….let there be shopping….

Perspective, Priorities,Prestik and Poo

In all honesty I’m not one to “take a deep breath and smell the roses”.

The words “settled ” and “routine” give me an intense urge to run. ( which is probably why I broke off my engagement to the farmer the first time and we ended up getting engaged twice. Having 2 rings was nice though… )

I tend to mentally tick things off and then look for “THE NEXT BIG THING”. Always looking for more, more, MORE…..surely there must be MORE???

So that up to now my life plan has progressed more or less  like this:

1. Get a degree. ( tick )

2. Get a job. ( tick )

3. Get thin. ( tick )

4. Find a husband ( tick )

5. Have a baby (tick)

5. Have a GIRL baby ( tick….lucky lucky lucky me! )

6. Study Journalism. ( tick )

7. Try to get into freelance writing. ( tick. sort of. )

8. Heck, why work for money when I could win the lotto? Or a huge Jackpot somewhere? And then we could go on luxury family holidays every 3 months and leave the farming stress behind us and I could spend weekends at a spa and have regular manicures and pedicures and hair extensions and who knows, maybe even a tummy tuck ??? ( tick for trying and not succeeding, who knew? )

Before you call the shallow police…I do sense the error of my shallow ways…

I had 2 sick children this week and 1 husband with the man flu.

Poo and puke has filled my days. Sticky hands and smelly feverish breaths through sleepless nights with worry knotting my stomach.

And oh, the relief to see they’re on the mend…to see the smiles return and the gradual brightening of the eyes…

Who needs the Lotto when you can have a slurpy wet kiss from your 14 month old daughter while your 4 year old son stands on your big toe with his leather shoe to also get in on the action?

There’s nothing like motherhood to keep your feet on the ground, stretch your coping mechanisms like Prestik  and turn your heart inside out is there?



Some days are diamonds……some days are…..well….just NOT.

My grandmother on my mother’s side used to insist on dancing at weddings. She wasn’t used to drinking any alcohol and usually downed her glass ( or 3 ) of champagne in a few gulps. Then she would grab one of her son-in-laws by the arm and force them onto the dance floor. Where she would stay until she was all danced out…

I love dancing too.

I probably look like the dying swan from Swan Lake having an attack of the arm jerks. And I have noticed people sort of avoiding my eyes while I’m at it…but give me an inspirational beat and a few glasses of Chardonnay and I’m off ….( second post in a row mentioning alcohol….first flying and now dancing….worrying trend I’m picking up …)


Onto the “Exclusive Broeks”.

I’ve recently come across a mailing service called “The Secret Letter”. You send them your bikini bottom size and they send you a pair of lace/ satin/ lace-and-satin-with-a-red-polka-dot -ribbon G-string once a month in an envelope.

Point nr 1 : I am too old to wear polka dot ribbons anywhere near my behind

Point nr 2 : My behind is w-aaaaaa—yyyyyyyyyy to big  to put into any type of bikini.

Point nr 3 : G-strings are torturous. I wore one on my wedding night and I still have it but I’m never putting it on again. EVER.

Point nr 4 : Some mail services are ridiculous.

Point nr 5: If I’m thinking that “The Secret Letter ” is a  ridiculous concept,  does it mean I’m getting old ?

Point nr 6 : Am I too old to insist on dancing when a beat inspires me???

Point nr 7 : Point nr 7 depresses me.

Point nr 8 : Sometimes I miss being 20 something. Being someone’s potential wife but not quite there yet.  I miss ….how can I put this….feeling desired.I miss someone REALLY LOOKING AT ME and not seeing someone’s wife and someone’s mother who shouldn’t be dancing in public. ( yes yes yes I’m happily married and totally in love with my children ). But still…

Anyone out there relate?






Be Afraid. Be very afraid. ( But you can take our cushion )

( This post contains scenes and descriptions of a worrying nature. Do not read if you’ll be flying anywhere soon.)

Seen on Facebook :

There is good news this morning: Your Essential Travel Info airplane seat cushions can be used for flotation; and in the event of an emergency water landing, please paddle to shore and take them with our compliments – thanks Essential Travel Info team.”

Well, yes. Thank you an’ all. Will remember to take that free cushion…


I’m not a happy flyer.

And I don’t fly without at least three glasses of white swirling through my blood.

Without it I would not set foot on an aeroplane.

I don’t trust them. I don’t trust them during take-off and I don’t trust them in the air. And I don’t trust their ability to slow down to a standstill after landing so that I can get the hell out of there.


Over the years I have avoided flying wherever and whenever possible.

I’d rather sit in a Greyhound bus for 14 hours than sit in a 747  for 1 1/2 hours to get to the same destination.

I’ve been told that it’s because I’m a control freak. And that in order for me to feel safer in the air all I need to do is push my feet firmly into the aeroplane floor during turbulence.

( No. It doesn’t work. What works is alcohol. )

And saying Psalm 23 17 times over and over until we reach “flight height” and that little “ping” comes on to tell us we can now unfasten our seatbelts. ( And the drinks trolley is ready to come out. For more white. )

That’s another thing. I get the purpose of seatbelts in stopping a body propelling forward. But how is the seatbelt going to help me in the case of a body falling downward?

Ah. Yes.

That’s where the flotation cushion comes in….



Gloria Gaynor Revisited

“Iiiih    ammmmm what IiiiH ammmmm

Iiiih am my oooooown



                                                                                                                                                                    ( 1980-something???)

I’ve been thinking.

Thinking happens a lot when one drives from a farm to most places where there are more people than animals and more shops than trees.

Yes, I know reading about someone else’s thoughts is right up there in the  “shoot-me-now” category with listening to someone else’s dream-from-last-night told in boring detail after boring detail.

But I’m in the mood for sharing titbits of wisdom so you’ll just have to read it.

Granted, these are my titbits of wisdom concerning my own life.  And my memories coloured by my take on what happened.

Right or wrong and most probably twisted. But I need to put a few things in sentences for my own sake.

What I’ve been thinking about goes more or less like this:

– I studied psychology to the point of doing an honours degree mostly because I wanted to “get” other people and their doings and most of all to “get” myself.

– To this day the only thing about those gruelling years of working and studying that struck a chord with me was cognitive psychology. In short, cognitive psychology treats the thought process of an individual. If the client says : “Everybody thinks I’m fat and ugly” the therapist says : “EVERYBODY? How can you be sure of the thoughts of others? Can you read minds? No, you can’t. So your statement that EVERYBODY thinks you’re fat and ugly is UNTRUE. ”

– Cognitive psychology made me question my ingrained assumptions about most things. Mostly my assumptions about the way others are in the world and about what they need. In short, I started moving away from MEH- MEH- MEH ( carried firmly along since teenagehood where I wore only black for years, thought I was hideously ugly with a face that “worked funny”  and during which I sulked and frowned myself into teenage drama-delux. )

Stay with me here. STOP YAWNING.

– The point I’m trying to get to is : Why did it all centre around me so much? Granted, I had parents always ALWAYS impressed with beauty, thinness, achievement, awards. I liked those things too. I liked being “the best”. And being “the best” meant coming first. Second meant “you lose, dear.”  Second or silver or 70% meant grovelling in the dirt with 95% of the population. NOT GOOD ENOUGH.

– I married a man who is happy to just “be in the world”. He never got a prize or an award for anything in his life. Not even a certificate for 100% school attendance. And he couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether our children come first or last in the class/race/party- invite- popularity contest.  I found this quality of his to be hairpullingly frustrating in the first few years of our marriage. Now all I feel is intense relief.

OK. I’m almost done. Hang in there.

During me thinking all of this over on the gravel road to town I have come to the conclusion that I never, ever really “got it”.

I never “got” the simple concept that people need people. And in essence, people don’t care about your hair, your weight, your clothes. Your degree, your published article, your stuffed-with-real-goose-feathers pillows.

They really, really just…well……..don’t.

People care about how you make them feel.

That’s it.

I wish I could tell my 16-year old self that.

You know?




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