Where's that damn Klaas Vakie with his sleep dust?!

Will there ever come a time when I'll stop functioning (okay, that's a strong word as I really don't think that's what I'm doing here) on anything other than this ill-fated student mode? I swear, I have no idea what normal sleep patterns are about anymore. I wake up when my in-built alarm clock goes off at bloody 3am every morning. An alarm that I subconsciously set to get through the many assignments and exams in the quest for that much coveted B.Tech. Yep, I did this to myself. And all in the name of staying on top of things, staying ahead of the game so to speak.

So here I sit at friggin 4am. Yet another foray into the ungodly hours of the morning when the rest of the world lays a slumber, writing my 74th blog about that all evasive thing called 'sleep'. There's something very wrong with this picture, my peeps.

Klaas Vakie, where're you hiding boet? I need my zzz's so please, I beg you, get your slow-assed donkey over here and sprinkle some of  that magical 'vaak dust' on my royal forehead and...yawn...kedonk-to-pillow...ZZZZzzzzzzzzzz

Matric exam stress - hers or mine?

Thirteen years of hard slog and here we are - my daughter recently kickstarted her matric exams with her all time favourite, English (I say this with huge tongue-in-cheek and a heavy dollop of sarcasm). For despite my complete fascination and absolute love affair with the language, for some or other reason the apple has not fallen remotely close to this tree.  So much so that her grades through the years have skated dangerously close to 'meets the minimum requirements'. Eish!

Who do you think spent almost all of Sunday night, the eve of the dreaded English First Paper, doing toilet duty of note - yep, you guessed it: moi, me, mne, ekke. Not to mention walking the wooden boards in my passage to a well buffed gleam during the hours of her actually writing the exam on Monday morning. The beauty of it all is that madam steps into the exam hall without so much as even breaking a sweat.  Calm, I tell you and with such confidence, leaving me with her usual, "stop stressing mother - this one's in the bag."

When I picked Princess Pieface up 2 hours later I was the worse for wear - seriously, my hair (which as many of you will know is a wild mass of out of control frizz at the best of times) was standing on end and a sure indicator of my frazzled state of mind. And what greeted me was, "see, I told you not to stress. Yor, that was such an easy paper. I wrote and wrote but ran out of time..."

Will someone please pass that damn Prozac?!

A leap of faith.

When despondency was recently at an unhealthy high, my delightful furry friend reminded me that it's okay to throw caution to the wind and take a blind leap of faith. More importantly, my Bean proved that having the right people in your corner spurring you on is encouragement enough to springboard you past that emotional lull. People who are true to you. Those who when positions may have been reversed, knew you to be the one to buoy flagging spirits.

Taking that leap of faith is testimony and an honour to those amazing stalwarts of support, who even when the chips are down continue to have an unwavering belief in you. Go on then, jump - they dare you! I dare you!!

Bean did - he took that first leap and now bears the dubious crown of 'Jumping Jelly Bean Meister'. So much so that he keeps on raising the bar and the jumps seem to be getting alarmingly higher and higher. Could he be part kangaroo, part pug I wonder? Scary thought...

Brace yourself...

Some good news (at last). Recent ortho visit reveals that what was initially thought to be a torn ACL could be a pulled ACL. Why is this good news? Damn, but you lot can be pretty thick given half a chance. It - means - I - can - get - back - to - softball - sooner - rather - than - laaaaatttttterrrr! But brace yourselves, it does however have me in this ortho straight jacket for another month. Yikes!

But, if it means playing again...hell, I'll do it (mostly).  This thing's such a friggen las, man. Takes me all of 10 minutes to strap myself into it. And then there's that limited mobility - eish, not good for a kriewelgat like me.

Ely nose best...

I've been taught to handle rejection by using my Catholic teachings to great effect and 'turn the other cheek' or to practice resilience (probably has something to do with my Catholic upbringing as well, God forbid) and am expected to just muster through whatever crap gets thrown my way. Then to add insult to injury, all the cliched mutterings usually follow these rejections. Mutterings by people whom I love dearly and who mean well. But I'll be damned if the continuous, chipping away at the soul kind of rejections will have me accepting, 'everything happens for a reason'; 'every cloud has a silver lining'; 'it was not meant to be'; 'He only gives you as much as you can bear'...sound familiar? Come on, who the hell came up with all this bullshit to start off with.  Someone who perhaps had been hammered to the pavement so many times that his senses were pulverised beyond reason?!

Yes, I'm the glass-half-full kinda girl. But I'm also the girl who feels intense hurt at the hands of thoughtless people who eschew rejections with such unbelievable blase at my attempts to secure employment in their supposed concerns of good repute. The most insulting is what I refer to as the 'standard rejection letter'. I did a stint as an HR assistant once.  Then I was that person sending out those stupid letters with very little thought to what it must do to the recipient. Now that I am the recipient, the "We regret to inform you that your application has been unsuccessful. We wish you every success with your future endeavours." just doesn't cut it.  The worst of it all is that this usually follows three to four rounds of interviews at the given organisation. Why do this? Why set people up for a fall and fill them with hope and expectation? Why? There has to be a better way to do this!

This is just downright cruel. Oh wait, another response to the latest round of interviews for that position that I am told I am so right for. "Dear Charmaine, thank you for taking the time to meet with us. We regret to inform you however that your application has not been..." Noooooooo, when does this nightmare stop!!!

But wait, I'm supposed to have developed into the proverbial ely right? Does the memory bit also apply? You know...'an elephant never forgets'. When these tables turn - what, I'm just saying!

Breaking the (Piggy) Bank

Does it get any more pathetic than this...

I'm broke. Literally, there ain't no funds of any sort - nada, zilch - and its only the 14th. Just a month ago I was riding the crest of a glorious financially rich wave. What a joy. And then...payment of bills, settling debt and a tidy sum stashed away in a fixed deposit for the princess's college fees. All very necessary I know. But here I am, a near pauper.

Soooo, that leaves me with just one resource. The princess's piggy bank. It can't be all bad surely? I mean, I have put money aside for her college fees so that should make it okay then, right?

There I go with that Catholic guilt again.  What is it about us that puts thoughts of flagellation and purgatory, if not being damned to eternal hell before the simplest acts? Oi, if ever I get to see that Sister Frances who not only put the fear of God into me but is the main culprit of instilling the guilt factor, well enough said.  I have a huge apple to peel with that Sister. Maybe she'll have a couple of mates that I could lay my peeler into - Brother James, Father Athenatias, my mom, oh crickey - there's a school of Catholics out there that have a lot to answer for.

So guilt aside, my desperate and decrepit financial status will have me raiding the princess's virtual piggy bank this afternoon. We need to eat, okay. ABSA, here I come!

Starving...again!

What the hell's wrong with me? I have the most ginormous appetite lately.  I wonder if I have a terminal illness or something. But if it were what could it be.  Filled with paranoia I've trawled the Net in search of that one ailment that I'm sure will match these insatiable symptoms.  The best I could find was 'tapeworm'. Ag no man, I'm royalty for goodness sakes - we don't do worms.

The other possibility was 'pregnant'. No hope of that one either.  The closest I could get to being pregnant is maybe in my big toe. The immaculate conception of my big toe.  I kinda like the ring to that.  Sorry, my wacky humour taking over here.

Seriously man, what could be causing this ridiculous need to guzzle everything in sight? Oh shiza, now it comes to me.  I'm a comfort eater.  I eat when stressed, disturbed or the emotions are out of sync. Now what could possibly be causing such alarming distress.  Let me think - a shitload of college assignments and deadlines, that's what. Custard donuts, yes - ooh lekka. Will my damn stop button just function already!

4.30 am and the Royal Rumblings are gaaning aan...

Damn, I'm starving.  It's bloody 4.30 am for goodness sake. And the middle of the month at that with hardly a bean in my pocket let alone the pantry. Wait, there's cornflakes but I think the milk is past its sell by date.  Should I? No, maybe too dodge. Or what's that on the stove.  Shiza, the remains of last night's supper. At 4.30am, come on Char, even for you that's a bit crazy. Mr Bean, you joining me on this early morning feast? Yes? Oh I do love my little boy.  He so gets that Royal Rumblings MUST be sated. Tagliatelle drenched in a rich tomato source with a dollop of creme fraische, oh yum. A breakfast fit for a queen (um, and prince)!

So I'll graduate when I'm 40-something...

Who would have thought way back when that I'd even pick up a book and hit the study trail.  The Charmaine I was then would have said, "me, you must be kidding?!" I hated anything even remotely related to academia. The very idea would have sent shivers down my spine and had me heading off on the first ill-baked scheme that came to mind - and believe me when I tell you there were many. My life's mission back then was to live up to the lack of expectations so many had of me. That the adult me now recognises were at the behest of seriously messed up individuals who should have known better.

I am so thankful that through the very many positive influences and events that have crossed my path since my misspent youth, I've been able to turn my life around. To find direction. Purpose. And one of the very many goals I set myself since was to strive towards an education, to broaden both mind and soul. It hasn't always been easy to get there though for there have been many deviations and distractions. In short, life happened in between. A teenage pregnancy, very young marriage, very young divorce, slightly older though still young remarriage (to the same dude, I'll have you know), another pregnancy, countless jobs, softball (of course), relocations, illness (self), illness (parents), death (parents). Gosh the list seems endless, and when I actually see it on paper it kinda puts it into perspective. But fate dictates that they were all necessary beacons on my map of life, all meant to shape and prepare me for whatever may yet come. I look forward to realising my current goal of graduating with a B.Tech in PR. And so what if I graduate at 40-something?  That I'll graduate at all will be quite the accomplishment. For now anyway. It puts finger to that young, insecure, rather foolish 16 year old who was so lacking in worth and believed herself capable of so little. Rather, I look to my fast approaching 50's and say "bring it!" That 50-something I see learning to ride a motorbike, backpacking with my main dude across Africa, taking up ballroom dancing again, developing a junior softball team up to national level, doing a Masters in PR. I may yet have to change that title then to, 'So I'll graduate when I'm 50-something'. Mmm...

To blog or not to blog: that is the question...

Why blog? Why fill blog upon blog with rants or raves, or simple thoughts that may or may not set the world on fire? I guess it becomes relative to the scribe, for rhyme or reason will having meaning only to the one who writes. I blog because its cathartic, a means for me to vent at times, to express rapture and elation where there is reason to celebrate, a platform for putting feeling to paper, a way of making sense of some of the crazier happenings in my life.  Simply put, I enjoy it.  I feel lighter after I've written a blog, somewhat happier. To blog, or not to blog: that is the question. "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune..." Through blogging I take up arms against whatever troubles may come my way and 'my pen becomes mightier than the sword' so to speak.  I am in control of my world, my thoughts - it all flows through from blog to blog. "To blog" I say, would definitely be the answer.

To dance with my father again...

Close to seven years ago I lost my mom to the 'Big C' - that awful invasive disease that breaths horror and dread in those who've had the misfortune to encounter it. My mom and I did not always have the easiest of relationships but I knew that there was a deep mutual love, so I counted myself as luckier than very many who were not blessed in that way. 'Marlena-the-evil-one' she was dubbed and yes she had the propensity to live up to the name at times. However that title does not begin to sum up the feisty, strongwilled, intriguing woman that I knew simply as 'mom'. She remained a bit of an enigma to me right until the time of her death. I never ever really worked out what made her tick or do the half of what she did. But what I can say is that if the choice were mine and there were a sea of moms that I could pick and choose from, she'd be my first and only choice. A phenomenal person if ever there was one, that was my mom. A legend in her time. So it goes without saying that as the 11th of October, her birthday, draws near each year I am filled with a quagmire of emotions.

What is even more significant about this date however is that as ironies would have it my father, who despite his many failings I absolutely adored, succumbed to cancer on the 11th of October two years back. Where the intense sadness comes in is that my parents shared a great love, but it was one that did not translate to absolute fulfillment during their time here on earth. My dad's philandering set him off on a path away from my mom and us kids, 25 years into the marriage. Something he came to regret and expressed as much years later. By that time though it was too late for reasons beyond their control for my parents to reconcile and take the still deep love they felt for each other to a place they would have preferred.

Given the history, the 11th of October has so many bittersweet emotions attached to it. I celebrate my mom's life on the day as its her birthday, but I mourn the man who was my dad on the anniversary of his passing. I think of all that was and what could have been. I think of two beautiful souls who did not fulfill their great love, but more importantly I think that maybe now my mom is finally looking into her beau's eyes with that absolute love that she held exclusively for her Wally and I hope that she is dancing with my father again. And maybe, just maybe the 11th of October will in time resonate less sadness and more joy of a time when my parents were testimony to how amazing a shared love can be and a time when they were my world.

The eve of season...

Woo hoo, I'm like a cat on a hot tin roof right now.  Why, you ask? Oh man, do I have to belt this out? - THE SOFTBALL SEASON STARTS TOMORROW, PEEPS! I can barely contain myself. A new club, great new bunch of ladies as team mates, new uniforms, new equipment - oo this is so exciting.  My kit has been washed, pressed and readily awaits cladding my gorgeous royal rump.

But wait, here's the downside. I can't play. A torn ACL in my left knee has well and truly put paid to that. Shiza, this is so painful - on the emotions that is. The physical pain I can bear, but oh my poor torn and shredded heart; now that's difficult to deal with.  I'll be carried to the field and deposited in all my finery to sit on the side and watch my much loved team take on their opponents in our very first contested game.  Torture, I say - pure, pure torture.

The upside - I know they'll do me proud.  How can they not?  The blood, sweat and tears have lain prep to a season that will see Titans taking the podium at the end, not just as victors but as conquerors of so much more. Bring it ladies! 1-2, 1-2, Boom Boom, Pow - gooooo Titans!!

Glass half full...

Being the eternal optimist, and somewhat of a modern day Pollyanna, has seen me viewing the glass that has proverbially glanced my hand from time to time as being half full. But my usual self-confidence and well-known brand of positivism has been tested to the hilt of late. Even to the point where I'm starting to question this glass half full mentality I've been buffing and pruning for almost all of my glorious existence.

A few rather interesting and somewhat dubious concoctions have been spritzed into that glass lately. Let's see, curdled cocktail number one was the retrenchment back in June; then the subsequent round of job interviews where I've literally sold myself to the 'Devil who wears Prada' and back would rank high as cloyingly rich cocktail number two. 

Oh yes, let's not forget the countless rejections that doggedly followed said interview trail, that would definitely be high up there as bittersweet cocktail numero tre  - if I have to hear another 'we really concerned that you may be overqualified for the position' I cannot, and will not, be held responsible for enacting some of the macabre fantasies that I've dreamed up in retaliation to these foolishly and glibly placed words (come on, if that was the thinking why take a candidate on a wild goose chase of countless rounds of interviews; surely they would know this from the get go of scanning a CV - are these dudes thick or what).

Then cocktail four, this balmy drink that's filled my glass way too many times for my liking has to be all the damn injuries I've suffered this year whilst playing the beautiful game - seriously, you really want me to tell you what the beautiful game is and what it represents to me?!  You're kidding right?! Where have you guys been. Oh, my work here is far from done. Ok, to the uninformed who've been living under a rock until now - the dislocated shoulder (admittedly that's an old one that keeps coming back to haunt me, followed by the fractured hand and the more recent ACL rupture of the knee that now requires surgery.) Oi, this cocktail has made me want to see that glass running on empty, and the sooner the better.

So before that fabulous cocktail number five presents itself, I would have to say that despite everything I can still see clearly through the half empty portion of my glass. My spirit (no pun intended) remains in tact and that I can only ascribe to my glass half full approach to life.  Yep, I said it - I'm still the eternal optimist. I really can't think of any other way to be. The really good thing about my glass being half full is that I get to dip my well manicured royal index into some interesting and exotic mixes. More so than I do the murky and somewhat unsavoury liquids that at times have made the quality of the contents of my glass seem rather unbearable. What's that you have there? Ooooh, a tequila sunrise - bring it, I say!