Bon Jovi live!

 I think I may have lost Mrs Ed.  Not that this would normally present a problem.  In fact if the truth be told I have tried to lose her a number of times in our long life (sentence) together.

  There was the day that I accidentally drove off when she had stepped out the car in the Karoo to get a closer look at a vintage tractor.  She was fuming by the time I got back to her six hours later, so I omitted to tell her that it was only on the advice of an old barman that I had returned.  I remember his words as if it was last week (when really it was the week before!)

 “Stranger,” he had murmured, carefully scrutinizing the bottom of the glass he was busy polishing, “We have a saying around these parts.” He turned to skillfully spit a wad of chewing tobacco out of the weathered sash window onto the dusty road outside, and gaze soulfully as the sun cast its farewell glow on the Outshoorn horizon  (actually he didn't but it makes for a much better story, doesn't it?) “When it comes to buying beer,” he continued, his voice echoing years of hard toil on the range, “You gots ta pay first, before ya starts a-drinkin'!” 

That's when I realized, of course, that Mrs Ed had the wallet. 

Then there was another time when I almost lost her and the kids at Sun City, but in the end the cashier said that despite my assurances that they would be 'useful to have around' it would be somewhat against the ethics of the South African Institute of Casinos to exchange my family for gambling chips and that if I didn't get out of his face he would initiate a lifetime black-jack ban on me.

But this time is different.  This time I've lost Mrs Ed in mind, not body.  This time I have lost Mrs Ed to….. (I almost can't bear to say it) to Bon Jovi!

I should have been forewarned.  I should have seen the signs.  But somehow I missed it!  You see I have always had Mrs Ed pegged as 100% loyal to ‘Village People’, and truly believed she would never stray from her self-proclaimed position as that band's No1 Fan (I don't even know if there IS a No2)  even if they did split up sometime in the eighties.

So when friends of ours generously offered us tickets to see Bon Jovi live in Cape Town last week, I thought it was a great idea.  Indeed I was most excited  it had been years since we had been to see an international rock band (I had kind of held back since the embarrassment of the Katie Melua incident.  Though the restraining order has long since expired, my re-acceptance into her fan club is still pending) .  To be honest when I told Mrs Ed of our good fortune, and her eyes misted over with that far-away look, I just presumed she'd been holding the bleach bottle too close to her nose again….

There were five of us in the car on the way down, and as I was fortunate enough to be in the front passenger seat (it was the closest they'd let me get to the steering wheel ) I took charge of the music selection.  Thinking the five hour journey would be the perfect time to learn all his songs (standing at a live concert mouthing 'rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb' is somewhat embarrassing)  I popped a Bon J CD into the car's sound system. 
“Right folks, listen carefully and please do concentrate on the words,” I advised, as Bon himself lyrically informed us that our love was indeed like bad medicine, and that bad medicine was, thankfully, just what he needed.

Then suddenly a spine chilling cacophony of Neanderthal  noise erupted from the back of the car.  My first thought was that Nelson Mandela must have passed away and thus twenty seven Zulus were sprinting alongside our vehicle in full war cry, ready to cut off our heads with serrated traditional spears, but then I turned around to find it was something entirely different, though equally horrifying.  It was Mrs Ed in full song!

And she knew all the words.  I couldn't believe it. “Wha…. ? Bu…. ? How di…..?” I tried to get answers as to how she had managed this, but I was drowned out. 

Fortunately for them, the other two ladies in the back seat were volleying out their own vocal rendition at an equally high volume, so it seemed that their ears were unperturbed by Mrs Ed's violent audio attack on Mother Earth .

On we went, with all three women in full voice.  I was particularly impressed with our driver, who managed to cover most of the distance steering with his elbows so that he could keep his fingers firmly in his ears.  Fortunately the traffic wasn't too bad, somehow any vehicles that came within a 50 metre radius seemed to swerve off to either side of the road….  It really was an effective way to beat Cape Town's rush hour traffic.

Once we were in the stadium things took a turn for the worse. We were standing about 30 metres away from the stage, which I thought was quite an achievement considering we probably lost our status as 'hard rocking' concert revellers at least a quarter of a century ago.  But when the Bon man appeared in a cloud of smoke, betwixt a crash of symbols, a thunder of base and some pretty impressive guitar work, the crowd surged forward, probably because of the vacuum Mrs Ed left in her trail as she pushed her way closer to the front like a woman possessed.

“LAY ME DOWN ON A BED OF ROSES, JOHN BON,” she wailed at such a volume I saw the lead guitarist turn up his amplifier.  Of course I hung helplessly to her shirt tails.  The last thing I wanted was for us to be separated as this was sure to cause no end of trauma (she once again had the wallet, and thus any beer purchase would be impossible without her).  Closer and closer we got to the front, Mrs Ed's elbows and knees making short work of anyone in our path (fortunately no physical proof that she was responsible for the biting incident has since come to the fore) .

Eventually we were about eight metres from the 'protective perimeter'  - a metal fence just short of the stage - and even with Mrs Ed's brute strength we could not get any closer, such was the density of the mass of people. After using her handbag (not sure what she had in it, but have I ever been?) to collapse the legs of a misfortunately tall gentleman in front of us, my star-struck spouse settled down to a wild frenzy.  The rest of our group had followed in our wake and so were able to join us, and I must say, a good time was had by all.  ESPECIALLY Mrs Ed.

The driver and I agreed that Bon Jovi and his group were spectacular to watch, and one day we hope to go to a performance without having to wear earplugs sans Mrs Ed, of course.  But this may be quite an easy feat actually, because since the concert I've barely been able to communicate at all with the woman.  She may be there physically, but her mind is definitely elsewhere. Lying on the couch, day in, day out, with her Bon Jovi scarf clutched to her bosom, a half smile on her face and a wistful look in her eye.

 At one stage I tried shock treatment on her by walking into the lounge in my speedo and suggesting we go for a swim.  At first I thought I had managed to break through her mesmerization, when she turned to me and bellowed “You give love a bad name!” but then I realised  she was wearing her ipod headphones and singing along  to Bon Jovi's greatest hits.

I have never been the jealous sort, at all, but I wish she'd snap out of this childish infatuation and come back to me.  I am her husband, after all, and if you consider the even worse news that she STILL has the wallet….. you would understand….

Mother's Day

 I think there's something about Mother's day that has remained unsaid, and DEFINITELY unpublished, for far too many eons.

But fear not, gentlemen, I'm going to be the brave one, who blows the whistle.  Without fear of retribution (ok, with a fair amount of fear) I shall bravely stick my neck out and say it like it is.  (I'd like you to make note of this, because someone will need to at least point the police in the right direction should I suddenly vanish from the face of the Earth, get locked in an abandoned fridge without beer, or be crushed  on a dark lonely back road by an eighteen wheeler driven by a mystery woman wearing a balaclava and a '#1 Village People Fan' t-shirt.)

Here goes.

I believe Mothers' Day (I never have been quite sure where that apostrophe should go) should really be called 'Father's Nightmare Day', don't you think?
What do you mean I'm off my rocker?

Perhaps I should explain myself.

What I am trying to put to you is that Mot'hers Day may be great for Mothers, and even quite rewarding for children of Mothers, but it really is the absolute PITS for fathers….

Why?  Well, because we can NEVER get it right!

Think about it.  If your life experience is anything like mine you will agree that a mom is quite happy to get ANYTHING from her children on Moth'ers Day.  Really.  If I look back in time at the gifts I proudly presented Mrs Ed senior (The Matriarch), there certainly was no end to her grace in acceptance.

She was certainly delighted with the 'Circus Seal Sculpture' of 1974, moulded by my own rather un-artistic and somewhat grubby hands, out of rich Zambian red mud pilfered from a termite nest, and hardened in the oven 'til it cracked …. along with the plate from her favourite dinner set it was sitting on (sorry Mom).

And she almost wept for joy when presented with the scented 'Mommy in Spring' perfume of '78, concocted by my brother and I using daisies, prize rose petals, some grass, a blob of melted wine-gum, some toilet spray, that sticky, milky ooze from an aloe plant, and a naartjie segment, all crushed to liquid with a stone in a chipped (sorry Mom) salad bowl and dripped through a school-sock-(sorry Mom) filter into an emptied (sorry mom) expensive Eau de Toilette bottle.

And you should have seen her face when we served her the 'Special Breakfast in bed' because we knew how much she liked ice cream and red wine (but perhaps not together….). 

If the truth be told, my mother got more and more amenable as we got older.  In our early teens we presented her with the ever-popular rush-round-the-garden-at-6am-cos--I-forgot bunch of anything that grew…. which included a bonus of free mud prints throughout the house …. which she would have noticed before it hardened if we hadn't let her sleep in. 
And even in later years, she cooed most satisfactorily over the hastily bought potted cactus (it's amazing what you can buy at a petrol station these days) or box of chocolates from my office desk's bottom drawer (even the time I gave her the Quality Street she had given ME the previous Easter!)

Basically, it wasn't the present that counted, it was the fact that we made an effort!

But do husbands get the same grace?  No.  Not a chance!  Even when you point out to your spouse that she isn't actually your mother (despite what your psychiatrist says), you are EXPECTED to buy her a Mo'thers day present, and it HAS to be impressive.

But how?  How are we supposed to compete with little Johnny's 'Bestist Momy in tha hole Wirld” poster?  Or Wendy's bright pink plasticine fairy cake creation? 

We can't.  That's the bottom line. 

I realized how big the battle was on the first Mothers D'ay after our son was born.
“Today? Is it really?'  I remarked, when Mrs Ed mentioned (in passing I thought) what day it was. “Wow,” I chuckled, looking down on our boy who gurgled back at me despite being in a nappy that smelled like chemical warfare, “Think how nice it will be for you when he's old enough to buy you a present.”

I didn't realize until then how fine-tuned Mrs Ed's shoe-throwing skills were.

The following year I bought a card.  I even put our son's footprint on it, but I didn't get much reaction from Mrs Ed.  She barely looked up from the nappy  bucket.

I don't think I ever got it right.  I spent a good deal of time and effort trying, but it seemed her appreciation levels did not rise at all, in fact they dropped.

 I remember one year, when our son was four and a half and our daughter two, Mrs Ed had been complaining that she was exhausted, and never seemed to keep up with the housework because the kids demanded so much of her energy as soon as she got home from work. 

  This gave me the perfect idea for a M'others Day present
“A nice picnic will be just perfect!” I thought.
  So on Mothers Da'y morning I got up early, packed the car with a basket of food, a blanket, and a nice bottle of wine, and woke Mrs Ed up with a gentle peck on the cheek.
“Surprise!” I enthused, “I'm taking the kids to the park for the day, so YOU can catch up with the housework!”  I think I saw something akin to hatred in her eyes, and I still have a slight dent in my head from where the alarm clock connected.

As the kids got older I relived my own Mo'thers Day experiences, watching them present their mom with all sorts of meaningless matter, which somehow always brought a tear to her eye.  Yet year after year my failure to impress continued. 

The new wheelbarrow of '97 was apparently not a popular choice, neither was the 2nd hand lawnmower of 2000 (how was I to know she wanted one with a motor ?). 

And so it went on. In 2009 I thought I'd hit the Mothers Day Gift Jackpot.  Creeping around in my quest for an answer, I overheard Mrs Ed compairing notes with her sister, whose husband was apparently far more adept at buying romantic gifts. My ears pricked up when she complained that Hell would freeze over before I was romantic enough to buy her something 'black and lacey' to wear in bed.
“Eureka!” I thought, snatching up the electricity bill money and rushing off to the nearest clothing boutique.

  But the look on her face when she tore off the wrapping and took one of  the safety boots out of the box wasn't one of appreciation.  Indeed I think the steel toecap broke one of my ribs when it hit me.  The only thing that saved me from the full force of her wrath was my son, carrying in a breakfast tray on which sat a solitary grapefruit  with   “I  (heart)  Mommy” roughly carved into the peel.
“It's so beautiful!” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears of gratitude as she hugged him to her.
  
I ask you! The lad was sixteen, the grapefruit stolen from the bowl on the diningroom table, and I swear he carved it on the way upstairs!

But don't worry.  This year I think I may have cracked it.  Some time ago I set my daughter the task of finding out what her Mother REALLY wants,  and I think she's come up trumps.
“Mom's feeling down lately,” she told me, “I think she needs professional pampering, so that she feels worth something. What about booking her a day at the spa for a full treatment?”

And that's exactly what I've done!  And I must say, when I phoned, the manager was most accommodating.  What a fabulously full day he has planned for her.  He said she could pack shelves for an hour or two, then maybe spend some time sorting meat in the butchery, and if all goes well, he might even let her wear a uniform and operate the till for the afternoon!

 I can't wait to see her face. I think I'll keep it as a surprise, perhaps put a blindfold on her until we get there, lead her down to the middle of the 'tinned food' aisle, then whisk it off .....  'Tadaaa'!!!!