A SKI Holiday.

As the eldest child in my family, often the responsibility falls on my head to act as mediator with some other member of the family.  It’s annoying as hell, but also safer because if, for instance, I let Dazz do the talking directly to Wok one of them would come off second best, a wedgie and a few noogies later – either way somebody gonna get a hurt real bad*.

The difference comes in though, when the other siblings rally themselves up and gang up on me the minute I step into the house, after a flight back to Durban for the weekend.  I walk in and get ambushed by brothers left, right and centre – all shouting over each other to be heard first.  This one did that, that one said this – and, Did I know that so-and-so was planning such-and-such while the other one is sleeping?

Needless to say, this has been going on for the better part of 20 years – I’m the peace maker.  So I’m used to it, really.  Except – this time the boys want me to speak to the parentals.

I don’t know whats happened over the last few months, but when I left to move to Johannesburg, my mom officially hated Kev, and he officially ignored my mother.  It’s the way it’s always been, they love to hate.  Fact.  It’s what we know, it’s what they’re comfortable with and how they’ve stayed married for so long.  It’s how us kids expect things to be between our parents when we walk into our childhood home – unorganised chaos and passionate loving downright hatred.  But in a nice, familiar way.  It’s a bit of;

Mom:  “Dolly, won’t you put the kettle on?”

Kev: “Nah.”

Mom: “I do EVERYTHING in this relationship! I’ve born your children! I do the household chores! I cook your dinner! I’m sick, sick, sick, sick and tired!

Kev: “Gugu works 5 days a week, exactly what chores do you do, dear?”

Mom: “I WANT A DIVORCE!”

And so it goes.  Every time.  Until Kev chuckles and puts the kettle on. 

But this time?  Things have changed.  Its one thing, in this life, to see your parents happy.  It’s a totally different, sickening thing to see them giggly and touchy-touchy with each other.   

And it is completely uncalled for having to watch them hold hands and make eyes at each other, in my honest opinion.  And in the opinion of my siblings.  And so I was attacked, distributed to the parentals on behalf of their offspring, to tell them to stop it at once. 

And what was the reaction? 

“We’re going on a second honey moon!  To France!  Maybe even The Maldives!  It’ll be a SKI** Holiday!”

What the f*ck.

* That was my Russel Pieters impersonation.  Have you watched him?  You should, funniest comedian around.

** SKI Holiday = Spend Kids Inheritance Holiday.  We are not amused.

How to create a family chaos in ten easy steps:

1.  Update your Facebook status:
“SheBee is hanging out on the couch with her blister and her fiance”.

2.  Watch in horror
As your cousin Kelly (and numerous others) instantly comment on the status feed.

3.  Be prepared
For “what-the-fuck’s, who-is-the-lucky-man’s, when-did-you-get-a-boyfriend’s and how-much-did-you-pay-him-to-pop-the-question’s.

4.  Reply with disgust:
Marriage is for quitters and that the word ‘blister’ refers to your sister and HER fiance.

5.  Realize that you’re too late as your mother screams down the phone not a second after you’ve answered her call:
“No mom, jesus – I am not pregnant!” you reply in a calm manner.

5.  Attempt to, in your utmost effort’s best, explain where the misconception came about:
“Oh my god, the baby’s name will not be fucking Lawrence if its a boy, I don’t care that its a family name.  Wait, I am not even pregnant!  Mother! Please, for the love of Winston Churchill, will you PLEASE calm down.  Kill the whooping, I didn’t say yes to anything!  We’ve been dating for a few weeks for god’s sake, I AM NOT ENGAGED!

6.  Not having much luck:
“Yes, I will tell him that Kev demands two cows and a chicken for Labola…”

7.  Call cousin Kelly to ensure confirmation that it was just a misunderstanding.
“You stupid whore, look what you’ve done!”

8. Reassure your mother of your intentions of not being a lesbian with commitment issues:
Yes, we’re still dating, Mom.  Of course you would be the first person to know if I ever chose to marry.  Could I at least shtup this poor oke before you hound me about marriage? No, I don’t know if he has “a big willy”.

9.  Finally starting to get closer to clearing the air:
*Sigh* I promise to tell you when I shtup him.  Okay Mom, I love you too”.

10.  Update your Facebook status:
“SheBee wishes to clarify that she is not fucking engaged. Morons!”

momentum lost

I totally had an emo post for today, but I lost momentum along the way.

I miss my friends.  Flea, Britt, Shar, Tiff & Kimbo, I miss you.

So, get ready for my birthday bitches – its going to be LARGE.

In other news, I have none.  Hump day today, right?  Yay – bring on Friday!

This weekend deserves a prize

Have I told you how cool I am?  I don’t need to go clubbing for random hook-ups, oh no, I work til midnight, come home and have random conversations about name meanings and then get into bed and read mills and boon books til 5am.  I’m that cool.

But, in my defense, I have no idea where the book came from, it literally landed up in my book cupboard through no fault of my own, and I’ve read everything else I have.  If you’re bored or feeling generous one day, please send me old books.  Preferrably ones without ‘and his throbbing member graced her silky thigh and whilst she groaned her inner passion outward to the man before her’ lines.

On Saturday I had a bit of a family reunion.  Oh holy gawd, I laughed and died at least four times.  One of them being when I found out I once made out with a cousin of mine.  Can you say: Hillbilly?

On the health front, I have a lizzard skin nose, a fucked up chestical cough and lovely little sniffs in between.  I’m delightful, I really am.

My mom, the analton.

If geneality has anything to do with anything, I am doomed to become one neurotic woman. My mom is one of those moms that would be useless in an emergency. Actually, scrap that, not ‘would be’ – she IS useless in an emergency situation.

I remember years ago late one night Kiera started choking. I was holding her semi-upside down, Kev was rubbing her back, and my mom… well my mom was not helping. She ran from me to the bathroom to the bedroom to me to the lounge to the passage with her arms flailing behind her. Eventually Kev and I locked the bedroom door and quietly tried to fix Kiera while my mother not so quietly tried to get a grip. Incidentally, she never did. Kiera was fast asleep by the time she had even thought of taking a breath.

Spice was the family hamster. He lived in a cage on the kitchen table and lived off cheese and anything else my brothers would throw into his hole. He lived two years longer than his life expectancy, my mom swears its because the wine she fleetingly gave him preserved his organs. Spice eventually got that disease that is so common in hamsters (apparently), cancer in the head.

Brother Darryn begged her to give Spice to him to feed to his snake, as they were starving, but Mom refused and did what only she would naturally do, she took him to the vet to get euthanised. Picture her at the Vet’s surgery table, sobbing into a little ball of fluff and the Vet trying to push his way closer to the Hamster in order to do his job.

At work one day, a dude walked into my Mothers office with a fallen nest containing two little Indian Miner Birds with hardly any feathers. Any sane person would have gotten rid of the things as it was clear they were not going to make it through this life easily. Not my mother. She rushed to the Pet shop, bought all necessary things required for saving birds lives.

I got home that night to see them in a little box, under a UV light, sqauking to their hearts content. On the hour, every hour Mom would get out of bed, mix them up some cereal and feed it to them lovingly. One bird didn’t make it through the night, the other bird grew up to be Moodley, the Indian Miner.

Moodley was an insane little fucker. She attacked every single one of us if we so much as breathed too loudly. I especially remember her being particularly unfond of me. She would flap her wings and dive, beak first, into my skull. My brothers would only sit in the lounge if they had gloves, goggles, beanies and blankets on in order to protect themselves. Moodley was left outside too long one day and developed “bronchitis”. The mother had the vet ventilate the bird. See how anal she is?

Now please just imagine the phone calls I get almost daily telling me to lock my car door, drive with the seat belt on, unplug the kettle, lock the balcony door, don’t give anyone my physical address… you name it, I’ve been warned already.  Being independant and away from home is challenging with a mother like mine.  But I do love her, I think I’ll keep her.

(Yes, you caught me out, this is an edited post from my archives, what – you wanna be called anal too?)

Why do you hate me? I haven’t helped you

Why do you hate me, I haven’t helped you.

Picture an old man, his face wrinkled, his eyes mere slits on either side of his crooked nose, weak legs crossed in front of a dying fire.  "why do you hate me?  I haven’t helped you" he says to the small gathering of young disciples in front of him.

"Why do you hate me, I haven’t helped you?".  An ancient Chinese Proverb I learned from an old man not so long ago.  I’ve since applied this proverb to my life, and my experience with people in it.

In theory, it attempts to portray how, when you lend out your hand to help someone, it tends to get bitten off.  I can think of so many instances where people have been helped, and end up begrudging the person who helped them.  I’m not quite sure why, but if I was forced to take a stab at the mentality behind it, I would say that the person in need was either ashamed at needing help, or embarrassed at their own incompetency of the situation they have gotten themselves into.

To personalise my theory, I’ll tell you about when I was pregnant and in hospital with Kiera, an estranged cousin who lived in the area came to visit me out of the blue one day.  When she asked where I would be staying after Kiera was born, and admitted into NICU, I told her I had nowhere to stay officially and was looking at nearby BnB’s within walking distance to the hospital so I could see my daughter every day.  If you don’t know the story, the only hospital that specialised in my unborn child’s condition was hours away from family and home, so I needed to move there in order to give my child a chance at life.

My cousin came back the next day and told me to stop looking around, as she and her husband had decided to let me live in their house for as long as I needed to while Kiera was in hospital.  The day I was discharged, about two weeks later, she picked me up with her beautiful daughter, and I arrived at my new home, with a lovingly laid out bedroom awaiting me with flowers, chocolates, and the physical address on the fridge so that I knew where I was when I needed to hand it out to taxi cabs or food deliveries.  She had thought of everything I might need.  

I remember being excitedly called for one evening while I was lying in bed, to listen to the radio.  The weekly Paediatric installment had taken Kiera’s medical story for their topic of the week.  The doctor happened to be based at the same hospital as Kiera and was using her case to discuss with the radio station listeners. My cousin was so tearful as we listened to the Doctor as he listed all my daughters medical issues and problems to overcome.  She reached for my hand to hold while a stranger was talking about our lives as if they were just another edition of his medical journal. Her whole family was so warm and welcoming, and I should have felt right at home.

I lived with my cousin for just over two months, and although she was nothing but accomodating and helpful, because I was so utterly dependant and stressed out and desperate and broke, I shunned them out because I was most of all the feelings, ashamed of my situation.  I came home late at night, and left early every morning to be at the hospital, but also in hindsight I realise it was to avoid them.  I didn’t want to remind them that they had this strange relative imposing on them daily, breaching their privacy at every turn, living in their home and changing their routines of going out on Fridays, because they felt too bad to leave me at home alone.  They even invited me to come with them, but also were accepting that I wasn’t in the mood because I would be dead tired from spending the day in a busy NICU and far too sore because I was still recovering from the very badly healing wound in my abdomen from the emergency caesarian.

The morning I left to come home, I wrote a letter of thanks which was stuck onto the fridge. They were perfect hosts, and I couldn’t have asked them to do anything more than they had already done for me.  Sadly, to this day I have never spoken to them again.  Over the years, I have wanted to make contact, but the longer I left it, the harder it was.  Recently she added me to Facebook, and despite countless messages I’ve typed up, I delete them before sending.  It shames me to think of what she must feel or think of my inadequate gratitude, but hard as I try I cannot get over myself and apologise.

"Why do you hate me, I haven’t helped you?".  This is something to say to someone giving you trouble when you haven’t broken your back to go out of your way in order to make someone else’s life just a little bit easier. I hope you will remember this Proverb, as it applies to life in more ways than you think.

If its yellow, let it mellow

If it’s yellow, let it mellow

Sweet Mary & Joseph, I’ve moved back in with my parents down on the South Coast.  It is quite surreal being back in my childhood bedroom.  I had the choice of my old flat downstairs, but the every five minute footsteps above me drove me quite insane within the first few hours of being back at home.  That and the fact that we have a house guest coming along whom I’d rather not share such close, in your face, space with. 

“If it’s yellow, let it mellow.
If it’s brown, flush it down.”
If I have to hear this trill one more time coming from my little brothers lips, I will scream.  Unfortunately for me, although I might have the best room in the house, its certainly not worth sharing a bathroom with a 10 year old. 

I’ve come to the conclusion that my parents are stuck in a time warp.  We have a gorgeous 5 bedroom home, with seperate laundry and pool entertainment area, a gigantic garden complete with real life monkeys and some blue headed lizzards, a house that could truly break into magazine fashion, if it weren’t for the biggie-best décor flair my mother has.  Lets not forget the decoparged remote holders, or the 100 year old grandfather desk amongst the brown leather suite set up.  I swear, this house has not been changed in 10 years!  Even the shower door in my bathroom is still broken from when, ahem, some persons unknown got jiggy under water.  I hear the certain male accomplice is, to this day, gay. 

Be that as it may, I’ve revamped the place!  Turrah!  I’d post pictures, but my mom is convinced that  “the internet freaks” will stalk her.  She should be so lucky! My room upstairs is worthy of Top Billing, take my word for it.

In other news, my mom is in big trouble with Wok:

Our family has a “tooth mouse fairy” tradition.  Wok lost a tooth.  He duly stuck it under his pillow, awaiting for monetary remuniration the very next day.
It was a silent night, in a land not far away, where the couple were in bed, where their heads lay. 
My mother felt a rappity-tap-tap up top her duvet.
“Kevin, wake up, there’s a something on me!” she hissed,
“Oh dolly, go to sleep – you’ve had too much wine” just before he turned his back on her after they’d kissed.

Oh alright, I’ll kill the poetry, I’m done anyway: 

Two minutes go by, and the rappity-tap-tap is back!  Mother bravely looks over the duvet and what does she see?  A big fat bloody mouse, thats what!  She throws back the linen half way through her blood curdling scream, which proceeds to awake my dear step daddy who jumps out of the bed, hair smeared in all directions, sleep still wedged in his eyeballs and tries to make sense of what the flipping hell is going on around him.  My mother is useless, just clutching her nightie and hopping from one foot to the other on the sofa in the room, and Wok has already run through to help fight “the baddies”. 

Eventually the rat is found, gripped by his tail and, in the pure adrenaline rush I’m told, smashed against the wall by Kev.  My mom is in hysterics, hands shaking and already on her way to the fridge to find a chilled glass of vino, I’m sure, to calm her nerves.  Kev is standing over the bed holding the poor little rodent while staring at it intensely as if waiting for telepathic communication as to why it was found on his bed and is now dead.
Soon enough, they turn around to the sound of snivelling and find my baby brother in tears.  “It’s okay, Wokkie, its gone now, you don’t have to be worried”.

“Bbbut Mommy!  You’ve gone and killed the tooth mouse fairy!”

Things you find when spring cleaning

Firstly, I am really excited – I have managed to connect to the net off my phone, using my pc. COnvertion to a geek is almost complete, it seems. Well done, me!

Secondly, My family have gone. Sad face. I am tired from crying. I came home to find a letter Ash left me, and just sobbed. I keep saying this, but I am *so* grateful I had this time with them. My goal has been set, I want to go to Oz by March next year, just for a holiday, but also to check it out and see if its worth moving there or not.

Thirdly, I have had a busy day and spring cleaned my flat. The things I found! Unbelievable! Here have a list:

• Condom. To be used by Feb 2008. That gives me four months people. I need to find that shag I keep waffling about to my mates. The problem is I have too many needs for one person to satisfy, and I’m not prepared to sleep with a random. I am so over that. Not that I have ever had sex with anyone I didn’t love. Ahem.
• Seventeen little fluffy toys for SusieQ and Milo, although Milo only has one tooth, but what the hell – he can ‘gum’ them to death as apposed to Suse’s biting them and ripping every last shred of fluff, like she has done with all the others.
• Four books I have never read. Bonus.
• Three pairs of jeans with price tags still on them. Double bonus. (Except I was reminded of how bad my shopping fetish once was).
• A candy striped bag. What was I thinking?
• Photo’s and more photo’s. (one was of a willy. don’t ask).
• A packet of dog bones with green stuff on it, I am presuming mould.
• This cord (now) sticking out of my laptop to connect to the net. Triple bonus.
• Five lighters. I hid them to not lose them, then forgot where I had done the hiding.
• An entire make up bag, complete with Clinique face wash.

Hope your weekend was peaceful. If not, I hope it was raucious and madly wild.

The 4 parentals of 7 siblings…

Thats a pretty weird title right there, but guess what? It describes my family to a tee. Both parents remarried after their divorce and so the sibling list went from a normal 3 to the Indian-style 7.

After the initial divorce, and new marriages, I had a new sister my age, my brothers had a brother aged between the two of them, plus we inherited another younger sister (who is now not so young, the boys after her body drive my father to strong drink) and one baby brother who is 14 years younger than me.

It was pretty cool growing up, having our own rugby team. None of the other kids messed with us, we were Team Formiddable. We all went to school together so were mates before our parents bonked. That was a bit of an ease into the situation. We would all sit in the boys room, torches lit under blankets and hold thumbs the wooden log cabin we lived in, didn’t fall down, as it rocked to high heaven and above with shouts of passion* apparent in our ears.

Another cool thing about being in such a huge family, is that there were so many of us, we never got singled out. Team Formiddable would stick up for eachother so greatly, that once when I crashed my mothers car into the gate wall, they didn’t find out for months who the culprit was as we all were sworn to secrecy. That, and me having to bribe the boys with KFC. But it worked!

This weekend was the first time in a very long time that my mom had all her chickens in the basket. She suffers from Empty Nest Syndrome** badly when we’re all out of home and doing our own thing. The only thing different this time, was that we had all four of our parents there. My dad and his wife, my mom and her husbank. Usually this would be an awkward situation, but nothing is usual in my family. Even 2nd youngest brother took the time out of his busy (read: sarcastic tone) schedule to join us. Despite being an hour and a half late, and showing off his two latest tatoos on his pecks (which he then proceeded to kiss all evening).

It was good to be around family again. Even if ours is bigger than the Brady Bunch, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

*Okay, I made that bit up. They didn’t shout with passion. But we all knew what was “up” (pun intended), so they may as well have gone the whole hog and been noisy too.

** The problem you have when all your kids leave home and you are stuck with your husbank of many years and don’t know what to do with him, so end up driving yourself to insanity pretending you have lots in common