Shudder

I usually listen to Mix FM, which plays the best music (even if it does run ads that end in slogans like "for zee attire zat is nice", uttered in some supposedly foreign accent in order to add sophisticated European appeal), but this afternoon I tuned in briefly to Highveld, where Anele was hosting a competition. The theme was something along the lines of being a little crazy to do good, and Anele gave the rather sweet example of a girl who purposely threw herself off a horse to show a little boy, who had also fallen off a horse, that it happens and the best thing to do is get back on.

Today's winner was somewhat different. Rochelle's contribution to ubuntu was accompanying a friend she had made two weeks ago, and whose greatest dream was to get a body piercing, to a parlour. Once there, her buddy ran out of courage, so Rochelle did the noble thing and got herself a piercing, going first even though she hadn't previously wanted one. "And where was the piecing," asked Anele. To which the Mother Theresa type replied: "In a private part."

So far so gross. But things got worse. "Ooh," squeals Anele, "you had your vajayjay pierced!" While concentrating on trying to block this image from my mind, I hear her tell Rochelle that she has won (drum roll): tickets to Justin Bieber.

"Yay!"shrieks Rochelle. "My son is going to love this!"

Son...pierced vajayjay...telling everyone on radio (perhaps even her son was listening)....anyone else feeling a tad queasy?

Early mornings with Leya

Leya has developed a nasty, nasty habit of sounding the alarm at 5am.  And as much as I start to miss her after she has been asleep for a couple of hours, that pre-dawn squawk makes me realise that sometimes it is nicer to miss someone than it is to spend time with them.

That sounds mean. I don't mean it to be, but in my head, the freshly woken Leya is a cuddly ball that snuggles into me and lets me doze for a couple of hours in my feathery soft haven of a bed.

In reality, there is nothing fresh about the newly awake Leya: there she is, waiting with a foully sour nappy that blasts my still not quite functioning senses with violent force. That first nappy change is always a challenge: I must remember that, although it may seem like a good idea to keep the lights on dim in order to shield eyes which at this stage feel as vulnerable and naked as newly hatched turtles, it's just not worth it. Adding to the difficulties is the burst of energy which comes upon Leya the minute she is placed on the change mat, so that she is jigging around like a possessed highland dancer - always a danger when there is a dirty nappy nearby.

Having successfully prevented an unsavoury incident of poohfoot, I carry her hopefully back to my bedroom, place her among the pillows, and hope that this lushly comfortable environment will lull her back to slumber. To ensure she gets the message, I look at her encouragingly with my eyes closed. She responds with her own message: a boisterous "HOOOOOOOOOOO", delivered with a swift kick to the cesar scar, as if reminding me that I signed up for this.

Still I refuse to open my eyes, and still she refuses to shut hers. In fact, she mounts her campaign, grabbing a fistful of eyelid and gently plucking it. Next, it's a chunk of cheek that gets twisted like an Oreo that's being pulled apart to get to the cream, before she spots her real target: my hair.

Now, I must just say at this point that my hair is not looking good. I have written before about the delicate relationship I have with my follicles, and how the actual strands, like a tempermental and fraught fiance, seem ready to up and leave at any minute. It appears they have done that a lot lately: I confess that I spent a good deal of time in the office bathroom the other day, staring at the shiny bits of scalp which are becoming visible through the sparse fronds. The situation has not been helped by my daughter, who doesn't realise that my hair is a scarce and precious resource. I have heard of other babies who liked to stroke their mommies' hair, or twirl it around their fingers. My Tarantino-esque daughter likes to yank giant fistfuls of it, leaving it littering the bed, the carpet - the other day I even (gag) found some stuck to the ice in the freezer.

Unable to take the pain any more, I devise a canny solution (one that would make better mothers turn pale): I will feed her to sleep. However, she has come up with her own game plan: she will finesse her fine motor skills. She does this by pincering little bits of boob, then twisting them between her daggery little nails. When I gasp in pain, she looks at me, eyes wide and delighted, then grasps my nose in her tiny hand and pulls.

By now I feel like an abused woman. I have come to realise that she has no intention of letting me go back to sleep and so, bruised and battered, I take her to the playmat - where she begins a fresh assault. Whoever invented those talking toys she be drawn and quartered - but only after they have been made to listen to half an hour of electronic dogs barking to the tune of Old McDonald.

All this, and it's not even 5.30 yet. YAWN.

Awkward, awkward, awkward

Gosh, but yesterday was embarrassing.

You see, due to my incredible driving skills I had managed to bash poor Ermentrude (my superGerman mom-mobile) as much as three times in six months. The people who were insane enough to insure me had kindly allowed me to get her panel beaten, and I was pleased that there were people who are even more insane and had agreed to lend me a rental car (which, by the way, also took a few hits...Drat that grass-covered pothole.)

Anyway, yesterday it was time to bid adieu to the rental and welcome Ermentrude back to the fold. I was not at all sad to do this. I felt a bit like Fred Flintstone in the rental - having absolutely no power, I got into a few of those awkward situations where you think you are going to overtake someone, then find out that your car is not up to the task, so instead you drive abreast glaring at each other for a while.

Also, it did not have the tight turning circle I am used to. As a result, there was a nasty occasion when, at the height of rush hour, I found myself stranded on a traffic circle after discovering that my intention to zippily turn around was not matched the car's abilities. As a result, cars queued behind me for several long minutes as I fumbled around with the gearstick, eventually executing a clumsy 16 point turn before proceeding at 30km per hour. Not an ideal speed when there are frustrated motorists, dying for their hometown sundowners, baying for your blood.

The only good thing this car had going for it was that it's aircon was so loud it successfully drowned out the sound of Leya's Car Cries.

Yesterday was therefore an understandably big day for me. It would appear that the excitement affected my reason and ability to think clearly, for I decided to take Leya along with me to fetch the car; after all, there's nothing like a lovely excursion to a panelbeater for a six month old.

Perhaps it was because I was focused on her that, when the time came to pay my bill, I sat her down on my service consultant's table. "This is your invoice," he said. "Yes," I agreed. "Do you love it here on your desk?" He looked a tad confused before he understood that this last comment was directed at Leya, currently perched on his table and reaching for his pen. Realising that he was not, apparently, as taken by the cuteness of my future executive as I was, I put her down on the floor to play. And then - and I still don't understand why I did this - I joined her. It was only after I had been relaxing cross-legged in his office for a full minute, and I heard his voice filtering down from above - he, after all, was still seated on a chair - asking for my credit card - that it dawned on me that this was not really appropriate behaviour.

Mustering what dignity was left, I then tried to drive my car out of the lot. I say tried, because my time behind the wheel of the Flintstone-mobile had addled my brain and left me uncertain as to how to drive an automatic. There I sat, my feet pushing down simultaneously on the brake and the accelerator, and the car making a dreadful noise, while the bemused service consultant looked on, no doubt sure that he would be seeing me again in just a little while. After a minute I gave up and, striking a blow to feminists anywhere, gave a little wave of my hand and said, "I seem to be unable to drive my car." In such situations, I have learnt, a little haughtiness helps - is it not better to be thought a mean cow than a useless airhead? I think so. My approach must have worked on Mr. Service Consultant, because with admirable forebearance he leaned forward and explained, "Well, this is an automatic..." I won't bore you with the rest of the details of my driving lesson - suffice to say after his instructions, I decided it would be best to do away with the confusing notion of a second foot. So, with great effort (my legs are still encased in their pregnancy cocoon, so crossing them always involves a bit of a heave and huff) I tucked my left leg underneath me (noticing, as I did, that the tear in my jeans made my thigh bulge unflatteringly out of the fabric - something which I did not want Mr Service Consultant to see, since I think his view of me was already rather dim).

And so I zooted out of the parking lot - only to phone back half an hour later to enquire whether he had seen my phone.

I truly wish my car dealership worked with another panelbeater. This was a bad way to start a relationship which I fear is going to become long-standing.

The Office

It's been almost a week now since I left my trusty dining room table work station to take up typing in a real office. During this time, I have discovered and uncovered certain things:

1) I love having an access card. I like to fling it about with the zealousness of a newly engaged girl using hand gestures. I'm not sure why this is: my access card is, after all, nothing more than a tatty piece of plastic that is probably coated in E.Coli from the other people who have taken it with them to the bathroom. But there you go: Forget Porsches, this is my ultimate status symbol.

2) Actually, I take that back. There is nothing - NOTHING - that embodies the strange glamour of working of in an office, quite like the canteen. Oh, I could spend hours here. You see servers and buffets full of gloopy beef and stir fry that tastes exactly like the pasta alfredo; but I see an exotic and tantalising array of culinary possibilities. You have no idea what it's like to leave the sweaty cheese and stale bread at home and instead walk up to a counter and decide what flavour wrap I'll have - or, better still, order a capuccino!

If my fascination with these corporate commonplaces sounds bizarre, consider that for the past 10 years I have been tucked away in someone's house, with absolutely no connection to the outside world save for the occasional email or phone call. Oftentimes, I used to wonder if the Rapture had taken place and everyone else had moved on to a better place, leaving me grappling with a deadline that really didn't matter any more.

So that's the good when it comes to office life - but there is also the bad and the ugly:

3) Lifts. The silver lining here is that summonsing a lift gives me the chance to flash my access card around a bit. But on the other hand, I am not a person who goes in for frottage (look it up), and close contact with others makes me squirm. Especially when they have conversations like this: "Does that tonic work?" "Yes, especially for mucus." "And increased energy?" "No, just mucus." Ahem, Ms Mucus, do you either know or care that you have just confessed to us all that you are a heaving Snot Monster?

4) The toilets. I look around at the women in my office, all of them writing for upmarket magazines, and all of them bearing the trappings of a well to do life - neon accessories and summer scarves, for example - and I can't imagine what these females have done to make it necessary to post notices saying "PLEASE FLUSH!" Also, why must they be reminded to wash their hands? Just an aside here: my lavatorial loathing has probably been deepened by two factors. The first is that, unfortunately, my thighs touch the SHE bin when I sit down. Doesn't bear thinking about - except to say that there is probably no clearer message that it's time to lose the pregnancy weight. The second is that, in a state of nervous distraction on my first day, I dropped the toilet roll down the bowl, resulting in an unplesant bout of fishing around to retrieve it because I felt bad for the next person who would try to use that cubicle.

So that's it: my first week, in a nutshell.

 

Nasty things my husband says about my clothes

I'm starting a new job tomorrow, at a rather glamorous magazine. It's the first time I've worked in an office since I did my internship back in the 90s - until last year, I worked in a home office where I used to spontaneously choreograph interpretive dance moves to entertain my sister (who was also my colleague), wear slippers and make a party train to the kitchen when I wanted a cup of coffee (it was a rather sad party train, as there were only the two of us most of the time, and she doesn't like party training).

I don't think such moves are going to go down too well at the new company, which is one of South Africa's largest media organisations. I didn't think my clothes will, either: it's a bit hard to gush about glamour when you yourself are wearing a T-shirt stained with breast milk and there is a carroty crust in the hank of hair that's hanging down next to your ear because you were slap dash when you tied the rest of its limp friends into a ponytail.

Thus, I took action. My plan was to have a haircut and a pedicure, as well as a new wardrobe: in my mind's eye, I strode into the office with a Brazillianed Cleopatra bob and my nails flashing vintage red. As it is, the thought of spending all that time away from Leya sent me into a panic and I refused to leave her at all this week, so my feet look like the leather that is given to old Eskimo women to chew on and my hair is perching like a wayward cat on my shoulders.

But I do have some nice new clothes. At least, I think they are nice. I have gone for some dresses that I am sure can be described by some special fashion word, but I don't know what it is. James, I am sure, would like to hazard a guess, as he has expressed some strong views on my new look.

For my first day, I have chosen one of those dresses that has to be explained to you by the shop assistant, otherwise you end up wearing it upside down. I am regularly drawn to these garments: a few years ago, I spotted a bright orange item at The Space in Rosebank. I liked the colour, and although I couldn't quite make out which part you put on your body, the label had it down as a 'skirt/top'. I wasn't really sure how those two pieces of clothing could be interchangeable, related to two entirely parts of the body as they are, but nonetheless, into the change room I went, and slid it, poncho style, over my head. I found it odd that the iterm seemed to have been designed with slits strategically placed so as to display, rather than cover, my boobs, but since I've never been much of a fashionista, I just thought it was an avant garde look, and decided I would wear a strappy vest underneath. I did have concerns that I would look like one of those children's drawings of a seal at the circus - you know, with a frill around its neck. But hey, I thought, sometimes it's nice to be edgy.

As it turns out, the top was meant to be worn as a boob tube - around the chest, not the neck.

James, it would appear, does not share my appreciation for the unusual frock. When I tried on my first day dress, I was so excited, so proud that I looked nothing like a mommy, that I was beaming. Which is why it hurt when he erupted with a guffaw, snorting, "You look like you're going to a toga party. No wait, are you wearing a continental pillow case."

He was not much more complimentary about my next choice; a dress which is admittedly a little large and square but which gains shape when you gather it in with a belt. Cue the laughter, again; this time, I looked like I had taken a black garbage bag and cut holes for the neck and arms.

This is not the first time James has been mean about my clothes. My favourite assymmetrical white blouse has been dubbed my 'mastectomy shirt'; he told me one of my button downs made me look as if I had got into a fight with a tramp and the tramp walked away with half my clothes.

But I don't care. I am entering the fashion world, James, and leaving those who walk around in takkies and socks with their costumes (ahem) far behind. So don't even try to walk next to me and share my glamour next time we're out.

New adventures

This week, Leya and I joined one of those child stimulation classes, mostly because I have run out of ideas to keep her occupied. Even I no longer laugh when I walk her from mirror to mirror saying, "Who's that pretty girl in the mirror there? That's right - it's mommee!"

So off we trundle. We arrive at our class late, so I knock politely and apologise. "That's! Alright!" exclaims the teacher, who sounds as if she's high on Rainbow-and-Fairy flavoured Redbull. "And! who! do! we! have! here!?" You can practically see the exclamation marks, pink and glittery, bouncing through the air. I just know that, were I to encounter this person early in the morning, I would hate her. And yet, when I answer, I find the same creepily over-enthusiastic voice coming out of my mouth. "This! Is! Leya!" I boom happily. It sounds like a CeeBeeBees audition with a whole lot of try-too-harders.

Now I notice that Ms. "I can airpunch with my voice" has strapped on a clown-shaped full-body apron, kind of like a mask that starts at her crown and ends at her feet. "Leya, say hello to Tommy!!!!!"

"Umm, I think that Leya may have a genetic fear of clowns," I admit. I feel bad because I can see that she really, really wants Leya and her alter ego Tommy to be friends, but facts are facts and I would rather spend a night with a tarantula than shake Tommy's hand. "BUT TOMMY IS A FRIENDLY CLOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!" she excitedly insists. I remain sceptical, remembering that "But I am a friendly clown" were the very words that came out of the mouth of a clown I met at Gold Reef City, whom James had told about my clown phobia. Shortly after making this promise, she proceeded to chase me around the theme park on her unicycle. She was particularly scary because she was wearing stockings that had little bits of wool embroidered on them to make it look like she had hairy legs. Such attention to detail mught be admirable in other instances, but here it just seemed especially threatening.

Leya looks at Tommy, aghast. It is clear that she, too, is thinking that, somewhere, there is a serial killer who enjoys making people into scatter cushions and lures them by wearing much the same get up.

Nonetheless, we survived. Leya had a natural talent for all the activities, winding the bobbin with alacrity and snatching beanbags with the speed of a mugger outside a tourist hotspot. I was amazed that the teacher did not comment on her obviously superior skills, and even made an oblique invitation for her to do so, saying, "I know her father will want to know how she performed. What can I tell him?" I figured that Iwould sound less like a freakily competitive stage mom if I implied it was James who was interested in these things. I'm not sure that the teacher was fooled. When she replied, her voice gave nothing away - except that this is definitely a woman who should stay away from caffeine and helium.