Yes Man No Woman

I had a NO week. 

In my line of work - being an executive assistant - it often falls to me to say "No" to people who are making proposals or asking for favours or wanting some of my manager's precious time. 

I had to say "No" a lot this week. 

Dear Sir, we unfortunately will not be advertising in your magazine at this time. 

Dear Madam, the decision has been made that we will not be participating in this trade exchange at this time. 

Dear Madam, we are unfortunately not in the position to sponsor a gift for your high tea. We do wish you all the best. 

Dear Sir, we will not be listing on your website this year. 

Dear Sir, after some consideration, we will not be utilising your services to increase our company's SEO.

Dear Madam, as we already have a service provider assisting us with this, we will not be taking you up on your proposal. 

No.

No.

NO. 

NO.

NO.

I was never really at good at saying "no" before,  but it's gotten to a point where I can pretty much turn someone down without feeling so terrible now. I guess it's just my job. Someone is doing their job, I'm doing my job, and it's sometimes my job to say that their job and my job are not going to be done together. In other words, "No."

But the best part of my job is when someone comes to me with a proposal or an idea so exciting, so innovative, so too-good-to-be-true awesome that I cannot wait to shove it under my manager's nose and say "Look, look, look what I found, isn't it friggin amazing!?! Can we do it, can we do it, can we, can we, can we???"... and those are the moments I live for at work, the moments that make all the No's worthwhile.... that moment that I can leap from from my chair, throw my hands in the air,  and cry out to the heavens "YES!!!!!"

Yup... I love my job. I luh-huuuuv my job. 

Lunch Thoughts: Angels...

Filled with a sense of wonder today, and for some odd reason, just a knowledge that we are spiritual. And we live in a spiritual realm, as much as we live in the physical.

I was trying to leave work yesterday, and for some reason, my brain was just a scrambled mess. I picked up one bag, and realized I hadn’t packed something. Put it down. Picked up the wrong thing. Put it down. Grabbed my keys and fidgeted for a second, put my keys down, grabbed another bag, and struggled with a zip. Realized the thing I wanted to pack was underneath this bag. Fumbled with the bag and the thing and the blasted thing wouldn’t fit into the bag. Unpacked the whole bag and re-packed it. Got the thing to fit. Fidgeted with my keys and carried on packing various things in various bags. Stopped to apply some lip balm and grab a mint. I gave an exasperated sigh at my ditzy behaviour, scratched my head and finally piled my bags over my shoulder.

Got to my car and received a text message. Took a minute to reply. Finally! I got going.

On my way home, my Dad called to tell me to avoid a portion of the highway because of an enormous and tragic accident that had literally just happened… I was about 2 minutes from the accident site.

This morning I was listening to a sermon where the pastor was talking about his experience with angels, having encountered more than a few in his life. He spoke about he had seen his prayers move angels – that he would speak the word of God, and angels would begin flurrying about carrying out God’s will.

Any funny enough, I’m sitting having lunch and lo and behold my iPod plays a song called “Fly”, by JasonUpton, which allegedly holds the recording of an angel singing toward the end of the song. (I’m a believer)

And so, I am filled with a sense of wonder, because it suddenly occurs to me that I was running late yesterday because that was God’s will. A chill runs over me, as I think about what could have happened, had I left on time and very possibly been involved in that high-speed horrific accident. My card isn’t up yet, and there are angels in the spiritual world, charging back and forth, to and fro, obediently and fervently obeying the God that Loves us, and making it their business to keep me alive.

Wow. Really? Me?

I’m not an angel-chaser, but it is pretty cool to be reminded that I serve the God who charges angel armies in my favour. What shall I fear? 

Indeed, what shall I fear?

P.S. In the video I shared, the angel is heard clearly at 5 minutes 50 seconds - sound technicians were unable to find the source of this beautiful tenor / soprano voice, as it came from Jason Upton's mic. A young boy in the audience spoke to a sound technician during the performance, claiming to have seen a very large man appear behind Jason Upton during the course of this lovely song. 
Believe it, don't believe it. Only God knows.

Rant of the Day: Have a Nice Day. (Not)

Dear Small-Minded Bigot driving a Mercedes,

You picked the wrong person, on the wrong day, lady.

I was more than comfortable driving just less than 130km/h on the Krugersdorp highway this morning. And yes, I was in the fast lane, because that’s the speed most of us do in the fast lane. It’s faster than the limit, but just slow enough to stay out of trouble. But you came along, pig-headed and self-righteous and had a cadenza that I wasn’t driving in the “slow” lane.

Imagine that. I don’t want to drive in the slow lane, getting stuck behind those who prefer to travel at 90km/h, so that idiots like you can go… ooooh, what, 140km/h??

So you veered around me on the left and made a scene about it. Oh I hope you’re regretting that now.

I let you get ahead a little. For a short while, let you bask in how “right” you were to put me in my place. But it gave me pinch of pleasure when just touching the accelerator of my modest Toyota brought me more than up to speed with you. Funny how it is when the tables turn… what, you don’t want to drive 200km/h???! WELL I DO, SO GET OUT OF MY WAY!!!!!

No you wouldn’t do that, and I’m not one to overtake on the left. That would be pig-headed.

See, you don’t know me, lady. You don’t know that I didn’t get any sleep last night. You don’t know my heart’s aches, the frustrations I’m facing, the demons I fight every day. You don’t know that I’m listening to my heaviest metal today to try calm me down. You don’t know that I’m a psychopath with a handgun beneath my seat and I’m waiting for someone like you to push me… Just. Too. Far.

I’m not a psychopath, but you don’t know that.

It gave me a much bigger pinch of pleasure that my route to work allowed me to follow you for a good long while. That I could follow you closely, imitating your every manoeuvre, all the while staying just close enough to glare at you in your review mirror. I was glad to see that at the four-way stop, you left a massive gap in front of you and that you accelerated for all your million-rand car was worth to get some space between us. I hope you were afraid. Oh I do hope so.

More than anything, I hope you will think twice before you are such a bully to someone else on the road, someone you don’t know.

You probably won’t change, but one can hope.

Ok. I’m over it.

You have a nice day now. 

Epic Soundtracks and Butterflies, Butterflies Everywhere!

Picture my morning: It is 07h55. I’ve had my breakfast – a mixture of cereals and yoghurt – my husband is already charging around the garden outside “sorting stuff out”, as he usually does on Saturday mornings. I am tidying the kitchen and washing the morning dishes, peering out a window that overlooks the back yard.

I’m feeling musical this morning, so I already have my iPod hooked up to my lumo-pink Shox speaker, and I’ve selected the Pearl Harbor soundtrack. I hit ‘Play’, and immerse my hands in the dishwater, scrubbing absent-mindedly at a sticky coffee cup. Outside, my husband continues to charge, back and forth, back and forth.

 To this day, I cannot listen to this soundtrack, without becoming at least slightly choked up... The sound of Faith Hill’s smooth vocals rises from my iPod, and suddenly I am all too aware of the moment. Dishes forgotten, my mind is outside. It is a glorious day. I hate that the phrase “glorious day” has been so over-used and clichéd, because this truly is a glorious morning. Not a cloud in the sky, grass as green and fluffy as… well, grass… the trees heavy-laden with leaves and Summer… and today is particularly glorious because it is the first day of our local white butterflies.

I’m not sure what to call them… South Africans will know this: once a year, from somewhere in the great outdoors, millions and millions of white butterflies take flight from their cocoons all at once, as if in some conspiracy to redecorate the world, spreading beauty and purity across the countryside for days, weeks at a time. Go outside, look around, and if you’re lucky enough to live in such a blessed region, your outside will be a-flutter with pulsating white life…

So yes, I’m having a very girly morning, after my very girly moment. The combination of the soundtrack and the magnificent summer outdoors had my insides all bubbly and googly, and I was momentarily overwhelmed by the urge to abandon the dishes, and rush outside to join in with nature’s festivities. The word “frolic” comes to mind. “Prance”. Oh, if only I were a fairy-tale, free to frolic among the butterflies, grass between my toes, untouched sapphire skies rising triumphantly overhead…

Have you ever imagined an eight-month pregnant lady frolicking in the garden? I have – imagined it, that is – it’s a disturbing image. It involves terrified butterflies fleeing the scene in haphazard panic, indented-grass footprints making drunken paths across the back yard, and the pregnant fairy most likely landing a podgy foot in a large landmine of doggy-doo.

There are certain things that one should not attempt while pregnant. Such as a frolicking. Or riding on the back of a superbike. (definitely not with curlers and slippers)

Right. Glorious day. Back to the dishes – it’s safer to dream these dreams in my head, where they can maintain some dignity. 

Just another example of the way life has it's soundtracks... when you find that perfect song for that perfect time, a moment so mundane can be brought so very much alive. I may not have frolicked, but in my head and and my heart... I did. Music is magical. 

(Some personal history on this soundtrack... In 2001, producer Jerry Bruckheimer released one of hollywood's greatest war films, Pearl Harbor - with it's compelling story, characters both charming and flawed, convincing actors and actresses, and a haunting soundtrack so inspired and so utterly beautiful... This is one of my favourite movies, and a soundtrack that I shared with my BFF during our Hans-Zimmer-crazed teen years. Good times. 

If you haven't watched the movie, you have missed one of Hollywood's finest moments. I recommend it, with a box of tissues.)

All the Small Things

What happens when you push yourself, and stop listening to the subtle messages that your body sends you to "stop"?

You land up in hospital for eight days, followed by an order to take up bed-rest thereafter.

Well, maybe not for everyone, but that's what happened to me a few weeks ago. At 32 weeks pregnant, I finally crashed and burned one Sunday, and we made a hasty trip to the maternity ward to discover that I was in preterm labour. Long story short... I am now 35 weeks pregnant (phew!) and on strict orders to rest, with baby girl growing healthy and stronger every day.

Thing is, when you find yourself stuck in a place like a hospital (or a prison, I imagine) unexpectedly, with all your personal comforts suddenly taken from you, you come to appreciate all the small things (and some big things) that you didn't even think twice about beforehand. As if life somehow owes you those things upfront, like oxygen and sustenance. During my eight days incarceration, and on the day of my homecoming, I came up with a list of things that I will never again take for granted, some of which I thought to share....

Tweezers. A week in hospital without tweezers, and I closely resembled the hairy James P. Sullivan from Monsters Inc. This was my first act of homecoming - to re-shape my eyebrows and sigh in satisfaction at the mirror. Followed by a gloriously close shave with a non-disposable razor... It was heavenly.

James P. Sullivan, AKA "Sully" - Monsters Inc.

Yep that's what I looked like, don't judge me.

Music. There is no music in hospital. The nurse's badly-chosen ringtone does not count. I eventually figured out that if I kept the TV above me on, tuned to a movie channel, I could catch the ten minutes of music played during every movie credit roll. Yes, I actually did this, such was my desperation. I watched a lot of junk for those ten minutes...
On my homecoming, I put on a favourite music album... and nearly cried for the beauty of it.

The smell of home. You know what I mean - that mixture of scents and fragrances that you know as yours, almost as though you and your loved ones have unintentionally marked this territory as 'home'. On the day of my return from hospital, I came into the house via the garage. It smelled of my husband's greasy rags and the petrol lawnmower. I took a deep, desperate-for-more breath - it was the scent of "welcome home".

Waking up with someone you know and love. Poking my husband for snoring, fighting over bed space, listening to him breathing... what a joy to wake up next to him every morning.

The Silences. A familiar wind rustling familiar leaves just outside my very own window. The hum of my own ceiling fan, and the creepy house-noises I've come to recognize. Strictly speaking, these are sounds, not silences, but after eight days of trolleys, beeping machines, and clanging trays... these are the sounds of Silence.

My breakfast ritual. One WeetBix stick. A dessert spoon of whole linseeds. Two dessert spoons of All-Bran flakes. One sliced banana. Loads of milk. Yum, and a very happy tummy... I've realized that I am such a creature of habit - I missed my daily breakfast so much that I actually had it for lunch on my first day back home.

Normal chatter. However well-meaning it may be, "How are you feeling?" becomes a tiresome topic of discussion. I feel tired and sore and scared and annoyed to be in hospital. But I don't want to get you down, so I'm going to smile and and say "Oh fine, better than yesterday". Since being back home, normal small-talk has been resumed. So-and-so's dog's strange behaviour. What's-his-name's new Christmas tree. The latest specials at Pick n Pay. It's La-di-da's birthday today, did you wish him? Tell me something, anything. It all matters, no matter how mundane.

Variety. I came home, and desperately wanted to be in every room of the house, all at once. From being confined to one bed and a drip all week,  I wanted to sit and breathe in the languid stillness of the bedroom; flop onto the horribly uncomfortable lounge couch; prepare tea in the homely mess of our sprawled-out kitchen; sniff the towels in the bathroom that smell of showers and fresh soap...


In a nutshell, it is great to be home. There's no place like it. You should think about your life, your home, your loved ones, your little habits, your surroundings... and take the time to enjoy them. When I got married, my amazing, wise brother gave me the best advice about my wedding day: he said, "Stop often. Look around, listen, and just take some time to enjoy that moment of your wedding day. Otherwise, it will go so fast, you won't remember anything."

The same could be said of life in general: Stop often. Look around, listen and take some time to enjoy that moment of your life. Do it, fellow inhabitants of this planet. You will regret missing all the small things in life far more than wasting a few moments to experience it.

Forget Your Lips

I had a bad Monday today. A murderous one.

Circumstances weren't great to start with, but do you know the worst part of the day?

Me.
My suckie attitude.
And that fact that I was stuck with me the whole day.

And as I was driving home this evening, I heard a song on my iPod that really slapped me on the wrist, particularly the phrase:

"Forget your words;

It's what you do - that is what you say."

(The Little Things - Musician: Shaun Jacobs) 

I realized, listening to such simple wisdom, what a rotten example of patience and kindness and joy I'd been today. Sure, people are people, and people have 'bad days', but man... today I failed!

As usual, my mind wondered completely off-track, and I was thinking about quiet times, prayer,  reading the Bible, worship... I was pondering about the best time to have quiet times, and how it affects my day. You see, certain circumstances have recently forced me to re-locate my usual morning quiet time to evening, and it occurred to me...

My morning quiet times used to serve as a peaceful, positive start to my day. I'm fresh, I commit my day to God and ask for His help.

My evening quiet times seem to now serve more as a remorseful time of repentance for all the foul-tempered and stressed-out things I did and said all day.

Circumstances won't likely change soon - I have to find a way to make this work for me.... without slipping up every single day. Hmm.

Anyways, just some random thoughts, Dear World, and for those who crossed my path today, I hope you'll forgive my blind hooting and crazy-eyed lunacy...

Tomorrow is another day, and I sincerely pray my actions will speak far kinder words than they did today.

Pregnancy: The Answers

What's it like?
How's it been?
How do you feel?

These are some of the most common questions that I have encountered in the last several months, all in response to the sight of my enormous, and apparently adorable, belly. At 29 weeks, our baby girl is now a very obvious protrusion from my mid-section, and I often find myself short on words to describe what it's like... how it's been... and how I feel....
This may be a problem related to porridge brain, which I have already described here, but when asked about something so hugely life-changing, in such a tiny context as 'small-talk'... Well, you may as well ask scientist to briefly explain string theory in one short sentence. I wouldn't know where to start, and so I usually just end it with, "Oh, it's been fine!"

So here's the story...

We discovered I was pregnant at 5 weeks, some time in early June. I didn't have any symptoms, except a 'niggly feeling', which was confirmed by a disgustingly cheap over-the-counter pee-on-a-stick-and-wait-for-the-pink-lines test. I always imagined I'd find out I was pregnant with the use of an expensive digital test that sang "Hallelujah" when it turned positive - the cheap ones had let me down so many times before. But on that particular day, not a single digital test could be found, and the only one I could find was a midstream test that cost all of eleven South African Rands. (Americans, that's about one US dollar; Europeans, you're looking at less than one Euro) How revolting. I purchased two, to make myself feel better about accuracy.

Hubby and I had been trying to fall pregnant for around 2 years, and at the beginning of this year, I made the conscious decision to "live my life". I made peace that I did not have a baby, and so I stopped living as though I 'might' be pregnant. I started drinking full-blown coffee again, caffeine and all. I took up hiking with a local club, braving 13km hikes around the beautiful mountain ranges just outside the city.... I did not shy away from exciting activities, late nights, and bad food. I had decided that what I wanted for my birthday in August was a 6-hour caving experience in the nearby Sterkfontein Caves. I was looking at my bucket list and had decided that this year, I would start ticking off the adventures.

So much for that.

And that's why its often said that when you stop trying so very hard, and just get on with your life, that's when it happens. It's almost inconvenient in it's timing. And since that glorious Saturday in June, it has been the most wonderful and awful rollercoaster experience. The highs giving you views and thrills you could never have dreamed of, the lows bringing your stomach and heart leaping into your throat, making you want to swallow hard and smile bravely for those around you.

I felt our baby girl move for the first time at 17 weeks. This is supposedly early for a first flutter, but not entirely unlikely for someone of my size. It was magical. I was at my desk at work, facing my computer. It was a tiny poke in my lower abdomen, and then it stopped. All I could do was sit and grin and hope for more.
And more there shall be. At around 20 weeks, baby girl's movements had grown strong enough to tickle her mum, and I'd find myself jumping and giggling at random intervals... only hoping that no one notices and has me certified.
There's been plenty more since the first flutter, with our baby girl now wriggling and squirming all day long. I love watching my belly move - it really is more entertaining than anything on television, although that's not saying much, considering all the crap that's on TV these days.

Which brings me to my next thought... my recent zero-tolerance for crap. Funny, most information sources describe the first trimester as the most 'moody'. I can't even remember my first trimester, such was the exhaustion and fatigue, but I would have to say that this last month, the beginning of the third trimester, has been the most challenging, as far as hormones go.

I have learned how irritating people really are. People who drive. People who send me emails. People who ask questions. People who tell stories. People who stand too close. People who phone me. People who can't make eye contact because they're so busy staring at my belly.  People who talk loudly. People who talk.  People who eat. People who breathe.

People.

The only kind of people who have recently not irritated me are those who either stay far away from me, those who approach quietly and with a hug, or those who approach with cake.

When pregnant, one is always asked about cravings. The answer for me: Orange juice. Chocolate. Salty snacks. Bananas. Milk. And no, I have not dunked my chocolate in orange juice and put it onto a salty cracker with sliced banana. Don't be ridiculous.

There's a first time for everything they say, and I'm discovering that many of those firsts fall within your last trimester of pregnancy. I snorted myself awake for the first time last week, for example. Apart from the fact that I found it truly hilarious and could barely keep from laughing out loud and raucously, I was fairly disgusted by the whole event.

And speaking of hilarity, it is said that pregnancy, while rendering you a slave to your mood swings, also blesses you with a sense of humour so profound, it's almost dangerous. Yesterday I was driving on one of our main roads, Hendrik Potgieter, and passed a most bizarre accident on the other side of the island: a very large tipping truck had miscalculated his height, had gotten himself wedged underneath a municipality sign post that extended right across the road. The tipping portion of the truck, which was mercifully empty at the time of the incident, was elevated at full tilt into the air, propped up firmly by the very-much-abused sign post.
Noting that there appeared to be no tragedies or injuries.... I found it absolutely ludicrous. I laughed until I cried. And then I got my breathe back and laughed some more. How very inappropriate of me.

Not to worry, I am paying for my sins in other ways...

My feet have started swelling up. People say, "Drink more water, and go to the loo more often." Short of drowning myself and taking up permanent residence on the porcelain throne, laptop and all... I do not foresee much change in this area.

I have started to sleep badly, the major problems being heartburn and a giant belly that feels like it goes "THUNK" whenever rolling over to the other side. No amount of pillow support seems to make a difference, and I imagine the only solution would be to find a way to fall asleep safely in a swimming pool. Baby-girl also has quite an opinion about my moving around at night, and makes it known with her own tossing and turning... I can't blame her, especially if my changing sides has caused her to land on her face, or something equally uncomfortable.

The fatigue has returned, which I was forewarned about in the third trimester.  I was reading an interesting fact the other day: A pregnant woman expends more energy lying on the couch than the average healthy man's work-out at gym. Take that, you men who don't understand! (Begin hormonal rant) Now we're not talking physical exertion per se, but we are talking energy, the essence that you use to move around and do stuff. Growing a baby is no walk in the park dudes. It's an exhausting affair with the sofa.

Among other things, there are challenges that non-pregnant people take for granted. Shaving your legs is one. Putting on shoes that have laces or buckles. Getting out bed. (Rather, rolling out of bed) Removing and applying nail polish to ugly toes. Seeing when your toes have become ugly. (seeing anything below the belly-button, for that matter) Increasing clumsiness, both as a result of the hormone 'relaxin', which softens ligaments, and as a result of not seeing where your feet are going...

...All these bizarre changes and experiences, which add up to the most miraculous and amazing thing: our baby girl growing right inside me. We were blessed with a wonderful baby shower last week, and something about that one event makes it so much more real. We've had the cot, the furniture, the linen, some basic necessities... but having all these wonderful people caring for this little girl, and all the amazing, cute little gifts showered on her... well, this just got real. Baby-girl is going to wear this dress, and those adorable little booties. She's going to need this fluffy blanket on a cold night, and she will wear her lime-green sunhat one summer's day.

Its a lot to take in, and combined with her kicks and wriggles.... I love being pregnant, swollen ankles and all.

So in a nutshell (a very large nut, if you will), being pregnant is an ultimate contradiction: the most un-glamorous, and the most beautiful experience a woman could go through.