Cheap Thrills

Last week, I parked my car, tucked my handbag under the passenger seat, grabbed my phone and car keys and headed off down the road to collect Liam from school. It was 13h01 when I left my car and 13h08 when I returned to a shattered window, a loose wire where my GPS used to be and of course, no fucking handbag. This also meant no hot pink patent leather Louis Vuitton purse very generously gifted to me by friends from India. And no credit cards, no drivers' licence, no ATM card, no 16 lip glosses. no half pack of contraceptive pills, no 4 loose Extra chewing gums and no sentimental flakes of tobacco from my days as a Smoker.

Now I could have spent my mental energy working out when the next flight leaves for Boca Raton, but instead, it got me thinking about how to get more bang for my buck.

Just to set the record straight, there was never a silver spoon in this potty mouth. No ma'am. I had a job from age 11, we had jumble sales outside the house when things were tight and the only new clothes I ever recall getting was a luminous get-up my gran bought me from Woolies. Nuff said.

The last few days have thus been a terrific combination of a Cheap Thrills Adventure and a walk down a cash-strapped memory lane. Here's what I found:

1. Best bedtime body moisturiser: Johnson & Johnson Lavender Baby Oil. Even Victoria Beckham uses it. Cheap Dreams ladies.

2. BEST place to get amazing retro furniture, Art Deco desks, 50's bookshelves and genuine antiques at a steal - Kensington. (just don't be a dumbass like me and go via Rockey Street - that place ain't what it used to be)

3. Dischem bum wipes are literally half the price of Pampers. I've been paying for the brand name for years, and Ben's poo is equally responsive to the no-name version. Who knew?

4. Speaking of Dischem, it is actually possible to spend less than four billion rand on a shopping trip there. Two rules:
i) Take a list
ii) Don't take a child

5. What'sApp - if you have a Blackberry or an iphone, for crying in a bucket people, load this app. I am an unrehabilitated app-a-phobic, but this one is da bomb. Last month, my cell phone bill rivalled the GDP of a small African country. No more I say. NO MORE. Instead of almost a buck an SMS (of which I can send a good 40 a day), I now pay basically nothing to my husband, my best friends, my work colleagues and a whole host of other smarty-pants app-ified people. Word.

6. www.allposters.com. In general, we agree: fake-assed art is nasty, but allposters does great canvases, super-cool kids' art, contemporary prints and cool wall decals. I found these totally nasty surfing sharks for our kids' bathroom, a set of beautiful illustrated comical animals for Ben's room and a contemporary piece of aesthetically pleasing crap for my study. It's fun to search and you can even see what your picture will look like in various frames, in various rooms and against various wall colours. Allposters will courier to you framed or unframed. Love. It.

7. My mother's shop. My most recent wins: Chloe wedges. Bottega Veneta handbag. Hogan boots. Diane von Furstenburg wrap dress. Second hand. Vintage. Call it what you will. I call it 'Joanne-gets-couture-for-cheap'. AND you can feel like a good Citizen of the Planet because it's kind of like recycling. I say let the Silly Bitches of the World buy it new. I'm waiting on the other side for their hand-me-downs.

Tomorrow I get my plastic-fantastic back, but in an effort to be more conscious, less of a consumer and more contemporary, I will continue to scout out bargain buys and shall dutifully report back to you.

Later cheapskates....

A fucking good hiding: Does it still have a place?

I have just given Liam what my mother would call "a fucking good hiding". And let me tell you, he more than deserved it.

I'm not the 'fucking good hiding' type. I got a few FGH's in my youth and all they really did was make me resent my mother and write super-nasty things about her in my diary. That said, there comes a time when (and you'll pardon how vintage this sounds), if a child cannot hear, he must feel.

Last night, I got to bed around 2am. Ben woke up and screamed for almost 2 hours. This morning, I ran a 3 hour strategy session. When I got home, I sat outside with Liam, cuddled him, chatted to him and had a picnic lunch. I then took him out for a glittery cupcake and let him choose a nice smelling soap for my friend.

Later, we fetched Ben and the 3 of us went to Woolies (I'm having an op tomorrow and there's no food in the house). At Woolies, Liam nagged, cried, stamped his feet, made demands and just in general, behaved like trailer-park offspring. I, on a Monday, on 4 hours sleep, was the mother that nobody wants to be. Suffice it to say that when the polite Congolese chap in the parking lot took my R7 to unpack the groceries, I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "Mon ami, if you take the 4 year old, there's another hundred in it for you."

When we arrived home, I unpacked the groceries and made supper for the kids. Liam ate nothing, telling me that the chicken was 'disgusting' and when I asked him to take his plate to the scullery, he informed me that I was no longer his friend and that I was rude. (This is about when the deep breathing they teach in ante-natal classes comes in handy.)

I left his plate on the table and took my rude ass to the playroom/TV room. The playroom area has a cheap n cheerful rug, lots of toy storage, an arts and crafts trolley and a small table and chairs. The TV room area has couches, books, art, a TV and a much-loved Paul Smith rug. While I'm deep-breathing, I notice that there is a substantial amount of blue playdough enmeshed in my PS rug. Needless to say, I am not happy.

So I ask, calmly, "Liam, please would you pick up the playdough bits and pieces."
No response.
"Liam. Please pick up your playdough."
Ignores me. Starts pasting South African flag tattoos ion his arm.
"Liam. This is the third times I'm asking. Pick up your playdough."

By the 6th time, Liam got a FGH.

Incredibly, whilst he did start sobbing uncontrollably (he'll make a great soccer player), he still didn't pick up the playdough.

So I shouted. And screamed. And felt like I was going to have an aneurysm.

Not a dent.

So I packed up the playdough, put it in a bag and on Wednesday, the playdough set will be delivered, in its entireity, to an orphanage. And Liam will be joining me on this excursion.

He is devastated.

I can handle a lot with my boys and I think that from lots of therapy and lots of love, I am generally a patient and understanding parent, but if I see the signs of 'brat-ness', Lord help me, there are plenty more FGH's where that came from.

So now I am holed up in my study, drinking decaf coffee (because vodka on Monday at 6pm would be bad) and trying to use this blog to blow off some major steam. Times like these, I wish I still smoked. I would pay a filthy amount of money for a Camel Light.

But I don't. So intead, for the rest of this Monday evening, I will breathe deeply, knowing that even though many of you won't admit it, I am not alone. ;)

Mommy, is God dead?

Perfect. My 4 year old is having an existential crisis.

"Why do you ask that love?"
"Because He's in the sky, where the dead people are."

Crisis averted (or at least delayed).

"Can he see us?"

Aah. An opportunity to make the-God-I'm-not-sure-I-believe-in my powerful ally in the development of my child's conscience.

"Yes. He sees everything we do. The good choices and the bad choices we make..." (not an easy speech to make, given that my notion of 'God' is way more eclectic than that professed by the Good Books)

"But how can He see everything?"
"Well Liam, (I'm smug now, because I have the perfect analogy) God's kind of like a Super Super Hero, so He has special vision that ...."
"No mom. I mean how can He see us on such a cloudy day?"

Now that's a bloody good question.

It's interesting how imaginative 4 year olds are, given that they reside almost completely in The Land of all Things Literal. Creativity, Liam has taught me, has little to do with abstraction, existentialism, anything metaphorical or, alarmingly, honesty. In Liam's World, things fall into 3 clear-cut categories:

1. True
2. A story
3. A joke

That's it. No lies. No exaggerated accounts of things. No points of view. No perspectives.

What is True (and absolutely no Joke) is the fact that Aubrey, our traumatised hamster mentioned in a previous post, will die. Probably sooner than we hope. And then, I will have to rework my answer about Death and God and the Sweet Hereafter.

Best I figure it all out first. Hold on Aubrey. For fuck's sake. Hold on.

The Plight of the Hamster

Liam turned 4 on 23 June and I thought, in my wisdom, that it was now appropriate for him to take care of a small animal. On 22 June, we headed off to Sandton City and bought Aubrey, an 11 week old hamster, together a fancy perspex hamster cage, a wheel, a small tire set for him to tunnel through, hamster food, sawdust, a chewing thing (they teethe...who knew?) and some foul cotton wool for him to 'nest' in.

Liam was beside himself with excitement and I was glowing. I was right: this WAS a great idea.

Fast forward 2 hours:

Aubrey screeches. Liam, who literally cannot stop handling the rodent, has slammed Aubrey's tiny paw in one of the doors of the cage.

Phuque.

Google suggests that I feed him soya milk so that if he's broken a bone, the extra calcium will help him repair. I do this, all the while, apologising to Aubrey for totally screwing up his formative weeks.

Fast forward 4 days:

Liam: "Mom. What is that milk you gave Aubrey when he was sick last day?"
Me: "What?? What did you do?? Where's Aubrey?"
Liam: "In a Tupperware. He's shaking a little bit."

Jesus fucking Christ!

I find Aubrey bleeding out of his mouth, lying on his back and the 'shaking a little bit' is actually a full-on convulsion. I cannot explain how disturbing it is to watch a hamster have a seizure.

Aubrey's dying. Dear God Almighty.

I grab the offending Tupperware and rush to the Vet, where the lovely Zimbabwean doctor named Donald shares his sentiments:

"Madam. A hamster and a 4 year old? Not a good combination. Maybe get a guinea pig. They're more robust."

Thank you Doctor. How about a cup of SHUT THE FUCK UP?

"And Madam..."

Yes Doctor?

"I'm not a God-fearing man...but Aubrey will be in my prayers."

Oh fuck off. That's all I need now. A vet that wants to be a comedian.

So Aubrey (and I) survived the trauma. Apparently hamsters have such a small circulatory system that a small loss of blood causes them to go into shock. It's not pretty, but it is common.

Liam now has some rules around handling Aubrey: 10 minutes a day if he behaves and only when he is supervised. So far so good. Aubrey is intact.

To Donald the Vet: Amen.