In loving memory of Val: Hei maumaharatanga ki te tino hoa

Instead of my usual neurotic ramblings, this week I would like to honour the memory of a friend of mine who has just passed away after a long battle with cancer. I first met Val when we were both living in Tanzania. I was immediately drawn to her because of our kiwi connection (she and her husband Dave had emigrated to New Zealand from England many years before) and because she made such great pavlovas.

Val making one of her spectacular pavlovas

I loved to visit Val as she had the gift of making her house a home, and apart from her own handicrafts and the odd pet, there was always something yummy to eat (have I mentioned her pavlovas?) She always proudly showed me new photos of her grandchildren and loved to tell me stories of how they were and what they were getting up to. After we had been to their house, my husband Greg would ask my why I didn't look after him half as well as she took care of her husband Dave. I just ignored him but I have tried to make a pavlova using her recipe several times, but they are never as good as hers.

Val (and me) with one of her beloved pets

As I got to know her, I came to appreciate her for much more than just her cooking. She was a kind, generous and warmhearted with a genuine concern for others. She was involved in many worthwhile projects in Tanzania, but the one that stands out in my memory was the weekly sales of her home baked muffins at a local shop, with all proceeds going to a needy cause.

She was also very direct and determined and was certainly not one to wallow in self pity. She fought her cancer bravely and the last email she ever wrote me did not even mention her health; though by this time she was very sick.

Val with her husband Dave

This all seems so inadequate as a tribute to Val and there is so much more I could share, but I have the feeling she would be uncomfortable with all this attention and would want me to shut up, so I will.

Rest in Peace dear Val, you have earned it.

Things I am not very good at: Language Learning

I am ashamed to admit that my husband Greg and I have failed to learn not one, not two, but three different languages;  which is highly embarrassing to say the least. Many would claim that we can’t even speak English, such is the confusion over our kiwi accents, but that is another story. Our excuses and reasons for our linguistic failures are varied, but I like to tell myself it has nothing to do with lack of intelligence, and certainly was not from lack of trying.

We started our first language learning experience in Bangladesh (I don’t count my attempts at school girl French, which were mostly spent trying to write love notes in French to a certain boy I was keen on at the time).

“Ami beshi Bangla jani na, ami Bangla sheikchi, ”  (I don’t speak much Bengali but I am learning) was one  of the first phrases we learned and we ended up using it for the entire three years we lived there.  I was still saying it to the porter who helped with our suitcases on our last day in the country. Greg should have been good at languages, he has the right personality; i.e. doesn’t mind making a fool of himself. 
“My name is Greg. I am from New Zealand. What is your name? How is your mother? How is my mother? Do you have a school bag? I like to eat oranges, the apple is red,” he would repeat in his kiwi Bengali over and over to every man he met wandering around our neighbourhood. Sometimes he would get mixed up and say: “My name is New Zealand, and I am from Greg,” which did not even bother him, whereas I would have been mortified. His new male friends would laugh and shake his hand and then not let go, wanting to walk along the road holding his hand so they could introduce him to their friends and on it would go. (In Bangladesh it was very normal to see men holding hands which took him some getting used to.)  My language attempts, on the other hand, usually consisted of me planning and practicing the perfect phrase in my head for hours and by the time I was ready to say it, everyone had gone home to bed or had died of old age. Or I would say something that I thought was perfect only to be met by completely blank looks, or worse, laughter, and I was usually left feeling stupid and irritated. Other times I would nod and smile and say “ha, ha, bhalo,” (yes, yes, good) and Greg would ask me to tell him what they had said and I would have to mutter through clenched teeth, still nodding and smiling, that I had absolutely no idea. I kept telling him to stop doing this but he persisted as my nodding and smiling was obviously very convincing and fooled even him.

We were even worse at Arabic, which we attempted to learn when we moved to Jordan after Bangladesh. Fortunately though, Arabic is full of praises to God, blessings, greetings and farewells so we learned to carry on a five minute conversation in which we praised and thanked Allah for the person's health, the lovely day, asked how they were, how was their mother and entire household, did they sleep well, blessed their house, their heads and hands, saying how much we missed them and it was a long time since we had seen each other and insha'Allah we would meet again soon, then goodbye, travel safely, may God go with you and keep you safe etc etc. By by the time we had finished, we felt like we had carried on a fluent conversation without actually saying anything new, but at least we were talking.  Greg had a few innovations, such as asking taxi drivers where they kept their combs (usually they kept one in the glove box of their car which they always seemed happy to show him). He also loved to say; “min zayman ma shuftak,” (I haven’t seen you for ages,) to people he had never met.  Fortunately, Jordanians have a great sense of humour and are extremely friendly and hospitable, so we managed to get by with a lot of smiling, nodding and doses of our kiwi charm.

Sometimes though, that hospitality and charm would be stretched  to its very limits. Greg seldom had this problem as usually some of the men would speak English, but we were often separated and I would be ushered into a room full of women, who, especially in rural areas, could not not speak a word of English. After I had exhausted my greetings and blessings, asked them how many children they had, what their names were and where their children went to school, told them how delicious their food was and that I was from New Zealand and had two children, I was stuck. This would take about 10 minutes. The meals would last about 2 hours so I think you get the picture. Sometimes (thank you God) there would be some children who were studying English in school, so that always helped a lot as we muddled through together. I learned to always take my camera as this takes up time and I cuddled a lot of babies. But there was always plenty of smiling and nodding and by the time I came to leave, hugs and blessings and you must come again soon, God willing. Greg always came out looking full, happy, rested and a little smug, while I would almost run for the car and demand to know why he had to take so long and couldn't he eat a lot faster, or better still, next time suggest takeaways.

So alas, language learning is another thing I am not very good at. By the time we got to Tanzania, I was languaged out. I went to language school for a while, but my tired brain seemed to be saying; “you already have two failed languages banging around in here, add another and I may just explode.”  When we moved to South Africa we did not even try. There are so many languages spoken here that we thought we should just stick to the one we know, which fortunately the majority do speak. We were very fortunate that in all of the countries we have lived in, English was a strong second language, so we could usually get by. But this was also the main problem, as I am convinced the only way for me to learn a language is to be surrounded by people that don’t understand a word I say. Then I am sure I would be fluent in weeks, as the thought of not being able to talk for three years would, most certainly,  drive me crazy.

Things I am not very good at: Keeping Greg awake

My husband Greg suffers from a sleeping disorder. He is awake when everyone else is asleep (the middle of the night) and is asleep when everyone else is awake ( any time he sits still for 5 mins during the day).

He sleeps at restaurants

He sleeps through movies, church, business meetings, parties, dinner conversations.

He sleeps on boats

He sleeps when we are at home and he sleeps when we are out. 

He sleeps at picnics

He sleeps sitting up and he sleeps lying down.

He sleeps on planes

He sleeps with other people and he sleeps alone.

He sleeps at church home groups

                                                                                                                                                                     

He sleeps on trains

He sleeps with his mouth open and he sleeps with his mouth closed.

He sleeps in cars

He sleeps with his hat on and he sleeps with his hat off.

He sleeps on safaris

He sleeps when he has a moustache and he sleeps when he doesn't have a moustache

He sleeps on bus tours

He sleeps on beaches

The bad news is that I am not very good at keeping him awake as I was with him when all these photos were taken. The good news is that I love him awake or asleep; in fact sometimes I prefer him asleep as then I can do all the talking!

Things I am not very good at: Making decisions while shopping

Shopping can be a nightmare for me. To give you just a tiny glimpse into my world, I will try and describe a typical shopping experience, that is if you are brave enough to follow me. I should warn you, it can be very disturbing...

I am in a department store in a shopping mall, searching for a birthday present for a friend. I am standing in front of a rack of the scarves.  My face is furrowed in a frown of concentration, and I am muttering to myself.
“Should I buy this one or this one? This is more expensive but doesn’t really look it, and she may never wear it, it is probably the wrong colour, or the wrong style or really when I think about it, it is just ugly and why the heck am I even standing here looking at it?”
I put down the scarf and pick up another one.
“Oh this is nice! But it’s red, does she wear red? I can’t remember, and now that I look at it, it seems a little long and is that a hole? No, but still if I thought it looked like a hole then so may she.”
I put it back.
“What about this one? It’s black, so will go with everything.  But it is kind of boring and it looks cheap and actually when I think about it, does she even wear a scarf?”

I put the scarf back and turn around and wander off and now I am standing in front of the jewelry section.

“Oh this is nice, but maybe it looks a little cheap. What about this, it is a little big, does she wear big necklaces? What about these earrings? Are her ears pierced? I think so but does she wear silver or gold?” 

By now sweat is starting to gather on my top lip and my right eye is twitching and I can feel a headache developing.  I need a coffee. I leave the department store and after several coffees and about 30 other shops, end up in the supermarket settling on a box of chocolates (light or dark? Nestle, Lindt or Ferrier Roche?) No what about a bottle of wine…that will do...but wait, does she drink red or white, Merlot or Chardonnay? "AgggGGGGGGHHHHHHHH," I run screaming from the mall, get a little lost trying to find the car, which causes even more stress and by the time I find it, I am unable to start the car as my hands are shaking so badly.
“I will buy a gift voucher," I tell myself as I finally calm down enough to head for home, wishing I had bought her the wine so I could have some to calm my nerves!

Unfortunately, this lack of decisiveness runs in the family and my son Jarred and I make a toxic combination when we shop together.  I can remember some agonising trips to the very limited shopping options for birthday presents for his teenage friends when we were living in Tanzania. These usually ended up with me wanting to strangle him, and him wishing he had come with his father, who has no trouble making decisions and would usually buy the first thing in the shop.
“What about this Jarred?” I would say.  

“I don’t know, maybe? I’m not sure. What do you think?” he would answer.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s not right. What about this?”  I would say.
“I don’t know, maybe? I’m not sure he would wear that. What do you think?” he would answer
“I don’t know either. What about this?”  I would say.
“Oh I don’t know, I don’t think he would use it. What do you think?” he would answer.
We would usually came home feeling that we had bought completely the wrong thing and Greg’s stupid comment; “What on earth did you buy that for?” did not help.

I was going to include my experience of shopping for my mother of the bride outfit for my daughter's wedding, but feel this is an entire blog of its own and you have probably had enough of being in my head for now. But as Schwarzenegger said in the Terminator, I'LL BE BACK and you should Be Afraid...Be Very Afraid!!!

Things I am not very good at: weddings and saris

The Queen is telling everyone about my blog 

In honour of the Queen's Jubilee, I thought I should show you my photos of the royal wedding. As you can see from this photo, I was a tad underdressed as I was going to a rugby game straight afterwards and couldn’t be bothered changing. But I have to admit that dressing for weddings is another thing I am not very good at. My family are still recovering from the trauma of helping me choose my outfit for my daughter Alana’s wedding, and she and I both still remember another wedding dress saga that occured many years ago when we were living in Bangladesh.

I had been honoured and thrilled when my Bangladeshi friend Shova invited Alana to be part of her wedding party. Alana was a little less excited, especially when she saw the dress Shova had chosen for her to wear. She absolutely hated it with all the passion and intensity that a young nine year old can muster for something she deemed to be totally unacceptable to be caught dead in, and what happened if some of her friends saw her???? I had to admit that I was equally dismayed. It resembled a party dress for a toddler; white organza, knee-length with layers and layers of frills and lace and it looked decidedly odd on a young girl who was more into jeans and t-shirts. Alana begged and pleaded to wear something, anything, else, and I was totally sympathetic, but there was just no way I could say any of this to Shova. I assured her that none of her cool nine year old school friends would see her, and to her credit, and very reluctantly, she wore the dress. But as it turned out, I was to have some dress issues of my own.
 

The Queen insisted I join the family photo

Despite living in Bangladesh for three years, I never really mastered the art of wearing a sari. It is harder than it looks as there is a lot of material to be wrapped around ones person, though a number of highly annoying expatriate women could do it with ease. My few attempts were disastrous and after I started to unravel once in a restaurant, leaving a trail of sari behind me as I rushed into the toilets, I gave up trying. To avoid any chance of unraveling for Shova's wedding, I had asked Momena, the lady who worked in my friend's house, to help me before I set out. I thought I looked quite delightful (really I probably looked like big white galumph compared to the natural grace of the small beautiful dark Bengali women, but I liked to kid myself) until I reached the church and looking down, realised the material was inside out, and the pretty little gold threads that looked beautiful on the right side were sticking out all over the place, making me look like a prickly pear. I had a sneaking suspicion Momena had done this on purpose, being particularly disparaging of the fact that after so long on Bangladesh I could still not put one on myself and she had been doing a fair amount of muttering in Bengali throughout the process. What was I to do? My husband, with all the calm assurance of an utterly clueless male, assured me that no one would notice. However, I knew three things for sure:

• I had noticed and now felt I had a sign attached to my forehead saying stupid foreign women wearing inside out sari.
• Every woman there would also notice because we are women, that is what we do! No matter what culture, we are trained in this department like navy seals, we can spot a back to front top or an upside down skirt or an inside out sari from 100km.
• Bangladeshis love to stare; they will stare at each other if they have to, but if there is some stupid white woman stuffed into an inside out sari, they are certainly going to notice.  

So I thought I was doomed and was hiding behind a rickshaw until I saw another Bengali friend arrive, and she helped to unwind me and then wind me back up in the church toilets so I could face the world with much less embarrassment. Fortunately my dress issues could be solved, but poor Alana’s will be caught for all time in Shova's wedding album. (Many of my photos of Bangladesh are in storage in NZ so can’t find one to show you, which I am sure Alana is very pleased about)

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Wills and Kate are laughing about my latest blog

Greg's parents were due to arrive to visit us from New Zealand the day of Shova's wedding so we were unable to stay for the reception, which was probably just as well as if there was one other wedding thing we were not very good at, and this was a problem for us in both Asia and Africa, it was knowing what time to turn up at a wedding reception. Clearly the time printed on the invitation was NOT the time to arrive; that was the time that you began to make lunch at home, then went to visit a friend, did some shopping, watched a movie and then began to get ready and strolled along to the wedding but not too fast as you don’t want to be early. Apparently everyone knows and understands this but the stupid foreigners! Even when the stupid foreigners have taken a poll of all their local friends the day before and been assured over and over again by a varied number of people.

“Yes, the invitation says the wedding starts 3pm so I am going at 3pm.”
“Oh yes, you should definitely be there at 3pm!”
“Most definitely, we will see you there at 3pm!”
“My family and friends are all going to be there at 3pm, no doubt about it.”
Even when we have been particularly daring and turned up at 3.30 or even once at 4:00, guess what? Apart from the people cleaning up from a function the night before, we were the only ones there!! Everyone else was just getting into the shower. We learned to make sure we had eaten something as it can be a long time to sit waiting for something to happen, and you can’t leave because the bride just may turn up at any moment. Oh and to pray the venue is air conditioned. It is pretty hot in a sari, whichever way round you have worn it.

(Thanks to Arina for my completely unaltered and totally unshopped royal wedding photos)

Things I am not very good at: Not being a neurotic nitwit

 I have a long running conversation with my husband Greg that usually takes place after every social gathering we host.
“Do you think they had a good time? Do you think they liked the food? Do you think they like us?”
To which he usually responds: “Of course they had a good time, yes they liked the food and they definitely like me, I am not so sure about you,” (he has a cruel sense of humour).
We had some friends over recently and I was sure everyone was having a good time judging by the amount of chatter, laughter and food and drink being consumed. Plus they all thanked us profusely and said what a great time they had as they left, with kisses and hugs all round.  
“Do you think they enjoyed themselves? Did they like the food? Do you think they like us?”  I asked Greg a few minutes later. He couldn’t even be bothered to respond in his usual loving way, but just rolled his eyes, and went to bed.

This is me on a really bad day

Over the years I have managed to take the art of insecurity to a whole new level. I can feel hurt about almost anything if I put my mind to it. If I don’t get an email for a while from my family (I have a very large extended family) then I think that maybe they are all just writing to each other and leaving me out. If I hear that one friend has been to another friend’s house and I wasn’t included, I am hurt and think it means they like each other much more than they like me.  If someone tells me they really like Greg and think he is so funny, I think that means they don’t really like me and I am not funny. If my children don’t bother to contact me for a while I think they have found a new mother they like better. (OK I may be exaggerating a tiny bit). But I am aware that I have a teeny problem in this area and sometimes ask Greg to interpret interactions I have had with people because my sensitivity radar can just sometimes be just ever so slightly,  off kilter. As he never experiences a moment of self-doubt or inadequacy (some could even accuse him of being arrogant and highly annoying, but I don’t know who those people are!) he can usually provide a much better version of events. For example, say we are out with friends at a dinner and someone says to me; “So Fay, what do you do with yourself all day since you are not working?”
I interpret that to mean; “So Fay, your life must have no meaning and purpose, you have no real  identity and really you are good for nothing and this is kind of what I expected as I have always thought you are a pretty useless person, what on this good great earth could you possibly do to fill your time that would have any meaning and all you seem to do is make small and irritating mistakes.”  
Greg’s version goes something like this; “I thought he meant what do you do with yourself all day now that you are not working.”
Amazing isn’t it? How did he come up with that???

This is one of the reasons I love Anne Lamott, and her books on faith and writing. They have encouraged me to keep writing and praying, have highlighted that there are some people out there who are as neurotic and insecure and paranoid as I am, and as importantly, have made me laugh. She includes this poem by Phillip Lopate in her book Bird by Bird which seems to be written just for me: 

We who are

your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
(Added my own 4 lines below as he talks about ex husbands and analysts which don’t apply)
Your priest is
in on it,
plus your extended family,
your children
and your husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective 

This is me on a good day

 Silly right? Who would really feel like that? And yes I have tried prayer and therapy, and yes my husband is a saint for putting up with me. Talk about high maintenance. Believe it or not, I think I am a little more secure now that I am have become a lady of certain age (ie over 50). But I have come to accept that I will always be somewhat neurotic, and as long as I can laugh about it, I will survive. It has also helped me to be more sensitive to other people's feelings which some at least seem to appreciate.  Greg has even learned a few things from me and he no longer asks someone a question, like how their work is going and then wanders off while they are still talking, leaving them somewhat confused and forcing them to tell me the answer because I am still standing there pretending to be interested (something he used to do all the time when we first got married). And really, when I think about it, if I was stable and secure like him, how boring our lives would be. What on earth would we talk about after everyone has gone home??

Things I am not very good at: Navigating

Glorious Gloria

I have a best friend and her name is Gloria. (Actually Gloria2, I wore out Gloria 1, she literally gave up one day and died from exhaustion, she was muttering something about not being able to take it anymore as she sailed up to GPS heaven). I ignore the people who fail to understand just how special our relationship is, and what a difference she has made to my life. How could anyone not love Gloria?
 

It took me a while to come out of the closet and admit that I was directionally challenged. I can get lost in a phone booth and if I think the way to go is right, it is almost guaranteed to be left. I had a breakthrough one day when I read a book called Never Get Lost Again by Linda Grekin. The author had done extensive research on those of us without a sense of direction, and I discovered that there are millions of folk out there just like me and that it has nothing to do with my sex or level of  intelligence. Many are even worse than I am as at least I can read a map (even if I do have to hold it upside down and look at my hands to tell left from right). The problem also influences esteem and confidence so maybe this was why I make so many small and irritating mistakes! Anyway, now I can admit it freely, not only because I am not alone, but also because there is help at hand. Now I have Gloria.

With Gloria, I can go wherever I want with a little more confidence. I admit I still have some slight navigational issues and can sometimes turn off the motorway just a teeny bit earlier than she meant me to, which means I have taken the wrong exit, which does tend to raise my blood pressure and I have been known to swear and yell at her, even though it was completely my fault. She never yells or swears back however, and instead of shouting “why did you turn off there you stupid *beep woman? I meant the NEXT beep exit!” (*channeling my father yelling at my mother) she just says gently, “re-calculating…” in that lovely gentle British accent and then comes up with a solution. I love her…no I LOVE HER! Some days I think I love her more than the NZ All Black rugby team and that is saying something.

However, as in any intimate relationship, sometimes Gloria and I have our off days. One such episode occured when I was going to collect a friend from her hotel near the Johannesburg airport. I set off very confidently, but knew something was amiss when I sailed past the airport with another 10km to go. I ended up in a rather seedy neighbourhood with no hotels for miles around, she had the right street name, just the wrong suburb! So I called the hotel and they gave me better directions, which I promptly reprogrammed into Gloria, turned around and headed back the way I had come. Slightly stressed but still coping, and not blaming her at all. 
“In 500 meters turn left,” she said, and I obediently followed without question and wondered why I had ended up in the car rental return car park of the Johannesburg Airport. I was pretty sure my friend was not sleeping in a rental car. So I tried again, driving back out onto the motorway, following Gloria as she told me to take that exit and turn into that road until I was once again back at the airport. I may have just ever so slightly started screaming at her at this point.
Anyway, to cut a long and painful story short, poor old Gloria was still operating under the old motorway system which had been upgraded for the Football World Cup. I eventually collected my friend a couple of hours late, looking somewhat disheveled, with hair standing straight on end, hands clenched around the steering wheel, sweat pouring from every pore and wild eyes darting in every direction. Even though it wasn't really her fault, Gloria was stuffed into the glovebox and I did not talk to her for a week. 

It does appear that a GPS can cause great strife in a relationship. I have a friend who is jealous because her directionally challenged partner thinks the GPS knows the way better than she does. They have a male voiced version because he couldn’t stand the thought of taking directions from a woman. Apparently it sounds just like Sean Connery so maybe she would be better to run off with the GPS/Sean and leave her partner to just get lost! Another friend spends the whole time they are in the car yelling at her husband to throw the poor GPS, who is minding its own business and just doing its job, out the window. Because she is not directionally challenged she is offended by the idea that they need help with directions. Another kiwi friend wanted to murder her husband because he took the GPS away with him and left her with an office spare who was talking to her in Afrikaans and she couldn’t understand a thing it was saying, and got very lost as a result. But let’s face it, most relationships were already rife with arguments over directions and maps and getting lost, so now at least we can blame the GPS instead of each other.

My husband also has a somewhat complex relationship with Gloria, but he has to admit she has made his life easier. Now he doesn’t have to spend ages drawing maps for me, and I have stopped calling him in a great panic because I have no idea how to find my way home. I can still get lost trying to find the toilets in a shopping mall and he has to sometimes come looking for me because I am wandering around on the wrong floor of a hotel, but unfortunately this will keep happening until they devise a GPS that works indoors and that I can strap to my person. Things can get a little tense in the car as he does like to question Gloria every now and then, just to show who is boss.

“Left? Are you sure?” he will say, eyebrows raised in questioning glare even though he has no idea where we are going. This brings up some trust issues

 for me with Gloria  (especially after the airport incident) which leaves me feeling insecure with her and annoyed with him. I hope the day never comes when I have to choose between them because I may have to go with Gloria. How could I leave her? I love and need her way too much...well that is until a younger and more updated model comes along! Now, where have I heard that before?