Monthly Archives: June 2011

Ugly stepsister

I have been, shall we say, blessed with big broad feet.

Before Thomas I wore a 7/8 and now post Thomas I wear an 8/9. Thanks once again, Dad, for giving me ALL your genes.

We have a lady at work who sells Truworths shoes that she buys at some factory shop. Whenever it’s time to fit on shoes that she sells, we pile into her office and all the Cinderellas will be prancing around and showing off the shoes. . .

And in one little corner will be me, huffing and puffing to get my foot into a boot!

Ditto with the latest craze. Beanies and berets. They never fit my head.

I give up. Just going to wear flourbags on my head and Shoprite bags on my shoes this winter!

That is all.


A Lovely Blog Award


Was a sweetie  and nominated me for a Lovely Blog Award . . . Thanks man.

So the conditions of receiving this award are:

1: Thank the person who gave you the award

2: Reveal 7 randoms facts about yourself

3: Choose 5 other people who you believe deserve the award and pass it on


7 Randoms – dunno if there’s going to be anything new revealed here… seeing as how I suffer from TMI-itis.

1: I have a mild version of OCD. Have issues with germs and dirt and where things have been. But if I need to rough it, I can do it. I am able to switch my OCD off at times. You can’t have a child and have OCD. Recipe for Groen Dakkies.

2: I am an information gatherer of note. My favourite books to read are dictionaries, reference books and mapbooks. I like soaking in the info and using it in boardgames (30 seconds, Scrabble) and as small talk fodder.

3: I have an extremely overactive imagination and I don’t know how I’ve not ended up in a loony bin with all the scenarios of my loved ones getting hurt or dying I’ve conjured up.

4: I hate anything Sci-fi-ish and cannot bear the whole fantasy thing… Harry Potter, Lord of the rings, vampires and werewolves… It drives me mad.

5: I am totally rubbish at technology. Just don’t have the patience to sit and figure things out.

6: I am terified of dentists and as a result I might just end up with no teeth in my head when I’m older.

7: I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. Ditto music and ditto dance.

I nominate the following fellow bloggers for this award:

EEVD . . . Just loving reading about her journey to motherhood

E&I  . . . Love reading what her girls get up to.

Pizzicato . . . Because I love the nicknames her kids have. Spruit and Appelliefie

Durbangal . . . Because I love her kids’ nicknames too. Mooch, Terror and Boo

Bella’s Mommy . . . Because I can






Caesarian flap, anyone?

From the second I started dreaming about having babies, I just KNEW that I did not want to give birth via C-section.

I had many reasons but my main reason was that I had read and also felt that pushing your child into this world is the most primal and beautiful feeling ever (ja ja, this was before I even had an inkling of what labour pains would be like).

So come labour day, I was the crazy lady in the hospital gritting my teeth and grunting NO CAESARIAN, NO CAESARIAN, I WILL NEVER EVER HAVE A CAESARIAN.

Long story short. My son didn’t descend. I had to have the C-section and now…

You know how they have to cut through layers of muscle and stuff?

If like me, you’re a curvy girl… the ‘stuff’ has a considerable bit of fat in it. Fat that was fine before baby because it had a bit of muscle and the skin wasn’t stretched to it’s limit.

If you had surfboard abs to start off with or worked hard to get your body back, congratulations and stop reading here. If not.

You probably have the same problem I have now. There’s a bit of a tjoep thing happening and in extreme cases (which is what I seem to heading for judging by what  I saw in the mirror this morning!) wait for it… a Caesarian flap!!! YIKES. EEK. HELL and DAMNATION.

I did a quick show and tell around the office and us fatties definitely have a bit of a tjoep/flap happening and even some of the skinny melinkys have their version of it happening. Hahaaha, not even some of them get away with it.

If you’re reading this and asking “Why doesn’t this fatty stop moaning and exercise and diet . . .?”

In the most nicest Capey way . . . Jou ma se . . .

Facebook relationship statuses.

I have this theory about Facebook relationship statuses.

Judging from my FB stream, I think people should treat new relationships much like a pregnancy. For the first 12 weeks, just tell those who need to know (your very close family and friends). Because this is the most tricky part of a pregnancy when miscarriages are more likely to occur.

Same goes for relationships. Keep it small and intimate until you’re over the worst of the danger period, then take an ad out in every paper in every country if that is your wish. . . but before that, for Pete’s sake . . . PLEASE keep it on the ‘low-down’.

My FB stream is littered with failed relationships that last just a few weeks. Quite sad, actually. One week it’s “Brad is da best ting dat’s eva happnd 2 me!” and “Bradley Josephs is my soulmate.” and the next I see it’s “Brad is a d**s and “Brad mus die.”


* I am by no means saying the pain of a failed pregnancy is the same as the pain of a failed relationship of any kind. Have first-hand experience of both and I know it’s vastly different.

16 June 1976

I was 2 weeks and 4 days old and mom and I had to go for a weigh and check of my navelstump at the clinic the following week. In Bonteheuwel. On the Cape Flats. With Casspirs and police barricades. And very aggro cops and protesters. Extremely volatile time.

Mom always told the story of how her and Ouma had to take  the looong way to the clinic and enter at a side gate, (protesters were hovering near the front because the clinic was gvt property, they knew that making a scene there would draw the authorities out) and take an even longer route home because by then news had spread and people were angry.

My pram apparently looked like it had been 4×4 ing, it was so muddy and just as we got home, rubber bullets were being fired overhead. My uncles were in high school then and they and some friends came storming in with the cops close on their heels.

Ouma refused the cops entry on account of her daughter who had just given birth and had a newborn baby. Mom and I slept in the lounge (my folks married a year later). We had one of those wallbeds . . . I suppose the predecessor to a sleeper couch. During the day the bed folded up and you had curtains hanging in front of it with a wooden table like surface on top. Pretty nifty to have, I think.

My uncles always said I saved them and their friends that day because they would definitely have been given a rough ride as the cops knew them as the ringleaders of their school’s protesters and they were going to be made examples of. I like to think that somewhere out there are a few cops who were charmed by this 2 week old baby’s face and instead of bashing Ouma’s door down as was their wont back in the day, they let it go.

Don’t touch my red shoes!

I’ve had this obsession with red shoes since I was a ittle girl. I got this red pair of Elefante shoes when I was 4. I apparently wore them until they fell off my feet. Mom had to steal them off my feet while I was sleeping!

Then in my tweens and teens when I wanted another pair of red shoes, Dad was dead set against it. Apparently only loose women wear red shoes…

Once I got married I figured I could wear red shoes as it won’t be easy to mistake me for a loose woman with the wedding band on my finger.

So after all these years I have red shoes I like again. These are the only ones I both liked and could afford.

yay me!

Dear Sealy Posturepedic Double Pocket Do Not Turn Body Pedic Pillowtop Kingsize bed.

You are unfortunately not good enough for a little boy (who incidentally likes sleeping across the bed), his cat (who also likes to sleep across the bed), his Dinosaur stuffed toy (that’s almost the same size as its owner), his Daddy (who snores) and his poor mother who is now so sleepy because of her bedmates’ shenanigans!

That’s all.