Tag writing

Memory Lane

Vonita 7 Comments

I came across these pics yesterday. Twelve years ago and I was so in love with my baby! Who has now grown to be taller than his mum, and is no longer a beautiful baby boy. #bringbackmybaby. When I saw these photos I thought of how young and idealistic I was, and how I have changed since then. My mother-in-law has passed, but my daughter has arrived. Johannesburg is then, Sydney is now. And twelve years later I write poetry to help keep myself sane. Well, relatively sane, I still have meltdowns – last week I had a meltdown of note and still trying to recover. When I see these pics I feel saddened by how I have let myself down, but am glad I discovered writing.

And I still don’t wear contacts or reading glasses, yay!

Poet by Night

Vonita 16 Comments

I’m presenting an Analytics presentation this evening. Especially for the occasion I put on a touch of lipstick and black heels. Viva Polka Dot black dress and black jacket.

So anyway, as I entered the room, I got told I don’t look like an IT Engineer. *I turned heads* 😉 What do I look like then? We don’t know, just not an IT Engineer.

I’m a poet by night?

Not Falling Far

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I’ve Become My Parents.”

Do you ever find yourself doing something your parents used to do when you were a kid, despite the fact you hated it back then?

My mother was the nurturer and carer in my childhood home. My father was the disciplinarian, and has a short temper. I knew to behave around him and speak with respect. No back-chatting or arguing. He would not tolerate it. I am scared of men even today. I had to choose a life-partner who did not display a temper. Because my mother was soft-natured I could get away with more. And as children are, they learn boundaries and push those boundaries where they know they can. I kept to myself at home, my sister used to help prepare the evening meal and chat about her day with our mother. I would listen in, write in my journal, and focus on my schoolwork. Not really sharing much.
I thought when I grew up I would naturally be a mother like my own. But I realized quickly I am more like my father. I discipline my children. I do not tolerate disrespect. I have a shorter fuse than my husband. My husband is the nurturer. He reads the bed time stories. He tries new recipes. He is constant and calm. My mother was the rock holding our family together, and my husband is the same. I am still wrapped up in my own world, writing on my blog, or being pre-occupied with work, or fantasy-land or whatever is on my mind.
My daughter and I are on the same wavelength. She chats to me all the time. My son seems to be more like me when I was growing up. Just being there, but not sharing much. I can see that part of myself reflected in him. And I know there’s nothing I can do to change it.

Highs and Lows

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Describe a time when you quickly switched from feeling at the top of the world to sinking all the way down (or vice versa). Did you learn anything about yourself in the process?

Thank you for suggesting this prompt, rollingblogger!

I went through an experience like this during the past week. Being pressured to reach a deadline, non-stop go, loving the work, just about to build something of substance, and then told to down tools (#politics). Excuse me? I’m busy. Running a test. It’s NB. I continued. Because passion. Until instructed, “Immediately, STOP”. I stopped.

Being super-busy one minute, nothing to do the next, and it does my head in. From being on a pressure-driven outcome-focused high, to then having it snatched away sends me on a free-fall to the lowest valley.

Yay for blogs and writing!

“Mountaintops and Valleys.”

That’s so Funny!

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “These Horns Were Made for Tooting.”

I have a sense of humor. It is not often on display, because I take myself and my world way too seriously most of the time. Like yesterday, I had an awful day. I mini-snapped. I just cut someone off and walked away. I totally lost my humor. I don’t snap often. But it happened. Yesterday. I took a few deep breaths, composed myself and went back to deal with it. But I do have a sense of humor. And some others are able to tap into it. I know they are tapping into it when I burst out laughing and can’t stop. Ha ha, that’s so funny! When I laugh, apparently it is infectious. According to my BFF. I dated a polish guy at university. He could really make me laugh. Like roll on the floor laughing. Especially when we watched Home Alone 2, there was a part that was really funny. The boy standing on top of the building pelting the two men on the ground with snowballs or something. My friend kept on replaying the scene, and the more he did, the funnier it seemed. Oh my word, I killed myself laughing.
🙂

Here’s some funny (South African humor) Can anyone translate what they are actually saying please?

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No Cliffhanger

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “No Cliffhangers.”

Once upon a time a little boy turned five, and celebrated his birthday at a local park. The park was surrounded by bush, with a dam in the middle, and lots of different sections to walk to. It was a huge park. The little boy’s younger sister, being all of two and a bit, decided to wander off on her own. All the grownup people were focused on each other, and did not even realise the little child had embarked on her own adventure. Until it was time to sing happy birthday, and she was not there. She had seemingly vanished into thin air. Everyone searched high and low, here and there, trying desperately to find the little girl. When it became evident that the child was not close by, the mother started to reach a state of near shock and terror, “find my little girl” she wanted to scream out loud. To anyone who would hear. She felt tempted to throw herself on the ground and start wailing, but knew that this would not aid any search efforts. No, she had to remain calm.
Eventually, on the other side of the park, the little girl was discovered holding the hand of a helpful stranger. She was quickly reunited with her mother who was by this time beside herself.
Everyone sang happy birthday, big brother cut the cake of his rocket ship, and without prompting handed the first slice to his sister.
And all was well with the world.

Wake Up!

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Daily Ritual.”

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Every morning I start my day with a cup of tea. I am spoilt at home, my husband makes the tea for me. Of which I am very appreciative and always say thank you 🙂
My favorite mug is right there in the photo, taken two seconds ago.
My dad started the tradition when I was a child. Except everyone else had coffee, but for some reason I was the tea recipient. In those days I used to have added sugar, but quit the sugar in 2000.
I’ve always bought a coffee when I arrive at work. There is a coffee shop as we enter our building. For one whole week and a day, I have stopped this bad habit. And I’ve survived!
My tea is getting cold, have a lovely day xx

Dear Diary

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Handwritten.”

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A personal diary can only be written by hand. I’ve kept a diary since I was thirteen. Though admittedly I hardly write in them now. I’ve kept most of them but one. I destroyed my ‘first kiss’ diary because it was way too personal and I never wanted anyone else to read it.
Apart from that most of my writing is on one of my two laptops (I have my own Mac, and a work laptop), and my iPhone. I did a year of typing at school so can fortunately touch-type, one of the more practical skills I learnt at school.
My handwriting is a scribble, I think only I can read it! I used to have a very neat handwriting but typing has really left it’s mark on my ability to write neatly. Which may come in handy if anyone stumbles across my diaries, they may not be able to decipher my words. Ha!

Central Perk

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Worlds Colliding.”

I love reading autobiographies. My two favorites are Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes and Peter Godwin’s Mukiwa. Both books were about their childhoods and growing up, one in Ireland and one in Rhodesia that is now known as Zimbabwe. And coincidentally, both of them relocated to New York after publishing their books. So that makes sense, I could have them meet up for a coffee or drink, and discuss their great fortunes at hitting the autobiography jackpot. Entirely possible and they wouldn’t have to travel far to do so. Except sadly Frank McCourt had since passed away, so perhaps we would need a time machine.

Retrospectively Funny

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Retrospectively Funny.”

Being serenaded on arrival at the airport

Being serenaded on arrival at the airport

I forgot about a fresh apple in my bag as we went through customs on our Castaway Island holiday. So after receiving a customs fine, and not having enough cash on hand to pay it, I quickly went to the nearest atm in sight to withdraw money. But, being in a panic at being stopped at customs I completely forgot my pin. Total mind blank. And after the first failed attempt I was too nervous to do another one in case my pin got blocked. My husband had already withdrawn his daily limit.
It was agreed that I could pay the fine when I returned to the airport which would be in 8 days time. However, the fine clearly stated it needed to be paid in 7 days failing which you would have to appear in the magistrates court at a set time.
At the airport the following Saturday we went to pay the fine. At the security office I noticed there was an envelope with my name on it. Why was there an envelope with my name on it? We paid and went to go through passport control. Only to find out my passport was blocked. Do not allow to leave the country. My heart started racing. We were ushered into an office and told to wait. From the window I could see the airplane and there wasn’t much time before it started to board. No-one seemed to want to make a decision on my passport, and being a Saturday made it worse with decision-makers not being at work etc. I was entertaining visions of missing my flight, and being held back to appear in a magistrates office, and being alone in a foreign country etc, my mind raced ahead and my heart was beating so fast I felt like I was going to have a heart-attack there and then. Please let me go! After what felt like an eternity an official came into the room, interviewed a very nervous me, eventually stamped my passport, and said I could go! Still in time for the flight home.