Thank you for the music!

My bonnie child

There is a Barney Show coming to town.  I had seen the posters up and had attempted to take preemptive evasive action.  Think driving 4km's further en-route to our destination to avoid the street littered with the purple monster.  But the posters.  are.  everywhere.  And my daughter has eyes like a hawk.  She can always be relied on to eye-spy something that I had hidden away.

And so she noticed the one lone poster on the streetpole that I was unable to avoid.  

Our conversation went like this:

Jesse:  "Please Mommy, sing the Barney song for me?" Me:  "How does it go, Jesse?" Jesse sings, "My Barney lies over the ocean... My Barney lies over the sea... Oh bring back my Barney to me!" 

Wahahahaha! She's hilarious!

Of stories and namings

We have a routine that we stick to in the evenings with Jesse-Lee:

Supper.  Bath.  Bed.  Bedtime Story.  Lights Out.  Two songs.  Kiss.  Hug.  Happy.

That way, she gets her 10 hours of sleep, and we get our 10 hours of peace.  In which I do my happy dance pull on my stretchy pants and raid the pantry cupboard, eating all manner of treats that we don't usually allow Jesse to eat.  

It's a win-win situation really.

Long before bedtime she already starts asking which story I'll be reading to her that evening. I love to surprise Jesse with new and amazing stories that will set her imagination alight and pull her into dreamland thinking happy thoughts.

The night before last was no different to our norm.  The bedtime story was new to Jesse (the one where Jesus raises Jairus's daughter from the dead).  When we got to the end of the story, there was a picture of Jairus and his wife hugging their daughter, while Jesus looks on.  Jesse immediately piped up and asked, "Mommy, what is the little girl's mommy's name?"  I answered that I didn't know.  Upon which she stated categorically:  "Well, I think it should be Strawberry Deck."

I shudder to think what my grandchildren will be named one day.

Thankfully that's at least 52 years in the future.

I'm nothing if not optimistic, y'all.

The one where we forbid boyfriends

Its been about a year and a half now that Jesse has been going to Nursery School, while the parentals are hard at work.  Needless to say, this has instigated many an interesting conversation, as Jesse watches the other children at school, then brings her endless quest for knowledge home.

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Something else that she brought home with her was a sudden interest in little boys.  Which was never more pointedly obvious than one day not too long ago, when I arrived at her school to collect her.  

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A little boy with pouty lips & a missing tooth came running up to Jesse-Lee and myself, then promptly informed me that Jesse-Lee is his girlfriend. I stuttered out an "oh really???" just before he put his arms around her, puckered up & planted a big pouty kiss on her lips! 

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Then, with his arms still rather comfortably draped about her shoulders, he stood there beaming at her with his toothless grin & big soppy eyes.

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At this point I might or might not have been gasping desperately for oxygen and clutching at my chest while seeing stars and imagining the ground opening up and sucking him in.

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After I had extricated his tentacles from around my girlchild's shoulders, I made for the exit sign with the dust beating at our heels.

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Once in the car, I said to Jesse: "Girly, WHO is that boy???"

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Her reply:  "That is Thomas.  He's my boyfriend!"

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Lots of near-fainting on my part.

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Later, when the dear hubsband arrived home, I tell Robin the "boyfriend" at school story. 

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Lots of laughing ensues. 

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Later, he casually says to Jesse, "Jesse, you mustn't kiss the boys at school." 

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Jesse: "No, Daddy, I really like it!" (At this point, lots of dizziness and hot flushes)

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Robin: "You are not allowed to kiss boys until you're 35 yrs old!"

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Jesse:  "No, Daddy, I can kiss boys."

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Robin: "Don't, girlie. Boys have germs!"

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Jesse: "Ew! I'm never ever kissing boys ever again!"

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Scare tactics. They work. Hehe!

She speaks Jesse-Leeze

Me:  "Jesse, what do you want to become when you grow up one day?"
Jesse:  "A princess."
(I didn't have the nerve to tell her that Kate had already stolen that spot.  And Harry isn't tying the knot any time soon)
Me:  "And after you become a princess?"  
Jesse:  "A sunflower."
Alrighty then.

I just LOVE this!

On the 23rd of March 2009 at precisely 08h00 a.m., travellers at the Antwerp Train Station in Belgium got more than they bargained for when 200 fellow passengers broke out in song and dance right there beside them! The surprise spectacle created by this group of people brought smiles to even the most hardened people and some even joined in and danced a littlel jig. I just LOVE this clip from Youtube. Hope you enjoy it too!

Always inspect the colour and texture of your stool

Determined Discoverer

Well, hello!  What do we have here?  I've never seen one of these before!  Look, there's something I can prod over here!  I like prodding...  poke poke... prod prod...

Mmmm... I wonder what else this can do?  Is it a telescope? Mmmm...

Maybe not.  If my powers of perception are working today, I think I might have found out what this thing's job is...

A nifty nostril sucker!!!  YES!...

Or maybe not... Mmmm...  Think!  What else could it be?

Mmmm...

Thinking thinking...

Thinking thinking...

AHA!

  Now, why didn't I think of that?

Of Bibs and Bow-wows

...and before I get millions of comments saying how terrible I am to compare my little girl to a little dog, allow me to crrect you: I'm comparing their bibs! hehe!

Porcu-pology

I have to apologize. Apparently I was grossly mistaken. Or, more accurately, the "ignorant idiotic farmer" was mistaken. haha! I got an sms (I think some of you call that text message) from one of my best friends (Joey) last night, who is an AVID animal lover. And I MEAN animal lover. As in - she practically has a second home on the Kruger National Park's front doorstep and spends as much time as possible driving around the park looking for animals. And when she can't be there, she's watching dvd's at home about things like... oh, I don't know... ants. And elephants. And anything else that might possibly be alive somewhere in a game farm somewhere. In other words, she knows her stuff.

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So the sms reads as follows:-

Just read your blog. So glad that you are ok after the scare with the porcupine BUT HORRIFIED to hear you say that porcupines are a pest!! There is critical concern over porcupine numbers! That is why caracals and wilddogs are endangered - because of ignorant idiotic farmers.

Now, in order to understand why this sms was totally hilarious to me, you have to know that Joey and I have a LONGstanding joke about what a bunny hugger she is compared to me. She thinks spending a year in the bush with nothing but binoculars would be heaven on earth. And me? Pure torture. Seriously. I love animals. I really do. From a distance. Unless it's a cat. Then I love it up close too. But please don't leave me in the bush somewhere to do birdwatching. Or driving up and down looking for tortoises. Or elephants. And can somebody please explain to me how something THAT enormous can hide away so easily?

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So anyway, I just had to let you know that you better not dash off into the bush on a porcupine safari anytime soon. There are not hundreds of them lurking behind every blade of grass anymore.

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Sad but true.

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And now I will refrain from talking about That Spiky Thing again.

Because it's still a bit of a prickly subject. c",)

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Oh and about the zebras. Yes, we see zebra pretty much every day here. But only because our neighbour has a herd of them on his farm. They don't roam around the countryside. Unfortunately. But we've become so used to seeing them that we hardly bat an eyelash in their direction. Robin calls them donkeys in pyjamas!

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One last word about That Spiky Thing... This is his cousin, the humble hedgehog:-

(One of my favourite ads on our tee vee here in South Africa.)

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Funny bunny

Hooray, my blogger's up and running again! I missed you guys! c",) I was having nightmares of my entire blog being corrupted and never finding all of you again. Hooray, tis not so.
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Had to share a funny story with you. My parents surprised Robin and I with a visit this past weekend, and they brought My Nephew Who I Love To Bits with them. He's a hoot. Four years old, going on twenty-seven, and absolutely LOVES being on the farm with us.

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Anyhoo, yesterday morning I took my mom and Ethan into town so I could buy my mom her birthday present (it's her birthday on Thursday, for those of you who know her). The road into town is quite bumpy, but there's one patch that is particularly fierce. Ethan was standing on the back seat of the 4x4, looking out the rear window (I don't have a car seat for kiddies nor a seatbelt that doesn't choke him to near-death, unfortunately, so we spend most of the journey saying, "Ethan - please sit down, boy!" and then threatening him with all manner of terrible torture. His worst one (and therefore our most effective threat) is not being allowed to play with the other kids on the farm when we get home. As we were nearing this very bad patch of road I said-for-the-thousandth-time "Ethan, sit down, boy!" But by the time he reacted he were on top of the rumbles and potholes and all of us practically had the lice shaken off of us. I said to Ethan, "Careful, Ethan - it's very bumpy here." To which he replied "I know, my bum wants to fall off!"

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Your bum and my boobs both!

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Oh did we laugh.

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And then, we were in town, in a shop called Clicks (a haberdashery store that sells almost anything, from kettles to nail varnish), which just happens to be one of my fave stores. My mom, Ethan and I were arbing up and down the aisles when Ethan spotted an indian family, all clothed in their traditional hijabs. I should have known he would say something out of place when he sidled up to the lady and peered up at her. Speaking loudly enough that everyone in aisles 3 to 18 could hear, he said "Granny, why is this lady dressed so funny? She looks just like a crook!"

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Needless to say, this aunty disappeared faster than The Road Runner.

Toe Jam

My dad has been the butt of a longstanding joke in our family. He is a very big man, you see. Very tall and very solid. And an avid fisherman. Quite a good one too - and that's not a fisherman's tale either. He also grew up as a farmer, or a boer, as we South Africans call the very traditional old white farmers. So, that makes him a very traditional, big, white boer who likes to tell stories.

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Anyhoo. The story goes that many years ago, my dad was fishing on the coast, standing almost waist deep in the waves. There he was, just minding his own business, when an enormous breaker attacked my dad and sent him sprawling. He surfaced after a good struggle against the tide, not much the worse for wear. Except for a damaged ego. And a "cracked" ankle.

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Off he rushes to the doc. The doc takes a look at his ankle, which has since swollen to the size of a small tree trunk. My dad shares the story with the doc (with a few fisherman's embellishments) and the doc comes to the not-too-popular conclusion that my dad isn't suffering from a cracked ankle, as much as from A Little Too Much Overindulging. We'll call it Gout. For short. Needless to say, my dad wasn't too impressed with doc's diagnosis, and promptly insisted that his foot was indeed broken and forced the doc to take x-rays. Which, much to my father's dismay, showed a perfectly shaped bone. No crack. Just gout. Never one to be deterred by technology, my father continued to insist that his foot was broken. Severely. Probably shattered to miniscule pieces that would never heal. Very persistant would probably be an understatement. The poor doc eventually acquiesced and put a plaster-of-paris cast on my dad's foot and sent him packing with a pain shot, a couple of voltaren bum-bullets, and a set of crutches. My dad left the office a very satisfied patient.

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Only to have the cast get so loose in the ensuing days that he took a saw to the cast and removed it himself when the "gout" swelling went down.

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Of course, we have never let him forget the episode. Often asking him about his "cracked ankle" and if he still gets any twinges. And the biggest mouth in ragging my dad has been my dear hubby, who thinks it's hilarious that my dad convinced the doc to put a cast on his not-broken foot.

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Fast forward to December 2007.

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Robin is playing soccer with the kids at the camp. Kicks his big toe against a fellow player and spends the rest of December and much of January limping around the farm. Is convinced he cracked his big toe. Finally gets better. Swelling goes down. And life at the Hillbilly Dump returns to normal.

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Until yesterday. Robin plays soccer again. Barefoot. Kicks big toe. Spends remainder of day feeling very sorry for himself. With wife pandering to him hand and, er, foot. Spends much of day sleeping on bed. In the foetal position. Is convinced he has cracked toe again. Words like "cracked" and "Old Sports Injury" and "definitely broken" get pandered about quite a lot. Wife whispers soothing words like "Aw, poor dear" and "Can I pass you the remote?" which, as we all know has Magical Powers.

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Poor Hubby eventually decides to take himself to the doctor this morning for a check on his toe. Is convinced he will come home with cast on foot, on crutches and hauling a dealer's stash of happy pills.

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Imagine his chagrin when he had to arrive back at work minus the cast, crutches and crack. Turns out the doc's diagnosis is officially Gout. With a subtitle of "perhaps old sports injury." Hubby is still sheepish. And my dad and I are still laughing. Loudly.

Blog Idol

You are all going to have to start asking for my autograph soon, people. Especially if you are of the Australian persuasion. Now, I know my blog has spurred me on to an almost-overnight-sensation status type of infamous notoriety and all (snigger snigger snort snort) , but this event even defied my bloggy logic, y'all. Because on Thursday morning I was merrily making myself a cuppa in the kitchen here at work when my cellphone rang. The screen displayed a cryptic "Caller Unknown" message. So I gave the cursory, "Hello, Char speaking"-type answer. To which I heard the magic words:-

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"Hallo, is that Chaaa?" (Think heavy Ozz accent)

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"Yes, this is me!"

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Would you know it - it was Campo from Brisbane's best radio station: 97.3FM and he wanted to chat to ME! I know! Talk about booty-shaking excitement! He phoned me because I'd emailed him after you all recommended your fave radio stations, asking him to play a song or two for my cousin and his wife, who live in Brisbane. How awesome is that? He phoned me! All the way from Brisbane! And he chatted to me for about five minutes, asking how I'd heard about his radio station, and I could answer "why, from my blog, kind sir!" Not really that formal, but you know what I mean. And so he asked about South Africa, and when I'd be coming to Australia for a visit, and if I would be a guest on his show and would I please marry him... just kidding.

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I know.

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Instant Fame can be a very heady experience.

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So, a very special G'Day to all of my Ozzie readers out there. Krikey! I love you, mate(s). And I owe all of my instant fame to you. [Insert Queen Elizabeth-type vague wave here]

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Oh, and if you happened to hear a very squeaky weird-accented person babbling on the radio on Thursday afternoon Ozzie time, um, yes, that was probably me.

Funny Friday

This post is 100% totally plagiarised from Especially Heather. I had SUCH a good laugh at it, I just had to steal it from her blog and share it with you. Happy Friday everyone.

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After every flight, UPS pilots fill out a form, called a “gripe sheet,” which tells mechanics about problems with the aircraft. The mechanics correct the problems; document their repairs on the form, and then pilots review the gripe sheets before the next flight.

Never let it be said that ground crews lack a sense of humor. Here are some actual maintenance complaints submitted by UPS ‘ pilots (marked with a P) and the solutions recorded (marked with an S) by maintenance engineers. By the way, UPS is the only major airline that has never, ever, had an accident.

P: Left inside main tire almost needs replacement.

S: Almost replaced left inside main tire.

P: Test flight OK, except auto-land very rough.

S: Auto-land not installed on this aircraft.

P: Something loose in cockpit

S: Something tightened in cockpit

P: Dead bugs on windshield.

S: Live bugs on back-order.

P: Autopilot in altitude-hold mode produces a 200 feet per minute descent

S: Cannot reproduce problem on ground.

P: Evidence of leak on right main landing gear.

S: Evidence removed.

P: DME volume unbelievably loud.

S: DME volume set to more believable level.

P: Friction locks cause throttle levers to stick.

S: That’s what friction locks are for.

P: IFF inoperative in OFF mode.

S: IFF always inoperative in OFF mode.

P: Suspected crack in windshield.

S: Suspect you’re right

P: Number 3 engine missing.

S: Engine found on right wing after brief search.

P: Aircraft handles funny.

S: Aircraft warned to: straighten up, fly right, and be serious.

P: Target radar hums.

S: Reprogrammed target radar with lyrics.

P: Mouse in cockpit.

S: Cat installed.

P: Noise coming from under instrument panel. Sounds like a midget pounding on something with a hammer.

S: Took hammer away from midget.

Eager Birthday Beaver

I am renown notorious for forgetting my friends' birthdays. Especially my BEST friends, for some strange reason. In fact, I have such a reputation for it that my friends are actually SURPRISED when I wish them happy birthday ON the day. And not, say, three weeks later when they mention what great gifts they received. I know I am bad at remembering birthdays, so I've taken appropriate measures to ensure I remember. I set a reminder on my computer. And on my cellphone. And I am registered on BlueMountain's registry-thingy-ma-jiggy so they email me a week in advance and send me ecards to forward on to my soon-to-be-a-year-older tjommie. Which I always forget to send. I am so bad. Luckily for me, I am totally lovable and irresistable, so my friends can't stay cross with me for too long. Fortunate trait that. c",) Usually they've forgiven me in time for my own birthday. Thank goodness!

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So anyway, one of my New Year's resolutions this year was to make sure I remembered my friends' birthdays. I'm not really a New-Years-Resolutions kinda gal, seeing as I've had the worst luck with a few of my resolutions; like these:-

• Will lose weight - at least 24 kg's (2002, 2003, 2004, etc.)
• Will drink less coffee (1942 to date)
• Will have baby (2002 to date)
• Will write a book (1993 to date)
• Will find old school friends who I've lost contact with (thanks to Facebook I can tick this one off the list for next year!)
• Will achieve worldwide fame
• Will be more patient with self
• (And hubby)
• Will befriend the neighbours (Our neighbours don't speak English. We don't speak Zulu. Might provice difficult, this one.)
• Will not smoke (I added this one because I have to succeed at at least one, and I've never smoked, so that's an easy peasy one to do!)

So, anyway, back to the birthday saga. There's one person who's birthday I NEVER forget. Maybe because he was my first love and all of that. But we are still tjommies*, and have *marginal* contact with eachother, so as not to ruffle anyone's feathers. Because people can't seem to understand that you can still be friends with someone (a few years) after you've broken up. But I digress.

Where was I? Oh birthday thingies. So, yesterday, Feeling-So-Good-About-Remembering-The-Birthday Char sends text message to MFL (my first love):-

Happy birthday you old fossil! Hope u're gonna chow some chocolate cake today. Pity u're not here with us on the plaas** going quading... Luv us 2 xxx

Get text message back from MFL within seconds:-

Howzit. Thx for the message. The big day is TOMORROW. The plaas jollers*** are still using the 1983 calendar! Some people... Jokes. Love to everyone. Take care. Thx again.

Char:-

Haha! What? Isn't today the first? Are you sure??? Haha! And I was just sending you a sticky note on facebook too.

(Facebook = new Best Friend Forever!)

MFL replies:-

You droll****! Jokes. Haha. Life is, ja, slow that side...

Clearly. c",) BUT, score major extra points for being Overeager Beaver and sending birthday greetings ONE WHOLE DAY in advance, for sure. Much better than forgetting, not so? Now, if only I can remember where I put my coffee mug...

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Glossary of South African slang:-

* Tjommies (pronounced "chaw-mees") = friends

** Plaas (pronounced like "cars" but with a "pl" instead of the "c") = farm

*** Jollers (pronounced "jaw-liz") = people having fun

**** Droll (pronounced "drawl", but with a short "aw" sound) = a term of endearment for poo

Funny bunny cat

This was too funny not to share.

The "But" in Buttercup

Seems we now have a corgi Corky with special needs. Remember Corky Thatcher from "Life Goes On"? Um, yes. Our Buttercup has been diagnosed with all manner of mental illness, including o.c.d. (that's obsessive compulsive disorder, for those of you not in the know), a nervous tic (something like tirett's syndrome), deformity of the facial structure, loopiness, silliness and totally obsessive (compulsive) devotion to her father, Robin. This devotion does not extend to me. No sirreee. She only has "eyes" for Robin. I reckon it's because his feet are strong-smelling. So it appeals to Buttercup's senses. She likes cheese. snigger snigger! But seriously, our vet gave her a good once-over yesterday - we took her to be "fixed" - but it turns out she's a bit broken beyond repair. And I mean that in a one or forty-two sandwiches short of a picnic sort of way. We thought we'd surprise the vet with just how cute she is and wonder when he'd notice that she's blind, because she copes so well. Little did we know he'd take one peek at her and go - "oh, I see your little pooch is quite special!" Which just goes to show that indeed you do have to be cleverer to be a veterinarian than to be a doctor. I blame this whole special needs situation on Robin though, because he promised Nolene (his sister) many years ago, that we'd send our kids to whatever school she teaches at. And now she happens to be teaching at a school in Durban for children with special needs. Like autism, etc. So, there you go then. Never make promises you can't keep. As for me and my groovy hubby, and faulty dawg, we will praise the Lord regardless!

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P.S. Vet says we should only have her "fixed" in a few months, and has given her an injection to make sure she doesn't "come of age" in the next three months. He wants to make doubly sure that her kidneys are ok before he proceeds with surgery. So, guess what Robin did first thing this morning? Hahahaha! He had to catch her wee in a sterile bottle to take in for testing! Hahaha! That's what he gets for being the favourite. Hahaha!

Sum Ting Fun Nee

Remember this post? Well, my friend Tony just sent me a link to SUCH a FUNNY site. Go and see. Really! You won't be sorry. Too funny. Talk about Lost in Translation!

Out of the mouths of the babes

Who needs tv when my nephew, lil Ethan, is around! He is the best comic relief available. Just the other day at church we had a lay preacher lead the service. In addition to the children's classes before the main service, there's a special time set aside in the service for a children's story. Of course, the kids love it! Ethan included. So, this particular instance, the lay preacher (let's call him John, for lack of a name) told the children's story. Unfortunately, John, although a really great preacher, aint so hot telling stories to kids. One might say he's a tad high-folluted. After about four or five minutes of yawning story-telling, he gave the kids an opportunity to answer a question. And this is where he found himself completely out of his depth. No problem for Ethan. Three-and-a-half year old Ethan grabs the microphone and says very clearly "You're wasting our time now!" It took about two seconds for that statement to finish echoing around the speechless assembly. Thereafter the entire congregation broke into rupturous guffaws. Needless to say, the children's story came to an abrupt end, with the old folk struggling to keep their false teeth from clattering to the floor through their chortling. Poor old John. I'll bet he won't be telling a children's story again in the near future.

"But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 19 v 14 KJV

If church is this much fun here, imagine Heaven one day! I can't wait.