The Alpha Male

I just love men. I think they are an amazing species. Mind you, I am only talking about the strong, silent, “I’m-your-rock” alpha-male type, the ‘I’m-in-touch-with-my-feminine-side / weekly-mani-and-pedicure type can take the first train outtahere as far as I’m concerned, I’ll even spring for half the fare! No honestly, I just love real men, they are so wonderfully different. Their build all square and rough, hair growing in the most peculiar spots, heavy dark sounds from their vocal chords that, when uttered, seem to fill a room. The way they break out in a sweat when doing hard labour in the back yard, oh boy, that ignites a spark or two. Many-a-times I’ve been known to pour myself another coffee, pull up a chair just to watch, praying for the shirt to come off….
A good night out is watching them drink, mates together, pouring jugs of beer down their throats, loud roars of laughter and friendly pats on shoulders, while testosterone just oozes out of their every pore.

But what I love and admire most of all, is their in-bread knowledge of fixing things.
Seriously, it must be strongly embedded in their DNA, I am sure if any scientist could extract the correct cell out of that particular string, the rest of us anti-technos could be vaccinated in early adulthood and have an IKEA-proof life ever after.
As the happy partner of an Alpha-Male original, I get to witness this technical instinct on an almost daily basis and we ain’t talking just changing light bulbs, oh no. Car don’t start? He opens the hood, pokes a screwdriver between a few cables and presto, I’m of to work. Plumbing shot? Armed with his tool belt, ankle deep in yesterday’s bathwater, probably from our upstairs neighbours, he attacks. 2 Hours and some heavy cursing later, voila, I can do my dishes again. Truly amazing.

Now, all women partnered with such an original specimen should be happy and grateful, as I am. However, sometimes, probably stress induced, this fixing instinct works too fast. A few months ago we had to have some electrical rewiring done in our bedroom. My dearest jumped up, immediately ready to tackle this problem. As some drilling was involved and the only working electrical socket was under our bed, he needed an extra extension cord. Frantically I went through every possible cupboard trying to find one, but no luck. It wasn’t a big problem he assured me, he would just quickly make one. I was in awe. He worked with bits of wire, screwdrivers and
what –ya-ma-call-its for a few minutes and with a quick wink to me dove under the bed to plug his new cord in. Two seconds and a big bang later the house was powerless. While rambling on in my well known smartypants-way that something must be wrong cause the tv and the washing machine went off simultaneously, he slowly emerged from under the bed. Face flushed, hair straight up, he showed me with trembling hands his extension cord. A 2 meter piece of white wire with no sockets, just pretty white plugs… on either side. I had to strain my ears a bit as he whispered: “Good thing I tested this, honey, it could have killed you!”
The alpha-male, serves and protects.

Days like these

Usually things seem to work out fine. We get up in the morning, wash and feed the kids, even get them to school on time with a packed lunch. Most of us then get on with our daily chores, whether work or household, whether dead-tired or bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Some days though nothing seems to go right. I'm sure you've all had them. It starts off with the alarm. Desperately, I try to turn off the nasty ringer by hitting the “snooze” button for another five minutes of much-needed sleep. Of course the wrong button is hit and half an hour later I wake up totally stressed. A quick coffee fix would help but I seem to have miss-fitted the filter in the machine, and now have a cup of tasteless dirt that could have come straight out of the sewer. Total disaster. A quick shower should do the trick; the water is cold, of course. Still shivering I put on my clothes. Strange, my armpits feel quite sticky. I realize the deodorant I used was really my extra strong hold hairspray. To top it all off, that time of the month decided to show up. Back to the bathroom, out of OB's, have to use a serviette. No problem till I pull up my knickers. 'Always' or 'Every-Day' is in there, sticky side up. Not a good day.

We are running late so I decide to first bring my youngest to school, and her older sister can walk her into her class while I turn the car. Five minutes saved.
The girls both get out. While I am driving towards school number two it seems very quiet in the car. Oops, forgot to pick up daughter number two after turning the car. A quick U-turn back and there she is, standing at the school gate, laughing. Five minutes lost.
We make it just in time.

Driving back home I stop to get some gas. When it’s pay time I see I've left the house without any money, thank God they know me here, I can pay later. As soon as I walk in the house, the decision is made. The world needs to be saved from me today; I will spend whatever’s' left of it in bed.
When the girls come home I feel well rested and capable of fighting Murphy's Law again. My oldest is in a bad mood; she had made the wrong home work and got a bit of a bullocking from her teacher. My youngest seems happy and cheerful but she's wearing her sweater inside out and socks that don't match. It must be a female thing today, I think to myself – a family hormone problem that make us so clumsy. Until my hubby comes home from work and hits the shower. He steps out of a steamy bathroom with a strange odour around him. The girls and I can't place it at all, and we ask him to show us the shampoo he used. With red cheeks, and a bit irritated, he snorts: Can anyone here explain to me right now, what the hell the dog-shampoo is doing in the shower?

Just one of those days...

Letter to my Father

Dear dad,


How are things up there?
What is it like to float around whenever you please, as light as a breeze touching cheeks?
I always wonder. Once in a while my mind takes a short walk through my memories and you always pop up.


I remember when mom caught me smoking and called you in an outrage I never saw the likes of before. You wanted to speak to me, and asked me what brand of cigarettes I like, since based on the conversation with my mother you understood she wasn’t going to provide me with any. Nice one!

Or the second time we met. You took me to a jazz bar, and you had a stiff whisky (I think it was, mind you I was only 12) and I had a coke and a handful of change for the pin-ball machine.
Another memory is when the doctors told you to give up smoking, drinking, eating certain foods and carnal knowledge of women, since heart attack number three would be the last one.
Well we all know how you handled that . . .


You were always the black sheep of your family, a creative genius who lived life to the fullest without looking back. No picking up pieces, no responsibilities, none of that for you
Today, it is 25 years since we buried you, but you actually left us when we were still in diapers. It’s ok, you know. I never really missed not having you around; I had a great childhood, but as a parent seeing her children slowly leave the house I often wonder, dad, would you have done it differently looking back?
It must have been so painful not really knowing any of your kids and some of them not wanting to know you. I always wanted to know you better but we never got a chance, did we? Not enough time . . .


Well, I guess that’s life, but over the last few years, and you can call me silly if you want, I’ve got this feeling you’re around somewhere. Just this strange sense of not being alone. It sounds a bit floaty-outthere-loony tunes I know, but I think it’s you and my pragmatic side just wants to make sure it is; don’t want a case of mistaken identity here.


Now listen, lately every day at about three o’clock this strange brownish-white butterfly, flies through our shop, sits on the desk, has a look around and leaves again. It’s an ugly looking butterfly and, after all, you never really were a looker.
So I am wondering dad, is that you? I mean even my girls have started to say, “hi, grandpa,” as soon as the little bugger flies in. But, to be honest, it could just as well be their great-grandfather, cause he was never a real handsome man either.
But I like to think it is you, so could you do me just one last favour?
Today, when you fly in again, would you mind sitting on my shoulder for a bit, just a second, just so I know . . .
Thanks dad, see you soon
Love