Travelling write along…

My grandparents owned a chicken farm, ya know

I don't blame my husband for squiring five chickens and then going straight back to work. I'm not angry that I have been left, on pain pills, on a weekend, with two children, a golden retriever and five chickens. I may have had some ugly thoughts about the situation; but deep down I am aware that this is simply poor timing and it wasn't his fault. 

Such is life that it is up to me to begin the introductions between beast and poultry. It isn't that Orwell doesn't like the chickens. Oh no, golden retrievers love them - as in they see all those walking pile of feathers and quiver with delight, 'Play fetch! Play fetch!'

The Evas demurred the suggestion.

This may take some time.

I confess, I left the whole research the chicken thing to Husband. This is his long time dream, one that he has had since I was pregnant with Thing 1 almost eight years ago. The fact that the Evas are far more beautiful than I anticipated helps, but I still can't get all that enthused about the prospect of flying feathers and chicken shit.

But I did grow up in Oregon where I was occasionally banished to a ranch. I'm not totally ignorant about farm animals. Which makes my reaction to the egg on the ground highly amusing.

I just blinked at it going, 'There's an egg on the ground.'

To be fair, it isn't Easter. When in my life other than Easter do I see eggs randomly lying on the ground? Okay, so there is the tiny fact that there were five chickens milling around the egg. But these chickens, we were told, were still too young to lay. It would be like a lemon appearing on our lemon tree.* And again -  I can't stress this enough - the egg was just lying there in the dirt. Nesting box was empty. If my children were a tad older I'd have suspected they'd snuck it in there.

So I went into the Eva lair. They squawked and flapped, one running over the egg. I picked the egg up. It was still warm. I brought it into the house. The Things squealed, 'Let's eat it!' The dog wagged his tail in agreement.

I thought of Husband stuck at work and said, 'Why don't we let daddy see it first.'

'Ah, man,' The Things moaned.

The dog flopped down in a huff.

I do have some store bought eggs in the fridge. Perhaps I should scramble them up?

 

*We inherited the lemon tree. We keep thinking it is dead. Then another leaf emerges. If we were nicer people we'd euthanize it. Instead this has turned into a warped science experiment.

The importance of being Eva

Because if any of you are actually Earnest, you'll be evicted. 

 

There is a lesson in all of this

I have not been blogging because my wifi keeps dying. To reboot one must go into the master bedroom where the thing lives, because that is where Telkom put the connection. But Husband has been working nights so stomping into the master bedroom while he is sleeping is, well, tacky, and possibly rude and inconsiderate too.

We've had adventures, as I'm sure you've all come to expect. Thing 2 got herself stuck on the jungle gym last week. She began to scream, 'Help, mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Help!' And like most parents would, I ran like my ass was on fire and watched as her little arms gave way. She dropped like a rock.

I caught her.

For one glorious moment I was incredibly impressed by my performance. For the next moment I was in incredible amounts of pain. That combined with new pool schedule and overambitious exercises mean I've had  wee bit of a set back in this whole recovery game. I'm now on pain pills, have been to a doctor, am going to the physio on Monday (or the first cancellation) and everyone keeps telling me to take it easy. Ya know, that type of easy you can take when your husband is working the notorious regen and comes home to sleep eat and is gone -because his hours, that should only be 14, often go beyond that.

Is this where I mention my left is now playing up? Oh hell, at this rate the only thing I'll be good for is lying in a hammock counting stars, and let me be the first to admit my eyesight is utter crap.

So back to Husband, he is basically here but not here. On Monday/Tuesday he went 24 hours with no sleep. Although that was not totally his work's fault, given the Home Office's antics.

Yes, as many of you already know, we spent a long time there. Typical situation of where I phoned ahead so I knew exactly what to do and when we got there that was exactly wrong. But then we sorted it out. Then they gave us our game plan of how they were going to solve the REAL issue in Pretoria (my residency that never progresses further) and then...

Then we sat.

It wasn't clear why, because in the end they just took the forms now done in the  new way and the photocopies now done in the new way  and that was it.

But we had to sit a few hours before they could do that technical process of taking paper and tossing it into a pile. (I do have an SMS from Pretoria telling me that my papers did make it from that ominous pile to them. So don't panic - yet.)

While sitting there the head of department used me as an example to everybody who complained how the Home Office was taking too long / wrecking their lives / costing them thousands upon thousands of rands. 'You think your situation is bad, you should see her,' he would say. Then the person would turn and stare, I'd smile and husband would suppress a sigh, turning another page of his book.

At one point we watched in baffled amused silence while he took great delight in an 18 month old baby, then ordered the mother to put the baby down so she could fill out forms. Then he berated the mother about the fact the baby was doing what 18 months babies do, crawling around and exploring. 'We get people from all over here. All over and they've got diseases he'd exclaim. 'Yellow fever, TB, nasty stuff with sores and you never know...'

The mother would bend down to get her child, the head would remind her about the forms, and needing her to help look through the masses of visas which were not filed or catalogued properly.

'Our computer is broken,' he said with a grin.

Husband turned another page.

 

Marketing to the rainbow nation

My daughter was given a Disney backpack for Christmas from her American relatives. It was covered in fairies. She liked it very much. Alas, this Thursday, another little friend mistook it for her own and in the tussle the zipper broke.

I have no skills to fix zippers. The cost to buy zipper then pay to have fixed is more than a new backpack. So I sent the original bag off with a lady who knew a mummy that cannot afford such a nice American backpack for her daughter, but has the knowledge how to mend it.

As fate would have it, I came upon a similar one in the local grocery store Friday afternoon. Disney had clearly adjusted the bag to suit the cheaper market: eliminating the oh so useful large front pocket. But there was one other very notable change, this time to the picture:

The African-American fairy was gone.

Hand me the bonbons

The physio wielded her mighty pencil yesterday, unhappy with my swim therapy plan. It was essentially a slash and burn. Watching my hour plus program reduced to an easy 45, I came to the conclusion my physio is an editor of life.

'There you are,' she said. 'And I know you will now be happy because you love doing it.'

I bit my tongue and smiled. Love it? Once again I bring up that laundry analogy; swimming is like laundry: I do it because I have to. I don't dwell if I enjoy or don't enjoy laundry, it simply must be done. Why I don't have this attitude in regards to school lunches, I don't know. An attitude adjustment for another day, I guess.

The attituide adjustment list keeps getting longer, you see. Currently filling out the routine forms for the Home Office. No, my residency did not get miraculously approved since my last visit. My visa is due to expire in April, so once again Husband has to prove to the Home Office that he can support his technically non-working wife (their rules).

I am sure it will be approved, again. They seem to find all this repetitive paperwork much easier to deal with than simply approving one application. Please don't ask me why, it is just how it is.

But this process always sends me into a bit of tail spin. I begin to feel rather useless. Not studying, not in formal employment, arm is falling apart and as much as I enjoy writing my time away, it wouldn't exactly feed my kids if Husband drops dead.

Dear Future Employer,

I am an American-Brit who speaks only 1 of your fine country's 11 languages. I majored in English and Philosophy and have a PR certificate from the British Public Relations Institute. I published a book when Jesus was a baby and have a smattering of short-stories in publications who exist by the tips of their financial hangnails.

But I have a fantastic attitude, like dogs and seem to be able to coax aubergines from the earth in startling qualities. Oh, and I can kick like a donkey, surprising the socks off people, while bursting their blood vessels. (Every person needs at least one unique talent, ya know.)

Should you wish to employ me please note I have a very screwed up right arm. I can only type for limited periods and must have special expensive mouse. I am not able to lift, carry large amounts (like files) massage or do any fine detailed work. (Could you see me as a nurse? Hey, trust me to put in this IV line in with my non dominate hand...steady as it...whoops...did that hurt?) 

I think I missed the boat on becoming a radio presenter.

I'm sure there are a few others I'm missing...

And I'm sure once I recall what those occupations are they'd totally love to hire me. (Once the Home Office is happy to allow me to work or study, of course.)

 

A bit here and there

1. I recently read Barbara Ehrenreich's book, Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Postive Thinking has Underminded America.

2. I recommend.

3. I embraced the spirit of Barbara when I wrote Kathleen Norris, Sisyphus and Me.

4. Complaining, rather than be a martyr about it all, led to some useful advice. Now using a pool owned by a Biokineticist. He liaises with my physio. I now swim longer (just over an hour) but all the exercises specifically target my needs and are supervised, rather than me doing my best on my own. Best bit: I start my routine around 5am. I got my work time back.

5. Husband is rather baffled that anybody can be excited about having to do anything at 5am.

6. I was going to point out to him that he has to work at 5am from time to time. In fact, he may be working some very wacky hours in the next few weeks. Then I remembered that while he may have to work at 5am from time to time, he doesn't ever like working at 5am.

7. My son's school has unofficially created a neutral playing space where boys and girls can play together. I say unofficially, since they never officially announced they were separating the kids either. Hopefully they are officially teaching them, too, but even that is a toss up. The focus on all those notes (and the assembly I attended this morning) seems to be on paying fees, donating money, paying for little extras, manners, which uniform to wear, the uniform being neat, the shoes polished and the badge stitched on just so.

8. I suppose the importance of money and superfcial manners and looks are an education of a sorts. Hey, it is okay to bully as long as you do so with a pressed shirt and a smile.

9. But my son is cheering up, so we now positively have that smile along with the pressed shirt.

10. As an escape from the madness (or as a way to vent) I have been on FB a wee bit more than the norm. This has provided me with the opportunity to be passed on some links that you may enjoy as well:

Why Don't Writers Buy More Books?

William Petrocelli: What if a book. . .

 

It has been awhile

But I finally wrote another post for my blog on BookLive: Kathleen Norris, Sisyphus and Me.

The often heard lament, “I have so little time,” gives the lie to the delusion that the daily is of little significance. Everyone has exactly the same amount of time, the same twenty-four hours. - Kathleen Norris

 

A rose by any other name...

But in this case, stinks.

I have spent the last two weeks listening to a lot of flimsy excuses from local school officials as to why, despite running a co-ed school, it is impossible (unmanageable, too dangerous, too much work) for girls and boys to play together on the playground.

The majority of their reasons do not bear repeating. Nor their concerns for my son's welfare, since he apparently doesn't fit their definition of what a seven year old boy should be. Yes, this would be the same kid that fights MMA. But not on the playground, obviously. Or not obviously, since part of their complaint (aside from playing with girls) is that he needs to become more aggressive in order to enjoy boy games (the ones they've deemed appropriate for boys, of course). Ahem.

Sometimes it is best to leave that Pandora's box closed. Or at least I think so. Wouldn't you, if you were a teacher, be grateful that the boy that shows up to school is sweet, kind, friendly and thoughtful, rather than the one that can nail you to the ground and deliver a knock out punch? Well, that is just me. As they pointed out, I'm not a qualified educator and am in no position to judge.

If I were not so emotionally involved in it all, this situation would be extremely interesting. Like the fact that racism, sexism, homophobia, or religious intolerance are rarely carried out by people who call themselves racist, sexist, homophobic, or religiously intolerant. Oh no. It is not these things. It cannot be possibly be these things. The policy and action is not racist, sexist, homophobic or religiously intolerant - it simply may look this way because....

Well, in truth, because a rose is a rose no matter what you call it (and according to Shakespeare, would still smell just as sweet).

But my son's school has many people who speak just as they. Like the Romance Writers Ink Contest which no longer allows submissions where the love story is between couples of the same gender.

This isn't because they are displaying homophobic and bigoted behaviour. Nope. It is because the majority of the chapter felt uncomfortable.

I think I'm with Shakespeare on this one.

Or the person who said, 'If it looks like shit, smells like shit, then it probably is shit.' (Is it Iggy Pop?)

I concede Shakespeare's words were a wee bit more eloquent.

Cake, Book

I have been editing in the small gaps of time that these crazed two weeks have given me. Editing - it is my life. This is partly due to the fact that my spelling (and grammar) are rather crap. 

Oh, you noticed? I suppose it is one of the more commonly known factoids about me.

Less well known, but only just, is that I can't frost a cake. I can bake a cake. I can make frosting. But never the two shall meet in happiness when I am in charge.

Poor speller. Terrible cake decorator.

The funny thing is that due to this disastrous combination (no spell check on cake!) is that I have never considered the possibility of becoming a professional baker. It appears others in this world have no such qualms. Have you seen the blog Cake Wrecks? If you are in dire need of laughs like I was yesterday, then this is the site for you.

I have also gone on a bit of a book buying binge. I had this laughable idea that this year with my children in Grades RR & 2, we were going to have a nice smooth year. That I would be in a reading frenzy by now (and writing one, too). 

I have rather poor instincts on anticipating potential trouble, it would seem. Let history show that I also thought 2011 would be a relatively quiet year. Yes, I'm still chuckling about that, too.

But I do like books, and as soon as I can get the dog to quit standing under my bedroom window at 1:30am and bark till the sky comes tumbling down, I shall be reading at a much faster pace. I have bought used books, ebooks and new physically present books. I have bought books that are fun romances and mysteries, travel fiction stories, artistic literature and South African reads.

While undergoing this buying spree a number of opinions on books have emerged. The one titled The self e-publishing bubble, was both depressing from a writer's and a reader's perspective. I believe this article is a good read. I am still not completely certain I agree with it 100%. But it is interesting (and scary!). 

Then the lovely Yarn Harlot popped up on my blog feed: Randomly on Thursday. She discusses a book she read where the layout, spacing, changes of type face are all part of the art of telling the story. Apparently she knows a number of people who read the book via audio. She poises the question if reading it via audio is 'even remotely the same experience'. You can't hear a change in font, or three pages of blank space.

Her thoughts made me wonder if this is also the case with ebooks. On the kindle you can change the size of the font (can be very handy for many, especially those with eye problems). The number of fonts are limited on the kindle (or at least the version I have). Page breaks are not the same as they would be in a paper book. I have also noticed that paragraphs and line breaks are not formatted properly, causing a very odd flow of words across the screen. Not such a big deal when I am reading a cheap toss away romance. Bothers me greatly when reading Michael Cunningham.

Thoughts?

Jonathan Franzen has plenty of them in the article: Jonathan Franzen: e-books are damaging society. As a person who named her dog Orwell, I have sympathy for his point of view. But I honestly think ebooks are here to stay. My hope is that there will be room for both paper and digital, because if we go totally digital then Franzen's fears will become mine. It will be very Orwellian, indeed.

It won't really be that bad, will it? Perhaps I am being naive.