Nominations and salutations…


You love me, you really love me! I am having yet another Sally Field moment.

I have been nominated for the R.E.A.L.I.T.Y. Blog Award.

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Yup – super awesome – super exciting – and slightly unbelievable, were I not so crazy and in love with my meds.

A certain gentleman saw it in his best interests to pass some good karma on … and ‘Whoop, there you have it!’ So I got a much appreciated nomination from David at …

TooFullToWrite

But first, as with any little test in life, there are questions to be answered – 5 to be exact. Oh, and I also have to give a heads up to about 8 other bloggers who earn their keep in the blogosphere.

Raait – questions first:

1) If you could change something what would you change?

Honestly – all the freaking re-runs on DSTV, in South Africa. It has become so bad that I have even lost interest in that show, nearest and dearest to my heart, ‘Toddler’s ‘n Tiaras.

Oh – and the economy – it really sucks to have your own small business right now.

2) If you could repeat an age, what age would it be?

34-36 yrs – I was extremely skinny, successful and unashamed to prance around on the beach in a cozzie.

3) What one thing really scares you?

That I may have to liquidate my business next year. And that the sheriff of the court will come and take my beloved Kudu couch. But, hey – I have said that I believe in fate. So, if this does happen, I am assuming that it would only be to make way for better things in the future? I tell myself this, while I drink copious amounts of chardonnay.

4) What one dream have you not completed yet and do you think you will be able to complete it?

I want to get paid for a published few words. I know it is just a matter of time before editors around the world realize my creative brilliance and shower me with plenty of US$’s. Alternatively, I want to win the Lotto.

5) If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be?

The blonde chick in ABBA – a real Super Trooper.

Mmmmm …. Who else is worthy of accolades and awards?

I follow a varied collection of bloggers, who all speak to me in their own special way. So, yay, give them a nomination, too!!! Such as:

1)    The Fat Diaries – loves the sound of her own voice, and a bit antagonizing at times.

2)      http://easyweimaraner.wordpress.com/ – The world according to a Weimeraner (and I have 2) Good pic’s, dog logic – all rolled into one.

3)      The Stiletto Mum – for keeping a ‘Secret Santa’ for bloggers and similar types – up and running for the 2nd year in a row. Can’t wait for my prezzie!

4)      Bipolarmoms – Coz I know where you are coming from, sista.

5)      The Vanilla Duck – what a freaking cool name – and she does stuff that is quite close to my domestic psyche and oven door.

6)      Rebecca – Lady or not here I come. And that she does. Extremely popular, what with her WTF Fridays and Beccasisms. Funny as hell.

7)      reluctantmom – Straight outta Parow. A bit anal at times – but really, the quintessential Mommy Blogger. Good photographer, when she feels like it. And has been to Franschoek

8)      Androgoth – ‘cos he is a bit naughty. When you are on his blog, you get that same guilty feeling as when your mom caught you reading a Jilly Cooper novel during study time in the 80’s.

So there you have it – a selection from the Scratch Patch. Have a look, you may be pleasantly surprised, or frightfully revolted.

There’s a sleeping pill with my name on it.

Schweet dreams….

https://rosfromscratch.wordpress.com

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Secret Santa and the Stinking bank


Those local yokels in SA will know that the Saffer Blogs that are worth their Christmas in Candy, have entered http://thestilettomum.wordpress.com/ Secret Santa Campaign.

I am thrilled to say that I received the name of the aunty on whom I shall be bestowing a jolly gift, this festive season. And I know exactly what to buy … and where.

On a more sombre note – today I wrote a stinking letter of disgust to the CEO of a National Bank. (Not FNB, Not ABSA, Not Standard, Not Capitec.)

I am pissed. I am sick of listening to freaking ad campaigns on the radio declaring their interest and dedication in helping small businesses in this rainbow nation of ours. How they care and understand. How they want to help you and your employees and your investors. EVERYDAY – every hour.

Bull – sH%t – twot.

F$%king useless.

I feel a nice little complaint to the banking ombudsman coming on.

Franschoek – you can make it all better.

No. Really.

Have reverted to watching a 5x rerun of Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s. It is that bad.

Green eggs and Spam.


“This product is really amazing, fits your mind nicely, comfortable, it doesn’t provide headache since the device squeezes your mind too tight.”

This little gem popped up in my spam queue. Talk about ‘Eloquently Wasted!’

10 000 Cupcake sprinkles to the first one who guesses what product was being punted ..

Is it:

1) A mind-altering drug;

2) Headache tablets;

3) A wig;

4) An Aerobics sweatband (think ‘Fame’);

5) A swimming cap;

6) A condom;

7) An eight-year-old’s Alice band;

8) sunglasses or bi-focals;

9) A turkey – with all the trimmings;

10) A mullet (from Boksburg or Virginia – depending on what side of the pond you stay…);

11) One of those fishing headlight thingies;

12) A beret (Juju – or Querva-style, once again depending on which side of the pond you stay…);

13) A bridal veil or Burka (once again … the whole pond thing …);

14) Rambo’s red headband;

15) A Princess crown from Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s;

16) A pet Boa constrictor;

17) Your underpants – depending on your age and sobrierty;

18) Anti inflammatories;

19) Hello Kitty hairclips; or ….

20) Headphones. (Hint, hint.)

Ah, the mystery and promiscuity of the Engrish tongue.

 

 

1913 Views. Funny, my hands are beginning to sweat in anticipation…


And there you have it…

Another milestone … so close, but so far… I keep saying to myself that it does not matter how many views I have on this damn blog, but it obviously does matter . At some primitive, dark level of my psyche. My hands are sweaty and I have this little nervous smirk playing around the corners of my mouth. Will it be tonight, when my faithful 11 fans in the US of A log on? Or maybe by tomorrow … but only if I can think of something noteworthy or hilarious to post?

It is rather disconcerting to realize that my current happiness depends on whether a bunch of strangers, that I would not recognize if they crept up on me and pinched my arse, actually look – in a creepy, voyeuristic manner – and maybe like, my sometimes crazed and not always professional, ramblings. I will keep you informed.

Then … took a ‘rest day’ today and did not get on the treadmill this morning. Maybe, just maybe, I shall attempt it later on… (but I implore you not to hold your breath.) Am still waiting for the wave of euphoria that one is supposed to get from exercising, to wash over me and light up my life. Pffft.

I must admit that the only thing that is healthy about me know, is my appetite. Oh, yes – just call me Hoover for short.

In fact, my mood has been very morbid this week, hence the attached pic. I am tired of waiting and getting my hopes up. Wishing for the best. And yes, I keep telling myself that if it is meant to be, it will happen. But, f$%k, does it ever? Am so sick of the what if’s and when’s – I desperately need a concrete plan, a new direction, with added oomph and vigour, so that I can get on with my life.

I cannot spend the whole day ogling my husband on the treadmill. And watching re-runs of Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s.

 

My Long Walk To Freedom.


Yes, Nelson, we all have our own journeys to travel. And mine started yesterday. On the treadmill.

It was not pretty. It was not glamorous. In fact, it was pretty nauseating. There was a bit of dry-heaving after the main show. I suspect Mandela may have had similar episodes during his stay on Robben Island.

Part of my anguish stemmed from being lulled into a false sense of confidence and plain eagerness. The chief culprits of misconception were 2 of the 3 beings closest to my heart – my husband and my daughter. Really.

We got the contraption on Monday. S gets it in the house, plugs it in and flips the switch. It’s Cool Runnings. A brief tutorial follows on timers, inclines, EMERGENCY MAGNET, km’s p/hr, etc., etc. “Hop on, give it a try!” He urges. “Mmmmm … not right now – just have to finish filing my pinky finger nail, but will definitely get up early tomorrow and do a session. I want to start fresh.” I try to reassure him.

Sussie gets home from school, hops straight on and does three 20 minute sets in quick succession. This from a child that cannot raise her rear from the couch to put a cleanly-licked peanut butter spoon in the sink – instead, it gets wedged between the chair seats – saved to lick on a rainy day!? In any event, this treadmill thingy does not look like it will be too difficult to master. There is hope.

S rushes in the door after work. On go the running shorts and a white T-shirt. I am starting with supper, but I can hear hum of the motor and a slow plodding noise emanating from the braai room. The noise speeds up … am I imagining it, or is floor vibrating slightly? Take a few steps to take a look round the corner. You see, as per the advice of successful treadmill owners, we have placed the machine in front of the TV – supposedly so that time will just fly while you are exercising AND viewing Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s.

Anyway, S is now running … teen ‘n stink spoed. It says 16kms p/hr on the counter. The walls are shaking. And he is sweating and doing a lot of heavy breathing. He is also looking incredibly sexy, even though he has chosen to wear black socks with his ASICS. But the shirt is off, and his muscles are actually rippling. His chest is taught and his nipples are erect. I kid you not. Admittedly (although never directly to him, else he is on me like a hound dog), he wears almost-40 extremely well. No beer boep, still has the majority of his hair, well-toned and really solid arse. No rolls, no fat – muscular legs and arms. Quite chiselled features. At this point, it may be of interest to mention that I am mid-cycle, i.e. ovulating – hence my sudden increase in dirty thoughts and desire for my husband. No. Really. I have that little knot in the pit of my stomach – but it is almost time for 7de Laan and the Thai curry is ready to be served. So I make a B-line back to the kitchen.

But I digress. Back to the treadmill … and me getting on it. Yes, this morning was my 2nd attempt; my 2nd 20 minute session. There was no sexy-ness, no rippling muscles. However, I did notice flapping fat rolls and pouring perspiration. And I think I managed a good 1.2km in the set -although I can’t be sure, as the sweat was streaming into my eye sockets and blurring my vision.

So, my walk to fitness is going to be a long one. Reality has set in, and I am certain that there will be no Rocky theme tune echoing in my red ears – just the thud of my own pulse.

I hope I don’t hit the wall tomorrow. Literally (treadmill is positioned against brick wall) and figuratively.

Yay! School starts tomorrow.


I am so grateful that the minions are back in someone else’s care from tomorrow. I have renewed respect for teachers in our country.

If I listen to one more fight, whine, moan or scream, I shall burst my own eardrums.

If I have to raise my voice one more time to be heard, I shall yank my vocal chords out by the roots.

If I spend another car trip listening to a fight about which CD should be playing, I will walk. It is that bad.

If I have to spend another cent on mindless activities to entertain the children, whom, I might add, are bored by almost everything, I will have to rob a bank.

On the bright side, however, I found a treadmill! At a good price. Which S will pick up from PE tomorrow. So, now I will have to stop having 5 sugars on my cereal in the morning. And lay off the coffee creamer in the 6 + cups I have each day. By installing this contraption in our house, I am hoping to get a new lust for life, Joie d’ Vivre, kick up my arse or, at the very least, reduce the size of said arse.

As I walk on my road to nowhere – everyday – I will contemplate the lack of complexity in my life.

A lot of thought has gone into the ideal psitioning of said sweat-maker in our house. And, as the current chief executive homemaker, I had the final say. The treadmill will be standing in the braairoom, in front of the TV, where I can watch Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s, in relative peace.

I am still contemplating whether I should charge a hourly rate – valid for all family members who think they can hitch a ride on my mean machine.

Romania. My favourite holiday destination.


Because of financial restraints, we are going to Romania this Christmas. Again.

Due to the regularity with which a bored 9 year old asks the questions: “What are we doing today/ this holiday?” and “Where are we going tonight/ tomorrow/ this weekend?”- I have developed a response that sounds exciting, exotic and most importantly, requires the least effort and expense.

Therefore, it is with confidence that I can reply: “Darling, we are going to Romania.”

And for those of you that still haven’t had the AHA! moment …. we are going to REMAIN HERE.

Obviously.

Having a quiet, booze-free night. Just watched a repeat of Toddler’s ‘n Tiaras from 2009. DSTV – you bore the daylights out of me.

Wow. For ME. 1000 HITS.


“You love me. You really, really love me!”

I have officially hit the elusive 1000+ on the hit-my-blog-o-meter. Yay.

Just over 3 months of posting my inner most thoughts; rantings, random pictures; details of ordinary and sometimes, extraordinary events; re-blogs from seasoned bloggers; my views on life and yes, even pure, unadulterated drivel.

But, you will be pleased to know, I have learnt astonishing things about myself and you, my 12 fans. I finally figured out how to put the Hits-thingy in my official site. I also realised that the Hits-thingy gets very busy when I use certain tags. For instance, my hits take a little jump when I insert tags of words with lewd, sexual or funny connotations. For some reason, “Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s’ (No. Really.) has phenominal pulling power. As does mentioning the larger countries in the world, like America and Russia; and the general dim-wittedness of the lower class Yankee population. (Becca – you know this is not personal, more of a generalisation based on all the US TV we are exposed to, here in S.A. Actually – this is a whole new topic for another time. Should I not be questioning MY IQ scores, as I am inexplicably drawn to watching these US shows, which are so obviously aimed at persons way below me on the DUH! scale??) )

And yes, dear readers, I admit that I have often used this nugget of knowledge to my advantage, thereby baiting and luring additional viewers into my blog-web. I find this a handy little vice, especially on the days when my posts are weak and sub-standard. I would like to say I will definitely not be making use of the above dirty-blog tactics ever again. But that would be a big fat lie.

You see, I have also learnt that to get your hits up, your need to post regularly. Alot. Sometimes too often. And, quite honestly, even I am not that spectacularly interesting, intelligent, breathtakingly beautiful and talented to keep it going 24/7. It is exhausting – mentally, emotinally,visually – and I have developed a spot of tennis elbow in some of my important finger joints. So, yes, there may be a bit of turkey-stuffing a.k.a as polyfiller, here and there. For this, I apologise profusely in advance.

But bear with me. I am starting to love all this writing. At first, it was really hard to get even one post out a week. Now, I am addicted and get so involved (I especially love my Stats page! Thrilling stuff!) Sometimes I only snap out of it when I smell burning – usually supper – but sometimes, it is my very own brain matter.

I must confess that I have considered blogging on the bog. It is that bad.

I went all Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s on my daughter’s ass.


But I would like to think that we didn’t go glitz … more natural. And she has all her own teeth. Day 2 of the vakay – and already boredom has set in. Please note that this is a child who hates shopping and going too girly. She is 9. Daddy – get your gun.

On the bright side … at least I don’t have intestinal worms.


I must apologise. Here I thought S was a cheapskate, but I was mistaken. The Chardonnay cost 35 Ront. I am spoilt rotten. And I recognise the name of the cellar! (Yes, I am now pouring my own glass as we speak.)

Just took my evening meds with my 3rd glass of plonk. Aah, it is like the good old days all over again. I would like to interject here by saying that one of the main reasons I gave up my 2 (bottles)-a-day habit was financial – so that we could afford to send J to The Boy’s School in Port Elizabeth. So this little lapse in my ‘ros-be-a-good-girl’ habit is rather extra-ordinary. I promise that it will not happen again, until the next rejection. It is also for this reason (as well as maintaining my sanity, proving my self-worth and having something to discuss over the mac ‘n cheese in the evenings) that I am on the prowl for a profession.

But this whole Blue Monday saga really has left me with a yearning for the Cape Winelands and MY OWN CAKE SHOP. I admit it – I want to wear a red ribbon in my hair, with red lippy and red bows on my arse and shoes and be known around the land as the ‘Cupcake Aunty.’ People shall flock to my place of business, rosfromscratch, and queue to taste my wares … and ooh … and aah … about my brilliance in the baking department.

No. Really.

I also want to get paid for writing. I am willing to take a writing course if the professionals out there think that there is hope. And I want to get a free holiday to somewhere in the Western Cape – where the wine is quaffable and the food is borderline cuisine. I am prepared to name-drop and blog-plop (rebecca2000 – another word for your Beccapedia) in lieu of a freebie.

And since I am close to 800 views, I shall have to mention Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s. Yes – I like to keep my audience happy.

Interesting fact: Did you know that I once, not so long ago, puked out the car window, all the way down Cape Road, in PE, right past the Nando’s and Cassie’s – after a particularly intense job interview? I kid you not. That is a blog for another day, when I am once again, below the legal limit.

The fat lady has not been liquidated yet – she is off to bed … soon.