MaasLife

Hello? The squel

2010-01-06T10:44:00.005+02:00

Like all good filmmakers, due to public demand, I have decided to have a sequel to our dealings with Telkom.

My family have done the unforgivable deed, as far as Telkom is concerned. We moved homes. I know, we are incredibly irresponsible! We packed our things and actually moved to another house. Only 2 streets away, but still, a biiiiiiiiiig move.

Like the good person that I am, I thought it would be a good idea to share the news with my best friends. In person. I went to a Telkom direct shop in order to celebrate it. All the forms were signed and I felt that maybe this time it will all be alright.

The day has come and all went well. On top of all the boxes, we even remembered to take the kids with. No one was left behind. Well, I say no one, but there was one family member that didn’t quite make it. Our beloved telephone line. We got so used to it and grew extremely attached to the presence of its wonders. Telkom did not share our feelings.

A month went by and we were busy sorting out the house and running to friends and family to try and beg Telkom to flip the switch for us to be connected again. I became a personal friend of all the representatives (I am sure I spoke to each and every one of them) and their supervisors and the supervisors’ managers. They were all very understanding and kind.

My conclusions were as so. Telkom reps are like the dating world. The conversation flows, there is a feel good vibe and most of all a feeling that this is it, there will be a future, maybe this is the one. The date is always finished with the promise of ‘We will call you’, yet days go by and nobody calls. Heartbreaking.

Maybe the reason they never called is because my phone wasn’t working. I should call them really. And like in the dating world after playing the game of who calls first, we break and call them. We know what is about to come. We know we are not welcome, yet there is always a glimpse of hope.

Weeks went by and then finally an interaction was made. We got a letter (so Jane Austen). We got a telephone bill yes a TELEPHONE BILL of 4 digits. I mean, when I actually have a telephone I don’t get such a bill. Yet again I had to go to friends and family that are fortunate enough to actually have a line and call again.

All it took was 6 calls, the last one of an hour and twenty minutes long, to get this sorted. This time around I didn’t have to dig up the garden and install the pipes myself, but it didn’t feel less tiring.

I think that no matter what, we are not moving again. That’s it. I will stay in here forever just to save me from enjoying my into the night (17.45pm, when they close the offices) conversations with my new best friends. As much as I love them, who wants to be on the phone all the time. They should just pop over for a drink or something.

Telkom & Me

2009-11-14T17:35:00.002+02:00

Hi all

My move was pushed to the 1st of November, so for the past 2 weeks I have been busy sorting out our new home. Telkom of course found it very difficult to sort out my phone and Internet, I mean it has only been 2 weeks since I moved and as you remember from last time, it not considered a long time to wait for them...

I hope I will get everything up and running soon and my blog posts will be back to normal.

Shit I say as a mum

2009-10-18T12:29:00.003+02:00

We all go through this at a certain age. The thought that one day if we have kids, we won’t be telling them certain things. We promise ourselves. We even make a vow. And then we have kids. All vows are broken and all we have to do is wish we won’t fry in hell for breaking the above vows.

I managed to stick to it for a while. I mean it was easy with a few months old baby. He was kinda lying there, not really moving and most importantly he wasn’t talking back to me. I was so proud of myself for sticking to it. I thought I am the founder of ‘New Motherhood – Mothers without stupid sayings’. It all came biting me in the bum as soon as he was walking around.

I was busy getting dressed on my way to work and my son was busy jumping on the bed. ‘Don’t jump. You will fall’. In the middle of the third time I said it, while struggling to fit into my pre pregnancy jeans, struggling with the first button, the sound of a thump was heard with a cry afterwards. I hopped around to my son (one button to go) and saw he was sitting by the bedside crying and feeling sorry for himself. He was alright. ‘I told you so’.

Who said that? To my horror, I quickly realized my own mother wasn’t in the room. It was ME who said that. I was so disappointed in myself. I couldn’t breathe. Damn, I still don’t fit into these jeans. I picked him up and comforted him. ‘You see if you listen to mummy, you won’t get hurt’ Okay now it is getting scary. I am possessed. It can’t be that in the spectrum of 1 minute I say two stupid things.

As my child grew up and another child joined our family, I’ve noticed that those incidents repeat themselves way more often than what imagined. It felt like an accident you see about to happen, but nothing can be done to prevent it. It was official. I am just like all the other mums in the world.

My all time favourite is when I heard this motherly demon inside me telling my son ‘This is my home and these are my rules. When you have your own home you can make other rules’. I was just happy I managed to improvise and not say the old ‘As long as you live under my roof…’ It is pathetic what kind of comforts I hang on to.

As a first born I am aware of how hard it is sometimes to deal with younger siblings that keep imitating every step I make and want to be with me and my friends. Yet I found myself telling my first born ‘You shouldn’t be upset. He is only doing that because he loves you’ I didn’t believe myself so how do I expect my son to fall for it?

I am trying to control these little pearls of non wisdom my mouth is producing. I must admit that the thought of one day my kids will say that to their kids is filling me with happiness. So please let’s make a pact we will try harder to avoid the phrases that we hated and spare our kids. I hope you will do as I say and not as I… Crap. I am doing it again.

Hello?

2009-10-09T12:44:00.001+02:00

I called Telkom to order a line and to my surprise they told me they will do that within 10 days. I laugh in the face of disbelievers. Ha-Ha. Excitement in the household. We are going to get a phone line. The days of texting ‘call me’ and using a stupid dongle for internet are over.

The big day has arrived. I was afraid to even go to the bathroom without leaving someone to open the door for the technician. As hours went by I realised the technician is not showing up. I had no credit on my pay as you go mobile phone and couldn’t call Telkom. I didn’t want to go to our neighbours to make the call. What if he comes as I am there? I could have gone to the other side of the galaxy and come back as no technician came knocking on my door that day.

The next day quickly I went to make the phone call. After waiting on the line listening to a guy telling me ‘This toll free number is (what a shocker) free’. The nice representative was upset with me. ‘Why didn’t you call yesterday?’ I DON’T HAVE A PHONE!!! ‘Oh’ she replied ‘The technician did come over, but there was no house on no. 25, only an empty plot’ Maybe that’s because I don’t live on no. 25. ‘Oh’ she repeated herself ‘You are right it is the wrong no.’

Celebrating the fact I am right, I got a new date for connection. Finally at the right day and this time the right street no. the smiling technician came. He was pulling cables from the wall, going outside, digging, huffing and puffing. Wow he works hard. ‘Sorry, but I cannot finish the job today’ I thought I didn’t understand him properly, after all English is my second language. ‘I can’t find the box’ What box? I won’t take you through the explanation I got, but there should be a treasure box outside where all the cables go to.

There he went and the dream of a telephone line took a ride in his car. Great! I didn’t even know about the box. 2 weeks later he came back with a bigger and better digging tool. After we reached China, he announced ‘I will have to call the digging unit, as I can’t find it myself’ First time I hear a telecommunication company has a digging unit, but who am I to dispute the administrative structure of the company. Yet again he left leaving me with my new Chinese neighbours.

The digging unit came. My garden started to look like a cleared minefield. A hole here and a hole there. No box though. After 2 days of digging the box was found. We started dancing around the holes, previously known as my garden. Alas, the box is standing all alone. no pipes coming out of it leading to the hole in the wall, I had standing open for a month with raw cables coming out of it (and now some new 6 & 8 legged tenants).

Oh no. We are not the people that will be broken by such a minor delay. What’s another day to wait? The manager of the digging team said ‘Well, there is nothing I can do. You have to sort out the pipes and cables yourselves’ I wasn’t even surprised anymore. My husband went, bought pipes and cables and hired someone to help him. The 2 of them dug the little that was left of our garden. He managed to connect the last cable to all the relevant boxes, when the first technician came inside. He flipped a button and we were connected. ‘You see’ He said ‘It wasn’t that bad’

My kids, the husband and myself sat all excited around the phone. Admiring the new advanced technology in our household. I dared and picked up the phone attempting to make a call. Nothing. Not even a blip. Silence. Suddenly my husband remembered there was a piece of paper the technician left with us. ‘Due to maintenance works, all lines will be down for 72 hours’ Ah we have no one to call to anyways and there is so much work to do in the garden. Hello progress good bye Chinese neighbours.

Guilty As Mommed

2009-10-01T09:30:00.001+02:00

My husband and I went for a 3 days holiday by ourselves when the kids were 5 and 2. We left them in the capable hands of their grandmother and auntie and flew to Amsterdam. It was our anniversary and since when we got married we didn’t have a honeymoon, it was our time to have fun. Before we left I was warned I might not enjoy it, as I will be thinking of the kids the whole time.

There we were, half day through our holiday roaming the streets and enjoying every minute of it. Got drunk over supper and went window watching at the ‘Red Light District’. We arrived to our room as happy as can be.

I was lying wide awake on the hotel’s amazing bed. I felt something is missing. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. All of a sudden it hit me. I am having fun. I am not feeling guilty even one bit. Naturally I started feeling extremely guilty for not feeling guilty.

From the first millisecond we see this little line on our home pregnancy test, the guilt in creeping in and taking over every tiny thing we do. When I was pregnant I couldn’t understand what is wrong with me. From a confident person I turned into a neurotic wimp doubting my every move and decision.

If I ate too much, I would feel guilty because I am condemning my unborn child to a life of obesity. What kind of eating habits will he learn from me? If I ate too little I would feel I am hurting the baby because I am not supplying all the necessary vitamins. Even watching certain films made me feel guilty. The baby can hear already, research says. I seriously thought of turning to PG movies for the rest of the pregnancy.

Working moms keep feeling guilty about missing out on the kids and stay at home moms feel guilty about getting tired of the kids. My only suggestion is do what I did with my second son. Take a 5 weeks old baby to work with you. I felt great about spending time with him yet still going out to work. On the other hand I felt guilty about not giving him enough attention as my boss was demanding and also child labour at such an early age didn’t come across that well. At least it was a home office and not a sweatshop. And he only did some filing, not carrying heavy duty boxes.

The older the kids get, the more should haves come up to the surface. It is The Neverending Story, only without Falkor flying me around to chase the guilty feelings that keep bullying me. Every day there are new researches saying what ever I do will have life altering implications on my kids that will scar them forever. And ever!

I think from now on I will just do whatever I want. If I feel guilty anyways, at least I should enjoy what I do. The result of this decision will stay forever a mystery as just typing this line made me feel so guilty, I think I am going to let my kids eat sweets and drink coke as compensation. My god this is not good too. Will I ever do the right thing? Help!

I am still around

2009-09-28T22:08:00.002+02:00

Hello all

Just a quick word to say, I am still here.

We are busy moving these days but once we are settled will put up a new post asap.

This move is giving me a lot of ideas so just hang in there and I will be with back as per usual

Thanx for your patience

xxx

I'm a Survivor

2009-09-21T18:36:00.000+02:00

A few days ago I realised I am standing in the same supermarket aisle for at least 15 minutes. No, there were not a lot of people and no old woman who parked her shopping trolley in the middle of the aisle, while pretending to be deaf and not hear me shouting ‘Excuse me’. I was actually standing with a box of cereal trying to see what’s in it. I have wasted 15 (in words FIFTEEN) minutes staring at a cardboard box looking at letters and numbers I have no idea what’s their meaning. But I do look oh so clever doing that.

The list of bad ingredients is so long these days. Kids turned into a fragile mush, apparently. They can’t have anything that has the letter E with a line of numbers after it, or maybe they can have a few of the E’s. For the life of me I can’t remember although I did try and memorise this list. Sugar is out of the question and dairy is also a big no-no. Anything and everything is very bad and can cause long term damages.

The list is not only for food, it is also for toys, paints, clothing materials, shampoos and cooking utensils. Every day there is a new research telling us something is bad for us and before we even managed to make all the life style adaptations, the same knowledgeable institute would publish a newer and better research contradicting its own previous conclusions.

Each country has its own rights and wrongs methods and beliefs when it comes to nutrition. Since I am now staying in a third country within a decade, which country should I listen to? My head is about to start spinning off my body while smoke will blow out of my ears (Any Exorcist sequels coming up? Cast me and save on special effects).

Every time I reach for a product, the thought of inflicting an eternal mutation on my kids is hovering above my head. Not to mention it might change their DNA sequence and now we are talking about generations to come. Or maybe I shouldn’t worry about the next generations. Since I am the only (bad) mom around that doesn’t take those necessary precautions, there won’t be other mutants to merry them anyways. Shew, one less thing to worry about!

While I was growing up I wore whatever was available, played with toys painted with led based paints (and I am sure I licked some of those), ate very bright and colourful foods, also ate fruits directly from trees growing up in the street (those no longer exist) and my all time favourite, when I was thirsty I went and drank directly from the tap by the building’s rubbish room. Looking at this list can make a person think I am writing it from beyond the grave because there is no way someone did all these things and lived to tell the tale.

I survived.

What is the right way then? I don’t know. I try where and when I can. The rest of the time I just let go. I am taking the middle lane. Not letting them have what they want all the time but also not preventing everything just because in large quantities it might be harmful. At the end of the day if I listen to all of this, I will end up just letting them graze the grass in the garden. Only if it’s organic of course!

Tummy Time

2009-09-15T10:16:00.004+02:00

More than a decade ago it was announced to the world that babies should be sleeping on their backs in order to prevent incidents of sudden death in infants. Indeed it has been proven that those incidents have dropped, but also (not proven by science, but definitely experienced by me) babies stopped going into deep sound sleep. Once put on their backs they jump, bounce and wake up. Good thing they stay alive. Bad thing the live to see yet another day of a sleep deprived mom trying to keep it together, not always successfully (yet again, not science, me).

The other side effect of this discovery is that a lot of babies don’t get the chance to develop proper upper body muscles. So now we are told that in order to prevent floppy headed children, all we have to do is flip the babies on their tummies a few times a day during their ‘being awake’ time. Flip! It is hard enough to flip a pancake without buggering it all up. My first step towards tummy time was to make a batch of pancakes, just for good practice and research, of course.

I decided to be creative with my attitude towards the whole subject. I realised my son loved to sleep on his side and if he was lying like that he would sleep for longer. Baby sleeps longer = mommy sleeps longer and that’s me, if had the energy I would have leapt with joy. I balanced my son between pillows to prevent, god forbid, him rolling over to his tummy. Now I was not sleeping because I was on rolling on tummy watch the whole night. Back to back sleep.

The other issue I had to tackle was how do I flip him on his tummy, without turning it into a screaming fest? My idea was to lie down on the sofa, preferably while watching some mind numbing programmes, and let my son lie on his tummy facing me. It stopped the crying. Note to self – Do not, ever again, repeat this action when baby has a full stomach.

Okay lying down didn’t work, maybe sitting up will. I can sit up, while still watching the same mind numbing programmes and let him lie over my thighs. After all, thanks to him, my thighs are wide and soft enough. The results of this experiment were:
a. Babies are not a good surface to balance a glass of wine on.
b. When getting up quickly, they don’t latch on.
Back to square one.

I decided to buy a tool that will help me with this task. It looked like a tyre covered with bright colours, different kind of fabrics and soft plastic attachments. It took us a while to figure out the nice drawings explaining how to position the baby on it to get the maximum effect. In the meantime, the cat loved its new nails sharpening toy/bed.

By the time I went through all the research on the matter, tried al the different methods and consulted with all the mummies I knew, my son started rolling to his tummy and back all by himself. Great. What next? By the time I’ll realise how to wean him and move him to purees, would I be old enough for him to feed it to me?

It's My Birthday & I'll Grow Old If I Want To

2009-09-09T10:10:00.006+02:00

Every year I am always amazed by the fact that within one day I am a year older. I don’t really see the difference in the mirror. I am still the same. Only when looking at photos I am starting to pay attention to how young I used to look. If I knew then what I know today, I would have spent much more time admiring my physics.

It is scientifically proven that people live longer nowadays. I am considered to be young with many years still in front of me (touch wood etc.) but I am over the hill, over the mountain and in fact over the solar system, when it comes to today’s standards. Soon they will start giving 18 year olds brochures about hip replacements.

All the ads I see are about how to look younger. Getting rid of wrinkles is the most important thing apparently, as it takes at least 40% of TV time. The rest of the 60% is divided between other less important things like insurance infomercials, reality shows and these weird programmes about current affairs (I think they call it ‘The News’).

With your permission (or without) I would like to go through the great products out there, all aimed to keep us slaves to being forever young.

Facial scrubs – Help exfoliating and giving a refreshed looks. Ended up with one of the grains in my eye. Maybe my skin did glow, but my xxxl new sized eye kept it out of sight.

Facial masks – Basically do the same as scrub only given a different name to make us spend more money. Put one on and forgot about it. Had to use a heat gun to get it off my face. Regained sensation within a week.

Homemade facials – Using everyday products to do all of the above (I think I’ll stop saying what things do as they all have the same purpose – to make us believe there is hope). I concocted an amazing mixture with cucumbers and avocados. Don’t know what it does to skin, but on a piece of toast it was delicious.

Botox – Didn’t try this one. I am too scared if I can’t move my face, I won’t be able to give my children the look of death when I tell them off. Tried practicing making my eyeballs pop out without moving my forehead, but strained a muscle, so gave it up.

Collagen – I love eating fish not pouting like one.

Plastic surgery – Out of respect for the dead, will not mention the most obvious reason against it. I will go for second best. La Toya Jackson (opted for mocking the deceased’s sister instead).

My grim conclusion is that unless you have good genes (please god, let me have my granny’s genes and you know which one of the two I’m talking about! So no mix ups) nothing will help. I am proud of my wrinkles, after all I gained each and every one of them by hard work of talking with moving my lips, showing emotions with facial expressions and laughing. Out loud. This year my birthday resolution is as so. I will not be a slave to the cosmetics industry (unless it’s on special and a friend could swear it does wonders).

Strangers Don't Preach

2009-09-06T01:12:00.002+02:00

A few weeks after my son was born I had to go and arrange some documents at an official government office. It was a boiling hot day. I dressed my son up in short clothes (and of course packed half of the house in my bag. Just in case) and we started our journey to the other side of town. The lines were long and we were standing outside the building, waiting for our turn. ‘Don’t you think he is cold? You should at least put a warm hat on him’. The concerned (read, nosy) lady looked at me, waiting for an apology and confession of child abuse. I stared at her. ‘Why don’t you wear a woollen hat on a day of 37 degrees centigrade? Even better, top it with a coat. I don’t need to keep the heat up. It’s a baby, not a roast chicken.’

Oh, how I wish it was the only time I had to fight my rights as a mom to decide for my kids what I see as right for them.

‘Don’t buy these cereals.’ For a second there I thought the voices in my head were back. I looked at my kids and they looked back at me. Clearly they don’t have a woman’s voice. ‘Kids prefer this’. A hand pulled out a bright cereal box, with what looked like leftovers of nuclear waste in it, as if it was taken from Mr. Burns’ factory. I deeply appreciated this woman’s concern for my children’s welfare, but I don’t remember asking for her advice or to come to my sugar deprived children’s rescue.

The last incident so far was a few weeks ago while attending a birthday party. My son was having a not so good day (this is an understatement) and kept whining. It got to the point where I heard myself telling him ‘Just stop crying and eat your sweets.’ Never thought this sentence would ever come out of my mouth, but hey, life is full of surprises. ‘Shame, he is probably overwhelmed’ was the innocently venomous comment from a glossy-haired and lipped yummy mummy. No, actually he is not overwhelmed - he’s just being a pain in the ass. We all deserve off days and this is his. He earned it fare and square like the rest of us!

I don’t think I come across as a helpless or clueless mom, yet I keep getting advice. Usually this advice comes with a facial expression of ‘I just saved your butt from making a terrible mistake’ or ‘Thank god I was around to give you the right solution’. Well, newsflash! This is not an exam and I don’t need cheat notes.

I am fed up with random strangers interfering with the way I choose to treat my kids, educate them or talk with them. Why would they feel at liberty to express their views without being asked? Especially since most of the time these concerned suggestions, are nothing but pure stupidity.

This is my appeal to the community of the overly concerned strangers. Go home and apply your ideologies on your own offspring; I promise not to say a word. Please, let me emotionally scar my kids without your help. I think I’m already doing a wonderful job at that without your interference. If one day I feel that the psychological damage I inflict on them is too low, you’ll be the first ones I’ll come to. I promise.

Parental (out of) Control

2009-09-01T11:57:00.007+02:00

I use swear words, sometimes, occasionally, often, let’s face it too much actually. I swear in many different languages, some I’m fluent in, some I’m not and some swear words I don’t even know what language it is, if there is such a language at all. It used to be my problem and it never seemed to bother me. It’s not like it was out of control. I don’t swear at people, NEVER, I just use is as a better way to describe situations. I use it amongst friends and family and while driving behind old men with hats.

One day, without any preparations, I became a responsible adult and a role model. No, 9 months are not enough to prepare you for that. At the beginning it was fine. You tend to think the baby doesn’t understand, and more importantly he cannot repeat out loud anything that is being said. But that is all short lived.

We speak three languages in our household. Due to that fact my son started talking at a later stage. His 2nd birthday was a turning point for us. We took him to the London Aquarium. The 1st room with the small tanks was fine, but as you come in to the huge shark tanks, this is when the world as we know it changed.

‘Fuuuuuuuuck’ Who said that? A whole room full of strangers turned around. Me and my husband ran to different sides of the room leaving our son standing there, too excited even to notice. For a split second I was proud, but then I remembered it’s a bad thing and continued to pretend he is somebody else’s child. Seriously, he might have said a dirty word, but my god, it was done in such perfect timing. Ever since this eye opening moment, we tried to keep foul language away. Bad parenting is a thing of the past. It didn’t work.

By the time my son was 2 and a half he was talking fluently in all three languages. He was a very polite and quiet boy. Life was good and without any reoccurring moments of swearing terror. Until one day while boarding a plane, my son looked through the window and without any warning started to say ‘Fuck off, I said fuck off’. Oh how I missed the open space of the aquarium. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide and there was no chance of pretending he is not our child.

It was time for operation ‘Cleanup’. Supervise what the child is watching on TV, movies, books, games and our language. Fuck! It’s hard. Even a word like bugger is inappropriate apparently. From all the trying to supervise everything I started to break into cold sweats at night replaying the day’s events in my head. All the replacement words didn’t do the work and I felt like I’m about to burst. Taking a bath was a great outlet to randomly use a swearword without being heard.

It couldn’t go on that way. I decided to stop trying to control everything. Just to lower the usage of the unmentionable words to minimum. I explained to my kids that they are not allowed to use certain words, although we do. The same way they are not allowed to drink alcohol and grownups can. It seemed to do the trick. Their teachers and friends are considering them as polite, well mannered boys.

The problem now is the older kids on the school bus. What kind of language do they hear at home that they speak like that? Really, parents should be a bit more careful with what they say around their kids for fuck’s sake.

Words are not always what the dictionary says

2009-08-28T02:21:00.005+02:00

Hebrew is my mother tongue. I grew up my whole life speaking writing and thinking right to left. It came quite naturally to me, so imagine the shock when I found out that most languages go backwards. When I started learning English, I fell in love with the language.

I still can’t quite pinpoint when certain words should be used i.e. on, at, in and of, but I do my best and hope not to screw it up too much (although I do). I also tend to leave vital words out when speaking and therefore I give what I say a whole new meaning. So that you are not left in the dark I will expose one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. A guy that worked with me was very upset about something our boss did. He wanted revenge. I was very worried what he was about to do will get him in trouble. So I looked at him and said ‘Do you want to get laid?’ I felt very proud of myself for using this as oppose to your day to day ‘fired’. As the words left my mouth I turned white. I left a key word out. ‘Off, Off’ I shouted ‘I meant get laid off’. The last part of the sentence was said in a defeated whisper. He said yes. To both. Did I or didn’t I, is besides the point (don’t be so nosy!)

When I arrived to London, I assumed my English was not too shabby. Was I wrong. Although I managed to understand the literal meaning of most of what said to me, for the life of me I couldn’t get what do those people want from me? I thought they speak English in the UK, but I quickly realised they speak British.

It all started with random strangers calling me ‘Dear’ and ‘Lovie’. Male and female from all ages and walks of life. At the beginning it felt strange, but after a while I would get upset if the bus driver didn’t add one of these words when I gave him the exact change. The other thing I couldn’t get was ’Alright’ when meeting someone. Is it a question or a declaration? Am I supposed to answer it? Do I look like something is wrong with me or is it really a cry for help on their part, expecting me to say the same, just so they can say they are not that ‘alright’ today?

My biggest thing was ‘Do you want to come for tea?’ I was naïve enough to think it means a cup with boiling water, sugar, some milk and a tea bag floating in it. For the first few times I used to eat at home so I wouldn’t come across as a hunger stricken barbarian raiding the biscuits. Apparently it means a meal. Why on earth would you use an international word describing a hot drink to invite someone for dinner? Very confusing.

After 8 years in the UK I deserted English and spoke full on British. I was like a fish in the water, like scones with marmalade. And then what did I do? I moved to SA, where they also don’t speak English, but South African.

It took me quite a while to understand that when someone says ‘Just now’ they mean it will probably not happen in the foreseeable future if at all. I’ve learnt it the hard way, waiting over 3 hours for someone to return my call. They couldn’t quite understand why I’m so cross. They did say ‘just now’ after all. ‘Now now’ means it will happen but not sure when. It will be soonish. Thank god for ‘Now’ there is no way around that one. Although it rarely being used. My husband says I learnt the art of the ‘Nows’ way too well. I think he is wrong, but I’ll get back to him on that one just now.

I do hope I will not end up moving to yet another country as I don’t think my brains will be able to consume yet another language on top of the three I already speak. Hebrew, British and South African. I don’t think I have any space left for Australian, American or Canadian.

Keeping Up With The Motherwoods

2009-08-25T12:18:00.003+02:00

A friend of mine sent me a link to an article (Some gossip crap, but I won’t be petty) called ‘Hollywood’s cutest kids’. You are warned that this is very depressing so if you choose to check this link, I will not be held responsible http://www.nydailynews.com/gossip/galleries/hollywoods_cutest_kids/hollywoods_cutest_kids.html#ph47 I wasn’t able to see all 86 pictures. I started sobbing midway and couldn’t see through the tears and whatever else came out of my nose.

What I did manage to see was Madonna walking with a 3 year old wearing all white (both), Halle Berry blowing bubbles on the beach, Isla Fisher walking while holding her daughter (the white motif repeats itself) and a few more. All happy, smiling and relaxed.

Hollywood actresses, goddesses, yet they are doing what I do. They are not sliding in an angelic manner on the red carpet. They are walking on the street with their child. They are not giving yet another studio, smile perfect photos with the kids. They are sitting on the beach building sand castles. So why, oh why, they look so, what is the right word for that, ah found it, perfect?

Here is my reality check. The last time I wore white that didn’t have stains on it, well it never happened even before I had the kids so not a good example. Moving on. When I go to the beach with my kids, my swimwear is skew, I have weird burn blotches from where I missed a spot while putting on sun block and at least one child is crying because there is sand in his eyes. If I carry my son on my arms I will break into sweat and have all my bags swirling around me with things falling out and rolling on the floor. You can just imagine the way I look trying to pick it up. If I chase my kids while they are riding their bikes, I will end up out of breath and with at least one bruised child meaning I will end up, yet again, carrying a child in my hands with bags and a bike, and I think you know the rest.

If an outing with the kids starts without bickering, screaming and kicking it will usually end in tears (mostly mine). I always have food in my hair and little chocolate hand prints on my clothes, even if I just left home. I gave up on trying removing stains years ago. We do occasionally have a perfect day out, without any incidents but I can’t seem to recall any, although I’m sure I didn’t dream it. It really did happen (and I’m sticking to it just to stay remotely sane).

The only rationalization that I can find for this omission is that when they go out with their kids they are using clones. If not, than I really cannot understand it. I think the world of serious, in depth investigative journalism should start looking into that. How come they look like that and we don’t? I want an expose’ on the subject and I want it now!

It's me or De Burgh

2009-08-21T21:05:00.005+02:00

A friend of mine got married a few months ago. The other day I got a very angry email from her blaming me for not being honest “How come you never told me how hard married life is?” Never told you? NEVER TOLD YOU? Have you listened to me in the past 8+ years? I started reconsidering my whole relationship with her. Obviously she doesn’t listen to a word I say. Clearly if she had, she would have opted for the crazy woman with the million cats option over marriage.

Men and women are different. Or so I read on Wikipedia. When starting a relationship it is always difficult. So I decided to make it even harder on myself. Not only did I marry a man, I decided to go for a guy who is from a different country, background, culture, religion and speaks a completely different language (I thought Hebrew is more common. I stand corrected). Statistics show marriage generally puts you at risk of divorce.

I must admit all of the above differences I stated are nothing compared to one thing that my hubby and I cannot agree upon no matter what. Music. Or to be more specific Chris De Burgh. Out of all our differences this one I blame on me and me alone (Okay and his mum as she is the one who gave him bad musical education).

I didn’t know. Swear to god I did not know. When we moved in together, we were both living in a foreign country. Only 2 months after moving in, he came back from a home visit with his CDs collection. I flicked through it. ‘One Hit Wonders’ alright, some old times favourites and school days nostalgia, ‘Modern Talking’ well I’ll take the 5th on that, crap, some more crap and ‘Chris De Burgh’ Aaaaaah. I am leaving and cancelling the wedding.

I waited for him to come back from work. He didn’t even manage to close the door behind him and I was already waving the CD in his face demanding to know the truth. Alas, what I feared came upon me. Indeed this is his CD and not some kind of a cosmic joke. I can put up with a lot, seriously, I’m a strong person, BUT if there is one thing that can make me fall on my knees and sob like a little child deprived of his sweets ‘Lady in Red’. He could not understand what the problem is and said he even thought of having it as our wedding song.

Luckily Chris (aka the ‘monobrow’ in our household) was not invited to our wedding in any form, shape or sound but this subject is always hovering between us. It is the essence of our indifferences. He wants ‘Lady in Red’ to dance with him and I would love to ‘Give It Away’ now!

The answer I gave my friend was “Just put ‘Lady in Red’ and listen to it for at least 3 times in a row to understand what I have to put up with” I am still waiting for her reply so I guess she realised that no matter what her issues are with her husband mine are far worse.

(Don't) Mind the Gap

2009-08-18T23:05:00.011+02:00

I am not perfect (Well if I were modest, I would have been). Shocking, I know, but I learnt to live with that notion at the back of my mind.

One of the symptoms of my imperfection is the fact that I’m following, yes me too, http://twitter.com/aplusk (Ashton Kutcher for all you Twitter challenged). His latest update (As for 18th Aug 6.22am, SA time) was “Celebrate your imperfection!” I wish it was as simple as you said. I know you probably have a few imperfections, but in your case it’s more an inner body experience, something that only your closest circle is aware of. For the rest of us mortals, not only we celebrate our imperfections, we usually carry them for everybody to see. I know you are talking about the inner imperfection from a spiritual point of view, but we live in a world that doesn’t even get to know those if we don’t pass the looks barrier.

I used to be faced with my looks being criticized a lot just a few years ago. I stayed in London and tried to get acting roles, most of the times I didn’t even get to the actual acting part of the audition. I was ignored on appearance only. I was thin, but not enough. I was told I have a problem not being British. I am Israeli but my accent sounds Dutch (Not all the people in the world have American or British accents. There are few other countries out there). I can’t get the usual Israeli soldier/terrorist roles as I don’t look Israeli enough or terroristic enough. I mean what can I do, I have fair skin and light hair colour. I was asked if I’m sure I’m Israeli? Of course I’m sure! It is not on the top 10 list of ‘If you could be from any nationality, what would you choose?’ I was told “Shouldn’t you be a bit darker?” if this is not prejudice than what is?

My all time favourite is “You have a gap in your teeth” I know that. Every day of my grown up life I see it in the mirror. Never gave it too much attention and it never interrupted with anything I tried to achieve before. I thought of fixing it. I thought about it long and hard and the more I thought about it the more I hated the idea. I love my gap. It is part of who I am. I don’t see the connection between this and acting. I didn’t try to be the next Colgate model. What baffles me most of all, I guess, is the fact that a production would take the most gorgeous actress and spend 6 hours everyday turning her ugly. Save money, hire someone less appealing yet just as talented.

This is not a rant about me not getting parts or making it in the business. The reason for that is the choices I made earlier on. I did manage to get some of my goals. I took a few courses, performed some improv with Brandi Borr, whom I owe the confidence in my talent to. (I hope you are happy wherever you are Brandi), wrote sketches and enjoyed to watch my talented friends performing them. Now that my kids are bigger I have the time to develop my writing, and work on my own scripts written for myself. I realised if I don’t write for myself why would anybody else?

Ashton, without any sarcasm, thank you very much for that twit. It is important for people to love themselves just the way they are. I spent too much time in my life wishing I had other ‘imperfections’. I stopped. I learnt to love my imperfections inside and out and I think I’m doing a good job. Actually too good of a job. Perhaps I need a few lessons in ‘How to love yourself without being vain’ Does anybody know a good tutor?

Going Potty

2009-08-16T23:08:00.004+02:00

The decision to take my son off nappies took a natural course. The nappy’s prices went up, my income stayed the same, and naturally we decided it was time. When I say we, I mean my husband, myself and the Bank Manager.

I started following all the advice I could get. I complimented my son on all his creative activities. I am telling you, The Beatles never got such standing ovations in their entire career. I made it clear to him using the phrases ‘Making a wee!’ and Making a poo!’. These remarks usually got the look of ‘Wow mom, you are really observant’. Great, yet another sarcastic person in the family (He got it from his dad).

I took it to the next level of taking him with me, to the only place I had some quiet time up to now, explaining what was going on. He didn’t seem to take to it at all. In fact he was sometimes negative about the activities taking place. I told him I had read that negative remarks should not be said and even gave him the magazine to read for himself. The gesture was not appreciated, unless shredding the magazine and trying to feed it to the cat is considered to be a breakthrough.

Step no. 3 was to show him contents of his dirty nappies and take it together to the toilet and flush it down. It all went well until he started developing this weird thing called independence and was doing it by himself, without making it to the toilet with full content and once there, flushing the nappy down. The plumber and his family were very happy with our son growing up. Me and my family, not as much.

We did practice runs to the potty after meals and naps. I was running while singing encouragement songs, Marines style, and my son was looking at me, starting to think to himself, where did he go wrong in a previous life and why out of all people on earth, he ended up with me as his mum.

I realised, after weeks of preparations that my son was not budging. He showed no signs of even wanting to take it to the big boys’ league. I thought I should discuss it with his nursery school teacher. I didn’t have to initiate the conversation with her, as I came to pick him up she approached me ‘You are doing a great job with his potty training (my eyebrows flew off my face with shock) For the past 2 weeks he has been taking his nappy off every morning and he doesn’t even have accidents’. The little conniving… (And a lot of other words you are not supposed to call your own child).

I came home that day and took the nappy off. No parades, practice runs, claps and songs. No flushing nappies and emotional farewells of contents. Nothing! My son looked defeated. He knew his cover was blown. A few seconds later he seemed to be better. His face said it all ‘Just wait and see what I’m planning for puberty’.

Home Wars - Attack of The Clothes

2009-08-13T23:10:00.001+02:00

Let’s start with a fact. I am untidy. I like it when everything is in its place, I just hate putting it there. Household chores are my biggest nightmare. My least favourite is folding and ironing.

A few days ago I realised I’ve lost the bottom of the laundry basket. I know it was there. Now that I think about it, last I saw it was a day before my son was born, just over 7 years ago. Since then it feels like my life is an endless video game. I collect the clothes and wash them and as a reward I go to the next level and get more clothes to wash and less time to do that.

I took advantage of a few sunny days and did the laundry (all trillion washes). Once I took it off the line I piled it all up on the bed in the spare bedroom and closed the door. Felt very good about my domestic skills. All was out the window a few minutes later, when realised, husband piled clothes at the corner of the bedroom. Why on earth is it so difficult to take it to the basket? I will be the first one to admit he is the tidy one between the two of us and the proof of his tidiness was in the form of a nice neat pile, of dirty clothes. All folded and orderly but still laundry.

A week has gone by and more laundry went through the washing machine but oddly enough there were no clean clothes on the shelves. Maybe the reason for the mystery is the fact it is all still in the spare bedroom aka our new walk in wardrobe. I don’t even go to the closet anymore for a clean pair of underwear. Why bother?

Hubby got irritated by this. One day before going out, he took one of his shirts and ironed it. Only the one. When I asked if he wants me to do that for him (the loving wife that I am) he said sarcastically, he doesn’t want disturb me. Okay, if this is how he wants it, let it be. I decided will do all the ironing except his. Let the games begin. Of course it did not happen as I am still busy deciding when would be the right moment for me to actually tend to this pressing matter.

P.S. If anybody wonders who is wearing the pants in our house, the answer is no one. It is lying on the bed in the spare bedroom.

Time In

2009-08-10T23:33:00.003+02:00

I always imagined that I’d have kids who listened to me. Every time I saw a mother dealing with a tantrum in the middle of a public place, I thought to myself, ‘This will never happen to me’. Well when I’m right, I’m right. Unfortunately, not only was I wrong - I was just being plain stupid. My kids were born with free will. Meaning that they are free to do what they want - they will.

I started exploring different ways of discipline. There are so many, that my head started spinning. First I came across http://www.inspiredparenting.co.za/NewsCast.aspx?NID=46 by Claire Marketos. She is against Time out. So I hugged my son and told him that it was alright to cry. He listened to me and didn’t stop crying for two hours. I love how she says, ‘Children whose needs are met and who feel heard do not throw tantrums’. On the other hand, maybe she is right. I did only half of it. He was definitely heard by me and the entire neighbourhood. I am not quite sure if his needs were met. He thought he needed another sweetie and I thought he needed a smack (don’t panic. I didn’t). After all that time, he fell asleep on my lap and looked so cute that if he had actually woken up, I would have given him two more sweeties.

Since the above method got me nowhere, I decided to explore the opposite extreme. I went to the goddess of discipline herself. http://www.supernanny.co.uk/Advice/-/Parenting-Skills/-/Discipline-and-Reward/Make-the-Naughty-Step-Work-for-You.aspx . Supernanny makes it look so easy. I felt like the parental version of Bob the Builder. ‘Can we Naughty corner it? Yes we can!’ I was consistent. Did not budge. Followed all the rules. He didn’t. I ended running after him to bring him back. Making him sit there, in the most boring place I could find. Went down to his eye level and explained what was wrong. We agreed to disagree. After a few times I had to give up. I was huffing and puffing from all the chasing and my back was sore from bending down to his eye level.

When all failed, I had to go where no expert dared step. No time out, no naughty corner, mat or step, no smacking, hitting or slapping, no hugging and listening. I am the parent. I make the decisions. So I decided to go to my bedroom and close the door. He could have the whole house to himself as long as he left me alone. I threw myself over my bed, thinking that I was the worst mother in the world. I can’t even deal with my own child. Where did I go wrong?

I lay on my bed for a good few minutes, then realized the house was quiet. Maybe he had left. OH NO! MAYBE HE HAD LEFT! I jumped off the bed and dashed to the living room to see my son sitting quietly on the sofa. He looked at me and then came over and gave me a hug. ‘I promise to listen to you. Please don’t be sad’.

Say hello to ‘Time In’ Supernanny. Since that day, all I have to say to my son is ‘I will go to my room’. Now I am just dreading the day when he realizes that when I do that, it is party time for him.

I did not kill Jesus (Or stole his lunch money)

2009-08-06T21:32:00.000+02:00

Even though we supposedly live in modern times, some people, once they realise I'm Jewish, come up with my all time favourite declaration 'So, you killed Jesus'.

I am fed up with being blamed for a crime I did not commit. Once and for all people, I wasn't there. I really wanted to. You know, it was very tempting. Live bands, food market, street shows and a few people hanging from crosses. The problem was my boss wouldn't let me leave the office early that day. So there you go.

Everybody knows by now, except Mel Gibson that is - Jesus was killed by the Romans. Don't jump off your seats and wave your fingers at me. They were not Christian back then, they were only Romans. They had Neptune and Venus as gods. For them Jesus was a pain in the ass, and let's face it, it wasn't even his fault. I am not going to go into the whole who did what thing, just wanted to set the record straight.

What most of you are not getting is that being Jewish is hard enough without being blamed for all the evil in the world. We have so many rules: what to eat, when to eat it and when to stop eating for over 24 hours. I could give you a detailed moan about how hard it is, if I actually bothered doing all of the above, but that's beside the point (Please God, don't let a lightning strike me. I promise I'll do that in the future. If I come around to it. One day. Maybe. I will at least think about it. If I remember to).

I realize I sound a bit defensive, but it's engraved in my genes. I am programmed to apologise even when it's not my fault, to make sure everybody is fed at all times, to run after random strangers making sure they are dressed warm enough and to never admit I am having fun, god forbid. So please, I am asking you nicely, do not let me take upon myself yet another burden.

It's been over 2000 years of wonderful suffering. May I continue sitting alone, in the cold and darkness, just knowing, you guys know, I didn't do it.

You are almost famous Beth Cooper

2009-08-04T21:21:00.000+02:00

I thought I was being extremely original when I used the phrase ' I love you Beth Cooper'. And then came Larry Doyle.

I moved to SA just under 2 years ago. I had no friends here. My mother in law kept nagging me to meet this Beth Cooper. 'She is your age and has a little girl your son's age. I think the two of you will have a lot in common'. Well when a mother in law says such a thing you should know this person is crossed out and shoved into the list of 'People I don't want to be friends with. Ever'.

One day as I was walking with my boys by the river I came across a very enthusiastic chic waving at me. I wanted to ignore her, but my dog went and peed on her stuff, so I had to do the right thing and pretend to apologise. It was Beth Cooper. I hate to admit it but she was nice and funny. I can't stand it when my mother in law is right.

Time went by and we became very good friends and so did the kids and the rest is history. I kept telling her I will write a book about her, as she is one of the funniest people I know (Not intentionally, but don't tell her I said so). Unfortunately, I wasn't quick enough and my unwritten 'I love you Beth Cooper' belongs to someone else.

Now all this commotion around the subject raised another issue. Beth now is more famous than me. Well, almost. I dealt with the issue of a friend getting what I wanted for myself in my script 'London. My Lovie' (Beware Larry Doyle, I put it in writing first!), but now that it was real and not the creation of my imagination I started being a bit hostile towards Beth. Not that it was her fault. I just thought it is so unfair. She has such a catchy name. No one would write a book called 'I love you Osnat Krupnik Maas'.

I decided to check it out and see how come my friend got all the glory, while I stayed out of the limelights. There I was surfing the web reading every word about it and watching all the trailers. I even went into http://www.iloveyoubethcooper.com/. She even has her picture in this website. A very good one. She looks pretty. Bummer. Well my book/screenplay was much better (No it wasn't, but someone has to support me. Even Beth and my husband prefer you Larry Doyle).

My story was also called as I said 'I love you Beth Cooper'. It was about a courageous journalist in South Africa choosing the life of a small village over the big city but is the village as peaceful as she thought it would be? Is it really the place you want to raise your kids at? Beth deals with ungrateful so called friends, while breaking the biggest scoop of the year. Well on second thought it sounds more like a Hallmark kind of a B movie. Maybe that's why I never put even one word down.

Still, while discussing it with Beth Cooper we allowed ourselves to do the whole casting. We went for the mature yet sexy actresses. SO I was quite surprised to see that Hayden Panettiere was playing her. In my mind it was more 'Reveal the conspiracy, save the world' and not 'Save the cheerleader. Save the world'. Okay she is pretty and cute and talented but I am more of a 'Lost' Kind of person rather than 'Heroes'.

To sum it all up. I am just feeling a bit sorry for myself. Larry Doyle did a great job and the casting of Hayden Panettiere is perfect. I will go and watch it at the cinemas, probably accompanied by the real Beth Cooper, who is just as great but also just as almost famous as I am (Okay a bit more almost famous than me). Thank god I still have a chance to make it before her. So Larry, how about taking a look at 'London, My Lovie' and doing something about it?

Smoking is bad for you (Unless you are home)

2009-08-03T20:27:00.000+02:00

To Beth with Love

All kids have this Epiphany. They realise that when their parents are leaving them at school, they are having a party and fun time without them. In my case it is true, I party with house chores and writing every day. I know. I live on the wild side.

This realisation creates a situation known as the 'Fear of abandonment Syndrome'. I can go into a lengthy explanation about what it means etc. but it would be a waste of time when I can sum it up in: A child is dropped off at School. A child is screaming at school. A mother is leaving feeling guilty. Child is playing happily within 2 minutes. Mother is still feeling guilty after 2 hours. A child is crying on pick up time as if he never stopped.

I used to be one of those guilty moms. I got over it. Few weeks after my first born was in school and I was arriving to work very tearful, I was delayed by the school's offices. Due to that I was able to see my son through a peeping glass. Within a split moment after I left the room, he was laughing, playing and not remembering I even existed. I was shocked. On one hand I was very happy to see that he is having fun but on the other hand it made me realise that he can actually get along without me (How dare he?). That day I came to work with dry eyes. My boss thought I took some calming tablets and he was very worried. I ignored him. The whole thing made me a bit indifferent to the feelings of others. On pick up time I was borderline Cruella De Vil. I looked at his tearful eyes and just gave him a look of ' You can't fool me anymore you devious offspring'.

Ever since this moment I never looked back. When my second child was born he was lucky if I even stopped the car when taking him to school. But each child brings different creative reactions to situations. And yes, I am talking about myself.

One morning after the 'Mummy don't go' song (Stayed for half of the first line) I found myself standing outside the school chatting to another mum. We were by the parking lot between the school and the village library. I was enjoying the conversation very much, we even had a smoke together (Bad, bad, bad. I know). Minutes past by and then the worst thing that can happen, well you know the rest. The lovely teacher decided to take the kids to a short walk over to the library. I knew if my son would see me, he will start crying wanting to come back home with me. Without a moment of hesitation I jumped behind a parking car. The other mum looked at me confused while I was making weird 'Be quiet' motions with my hands, miming it as if I was Marcel Marceau. Luckily she got the hint.

There I was a grown woman ducking behind a car. Tiptoeing. I went to the one side and the teacher, which I started liking less and less was leading the kids straight towards me. I had to tiptoe all the way to the other side of the car. It is very hard for a not so fit person to do that, while holding a smoke (Yeah, bad, bad, bad) trying not to burn my hair. Alas one of the kids decided to stop pulling his friend with. Where should I go? What should I do? If any of these little snitches see me they will tell. Finally they were all in one group and I could breath out as they were all walking slowly, extremely slowly to the other side of the car.

Loud music started. 'SHIT'. My phone. With a very unique song on it. My son would recognize it in seconds. 'Where is this horrible piece of technology? Why is my bag so big and so untidy?' Panicky I found it and shut it up. He didn't hear thank god. All the little angels were safely inside the library.

It took me a few seconds but I managed to straighten my back and stand up. The other mum looked at me very cockily. Of course she could. Her child was not in this group. 'I have to go' She said 'before the other half will come out marching.' Slowly I went to my car, feeling a bit stupid and defeated.

My conclusions are as so. Never, ever make friends with the other mums and use it as an excuse to avoid the day's chores. Oh and smoking is bad for you. Not that it stopped me from having another one (Bad etc.).

As long as it’s quiet

2009-08-01T18:04:00.000+02:00

One day the unbelievable happened. The kids were playing nicely with one another and I had some time to myself. I sat down in front of the computer thinking I can do some work, arrange the pictures from my first born birth that happened over 7 years ago. Perfect.
I put my music on, instead of the usual B-I-N-G-O crap I have to put up with. One photo down the line
“AAAAH” in a shrieking voice.
I jump of my seat ran like a madman to the playroom just to see 2 boys standing pointing at an invisible microscopic ant. For a split second I even thought of giving them a small lecture about nature, but then I thought it’s easier to just take my shoe off and kill it. And so I did.
“Is it dead now?”
“Yes” as I was leaving the room.
“Is it going to ants’ heaven?”
“If it was a good ant, well yes” making another step towards computer bliss.
“Don’t you think we should bury it?”
“Whatever” I mumbled “As long as it’s quiet”
There I was sitting again quietly.
“AAAAH” in a shriekier voice than before. Will not fall for that one again.
“What now?” I shouted from the top of my voice, not moving a muscle.
“I touched it and it’s yucky. Can you please pick it up?”
And I was naive enough to think that because I have boys I will not have to deal with dead bugs myself. So I got up went to the murder scene, looked for the almost invisible body, put it on a piece of paper and we all went outside where I put the paper down by the sandpit.
“Can we dig the grave now?”
“As long as it’s quiet”
Second photo is done. I am so proud of my accomplishment. 2 photos in half an hour.
“Can we, please, blah, blah, blah....”
Without even turning my head “Sure sweetie, as long as it’s quiet”
3rd photo and I have no idea what it is, but who cares, I am doing it. Or maybe I should just go on the net and look for this amazing...
“Shhhhhhhhhh”
This is suspicious. I go outside to discover the grave is dug, my favourite statue is smashed and rearranged as a gravestone and half of my cook books are shredded into little colourful confetti size pieces of paper decorating the whole new pet cemetery. The horror on my face said it all. Two little faces staring at the ground with a whisper.
“But we were quiet...”
Note to self. Let them be noisy, at least like that I can hear what is going on.

London My Lovie

2009-07-29T08:05:00.000+02:00

Original Script
Sharon Pearl, an Israeli, early 30’s, is a stay at home mom who arrived in London a few years ago to pursue an acting career. This story is a comical observation of modern day motherhood and the journey each woman takes from being a youthful dreamer to dealing with reality, whether this journey is in her home town or, like Sharon, embarked on in a new country.

Sharon deals with her feelings and fears through her dreams/hallucinations, which appear in the form of songs, dances and absurd situations. Through her eyes, it will also show London as a city that draws people from a variety of nationalities to come and create a new life for themselves and make their dreams come true.
The story begins with Sharon having to deal with her son’s tantrum in a public place and cuts to her arrival in London. Her experience in London starts with confusion, as she deals with the tube and evolves her character into a competent “old hand” at negotiating the social and practical realities of London. She starts as an acting student and metamorphoses into being a member of a successful improvisation group and then the co-founder of an all female trio sketch act.
During this time she meets her husband and their relationship moves fast. Shortly after she marries she finds out she is pregnant and she therefore cannot be an active member of the trio she founded. Thus, Sharon steps back, watching her friends and group replacement enjoying the future she wanted for herself. She is conflicted between motherhood and the constant feeling that things should have been different.
Christina Anglos is Sharon’s Greek friend. They are the same age and when they meet at the acting school, they are also at the same stage in life. They immediately bond on both a personal and professional level, becoming best friends. Christina recommends Sharon for the improvisation group and is also the co-founder of the sketch group. Christina keeps questioning Sharon’s actions when it comes to her relationship with her husband. Once Sharon leaves the group, Christina and the others become successful and Christina gets a lead role in a BBC sitcom and stars in Hollywood productions. Christina achieves the goals Sharon set for herself earlier in life. Their relationship goes through a crisis after Sharon has her child, and Christina becomes a star, but their love for one another is there.
Michael Matthews, Sharon’s husband, an American. Their first random encounter, at Holborn tube station, was not a very successful one. Later that week, she meets him again, this time at Christina’s party. Michael is the complete opposite of Sharon. He is a lawyer with his legs firmly on the ground. He is tidy and likes sports. He understands Sharon, appreciating her for what she is, and balances her.
The story ends with the frozen picture of Sharon and her son from the first scene. He calmed down and they continue walking. Is she happy with the new form of her life or does she still feel she missed out on something better?

"Sharon is looking at Jude and starting to sing to him “Hey Jude”
Cut to:
Interior. TV studio, American Idol -Like Auditions.
Rob
I think that’s enough thank you. It was OKish, nothing more than that vocally. I felt that the emotion was real. You brought a tear to my eyes. Christina?
Christina
I have to disagree. I thought the vocals were great, with one problem. Very calculated, no emotion at all. It was too technical to me.
Rob
Let’s go to our last judge.
Michael
Well, how can I put it? I think the vocals were crap, and there was no emotion.
Sharon
Michael?!
Rob
Okay. Michael?
Michael
That’s a no for me.
Christina
Sorry sweetie. It will have to be a no for me too. Maybe next time.
Rob
I am afraid it’s a no for me too. It is settled then. You are a shit mum."

Where is Joubertina?

2009-07-27T22:19:00.000+02:00

Original script
This story proves us that starting from A is easy, but getting to B is proving to be more than what anybody would have bargained for. The situations all the characters find themselves in would seem to make a crazy person go mad. From stealing a diamond, getting innocent people arrested and drugged, ending up in a farm with a hopeless farmer, helping a calving cow and fighting wild dogs, anything is possible in this funny surprising journey.
Rachel is a tourist in SA. When we meet her for the first time, she is having an unfortunate encounter with an overzealous old woman. Within a few minutes she is blamed by the old woman of being a thief, discovers her parents put a stop on her credit card for withdrawals, and bought her a ticket back home leaving Cape Town in 3 days. She needs to start making her way there from PE, where she is at. It looks like a simple task, as her parents wired her enough money to buy and internal flight ticket. Unfortunately for Rachel, another tourist at the guest house she stays in thinks he needs the cash more than her and as compensation for the “inconvenience” he leaves her his 7 seater car.
Left with no money even for petrol Rachel puts up an ad looking for paying passengers to cover her costs. Once she gets 6 passengers, they go on a journey that was supposed to take only a few hours, but turns to be anything but short or simple. The different personalities and backgrounds of her passengers, their relatives, employers and the people they meet on the way make this journey “A once in a life time” experience for all of them.
To name but a few:
Johannes is the son of a diamond miner. In his possession he has his dad’s prize winning diamond, which he stole from him. He is paying Rachel 10 times more just for her to go to CT through the back roads passing Joubertina, which it seems to be, he is the only one that knows where it is. This sets his dad on a wild goose chase after him. Will he catch his son? Is his son the real culprit or maybe it is him?
Joe is Rachel’s ex, whom she left just 6 weeks before their wedding day. He is in SA for one thing and one thing only – making sure Rachel is on that flight back home. Will he win her back?
Toby is another tourist. This is his first time out of his country. He considers himself as a human rights activist. Unfortunately he knows nothing about SA and confuses it with old times in the US. Funnily enough this makes him clash mostly with Joyce the domestic helper and her previous employers trying to give her back her precious photo album of her family. Will he ever find out how clueless he is?
Two questions still remain. Will they make it to CT in time? And where is Joubertina?

"...Fiona
Hello there dear sir.
Markus is stifling a giggle. Marthinus looks at them and takes out a picture of Johannes.
Marthinus
Excuse me did you see this man driving through here.
Markus and Fiona put on a serious face and take a look at the picture. Fiona takes the picture out of Marthinus’s hands puts it near her face and then stretches her arm out as much as she possibly can. She takes out her reading glasses and looks at the picture again.
Fiona
Nope. Is this a man? Are you sure? Look Markus.
Looking at the picture again.
Markus
My god it is an alien.
(They both starting to look a bit frightened)
Are the authorities aware of that? Is he dangerous?
Marthinus snaps the picture out of Fiona’s hand.
Marthinus
You idiots. This is not an alien. This is my son.
Markus and Fiona are looking even more scared now.
Fiona
Oh my god. He is an alien too.
(She grabs Markus’s hand and starts running back into the shop. All the sweets they had in their hands are on the floor now.)
Run Markus. Run like the wind..."

McBreast. Mother Nature’s fast food chain

2009-07-27T11:32:00.000+02:00

“I can’t breathe, I CANNOT breathe. Help!”
I woke up, flushed with sweat, finding that I’d made the uncomfortable mistake of lying on my back. My breasts had leaped at the opportunity and were threatening to choke me. I’d always thought cup “F” stood for “fake”, but, apparently, it stands for “foremilk”.
“Congratulations!”, My Girls were saying to me. “You’re no longer an independent, pert-sized modern woman. You’re a food chain.”
Breastfeeding. Nature’s antibiotic! A source of happiness and satisfaction, encourages closeness between mother and child. Who cares! The only reason I opted for breastfeeding was the price tag on the formula milk. Perhaps this makes me less of a mother, but I always imagined I’d be a Bottle Mom. Why should I be the only one waking up at night for the baby? It’s his too!
However, after a few calculations, I came to the grim realisation that at least if I was the only food supplier, I’d still be able to afford rent. That was it - the comfort of my own bed won. The decision was made. Breastfeeding it was.
There I was with a 3 day old baby. In bed. In the middle of the night. Feeding went well and then, as a food chain my body decided to change the range of milk for the satisfaction of the cliental AKA my baby. “OUCH”. My husband mumbled something in his sleep, turned over and continued snoring. Nobody ever mentioned that when the nice thin colostrum changes to the “real deal”, it would be so painful. The tubes, previously known as my sexy cleavage, were widening for the wholesome thickness of mother’s milk and I was now ably supplying sustenance to my bundle of gluttony.
The pain of feeding was so strong. “This is a conspiracy,” I thought to myself while flicking through my breastfeeding guidebook. I was right. The word “pain” was not mentioned anywhere. “Why, why did Eve have to eat the stupid apple?” I thought to myself while grinding my teeth.
Finally, I was over that stage, and I thought I’d reached calmer waters. I was wrong. Indeed, the internal pain was over, but on the outside it was a war zone. Skin was cracking and a weird rash was taking over my nipples. Am I coming down with leprosy? Panicked, I turned again to my trusted guidebook, which clearly stated that, “once the baby is latching onto the nipple properly, there will be no irritation to the skin. Breastfeeding is not sore”.
Of course it isn’t if you are a male professor writing a knowledgeable guide for the sleep deprived mom. “I think something is wrong with the baby,” I announced to my husband. “This baby has sand paper in his mouth. Look how it’s chafing me”.
The result of my brave announcement? An unimpressed husband and an extremely happy baby.
Pain wasn’t the only side affect. Watching TV advertisements featuring crying babies turned me into an out of control milk sprinkler. Understandable perhaps – but how does one explain the same reaction when the neighbour’s cat went on heat? I’m a dog person, after all.
After two kids and many, many months of breastfeeding, I must confess that my breasts no longer point perkily at the ceiling when I lie on my back. Instead, they loll all over the place, mostly in different directions – and my cup size has shrunk to training bra status.
Despite these aesthetic consequences, I wouldn’t change a thing. Yes, I was the only one on night-feeding shift – but at least I wasn’t running to the kitchen at midnight to make myself a cup of coffee, sterilise bottles, measure powder, mix it with water, warm it up and make sure there were no hotspots, only to find that the baby had drunk my coffee and I was left with lukewarm dishwater.
Eventually the pain stopped and so did the leaks and all that was left was fun. A lot of fun. There is nothing like cuddling in bed with my baby while feeding, and most importantly, nodding off back to sweet sleep.
P.S. My branch of the food chain is closed for business, but you should really think of opening one of your own