Cancer Schmancer and the Travelling Hillbillies

We were in Durban this past weekend, visiting Robin's folks. We were fortunate, in that Robin was invited to preach down in Margate (Uvongo) on the KwaZulu Natal South Coast, about five hours drive from Dunhillbillydee and the church paid our fuel to get there and back home... so we made a weekend of it and visited Robin's family in Durban.

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As always, the trip was sheer torture challenging for Jesse, who finds the longs rides sooooo very boring that she becomes a monster slightly annoying about an hour into the trip. Think scratching fingernails on a chalkboard. Or digging on concrete. Now multiply irritation-factor by roughly fifty two, and you might be somewhere in the region of understanding how easy it is travelling with this particular sugar booger.

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Not that I'm complaining or anything. No sirree.

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I'd rather travel around the world with her screeching into my ear the entire way AND STILL HAVE HER, than be a regular globe-trotter WITHOUT HER. (Good enough disclaimer?)
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Okie dokie then.

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Needless to say, we think long and hard before accepting any invitation that might involve an extended sit in her car chair. But when it comes to time with my inlaws, we don't miss a beat in accepting invitations. LOVE LOVE LOVE visiting my inlaws. They are so cool! We love doing all the same things. And Jesse just adores them.

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Speaking of which - my mom-in-law is battling cancer at the moment. The last time I mentioned it, she hadn't yet shared the information with anyone beyond her nearest and dearest, so I couldn't tell you WHO it was... Now, it's no longer a "secret" I can share with you that she has had her first round of chemo and is a total champion! She is one of the bravest people I know. She faced the chemo with her usual gutsy gumption and though we felt nauseous for a few days afterwards, she still went ahead and unpacked the numerous boxes from their move (YES - in the middle of it all, they moved houses, after being in their previous home for 35 plus years!!! - how brave is that? answer: VERY FRIGGIN brave!) AND kept the smile on her face and the skip in her step. I am so proud of her. On Friday she drove herself to the hairdresser and had her head shaved, preceding that awful time when her hair would fall out. She now sports an oh-so-hello sexy wig and she looks GORGEOUS! We are all twisting her arm to keep the style when her hair grows back. She looks HOT! (I will only share pics if she gives permission. I haven't asked, but everything is still very new and though I don't mind sharing absolutely EVERYTHING about my life with y'all, I know others are slightly more private than I am.)

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When we arrived at their home on Friday Jesse went running up to her. My mom-in-law picked her up and Jesse gave her a puzzled look as if to say - you look different, Oumie! And then she pointed at my mom-in-law's snazzy new metallic pink spectacles and smiled! Haha! She didn't even notice the new hairdo, just the new specs.

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Today we're back home on the farm, and enjoying the awesome February weather. It's warm with a slight breeze. Gorgeous! Jesse's napping right now, but when she awakes we'll be running around in the garden together again. Such a tough life. Haha! Have a great week, lurkers. I'm sure we will also.

Too much cancer!

A few members of my family have had cancer. Aunts, uncles, and other. Some have won their ongoing battle against it, others didn't. And then, there is someone very dear to us who just recently found out that she has cancer. And the type of cancer that you really don't want to have to get, ever. The kind that grows very fast and is just looking for trouble.
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I would tell you who it is, except, she hasn't really told people in general about it, and I don't want to be the one blabbing. For a change. So, until she makes it common knowledge, I won't be.
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The doctors have told her (after she just had surgery last week to remove the malignant tumor) that she will need to have chemo as well as radium threatments. And this particular chemo coctail will definitely cause her to lose all her hair. She will need treatment for a few months. But, what's really really bothering me, is that we can't find a decent wig for her, in anticipation of the hair loss. Right now she has lots of full, grey curls and soon they will be gone. I hate to think that she will be shy to walk around balding! I'm certain it will bother her, even though she's not talking about it. As if fighting cancer isn't enough - you still have to go and lose all of your hair!
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But surely, with all of the people battling cancer out there, there must be some good wigs to be had? There is a shop somewhere here in Durban that apparently makes good wigs - it's our last stop locally, before we start looking overseas for a good hairdo. Sometimes, living in Africa can be rather challenging.
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What do the "Locks for Love" Foundation do with all of the hair that gets donated annually? Does anyone know where I can find out? I tried the Cansa Foundation, but apparently their wigs are a bit worse for wear...
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*Sigh* This search for some good hair is becoming a really big challenge!

Viruses of the cyber and poop sort

Well! What a week we've had. Our computer caught a virus!!!!! *Sob!* I'm blogging from a friend's house quickly. Our computer is currently in quarantine and being detoxed. Very very sad. And as if that was not enough trauma, then there's the incessant banging and welding and scraping and drilling going on at home (what with half our house being roofless right now)... And then it's also been the screeching of our pudding booger who's been simultaneously teething (4 teeth at once!!!) and caught a crazy bug that turned anything that was put into her mouth into projectiles a short while later. No sooner had Jess stop vomiting (after one whole day of constant outfit changing and cleaning and wiping and soothing...) than she started with the "spuitpoep"... (That's jippo guts for those of you who don't understand South African). Needless to say we have a few extra loads of laundry to do this week. And a few photos that need loading for you all to see. And a few extra hours of sleep to catch up on as soon as possible. How you guys co-sleep with your children is BEYOND me!!! Seriously - we had Jess in our bed with us for 3 nights and it was 3 nights too many, if you ask me. Oh well. Thank Heavens, that's over now. Now it's just the runny tummy to get done with.

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Teething. It's not for sissies.

Regress...

We had Jess back at the doc's today... The poor tadpole has a perforated eardrum (buildup of fluid - snot n other gunk - in her tubes burst the eardrum), tonsillitus and pneumonia. So, the torture continues. Please think of this hillbilly family in your prayers, guys. We're all seriously down in the dumps. But especially our smallest sicko. Poor bunny.

Update on the Dead and Dying

The fact that I'm writing you a post right now should reassure you that I am not, as previously suspected, dead or dying. Although there were a few moments in the last few days when I would have happily walked towards the light.

Our house has been a petri-dish of germs, y'all. The entire Hillbilly Household succumbed to this ghastly virus. Or bacteria. Or whatever it was. Because, lemme tell you something... Hillbilly Wisdom this... When one of The Parents gets sick (and by The Parents, I actually mean The Mother, i.e. ME!), seek held fast! Because you can bet your bottom that within days, the entire household falls apart. Snotty tissues litter every available surface area. Dirty dishes become fertile breeding ground for the infestation of all manner of instects.

Not fun.

And I am stiiiilllll waiting for our internet installation. So right now I'm sitting in an internet café in Dunhillbillydee. Except this internet café has no coffee. Café schmafé. So, this will probably be a short post. Because right now, all that's keeping my eyelids upright is a leftover caffeine kick from an hour or so ago. Which is fast being depleted.

So this is just a quick checkin. Thanks for all the sooper-dooper advice guys. Pity I never had internet to see your comments until just now, because it's been a week of orange and purple splatter...

Anyhoo. Let me not complain. Just saying yowdy and sending smooches until next time.
I miss you already.

Of Meddars, Madmoms and Bum Bullets

I have a sick child. And his name is Robin. Haha. I crack myself up. (It's all downhill from here. Don't say I didn't warn you.) Actually I have TWO sick children. Robin AND Jess. It's not funny, this sick business. Which would probably mean that I'm a sicko for thinking it's funny. Oh boy, here I go again. Then again, if you can't laugh through life's problems, what can you do, right?

Where was I?

Oh yes. Sick kids. My poor little girl is battling a really nasty flu bug. And keeping me awake half the night. I took her to the doc, who prescribed a list of meds long enough to see us through from now to her university years. Unfortunately, none of said meds are sleeping pills. Because she's still keeping me awake half the night. You'd think I'd be used to it after four months of next-to-no sleep. You'd think wrong. Acquiring "Zombi" as my middle name wouldn't be an inappropriate addition.

So we have a truckload of drugs for the girlchild. Another truckload for Mr Hillbilly. And a few half-bottles for moi. I don't mind leftovers.

The meds are one thing. Administering them is another thing entirely.

Cue the "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" soundtrack.

I swear, this child of mine has a Meddar (meds radar) tucked away behind those innocent looking eyes of hers. Innocent schminnocent. Within seconds of the meds making an appearance within her range of vision, she morphs into The Incredible Hulk. With jaws of steel. And that's not all! It also comes with a nifty extra included: a screech that would put Sarah Brightman to shame.

What I don't understand is - why would they make paediatric medicine flavoured with things like grape, or orange? Don't these guys realize that a four-month-old doesn't know those flavours? No sooner have you prised her clenched jaws open, shoved the syringe into her mouth and gingerly worked the back of the syringe down so that it doesn't squirt the contents of the syring blasting down her throat, than she spits aaaallllll of it out. Every time. Then rewards you with an enormous smile immediately afterwards. While you wipe the sticky orange and purple goo from your spectacles and hair and struggle to keep your sanity intact.

Fun fun fun!

Why don't they rather make the meds into bum bullets? Suppositories totally rock. No prising open her jaws. No grape-flavoured slime in your hair. It'd be FABULOUS!

Perhaps I should reconsider my ambitions of being a stay-home-mom and hillbilly couch potato, and rather opt for a career in award-winning super-clever pharmaceutical technologist thingy-ma-jiggyness. I wonder if they'd take me serious in my now orange and purple splattered outfits?

Hypo-spotty

Ugghhh... It would seem that I'm just as big a hypochondriac as my dad and Robin. And that means that I will no longer be able to laugh mercilessly at their "old sports injuries" and "broken toes". Dang! I did so enjoy making fun of them. But now, alas, that will have to be a thing of the past.

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See, the other night, while I was painting butterflies and bumble bees, I suddenly got the itches. All over my body. The back of my legs, my arms, my stomach, even the tops of my feet were itching. When I investigated what was itching, I found little white blisters adorning my previously-creamy-white-skin. My immediate reaction was "Oh no! It's CHICKEN POX!" then a smile began brewing at the corners of my mouth as I imagined TWO WHOLE WEEKS of peace and quiet at home, preparing for our babies, getting the final thingies finished... So, with a spring in my step and an appropriately demure expression of imagined illness on my face, I waltzed into the doctor's rooms this morning loudly proclaiming the fact that I was, in fact, UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN! and oh so very contagious. In fact, I had to restrain myself from tying a handkerchief over my mouth and nose, so as to avoid spreading the voracious chicken pox germs to everyone I breathed upon. Imagine my disgust when my doctor took one look at my spots (which were REALLY THERE, by the way!) and said, "Oy, what are you stressing about, sweet lass?" and I replied disdainfully that I was "stressed about, like, um, having chickenpox!" As if it wasn't very obvious! Well, you could have blown me over with the fart of a feather when he said, "No, I'm sorry to burst your (chickenpox) bubble, but those aren't chickenpox spots... those are STRESS spots! You need to just relax!"

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Where have I heard that before???

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Dang. So, I've been prescribed a bunch of friggin expensive meds, sent back to work (no restful 2 week stint for me! sob!) and been duly instructed to just relax. As if that ever worked for me before.

Sicko hubby

Turns out the poor dear hubby actually has tick bite fever. As in headachey, shivery, shakey, dilerious, sweaty, feverish, sick sick sick man. Who even looks cute when he's a sicko.
My poor man.
I wonder if this means I can hog the remote? Just kidding.
He probably won't even feel like watching teevee.
Yes!!! America's Got Talent, here I come.

working working *updated*

I was so looking forward to blogging. But I am sooooo busy at work today. I have to finish four pamphlets before this afternoon, advertising camps we have in June, as well as our conference facilities etc. And what with my pc being away for some tweaking, I was unable to work on them for a few days. Now my deadline is looming! yikes!

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busy + coffeeless + dragon pills = grrrr

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Anyway, I thought I'd show you the poster / pamphlets I'm working on. So, you see, I actually do work around here! Sometimes.

This is the cover:-

And the inside of the pamphlet:-

(You should be able to see it bigger if you click on it)

And in other news, my poor hubby is sick. And as you know, when men are sick, they evolve into babies. Please spare a thought or two for him.

Sick + wife on dragon pills + nobody else to commisserate = poor, sick, v unhappy hubby.

Cassidy today

My kitty lives. And breathes. And moves. And purrs again. I am soooo grateful! Really. Our vet rocks. As does God, by the way. I am CERTAIN that if you guys hadn't been praying for my little Cassidy, we'd have had to plant her yesterday. But instead, she's walking again and purring. And eating by herself!!! Which is really the best part of all. Did you know that even an emaciated cat on the brink of death can tear the very skin off of your handsarmslegschestface when she's desperate not to get any, as in ANY, medicine or food into her mouth? You best believe it, folks. You'd be surprised at the depth of the reserves they have to draw from when a syringe is in the vicinity of their oral cavity. My oh my.

Little Cassy, I'm so glad you're getting better. Mommy loves you! (hehe! Just a wee bit of pouring-my-pent-up-love-for-my-unborn-children-onto-my-pets showing through there. Not quite qualifying for The Crazy Cat Lady yet, but getting close huh? Sigh!)

As for this sicko, I got the blood test results back today. All's well that ends well. I'm on the mend! Woot woot! You know how sometimes when things are hectic at work and you're itching for some downtime you sometimes wish to be booked off with a minor ailment? Well, I was like that. And for the record, I am SO OVER wishing I could be booked off with a minor ailment! Lesson learned. Be careful what you wish for.

A day at the docs

When I arrived at the doctor's offices today on his strict doctors orders to return for a check-up, I was fully expecting him to give me the "all clear" thumbs up and tell me I am as fit as a fat fiddle and to return to work. Even though I still feel as rotten as a cracked egg. Which would be a bit of a weird coincidence considering the state of my reproductive um, thingies. But when I walked into the consulting room feeling very much like a droopy daffodil he took one look at me and said, "Woah there, girly" (girly! see why he's my new fave person on planet Earth?!?) "you're looking decidedly worse for wear!" Rat-tap-tap on shin bones, some stethoscope probing, examining my armslegsbackneckandchest for insect bites, breathe-in-deeply's and a gazillion questions later, he stood back, cocked his head and said gravely, "Char, I think we need to do some blood tests and send you for chest x-rays." DING DING DING! (That's the warning bells ringing in my head, by the way... just in case you were wondering.) I would be lying if the first thing that ran through my head wasn't 'Woot woot! Maybe a few extra days off from work!' But alas, yes, I am that lazy sick. Doctor found a few funny blotches on lungs, which he eventually came to the very disappointing conclusion were "only a discomforting case of Bronchitus" ! I mean, have you ever had a more boring diagnosis? And there I was feeling so rotten with the flu... at least he could have said it was something extravagantly exotic... like, say, oxymonocanthus-longirostrus (which, by the way, is actually the scientific name for a marine fish. I know. I'm weird like that...) or even something slightly more dangerous, like, um, pneumonia. Not that I would wish pneumonia on myself or anything. It just sounded so dreadfully disappointing - every second person gets diagnosed with bronchitus. And like I was making up feeling so sick all the time. Let's hope the blood tests show up something more exciting-sounding. But only if there is something to show up, of course. Nothing deadly or anything weird like that. Just something that would warrant me having stayed home for so long already. Otherwise, I could just as well change my name to Hypo. Surname: Chondriac. The other possibility would be that I am actually pregnant. Which, of course, we all know is totally preposterous. I told the doctor so too. He kept saying "are you SURE you're not pregnant?" and I kept saying, "yes sirreeee..." until he said, "Well, how can you be so sure?" Short medical history later, he also assumed the 'Well, I Guess We Can Rule Out Pregnancy Too Then' look. Me thinks changing my name to Mrs H. Chondriac is more realistic. And definitely nicer sounding than Mrs Desperately Wishing For A Baby!

She came bearing gifts

Looking back, I don’t know when I stopped believing it. But when my friend popped over yesterday to bring me some “get well soon” gifts and offer me some encouragement I was astounded by how much I really drank in her words and the love that motivated them. She said to me, “Char, yesterday morning God impressed on me that I should come to visit you and tell you that He loves you” and I felt my heart pounding in my ears. Literally, that coldness swept over me from head to toe, followed immediately afterwards by that searing heat that radiates from deep down and finally makes it’s way to your face, like a deeply embarrassing “caught with your hand in the cookie jar” feeling. Like somehow, she could see right to the very heart of me. Her eyes searched my face and I felt laid bare. Like she knew, somehow. She knew that I no longer believed it. And she followed God’s prompting to come and tell me – ME! – that He loves ME and wants me to know it. There was an awkward silence. She was silent. I was silent. But she kept her eyes focused on me. Smiling eyes. But still, those eyes. On me. I hated knowing she knew. I hated the feeling that she was certain I needed to hear this. And that she wasn’t going to leave or leave me alone until I knew it again. Until I was as certain about it as she was. That God really loves me. I wished she would go away and leave me alone. But an overriding compulsion to keep her there with me, to make her say it again, kept my mouth zipped. I watched her and she watched me back. Still, that silence. Then she said it again. She said, “Char, God sent me to tell you this. He loves you. And He lets things happen. He ordains it. He knows what’s happening. And He is still your Father.” He knows this is happening? He knows I’m walking away from Him. Quietly. Unobtrusively, slipping away. Unnoticed? Clearly not! He knows I don’t know how to talk to Him anymore. He knows I don’t feel His love. Or that He evens sees me anymore. He knows I feel overlooked and punished. Abandoned by Him. He knows! “He is still your Father, and He cares more than you can comprehend it.”

My friend could never have understood just how much I needed to hear those words. She came bearing gifts. Beautifully wrapped with organza ribbon and decorated in my favourite autumn colours. But the biggest gift she left with me was the assurance of this God whom I don’t understand. A God who loves even me and wants me to know it. A God who came, bearing gifts. The gift of salvation. Of an eternity with Him. And mostly, the gift of His love. Undeserved. Unwarranted. Misunderstood. But still. Love. For even me.

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P.S. I've been booked off until Friday. This flu has me in it's clutches!

Kitties & Sickies

I am sick at home with the flu. Again. I've been out of action since Saturday morning. I finally set aside my disdain for all of the medical fraternity on Monday morning (only at my boss's threats to drag me to the doc, if it meant he had to toss me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry me there kicking and screaming, which would have been mighty fun to watch since the advent of my weigtier middle, et cetera insistance) and went to get some meds. And a jobba* on the toeshie too. My boss's son's friend (only a little guy about pre-teen aged) just died from this flu on the weekend. Another middle-aged man in town (named Frenchie) also died on the weekend, also from this flu, so my boss aint taking any chances. Now, who's to say that taking one on the butt is so bad? I (almost) didn't even feel that one. Lucky for the nurse whom I'd accused just seconds before that I'd heard about her penchant for using butts as dartboards me. As you all know, I just luuuuurve getting needles stuck into me. Anyway, I must say though, that having this flu bug has given me lots of bonding time with my kitties. They love me. I just know it. They come running whenever I call them, they purr on me and smother me with loves and licks and adoring stares. Here's a pic of sicko me, holed up under my fave blankie in bed, chatting to my sister on my cell, book balanced in my lap and my kitties loving on me. All that was missing was a cappuccino. Otherwise? Pure bliss, baby. Sicko and all.

Above: Cassy on my shoulder and Jazzy on my book

Above: Little Jazzy

Above: Little Cassidy

Little Sleeping Beauty! (Jazzy)

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*jobba = South African for injection, pronounced like "jaw" + "bu"

Mopy Dopy

I'm at home today. Think I might have foot and mouth disease*. Seriously. On Saturday morning I awoke with my mouth feeling weird. Besides the normal dragon-breath, I mean. Almost as if I'd been eating pineapples all night. Like sore and, well, weird. I thought to myself, 'man, I really need to go slow on the sweets today!' and left it at that. By yesterday my mouth was one big blister. Inside, I mean. My cheeks, tongue, gums... ugghhh... and I am feeling o-so-sorry for myself. Boo hooo! What freaks me out a bit is that I have had something odd happening to my bod almost every week since we've been here! I mean, how many more weird "sick"nesses can I feel? From spray-painting the loo, to upchunking into buckets, to dizzy lizzy and now this! What next???

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I only tell you this so that you can feel sorry for me too, of course. My usual dose of feeling-sorry-for-myself-alitus isn't quite enough to cover it today. Long story short, the surrogacy is not going to happen and I've been staring down the barrel of a childless future. I am sooo disappointed about it too. Could it really be that this is my destiny? Everything in me just fights against that possibility. Everything, besides my baby-making bits, that is. Blasted bits!

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Let me tell you about the country I live in, and the clueless leaders who govern it. Just recently (about three or four weeks ago to be exact) parliament took a decision that South Africa and it's citizens are quite capable of caring for it's own orphans, and therefore does not need nor does it want to participate in placing any of it's orphans abroad, nor accept any orphans from abroad as candidates for international adoption. Basically, how this affects us is that because the baby from Marie-Jeanne would need to be adopted by me and my bloody awful bits, the surrogacy can therefore no longer be entertained. I've known this for a few weeks now, but between Marie-Jeanne and I, we've been trying to wangle a way to make it happen regardless. Many fruitless attempts later, many banging heads on doors, et cetera, and we are now dropping our hands in despair at a system that prohibits it's citizens from completing their families due to the ineptitude of it's governors. I am angry beyond comprehension at these ninkimpoops who rule over us. But trying my best to accept that this then is the way things are, and there's zip I can do about it. So I may as well not exhaust my energies on things I can do nothing to change. And I may as well not make myself unhappy in the process. Hard to do, but I'm really trying. This was an opportunity like no other, and one that seemed like the best solution to my infertility.

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It's just so incomprehensible to me that everything we've tried just hasn't worked for us (me). Is it really possible that I will never have any children? Really? Is this it then?

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So anyway, this foot and mouth saga is really just an excuse for me to sit at home and mope a bit. To refrain from interaction with happy people. Happy people with children of their own. Happy people with happy endings and children of their own. Why do they get to have happy endings and not me? I don't get it.

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The cherry on the cake was an innocent little sentence in an innocent email from an innocent family member mentioning in passing that they are trying for their second child and couldn't wait to find out they were preggies. And it just reminded me how easy it is for the rest of the planet. And how impossible it is for me. Really? Can planning a family really be that easy?

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Oh well! That was my rant. I'm done now. No more moping. For today. I have books to read. Cappuccino's to drink. And that should fill the gap for now. That and the prospect of new boobs, of course.

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*Joking, obviously. My boss started out with this sore mouth thing a few days before he got the flu too, a week or so ago. So, I know what's coming. Been taking it easy to see if I can ward it off. So, I'm not toooo concerned that it's foot and mouth disease. Haha!

The weekend

I had a really sh*tty weekend. And I mean that in a literal sense. Yes, the trend of my “el sicko” weekends continued and I awoke in Johannesburg on Saturday morning with the worst case of diarrhoea I’ve ever experienced. Ever. As in ever ever. Oh, woe was me. I just can’t believe that my weekends have evolved into two days of absolute misery. Every week. Ad infinitum. It just goes to show that you should never even greet a person with a bug. Ever. Truly, from this very moment onwards, if you’re sick, don’t even expect one word of sympathy from me. Ever again. Because, clearly, my capacity to commiserate is more the propensity to share your bug than to show compassion from a (safe) distance. No thank you. Sorry, all of you sickos. Too bad. I will happily send you text messages from the other side of the planet. Just stay away from me, all of you bug carriers. I don’t like your bugs and I don’t want to share in them ANY more.
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Believe me, I tried to enjoy my weekend. I really did. We had a fab journey to Johannesburg. I was totally excited to be driving on a highway again. I was absolutely elated to be driving on a dual-lane freeway again. I was really happy to see my friends again. And they spoiled us rotten! Joey and Pierre - thanks!!! You really made us feel welcome and Buttercup is pining away for Maxy... But oh, the very pit of deepest darkest despair to awake with the bug biting me on Saturday morning. On the only weekend we’ve been into the city since we’ve been in the bush. Just my luck. I didn’t even get to enjoy ONE cappuccino in ONE coffee shop. Poor me. And I had counted the very hours to the first opportunity to drink in the aroma of my fave café’s… But, alas, it was not to be. Instead I savoured the décor in numerous restrooms. I relished the soft, dry, squishiness of toilet rolls. Especially when there was more than one (toilet roll) in the cubicle.
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It was so bad I seriously considered skipping my friend’s wedding on Saturday. And I was the musician for the wedding. So you must know then. I was des-per-rate. But, luckily for me, my ex-fertility-doc was also a guest at the wedding and she brought me some kick-a** meds that put a stop to my crappy situation in it’s tracks. For a few hours. And then the meds wore off and I spent the remainder of the wedding and the weekend holed up in many different ablution facilities. Not a pretty site. Me, nor the ablutions.
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And that was my weekend. Come Monday, as USUAL, I’m feeling better. But still pretty grrr… I am still running for the loo every couple of minutes. But at least I have a loo just metres from my office and I’m the only one who uses it. And I’ve not eaten much since Saturday morning either, so at least there’s not much that needs to be evacuated either. Ahem ahem. And the food at the wedding looked sooooooo good too. Boo hoooo!
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But the wedding itself was truly spectacular. My friend Lisa has married into a really gracious, kind, loving family. I was gobsmacked by their home though. Think White House proportions. Truly a home of magnificent magnitude and old-world grandeur. Lisa and Cobus looked really happy on their day too, and the wedding was traditional, but casual and really beautiful. Very romantic! Lisa and Cobus – I know you guys are going to be incredibly happy together, and I want to wish you both God’s richest blessings for your future. May you have wisdom and riches like Solomon and descendants like Abraham. Haha.
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Now, please excuse me so that I can go and throttle the guy who shared his bug with me.

Hope and the Sicko

Do you remember my 100 things list? Well, refer to number ten on the list and then, if you’re up to it, read further. Otherwise, for those of you who are even remotely squeamish, now might be a good time to go and read someone else’s blog!
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I made a new best friend this past weekend. And I named him Billy. Billy the Bucket. Not surprising, really. Seeing as I spent most of Friday night and almost all of Saturday peering into it’s depths and pondering it’s capacity. I was actually quite excited to be sharing my meals with the bucket, initially. That stupid voice was shouting at me again. That silly voice that still hasn’t learned that I never really WILL be pregnant. You’d think that by now I would have learned to ignore that stupid little voice, right? Nope. Not me. I’m a slow learner. And so I puked into that bucket. Every last drop of everything I consumed ended up in the bucket. And between the retching I grinned silently to myself through the night, giving ear to that dim-witted voice again and wondering… Could it be? Could I be pregnant? Maybe that would explain the dizzy spells and the upchunking? But no, it was not to be. I could kick myself actually. Every possible (albeit inconceivable) opportunity to hope, I do. I friggin hope. And then I kick myself afterwards for even considering the (im)possibility. Really, I should know better by now. Hope schmope. It turns out I wasn’t the only one beset by this tummy bug. There were a few of us talking merrily to the toilet (or the bucket, in my case, what with our plumbing the way it is) through the night…
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So, that is the sad and sorry tale of my lovely long weekend. My parents were here for the weekend but I barely saw them on Saturday as I spent all day holed up in my bedroom with the curtains drawn and my hope suitably punished and stashed back again into it’s hiding place. Horrible Hope Monster.
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As luck would have it, come Monday morning, a workday, I am fit as a fiddle again. Not even remotely queasy. Murphy’s Law, right? Sick as a dog over the long weekend, and the minute it’s work time again, and I might have had a valid reason to be at home, nursing my ego and my sore throat, I am well. Ugghhhh… typical.
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Which reminds me. Here’s my list of things that taste good in both directions:-
Oranges
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And that’s about it. Don’t even try the dry toast and black herbal tea remedy. It does not work. Been there, done that. Take my word for it.

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PS… thanks for all your comments on my previous post(s). For those of you in Yankee Land, a “lounge” is what you would call a “living room”. We also sometimes say living room, but mostly people here just say lounge. I believe it’s the more civilised term. Haha. Just kidding. (And that from a hillbilly!)

o Sicko

I hear ye, I hear ye. I will get me to a doctor so forth. Whatever became of popping a disprin and hopping into bed for a few days? Noooo… now it’s all “get thee to a doctor immediately”. Ugghhh… If only you knew what an aversion I have to doctors! And pills. Thanks for the advice though. Sometimes I do need a swift kick in the butt some external motivation to do the right thing.
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Last night I was trying to prove a point that almost turned into a bit of a disaster. There I was, perched precariously atop a rickety ladder, painting the walls of our living room, rigorously ignoring the wonky world around me, when up became down and yip, you guessed it, down became up. Needless to say, I washed my paintbrushes post haste and sat down as quickly as possible. We now have a most unattractive partially painted lounge. Half of it some icky sunflower yellow colour, the other portions of it a weird creamy-grey mix which was supposed to be the colour of café latté but which now bears a striking resemblance to the nasty colour they put in institutions for people with various manner of psychoses. Oh well. At least our lounge won’t look like a wedge of cheddar anymore.
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And today, we have another guy chopping holes in our bathroom walls. This bathroom is beginning to get the better of us, I tell you! I am itching to be frustrated, but I am just soooo glad something’s being done to fix it! Who knows, maybe this time next week year I might get to enjoy brushing my teeth in my bathroom and not in my kitchen.
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Let me get to work. I will let you know what the doctor says, as soon as I’ve been. In the meantime, let me make myself a cuppa and tuck into the work waiting for me. Adios Amigos!

Dizzy Lizzy

I awoke yesterday morning to the sound of Buttercup chewing Robin’s shoes. So, I forced myself out from under the warm embrace of my duvet to retrieve rescue the shoe. And put Buttercup back into bed. But I only got as far as the end of the bed before the world spun and I found myself prostrate on the floor. On the COLD floor, mind you. With the bedroom doing a weird dance before my eyes. Didn’t think too much of it, just went back to bed putting the dizzy spell down to getting out of bed much like Speedy Gonzales. But then, two hours later when I stood up to begin the day, the world stood up with me. Again. And the room did it’s weird fandangle and I had to clutch the side of the bed to remain upright. And so the day went. All day. Even seated, doing zip, the world was swooshing and swaying before my eyes. I even ate a banana, thinking it might stabilize my blood sugar. It didn’t. Which just goes to show that bananas aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. And it also goes to show that you shouldn’t self-diagnose. Because for all I know, it could be blood pressure, not sugar, making me feel like I’ve been inhaling dope all night. Not that I would know what inhaling dope feels like. I’m just saying. Anyway, today things were a bit better. So I wasn’t going to mention it. Until I decided to take a break from the office work a little while ago and play outside with Buttercup. One minute I was merrily running about with her chasing me and me squealing like a banshee, (otherwise she can’t follow me, being blind and all)… the next minute I was flat on my face on the ground, with the trees laughing at me and dancing again. Which is a wee bit scary. This one minute you’re up, the next minute you’re eating dirt scenario. Any words of wisdom will be very welcome. Just no “you should try eating petunia leaves” or “just relax” advice ok? That’s never worked for me!

Just call be Sicko

Vis flu bug vat's bitted bost of us here at hobe is about as buch fud as a debtal appoidbet. (I'll translate for those of you who don't speak flem-ish flu: this flu bug that's bitten most of us here at home is about as much fun as a dental appointment) And that really is what we sound like right now. Or at least, that's what we're guessing we sound like, seeing as our ears are so blocked that every syllable we speak and every attempt at swallowing is accompanied by crackling sound in our ears. Ugghhh... But the part that really grates my carrot is that we are sick, but not bad enough to get booked off from work. It's ok when you're sick enough to stay at home and watch a few movies or tackle a few novels with your cat perched on your lap and a neverending supply of cuppas beside you. But when you're not sick enough to stay home, but not sharp enough to keep working. That. Sux.

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I've worked my way through half of my box of tissues just since I arrived at work this morning. And that's just on one of my nostrils. Now, I know most of you think I'm exaggerating. Tell that to the other nostril that hasn't seen a breath of fresh air in about three days now. That's how blocked it is.

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Woe is me!

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Eddibody got a sick dote for be?

Just call me Sicko

I have been sentenced to four days in bed by my doctor. Caught some horrible flu bug that loves to create havoc, and if I don't spend the next couple of days holed up in bed, it's just going to get worse. I've had a sore throat for the last couple of days, but you know me - I hate popping pills... Last night my chest started really hurting, so I thought, oh well... and now? See what I get for being stubborn. Four days in bed. I'd be doing the jig if it didn't happen to fall over a weekend! :o( Boo hoo... Why can't I ever be booked off in the middle of the week? So, spare a thought for your sicko blogger friend, will you? I'm going to bed immediately. See you on Tuesday. I think I'm going into blogging-withdrawal already...