Swem Jannie Swem

In the last three days, we've been swimming thrice. I'm so proud of myself I could actually shake my booty. And have a little less wobble! Woot woot! We are on a mission, baby. Robin wants rock-hard abs. I want to fit into my wedding dress again. Not to mention a few pairs of jeans that I haven't been able to zip up since I started fertility treatments. No doubt my friends have gotten so used to seeing me in all of my wobbly glory that they've forgotten I ever even had skinny days. But, not for long. No way, José. Watch out, Old Fashioned High Waisted Stone Washed Jeans That I Love. Your early retirement will soon be a thing of the past. No matter that I hate wearing high waisted jeans since the advent of Butt Huggers. Your retirement days are numbered.
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So, in the interest of self-motivation and all of that, every Friday I will be posting a weekly tally of the distance that I've swam swimmed swum (???). Just to brag a bit keep motivated. If that Ten Ton Tessy can do it, then, flingdingit, so can I.

To Hope or Not To Hope

It's back. That silly insatiable craving to be on some or other fertility treatment. Or, more, the dream of being preggy. It's weird how in so long I've hardly thought about infertility, really. OK, I still think about it every day. But I haven't obsessed about it. And now, today, here it is. Back again. In full force.

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If only I had a couple hundred thousand bucks so I could climb back on the fertility treatment bandwagon again. Funny how the wheel turns. I hated hated hated Hoping. Now here I am wishing I even had an opportunity to hope. But we can't afford even ONE more treatment. So, even Hoping is out of reach.

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It's a little bit sucky.

Not too bad. Just a little bit.

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Which means that slowly but surely, I must be "getting over" being infertile. I think.

I hope.

Good Samaritan gone bad

*Warning - VERY gross details ahead! Oh ok, but don't say I didn't warn you!*

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And there I thought I was being all gallant, taking one of the ladies who work in the bush camp's kitchen to the doctor, after she broke out in huge bulgy welts shortly before lunch time. Ag shame, I reflected, thinking how she would have to walk at least a kilometre to the main road into Dundee, and from there catch a taxi (that alone is enough to give anyone the hives!) into town, where she'd have to sit in a queue at the clinic for at least a couple of hours. By which time she might look like a booger. So, I offered to drive her into town and grabbed some cash to pay the doctor (my own doctor, take note!) to have a look at her.

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I must admit I had to twist my own arm a bit. You should have seen those welts. I almost asked her if I could take a photo for my blog. Which just goes to show the lengths I will go to, to share my life with y'all. But my camera is at home I thought better of it. Exploiting a person in distress = v callous.

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Instead I whispered "What Would Jesus Do?" over and over to myself as we drove together into town. In almost silence. It was very tempting to make a slight detour past our house on the way in. My camera was so close, and yet so far. So very tempting. But I repeated my mantra silently to myself, and pointed the nose of my bakkie* firmly towards town.

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The doctor's appointment appeased my fears that whatever she had wasn't going to attack me too went well and we set out on our ten minute drive back out to the bush. I even started humming a tune merrily to myself, thinking how very brave I was to take her into town in my very own 4x4 when she could have had Some Funny Jungle Bug lying in wait for me.

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And this is where the *** hits the fan. Or the hootch, as the case may be.

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*Note to self: whenever transporting a sick person of the Zulu persuasion, be advised that when ill, Zulu people do not talk. As in AT ALL. Even if they are feeling really green. Rather load said sick person on rear of vehicle and avoid disaster. And I mean that in the kindest way possible. Because they WILL NOT warn you that they are about to pimp the interior of your ride.*

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It happened almost in poetic slow motion. The retching sound, followed by frantic clawing at the windows and doors and then the splatter of partly chewed bits of food against the glass and upholstery of the door.

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I would have joined the chorus. In harmony too. If I hadn't been in my car!

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I'm sure that stage whisper of mine must have upped a notch or two as my "What Would Jesus Do?"s became a strangled gasp of distress, followed by me clapping my hand over my own mouth in a desperate attempt to stop from shooting a few cats of my own. If you know what I'm saying.

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Needless to say, I'm wishing there was a good valet service in town right now.
And a "rewind" button.
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The drive home was a contest between me wanting to floor the pedal to get back to the bush camp as QUICKLY as possible, so as to avoid her giving my bakkie* another interior spray painting; and me thinking that the slower I drive, the quicker I'll be able to stop, should spray painting the interior of my vehicle a second time become an inevitable likelihood. It was a dilemma of epic proportions. I landed up doing the kangaroo petrol thing. One minute flooring it, the next thinking better of my decision and slowing down to a meandering drive through the countryside.

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Either way, driving with all four windows wound right down still didn't help with the aromatic odour of recycled breakfast.

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It's dang hard to feel good about your good deed when you're blocking your nose on the ride home. And that's all I have to say about that.

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Oh, and I doubt I will ever be able to eat a bowl of kell*ggs corn flakes ever again.

The memory of That Splat is just too fresh in my mind.

*Bakkie - South African for truck or pick-up

Easy Listening

Call it the stalker sentamentalist in me, but I'm always imagining what my friends might be doing at any given moment. If they're smiling and happy, or shouting profanities at taxis... if they're listening to the radio, and if so, what radio station they're listening to. Sometimes I even go so far as to google radio stations in their area, and log on for a quick listen. And just maybe, if a few fairies somehwere collide, they might be listening to the exact same thing at that very moment and shaking their booties too. I know. I'm silly like that. Anyhoo, I thought I'd share my fave listens with you from our local okals. These radio stations are top notch. And you get to hear the south african accent too... because you just have to read my blog with a South African accent:-

East Coast Radio (what I listen to all day almost every day. If I can get a good signal.) is the fave radio station of most people living in KwaZulu Natal. Lots of local news, funnies, good music, etc.

Algoa FM (where most of my cousins and school friends stay - the Eastern Cape. This is a really groovy radio station - and you'll notice that the accent down there is quite different to the accent up here.)

5FM is the radio station that spans all of South Africa. By far the biggest radio station with the biggest listening circle. But I don't listen to it because they like to blaspheme. And therefore I boycott them. Because if there's one thing I can't tolerate it's people taking God's name in vain. It makes the hairs on the back of my teeth stand up.

And then there is a station that I listen to, for news of my other fave country on the planet...

Hamburg Radio in Germany.

But I'm getting slightly bored with the humdrum now. What radio stations do you listen to? Pretty please send me some links. Or if you're comment-challenged, just say howdy and I like to listen to *fandaldangal*. I'll google them later and then have a listen. For those of you who are reaaaaalllly special, here are some instructions on HOW TO COMMENT. Part Two. Because you didn't catch the hint the first time round.

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Because really, what it comes down to is that I really need something to keep my mind off of Heath Ledger. *Sob!* And that's all I have to say about that.

Home

One of the most spectacular sunrises we've seen since we moved to our Hillbilly Dump. These (unedited) pics were taken from our bedroom window. I've loaded them in sequence.

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"Let us acknowledge the LORD; let us press on to acknowledge him. As surely as the sun rises, He will appear; He will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth."

~ Hosea 6 v 3 NIV ~

Quickie

My inlaws are coming to visit us today! Woot woot! All the way from Durban just for a few hours and then going back to Durbs again. I'm so excited! I love my inlaws. And I actually really miss them since we're here in Dundee. My father-in-law is an architect - a brilliant one too. I used to work for him back in the day. When life was very rosy et cetera. Ahhh, those were the days...

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So anyway, we might just go out for lunch today. Which always puts a smile on my dial. Especially if it includes a cup of wannabe coffee. And a slice of cheese cake. Or three.

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P.S. if you've emailed me lately, sorry I haven't replied. I have loads of mails to catch up on. I promise I'm not ignoring you. OK, maybe only some of you... c",)

All work and no play

We have a group with us here at the Bush Camp. They are educators who are staying here for three days, and being taught how to teach. Which should tell you something about the level of education in South Africa. I'm just saying. Not that my education was substandard or anything... aaaaanyway, where was I? Oh yes, theeducatorsarehereforaconferencetoteachthemhowtoteach. Ninety of them. Which wouldn't be so bad, if I could just be in Durban right now instead of here with the educatorswhoarehereforaconferencelearninghowtoteach. But I'm here. As in stuck here. While Robin galavants to Durban to go and fetch a generator. For electricity. When eskom fails to do it's job. Almost daily. I'm just saying. Now, if I could have had my way, I'd have gone with him. Done a bit of coffee-shop-hopping, visiting the folks, maybe a wee bit of retail therapy. You know. Girl stuff. City-slicker girl stuff.

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But no siree. I'm stuck. Here. At work. While he galavants.

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I have a really strong urge to stamp my foot right now and to wail about how unfair it is... blah blah fishpaste.

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But that would be childish.

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Instead I'll sit here in my sauna office. Working. Looking after theeducatorswhoarehereforaconferencetoteachthemhowtoteach. And bemoaning my fate.

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Because I'm ungrateful like that.

Irony

It's been a few days. Robin and I were cavorting in Johannesburg with friends of ours on an extended weekend. I had to be at my plastic surgeon (I love the sound of that - my plastic surgeon - very hoity toity!) yesterday morning for a boob alignment checkup. But we made a weekend of it and did some serious coffee-shop-hopping. And now I'm in withdrawal. There's not even a whiff of coffee to be sniffed anywhere in Dundee and surrounds. I know because Robin and I spent one whole day of our christmas holiday driving around in a relentless pursuit for the good stuff. You know - the kind of coffee shop where you smell the beans already from the parking lot.

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I've even considered importing my own private coffee barrister. From, like, Brazil. Or Italy. Someplace exotic. With good coffee beans. Because this little town we live near to is in serious need of catching a wake-up in the coffee department.

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Anyhoo. That was my caffeine-withdrawal-drivel talking.

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Now for some infertility stuff. Again. I just can't seem to get away from it somehow. So, sorry folks. It's me again. Brain-dumping all of my issues on my blog...

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My friend Riana was telling us about a young girl who had fallen pregnant and was seeking an abortion at the hospital where another friend of ours, Janele, works. (Yes, abortion is legal in South Africa.) Janele was trying to convince the girl not to have an abortion but rather to give the child up for adoption, because there are so many couples yearning for children to love. After a while the young girl (who was already 23 weeks pregnant along and therefore could not have the abortion anyway) acquiesced and went home with her mother, who incidentally also wanted her daughter to get an abortion. I know. Very angersome for me. But anyway, this particular part of the story is not about me. A while later the young girl was back at the hospital. She had deliberately stabbed all manner of objects up her *hoot hoot* and ruptured the amniotic sac and the baby had died because there was no fluid left for it to float in. So then the hospital had to remove the baby from the girl's body.

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This was where I almost blew a fuse. I always try not to spew forth anger when I hear stories like that. For the sake of the people telling me the story. But I was with some really good friends and if they thought I was strong enough to hear the story, then they'd have to be strong enough to cope with my reaction. Which, actually wasn't too effusive after all. I just gritted my teeth together and said, "you know, the terrible thing about this story is that she will probably fall pregnant again within a few months and do the same thing again. She won't be punished with infertility for doing what she did. She has no idea how valuable that child was." Not that I believe that infertility is a punishment. At all. It's just so unfair sometimes.

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Is it a case of "you always want what you can't have"? Could that be it? When you're pregnant you don't want the child. When you can't have a child, that's all that you want. Is that it?

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I don't know.

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But later on that same day, Robin and I were chatting as we drove back from a visit with some friends. I said to him...

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"Isn't it a terrible twist that I especially wanted to marry you because I knew what a wonderful father you would be? And now I can't make you a father."

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and he said...

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"Well, the main reason I broke up with *** (his girlfriend before we got together) was because she didn't want to have children."

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How's that for ironic?

Power Sense of Humour Failure

I've been scarce. It's all this Load Shedding business's fault... the electricity is on, then off, then on, then off... You can't get anything done because everything's interrupted. And so randomly too. Not, say, for an hour a day, at a specific time, so that we can plan for it. One minute you're working, the next the electricity's off. And you don't know when it's going to come back on. They say this is the way it will be from now on in South Africa. So, we're looking into buying some generators for the business. As for home, we'll have to invest in a few paraffin lamps.

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And this, in the 21st Century, folks.

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Welcome to Africa. Don't ask me what's going to happen with the 2010 Soccer World Cup. I'm already embarrassed for South Africa. Eish!

The new regime

... so after my nice long rant yesterday, my hubby and I decided to take the plunge and dive head first into our New Year's exercise routine. On the fourteenth of the month. Better late than never, I always say.

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A bunch of church friends were already swimming their four hundred and twentieth length, when I donned my costume and stood at the poolside clutching my towel, wishing I could come up with a valid excuse to get out of swimming contemplating this enormous step I was taking. It was when I spied a ten-ton-tessy swimming in the end lane that I decided enough was enough. I dropped my towel on the spot and eased into the water before anyone could notice my spongy thighs and un-waxed nether-regions. If you know what I mean.

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I was rather proud of myself after doggy-paddling through six lengths. And that, on an empty stomach too. PLUS, I even did the breast stroke for half a length here and there. It's like the hardest swimming stroke to do. Especially if you have an aversion to frogs and every time you do the sprawl you picture frogs' legs... Now that's what I call super serious about getting in shape, ya'll.

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I worked up quite an appetite. So as hubby and I were pulling out of the parking lot at the school I said, "So, how does some KFC sound as a reward for swimming?" Now, now, before you all start sniggering at my dedication and self-discipline, the power was still out. And how could I cook if there was no electricity?

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That's my excuse and I'm sticking with it.

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So, we stopped at KFC. If it's any consolation, I went with the healthier option. One Smokey Cheese Wrap, thank you very much. It came with chips and a can of cooldrink. What was I supposed to do? Throw the chips away?

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Over my dead body.

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Waste not, want not.

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But, I elected to have a TAB instead of a Coca Cola. Muuuuuuch healthier. And less fattening. And sugar free. And caffeine free. Clearly the better option for my new lifestyle. I even told the lady behind the counter that I would rather have the Tab because I'm trying to lose weight.

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I should have kept my mouth shut.

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She immediately burst into a spasm of raucous laughter. "What? You? Lose weight? In your dreams!"

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Who could blame me for having the coca cola after that?

Blue Monday

I am writing in blue today. Because it's a blue Monday. And I like things to match. It's my First Day Back at Work. Need I say more? I should be excited about being back at work, because this is going to be a NEW year for me. With a bright and shiny new attitude. But I'm having trouble staying perky. I'm appeasing myself with the thought that at least my boozies know how to be perky enough to make up for the decisive lack of perkiness in other departments. Like, for example, attitude.

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A bunch of things aren't playing their parts in keeping me happy... Number one being that my FAN ISN'T WORKING! So I'm frying here in my office. If I didn't know better I'd think I was getting the hot flashes. But that would mean I'd have to have at least a few hormones. And as we all know, I'm lacking the right doses of those too. So, it's just a case of it's too hot, and I'm not perched on a lilo in a swimming pool somewhere sipping iced tea. Which, as all of us working ladies know, is enough to make anyone snappy. Especially when said heat wave arrives on First Day Back at Work.

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The other thing annoying me is that all signals here on the farm are currently on hiatus. Internet signal. Radio signal. We even had power failures this morning, for load shedding. So I couldn't even while away some of my work time browsing the net. How am I ever supposed to get some work done if I can't waste some time do research online? Welcome to Africa. Grrrr... If you haven't heard of the wonderful electricity situation in South Africa, and you have about twenty seven years to kill, have a read here.

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Eish. I wish it was yesterday.

Doggy issues

Welcome to the Funny Farm, folks.

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On your left, our cows, currently undergoing some or other vaccinnation which left the whole herd of them bellowing at some unearthly hour of the morning. And raising the dead fast asleep and forcing them to wake up on the wrong side of the bed. No names mentioned. But you could find her still sitting in her pajammies at the computer blogging right now. And downing her third cuppa.

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On the right, the chickens which scavenge food from the dog's bowls at every available opporunity. Chancers. The bunch of them. Don't be surprised if someday, somewhere, somehow, you find yourselves on the Colonel's List of Most Wanted for Rounders. And that's all I have to say about that.

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Chasing the chickens are the two happy corgies, Buttercup and Baxter. Our dogs in shining armour.

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Bringing up the rear and chasing the corgies are the three kittens who think they're sheepdogs: Jazzy, Cassidy and Peanut.

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And hiding under the bed in our spare room is Kiara. Our severely depressed and forlorn pooch. She is now on anti-depressants. I kid you not. Two days ago she spent the night outside, because now matter how much we offered her the chickens on buns bribed her and goaded her and called for her, she refused to come inside. She thinks we're Freddy Kruger. I can see it in her eyes. Which leads me to believe that someone must have hurt her sometime before we adopted her. So, anyway, after days of wooing, she still didn't like us. At all. What I don't understand is - what's not to like? Seriously. So, we came to the conclusion that she must have a few issues.

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Which wouldn't be too surprising, what with this being the Funny Farm and all.

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We took a drive to the vet's and he diagnosed her as clinically depressed with a case of severe separation anxiety, due to previous neglect and not enough KFC too much change in her environment. She is now on happy pills. The kind that make her bounce around the yard like a ping-pong ball and chase the cats who are chasing the dogs who are chasing the chickens.

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So, basically, she now fits right in.

Boogie Boozies

And you all thought I wouldn't go through with it. Here they are then. Before and after pics.

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By the way, I hummed and hah'ed about posting these pics for ages already... so, let's hope you all behave. If not, I'm taking this post down. Oh, and I deliberately chopped my head off the pics so that I wouldn't find pics of myself on some p0rn0 site somewhere... Not that I look at p0rn0. I'm just saying.

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Oh, and you probably noticed that the After pics were mirror imaged? Well, the Before pics my friend took for me the morning of the op, and the Afters I took in the mirror a few days ago. It took a while for me to get some not-blurry pics, what with all the booty shaking I was doing.

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You could call me one happy customer.

A saving nightmare

I really wasn't going to tell you about this. Especially it being ANOTHER post about God so close on the heels of yesterday's chat about God... but it was a nightmare! I awoke this morning with my pulse racing and my hands sweating. I immediately grabbed my cellphone and dialled my friend's number and told him what I'd dreamt and that we need to make sure we're ok. OK with God, that is. I know - now I'm freaking you out too, right? * Eish! *

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Here's what I dreamt.

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In my dream a bunch of my friends and I were walking along the Durban beachfront, talking and having a good time together. It was evening. Most of us were barefoot and wearing jeans. Casual stuff. All of a sudden this enormous wind was whipping up sand, and the waves on the seashore became enormous terrifying tsunami-like tidal waves. The ground started rumbling, then shaking. And the sky started rolling back. And I felt a heavy, earth-shattering fear unleash itself from deep within me. I immediately grabbed my friend's hand and said to him, "I think Jesus is coming!" In the same moment as I grabbed my friend's hand, the others around us started levitating toward the cloud in the sky. But my friend and I stayed put. We were not saved! We hadn't spent time with Jesus. He didn't know us.

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Talk about a nightmare of epic proportions! And I awoke feeling absolutely terrified. And then I realized that maybe God was trying to tell me something. Maybe this was God's way to saying to me, "Char, let's spend some more time together. I want you to be saved. I want to know you. I want you to know Me. I want you to be ready when I return to take you to this amazing place I've built for you. Don't you want to spend some time with Me, so that we can get to know each other better? I already knew you before you were born. I knit you together in your mother's womb. All the days of your life I have already seen. I know where you're headed, and it doesn't include me. Come away a while. Let's spend some time together, just you and me. I want to teach you how to just be still in my presence. To know that I am God. How else will you ever learn to trust me again?"

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And who am I to refuse such an invitation? Of course, I realize that there's nothing I can do to save myself. That's what Jesus had to die for. To offer me forgiveness and grace. You guys all know that stuff too. What I hadn't realized, fully, was that I need to take time to spend with God regularly. It's not about me earning salvation at all. It's about me learning to know and trust God again. And to build a relationship with Him. A saving relationship. So that one day when He comes on the clouds to take us home, and to raise the dead to life at the resurrection, you and I won't be left behind on a planet bereft of His presence.

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Isn't this God we serve just totally amazing?

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* That's South African for anything similar to "OH MY WORD!" or "WHAT THE ?" or "OH NO!" or "WOW!" etc.

Progress with a capital P

I suppose you could call it progress. This thing about me not really being "interested" in having a baby anymore. The pursuit of parentdom holds nothing for me anymore. It's about friggin time though, if you ask me.

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Christmas 2007 was exactly one year since I last took a fertility drug. I remember it so well: Christmas morning 2006. Shucks - I popped that handfull of pills with a prayer and a tight squeezing of my loins, in the hope that any spermies trapped inside there would stay put JUST IN CASE there might be, say, one little ripe egg awaiting a visitation. In a manner of speaking. But it was not to be. And so I struggled through last year - on the one hand really desperate to get back into that fertility treatment torture chamber programme, and the other hand clawing my way out of a pitt of despair and disappointment and shattered dreams.

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Two or three years ago, I did not even want to consider giving up that dream. The one that was rosy-coloured and had me sitting in a swing sipping iced tea, watching my children playing in the playground. Or the one where I wake up to the sound of my child's voice calling for me at night. Or the one where fifteen years from now I'm standing at the door with a shotgun awaiting my daughter's first date. OK, just kidding. Make that a bazooka.

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It was too hard to give up. I was addicted to a future of my own making. I was a slave to the hoping and the waiting and the treatments. My life revolved around appointments. Blood tests. Needles. And pills. Endless bottles of pills stacked neatly in a row. I even remember the dosage still today.

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I eventually came to the place where I begged God to remove the desire from me to have children, if it would never come to fruition. It was so weird even asking that of God, because for so long I had been shaking angry fists at Him, telling Him how He had let me down. I was livid that He would give children to teenagers. And drug addicts. And abusers. But not to me. Where was the "fair play"? Where was the "believe that ye receive it and it will be yours"? What about the "ask and it shall be given to you"? And the "if you have faith like a mustard seed..." What about all those promises? Why did they apply to others, but not to me? What made me the exception? Had God forgotten about me?

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I still don't have answers to any of those questions. Maybe one day in Heaven I can take Jesus aside and ask Him why. For now there still aren't any answers... but there is peace now. Peace that even though things don't always work out the way we want them to, we can still be happy. And at peace with God. He doesn't deserve the bad rap He's been given. Remember who Satan is - the accuser. And I was buying into all of his accusations. I shudder to think that I was standing side by side with him, shaking my fist at God because I didn't get what I wanted! How very selfish of me!

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And yet, this path I'm walking on was paved with special stones... stones Jesus handpicked for my life. Pebbles for the easier times, boulders that He would help me over and give me a hand up, if I let Him. Because He has a very special plan for my life, that will only happen when I seek for Him and find Him, if I seek for Him with all my heart. (Jer 29 v 13.) The harder times are just that: harder times. But they're not permanent. I'm almost halfway through my three-score-and-ten (that should give you an idea of how old I am), so there is still plenty of time ahead for me. God willing. Time which I can choose to allow God to lead, time to be happy and useful and a bearer of good news for others... or a bitter, sullen, angry person harboring resentment and standing on Satan's side. And that's not who I choose to be.

"Trust in the Lord with ALL your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths." Proverbs 3 v 5 & 6

I learned that verse many years ago, when I was still a springchicken teenager. At the time it was an easy verse to learn. In theory. It was stored in my head for these times, I'm sure. Now, when I'm learning to trust Him again with my future. Learning again how to not use my own initiative or think I'm more clever than God - I mustn't lean on my own understanding, and yet that's what I was doing. I was shaking my fist at God, and then tapping my body clock with the other hand and saying "God, look how old I'm getting! I don't want to be an OLD mom!" and then I stopped acknowledging Him at all. Prayer times, church times... all of it. I avoided any contact with God like the plague. No wonder He stopped directing my paths!

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It's not easy coming back to Him again. But I am reassured that He loves me. That He died to save even battleworn sinners like me. ESPECIALLY battleworn sinners like me, actually! And that makes me all the more grateful for the grace He's offering me. Because I don't deserve it. I wear the grace He offers me like a bright new shiny garment. It's all about Him. Not me. And that's what I call progress with a capital P.

Who can resist?...

... a sexy guy and his cute new puppy? Meet Baxter, our new little corgie...



And this here is Baxter's mom, Kiara, the other newest member of our family:

And then there are a few new additions to our kitchen...

My new african masks. I just luvvem! (I had to show a closeup so you could see the scale of these guys!) Way to usher in the new year, that's for sure. Let's just say I was starved for some serious retail therapy, and Durban still doesn't know what hit it when we arrived!