damage their little self-esteems and its not like I can pick one. But today Wallace bumped himself up a couple points by giving me these divine letters. Of course they were passed through my boss and they've both been walking around covering their faces ever since, but they are too wonderful not to share.

dinosaurs

The strangest thing is happening to me right now - as I type. I have nothing to do. Seriously. This morning I had a study group at my house for our upcoming exam. It was a grueling but successful 5 or so hours. (And I think everyone appreciated the nibblies I made.) After they left, my housekeeper and I set to loading the dishwasher and tidying up. That was done fairly quickly. Everything was tidy and the kids were playing with Julia (who most of you haven't heard of yet - dunno why). I sat down to check my email. I had none. I sat on the couch with Oscar for a few minutes watching Mr & Mrs Smith (which is kind of like my anthem right now). He decided to go back to playing with the others. I decided I could start preparing dinner, which consisted of taking stirfry out of the freezer, putting it in the microwave to defrost it and then putting it in my oven. Then I set the table. Then, having nothing more to do while dinner did itself, Steve fixing his car, the kids playing with Julia, my house in complete order, I checked my email again. Still nothing. Not even crap subscription stuff. I walked into the kitchen again, checked on dinner and then stood there, looking blankly around me. I opened a beer.

I called my boss - to ask her if she has ever gotten to the point where she has nothing to do. She complimented my housekeeping and told me that she has never had a moment where everything is done. We talked about work for a few minutes. She suggested I go back to working on my book. I stood in the kitchen for a few more minutes. I randomly did some yoga stretches. I checked on the dinner. I gave Steve a five minute heads up. I stood around some more. I took dinner out of the oven. I called everyone to the table. I served dinner. When everyone was finished, I finished clearing the table. I washed the dishes. I put them away. I wiped off the table. I played a little game with the kids. I'm not sure how it started, but the general rules were to catch imaginary dinosaurs as they were coming out of the floor and to run through the house screaming until we got to the door to throw them outside and then to run screaming through the house back to the boys' room where more invisible beasts were rising from the ground. They got worn out. I put on a movie for them. I checked my email. I walked through the house again to see if there was anything that needed to be done. I stood around for a few minutes.

In a little while I will give the kids a bath. Then I will get them ready for bed. We'll all sit quietly on the couch. Then I will put Oscar in bed. After that it is Felix's turn. And then what? I suppose I can check my email again. But since I will have none, that will take 30 seconds. It is all too strange and it isn't even 7pm. I'm even a little afraid to finish this blog. What will I do between now and bathtime? Check my email? I might have more luck pulling imaginary dinosaurs out of the floor. And with any luck, they'll destroy the floorboards so I have something to do besides check my email.

me, melanie and mitra

Last night we went out to our fancy schmancy dinner. Despite the cheese of corporate events, it was a nice evening. Of course, the only people we knew were the crew - Niqui-Beth's boyfriend (see models blog) was doing sound, one of our makeup artists, Leon was there body painting some performers and Steve knew a cameraman that was recording the event. And apart from them, the only people we spoke to were the couple sitting at our table and the astronomers who had set up telescopes on the lawn to look at the moon (partial eclipse last night) and Jupiter. So, it was a good thing that we didn't spend so much money on a suit and such. But Steve did buy a pair of shoes - dirt cheap shoes - he said he couldn't justify spending more. So we kept talking about his shoes: "how do you like my fancy Italian shoes?"

I had to recount the night that me, Melanie and Mitra went to the Mo & Me documentary the night Melanie got back from Italy. Melanie and I couldn't stop bitching about the Italians. A brief apology is necessary to any Italians reading this, but really the service and even politeness areas of your culture could learn a lesson from the South Africans even - and that is saying something... Meanwhile, I love the Germans, but my friend Sabine, who is German, can't stand them and loves the Italians. Truthfully, no one's opinions really matter that much. But Steve twigged on to the catch phrase "me, melanie and mitra" and said it sounded like a movie. I said it sounded like a blog title.

Problem is, I couldn't think of the blog to go with the title. But then I got home to an email from Mitra. She said she was listening to Simon & Garfunkel's Homeward Bound and realised its my anthem. I had to tell her that it was included on the airline radio last year when I went home and I felt the same way. She told me it was so much my anthem that I was REQUIRED to post the lyrics on my blog. So I have now managed to post a blog that incorporates Italians, Simon & Garfunkel, and me, Melanie and Mitra.

Without further ado:

Homeward Bound (4:22) P. Simon, 1966 Released on Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme (On the Australian release, this is the studio version.) I'm sittin' in the railway station Got a ticket for my destination, mmm On a tour of one night stands My suitcase and guitar in hand And every stop is neatly planned For a poet and a one-man band Homeward Bound, I wish I was Homeward Bound Home, where my thought's escaping Home, where my music's playing Home, where my love lies waiting Silently for me Every day's an endless stream Of cigarettes and magazines And each town looks the same to me The movies and the factories And every stranger's face I see Reminds me that I long to be Homeward Bound, I wish I was Homeward Bound Home, where my thought's escaping Home, where my music's playing Home, where my love lies waiting Silently for me Tonight I'll sing my songs again I'll play the game and pretend But all my words come back to me In shades of mediocrity Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me Homeward Bound, I wish I was Homeward Bound Home, where my thought's escaping Home, where my music's playing Home, where my love lies waiting Silently for me Homeward Bound, I wish I was Homeward Bound Home, where my thought's escaping Home, where my music's playing Home, where my love lies waiting Silently for me Silently for me

no shoes

Being broke while you have kids means that you have to give up a lot of things you would normally spend money on. For us, the first thing to go was clothes. Not that I was ever one of those people who spent a lot or spent often on clothes, although I think Steve was. I don't struggle with clothing issues the way a lot of people do. This has primarily been for two reasons: my wardrobe has limited colour in it and my closet runs like a business. It is organised to the letter. For a start, all of my clothes get fully done up - buttons it get buttoned, zippers get zipped, that sort of thing. And items only get put in the closet after being ironed and placed on hangers - facing in the same direction. The primary division is by colour - in this order: white, grey, black, cream/tan and for the first time: red. (Until recently, anything I owned of colour was placed out of distraction on shelves or in drawers.) After that you get sub-divisions within each category, as follows: pants, tank tops & sleeveless shirts, short sleeve shirts (with no buttons), short sleeve button-up shirts, long sleeve shirts, long sleeve button up shirts, sweaters, sweaters with buttons, suit jackets, skirts, and finally dresses. That pattern follows in each colour category. Things that get folded, also sit in stacks of colour. Its a business, but if I want a shirt, I know exactly where it is. If its not there, its not available to wear.

This particular system has been with me for over half my life as well, so it runs smoothly. This also means that I know if I need to buy something - which on the whole, has been a rare experience. Because my clothes get such good care and I can see where they are, I really don't need to replace often. So when I arrived and decided to stay in South Africa, this became a bit of a problem, because I brought carry-on luggage only. I had just enough for a holiday, with a wash in the middle. So then I had to borrow what I could, buy what I couldn't borrow and do without items I couldn't afford to buy. Then I got pregnant (BIG), and then I lost the weight to about 3 sizes bigger than normal, then I got pregnant (BIG) and then finally, finally, I was at a stage when it was time to work on building up my wardrobe again. Only, by that time, we had no money, so it has been a struggle. Although I think I may have finally reached the point, where I am covered for any event in any of the usual colours.

Steve on the other hand, has neither the closet run like Swiss trains, nor the weight fluctuations and travel that require wardrobe updates. Which is why he looked at me in dismay when the invitation for Thursday night's dinner said: formal/traditional (yeah, we live in Africa and no, no one shows up in loin cloths - only very bad prints). Suit jackets he has none. Nice pants: one pair, never been hemmed - which I think is cool, but doesn't work for an event with a formal dress code. He has a few joke ties - most of which I have appropriated as belts to suit the changes in my waistline. Nice shoes. You see, even if we have money, we have kids - and Steve's job reqires he goes out to film child miners in the mountains in DRC, not step into board rooms - what would he need formal shoes for? I have A dress I wear for this. Long, straight, black, backless and a high slit up the back. Sexy, stylish, works for everything except freezing cold weather. Done, I am sorted. Steve still has nothing to wear.

In a moment of insight, I call one of our stylists to see if maybe he can help me pull together a suit. Cause, yeah, we can't afford to buy Steve a proper suit right now, we can't even spend the money for fabric even if I was crazy enough to sew one up. Gareth, says, sure, with pleasure, come over - I've got stuff laying around, what size is he? The pleasure of having stylists around you. It makes all the difference some times. I sat down and watched the performance: try this jacket on - it fits fine, but the colour is off, and this one, nice, here try the pants, need to be tacked, but they will work, this shirt, no, this one?, maybe, here, try this one, not bad, put the jacket back on, good, good, and this tie? It was almost a comedy for me. When I wasn't busy rehanging, I sat back and just smiled at what was going on around me. When it was all settled, I was in such a good mood, I told him he could buy matching shoes (which he needs, otherwise, he could have just gone with this the un-hemmed pants). And I just kept smiling. It was kind of like watching my life as a movie. And of course I have decided to make friends with all of our stylists who work with ladies clothing, because, while I love my dress, you've all seen it before.

But our dinner is all sorted (except I think all of our makeup and hair people are working, which means I have to do it on my own) for the cost of a pair of shoes and dry cleaning and I am feeling a bit smug - see what I pulled off... However, we still have no money to buy clothes, which means that no matter how much care they have received, I am about to walk to a closet that is thread bare, if highly organised. And while I will find what I need for work today, I am kinda hoping my suit-high keeps me going until we have money. Which I am pretty sure it won't because, even if I have a sufficient number of black tank tops, my kids keep on growing. That means they need the clothes, and socks, and shoes, and jackets (yes it gets freaking cold here) and of course they need the food that keeps them growing, but that is another story.

habits

The Germans arrive today. Who and what you ask. I can't really say. I'm not even sure I have ever been told their names, but they are coming. Somehow a couple of film or something students have found Steve as they were planning their trip to SA. As he is not in Mogadishu right now (as he was supposed to be), he is going to help them navigate their way through to where they are staying. Up until I went to bed last night, this was not even an issue. Sure they aren't American, but they are short term-short distance friends. In other words strangers who need some assistance.

These people have always been my friends. In high school it was the exchange students. In between being the stranger myself after graduation, I had a steady stream of these people in my life. These are people I know are going to leave, but for some reason, I take the time anyhow. In fact, the most recent departure of a new American stranger damn near broke my heart. (Love you Mitra!) And still I persist. It might be because my mom taught me about tolerance without me even realising it (which she did). But I think now its more because I know what being the stranger is all about. And Jo'burg is a hard place to be a stranger in. Its big, its spread out and with the persistent cloud of fear everyone lives in, its hard to make friends when you don't even have a starting base. Look, I had that base, and I still struggle with a lack of friends. But then I end by missing my short term-short distance friends and feeling both enriched and empty - and I do it again. And this time around, it is the Germans.

Still, this was not a problem. Some habits are hard to break and I'm not even worried about this one. Last night, minutes before bed, Steve said, "are we inviting them over for dinner or going to the bowling club or what? Oh, and Roger will probably be with us..." This doesn't sould like an issue to anyone does it. The problem is this. I spent the whole of Saturday preparing and freezing meals for the next two weeks. I have a schedule. I even have the following two weeks planned out and the groceries ordered for that cooking spree. Deviations are allowed for, I never reheat fish dishes. So if we want to eat fish, it gets purchased that day, and the allocated meal gets pushed to another date. I rearrange my calendar and life moves on. Last night when the crisis struck, I was advocating for eating at home. This is due to the fact that we are poor and that Steve and I already have two commitments later this week, and the boys go all loopy when we are both out of the house in the evenings. Now I wonder if the cabbage rolls with a side of mashed baby new potatoes will be sufficient and tasty enough. I wonder if I should swop it out for something else.

And last night, I went to bed worrying that they might be vegetarian. What then? A last minute dash to the grocery store to prepare some tried and successful vegetarian dishes? But that would really screw up the system, because then, I will have extra of what is already ordered and less of things I haven't ordered because we still have plenty. Its a little dilemma, I'm sure, but nonetheless, it is my dilemma. And if good habits die hard, the bad ones NEVER seem to go away. And as female and topped off by being mother, I worry. You'll only notice, if you watch me long enough, but it is there. But I have to play this all by ear and sit at work, impotent to do anything, should they be vegetarians or not. Fortunately, my business direction skills seem to have refined themselves over the years and I can act in a crises situation (which this is not), so I'm hoping this will all go smoothly. And what for you ask. Because I keep putting myself out there to make friends I will have to say goodbye to sooner rather than later.

cookie

It came to my attention last night that one year ago I was in the States. Steve remembered not me. He said - "oh its Jazz on the Lake on Sunday. I took Felix last year." And by the way, for any one interested, there is no lake here. There is a place called Zoo Lake. Its a pond. Its not much bigger than my parents house if you were to take the top floor and the basement and line them up with the ground floor. Actually, for a pond it is reasonably sized, but it is not a lake. And I have, very specifically been teaching Felix the difference. Yes, Felix, its called Zoo Lake, but its a pond. Its not big enough to be a lake. A lake is big, like the sea. This could of course lead me into another discourse, as I have adopted the British use of the word sea and this could be problematic for some of you. But you have to pick your battles and I choose to distinguish between ponds and lakes and Steve and the boys can keep their sea. And in any case, the first time I spent more than a heartbeat at the "ocean" was a few weeks in Australia - where, I'm not sure any more, but maintaining the links it does to British English, may in fact have been called a "sea".

But all of this is negligible, compared to the fact that last year I was home. In fact, 1 year ago last night I landed in Cleveland. My dad fetched us from the airport and we stopped at Arby's on the way home. The Arby's tasted like my apartment in Kent - I could actually taste good times and sad. I think it almost tasted like watching the same scene from Fight Club over and over and over again. Absolutely wonderful. And I got to my parents' house and basically ran from room to room - I can't be certain if I was looking for my stuff or if I was just remembering. Simple things can have such meaning.

The next day, a year ago today, was spent organising my life. I had to redo my drivers exam. Which wasn't really a mission, but I was a little uneasy seeing as how I drive a stick-shift on the wrong side of the road over here and ALL of the road signs and markings are completely different. But at least I can parallel park, which made the manoeuverability part much easier this time around. Anyhow, my mom, me and Oscar headed out to K-Mart after that escapade, where I just browsed around in disbelief and bought a few necessities for the kid. The rest of the afternoon was spent organising my rental car. Do you guys remember it? Not my style, but what an amazing "sweet" ride it was. And the minute I could, I negotiated my way down to Coventry. I almost can't believe I still knew how to get there from Mentor. Although I don't know why I should be so surprised. I can literally see every bend in MLKJ Drive and every shop front going up little Italy. I think I could just make myself cry thinking about it.

And then to see the faces I've been longing to see, that I still long to see. To sit in the bar that I think of every time I open a beer. To 'run' around Cleveland Hts like it is 'my' playground. The sights, the sounds, the smells, the memories. One year ago today. Its not like I could forget, but how can one night mean so much? Well, briefly put, it is my world. Most nights I dream of it, every day I have to shake it off, like dust from a rug and sweep it out of the corners of my mind. And I have to constantly push thoughts out of my head to keep up with life at all. Oh to be home...

But hey, its not all bad - a few days ago, Steve's mom called to confirm that we were joining them in Durban again this year. Its not around the corner yet, but its coming up. I like Durban, mainly because up here in Joburg, the air is dry and biting. Down in Durban, the humidity and the heat feel like it could be an August day in Cleveland. This, of course, is because of the sea. And, well, "sea" is for cookie, and thats good enough for me.

lisa loeb look

super glam

model

This afternoon was fantastic. I work a half day on Tuesdays and Thursdays on account of classes on those days. That means I work until 1pm, even though class only starts at 4pm. This is to allow for me to work on assignments, meet with my professors, return hopelessly overdue books to the million libraries scattered across campus, etc. Today, however, I got sucked into the studio.

We were supposed to have a shoot, but it kept getting postponed by the very important CEO whose portrait was going to be taken. But the lights were set up, the photographer was on standby, we had one of our makeup artists wandering around. Her boyfriend was there, a sprinkling of other photographers were milling around. Its becoming warmer, spring is in the air and my iPod was plugged into the studio sound system. Who can blame me for not catching up on the readings for this afternoon in favour of playing with my artists?

Niqui just sat me down and started painting my face. I couldn't complain. Meanwhile we had one photographer taking pictures of another photographer and we were all rocking out to Blondie. Niqui went wild on my face and even my photographer in residence was happy with the pictures he was snapping. And he's hard to please. So I started thinking how nice it would be to be a model. Sit around with fun creative people, have your face and hair done up by professionals, take some pictures, get paid money for it.

Look, don't let me kid you, with the studio on the premises, I've met my share of models and seen my share of shoots. You don't need brains to do this job. In fact, I'm tempted to say you really shouldn't pursue modelling as a career if you have brains (unless you are so drop dead beautiful that you are earning a fortune from the word go). The reason for this is that intelligent and creative people would not be able to sit still and hold uncomfortable poses without putting their two cents in every five minutes. That irritates every one else on the job. Having said that models do need to have endurance and need to be able to listen - mainly to commands. It can be quite challenging in its own way.

That's when Niqui's boyfriend pipes in that he can't believe models get paid to just look pretty. Well some of them aren't - thats where makeup artists and lighting comes into play. For me, I have come to the conclusion that I am happy models get paid a lot of money to do what they do. That is incentive enough to keep them out of other spaces, like our offices, where normal girls like me are terrified every time the slimmest, prettiest girl walks into my space. In addition, it keeps them out of the goods and services industries - which is also good, because with the IQs necessary to be a model, you don't really want them helping you get through your day.

As for me, you can be sure I am rushing early to work tomorrow to have a look at my pics, but today, I rushed my little self off to school, cause I'm too smart to be a model - or in any case, I can't sit still.

So, I got these as I was walking out the door to go home this afternoon. Thought I would share... For anyone interested, this is the parking lot of my office. And, well it has to be said, a big round of applause for my photographer in residence - Alexis...

confused or not?

The other night I got a little drunk, okay, maybe a little bit more than that, which could most likely account for the confusion that followed. I remember being a lot drunk the first time I saw Reservoir Dogs and in probably one of the worst conditions when I saw U-Turn for the first times. So the first time I saw Reservoir Dogs, I didn’t understand it. Contributing to that was probably the fact that I watched it with Erich who was raving about the brilliance of the movie and Tarantino and there was probably too much pressure mixed with my alcohol. U-Turn was screwed up the second time I saw it and I believe in retrospect, that it was the movie that made me feel more drunk than I actually was.

What happened the other night though is slightly more troubling, because I wasn’t watching anything with a twisted plot line or special effects and I wasn’t watching it for the first time either. What I was watching was the British version of The Office, the second part of the Christmas specials. An odd choice for something to watch when you’ve been drinking, but it was Oscar’s choice actually. He just picked it out and I put it on. But really, I watch that series and that specific episode more than necessary. What can I say, I like repeats.

But what happened while I was watching is really the weird thing. I got crazy homesick. Not a little homesick. Not a medium weight homesick. But a bona fide intense to the point of silly homesick. Maybe this doesn’t sound weird, but I got homesick watching a British comedy that I have never seen outside of South Africa. Nothing about the show reminds me of home, save for maybe a character or so. Getting homesick doesn’t scare me, it happens too much to even have an impact. I am always running on at least a minimal level of homesickness. What scares me is actually the merging of accents and related cultural accessories that is happening in my brain. You see, I am one of those Americans who can distinguish between the various English language accents. I can narrow down to country level at least and in the case of England, I can sometimes even get more specific.

But since then, there have been lots of little, barely blips on the radar type signs that are compelling me to watch The Office again. Like the actress who plays Dawn being on the cover of a magazine, which was the only magazine, out of hundreds on the wall that caught my eye. And then a colleague asked if I ever watch that show. And so on. Little things. And it contributes to my confusion – because homesickness should not follow directly from The Office, but it does. But maybe it is normal. Or maybe I am getting homesick because of the confusion.

Or maybe I am just freaking homesick. Who would doubt it? No one, just like no one doubts my confusion…

four

There were four of us. I have to say I think we were strongest junior year of high school, but the concept of the four of us has never left my mind - even if it has for you Kelly, Joanna and Holly. Even when we didn't speak (um, sorry, that was me) for a couple of years, I remembered the four of us. Before I walked down the steps to the bar a year ago (and I'm not sure which of us had a bigger shock), I can't even remember when the four of us were last in the same room together. I'm tempted to say it was as long ago as the summer I got back from Australia. Can anyone remember anything in between?

What strikes me as funny sometimes is how much we have all become our mothers. Ok, not in all respects, which is good, because three of us didn't want to be our mothers, we wanted to be Holly's mother. I mean who wouldn't? Who else would pack extra celery sticks and ranch dressing for the extra period (actually, I think it was a mod?) after chemistry for her daughter's friends? And who else would suggest making rice crispies treats when her daughter's friends just rock up after school? And who else would buy her daughter sexy underwear because she was concerned that she wasn't having sex? So basically, if we couldn't have Wave as our mother, we all wanted to be Wave when we had kids.

That was before I had kids. Not that I want to be anyone else or their mother. Cause if you are a mother, thats how people see you - as a mother. So if anyone (besides your children) thinks you are clever or pretty, for even half a second on a business call, its a good thing. Because, so often it is easy to get so wrapped up in the kids and whats going on in their lives that you forget about you. Meanwhile, Holly, who of all of us has become so much like her mother, shames me at her unbelieveably motherliness. Almost every day boasts a new story about Bela's activities or how much Holly loves the little one to pieces and misses her when she is gone (although part of me is tempted to say that the difference between having boys and having girls). Meanwhile, my blogs are about driving and photography (a subject I know little about) and occasionally eating. And most of the pictures on my blog are of me, not of my little monsters.

Don't worry Holly, your motherly perfection doesn't scare me, cause I know you are still Holly and I am still me. But I have to say that for a few months, I was a little miffed I wasn't included on your links section of your blog. Oh, I tried not to take it personally, but I did check back a lot to see if I was ever gonna be added. Eventually I gave it up. You know, sometimes I do manage to get over my bad self. Until today. Today you mentioned the reading of blogs and I remembered I haven't checked up on my future daughter-in-law in a few days. (I mean, if I can't be Wave, or have her for my mother, then damn straight I'm gonna make sure my son gets her as his wife - thats right other mommies - I've got dibs!) So I had a look and since I had more than 3 minutes, I decided to check out some of your links.

Hmmm, I thought to myself. Where to start? Hot Mama? Yeah, that looks interesting. Holy shit - thats me! I actually squealed with a mixture of delight and embarrasment. I was actually so embarrased at my petty little hurts of not being added. So I thought to myself, that I was never gonna tell anyone how bloody blind, dumb and silly I was. And then it struck me for the first time, I kinda like being called mama - as long as the word hot is in front of it. So then I realised I have to tell everyone. And even if we are growing up and having babies, really, some things haven't changed much since high school. You are still you and I am still me and half of the time we still talk about the same damn things - and maybe someday soon, the four of us will all go to a salon to have our hair dyed together (by professionals).

And as an added bonus - some pictures of the red in me.

home

When I moved my old stuff over to this blog, I did so because I needed a clean sheet of paper to get me in the mood to write every day. It worked out fine - for about a week or so. Everywhere I looked a story was hatching and all I wanted to do was get home from work and type, type, type. Exactly 2 weeks ago today I sliced my hand open and it didn't stop me from typing with the other one. Exactly 1 week ago, I started my second semester of grad school - that mystical and amazing almost untouchable and unbelieveable thing called school that I have been waiting four years to do and what happened to my writing? You know that answer. The soda shop girl making banana splits in my head turned back into the frigid old day biddy. (I know at least one of you will catch that reference!) All of the creative juices stopped flowing. And for a couple of days, I was cool with that. Truly, I have a lot of reading to do. And let me just add that last semester, I had the highest grade in the class - thats right, the woman with 2 jobs, 2 kids, no kitchen and no money managed it. And why? Because I did all of my readings, so even when I didn't commandeer the conversation in class, I still knew what was what. So thats why when a few days went by with no blog, I didn't get too cross with myself.

Today was the first day that a potential blog popped into my head this past week. And I can tell you, for a start, its got a big fat nothing to do with creativity or my education. Somebody tried to poison my dogs today. You heard me. Someone wants my dogs dead. And the reason? Because somebody wants my stuff and it is that much easier if my dogs aren't trying to kill whoever it is on the way in or way out.

Look, I don't have that much stuff. I barely have a kitchen - and that is no joke. For anyone interested, here is a list of items that could potentially fetch a price: 1-TV, 1-VCR, 1-DVD player, 2-TV speakers, 1-desktop computer, monitor & printer, 1-cheap guitar, 1-old Nikon (not digital), and a whole host of old CDs, DVDs & old videos, most of which are so scratched that they no longer can be played and certainly no 2nd hand store is going to buy a recorded from TV copy of "The Christmas Story". My iPod is visibly missing from this list. Why? Because I've even taken to wearing it in a hidden travel belt made for passports & stuff (because I am paranoid). But back to the list; I have no diamonds or jewlery of any value, I don't have any cash foreign or local, none of the items are the newest, latest and highly sought after products (except maybe the roomba which I forgot to add, but needs a converter/adapter to work anyhow since it has an American plug). Basically, nobody I know would buy the crap that we own.

Except, when you live in my suburb of Johannesburg, behind great big giant walls, an electric fence and 2 guard dogs - which by the way, everyone in my suburb has - nobody knows what you have and the level of protection suggests a lot more than what we really have. In reality, the protection is because I want to live, I want my kids to live and I want us all to do this with as little therepy and as few medical bills as possible. I know that I come from a different place, a place where safety is pretty generally an accepted fact. Look things happen in Cleveland, even in freaking Mentor, but its not like everytime you pull out of your drive way, you expect, anticipate and plan for someone to stick a gun to your head, demand entrance to your property, relieve you of your valuables, and tie you to your remaining furniture while your kids are screaming their heads off so the holders of the guns can get safely away. Okay, this didn't happen to me today, but it happens all the time here. And today, someone tried to poison my dogs, which can only mean that someone intends to relieve me of my valuables while threatening my life and potentially the lives of my kids.

My dogs are fine, we found them eating something they shouldn't have been. Within half an hour, I was at the vet who soon after induced vomiting, and advised me to try and keep them inside tonight (which, by the way, means our cats are probably going to run away). My dogs are fine and because I can act rationally when I need to, my kids are completely unaware, but me, I am not so fine. I am constantly paranoid, exhausted from waking at every noise, tired of being strong and brave, resentful because I have this stress and above all angry because I am stuck in this evil, depraved and frightening place. Seriously, I'd trade rural West Virginia for this crap. I have got to get out of here. I hate the South African me. And every day, I begin to hate this place a little more. For those among you who are reading this within a 20 mile radius of my house, I'm really sorry to bash this place that you love so much, but I have no love for it and give you full permission to bash the place I love so much. Which, I might add, none of you have been to and probably verbally destroy on a regular basis without my permission anyhow.

I don't need life to be easy, in fact when I've got nothing to do, I make up "challenges" for myself, but really, this is too much. Wars are fought because people have a love of or devotion to whatever they are defending. In this case, my children; but this soldier is really fecking tired and needs replacement troops. Or better yet, get me the hell out of here; you can have the soil and even the 10 year old TV if you really want it. Take my car, take away the long awaited opportunity to get my masters, and even my blessed iPod. You can have it all in exchange for 4 one-way tickets to the States. I need to go home.

untitled due to lack of imagination

With my recent discovery of photoshop, I'm really into pictures. Having a whole bunch of photographers around me everyday helps too. My job basically consists of understanding the artists and their work and promoting them to the advertising/magazine/fashion industries this means taking their portfolios out and showing them around to the various people responsible for booking them - which means they make money and therefore that I have a job. Right now I am about to start a major campaign on our makeup & hair artists. And if you've ever had a picture taken of yourself, you pretty much understand that it looks a helluva lot different than what you may find in a magazine - partly because of the makeup artist and partly because of the photographers lights. But what I am getting at is that this month, I have to put the photographers books down for a little bit and take out the makeup, hair & sfx books. The thing about that is that I have become kind of attached to our photographers books. Not that I have ever attempted to take any credit for their work, but I've begun to develop a relationship with it after looking at each picture like 5 times a day and knowing the guy behind eash lense, well, as you might be able to tell, I'm a little emotional about this. Believe me, I'll probably be the same way after some instensive months with the makeup,hair & sfx books...

In any case, I've never believed myself to have any skill with a camera. I mean I've taken the odd great picture and there are even a few that I am very proud of, but I've never taken the time to really learn the basic tricks nor have I ever had a nice camera - always just a point & shoot. But thats okay. And in high school, for some reason - during the worst period of my life I always had a camera with me. So now that I have kids (and the fact that Holly takes pics of her little baby like every other day) I wonder why I am not overstuffed with pictures of every single one of their developmental accomplishments. I think the main reason here is that I don't have my own personal digital camera. I don't even have my own film camera anymore. Steve does - he has the brilliant Nikon which has nice big lenses to make you feel important when you are taking a picture. And he is entrusted with the 2 digital video cameras his office down here owns. And I know that in a marriage, things get shared, but for example, it would be wierd if Steve picked up my guitar, so for me its wierd to ask to use the cameras, cause I don't know how to work them.

So the other day at the mall, while I was buying pyjamas that cover my kids' wrists, I had a look around for the cheapest digital camera I can find. The cheapest camera is R800 - I really was thinking about looking at half that price, but no deal. So I decided to settle for having a go at the Nikon, as I was sure Steve had taken the vid cams to Cape Town with him for this story he is working on. So I bought some film and I went home and took some pictures with that. I finished off the roll quickly so that I could hand in the film and have a look at my pictures. I asked for a CD as well so that I could play around in photoshop. Needless to say, my pictures are crap. And after looking at pictures for so long that are professionally styled, with makeup and hair styles perfect, with lights that can make anyone look beautiful - I was devastated. Nonethe less, I intend to work on this until I can get it to a point where I can bring my pictures into work without shame.

However, last night I discovered that the video cameras (both of which do take stills) are both still here. So I think I'm gonna have to switch over to that because while the film is nice, its expensive, not to mention the fact that the CD they gave me has the pics at a resolution of 26 dpi - and I could literally feel photoshop laughing at me as I tried to open them...

crippled rage

My friend Mitra tells me road rage is a way of life in LA. I don't do road rage - mainly because I am terrified someone is going to run me off the road and stick a gun to my head. The older I get (and yeah, I know I'm not that old) and the more mommy-ish I get (no one can doubt it really) the more scared I get. Look, I'm not discounting location as a factor, but I am an anti-road-rage individual worldwide. Usually, I just don't let it bother me when people cut me off, pull in front of me, take my parking, whatever. Its just not such a big deal in my life. In general I hold off on emotions until they go away or blow up in my face, so truthfully, the finger, the horn and the nasty looks are just not my first reaction. In the past couple of days I've actually been more upset about missing interesting parts of songs that I am trying to work through.

And I like to think that I'm a pretty good person. The other day I gave my gloves to a car guard cause it was unbelieveably cold and I'd just had a good hot meal (of which I gave him the take-aways) and I was feeling generous. And when I spotted a beggar who does backflips next to the traffic, I found him a performance job opportunity (which to my knowledge, he still has not followed up on). These are not things I need to do, and even though I'm not a strict karma believer, I still like to think that when I am down on my luck, my little guardian angels after stuffing their face with delicious chicken curry are going to swoop down and give me a few little lifts in life.

That is why I expect the Johannesburg defensive driving ritual to be a little less challenging for me right now - because driving is actually painful. Everytime I shift gears or have to make a hard right, I am physically in pain. But rather than cheat codes, I have been given the ultimate challenging course and failure is expected it seems. With my energy bar on the red, I've had 3 near accidents today. Nothing major by any means, but people cutting me off and forcing me to swerve, which just hurts. So I started thinking about revamping my road rage strategy - just until I can drive without pain. But of course then I either need to make inappropiate gestures with my left hand, which just can't move that way right now - or I need to make inappropriate gestures with my right hand, leaving my left hand to control the car. Either way, I am just as likely to get into an accident as I was prior to whatever defensive manoeuvre I just had to make.

In addition, most of the worst driving comes from taxis - who are known for their road rage and gun incidents. Now taxis in South Africa aren't like your standard NY yellow checkered or even the slightly more posh looking London cabs - they are vans. Big vans with like 15 seats that pull over across 3 lanes at the drop of a hat. And since half the vehicle needs to get out to let one person off, they spend a few minutes at the side of the road. Then they floor it across traffic back to the inside lane. And the passengers, after disembarking these death vans, usually try and cross the road through the same traffic the taxi has just pissed off. It is more hazardous than driving in snow and needless to say, the rate of pedestrians getting hit by cars in South Africa is scary.

But, on my way up to Wits to pick up my readings for the dreaded upcoming classes, I was thinking about how to safely participate in the act of road rage. And thats when I saw my absolute worst nightmare: one taxi cut another taxi off just before the Wits traffic light. Fortunately, I was stopped at the cross street, cause I probably would have been cut off and then attempted some form of my new-found rage. As it was, the offended taxi driver, honked and started shouting at the offending taxi driver. And thats when the offending taxi driving produced a cricket bat, held it outside the window of his van and then smashed the side mirror of the offended taxi driver's vehicle.

So I realised, as I drove past this scene when the light turned green for me a second later, that my fears are pretty well founded and that road rage is really not a good idea. I drove into campus, walked up to my building and got myself plenty of sympathy for my poor, buggered hand...

jinxed

This morning was another one of those drive around the northern suburbs going to ad agencies kind of mornings. As I was getting on the N1 north from William Nicol, I couldn't get over into the right lane to make the turn quick enough. Mainly because the snobby people in their Audis and BMWs and SUVs that cost as much as my house would not let me over. So I had to head towards Monte Casino for one more block and make a u-turn and make a left on to the freeway. The traffic was moving so slowly that I thought I could get a quick call to Monica in, but she didn't answer. And good thing too because as I made the left onto the freeway, I noticed what was making traffic move so slow - a team of like 30 police officers were randomly pulling people over to check license, registration, warrant type things. Its called a roadblock and I don't appreciate them at all. I rather prefer to see a cop every ten feet (like in the States) that pull you over if you deserve it, rather than go through the customs and immigration type sensations that come with road blocks.

Having said which, I have never been pulled over at a road block. I don't know if I have the look perfected or if it has been shear luck. Either way, I am terrified of getting pulled over because I'm sure I'll have a hell of a time seeing as how my license was issued in Ohio and I have less than none in the intentions of getting it swapped over department. Needless to say, today's blog was fully formed at that moment - about all of the road blocks that were potential problems in the past and those that have been problems for people I know - that sort of thing. I spent the next couple of hours wondering if I was jinxing myself by blogging about roadblocks that I haven't been stopped at.

In any case, I made it back to the office, with plans to resume my half day twice a week schedule, which will of course be neccesary from next week on as I have classes starting. The plan was to have coffee with my friend and former colleague, Hector, head up to campus to organise stuff for this semester and then have Monica and her kids over for a playdate. I started off on my plan okay and then it happened. (Think chilling piano music from very old and usually very bad old horror movies.) A roadblock you think to yourself? Ahh no - an afternoon block in the form of my shoe slipping on something on the way down the stairs, me grabbing the railing to stop the tumbling movement my body was doing and barely escaping a fully fledged comedy movie style tumble to the bottom of the stairs and knocking a couple of waiters into their serving station at the bottom. If I had been concerned with dignity, I would be in the hospital right now - cause what happened was terribly and horrifyingly the opposite of dignified. As it was, I gathered myself up and walked back up the couple of stairs I had fallen down and tried to regain my footing. Thats when a waiter looked at me from across the room and asked if I was okay. Note that no one came running to my assistance and Hector had gone downstairs a minute or so before me and had missed the whole charade. Basically, I ignored the waiter.

As sort of a natural instinct, I checked my limbs for bruises. Now for those of you who have never been to South Africa, here is an important thing to note. Everywhere, seriously, has got funny carved metal adornments - like staircase bannisters. A hazard in my opinion, which was confirmed in the act of checking out potential bruising points, meaning, I shouldn't have been surprised to see a serious gash in the index finger of my left hand, through which I swore I could see my bones and which was beginning to fill up with blood. Shouldn't have been, but was because that it what shock is. So I carefully made my way down the stairs and to where I found Hector who immeadiately noticed my condition and got off his cell phone. I'm not completely sure if I grunted like a cave man or actually used English words, but he seemed to understand what I was trying to say, which was along the lines of - doctor block over been to before fucking sore fell please take me. Which of course he did.

And while I was waiting for the doctor to attend to me, Hector pretended to be interested in an obscure reference to Stephen King's Firestarter I was trying to make all in the name of keeping me lucid. Doctor cleaned me up, gave me some stitches, got concerned about possible bone fractures, gave me a script, wrote out a note to the radiologist and made a joke about how the first time I went to see her it was because I managed to stab myself nice and good on another funny metal adornment called a security spike. This by the way, I had managed to drive through my wrist as I pulled my hand away to avoid getting shocked by the electric fence we have above the spikes on our driveway gate. Just great. Hector followed me home - which was a huge mission as - thats right you remembered - I have to shift with my left hand and as I have no power steering, sharp turns require two hands. As I got out of the car and said thank you to Hector, I remembered the time that he was sposed to take me to the dentist and as I tried to leave my house to get in his car, the electric gate died and I couldn't get out. Rather than lending me the money to go to the dentist he had to loan me the money to get someone to come over and let me out of my house.

At the end of it all, I have serious bruises on both legs, some minor sctratches on my right hand and one helluva big pain from my left hand, which is stitched, bandaged, in a sling and hurts like I am being tortured when I move it. Which is why this entire blog has been typed, at a snails pace, with one hand. I wish the doctor had been more imaginative when she gave me my prescription and I can definetely say that I am jinxed.

its a walk off

Yesterday I did nothing - well okay - not nothing. But it was pretty much a kid free day. I woke up, I tidied the house, I made the kids breakfast. I got them dressed. I put them in the car, we went and got a present for Jemma, whose house I took them to. Her parents offered me a cup of coffee. I said "no thank you, you offered to watch the kids for 2 hours, are you mad, I'm outta here!" They laughed, even though my kids were the first to arrive at their daughter's birthday party. I drove outta there like the house was on fire (and my kids weren't in it) and picked Mitra up. We went to my house and made breakfast. Steve, Mitra and myself ate breakfast - at home without having to say - sit down, stop that, eat your food, put that back, knock it off, you kids are driving me insane!!!

I thought thats where it would end, but no. Steve decided to take the kids to his dad's for the day, so when the 12 o'clock party end time came around, he grabbed a change of clothes and left. So Mitra and I decided to go browse around at Rosebank, maybe go bowling or see the Da Vinci Code if it was playing. When we finally found parking at Rosebank, we went straight to the big theatre on the other side of the mall - past Benetton (which has a 40% off sale on and was VERY hard to pass up) and discovered the movie wasn't on. So we walked all the way back - past Benetton to the smaller theatre, where it wasn't playing either. We browsed magazines and ended up at the Mugg & Bean for a cup of coffee. We spent a long time observing that we were doing nothing. We thought about maybe checking out other theatres. I said, isn't there like a phone number you can call? She says, do you mean "MovieFone"? Man, how can I get confused about services in the States that I have never used before? So I phoned Steve and asked if he could check the paper at his dad's place. He phoned back to say - no sign of movie listings. We walked past Benetton again to get to the Vodashop so Mitra could buy more airtime and past Benetton again to head back towards the car.

We went back to my house and ended up watching Zoolander and the boys came home shortly after - but all asleep. Mitra went home and I decided to blog a little. But, I had nothing to say really, so when Arrested Development came on tv, I was there like a shot. Then Steve turned on the soccer. And I'm not really so sure what happened, because at 11 o'clock I sat up on the couch and realised I'd slept through the whole thing. Bummer.

Its a bummer because usually, by 5 o'clock I have a fully formed blog in my head. Seriously, I have a whole story just trying so hard to push me towards the computer, forcing me to write. Okay, usually I do a little more during the day than count the number of times I walk past Benetton, but its not like I write about social issues, politics, human rights abuses, etc. I think about half my blogs are about me getting lost, which kinda ties with 4 trips past Benetton. So when the 5 o'clock hour came and went and I had nothing, I was kinda thinking the soccer might hold some inspiration, but no such luck. So I went to bed - and I still have nothing to report, except for maybe the fact that the day before my nothing day, I spent a few hours learning photoshop and here is my first attempt.

i got my way thank you Lexi!!! Okay - they are still raw - I am going to try my hand at photoshop tonight after the kids are in bed. (The secret plan is to send these pics of to one of our photographers - who can make a hand appear where there was none - and try and pass it off as my own work... ha)

yearbooks and mix tapes

I didn't save anything from high school. I mean nothing. In fact the year before I came here I had big plans to burn my high school yearbooks. Well, that didn't work out, mainly because I really didn't have anywhere to burn them and I'm pretty respectful of things that are stronger than me - like the ocean and, in this case, fire. But I did make good use of the dumpster in my apartment's parking lot. So if anybody wrote anything cryptic that I was supposed to figure out a decade later - well its too bad. High school was painful and when it was over, well I wanted it OVER! The only real exception to the rule were the two mixed tapes my friend Mike made for me senior year. One was even in the tape player of my car on the night I left for South Africa. If I had known I was staying here, it would have been on the plane with me.

For anyone who doesn't have the slightest idea who Mike is, here are the important facts:
1. He has had a patch of silver hair near his forehead since birth,
2. He is deaf in one ear, and
3. Mike knows music. Seriously - he knows what is good months before anyone else has ever heard of them. He's never held on to one genre or another, but rather spreads himself across the wonderful.

I remember when I saw Mike in Illinois. It was late 1997. He played me the Verve's Bittersweet Symphony. Ok, I'd heard OF the Verve, but never listened to them. He made me listen to the song like 8 times. It was okay. I didn't hear it again for about another 6 or 7 months, when everyone else discovered the song. And only then did I listen to it properly. What an amazing song. I still love it, but really the point is - okay you got it already.

Thing is that, while I like my music - and now that I have an iPod, I treat it better than I treat my kids - and I like to think I've got pretty good taste in music, I'm with the masses. And Mike's one ear is way better than both of mine plus the ears of most of the people I know all wrapped together. Which is why I still had both of Mike's mix tapes long after high school, cause it took me damn near that long to realise how genius they really were.

So last night, I get an email from Mike that directs me to his summer 2006 mix that I can download. Despite the unbelievable internet restriction we have here in South Africa (see previous posts), I knew I had to get it. So I sent Mike an email that said "its winter here" - he replied, "haha, well, perhaps it will be a nice reminder of home. Let me know what you think..." Here's the problem, I won't be able to appreciate it for at least 6 months. I knew it when I downloaded it, I confirmed it when I listened to it for the first time today. Here's what I can say: I know I will love it forever when I understand it from beginning to end, which will take months of solid listening. This will make it summertime here - making the mix so much more appropriate and I'll still be about 3 decades ahead of the music listeners in South Africa. As for a nice reminder of home... do I ever think about anything else?

because I am not the only one... Here are a couple of my favourite pictures by Alexis Fotiadis...

spiros

Last night I found myself on the computer for a few hours, more because I really did not feel like working teddy bears, than because I was doing anything useful. And with Steve going to be working (meaning he'll be in Cape Town, DRC, Sudan, etc) for the next several weeks, I more or less excused myself from kid duties. We've got plenty of bonding time coming up and I've got plenty of wanting to pull my hair out because two small boys can drive you insane even when they are being good.

And in any case, even with me avoiding them, I was looking out for their best interests. I called Monica to try and set up a playdate for the boys and took a call inviting them to a 3rd birthday party this Sunday. It was then that I remembered that we had completely forgotten a party Felix was supposed to go to that afternoon. Oops. I felt really bad and tried not to mention it - which means I resorted to the parental trick of spelling which only lasts for a few years anyhow. Steve tried to call the parents, but their phone was on voicemail. And Felix, for no reason I can fathom, unless he can spell already, pushed a chair to the fridge, got up on it and pulled down the invitation and said, "I want to go to Ben's party." Wow, we are bad parents. Sure, I was at work and Steve was in Pretoria paying a holy fortune to get visas for work, but how on earth did we forget?

But then I thought back to this weekend when I took them to Sandton City to meet Winnie the Pooh. The mall is chaos as it is, but on a Saturday, with Winnie the Pooh - complete maddness. But I took them and I got them Happy Meals from McDonalds and when I discovered that you need a ticket to meet Winnie the Pooh and that they were gone already, I improvised. First, I grabbed a kid under each arm and pushed my way through the crowd until we were positioned right where Winnie walks by on his way off the stage. Then as he walked by, I thrust my children at him, forcing them to hug the giant walking bear that wears a shirt but no pants, and on the retreat, I stole some Winnie the Pooh buttons that you were only supposed to get if you met the bear and then I spent ALOT of money buying them Winnie the Pooh balloons. Lets just say, I'm awful proud of my put the kids first skills even in the face of adversity, which by the way a room filled with other people's kids definitely is.

So I wasn't feeling too bad anymore, but still a little battered. Then I found this picture on Steve's side of the computer. It had the file name "we had breakfast at Spiros". What? When did Steve take the boys to Spiros - the single greatest breakfast spot on earth? And more importantly, why wasn't I there? Well parental guilt in every form flew out the window. I mean if they get to go to Spiros and I don't, thats not guilt, that is shear, undeniable jealousy. Immeadiately I planned on taking them this first Sunday Steve is gone. But then I realised, Felix has a birthday party on Sunday and thats how we forgot the one today, by being completely wrapped up in the adult world of our lives. Damnit. But at least I've got about 5 Sundays after that. I'll play it by ear and perhaps try looking at my diary at least once every morning.

confidently the wrong way

The other day I re-watched "Never Been Kissed". I like Drew Barrymore to some extent, but you have to admit that the movie falls flat of even the teen-movie standard. I was re-watching the movie because I wanted to make sure I didn't like it before I put it in the VCR to record baseball games on. I didn't like it - despite my high school past - which some of you are aware of. (The rest of you get no answers at this late date.) However an interesting quote popped into my head this morning. I was driving to an ad agency to show off some of our photographers' portfolios and I was thinking about how great my job is and I am really loving even the networking part because if I'm not gonna be working in the field of migration, well hanging around a whole bunch of creative people is a really wonderful second best. It was then that I remembered the line from the bad movie. Something about how there is always the one kid who just exudes so much confidence, that he is always going to be successful. I'd quote it directly, but there is a baseball game where the movie used to be.

I got so into thinking about when and how I developed confidence. I'd say it was 1998. When I really was in high school - I didn't have confidence, but I did have a lot of guts. So anything that looked like confidence in myself, was really just juvenile stupidity. Not that I don't still have some of that in the mix. But I am straying, which is exactly what I did this morning. I went the wrong way. In Johannesburg, going the wrong way can get you killed. This morning though, I was in the northern suburbs - where hijackings don't normally entail a loss of life - just a lengthy insurance process. But it was okay see, I was busy sporting my confidence and I am pretty sure that I would have driven over anyone who dared come close to my car.

So while I was busy trying to find my way I thought about the last time I made a wrong turn, or rather, forgot to turn which landed me straight down into Hillbrow. For those unfamiliar with Johannesburg, Hillbrow is not somewhere you want to find yourself lost. If you want to find drugs, prostitutes and violent death you go to Hillbrow; other than that, you go around Hillbrow even if it is the most direct route. So when I was supposed to take a left from Louis Botha onto a road that doesn't come of Louis Botha and I couldn't find it, I ended up taking Louis Botha into Hillbrow and I didn't want to be there. But I didn't panic - I figured, rather blindly that Joburg central was ahead of me and if I could just get there, then I could make a right towards Parktown and try to get to Troyeville from a diferent angle. I managed that - all by myself. I didn't take out my phone, because I really did not want to call attention to the fact that I had possessions in my car. So I kept going into town and turned right into Parktown, just as expected and I thought I was going to make it because I have been to Troyeville before coming from Parktown. So I made all the turns I thought I needed to but at one point the road kind of forks and I faltered, so I took the right, which - you guessed it - took me straight back to Louis Botha and into Hillbrow.

At some point on Louis Botha in Hillbrow there is a BP garage. I've heard stories about this BP, but it was daylight, there were cars filling up and I was pretty confident that if I pulled next to it, I could identify a street name so I could figure out what I was doing wrong. Well, it was a mistake, 3 men came rushing towards my car. They promised they had what I was looking for. I was looking for directions to Troyeville and I probably wouldn't have even taken it from them, supposing they were on the a la carte menu of things you can buy in Hillbrow. At some point, before I could get my window rolled up, a guy threw a cardboard scrap into my car, at which point, I floored it out of there, drove into town, made a right into Parktown, made the appropriate turns and veered left at the fork in the road. From there I knew exactly what I was doing. Now Troyeville has its fair share of the crime pie in Joburg, but after Hillbrow, driving next to Ponte was a walk in the park. When I finally made it to Johannes' house, I got out of my car (sweating so bad I felt dehydrated) and Johannes said, "Well, you've got perserverence". I reached back into the car and pulled out my cardboard scrap and said, "Well, Kevin has everything else you need." After a glass of water, I was fine.

Now look, nothing like that happened in Sunninghill this morning, I backtracked, made a left into Witkoppen and arrived at the reception of Herdbouys McCann-Erikson without even breaking a sweat. I walked in, cool and confident - however, very much aware that confident decisions after a wrong turn are really silly indeed. And I was grateful that I only developed my self confidence after high school, because if you think my driving is bad now, you can only imagine...

kent and cedar lee

Well, no one has really asked, but since this is a blog for posterity, I thought I had better make a note of it. The teddy that went last night and the one due to go this morning are pictured here. Kent is grey & Cedar Lee is the brown one and yes, I name all my teddies after Ohio places. Originally they were all going to be Cleveland places that meant something to me, but no one wants to buy a bear named Library Steps, so I had to expand. As it is, the demand is big enough for them that I fear I am going to have to do series with the same name...

la la la

So today is the 4th of July. I thought about that on my way to work this morning. I thought about parades and fireworks and things like that and how I would not be wearing a jersey (meaning sweater) if I was at home. But even if you are listening to NE Ohio news via the WKSU daily podcast, it is kind of hard to forget that you are in Johannesburg when you casually roll up your windows before certain intersections to avoid the onslaught of guilt because you refuse to give money to blind beggars every 500 metres.

So by the time I arrived at work and was confronted by a crisis as soon as I walked in the door, I had forgotten that it was the 4th of July. I remembered again slightly later in the day as I was adding a booking to one of our artists' diaries that, oh yes, it is the 4th of July, which I had been threatening to take off work on principle, and of course hadn't done because I completely forgot about it. However, I decided to drag up the sympathy vote and pointed it out to my collagues, who promptly said, "ah yes, independence day..." by then the phones were ringing again and there was plenty of work to be done. So once again the date was set aside.

On my drive home, I remembered yet again that it is the 4th of July. And then I remembered, actually heard in my head, "ah yes, independence day" and I realised that my history was a little rusty. What happened on the 4th? Was it before or after the war? And then I thought about trying to explain independence day to my housekeeper. I mean, across Africa, independence days are less than a handful of decades old and I struggle trying to explain to her that yes, there is unemployment in the US and yes it does get hot there. Its not that she can't understand, its just that it violates her frame of reference. Then I thought to myself, does South Africa have an independence day? There are a heck of a lot of holidays here, which one is the national holiday? I went through the possibilities - 27 April - Freedom Day (good possibility) , 24 September - Heritage Day (good possibility) and 16 December - Reconciliation Day (good possibility). There seem to be an abundance of others, but they are all pretty easily ruled out, like women's day & worker's day. So which one is the national holiday?

But, again, as I got home, I had forgotten all about the date and the rest of my questions and announced that I would be going to sell a teddy bear as soon as I got the phone call, whenever that was... The evening progressed and of course the 4th of July was sort of transparently present in the back of my head. And after I went and sold the teddy bear, I ended up playing with Felix for a little bit (Oscar was promptly put to bed - it was late for him). He's beginning to get the hang of singing, he can do a little Death Cab and Postal Service, but tonight the only song in my head was an old 311 tune that starts like this:

The fish who keeps on swimming is the first to chill upstream
I want your fish right by me, thats just how it has to be...
The songs I sing, they don't mean a thing if you're not there to hear them...

Well the idea of singing about fish was just wonderful to Felix, who really only understands songs about stars and birthdays, only his version of the fish song goes like this:

I want your fish and I want your song
I want your swimming fishy
La la la...

I was crumpled up with laughter and he was very proud of himself. And after I put him into bed, I remembered again. Its the 4th of July. For as American as I am these days, I feel that it should really mean something, but it doesn't. At home I think it would mean a day off work and having a couple of beers, which I can do on any one of the numerous SA holidays - but generally choose not to, as parenting really kinda gets in the way of drinking. So it was the 4th of July and there is little more to say, except the official national holiday in South Africa is... La la la... Freedom Day - which was the date of the first democratic election in post-apartheid South Africa. Who knew?