A change will do you good.

My husband doesn’t think you can do it. I’ve been arguing on your behalf for almost a month now, and I’m gonna tell you - he’s been pretty persuasive. But in the end, my faith in you has won out. While Roger thinks I will lose “readership” by changing my url, I think you’ll follow me. All twelve of you. I’m betting on the fact that you will click the link to my new site and follow my weekly adventures (at least, I’ll be aiming for once a week). Anyway, we’ll see how long it takes for real life to drive me completely crazy.

Ten days.

Ten days. Seriously? Is it really only ten? I've been back in the US for ten days and South Africa already feels like a distant memory (a very sunny and relaxing memory!). Now, don't get me wrong; I'm thrilled to be back... it's just that my head is spinning. Car? Check. Apartment? Check. Holiday merriment? Check. Next on the list - a wedding in North Carolina where I will be reunited with my college girlfriends, but as soon as I get back, well, that's when my real life begins. And top priority in my real life? Operation Job Search. (And apparently, it's not what you know but who you know, so please shoot me an email if you think you can help your favorite blogger find a writing gig!)

Also on the list in my real life is to figure out how to keep this blog going in a mutually beneficial way. You know, so I can keep pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw and you can keep finding amusement in my nonsense. Don't worry; I'm sure we'll work something out.

But in the mean time, here's to a very happy New Year!
See you in 2009!

'just now'

I’ve been thinking for awhile about how I would wrap up the ‘Adventures in Africa’ chapter of my blog. I thought I would close with a very profound and introspective post that would adequately pay tribute to all that I’ve learned and experienced during my time here in South Africa...

This is definitely not that post.

But I do have just one thing to add.

I don’t think I ever mentioned the uniquely South African phrase ‘just now,’ most commonly used in the broader phrase: “I’ll see you just now.” It confused me at first, but ‘just now’ basically means ‘later,’ however, it’s a bit more specific. Just how specific varies, depending on the context. They also use the phrase ‘now-now,’ which confused me even more. If someone says they’re doing something ‘now-now,’ it means they are doing it sooner than ‘just now’ but not right now. Are you confused yet? I’ve lived here nearly two years and I’m still not sure of the proper usage. But I’m gonna give it a try: I’m leaving now-now. As in, I’m not in the car and on the way to the airport yet, but the time is near.

I’ve spent all day scrambling around my house like a crazy person, certain I’ve got a million things left to do but not exactly sure what. Typical, huh? I think I’m pretty much ready, and yet all the scrambling is distracting me from an all-too-familiar ache in my chest. I hate goodbyes. I’ve said more than I can count in the last few days and I fear the hardest ones are still to come. Connor and Dale, Gary, Bryan and Sally. (Laurel and I cried our eyes out last night and decided against repeating the scene at the airport…she won’t be coming.)

So, I won’t say goodbye. I’ll say “See you just now,” because really, it’s not goodbye. It’s ‘see you later.’ It's 'see you just now.'

Spatially challenged

I should be packing. With five days left until our departure, I should be using this sunny Sunday afternoon to try and bring some sense of order to the chaos that has infected my little cottage. I’m sure getting organized would make me feel better; perhaps I would start sleeping through the night again or resume normal patterns of breathing. Not to mention that the M-I-L will be back in town tomorrow and she will probably have a stroke if she sees my house in its current condition…

But I just can’t cope.

I know. One would think that with all my gallivanting around the planet, I would be an expert packer by now. You’d think that after bouncing from Nashville to New York to London to Louisville to Atlanta to Joburg (and now back again) that I’d be able to take one look at a suitcase and immediately know precisely what percentage of my wardrobe it will hold without going over the airline’s weight limit. And surely I should know by now the best way to send excess baggage. Bring it along and pay for the extras when we check in? Or send it ‘cargo’ on the same flight? Perhaps DHL or FedEx would be better? Or what about those oversized containers that can be shipped across the globe (just as long as you don’t need the contents of said container for about six months)? Or would it be cheaper (not to mention more fun) to simply buy new things upon our return?

Obviously, I’ve gone through my clothes and weeded out the pants that don’t fit right, the top with the red wine stain, the sweater with the tiny hole…but no matter how many times I go through my closet, the contents don't seem to shrink! For some reason, I’m completely incapable of letting go of the red leather jacket my sister gave to me on my 21^st birthday. So it’s probably out of style and it's definitely seen better days, but I still love it! And sure, I’ve only worn it a handful of times in the last two years, but it gets a little colder in Atlanta than it does here, so I’m sure I’ll wear it again once I’m back in a cooler climate. I can’t possibly leave it behind. And yes, that trendy aqua top hanging in my closet still has the tag from my drycleaner in Atlanta pinned to the label, but I’m sure I will wear it again once I’m back home. It was just a bit too fancy for my laid back South African lifestyle. But maybe I should try it on again just to be sure it still looks good on. In fact, maybe I should try it all on and then make my final decisions. But trying everything on only gets me so far. I start to rationalize that while perhaps these jeans are slightly tight, I’m sure I’ll lose five pounds after the holidays, right? Yes, I should take these too.

I know. I have a problem.

And then there’s my husband. Roger takes one sweeping look at his cupboard; he removes an armful of shirts and pants and quickly divides them into ‘pack’ and ‘toss’ piles. He proceeds to start folding the ‘pack’ pile but I interrupt to question some of his choices. I mean, is now really a good time to be throwing out the ‘wrinkle-free’ and ‘easy care’ shirts? Unless we’re sneaking Sheila into our luggage, I’d rethink a few of those choices, I tell him. He cedes the point and trades a few non-iron shirts from the 'toss' pile for a few regular shirts in the 'pack' pile. He then proceeds to fold up the ‘pack’ pile, shove them in a few vacuum-pack bags and drop them into one of the seventeen suitcases currently scattered around the cottage. It takes him about a half-hour.

Meanwhile, I’ve just finished trying on every article of clothing I own and am now sitting on the bed in tears. One minute I want to throw ALL of it away and the next I can’t find one thing I can possibly leave behind. So I put on the only article of clothing I’m definitely not ready to pack just yet – my swim suit – and take my copy of Breaking Dawn out to the pool where I can prolong my denial. As long as I’m sitting out in the sunshine, there is still the possibility that there will be plenty of room for me to take my entire wardrobe (including all nine hundred pairs of shoes), the wok I've formed an irrational attachment to, the vase and plates I hauled over from Atlanta, the stacks of books lining my shelves, the pretty bowl Laurel gave me on my birthday last year, the CD's, DVD's, the picture frames, the pretty glassware... Yes, while I’m out here by the pool, that all seems possible. Especially for someone as spatially challenged as me. I have no idea what will fit and what won’t until I’m actually packing. Which is obviously why I can’t cope.

So here I am, still by the pool, squinting into the screen of my laptop (and eager to get back to Bella and Breaking Dawn…no comments about my teeny bopper taste in literature), but at least my blog is the one thing on my to-do list that I can manage without bursting into tears.Yep, it’s gonna be an interesting week…

Miserable Moose, Part 2

I’m starting to think I’m not the only member of my family who might be in need of prescription happy pills. Poor Moose, he’s not taking the news of our upcoming move well at all, and I suppose it’s our fault. We didn’t exactly sit him down and break the news gently. Instead, Moose’s understanding of our immediate plans for the future seemed to come the day that Roger dug the dreaded crate out of the cellar to measure it for the airline. The appearance of the crate conveyed to Moose what our words didn’t, and ever since he spotted the tiny animal jail cell, Moose has been a basket-case.

Baby Moose!

In the words of my nephew: “Moose is not a normal dog.” It’s true. Moose is not your average mutt, and he never has been. He came to live with us when he was just five weeks old. His mother’s owner had dumped the whole litter off at a backwoods rescue shelter almost as soon as they were born, when they were far too young to be away from their mother. Is it any wonder the little guy has issues? The first oddity we noticed was his tendency to ‘suckle’ on a blanket. As a puppy, Moose would comfort himself by gathering up whatever towel or blanket was nearest and shoving as much of it in his mouth as possible and sucking. Sometimes he would use his paws to 'pad' either side of the part he was suckling, almost like he was nursing. Weird, I know, but kind of sadly sweet too. He acted so independent so much of the time, and his strange suckling was the only clue he might not be as tough as he seemed.

After two years of finding holes in my favourite duvet covers and chenille throws (for Moose’s suckling was quite intense), he seemed to be growing out of his unusual habit. Roger and I were relieved – not only because we were tired of replacing blankets (not to mention the odd t-shirt or pair of jeans from the laundry pile) – but because at times we worried Moose would suffocate himself or choke on the fabric. So we were pleased when we realized Moose was suckling less and less often, until eventually he wasn’t suckling at all.

Until recently, of course.

I certainly don’t need a dog psychologist to spell it out for me. Still, when Roger went to get Moose's import papers signed, he mentioned it to our vet, affectionately known as ‘Basically Speaking Darryl.’

“Basically speaking,” says Basically Speaking Darryl, “Moose is a very perceptive dog, and basically speaking, I’m sure that he’s aware of the change that lies ahead. Basically speaking, of course.” (I’m not even exaggerating. I'm kind of going to miss Basically Speaking Darryl.)

It breaks my heart that our impending move is causing so much stress in Moose's life. I wish I could soothe his fears about the long flight, but the truth is: It's gonna be pretty miserable. And while I would love to promise him that life will be better back in Atlanta, I'm really not so sure. As much as I know moving home is the best thing for Roger and I, I'm not as certain about Moose. Here in Joburg, he has a yard; he has a cat girlfriend that he adores; he has a constant human companion in the maid and the gardener and usually the M-I-L. But in Atlanta, he’ll probably be in an apartment all day on his own. We used to think he liked his solitude (after all, he acted so uninterested in us when we came home from work, what were we supposed to think?), but after living here and seeing him follow the M-I-L around and play with the cat all day, well, now I’m not so sure. I feel guilty about taking him away from all this, but what can we do? He’s our baby! He belongs with us.

Still, I can’t help but feel guilty. So guilty, I’m afraid we might have to get him a cat, and as you know, I hate cats! It’s a good thing Moose can’t actually talk because who knows what else he could get out of me at this moment of guilt-fuelled weakness. I’ve already promised him scrambled eggs every Sunday. Now a cat. What’s next?

I know, I'm pathetic, but if the memory of this image wouldn't pull at your heartstrings, well you're a bigger person than I am...

The Best of the Bush

My last trip to the bush as a South African resident was completely incredible. Hot. But incredible. Seriously, it was around 40 degrees Celsius, and while I can’t tell you exactly what that converts to in Fahrenheit, just trust me when I say…HOT. And no electricity so no air conditioning…HOT. We lived in the pool despite the fact that it felt like bathwater. And although Roger inquired about sleeping in the pool, the four of us actually slept on the screened-in porch, despite the fact that lions were spotted roaming very close to the house (which did NOT have a fence around it). It was amazing to hear the lions roaring in the dark. One night, after the boys had gone to bed, Carol and I took the truck out by ourselves to see the lions mating on the plain, just a couple minutes from the house. Have I used the word incredible yet? Because it was. And not just the lions, but the elephants too. And the spotted hyenas and their pups, a curious giraffe, a playful hippo, and thieving baboons. (Check out the picture of the monkey eating a bread roll stolen from our very closed picnic basket!). It was tons of fun. Being in the bush…being with friends…add it to the list…

Mark and Carol at the pool
Scary hyena! It came right up to the truck!!!!
Thieving monkey at the pool.














Playing Big 2.
I win. Well...sometimes I win.

You can barely see him here, but this is the home of Hip-hop Thomas (the hippo)......and there's that sky again.

There's just nothing like the African bush.

An African Thanksgiving, Part II

For weeks now, I've been telling myself that I wasn't going to do it. I mean, sure, it was kinda fun last year - as a novelty - but is it really worth the trouble?

Apparently, yes.

I can't even blame the M-I-L really. Sure, it was she who said "Oh, come on, Robyn, it's only as much trouble as you make it," which, to a more sensitive person, might have seemed like an accusation that every time I host an event I make it into a big fricking deal. Hmmm. But no, me being the calm, cool, and confident girl that I am, I didn't take it that way. No, I took her comments as a very thoughtful observation that it's an American holiday and it's in my patriotic nature to celebrate, so I might as well do so in a way that doesn't stress me out and yet allows me to enjoy the traditions I'm used to.

So that's what I decided to do.

And despite the fact that I still have the same number of bowls and chopping knives as I did last year (um, that being one), I think I managed to prepare a pretty impressive (and yet stress free) feast for eight. Yes, eight. Me, my beloved, his mum and dad, the brother and sister-in-law and their two adorable brats. I cooked a turkey, spinach and artichoke casserole, roasted butternut squash, seven-layer salad, and a pecan pie. And the M-I-L provided roasted potatoes. And never let it be said that I don't appreciate the M-I-L, because her roasted potatoes are a-may-zing. Seriously, it was good stuff.

And once again, I made the whole fam go around the table and announce what they were most thankful for. And we only broke into tears once. Or twice. I can't be sure...the wine might've had something to do with it.

I have to say, I think we Americans are onto something. Thanksgiving is by far the Best Holiday Ever. Think about it...yummy food without the pressure of presents... a chance to remember all that we're thankful for and to enjoy it with friends and family...what could be better than that?

So once more, here I am, across the many miles, attempting to express my thanks to all of you for your ongoing love, support, and friendship. Thank you. I am truly blessed.

Oh, and I should probably mention that tomorrow I'm off to the bush. The real bush. Yes, apparently, just as I'm about to leave this fine country, I've been invited to join the ranks of real South Africans. Because tomorrow I leave for the real bush. As in, not a five star luxury resort in the middle of the jungle type thing. As in, no electricity, no fences. As in here-are-your-malaria-tablets-but-if-you-
get-eaten-by-mosquitoes-that's-the-least-of-your-worries type bush. Yes, it's all very exciting...and here I go.

But I'll be back sometime next week.
Hopefully.