Alma’s Blog - OUTSOURCED COMMUNICATIONS

Jeepers but it’s Hot, hey?

February in Durban comes around once a year (funny that!) Every year we Durbanites either bitch or bask in the weather that we experience.

Let me explain for those who do not know what it is like in Durban, KZN, South Arica. It is “blerrie” hot and humid! You never feel dry. Taking a cool shower in the morning is a relief after waking up hot and sticky from tossing about all night playing cat and mice with mosquitoes and trying to find a cool spot on your bed. That relief is short lived because you then realise that you may only be fully dry in about a months’ time. Clothes stick to you as you try to get dressed and make-up for ladies becomes a joke as it is probably going to reach your belly button before lunchtime.

The incessant rains of December and January, which fall daily when Durban is packed with tourists, comes to a halt. Any rainfall just adds to the humidity and is seen as a curse not a blessing even though grass is starting to resemble the Highveld in winter.

Geckos, those awful transparent creatures that crawl about ones walls and “drop their load” (aka poop) all over your curtains, are revered for their mosquito catching skills. Bread not eaten within 2 days turns into a science project. Just how many colours of mould are there? Even leather handbags and shoes cannot escape the tyranny of the humidity as they develop a film of white, smelly mould.

True, a lot of Durbanites have swimming pools. So what? A dip in the pool is more like taking a bath. You need to dose the pool with so much chlorine to keep the algae away that it is a bath that removes your first 6 layers of skin and burns your eyes so that you look like a pink eye patient all month. That last layer of precious skin peels off anyway because applying moisturiser is like trying to mix oil and water.

So, for the month of February, ladies pack away their defunct hair straighteners and blow dryers. Deodorant and sunscreen sales skyrocket. Lethargy is a common complaint and the talk around water coolers is repetitive – “Phew, how hot is it today?” Love it or hate it, February in Durban does come to an end and Durbanites once again boast about living in the best little patch of paradise in the world.

An Elephant Coast Experience

The idea of getting up at 4:45am to pack and get to Gateway by 6:45am did not blow my hair back but believe you me, it was all worth it. I had been invited by Carol of Personal Touch to join a group of event and conference organisors to attend a site inspection trip in Zululand.

On the trip up on a luxury coach, we all got to know each other. There were about 28 of us – strangers faced with spending the next few days together. It became apparent that there was nothing strange about any of these folk. What a great bunch!

The next 3 days went by in a haze of teambuilding, stunning venues, activities, wild animals, delicious food and memorable experiences.

At Ghost Mountain Inn the staff were so warm, knowledgeable and helpful we felt that we were leaving friends behind when we finally departed. A drive up the Ubombo Mountains through the local Zulu community, followed by drinks and snacks overlooking Jozini Dam once we reached the top, was fantastic. The boat trip on the Jozini Dam the next day was …umm…very wet. It poured with rain. Spotting hippos popping their heads out the dam and wriggling their ears at us made our sodden state worthwhile though.

I am not keen on seeing animals in captivity but at Zulu Croc I could see that the snakes and crocodiles were well looked after and happy. The guides crammed us with fascinating facts. That reminds me, I still need to check if Vine snakes ever hang out in Durban North.

I felt relaxed the minute I arrived at Amorello Bush Golf Lodge. Could have been the yummy cocktail but I think it was the warm, close to nature ambiance that the place exudes. Although we were all pretty bushed after all our gallivanting about and early mornings, a good few of us partied till late, getting to meet some locals who frequent Amorello for its well stocked pub and pizza oven.

Considering the bleary eyes the next day – it was a good thing that it started with a look at Amorello’s eye-opening Ihlozi Private Lodge. I can but dream of spending a weekend there one day when I grow up!

Let me fill you in here that our itinerary had changed because there was a newly graded road causing problems getting to Bayete Zulu. Our trip there had therefore been delayed so we were looking forward to seeing our last site. Probably 500 metres from our destination the mud got the better of our gallant driver who, after numerous attempts to get the coach through the slippery mud, had to concede defeat.

We were picked up by Land Rovers but not after some of us had squished through the mud. The Elephant Interaction that awaited us ensured we forgot about the mud in-between our toes as we touched, fed and talked to the elephants. Rambo, Rachael and their baby Jabulani had us all mesmerised.

The vast, open view from the stunning 4-Star Bayete Zulu was our backdrop for lunch. I was impressed by what Bayete Zulu offers to accommodate families with children considering its 4 –star opulence.

We arrived back in Durban a weary but happy group of friends. To coin a much used phrase during the tour…..Viva! Viva Carol van Niekerk and Shaun Visser and all the individuals who made the tour so special. Viva Zululand and the beautiful Elephant Coast of KZN. Viva to making new friend. Viva!

p.s. If you would like to see photos of the trip – check out Personal Touch’s Facebook Page

Gladys-the Iron Gladiator

Today is one of my favourite days of the year. It is the day that Gladys comes back from her annual leave. Gladys is the Superwoman who comes to our home twice a week to do all the jobs that I hate; cleaning bathrooms, loos, floors and most importantly – ironing.

I just don’t GET ironing. You iron one part of a garment and that creates creases in other parts of the garment. Where the hell are creases supposed to go in men’s Chino trouser legs? And what’s with those pleats at the back of men’s shirts? How far down the shirt are you supposed to iron the crease?

Okay, so I am crap at ironing. All the other house work is very achievable when avoidance is futile. Roxy the fox terrier drops more hairs daily than bombs during both World Wars. Add the hair of 3 cats and you can understand why I consider my vacuum cleaner the best purchase I have ever made in my life (Ummm…actually, maybe I revere the dish washer more. It is a close call.)

Feather dusters are pretty useful too. I suppose Gladys’s eyesight is worse than mine because she does not seem to see that there are more spiders per m² (judging by the cobwebs) in our house than in the Amazon Jungle. That begs the question – what are the tenants that crawl all over our walls doing to earn their stay? Geckos and their droppings are only tolerated because they are supposed to keep the fly/mozzie/spider/small creepy crawly population down. They had better pull up their sticky, transparent socks – or face imminent eviction.

I am sure that most of you will agree that housework is a thankless, tedious, never ending pain in the butt. No sooner have you caught up with all the washing and the basket is inexplicably filled with more dirty clothes (especially if you have an Alien in the house.) Dishes warrant a scientific study as they duplicate and triplicate in front of your eyes before you can get them into the dishwasher.

Gladys may not be the best cobweb exterminator nor does she command the English language enough to understand much that I say to her, but she is a Gladiator with an iron. For that reason, she can probably be classified as my BFF because she makes my life easier. Welcome back Gladys. I missed you.

Only the Good Die Young

So today (30 November) is my Mother’s birthday. Only problem is that my Mom died 27 year ago. I was 15 and she died the day before her 48th birthday.

I still remember us getting her up out of her (death) bed to sit at the dining room table to raise a glass to my youngest brother when he turned 16 just one week before she died. I am not surprised she died before her birthday! We would have hauled her out of her bed, high on pain killing morphine at the end stages of cancer, and forced her to drink some bubbles to celebrate her birthday. It was just what we did. We celebrated any achievement or significant occasion with some cheap, sparkly bubbles (even if it was just a shooter glass full.) And that is just the way my Mom loved it.

My Mother was an amazing woman. When I posted the fact that it was my Mother’s birthday on Facebook this morning one comment struck me in the tear ducts. This person and I have known each other since forever (I think we were in Grade 1 together.) She wrote:

Happy Birthday, Mrs Chalupsky, Lady of the cats and the curlers. Always prepared to have another half-dozen children roaming through the house, helping themselves to juice and sandwiches and generally causing chaos.

Wow! She has my Mom down to a tee. My Mom was a hairdresser but after having 4 kids in 5 years she resorted to working from home. She cut every kid in the neighbourhood’s hair and did perms and up-do’s for all the Yummy Mummy’s, Grannies and Desperate Housewives in Westville. I loved lying on her bed on a Saturday morning and listening to all the “skinner” whilst Mom fluffed and titivated the coifs of the Westville Villagers

And the cats? Like me, she couldn’t say no to a stray 4-legged furry creature needing a home. We had about 6 cats and 5 dogs at any given time.

She had her faults. As an adult and a mother I can now say she was too selfless. Too giving of everything she had; her time, her energy, her cooking expertise, her health…the list goes on. She never said No to anything asked of her.

I often ask myself if I was a good enough daughter to deserve a Mother like I had. How do I answer such a question when I was not yet an adult when I lost her? I look at my own daughter and wonder how she would cope if I were to die 1 year from now and the thought leaves me cold. She is such a baby still.

My three brothers and I were privileged and blessed to have had a mother like Mercia Chalupsky. My Dad found a rare gem. How true is the saying – only the good die young?

Retail Therapy?

Have I ever mentioned to you that I HATE shopping? No, I don’t mean just the weekly grind of buying loo rolls, cleaning detergents and a bit of food to sustain the family. I hate all shopping – clothes, shoes, make-up….all shopping.

At the beginning of our marriage, Chicken Man mentioned that I was really bad at shopping. He started waxing on about PI labels and cost per kg/ml/portion. You have got to be kidding me? I look for the tastiest food, the prettiest labels and the products that have exposed themselves to my sub-conscious the most through TV/radio/internet/print adverts. His glib comment however did end up being advantageous to me. I do not do the grocery shopping. That has become Chicken Man’s weekly Hypermarket by the Sea nightmare

I am not adverse to popping into My Spar and getting a few odds and sods. If the odds list goes beyond that which I can take through the baskets only/20 items or less check-outs – I lose all interest and add the items to Chicken Man’s Saturday shopping list. Surely Gladys (my 2 x a week cleaning lady) can clean the house without Pledge and Handy Andy until next week? Why she needs so much of the stuff and what she does with it is still a mystery to me.

I have to admit that I do rather enjoy a jaunt to Woolworths every now and again. Their fruit & veggie section is mouth watering and they have so many yummy, luxurious delights all over the store. A lot of the ingredients on their shelves are completely foreign to me but some, once discovered or recommended, are on the must have list e.g. Woolies Danish Style Feta and their Basil Pesto. Num, num.

I have suggested it but Chicken Man refuses to go clothes or shoe shopping for me. How thoughtless. Does he not realise how traumatic these once or twice a year shopping excursions are for me? Does he not know that shop attendants in clothing and shoes stores are trained to ignore frazzled looking customers by running around trying to find stuff to pack back onto the racks? I actually asked an assistant if they were trained to ignore customers. She looked horrified at the suggestion but I substantiated my claim by saying that I was one of three other customers and I had counted 6 sales ladies and not one of them was helping a customer. “Sorry Mam” was her surly response. You try go shoe shopping when you take a size 9 shoe. The experience makes you feel like a freak of nature and being ignored just makes the whole experience more traumatic.

The Alien is in need of some new clothes. The thought of re-living the last episode of us shopping together fills me with dread and fear. So, I am thinking of setting the Alien and a few of her tjommies loose at a shopping mall without me so that she actually gets to survive until her 14th birthday. The added bonus? Sweet revenge on all the shop assistants that have ever ignored me!

At least I know why they call it Retail Therapy. I need therapy after exiting every retail store I walk in to.

Pass me a tranquiliser – it’s birthday party time.

Anyone who has a child knows the stress. The offspring start planning the “big event” the minute they have gotten over the euphoria of the last birthday party. The annual party to celebrate them getting closer to independence and leaving home is a SERIUUUUS business.

Do they think for a moment of the pressure that their parents are faced with? “How many brats do I invite?” “If I host it at home – will I be perceived as a bore/battler/tight arse/ bad, bad parent? “If I don’t give the little darlings a drop dead gorgeous party pack with a few diamonds or platinum bars in it, my kid will be ostracised from the “in crowd” “Where will I get a (place your child’s current obsession here) cake from without it costing the same as the GDP of a small country – and be so big it could probably feed every resident of that country?” You get the picture? You got the picture when your 1st born turned one, right?

I have had my daughter’s parties at Mitchell Park (don’t complain – getting pooped on by a bird is lucky you ungrateful sprog); a hellishly expensive spot where the monsters played on jumping castles and ball ponds all afternoon (I know you are suffering from heat stroke, just drink some more red juice and please don’t pass out until your Mom gets back) or Durban’s “when all else besides your bank balance fails” venue – uShaka Marine World.

As a member of the Ama Glug Glug Wine Club, I get invited to “wine clubbers in training” birthday parties. For various reasons, most of the Gluggers offspring are still short people i.e. under 8 years old. I generally do not attend. I know! Bad friend! Duly ashamed and full of remorse.

I did go to a 3rd birthday party the other week though. No hired venue – it was at their home. The children were of varying ages. It was so good to see the older kids playing games like hide-and-go-seek and catches. Not an electronic hand held device in sight. The younger kids had a ball with paints, playdo and Marie biscuit decorating. No hired entertainer/clown/jumping castle/petting zoo. Just good old fashioned playtime. Kids and parents alike had a pleasant, stress-free morning.

Now, anyone know what is “in” for teenagers parties besides sleepovers and movies? The Alien’s 14th birthday is fast approaching and her only bright spark idea so far has been taking a few friends to the Roma Revolving Restaurant. What?! You are turning 14, my girl, not 40. How about Ushaka????

I await your clever ideas, fellow parents and party planners…..

The Furry Four are taking over…

We do acknowledge that Mom makes reference to us in the intro of her website, but she really has not given us the attention we deserve. She meows on about The Alien and Chicken Man but has not given us the web time we deserve.

Hence this take over. We would like to introduce ourselves.

Cuddles

I am rough and I am tough and I come from a building site on the Durban Point. I take no sh#t and that scares my Mom. I am not afraid to challenge the pesky monkeys that invade our garden every day (bloody cheek – those freaks are the same colour as me) I am in charge. No-one stands in my way. That neurotic Patch tried to get me to respect her authority but, give me a break, she is a fruitcake! She turns to putty with one side glance. As for that Candy chick! Thick as a brick and too easy for me to even get my fur in a knot. This recent fox terrier dog addition I am still unsure about. A dog? Bloody ugly thing makes a hell of a noise and keeps chasing me around trying to scare me with its superior set of teeth. Give it up you woessy dog. I am the boss. Yes, I am gorgeous on top of it and could have made a fortune if I was left to my own devises at The Point (for those of you not from my province – The Point is where all the prostitutes and drug lords hang out.)

Patch

I have been forced to do this by Cuddles. I hope I am not offending anyone? I know that if Mom knew the true level of my phobias and psychological problems I would be at weekly therapy. Mom and Dad keep questioning Why? Why should a cat who was born on their bed and has had the life of Riley be such a nut? I cannot answer that but my life has been made hell thanks to that Cuddles thug. I have to fight to get a spot on my Mom’s lap and seem to spend a lot of time in the roof cowering away from that bully. Oh, I love Roxy. She thinks she is a dog but she really is a big pussy cat. Mom’s name for me has become a concern. Patch became Pitch Patch which became Pitchy which became Bitchy. Bitchy seems to have stuck but I promise I am not a bitch. Yes, I lash out occasionally but what is a girl who is scared of her own shadow to do??

Candy

I r not cleva. I r very cute and all but must hav suffid lak of oxygen to my brane befor I was rescueded and brout to my howse. I r beautiful and likes to rap myself around Maw and Paw legs when thy cum hom. I wil trip them up one day. I likes fuuuud a lot. Meeety nuggets r my besstest. I luff all the udder furry ledies in the howse.

Roxy

This is an insult! I am not a pet! I am one of them human beings! Don’t I sleep under the covers between Mom and Dad and have my food microwaved to get the temperature just right? I have heard the rumours that I came from a breeder in Dundee but seriously, my Mom and Dad is all I have known since the tender age of 5 weeks so until I see the adoption papers, I will deny my dog heritage. Now, as for those three furry 4-legged other people in this house… They are all certifiable! I keep trying to bite their heads off but they think that I am playing with them! What does a girl have to do to get respect around here?

Traffic Chaos in the Sky

It happens every year round about this time. After a good rainfall, the sun comes out and warms the earth. Out come the flying ants from the numerous homes that they have in our garden (rent free). Within minutes of them making their mass exit, the sky above our house resembles the N1 in Joburg during rush hour.

The variety of all these birds en mass is quite a sight to witness. Whilst watching the traffic jam this afternoon I couldn’t help but compare each bird to a car. Just please bear with me. I am clueless about birds and all the different names and species.

Little brown birds – so tiny and timid they made me think more of kids on tricycles or those plastic, black motorbikes than any type of car.

Weavers – Small bright yellow birds – Citi Golfs driven by reckless teenagers as they swerve clumsily (probably drunk!) amongst all the big cars.

Pigeons – Toyota Corollas driven by stressed-out parents. A lot of them suffering from middle-aged spread.

Indian Mynahs – definitely Taxis. Of course there were loads of them, hurtling through the traffic with no sense of direction or consideration for others, shouting abuse at anything that got in their way.

Starlings – big black birds that glisten in the sun. Mercedes Benzes driven by government officials. All that was missing was the flashing Blue Lights.

Hadedas – Large, slow and noisy – just like Putco Buses. Picking up passengers as they foraged for the ants on the ground. Polluting the atmosphere with their fumes. Hey, have you ever seen the poops that Hadedas make?!

Swallows – super fast and superior. Ferraris of the sky driven by tenderpreneurs and wealthy old men trying to regain their youth.

And then there was the pièce de résistance. A bird with a red beak and bright blue feathers. I think it was a Kingfisher. There was just one and it looked arrogantly down on all the chaos. Unquestionably a Rolls Royce.

My cats looked like they were staring at a smorgasbord at a Michelin star restaurant, but without a cent to their name. Drool on cats. You have clearly eaten far too many Meaty Nuggets. Roxy the fox-terrier made a few half hearted attempts to chase the hadedas. Give it up Roxy – they are bigger than you.

The pandemonium will happen a few more times until the flying ant lemming run is over. I think I am going to get a Birds of South Africa book before the next traffic jam.

Sometimes you just have to believe.

Have you ever eaten cat food? Dog food? Never! I hope would be your response. If you answered yes then please contact me and I’ll gladly buy you a Happy Meal or a tin of baked beans or 2.

So why the dumb-arse question? Let me respond with another question (slightly less dumb) Do you believe everything you are told in adverts? Let’s face it, unless you try out the product or service to prove the claims made in adverts, you really don’t have much choice but to take their word for it.

Sure there are some ads that are so outlandish that you actually feel sorry for anyone who believes them (drive this car and you will pull all the hot chicks; take this tablet and you will lose 5kg’s in a week; use this cream and you will appear to look 20 years younger; use this nappy and your baby will never cry again…….you get the picture?)

But how do you prove the claims made by pet food producers? We have established that none of us eat cat/dog food on a regular basis, so they can say anything and we have to believe them. They can tell you that there is real fish in their cat food tins and real meat in their dog pellets. Are you going to test their statements? Image phoning them and saying that you have tasted Fluffy’s food and it tastes nothing like hake and Butch’s pellets taste more like lamb than beef. They will probably think that you are Whackhead Simpson or from a new series of Candid Camera.

But this morning I established that one of the claims made by pet food producers was true. My three hungry cats were lined up staring at me, obviously using mental telepathy which I could not pick up on being a two-legged species. “Feed me, feed me” they were all saying. I do not follow any guidelines about recommended daily allowance and all that – I feed my cats on demand. And they were demanding!

I watched them closely for once (I had not had my first cup of coffee so was non compice mentice.) True as bob, the first thing that they ate were the “meaty nuggets” that Whiskas claim are in their dry food pellets. It is the reason why the girls fight over being first to the bowl when it needs to be replenished. It is why they stare at me to refill the bowl even though there is still food in it. They are after the meaty nuggets!

I found this discovery a revelation! Mmmm…maybe I need to get more of a life but I get excited when I learn anything – even if it is that my cats actually do appreciate the meaty nuggets in their Whiskas.

So, next time you feed Fluffy or Butch, look at what the package is claiming the food contains and I dare you to prove it wrong!

It’s Squishing Season!

October is Breast Cancer awareness month. Yes, you have been bombarded with pink ribbons and pink just isn’t your colour, Sweetie Darling, but are you getting the message?

I added SheeBeeGee and BecauseIcan’s twibbbon to my Facebook and Twitter avatars because I liked the simple message it relayed. “Feel Ur Boobies” Sure, it could lead to random dirty old men asking if they can cop a feel but that is a small price to pay for the awareness it raises. Some of us poor suckers don’t get let off that lightly with just self examining our breasts. Some of us have to go through the dreaded, annual MAMMOGRAM.

What would I know, I hear you ask? I am on the right side of 45 (just) so, at a push, have had probably 1 mammogram so far? No such luck. Let me explain my history. Stop yawning, I haven’t started yet! My grandmother had breast cancer when she was a young woman and had a breast removed. They were somewhat clueless in those days and so she lived with an arm that was double the size of the other that needed to be “hung” every night so that the fluids would drain. My beautiful grandmother lived a good life and died in her 70’s.

Her daughter, being my mother, also had her breast removed but even with all the advances in medical technology, she died at the age of 47 – the day before her 48th birthday. She never got to see her eldest son turn 21. I was 15, the youngest of her 4 children. Show me a person who has ever met my mother and doesn’t say that they loved her and I’ll show you a liar. She was the most special human being. Enough said.

A few years later, whilst living in London, I got a phone call from my cousin. My beloved, sweet Aunty Andy had died. She too had had a mastectomy years before but, like with my Mother, they had not caught it in time. I remember the clothes she used to sew for me and my brothers and the yummy “boerekos” she used to cook when we visited her in the Cape. She was as short as my mother was tall. What a unique couple of sisters they were! Both had hearts of gold and so much love to give.

2 generations of women dying having suffered from breast cancer. Surely it must skip a generation? So you’d think. One of my 2 cousins, even with regular mammograms, discovered a lump in one of her breasts and had a mastectomy just before her 40th birthday. I know that her early discovery and swift action will spare her the fate met by our mothers.

History lesson over. Are you still with me?

Thanks to that history, every year since my early 20’s I gather up my ever expanding folder of past mammograms and schlep off to the radiographers to have my boobs squashed and squeezed in-between cold, hard plates. “This shouldn’t hurt” Yeah right! Why do they have to make the room so darn cold? You don’t know whether you are shivering from fear or because you are developing frost bite on all your sticky-out bits.

After listening to my history the radiographers are always extra cautious and take a few extra “photos” at angles that one cannot believe ones boobs could possibly be extended to. At my first ever mammogram, the radiographer politely asked if I minded if all the students watched as they don’t often get to see such young patients. I was 23 so of course “I nearly died” as my boobs were examined by a bunch of young male student radiographers. They even got to feel them so that they could tell the difference between young breast tissue and old breast tissue.

Horror stories aside, a yearly mammogram is a small price to pay if it means that I get to see my daughter turn 21; walk down the aisle; hold her own child; achieve all the dreams she has for her life.

Ladies, when all the pinkness of October starts to make you feel like a bag of marshmallows with the white ones removed, please remember what it is all in aid of. Feel Ur Boobies or go for your Mammogram. It’s like paying your TV license…..the right thing to do.