Does the dye inject stupid in right through the scalp?

This has a nice Homer Simpson vibe to it. And let's face it, who else could qualify as the original airhead better?

My mental age just hit somewhere where it can only be defined as 'very old, bordering on senility and that stage when the fridge seems like the optimal spot for any sort of keys, the husband's deodorant, and Mitzy, the little hand-bag size poodle'. Or perhaps I finally bore witness to that thing called a blond moment, made so famous by Jessica Simpson of the notorious chicken of the sea fame. Or was it Marilyn Monroe (Oh no! Am I having another one? Of those moments. Or was it that Monroe was just having more fun...? Nngh! She does look like she was having oodles of fun in her hayday, but then again she did kill herself, so I don't quite know what that does to the whole having more fun than brunettes or redheads, and...

What was I saying?

Am I still writing an aside in the parentheses?

Shit.)

What?

Shit.

Oh yes. I was writing about my interesting discussion at the gas station today. In case that wasn't completely obvious from the Marilyn Monroe references. Nothing says gas like Marilyn, right?

"Please fill it up," I say, and the man smiles at me through my open window.

There are the usual questions on the water and oil and something I think sounds like 'carlage' but which I haven't actually told them to check yet, not even to find out what carlage might mean, when I hear the gas pump click.

"Hmm, that's awfully soon," I mumble to myself and frown in what I always believe is an endearing manner, but might just be scaring the bejeezus out of the attendant, as I'm pretty sure I can see his lip quiver just a little when he approaches me again.

"52 rand," the man tells me.

"What? That's not possible! I had less than half a tank left! How much did you put in?" I open with, but decide to make things easier for myself as him telling me 5 liters or 50 is not going to mean anything to me anyway, "wait, scratch that. Did you fill it allllll the way up?"

I make a sign that to me signifies full, but probably means that I would like to hitch a ride to Baragwanath hospital on one of the local taxis. Which I probably should not do. Or that's at least what every single person I've told about my two taxi-rides in Soweto says as they look at me like I'm insane.

"Yes ma'am, allllll the way up" says the attendant and makes a sign that might mean that he too is in need of some sort of transportation.

I start the car and watch the gauge that doesn't move at all.

"See!" I yell and point at the dashboard, "There's something wrong!"

"Madam, that's the temperature gauge."

Now, where to find a new gas station I can start frequenting?

Did someone spit in my latte?

I really hope I'm just developing a case of paranoia. I really do.

You be the judge.

The waitress I reprimanded earlier for not providing me with timely service at the hotel bar, today met me at the door with a sunny smile and took my order before I'd had time to properly sit down. I smiled and thought "good for her". This was to be a gooood Saturday. 

After having my necessary bottle of water and copious amounts of rooibos-tea (I'm pretending to be healthy, let's hope the lingering flu is fooled), I felt like having a latte. 

In case you have missed it before (not very likely, but anyhow), lattes in this country rock, really rock, and so does the bonus cake that comes with the latte. This coffee is awesome. I. Can. Not. Stay. Away. 

The waitress took my order, and went away. I was happily looking forward to my latte (which was gonna rock, seriously). And oh how I long for that unblemished frame of mind, as my mental state was soon to take an unfortunate spirally dip (this is not an uncommon occurrence). 

When the waitress arrived with my latte she set it down in front of me, fixed me with a meaningful stare and said: "I hope you enjoy your latte, I made it specially for you."  

Perhaps having read this about a maid using her menstrual blood as a voodoo-y spice in her employers' food (via Stepford Dreams), I was already in pretty someone's-out-to-get-me state of mind. Now... is it just me or is this the worst thing for a waitress to say to a coffee-crazed Finn who is not unwilling to entertain elaborate conspiracy theories? 

Well, maybe it is just me. Yup, pretty sure it's just me. Shouldn't probably have had all that sugary cake at breakfast... hmph... 

Well, it has been at least weeks since my last proper bout of self-inflicted housewife drama. This was long overdue. 

Thanks universe.

Homesick for Mexico

I thought that once our stuff finally arrived here in South Africa, I would start feeling properly at home here, I really did. That's how I remember it working when we moved from Denmark to Mexico. For expats, having your stuff often equals having your home with you. The place you put your stuff is just a canvas to paint your desired environment on, in our case a mishmash of streamlined Scandinavian design, quirky Mexican artifacts, odd pieces designed by yours truly, and Ikea. The house on the inside now looks like me. Still...  

I find myself feeling homesick for Mexico. And yes, by homesick I mean feeling like that is where my home is, where my real life is, and where I would like to return to. I don't just miss my friends, or Mexican food, or speaking Spanish, or being able to walk everywhere, or our apartment, or our flower guy, or the oh so juicy arrachera cuts of meat, or my local Starbucks (even though I do desperately miss all of these, especially Starbucks). I really feel homesick for Mexico.

Now WTF?!?! Why can't I feel at home in this awesome country?

Well, if I really take a proper look at my life I might just understand. Even looking back at my postings on this blog I can see that there are far too many complaints concerning boredom, not having deadlines, or not having stuff to do. The unfortunate truth is that no matter how hard I have tried to start up stuff - volunteering, a book club, sports, traveling, etc - things just don't seem to pan out for me. And to top it all, it seems that the hubby is going to be away pretty much every week at least for the next three months. 

Don't get me wrong, we have had  a bunch of good experiences, braais up the wazoo, different activities, and such things that are part of getting to know a new country. However, that does not a life make, and I guess that's what I'm missing. A life outside of this estate that is beginning to feel like a prison more and more every day. A life that I have chosen, filled with activities that are right for me, and with like-minded people.

Thankfully in my darkest hour I found this. Perhaps there is light (and life) at the end of the tunnel. I can't wait.

A word of warning on the maid front

As you have probably gathered, I still haven't got a handle on the maid situation, and I'm still forced to clean my own house and iron my own clothes - oh, the suffering I must go through. Boo Hoo. Hoo.

(Warning. I will now attempt to use this medium to rant about the horrors of my experience with a company that truly blows.)

The reason, however, to the halted situation is not me, but the, by now infamous agency: A1 Domestics. After sending a flurry of emails and calling them for a whole week, I still don't have my money back, nor do I have a new maid. 

The first one, as you may recall, did not speak any (or at least enough) English, and I had to let her go. The second one, who was extremely distraught to hear that we didn't have any children and Thor forbid she would actually have to clean instead of being a nanny, quit. Still, this is not a rant about them. This is a rant about an extremely unprofessional company and all that is heinous about it. 

First of all, this the dubious tactic they used to ensnare me:

Someone had told me about a company someone they knew had used and liked. This person thought the name of the company was something like 'Maid in Heaven'. Being the internet addict that I am, I promptly googled this. The first site that showed up links back to A1 Domestics site. There was also information on a company called Maid - in - Heaven, but they didn't have a website, leaving me feeling a little iffy (gut feeling gone wrong). In the end I decided to email both companies. A1 Domestics called me back right away. Of course (eye roll), they wanted to rid me of my money. On the phone too, they sounded very professional, asked me about my requirements - my only ones were that the person had prior experience and that she spoke fluent English - and the woman assured me that all of her "ladies have prior professional experience and references." Well, I guess that wasn't true either since neither of the maids had any sort of references, when I inquired about them, and the second one had only a copy of 'her' ID book, and couldn't produce the original for me. For this reason, I'm glad she quit, since I would like to abide by the law, and not hire anyone who is in the country illegally.

Since becoming more than disillusioned with A1 Domestics and their bad business practices, I have done some more research on the internet. I heard about another agency, called Marvellous Maids, that is supposedly a little more expensive, but very good. Again, I googled, and guess what pops up? A header 'Marvelous Maids' links back to A1 Domestics. Bad business practices - need I say more?

So, to summarize, no one that I know has said anything positive about A1 Domestics, and this company is simply leaching on the good service of the other two companies. There might actually be steam coming out of my ears as I write this, since my blood is for sure boiling. It is now evident to me, that my money is gone, and even if they ever do get back to me, apart from giving my money back for services not rendered, I would hate to get another maid through them. Who knows what kind of a person would show up at my doorstep, perhaps someone who only speaks Portuguese, thinks she is here to take care of my ailing mother, and to feed my bunnies. Would not surprise me in the least.

The battle for clean floors wages on. Oh Thor, give me strength.

Alien inhabitation

The hubby is on yet another tour of southern Africa, due to work and I am left to fend for myself. I used to do this quite a lot and almost felt like a single woman, just without the pressure of finding a man, or even, you know, trying to look respectable in case I came across someone suitable. I already had that special someone, he was just busy working hard, trying local delicacies, and buying me cool jewelry in somewhere like Kuala Lumpur, Santiago de Chile, or Surabaya, as I partied the night away.

However, maybe it's the age that is slowing me down, or perhaps it really is true what I just wrote to my BFF in Mexico: I seem to have developed a new South African persona. This gal is much more outdoorsy and domestic than I normally give myself credit for. She goes to the gym, to spinning class, she likes hiking and participating in races at the crack of dawn on Saturday mornings. She cooks, she cleans, and almost watches no television. She gets excited about going on a game drive, or a sporting event, and doesn't drink nearly as much as the Mexican, the Danish, or the Finnish me. 

Weird. 

You-know-what chronicles. Yes. Yet again.

Guess what my time has been spent on today. 

I'll give you a clue: 

If it wasn't for the people coming over tomorrow night for a braai I would happily drown.

I'm pretty certain most of you guessed right.

Drumroll please......

 

Indeed, I have been invading a territory I loathe and hope to clear out of as soon as possible. 

I have been cleaning my house.

This is an SMS I received at 9:10PM Tuesday night, when the maid was scheduled to come 7AM the next morning:

Im not coming 2 moro u must look 4 smeonels who can work with ur list but me i cnt

Nuff said for now. At least she let me know. The battle with the agency continues. However, I would just like to publicly make clear that this time I did not fire the maid, I was willing to make an effort and try to make it work. This time she quit.

How many calories does cleaning your house vigorously burn? Perhaps I am entitled to some nice glasses (read: bottles) of wine... Who am I kidding?!?! I always feel entitled.

File in: Crap service providers

I know, believe me I know, this blog is supposed to be about positive stuff that happens and that we make happen in South Africa. But sometimes you get slapped in the face so many times that it becomes very hard to turn the other cheek, at least without ranting a bit. And you all know by now how much I like to rant, hey?

It is now 9:40AM and I and my husband are sitting on the kitchen counter awaiting our stuff, the container that holds it, and a crew of five movers to arrive. They were supposed to be here at 8AM. 

20 minutes ago, after several attempts, my husband finally got through to the company in charge of our move in this end, Elliot International, and was told that they were actually having a problem with their transportation and that the container hasn't even left yet. WTF?!?! So now we are waiting for a crew with broken limbs, since none of them was able to pick up the phone at 8AM to tell us that they were having a problem. 

A delay of couple of hours (if indeed this is what it will remain as) might not seem like a huge thing, but let's face the facts: We arrived in SA a whopping five, yes 5, months ago. Try living out of two suitcases (24kg each) for more than a couple of months and you get the frustration, especially when one of the suitcases also contains the wedding album, important papers and obscene amount of not even so valuable, but too shiny to pass as junk, jewelry. And, I will not even go into the joys of an existence amidst smelly rented furniture. Also, If this was the first and only cock-up of the said company, I would most certainly not be ranting like this (I know what you're all thinking, but I like to consider myself as patient. Stop laughing!). However, this company's, whose relocation services my husband's company also forced on us, track record with us is severely less than flattering, and we have had it up to here - me holding my hand way above my head - with this thing they insist on calling service. I hate to think how much money my husband's company is throwing at them for this show of incompetence.   

The really scary part of this is that I am not even that anal about stuff like this. Mexico taught me many lessons in patience and trust, like when I spent several months (not making this up) waiting for the dishwasher repair guy, so sadly, I am picking my battles, and not getting worked up by the small stuff. I hate to think of the stink the me from five years ago would have caused over this.

No sign of furniture yet.

The maid chronicles. Part gazillion and four

I have a new maid (because), whom I immediately fell in love with because she was wearing a turban, and so far things are going like this:

After me explaining to her that we don't eat bread and I'm only buying it for her to eat.

Maid: Why you not eat bread?!?!? I eat bread ALL the time. Potatoes too. What you eat if you not eat bread?

Me (a little defensive): Well..., we eat meat, fish, vegetables and things. You know, we're not from here (if she only knew that bread and potatoes are all Finns ever eat, or at least did when I was a kid). 

Maid: Vegetable, that is good, but pork... You eat pork?

Me: Yes... yeah... Yes.

Maid: Porridge, you not eat porridge?

Me: Well. No. We don't eat wheat.

Maid: ?????

Me: We don't eat flour, you know flour? (making a sorry attempt at mimicking baking, I hope). Or mealie meal either.

Maid lets out a huge laugh.

Me: ?????

Maid: I eat chicken. I only eat chicken. I no eat cow, not pork, not nothing. Porridge, potatoes. I peel potatoes, put cream and cheese. Very good.

Me: Oh, that sounds nice (fake smile). You know, we're not from here (shrug).

Maid lets out another huge laugh and I escape to something reeeaaalllly interesting on the computer, that I need to ponder and frown at.

About an hour later as I'm still expertly frowning at the computer and the maid is preparing her lunch.

Maid: When you shop you buy me fish and beef.

Me: Huh?

Maid: Fish Lucky Star and beef. I write down?

Me: Ohm... Yes, please, yes. You mean beef, like raw or like to put on bread?

Maid: Yes, raw. I eat bread and Lucky Star or beef and bread. Next time you shop you buy. 

Me: Ohm... Okay.

Now what just happened?