Multitaskular

"Follow my adventures as I try to juggle motherhood, ongoing domestic dramas, my startup skin care company - Meld Labs - and my long-gone independence. Add frequent travel to the mix and there is never a dull moment."  

How do I manage to get every holiday so very, very wrong?

I survived halloween. Just. I'm so over the stores screaming about it, my sugared-up 2-year-old whining about it and my neighbor's creepy lawn-zombies moaning about it until all hours. I thought the neighbors were getting "down and dirty" the first time I heard the noise from over their fence. They're originally from the midwest (the neighbors, not the zombies) and they go to church and they can tell the difference between skunky smells and horse manure. And Kelly drives a pick up truck with a picture of tinkerbell holding a hunting rifle on the back. So the next morning I winked at her with that knowing, "you lucky minx... you go girl" look. Then after a few days I realized that the sounds were from the gore-drenched zombies in their yard. And that Kelly probably thought I was hitting on her. And that I'm 99% sure she owns a hunting rifle. Happy Halloween. Not.

I'm from South Africa, and we moved to California 4 years ago. So I'm a bit of a Halloween novice since we don't celebrate the holiday there (that's my story and I'm sticking to it). But Micah is 2 now so I thought I should make some kind of effort to include him in the pure Americanness of the whole thing. So we went to the pumpkin patch and he chose a pumpkin that weighed more than he did and I almost did my back in carrying it to the car (cue previous back injury posts). Then he threw a fit because I wouldn't let him drive home with it on his lap. Apparently "his legs are big and strong. No get squashed". Cute. "Just like mummy's". Hmm. 

Then we rolled the damn thing into the house and I explained to Micah how we were going to carve it. I even showed him my 12 inch forged chefs knife (take that Kelly) and his useless kiddy pumpkin carver that he'd been nagging me to play with for 4 days. Then he lost it. I thought he was going to have apoplexy. "NO NO NO NO NO NO CARVE MUMMY. WE COOK IT!" Seriously? Cook it? No, I explained. We carve the pumpkin. "NO NO NO NO NO. WE COOK". Guess who won that argument? Suffice to say I now have pumpkin soup, pumpkin bread and pumpkin pie coming out the ying yang. And I'm a terrible cook, so the soup is bitter, the bread is like a rock and the pie is in pieces because it stuck to the freakin' pie tin. Thanks a lot Martha Stewart. I hate you.

But the weird thing is, I've never understood the concept of carving pumpkins either. I come from a country where there are people starving. The idea of carving food into pretty shapes and leaving it on your porch to rot seems wrong to me. So I gotta say, part of me loves my son's adamance to make the pumpkin into something useful. Pity he has me as a mother though. I don't think even starving people would eat that soup. I guess I could always throw it over the fence? Nothing sends the message that "I'm just not that into you" better than a gallon of bitter soup and a couple of burnt rock-breads! 

 

 

Is it wrong to convert to hippie-ism because I'm too busy to shave my legs?

I'm pretty busy. I think that's the topic for every freaking post I write and I'm so bored by the whole thing, wah wah wah. As my mom would say, "I'm flogging a dead horse". Which is an old English saying meaning I should change the subject already (mental note... never use that saying ever again. It's awful).

The long and the short of it is that I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of talking about being tired. And I'm tired of wishing I wasn't tired. So I'm on a quest to simplify my life. And the first step in the revolution of my life is a list. Nothing new there. I don't know whether I've mentioned this before, but I secretly love lists. Not because I like to be organized (I don't). Or because I like to plan (where's the fun in that). Nope, I like lists because I like to cross things off. Tick and move on. I'm an over-achiever, type-A, get-it-done kind of gal, so a list helps me feel like I'm conquering my life. Like I'm moving in the right direction. Hell, like I'm moving in any kind of direction, as long as I'm moving.

So I wrote a list of all the things I hate. The things I'd give my left arm never to add to a list again.

• shave legs
• shave underarms
• straighten/blow dry hair
• iron
• cook
• wear sensible work shoes
• wear business suits
• drive in rush hour traffic
• host dinner parties
• force my kicking/screaming son into clean clothes
• accounts

And I realized that if I became a hippie, I wouldn't have to do any of them. I could drift around the house happliy all day with fuzzy legs and crazy hair. In rumpled clothes and flip flops. In soft hemp outfits and questionable underwear. And I'd never cook again. I'd throw some seeds and an apple on a plate and that would be dinner. I'd be late for everything and forget stuff and drive badly. All the things I already do. Except now I'd have an excuse. I'd be on a quest for higher consciouness and the rejection of the superficiality of the modern world. Who could argue with that? Genius!

I could feed my son granola for every meal. And live in a tent in the summer (how awesome is that?). And forget to enrol him in preschool. And forget my husband's colleague's names. And wear mis-matched socks and get chickens. Ok, on second thoughts, scrap the chickens - they are stinky and early and loud. But we could find friends with chickens. And get an old camper van and make our own wine.

I'm really excited about this. Can you tell?

I'm not sure how I'm going to avoid the accounts issue though. While on one hand it's totally un-hippie to do accounts and visit a bank - yay, let's scatter flower petals from the sky. On the other I have an irrational fear, bordering on phobia some would say, of the IRS. And something tells me they don't look kindly on hippies. How do I stay friends (huggie, smoochy, BFF's) with the IRS, and embrace hippie-dom at the same time? Is it even possible? Can hippies and the IRS ever be "one"? Is there a way to broker peace between the two? I'm on a quest to find out... I'll let you know!

 

This is what I'm going to look like. All zen and peaceful and young.

Except I'll probably mess it up and end up looking like this. And if I do, I'll blame the IRS!

 

And in the spirit of changing the world, check out the new video we recently made for our skin care product, Fei'd (pronounced "fade"). Join us and help spread the love. You won't have to shave your legs, I promise!

 

Chronic back pain sucks. Really. Totally.

I'm the queen of multitasking. Okay, maybe not the queen. But definitely a princess. In a cool Kate Middleton kind of way. Except I'm not as pretty as Kate. So I guess that makes me more like Beatrice and Eugenie (eeew... cold shiver)!

I live my life in complete and utter chaos. My house is a mess, I can't cook and I haven't ironed anything in 9 months. But I do juggle my own business, I'm a full-time mom and I have 2 dogs (one of which is an arthritic basset hound which is more work than a kid any day). So quite frankly, clutter isn't too high on my priority list. 

But the balls came crashing down this week. C-R-A-S-H-I-N-G down. It seems that I developed a juggling injury - my lower back went into spasm in a way that I never thought possible. I couldn't walk. I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't eat (okay I could, but for once I didn't feel like it). And I even needed help going to the bathroom. For the princess of multitasking, it was a serious wakeup call. If I'd known this was a possible career side effect, I might not have been quite so ambitious. 

Here's proof of my injury. Thank God for acupuncture. And yes, that's my fat ass. And yes, that is the sound of me screaming. And yes, it sucked. It sucked big time. But hopefully my ass has shrunk. Both from the needles and from my lack of eating. Because I'm going on vacation next week and I don't think any of my bikinis fit anymore. See, I'm trying to look at the bright side. At the end of the day I still have my amazing husband and incredible son. And pain meds. Man, I love my pain meds!

 

 

Traveling for 42 hours in stilettos is not good. But giving back to kids is. So, all in all, it was a great trip!

Sorry about the recent blog silence, but I have been a way for a few weeks. I went back to South Africa to visit the children's homes my company supports, and to find a few more organizations to help. And what a worthwhile trip it was.

As always, I arrived with a clear list of "business" objectives (ever practical me... can anyone say OCD?):

• Check on the children in the homes we already support
• Deliver copies of my book and educational donations to the homes ($5 from every Fei'd purchase is used to buy items for the kids)
• Meet with the organizations that run the homes and pinpoint their evolving needs
• Visit new homes, review their financial and business records, and meet their staff
• Select some new organizations we will be supporting moving forward

And yes, all this was achieved... tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

But the trip ended up being about way more than just that. It was about spending time with regular, happy, jumpy kids. Kids that are no different from my son here in the US. Kids that love making funny faces and eating marshmallows and reading books and playing dress-up. And that is why I keep going back to visit them, time and time again. Yes, I need to make sure that our donations are ending up where they are supposed to. And that the kids are getting the care they need. And that we are sending them items that that are really useful. But mostly it's just to spend time with the children.

 

Because when it's all said and done, I'm a mom. Not necessarily the best mom in the world, but I'm a mom none the less. And if I know one thing, it's that all moms are on a quest to make the world a happier place. We can't help it, the second we squeeze out our first child (or in my case the second he is dragged out kicking and screaming with a ventouse suction thingy), we just want the world to be pink and fuzzy and happy and brimming with love. And of course it's not - far from it. But that doesn't stop us from trying. And when I go back to spend a day at a children's home 10,000 miles away, I get happy and pink and fuzzy. And joyous. And I feel grateful. I feel like I've helped make the world a better place for my son, just a little bit.

In fact, I'm tearing up right now just thinking about it. Sorry. I know this blog is supposed to be funny. You're supposed to leave this page feeling reassured that you're not the only imperfect parent. Or person. That I'm just blundering my way through life and trying not to lose it along the way. And don't worry, I'm still the queen of blunder. I stupidly booked my flights on the cheapest airline and was surrounded by people eating curry out of home-tupperwares for 42 hours. I left my sneakers in South Africa and had to travel all the way back in stilettos. And I packed stilettos because my vertically-challenged husband wasn't traveling with me and I wanted to look tall and sophisticated when I saw my friends (vanity, thy name is woman).

And now I'm back home. And the reality of everyday routine has hit me. So I'm trying to keep busy. And sane. And send big hugs to the kids so many miles away. I love you guys!

PS: Big thanks to Chris Geils for the amazing photos. To donate to the children's homes, visit www.homefromhome.org.za/

If nobody's dead or lost their minds, it's a success

It's been a crazy-busy few weeks. For a start, Micah turned 2. Which was great. Really. Except that I scheduled his party for mothers day. Which was pretty dumb-ass on my part. But to be fair, I have very low expectations for days in which I'm the "person of honor". So I tend to lose track of when they are. Let's just say it's best that I pretend it's just a regular day and then get pleasantly surprised when the dishes get done. So anyway, that's why I dumb-assedly scheduled his party for mothers day. And my awesome friends came, even though they had special days planned. And we had pony rides and a barbecue and gifts and cake. And it was a blast. And even though there were plenty of tears, there were also plenty of laughs. And just to clarify, the tears were not shed by me. I actually held up pretty well. Despite the numerous tantrums. Again, not from me. So all in all, judging by the empty bottles of Savignon Blanc (yes, I admit, they were partly from me), I think the day was a huge success.

And Micah got loads of gifts, both from his friends at the party and from all over the world. Hugely generous and thoughtful gifts. But guess what he's fallen in love with? Guess which toy he loves above all others?

 

Yes, it's a wooden plank. An old, dirty wooden plank that he found next to the trashcans at the back of our house. It's his surf board. Micah is in love and it's a beautiful thing. We spent hours decorating it with stickers. And washing it and wrapping it in blankets in case it got cold.

And it hasn't left his side since. He baths with it, he sleeps with it, we walk the dogs with it, we eat with it, we drive with it. As I said, he's in love... it's all he thinks about. And I'm encouraging it wholeheartedly. After all, it's never going to leave him, it won't cheat on him, it doesn't carry any deadly diseases (I hope not anyway), it doesn't ask stupid questions or giggle inappropriately and it is incapable of procreating. Let me tell you, his future girlfriends have a lot to live up to. From now on, they'll all have to pass my official "plank test".

And in between all the birthday madness, I have been trying to get Fei'd off the ground. It's a mad race from Micah's bedroom to my desk every time I put him down for his nap. Forcing as much work as I possibly can into every free second I have. And then flipping my brain back into mommy-mode when he wakes up - hugging the plank and finding it new stickers and peeling apple slices because the plank doesn't like skins.

Honestly, it's the closest a person can possibly get to living like a schizophrenic - I feel like I'm living 2 weirdly disconnected, parallel lives. When I'm with Micah I feel like I'm cheating my work, and when I'm working I feel like I'm cheating on my son. I'm like some weird real-life version of Nurse Jackie. Except without the drugs and the clandestine affair with the creepy pharmacist. Although, to be honest,  I do pray for drugs some days. Is that normal? Probably not. Maybe. I don't know.

But I continue to live by my motto - if nobody's dead or lost their minds, it's a success. So all in all, it's been a hugely successful few weeks. So far. Thanks be to Savignon Blanc. And an old plank.

 

 

 

 

Thanks be to Insanity. Oh, and to Kim too!

I know my last post was all about gratitude. And I know it's freaking boring to do another one with the same theme. But I figure since I usually spend such a disportionate amount of time bitching and moaning, I should take full advantage of my current good-cheer. So this post is a big thank you to my fellow-bloggers, Andrea and Kim. Although to be honest, I'm a little loathe to bundle all of us in the same category. I'm so far below them in the blogger leagues, it's embarassing. Kind of like me comparing myself to Lady Gaga. Yes we both sing sometimes, and yes we're both mad as hatters after a couple of tequilas, but that's where the similarities end. No, on second thoughts, the similarities actually end with our bank balances. Damn you and your eternal riches, Lady Gaga.

So anyway, thanks to Kim who is running a fantastic Fei'd giveaway on her blog. Enter now if you want to win free Fei'd (and a copy of my children's book). Lady Gaga, you can't enter. You're not eligable on account of your eternal riches. Your loony craziness is kinda awesome though, so feel free to go by our site and whip out that titanium credit card.

And a big thank you to Andrea who gave us a shout-out last week. You probably won't be reading this since you're on vacation with your 67 pairs of underwear, but YOU ROCK!

 And I know this is supposed to be a grateful, good cheer post, but I can't help myself. I just have to rant.  To the crazy woman with the topless visor-hat (and by that, I mean her hat was topless, not her... just clarifying), thanks a million for cutting me off on the highway and almost killing us. Okay, that is a slight exaggeration, she didn't almost kill us. But she could have. And that's enough. The incident does however prove my theory once and for all - you can categorically judge a person's driving ability by their headwear. And topless visor-hats are reserved for those that crawl directly from the primordial driving ooze.

So if the DMV is reading this, please make a point of reviewing headwear during a driving exam. The presence of a topless visor-hat should qualify as an automatic fail. It's just as dangerous as running a red light or hitting a pedestrian. Becasue it's only a matter of time before the wearer does something equally dangerous. So in this case, prevention is definitely better than cure. You're welcome.

Phew, I feel better now! Happy Friday everyone!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks be to the Dudess

I have been writing this post for what feels like hours. And no matter how hard I tried, it sounded cheesy. Saccharine. Gushy. Because I've been trying to explain how grateful I feel. Grateful because my first skin care product has finally launched. Grateful that I managed to get to this point without killing myself with some kind of self-induced stress disorder. Grateful that I haven't killed anyone else either for that matter. And grateful that my son seems none the worse for wear considering how sleep-deprived I've been. Unless you count his recent toddler crime spree, but I'm ignoring that for now. (All these thoughts about killing. No wonder my son is a violent toddler-criminal. I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Unless you throw it. At someone's head. Oh dear, more violence. I definitely need a vacation.)

Drumroll.... Ta-Daaaa......

Here's my new skin care product. It's called Fei'd and yes, I know the apostrophe looks weird. I hadn't slept for months, my son was sick, and I may have had a glass (or 2) of wine. May have.

It's pronounced "fade" and it's a combination of Traditional Chinese Medicine and cutting edge western science. Oh, and it works like a charm on pigmentation and dark marks. I know because I used it on my pregnancy pigmentation marks. Or Micah-marks as I like to call them. Mainly becuase I was pregnant with Micah when I got them (i.e. they are totally his fault) but also because that's what size they were. Really.

I'm also very grateful for all the love and support my fellow bloggers have thrown my way. Andrea from The Creative Junkie, Toni from Mammakaze, Kim from Kimnfam and Mir from Woulda Coulda Shoulda. You guys are my rocks. Thank you. And by rocks I mean that you rock. Not the crack cocaine type of rock. And yet more criminal thoughts. USCIS, if you're reading this, I'M JOKING.

And lastly a shout out to my friend Diana. Get well soon. Kick that cancer's ass.

And this is for the IRS and USCIS, just in case they're reading...

 

Don't you freaking hate that schmaltzy photo-poetry stuff? I swore blind I'd never have it on my blog. My absolute worst are those PowerPoint presentations set to music with puppies and kittens and sunsets. Who the hell sits and makes that stuff? One thing's for sure though, their kids probably aren't violent and they never use curse words and I bet they never think about killing anyone. So I guess the last laugh's on me.

But here's the thing. I am fully and totally grateful. Really. Not in a poetry, flowery, classical music kind of way. That's just not me (I'm an ex-shaved-head punk for heaven's sakes. And no, I will never ever post pictures). I'm grateful in more of a kick ass kind of way. And since I'm not religious, it's hard to say exactly who or what I'm grateful to. But I'm going to try. I'm grateful to God or the gods or the universe or the higher being or the Dude or the Dudess. That's it, I'm grateful to the Dudess. Thank you. You rock.

 

P.S. Blame Typepad for the typos in this post. If they'd fix their spell checker, the world would be a better place. In a flowers, poetry, soft music kind of way.

I've spawned a dictator

In one of my older posts, I was worried that my son would turn into some kind of drug dealing super-spy. He'd stolen all my shoes, hidden half of them in a thorn bush and to this day, the other half have yet to be returned to me. So as much as I was glad for the opportunity to go on a shoe replacement shopping spree, I was also genuinely worried that this would mark the beginning of Micah's criminal career. And it turns out that it did. Since then he has flushed our Christmas ornaments down the toilet, stolen numerous boxes of peppermints from Trader Joes, attempted to steal an unlocked car outside a neighbor's house, thrown a bag of uncooked pasta at our dog and purposely graffitied our fridge. So basically be has committed robbery, attempted grand theft auto, aggravated assault against an animal, and property damage. And all before his second birthday. Personally, I blame the parents.  I always blame the parents.

But my biggest recent worry is his increasing tendency to dictatorship. I mean it came as no surprise to me that he's bossy. I am his mother after all. And I have been known to "take charge" when the need arises. I've even been called a pushy control freak (I love you honey). But my son makes me look like the freakin' Dalai Lama. He struts around like Mussolini, barking orders at all and sundry and screaming at his minions. Which is kinda cute when it's just friends and family. But really embarrassing when it's aimed at the elderly Christian minister that insisted on helping me push my cart to the car. Especially when he told the poor old man to "BACK OFF" once he was done. And it's not easy when we visit the horses at the stables nearby and he orders the "orses" (and the staff) to "SIT AND STAY" because he wants time to decide exactly which horse deserves carrots. 

Here is a pic, just in case you don't believe me. 

And here is a pic of Muammar Gadhafi.

Similar, no? Oh, and you see what Gadhafi is wearing? Hmm, the man has style. I bet he was stealing his mother's shoes as a toddler too. Nuff said.

So here's my new mission. I'm enrolling my son in Greenpeace next year. I figure if he has to be bossy, controlling and dictating, at least he can do it for the good of mankind. See I'm not such a bad parent after all. 

 

Can you fire your dying accountant?

So I've been using this accountant called Gene for the past few years who is a real laugh. I heard about him through a friend and since he lives about an hour away, I first started working with him over the phone. And... yes, his voice did sound a little old, but hey. I thought maybe he just smoked too much. I mean he seemed to know what he was talking about. Although to be honest, I'm so clueless when it comes to tax, Sarah Palin could probably bullshit me if she really tried. Okay, maybe not. I refudiate that. No way I'm that bad.

But it was only when I met him in person that I realized how astronomically old he really is. He looks like Al Roper. Remember him, the old dude from Three's Company. Except my accountant's 20 years older. So picture this guy but way, way older:

Like this:

But honestly, I didn't care. Gene's a riot, he knows his tax stuff and he makes me laugh. And anyone that is able to make me smile in the presence of IRS documentation and the impending gloom of writing a very large check deserves recognition. Deserves a freaking medal - the IRS medal of valor or something. 

Except now I have a problem. Gene has started forgetting things. Like filing my 2010 tax return. Or returning my phone calls. And that freaks me out. Because when you are as clueless as me, you need someone you can trust with your fax mess. And if there's one thing I know as a non-American-citizen, you don't mess with the IRS. Ever. 

So on a pure business level, I know it's time to find a new accountant. But I love Gene. I'm torn. I was going to call him last week and explain why I was moving on to a "younger model". But then I heard he was really sick. And I just didn't have the heart to pick up the phone and fire a dying man. So now I'm paying 2 accountants to prepare my tax return. I've asked Gene to mail his to me first so I can intercept it before it's mailed to the IRS. Although I'm secretly hoping he'll forget to do it... again. 

And that, my friends, is why my taxes are in such a state. You think the IRS will understand if I explain that I'm just too nice to pay taxes? Is there a deductible for caring and kindness? No. And the IRS wonders why they rate so low on popularity polls? They should follow Toyota's lead - you know how they give away free cars to nice people? The IRS should give tax breaks to nice people too. Because I wouldn't mind giving my hard earned cash to an organization that cared, just a little. Just saying.

And here's a shout-out to Gene. Get well soon my friend.

 

"Left in the darkness"

I had my latest post all planned out in my head. All neat and organized. Comfortable. But I found a website today (thanks Dooce) that shocked me beyond... beyond what? Hard to say. But beyond comfortable, that's for sure.

It tells Julie's story. Mostly in pictures. Without judgement and analysis. Without answers. Just tells it like it is. With love.

Tells it so beautifully that I'm sobbing. Sobbing for Julie. And for the millions of other abused kids out there. Kids who grow up believing they're not worthy. Not worthy of love and kindness and respect. And who ultimately get none. And the 17 million women living with HIV. And their kids. And how this stuff feels so distant. How it shouldn't.

And mostly I'm sobbing because I don't know how to help. How can we teach worthiness? I don't have an answer. But I care. I care so, so much. 

I think that Brene Brown might be onto something though. I don't think she's there yet, but I hope beyond hope she gets there. For all of us.