THE LEGWARMER

So I'm not much a 'shoe person'. Never have been. Perhaps not all due to choice either. I, for one, don't have loads of spare cash to indulge myself on shoe shopping. So I've trained myself to enjoy the basic necessary shoes and yearn for no more than that. So my pair of Adidas have taken me far and probably will continue to do so. And I'm glad. Because I like them.

Then winter rolled in, and with it, a boot craze like there's never been before. EVERYONE is wearing boots. Long boots, mostly. Which is not good for me, because I have short legs. So a boot that's supposed to stop above the calf on everyone else, takes me halfway up the knee, managing to just look ridiculous enough to be considered not an option.

My Mom always stressed that I had to dress according to what suited me, not what was fashionable. Because I'm short, this is something I've been forced to do, as not all the fashions suit me at all (regrettably, most of them actually have the opposite effect!).

Anyway, before I start lamenting abut my trials and tribulations as a 'shorty', let me get back onto my subject; The Legwarmer.

So after dragging myself through various shops, I finally found a pair of boots that caught my attention. Black, medium heel, not too thick (the thinner the heel the more I like it!). But best of all, it stopped at the top of my calf like it was supposed to do and it had folds of woolly material sewn on it - to resemble a leg warmer. Just up my alley. Anything that looks remotely like it could be related to 'dance' tickles my fancy something awful.

So I bought the boots.
Alas, they lasted about a month and got holes in the sides. Cheap Chinese Shit. And there goes my favourite boots.

So off I go shopping for more boots. But nothing compares to my favourite boots. My only boots. I have to have another pair of boots, we are only halfway through winter now. So I drag myself through some more shops and finally stumble into a small corner shop in China Town and here is a pair of ankle boots that I could grudgingly wear. It was obvious I wasn't going to find my legwarmer boots again.

It was only about two weeks later that the idea struck me. Forgotten, in my underwear cupboard was some pairs of legwarmers that used to belong to Mom. Back from her 80's gyming days. They went with the tights and the one-piece leotards, complete with headbands and wrist guards. I think they did things with such style those days. Now, a baggy tracksuit pants and sloppy t-shirt is what people are wearing to exercise in.

Anyway, so there I was, a pair of bright red legwarmers in my hand and a plan.

Wearing my new fashion statement to work for the first time, I noticed startled looks, not sure if it was because of the bright red or Return of The Legwarmer. But either way - I liked how it looked, AND it was warm. So I don't really care what they thought of The Look.

I was thus inspired to go and research on the legwarmer. Not much out there in the way of information. I found a few forums where people's comments were extremely negative. It would appear that in some countries the legwarmer made a brief comeback some years ago (around 2004) and was not favourably received. I saw it commented that the legwarmer was top of the lists of fashion disasters of the '80's.

Legwarmers were first designed by a company called KD Dance in 1980 with the purpose of keeping dancers' legs warms to avoid cramping while they warmed up and during the first parts of their rehearsal. They then became the rave for the first 4 years of the 80's - particularly when Flashdance and Footloose were released - only to disappear totally by the end of '84. During these four years though, they were worn in multi-colour, over jeans, with tights, with sneakers, with heels - just about any way you can imagine. And people either loved or hated it. Interestingly, apparently no dancer would have been caught dead wearing them anywhere other than when they were dancing - or so the story goes.

So I am inspired to try to bring the Legwarmer back. Though it might be a bit late, as the shops are already displaying their summer ranges. So it might just me - doing my bit for legwarmers.

I also found an interesting article on how to make your own legwarmers by cutting off the sleeve of a jersey and weaving a ribbon through this cut off part, which would then go around the ankle.

The legwarmer should always start at the base of the ankle and could end anywhere up to the knee. If worn with pants, these should be tight, not make unseemly bulges at the ankle or above the legwarmer at the knee. It is also a good idea to colour-co-ordinate the legwarmer with an item of clothing you are wearing, such as your jersey. Part of the failure of the legwarmer in the '80's appears to be due to the insane colour schemes the girls wore. It seems that they even wore more than one set per leg - in outrageous non-matching colours. A sure-fire way to kill a fashion.

So there you have it - the history of The Legwarmer. And the way winter's are getting colder every year, I think there could be a place in every girl's wardrobe for a pair of legwarmers!

Above:   From Footloose

Below:  A more modern look?

Neither Here Nor There

And so I did the thing I swore I wouldn't do - I stopped writing.  Well, for the public anyway.  It's not as if too many readers are missing anything, I didn't have all that many to begin with, and I found I could be more true to myself if I just wrote for myself.  And so I did, in my personal blog - my 'dark blog' as I think of it.  And I've been loving it.  There I get to pour out all my thoughts and feelings without...weighing my words and trying to be funny or entertaining or politically correct.   I can just be me.  As a full time working woman and a mother of three, my time is really very limited, so I've been using the bit I've got to write in the 'dark blog'.  But this blog stands - not forgotten - until I have something I have a need to share and then I'll write again, and that will be for the random reader who stumbles upon it and perhaps enjoys it.  Till next time!

Letters To Inanimate Objects

Claire Marie at Spontaneous Delight had a wicked idea to compose letters to inamimate objects.  It tickled my fancy something awful, and I just couldn't resist.  Had a good laugh at Kirsten at Wanderlust's posts as well!

So here goes:-

Dear Car Tyre
Why do you have to be flat on the morning that it's pouring with rain?

Dear Fingernail
You just had to wait until all ten were nice and long and then you go and break and leave me with nine.
What's with that?

Dear Stomach
I tanned you.  I fed you.  I reproduced in you.  I put you on a diet so you could go flat again.   I crunched you.  I shimmied with you.  And still you bloat and make me look fat.  You ungrateful gas storer.

Dear Penis
No, you are not the king of the world. Get a haircut.

Dear Monday
I hate you.  I hate you.  I hate you.

Dear Cheesecake
You look so good I could eat you.  But I won't.  Because Stomach will probably have a problem with it.

Dear Computer
I love you.  You're my true great love and I do not know what I'd do without you.  You frustrate me when you are slow and you infuriate me when you freeze, but I just can't stay away. 

Dear Hair
Stop falling out.   We are not a dog.  We do not malt at change of seasons.  I wash you daily, I condition you regularly, you've been for a trip to the salon, I haven't coloured you for ages and ages.   You have no excuse for this.   Stop it.  Stay in my head.  Where you belong.  Okay?  Or else I'll cut you short.  Dont' think I won't. 

Lots of Love
E.D.

ml's & kg's

As a new Mom now prepared for the arrival of your baby, you’re more than likely a formidable force. With the Baby Room as close to exact as you wanted and could get it, the little clothes all rinsed out with baby –friendly washing powder with softener in it, and all folded into neat organized piles and arranged in drawers and on shelves, with baby toiletries neatly lined up to an order that only you will notice – you are 100% ready for Baby. Well, aside from some pre-birth jitters, which everyone assures you is natural and which you will feel no matter how many children you have or in what manner.

Lethally armed with baby bag and personal bag for the hospital, your greatest weapon is your Knowledge Bag. All neatly filed in your mind is all the information you have gleaned through watching, listening and reading up about everything there is to know about babies so that you too will know what to do with the little person about to arrive.

And he arrives, pink, healthy and with lots of voice and you’re scared shitless and wonder what the fuck you’re going to do now? You’ve fed him, burped him, changed him, and still he cries? Help!!!

Suddenly there’s information overload. There’s too many things it could be, too many things it couldn’t be, too many choices to make. Why wasn’t it simpler? Why wasn’t there just a wrong and a right? A black and a white? Where did all the grey areas come from???

He’s not taking to the milk, he is restless, trouble winding him – god I need some sleep, I’m gonna crack here – he’s got thrush in his mouth, could it be his ears? Is that raspiness from his nose or his chest? Is it hay fever or is it more serious than that? Grasping frantically at straws, we try new bottles, one after another, a mad kinda gleam in our overtired, burning eyes hoping that this will be the one – this teety bottle here will be the magic wand that will solve all these baby problems. But it’s not. So we turn to the gripe options. Gripe water, Bennett’s, Behoedmiddlel, Telament, we even make a mixture of them, but still nothing seems to work.

He’s allergic to the milk, we decide and turn our slightly crazed mind to the Formula and start…well making a new Formula – pardon the pun, it was intended. But that only makes it worse. And now we are in despair.

At our six week checkup at the Doctor we are assured his well, as long as his weight is on par and he is growing steadily, all is well. So we forge doggedly ahead, keeping an eagle eye on the weight, because as long as it’s on track, everything else we’ve been doing is fine, it’s what the Doctor said.

And so our lives and our first months with our first born are ruled in ml’s and kg’s. Millimeters and Kilograms.

Urgh!!

Someone prove me wrong, but I’m willing to bet on it, the second time round is not so bad. You’ve shortlisted what worked in the past and will discover not everything works the same for one as for another and so you’ll shorten the list even more, but you’re not as focused on the range the world offers, just the one your world narrowed down. And you experiment a little here and tweak a little there, and *Wa-la*, you have a ‘formula’ that works for you. And you enjoy your second child even more than your first born – who, by the way, continues to be the guinea pig in your world of choices, as he grows and ml’s and kg’s are no longer an issue, but perhaps rather liters and Kilometers and so forth!

And then, for those lucky enough – yes, I meant it, lucky enough, to have a third child, the world melts away. There are no ml’s, there are no kg’s – besides the absolute necessary . There’s just you and him and instead of counting the ml’s, you’re counting his smiles, and instead of checking the kg’s, your watching him grow and wishing he’d stop, because you know it’s over before it began, and chances are, it’s your last shot to enjoy these precious few weeks. You leave the worrying to the Doctors and let him be exactly what he is, a precious baby child that doesn’t always need a reason to cry, because crying is what babies do, it’s their thing. It’s not you, Mom, doing something wrong, it’s just their thing they do. And this new found relaxation carries over to the baby too, and they tell you what a wonderful young man you’ve got, how friendly and how relaxed, and you smile secretly, because you’re taking all the credit for it, because you damn well earned it.

When Flowers Die

How is it, I wonder to myself, that something so beautiful and given as a thoughtful gift, can cause pain to the receiver?   Sounds silly, I know.  Yet I can't help the twinge of real sorrow I feel as I watch a bunch of roses wither and die.  Roses that were given to me by a neighbour in return for babysitting her son.  A beautiful, multi-coloured bunch of sweet young roses that smelt like I'd imagine Heaven would smell - sort of fresh and sweet and gentle.  
Yet one week later they are dead and I have to throw them away.

I have on occassion photographed flowers I received, particularly those given to me when Rocco was born, in an attempt to preserve their beauty in some way. 

Somehow, something so beautiful should last longer, much longer, than a measly week. 

I wonder then, if anyone else feels like this or if they just chuck them out and wait for new...

Which brings me to a fond memory back in late 2001 when my then boyfriend and now husband brought me a handful of handpicked daisies - my favourite!  I was still living with my parents and he had been on a truck trip and had brought these back for me.  He'd elaborated on how he'd literally dodged hundreds of swarming bloodthirsty bees (or maybe it was pollen-thirsty!) - and him being allergic as well! - to bring me this thing of beauty.  I popped them straight in a vase and there they stood - for nearly three weeks.  We went away that weekend, and on our return, as we pulled up outside, my mom apparently said to my father, 'quick, chuck out the flowers before she comes in' - they knew I didn't have the heart to throw them away!

Roses are beautiful and classy and romantic and all, but daisies are wild and last longer, even if they don't smell good!

I got these when Cillisa was born from my father.  Coincidentally, Carnations were my Mom's favourite...

The Fear

A post from my personal blog a few days ago that I decided I would share...

Fear and I have grown close over the years. Looking back, it was invitable that we would, that my life would become entiwined with Fear, that we would become inseparable.

It started around the time that I got married. Fear took the first step to integrating itself in my life. It leaned close and whispered in my ear, wouldn't it be fun to lose your husband? And I whispered back that no, it certainly wouldn't be fun, and Fear chuckled and withdrew into the back of my mind, gone but not completely forgotten.

And then my son was born and Fear stepped up to the fore and asked, what if your husband was spared and your son taken instead? And I said, not on my shift. While I'm on guard of my loved ones no one is taking them anywhere. And Fear chuckled again in that ominous way it had and retreated, but not as far as before.

And life went on and it was good and the parties were hard. And I was lulled into a false sense of security as I forgot all about Fear.

And then Cilliers was taken from us. And it left us shocked and broken. Our innocence lost, to be replaced by the knowledge of a terrible and irreversible pain.

And while we were still reeling from the terror of it all, Fear struck again. I lost my mother and it left my soul shattered and cast in shadow. I became a shell, empty and with missing pieces.

I would never be the same again. I would gladly die than lose more. And then my daughter was born. And Fear shook me by the shoulders until my teeth rattled and asked smugly, who's the Boss now? And I fell to my knees and put my face in my hands and cried and answered, you are.

And Fear smiled and took a seat in the corner, within my range of vision. Always there, just over there, within reach.

And my second son was born and Fear stepped up and took my hand and has been holding it ever since.

Fear has a permanent place at my side. There is a space for it in the bed next to me at night when I lie awake in the darkness silently pleading with it to retreat. Making deals in the darkness of the night, with myself as the plea bargain. Take me first, I whisper. And Fear laughs softly, and caresses my forehead before settling down for the night.

Fear is the General in the Army of Life that I have been permanently recruited in. It stands before me and I solute it before bowing my head in a show of respect for the living breathing Fear that is inevitably a part of my life now and forever for as long as there is life that I love and value more than my own; those of my children.

Under The Couch

Well, I contracted a Cleaning Service to sweep (pun intended) into my house tomorrow and do a modern day kind of 'fairy godmother' to it.  A wave of the magic wand and *tarra* my house will be spick and span and new.

I should feel ashamed that I am currently at home on maternity leave and still recruiting a Cleaning Company.  But I'm not.  I have three children - two which are particularly messy and a husband who is not far behind (hello to toothpaste residue left behind in the basin and shoes left just where they were taken off...need I say more?).

So, with two and a half weeks left to go before it's back to work I decided to treat myself, HAVE my house cleaned, HAVE my dogs washed by a doggie parlour and just sit back and enjoy the results.  Just this once.  I might even be tempted to HAVE food delivered to my house tomorrow night too - just to complete my extravagance.

Seriously though - should I feel ashamed?  The messy house subject is a...sticky...one for me.  I love tidyness.  Didn't grow up that way - my mom would laugh out loud if she could read that.  I was the untidiest teenager EVER, despite all Mom's efforts to reform me!  But as I passed into adulthood, I began to enjoy a tidy surrounding.   Between you and me, I do have my messy corner - or cupboard, or draw, a place where the bits and pieces of my life that don't fit anywhere particular get thrown into until further notice.  Drives my husband nuts. 

So I got to wondering how many women, working or stay at home - actually get to cleaning their WHOLE house, top to bottom regularly.  Especially the moms at home.  Can one visit with a 'white glove' and check surfaces?  I know from experience that being a stay at home mom is even harder work than a career mom.  And I certainly don't get to everything, either way.  It's as if I'm constantly putting out little fires, but never getting to the coals and the ash.  Know what I mean?

However, I still got my pride, and as I contemplated and anticipated the Cleaning Service's arrival tomorrow (sparkling windows - yayy!!!), I uneasily realised that for my pride to stay intact, there was some cleaning I had to do first....Did I really want them to know that the last time the couch was moved and cleaned underneath was...well....the last time they were here, which was.....January - or was it December...and it's now April.  

I was probably harbouring a new species of some kind under that couch by now.  I eyed it in trepidation and then got to work. 

Two kids could do THAT?  Seriously, so THAT'S where the egg flip disappeared to!  What were they doing with it anyway?  Beer bottle cap - one guess who's to blame for THAT.  Pieces of tea sets, little micro cars, a lollipop stick....lots of dust...

Dust got me to thinking about another kind of couch - the couch of our lives.  Most people only see the couch - they either think it's a comfortable couch and sit down and visit, or they don't like what they see and move on to another couch more to their taste.  But never do they look underneath the couch.   I know I need to clean underneath my life couch - it gets crowded with all the stray bits sometimes.   That is why I have two blogs, the one for the couch itself and the one for what's underneath the couch.  The darker side of me.  The one I choose to share, the other I don't.   Even my more serious posts still come from the lighter side of me.  It's my other blog that hosts my deeper, darker thoughts.

I read a wonderful blog post a few days ago and something Kirsten wrote there caught at my heart and I really want to share it here now:-

"For even the unbeautiful truths needs expression, and expression is trust and trust is a cliffdive into the unknown."

Kirsten's blog is called Wanderlust and the post is called 'The sound of a h heart breaking. 

Here is a link to the post:  http://kbxmas.blogspot.com/2010/04/sound-of-heart-breaking.html

She's right.   It takes a level of trust to express one's emotions and even when you give that trust, you just don't know what someone is going to do with it. 

Perhaps one day I will lift the couch for all to see what lies gathering beneath it, but for now I like it like it is.