Admin, boring bloody admin

I have things to do. Lots of them. Tax submission admin, looking for writing work so I can keep Freelance Fridays going, some editing for someone who's kindly done a whole lot for me, fighting with the medical aid... boring, boring, yawn. All the admin I want to be doing is making proper plans for my Karoo trip, but that is fraught with hanging on other people's decisions. I'm not even sure that sentence makes sense. I just wanted to throw 'fraught' in the mix.

With all this admin glaring at me disconsolately in the corner, I find myself sticking to my guns and blogging regularly. Now you know why.

March? What?

There it is, right up in my face, proclaiming that February's done, dusted, over-scadover. March. Well, I guess I have no choice but so say: "Welcome March, come on in. Yes, yes, you can bring The Ides along too, just dust off all your feet at the door, please."

I have (again) been neglectful of my writing. I've been terribly busy doing Real Work, living life, now dealing with a heartbroken, broken-up friend, and gazing at my navel, to bring myself to write. This, in itself, is ridiculous because (a) What is blogging if not the highest form of navel-gazing? and (b) My navel seems to be expanding most worryingly and I'd do better to not look at it and, therefore, remain blissfully unaware of the middle-age spread happening down there.

I meant to (re)start blogging on the 1st of March and do it daily, at least for the month of March. I like doing stuff like that, starting things in a new month, resolving to be better at it. Please note that I said I like doing it, not I'm good at doing it. Not that I really have to point that out, it's pretty obvious, isn't it? It being the 3rd of March and all.

So here I am, starting. Maybe I'll do every third day, that seems more doable. I have lots of stories - the plans for the country move, a very sad and beautiful funeral, my first meeting with KitKat, the donkey...

A blogging rant

This blogging thing is fascinating. One of the first blogs I got hooked on is Family Affairs, a blog written wittily, truthfully and very funnily by a woman who has been through a divorce, has three growing children, a new (well, not anymore new, years-old now, but he was new) boyfriend called BB, and an ex-husband who has recently married her boyfriend’s ex-wife. Yes, you heard correctly. They met after she’d been together with BB for a good while and they (the ex-husband and boyfriend’s ex-wife) married within a year! Jerry Springer-esque indeed. She’s not though (Jerry Springer-esque).

The interesting thing is that I feel like she’s one of my friends now, despite being on different continents, and never having met. But I’ve read her blog for years now and gone through the dramas and ructions and plenty of happy times that she’s gone through, throughout the whole thing. She’s struggled and, I think, dealt with numerous verysticky situations admirably. It’s not all drama, by no means, in between there’s loads of fun and just every day stuff, like any blog.

The drama has just come to the fore because suddenly the boyfriend’s ex-wife/husband’s new wife has discovered the blog and now she’s feeling funny about writing things and feeling, I would think, limited. Not that she’s ever used her blog for mud-slinging at all. For the first time ever she had a nasty comment yesterday and, if I can be all judgemental, which I can, this being MY blog, it was bitchy and rather silly. It is also quite suspicious in its timing.

Now don’t get me wrong. I think comments are wonderful. And they don’t need to always be nice – a bit of intelligent debate about any topic, or sound advice even if it’s not what you really want to hear, is welcome. Uninformed commentary and harsh judgement on your life choices, parenting skills or pretty much anything for that matter is, however, not welcome and frankly is unhelpful and unnecessary. There's something to be said for being kind. Always.

I’ve always had an issue with privacy on my blog, which is why I remain (relatively) anonymous. I feel for her over there at Family Affairs. She’s always written honestly and now she must be feeling censored on her own blog. I censor myself, but would hate to have a real reason, like somebody breathing down my neck.

It also brings her to the point of deciding how far to take it. Respond? Ignore? Respond once, then ignore? I guess nobody really wants the kind of back-and-forthing that could result in full-on cat-fighting on their blog, but I’m sure she also feels she should stand up to this person who has made some fairly harsh comments. And on one hand I feel she should, having not deserved the comment she got, in my opinion.

Funny, I get very protective about my friends and, although we’ve never met I count her as one of them. I wanted to write a letter to the nasty commenter and tell her to back off. I had more choice words to use but they’re unladylike so I’ll just use ‘back’ and be all polite.

It got me to thinking what I would do. Honestly, I think I might run into a corner and hide. I’m a sissy with confrontation though. I’d love to be one of those people that gets cross, shouts and walks out, slamming the door behind me. I’m not though, I cannot, ever, leave something festering. With me, it gets sorted out now, even if it means I have to back down.

This is a rambling post again. I wanted to be succinct and sensical and say something wise. I fear I haven’t. For L, from Family Affairs, though, I’d like to shout at her nasty commenter, tell her to bugger off and slam the door in her face. And here, in blogland, where everything is metaphorical, I can.

SLAM.

I'm ba-ack!

I keep meaning to write. I have things to say. They're always important and, in hindsight, I convince myself they would've been beautiful, prosaic posts far beyond anything I'm capable of writing. In my head, they are. But life is getting in the way, not giving me my outlet. I'm not letting it. And I must. I miss my blog, and I miss reading everyone elses. I try desperately to catch up every now and then. Listen to me... whinge, whine, moan.

I had my phone stolen on Friday night. This is not an unusual occurrence for South African phones. It happens. First time for me, though. It was at a food fair filled with bourgeois (sp?) people looking beautiful, wanting to be seen. One of them stole my phone. I was surprisingly calm about the whole thing and quite enjoyed being phoneless and having a springclean of phone numbers forced on me. The admin around cancelling, replacing, organising bored me a bit though.

A rambling blog post. I want to get back into it before I fly off to Spain, in TWO WEEKS! So exciting! I'd like to say I'll be blogging all my lovely stories from there but I fear I'll be too busy just being. on. holiday.

I'm going to try to be more regular until then though, I have stories to tell. They're blocking up my head. They need out.

The big blackboard

The beginning of the year is always such a time of introspection and thought for me. It’s silly, really, because the 1st of January is just another day, after the 31st of December. I always feel like a new year is an enormous blank slate, like those little blackboards kids used to use in school. But a huge one – a humungous, smooth, empty black space, with hundreds of boxes of coloured chalk below it, waiting to be drawn with in twirls and curves and plain print and cursive. Just millions of options, expectantly waiting.

This year I am going to make an effort to feel that way every day or, at least, every month. I’m going to try and fill my blackboard with colours and writings each month and then, at the end of it, start some more. I want to try and not be weighed down by what’s gone before.

Sounds so deep doesn’t it? I’ll tell you a secret… I just thought of it as I was writing this post. I often think up my blog posts in the early hours of the morning. Even more often, they flitter straight from my head and out of my bedroom window, to be scattered on the breeze… little images and sentences let free into the dewy morning air.

Not this one, though, this one flowed out and, luckily, landed on a page, right here in the Ivory Tower at Real Work. And I think I’ll keep it.

Distracted from admin by my new game

I have much admin to do. You know the kind - phoning banks and telephone people and the like, listening to the irritating electronic voice telling you to enter your sixty-five digit account number (followed by the hash key), then some crappy Kenny G saxophone music that makes you want to scream, then the electronic voice again asking you to enter your eighty-six digit ID number (followed by the hash key), more squwaky (sp?) Kenny G saxophone, electronic voice asking you type in what you had for breakfast etc. Eventually you get to a Real Person. Inevitably in the wrong department, who has no clue who you are, despite your pressing all the right numbers (and hashes.)

I said much admin, didn't I? As you can tell from the above ranty paragraph, I did do one call. Then I got distracted by a new game I made up (as you do on a sweltering day sitting in the kitchen with a fan staring you down.) I popped over to Mud's blog which is always brilliant and wished her a happy 2011 and then clicked on one of her blog links and wished them a happy 2011 (and commented) and then clicked on a link of theirs...

I've been from Timor/Singapore, to a Cyber Mummy in London, to Devonshire, to a retired County Council worker in some other English countryside, then to a firefighter in Vermont and now I'm somewhere in the State's with a dental hygienist who is very funny.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm no stranger to the blog trawling game, no sirree. I love it, almost as much as I love donkeys (did I mention nobody gave me one for Christmas? Again.) It's just that normally I'm a bit of a voyeur and don't really comment. This time I am commenting and being very strict with myself about linking from one to the next and not. Getting. Distracted.

Pity about the admin, isn't it?

I. Can. Not. Wait.

Wowee, time flies this time of the year. It is my last day of Real Work today, thank goodness, and as we speak, my sister, N, and the two baby nephews are winging their way towards The City Beneath the Mountain. I. Can. Not. Wait.

I have been desperately baby-proofing The House in the Middle of the Street. This is far from an easy feat as I am, to put it politely, a hoarder. Luckily, though, I am not a hoarder of extremely valuable or extremely breakable goods. My taste lies in the cheap and shiny section. Therefore, my house is Child Heaven and Parent Hell, despite my constant reassurances that little hands are welcome to touch/play/move all treasures found. This applies to friend’s children. My sister, on the other hand, knows that I am not just saying it, so my nephews’ four little hands will be everywhere. I. Can. Not. Wait.

The tree is up, there’s tinsel scattered about the place, two stockings hang from the mantelpiece. They’re ancient family heirlooms at this point, having existed since my sister and I were tiny tots. The boys are still a bit small for Father Christmas but they’re there, waiting. Did I tell you, they’ll be there, in The House in the Middle of The Street, today when I get home from Real Work? I. Can. Not. Wait.

In other news, I received a parcel in the post yesterday from a country way over the seas that is covered in snow. It was just a plain, brown, envelope but as I ripped it open I smelt the sweet scent of chocolate. I tipped it on the kitchen table – three slabs of chocolate, deliciously wrapped in wrappers with a foreign language (how exotic), a little bag of Christmas chocolates, and a decoration for the tree. What a wonderful treat, sent from Angela, over at Letters from Usedom. Thank you! This blog world is so wonderful, isn’t it?

Oh, did I tell you that I. Can. Not. Wait?

Looking inward, literally

I lay watching my insides this morning. My liver, pancreas, kidneys, hiding behind each other, under my layers of skin, like children behind their mother’s skirts. They were simultaneously inside me, and on the screen. At one point she turned the colours on and I could see my blood pumping furiously through them, willing them on to stay plump and happy. The report was all good. It’s a weird feeling, though.

When we arrived, a panicked man was driving behind his, his flickers flashing. He nudged rudely past as we turned into our parking, then turned around and drove the wrong way back, parking directly in front of the entrance to the hospital. Opening the back door of the car he helped a heavily pregnant woman out. All thoughts of rude man flew out of my head as I saw The Stork fly over. I cried at the thought of such excitement. I’m a sissy that way.

Then I looked at my insides. While I lay there watching them swirl, I realised that this blog has metamorphosised into something it wasn’t before. I’m beginning to write stories about other people, and ignoring those about me. I know what it is. I attended enough Psych 101 classes with my friends at varsity to be able to see through myself.

It’s that privacy thing again. People I know read this. I am always amazed at how other people write so blatantly and honestly on their blogs. I am in awe of that. Perhaps they too, though, are only allowing glimpses into certain parts, leaving others in the dark. I also fear that I may have lost my sense of humour, though. It feels dark in here.

Maybe that’s just me?

300th post... Well sort-of

Oops, I missed it. I'm not sure how, because (I thought) I was watching so carefully, each time I signed in and wrote a post, seeing the numbers click up... 298... 299... and then, whamo!, this morning... 301. I was planning a great 300th post. 300! That means I spilled out words onto a screen 300 (and 1) times. Sheesh. Obviously a pretty cloud scudded by or a hadeda flapped and shouted over at me, or something, which distracted me, and made me miss it. It's not serious, though, because this 'centurial' birthday, I don't think I have anything momentous to announce. No great blurts, like the 100th and 200th. You know my Tragedystory... you know pretty much all. Well, all of the things I'm willing to write in a public forum. Oh, the privacy thing, yes, it's still there.

So what to say on this, my 300th (+2) post? I think the thing I want to say is Thank You. To the world, really, to Blogland and the real one. I realised while thinking about this post this morning that both the real and the 'unreal' (blog) realm provide me with so much entertainment and just stuff to write about, be it sometimes just inane rambling. Had I not got into this blog thing I would be neglecting my writing even more than I do already. And I really do love it, once I start.

This all sounds a bit like an Oscar acceptance speech except that nobody is starting to play music so that I’ll shush and leave the stage. I am back from my break in the countryside to a little place on a big river in a village with an aching heart. We ate, we slept (a lot!), we played Trvial Pursuit (a lot), we read books, and we stared at the stars and the beautiful new moon. And it was quiet, except for the sounds of birds and the occasional tractor. I was meant to write while I was there. I didn’t open my laptop once. It was bliss.

I have lots of stories to write now – of the village with it’s sad tragedy that happened, unbeknownst to us initially; the young girl Heidi-like, up in the hills, doing wine tasting; the old man, youngest of eight, at the bottom of the hill, making wine; and the talkative girl at the hotel bar, fixated on E!’s inane ramblings of blondes drinking too much and taking their clothes off, her story too dark to tell in our fleeting meeting, but I could feel it was there.

Best I get to work then, isn’t it?

Comments welcome

I’m assuming everybody gets ‘spam’ comments on their blogs. Mainly I get ones in some indiscernible language which I just ignore (as opposed to copy/pasting it into Google Translate in the hope it’ll recognise it and bring back some incredible pearls of wisdom.) I got one the other day, though, that I love, as nonsensical as it is:

To be a noble lenient being is to have a amiable of openness to the world, an skill to group aleatory things beyond your own control, that can lead you to be shattered in hugely extreme circumstances as which you were not to blame. That says something exceedingly impressive relating to the prerequisite of the ethical autobiography: that it is based on a trust in the fitful and on a willingness to be exposed; it's based on being more like a weed than like a sparkler, something rather tenuous, but whose acutely precise attraction is inseparable from that fragility.

That last bit, about being more like a weed than a sparkler. Who wouldn’t love that? And what on earth does aleatory mean?

(Yes, this is my third post this morning… Real Work is holding little attraction today. I need a holiday.)

Stars and questions answered

The lovely Mud over at Not Enough Mud gave me an award thing which I don't know how to put here but I feel terribly proud of, in a gold-star-on-forehead-at-nursery-school kind of way, which is why I must brag mention it here. It also came with one of those fill in things about yourself things. Having been struck down by a desire not to talk about the rather dark swirlings in my head, it came at a very opportune time. Thank you Mud.

1. Which do you prefer city or country?
Definitely country, although I live in The City Beneath the Mountain. I love big skies, where you can breathe in large gulps-full of country air.

2. Do you feel old?
If you count 9-year old (boy) old, maybe.

3. What was your most embarrassing moment and can you share it?
Hmmm, there are so many. Nope, don’t think I can share, but thanks for asking.

4. What was the best thing you ever did at school?
Slide down the banisters at high speed. It was a definite no-no at our prim All Girls School. I NEVER walked down the stairs.

5. Who do you most aspire to be like?
Tinkerbell. She can fly. And grant wishes. And has that lovely sparkley light around her all the time when she’s flitting about.

6. Do you think you are ambitious?
Not really. I would like to be able to fly though, if that counts (see above.)

7. If you didn’t do what you are doing now what would you like to have done?
Travelled the world writing stories about people I meet in small towns in the middle of nowhere with big skies.

8. What would be your most perfect meal?
Spagetti bolognaise (my mum’s.)

9. Have you ever broken the law?
I’m just going to say yes. And leave it at that.

9. What songs would be in your Top 3?
Oh, that’s a tough one, I have a Top 100. Three of them are:
They Might be Giants – Birdhouse in your soul
The Shins – New Slang
Snow Patrol – Set fire to the third bar

Anything else you'd like to know?

Blogging and honesty

I have been trying, really hard, to be a better blogger. Like in, one that blogs regularly. My initial plan for April was every day, then I decided perhaps every working day after the first (unsuccessful) week. Then I decided maybe I could make up the 'gaps' by blogging twice in a day a couple of days. Then I gave up. May is a new month, let's see what ideas I come up with for then. My brain just seems to be a barren wasteland when it comes to writing.

In the interest's of becoming a better blogger, I decided to venture out of my usual realm of fabulous bloggers who I read regularly, and find some others to see what other people do.

I spent an entire day reading a woman's blog that I stumbled across and becoming more and more amazed by humans. It was filled with (fascinating) tales of primary-school-type best friend poiltics (e.g. she ran off with my ex-boyfriend so now I'm not talking to her anymore), alcopop and shooter-fuelled nights out in clubs, vomiting in bathrooms and a whole cast of men passing through the blogger's bed. I was horrified to realise as I got deeper and deeper into the back stories that it actually belonged to a woman who is the mother of not only a tweenie/young teenaged daughter, but a 17-year old son too.

Far be it for me to judge, I don't have children and can't even imagine how hard it is to rear them, especially single-handedly, but I must admit to thinking that perhaps it's not a wonder that 16-year old son has 'behavioural problems'. Beside all that, though, her blatant honesty was refreshing and, while her naivete was astounding after reading her history, her soul glowed through it all - clear and beautiful and heart-wrenchingly broken, so many times. Tough cookie.

My point? Not sure I have one, other than a refreshed desire to write more, and honestly, and openly, and push those privacy issues into a corner (or, preferably, out the door completely).

In the good news, I'm off to the Big Smoke this weekend to go to a wedding of two of the nicest people I know - two boys. It's my first gay boy wedding and I'm terribly excited. As I've discussed before, I believe that love doesn't see gender or colour or religion etc (a post of its own - coming soon), and there is nothing lovelier than seeing two people who have found each other and want to stay together. And I get to see my gorgeous baby nephews, who are crawling and teething, and being generally fabulous. Yippee!

Let's see what May brings, shall we?

No clamming

Did you see that? Did you? Did you? There, under here, in the comments from my last post? I have one, I do. A real one. They made a comment, that's how I can be so sure. That makes my blog, like, um, a real blog.

I have a lurker!

Now, I like to think that I write this blog purely to get some of the swarming thoughts in my head out and into writing, a practice pad but, honestly, who doesn't still revert back to that I'm-in-Sub-A-and-got-a-gold-star-on-my-forehead-so-am-puffing-my-chest-out-with-pride state on hearing praise from any audience. I just didn't realise I had one, really. Well, I mean, I knew a couple of people read it, but lurkers? Wow.

So thank you, to all those people who commented, and to my lurker who made me all chest-puffy-outy, for providing me and my often arbitrary ramblings, with an audience. I did, indeed feel very raw and exposed and almost felt a little bit like I needed to step back and clam up a bit, but then everybody was just so nice.

So I am going to try and keep this clam shell pried open with the stick from a cocktail umbrella I kept the other day, okay?

P.S. In the interest of honesty, I apologise... I lied, that was my 201st post, not my 200th. I somehow missed 200, even though I was, supposedly, paying attention. Tsk.

Voyeurism

One wonders sometimes at how time flies. It is June. Like I said in my little blurb above, it is highly unlikely that I will update this blog daily. I am trying for weekly. I have a whole day off school a week which I have done specifically to provide me time to do such things (most importantly the paying kind but also the fun bits, like this). So far though, my three Fridays off have provided me with extra time for a leisurely Friday lunch in the sun with a good friend and a bottle of wine (it’s her off work season and she thinks we should do this every Friday – no, okay, maybe… rubber arm? Me?); some extra shopping time and, on one of them, a couple of hours of wage-paying work. Hmm, looking at that I don’t feel so bad really. One out of three seems fine. I figure I should just put up my hourly fee by three times and it’ll be perfect. I can be so clever sometimes, my heart swells with pride.

The whole regular blogging thing, though, is what has held me back from blogging for so long. It’s the pressure you see, to keep the momentum going. I have been a blog voyeur for years. There was a whole group of people on 20six whose daily lives I followed for, literally, years, never commenting for some reason. My heart broke with them and then healed (Daisy), I fell in love, with them (Late Bland – if there’s only one you read, this should be it, for sure. Read it from the archives forward), I went through their pregnancies with them (Jojo), I have followed the adventures of a beaver and his not-so-clever-but-most-fabulous reptilian friend, Steve and their creator (Beaver and Steve – I may, even, be in love with Steve). These are just four of a group of them who seem to be close friends. Some moved blog sites, me dragging along behind, like a ghostly chain. I still go in to check up if Late has updated yet, and still get sad every time I see he hasn’t. His is the only one I ever commented on, in the hope that it would make him come back.

That all makes me sound a bit weird. Hmm, voyeuristic is not the word but, if you read them, you’ll understand. Also, I’m a good multi-tasker and have been known to answer a phone call, read a blog, write an e-mail, drink a cup of tea and put a batch of muffins in the oven – all at the same time (okay, okay, I don’t even have a recipe for muffins, I lied… but the rest is a true story, really). So I see them as a way to keep my ever-racing mind entertained.

Anyway, this whole blog story got me wondering whether a certain type of voyeurism is not only okay, but actually bloody wonderful?