Reduce. Reuse. Recycle. Whatever.

Whatever happened to ZeeBee? Zip it in a Zeebee?

It’s all very well going on about saving the world and so on, but since the municipal garbage people are on strike for more money I am drowning in rubbish. I can’t drive anywhere so I can’t take my recycling to the dump. Which by the way is a disgusting experience and I have no confidence whatsoever that anything there actually gets recycled. My kitchen is taken over with dustbins for everything under the bloody sun and there is no room for anything else.

It turns out that if you are lucky enough to live in Westdene or Melville, some enterprising little person gives you one extra bin for all your recyclables and takes them away and sorts the for you. Yippee. So, I got online and have discovered that even in Buccleuch, the neighbourhood time forgot, you can get your recycling taken away. I am signing up immediately.

What is means is that I only need 2 bins instead on 4, but that I now have to remember that Fridays is for general garbage, Tuesdays is for paper and whatever other day is for recycling. I’ll be hauling stuff up the driveway every bloody morning.

Whole Earth (www.wholeearth.co.za) charges you R500 for a new bin and R80 a month to pick up your stuff. You just have to get up early enough to put in the driveway before 07:30. Mama Shes (www.wasterecyclers.co.za) is slightly cheaper – you don’t have to buy a bin, they give you special bin bags, you pay R100 to register and then R45 a month afterwards.

It’s easy to the save the world when I can pay someone else to make it easy for me. Should I feel terrible about it? No. It’s created a wonderful opportunity for someone to make a fortune and saves me a lot of time, trouble and child-induced guilt.

From Battersea to Bryanston

Time: BC – Before Caffeine
Small boy aged 9: “Mom! Phone!”
Me: “Unhunh?”
Phone (Chirpy): “Hey there, it’s me!”
Me: “Unhunh?”
Phone: “I think we have a bad line. I’ll call back.”
Me: “Unhunh.”

Once my first shot of caffeine has time to jumpstart my vocal chords and brain cells I actually am quite articulate despite all evidence to the contrary. The upshot of the garbled phone call was that my friend from New Zealand was on these not very sunny shores, and so I took the opportunity to take my first solo drive post-op to pay her a visit.

It was very Michael J Fox Back to the Future this drive back into the past. The last time we met was outside the Battersea Power Station a la Pink Floyd. I had a day old baby and we met in a gray pub on a gray day.

Now almost ten years later we meet in the same apartment complex she lived in when we were at school. It was a bit surreal. I was looking forward to seeing the old homestead complete with taxidermied leopard and a Black Eagle in the living room. Sadly, however, not everything remains the same and we met in the home of a family friend.

Friends are funny things. Some come and some go, and some no matter how long you haven’t seen them remain your friends. There’s that instant connection where the years fall away and your heart fills with recognition. Across the chasm of years and experiences the mother and the adventurer still managed to bridge the gap. I learnt a few things, that age is a great leveller, that we all face challenges that make us stronger, and that we all end up somewhere we need to be.

I have no doubt we both look older than we once were, but I couldn’t see it. She looked ethereally beautiful and I still felt a little gauche, but the sum total of our shared experiences far out way the years we’ve spent apart and time didn’t really seem to matter. I drove home several hours later lighter in heart and spirit with a strong desire to listen to Pink Floyd.

Cabin Fever

 

Cabin fever is defined as extreme irritability and/or restlessness caused by being confined indoors for an extended period of time. I am not suffering from it. The longer I spend in isolation the more I am enjoying it. I like being at home. I like watching bad sitcoms and stoner movies. I like reading my way through a library of murder mysteries. I like wearing pyjamas and not putting on make-up. I like sleeping when I want. I resent being forced to leave the warmth and safety of my home for the insanity of traffic, parking and shopping mall horror. I don't want to go out. I like it here.

 

My petulant whining did not work and my mother drove me off to some fancy mall in Morningside. I bought fish food. I tried on some boots, but as I can't afford the 16 grand to pay off my operation I can't justify spending 3 grand on butter soft black leather knee high boots either. Oh, but they were lovely. I wish I'd bought them. As it turned out there was no water at the mall, so the loos were Porta-potties in the parking lot and the overpriced froo-froo restaurant couldn't make tea or coffee. Initially I felt some pity for the waitresses dressed in hideous frilly aprons, but after experiencing their concept of service quickly deduced that they deserved such ghastly clothing and possibly more. This is why I like shopping online and Mr. Delivery. I don't have to interact with service droids. The best service I received from today's little excursion was from the cashier at the pet shop.

 

My world has sharply contracted to my four walls and roof. Time passes in terms of the books I read and the passing of the sun. I am now allowed to sit up for 30 minutes and spend 10 minutes walking at a time. The sitting up is the hard part. Perhaps my centre of gravity has changed, because standing or lying is much better than sitting. As my nerves stretch sharp knifes stab at intervals up and down my legs and the nagging ache of pain never seems to recede. My friendly pharmacist sent me over some Synap Forte's yesterday, much to my eternal gratitude. I thought I'd feel better by now, but I don't really. My tummy looks horrible. My days of being naked in the light are officially over. Its full body swimming costumes and sex in the dark from now on. When it has healed a bit more I will get some talented graphic artist to design me a snake or something to cover it up. My belly button is skew! I have paid much attention to it before now, but now it is skew!

 

The father of my offspring is now taking them off to see a movie called Hop! Apparently it is about a bunny that poos chocolate jelly beans. How revolting. I am barely concealing my glee at a few hours of peace and quiet.

 

 

A stitch in time…

Things not to do when in post-op recovery: Watch Pauly Shore and laugh until your sides split literally. I broke through my stitches. Who knew?

 

In the wonderful morphine haze that accompanied my post-operative state I neglected to clear up a few salient points with my esteemed surgeon. For example the 6 weeks referred to. Is Week 1 the week of hospital or the first week out? My mother maintains the latter and I am holding out for the former. Then again, she was sober and took notes. According to her schedule this week I can walk around my garden for 10 minutes. According to mine, I can go out for lunch. I know in my head she is right, but in my heart I wish it were me. I have paid the price for pushing too far over the last week. I overdid the exercises, I've been outside and I've suffered the excruciating pain associated with your guts trying to escape your body. So this week I will try harder.

 

The father of my offspring was finally released from hospital last Friday. I think they became afraid he was harbouring Prison Break fantasies and would upset the other inmates. They still have no clue what alien lifeform lives within him, but sent him home with much relief. He does not fit the profile of The Good Patient. He reads his file (who does that?) and then Googles from his hospital bed. He admonishes the nurses when they don't give him his meds (quite rightly) and can wield a drip stand like a warrior with a lance. So, when he could eat jelly they sent him home. Much thinner if none the wiser as to what caused him to become so ill in the first place. Like many men who do not quite understand the silent and deadly fear women have of being fat, he has happily pointed out to my mother, my friends and some women who fight daily with eating disorders that now he weighs less than them. Don't gloat. It is unbecoming. What you do is when commented upon, say breezily, "Oh yes, it was horrible! I lost so much weight when I was ill and was horrified by gaunt I looked."

 

As for me? During that week my sainted mother looked after me making up for a childhood of leaving me with the maid every time I got ill. I adore her. She cooked for me. You know, those wonderful childhood meals only your mum can ever make right? She fluffed my blankets, she arrived at 6am to ferry the kids to school and brought them back in one piece later on. I don't know how to thank her properly, but without her I think I may have gone mad.

 

On his release from the white walls of Morningside Clinic Marc packed a tent and took the boys camping as part of the Dads and Lads Camp Out. How twee is that name? Nonetheless, off they went in Bella, the 1976 VW Kombi, comfortably ensconced in a mountain if duvets. After yelling at the boys to pack their pillows and duvets, Daddy left his behind. Good thing Mummy pressed an extra blanket on him before they left. I don't know why I packed so many clothes for them, or soap for that matter. They arrived back on Sunday in the same clothes they left in, just a little soggier.

 

Apparently at these events there are three groups of fathers:

Group 1: The avid outdoorsman

Group 2: The man child

Group 3: The (How to put this nicely?) organic metrosexual aka pussy whipped husband

 

Group 1 has every outdoor gadget known to man. They are the Camel Man, the Marlboro plan and the boer that maaks a plan. They expect the same of their children. During the week they are doctors, lawyers and CPAs, but in the bush… they are the hunter. Their kids are rough, tough and ready. They take turns on guard duty through the night and eat freeze dried army food.

 

Group 2 form the largest grouping. These are guys who remember going camping with a six pack of beer and a tape mix of Tones on Tail and David Bowie. They know how to light a fire and stare into its flames. They like to give the truth scope and share stories and tall tales of back when. Their kids run around unfettered on bikes with glow sticks and a boerie roll. If they go to bed at all they tumble into it fully dressed and emerge only at the smell of bacon frying in the morning before they disappear off again.

 

Group 3 are the ones I feel for. Even far from the watchful eye of their wives they desperately try and force organic celery sticks down their sons (who just pop over to Group 2 for a quick bite of meat anyway). Bath time is at 6pm sharp, dinner consisting of soya and a nice organic salad served at 7pm and in bed by 8pm. Not a chance. These guys battle it out for 48 hours and instead of coming home energized with masculinity, crawl home to their wives and whimper.

 

Now you also have the outliers. These are those who provide entertainment on a nouveau riche scale. The dad who arrives with a rented motorhome and toilet. Not a porta-pottie. A whole bathroom in marble and gold. I should just explain that the camping ground they go to in on the banks of the Vaal. There are bathrooms and mowed grass and no-one has to kill an impala for supper. It is very civilized. After all these boys go to a very civilized school.

 

Nonetheless my boys arrived home on Sunday morning, sunburnt, grubby and exhausted. They had a marvelous time. Small boy aged 8 (almost 9) dragged himself through the door, flopped on the couch and tuned into MTV. Small boy aged 6 joined him. Man dragged himself to bed and watched Grosse Point Blank. Conversation was held in grunts until the return to civilization kicked in with mother threatening to physically throw small grubby people into a bath. Not that I could have done it, but the threat was real enough. I could have called ADT as it was a family emergency.

 

The best thing was getting them up and dressed and off this morning and then falling back into bed for another hour. Blissful and decadent. Now if only I can get the cats to stop kneading my stomach…