

### The M.I.L.F Diary Snippets

### A black comedy - Spiritual-fiction

### Kerry Friedmann

Copyright © 2013 by Kerry Friedmann

Smashwords Edition  
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Edited by Barbara Nussbaum (<http://www.barbaranussbaum.com/>)

Special thanks to Storm 'wish you were here' Thorgerson (28 Feb –18 April 2013 RIP) for giving me permission to use one of your brilliant images for my cover. (Judy staring, Catherine Wheel http://www.stormsight.co.uk/)

Special thanks to Pamela Napaloosa Cohen Norwitz for double-checking my motherfucker spelling and Grammar.

And a very special thanks to Barbs for believing in the shit I write and pushing me to the very end and edge.

Indio, my angel child, I am beyond proud of you. Thank you for coming into my world and teaching me a whole lot of 'stuff' that I really needed to learn. Thank you for the continuous giggles in our tummies. You are so brave. I love you to the moon and back, I love you since forever and I love you till forever.

**Pop** into the comedic head of Zara Zee. Band manager in the Music biz, single parent, juggling life. Zara has narrowly escaped a death by mini bar. At times she suffers from selective memory & denial. At other times she forgets because she's forgiven. At all times she's addicted to role-playing conversations in her head. She thinks she's found the perfect balance in life: Yoga in the morning and vodka litchi cocktails with fresh mint at night.

Armed with humor, Zara tackle's the taboos of single parenting, especially falling pregnant out of wedlock with a non-Jewish man. A man she barley knew. With the support of the gay aesthete – now ordained as The God Father and birthing partner – Zara fumble's her way through each snippet of life-in-labour and life-in-parenthood. An intriguing insight into the politics of human sexuality.

### About the Author

Photography by Simon Atwell.

Kerry graduated from the University of Cape Town in 1990 with a Bachelor of Social Science Degree, majoring in Sociology. Her final year theses were 'The Socio-Economic implications of the then proposed development of Cape Town's Water Front (today known as the V&A Waterfront) and 'Politics of Human Sexuality; An inquiry into the South African Legal System'. She also has an International Advertising Diploma (Boston House AAA) and completed the Estate agents board Exam - which she has never used (but thought at the time it was a good idea!!!)

Kerry has been working in the Music and Entertainment industry since

1994. She specializes in Artist and Band management and production, with a strong focus on the business-of-creativity.

### Contents

Fore-Snip

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The Balance of Life

About the Author

Fore-snip

M.I.L.F Music I live for

M.I.L.F Moments I live for

M.I.L.F Mother in labour Files

M.I.L.F Master in Life-forgiveness

AND.... last but not least

M.I.L.F

Mother I'd Like to Fuck

Urban dictionary quotes;

* 'Generally an older woman who has bared offspring that young men fawn over. Popularized by the 1999 hit film American Pie and the character of "Stifler's Mom'.

* Teenage boy to his friend 'Ouch whoa! Josh – your mom is such a milf'.

* One Jewish Guy to another the Jewish Guy: 'Listen here you dreidle spinning menorah lighting yeast eating Jewish SOB, let me educate you. A hot mother would be considered a milf of course, but milfs don't have to be mothers to be milfs. They have to be in the general age range of a housewife, mid 30's to mid 40's, sometimes into the early 50's...'

<http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=milf>

Part I

### The M.I.L.F Diary Snippets

Snippet 1

### A queen with a drama

6-am my hand fumbles its way to turn off my new morning wake up call, Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody with the words 'mama I just cant carry on' belting out. A tune that my dear friend Brady insisted on downloading on my phone. He assured me that the theatrical dramatics of the song would kick start my day into bold action.

I lay there frozen, counting the waves in my secret heavens, depleted from winding the night's madness into a narrow sleep. I contemplated Brady's words, 'Sweetie darling, you can't negotiate reality, you must own it, embrace the fear, what you resist will persist. Ma' doll there is no greater way to reach in and connect with your sad inner self, than with a piece of music that takes you down to the den of doom and gloom.' He's a fucking genius. Such wonderfully wise words I thought for a man of 39 years of age, still firmly attached to the umbilical cord and being held together by his doting mother.

Brady was living a double life. His mom had no clue that he was gay. In the closet by day, raging queen by night, hooking those house beats on the dance floor to tacky techno remixes of Bette Midler's 'The wind beneath my wings'.

Brady's repertoire of music was limited but shit he could have chosen 'I'm alive' by Celine Dion or that Diana Ross track off his favourite compilation CD 'Straight out and straight up'. Hell 'Mama Mia' by Abba would have been a small step in the right direction. Ok breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out feel my inner self, face the fear. A sound of a needle scratching across a record on an old gramophone interrupts the moment. What the fuck is that....? Feel my inner self? No no feel my outer self and figure out which part exactly was reality and which part was living hell. And is there a difference?

Two hands with 10 fingers, two feet with 10 toes, 2 legs, 2 arms. Heck I'm all body, I'm awake. I'm alive. Crap! It's Ground Hog day yet again. Mildly hysterical with exhaustion, I'm still a Queen with a drama, no umbilical attachment and being held together by a safety pin.

Snippet 2

### The Chicken run

6.05am: Jaz - my dependable man of steel – enters the bedroom. 'Good morning' he gently says, whilst placing a delicious all encompassing breakfast tray - including my imported Italian filter coffee - onto my bed.

Jaz - my chiseled strong man of steel - draws open my curtains just a little. He knows exactly how big or small the gap should be, allowing the fresh morning sunlight to peep in and flirt its way onto my sheets. Jaz - my solid and robust man of steel – is from Malawi. He is my much needed home vice, my housekeeper and my sturdy driver. Abi is his wife. She is beautiful, with a fine facial bone structure. Slender with long legs that go to heaven and back. I appointed Abi to be beautiful Bezi's assistant. Bezi is my-life-depends-upon-could-not-cope-without-her child minder and caregiver for Faith.

Shit! That freaking sound of that freaking needle scratching across the vinyl on that crappy vintage gramophone interrupts the moment yet again.

Um.. err .. Uh ok All right, all right, all right. I confess, I admit it; this is not my life. This is not my snippet. This reality belongs to someone else. This is someone else's movie set. A script far out of my reach. A reverie far away from my very own living hell.

Okay, so scrap and ignore everything I've just described and let's start again.

Its 6.05am and my freaking exhausting - pathetic groundhog day - chicken run begins again. Sluggishly I go into the kitchen. Pillowslip still firmly attached to my face. Turn the kettle on. Make my seven year old little girl Faith - my gorgeous fairy child - her school lunch. Make my coffee. Wake up Faith. Make her breakfast. Give her breakfast. I have a thirty-second bath. Oversee Faith getting dressed.

6.45am: Beautiful Bezi – my maid, my baby sitter, my house cleaner, my everything - arrives. Bezi fled from Zimbabwe eleven years ago to escape the cruel, harsh, inhumane repressive *Mugabe regime. Ironically she wakes up at 4.30am every morning, ensuring that her two hour and fifteen minute public transport escapade from the township gets her to our house on time. An escapade, which includes a couple of taxis, a train ride and dodging the daily squatter camp street violence and muggings.

I whine at Faith to stop buggering about. I moan at Faith to hurry up. I grumble at Bezi to assist me in watching Faith brush her teeth. I berate Faith to stop playing with the cat. I groan at Faith that she needs to make friends with her school shoes and socks as she's got them for the next ten years. I moan at Bezi that I'm not quite sure what her early morning role is, knowing quite well that there is no morning role (other than perhaps I feel agonizingly alone). I ask Bezi to make me a cup of coffee knowing that I'm going to have three guilt ridden sips, knowing that I've only asked her to make the coffee to sublimate my need for her to appear to be doing something, and knowing that she's onto me.

I get dressed. Brush my teeth. Put on some make up. Just enough to make a difference, never to be the subject of 'she's let herself go' and aware that face painting techniques are the subject of 'you should see what she looks like without any make up on'. Faith and beautiful Bezi head for the car, a funky sporty cabriolet. I quickly squirt some Angel spray above my head hoping my dull aura will be cleansed. One last glance in the mirror. Look hottish, feel like shit.

Hop into my car. Lavishly spray a sensual chocolate vanilla body mist, bought for the sole use as an air freshener, convinced that the delicious candy store scent will make the other kids prefer our ride. Look good, smell good. I figured its imperative that a funky sports car should also appear to feel good inside, and the delectable smell of a chocolate factory should do the job. The pay off; the kids will feel sweetly fulfilled by the time they reach school.

Look good.

Smell good

Feel like shit!

*Footnote

*Mugabe Regime; Robert Mugabe is the second and current President of Zimbabwe. The Mugabe regime is described by critics as a corrupt, greedy, violent, racist and lawless dictatorship. Critics denounce Mugabe's use of control and oppression through arrests, detentions, banning orders, beatings and torture.

Mugabe has likened himself to Hitler. "This Hitler has only one objective: justice for his people, sovereignty for his people, recognition of the independence of his people and their rights over their resources. If that is Hitler, then let me be a Hitler tenfold"

(Chris McGreal in Harare The Guardian, Monday 2 April2007Article (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Mugabe \- cite_note-101)

<http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2007/apr/02/zimbabwe.topstori3>

Snippet 3

### She's onto me

7.30 am. We arrive at school. A school that I swore my child would never attend. A Jewish School!

Dark glasses on. Retail smile on. It's Show Time.

Role for right now: fabulously friendly, slightly left of centre, fresh. Divine coping single mum without a problem in the world. Queen of her castle, queen of her business, queen mother of all mothers, smiling brutally at the compliments of what a brilliant child I have; confident and independent, creativity bursting from every cell of her enthusiastic little body, affectionate, exquisite, and a band aid to other kids. Always ending with the mother- fucker of all punch lines, 'you are doing such a wonderful job raising her, especially being a single mother, how on earth do you do it?'

I am unable to accept such compliments, and the overwhelming sensation that parenthood is like walking Captain Hook's plank. I divert all praise to Faith's four years at a Montessori Nursery school. I'm quick to single out another kid with the same attributes who too had a Montessori upbringing. And of course the uncontrollable need to down play Faith with examples of being very bossy at times, title tat of note and definitely has huge age appropriate naughty moments.

Wave, smile, nod. Wave, smile, nod. Wave, smile, nod praying to the universe that I can get away fast enough and avoid any verbal interaction with the other parents today. 'Bye mom I love you.' 'Love you too, have a beautiful day.' Kids scamper off.

Too late. There she comes waddling and flapping in my direction. 'My daughter wants Faith to come over and play, how bout Tuesday or Thursday?' she says in an awful nasal tone. Saved by Musical Theatre on a Tuesday, Universal Concept Mental Arithmetic System (ucmas) on a Thursday, and Shabbat and Shul on Friday - with huge animated gusto I respond, 'but I'll call you soon to make another time.' No idea where the Friday excuses came from. Perhaps divine intervention. Perhaps there is a Jewish God after all?

The first and last time this child came to play, the only thing she ate was six ice cubes. My fear that Faith would return home not only starving but with severe frostbite was all consuming. Not to mention, they live on the other side of the world, the North Pole is closer. Wave, smile, nod. Wave smile nod, wave smile nod.

I spontaneously prepare a conversation with Faith for her return home that I know will never take place. 'My rabbit, I don't think it's a good idea to go and play there. She has an older brother who is very ill, sick in the brain they say. Apparently he's very odd, scary and not safe to be around. They lock him up when guests arrive, but I'm worried that he may get out. Oh, and don't say anything it's a big family secret.'

Wide eyed and checking me out, Faith asks, 'if it's a secret how come you know about it and if her brother was so bad, how come she's ok... and haven't you always told me to be kind to other people no matter where they come from? Maybe all her brother wants is to be loved?'

She's onto me.

New angle required. 'Don't you remember when she came to us you couldn't agree on a game to play, it was awfully frustrating for you?' 'Yes, mom' she says, 'but don't you remember telling me how important it is to make a guest feel comfortable in our home and to think about their feelings first which I did and we had such fun?'

Shit! She's onto me.

Snippet 4

### Head talk

7. 33 Am. Today I'm skipping gym and heading to my desperately needed 'save my life' healing session with my * Holographic repatterner (HR), Nina. Nina saved my life six years ago. I haven't seen her since.

As I'm driving I commence a conversation with my child's psychologist appointed by the family advocate (or by default has she become mine?). For a change it's a chat, taking place exclusively in my head.

Today's subject is a philosophical debate on whether a child of 5 years of age develops religious beliefs as a direct result of their parent's teachings, views and way of life or is it all innate and morphogenetic? 'Well, according to the stats' she begins, 'a child is directly influenced by its immediate environment and research shows...' Annoyed with the direction she was heading in I felt obliged to interrupt her line of thinking and of course my self-imposed script. 'Yes yes. Science and stats but what's your take on a child - if a parent doesn't really crack a religious code of conduct - having an inherent knowing, a set of core beliefs that have been passed down from generation to generation at a deep cellular level?'

'What exactly does this have to do with Faith's refusal to see her father?' She says, one eyebrow raised. 'Everything and nothing' I said.

'Do you think our soul has a yearning to remember from other lifetimes? Do you think the world economic crisis that we are heading into; is mother earth's way to bring about a mass global leveling, a macro spiritual awakening perhaps? I've lost my house, but I've still got my heart.' Tick tock tick tock. My head goes from side to side.

'Do you think Jewish parents' gross over feeding their children is as a result of an unconscious fear passed down from being deprived and starved during the holocaust? Do you think the Greeks and Italians also over feed their children? Or maybe it's just the Jewish parents that live in Greece and Italy? Do you ever wonder if you feel your thoughts first or think your feelings first?' A couple of curve ball questions I thought I'd quickly jab in just to nail her.

8.29. As I park in my holistic healer's drive way, I give my parting words to the psychologist (still in my head), 'no need to answer, we'll have to finish this another time, I need to save my life right now.'

As always my internal dialogues never get completed. As always I'm beyond exhausted living with the ambiguity of hundreds of unanswered big questions frolicking around my brain. And as always I have no way of preventing the irritating inconclusive buggers from sneaking in and taking over my mind.

*Footnote

*Holographic Repatterning (HR) is a process of self-healing. HR has very little to do with modern, conventional medicine. It draws on the ancient theories of the Orient, and regards the healing process as that of the person as a whole, instead of merely treating the symptoms. In ancient China, it was believed that there were certain energy flows within the body. In HR it is believed that negative thoughts from a person can alter the frequency of energy to a certain part of the body. It is thought that each individual organ or muscle requires a specific frequency; a change in one area can manifest itself as poor health, emotional problems or just a low standard of living. Chloe Wordsworth developed the theory after working in the other holistic areas of acupuncture and kinesiology, testing of the body by using the muscles. (www.essortment.com)

Snippet 5

### I gag and throw up my shame.

Nina opens the door and embraces me with unconditional love. 'What's going on with you my Friend?' She asks with her overt yet gentle German accent.

I collapse in her arms, knowing I can finally tell someone the naked truth. She holds me and then leads me to the bed, covers me with a duvet and places a glass of water on the side table. I break down, tears bucketing out, snot dribbling everywhere. Between the manic gasps, I reveal my state of utter despair. She listens attentively. 'I'm depleted. I'm emotionally, physically, mentally and financially depleted. I'm done. I'm a prisoner of my own life. Trapped behind a barbed wire fence of hopelessness. I cannot hold it together any more. Stop the world I want to get off.

But I can't leave Faith behind, so I've decided it's best if we both get off. The only way to control the madness, the illusion, the deceit and betrayal is to get off right here, right now. I've been fantasizing about this for months, with only one thing freaking me out. What if I fail at the one shot I have of putting an end to this misery? What if I don't survive and Faith makes it by default? That will mess her up for life. Can you imagine the guilt and shame she will have to carry knowing that she survived mommy's selfish deed? But it's not selfish, if I succeed I can give her the ultimate protection of The Ever After and our souls can move onto another better life.

I gasp, I splatter, and I jump up and grab a piece of paper out of my bag. 'And I'm not imagining any of this. I have solid multi color esoteric proof on this paper. My transgressed Astrology chart can confirm - beyond reasonable doubt \- that I'm in a terrible space, lost the plot and this is a very difficult time for me. Here have a look!'

Nina lays me back on the bed. She takes my hand, holding my vulnerability in hers, and softly explains that the soul will always come back to finish learning the incomplete lessons from the previous life. If you take the life of your child and yourself, your soul will not only go through all of this life's incomplete lessons again but also the lesson of suicide and some.

Fuck! That put a terrible spanner in the works. This could be a bit of a deal breaker to say the least. The only thing worse than my current situation was having to go through it all over again, with the added perks of learning the lessons of suicide and murder.

We begin our session. Nina sits meditatively for a moment and then asks me, 'what happened to you at age 6?' An image immediately flashes through my mind, but I thought it rather arbitrary. I scrimmage around my brain searching for that huge life changing experience but can't come up with the goods. Stop the searching, 'What was that very first image you saw?' she says. Still sniveling away I begin. 'It's very insignificant, not quite sure why it popped into my brain, and quite frankly it's completely trivial with no relevance at all.' Nothing is inconsequential she says and urges me on. 'Ok I remember going into the study at home and finding a book lying on the desk. The book was a photo Journal of the Holocaust. I started paging through.

Shock and confusion consumed my naive six year old body as I fixated on the haunting images of the concentration camps: gas chambers, piles of bodies in graves, skeletal naked women with their hands out begging, men and children, such sadness on their faces. It felt like evil was sucking me in, pulling me into the pages of darkness. I had no idea what I was looking at but I could feel their fear. Even now those images are still so crystal clear. Fear of such uncertainty. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what will become of their lives. 'Stay with the six year old my friend' Nina insists.

My mother explained it to me later that day. She consoled me, assuring me that the holocaust happened a very long time ago and it would never ever happen again. I remember her reading the title of the book – 'Six million did die.'

Each night thereafter brought about frantic nightmares. Repetitively I would go into my parent's room, kneel besides my mother's side of the bed and wake her up. 'The Germans are coming to get us, I hear noises outside my window, I'm so scared mommy, what are we going to do? I'm so very scared.' For a period of time my mother consoled me.

But then night after night she would turn me away. Angry and annoyed she sent me straight back to my room. My father? Well, he either slept, or pretended to sleep through it all. Drenched in fear I would lie in my bed thinking of places to hide in the house. 'I could fit into the very top shelf of my parent's walk-in cupboard. The Germans would never find me there. But what about my family how would I save them?' I lay there frozen flying forever in a dark world. I stayed there counting the waves in my secret heavens, my ethereal world, a place of protection deep inside my mind. Nothing could harm me here. I lay there winding the night's madness into a narrow sleep.

Nina's gaze met mine. Her eyes swollen with tears. 'You feel cold, do you need another blanket?' She asked, fighting her tears back. 'Look at me; I am now your mother. Tell me what you really wanted when you came to my bedside, I am listening.' I steal a glance at her, the salty taste of my tears trickling into my mouth as I try to talk. But I just can't get a word out. I am immobilized. 'I'm petrified even as I lie here with you. I just don't think I can go there', I manage to mumble. Nina meets my fear with persuasive confidence, 'It is secure here, you are protected, and you can trust me. You have to let me know what you so badly needed when you were six years old. Look into my eyes'.

I gag. I gag & throw up my shame. I gag and throw up the shame of needing my mother; 'Mommy I am so scared to be alone, please come with me to my bed. Hold me until I fall asleep. Hold me until I know its safe. Tell me that everything is going to be ok. Hold my fear of the German's in your warm body. Tell me again and again and again that everything is going to be all right. And when I come back tomorrow night, do the same; embrace me, hold me and love me to sleep.'

As I cry, I see my tears mirrored in Nina's tears. She reaches for a tissue and reaches for my heart. 'I am so sorry' she says. Our eyes lock. A new and strange awareness consumes the silence. I wonder what she is sorry about. Is she apologizing for crying? Is she empathizing with my six year old? Or is she asking for forgiveness, and not as my mother? What a strange paradox! Its over sixty years down the line and here we sit once again; a Jew at the mercy of a German! Or maybe just maybe - by default - it was also a German at the mercy of a Jew!

Was I helping Nina heal her pain? An oppressor's pain that she has been holding, handed down from many past generations. A pain that she could now let go, because I was so willing to forgive my mother, and by default forgive Nina and the whole German nation. I lay there feeling overwhelmed yet empowered for thirty seconds or so.

OMG what an extraordinary affair. Maybe Nina and I are healing each other. What an amazing, unbelievable experience I thought.

Mmmm so maybe, just maybe, Nina will give me a credit for my next session?

Snippet 6

### The great escape

Nina then asks, 'When you are in crisis, what do you become addicted to?' Bit of an odd question I think.

'Mmm let's see, I increase my quota in cigarettes?' She responds quickly, 'Yes, but there's something else.' 'I get overwhelmed that things are not in control and feel terribly depressed?' 'Yes, keep going, what else?' she says. I ponder for a couple of seconds, 'Aah, I've got it! I'm addicted to role-playing conversations in my head.' 'That's it' she says with absolute certainty. In fact I'm simply addicted to the chitter chatter 24/7. I don't even need a crisis to bring the banter on. At any given time I'm having a tête-à-tête with someone about something. But in crisis mode, everything is amplified. A dialogue between some other and myself develops into a full-blown Euro Hollywood movie set.

I bring in all sorts of characters for and against my plight. I attempt to play out endless scenarios. I cannot stop the screenplay repeating in my head. You know I could give any trader a run for their money. I do more turn over in dialogue per day than Wall Street trades in a week. It's awfully draining. 'Do you ever visualize a positive outcome in your chats?' Nina asks. 'Oh no don't be silly. I never get to the end. Half way through I need to go back to the beginning. There is always a new twist required. It's rather fucking exhausting when I have to change the scene, as this directly affects the props and set design. There are times when I question my own sanity.'

I remember my fabulously eccentric Grand mother, Granny Giggi. Gramsy had a much better deal in her eighties. I was 27 when she was admitted into hospital for a standard hip operation. Whilst sitting with her - the day after the surgery - she asked me to please help her walk to the bathroom. She had something of great magnitude to tell me. And the bathroom was the only safe place we could talk. Once inside she instructed me to go back and snatch her hospital lunch from her bed tray. She nervously began to unfold a rather daunting scenario.

'The hospital is under siege,' she said. 'Faruk the King of Egypt is coming to get us. The nurses are not real, they are all actresses and the hospital security is actually King Faruk's messengers. We can't use the phone lines, they are tapped, and the room is bugged. But they have no idea who I am or who my husband was. Your grand father, Papa Dee, taught me a thing or two about conspiracies and military intelligence. Being chief war correspondent during world war two he learnt a trick or ten traveling with the troops. So far I've worked it out. They've put the bug into the panic button. And they think I'd fall for it. I've done a sweep. The bathroom is the only clean spot. We can talk securely in here.'

I thought this was a good time to suggest that she ate some of her lunch. A little food in the system, perhaps a sip of juice may ground her a bit. 'Oh no!' In an impassioned whisper she reveals, 'the food is poisoned. We must flush it down the toilet, that's why I asked you to bring it here. Now, we need to plan my secret escape, will you help me?'

Totally aware that Gramsy was having some post unaesthetic reaction from surgery, I reached for the role of rescuer like a heroin addict for her needle. What a high. What a wonderful distraction from my life. The great escape of Granny Giggi from King Faruk and yes the great escape from my confused day to day life, even if for just awhile. The next two days Gramsy and I strategize - under the instruction of a guide, a voice in her head. Gramsy assumed the role of interpreter for the guide.

She requested that I pack a small suitcase of her clothes and most important I must not forget to put the patent red shoes in. I was to sneak with the case into the hospital. I had strict orders not to look suspicious and not to discuss the matter with anyone. It was classified and top secret. I would be given my next orders the following day.

I hardly slept that night. The thrill of tomorrow's next scene was electrifying. I was in total ecstasy, what a trip, better than any cap of acid I'd ever taken. The next morning I tingled with anticipation for the forthcoming performance, my next fix. On entering the room, I asked the nurse if I could have a little bit of privacy. She smiled and softly said, 'Sure. Your Granny is doing so much better today. Apparently the voices have started going away.'

'Amazing actress, if one didn't know, one would really believe she's a nurse,' Gramsy sniggered. 'I just told her the voices are softer, a diversion, a red herring of course. But in actual fact I needed to get a good night's rest for our big break out today. The voices were so loud I just couldn't get a wink in. Thank God for your Papa Dee's exposure to the secret forces, I figured out that my guides vocal volume can be turned down with this knob. Yes, yes the actress Nurses think it's a radio, but let's not give them any reason to suspect that it has a much higher purpose'.

My relief that my real life movie was nowhere near the credits was unfortunately replaced with utter disappointment. The Psychiatrist arrived. My expedition was over. I would never find out the meaning behind the patent red shoes.

Having recounted the Granny Giggi tale to Nina, I ask her if she thinks my role-playing addiction had its roots in the fantasy of the 'great escape.' 'No my friend, you know when it began, tell yourself the truth.'

I knew deep inside when it all began. The day my life changed forever. The day I found out that my world was no longer a safe place to hide behind. A point of no return. The day I had to honor my own emotions, my own truth and my own reality. The trepidation of the unknown. The very same fear of the six year old besides my mother's bed. The phobia of uncertainty and what will become of me.

The day I found out I had an alien life growing in my tummy.

Snippet 7

### OMG

OH! Ma God

I was pregnant!

I never saw that coming!

Snippet 8

### Can you see inside me?

What a mind fuck. My whole life flashed before me. What had I done that had been so terrible to be given the gift of a life inside me? This unborn seed was so not meant for me. I was certain that the universe screwed up on admin or something. My blue print must have got muddled up with some maniac murderer that needed to learn the lesson of life. Or maybe with the femme fatale who smoothly spreads her bubble wrapped ovaries in order to climb her way up the corporate ladder.

Why me? Why was I being punished? And what about all those desperate married couples flying across the world seeking the latest technologies in artificial insemination? What about the poor wife whose husband for love or money just can't get it up? What about those pathetic ethno bongos who call in their Master Guru to Fen Shui their home, in the belief that miraculously ostrich eggs - placed in the reproductive corner of the bedroom - guarantees a home run for Teddy tadpole. Inadequate filing systems? A typo error? What ever! How did the universe get it so wrong and mistake me with the - 'lord, my god, I'll sacrifice everything for you, just give me a baby' - desperados out there?

The last time I checked my blue print was pretty on track. I push the rewind button of my long-term memory and review my life leading up to this awful moment. I'm certain that I've paid my dues and paid back all my debt. Ok maybe cheating in a couple of my final exams at school was still outstanding. Being a regular player of the Ouija board in my teens, I thought it rather apt to seek the answers of what may or may not come up in a few papers. Ok, so maybe I placed a lot more emphasis on studying the sections that were spelt out by the glass. Maybe I left out a chapter or 2 or an entire file, I still worked my butt off for finals. Co-incidence? I don't know, but the Ouija board was spot on. But hey, this could hardly stand up in a court of law, now could it? 'Miss Zara Zinger, you have been charged and found guilty on the count of conspiring and cheating with a spirit,' the magistrate gloats as he slams down his justice stick.

My defense; 'But your Honor the spirits that contact us when playing the Ouija board are of the lowest kind. Not even a B grade porn movie would offer them a ghostly role. They lurk about waiting to perform evil trickery on some lost soul. They make for a terrible witness.' In any case I really thought that score was settled. One evening the glass flew across the room and smashed into the wall. Holy crap! My dear friend and playmate got the fright of our lives and vowed never to play again.

Ok all right I admit, I played a few more times in my first year at varsity, a bit of a party trick to check out the reaction of new acquaintances. Heck a weensy slip up. Bite me!

In the department of home affairs and love without a doubt my score was settled. By the age of 18 I moved out of home and headed to the coast to go to University. Suitcase in hand, virginity intact I was terribly excited. Life was just dandy until I met the Thief. The Thief was a gorgeous 22-year-old student on campus. He stole my breath away. For months we played that tummy tingling flirting game with each other. Finally we had a date, he asked me over for dinner. I ate my pasta and later that night he made a bloody meal out of me.

I didn't realize that a man's interpretation of 'NO' means force her down and rip her panties off. Or 'please let me go, you're hurting me' means pin her down harder, gag her mouth and shove it in. Or disempowered attempts to fight him off means ram it in even harder. Finally he was done and I was broken finished. He instructed me to get myself together and go home. Terrified and in excruciating pain I quickly did exactly as he asked, fearful that he would change his tune. As I walked out the front door he grossly spat out the words, 'you know you wanted to feel me deep inside you and you liked every bit of it babe, didn't you? Catch you on campus.' He winked in victory and closed the door. I walked away in shame and desperately tried to close my mind.

Fooled with childlike naiveté, in the belief that one day I will give away my virginity to the man I love. Instead - snatched up by date rape. This scum sucking bastard thief stole my virginity, stole my womanhood, snatched my spirit and robbed me of my very being. He ripped my body, tore my heart, and raped my soul.

In the safety of my home I soaked myself in a hot bath, sanitizing my body, trying to figure how the night went so terribly wrong. What did I do to make the Thief believe he had a right to violate me? Why was I his victim? I guess accepting an invitation to be inside his home meant his right of passage to be inside of me. I asked for it. I was to blame. Embarrassed, humiliated, shamed, I could never tell a soul. I made a pact with myself; I shall never ever breathe a word.

I lay there watching the tiny little waves of the bath water ripple smoothly over my scorched body. Like my six year old, each wave became symbolic, protecting me from further pain. Hey you! Can you see inside me? Can you see the silence that paints over my body? Womb-like and warm, my silence, my secret heavens, it was safe here!

Months down the line I met the caretaker. He was a lot older than me, an extremely successful doctor, specializing in pain relief. He had somewhat of a paternal disposition. I guess that's what the initial attraction was. The caretaker was nurturing, respectful and placed me on a pedestal. He adorned me with flowers and gifts and tons of 'I love youz.' My responding cue of 'I love you too' always seemed to have that chicken-bone-stuck-in-my-throat feeling. So I resorted to muffled versions of 'me too.' I never loved him, but he took good care of me. We eventually shacked up together.

Every day he arrived home with new clothes for me to wear. One by one my existing wardrobe was replaced with the caretaker's sense of style and his belief of what his woman should look like. I became his little doll. Each day he would take me out of the cupboard and 'play dress up dress up.' Before I knew it my whole world was black, and my caretaker had transformed into the eliminator. Through verbal and emotional abuse, a little smack here and there, he took very good care of eliminating my confidence and keeping me in place.

He eliminated my thoughts, feelings, opinions and most of my friends. I was not to leave the house without reporting in; where I was going and what time I would return. If I were late I would pay for it. Sex was on demand and against my will. Just like his dress up doll, all he needed was a lifeless body to get his quick release. Playing his prostitute dress up doll was much easier and staying in an abusive relationship was much safer than the repercussions of trying to get out.

Each episode of abuse was met with endless apologies, 'You know I really love you!' Followed by apparent total memory loss of what had just happened. Strange, somehow that seemed so much better than having to face the thief' on campus. Like the prostitute on the street I sold my soul to save my life.

Each day I lay there counting the waves in my secret heavens, flying forever in a black world. My naked body lay open to the sun with my hands begging out, trying to drink up the warmth of the heated rays. But the sun was just another saboteur that got close enough and sucked me dry.

Over exposed in the flaming sunlight, coldness grew within me, as the scorching heat drained all feelings.

Snippet 9

### Rapunzel let down your hair

Between the assholes, there were a couple real special gems. And between the gems I got to sleep with the enemy. Another wave, another heaven, another secret.

I soon embarked on a hectic power trip; I became the vigilante Rapunzel of the decade. There I stood in my Ivory tower, maiden in distress waiting to be saved. Yeah right, what a joke, more like the 'Ice Queen', inaccessible and a challenge to any testosterone-fuelled idiot.

I would strike a pose and throw down the bait \- my new improved double strength hair extensions. 'Oooh, I've got myself a live one!' I giggled with excitement as Mr. Testosterone scuffled his way up the tower, holding tightly onto my beautiful synthetic braids. Half way up, suspended on presumption, out came the pair of scissors. Snip Snap! 'Ooops, terribly sorry, time for a change, I'm in need of a new hair do', I would squeal in absolute joy - watching his bewildered face in utter confusion.

As he tumbled to the floor, face first, I emailed a friend, 'another one down, another one down another one bites the dust. Revenge is so sweet.'

But opening fire on the innocent was merely misguided revenge and it never quite filled the hole in me. In time, I grew to understand there was a desperate need for change. I was done with all the shit. As I peeled away the layers of abuse, my inability to love or be loved, my attraction to chaos, underlying all, was my total lack of self-esteem and lack of self-worth. So long as I bought into it, I would perpetuate the pattern, my own cycle of abuse. I got the lesson. Things would be different now.

Yeah right, my last famous words. Huh? What the fuck? There I sat. I had just turned 30, and home pregnancy test screaming positively yes, yes, yes.

My career was beginning to fluff up its tail feathers. I still had so much to do before embarking on any family holiday of my own. I had it all planned. In good time - when I decided I was ready - the white picket fence of my dream chateau with the perfectly well bred Prince of Charm shall appear. In loving partnership we shall birth and bring up two perfectly well bred kids. Throw in two perfectly well bred puppies and I shall live out the perfect fantasy of Princess 'Whatever her name is.'

Not! On discovering I was pregnant, I felt the disgusting queasiness of imperfection looming. Sick in my stomach and sick to my bones, I realized the only thing that I will be bringing up is my breakfast, lunch and dinner. My Prince of Charm? Right! I've got the complete contrary. My fairy-tale? A bloody nightmare on Elm Street.

I guess I hadn't learnt a fucking thing!

Snippet 10

### Ice-olated

I lay there frozen,  
Counting the waves in my secret heavens,  
Depleted from winding the night's madness into a narrow sleep.

I lay there frozen.  
I lay there flying forever in a dark world.  
I stayed there  
Counting the waves in my secret heavens  
My ethereal world  
A place of protection deep inside my mind.  
Nothing could harm me here.  
I lay there winding the night's madness into a narrow sleep.

Each day,  
I lay there frozen  
Counting the waves in my secret heavens,  
Flying forever in a black world.  
My naked body lay open to the sun  
My hands begging out,  
Trying to drink up the warmth of the heated rays.

But the sun was just another saboteur that got close enough and sucked me dry.  
Over exposed in the flaming sunlight,  
Coldness grew within me, as the scorching heat drained all feelings.

No longer did I move there.  
No longer did I grow there.  
Yet my heart remained reaching out.

Design and Photography by StormStudios, <http://www.stormthorgerson.com/>

Judy staring, Catherine Wheel, limited edition - Signed and numbered in pencil by Storm Thorgerson

Silkscreen in 24 colours with glaze on Somerset tub sized 410gsm Printed by Coriander Studios, London Image size: 19.00" x 19.00"Paper size: 28.00" x 33.00"

Snippet 11

### Shape shifting through life.

Avoidance and denial - my two favorite loyal companions - have always helped me slip through the difficult, jagged cracks of life.

No matter how scary, rough or painful, my committed companions were there, faithfully facilitating my escape to 'never never land', ensuring that my secret heavens got me through the day. So long as I could hold tightly onto my chaos, cover up my tracks, stash it all neatly inside and keep the lid on things, humankind would let me pass by quietly unscathed. Like a thief in the night, my inner world could silently sneak by, invisible to the vicious tongues of judgment.

But how the fuck was I to cover up my bump? An ever growing bump on my tummy. A bump indoctrinated in shame by the outside world. A bump condemned with disgrace and dishonor. A bump that represented everything that should not be; single, white, middle class female, impregnated by a man I hardly knew. With the added juicy gossip factor - he was not Jewish.

My fear lay not in whether I could manage single parenthood, that part I knew I could do. My fear was all engrossed in other people's reactions. How could I conceal my bump from the external world and shield it from the harsh cruelty of the spoken word? Would I be able to endure the death of my fickle reality and survive the birth of a life in exile? Shape shifting my way through life was an art that I had mastered skillfully. In spite of the kugel's finding me too ethno bongo, the ethno bongo's finding me too fashionetty, the trendoids too muesli-and-sandals, the surfers too hip, the hip too eccentric, scum of the yuppies, yuppie of the scum - whatever - somehow I managed to shape shift my way through each click, crew, clang, gang with ease.

But the art of shape shifting simply did not offer any rules or schemes with single parenting. What to do? Simple! Get my bump bumped right off. With that thought in mind my faithful companions - avoidance and denial - readily appeared wagging their tails, gnawing at my heart and scratching at the backdoor of my brain. As always they eagerly waited to catch and bury the bone. A bone only to be dug up later, exposing the skeleton truth of the past. And this past would have a bite twice as big as its bark.

I had always preached, 'get rid of it' if circumstances are not perfect. After all it's only a silly little embryo that has no voice. Abort the bloody thing and move right along, no one needs to know. As for my scenario, well it was far from perfect.

In that moment of utter chaos, home pregnancy test bellowing yes, I had an overwhelming need to turn my back on my two companions. Today will be different. Today I need to face up to what I so easily push away - me. I need to take full responsibility for my situation. Of course my loyalty to denial and avoidance was deep rooted. Abandonment all together was way too much to ask. So I simply chained them up, temporarily locked them away, just in case I needed to play with them someday soon.

Honoring my own truth and reality was simple, I thought to myself. All I have to do is show up for me. 'How flipping obvious! Show up for me, that's the key to this mess. In fact somewhere in this bloody disarray, this must be the key to life, be my authentic self,' I mumbled to myself. Of course the problem here was that I didn't quite know whom the fuck I was showing up for.

My years of being the master shape shifter had placed me in a rather curious position. My fluidity of moving from one persona into the next came with such ease, that at this stage I had no fucking clue if muesli and sandals prevailed over hip and trendy, or if toffee nosed and pucker innately over showered liberal lefty.

Add to that; growing up with white Jewish guilt in an *apartheid system came with an entirely different set of complicated shape shifting contradictions.

*Footnote

*Apartheid, social and political policy of racial segregation and discrimination enforced by white minority governments in South Africa from 1948 to 1994.

<http://www.africanaencyclopedia.com/apartheid/apartheid.htm>

Snippet 12

### Q&As

Q.

What's another way of saying little or small using THREE words of TWO letters each?

A.

IS IT IN?

Snippet 13

### Just call me Mary

As my bump grew, so my world of friends and family grew in separation. There was a clear division of friends that stood with me, next to me, near me on this insane journey and those that quietly took a back seat and slunk away into oblivion.

My mum surprised me with her instant unconditional acceptance. And my dad? Well, he developed the most bizarre speech impediment. He had an inability to say my name and almost instantaneously on receiving my bumpy news replaced my name with Mary. It became particularly worse when introducing me to his colleagues.

'And this is my immaculate daughter Mary. Is she not just divine?'

'Jesus fuck Mary, what is your problem? I'm not perfect, I never was and my name is Zara. You need to stop pretending I'm your perfect princess child,' I begged him in the many painful guilt ridden I'm-sorry-I'm-such-a-failure-and-not-quite-what-you-had-in-mind-for-a-daughter-even-though-you-had-such-a-perfect-marriage-NOT! -With your-extramarital-affairs- and-mums-inability-to-be-in-love-with-you-GASP-resulting-in-you-and-her-getting-divorced- chats we had inside my brain.

Was it early Alzheimer's setting in, which happened to coincide with my out of wedlock pregnancy with some misogynist narcissist? Was it just a simple case of shock and horror, which caused a bout of confusion? Or was it Jesus fuck Mary a matter of my dad being in such disbelief that his little girl was engaging in sexual intercourse? 'Oh my God not my child, she would never be doing it,' his voice echoed in my head. Hang on a moment, I've got it, I'm onto him. He's suffering from truthaphobia, which sometimes results in turning to religion for back up.

This is God's way, pretty many screws up any line of debate, if of course that was his coping angle. After endless internal discussions I finally figured it out; the shame attached to his unborn illegitimate grandchild was so acute that my father unawares did turn to religion, albeit not his own. Desperately he clutched onto the bible as the only possible explanation and the only way out, of what was now his embarrassing situation.

So there we have it, the only way I got pregnant was by virtue of Immaculate Conception. My bump? Miraculous and divine. Just call me Mary! Jesus fuck!

Every little girl clings onto Daddy's approval no matter how screwed up or brilliant he may be. My all-consuming need to seek and have my father's approval and acceptance - in whatever I did - came to a screeching halt. In a heated telephone call I informed my dad that I would not be repeating history. 'My child will be growing up under completely different circumstances. I will not be repeating history. I will not be repeating... hello, hello, anyone out there?' There was total silence on the other end. My dad had gone. He had slammed the phone down on me. He had slammed the phone down on me and padlocked the door to his heart. The deafening silence of his disapproval ached as it pierced its way down my right eardrum.

I retreated back to my secret heavens, confused and agonized by my father's rejection and total disappointment in me. What was he so angered by? Why has he rejected me? Was it my refusal to repeat history and bring up my child in a loveless environment between two parents? Or my need to throw away my wristband with the letters engraved W.W.D.D - what would daddy do? Or my absolute refusal to repeat history and role-play some biblical character called Mary?

Jesus Fuck!

Snippet 14

### Mother nature's way

I took to Antenatal classes like a fish to water. I couldn't wait for each week's new installment of information about the process of labor and childbirth. From relaxation techniques to birthing positions, pain relief choices; massage skills, breast and bottle-feeding, water-home-hospital births and my most favorite of all - the abfab delicious breathing techniques.

It was a special quiet time to bond with other expecting parents and a safe place to ask many questions and rehearse the possible options we could take during labor. I had acquired all the skills and confidence by the 6th session. We were ready. It was going to be a fabulous home birth, with that good old school traditional midwife, no drugs and nipples most definitely on call. A wholesome ethno bongo mother nature's way to pop out a new life.

D-day arrived and baby was letting us all know that she was heading down the birthing canal and ready to hop into this world to kick some butt. The contractions began to intensify, became more frequent, and excruciating pain in the lower back and abdomen was accompanied by cramps in the upper thighs. Time to whip out everything I had learnt. Rhythmic-breathing techniques will help ease the pain. But I was so frightened that rigamortis set in, my breathing shallow and scatty, my muscles tense and tight, my heart paralyzed and palpitating all at once. I began to tremble, shake and sweat with a tingling sensation in my fingers and toes. Gasping for air, I think I was having a full-blown anxiety attack.

I had learnt in antenatal classes that there are three types of labor contractions; practice (Braxton hicks), false and the real dam thing. But let me tell you there's a fourth kind. The kind when someone else is having - a fucking baby - labour pains. 'Get your shit together, get the freaking midwife on the phone and over here neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeow,' my dear beautiful friend Valerie bellowed at me.

'My water has broken, my baby is coming, I'm in enormous pain and you are lying debilitated on the floor ensconced in the fetal position. What kind of a birthing partner are you?' she squeezed out between her self induced rhythmically flowing deep long breaths.

Valerie's partner - and father of their child to be - was an academic. He traveled extensively researching a whole lot of bullshit for his dissertation that would one day change the world's something or other, if he got an unthinkable amount of government funding. The chances of receiving Black Economic Empowerment *(BEE) status by amputating off one of my white arms and surgically sowing on an A 'n C blood type black Bantu arm was more plausible than any of his socialist jargonisims materializing. Valerie asked me to be his understudy for the birth of their child - just in case he couldn't make it back in time from one of his expeditions.

So there I sat on the bed, Valerie lying between my legs, my arms embracing and holding her perspiring soft body. Eight hours of breathing, panting, and finally screaming in absolute elation as baby Valerie came flying down straight out of her Vjj head first.

It was then and there that I decided, amidst the euphoria of being part of one of life's most amazing beautiful experiences - sure as fuck - I will never be giving birth to a baby of my own. Ironically, unbeknown to me I was already three weeks pregnant! OMG!

* Footnote

*BEE – Black Economic Empowerment - affirmative action initiative of the South African government. Black Economic Empowerment (BEE) is a program launched by the SA govt to redress the inequalities off Apartheid by giving previously disadvantaged groups (black Africans, coloureds, Indians and Chinese--declared as Black in June 2008-who are SA citizens) economic opportunities previously not available to them. It includes measures such as employment equity, skills development, ownership, management, socio-economic development and preferential procurement.

Snippet 15

### Luigi and his big head

I quietly harbored some other very personal fears about the consequences of pregnancy. A friend once told me a story about this young Italian boy Luigi.

Luigi was ten years old and lived with his mamma and papa in a small village in the northern hemisphere of Italy. Apparently they were of Taurini Celt decent. Luciano, his father, was a proud family man and maintaining family honor was of high priority. One crisp Tuesday spring morning Luciano and Luigi strolled into town to meet up with Valente, the local men's tailor.

'Ciao Luciano, how can I help you today?' Valente greeted them with his gorgeous wide-eyed toothpaste smile. 'Ciao Valente, I need to buy a new smart white shirt for my son Luigi, Luigi-with-his-big-a-fucin-head', Luciano requested as he slapped the poor boy across his head. Valente lay out a beautiful handmade moonlight white silk shirt. 'Fantastico! I also need a black suite for my son Luigi, Luigi-with-his-big-a-fucin-head,' slapping defenseless Luigi symmetrically above each ear as he popped out each word. Valente brought out a stylish tailored black suit, made of the finest quality.

'Favaloso, stupendo!'

'Lastly I need a pair of leather shoes and a belt for my son Luigi, Luigi-with-his-big-a-fucin-head', he said enthusiastically slapping the poor boy across his head yet again.

By now Valente was feeling terribly uncomfortable and felt the need to intervene. 'Eh uh scusa Luciano, may I ask you a question - in private - before I get the shoes and belt?' he asked politely but noticeably concerned. 'Si my good man, what is it?' Luciano replied. 'Why is it that every time you say Luigi's name, you slap the poor ragazzo across the head and in an irritated voice you yell out Luigi-with-his-big-a-fucin-head?'

'Ah Velente a fine life changing question you ask! Amico, eleven years ago I marry Rosa Bella, beautiful Rosa Bella. She had an exquisite face, the bluest of deep blue eyes, bellisima, si molta sexy body and si the tightest pussy in the whole world.... and then came my son Luigi.........

.... Yes...Luigi...

........Luigi-wIth-his-big-a-fucin-head!!!!!!! "

Snippet 16

### Disembarking off the mother load

As for my childbearing procedures, I left nothing to chance. Riding the single parent wave required strategy, foresight and a completely new set of rules.

Rule # 1 Be very strategic in your choice of your child's Godfather to be. He does not necessarily have to be well endowed with riches but should be rich in loyalty, generous in spirit, have a fabulously deeeevine aesthetic eye for décor and a gorgeous sense of style. Ideally he should be gay.

Rule # 2 Be very strategic in your choice of a birthing partner. First choice? Appoint the gay aesthete Godfather.

Rule # 3 Be very strategic where the mother-load delivery and dispatch will take place. Leave home births and afterbirths to your pets; head straight for a clinic or hospital.

Rule # 4 Be very strategic about pain management. A natural birth? The computer says Naaah. Bring on the drugs, the epidural, happy gas, whatever relieves the pain, just bring on those drugs.

Rule # 5 Be very strategic about 'how' this baby is going disembark off the mother load. Do the natural push down and out the Vjj thingy, hoping that baby comes head first with no umbilical cord strangulation complications? Um...err...let me think about that? I think not! Book your birthing date and expectant arrival time with your gynecologist. Make a time for the gay aesthete godfather to pick you up and check you into your maternity ward. Wait patiently for the anesthetist to drug you up and prep you for your C-section.

Rule # 6 Investigate the options of adopting a surrogate family or a surrogate family adopting you. The security of having family close by is all empowering - even if they are surrogates.

Rule # 7 Last but not least; put those tender nipples of yours aside. Preserve your breasts for a future date. Rather bring out the plastic and purchase the powder. That would be plastic bottles and Soya milk formula my dear!!

As I said... leave nothing to chance.

Snippet 17

### Addendum to; Single parenting birthing strategies and rules;

Revaluate your motivations and intentions in rules 1-7.

Get real.

Tell the truth.

Have a colonic and stop bullshitting yourself.

Snippet 18

### As far as tight squeezes go!

There were only a few peeps that I could physically count on twenty-four-seven. Actually if truth be known the only person who showed up one hundred percent was the gay aesthete godfather, Shai. Shai owned a gorgeous lifestyle and décor shop.

He protected my heart safely between his Egyptian cotton duvet slips, nurturing me with his unconditional love and loyal support. And he took me under his down feathered wings, providing a warm thermal barrier between my bump and the foul gossiping gaggles out there.

So, I was wondering... um err... in all honesty; is there really anything sexy about watching a baby being born? I've never quite understood the romance in a partner filming the whole shebang. Thereafter watching instant replays of wide-angle shots and the camera lens zooming in. I mean the next time your man goes down on you, I wonder if he can still look at you straight - in the Vjj - with that ravenous tingling tongue lingering turn on, and sustain a hard on of note?

Maybe all he can see is a slow-mo rerun of baby's face covered in blood and goo, squirming and squishing its way out of her mango. Accompanied by a little cartoon caption of reclaiming words from baby's mouth, 'mine, mine, mine, mine.'

No bullshit, what man really wants to compete with his newborn over who occupies what territory of the mother-load?

The aesthete and I were close, really close, about the closest friend I'd ever had. So close that the thought of him getting up, close and personal with my Vjj petrified the living shits out of me. I was so scared that once he peered into me - exposed from that angle - he would never be able to look at me again. Lets face it, I wasn't exactly taking him to an exclusive up and close preview of Paul Smith's new summer collection nor to an intimate private sneak peek of Philippe Starcke's soon to be launched iconic lemon squeezer. The only squeezing going down, would be pushing a baby through a small opening.

Sexy viewing? I think not - as far as tight squeezes go.

Whilst I know that clearly was not the nature of our relationship, and the gay aesthete godfather never has and never will be going down on me – I just couldn't place my volatility & Vjj in any further unknown and awkward scenarios. Keeping our future together - tight, snug and in perfect nick - became critical.

Oh and the same goes for the godfather and I. After all Shai was my lifeline to the outside world.

Added, not to mention the story of Luigi again! But Luigi-with-his-big-a-fucking-head was still freshly lurking around my brain. If some unsophisticated Italian villager gypsy celt guy was still mourning the loss of his wife's tightness \- some ten years after the fact, I needed no further convincing. Its 'pussy preservation time' - a C-section is the only route to go.

Snippet 19

### Staring faith in the face

Have faith, have faith, have faith in yourself. These words seemed to be popping up in everything I laid my eyes on. TV channels, movies, books, articles, wall graffiti. Must be a sign I thought, must have some deep inner meaning, perhaps a message from the Gods above?

I resigned myself to the universe. 'Yes oh Yes I have faith in me' I announced to the world.

And miraculously on the 5th day of the 5th month at 2.15pm on the dot - not a moment too soon - it happened. Faith was born into my world.

An instant unconditional love trickled throughout my body. I felt a serene profound love, so intense. I had never ever quite experienced such deeply connected intimacy before. I lay overwhelmed staring Faith in the face. What ambiguity! I lay overwhelmed staring Faith in the face, mourning the loss of my old life. My unaccountable gypsy days of * IPI's and enjoying drunken motherless immunity were clearly over.

Faith was born into my world, Faith was born into my world, and she was perfect and poised. Faith was born into the world - notwithstanding - she was fatherless.

* Footnote

IPI – Inexplicable Party Injury

Snippet 20

### Planet Destitute

I had no idea what planet I was on. It certainly was not on the planet of loving parenthood. I loved Faith beyond any love that I had ever quite experienced before but I was not coping with being a new mum.

It felt as if I had been dropped into some alien nation, a territory so foreign, so remote to anything I had ever quite felt before. Anguished and alone, by the time Faith was one month old, I had spiraled way down into the depths of despair; that dark unexplainable place of post natal depression.

My mother, I knew, cared so much in spite of always being very busy-being-busy and an inability to make any kind time commitment to us. She was an Arts and Theatre Publicist, married to her work, and always needed to keep her availability options - for her clients - open. My dad did eventually come around. We had made our peace. But both my parents' physical support and emotional involvement was limited and was kept at a distance. I had no desire to move in with either one of my parents. I knew this path – alone - I had to walk.

But this did not stop me from have a deep yearning, a deep need for either one of my parents just to make me an offer. Just to make me an offer of support and welcome me back under their roof. Just for a little bit. Just to let me feel that I was accepted and loved. A just offer, that I would have turned down. But I just wanted to hear it – so that I knew I was accepted.

My friends, especially Faith's Godfather, Shai, were amazing and their generosity in spirit and support went way beyond the call of duty. However nothing could take away that excruciating feeling of loneliness and that overwhelming sense of guilt; guilt for bringing Faith into this world, a nasty world that I did not want to be part of.

Those freezing nights, waking up to try and give Faith her bottle of warm Soya milk. Only to discover that there was no electricity due to a power failure - were amongst the many torturous stretches in time. Night after night I'd put Faith to sleep and curl up into a tiny ball wishing to be someone else. I wanted to be that happy go lucky new mom on the block or better still I wanted to curl up and quietly die.

Bonding with Faith was easy. She truly was an incredibly happy loving spirit. She was hugely demonstrative in affection and big warm bear hugs came with ease. As did her laughter. Somehow she always naturally had that giggle in her tummy and that smile in her eyes. My guilt over not being able to match her feelings was beyond unbearable. Making friends with my new life felt completely unattainable.

I stayed a paranoid outcast on planet destitute for at least the first four years of Faiths existence. I was too scared to take any medication for fear that it could get used against me. Crazy, I was terrified that the use of any post-natal meds could have exposed that I was a struggling mother. Proof that I was not worthy of my child. I knew that so many people were waiting for me to trip up and were scanning my movements until I fell.

Snippet 21

### Fake it until you make it

When Faith was about two years old, I latched onto what I called mantra methodology. Everyday I would endlessly repeat the same positive mantras to myself. This helped me get through the dark hours, the depressing melancholic minutes and those everlasting pathetic sad seconds of the day.

Going on the notion of 'ask and you shall receive', apparently mantras should always be expressed in the present tense. 'I will be financially secure, I am going to meet the man of my dreams, opportunities will come my way in abundance' are all great positive affirmations. However these mantras are being affirmed for sometime in the future. And that's exactly how it will play out. All your requests will remain - at arms length away – in the future.

So, some of my daily mantras included; I am beautiful, I am surrounded with unconditional love, I am financially secure, month end comes with ease, my life is full of amazing opportunities, everyday in everyway my world is more abundant. I am able to receive. Most important I always began or ended my mantra with a THANK YOU. I expressed my gratitude to whoever and whatever was potentially listening including Hashem, God, Buda, The Universe, The powers that be, Angels, my parking fairy – Henrietta - (who secures a parking space for me 99.9% of time). I thanked them as if all of this goodness was already in my life.

As if ? As if any of this was in my space or close to my truth. The other little snag was that all of me-myself-and-I did not buy into these bountiful and prosperous one-liners. The hardest part of all was believing in what I was preaching.

But on a good note my mantras helped keep me in the present moment. The thing is, I had to concentrate really really really hard just to remember to repeat - fifty times in a row - these amazing positive affirmations, without my mind meandering off in a thousand different exhausting directions. The other good thing is that mantra methodology is easy on the pocket, they are free and you get to say them whenever... driving in your car, going up the escalators, in a boring meeting, anywhere and anytime.

"I am beautiful-I am abundant, I am beautiful-I am abundant - I want bigger breasts - how the fuck am I going to pay Faith's school fees this month? I am beautiful - I am abundant - I am feeling sick - I am beautiful-I am abundant- I hope I was not showcasing that huge big booga in my nose in my meeting - I am beautiful, I am abundant, I am beautiful, I am abundant - I want to sleep forever - I want botox - I want bigger breasts in-fact itchy bites will even do - oooh that dudes got yummy lips - I am beautiful, I am abundant - I wonder if anyone heard my seriously squeaky high pitched slow-release fart in yoga today - I am beautiful-I am abundant, I am... I am... uuuuurgh... I am so fucking bored of repeating this shit"

One day I stumbled upon a phrase. A spunky little life-changing phrase. A group of buzzwords that pushed all my buttons, my good ones that is. A gorgeous sexy little one-liner that I just could not resist. A provocative expression that seduced and draped its way all over my body and fancy-dressed-up my mind.

"Fake it until you make it".

Wow what a wicked, sexy funky hot little bit of wisdom. Now I'm not suggesting you should become a cunning liar, thief, con artist, scammer, and fraud swindling asshole. Neither am I advocating the life path of a politician, minister or religious leader for that matter. The intention behind this expression is to con yourself. It's about fooling you, yourself, tricking your own negative thoughts and feelings into positive ones.

So each day I would try really hard to find one good thought amongst the millions of doom and gloom mental activities. And I would try to hold onto it for dear life, pretending to all and sundry that life was good, so damn good. Paramount to all, I could not let Faith down. She needed me. She needed me to appear to be a positive, secure, loving consistent force in her life.

And so day in and day out I would fake just how fabulous I was; a coping happy snappy single mum. Yip I became the great pretender. I faked it so hard that by the time Faith turned four somehow I made it to the other side. I made it to the side where parenting is so very sweet!

Snippet 22

### Cheers to the little things in life!

I finally had to accept the simple truth! Faith and I had morphed into garden snails. I had never aspired to being a snail. I had much bigger plans and wanted so much more for my angel-child.

Faith was four and a half years old, I had just got into the sweet flow of the parenting thing, and then our world was turned upside down. It was a gorgeous summer morning. Beautiful Bezi had taken Faith out to the front gate. Janna Gifter and her son Brad Gifter - Faith's nursery school lift - had arrived. The turn around time of popping Faith into the car and whizzing off was always very fast. Bezi was usually back in the house within a couple of minutes. But that day Bezi seemed to be taking much longer than usual. I had that niggling feeling that something was wrong. I opened the front door, only to be confronted with the most sickening, stomach wrenching petrifying scene. Four men were surrounding Janna's car. Four men with four guns. Three guns held to the heads of Faith, Bezi and little Brad. The fourth gun was aimed at Janna.

It was a terrifying car hi-jacking in process. I cannot explain that feeling of seeing my child with a gun to her head and my complete powerlessness of not being able to protect Faith or any of them. The Jackers' picked on the right vehicle, a top of the range Mercedes 4 by 4, but they certainly had not picked on the right mum. Janna was a powerhouse. The Jackers' had no idea with whom they were dealing with. Yes, Janna was little, a mere 5.3 feet tall but she was a massive powerhouse of tranquil calming energy.

Janna no doubt was all consumed with fear on the inside yet she maintained a cool composed tranquil disposition. And in a softly spoken, confident voice Janna managed to disarm a very unpredictable, life threatening, and dangerous scary situation. 'Take my car, take my handbag - it's in the car - just let the kids go into the house first' Bizarrely enough, the car jacker's did just that. They let the kids go, jumped into the Merc and off they sped, leaving Bezi and Jan to count to 20...or else. Ironically the only thing in Janna's bag was a ten-buck note and a whole bunch of healing crystals.

And of course within two minutes of fleeing, the anti-theft immobilizer kicked in, resulting in the Merc cutting out and the jacker's having to AWOL their own crime scene as quickly as possible.

It was then and there that Janna and her husband Alex thought it would be a very good idea for Faith and I to move into the vacant cottage on their property. The Gifter's opened their arms and hearts with the most amazing offering of security and protection. Every bone in my body wanted to resist their generosity in spirit. It meant a complete loss of independence. But three weeks later - at month end - Faith and I moved out of our little rental house and onto the property of Janna, Alex and their three gorgeous kids Matt, Sasha and Brad. I must say it was a pretty amazing smooth transformation that we underwent; from independent house peeps into little co-habiting garden snails living at the bottom of someone else's garden.

Having made friends with the fact that Faith and I had mutated into little garden snails, I discovered that that there was actually a whole lot to be said about these little slugs who carry their homes on their backs. They are not just flower eating pests or dripping in garlic-butter edibles. Snails in fact have been used in divination and mystic symbolism, going way back in time. Apparently the Aztec Moon God had a snail shell on his back, which, as legend suggests symbolized rebirth. 'Well, maybe this was our rebirth, our chance to start again?' I discussed with myself. And a snail's knack for appearing and disappearing has been likened to the moon. 'Mmm I'm a big fan of the moon, so that's not so bad,' I continued on... to myself.

On a psychological note, Carl Jung apparently made comment that the snail represented the 'self' in dreams, where the soft insides are like our subconscious and the shell represents our conscious state. 'Mmmm now that's some deep shit! Huh so a snail is not just a small slimy sluggard. It actually has some serious depth going down!'

I sat back and gazed out of my new bedroom window. I realized just how lucky Faith and I were. We were not just living in any old garden. It was an exquisite Garden of Eden and a very special family had taken us in with unconditional love. The Gifter's became our beautiful extended surrogate family. And what a gift they were. We could not have asked for more.

Snippet 23

### Google- eyed

A year or so down the line Faith and I were getting ready to go and watch Sasha's dance recital with Janna and Brad. It was a delicious fresh day. I was putting my make up on in the bathroom. Faith was watching me attentively.

'Mum, say a fly came into the car while we were driving, and it stayed flying in the same spot, right next to your nose. Would the fly be flying at the same speed that your car is going?' Faith enquired with abundance of enthusiasm.

'Faith, sweetheart, where on earth are your manners? I've told you it's very rude to interrupt me when I'm having a conversation.' Faith was certain that there was no one else in the bathroom or in the cottage for that matter. But just to make double sure, she did a quick look about. 'Um mum, hallooo, it's just you and me in the cottage, look around.' Faith suggested wide-eyed. 'Yes, yes I know that darling but I was having a conversation in my head, and I was at the part where I was about to make a profound point about something, and now... well... and now I've forgotten what I was even talking about.'

I went onto reminding Faith what she had been taught from a very young age, and that the same social graces applied at age six, 'Remember to gently put your hand on my shoulder, or to quietly flash your hand at me like a little sparkling star, if you need to interject or edge your way in - into whatever you want to edge your way into.' 'Ooops, I forgot,' Faith giggled placing her hand on my shoulder, thereafter waiting patiently for me to engage with her.

Faith repeated her question with as much enthusiasm as the first time round. And as usual I gazed at her with that complete where-the-fuck-did-that-question-come-from look on my face. 'Darling we will have to google that, I honestly have no idea what the answer could be', I said anticipating her response. 'Why do you always need to google the answer? Aren't you supposed to know everything, you are my mum?' 'Nope mums don't know everything.' I paused 'hey here's a question for you Faith! Do you think that maybe all children come here to rather teach their parents a thing or two?' 'What do you mean, I don't understand your question mum,' Faith exclaimed with a willingness to know more?

'Well, what if I told you that I had nothing to do with you coming into my life. What if I told you that you chose me to be your mum? You and your soul chose my tummy to house yourself in. You chose my warm, safe and cosy tummy to hang out in before hopping into the outside world? Perhaps you came here to teach me a whole bunch of stuff that I've never ever thought about?'

'Oh boy, jeepers creepers mum, what book are you reading now?' Faith asked with laughter in her eyes.

The next best thing the two of us were rolling about giggling, shrieking our heads off with laughter. Something we tended to do pretty often. 'Oh mum you are the silliest person in the whole world but I love you to the moon and back.'

I held Faith close to my heart. 'Oh, my little rabbit, my child of the moon, and I love you since forever and I love you till forever.'

Snippet 24

### Q&A

*Q. How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?

A. 30, 1 to change the bulb and 29 to discuss and analyze ad nauseam.

*Q. How many lawyers does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A. None, lawyers only screw us.

Q. How many psychologists and lawyers does it take to screw up a child?

A. Well, how many can you afford?

(Lightbulbjokes.com)

Snippet 25

### Quack quack quack bla bla bla

Bla bla bla bla bla bla wherein, hereto, hereby - without prejudice – the lawyer wrote. Bla bla bla bla bla bla heretofore, herewith, whereby, and wherefore the defending Advocate replied. Bla bla blaaaaaaaaaaaaaa the honourable court is kindly requested to read this report bla bla the Family advocate submitted.

Bla bla bla babble babble bla bla bla smack, punch, said and such inter alia, prima facie, sub judice, strangle, stab, wallop, attack. Bla bla bla blame blame blame blame blame bla bla bla each legal team continued to lambaste the daylights out of each other.

The situation reminded me of Stevie Smith's poem, 'Not waving but drowning.' No one was really listening to Faith. She was screaming to be heard. She was drowning and we were sleeping. She was drowning in a cold war of words, in a world of adults. In a world of adults whose only intension was to win, to be right no matter what the damage and impact on the child would be. Faith was wide-awake but drowning, and we were all fast asleep but fighting furiously.

Nobody heard him, the dead man said  
But still he lay moaning:  
I was much further out than you thought  
And not waving but drowning.  
Poor chap, he always loved larking  
And now he's dead  
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,  
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always  
(Still the dead one lay moaning)  
I was much too far out all my life  
And not waving but drowning.  
(Stevie Smith 1957)

I needed time out from all the legalese, seven solid years of blindly being told what to do by a bunch of so-called experts. Desperate, depleted - emotionally and financially - I called my salt of the earth spiritual mentor, Flo. Apparently I had become rather co-dependent on the chap. Flo knew me, he understood me. He knew I was a good person. Flo would sort it all out and tell me what to do. And off I babbled screeching round that racetrack once again. "Bla bla bla, bla bla."

Ten minutes into my very attached to outcome blaaaaa'ing he interrupted me. 'Stop you're boring yawn-yawn-he-said-she-said-they-did rambling bullshit. Be quiet, sit still, and wake up Zara. Wake up Zee' Flo firmly demanded. 'I have only one question for you. Your very truthful answer to this question will make all the bad stuff go away.' Phew! Relieved! I knew I could count on him. He got me immediately. He was ingenious. He was going to give me the answer, a solution. A solution that I so desperately needed to hear.

'Zee, you and Faith's father are both so ego driven and reactive. My question to you is; what do you hate so much about yourself, that you see mirrored in Faith's father? Give it some thought and call me in a few days. Oh! Please remember to keep the faith and forgive,' he said goodbye and put the phone down.

'What the fuck kind of help was that? I thought Flo was on my side,' I hissed at the phone. I was angry, beyond pissed off to say the least. The universe including my spiritualist was now conspiring against me. Why had Flo turned against me? Who does he think he is telling me off like that? I was hurt. Forlorn and forsaken I was shocked into a further state of pathetic self-pity.

I retreated back to my secret heavens. No one can get me here. In fact for the record no one can get me freaking heretofore, herewith or hereby in, either for that matter.

Snippet 26

### Out of my mind

Flo's words echoed through my mind and penetrated my soul. Is it possible I can resent so much? Am I such a control freak? Am I that reactive? Am I really driven by ego-generated fear and anger? Am I really fuelled by the need to be right?

'Keep the faith and forgive, keep the faith and forgive,' I kept repeating to myself. Days later I emerged out of a trance like state. I was strangely calm. A warm and cozy feeling trickled its way through my body. It felt good, so tranquil. My mind was dead still, yet my heart felt so alive. I had not felt so wide-awake in years. In that moment, I finally got it. I got it, how basic!

I knew exactly what gift Flo had given me. In that beautiful silent moment, all the spiritual and holistic workshops I had attended, healers I had gone to, and the endless self-help literature I had read, came flowing into one single point of understanding. An understanding for the first time that was not academic. I could feel it deep inside my soul.

It was so simple: I have no control over anyone else's thoughts, feelings and actions. However I have huge control over my response towards other people's thoughts, feelings, actions and situations. I need to detach from wanting to control the outcome of all scenarios. I can choose to be non reactive. I can choose not to take things personally and not to assume. I can choose not to gossip or speak badly about others. Things will play out exactly how they need to play out. And as long as I'm sitting in my truth - with good intensions and integrity - the universe will look after Faith and I no matter what.

For the first time ever I was completely out of my mind. My forever busy chitter chatter exhausting quacking mind was still. I was out of my mind, and I had found a way into my heart.

Hours later, via email I received my daily Kabbalah tune up.

'Once we accept that difficult people are sent into our lives by the Light to help us make our correction, it can send our minds reeling in a million and one directions.

How do we know just what the lesson is?

Focus on your reaction and you will figure it out. The restriction involved in not blaming or hurting or running away from others will reveal Light, giving you greater clarity. Today, remember: the reaction is the enemy, not the other person.'

(Yehuda Berg. www.kabbalah.com)

My eyes swelled up with tears. Tears that overflowed and gently trickled their way down my cheeks. I was bubbling over with thankfulness and overflowing with gratitude.

Snippet 27

### The f' art of non-reacion.

I was full of gratitude. Gratitude for receiving the gift of understanding. From here on up I would practice the art of non-reaction.

Every time a negative, horrible, nasty, person came into my space, I would try to remember to stay calm, stay still and not to react with wild explosive emotion. I would try to remember that their hectic shit energy has got nothing to do with me. It's bullshit that belongs to that person. It's their negative stuff being off loaded onto me. And I do not have to take it on or carry it around for them.

Simply put: don't make your problems mine.

Yup! Easier said than done. This was an incredibly hard thing to do. I had to train my emotions and my mouth not to react. I had to train the muscles in my mouth to shut-the-fuck-up every time someone pushed my ego buttons.

And just like any skill or talent, it takes time and practice to master the art of self-restraint and non-reaction.

Snippet 28

### If given the chance!

Faith had just turned six years old. Once again the family advocate had appointed a new psychologist on the Faith case. This was the seventh psychologist brought onto the case.

This time her name was Blossom. And once again under legal instruction and scrutiny, Blossom attempted to integrate Faith into her estranged father's life. Blossom brought a new, softer energy to a very toxic situation. I liked Blossom. Faith trusted her, in-spite of all the many previous - clueless emotionally unintelligent – psychologists who worked hand in hand with a bunch of emotionally defective lawyers.

A bunch of two dimensional, emotionally lacking, hard edged pricks; stuck in stats, theories and the need to be right. And this crop of 2D's had repeatedly dragged Faith and I through the legal sewerage system for seven harsh years. A system that tried to unblock any obstacle or remove any problem with force and debilitating fear.

Compared to the bunch of 2Ds, I think my ethno bongo vegan plumber friend, Connor, would have had a better shot at unblocking Faiths refusal to see her dad. Connor and I did Yoga together fives times a week. He was not a man of many words but, OMG, when he spoke, it felt like he was tapped into the universe and all its systems. He operated in a deeply spiritual 3D holistic realm juxtaposed against incredible practical sensibility. Oh and when it came to plumbing he almost had this psychic sixth sense intuition, about unblocking systems.

If given the chance, I'm certain Connor would have explained to the 2Ds, that there are so many different ways to unblock a system and get things flowing. Every clogged pipe, drain, and toilet is a unique case with a unique human story to be told. I'm sure he would have politely imparted - if given the chance - that not every toilet, jammed packed with years of shit (most probably passed down over many generations) has to have a heavy duty plunger forced upon it. Nor do environmentally damaging chemicals need to be thrown down the bog, to be unclogged. There are many other friendlier organic alternatives.

And if they have to go the plunger route, well I'm sure he would have told them - if given the chance - to remember that the bog got jammed as a direct result of all the shit being thrown into the toilet in the first place. So the 2D's should not be too forceful or too aggressive with their pushing, because they might just jam the toilet even further.

And when it comes to pulling the plunger, Connor would have enlightened them - if given the chance - that a toilet does not in isolation sit. It is in fact attached to a water supply tank, which needs to be turned off. They may just find themselves sitting a further ten feet deep in the crap!

And last but not least Connor will remind them - if of course he's given the chance - that they can temporarily remove the block, but unless they maintain a responsible attitude, the problem will come up again and again and again. Care-taking is key! Keep throwing the same toxic bullshit down the chute and not much will ever get fixed. Le Duh!

I guess the message that Connor may have been trying to send - if given the chance - was that the 2Ds couldn't just flush away all the traumatic debilitating years of shit, and force Faith to have an instant two-minute noodle bond with her dad. A dad that only chose to show up in her life when she was three. A dad, whose first choice would have been to abort, followed by disputing paternity. A dad who now was clinging onto the title of biological father, forcing his child to go through the most damaging terrifying processes whilst simultaneously demanding immediate free flowing love and trust from her.

Or maybe Connor was just merely offering the legal sewerage system some simple plumbing tips and how to get rid of the toxic stench. Sort of some freebie advice for a system in much need of a colonic. After all he was the cum laude king, graduating with a *BSMS PHD.

The thing is a blocked toilet always seems to happen at the most inopportune moment. And lets be honest, is there ever a right time to learn how to plunge a toilet, let alone learn how to plunge a toilet with finesse? I think not.

*Footnote

*BSMS PHD – Bullshit, More shit, Piled High and deep.

Snippet 29

### Under Instruction

Faith really enjoyed going to Blossom until the notion of hanging with her dad came up one more time. The trusting rapport Faith and Blossom were developing came to a screeching halt.

And yes, sigh, once again I was asked to write a proposal or a letter, as to how I believed Faith's refusal, desire or need to see her father can be diminished. And once again, my bla bla bla lawyer forbid to me write any sort of anything, as I was not a psychologist and clearly not qualified. She instructed me, once again, 'Never ever put pen to paper without me approving it, the opposition would most definitely use it against you.' I guess she was right. Other than sporting a funky little hair do, and a dash of lipstick, what the fuck did I know when it came to family law and matters of the head.

Not only was I terrified of the opposition, I was terrified of my own lawyer, the family advocate, in fact the entire legal system and those petrifying courts. So I just did whatever I was instructed to do. Faith and I had been at the mercy of everyone's opinions, commands and instructions. What we thought did not matter. If we did not obey the instructions it was construed as being obstructive and deviant. And if we did obey the instructions - yet it was not the desired outcome that the opposition was seeking, it was still construed as being deviant and obstructive.

Curious thing this word 'instruction' that lawyers tend to throw about to and fro.

But this time things would be different. In my heart of hearts the only thing I could feel was forgiveness and faith. For the first time in seven long years I found the courage to take on alone the legal Sewerage System and all its soldier ants. For the first time since forever I was able to step out of my reactive head and take on the world from my heart. From here on up I would battle the enemy from my heart. This battlefield was about to take on a very new direction; I elicited some new representation; compassion became my new defense and forgiveness my new armor.

I considered at great length the sequence of events that took place from the involvement of various so-called professionals including the social worker Ms Fanny Thrushman, psychologist Mr Igot Piles and now Blossom.

Under self-imposed instruction, I put pen to paper and I wrote the letter that Blossom had asked for.

Snippet 30

### Check into your heart

Playing with the 2Ds was pretty much like playing Russian roulette. And if you were fortunate enough not to get the bullet, you were still dealing with a game of chance and the lucky packet process.

You never quite knew who or what kind of family advocate or psychotherapist will be appointed to your child's case. And as Murphy's Law would have it, of course Faith got - amongst a colony of prior reprobates - Mrs Fanny Thrushman and Mr Igot Piles. On a positive note I'm sure Fanny Thrushman could make a mean broth of chicken soup with matza balls, and Mr Igot Piles could do a very good job at servicing the pope (with an iron fist from behind). But when it came to care taking a child's soul I'm convinced a rescue dog with a bad hair-do and a severe case of fleas would have done a better job.

I realized that more than likely my letter to Blossom - the umpteenth psychologist appointed by the family advocate - would eventually be falling on deaf ears. But I also knew it was time - after seven years - to show up for Faith and show up for myself. Faith had been put through enough and it was time for her father and I to find a way to forgive each other. I did not have a solution to Blossom's proposal. I had a galaxy of questions and a plea for compassion.

And maybe just maybe, once exposed to my questions and heart-space, the 2DS and Faith's father would view things a little differently. Perhaps they would check out their minds? Or better still, they would check into their hearts.

Snippet 31

### Listen with your Soul

It was time for some real, serious, heavy shit questions to be put out there. These were not trick questions and I was not looking to nail anyone for the answers.

My angle in the letter was a desperate attempt to talk to all of their hearts. And maybe just maybe - even if their ears were closed - their souls would be listening. And maybe per chance I could shift the 2Ds and Faith's father out of their reactive ego minds and into their hearts.

Perhaps I could show them that just as parents respond to a snotty nose or a toothache, so Faith has taught me how important it is to respond to her spiritual, religious, mental and emotional needs.

Is it possible for a nurturing parent to simply disregard, abandon and reject their child's pain?

Can one assume that a child should and must have an instant bond or an instant need to bond with a biological father whom she does not know?

If a child's future world depends on their conceptions about themselves, do you think neglect and abandonment by a parent could destroy a child's inner identity?

Shame says 'there is something wrong with me, I am the mistake, I am no good.' Do you think Faith feels shamed at a deep subconscious level?

Do you think Ms Fanny Thrushman's & Mr Igot Piles' need for Faith to have co-operated with their rules far out weighed their need for Faith to feel safe and secure?

What are we teaching Faith? If she had been a good, obeying child and stayed on her own with a strange man, at a strange house and waited for her estranged dad, mommy would not have got into such big trouble?

If Faith numbed out her feelings of fear, that scary stranger Mr. Piles would not have got so red-face-purple-vein-throbbing angry with mommy? Mr Igot Piles would not have combusted, gnashing his teeth, in front of Faith?

What about Faith's meek submission to coming to the family advocate, and the many many - forced access - sessions, for fear that mommy is going to get into even bigger trouble by the courts? Are we indoctrinating Faith with uninvited guilt? I've done something wrong! I've made a mistake! What I did was not good!

What core beliefs are we imposing on Faith? Perhaps that her own beliefs and traumatic experiences are not really important enough to consider?

Are we telling her that she is only allowed to learn certain feelings and not experience other feelings?

Are we teaching her to numb out certain feelings because she is a child and therefore they just don't matter?

Are we teaching her that she is good only when she thinks and behaves the way the legal system and its worker ants enforce how she must behave?

Are we endorsing that she will be virtuous when she is meek and agreeable?

Parents deserve respect because they are parents?

Children are unworthy of respect because they are children?

Obedience makes a strong child?

And parents are always right?

Do you think healing all of Faith's feelings of abandonment and rejection by her dad are integral to the well being of Faith and the well being of any possible relationship with Faith and her father?

The best teacher has been my child. All we need to do - as adults - is close our yapping mouths and have the courage to listen with our souls.

Our hearts will naturally do all the talking thereafter.

Snippet 32

### Spell-check before emailing

But before emailing my letter - of many questions - to Blossom, I had to perform two very important rituals of my own. I needed to make sure that the universe was not confused about my intensions and did not fuck up on any admin or filing systems.

Between the juggling of time with single parenthood and what not, I still had managed to squeeze in some fabulous workshops on White Magic Spells, Tarot and Numerology. I liked to call my workshops, 'Spells 101'. One of the most stunning spells I learnt was that of freezing negative energy. And so, it was now time to write a second letter. This time the letter was to be delivered to the universe.

"To the powers that be, THANK YOU for freezing all the negative energy of the entire legal system, and all the opposition towards Faith and me. So be it! Big love, warm hugs Zee"

I placed the letter into a plastic bag, filled it with water, tied a knot, shoved it into my freezer and grabbed a couple of ice cubes. I closed the freezer door, placed the ice cubes into a glass and poured myself a little drink; vodka, litchi juice with a touch of fresh mint. As I sipped my delicious mix, I pondered for a moment about the few other names and situations in the freezer. But none, I admit, as important as this one.

The following morning I woke up feeling light and well rested. "A..Maaaaa..Zing," I said out aloud. "I slept through the night without any disturbance or noise. "Incredible not one chitter-chatter-quack-quack conversation took place in my head last night. Wow! What a treat!" Now I was well aware that I was having a tête-à-tête with myself, but the conversation was taking place aloud outside my head, and if I chose, I could stop it at any time. So it was different.

I popped my head into the freezer, a quick spell-check to ensure that all was frozen. Yip all was good. Thereafter I did the morning chicken run thingy with Faith, came home and prepared for the second ritual. A ritual to - send off into cyberspace - my email to Blossom. A send-off grounded with forgiveness, love and compassion. But as I was about to light the candles, a moment of doubt crept into my mind. I got that roller coaster kind of feeling in my tummy. 'Maybe just maybe I should first email the letter to my lawyer for approval, before mailing it off to Blossom,' I thought.

My gut said no, but my mind was second-guessing my heart. I was so terribly confused. My heart said, 'Keep it real Zee, leave the legalese out of it.' But my head kept telling me to be fearful of the opposition. 'All right, all right, all right! This is the last and final time I will be giving into you.' I said with complete defeat as I sheepishly gave into my mind and emailed the letter off to my lawyer.

What the fuck? The email came bouncing back, with that little funny cryptic message saying, 'mail demon failed.' I tried to resend, same thing happened again and again. I then attempted to send the letter to my lawyer's secretary. Can you believe it ? It too came bouncing back again and again. Mail demon failure! OMG it suddenly dawned on me that maybe my white magic spell had worked! Maybe the universe had frozen all the negative energy, just as I requested. Maybe the universe is truly ensuring that my letter will not get through to my lawyer, safeguarding my semantics from being replaced with attacking legal jargon.

Maybe just maybe, my true intentions to act in the best interest of the child will get to Blossom without any interference from the 2ds? OMG can you believe, can you believe it? 'Freaky! Could it really be? Nope there's no ways, not a chance, it must just be a connectivity or technical issue,' I conceded.

Nevertheless I had made a promise to Blossom that she would be in receipt of my email by twelve noon that day. I had to attempt to email her. And if it also bounced back, at least I could show her a paper snail trail that I had tried. So I attached the letter to Blossom's email address, copied the Family Advocates office, lit my candles, pushed the green button and sent the letter off into cyberspace.

Simultaneously I sent a prayer of compassion, forgiveness and love to Faith, her dad and myself. And with my final words, 'So be it!' I watched the little green strip on the sending path reach its destination. Two minutes later I received an email response from Blossom, thanking me for the mail and that she would be in touch as soon as she had read it.

'Holy-crap-mother-of-Jesus-Mary-OMG, had my spell worked? Can you freaking believe it?' I sat back staring straight through my laptop's screen. I was speechless and stupefied. My spell was a success. Well at least in the part of keeping my letter real. Wicked stuff or what!

Two weeks of complete silence passed before I heard from Blossom. When she did eventually call, she explained that she had been consulting with another psychologist on the matter and that they were taking my thoughts in the letter very seriously. I was way over what any psychologist thought. All I wanted to know was if Blossom had made sure that Faith's dad had received my heart-space. All I wanted to know was if he would consider going on a workshop with me and eight other individuals also eager to find out why we got to be so messed up in adult life. She assured me that he had received the email and she was waiting on his response.

Days passed, weeks passed, months passed. Not a word, not a peep from anyone, except of course my monthly legal statements arriving timelessly. 'Hey! I only asked for all the negative energy to be frozen, what's up with this total silence shit?' I asked the universe. Seven months later, I received an email from my lawyer with a short to the point message, 'Please see attached, updated report from the Family Advocates office.' I opened the report to discover that a new Family Advocate was on the case. Neither Faith nor I had met her. Oh shit shit shit! Here we go again I thought. A new person on the case, which means they are going to make Faith go through the whole ugly procedure again. I skipped the forty odd pages of bla bla bla history and went straight to what Madame Family Advocate was recommending.

To my utter shock and astonishment, her recommendation was for Faith's dad and I to head off and bond, and whilst we are doing that, Faith needs be given the time and the space to heal. She made it very clear that the child has been through enough!

OMG were they all spellbound?

### Part 2

Part 2, Snippet 1

### Flirting with life again

All right, all right! I admit it.

Yip I'm a flirt. A big flirt.

I'll flirt with anything; men, women, traffic officers.

In fact I'll even flirt with a Tarot card to get a good reading

Part 2 Snippet 2

### Sacred Contracts

My eccentric Granny Giggi was a true romantic. She had her own unique style in life. And yes Gramsy had her very own unique style in death. It was no surprise that her Will was jam packed with the most fantastical personal decrees. A wish list quite like no other.

When it came to dying, well, a tombstone was most definitely not representative of her life or lifestyle. A tombstone according to Gramsy was icy cold and hard. Gramsy wished rather to be reinstated as a beautiful fuchsia pink Rose bush. She wished not to be buried six feet under, but rather to be cremated. She wished to be cremated and for her ashes not to be kept in an urn, but rather to be sprinkled off the top of the Swiss Alps, straight into the four winds.

Pretty crazy wish fulfillment stuff. But her intentions were all about true love. True love straight from the heart stuff. True love straight from the heart stuff, with a lover that she could not be with. A lover she could not be with in this life. A forbidden love that could not be, because...well... um err.... because well... err... she was already married to my gramps, the war correspondent. And married with a lover on the side was unlawful, not to mention obscene.

So in true Romeo and Juliet style, a lover's pact - a sacred contract - was made; in death they shall be together. Their love for each other shall be immortalized. If they cannot be together in life, they will be together in death! So be it! Gramsy knew that *shtuping thy neighbour and cremation were both horribly against the Jewish law, but that did not matter. Rather, 'Love will prevail all' she would always say.

Besides her "will", Gramsy had made another kind of sacred contract. She pledged - to herself - that she will live up to the ripe old age of 90 years, but not a day more. Two days before Gramsy's 90th, she fired all her staff. She gave them no apparent explanation, other than the fact that she no longer required their housekeeping services. On the day of her birthday, Gramsy put on her favourite - red Indian inspired - silk dress outfit and threw a wonderful intimate dinner party with her immediate family and special friends (well the one's that were still alive.)

After a splendid gourmet affair, Gramsy got into bed, still attired in her fabulous silk dress, placed her decadent hat next to her side, closed her eyes, smiled and gently whispered out to the world, 'What a heavenly day, thank you, I am ready.' And those were Gramsy's last words. She never spoke out again. She never woke up again. How gorgeously perfect, Gramsy honoured her sacred contract!

So love can prevail over all! Except when your Jewish lover dies unexpectedly without bequeathing his "will". What a fuck up! Her lover cannot be reduced to ashes. Without a "will" he cannot be cremated, and his ashes will never be sprinkled off the top of the Alps. And without the spritzing of both their ashes into the four winds together, the lovers have a very poor chance of hooking up in the after world. Their ashes sadly will never be hobnobbing in holy matrimony in any four winds off any mountain.

How tragic!

Nevertheless, in good faith my dad and I honoured Granny Giggi's sacred contract and scattered her ashes off the Alps into the apparent four winds. It went pretty well I thought. Except for the bit when Gramsy swirled around and wind-swept a bunch of Japanese tourists clutching onto their cameras.

Yip, she certainly did have her own particular style in life... and in death!

*Footnote

* Shtuping, Shtup (v) pronounced shtoop

Yiddish word; fornication, making love or having sex - and not for reproductive reasons.

Part 2 Snippet 3

### Tea and Tarot

Like Gramsy, there was a side of me that too was a true romantic. I just didn't buy into the whole process of finding it. Finding love was way too time consuming between running a business and running a home on my own, and trying to be a really involved hands-on mum. I was barely coping with that.

How on earth do I find the time to embark on that whole waiting period for some guy to call, or not to call, to analyze sms messages, to contemplate the fear of getting hurt and rejected. Added not to mention my overwhelming need to protect my child. My need to protect my child from some loser or a bunch of transient men passing through. OMG what a shlep, what a drag! I think not.

Yet I could feel the giggle in my tummy slowly returning and the desire to flirt with life was trickling back in again. I think I was sort of ready to test the waters and once again see if my prince of charm was out there. The problem was how to find this guy with as little effort as possible. Singles clubs, blind dates and surfing the net required too much time and energy. Besides Sunday lunch with Shai, the gay aesthete godfather, my only other social engagement was High Tea, which took place every last Sunday of the month.

The numerology, telepathy and tarot courses I had attended, resulted in a regular once a month Sunday afternoon High Tea and Tarot gig with the girls. A bit like Thursday night book club, but with a twist. The books were replaced with new weekly guests; women desperate to learn about the unknown more mystical aspects of their lives. What more could anyone ask for? Free tarot and tea accompanied by homemade cheesecake and some numerology thrown in on the side.

What a bargain! What a god send. What better way to discover who the fuck you are. Tarot and Numerology done by a bunch of screwed up, antidepressant pill popping, predominately financially secure Jewish women trying to figure out what the fuck they should be doing with their own lives.

But in truth, it really was a perfect exchange of energy and in all honesty we were all getting something out of it.

So back to those prince of charm thoughts. Mmmm, ideally it would be fabulous if I could just go about my daily affairs, minding my own business and "poof" he will magically appear out of nowhere.

Mmmm! Perhaps its time to prepare a little love spell?

*Footnote

* Shlep (v) Yiddish word; to drag; to lug; carry about laboriously; to accept a burden greater than anyone should be expected to bear; shlepper: n.

Part 2 Snippet 4

### Contrary to popular belief!

Pssssssssssssssssst !

Psssst! Have I got something to tell you! I've got a little secret that needs to get out.

Its time to break the silence.

It's time to spread the love and sprinkle a little touch of mysticism.

Did you know that there's no great mystery behind making magic and casting spells?

Its true! Contrary to popular belief, you don't need to have special gifts or supernatural powers. You don't need to be some celestial being flying through time frequencies faster than the human eye can see. You don't need to have a direct ancestral line with the Ancient Egyptians; Cleopatra and Tutankhamen. Nor do you need to know someone whose cousin knows someone else connected to a lineage of early 19th century Freemasons, born into the secrecy of 'The Hermetic order of the Golden Dawn'.

The simple truth is that anyone can frolic about in a homemade magic circle using a wooden soup ladle as a wand. Everyone is born with free will, belief and desire. The only thing you need - to cast a spell - is the unwavering belief and will to achieve your desired outcome. Now I know I was the head-honcho of reaching a continuous state of 'out-of-mind-ness'. In fact I almost declared to the world that the mind should be made redundant, as I felt it was the new anti-Christ (of the heart that is). Yet - amidst spell preparation - I discovered that contrary to popular (my) belief, the mind is a rather fabulous little creature and serves a very important purpose.

The mind in fact houses our imagination. The mind somehow taps into all the infinite possibilities of the universe. Ahaa! I realized then and there, that my will gives power to my intentions and my imagination gives power to my will. I think what I'm trying to say is that our imagination, our mental picture or focused thought mind gives power to our will.

Mmmm but if will is a feeling, I wonder, if-to-feel-is-to-imagine or if-to- imagine-is-to-feel? Actually, who cares what the fuck the answer is. The ability to have a mental image of your desired outcome and to feel your imagination is all empowering when it comes to magic, spells and hey yes even in your day to day life.

And yes! It is totally acceptable to get dressed up as a Wizard or the Sugarplum Fairy and sprinkle glitter about as you wave your ladle or bamboo back scratchier - so long as you are deeply in touch and in tune with your true intentions. Intention will expose your truth. And true intention can trip you up. Seriously, true subconscious inner intention can be the real motherfucker of all fuckers. It's all in your intention.

Which brings me to a small cardinal law when casting spells. Whatever you put out there, will come back threefold. So know, if you dabble knowingly or unknowingly with the dark side of your intention, you are doing so, very much at your own risk. Oh and another thing, be careful of wanting something bad enough, you may just get it!

I am a living, breathing human example of this phenomenon. It perfectly explains my many many many faux pas love spells.

Ooooops!

Part 2 Snippet 5

### The Goddess of Love

When it comes to bewitching another, all that you are really doing is speeding up the process for that person to enter into your personal space.

Chris for example was one of my first love spell experiments. I met Chris through work. He was a funky dynamic advertising guy and I was sourcing the music for a TV commercial that he was producing. Chris was a couple of years younger than me, but sexy as all hell. After months of my flirting and my firm belief that he was reciprocating, I decided it was time to cast him in, break his shyness and create a desire in him to ask me out.

The day before full moon (apparently a good time to cast love spells), I made a beautiful sacred magic circle with Jasmine flowers. Inside the circle I placed a bunch of pink roses with two red candles on either side in two red bowls. As I sat in front of my gorgeous creation, drunk on the sweet perfume of the flowers, I closed my eyes and called upon the Goddess of Love, Aphrodite.

I imagined Chris calling me. I imagined Chris falling under my spell. Thereafter I opened my eyes, lit the two candles and read my poem out aloud; my intention that I had written on a piece of paper. I repeated this three times.

'To the Goddess of Love, let it be that Chris cannot stop thinking of me. Through me, let his love shine, let our paths intertwine and bind love so fine. So be it'

Thereafter, I placed my prayer, my intention, and my paper note into the flames of the candles and placed it into a third red bowl. Entranced, I watched it burn to ashes. Then I placed the petals of the roses into the bowl of ashes, and carried them to my car. I placed the bowl onto my lap, and drove the streets, amorously flinging the ashy, now singed smelling petals out my car window. Apparently this will give a spell further potency and energizes "the love". The candles were left to burn down to the wick. Apparently the flames kept the momentum going.

Three days later, just after 9pm my cell phone rang. OMG it was Chris, he never ever phones so late. I let it ring four times before answering. I did not want to appear to be desperate waiting for a call, let alone his.

'Hello Chris, is everything all right? You never phone this late.' I say with complete anticipation in my voice.

'Yeah yeah couldn't be better. I wanted to let you know that the client loves the music and loves my final edit. He has signed off the TV commercial. Brilliant or what? We make a great team, don't we!' he exclaims with gusto amounts of excitement. 'Yay yeehiii that's such magical news, we sure do,' I giggle to myself

'So I was thinking! Perhaps...um... err... perhaps we could...' Chris seemed to be fumbling over his words. I wanted to get a pair of barbeque tongs to grip and steadily pull out the rest of his sentence. I was so certain he was about to ask me out. 'Perhaps...if you... are...free... we can get a drink... on Saturday night...to...celebrate of course...' he fumbles further. The celebratory bit I'm certain was thrown in, just in case I may reject him.

As if ! As if I would reject him. Never! This was my spell working its magic.

OMG I think I have done it again.

'Yes, yes I would love to, bubbles are most definitely in order' I responded with huge enthusiasm yet trying desperately to contain my elation.

He then shyly expressed that he has something very embarrassing to ask me. He hesitated and begged me not to judge him in anyway. I could hear in his voice that he was in a complete nervous tizz. A gorgeous, boyish, bashful tizz. Oh how terribly cute I thought. This was the part where he was going to ask me how I felt about him. He was going to confess that he fancied me. He was going to reveal that he has felt this way for some time, but did not have the courage to tell me - just in case I did not feel the same. As if!

I asked him if he's done something illegal, fraudulent or murderous. I knew he hadn't. But I figured that anything after that including declaring his love for me would be so much easier.

'No no of course I haven't done anything of the sort. I... I... wanted to know... um...uh..." he paused for two-seconds which felt like two hours.' I'm sorry. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life, harder than any commercial I've ever produced, if you really want to know. Do you... err...um... feel...um' he paused again.

Uuuurgh! Shit! Where are those BBQ tongs when you need them? 'Oh Chris, come on, ask me, ask me, how bad can your question be?' I encouraged him to take the leap.

'All right, all right. I'm going to ask you this really fast. And don't interrupt me until I get to the end! Do-you-feel-that-I-have-a-shot-at-taking-out- (quick gasp for air), Faiths-God-Father-Shai? I've-been-infatuated-with-him-for-years-I-wanted-to-know-if-you-think-he-would-be-remotely-interested-in-me-gasssspp-Do-you-think-you-could-ask-him-to-come-with-for-drinks-on-Saturday-and-will-you put-in-a-good-word-for-me?' Chris spewed out, followed closely by 'There I did it, I asked, and you are right, it was not that bad after all' he said out of breath and overtly so relieved that it was over.

I was beyond dumb founded.

Jesus Mary fuck!

I did not see that question coming at all. OMG

Part 2,Snippet 6

### Just plain wrong

That was bad, so bad.

That was worse than bad.

I did not see that one coming at all.

That was wrong, so wrong, just so plain wrong.

It was more awful than the worst, most horrendous, question I have ever received.

In fact, 'Whose the father, is he Jewish?' just moved into second place of bad, humiliating, so very wrong questions.

Where the fuck was my *Gaydar?

Oooopsy daisy!

*Footnote

*Gaydar - innate human radar that detects - at a distance or nearby - if a person is gay.

Part 2 Snippet 7

### Love so Fine

Shai and Chris have had four dates over 3 weeks, held hands twice and kissed once.

They can't stop thanking me for the hook up, the introduction. They can't stop talking in that silly ooocci gucci rhythm and rhyme lingo. And in every freaking conversation I have with them they go on and on repeating, 'Zara through you, we have found love so fine, love so fine'.

My only responding thoughts, 'Love so fine, well where the fuck is mine?'

Part 2 Snippet 8

### Ooopsy Daisy

So the next spell I got far more specific about his sexual orientation. I even applied the Hansel and Gretel effect, placing petals in a pathway leading all the way to my house, into my bedroom, onto my bed and underneath my pillow.

Voila ten days later Pierre the sex maniac appeared on the scene.

Ooooops!

Oh then there was the 42 year old man that had the maturity level of a four year old who came crashing through. Must have had something to do with my request for a man that had an amazing energy with kids. Go figure I was now parenting two kids. One of them had to go. Mr. 42 year old clearly got the boot.

Oooops daisy!

Now Edward was an interesting one. I called him the edit suite. He had no time for my flowery story telling. He was the black and white, yes-no, get straight to the point kind of guy. He literally would finish my sentences and censor my sentiments. Bright man, but seriously lacking in EQ (emotional intelligence.) I actually can't remember how I cast him in? Perhaps I was sitting in a recording studio and the residue of the last spell was still wafting about the skies.

Big huge Oooopsy daisy!

Oh! And lets not forget about Zeus; the 'I am addicted to love, and I'm from another planet' dude that flew in for a few moments.

All right, all right, I'll admit it. I asked Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, to send me a gentle, giving, out of this world man with Godly good looks. And yes for a moment or two I thought Zeus, the gorgeous Greek six-pack Shaman was the "one". *Demi-EQ'd Zeus gave crystals to everyone he met. And yes for a moment I thought this was very ultra uber out-there. And for half a moment I bought into the notion that the only man who could truly fulfill all my needs would have to come from another planet or another dimension.

Unfortunately what I came to realize is that there is a huge difference between the real ma-coy extra terrestrial and an earthbound man. A pathological earthbound man who believes he was abducted and returned with an X alien-shaman DNA.

Very quietly, ssssh pretend like it never happened and hope that no one noticed...

Oooooopsy daisy.

*Footnote

*Demi-EQ

Demi – derivative from French; – meaning half;

Demi-EQ specifically applies to male Homo sapiens displaying some form of emotional intelligence, usually nurtured over time. In very rare, unique, special cases approximately 0.0001 % of the male human species, EQ or Demi – EQ could be innate. But this remains just a theory as no cases have ever actually been documented.

Part 2 Snippet 9

### A moment of Mastery

'Well, halloo there! You have a gorgeous cleavage,' the abab delicious looking guy said to me, between lazily dragging on his cigarette. 'Why thank you,' I said with a coy come-hither kittenish smile, between sipping on my delicious vodka cocktail.

The next best thing the words 'cash, budget, cash, budget, cash, budget' came flowing out of my strawberry stained lips. 'Yip I paid cash for the one breast, and put the other on a six month budget plan,' I demonstratively expressed, alternating between pointing at each summit of my now firmly rounded 34c twin peaks.

His eyes followed my hand as it steadily moved over each peak. His eyes followed my hand in absolute wonder if I was jesting about, or simply boundary-less when it came to being frank about my figure...and finances.

I was at a friend's 36th birthday party and clearly I was experiencing my new breasts. Or my new breasts were experiencing me. Either way I think this was my first step in discovering my need to service my first chakra. Or was it my first chakra's need to be serviced? As I was flirting outrageously with 'Mr you have a gorgeous cleavage', it dawned on me that for the first time I was not sizing up - in conversation - this man's future potential. I was not sizing up his potential life partner qualities.

Nor was I checking out if he had the skills to play the paternal protective daddy role. I found myself sizing up whether this guy had the makings to service my first and second chakras. Could this guy service my primal physical and emotional needs? Could he quench my thirst and satisfy my hunger? Could this guy satisfy me, and bestow Maslow's first level of needs upon me with ease? Nope, I was not looking at his potential to give me food, air to breathe and to cover me with shelter and his protection.

The only thing I was sizing up was whether this man could cover my body. Whether this man could cover my naked body with his naked body. And most importantly could he do so with no strings attached.

In that moment I realized that the only thing I was looking for was a fabulous carefree shtup. I was looking for a little bit of unattached sex. Hot flushed and feeling terribly exposed I tried to reel in my rational mind. I tried to tunnel vision my thoughts into maidenly imprints. I tried to reel in this strange yet insatiable thirst for passion. A sexual passion that stood beautifully in isolation, free of any baggage and free of any 'where should I put my toothbrush?" type questions.

In that moment I realized that I had no real desire to find my Prince of charm. Well, not right now anyway! And if I really had wanted to, I would not have been casting in all these mismatches. As sweet or rich or good-looking as some of them were, they were all unavailable on some level. They either lived in another country, were deeply in the closet, emotionally inaccessible, or part of their brain - the intelligent bits - were missing. And perhaps that's exactly why I was attracted to them. They were my loophole, my out clause, and my excuse not to be completely involved.

In that instant - sexual fantasy in full swing - I think I was having a moment of mastery. In that moment - as I fantasized about being flung and done from a gorgeous seventeenth century crystal chandelier - I realized in actual fact it was I who was not 100% available. It was I who did not want to be 100% available for anyone else but Faith. These men - as Flo would have put it - were just mirroring my unavailability.

In that moment of mastery I realized just how much I loved my life, single parenting and all. I loved that I could spend as much time with Faith and hang with my aloneness when there was a gap. I loved not having to deal with some dude's stuff. Yes, my life was a crazy juggle between working and single parenting. So why on earth did I believe that some guy could save me, give me a life, or complete my world for that matter.

In that moment I realized I have a life. A life that allowed me to be me. A life that allowed me to be the social bunny when I chose, and the hermit when I needed my quiet time out. A life that let me put on high heels, luscious lipstick and party my butt off. And a life that allowed me to disappear into ten hours of channel 255 – crime and investigation - fantasizing about being a criminologist. A life that I could pretend to get deep into the serial killers mind without having to brush my teeth, get out of my pajamas or look pretty. And most of all a life that I could devote to Faith without the added responsibility of care-taking some other man's needs.

A man I would have chosen to settle for. Settle for because apparently society says a child needs to grow up with two parents and evidently social norms dictate that you are incomplete if you are single.

In that moment I knew that I was more than comfortable owning the notion that I was a happy single parent and that it's totally fine and dandy to have a little shtup here and a little shtup there. A little bit of free flowing passion without the complications of a relationship could go a long way.

Now that I owned it.

I felt good.

So damn good!

Part 2 Snippet 10

### Birds of a feather

I felt good.

So good!

I felt so damn awesomely good.

But once again I felt terribly alone. Alone with my thoughts and my new found attitude towards my sexual freedom. A sexual freedom that clearly differentiates between making love and falling in love. Free from the belief that being intimate and being in-love are bound together and inter-dependant. I was free from the confusion that making love to a man has got to mean that I love him or that he loves me. The two activities can stand in isolation, completely alone, free from any obligatory strings of attachment or guilt smothered in * p.o.d.

I wondered if there were any other like-minded single mums out there that felt the same way? I wondered if any other birds of the same feather felt that their daily lives are so chockablock full. Jammed-packed with parenting and jammed-full with chasing the money to care-take the jammed-packed parenting part. There certainly was no time, energy, want, need or desire to jam-in another relationship.

Sure, I have a desire to experience that deep-euphoric-unconditional-intense-no-limits-love-devotion and affection for another man. Contrary to popular belief, this can actually all be achieved within eleven minutes and yes ...zero conversation involved.

If truth were known, spending hours of quality time or endless energy conversing about a whole lot of bla bla bla crap with some guy is not high on my agenda. When it comes to servicing my first and second charkas, a little hook up for a little bit of hanky panky or a good old fashioned shtup is supreme.

All right all right I'll extend it to 45 minutes to include a bit of foreplay (purely for myself that is). And yes, all right, I'll make allowances for him to have a few rhetoric outbursts like, 'oh ma god, I'm in heaven, where the fuck did you learn that from?' or 'I love it when you do that to me'

Thereafter the only thing that I get (and want) to hold on to is the residue of lovemaking. A residue drenched in an indescribable, tingling feeling that takes over my whole body. An out-of-control feeling for just a moment. Yet in that single moment, it feels like an intense delicious sensation lasting for a whole lifetime. A residue illuminating off my face, with a gorgeous deeply contented smile. My skin exuding a heavenly glow. An out of this world residue that I wish I could bottle and sell like holy water.

I wondered if any other birds in any other flock had that - now you see me, now you don't - approach. And if they existed - well I wished for them to please stand up and introduce themselves to me. And if they were to announce themselves to me, could they do so with quiet finesse. Could these birds of a feather gracefully tip toe into my space and tip toe into my life.

No need to throw a lumo party on my home page. No need to stand - on some main intersection - holding a sign saying, 'Help! Shtuping no strings attached single mum seeks to compare notes. Zara are you out there?'

Rather, could they softly slip into my world attracting zero attention by others please?

*Footnote

*POD – Post orgasmic disgust.

The morning after OMG got-to-get-the-fuck-out-of-here-feeling.

Synonyms;

*Not a pretty site to wake up to in the morning.

'Should I call you cab, I've got an early appointment with my 94-year-old Gramsy?'

*B.P.P syndrome.

* ** Antonym of POD.

Post-Orgasmic Delight – usually used in a food context, e.g., on completion of a delicious bowl of Italian ice cream. Of course the reverse can apply if your eyes are bigger than your stomach.

Part 2 Snippet 11

### B.P.P.S

### (Brown paper packet syndrome)

Q. How many brown paper packets do you need when you wake up the morning after- an alcohol induced debauched ''' now *fugly'- one nightstand?

A. Four; One to put on his head, one to put on your head ('in case his fall's off), one to *vomet in, and the fourth to put on your dogs head (if on home ground)

*Footnote

*Fugly - fucking ugly

*Vomet – a slightly more elegant way to vomit or throw up.

Part 2, Snippet 12.

### Ask and you shall receive

The next best thing out of nowhere, random single mums started appearing in my personal space. A fabulous variety of them from all walks of life, I may add. From Bobby the Fashionette to Sky the Reggae singer, Holly the film director, Sophia the Advocate... amazing...

Just ask and you shall receive!

Common to us all was our schizophrenic lifestyles and our bipolar day to day existence. Mischievous thoughts and passionate desires that sky rocket our free flowing fantasies straight up to heaven. Yet, as soon as we reach that place of nirvana - that pinnacle point of firework explosions - the freaking thought-police always ambush the scene. And before we know what hits us, we are subjects of a full-blown intervention. An intervention of the mind, a thought intervention by those that view us as taboo.

Our brains are bombarded by either a mass intercession of holy saints, singing the Ava Maria or a group of nuns beseeching us to a nunnery. Or even worse, the Rabbi and his congregation begging for atonement and calling for an emergency pre *Yom Kippur 48 hour fast. Buddha himself arrives in all his rolling love glory, quietly reminding us of Karmic law.

What the shit? Really?

Why does this not-so-divine-intervention muscle its way into our heads and pull rank on our delicious thoughts and desires? Desires and needs that are honest, transparent and void of any infidelity, greed, cheating a system or hacking our loved one's hearts. I mean lets get real! The need to have no-strings-attached-sex with a consenting in the loop participant is a whole lot freaking holier than a cheating spouse, a pedophiliac priest and a brothel-frequenting Rabbi.

Oh and lets not forget about the authenticity of those instant two-minute-noodle Jewish conversions, afforded only by the rich and famous. How on earth does one convert - in spirit, heart and soul - from a reborn- Christian to an orthodox Jew in just three months? And what about those Catholic online confession rooms? Yip, for 2 American dollars the devout sinner can now download a 'Confessions' application on their iphone. All the slippery eel need's to do is pop into a cyber space confession room, say the Hail Marry a few hundred times. Not dissimilar - repeat the *Shema prayer over and over, looking at some simulated image of The Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. And then... well uh... and then... well you are good to go.... Oh yeah good to go and sin again.

Yes yes its great that religion is keeping up with technology. It makes repenting for fucking thy neighbor or fucking someone over so much more accessible.

Now that's a bit of a bitch slap!

*Footnote

* Yom Kippur is one of the most important holidays of the Jewish year. The name "Yom Kippur" means "Day of Atonement,". It is a day set aside to "afflict the soul," to atone for the sins of the past year. This day is, essentially, your last appeal, your last chance to change the judgment, to demonstrate your repentance and make amends. The fast begins just before sunset on the evening before Yom Kippur and ending after nightfall on the day of Yom Kippur. For a 25-hour period you must refrain from working, eating, drinking (even water), bathing, washing, wearing. All sexual relations are all prohibited on Yom Kippur.

* Shema – Observant Jews consider the Shema to be the most important part of the prayer service in Judaism. It is traditional for Jews to say the Shema in the morning and as their last words at. As the Ten Commandments were removed from daily prayer in the Mishnaic period (70-200 CE) the Shema is seen as an opportunity to commemorate the Ten Commandments.

Part 2, Snippet 13.

### Bitch slap

So as I was saying - before religion so sweetly bitch slapped and interrupted me - a fabulous array of random single mums started appearing into my personal space.

Besides our similar schizophrenic existence, common to us all was a deep-seated unexplained knowing. A knowing that now was not the time to settle down with-a-man for the sake of settling down for-a-man. Now was a time to explore our womanliness. Now was a time to figure out what in life turned us on. What was our switch on button, the very things that hit the spot and made us giggle inside. Now was the time to be absolutely selfish and get to know ourselves; and not as a wife, girlfriend or significant other.

And contrary to popular belief not all single mum's wake up in the morning feeling incomplete because we have no husband. Nor do we feel that we can only be happy with a man in our lives. Rather some of us we wake up and embrace the path of finding completeness within. Some of us have an inherent knowing that someone or something can certainly contribute to our happiness, but it's transient. And, as cheesy- ethno–bongo-muesli-and-sandals as it sounds, true happiness has to start from within.

Integrated into all our cultural and religious differences we all shared the same unofficial language; An internal dialogue with GOD, the GOD within, our truth, our true intention. We were all traveling the same journey, riding a very difficult path that we hoped would take us to one of life's most beautiful and peaceful places. A place of self-empowerment, a soul nirvana unaffected by the outside world.

A place where we can JUST BE!

A place where I GET TO BE ME!

:-O! Now that's a bit of a bitch-slap... for religion.

Actually that's a bit of a bitch slap to all and sundry who belittle, denounce and demean single parenting.

Part 2 Snippet 14.

### Oy Vey Wow

Random question?

Just wondering; does the little emo sign

:-O

Represent the phrase *"Oy Vey", "Oh Ma God" or "Wow oh Wow"?

I tend to use it when I'm having a positive 'wow' factor moment. Would hate people to confuse it with an oh-woe-is me-shock-dismay-oy-vey moment.

* Footnote

* Oy vey (Yiddish) is an exclamation of dismay or exasperation meaning "oh woe."

The term in its present form is borrowed from the Yiddish phrase, Au Gewalt (oy gvald) – which can have a similar meaning, or also express shock or amazement.

In the animated comedy series The Simpson's (Bart Simpson), in the episode "Like Father, Like Clown," Krusty's father, Rabbi Hyman Krustofski, cries out "Oy vey iz mir!" when his son's identity is revealed at a comedy club.

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oy_vey>

TV Guide synopsis:Bart and Lisa try to reunite Krusty the Clown and his estranged rabbi father (Jackie Mason), who disowned Krusty when he turned from rabbi to clown. (<http://www.snpp.com/episodes/8F05.html>)

Part 2, Snippet 15.

### Meet the flock.

Meet Bobby.

Fact File  
Age: 42 years old  
Religion: Jewish  
Profession: internationally recognized Fashion Editor and stylist  
Two children: 11 and 15 years old  
Engaged at 21, still engaged at 31, disengaged by 40.

Moment of mastery;

Secret me- time hiding spot. 'Either in the dish washer or the tumble dryer, the husband and children have no idea what either look like, so would never be able to find me"

'I found this fluffy teddy bear in the freezer? The kids are either watching Dexter or someone went to sleep with chicken legs'

Copyright R Kahn, <http://www.afashionfriend.co.za/>

Meet Sophia

Fact File.  
Profession: Advocate  
Religion: Catholic  
Age: 40 years old  
One child: 6 years old  
Married at twenty-nine, divorced by thirty-four.

Moment of mastery;

'Listen lovey, I'm 38 years old and you - and you -and your gorgeous delicious hotsville body - are barely 22 years old, do you really think I invited you over to chat? Honestly do the math... I think not!'

Meet Sky

Fact File  
Profession: R&B soul Singer  
Age: 29 years old  
Religion: Christian  
One Child age six  
Fell pregnant out of wedlock, father of child at large.

Moment of Mastery

One early eve on my way to a sound check, I was listening to my fav' drive time DJ on radio. He asked us listeners if we would rather be a doctor, lawyer, politician or an accountant? My man was in the car with me and gestured with his hand for my answer. My man had just asked me to marry him. I said yes.

'Mmm I'm actually all four, plus you can throw the juggler into the mix,' I answered. 'Yeah right, pretty heavy on the tuition fees' he said sarcastically. 'And how can anyone be so many things at once?' he states further in disbelief.

"I have been a single mum for six years. Plus I did the pregnancy thing all on my own. You have only been around for the past three months. School of life are my tuition fees dude. In that moment I realized, it hit me hard in the pit of my tummy, I am my very own immune booster and I'm just not sure if I'm ready for this marriage stuff"

Meet Betty

Fact File  
Profession: Mother and homemaker  
Age: 94 years  
Religion: Jewish  
Three children: 55, 59 and 64 years old  
Married at twenty, husband passed away when she was sixty-five. Never remarried.

Moment of mastery

'When I was 82 years old, I went on a blind date, with a man in his late 70's. We had afternoon tea. I thought he was delightful and knew he would call on me again. One, two, three days went by but no word. I felt rather humiliated and needless to say rejected. On the fourth day I found out that he had had a heart attack and passed away the day after we met. Needless to say I no longer felt rejected.

Yet I do concede. In that moment I realized I no longer have the time or the energy for hit and miss blind dates. 'Maybe I should take up 2 minute dating?'

Part 2 Snippet 16.

### Beauty and the deceased

Today at 94 years old beautiful Betty can be found in an old age home still getting up to her naughty mischievous tricks.

I try to visit Betty at least once a week. A visit I think I need a lot more than she needs to see me. A visit to drink up and absorb her free flowing, positive outlook. A visit to refuel my soul on her sharp humorous wit and her incredible zest for life. A pop-in to soak up Betty's abundance of love and generosity in spirit. This is soul food at its very best.

On most days Betty's getting told off by the day care staff to stop speeding around on her walker, to slow down to a trot. On other days she's being reprimanded for high-speed motoring - with intention - into other people's wheel chairs.

And on all days Betty will respond, 'I know my balance is slightly wobbly. That's why I have the walker. But noo do you see anything wrong with my legs? I will slow down when my brain and pins (legs) stop working.'

Betty is my inspiration. She is Faith's inspiration. She is my muse. She is my maternal grandmother, my mother's mother, Faith's gorgeously wonderful great Granny. Betty is a legend of all legends and often referred to by others as 'Beauty and the deceased - that beautiful woman who will out live everyone'.

Seriously I do not know another mother - or mother-fucker for that matter - who embraces life and living like Granny Betty.

Part 2 Snippet 17

### I love you but I prefer disco

Faith is almost ten years old and I am well on my way to my personal nirvana. Destination 'I get to be me'.

Faith wakes up everyday dancing with life and life dances straight back with her. A gorgeous pas de deux, a trusting flowing dance between the two.

As for me! Well yes. I am practicing my dance moves. I'm practicing my dance moves of forgiveness. I'm hustling my moves of detachment to outcome, not to take things personally, not to assume, gossip or speak shit about others. And I am trying my best to sit in my truth and groove with good intentions and integrity.

I'm still training the muscles in my mouth to freeze frame and shut the fuck up when my mind goes into mid tango with the enemy - my reactive ego. And yes I do have a little fox trot bitch slap with religion now and again.

And when it comes to that potential Mr Prince of charm whom I have not met? Mmm simply put, I still have one line for him.

'I love you but I prefer disco.'

Part 2 Snippet 18.

### It's all in the mix

I was hanging out at a quaint little bar. A gorgeous gem of a spot over-looking the beach. I was nursing my delicious drink, an exquisite looking Cosmopolitan cocktail, and feeling rather well nourished on self-fulfillment.

I must say, there is something to be said about a superbly made cocktail. Besides it looking like a sexy piece of retro art, according to the bar tender - the secret lies in the blending of flavors. It's all in the mix, the art of balancing the right ingredients in the right proportions. A bit like what they say about life; it's all about finding the perfect balance.

Faith was ten years old and I was 40. 40 years old and feeling so much closer with my absolute core, my truth within. Something had dramatically shifted inside me and I seemed to be getting rather tight and up close with my authentic self.

The place was buzzing with the hip and sexy, fashion and trendy, real-deals, bull-shitters, wannabees, instant twitter icons and 'I'll-shtup-you-because-of- who-you-are' coke-queens.

Yip they were all there mincing and tweeting about. It was design week in Cape Town, and tons of top-notch designers had fluttered in from around the world to showcase and expose' their brilliance in graphics, architecture, décor, furniture, fashion, new media and advertising. A week of shoulder-to-shoulder-rubbing of like-mindedness.

Of course I had no idea who was who and actually I cared less for the pseudo - duck-egg blue is the new black - conversation going on around me.

I just happened to be there, having a drink with some friends. I do not deny that I had done the once over quick scan to check out the potential. This was perfect and safe MILFING territory to be playing in; no rejection, no heartache, no 'where can I put my toothbrush or when can I meet your daughter' type questions.

This was uncomplicated MILFING territory.

I liked it.

*Tweet Footnote

@GodessofAmnesia, "Spotted @ a CT nite club: a few of Africa's Big 5 & sum; Rhinoplasty,Camel-toe,Cougar draped in leopard print & male cheaters.Denial?"

*Wordpress Footnote.

Camel-toe Cougars

JANUARY 25, 2012

SPOTTED OUT at a heaving hot & sexy Cape Town night club, were a few of Africa's Big Five and sum; rhinoplasty, cougar draped in leopard print & male cheaters'. Not to mention...um...er... a serious dose of camel-toe. What the fuck happened to dress code & age restriction?

Denial ? The up side ?... if you drink enough, the – cut & paste- Cougar National Park will appear to be fuck-able. The downside? When you come out of your alcohol-induced-amnesia-trip (hugging last nights shtup),... chances are.. you will experience a severe case of POD; post orgasmic disgust.

(http://zarazee.wordpress.com/2012/01/25/camel-toe-cougars/)

Part 2 Snippet 19

### Less is more

Between sipping on my delicious Cosmo, I could not but help overhearing a rather loud bla bla bla chat on the right of me.

A clean-cut guy in his mid twenties was pushing his unwavering views onto two other gentlemen. 'Less is more, that's how we should engage the world'. Dressed in True Religion jeans and a beautifully tailored black shirt, he was trying to convince his two-man audience that life and good design are both based on simplicity and minimalism.

What struck me most was how different he was from the duo, whose ears he was chewing off. Besides an age gap of at least fifteen years; Fifteen years in age, experience and per chance fifteen years of being removed from the arrogance of youth, these men seemed to represent everything that Mr. 'less is more' was not about. Clearly they were both designers of some sort. However I was not quite sure which category they fell into. Real deal? Bullshitter? Wannabe?

The one man, the taller one, was built like an inverted chaise lounge. Dressed in G Star-Jeans and a white cotton shirt that looked like it had been night clubbing for seven days solid. His most defining features were his over the top, huge pearly necklace and eccentric olive green gumboots, with gold socks peeping out. His designer hair (sixty five percent grey and thirty five percent charcoal) was shoulder length and not dissimilar to a messy mélange of textured threads (seventy percent cashmere, twenty percent wool and ten percent alpaca).

The other guy appeared to be decked out in a trendy overstuffed comfortable ottoman slip; natural in color (pantone 386). He was wearing python skin sneakers, which I'm sure cost more than the gross national profit (GNP) of any third world country. His top was haute couture ripped and torn. If it was not design week he would have quite easily been mistaken for a homeless beggar sporting a goatee beard in the shape of a... um err uh... Brazilian wax.

'Do you know that the phrase less is more was popularized by the German Architect and Furniture designer Ludwig Mies Van Der Rohe in the late 1800's early nineteenth century?' the twenty something stated. And then without coming up for air - as if he was the personal bard for some medieval Irish lord - he broke into rhythmic verse:

"Who strive - you don't know how the others strive... To paint a little thing like that you smeared... Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,- Yet do much less, so much less... Someone says, (I know his name, no matter) - so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia" (Robert Browning 1855).

Yikes it was show-down-time, and I had front row seats to a designer face-off. I quickly ordered another Cosmo waiting in anticipation for some comeback comments. If of course there would be any, after such an eloquent delivery of 'less is more' history and pros.

*'Dude, that was special, but can I ask you something from one sexually hungry male to another?' the taller pearly-neck laced-olive-green-gum-boots guy said with a very strong Dutch accent. 'If you were away on a business trip or a holiday and there was a knock on your hotel room door. You open the door and seven hot and sexy prostitutes bombard your room. They start undressing each other, touching one another and then they start undressing you. The next best thing you are mid sexual orgy with seven women! You know the one you have fantasized about all your life? Tell me honestly from one dude to another - would you rather have one woman blow you... or... a harem of hookers?'

OMG that was possibly the most outrageous, radical, wicked come back response I have ever heard in my entire life. These two dudes were without a doubt the real deal.

Footnote

** Courtesy Stephen Lasker, Edge Interiors & Marcel Wanders, Moooi Designs. <http://edgeinteriors.co.za/>

Architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. (1886-1969). <http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/226400.html>

Part 2 Snippet 20

### Mr. Six pack

Three seconds later Caz enters the scene. Caz was a petite yet extremely athletic blond. She was striking and always immaculately turned out.

Caz was a sort of friend. You know the friend you know through other people and only connect when you are out and about? Actually in truth, the bitch married an ex-boyfriend of mine. And then divorced him. And then I liked her. It's that simple. Women bond so beautifully... when they have an ex boyfriend in common.

'Howdy hi gorgeous people', Caz bellowed out looking at pearly-necklace, goatee beard and me. 'Fabulous, fabulous I see you two mad men have met the slightly left of centre Zara Zee?' The three of us look at each other, look at Caz, they check me out, and simultaneously we all say 'NO'.

'Oh...ma...God! six-pack Sebastian meet Zara Zee' she exclaimed introducing me to the goatee beard. 'You two should connect, you are both single parents, creative individuals and seriously off beat *Yiddles. You have a lot in common,' Caz says with an overt match making tone in her voice. We did the cordial awkward hello-hello-pleased-to- meet-you-exchange-thingy. I was rather intrigued but wanted to get back to my friends. I picked up my drink and shifted my direction towards my gang with my parting words, 'Nice to meet you, six-pack-Seb, what's that about?'

'You know those seriously big body builder type guys, like that dude in the corner. I'm sure he has a six-pack under his tank top?' Sebastian says pointing at a very large out of proportion steroid-gorilla-body–pin-prick-of-a-head guy in the corner. 'Well I too have a six-pack. But my six-pack prefers to hang in the fridge chilling next to a bottle of bubbles and the Norwegian Smoked Salmon pate. Under here, under my shirt is my family pack' he gestures, grinning from ear to ear like Garfield and rubbing his hand gently over his tummy.

I was dumb founded!

* Footnote

* Yiddle – affectionate slang term for Jewish

Part 2 Snippet 21

### Pledges, pasta and pick ups

Three days later I received the following email.

'Whilst I sit here eating chocolate chuckles, as I fear I am having a growth spurt, after eating a large packet of crisps, post a big pasta pesto lunch, I have come up with an idea.

Albeit as a result of picturing myself in a budgie smuggling Speedo in some gorgeous hot water springs. Caz told me you are in the music and entertainment biz; maybe you know people who can organize a fundraiser for me?

The fundraisers can get sponsors to pledge one hundred bucks per gram I lose? I have to lose say twenty kg...to raise money for people who need the food more than me; Possibly in the not so good parts of the world like St Tropez or Monaco.

We can have a pledge-o-meter built like the Goodyear blimp floating over Cape Town's iconic Table Mountain, and we can let air out of it with every gram I loose, until it looks insipid and fades away. I'll be happy to meet you at 2.30pm - after the all you can eat buffet at the One and Only hotel - tomorrow.

This time may not be suitable, you may be on the chicken run with your daughter. Let me know, we can meet at A time that suits you better, Seb"

I could feel the giggle in my tummy.

Part 2 Snippet 22

### In Love

I think I'm falling in love!

And not the type of 'in-love' when she taps you on the your shoulder and says: you are in ... love!!!.

I think I just met my match. I think I just met my perfect family-pack. I think I just met my Prince of Charm that I want to dance with for the rest of life; a gorgeous, gentle, beautiful man overflowing with generosity in spirit.

A man that will love Faith and I unconditionally. A man that makes me laugh and makes me feel the giggle in my tummy. A man that allows me to be me.

I GET TO BE ME!

I think I may just be falling in love with a beautiful special family pack... and the guy who comes with it.

OMG I never saw that coming.

Part 3

### Moments of Faith

Part 3 Snippet 1

### Seb

Exert from Faiths Grade 5 school autobiography.

"Lets talk... about Seb, my DAD!

Lets talk about whom Seb really is!

Seb was born on the 1st of March 1963. In his early years, he used to live in Zimbabwe with his whole family. His family moved to South Africa but Buda didn't because he had a dream and moved to China to go after it. In China he learnt to speak Cantonese. His dream was to design clothes. He needed to earn more money and soon after moved to America.

In America Seb designed clothes for Jennifer Lopez, Anna Kournikova, The Pussycat Dolls, Gloria Estefan and David Caruso, from C.S.I Miami.

Seb is of medium height and build; he has big brown eyes with long, dark eyelashes. He has a wild and hairy goatee and chubby cheeks. But according to a model scout he met once, he is mysteriously sexy... but too old!!! He absolutely loves music, reading and outdoor camping!

Surprising Facts about Seb; he used to be a state champion in barefoot water skiing, he is very good at belly dancing, he has had two amicable divorces and is a stylish metro-sexual. We love to go shopping together and just chill-out and read.

Seb is my friend, stylist and dad! He is also very smart, funny and creative. I wouldn't wish for a better DAD! Onto the rest of my AWESOME family!"

Part 3 Snippet 2

### Brother from another Mother

*Exert from Faiths Grade 5 school autobiography

"I don't exactly have a biological brother, but what I do have is Seb's son Dominique. My awesome little Italian/American stepbrother. Dom is the most wacky and crazy eight year old EVER!

He was born on the 27th of March 2002 and currently lives in Italy with his mom, and her boyfriend. He is so lucky because he used to live in Columbia, South America and from there he moved to AMERICA, MIAMI! It's so unfair! Now he is nicely settled in Italy, in Bari, and often comes here during his holidays. Sometimes he is even here for three months at a time!

Dom is almost always active, day and night. He is super cute and "hyper" when he gets excited. He is one happy Spanish boy and loves to do impressions of chameleons.

Dom is officially my BROTHER from ANOTHER MOTHER! I can't think of a better way to describe my bro!"

Part 3 Snippet 3

### 10 000 BC.

Faith and I have just come back from SARS, South African revenue service, not dissimilar to the IRS. We had to sort out Faith's tax returns from the PAYE that was deducted off a bunch of TV commercials she's performed in.

Faith received a huge big cheque, a fat tax return of over twenty thousand rand. :-o (Wow).

Whilst going through the administrative motions, Mr Tax man announces to Faith, "You are an extremely lucky young girl to receive so much money. Maybe you should take your mommy out for an ice cream or get her a gift.

'Mr Tax man what a good idea, I was also thinking just that', Faith responds with her usual gusto amounts of enthusiasm. 'The thing is my mum doesn't really have a such a sweet tooth though. And getting an adult an ice-cream seems a bit lame... its rather *BC if you get what I mean. But I know exactly what mum really wants and needs.'

Faith then turns to look at me. 'Mum I know what you want, you may not think that I know, but I hear your little mumbles in the morn when you get out the bath, when you're getting dressed and putting your make up on. I'm onto you.'

Mr Tax man looks up with a fruity twinkle in his eye, as he shows Faith again where to sign on the digital touch screen. 'Eeeeeek this is so much fun, I cant help myself, can I guess, please can I guess what it is your mamma needs?' he squeals with excitement spinning around in his chair.

'Is it one of those fantastic bamboo baskets filled with bath salts, bath oil, bath soaps and shimmering bubble...?' Faith, now google-eyed sweeps over and interrupts Mr Tax man's eagerness to play the guessing game.

'Errrrr nope *soz that's like so *10 000 BC." And without further ado, in front of Mr Tax Man Faith asks - with a knowing certainty that she will hit the right spot. 'Mum what gift would you prefer me to get you; new underwear without any holes, or would you prefer that botox stuff you are always talking about? What is botox by the way?'

:-O (All right, all right, yes I admit, this time without a doubt the emo face is symbolic of Oy vey shock and horror). Not sure if I should be insulted or flattered?

The upside I'm just so relieved that Mr Tax man has not requested my tax number (as Faith's guardian angel). We may be using Faith's tax returns to bail me out of jail.

*Footnote

BC – Before Christ – tween slang for so out of fashion, old news, out of trend.

10 000 BC – 10 000 times more out of fashion than just BC.

*Soz – tween slang for sorry

Part 3, Snippet 4

### Second break

'Hallo Zara, its Amanda Higgins, is this a good time to talk?' It was one of my big corporate clients - a Conferencing and Event specialist - calling my mobile phone.

'Oh hallo Amanda, yes your timing is perfect, I've just stepped out of a two hour exhausting production meeting with another client,' I responded whilst rolling up my yoga mat, and simultaneously trying to find my Havaiana flip flop rubber sandals.

'Excellent, my dear. Thank you for emailing your PowerPoint presentation. My team and I are happy with your theme for the event and your creative concepts and entertainment suggestions are fabulous." Amanda expressed in her elegant waspy voice.

'Great stuff, I 'm so happy that you are happy because I was really happy with the outcome. And I was concerned that you may not be happy, well, as happy as I was. I'm also really happy with the design of the presentation, are you happy with it?' I answered and asked as I walked to my car, barefoot, left arm holding my yoga mat, right arm and hand deeply submerged in my bag scrounging about for a cigarette.

'Oh yes darling! I was getting to that bit. Your designer has done an amazing job. The Power-point presentation is simple yet striking. Just one tiny little request, can your designer quickly add another logo? We can email it to you straight away. We are presenting to our client at 8.30am tomorrow morning', Amanda asked, knowing that I've already gone way beyond my call of duty in man hours on her pitch. A pitch against three other companies. A pitch that does not pay unless you are awarded the job.

'I so would love to help but unfortunately this would not be possible. My designer is...' Amanda interrupts me, pleading politely for me to get hold of my designer immediately.

By now I had found and lit my ciggi, and I was taking deep slow yoga-breath puffs.

'Well the thing is um..Er... my designer is either in a math or sex ed class, or maybe she's heading into second break at the moment. But you are in luck, the Grade 5's get out of school at 2.30pm, and there is no soccer match today. Perhaps she can help you in the afternoon?' I suggested with an incredibly convincing - matter of fact - tone, in the belief that there was absolutely nothing unusual about my designer's situation.

The thing is, there was no budget to pay a professional graphic designer. I knew piss- willie- adams- sweet- fuck- all about using a computer beyond word, excel and email. So I recruited my -now eleven-year-old - Faith for the job. Faith knew her way around an Apple Mac, the way Donald Trump knew his way around a quaffed hair-do and property development. For both; the challenge of reaching a particular look and outcome came with ease \- no matter what the task at hand was.

Amanda responded with a kind of a long stretched out "ooooooooh my" sort of sounding thing. I wondered if she thought this was a human rights issue? An International Child Labour Organization concern? Was there a need to step in and protect the child against economic exploitation? Or far worse and far more damaging; was there a need to protect the child against a mind - maiming journey? A Jewish mother's crippling guilt trip.

'After all the money I've spent on your private education, and the time I've spent schlepping you around.... Don't worry about me. I'm just fine, considering I can't afford to feed myself, let alone find the time to breathe? Pleeeeeeeze design something beautiful for your mum's client.... before I die of starvation or - far worse - humiliation, or both'

Actually it was none of the above. This was just a simple case of a child in her element, whizzing about on a computer and exploring her creativity. A child fine-tuning her natural talents and her love for graphics and design, whilst simultaneously empowering a mother in a really tight situation. A child feeling happy and empowered because she has empowered her mum.

Faith knew it. And Faith knew that I knew that she knew it too. I was happy and empowered. Faith was happy and empowered. The pay off: We were having our own very special exclusive bonding session!

Oh! The bit when I offered Faith ten percent of my fee and a trip to the South of France -if we won the pitch - was totally inconsequential.

Part 3 Snippet 5

### Teenage Pad

House hunting. We are house hunting for a bigger spot. We are house hunting to make two heart centres beat in one home.

Seb, Faith, Dom and I – my beautiful family pack- are house hunting.

'Faith, Faith, you should see what the teenage pad looks like,' Seb shouts out excitedly as we all wiz about looking at a potential home to move into"

'Like the inside of a Tampon box perhaps?' Faith responds with rhetoric humour.

She was beaming with happiness and rolling on the floor with laughter.

Part 3 Snippet 6

### Nearest and dearest

Faith has just turned twelve years old. Its *Bat Mitzvah time and her excitement of sending invites to her friends was all consuming... um err I think for me too!

'Just mailed u invite to Faith's bat mitzvah \- let me kno if you got it. Can u freekn believe it? Faith is12 yrs old. Keeping the bati party pet friendly, I mean kid friendly. Guest list compromises only of tweens, and a few adults; immediate family, v close friends & nearest and dearest gays and lesbians that have been part of nurturing Faith in2 womanhood xxxxxxxxxxxxxx'

Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!

*Footnote

*Bat Mitzvah literally means "daughter of commandment." The word "bat" means "daughter" in Aramaic, which was the commonly spoken language of the Jewish people (and much of the Middle East) from about 500 B.C.E. to 400 C.E. The word "mitzvah" is Hebrew for "commandment.

"The term "bat mitzvah" refers to two things: When a girl reaches 12-years-old she becomes a "bat mitzvah" and is recognized by Jewish tradition as having the same rights as an adult. She is now morally and ethically responsible for her decisions and actions." Bat Mitzvah" also refers to a religious ceremony that accompanies a girl becoming a Bat Mitzvah. Often a celebratory party will follow the ceremony and that party is also called a bat mitzvah.

 (http://judaism.about.com/od/lifeevents/a/What-Is-A-Bat-Mitzvah.htm)

Part 3 Snippet 7

### Faith's *Dvar Torah

"Today I stand before you as a Bat Mitzvah – a Daughter of the Commandment. This means that I now take on the responsibility for my actions as a Jew and my mom, Zara, is no longer responsible for my actions. The word 'bat' means daughter. This has a double meaning today as I am standing beside my mother as her daughter and I now am a fully fledged Jewess.

In Judaism the family is considered to be important. It is quite remarkable that our forefathers Avraham and Sarah, Yitzchak and Rivkah, and Ya'akov and Rachel battled to have children. Yet when they are blessed with their sons, it is these children who become the leaders of the Jewish nation. When Avraham looked for a wife for Yitzchak he did not look amongst the Canaanite women as they were known for being murderers and thieves.

Instead he sent his servant, Eliezer to his homeland even though the people there were idol worshippers. Avraham understood that the Canaanites were corrupt and that this would be hard to change and that these traits could be passed on to the next generation.

However, beliefs are not part of our makeup. Instead they are something which we adopt through understanding and choice. I certainly come from a society where family life is important and is influenced by our belief of Judaism.

I am fortunate that I have come from a family which does things together and which enjoys each other's company. We are told that it is important to have good role models.

I am lucky that my mom, Zara, has been able to lead and guide me so well. She has taught me right from wrong and has tried to be a good role model for me. In the Talmud the rabbis say that the way a child speaks in the marketplace was the way he heard his parents speaking at home. My mom has shown me the right way to behave. In the Book of Proverbs it says ' Start a child on the right road and even in old age he will not leave it'. I can only hope that I will reflect the positive aspects which my mom has developed and which I have seen thus proving this quote to be correct.

Seb has also had a positive influence on my life. He has shown me that with a sense of humor one can go far. I feel I can discuss almost anything with him and look forward to our good relationship carrying on for years to come.

Growing up as an only child I now realize that since Dom has been a part of my life that I did miss out in some ways by not having a sibling. I enjoy being the 'big' sister and at the same time I realize that it is necessary for me to set a good example.

From a young age I realized the importance of family and this is why I chose this topic for such an important occasion. I know that in Judaism the family is very important and necessary in order to maintain its traditions and laws.

The continuity of family is essential. Not many of my friends can say that they have four generations in their family. I have a great-granny, Betty and two sets of grandparents. This enforces the idea of family being present and involved in my life.

At the same time my godfather Shai has been part of my life since the day I was born. This is a unique connection which I value and count him as a member of my family.

Without family I do not have much. I am therefore grateful that I have such caring, wonderful people around me who guide me through life. Even though I am now considered as an 'adult' in Judaism, I realize that I still have lots to learn. With my family's continued support I feel sure that I will do well in life."

*Footnote

*Dvar Tora for a Bat Mitzvah

Dvar Torah literally means 'word of the Torah (Scroll) '

The Dvar Torah delivered at a girls Bat Mitzvah (or a boys Bar Mitzvah) is a speech. The topic of the speech has a theme, an idea that has personal meaning, something important or special applying to the girls life that she wants to tell people about. She explains how and why this topic or subject has such a personal meaning and she concludes with goals for the future taking the subject matter in mind .

The balance in Life

6-am my hand fumbles its way to turn off my new morning wake up call, Soul Smile, a beautiful melodic track by the duo Blk Sonshine. A tune that I chose to download on my phone. A tune crafted in lyrical mindfulness from the heart. A piece of musicianship that makes my soul smile, between the bitter- sweet melodies of life's moments.

I am striving for that balance. I realize that everyone is forever striving for that perfect balance in life. And for each one of us balance in life holds a different meaning.

'What I dream of is an art of balance' (French Fauvist Artist Henri Matisse.)

'In art and dream may you proceed with abandon. In life may you proceed with balance and stealth' (Singer, songwriter musician Patti Smith)

'Balance is so important in our lives. In our busy world, we can give ourselves balance between thinking and feeling" and "In today's society we sometimes forget to balance our hearts and our heads; this is the reason we stop laughing.' (Comedian, painter and Professor Yakov Smirnoff)

Whilst I strive for that balance, I have also truly come to understand that life plays out exactly the way it's meant to play out. How we react or don't react to life's experiences, how we roll with life's punches and other people's stuff is really what counts.

And to end, to pick up on Yakov Smirnoff's note or quote, my parting words;

"I confess, I have found the secret to living a balanced life; I do a little Yoga in the morning, and I do a little vodka litchi cocktail- with fresh mint- at night. As for all the hours in between? I try to do my very best at the rest of what life throws at me. L'chaim, Salute, Cin Cin and Cheers to the little things in life" Zara Z

I hope to connect and chat with you soon on twitter @GodessofAmnesia or pop me an email: zara.zee.zinger@gmail.com

Oh by the way...If you are stuck in a heavy dark place, or wanting to understand more about relationships & sexuality, or if you simply want to reach your highest potential, please get hold of two incredible women, Janet Goldblatt (very ADD but brilliant) & Francesqua Grigst (Liberator & Femme Fatale).

They shoot from the hip, will kick your self-bullshitting-butt into cyber space, and give you the best emotional-mental colonic ever. Their years of work, experience and brutal truths result in brilliant life changing shifts.

www.truthandreconcilliation.co.za

Janet's email: algold@mweb.co.za  
Fracesqua's email: francesqua@iburst.co.za

Have an abfab delicious day

Big love

Zara Zee.
