Recently in Re(d)latives Category

It all began about two months ago when I received an email from my gorgeous editor. "How would you like to go to Frightfully-Exotic-Destination-Far-Out-Of-The-Country?" (She actually called the place by its proper name, of course. This is just me, up to my usual amateurish writing tricks.)

My reply was probably half-incoherent as usual, but I DO recall that I said something along the lines of: "AREYOUKIDDINGME? Of COURSE I do! I want to go ANYWHERE!" (Yes, I always yell at her on email.)

Unfortunately my hysterical over-enthusiasm and willingness did not make it a done deal. Not by far. We had to actually enter a global competition first. This required us to complete a flurry of virtual application forms, answer almost 200 questions, write some essays, take pictures (UGH! WHY do people need to see what a writer looks like?!?), submitting all of it on time and crossing our fingers until they turned red then blue then black.

Being my usual 'optimistic' self, I decided not to get my hopes up at all. So I tried my best to forget about the contest (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Right, because I don't fixate. At all) and just carry on with my no-life life. Two weeks ago, Ms Gorgeous Editor and I both received emails informing us that we had made it through to the semi-finals. (I wasn't surprised about her success. I've been telling her all along to just pack her bags already.) One step closer to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but I still didn't dare to think about it.

Thing is, as always when I forbid myself to do something, my lack of any self-discipline results in me hardly thinking about anything ELSE! I even went as far as joining the contest's Facebook page, Googling the amazing destination, reading travel articles about it and losing myself in the photographs. But then I'd crossly remind myself to yank my hopes back to earth in order to protect myself from sure, heart-shattering disappointment.

But yesterday morning really early, LONG before my usual wake-up time of round about the crack o' noonish, I got up and obsessively calmly checked the website to see who had been selected. The press release stated the usual "everyone was amazing, but sadly we couldn't pick you all" consolation. (Don't they KNOW that stroking your ego before brutally crushing it just makes the horrible news even WORSE?) Then they said that the chosen ones include the likes of Olympic medalists, beauty queens, Harvard grads... and that one guy even received a personal endorsement from his country's head of state, and I knew right then and there with such a crystal clear certainty that I was out. So I climbed back into bed, curled into a ball and told myself that not being picked isn't the end of the world.

I was just drifting back to sleep when a text message notification on my phone woke me up. It was Ms Gorgeous Editor and she told me that she has made it!!!!!

And... she told me... so have I.

SO HAVE I!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

On August 12, her and I and two other Saffas will be jetted off to Taiwan for two glorious weeks to attend the Republic of China (Taiwan) International Youth (! According to the Taiwanese, I'm still youthful!)  Centennial Homestay celebrations with 246 other people from around the globe. We will be staying with host families and all we have to do in return for being handed this amazing adventure is to tell the world (or, in my case, my three imaginary readers) about our experiences on our blogs, on Twitter, on Facebook, or whatever other social media platforms we have available to us.

I honestly still can't believe it! I keep on staring at the list of names, expecting my (horrible) name to disappear from it when they realise their terrible mistake at including the likes of me. (I'm just kidding, judges! Please don't get any ideas?!?)

One thing is certain: I would NOT have this to look forward to had it not been for the help and encouragement of many people, from former and current employers, fellow bloggers and co-workers writing me the most lovely references, to family, to the few other people I had confided in about entering. My Gorgeous Editor has my eternal gratitude for telling me about it and inviting me to enter in the first place. I know she has told me to stop thanking her already, but wow... how can I ever thank her ENOUGH?

There is Elaine, the fabulous lady from the Taipei Liaison Office in South Africa who bent over backwards for me and graciously answered all my queries during the application process.

Then there is my darling friend Lemony, who patiently sat up with me until the wee hours (while she was ill, no less!) to listen to me stress and vent and moan and cry, making me cup after cup of coffee and just generally calming me down and jotting down my answers to the questionnaires faster than I could even dictate it! I guess you'll be getting that souvenir from Taiwan after all, Lemony!

And of course, none of this would be possible without Alice and the rest of the SayTaiwan Homestay organisers and judges.

Although I am definitely walking on clouds, my joy has been a tad subdued and bittersweet. As some of you know, this year has been particularly awful for my family. Three months later, we're still reeling from my brother-in-law's murder. I'd be lying if I said that I don't feel guilty for having this thrilling opportunity land in my lap at a time when my sister is hurting so deeply.

But bless her, for despite her grief, she is so genuinely, unselfishly happy for me...

On this day (or rather, THAT day, since I should've posted this YESTERDAY) in 2004...

The 18th of a month has never held any lasting or particular significance for me. No immediate family member or close friend has a birthday on that date. But now, every time the 18th of the month rolls around, it quietly marks another anniversary of the terrible day that you were so violently ripped from us. Will I ever be able to note that particular date without remembering?

A few days ago, on 18 May, we reached the three month mark. Only three months. Already three months! That's an entire season. Yet I still can't believe it. I still can't wrap my mind around the enormity of your loss. I still wake up every day and I am shocked anew when I remember that you're not here anymore. I still have to catch myself when I want to refer to you in the present tense. The shock still takes my breath away.

May has been a major month for anniversaries. On the 3rd, you would have celebrated your 45th birthday. My heartbroken sister baked you a cake (your son insisted that there should be a cake for you, so she really had little choice in the matter), and we sang "Happy Birthday" while trying our best not to choke up as he and his little sister leaned across the table and blew out the candles. I remembered how last year was the first time I had ever been able to give you a proper birthday gift and how horrifically sad I was when I went into the cellar and discovered that you had been saving it for a special occasion.

A few days before your birthday this year, you received an early posthumous birthday gift of sorts. The police caught two - I erroneously called them men before, but while they are male, they are definitely NOT men; more like yellow-bellied bastards - in connection with your murder. The one was actually nabbed for another crime, but then they found the weapon that you were shot to death with among his illegal arsenal. Based on that, and on the DNA evidence linking him and his buddy to your house, the judge denied them bail earlier this week. (We have not been to any of the hearings. My sister has no interest in having to look at any of them. For a nanosecond, I thought about going, but I just couldn't summon the will or the strength either.) A few weeks ago, they caught a third one. His hearing has been postponed until June. The others are still missing. Hiding? Running? Who knows.

On the 11th, it would have been my sister's and your tenth wedding anniversary. That night, I went to visit her as usual, and when I told her what you said and how you reacted last year when I reminded you of this notable date, she laughed through her tears and said: "That's so typical."

I wish you could come back. Life is too strange and depressing and muted without you.

(I should actually create a category called Extreme Puppy Love for this one. But before you roll your eyes and hiss at me, cat lovers; please retract those claws, because for once this is not about MY adoration for dogs. In fact, I have nothing on the person I’m about to tell you about.)

A distant relative of mine is a rocket scientist. Apart from the obvious brilliance his occupation requires, he also has a kind and gentle soul and a fondness for dogs.

His love for creatures of the canine persuasion is indiscriminate. He is not bogged down by technicalities such as pedigree or size. I found this out for myself a few years ago when he gave me a lift back from the town of By George! to Stellenbosch. His two dogs accompanied us on the trip, because the three of them had been on holiday together.

I remember the one dog in particular. His name was Jakkals (which is Afrikaans for ‘fox’), but Jakkals the dog did not resemble the sly and pointy-nosed species he was named after. Not even remotely. Maybe his name was ironic, or perhaps he had looked much different when he was a puppy. Doubtful, though. Like me, I suspect that Jakkals was also the runt of the litter, because the mature Jakkals that I got to meet had a perfectly rotund body that was precariously balancing on four disproportionately skinny legs. (Kind of like me! Except for the four  skinny legs part... I don't even have ONE skinny leg!)

Upon first glance, his lineage became perfectly clear: Jakkals was a purebred pavement special. It didn’t matter though, because one look into that odd-looking little mutt’s sweet brown eyes and my heart was stolen.

Throughout the four hour drive (which actually took longer due to bad weather), I reached back frequently and petted him and the other dog. When they finally dropped me off at my sister’s that night, I said my goodbyes, thanked him for the lift and went on my way.

A few weeks ago I ran into that very same relative at the grocery store. We had not seen each other in more than a year. “How are you? And how are the doggies?”

His expression immediately changed. “Haven’t you heard? They’ve both died.”

I felt so horrible for him. Those dogs were like children to him! I reached out and squeezed his arm. “I’m SO sorry to hear that!”

“Yes, thanks,” he said. “They were both old, but still… I miss them terribly. Especially Jakkals.”

Suddenly he smiled a bit. “But you know, after Jakkals died, I had to go overseas for a satellite launch.”

Aww, I thought to myself. So the poor, grieving man immediately and bravely plunged back into his work. “Good for you!” I said.

“Yes, I had saved some of his fur and took it along. And while putting the finishing touches on the satellite before the launch, I attached it to the satellite.”

"Wait... you attached the FUR?" I wasn't sure that I had heard him correctly.

He nodded, squinted up at the Stellenbosch sky and solemnly said: “So now, twice every day, a little piece of Jakkals orbits by here, looking down on us!”

I was immediately so overcome… with the giggles. In my mind's eye, I saw the satellite, completely covered in dog fur. Luckily I managed to scrounge together enough decency and self-control to at least hold my laughter until I was in my car.

 Bow-WOW! Jakkals had gone from being an underdog in life, to being a posthumous astrodog! I always knew that the pup had it in (or shall we rather say on?) him to end up among the stars…

And I don’t think too many other dog owners will ever be able to match – let alone top – such a send-off for their dogs!

 

I told my sister.

I still hadn't made up my mind as to whether I should or not by the time I arrived there, but my crocodile eyes were uncooperative. Hours after the few (okay, many) tears I had shed, they were still virtually swollen shut. And I know from experience that trying to convince my sister that IamdoingjustsplendidlythanksandwhatredeyeswhatareyouTALKINGabout while trying to peer at her through telltale slits would be as futile as trying to look like a movie star whenever I cry. You know what I'm talking about. You see it in any drama and even in a few romantic comedies. When they zoom in on the actress's flawless makeup, the tears clinging to her impossibly long (and still perfectly mascara'd), quivering lashes like glittering jewels, making the leading man's heart melt and causing him to lean in, gently brushing her tear-streaked cheeks with his lips or fingers.

Why oh why do I look so horrid not only during crying jags, but for almost DAYS afterwards? Even waterproof mascara can't survive the destruction of all make-up during my melodramatic sobbing spells. You know how television news always capture women in war torn countries? Women who have just lost their entire families in senseless violence and who are wailing loudly, making otherwordly, primal sounds while desperately tearing their hair out and clawing at their clothes?

They have nothing on me when I weep. When I get going, I surpass even that which Oprah Winfrey refers to as "the ugly cry".

So before she could even ASK me what was wrong, I simply blurted out the whole story. And started crying again in the retelling. (Hey, I laugh at my own jokes, so I'm almost compelled to cry during the telling of my own sob stories in order to keep things fair and balanced.)

Her immediate reaction was laughter. Not at me, bless her. (She doesn't laugh at my jokes, so laughing at my sob stories is probably also just part of keeping the equilibrium.) But because the entire situation was so preposterous.

Then she asked: "Why didn't you tell me last night, when she was still here?" (Aww, I think this is the grown-up version of her wanting to beat up my playground bullies!)

THEN she told me that the girl was 1.) Drunk anyway.

"Which only makes people say what they really think!" I wailed.

And then she told me that the girl was 2.) Not... Well, let's just say that she wasn't quite as forthcoming to me about her own life and about what she is doing.

(Okay, here it is. I can TOTALLY not keep it to myself. That girl? The one who has told me that I should really become a bit more independent!? SHE IS TOTALLY NOT EVEN STUDYING RIGHT NOW! Hasn't done ANYTHING, in fact, for YEARS! Which is why she is putting pressure on my brother-in-law's friend to propose to her, because apparently her extremely rich daddy is now finally getting impatient with his 30-year old daughter's lack of drive and would really like her to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE ALREADY! And hey, what better way to do that than to get a husband, right?)

So yes, I'm over it. Okay, my over-it-ness didn't, admittedly, happen immediately. When I finally stopped crying, I got angry at her audacity. Then I thought of all the things I SHOULD have said to her:

"Okay, so how about I remove all my vital internal organs. After performing the DIY (of COURSE!) surgery on myself, I would simply continue living. WOULD THAT BE INDEPENDENT ENOUGH FOR YOU?"

(And that is really all I came up with to say. My sister said I should have said: "Wow! Thank you for such stellar life advice! Especially since you are such a fine example of independence yourself! So I really value your unasked for counsel!")

Then my dear sis reminded me how I didn't even ask for the car.

And then we had coffee and cake and lived happily ever after...

Seriously though, I do know why her words stung me so much and so deeply. During my last years in the States, as I slowly sunk into the depths of a bleak, all-consuming depression, one of the first and most important things I lost a grasp on was my independence. And I've had to work HARD to get it back. (Still working on it, in fact, every single day.) And I will be the FIRST to admit that I would never, ever, ever have been able to do it without my family's help.

I love them.   

Just returned from a dinner party at my sister's and brother-in-law's and I'm so upset that I'm in tears.

No, not at the family. The dinner was lovely as always, the company was stellar and apart from this one girl whom I had never met before, I am acquainted with everyone else who was there.

I actually like(d?) her. Spent a long time chatting to her because she and her boyfriend were the first guests to arrive and since my sister was still getting ready, I kept her company.

She spent the whole evening talking about herself. I didn't mind, because I thought she was interesting. I'm only mentioning that she was talking about herself because of what happened so entirely out of the blue later on.

Before I get to that, here's something else that has happened to me over these past two weeks (it's related to this story). My little old car almost died last week. The mechanic managed to resurrect it for an incredible amount of money (which, luckily, I was able to afford at the time), but my brother-in-law worried that it was on its last wheels and that I would get stranded somewhere. So he went out and bought me a slightly new(er) car!!! Same make but considerably less vintage than the other one. Got it at a great price, but I've already worked out a plan to pay him back every single cent. AND I'm giving him all the money from the sale of the old car, since he had initially bought that one too and I had never been in a position to pay him back for it.

Anyway, so over the course of the evening, people came up to me and remarked about my "hot new wheels" (it really is, to me! I drove it for the first time on Thursday) and so at some point - and since it's no secret that my brother-in-law paid for it - I said: "Yes, don't I have the BEST brother-in-law?"

So this girl, whom I had been listening to all evening, and who knows nothing about me apart from the fact that I freelance and that I'm 34 years old  - turns back to me when we are alone again and says: "You know, you really ought to be more independent. I mean, at some point they are going to get sick of helping you."

I was so gobsmacked, because: She had just spent the entire evening telling me how she, at 30, was living with her parents again. Who is paying for her to study. Again. (She had attempted the university/studying thing plenty of times before but had never figured out what she wanted to do, so she never bothered to finish anything. And I had just spent the whole evening telling her how interesting that makes her!)

I was honestly so taken aback that I didn't even say anything back to her. So I just... didn't. (Luckily the party moved to the kitchen for coffee right around then, so I started speaking to someone else.) But the more I thought about it, the more upset I became. So much so that later, when I was driving home, I totally burst into tears.

I'm still crying a bit (writing is helping though), but now I'm getting a bit more angry. Now I'm asking myself where she gets off for making such a judgement about me. How DARE she? She had never even laid eyes on me before tonight, and most of our conversation had revolved around her and her life (which I seriously didn't mind! As I've said, I found her fascinating, and hey, since I'm not exactly a poster child for success in life, career or love, I am the last person to judge anyone else), so where exactly did her remarks come from?

Now of course... and I hate this about myself... the self-doubt starts to niggle at me again. That horrid voice starts to whisper. It asks: "Well, if there are no truth to her words, why are you so bothered and hurt by it?"

Well, we all know the answer to that, don't we? We all know that I HAVE relied on my family a lot since returning, tail-between-the-legs, humiliated and with absolutely NOTHING to my name from the States three years ago. But, in my own feeble defence, I've come a long way since those early days. I'm working. I live alone (yes, still in my humble little room, but at least I pay my own rent and I buy my own food and coffee). Yes, measured against other people my age, I know I fall WAY short in terms of possessions, savings, etc. But then again, what DOES constitute success exactly? Who determines it? Isn't the fact that I'm doing a job that I absolutely love and adore enough? That I'm living my passion? That I'm truly content to be by myself? That I've made strides to cultivate this independence?

Yes, bastard voice in my head. A few years ago I definitely was NOT independent. But dammit, now I am. Yes, my family still helps me an unspeakable amount, but it's considerably less than it was when I first returned home.

But still, I'm so, so, so hurt by her stupid remarks. And now the doubt is creeping in that I'm still not enough of anything and that I will never, ever be. 

She totally got to me.

*Edited to say: I am so ashamed. The first time around, I linked to the WRONG BLOG! (I guess that kind of makes us even now? Naah, I'll still delight in tarnishing her reputation as a novice blogger by associating her with the likes of me!)

**Edited yet again to say: And now the title of this blog post isn't even applicable anymore, because she has changed her blogging name to Silverspoon! (She had to, there was already a Foodjunkie on on the FoodBlogs.24.)

The foodjunkie first popped up in my comments box circa 2005.

I could tell from the e-mail address that it was someone from my 'real life'. It was such a pleasant surprise to discover that she was actually reading this. (Well, yes, her, or ANYONE really.)

I was still in the United States at that time, and had not seen her in a number of years.

Now I'm back in South Africa and we see each other often.

Still, I'm thrilled that she has finally decided to start a blog!

I would tell you that we are related, her and I, but no one would believe me. She's far prettier, for one. Also, people can't believe that a girl who can cook as amazingly well as she does, can POSSIBLY share DNA with the likes of one who manages to burn water. (Me, in case you need a reminder.)

Then again, perhaps it's high time that I avenge the fact that I was already notorious by association when I entered high school, thanks to this very sister of mine!

P.S. I'm so glad nothing newsworthy seems to be going on anywhere in the world. I can't think of any other conceivable reason for one of my blog entries ending up on MSN South Africa again!

Since returning to South Africa two and a half years ago, I have been spending most of my Saturday nights exclusively with one guy.

WhadoyouMEAN "poor guy"?!?

The lucky (LUCKY, I tell you!) guy is my now 5-year old nephew.

One Saturday night last year, just before he turned four, I went over to my sister's to babysit him.

My brother-in-law and sister had taken to sneaking out of the house, because sitting him down and explaining to him why he couldn't go along to eat at the grown-up, boring restaurant where they serve the EXTREMELY gross food, simply turned into infinite and exhaustive debates. ("But you make me eat the gross food here." "No, but it is SO gross there at the restaurant, only the daddies eat it." Etc.) Which usually ended in tears. (Mostly my sister's. Yes, the mommies always seem to crack first!)

They quietly left while I distracted him with a toy. As soon as he heard the garage door open, he realised what was happening and began screaming his head off.

"WHERE ARE THEY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOING?" He angrily sobbed while flinging his tiny body against my legs.

Tears spilled from his big brown eyes and formed slick, jagged paths down his chubby cheeks. Dressed in his pajamas and clutching his raggedy toy lion, he was a heart-wrenching sight. I bent down and hugged him to my chest. Within seconds, my shoulder was soaked with his tears. "Shhhh, sweetie! It's okay, I'm here with you and I'm not going anywhere!" I tried to soothe him as I stroked the soft, baby curls on his head.

"Yes, I know," he said through his sobs, and just as I was smiling smugly at my super-human ability to comfort him, he wailed: "SO HOW COULD THEY LEAVE US KIDS HERE AT HOME ALL ALOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE?"

Of course, I'd like to think of that incident as a reflection of my youthful appearance and NOT my level of (im?)maturity.

And come tomorrow, I will proudly put the four in thirty-four!

Our fathers who art on Earth

Varied be thy names: Pa, Paw, Papa, Pops,

Da, Dad, Daddy, Daddy-o, Old Man, Sir

Thy day has come

Therefore thy will shall be done at home as at thine office

We’ll cook thee today thine daily burnt toast

And give thee cheap socks and ties

As we give thee each and every Christmas

And thy will kiss us

And lead us to believe that thy love it

But deliver it to the back of thine sock drawers and closets

For, whether deadbeat, hands on, pushover, strict, wealthy, pauper,

CEO or stay-at-home

Thy art our kings

With the power

To change light-bulbs

Making thee forever more than mere men

My mom to my aunt: Here's the money I owe you.

My aunt: I don't want to take it now. Give it to me later.

My mom: I'll forget.

My aunt: Forget what?

My mom: I don't know. I can't remember.