So Close

Away to Sin City

My new BFFs (monster zit I and II) and I are away for three days to Sin City on a company sponsored breakaway. I NEVER go away on these things because pre kids I was too infertile and sad and post kids I am too in love with my kids to want to leave them, but I think its time to have a little ‘me time’.

This is the longest I’ve been apart from my kids (three days) and I have been so anxious about it. Really silly. But then again, I am really silly.

You know what’s silly is that when the Dad goes away; all he has to do is pack his suitcase. When the mom goes away, she has to:

• arrange for someone (granny) to do the school drop off and pick up
• make sure there are enough suppers prepared (thanks Woollies) for 3 nights for the husband, the nanny and the two kids
• make sure there is enough milk and bread for the entire time
• stock up on pet food
• leave a long list of detailed instructions as to what needs to be done in her absence

I’ve said it before and I will say it again, in my next life I am coming back as the Dad.

This trip away is a ‘thank you’ for the team’s performance last year and the entire team is being taken away to Sun City, a resort 2 3 hours outside of Johannesburg. Kind huh. We each get given a bit of spending money. There is entertainment scheduled for the evenings, but the days are free to spend at our leisure. There are various activities to choose from: game drives, golf, gambling, and a list of other things that hold absolutely no interest for me. I will be spending my days sleeping, reading books, catching up on email and doing some writing. I can’t wait! I’ve travelled 1500 km’s to lie on my bed and do NOTHING! Can’t wait.

Of course, besides my outbreak of adult acne, I also have picked up a bit of a cold. Very, very annoying but totally expected as I have been burning the candle at both ends for too long now. The first sign of some time off and the body crashes.

So, you might or might not hear from me within the next few days. If you don’t, you know where I am. Lying on my bed doing NOTHING. I can’t wait.

Foot wrinkles

 I was chatting to Sister Mel on the weekend and we were talking about getting older. Aging, to be more precise. Sister Mel was saying that she wondered at what age / stage do you get to the point where you view the signs of your physical aging as matter of fact rather than with a tinge (or sometimes ‘wave’) of regret.

I said to Sister Mel that I think I am getting there. I am not quite there yet (where the fark did that middle aged spread come from??  Get thee away from me, you evil incarnate!), but I am getting there.  I look at my ageing hands and feet with almost wondrous disbelief. I can’t believe these are my feet. 

You know how when you are younger and you bend your ankle, the skin on your foot squishes up and then when you straighten your foot again, the skin all snaps back into shape without a line or a wrinkle? Well the skin on my foot is starting to look permanently squished. I have foot wrinkles. 

Ageing is a bitch. I don’t like getting older, I don’t like getting squishier, but I am starting to accept that it is inevitable and I might as well get used to it. It doesn’t mean I am going to start wearing oversized floral polyester blouses, but it does mean that I am going to think ‘so bloody what if my waistline is a bit thicker, I am almost bloody 40 you know’. 

I don’t want to be a frumpy middle-aged hausfrau, but even as much as I admire the woman, I can’t see myself working as hard as someone like Madonna does as I get older. I’d rather be a little squishy and have that glass of wine (or two), than be super toned and fabulously fit but living on bean sprouts and watercress.

So the answer to Mel’s question seems to be 39,5 years old. Or there about.

When you see the physical signs of ageing on your body, how do you feel? Would you rather be more hausfrau than Madonna, or are you going to fight the foot wrinkles for as long as you can? And don’t give me the politically correct answer; tell me what you really think. 

(As I had my foot in my sister's face, pointing out my foot wrinkles, my father came past and said that he has no idea what we are talking about as he has perfectly lovely youthful feet.  Thank god the man's eyesight isn't what it used to be because if I have wrinkles, the man has crevices the size of the Grand Canyon. I'm just saying.)
 

Confessions of a cheater

(Still having a fabulous time on holiday, missing you all madly. Here is a cross post from my Times column, true story. BTW, I have photographic evidence of the terrible results of my unfortunate dalliance, which is ALL YOUR FAULT!!  Pictures below)
__________________________________________________________________________

It was a crazy thing to do, stupid. To throw away all those years we had together to chase something new, something different. It wasn’t as if I was unhappy, far from it. It’s just that, well, things had got a little boring, a little ordinary. The same conversations, the same routine. I missed the thrill of the beginning. 

I don’t what I was thinking, how I imagined I wouldn’t be found out. A friend of a friend put us in touch, she thought we’d get on like a house on fire, she was right. Too right. 

It was awkward at first as I took my clothes off and lay down. The room was cold, too cold. I shivered a little, perhaps more from apprehension than from the chill. Everything felt different, smelt different. There was a CD playing in the background, a song I didn’t recognize. Even the music felt strange. 

I’ll just do it this once, no one would have to know, I thought. But the truth always comes out, doesn’t it. God, I feel terrible. Things will never be the same again; there will always be this feeling of mistrust, of betrayal. 

It wasn’t even that great, that’s the worst of it. It was ok, not bad, but not what I know.

All I can hope for is forgiveness. I am not sure whether I can ever forgive myself. I’ve learnt my lesson though, I will never stray again. No one else will ever tint my brows or wax my bikini again. I hope my beautician forgives me.

___________________________________________________________________________

Ok, you see this:

See how swollen my eyes are!

That is YOUR FAULT!  You mocked my bushy brows, my usual beauty therapist / beautician person was away and so I went to someone new.  And see what happened!!!  The scabs are busy flaking off now. Not sure how long the scars will remain. Ha! Hope you feel bad now.

PS The fat lady has sung.  Feels good and final. Later dudes. xxx

Why you should never drive drunk on the Internet

(Thank you, dear Internets, for your kind words about my puppy. As I said, it helps a great deal to know she didn’t suffer.)

It’s odd. One would think that after so many years of consistent dedication to the cause, I would have built up some sort of tolerance to wine, but I remain distinctly lightweight. By the time I have reached my glass and a half nightly allocation, I am deliciously merry. Sounds fabulous, cheap date and all that, but it can be particularly dangerous if one is scooting around the internet, emboldened and unchecked.

This morning my phone rang at 4:30am. It was Rose, just double checking which airline I had booked her on. Why was she at the airport at 4:30am? Because I had booked her flight online whilst deep into my glass and a half and somehow (I am still convinced it was a system error) I picked the 05:45am flight instead of the midday flight.

When I realized the error with horror, I called the call centre (a sobering experience) and tried to get it changed. They wanted to charge me a cancellation fee. I protested that I had JUST made the booking and because of THEIR faulty online system, the flight had been booked for the wrong time but they wouldn’t budge. Assholes. So as a matter of principle, I refused to pay the fee and left the flight as is. Rose was only too happy as it meant extra holiday time for her. And of course I was duly punished by getting a wake up call at 4:30am to confirm the airline. (Tip for Rose: Check the flight details I printed out for you!!)

The second error occurred a while ago, but I don’t like to talk about it much. Especially not in front of my husband who is convinced that my money management skills are equivalent to a toddler’s sense of impulse control. It too happened after a glass and a half of delicious Chardonnay and could quite possibly be attributed to a design flaw in the user interface of the online banking system.

It happened when I was paying my bills online. My Woollies account to be precise. Instead of opting to pay R1000 on my account, someone an extra zero crept in and before I knew it (after hitting ‘next’, ‘confirm’, ‘next’, ‘yeth, I’m sure’), I had paid R10,000 into my Woollies account. Clearly a bug in the system. Stupid developers.

Again, it had an instant sobering effect. And again, I got absolutely no joy from the misleadingly named “customer service” centre. Apparently Woollies are far more enthusiastic about accepting one’s payment than they are about refunding excess funds. I eventually decided to give up trying as I was very likely to plough my way through that extra amount in a very short space of time. That’s the part I don’t like to tell my husband.

There was a third incident, but for the life of me, I can’t remember.

What has thrown me off the reminiscing is that I have just got my beta back. 1213. It was 532 last Monday, 630 on Wed, 618 on Friday and 1213 today. Spot the error. I am so cross. Stupid stupid bloody miscarriage. Should have known better than to expect my body to take care of it naturally.

The doctor said it could be a blighted ovum, which is French for Fucking Irritating. I am to go for a scan in about a week’s time to see whether things have progressed (progressed? Regressed? Digressed? Suppressed?) naturally or whether we have to move to Plan F (F for Fucking HURRY UP).

No wonder I drink.

On a brighter note, I am going on holiday tomorrow!!!!! I am SO excited. Apparently the weather is going to be crappy but I don’t even care! I AM GOING ON HOLIDAY!!  Woooo hoooo!

Mugged by an unsuspecting hugger

On my way to the Locate The Errant Embryo check*, I bumped into a guy I haven’t seen in about 10 years. He clearly has either forgotten or never knew in the first place, that I am not a hugger. I wish you would have been there to witness the scene. You would have pissed yourself. Even I was laughing inside.

Tertia walking along focusing on Errant Embryo, hoping it hasn’t implanted in pancreas or other organ.

Hugger: TERTIA! OMG! Haven’t seen you in ages! *Swoops in for full hug*

Me: *Arms at side, body all stiff and awkward* Oh, um, hi.

Hugger: Can’t believe it, how are you! *Another big hug. Me still awkward*

Hugger: So nice to see you! *Another hug. This time I try feebly patting his back in return*

Me: Hi, yes. How are you? Where are you s…….

*Hugger swoops in again, ANOTHER HUG*

Hugger: It is SO nice to see you again! *More hugging. Me with one arm at my side, the other feebly still patting his back*

OMG. He hugged me about SIX times. It was hilarious. I absolutely did not know what to do with myself. I kept telling myself ‘just relax! Stop making your body all stiff! OMG, HERE HE COMES AGAIN!’

So ridiculous. I thought if someone was watching us know, they would be pissing themselves with laughter. It was like a movie. I wish I was a natural hugger. Oh well, can’t be good at everything.

* We saw a sac in the ute, which is good news I suppose. Would have been very tiresome if we had spotted it in my oesophagus or sphincter or something like that. Did make me a feel a little sad, I must confess. Was easier to pretend it all didn’t really happen before I saw the sac. Oh well, lets look on the bright side. At least the doctor didn’t try to hug me.

The tits and ass left them cold; it was the foot porn that got them going

Over the years, much to my husband’s dismay, I’ve posted some pretty risqué stuff on this blog.  Not for any particularly evocative reason, but I’ve always taken the attitude that if you could see it in a bikini on the beach, then surely it can’t be too much to be shameful about. We all have boobs, ass and bellies, what’s the big deal. The biggest risk was that I would sorely disappoint some spotty youth when his surreptitious search for boobs and blow jobs netted him my blog. What a screaming disappointment.

That was until I got this email.

 

Hello from an American who loves to go barefoot 

Hello, my name is (male name) and I reside in the state of (xxx). More specifically, a small town called (xxxx). I came across your site, www.tertia.org, and your address after typing the words "I love to go barefoot" on the Yahoo! search bar.

First, allow me to say that it's an honor to be able to send a message to someone where bare feet really rule. In the last two years, I've had communication with barefooters from Australia and New Zealand. But let's get real. If you want to see boatloads of bare feet, or at least get in touch with people where bare feet is routine, Africa's the place!

You may find this question odd, but do you prefer to look a certain way when barefoot? I do. More specifically, I like to bare my calves when I bare my feet. If I'm not wearing shorts, I'll roll my long pants up to my knees.

My favorite things to wear barefoot:
Pants - black khakis and black sweat pants rolled up to the knees
Shirts - a blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up just above the elbow, an olive green T-shirt and a gray T-shirt

Here's a question that's not so odd. What's your most favorite barefoot activity? Believe it or not, I like to do things physically excruciating. Anything where sweating, grunting and heavy breathing is required.

My most grueling barefoot activity:
Mowing my grandmother's lawn. I did so twice 11 years ago. The first time, I wore a green short-sleeved shirt and black rolled-up pants. The second time, I wore a green T-shirt and black rolled-up sweat pants.

Whether or not you have an answer to either of these questions, I'd like to hear from you. Gotta go. Dinner's almost ready.

Thank you for your time.

I think I read that email about 7 times, trying to figure out what the hell he was on about, and then I got it! He must be one of those foot fetish people, people who get turned on by feet! Foot porn! Who knew!

It really is one of the funniest, and strangest, emails I have ever received. And I get A LOT of emails.

So, it would appear that the tits and ass left them cold, it was the foot porn that really got them going.

Weekends are for___________ (fill the blank)

Adam has an amazing repertoire of bedtime delaying tactics. He has just come to tell me, with great dramatic effect, that HE CAN’T HOP ON ONE FOOT!! I told him to hop right back into bed or else I am calling his father. Yes, I handle discipline by avoiding the issue and making Marko the bad guy.

Speaking of my dear husband, Marko and I are frighteningly alike in many ways. People often remark how amazing it is that two such anal people who were from completely different backgrounds managed to find one another. Appropriately enough, we met at a bar.

Have I ever told you that Marko doesn’t drink? He drank when I met him and gave up three weeks later. I think that could be construed as false advertising.

Anyway, as I was saying, Marko and I are a lot alike about a lot of things. But we are very different when it comes to other things. Like weekends, and how they should be spent.

Marko feels that weekends are about chilling, watching TV, sleeping in and cuddling. In other words, being lazy relaxing. I believe that weekends are for getting up early, doing a load of washing, spring cleaning the study, sorting out the toy boxes, sorting through the old clothes, tidying up the cupboards, doing all the chores, fixing up what needs to be fixed up, returning emails etc. In other words, getting things done. 

I do realize that perhaps there is a small chance that my view on weekends might be marginally annoying, and so I try to pencil in some cuddling and quality time between 8 and 8:15am. On a Saturday. Weather dependent.

What are your views? Do you and your partner agree? Complete the sentence:

Weekends are for _____________?

Wrapped

It is Sister Mel’s birthday soon which means it is again time to reflect how two people related by blood can be SO totally different when it comes to certain things. Like birthdays. And gifts. And more specifically, gift wrapping.

Sister Mel loves birthdays (especially her own), loves gifts and has this crazy thing where she likes, no EXPECTS her gifts to be gift wrapped. I don’t understand it. What is the point of spending an extra 10 or 20 bucks on fancy paper that someone is going to rip to shreds within 0.05 seconds of getting the gifts? Wouldn’t you rather have that extra money spent on the actual gift (i.e. the gift certificate I so lovingly picked out for you)?

And if you think Sister Mel is bad, you should meet little sister Nina. Not only does she expect the gift to be wrapped, but she also expects a card. Now THERE is a total waste of money if I’ve ever seen one. Why would anyone want to spend money on a piece of fancy cardboard with someone else’s words on it?

I asked both sisters why they insisted on having their gifts wrapped accompanied by a card. “It shows you care” they first said. But I do care! I don’t need fancy paper and cardboard to show I care, I replied. “Well, it shows you care enough to make an effort” was the next answer. Fine, but you both know I am wrapping the gift because you say it is important, not because I care any more or any less. Grumble grumble sticky tape scissors and paper grumble.

Wrapping a gift for children I understand. Adds to the element of surprise and excitement. “What could it be” they marvel while they wastefully rip the paper off. Fine, you want surprise; I’ll wrap it in the store bag it came in. Look! Surprise!

A mutual friend of Friend Mel and mine recently had a baby shower and I offered to buy the gift. I sent a text message to Friend Mel saying that I had got the goods and she replied “I hope you’ve wrapped the gift”, to which I replied “obviously not”. The curt response via text was “WRAP THE FUCKING GIFT YOU ASSHOLE. OR ELSE”. So I went out and bought the damn paper and wrapped the damn gift. (I am almost more scared of Friend Mel than Sister Mel. Both Mels are extremely bossy). I have to say, I didn't care any more about our friend after the gift was wrapped than before.  I did care that Friend Mel had SHOUTED at me.  Scary assed bossy boots.

As our friend was opening the various beautifully wrapped gifts, the woman next to me sighed and said “look how beautifully that gift is wrapped (clearly NOT talking about my gift). Doesn’t presentation make all the difference?” I nodded vaguely and gulped down my champagne.

I am clearly in the minority here. To me, presentation makes absolutely no difference at all. The gift could come in a brown paper bag or a sterling silver gift box – it isn’t important. But it clearly is to others. Most people. Enlighten me. Does it really matter whether your gift comes wrapped or unwrapped? Does presentation really make that much difference after all?

Getting in touch with your Inner Crazy Cont.

Next in our series of “getting in touch with your inner crazy”, we present ‘Living with adult SID/SPD – why it is ok not to hug’

I am not sure whether it is a good or bad thing to finally have an official explanation for one’s craziness. Before the diagnosis, you were just quirky. And because quirky isn’t ‘normal’, you tried to hide or control your quirkiness as much as possible. Then someone gives you an official label for your quirkiness and all of a sudden you are like “well, I can’t help that thing I do, it is because I am _________ (insert official crazy diagnosis here)”

Which is kind of what has happened with my adult SPD/SID (adult sensory processing disorder / adult sensory integration dysfunction). It has been a HUGE relief to finally understand why I am the way I am, and why I do the things I do. It helps me manage my reaction and also to be aware and on the look out for situations that will make it worse. And of course, it has allowed me to totally excuse myself from doing all sorts of things (like hugging!) because, you know, it’s not me, it is that SID/SPD thing!

Seriously though, it has helped me understand why I do the things I do, why certain things stress me out and why I have these (many) crazy quirks. Why I had such a huge (over) reaction when I had my braces put on. Why I HATE sharing a bed. Why I can’t work in an open plan office. Why I can’t work or study with the radio on. And why I desperately need my hour or two of ‘alone time’ at night to reset my insides.

Blogging is bad for friendship

Sister Mel and I were at a wedding recently (not our own) and we were chatting non-stop to each other. The guy sitting next to me (not my husband as I had put him next to Mel’s husband so they could bond while we yakked) asked if we saw each other often and we said ‘no, but we read each other’s blogs to find out what is going on in her life' 

The good thing about having a blog is that my friends and family (and several thousand strangers) know exactly what is going on in my life. They know when I am sad; they know when exciting things happen. They sometimes even see pictures of my new fake boobs.

The bad thing about having a blog is that unless those same friends and family have a blog, I have absolutely no idea what is going on in their life. 

Which is really, really bad! If blogs weren’t around, we would be calling each other, or emailing with updates and news, but because they know what is going on in my life, I hear nothing from them. Which means I have no idea what is going on in their lives. Every now and then I will send an email begging for some news, but otherwise I hear nothing. Bad friends, bad!

So, the bottom line is if you want to be my friend, you better get a blog. Or at least send me a weekly email with latest news and updates. Or else I will have to break up with you.  No blog / email / updates = NO MORE BFF!!!