Clearly I’m Getting Old.

I must be, because I’m reminiscing about “The good ol’ days…” and muttering into my coffee about “Thats not how we did it back then…”

I’m talking about blogging. And heaven knows my blog has gotten quiet since my son grew into an adult and said I couldn’t write about parenting him anymore.
I still write about my animals, and my cake art, but those are on seperate blogs to this one.

Seeing Facebook group posts like “Hi! I’m new to blogging! How do I get 10K readers?” or “Hi! I’m new to blogging! How do I make money?” and one of my favourites “Hi! I’m new to blogging! How do I get free stuff?” makes me want to ask them if they can even write worth a damn.  🙁

Ugh. I miss what blogging used to be.

Make no mistake, I’ve had my share of some AWESOME freebies. I still get invited to an event once in a blue moon and I blog about them. But I got lucky because I was there when SA businesses started asking bloggers to talk about their products, before you had to be an “influencer” with an audience of thousands.
But that isn’t why I started blogging.
I STARTED blogging because I wanted to share my life as a single mom.
I DISCOVERED I could make friends – many of whom I treasure some eleven years down the line. Hell, I met my darling Glugster, my husband, through our blogs!
If I remember correctly, there were easily fifty local and international blogs I was reading on a weekly basis at the very least back in the day. I loved reading them and leaving comments*.
Very few of those blogs even exist anymore. And now there are only a few blogs I still read, and I can’t remember when last I started reading a new one.

In the early days, before Facebook and Twitter (and and and), we didn’t use our real names, and we were super neurotic about people discovering our identities, and being stalked and murdered by the weirdos on the internet.
Now the weirdos are loud and proud, and everyone uses their real names.
Bloggers I got to know long before blogging was a business, or social media was a career in South Africa, have succeeded in turning their blogging into a business. These people are incredible writers and/ or photographers, and their work is worth paying for.
I am not a writer, not by a long shot. I am a blogger. 😛 And there is a big difference. I have seen my writing turned into a masterpiece when edited by a writer, so I do know the difference. And I am a happy snapper, not a photographer.
IMHO, if you want to blog to make money and get freebies, then you had better be a good writer, and at the very least a half-decent photographer, and work on your blog daily, to get and keep “influencer” status.
It takes WORK.

But I do miss the days of reading about each other’s adventures just for fun.

*I am a serial comment leaver, I will comment if I read your blog. It never occurred to me to lurk

I Don’t Get It!!!

Let me tell you a little story.

On October 3rd, my Vodacom debit order was returned when I was R100 short on my bank account.
My fault. I totally get why it was returned.
What happened was that my debit order went through on October 3rd * instead of Saturday October 1st. Because they don’t do them on a Saturday. WHY CAN’T THEY DO IT ON A SATURDAY!??! Do they need someone to sit in the bank and push a fucking button!?!?
I called Vodacom the same day to ask them how to go about making payment so that my phone didn’t get cut off, and I paid by EFT the next day, calling Vodacom again to make sure they saw the payment had gone through.
I thought it was sorted.

Then today, TEN DAYS LATER, I get a text message from Vodacom telling me my debit order bounced, and will I please call 082-blah-blah-blah to make a payment arrangement!!!!
Worried that something had gone wrong and they hadn’t seen that I had actually paid my account, I called them.
When I told her I was calling about a text saying my debit order had not gone through, she immediately launched into the script for making payment arrangements, and when I interrupted her to say I had already MADE the payment – she had to go INTO ANOTHER SYSTEM to verify this and ensure that my account was indeed up to date!
She then tells me the text message is automatic, and that I don’t need to worry about it. She couldn’t tell me why I would STILL get the text message EVEN THOUGH MY ACCOUNT WAS UP TO DATE!!

Vodacom, WHY oh WHY are there SEPARATE SYSTEMS for these things!?

Absa, WHY oh WHY can’t you run debit orders on a weekend?!

Its not nineteen-bloody-sixty! Everything is electronic now FCOL! I mean, I can watch an American presidential debate LIVE, but you can’t get your systems up to date in real time!??!??

* which I stupidly assumed were automatic payments, set up so I that wouldn’t forget to MAKE payments

This is a freewrite…

I want to write about my parents, and what they – and we – are going through, but that means I have to think about it. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to think about it because thinking about it makes it real, and it makes me cry. I want to talk about my daddy darling, who is diabetic, diagnosed when I was a little girl, and on a type of dialysis he can do himself at home. This means he doesn’t have to go to hospital every other day to do dialysis, and he has a relatively normal life, even though it is structured around when he has to do dialysis and he hates it. He also has dementia, and it’s progressing really fast. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he no longer knows who I am. Or who my son is. And I want to talk about my mommy darling, who retired sooner than she was planning to, so she and my dad could spend as much time as possible together before… Before. Before. Before it is too late. Before my dad is gone. But if I talk about it I have to think about it. And I don’t want to. If I think about it I cry. And I feel guilty for crying because it feels so selfish. My mom is so tired and stressed, she can’t even sing anymore. She doesn’t want to sing. We’ve always been singers. She doesn’t have the will to sing anymore. And that makes me so sad. When I think about what has already changed I cry. Family events have always been big for us. Christmas. Easter. Birthdays. Mothers Day. Fathers Day. My dad took great joy in hiding Easter eggs in the garden for his children and grandkids to find. That won’t happen again. My dad is so easily confused now, and crowds and noise are so stressful for him and for my mom.  My dad has always been smart, with an incredible memory, and that’s gone. He knows who we are, and who his grandchildren are, but he can’t follow a conversation anymore and his hearing is bad so too much conversation stresses him. And it all stresses my mom because she never has a break… She is essentially living with a small child, and he can’t bear to have her out of his sight. When he goes into hospital, which is frequently, he gets so confused because he doesn’t know where he is or how long he’s been there or where my mom is and he gets so angry and irritable… And I can’t make it any easier for my mom and I can’t do anything to fix my dad and he’s not going to get any better… And I hate that they’re so fucking far away from me and everything has changed.

Karma Is A Bitch…

I stopped in PnP today, after spending a few hours at a car repair place, to get eggs, oil, and some other baking ingredients. Not a huge list, but I was already hot and thirsty.
While I’m waiting in the queue, with two people ahead of me, the woman in front of me goes and stands in another queue, so I move forward a bit.
YAY! Shorter queue. This never happens – I am a queue jinx!
While I’m waiting I have a look at some severely battered Cornetto cones in the freezer next to me, choosing the best looking strawberry one I could find in the nearly empty fridge, and as I am about to step forward in the queue – the woman who left my queue comes back – AND GOES AHEAD OF ME TO WHERE SHE WAS!


No apology, no wave of the hand, she doesn’t even look at me!


Now I’m hot, thirsty, and pissed.

So she is nearly done paying, and I am done unpacking, and I accidentally-on-purpose push my trolley – one of the smaller ones with two baskets – just a little too hard, and it bumps into her. Not very hard, but it hit her.
Yes – I know – petty, vindictive, childish. Sue me.
She whips her head around, but I don’t even make eye contact and I flick a “sorry” at her.
Petty, vindictive, childish.

I am a just-barely-under-control short-tempered bitch at the best of time, I work hard to keep it under control.

She leaves, my stuff is processed, and I head out the door.
I stop at the recycling bins, unwrap my ice cream, and the fucking thing is HOLLOW! The cone part is like wet cardboard! It has very clearly melted and been refrozen, and sold anyway.
For R18 a pop.
So I turn around, and in my best possible calm-but-annoyed voice, I ask the woman behind the info desk to get me a new ice cream. She says I can go and get one, and I say no, I don’t want one from the freezer I took this one from – I want a new one. One that hasn’t melted and been refrozen.

She leaves with my ice cream and I wait.
A guy arrives five minutes later with a new one, which also looks a little battered, and as he stands next to me I unwrap it. It certainly looks better than the one I chose for myself, so I say thank you and off I go.


A few bites in and it’s clear this one too, was melted and refrozen. I threw it away.

Payback for being petty…?