hurry up and wait

This work that I do, coordinating logistics, has a boringly predictable and repetitive order of events. It goes something like this:

Get brief.
Pick brief apart and request more detail.
Wait.
Get some detail.
Wait.
Get more detail.
Wait.
Initial detail changes.
Silence.
Flurry of non-related, non-urgent detail to be filed to use later.
Finally, get most relevant (now bordering on urgent) detail.
Work work work work work work on detail.
Send epic missive to client including: multiple options, quotes, recommendations, risk assessments, comparative analysis, more quotes, spreadsheets, schedules and response requirements.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Bake Coconut Cupcakes.

Wait.
Post annoying braggy blog posts (see previous).
Wait.

Refine details for my ladies lunch this weekend. I think this sums it up nicely ...

And then suddenly - BAM - Client wakes up to OMFG it's all happening! And we barrel head first in to the madness.

But for now, I'm still waiting. As you can probably tell. I'm sure there's something I should be doing ...

collage

I've rewarded myself (after the stupid, stupid job I've just finished) with a month of collage classes with this lady.

I can't draw. Or sew. The medium I've always been most comfortable in is paper, and I've been playing with collage since high school.
[SIDE TRACKED! I went off looking for a collaged workbook I knew I still had from 1992 and found my old diaries ... there goes my weekend!]

all mine

Naturally I signed up for the course and immediately started a 'collage' board on Pinterest.

someone else's

I've no idea what to expect, and I'm very happy to remain ignorant until class starts and let the ideas rush in then, but it doesn't hurt to hone your eye right?

I'm drawn to changing perspective and message through simple techniques.

eugenia_loli

Nick Paliughli

I like the use of negative space.

Jeorge Chamarro

I'd like to tell something of my life.

But my god I'd also love to be able to do this.

Derek Gores

And I wish I'd made this.

But all my (cough) best work thus far has always been spontaneous and inspired by the images on hand, I can't wait to see what Wednesday evening holds.

PS. The first person to say 'scrap-booking' gets a kick in the ass.

minifig fun (in lieu of pirate)

My youngest would like a Mermaid birthday party. But as 80% of her guest list are boys we decided to make it Mermaids & Pirates so as not to alienate them ... I've heard rumours that boys aged 4+ are easily alienated by 'girlie' things.
Lordy, this gender divide thing is some serious crap.

I'm waiting for NYC to wake up for a teleconference, and to be honest suffering a small case of nerves in anticipation of the phone call, so this seemed as good a way as any to distract myself ...

Let's see if it gets the seal of approval.

[UPDATE: she loves it! Shew.]

pre-menstrual

Full and tender, I carry this cup from room to room. Nothing must jar it.

Not the indignant shriek of a child, not a stubbed toe, not the last drop of milk in the house one drop too little for my tea.
Not a dog underfoot or a page printed skew or a hair in my shirt tickling me.

Sometimes it's a heavy chalice, set with jewels and laden with images of womyn, carved with stories of childbirth and fecundity throughout the ages.
Other months it's as inconsequential and irritating as a discarded styrofoam cup on the side of the road.

But when it's brimming, it must be carried with two hands and a studied frown. Nothing else must be poured into it.

Not a concern for the future, not someone else's bad luck, not a newspaper headline which brings tears and the perilous danger of giving a fuck.

This cup must be balanced and managed and held, until it is ready. And then in a wave of relief and blood, I can put it down and get on with my life.

scrubbing up

As I've said to countless estate agents over the last few weeks, I'm not even apologising for this room:

I've shown you our 'study' before, guess you didn't think it could get any worse right? It has ...

There's a part of me that can't believe I'm sharing this on the interwebs, but let me assure you the rest of our house doesn't (often) look like this.
This room houses the overflow of busy lives, of hobbies and projects and inquisitive minds and discarded toys and too well-loved books now in need of repair, of too much tech and not enough time. It is home to bikes and parts of bikes and memories and hurriedly unpacked bags, unpaid bills, financial records, wrapping paper stashes and ribbons I can't throw away. In this room, if you had unlimited time to scrounge, you'd find fine wine and gadgets, power tools, a broken stool, photos, wheel hubs, motorboats, a fridge, a laminator, light bulbs of all description and ... so much more.
As I said before, this room is the reason we need to move, the irrefutable proof that we need more space.

But regardless of my attempts to justify this shit-pit, the undeniable fact is we couldn't let any strangers in here. Not real strangers that is.
And so ... they said it couldn't be done, they said it would take us a life time, they said we might not make it out alive.
But we did.

We packed and we cleaned and we chucked and we re-categorised and we did it. We did it and now the space echoes and sparkles. And we're bored.

There's lots of talk of a clean slate encouraging a creative mind but I'm not feeling it. With our minds and our lives in their current state of flux, I could do with a bit of stuff - chaotic, disorganised, familiar stuff to distract and comfort me.
Living in this sanitised show-house is all a bit weird.

I think it may be time for a new hobby ...

oh my god I hope he's right

Twelve years ago, lazing around with the weekend papers, husband turned to me and said; 'I think I've found our cat.'
We'd just recently moved into our own place, our first place with no housemates, and getting a cat seemed the next logical step.

The ad read: 1 year old black cat. Female. Half Siamese. R50.

This was the information he was basing his statement on, he couldn't explain it, but he was convinced he was right.
And he was. She was, is, and will always be, the perfect cat for us.

3 weeks ago, lazing around with the internets ('cos that's the way the world now works), husband turned to me and said; 'I think I've found our house.'
I sat up and took heed.

It's in a part of town we'd never before considered, it wouldn't make his commute to work any easier, it doesn't put us in the catchment area for any great schools, it would place us a distance away from some of our favourite people ... but it has a garden and a view and the promise of a lifestyle we just can't resist.

We emailed the agent and heard back the next day that an offer had already been placed, it was basically off the market.
We went there the following Sunday, looked at another couple of houses in the area on show. Then, just to rub salt in the wound, we drove past The One. As we got out of the car a fish eagle called in the sky above.
We sighed and drove home.

A week later, a call from the agent. You know where this is going right? The potential buyers were having marital problems, they might be pulling out.

We went away for 6 days, spent some of that time wondering about The One. Wondering whether it was thinking about us too.

Back home to discover the original offer had fallen through, but an English couple were 'very interested' in the house. Naturally they'd be paying pounds, cash. We couldn't compete.
We sighed.

Then, they decided not to place an offer. The house, The One, the one with the fish eagles and the lake and the garden and the double garage workroom and the staggeringly high mortgage, was officially back on the market.

Guess I don't need to tell you how we went to see it. How we laughed in horror and delight at how much it reminded us of our current place when we first bought it. How we thrilled at the potential and despaired at the kitchen. How we met, giggling, in the bathroom as the agent was taking us around and grinned at each other, husband whispering 'It's crap but I love it.'
How we stood in silence in front of the lake at the bottom of the lawn and listened to the water birds and in our minds, pushed off our canoe and paddled off into the estuary.

We placed an offer. It's been accepted. We have to sell our current house first so we're not there quite yet. But we're closer than we ever thought we'd be.

There's a 13 year old black cat purring on my lap. I think she'll like it there.

c is for ... completely off track?

Ok y'all (ja, YOU GUYS, who are out there, reading this. The one's I usually shamefully ignore. The ones I seldom address directly. I'm going to lay this on the line for you ... )

So.

I started a new blog.

I started a new blog in answer to that beeg question: what would be your dream job? Answer: blogging.
I started a new blog as I don't yet have that Great South African Novel inside me but I just want to write all day.
I started a new blog in response to a need within myself to talk more about my children, and our days together.
I started a new blog with the intention to shamelessly self-promote myself, to whore around for as many followers as I can get, to monetize and SEO-itize and seduce advertisers and reap kick-backs and kick the butt of the (unfortunately pretty mediocre) other SA 'mommy-bloggers' I've encountered.
I started a new blog to get famous y'all.

And now I'm teetering on the threshold of showing my new little blog to the world and I find myself consumed with anxiety and uncertainty and ... oh my god, will they like me?

This is where you come in. And you're allowed to feel totally smug about this. After years of pretending you're not there, in some strange way I feel you're the audience whose opinion I value the most. You've been reading my writing, leaving me comments, encouraging me and supporting me in this writing business.
You share this space which is all about me, this space which will always be my first love, my safety-net, the place where I can swear and tell tales on my neighbours and blog out loud.

So now I want to know from you. Honestly and openly - I can handle it all, really - go have a look, come back and tell me what you think.

C is for ... completely off track?
C is for ... c'mon Molly, you can do better than this?
C is for ... crazy concept really?
C is for ... completely boring?
C is for ... cute with improvement required?
or
C is for Cape Town.