Closed for Business

I knew I shouldn’t have been that angry, and yet I was fuming. Call me Scrooge or the Grinch or whatever but I was highly irritated that on the Saturday before Christmas the grocery store was closed at 5 o’clock. Silly me for thinking that at this time of year – when even people who don’t normally cook are forced into the kitchen – that the grocery stores might want to take advantage of that fact. And the whole center was closed! I wouldn’t expect the shops to accommodate customers by staying open later than normal – God forbid – but at least they might want to keep their normal hours instead of closing up early, wouldn’t you think? Think again.

Why I was surprised to find the Pic ‘n Pay closed at 5 o’clock I’m not sure. Certainly everything else in this town has recently come to a screeching halt, so why not the grocery store too? Offices, shops, restaurants…summer break isn’t just for kids in this country. Everyone takes a holiday in December. Everyone. Almost every office will be closed this coming week. No one is working! So don’t even think about trying to make a doctor’s appointment, or get your hair cut, or your car serviced, or even a prescription filled. Come back in January – when people are actually working again.

If I step back and think about it, it’s kind of nice. Yes, these stores could make more money by staying open later and asking their employees to work longer, but they don’t see it that way. These are the facts: It’s Christmas. It’s the middle of the summer. Of course they’re closing up early.

It makes me realize how very “American” I am. I just assume everyone worships the almighty dollar (or Rand) the way most Americans do. So I’m stunned that the retailers aren’t bending over backwards to get my money. I’m amazed that businesses virtually shut down for most of December. It would simply never happen in the US. But the “all work and no play” mentality that Americans are known for isn’t shared by the rest of the world. Money is not the most important thing, and despite my tantrum outside the Pic ‘n Pay, I was glad to be reminded me of that fact.

So, despite the occasional inconvenience, I’m happy to embrace the vacation mentality. In fact, to show my support, I too will be closed for business this week. So, there will be no blog this Sunday because I will be lounging by the pool in the wilds of Africa, hopefully hanging out with an elephant or two.





Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and that you’re not working too hard…

You’ll hear from me again in the New Year!

Holiday Drama

There’s nothing like the holidays to bring families together…

Last weekend all hell broke loose with my South African family. The details aren’t particularly entertaining or relevant, so I won’t bore you, but essentially my mother-in-law did something to upset my sister-in-law and one thing leads to another and suddenly my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law aren’t speaking and my brother-in-law is swearing and my father-in-law is grumbling and my husband is trying to hold it all together while I threaten my sister-in-law with bodily harm should she even think about backing out of the upcoming Christmas vacation. Because if she’s not going, I’m sure as hell not going.

Ah, the drama. It’s better than “Brothers and Sisters.”

As I may have mentioned previously, it’s not exactly easy having Sally for a mother-in-law. She can be hurtful and thoughtless and selfish. She can also be funny and kind and loving. But you never know what you’re gonna get. Now, my sister-in-law, Laurel, has been dealing with this Jeckyl and Hyde routine a hell of a lot longer than I have, so it makes sense that she would be a bit more reactive than me with my grin-and-bear-it approach. Laurel is also someone who calls it like she sees it and isn’t afraid of what you have to say about her opinion. Me, I’m a little less…confrontational.

You might have noticed that over the past four months I have done a lot less complaining about my mother-in-law. I assure you, this isn’t self-imposed censorship. The truth is I really haven’t had that much to complain about. The fifty feet between my door and hers’ has made all the difference in the world to our relationship. Sure, the underlying fear that I might piss her off is still ever-present, but the distance between us, however small, makes it a lot less likely. As time passes, I am starting to feel slightly bad for hating her all those months. I’ve even started to question my judgment and wonder if perhaps I wasn’t a bit overdramatic about the whole thing. But then something like this happens, and my sister-in-law is angry, so I start the day listening to her woes and soon we are polishing off our seventeenth bottle of champagne and still dissecting every horrible thing the evil M-I-L has ever done to us. It sounds funny, right? You can almost picture the scene, straight out of a movie entitled, “Diary of an Angry Daughter-in-Law.” And it is funny. Maybe all the drama is even a little bit fun…

It’s not fair though. To talk about someone behind their back is cruel, right? And I’m not a mean person, yet there I am, touting my list of grievances, every time the subject comes up. I’ll whine about her all day long, but I’m certainly not going to tell her to her face that I think she’s crazy. What good would come from that? She’s definitely not going to change, so what’s the point? And yet, by talking about her behind her back and then smiling sweetly to her face…well, maybe I’m no better than she is. At least Laurel has the guts to occasionally call Sally out on whatever she has done (resulting in a stand off such as we had this past week). It's not that I’m a wimp. I may not be confrontational, but I can hold my own when necessary. The thing with my mother-in-law is – I’m just not sure confrontation would help matters. It hasn’t seemed to help Laurel.

It’s a fine line, knowing when to stand up for yourself against a bully and when to just accept the bully for who they are. It would be one thing to confront my mother-in-law if I thought it would change the situation, but I don’t believe it will.

My mother-in-law is complicated. I don’t want to turn this into a list of her flaws, but to make my point – let’s take Moose as an example. My mother-in-law is perpetually moaning about our dog, Moose. It’s been brought to her attention that this is hurtful to Roger and me, but she can’t seem to stop the passive aggressive comments regarding our only child.

I must admit, things have been better since we threatened to take our annoying dog and move back to the US, but that’s not the point. Whether she vocalizes it or not, Moose annoys her, and I want her to not be annoyed by him. I want her to be thrilled to have her "grand-dog" around (like MY mom!). I know Sally loves him really, but she also sees him as her cross to bear, and asking her to stop with the snide comments isn’t going to change that fact.

I can love her or hate her, but my mother-in-law isn’t changing. And the thing that upsets me isn't what she says, it’s simply who she is – and I don’t think she can help it. Which leads me to another question…is 'niceness' something we can control? And what makes someone nice? The things they say and do? Or the things they think?
(As usual, I digress, but it's just something to think about!)

One of the first lessons I can remember my mother teaching me was: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Whether or not biting your tongue when a not-so-nice thought occurs makes you a nice person or just a polite one, well, I’m not so sure, but the lesson is still a good one. Maybe confronting my mother-in-law with my list of grievances would be pointless, but that doesn’t mean I should be complaining about her behind her back. That’s not going to help matters either. In fact, it only feeds the fire.

So, I’ll step back. Take a deep breath and remember that despite her faults, this is the woman who gave birth to my husband. And she loves him more than life, so at the very least, we have that in common.

And in this season of goodwill, I will make a resolution to cut back on the evil M-I-L talk. I will try to accept her for who she is…even if she is slightly psycho.

In the Dark

I was on the bottom floor of the Rosebank Mall last week, waiting in the line at the post office (which, if it’s possible, moves even slower in Africa than it does in America), when all of a sudden, I’m surrounded by darkness. There is a collective sigh of “not again,” but no one seems particularly annoyed. I look around at the others for some indication as to what to do next, but no one has moved. A man from behind the counter comes out and begins to close the doors. Now, I’m sure there is a good reason for this, but I definitely don’t want to be locked in the basement of the mall with the cast of characters currently occupying the post office. I quickly slip out of line.

“Wait!” I say in a loud whisper, though why I’m whispering I’m not sure. Something about the darkness, I guess. The man lets me out and I find myself in the packed corridor, with the thousand other people forced to abandon their day of Christmas shopping. Irritated, I climb the escalator (it’s been broken for a month so even had the power been on, I’d have still been climbing) and begin the walk to the other end of the mall. As I pass the darkened shops, I notice that every manager has closed and locked the doors. It occurs to me that this is probably to prevent looting; it makes sense that placing the store on “lockdown” would be part of the procedure.

What doesn’t make sense, you may be thinking, is why there is a procedure for this sort of thing to begin with. Surely this isn’t a usual occurrence, right? How many extreme acts of nature happen in Johannesburg, South Africa anyway? We’re not exactly in danger of snowstorms or hurricanes. And yet, we are no strangers to power outages. It happens all the time.

You don't have to be a nuclear scientist to know that we don't have enough power in South Africa. It’s not unusual to come home from work to find the contents of your freezer defrosted. You’re not surprised when a five mile journey takes an hour because the traffic lights are without power. You don’t bother to set the clock on the microwave because you’ll just have to do it again tomorrow.

We are constantly reminded via billboards and commercials to “Save Power!” We are told to turn off the lights and unplug appliances and even to switch off the outlet itself when it’s not in use. But this campaign isn’t about Africa going “green.” The constant reminders to conserve electricity are an effort put forth by the power company to ensure that we have enough power to go around.

Everyone knows it’s a problem, and yet we’re still not exactly doing our best to conserve. I’m certainly not using the clothes line instead of the dryer. Roger and I are still using the dishwasher and the computer and the big screen TV. And apparently everyone else is too, so sometimes, the power companies force the issue. They turn off the power on purpose, in an effort to “save” energy.

Ask a South African about the situation and they’ll roll their eyes and say “typical Africa.” And it is typical. Because it’s not just the power, occasionally it’s the water too. And if the utility shortages aren’t enough, you can also count on poorly paved roads and crumbling sidewalks and escalators that stay broken for months and mail that gets stolen and ATM’s with no cash and the list goes on and on.

When my sister-in-law came to the US for the first time (shortly before Roger and I moved to South Africa), she kept marveling, “Everything works here!” I didn’t understand what she meant. Of course it works. It just does what it’s supposed to. What was the big deal? Why was she so in awe? I should have been immediately suspicious about the country to which I was about to move.

You might say I’m looking back with rose colored glasses, but I know things go wrong in America too. Electronics malfunction. Cars break down. The cable guy doesn’t show up. And yes, storms can certainly cut the power off. However, most people don’t request a gas stove in their house so that they will have a way to cook dinner when the power goes out. And typically, if one day you go to the mall and the escalator is broken, you can expect it to be fixed by the next time you’re there. Not so in South Africa. You’ll be climbing that escalator for at least a month. And the cable guy? You’re lucky if he shows up two weeks after the original appointment.

I can’t offer any explanation as to why this is so. Certainly it’s not for a lack of a willing workforce. God knows, this country needs more jobs. And yet they can’t manage to send a couple guys over to the shopping complex to fix the escalator?!?!

But I should stop right there. As an American I have to watch what I say about my new home. A South African can make fun of their “first and third world country,” but they get rather defensive if I join in. Eventually they’ll just sigh and say, “What can you do?” They’ve gotten used to it. They don’t expect anything more.

Perhaps they’re just more laid back than me, but I do expect things to work and people to do what they’re supposed to do, when they are supposed to do it. And as the world continues to shrink, expectations are changing. South Africans realize that this isn’t how it should be, and with the 2010 Soccer World Cup approaching, they know the rest of the world will soon be noticing. So will they get it together, this new country of mine? Can they get organized and bring this place to its full potential? I certainly hope so, but to be honest, I’m skeptical. I’ll just be happy when someone fixes that damn escalator.

The Kissing Conundrum

It’s happened again.

How is it possible that five seconds into a conversation I have already managed to make an idiot of myself? I’ll tell you how it’s possible. It’s the greeting, that’s how. For the life of me, I just can’t get the hang of it in this country.

I know, I know. What’s to “get,” right? It’s a simple “Hello!” and “How’ve you been?” or “Good to see you!” It might come with a handshake or a pat on the back. With children, it often involves a muss of the hair. There’s the hug or perhaps the “side hug” (if hands are otherwise occupied or perhaps a full on hug seems too invasive), and then of course, there’s the kiss.

Me, I’m a hugger. When I say hello, my instinct is to give you a hug – even if I don’t know you that well. I have no problem wrapping my arms around you and giving you a little squeeze. If we don't hug, our initial conversation feels awkward to me – like we’ve missed a step. I’m a hugger. And I think Americans, in general, are huggers. We hug. But outside of America, there is a lot of kissing going on.

South Africa is full of kissers. Which is fine with me, really. It’s great. It feels very “posh.” Here’s my problem though – everyone has a different style of kissing. It could be on the cheek. On both cheeks. Or even on the mouth. Any and all of these would be fine – except you never know what you’re gonna get. You might offer someone the right cheek, but then they go in for the left too. This leads to an awkward mid-greeting pause in which you reposition and quickly extend your other cheek while pretending that the transaction has gone smoothly. And the opposite is just as awkward. You offer both cheeks but they only wanted one, so you’re left standing there with one cheek shoved towards them but they’ve already moved on to give a one-cheeked kiss to someone who probably knows better than to offer both cheeks.

Then of course there is the lip to lip kiss, which is inevitably the style of kissing favored by the person whose lips you’d least like to touch. And if you offer them a cheek but they want the lips, it results in a strange sort of half-cheek-half-lips exchange in which the lip-kisser may feel slighted that you gave them a cheek when they wanted the lips. Geesh.

In order to avoid awkwardness, I try to keep a mental list of what style of kissing is preferred by my various friends and acquaintances. Frank: lips/hug combo. Jane: double-cheek. Rick: one-cheek/half-hug. All of this can be difficult to keep track of, which leads me to a critical question: Why am I trying so hard to accommodate someone else’s kissing style instead of forcing my own style upon them?

This is probably not the time or place to explore my pathetic need to please and accommodate, but let me just say, in my own defense, that I have actually tried to force my hugs on people, but it never works like it’s supposed to.

For example, just yesterday, we went to the airport to pick up Roger’s sister and brother-in-law from Scotland. I see my brother-in-law and throw my arms open, leaning to the left as I pull him to me. Only he’s going for the double-cheek kiss, and while I’m moving in for the hug, he kisses my right cheek. He then pulls back slightly to reposition so that he can kiss my left cheek too. Looking back, I realize that this is the point where I too should have pulled back slightly and kissed his left cheek. But I’m still committed to the hug, so although he’s trying to kiss the left side of my face, all he’s getting is the right. The missed kiss has put us at an awkward angle and to avoid bumping noses we have both turned our heads so that suddenly my right cheek is pressed up against his left. We look like we are trying to tango.

The interchange feels like it’s happening in slow motion. Never has a greeting gone so wrong. I keep replaying the train wreck in my mind. It’s all I can think about despite the fact that my brother-in-law – who I haven’t seen in four years – is standing in front of me. The right questions are coming out of my mouth: “How was your flight?” and “Do you have all your bags?” but all I can think about is that I am a complete and total idiot who doesn’t even know how to greet a family member.

But feeling like an idiot has become my natural state. In fact, I often think I should participate in a scientific study to determine exactly how much of any given day I spend feeling like a moron. The findings would be shocking, I’m sure. Off the charts. Logically, I know that I am not an idiot, and yet for some reason, I feel like I’m perpetually saying and doing the inappropriate thing. Let me assure you that this is nothing new, but in America, I felt like my foibles were often perceived as charming and quirky. Here…not so much.

I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably right. Obsessing about a botched greeting can’t be healthy. In fact, I’m sure my obsessive nature is probably a “condition” with a name ending with “syndrome” or “disorder,” but before anyone calls the psychiatrist, let me point out that were it not for my obsessive nature and my profound ability to overanalyze pretty much everything, I just wouldn’t be me, and what fun would that be? Would you really tune in to hear about some normal chick’s observations on Africa? Probably not. So while I may be mildly disordered, I think I’m getting to a point in my life where I can accept it as just part of who I am.

That being said, please do me a favor. When next we meet, just give me a hug, okay? I’ve simply got too many other trivial things to obsess about…

Confession

I have something to confess.

Sometimes… I’m just not in the mood. In fact, lately it’s the very last thing I want to do at night. I prefer to just get it over with quickly, first thing in the morning, you know? And it’s not just me. Roger doesn’t feel like doing it either. We try to muster some enthusiasm, for the benefit of the other, but in truth – we both know it’s an act. Neither of us is in the mood. And yet we know it’s important, all the books and magazines say so. We know that we should do it, we just don’t want to. But we do…occasionally anyway.

I’m talking about exercise, of course.

This past Monday I was not in the mood. I pick Roger up from work and silently will him to say he doesn’t feel like going to the gym. If he says it, I certainly won't argue, but I'm not going to be the one to say it first. But he says nothing, so I drive to Planet Fitness as planned.

The gym is packed, but I manage to find a parking space at the back. We slowly get out of the car, and I pop the trunk open. We reach in for our bags; mine feels like lead.

“Do you have a padlock?” Roger asks.
“No, YOU took my lock last week.” I say, annoyed. (What can I say? The gym makes me grouchy.)

Roger shakes his head. “But I told you – they had to cut it off the locker. The stupid key wouldn’t work.”

I roll my eyes, remembering the ridiculous story. We’re standing there with the trunk open, staring at each other like idiots. It’s not that big of a problem really. We simply have to go inside, change clothes, and then one of us will have to bring the bags back to the car before going back inside to work out. Of course, being parked in Antarctica makes the task slightly irritating, but hey, we’re here for exercise, right?

“This is such a pain.” Roger slams the trunk shut. He’s right. It is a pain (especially since he will most certainly be the one returning to the car with the bags!).

“Let’s just change in the car,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. A childhood of shuffling between school and dance class and cheerleading practice and play rehearsal has made me a semi-expert at changing clothes in the car.

Roger laughs before he realizes I’m serious. “Robyn, there are a gazillion people walking around this parking lot.”

“It’s fine,” I say, opening the door to the back seat. Roger laughs nervously and climbs in the back with me. I start to take off my shirt, but Roger keeps stopping me because he thinks someone is headed our way. Finally I tell him to shut up and change, which we somehow manage to do without prolonged exposure. A few people walk by and give us odd looks – we are, after all, sitting in the back seat of a parked car – but no one gets a good look at anything indecent. We’re giggling as we get out of the car.

We start the trek across the parking lot, debating if we should do weights or cardio. (I want to do the elliptical machine but Roger wants to do weights, and for some reason, neither of us feels that we can do either without the other by our sides.) We’re still bickering when I realize that I have left my Polar watch in the car. Roger says it doesn’t matter, but see, my Polar watch tracks my progress and counts the calories I’ve burned, and well, I love it. And the way I see it, if my Polar watch doesn’t know I’ve worked out, then it can’t update my little chart on the web, so it’s almost as if I haven’t worked out at all, so what's the point? After a little more whining, we head back to the car to get the watch.

The watch retrieved, we begin the walk across the parking lot once more. We’re almost to the door of the gym, and I have ceded to Roger’s request to do weights instead of cardio when I realize that we don’t have "sweat towels." It’s kind of a new policy. If you’re in the gym without a towel they can throw you out. Well, so the sign says anyway. I’ve never seen anyone tossed out or anything, but you know me – I’m no rebel.

“Roger, we have to go back for the towels.”
Roger stares at me in disbelief. “This is ridiculous.”
“But it’s the rule,” I say, whining again.

Without a word he turns around and we head back to the car. We cross the parking lot in silence. I unlock the car with the remote, but instead of getting a towel from the back seat, Roger climbs into the passenger seat and puts on his seat belt. I open the back seat and reach for a towel.

“Roger, come on,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“We’re going home,” he declares sternly, though I can tell he’s stifling a giggle as well. “I’m serious; it’s a sign.”

“We are not that pathetic,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. “We’re already here; we’re dressed. We’re going in.”

“I’m not working out.”
“Well, I am.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Well, I am.”
“I’ll wait in the car.”

He may have been bluffing, I’m not sure, but I didn’t call him out on it. I think he could sense my lack of conviction. I walk around to the driver’s side and climb in the car, resigned to the sweet defeat.

We drive home in silence. I’m not sure if I want to kill him or kiss him. We stop at a red light; I glance over at him and can’t help but smile at my partner in crime.

I confess, this is why I got married.

For someone to skip the gym with. For someone to tell me it’s okay to leave the dishes in the sink sometimes or stay in bed all day. Someone who will join me in polishing off the carton of ice cream or ordering take out three nights in a row. Someone to help me relax a little and remind me not to be so hard on myself. Someone to make me laugh when I feel like screaming. This is why I got married…
Well, maybe it’s not the reason I got married, but it’s the reason I married Roger. He has this magical ability to make everything fun.

And for that, I’m always in the mood.