Somebody to love

I am a theatrical philistine. My beloved mother has branded me such and I own it with pride. My name is Victoria and I am a theatrical philistine.

I wasn’t always so. It wasn’t until yesterday afternoon that my Cro-Magnon attitude was discovered at a performance of Somebody to Love – a dance tribute to the music of Queen. The write-up is quite glowing. Either the writer knows the group personally or is tone deaf and blind.

I believe that all art, theatre and so on should be accessible across social barriers, language and time - like Shakespeare. 

Interpretative modern dance is the antipathy of accessible.  

It’s like rectal-realism in art. It serves no purpose but to befuddle the brain, shock the sensibilities and steal valuable seconds of a diminishing life span.

 

The soprano opera singer screeched like a Valkyrie, rendering Freddie’s beloved tunes into something quite unrecognisable. She was also quite the most terrifying person on stage. A young man and another female singer made up for not quite reaching the notes by singing them so loudly the luminescent chandelier almost shattered.

I quite like Queen. I find old Freddie quite upbeat and fun to sing along to. Somehow this lot managed to choose the most utterly depressing selection of tunes ever to come out of that Mercurial genius. If I hadn’t been laughing so hard, I might have slit my throat in misery.

The curtain went up and a group of dancers in tighty whities and nighties pranced on stage. The men were tiny little boy-child types – hairless and as camp as Freddie – camper actually – Freddie had some uber-masculine campness these chaps lacked.

The women ranged from a six-foot black Amazon version of Angelina Jolie to a tiny little mini person about 4 feet high. She tore a tendon or something at the end of the first number limped off-stage and we never saw her again.

I watched the first song in bemused wonder. The second in silent disbelief. My entry into the philistine hall of fame came in number three. On the stage was a teeny tiny little sofa. A man and a woman (who towered over him) simulated sex on the sofa until the woman stalked off stage left.

At this point I muttered to my mother that if someone tried to have their way with me on a sofa that small, I’d leave too. Also if the person concerned was more interested in the opposite sex, it might have the same result. Around here I my suspension of disbelief evaporated into a fit of giggles.

As “Somebody to love” began a skinny little chap minced around waving a red rose while another cavorted with a female dancer unconvincingly. I was managing to stifle the giggles until I saw the shaking shoulders of the woman in front me. That was it. I was gone.

The laughter bubbled up like a shaken bottle of Moet Chandon and erupted like Vesuvius. This set off the man behind me and the man behind him until most of the audience was shuddering and weeping along with me. Thank God I wasn’t wearing mascara or I would have walked out looking like a panda.

I think my favourite was “I want it all”. I’ve always liked that song as a sort of upbeat anthem for the youth. I had not seen it as a gay orgy. I do now and no matter what, every time I hear that song I am now going to collapse in hysterical laughter.

A close runner up was the domestic violence scene where a scarily tall woman beat the living daylights out of a cowering little man in his boxers.

I almost forgot the gay sex scenes that probably made more sense than any other part of the performance. However watching these terrible earnest young men dry hump each other on the floor was not remotely erotic.

The dancers were obviously very fit with great classical experience. They were just ill-fitted to each other and no matter how hard they tried, they only managed to make the choreography seem even more peculiar.

The women all danced with massive aggressive male gestures while the men minced around looking even more effeminate than Perez Hilton. Periodically they would make these strange “Let your fingers do the walking through the Yellow Pages” gestures while flinging themselves prostate on the floor.

When the lights came up, my mother’s theatre group turned to me and asked me what I thought. Did I find it brilliant? Inspiring? 

I looked desperately at my mother for guidance knowing I couldn’t lie or she’d start to laugh. I settled for, “It was very entertaining.” I don’t think they’ll be inviting me along again soon.

It was up there with the last interpretative modern dance fiasco I saw, which I thought was about pond life, but turned out to be about gargoyles on French cathedrals.

I shall never hear Freddy’s great music in the same way again and to quote my friend to whom I relayed the experience, “Ah well, that’s two hours of your life you won’t get back.”

Amen.

PS: I am looking forward to seeing the Nutcracker on Ice – at least I know the story.

Turn off and drop out

It’s 06:30 in the morning. Must update my Facebook status. GAH! What should my BBM status say? And Twitter – must Twitter. Have to check my email, my LinkedIn and my Google+. What about the blog? What do I say? 

Really, does anyone actually care? It's hardly as though I spout words of wisdom. So why then am I letting it drive me round the bend?

The sun’s not up yet and my stress levels are through the roof because I’ve been off the grid for 8 hours. Insane?

Last week I fell off the grid. I turned off my cellphone. I didn’t check my email. I didn’t log into Facebook or Twitter or any of the others. I didn’t agonise over my Klout score or check in on Foursquare every place I went.

It was better than going to the spa.

The time has come to set some limitations and to enforce them. I don’t expect everyone to be Harry Potter and magically deduce what they are. I’m going to tell you.

1.    Do not call me between 5pm and 10pm. Assuming I answer, I will not be happy to hear from you. After 10pm I will be so exhausted I’ll just mumble incoherently at you about lunch boxes and quadratic equations. Whatever it is, it will keep until the morning.

2.    If you would hesitate to call my home telephone, don’t call me on my cell either.

3.    Do not call me at 4am. Whoever you were I am sure there is a VIP hot rock in hell with your name on it.

4.    Do not phone me after a bottle of Tequila with the next BIG idea. Trust me it is not that big. Look at it when you’re sober. 

5.    Do not copy me on hilarious jokes, chain letters and any email that includes a line about sending it on to 1500 of my closest friends or burning in hell.

6.    I know I have not won $10 000 000. I am not that lucky. Stop taunting me.

7.    I cannot save all the abandoned animals in the world. I sympathise with their plight. I donate to the SPCA. Leave me alone.

8.    If you work for a bank or any call centre take me off your list. Whatever you are selling, I don’t want it. Not now. Not ever.

9.    God made Sunday a day of rest. It is my island in a week of insanity. Do not abuse it.

10. Learn to read the signs of overstaying your welcome. Yawning means it is time to go.

Despite all evidence above to the contrary, I am not a completely anti-social bitch. I just realised how much empty chatter and fluff clutters up my communication channels.

It takes me forever to find the information that really matters because I’m checking 6 different media and sifting through 100 odd totally meaningless emails from J Edgar Hoover and Johnny English.

My message to the masses…

Turn off and drop out.

Shut up!

Sometime between 12pm and 3am on Thursday morning something or someone stole my voice. Enforced silence does not suit me. Unlike my colleague who disappears by choice to a silent retreat for a month each year, being mute leaves me in a state of amputation.

A horrible truth has settled over me with this gag. Very little of the words I spew forth everyday are of any consequence. In fact when reduced to hand gestures and post-it notes, I have found that I have hardly anything to say at all. For a writer, it is a bit shocking.

As for sign language, it only works when both parties know what the signals mean. You may end up dead, like that poor chap in a bar in the USA who tried to order a whiskey using American Sign Language and was shot by a cop who thought he was making gang signs. There are some universal signs that transcend hearing or speaking disabilities, of which I have made great use of. These are vital when some smart ass tries to take the piss out of you and you can’t say anything in return.

Most of the time I resort to waving my hands wildly in the air as if I were playing some demented game of charades. I have never been good at charades. My children think it is hilarious and my husband enjoys it far too much for my liking.

People keep telephoning me to ask how I am or to ask me to do something or answer a survey. While very grateful that they care, I end up whispering into the phone while they speak louder and louder saying, “Hello! Hello! Hello!” There’s nothing wrong with my hearing and it doesn’t matter how loud you speak, I can’t return the favour.

One thing that has been highlighted to me is that most people, me included, don’t listen very often. It seems we chirp on regardless of what the other party says or doesn’t say according to our own assumptions of how they should respond. It’s almost as though they exist merely to give credence to our own outpouring of meaningless verbosity.

The lesson is that I think we should be more careful with our words. We use them carelessly, sometimes with malice aforethought and little consideration given to their consequence. In the past two days I have realised that if we just all shut up, we’d get more done, politicians would be out of business and we’d all be happier people.

I vaguely wonder what I said on Wednesday that was so horrible the spirits saw fit to take a toilet brush to my throat.

Even for karma, I think it is a bit rough.

PS: Can anyone explain why when I Google Image Search for “toilet brush down throat”, I get a picture of Tom Cruise?

I love it when a plan comes together

There is a time for naming names and time for not. This is one of the former.

Small boy aged 7 has faced his own challenges over the past year. Challenges that have tested us all. Without a group of amazing people behind him and us, I don’t know if we would have come this far.

Small boy age 7 is struggling to read. His self-confidence is in tatters. We were advised to consider a remedial school or holding him back a year. Thank God he goes to a school where they acknowledge issues instead of ignoring them. Of course, they probably hate the sight of us because we question everything – and by that I really do mean everything.

At school he has the support of Mrs Owen, a wonderful teacher with decades of experience. Also one, I hasten to add, that Small boy aged 9 has managed to ensnare in his big blue eyes. She adores him and it shows.

There is also the Speech and Language Therapist, Angela Sourmenides, who has worked with him despite his parents’ constant interruptions.

And of course, the headmistress, Helen Popplewell, who treats each of her gentlemen with the utmost respect and puts up with us barging into her office.  

The school psychologist, Hugo, who has spent weeks nurturing a trust between Small boy aged 7 and himself and who helped Small boy aged 7 find his inner fox.

Mrs Reeve and the school librarian who let him come up to the BIG school for Readers are Leaders.

Finally, Patrick Lees, the Headmaster of the Prep School, who has been patient and understanding throughout all the turmoil.

Even given the level of my frustration at times, I could not have wished for a better group of people to have devoted so much time and energy to helping one little boy.

Without their intervention we might never have taken Small boy aged 7 to see Melanie Hartgill, a leading educational and developmental psychologist. By some wierd twist of fate,  Melanie actually lectured me at university. 

After a barrage of tests she has agreed that keeping him back will cause even more damage to an already scarred little boy. It turns out that his biggest problem is crippling anxiety. He shuts down completely. I know how that feels. 

The plan now is this:

1. Small boy aged 7 will now follow an Independent Education Curriculum at school. This basically means he will carry on as normal, but when work is handed out, the teacher will choose only some of the questions for him to answer. This will increase his confidence as he completes work at the same time as his peers without being singled out.
2. He will only see the Speech and Language Therapist outside of school hours so that he doesn’t have to be singled out of class and miss sports. His fear of being singled out is causing him immense stress.
3.  He will start a programme of play therapy with Hugo and his inner fox to help him grow his coping skills and confidence levels.
4. He has to start taking omega 3 and 6, and thank heavens we no longer have to do that with a spoon of cod liver oil. He also has to take a homeopathic stress remedy from Solal called GABAtropin that will help him deal with the anxiety.

Thanks to Melanie we also whipped him off for a massive eye assessment at Eyetec. They don’t just test for 20:20 vision; they test how the muscles of the eye respond. Children’s eyes are not yet mature and they sometimes struggle with the release and tension of the eye muscles. In the past, they would be the dyslexic kids, the special needs ones, the ones who got kept back. There is nothing wrong with their brain function, but the muscles cannot relax and as a result they swap letters, they cannot scan from left to right and they struggle to read.  

Of course, as luck would have it, the appointment was the same day as his older brother had to be rushed to hospital. The outcome is that he is going to wear glasses with a slight magnification so that his muscles do not have to strain to focus.



The glasses have already made a shift in his perception of the problem. Suddenly, he is not too stupid to read, but just needed a tool to give him the confidence to do so. Also, they are pretty funky – camo Jeep frames.

He is also going to start a 12 session programme of vision therapy. Vision therapy involves progressive eye exercises that train the eyes to move more accurately, work together and focus efficiently for longer periods of time. He will have to read while jumping on trampoline, play on a massive touch screen and do other fun stuff that he won’t see has educational in the least.

The cost was also a pleasant surprise. Not only did the medical aid cover the whole thing, but the test only costs R245, a long way from the R800 I paid the day before for a well-renowned optometrist.

As a mother it is often hard to ask for help. We want to do it all. We want to be the superhero. The thing is that asking for help is sometimes the best thing.

Without all the people I have listed here, I could not have helped my son. I owe you all a great debt of gratitude. Thank you.

Nice email back from Eyetek!

Thank you so much for mentioning Eyetek in your (brilliantly written) blog.  Casha’s dream is to keep children from being labeled as “slow performers” and your blog proved that we are on the right track!

Glad that we could help and please call on us again in future.  Remember, we look after the visual needs of the whole family and not just that of kids.

Kind regards

Eyetek Team

My tummy is sore vs. your child is dying

The gap between "Mummy, my tummy is sore" and "Sign this consent form or your child will be dead in 48 hours" is a chasm no mother wants to cross. Standing helplessly watching your firstborn hooked up to monitors and tubes wile screaming in agony is enough to shatter any illusion that mothers are soft, sweet, gentle beings. Mothers are hewn from granite and cold steel runs in our veins. If someone had told me I had to kill a man to save my son's life, I would not have hesitated. In fact, I don't know a single mother who would. We're strange that way.

Friday was the type of day a parent dreads. Small girl aged 5 with the flu. Small boy aged 7 with an eye appointment. Small boy aged 9 screaming. Two parents. One car. When Small boy aged 7 hesitantly mentioned his tooth was sore, mother began to weep hysterically. There is only so much.   

After the eye thing, which is another story entirely, I rushed into work with the hoard in tow. My boss, a man, bless him, looked at me in that bemused fashion men have when dealing with distraught mothers. He couldn't seem to fathom how I couldn't muster up a fathom of interest in his impending deadlines and South Africa's bid for the Square Kilometer Array.

 
Meanwhile, at the hospital, Small boy aged 9 was diagnosed with an abscess on his appendix and a horrific secondary infection spreading through his stomach cavity. 

"But how," I squeaked, "could this have happened in a day?" 

The answer was succinctly, that it didn't. 

My son stoically had been living through the pain for over a month without telling anyone. 

If he hadn't been at death's door I would have shaken him silly. I'm all for real men and yes I do take the piss out of Man Flu, but this was serious. He is also the child that broke his arm and waited a week before mentioning it. It's enough to make a mother scream. 

The operation, which was scheduled to last fifteen minutes, went on for an hour and a half. To distract ourselves, we sat in the ward making Monty Python jokes. Sometimes that's all that is guaranteed to make you laugh, and we needed it.

Parenting is no easy ride. It's an adventure, filled with pitfalls and stupendous highs as well as terrifying battles against enemies with no faces. 

There is nothing average about Small boy aged 9, and I don't mean that in a strictly complimentary fashion. There are times when average would be perfect. The operation took so long because not only was the infection appalling, but his appendix is in the wrong place. 

As a result Small boy aged 9 has tiny little cuts all across his stomach. I've promised him that when he is sixteen I'll take him to get a tiny pair of scissors tattooed on the dotted line. It didn't even rate a smile. His father wanted to tattoo I LOVE MUM on his bald head as a baby that would reveal itself as his hairline receded in middle age. 

Aside from all the little incisions was a horrible drainage bag to get out the gloop that had collected in his stomach cavity. Not a pretty site. 

The staff at the hospital were incredibly gentle with him and put up with a lot of tension from us. When you are feeling so helpless, you tend to take it out on those who can actually do the things you can't. 


While we were taking shifts to sit with our son and chatting aimlessly with the nurses, we discovered that most parents do not stay with their kids, especially over weekends. 

They have a revolting number of returnees from parents who use their Discovery medical aid to check their kids in while they go to the casino. Kids who return with hands broken by hammers, poisoned with bleach and a number of other hideous things. 


Sitting there watching my child fight to heal, I couldn't, I still can't fathom how a parent could treat a child that way. The hospital does report suspicious activity like this, but with little or no hard proof, there is not much they can do. I wanted to weep for these children. 

Being finally able to gather up my son and carry him home brought on the most incredible wave of relief – a tsunami of shuddering release. My son is home. He is sore, he is scared but he is home. He also is characteristically appalled by my need to constantly smother him with kisses and attention. Such is life.

The Lama and the Red Tape

The Dalai Lama will not be joining us for Desmond Tutu’s birthday party. 

Given the confusion between Llamas and Lamas, I wonder if immigration got confused?

It’s not as if South Africa hasn’t invited personas non grata here before, so I can’t see what the issue is. If we can entertain Fidel Castro, surely the Dalai Lama doesn’t represent a threat? 

During the Castro fiasco Nelson Mandela said that we would never allow others to dictate who our friends should be. It’s actually in our very forward-thinking and much lauded constitution – freedom of association – oh, and religion.

Still, the Chinese have given us pots and pots of lovely money, so we can’t risk all that can we? 

On the other hand there is karma to consider and I hasten to suggest that the pots and pots of lovely money might be outweighed by the kick in the ass karma will give us for refusing the Dalai Lama a visa.

It’s bloody embarrassing, that what it is. It’s like refusing Ghandi entry into a club because he wasn’t following the dress code. He is the Dalai Lama. He will reincarnate and never forget. I wouldn’t risk that, would you?

Aside from it all, he wasn’t coming here on a political mission to stir up sympathy for the Tibetan cause. He was coming here for a birthday party, for a priest! He’s hardly Gaddafi looking for asylum, which we’d probably grant along with a house in Clifton and a bullet proof Hummer. He isn’t a jihadist arriving with dynamite strapped to his private parts. He is a well respected holy man and international figure of peace. 

Immigration authorities say that this honoured personage decided to cancel his application while it was under review. For over 6 months? I must say with the birthday four days away, I’d also give it up as a lost cause.

 

I can’t say that I’m surprised it took so long for them to look at his application though. I’ve been waiting for a new identity book for over 18 months. We’re not exactly the most efficient bureaucracy in the world. We love red tape more than we love the rugby. God bless us. 


Have to add this cartoon in from a brilliant SA cartoonist - Jerm. 

Mother on the edge.

I am a mother on the edge – the edge of reason, the edge of patience, the knife edge of my sanity. Other mothers make it look so damn easy. It bloody isn’t. It’s the hardest thing in the world.

For one thing it dawned on me in the headmaster’s office on Tuesday morning, that as a parent I have this Atlas like responsibility. I know exactly how he felt. My neck and shoulders have cramped up to the point I may beg for Botox in them. 

Every little decision you make as a parent defines how your child will grow up. Every comment, no matter how casual, will shape the adult he or she is to become.

Parental guilt is a lot worse than Catholic guilt, and I thought nothing could top that. At least Catholics can go to confession and have the slate wiped clean, parents can’t. Your mistakes grow up and hate you at least until they have children of their own.

I have spent the week with three projectile vomiting children. I feel helpless and exhausted. Small boy aged 7 stood over the bowl weeping and crying for me to make it stop and help him. All I could do was wipe his face with a wet cloth. In other words, nothing.  

For reasons known only to Small boy aged 9, he waited until we were a block away from school before voiding the contents of breakfast all over the car. Brilliant timing. I gave up and drove home. I deposited said children in bed, drugged them with Stopayne and headed downstairs to frantically complete my presentation due for today. I was too scared to even call work and ended up cowardly sending them an email.

Finally I dragged the whole bloody lot to the doctor, which is conveniently located next to a mental hospital. I almost drove in screaming, “Bring me a strait jacket! Lead the way to the padded cell! I’m having a breakdown!” Only the sobering thought of what would happen to my children while I was being locked up made me turn around and take them home. I’m still considering packing a bag and throwing myself on their mercy.

A school friend of mine has nine children under 9. She always looks serene.

Either she knows something I don’t or her doctor gives her better medication.

The testosterone equation

There are times I wish I was a man:

When there isn’t a rest stop in sight and I need to pee.

When I want to put my fist in someone’s face.

When I need to take my car to the mechanic.

When… oh hell, that’s about it.

There are times when I grateful beyond measure that I am a woman (hear me roar!). 

Testosterone must be a terrible challenge to live with. Outnumbered by men in my home I am starting to accept that living with testosterone is a biological hazard. 

Once that man switch gets flicked there is nothing a woman can do but sit back and watch the situation unfold.

Picture this…

Lightning splits the sky. 

A curtain of rain falls to earth. 

Men scramble through the mud to the safety of their cars. 

Simultaneously they all edge towards the exit. 

The switch is flicked. 

It is not about getting home anymore. 

It is war. 

It is about being first – no matter what. 

The field on which they parked now turned into an ancient battlefield where man takes on man in a primordial battle for supremacy. 

It is every man for himself. 

Women and children sit mute as their alpha males enter the fray.

It was about now that my husband decided that he would rather die than let the Toyota Landcruiser take the forward position. 

Me: “Darling. He’s already driven over two traffic cones. I don’t think he is in a very good mood. Perhaps we should allow him to go first?”

Him: “No! I refuse. I was here first and I’ll be damned if I let him in.”

I shut up, regarding it as the most prudent course of action. About, oh, 30 seconds later the Landcruiser driver rammed into the back of our compact little Ford. Then he reversed and rammed us again. I started to pray.

Husband: “I’m getting out.”

Me in tones of pure ice: “No, you are not. I told you he was not in a good mood. I have his registration. Just let it go.”

Husband opening door: “I’m going to take his picture!”

Me: “By all means, if getting a fist in your face is how you’d like this evening to end. And once we are home, I’ll knee you in the balls for being a stupid idiot. Let. It. Go.”

Did I mention my mother was in the car? No? Well she was. Awkward much? We tried, we really did, not to take the piss. We failed.

Halfway home, my husband is ready to turn the car around and scour the streets for the Toyota driving maniac. By now he has convinced himself that he has let himself down as a man. A real man would have got out of the car and indulged in a bit of old fashioned mud wrestling. 

That was three days ago. Each morning at the school he eyes each Toyota Landcruiser with an Attila the Hun type of gleam in his eye.

Him: “Is that it? Was that him?”

Me: “No.”

Silence

Me: “What are you doing to do if you find him exactly?”

Him: “I’ll key his bloody car, that’s what I’ll do.”

Me: “Wasn’t it you who once told me that two wrongs don’t make a right?”

Him: “It’s not about bloody right and wrong. It’s about satisfaction. God! Don’t you understand men at all?”

Apparently not.