Recently in Re(d)latives Category

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.

About a year ago, while I was still busy illegal alienating and expatriating myself abroad, my mom sent me an e-mail in which she casually mentioned that she had taken up a new hobby.

I was immediately wary, because when my sisters and I were little, some of my mom’s hobbies had included activities that some might have viewed as being a bit odd for a seemingly sweet and innocent young mother of four young girls.

Like target shooting.

Scarier still was the poor buggers targets they shot at, and the fact that my mom won the trophy for best shot in the entire district several years in a row! If the people in the small town where we grew up had been any more clued up about musicals and theatrical references, my mom, with her red hair, surely would have been nicknamed Annie Oakley.

Needless to say, I was almost too afraid to ask what on earth she had decided was stimulating enough to take up in order to liven up her retirement age.

“Painting.” She replied.

“Painting what?” I asked, still suspicious. “Houses? Skyscrapers?” And then, a terrifying and therefore very likely thought occurred to me: “Bridges and overpasses? Oh, no, Mom! Please tell me that you have NOT decided to become a graffiti artist!”

She laughed. “No, you silly girl! Painting, as in art!”

“OH!” My relief must’ve been evident. And since my mom had until then never even drawn a picture in her life, I added, in what I thought was a suitably encouraging tone but probably ended up sounding more like an adult does whenever looking at a toddler’s art works: “That’s very nice, Mom. Send me some of your pictures!”

“Mom’s painting.” My sister e-mailed me a few months later.

“Yes, I’ve heard. That’s so cute.” I replied, half distracted.

And then I promptly forgot about my mom’s artistic endeavours.

Until my return to South Africa on Christmas Day last year.

Jet-lagged and traumatised, I arrived at my sister’s house.

And saw this:

My poor mom.

For the first years of my life, on a daily basis, she looked forward to the day she would finally be able to kick me out of the nest. Towards my thirteenth year, she nearly succeeded in accomplishing that by pushing me out of the nest and sending me to boarding school.

After a year and a semester out of the nest, my desperation to return to my mom was so great, I managed to sneak my way back up the tree and into the nest.

My mom relented, and so for the remainder of my high school and college years, I held the title envied by thousands of boarding school students the world over: that of ‘Day Scholar.’

Every day, upon our release from classes, the boarders were sent back to the dark corridors of chilly, inhospitable hostels, where they were held captive by strictly regimented increments of time enforced by an army of prefects, the most unpleasant and frustrated teachers and the shrill scream of a bell: Fifteen minutes for lunch... BELL! Fifteen minutes rest and relaxat... BELL! Three hours for homework....... BELL! Fifteen minutes to shower... BELL! Fifteen minutes for dinner... BELL! Four hours of homework...... BELL! Lights out... BELL!

Whereas I, who happened to for once in my life be a part of the crème de la crème, the elite, the most revered and envied DAY SCHOLARS, were picked up by boyfriends or parents (or in my case, the city bus) and then we made our different ways through the tree-lined suburban streets back to the comforts and coziness of our mothers’ nests.

In my third year of college, at the dawn of my turbulent twenties, followed by a rather firm push on my backside by my mom, I was sent fluttering out of the nest yet again. One would think I would’ve gotten the message then, yes? But nooooo. Not me.

For, after not even a year out in the wild, in my own chaotic little rented nest in which I was a very bewildered dweller, I managed to claw my way back up the tree and into the safe haven of my mom’s nest yet again.

However, before I could even scratch out a comfortable corner for myself, my mom gave what she thought would be the final push. In a moment of brilliance and ingenuity, she decided that since I was clearly never going to leave, SHE would. Not only that, but she’d sell the nest out from under me so that I would have no CHOICE but to leave as well.

That’s how I ended up in that petrol-scented nest I wrote about here.

And my mom’s plan worked, because after leaving THAT rental nest, I finally and quite literally flew. All the way to the United States.

Here it is a decade later, and what do you know? I have yet again found my way back to my mom’s cozy nest.

I’m rather interested to see how she is going to try and get rid of me this time, but just in case she mistakes my curiosity for a challenge – a challenge she’ll readily accept, I should add – I’m not going to tell HER that!

The other day, whilst talking to an English-speaking friend, my mom proudly told her about this blob I have which can be found on the internet.

A little later, as my mom and above-mentioned friend were discussing my immediate career prospects (or lack thereof), my mom, in a serious tone, said: "I think it's time for Red to set herself some goal posts."

(P.S. In case my mom happens to read this particular blob post, I have to add that she really REALLY does speak fluent English.)