|Single sock party

Yesterday my son showed a friend of ours that he had a pair of socks on that were both black but the toe part was red on the one sock and orange on the other.  I commented that my black socks seemed also to be mismatched.  My son blamed it on the “laundry department” i.e. me.  My friend commented that he would never wear mismatched socks.  And seemed to have great sympathy for my son.  Ugh.  

This quickly lead to a discussion about the “single sock laundry syndrome” which is one that will be familiar to all moms …… what the hell happens to socks in the wash …… because in my mind they go to that great sock heaven, along with tupperware lids. Our friend looked completely stunned when I told him that we currently have 68 single socks in a basket in the laundry. 


Did we originally buy them in a pair – Yes
Did we wear them in a pair the first few times – Yes
Did we throw them into the laundry basket in a pair – Yes
Were they washed as a pair – Yes
Did they come out the washing machine / washline as a pair – No 

And therein lies the age old question ….. who has that other one?

So we decided that a “single sock party” is the way to go.  We get a group of  people together who all bring their single socks along. ….. we throw them in piles together according to colour and adult & kids socks.  And then you see if you cannot marry your single socks as close as possible to someone else’s. Once this is done we roll up the newly married pairs and donate them to the church Soup kitchen initiative so that when they go out on Friday evenings to feed the street people, they can also give out socks.  

If I have 34 mismatched pairs, can you imagine how many pairs 10 or 20 of us can make?

So come on parishioners and friends ….. let’s find a date for the single sock party.  Bring cake, bring colddrink, bring yourselves and most of all — bring the socks!!!! 

till soon
c’est la vie xxx


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World Cup ….. pls don’t visit if you don’t understand the offside rule

So life as we know it has come to a temporary halt.  World Cup is the central theme of our home — meals taken in the lounge …. chefs kits steamed in the lounge …. update of each other’s lives ….. yip ….. in the lounge.  Armed with 4 new sherpa blankets … one for each of us, we have entered the football zone.  

We are not “only during World Cup” soccer supporters.  We are all year round soccer supporters in our house …. so World Cup is huge.  We have drawn our teams in our family pool (yes as per previous blog I have every crap team that somehow managed to drag themselves kicking and screaming into the tournament), we have the chart up … not the one only entering scores from quarterfinals, we have the large oversized one which shows every result of every match and in addition we follow the updates online and watch every other related programme during this time.  Eug and Nic judge the players on skill alone, Jess and I are inclined to value them even more highly if God has blessed them with wonderful looks, severely powerful thighs etc etc.  We all have our own grading system not so?

Meals than cannot be cooked in under 20 mins will not be served during this time.  Calls unrelated to soccer will not be answered.  Any activity that cannot happen during halftime, will not be happening.  The Nespresso machine has been pre-programmed for optimum cappuccino delivery speed.  Everything has been moved to within arms reach from the furniture in the lounge.  

My son tells us that Soccer is not Everything, it is the Only Thing.  Sometimes he is so wise.  

still hoping for a win by Honduras
c’est la vie xxxx

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World Cup. Honduras. Please win.

FIFA World Cup 2014 to be won by Honduras. Please.

So we did the family draw in our house for the World Cup. 

Simple system.  32 names in a bowl.  4 family members.  We draw in rotation.  8 countries each.  

There are enough superb teams in the World Cup that the spread should be ok for all right? 

No.  That is a fabulous theory.  Somehow the actual “draw the folded paper from the breakfast bowl” reality was somewhat different. 

I held my breath each time I dipped my hand in ….. Would it be Germany?  Brazil?  Spain? (who I have supported year in and out for a loooong time now).  Would it be …. Would it be ……. 

In all my “would it be’s” I never once mentioned the following teams:

Costa Rica

But somehow I managed to pull them out of the bowl.  For myself.  To support. 

How wonderful.  How lucky.  How Blessed.  How flippen unlikely that I will win the pool. 

I did get England.  Make me proud boys.  

I am begging. 

So if you see someone in the mall wearing a World Cup t-shirt with Honduras on the front.  It is me.  Their supporter.  Die hard soccer fan. 

And how the hell is it possible that given the countries above, Bafana did not qualify.  Hummmf. 

Can’t wait for the next family pool. 

till next time 
c’est la vie xxx

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most importantly of all

Most important …. 

It’s not having everything go right, 

it’s facing whatever goes wrong.
It’s not being without fear,
it’s having the determination to go on in spite of it. 
It’s not where you stand,
but the direction you are going in.
It’s more than never having bad moments,
it’s knowing that you are always bigger than the moment.
It’s believing you have already been given everything
you need to handle life. 
It’s not being able to rid the world of all its injustices,
it’s being able to rise above them.
It’s the belief in your heart 
that there will always be
more good than bad in the world. 
Remember to live just this one day
and not add tomorrow’s troubles 
to today’s load.
Remember that every day ends 
and brings a new tomorrow
full of exciting new things.
Love what you do,
do the best you can,
and always remember
how much you are loved 

Vickie M Worsham 

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abdominal crunches. pain. and me

“So”, says Solomon with great enthusiasm ~ “sit down on this piece and put your hands on the handles with your elbows resting here at 90 degrees”.  He moves the pin in the weights.  “Ok”, he continues, “now I want you to bend over forward and then come back up, it works your abs”.  Now at this stage the area of my body where my abs are (I am positive they are in there somewhere, they must be) have contacted the brain and requested that a Code Red be sounded.  Exercising?  I was almost as excited as my body was traumatised.   So back and forward I went while Solomon counted the repetitions.  When he saw I was waning, he was quick to tell me that the round was almost finished and that even if I go a little slower, I must finish the repetitions.   I must eat cheesecake was my immediate thought.  And so I did. Finish the repetitions, not eat the cheesecake!   After all, if I can gradually make myself drink the whey protein shake, then I can do the damn ab thing. 

He moved from machine to machine with me …… explaining exactly what area each one worked and a small talk on the importance of core strength.  He counted up and counted down and I could see him concealing a little smile when I climbed onto one machine the wrong way round …. I am sure it is not the first time he sees that. 

When I got off the treadmill was when I found Solomon.  I was staring at this bank of machines hoping someone would come and do it before me so I could see what to do.  My regular gyming daughter saw me standing there like a lost child mixed with Bambi in headlights and rushed over .. “What’s wrong mom”, she asked.  “I don’t know what to do”, I replied, feeling about 100 years old.  That is when Solomon appeared.  

Once done we headed down to Kauai where I made a well thought out choice of a drink.  I sat at the table a bit like Mr Bean, beaming at everyone in a “look at me, I am at gym” kind of way.  I went home.  Things started to hurt.  By midnight getting up from the couch was a little testing.  This morning I got out of bed only to be greeted enthusiastically by my other new friend, lactic acid. 

As I write this my upper arms are aching.  But my heart is happy and my face is smiling. 

I have pains in places I did not know I have places. 

But I went.  And I will go again. 


till soon 

c’est la vie xxx

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The taller child’s travels

The taller child’s travels.

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Bathing is not for sissies

Bathing is not for sissies.

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