I have sunk as low as I can get.
Well, as low as I intend to get. Famous last words eh?
I have drained my parents of money and time and physical effort – just to make my house liveable.
I have spent every cent I made in the last 11 weeks of work on any bill that had mine and The Man’s name.
I begged, borrowed and camped on a friend’s lounge room floor in order to get my son to hospital in Adelaide for his tonsillectomy, and then overdrew my bank account to get us both home.
I have frozen my mortgage payments, my rates and am ignoring my final power bill from my previous home.
The employment agency I have been going to, every day since I got here, doesn’t feel that I qualify for assistance for at least 13 weeks – because by then, we actually will be starving and considering bankruptcy.
I have cried at CentreLink more often, now, than I ever have at weddings. (Although, looking back, I should have shed a few more tears at my own.)
In fact, apparently I was too convincing when I first showed up at CentreLink and they didn’t put me down as eligible for any of their programs as I appear to be a very capable young woman who doesn’t need too much help.
Apparently they can get the employment agency moving to help me find work, they can get my TafeSA fees supplemented and my medical bills reimbursed, they can get me counseling for me and the kids and free fucking petrol back and forwards from any work I do get!
Why is it, that you have to be loser to get help?
But, despite that little insight into the potential help I’m entitled to – it wasn’t cash.
As my overdraw fees had cancelled out my parenting payments, I found myself with $25 to my name this week – just enough for petrol to get me to the closest bank (38km away) to find out I had nothing left - so I went to Uniting Care and asked for a food parcel.
Firstly, I asked them for a job (they’ve got a couple going which I am applying for), and then I asked for a food parcel.
Do you know what a food parcel consists of?
Weetbix, frozen bread loaves, spaghetti sauce, powdered milk, Tom Yum soup, baked beans and two-minute noodles.
No fresh meat, no apples for my kids’ lunches, nothing greener than the shopping bags it all came in.
The only protein in the two shopping bags-full was a dozen farm eggs, obviously donated by local producers (thankyou, thankyou).
There are people who LIVE on these parcels, three times a month!
It’s a wonder they don’t all have scurvy!
If I get this bloody ‘food development’ job I want, I’m going to set up a network with the local primary producers (and this is SA’s centre for stone-fruits, apples, seafood, grain, cucumbers, capsicums and zucchinis) to supplement that program.
Not to mention providing people with some kind of ‘staying healthy on a budget’ cookbook.
Ironically, within half an hour of taking receipt of my high-carb low-protein rickets-inducing food parcel I was offered a couple of weeks work and my Mum rang me to say she’d just won $400 at the pokies – which, she insists, she never really plays.
I don’t believe in God, but I think I definitely have to believe in kharma this year.
For every lesson I learn in this whole nasty mess, there’s a little reward to keep me positive as well.
Now, please, what every great wheel of fate is turning over the top of me, right at this minute, I just want you to know that I have learned my lesson.
I see my faults, I swear I’m not going to make the same mistakes again, so please – can you swing me back around to the top now so I can get a little sunshine back, instead of having my nose rubbed in the mud again.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Furred Saviours
I think these little Slinky Malinky look-alikes have saved my children’s souls.
No more tears after teatime, no more wailing for Daddy when they curl in against me at night – no more demanding I come to bed with them at bedtime.
I still have pictures of ‘Dad’ bluetacked all through my house and the occasional ‘when’s Dad going to call – I miss him’, but, for the most times, between school and their furry little charges, they’re happily distracted.
Finding these little buggers wasn’t easy.
Which is ironic when there’s obviously hundreds of people not neutering their cats – but I refused to have a Tabby.
To me, a Tabby spells ‘feral’ – I just can’t escape that old prejudice.
After a tearful phone call with The Girl, my mother spent a whole day ringing every petshop and RSPCA between the Eyre Peninsula and the Flinders Ranges.
The RSPCA provided animals with all the appropriate shots and neutering, but their cats were mostly three-month-olds, and my babies needed babies of their own.
The local petshop was happy to sell me sad, scrawny, much-too-young-to-be-weaned little felines for $15 – but the poor things looked so sad and neglected I couldn’t do it.
It can only be serendipity that one of the local farmer mums brought in a basketload of kittens for show and tell at The Kids’ school, the same day I was bewailing the state of the petshop kittens to the school secretary.
Turns out, she’d had the all-black mum Licorice show up on her doorstep one night, and soon after came a whole litter of All-Sorts.
She leapt at the chance of knowing where her new babies were going to end up, a chance to soothe her own kitten-obsessed children, and I leapt at the chance of free, healthy, seven-week old kittens.
With the chookshed not finished yet, no fence (or inclination) to keep a dog in, guinea pigs just too damned fragile and rabbits one step too far for my moral sense – kittens seemed the obvious sollution!
Of course, the kids and I had been talking about kittens and chooks for a while now.
I’d made the mistake, last week, of chivvying them home from school with the promise of a ‘surprise’.
“Is it Daddy? Is it our cats? Are our chooks here?”
The answer – iced donuts – just didn’t seem so special afterwards.
Two days later I was doing the same thing, rushing them home with talk of a ‘surprise’.
“Is it donuts? Is it in the kitchen?”
In the car I’d teased them that it was ‘stinkin’ Tuna’ – to help them grow big and strong.
The look on The Girl’s face when I opened the fridge and brought out…Tuna!
The pair continued to look at me with verging-on-tears disbelief as I shoveled out Tuna chunks into a bowl, telling them how good it was for brains and bones.
“But we don’t LIKE stinkin’ Tuna,” The Girl wailed through wavering lips.
“Well I’ll give it to someone who does…” I declared.
It was worth it, to see their faces when the smell of the Tuna coaxed the little fluffballs out from under the TV cabinet.
Now they have spent two days creating little cat runs and cat palaces and cat toy piles and cat toys out of lolly wrappers and feathers and wool, and they have gone to bed looking at pictures of cats in the ‘Big Book of Egypt’.
I can tell you, with a clear conscience, that the sense of peace these little animals have brought my family is worth every butchered gecko or mauled parrot I ever have to claim responsibility for.
No more tears after teatime, no more wailing for Daddy when they curl in against me at night – no more demanding I come to bed with them at bedtime.
I still have pictures of ‘Dad’ bluetacked all through my house and the occasional ‘when’s Dad going to call – I miss him’, but, for the most times, between school and their furry little charges, they’re happily distracted.
Finding these little buggers wasn’t easy.
Which is ironic when there’s obviously hundreds of people not neutering their cats – but I refused to have a Tabby.
To me, a Tabby spells ‘feral’ – I just can’t escape that old prejudice.
After a tearful phone call with The Girl, my mother spent a whole day ringing every petshop and RSPCA between the Eyre Peninsula and the Flinders Ranges.
The RSPCA provided animals with all the appropriate shots and neutering, but their cats were mostly three-month-olds, and my babies needed babies of their own.
The local petshop was happy to sell me sad, scrawny, much-too-young-to-be-weaned little felines for $15 – but the poor things looked so sad and neglected I couldn’t do it.
It can only be serendipity that one of the local farmer mums brought in a basketload of kittens for show and tell at The Kids’ school, the same day I was bewailing the state of the petshop kittens to the school secretary.
Turns out, she’d had the all-black mum Licorice show up on her doorstep one night, and soon after came a whole litter of All-Sorts.
She leapt at the chance of knowing where her new babies were going to end up, a chance to soothe her own kitten-obsessed children, and I leapt at the chance of free, healthy, seven-week old kittens.
With the chookshed not finished yet, no fence (or inclination) to keep a dog in, guinea pigs just too damned fragile and rabbits one step too far for my moral sense – kittens seemed the obvious sollution!
Of course, the kids and I had been talking about kittens and chooks for a while now.
I’d made the mistake, last week, of chivvying them home from school with the promise of a ‘surprise’.
“Is it Daddy? Is it our cats? Are our chooks here?”
The answer – iced donuts – just didn’t seem so special afterwards.
Two days later I was doing the same thing, rushing them home with talk of a ‘surprise’.
“Is it donuts? Is it in the kitchen?”
In the car I’d teased them that it was ‘stinkin’ Tuna’ – to help them grow big and strong.
The look on The Girl’s face when I opened the fridge and brought out…Tuna!
The pair continued to look at me with verging-on-tears disbelief as I shoveled out Tuna chunks into a bowl, telling them how good it was for brains and bones.
“But we don’t LIKE stinkin’ Tuna,” The Girl wailed through wavering lips.
“Well I’ll give it to someone who does…” I declared.
It was worth it, to see their faces when the smell of the Tuna coaxed the little fluffballs out from under the TV cabinet.
Now they have spent two days creating little cat runs and cat palaces and cat toy piles and cat toys out of lolly wrappers and feathers and wool, and they have gone to bed looking at pictures of cats in the ‘Big Book of Egypt’.
I can tell you, with a clear conscience, that the sense of peace these little animals have brought my family is worth every butchered gecko or mauled parrot I ever have to claim responsibility for.
Feline Fellows
We have welcomed two murderers into the family.
No, I won’t sugarcoat it – that’s what they are and that’s why they are here.
Two twinned black cats with dark eyes and white blazes on their chest – the kids have named them Pharoah and Mako.
Pharoah was, actually, The Girl’s idea after reading up on Egypt. Mako was my attempt at talking The Boy out of calling his cat Nemo or Bruce, both of Pixar fame.
And yes, I know they will eat my little kitchen skinks, and they will, eventually turn into marauding Toms who will butcher the galahs and rosellas in my almond trees if they get the chance.
And, I know, that after working with environmental scientists in one of Australia’s most ecologically-sensitive regions that I should be appalled at the idea of raising my own feline marauders.
But, you know what, if they keep the mice away and scare a few snakes while they’re at it – they can eat all the galahs and geckos they want.
I don’t know at what time I became phobic about mice.
I remember being pregnant in what was, once, my family home, and watching the same mouse, night after night, skitter across the lounge room floor and hide behind the TV cabinet with any morsels it had picked up on its way through the kitchen.
How many nights I sat there, listening to the skritch-skratch of it eating toast in the safety of MY night-time retreat – how many nights I narrowly missed it with thrown paperback – I don’t know.
But by the end of our time in that house I know I was HYSTERICAL at the idea of that mouse sharing residency.
Looking back, considering my growing distaste for the little buggers, it wasn’t smart to move into a falling-down house surrounded by old dog kennels and wheatfields – and then leave it full of cardboard boxes full of books and clothes.
When The Man and I were both here, I’d lie away at night listening to the traps snap and then beg him to reset them.
We had a deal – I’d kill the spiders, he’d dispose of the mice.
But he’s gone now and, ironically, like so many women of this day and age, now that my Man has let me down – I’ve turned to Pussy.
No, I won’t sugarcoat it – that’s what they are and that’s why they are here.
Two twinned black cats with dark eyes and white blazes on their chest – the kids have named them Pharoah and Mako.
Pharoah was, actually, The Girl’s idea after reading up on Egypt. Mako was my attempt at talking The Boy out of calling his cat Nemo or Bruce, both of Pixar fame.
And yes, I know they will eat my little kitchen skinks, and they will, eventually turn into marauding Toms who will butcher the galahs and rosellas in my almond trees if they get the chance.
And, I know, that after working with environmental scientists in one of Australia’s most ecologically-sensitive regions that I should be appalled at the idea of raising my own feline marauders.
But, you know what, if they keep the mice away and scare a few snakes while they’re at it – they can eat all the galahs and geckos they want.
I don’t know at what time I became phobic about mice.
I remember being pregnant in what was, once, my family home, and watching the same mouse, night after night, skitter across the lounge room floor and hide behind the TV cabinet with any morsels it had picked up on its way through the kitchen.
How many nights I sat there, listening to the skritch-skratch of it eating toast in the safety of MY night-time retreat – how many nights I narrowly missed it with thrown paperback – I don’t know.
But by the end of our time in that house I know I was HYSTERICAL at the idea of that mouse sharing residency.
Looking back, considering my growing distaste for the little buggers, it wasn’t smart to move into a falling-down house surrounded by old dog kennels and wheatfields – and then leave it full of cardboard boxes full of books and clothes.
When The Man and I were both here, I’d lie away at night listening to the traps snap and then beg him to reset them.
We had a deal – I’d kill the spiders, he’d dispose of the mice.
But he’s gone now and, ironically, like so many women of this day and age, now that my Man has let me down – I’ve turned to Pussy.
Eight-legged Wonders
I have always been fascinated by spiders.
When other girls wanted ponies, I wanted a tarantula.
Of course, I would have settled for a pony…don’t get me wrong. I am still a girl.
When we were children my brother and I were given a pet mouse each, in a little plastic tank.
My mother was assured by the pet owner that they were both male.
Let’s just say, she got a very quick lesson in ‘buyer beware’ and we were delighted to end up with a dozen little pink mouslings each.
I find that ironic today, when I live in a house populated by mouse-sized spiders and spider-quick mice.
I obviously got over my affection for mice (as did my mother, who, until I was in my 20s, insisted that our cat Fluffy had, one day, unlatched both mouse tanks without eating any of our little babies and they had all escaped into the back paddock – perhaps to join the Rats of NIMH).
But when the mice were gone, I remember trapping a huge huntsman – a regular visitor in our rainforest home – and insisting that he was a Tarantula and keeping him in the mouse tank.
This is what happens when you encourage your children to watch National Geographic specials instead of Saturday morning cartoons.
Apparently Fluffy set my Tarantula free as well…she must have been a wily old Puss, that’s all I have to say.
The week we were all here cleaning up I was bitten by a Redback – we saw several huge ones, as big as grapes.
Mum smashed half of my crockery because she pulled out a pile of dishes and a Huntsman catapaulted out of the cupboard at her.
Even the handyman commented on the size of the spiders – but then he was impressed by our six-foot-snake and the nest of UberRats it was lunching on underneath one of the old greyhound kennels.
Even after all the spider bombs, the kids found a really huge Huntsman in one of the toyboxes which even frosted with Mortein, refused to die. So, in true Steve Irwin fashion I took my longest barbecue tongs and lifted it out from its camouflage of Barbies and Batmans – the bastard thing was so strong I could feel it pushing the tongs apart.
Now, once again, I have a pet ‘Tarantula’.
With the Kids insisting on sleeping in my bed nowadays, I often sit up reading in the lounge until they’re settled.
After weeks of spider bombs, surface spray, DIY spider spray and plain old Pea-Beau spiders were obviously the last of my concerns.
So when I heard the pile of drawings the kids had left on the floor, next to my couch, rustle – I assumed it was a damn mouse (and oh how I wished Fluffy was still alive, right at that moment).
Imagine my shock when I flipped up the crayoned self-portraits to discover a matchbox-sized huntsman with huge spindly legs.
Leaping for the non-organic, highly-toxic and completely unethical anti-spider spraypack that now lives in my lounge room, I chased the monster under the couch which I picked up one-handed to spray underneath.
I missed.
In fact, four nights in a row – I’ve missed.
We might just have to name him and welcome him into the family.
Until then, at least he’s keeping the bastard earwigs out of the house.
When other girls wanted ponies, I wanted a tarantula.
Of course, I would have settled for a pony…don’t get me wrong. I am still a girl.
When we were children my brother and I were given a pet mouse each, in a little plastic tank.
My mother was assured by the pet owner that they were both male.
Let’s just say, she got a very quick lesson in ‘buyer beware’ and we were delighted to end up with a dozen little pink mouslings each.
I find that ironic today, when I live in a house populated by mouse-sized spiders and spider-quick mice.
I obviously got over my affection for mice (as did my mother, who, until I was in my 20s, insisted that our cat Fluffy had, one day, unlatched both mouse tanks without eating any of our little babies and they had all escaped into the back paddock – perhaps to join the Rats of NIMH).
But when the mice were gone, I remember trapping a huge huntsman – a regular visitor in our rainforest home – and insisting that he was a Tarantula and keeping him in the mouse tank.
This is what happens when you encourage your children to watch National Geographic specials instead of Saturday morning cartoons.
Apparently Fluffy set my Tarantula free as well…she must have been a wily old Puss, that’s all I have to say.
The week we were all here cleaning up I was bitten by a Redback – we saw several huge ones, as big as grapes.
Mum smashed half of my crockery because she pulled out a pile of dishes and a Huntsman catapaulted out of the cupboard at her.
Even the handyman commented on the size of the spiders – but then he was impressed by our six-foot-snake and the nest of UberRats it was lunching on underneath one of the old greyhound kennels.
Even after all the spider bombs, the kids found a really huge Huntsman in one of the toyboxes which even frosted with Mortein, refused to die. So, in true Steve Irwin fashion I took my longest barbecue tongs and lifted it out from its camouflage of Barbies and Batmans – the bastard thing was so strong I could feel it pushing the tongs apart.
Now, once again, I have a pet ‘Tarantula’.
With the Kids insisting on sleeping in my bed nowadays, I often sit up reading in the lounge until they’re settled.
After weeks of spider bombs, surface spray, DIY spider spray and plain old Pea-Beau spiders were obviously the last of my concerns.
So when I heard the pile of drawings the kids had left on the floor, next to my couch, rustle – I assumed it was a damn mouse (and oh how I wished Fluffy was still alive, right at that moment).
Imagine my shock when I flipped up the crayoned self-portraits to discover a matchbox-sized huntsman with huge spindly legs.
Leaping for the non-organic, highly-toxic and completely unethical anti-spider spraypack that now lives in my lounge room, I chased the monster under the couch which I picked up one-handed to spray underneath.
I missed.
In fact, four nights in a row – I’ve missed.
We might just have to name him and welcome him into the family.
Until then, at least he’s keeping the bastard earwigs out of the house.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
My High Horse
I'm really getting the hang of this Anger thing.
Everytime I start feeling a little sorry for myself I remind myself that The Man hasn't rung the kids, or paid his half of the bills...and then I whip of another job application and plan how I'm going to paint my kitchen and plant my garden.
My friend 'Seamus' is going to bring me home some rich, huge, lives-along-way-away Rig Pig to sleep with and then I'll be SET!
Tell you all about it then - LOL.
Everytime I start feeling a little sorry for myself I remind myself that The Man hasn't rung the kids, or paid his half of the bills...and then I whip of another job application and plan how I'm going to paint my kitchen and plant my garden.
My friend 'Seamus' is going to bring me home some rich, huge, lives-along-way-away Rig Pig to sleep with and then I'll be SET!
Tell you all about it then - LOL.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Crossing the Border of Craziness
Today, I crossed the line and...picking up my things from The Man's house, found a box that wasn't mine and snooped through it.
And I found just what I deserved - a letter to his married lover, a bottle of 'Eternity' perfume. The box says 'my Angel'.
I WENT OFF MY NUT! And he called me a fat psycho and told me I was paranoid.
It's not paranoid if it's real.
I said 'tell me or I take the letters to her her husband' and he said 'you're selfish, you're willing to ruin someone else's life'.
And I breathed and thought, 'it's ok, the man I loved no longer exists, it's ok to leave now and forget about him'.
I can mourn him because he is dead. The man I loved is gone.
The man I loved would never destroy someone else's family, over and over again, different families.
He no longer exists.
He told me 'we're strangers, you don't know me anymore' and that's true.
Because I thought it would get better, I thought he would choose good things for his future and mine and that of our children.
I was told today that 'idiocy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result'.
I'm not going to be an idiot anymore.
I am going to cry for this broken love that never quite grew up into something real and go and be happy somewhere else, someway else.
And hope my kids don't inherit the 'fuck the world' gene that their Dad runs on...or the 'love is blind' streak that kept me stuck in crazyland for so long.
And I found just what I deserved - a letter to his married lover, a bottle of 'Eternity' perfume. The box says 'my Angel'.
I WENT OFF MY NUT! And he called me a fat psycho and told me I was paranoid.
It's not paranoid if it's real.
I said 'tell me or I take the letters to her her husband' and he said 'you're selfish, you're willing to ruin someone else's life'.
And I breathed and thought, 'it's ok, the man I loved no longer exists, it's ok to leave now and forget about him'.
I can mourn him because he is dead. The man I loved is gone.
The man I loved would never destroy someone else's family, over and over again, different families.
He no longer exists.
He told me 'we're strangers, you don't know me anymore' and that's true.
Because I thought it would get better, I thought he would choose good things for his future and mine and that of our children.
I was told today that 'idiocy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result'.
I'm not going to be an idiot anymore.
I am going to cry for this broken love that never quite grew up into something real and go and be happy somewhere else, someway else.
And hope my kids don't inherit the 'fuck the world' gene that their Dad runs on...or the 'love is blind' streak that kept me stuck in crazyland for so long.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Tired, tired, tired.
How tiring it is, to find yourself in old grooves without trying.
How tiring to find that I'm back in this town talking about the same things, being the same person.
It's true, you can reinvent yourself sometimes if you break out of an old rut.
I am trying to - but I'm still coming up against people expecting me to be one way or the other.
I'm finally talking to people again and they're telling me what to do, again...like I don't know.
I'm not lost, I'm sad. Why is it so hard for other people to watch that?
Isn't that why I made such an effort not to show anyone for so long?
I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired...isn't that how the saying goes?
I want new things in my life to talk about, new challenges, less of the old hurts.
I wish I knew how to be better at that...I get so jealous that other people have that skill and I have to work so hard at it.
Jealousy...things I can do without in my life.
I'll have to remember that another time. Another place.
How tiring to find that I'm back in this town talking about the same things, being the same person.
It's true, you can reinvent yourself sometimes if you break out of an old rut.
I am trying to - but I'm still coming up against people expecting me to be one way or the other.
I'm finally talking to people again and they're telling me what to do, again...like I don't know.
I'm not lost, I'm sad. Why is it so hard for other people to watch that?
Isn't that why I made such an effort not to show anyone for so long?
I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired...isn't that how the saying goes?
I want new things in my life to talk about, new challenges, less of the old hurts.
I wish I knew how to be better at that...I get so jealous that other people have that skill and I have to work so hard at it.
Jealousy...things I can do without in my life.
I'll have to remember that another time. Another place.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Letting Go
My daughter told me this week that she'd rather have The Man and I together, and fighting, than apart.
Her sister suggested The Boy could go live with Dad and The Girl could go live with me, which resulted in The Boy crying in the night that he didn't want to choose when The Girl wanted to come home and he was asked if he wanted to go home as well.
I keep finding drawings of me and The Man and The Girl between us, with lovehearts bluetacked on doors and walls and the fridge.
Now The Man has told the kids that he can't take them away from me, because I need them.
Oh my God!
How much damage are we doing to these kids.
If there is a God, which I doubt, I hope s/he forgives me because I don't think my children ever will.
Her sister suggested The Boy could go live with Dad and The Girl could go live with me, which resulted in The Boy crying in the night that he didn't want to choose when The Girl wanted to come home and he was asked if he wanted to go home as well.
I keep finding drawings of me and The Man and The Girl between us, with lovehearts bluetacked on doors and walls and the fridge.
Now The Man has told the kids that he can't take them away from me, because I need them.
Oh my God!
How much damage are we doing to these kids.
If there is a God, which I doubt, I hope s/he forgives me because I don't think my children ever will.
Anti-Stupidity Forcefield
I'd like to be idiot-proof.
Would it be like the cone of silence?
Would a forcefield slam down between me and the blank-eyed woman at Woolworths, or my ex-husband's workmate who spent the last six months listening to how high maintenance I am, and then put his hand up my shirt the first time I dropped into the pub for a drink after The Man left.
I am going to imagine that shield clanging down like the doors to the batcave every time I'm smiling my insipid journalist smile at some racist stranger, or every time the girl at the supermarket whines 'how was your day?' when you know she really doesn't give a shit...kaching!
I can hear it now...kaching!
Would it be like the cone of silence?
Would a forcefield slam down between me and the blank-eyed woman at Woolworths, or my ex-husband's workmate who spent the last six months listening to how high maintenance I am, and then put his hand up my shirt the first time I dropped into the pub for a drink after The Man left.
I am going to imagine that shield clanging down like the doors to the batcave every time I'm smiling my insipid journalist smile at some racist stranger, or every time the girl at the supermarket whines 'how was your day?' when you know she really doesn't give a shit...kaching!
I can hear it now...kaching!
Idiot-proofing
If germ-proofing has resulted in the rise of deadly super-germs, what will come of making things idiot-proof?
My friends and I discuss this regularly - we're living in the age of anti-Darwinism where only the idiots are still breeding.
It's true isn't it?
The people you love, the ones you think are great parents with fantastic kids, stop at two, or even three.
Then you meet people with three kids to three different arseholes. (What happened to once bitten, twice shy?)
Or the woman I met recently with 12 children, who found a new partner when her teenagers stopped being eligible for pension payments - and found herself in hospital, in labour, at the same time as her 17-year-old daughter.
It's a joy to see them down the street together with matching prams, sharing a cigarette.
It's only just occurred to my family (not to mention me) that I can still have more kids.
And I'm sure, secretly, my parents have revived their dream of my finding a nice yuppie lawyer or international doctor.
And when I think about it I'm torn between 'ohmigod, then I'd be one of THEM' and 'maybe it's my genetic DUTY to breed a few more gorgeous, incredibly-loved kids'...to balance out all the sad, pension-sucking freaks who lined up with me at CentreLink the other day.
CentreLink scares me.
I need a new job like NOW so I never have to sit next to the incredible farting woman and the tooth-picking thong-wearer ever again!
Or a nice lawyer to breed with...LOL
My friends and I discuss this regularly - we're living in the age of anti-Darwinism where only the idiots are still breeding.
It's true isn't it?
The people you love, the ones you think are great parents with fantastic kids, stop at two, or even three.
Then you meet people with three kids to three different arseholes. (What happened to once bitten, twice shy?)
Or the woman I met recently with 12 children, who found a new partner when her teenagers stopped being eligible for pension payments - and found herself in hospital, in labour, at the same time as her 17-year-old daughter.
It's a joy to see them down the street together with matching prams, sharing a cigarette.
It's only just occurred to my family (not to mention me) that I can still have more kids.
And I'm sure, secretly, my parents have revived their dream of my finding a nice yuppie lawyer or international doctor.
And when I think about it I'm torn between 'ohmigod, then I'd be one of THEM' and 'maybe it's my genetic DUTY to breed a few more gorgeous, incredibly-loved kids'...to balance out all the sad, pension-sucking freaks who lined up with me at CentreLink the other day.
CentreLink scares me.
I need a new job like NOW so I never have to sit next to the incredible farting woman and the tooth-picking thong-wearer ever again!
Or a nice lawyer to breed with...LOL
Recovery
I've been cured of two ailments this week.
Firstly, the nasty RedBack spider bite whose venom was draining through my lymphatic system and turning my whole arm into an enflamed, swollen roadmap of envenomed veins.
A round of antihistamines cured that little affliction nicely, while my second illness - love of my lousy ex-husband - has been a little harder to shake.
Why isn't there a pill for that eh? Imagine if you could patent a 'getoverit' pill?
Fuck, it would completely outstrip rohypnol in the drink spiking stakes, I'm thinking.
Imagine being able to feed one of those to your ex.
I woke up the other night and suddenly there'd been a shift in my head.
All the wonderful, lovely things about our life had been shuffled to the background, and in the front was all the reasons I DIDN'T want to see him again.
All the nasty comments, the unreliable moments, the sad, angry exchanges, the disappointments and loss of trust.
And now, watching him rewrite our life, like it stopped being good on a single day makes me want to scratch his eyeballs out and feed them to him through his rectum.
So, instead, I'm going to go back to my falling-down crapbox house on a hill - that I love, and will take YEARS to get up to dinner-party-with-new-friends standard and raise chickens (if the snakes don't get them) and vegies (if the rabbits don't get them) and my babies (if the farmers don't get them).
I'm looking forward to starting my study, that sounds cool, and I'm going to have to take writing seriously and try and get a novel published...because I can't live with an orange kitchen and an avocado green missionary brown bathroom for too long.
At the moment, I need to take my contacts out before I go for a shower so that theclashing colours don't send me spiralling down into depression again.
Only two more weeks and then school starts and my life is back on track - without money, without a partner, but without a whole lot of fucking hassles as well.
Firstly, the nasty RedBack spider bite whose venom was draining through my lymphatic system and turning my whole arm into an enflamed, swollen roadmap of envenomed veins.
A round of antihistamines cured that little affliction nicely, while my second illness - love of my lousy ex-husband - has been a little harder to shake.
Why isn't there a pill for that eh? Imagine if you could patent a 'getoverit' pill?
Fuck, it would completely outstrip rohypnol in the drink spiking stakes, I'm thinking.
Imagine being able to feed one of those to your ex.
I woke up the other night and suddenly there'd been a shift in my head.
All the wonderful, lovely things about our life had been shuffled to the background, and in the front was all the reasons I DIDN'T want to see him again.
All the nasty comments, the unreliable moments, the sad, angry exchanges, the disappointments and loss of trust.
And now, watching him rewrite our life, like it stopped being good on a single day makes me want to scratch his eyeballs out and feed them to him through his rectum.
So, instead, I'm going to go back to my falling-down crapbox house on a hill - that I love, and will take YEARS to get up to dinner-party-with-new-friends standard and raise chickens (if the snakes don't get them) and vegies (if the rabbits don't get them) and my babies (if the farmers don't get them).
I'm looking forward to starting my study, that sounds cool, and I'm going to have to take writing seriously and try and get a novel published...because I can't live with an orange kitchen and an avocado green missionary brown bathroom for too long.
At the moment, I need to take my contacts out before I go for a shower so that theclashing colours don't send me spiralling down into depression again.
Only two more weeks and then school starts and my life is back on track - without money, without a partner, but without a whole lot of fucking hassles as well.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Spiderwoman...sans lycra.
I was bitten by a spider this week.
Sadly, I haven't seen any signs of superpowers yet, and I haven't miraculously developed abs of steel - although I must say, I'm nicely tanned from all this out-of-character outdoor work.
And, it's not like the spiders at The Farm aren't mutants - they most definitely are.
I wondered why there wasn't much evidence of mice after the house has been empty of people but full of books and clothes and open cereal boxes for a year.
Understanding came when I realised the spiders had grown so big they were trapping the mice and eating them.
Which explains the six foot snake we found in the shed - The Farm has turned into our very own 'Lost World' complete with its own ecosystem and giant mutants.
And speaking of Darwinism and survival of the fittest...
I have a new man in my life.
He's strong, reliable and not afraid to get his hands dirty.
Sadly, he's also 65 with 14 children, 35 grand children, and apparently...testicular cancer and a regular pension...although how we got around to that little bit of information I'm not quite sure.
But I don't care, I love him! Because in two days he battled a snake for me, offered to give me money (for all our - well he calls it salvage, I call it big rusty pieces of CRAP) and has already pulled down two of the sheds that block my view of the gorgeous Flinders Ranges.
One of his 14 children is a Sparkie (my NEW best friend) and another is a Plumber (best friend number 2 - sorry girls, you've been bumped out of sheer necessity).
I spent today on a white-sand turquoise-ocean beach today, feeling like a Danielle Steel character in my new flirty skirt, fluttering in the breeze, and well-behaved children running around me on the sand.
I had a book in my lap and a choice view of too-young-to-touch-but-lovely-to-look-at men (God, I hope they were old enough to be called men or I'd feel REALLY dirty now) and, for the first time in months, maybe years, I wasn't rushing anywhere.
So...I immediately SMSd everyone I know to point out how relaxed and laidback I was. LOL.
Sadly, I haven't seen any signs of superpowers yet, and I haven't miraculously developed abs of steel - although I must say, I'm nicely tanned from all this out-of-character outdoor work.
And, it's not like the spiders at The Farm aren't mutants - they most definitely are.
I wondered why there wasn't much evidence of mice after the house has been empty of people but full of books and clothes and open cereal boxes for a year.
Understanding came when I realised the spiders had grown so big they were trapping the mice and eating them.
Which explains the six foot snake we found in the shed - The Farm has turned into our very own 'Lost World' complete with its own ecosystem and giant mutants.
And speaking of Darwinism and survival of the fittest...
I have a new man in my life.
He's strong, reliable and not afraid to get his hands dirty.
Sadly, he's also 65 with 14 children, 35 grand children, and apparently...testicular cancer and a regular pension...although how we got around to that little bit of information I'm not quite sure.
But I don't care, I love him! Because in two days he battled a snake for me, offered to give me money (for all our - well he calls it salvage, I call it big rusty pieces of CRAP) and has already pulled down two of the sheds that block my view of the gorgeous Flinders Ranges.
One of his 14 children is a Sparkie (my NEW best friend) and another is a Plumber (best friend number 2 - sorry girls, you've been bumped out of sheer necessity).
I spent today on a white-sand turquoise-ocean beach today, feeling like a Danielle Steel character in my new flirty skirt, fluttering in the breeze, and well-behaved children running around me on the sand.
I had a book in my lap and a choice view of too-young-to-touch-but-lovely-to-look-at men (God, I hope they were old enough to be called men or I'd feel REALLY dirty now) and, for the first time in months, maybe years, I wasn't rushing anywhere.
So...I immediately SMSd everyone I know to point out how relaxed and laidback I was. LOL.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
http://www.zefrank.com/break_up/
very funny, & sadly appropriate
I've read three books a day for the past three days and I've still got time to stay up late at night and pace the floors.
It's even so hot here, that I don't want to go to the beach - bleurgh!
very funny, & sadly appropriate
I've read three books a day for the past three days and I've still got time to stay up late at night and pace the floors.
It's even so hot here, that I don't want to go to the beach - bleurgh!
Monday, December 26, 2005
Parallel Universes
I had two strange, parallel moments this Christmas.
Watching slides of all things (yes, you can put them on DVD, but it's still a bloody cliched slideshow and it doesn't make it any cooler) I saw my brother stand behind my sister-in-law and put a hand on her shoulder, ask her quietly, in her ear, if she'd like to sit down.
She reached up and touched his fingers and looked around at him and smiled, and there was that 'lightning bolt' between them.
Behind them, was a photo, of The Man and me at their wedding, looking that same way at each other over our son's head.
In all this mess, I've never felt sadder in my life.
Watching slides of all things (yes, you can put them on DVD, but it's still a bloody cliched slideshow and it doesn't make it any cooler) I saw my brother stand behind my sister-in-law and put a hand on her shoulder, ask her quietly, in her ear, if she'd like to sit down.
She reached up and touched his fingers and looked around at him and smiled, and there was that 'lightning bolt' between them.
Behind them, was a photo, of The Man and me at their wedding, looking that same way at each other over our son's head.
In all this mess, I've never felt sadder in my life.
Christmas
What a wonderful day, what thoughtful gifts, what great company...what a relief, that's it's all over now!
Time for some trash TV and roast leftovers!
Merry Christmas and I'm looking forward to a NEW YEAR!
God knows, it's got to be better than the last one.
And, PS, speaking of God.
If anyone out there is on good terms with him.
It would be handy for me if you suggested that I really want the job I interviewed for last week.
In return, I promise on my children's lives that I will not dilute the general Catholicism of my potential employers and their school - with my own, personal brand of rabid atheism - if s/he will only give me the job and let me past the gate without causing me to froth and tremble when my foot makes contact with consecrated ground.
Do you know what, I have never been interviewed by so many people in leggings and polo shirts in my life?
Tough crowd...and the first job in eight years where I haven't walked in and told someone else why they need to make a job for me, set my own hours, rates and had them hire me on the spot.
Do you know what's worse.
The week before, I had to spend a day in Centrelink.
I'd already been told over the phone several times that they would not help me until I was actually unemployed, if I sent anything off they'd just stamp it, fail it and send it back, and then they told me that I should avoid any office except the one that would be my long-term office - which was conveniently 600km from where I actually was, where I was going to that week, and where I was spending my Christmas holidays...but I should get there as soon as I could.
In five hours I talked to SIX different social workers, form-filler-outerers and queue-controllers, produced the four forms I'd filled out ahead of time (to, and you can insert ironic laughter here, SAVE TIME) only to discover that last week they changed to a paper-free format and I had to answer the questions all over again so they could be typed straight into the system.
While I waited I sat next to a woman who, I thought, had burped - turned to look at her and she lifted her cheek off the seat to let one rip.
I had to come up with several WITNESSES to the why, when and where of my husband and my break-up and then, to top it off, I had to wait two hours to get the approvals...and conveniently ran into my sister-in-law (she of the innocent face and dark heart, not to mention the black hole vagina) who, stupidly, I agreed to have lunch with.
Despite turning her down three times, I ended up saying 'oh, sure' because she pulled the - 'we can still be friends, you're still family' line on me.
I know, stupid, stupid, stupid...I know better. A half hour after her dropping me back at Centrelink I had The Man screaming at me about how his sister was at his mother's and everyone was crying and...think EastEnders meets Passions and you'd be pretty close.
I got the...'how bitter she is, going on about how he'll have a new house and she'll have shitbox.' Oh, hold on! That's true, and I'm fine with it. It's my choice to keep The Farm.
And then there's the...' she didn't want to even have lunch with me.' I wonder why?
And the...' she won't even come pick up the kids' presents.' So The Man can have his own celebrations with The Kids next week for Fuck's Sake.
Or the...'she says he's going to kill himself." No, I said he's going to get himself killed. Anyone feeling sorry for themselves in a car with a bottle of Bundy runs that risk. Especially ones who spend a little bit too much time with other men's wives.
But you know what...I am proud of myself. (Not for that last comment...I must admit. I'm throwing out a few low blows of my own lately it seems.)
Not for getting sucked into the flurry of 'he said, she said & I always said' that the sister-in-law lives her life in - that was my own fault, I knew my armour was down that day and I know my own faults - but because I didn't try and explain to The Man.
No one should ever have to pick their family over their ex-partner and exes should never expect anything different - and frankly, I think I got the better deal out of the lot of us.
Well, I just breathed, told him to fuck off or talk to the CentreLink social worker himself (might have saved me answering a few questions and got my payments speeded up) and decided that, yes, I'm better off where I am...a long way away from all that drama.
I don't know when to shut my mouth. I always expect the best of people...despite all the contradictory evidence and, frankly, I don't want to be a pessimist and untrusting sadsack for the rest of my life.
I'm a sucker for drama, and a shocking gossip - and I need to surround myself with people who don't feed my weaknesses because it's not in my or my children's best interests.
And anyway, that's what blogs are for.
I tell you what, though...CentreLink is a sharp learning curve.
I think I'll do all the rest of my dealings with them over the phone - the air (and the staff) in there is just too thick.
Time for some trash TV and roast leftovers!
Merry Christmas and I'm looking forward to a NEW YEAR!
God knows, it's got to be better than the last one.
And, PS, speaking of God.
If anyone out there is on good terms with him.
It would be handy for me if you suggested that I really want the job I interviewed for last week.
In return, I promise on my children's lives that I will not dilute the general Catholicism of my potential employers and their school - with my own, personal brand of rabid atheism - if s/he will only give me the job and let me past the gate without causing me to froth and tremble when my foot makes contact with consecrated ground.
Do you know what, I have never been interviewed by so many people in leggings and polo shirts in my life?
Tough crowd...and the first job in eight years where I haven't walked in and told someone else why they need to make a job for me, set my own hours, rates and had them hire me on the spot.
Do you know what's worse.
The week before, I had to spend a day in Centrelink.
I'd already been told over the phone several times that they would not help me until I was actually unemployed, if I sent anything off they'd just stamp it, fail it and send it back, and then they told me that I should avoid any office except the one that would be my long-term office - which was conveniently 600km from where I actually was, where I was going to that week, and where I was spending my Christmas holidays...but I should get there as soon as I could.
In five hours I talked to SIX different social workers, form-filler-outerers and queue-controllers, produced the four forms I'd filled out ahead of time (to, and you can insert ironic laughter here, SAVE TIME) only to discover that last week they changed to a paper-free format and I had to answer the questions all over again so they could be typed straight into the system.
While I waited I sat next to a woman who, I thought, had burped - turned to look at her and she lifted her cheek off the seat to let one rip.
I had to come up with several WITNESSES to the why, when and where of my husband and my break-up and then, to top it off, I had to wait two hours to get the approvals...and conveniently ran into my sister-in-law (she of the innocent face and dark heart, not to mention the black hole vagina) who, stupidly, I agreed to have lunch with.
Despite turning her down three times, I ended up saying 'oh, sure' because she pulled the - 'we can still be friends, you're still family' line on me.
I know, stupid, stupid, stupid...I know better. A half hour after her dropping me back at Centrelink I had The Man screaming at me about how his sister was at his mother's and everyone was crying and...think EastEnders meets Passions and you'd be pretty close.
I got the...'how bitter she is, going on about how he'll have a new house and she'll have shitbox.' Oh, hold on! That's true, and I'm fine with it. It's my choice to keep The Farm.
And then there's the...' she didn't want to even have lunch with me.' I wonder why?
And the...' she won't even come pick up the kids' presents.' So The Man can have his own celebrations with The Kids next week for Fuck's Sake.
Or the...'she says he's going to kill himself." No, I said he's going to get himself killed. Anyone feeling sorry for themselves in a car with a bottle of Bundy runs that risk. Especially ones who spend a little bit too much time with other men's wives.
But you know what...I am proud of myself. (Not for that last comment...I must admit. I'm throwing out a few low blows of my own lately it seems.)
Not for getting sucked into the flurry of 'he said, she said & I always said' that the sister-in-law lives her life in - that was my own fault, I knew my armour was down that day and I know my own faults - but because I didn't try and explain to The Man.
No one should ever have to pick their family over their ex-partner and exes should never expect anything different - and frankly, I think I got the better deal out of the lot of us.
Well, I just breathed, told him to fuck off or talk to the CentreLink social worker himself (might have saved me answering a few questions and got my payments speeded up) and decided that, yes, I'm better off where I am...a long way away from all that drama.
I don't know when to shut my mouth. I always expect the best of people...despite all the contradictory evidence and, frankly, I don't want to be a pessimist and untrusting sadsack for the rest of my life.
I'm a sucker for drama, and a shocking gossip - and I need to surround myself with people who don't feed my weaknesses because it's not in my or my children's best interests.
And anyway, that's what blogs are for.
I tell you what, though...CentreLink is a sharp learning curve.
I think I'll do all the rest of my dealings with them over the phone - the air (and the staff) in there is just too thick.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
With a little help from my friends
Wow - talk about taking your mind off your own troubles.
What my friends - let's call him Seamus and her Trixie (she'd hate that) - are going through sure makes me feel a little less self-obsessed with my own paltry, every-day everybody-does-it-these-days divorce.
And 'Trixie', if your OT logs you on - say hello back!
Trixie had a stroke at 35 and is learning how to wipe her own bum right now,she can't hold her two-year-old daughter on her own lap and it's killing her that they've shaved part of her hair.
She was a compulsive clapper when she was happy and now it's all very zen - 'what's the sound of one hand clapping?'
But, no matter how hard it is going to be for her, I felt like the sun had come up all over again when she recognised me and we could laugh together.
She's still my 'Trixie' - LOL, I'm going to get joy out of that for DAYS, being able to call her that and she can't reach far enough to slap me for it.
So I've hooked up a volunteer nail beautician to give her nails the once-over - the volunteer used to be in the spinal unit herself.
I clipped her toenails and her sister-in-law has done her eyebrows and she's in a fantastic rehab centre where they're going to help her relearn the skills she needs to come home and go back to work even.
No more hospital gowns - we brought in all her own clothes and shoes and skin products, so the place can really be home for a while.
If they knew how hard she works on her appearance when she's well, they'd have had a beautician waiting for her at the door when she booked in.
But it felt good to be right, when she said 'that's half the problem of being here, feeling shit because you look shit'.
Seamus and I sat outside of Bunnings in the carpark repotting herbs and lavender, a 'goddess' lily (the tattoo she and Seamus got together says goddess and her daughter's name is Lily) and a pink-flowered Christmas Cactus to make the room smell less like a h0spital (and look a lot more like a bloody tropical holiday getaway).
She's found some great nurses who she can tease and who are impervious to her temper - if only they knew that temper of hers had nothing to do with the brain injury.
And, while she was busy on her new OT regime or sleeping off the exhaustion of her speech therapy, Seamus and I had a captive audience to bounce plans off of...we went swimming, played poker all night and took the kids out for junkfood and playgrounds.
They say misery loves company, but I think we both had a lot of fun talking about the great stuff ahead instead of the shit behind us both. It was a moment out of time and it gave us both space to breathe.
It wasn't sympathy or pity, it was just good company.
Of course, on the downside, it's hard being single and hanging around with a gorgeous, six-foot-six Dad with kids, in a car full of babyseats - definitely reduces my chances of picking up single men at the beach. LOL.
Lovely though, to be somewhere safe and friendly where 'real life' has also been suspended for a little while, to be able to talk and not feel guilty that you're sucking up someone else's life - that's the beauty of the hour and a half drive between their home and Trixie's hospital.
And I got to see him step up and take on a new future, with all the changes he's going to have to make in their home and their lives.
Why are some of us only at our best when we're facing insurmountable odds?
Whatever it was, these last few days, it saved my life I think.
That my first days away from my old home and my old life weren't spent crying over 'woulda, shoulda, couldabeens'...I will always be thankful for that time to see 'Trixie' & 'Seamus' both on the road to recovery, and to point myself in the same direction.
What my friends - let's call him Seamus and her Trixie (she'd hate that) - are going through sure makes me feel a little less self-obsessed with my own paltry, every-day everybody-does-it-these-days divorce.
And 'Trixie', if your OT logs you on - say hello back!
Trixie had a stroke at 35 and is learning how to wipe her own bum right now,she can't hold her two-year-old daughter on her own lap and it's killing her that they've shaved part of her hair.
She was a compulsive clapper when she was happy and now it's all very zen - 'what's the sound of one hand clapping?'
But, no matter how hard it is going to be for her, I felt like the sun had come up all over again when she recognised me and we could laugh together.
She's still my 'Trixie' - LOL, I'm going to get joy out of that for DAYS, being able to call her that and she can't reach far enough to slap me for it.
So I've hooked up a volunteer nail beautician to give her nails the once-over - the volunteer used to be in the spinal unit herself.
I clipped her toenails and her sister-in-law has done her eyebrows and she's in a fantastic rehab centre where they're going to help her relearn the skills she needs to come home and go back to work even.
No more hospital gowns - we brought in all her own clothes and shoes and skin products, so the place can really be home for a while.
If they knew how hard she works on her appearance when she's well, they'd have had a beautician waiting for her at the door when she booked in.
But it felt good to be right, when she said 'that's half the problem of being here, feeling shit because you look shit'.
Seamus and I sat outside of Bunnings in the carpark repotting herbs and lavender, a 'goddess' lily (the tattoo she and Seamus got together says goddess and her daughter's name is Lily) and a pink-flowered Christmas Cactus to make the room smell less like a h0spital (and look a lot more like a bloody tropical holiday getaway).
She's found some great nurses who she can tease and who are impervious to her temper - if only they knew that temper of hers had nothing to do with the brain injury.
And, while she was busy on her new OT regime or sleeping off the exhaustion of her speech therapy, Seamus and I had a captive audience to bounce plans off of...we went swimming, played poker all night and took the kids out for junkfood and playgrounds.
They say misery loves company, but I think we both had a lot of fun talking about the great stuff ahead instead of the shit behind us both. It was a moment out of time and it gave us both space to breathe.
It wasn't sympathy or pity, it was just good company.
Of course, on the downside, it's hard being single and hanging around with a gorgeous, six-foot-six Dad with kids, in a car full of babyseats - definitely reduces my chances of picking up single men at the beach. LOL.
Lovely though, to be somewhere safe and friendly where 'real life' has also been suspended for a little while, to be able to talk and not feel guilty that you're sucking up someone else's life - that's the beauty of the hour and a half drive between their home and Trixie's hospital.
And I got to see him step up and take on a new future, with all the changes he's going to have to make in their home and their lives.
Why are some of us only at our best when we're facing insurmountable odds?
Whatever it was, these last few days, it saved my life I think.
That my first days away from my old home and my old life weren't spent crying over 'woulda, shoulda, couldabeens'...I will always be thankful for that time to see 'Trixie' & 'Seamus' both on the road to recovery, and to point myself in the same direction.
Love & Chocolate
Scientists say that love generates the same chemicals in the brain as chocolate.
Ironic that after my husband left me I had no interest in chocolate either.
Of course, the lack of appetite associated with depression could just be a biological imperative to get me thin enough that other men want to breed with me again - how sad eh?
Does that mean, when I'm happier again, I'm going to start porking up all over again.
How very Bridget Jones-ish.
Ironic that after my husband left me I had no interest in chocolate either.
Of course, the lack of appetite associated with depression could just be a biological imperative to get me thin enough that other men want to breed with me again - how sad eh?
Does that mean, when I'm happier again, I'm going to start porking up all over again.
How very Bridget Jones-ish.
And the tides, they are a'changing
The tides of my life, my emotions, are constantly chaning.
But for the moment, I feel like I'm riding the waves rather than being dumped and pummeled underneath them.
I saw our house for the first time in a year last week, and I understood the real meaning of despair.
For The Man to leave it like that - like one of those Council flats they bulldoze rather than try and clean, made my guts wrench...and not just from the food left in the fridge for a year.
This, the man who would move the fridge and clean under it while the kids slept, has given up so completely that he would leave an empty house full of groceries and letters on the carpet.
I wanted to cry...but I've done enough of that.
Instead I rang the buyer who wants our second block and I asked him for a firm offer.
There's no going back now.
There's too much work ahead of me for that.
But for the moment, I feel like I'm riding the waves rather than being dumped and pummeled underneath them.
I saw our house for the first time in a year last week, and I understood the real meaning of despair.
For The Man to leave it like that - like one of those Council flats they bulldoze rather than try and clean, made my guts wrench...and not just from the food left in the fridge for a year.
This, the man who would move the fridge and clean under it while the kids slept, has given up so completely that he would leave an empty house full of groceries and letters on the carpet.
I wanted to cry...but I've done enough of that.
Instead I rang the buyer who wants our second block and I asked him for a firm offer.
There's no going back now.
There's too much work ahead of me for that.
Not quite a haiku
My love...I set you free.
My hate, my jealousy, my regrets...I let go of my grip on you.
My future, however uncertain...I embrace you.
Hey, that's pretty good.
I reckon if I put it on an email, give it a month and someone will send it back to me with emoticons at the bottom!
My hate, my jealousy, my regrets...I let go of my grip on you.
My future, however uncertain...I embrace you.
Hey, that's pretty good.
I reckon if I put it on an email, give it a month and someone will send it back to me with emoticons at the bottom!
Leaving...
There were so many times after The Man's affair that I drove this road and imagined what it would be like to just keep driving, away from him and all this bullshit forever, just never come back.
I'm free of that feeling now. Free of that dread of the road ahead.
I realised it halfway to Adelaide.
I don't dread it anymore.
Somewhere out of Pimba a weight slipped off my shoulders and I got my balls back.
I wish he could be here, in the car, laughing with me...but there's no going back and there's a whole lot of things ahead of me.
I'm parked on the side of the road, watching the sunset.
It's a nice reminder that, for every sunset, there's a new sunrise tomorrow - even if it is going to get pretty damn dark tonight.
I'm free of that feeling now. Free of that dread of the road ahead.
I realised it halfway to Adelaide.
I don't dread it anymore.
Somewhere out of Pimba a weight slipped off my shoulders and I got my balls back.
I wish he could be here, in the car, laughing with me...but there's no going back and there's a whole lot of things ahead of me.
I'm parked on the side of the road, watching the sunset.
It's a nice reminder that, for every sunset, there's a new sunrise tomorrow - even if it is going to get pretty damn dark tonight.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
A bad day today...
It's a bad day today.
Full moon always makes me crazy I guess.
I keep getting my hopes up...stupid isn't it.
A few civil words and I think we're friends again.
We're not friends, we're not enemies, we're not partners, we're nothing very important at all.
You can't be any clearer than "I don't love you - leave me alone!"
He apologised for saying it and I said, no, keep saying it till it sinks in.
I hope it sinks in soon.
Full moon always makes me crazy I guess.
I keep getting my hopes up...stupid isn't it.
A few civil words and I think we're friends again.
We're not friends, we're not enemies, we're not partners, we're nothing very important at all.
You can't be any clearer than "I don't love you - leave me alone!"
He apologised for saying it and I said, no, keep saying it till it sinks in.
I hope it sinks in soon.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
...and down again.
Things have been calm lately.
Got things to do, got light at the end of tunnel, got space and distance between me and The Man which we're both benefiting from.
But every once and a while it hits me.
The man I love doesn't love me.
That hurts, it still hurts.
I'll be his friend, but I don't know if I can ever forgive him for being able to get over me.
Got things to do, got light at the end of tunnel, got space and distance between me and The Man which we're both benefiting from.
But every once and a while it hits me.
The man I love doesn't love me.
That hurts, it still hurts.
I'll be his friend, but I don't know if I can ever forgive him for being able to get over me.
Trilling Frogs
I just realised...some of you may have no idea what a Trilling Frog is.
I even wrote a song about them.
I'm obviously going to have to dig up the lyrics and publish the MP3s now that I am officially a web geek. (Yes, I know all you true geeks are saying to yourself, not if she still can't get her links right).
The Trilling Frog is one of my favourite Outback creatures - and I'm a sucker for snakes, geckos and frogs.
The frog only comes out at night when there's been enough rain to soak down through the clay levels where it has burrowed to escape the dry.
They literally come out, breed, give birth in the puddles and go back to sleep for as long as 10 years (if only, eh?).
Local opal miners have found them in the clay levels above potch and opal veins and quite a few locals up here have fished one out of the swimming pool and ended up with a family pet in a fishtank of sand.
The thing is, when they sing, it richochets out over the desert, and while not the best looks or the most melodious sound, these guys are unique to this part of the world - as were we, the 'Trilling Frogs'. To listen to the original 'Trilling Frogs', log onto http://www.environment.sa.gov.au/epa/frogcensus/central.html.
My daughter actually brought this site home to me from her science class and we had lots of funs listening to frog calls - I showed her the difference between the rainforest frogs I grew up with and the desert frogs we now here on rainy nights.
For the not-so-original but equally local 'Trilling Frogs' - check out my link at the right - I'm the one singing 'He's a Rebel' and 'California Dreaming' - and in my defence, I never said we were good, just that we were unique.
I even wrote a song about them.
I'm obviously going to have to dig up the lyrics and publish the MP3s now that I am officially a web geek. (Yes, I know all you true geeks are saying to yourself, not if she still can't get her links right).
The Trilling Frog is one of my favourite Outback creatures - and I'm a sucker for snakes, geckos and frogs.
The frog only comes out at night when there's been enough rain to soak down through the clay levels where it has burrowed to escape the dry.
They literally come out, breed, give birth in the puddles and go back to sleep for as long as 10 years (if only, eh?).
Local opal miners have found them in the clay levels above potch and opal veins and quite a few locals up here have fished one out of the swimming pool and ended up with a family pet in a fishtank of sand.
The thing is, when they sing, it richochets out over the desert, and while not the best looks or the most melodious sound, these guys are unique to this part of the world - as were we, the 'Trilling Frogs'. To listen to the original 'Trilling Frogs', log onto http://www.environment.sa.gov.au/epa/frogcensus/central.html.
My daughter actually brought this site home to me from her science class and we had lots of funs listening to frog calls - I showed her the difference between the rainforest frogs I grew up with and the desert frogs we now here on rainy nights.
For the not-so-original but equally local 'Trilling Frogs' - check out my link at the right - I'm the one singing 'He's a Rebel' and 'California Dreaming' - and in my defence, I never said we were good, just that we were unique.
Bum Bum Bum Bum
Tonight I'll be singing with my temporarily revived a cappela group, and I can't remember any of the Christmas carol parts I used to sing - in fact, they used to give me the lead just because I took too long to learn something new.
Four days to relearn 10 carols - good thing there'll be 4000 people singing along with us to drown out my off-beat 'bum bum bum bums'.
When the 'Trilling Frogs' were 'on the rise' - LOL - we had our own website.
You can still listen to us sing on http://trillingfrogs.music.net.au/ - we even cut a CD and video, if that's what you can call stuffing up three original songs in front of the Ausmusic recording crowd.
I believe my intro on the site went something like this...Red_Head_Riot is a constant source of diversion and mild confusion to her fellow frogs. But - let's face it, when you're constantly required to sing 'bum bum bum' next to a bunch of high-pitched skinny chicks then you have to have a sense of humour.
I sang at my wedding - people cried.
If only I knew then eh?
Hold on - I never actually established why people were crying...maybe I'm going to need to practice those carols right now.
Bum Bum Bum Bum!
Four days to relearn 10 carols - good thing there'll be 4000 people singing along with us to drown out my off-beat 'bum bum bum bums'.
When the 'Trilling Frogs' were 'on the rise' - LOL - we had our own website.
You can still listen to us sing on http://trillingfrogs.music.net.au/ - we even cut a CD and video, if that's what you can call stuffing up three original songs in front of the Ausmusic recording crowd.
I believe my intro on the site went something like this...Red_Head_Riot is a constant source of diversion and mild confusion to her fellow frogs. But - let's face it, when you're constantly required to sing 'bum bum bum' next to a bunch of high-pitched skinny chicks then you have to have a sense of humour.
I sang at my wedding - people cried.
If only I knew then eh?
Hold on - I never actually established why people were crying...maybe I'm going to need to practice those carols right now.
Bum Bum Bum Bum!
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Words, words & more words
Where did all these words come from?
They're just bubbling up out of me lately.
I've heard that, when you're trying to find what to do with your life, you should ask "if money was never, ever a problem, ever again, what would I choose to do with my life?"
My answer is 'write'.
I love music, I can sing a little bit and I can paint and draw a little bit - and I hope to do a little bit more of both in my new life.
But if I never had to pay a bill again, I would write.
I especially realise that now, when I find myself writing letters, blogs, diary entries, fiction, poetry - and that's in addition to the writing I do for a living.
It's a hard goal to realise though.
The fact is, I'm researching all sorts of ways to improve and eventually publish my writing right now, and every single book I read has a big warning about 'writer's block' or, as we like to call it in the newspaper industry, 'faffing around until someone starts yelling at you'.
That's why deadlines are so fantastic.
We've had a couple of students win school awards for their volunteer work at the newspaper and each time they've been congratulated on working 'independently with minimal adult guidance'.
I've explained to the teachers that, firstly, we have a very effective filtering system for our student volunteers.
We only employ the ones who aren't scared by my interviewing spiel which usually goes "I'm going to give you a job, you're going to go do it and you're going to be required to get it right because not only will I read it, but so will everyone you know, including the person you talked to, and if you stuff it up or don't do it before deadline you will receive a midnight phone call from me and you will come into the office and do it then and you can explain to your parents why you're getting midnight phone calls from your boss".
The fear of being yelled at at the end of the day, is just as effective and much better time management than following someone around all day to make sure they get it right.
So, back to me - because, obviously, I'm the reason you're reading this big long-winded blog.
I'm a procrastinator - you know that because right now I'm supposed to be finishing a 24-page newspaper, my last one, possibly for ever.
And, writing fiction doesn't come with deadlines.
I'm going to have to set my own when I get to The Farm (as advised by one of my 'how to write a novel' books...what I should write is a book about how to write a book, there must be more people than just me buying them) an hour a day where I HAVE to write.
Shouldn't be hard - heaven knows my nights aren't full of excitement any more.
So, it's true, one door closes and another door opens.
My nights will no longer be filled with long chats, shoulder-to-shoulder TV-watching or hot sex - but there will be lots of time to become a famous and successful novellist.
When you think about that, though, it makes you wonder how David Eddings, Raymond E Feist and Stephen King managed to have anyone to dedicate their books to eh?
They're just bubbling up out of me lately.
I've heard that, when you're trying to find what to do with your life, you should ask "if money was never, ever a problem, ever again, what would I choose to do with my life?"
My answer is 'write'.
I love music, I can sing a little bit and I can paint and draw a little bit - and I hope to do a little bit more of both in my new life.
But if I never had to pay a bill again, I would write.
I especially realise that now, when I find myself writing letters, blogs, diary entries, fiction, poetry - and that's in addition to the writing I do for a living.
It's a hard goal to realise though.
The fact is, I'm researching all sorts of ways to improve and eventually publish my writing right now, and every single book I read has a big warning about 'writer's block' or, as we like to call it in the newspaper industry, 'faffing around until someone starts yelling at you'.
That's why deadlines are so fantastic.
We've had a couple of students win school awards for their volunteer work at the newspaper and each time they've been congratulated on working 'independently with minimal adult guidance'.
I've explained to the teachers that, firstly, we have a very effective filtering system for our student volunteers.
We only employ the ones who aren't scared by my interviewing spiel which usually goes "I'm going to give you a job, you're going to go do it and you're going to be required to get it right because not only will I read it, but so will everyone you know, including the person you talked to, and if you stuff it up or don't do it before deadline you will receive a midnight phone call from me and you will come into the office and do it then and you can explain to your parents why you're getting midnight phone calls from your boss".
The fear of being yelled at at the end of the day, is just as effective and much better time management than following someone around all day to make sure they get it right.
So, back to me - because, obviously, I'm the reason you're reading this big long-winded blog.
I'm a procrastinator - you know that because right now I'm supposed to be finishing a 24-page newspaper, my last one, possibly for ever.
And, writing fiction doesn't come with deadlines.
I'm going to have to set my own when I get to The Farm (as advised by one of my 'how to write a novel' books...what I should write is a book about how to write a book, there must be more people than just me buying them) an hour a day where I HAVE to write.
Shouldn't be hard - heaven knows my nights aren't full of excitement any more.
So, it's true, one door closes and another door opens.
My nights will no longer be filled with long chats, shoulder-to-shoulder TV-watching or hot sex - but there will be lots of time to become a famous and successful novellist.
When you think about that, though, it makes you wonder how David Eddings, Raymond E Feist and Stephen King managed to have anyone to dedicate their books to eh?
Funny
This one still makes me laugh...
A husband says to his wife, "honey, if you learnt to cook, we could save money and fire the chef".
She replies, "honey, if you learnt how to fuck, we could save money and fire the chauffeu".
Aaaah, a real classic!
A husband says to his wife, "honey, if you learnt to cook, we could save money and fire the chef".
She replies, "honey, if you learnt how to fuck, we could save money and fire the chauffeu".
Aaaah, a real classic!
Empty Nest Syndrome
My babies flew away yesterday.
And while I'll see them in two weeks - we'll be settling into a whole new nest next time I'm with them and it's a very unsettling feeling.
Normally I'd be so excited about having some time to myself but it's very final this move, and it brings with it a whole bunch of other hurdles.
How am I going to get them settled at The Farm?
What do I need to do there before we can move in - I'll start with a big round of spider napalm, a false floor and get a sparkie to hook up my new septic system, get the old tank filled in, the fences back up and the weeds mowed down.
And all of that, with no money.
I'll finish up work on the 16th, sing at the local pageant on the 17th, travel to The Farm on the 18th and have to spend the 19th at the dentist, mechanic and Centrelink, before fighting Christmas traffic all the way to the City to see my friend in ICU.
It's nice to be moving forward again but there's so much to do, and not enough money or time to get it all done in.
In the next three months I have Christmas, New Year's, access visits with The Big Girl so she can have a second Christmas with The Kids and their Dad, an operation for The Boy, a whole lot of renovations, possibly a landsale to pay for my kitchen floors and plastered walls and, of course, holiday swimming lessons to boot.
I'm just chewing on one bite at a time though.
Get the paper out today, clean out my house & my work computer and office next week, get to the dentist, mechanic, Centrelink and The City the week after and be with The Kids for Christmas.
It seems a lot, even cutting it down to those two weeks, but it's just one step at a time.
And they're all forward steps...no more going backwards!
As Aldous Huxley would say - "it's a brave new world", but hopefully without all the test tubes and the need for happy pills.
And while I'll see them in two weeks - we'll be settling into a whole new nest next time I'm with them and it's a very unsettling feeling.
Normally I'd be so excited about having some time to myself but it's very final this move, and it brings with it a whole bunch of other hurdles.
How am I going to get them settled at The Farm?
What do I need to do there before we can move in - I'll start with a big round of spider napalm, a false floor and get a sparkie to hook up my new septic system, get the old tank filled in, the fences back up and the weeds mowed down.
And all of that, with no money.
I'll finish up work on the 16th, sing at the local pageant on the 17th, travel to The Farm on the 18th and have to spend the 19th at the dentist, mechanic and Centrelink, before fighting Christmas traffic all the way to the City to see my friend in ICU.
It's nice to be moving forward again but there's so much to do, and not enough money or time to get it all done in.
In the next three months I have Christmas, New Year's, access visits with The Big Girl so she can have a second Christmas with The Kids and their Dad, an operation for The Boy, a whole lot of renovations, possibly a landsale to pay for my kitchen floors and plastered walls and, of course, holiday swimming lessons to boot.
I'm just chewing on one bite at a time though.
Get the paper out today, clean out my house & my work computer and office next week, get to the dentist, mechanic, Centrelink and The City the week after and be with The Kids for Christmas.
It seems a lot, even cutting it down to those two weeks, but it's just one step at a time.
And they're all forward steps...no more going backwards!
As Aldous Huxley would say - "it's a brave new world", but hopefully without all the test tubes and the need for happy pills.
Reading the Signs
OK - you know it's a wobbly kind of day when I pull out the Tarot cards.
Last night they told me I was giving up a secure financial position for something more risky, even a little dodgy, and they also told me I was leaving a love out of pure necessity, without hope for reconciliation, and then my personal card was the Empress, heralding an earthier, more homely, maternal life with all the rewards and hardships associated with it.
Well duh!
My fucking Counsellor and best friends told me that!
I had a really vivid dream about reading with the kids in bed and my tooth just dropped out between us onto the pillow.
My friend and her mum insisted this had a meaning, so I googled it.
Apparently, "a tooth falling out within the dream may represent making way for the new. Or losing a tooth may represent an inability to get a grip on something, failing to fully comprehend it".
Well duh, again!
I think the kids and I are all going through a little bit of both those things.
But, frankly, what's the use of being a bloody Gypsy fortune teller if it's all bloody obvious anyway!
That's how the scammers really make their money - by being naturally perceptive.
What this all adds up to is the fact that I should learn my cards and make a living reading fortunes at the Laura Folk Fair and share the confusion around a little.
And if I did that, then my other's friends 'reflexology' summation of my large-lobed open-topped ears which - apparently, trap and funnel good fortune like Dumbo's ears direct the slipstream - might just be true because I'll make a fortune telling lonely 40-year-olds about their next dark, mysterious stranger.
Blah - it's so hard to be a cynic and a psychic all at the same time.
LOL
Last night they told me I was giving up a secure financial position for something more risky, even a little dodgy, and they also told me I was leaving a love out of pure necessity, without hope for reconciliation, and then my personal card was the Empress, heralding an earthier, more homely, maternal life with all the rewards and hardships associated with it.
Well duh!
My fucking Counsellor and best friends told me that!
I had a really vivid dream about reading with the kids in bed and my tooth just dropped out between us onto the pillow.
My friend and her mum insisted this had a meaning, so I googled it.
Apparently, "a tooth falling out within the dream may represent making way for the new. Or losing a tooth may represent an inability to get a grip on something, failing to fully comprehend it".
Well duh, again!
I think the kids and I are all going through a little bit of both those things.
But, frankly, what's the use of being a bloody Gypsy fortune teller if it's all bloody obvious anyway!
That's how the scammers really make their money - by being naturally perceptive.
What this all adds up to is the fact that I should learn my cards and make a living reading fortunes at the Laura Folk Fair and share the confusion around a little.
And if I did that, then my other's friends 'reflexology' summation of my large-lobed open-topped ears which - apparently, trap and funnel good fortune like Dumbo's ears direct the slipstream - might just be true because I'll make a fortune telling lonely 40-year-olds about their next dark, mysterious stranger.
Blah - it's so hard to be a cynic and a psychic all at the same time.
LOL
Thursday, December 08, 2005
I've Heard a Rubber Band
The rubber bands must have worked.
See http://hobbyfarmhopefuls.blogspot.com/2005/12/aversion-therapy.html
Or it could just be that the last fight was just one fight too many.
In that case I have a whole new use for the rubber bands - you know what they do to male sheep with a rubber band don't you?
See http://hobbyfarmhopefuls.blogspot.com/2005/12/aversion-therapy.html
Or it could just be that the last fight was just one fight too many.
In that case I have a whole new use for the rubber bands - you know what they do to male sheep with a rubber band don't you?
People These Days
I've just realised what incredible narcissism a website like this is.
It's self-obsessive, gratuitous and self-promoting - and I'm loving it to death.
I log on and look at myself, talk about myself, select my own elite group of 'friends' and share my information just as selectly.
Now we know what the answer is when they say "what's wrong with people these days?"
It's the fact that we only ever deal with the edited, photoshopped versions of ourselves and we get to choose what aspects of ourselves other people see and read.
And at the same time, there's an opportunity to attract outside interest from strangers all over the world which, in itself, is pretty gratifying - and let's face it, if you've got the right log-on or web photo, you can pretty much hedge your bets.
My husband used to call me Gypsy, and logged me on as Gypsy_Eyes when we first discovered ICQ (sadly, I discarded the nickname when my husband discarded me) and I was guaranteed a bombardment of hits every time I logged on.
The internet - a chance to lie all you like, and never get caught or sued. Institutionalised 'bullshitting' - no wonder people just don't trust other people anymore.
Oh, I'm getting SO old!
It's self-obsessive, gratuitous and self-promoting - and I'm loving it to death.
I log on and look at myself, talk about myself, select my own elite group of 'friends' and share my information just as selectly.
Now we know what the answer is when they say "what's wrong with people these days?"
It's the fact that we only ever deal with the edited, photoshopped versions of ourselves and we get to choose what aspects of ourselves other people see and read.
And at the same time, there's an opportunity to attract outside interest from strangers all over the world which, in itself, is pretty gratifying - and let's face it, if you've got the right log-on or web photo, you can pretty much hedge your bets.
My husband used to call me Gypsy, and logged me on as Gypsy_Eyes when we first discovered ICQ (sadly, I discarded the nickname when my husband discarded me) and I was guaranteed a bombardment of hits every time I logged on.
The internet - a chance to lie all you like, and never get caught or sued. Institutionalised 'bullshitting' - no wonder people just don't trust other people anymore.
Oh, I'm getting SO old!
Evil Plots
A good friend & I are so impressed by our own, combined cleverness that we actually keep our emails back and forwards - it's been going on for more than 12 years now - and I just took a little wander down cyberspace's own memory lane today.
One of my favourites, and reasonably relevant, is my ranting over The Man's inability to get the kids to school on time the one day of the fortnight I used to come to work early.
"My husband got very snotty last night because I happened to mention that if I wasn't around no one got anywhere on time, ever, and that even if I was around he was a fucking handicap to good timekeeping
It's 8.30am and I just rang him, the phone woke him up...when we get The Girl's report at the end of the year it will say every second Tuesday she was late for school!
I hope she cries and makes him feel like shit..."
My friend replied "That sounds like six months' worth of I-Told-You-So".
But my plan went a little differently...
"Or just a good, sound slapping when he goes to sleep.
Actually, what I'm going to do is program his watch, his phone, the clock and my phone so they all go off at 15 minute intervals and then put a big post-it on the kettle, his smokes packet and the back of the toilet door that says "what time is it honey?"...dickhead!"
She replied "LMAO oh do it, that sounds hysterical - can you set your stereo to go off? I can and that's pretty amazing if you forget to turn the volume down - it's out in the lounge and the house just starts to rumble and shake - LOL"
In my defense, The Kids have been late and lunchless several times since The Man moved out and I even received a lecture on letting up and 'going with the flow' when it comes to staying out past bedtime.
I even have a copy of all their late days printed off for the next time he gets up my nose - but considering tomorrow is their last day at this school and, if all goes to plan, he'll only ever have to get them to school one day a fortnight from now on, I think I can live.
I sure as hell know it's not a fight I'm ever going to win.'
Time to back off and breathe - the kids are too anal themselves to let him get away with it for long!
Other favourites include:
"I'm doing a story for the vet about national desexing month and I've titled it 'The Kindest Cut'.
I crack myself up
This is how writers in seclusion go crazy you know."
I think we'll have to do a search and rescue mission and dig up some other favourite reminiscings.
One of my favourites, and reasonably relevant, is my ranting over The Man's inability to get the kids to school on time the one day of the fortnight I used to come to work early.
"My husband got very snotty last night because I happened to mention that if I wasn't around no one got anywhere on time, ever, and that even if I was around he was a fucking handicap to good timekeeping
It's 8.30am and I just rang him, the phone woke him up...when we get The Girl's report at the end of the year it will say every second Tuesday she was late for school!
I hope she cries and makes him feel like shit..."
My friend replied "That sounds like six months' worth of I-Told-You-So".
But my plan went a little differently...
"Or just a good, sound slapping when he goes to sleep.
Actually, what I'm going to do is program his watch, his phone, the clock and my phone so they all go off at 15 minute intervals and then put a big post-it on the kettle, his smokes packet and the back of the toilet door that says "what time is it honey?"...dickhead!"
She replied "LMAO oh do it, that sounds hysterical - can you set your stereo to go off? I can and that's pretty amazing if you forget to turn the volume down - it's out in the lounge and the house just starts to rumble and shake - LOL"
In my defense, The Kids have been late and lunchless several times since The Man moved out and I even received a lecture on letting up and 'going with the flow' when it comes to staying out past bedtime.
I even have a copy of all their late days printed off for the next time he gets up my nose - but considering tomorrow is their last day at this school and, if all goes to plan, he'll only ever have to get them to school one day a fortnight from now on, I think I can live.
I sure as hell know it's not a fight I'm ever going to win.'
Time to back off and breathe - the kids are too anal themselves to let him get away with it for long!
Other favourites include:
"I'm doing a story for the vet about national desexing month and I've titled it 'The Kindest Cut'.
I crack myself up
This is how writers in seclusion go crazy you know."
I think we'll have to do a search and rescue mission and dig up some other favourite reminiscings.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Christmas Conscience
He knows if you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake!
How's that for a threat to have little kids shaking in their boots?
The Kids already have a healthy dose of inbuilt guilt.
The Girl used to come to us when she'd done something naughty and announce that she was going to her room.
But I was unprepared for the Christmas when we lined up with 300 other pageant-goers to meet Santa Claus for a present.
In fact we lined up twice because we got palmed off onto an Elf the first time and the kids only wanted the real thing.
So, after a half hour of standing in 42 degree heat being papered all over both thighs with little sticky handprints, we finally reach St Nick and he asks "have you been good this year?" - and The Boy promptly bursts into tears.
I think next year we'll celebrate Solstice instead and go sit naked under a tree somewhere - bugger the red coats and Elves.
How's that for a threat to have little kids shaking in their boots?
The Kids already have a healthy dose of inbuilt guilt.
The Girl used to come to us when she'd done something naughty and announce that she was going to her room.
But I was unprepared for the Christmas when we lined up with 300 other pageant-goers to meet Santa Claus for a present.
In fact we lined up twice because we got palmed off onto an Elf the first time and the kids only wanted the real thing.
So, after a half hour of standing in 42 degree heat being papered all over both thighs with little sticky handprints, we finally reach St Nick and he asks "have you been good this year?" - and The Boy promptly bursts into tears.
I think next year we'll celebrate Solstice instead and go sit naked under a tree somewhere - bugger the red coats and Elves.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Goodbye
I said goodbye to my husband today.
No more phone calls, no more letters, no more emails, no more 'little talks'.
No more hoping it'll be ok one day.
I'm going to let him go.
I'm going to find me again.
No more phone calls, no more letters, no more emails, no more 'little talks'.
No more hoping it'll be ok one day.
I'm going to let him go.
I'm going to find me again.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Aversion Therapy
I have my own new cure.
I am going to get a half dozen rubber bands and wear them on my wrist.
Every time I go to ring The Man, I'm going to snap the bands.
Every time I fixate on someone who hurt me, I'm going to snap the bands.
Every time I start talking myself down, or feeling sorry for myself, I'm going to snap the bands.
Starting... ...now!
Ouch!
I am going to get a half dozen rubber bands and wear them on my wrist.
Every time I go to ring The Man, I'm going to snap the bands.
Every time I fixate on someone who hurt me, I'm going to snap the bands.
Every time I start talking myself down, or feeling sorry for myself, I'm going to snap the bands.
Starting... ...now!
Ouch!
Presents Tense
The Man told me, today, that's he's taking the kids to buy me a Christmas present and I went ballistic.
I haven't received a gift from the man since The Mother's Day he moved out, and before that, it was the Christmas I was pregnant with our daughter.
I was so horrified that he'd be doing that whole 'let's buy something nice for Mummy' scene with the kids - and it wouldn't mean anything?
It was such a slap in the face.
I was thinking it's almost certainly an overreaction but I just took it so personally.
You buy gifts for people you care about - he can't tell me he doesn't care about me and then play 'Secret Santa' with the kids when I'm working, every day, to make sure they know we're not going to be together and that they'll still be ok.
He doesn't buy presents for his other ex. Fuck, he hasn't even bought the kids a Christmas present since they were born - I always organised the gifts because he hated spending money or planning ahead.
Maybe I'm just offended that he'll wait till I'm gone to put time into things I thought was important.
Whatever - all I know is I don't want a bullshit, pity present and I do not want the kids thinking Daddy feels good things about me, because he doesn't.
It's all just crap and I wish Christmas didn't exist this year.
I haven't received a gift from the man since The Mother's Day he moved out, and before that, it was the Christmas I was pregnant with our daughter.
I was so horrified that he'd be doing that whole 'let's buy something nice for Mummy' scene with the kids - and it wouldn't mean anything?
It was such a slap in the face.
I was thinking it's almost certainly an overreaction but I just took it so personally.
You buy gifts for people you care about - he can't tell me he doesn't care about me and then play 'Secret Santa' with the kids when I'm working, every day, to make sure they know we're not going to be together and that they'll still be ok.
He doesn't buy presents for his other ex. Fuck, he hasn't even bought the kids a Christmas present since they were born - I always organised the gifts because he hated spending money or planning ahead.
Maybe I'm just offended that he'll wait till I'm gone to put time into things I thought was important.
Whatever - all I know is I don't want a bullshit, pity present and I do not want the kids thinking Daddy feels good things about me, because he doesn't.
It's all just crap and I wish Christmas didn't exist this year.
Blah, Blah, Blah.
God I'm so sick of myself.
I can't stand my own voice...blah, blah, blah.
Someone says 'how are you' and I actually tell them!
That's not fair, no one who asks that question is actually interested!
People make eye contact and all these words just come spilling out of my mouth.
I'm just plain scary!
No wonder Sleeping Beauty slept for a hundred years.
What they don't tell you is that before Prince Charming woke her up, there was a Prince Not-So-Charming that drove her to despair - it wasn't a spinning wheel's prick that caused all the trouble.
Gives you some interesting possibilities about the Wicked Fairy though doesn't it?
Yup, I think just sleeping through the whole recovery might be a good policy!
Maybe I'll plug myself in next to my friend in Adelaide and we can both enjoy hospital sheets and someone else cleaning the bathroom for us.
I can't stand my own voice...blah, blah, blah.
Someone says 'how are you' and I actually tell them!
That's not fair, no one who asks that question is actually interested!
People make eye contact and all these words just come spilling out of my mouth.
I'm just plain scary!
No wonder Sleeping Beauty slept for a hundred years.
What they don't tell you is that before Prince Charming woke her up, there was a Prince Not-So-Charming that drove her to despair - it wasn't a spinning wheel's prick that caused all the trouble.
Gives you some interesting possibilities about the Wicked Fairy though doesn't it?
Yup, I think just sleeping through the whole recovery might be a good policy!
Maybe I'll plug myself in next to my friend in Adelaide and we can both enjoy hospital sheets and someone else cleaning the bathroom for us.
Friday, December 02, 2005
It's Not Easy Being a Grown-Up
So here we are at the hardest part.
My divorced and separated friends have warned me how difficult it would be - the division of property - and I guess we're doing ok.
I rolled on the ground laughing when one friend told me about throwing his ex-wife's CDs, Stereo & LPs out the 2nd storey window after she demanded their return, dropping them on the ground in front of her and pissing on them from a great height.
Or the electric toothbrush set he'd given her for Christmas, her meekly asking for it and him saying "no, no take it, it's yours - take everything" knowing that he'd wiped his arse with each of those tiny, sterile-white little attachments.
I don't do these things because I know my own capacity for cruelty.
My friends have spent a lot of weeks telling me "well that's just not you, you wouldn't do that, you have too big a heart...blah, blah, blah" BULLSHIT!
If they knew how hard a hold I keep on the reins of my own malice they'd jump back a step.
I remember, listening after The Man's affair, to friends saying "as long as you're happy - that's all that matters" and me snapping - "no, as long as she's unhappy for the rest of her life - THAT's what matters".
The shock on my friend's face was so sincere it made me laugh out loud. I know for a fact, that she felt the same way - she just didn't expect me to.
I don't think people realise that The Man and I had to live with each other's moods and insecurities and anger and brooding and malice - because we're both such 'on' personalities in public.
We truly let each other into our hearts and lives - but that meant we let each other into the dark, nasty parts of our souls too. And it was just a bit too intense I think.
So here we are, making lists and totalling up investments and splitting up bank accounts - all very sensible and I've realised how tough I can be without having to actually be a bitch.
I have friends warning me that property is where things get nasty - and I remember The Man, one day leaving the Big Girl's mother's house just red with fury when he realised that he'd furnished her entire house, the house she now lived in with the man she'd been sleeping with while she was pregnant with The Man's daughter.
It's memories like that which have ensured I do this cleanly.
We had weeks of 'it'll be the same, I'll look after the kids the same way, I'll still help with money" and he almost seemed offended that I said 'no, we can't rely on that'.
I couldn't imagine it being ok to ring up and say 'can you come have the kids for an hour tonight' when he's supposed to be meeting his next girlfriend. I couldn't bare watching him get on with his life without me. And it's never going to be 'the same way'. And I can't ask him for help - for fuck's sake, I can't even look him in the eye without crying.
He left me, and then got hurt that I wanted his clothes and books and personal things gone straight away. I'm always amazed that he can only imagine consequences one step ahead.
He fucked around on me - but didn't want to leave.
He left me - but didn't want me to give him back his shit.
He doesn't want to be with me - but he's not ready to get a divorce.
Surely, by now, he's sure of his feelings. Why be such a pussy about it? Why hedge his bets? It drives me NUTS!
Does he need an off-ramp - is he liked the woman he slept with, he needs something better to go to, to let go of what he's unhappy with now?
God knows, I don't, and he's sure not talking to me about it.
I've realised that loyalty is important to me.
Not that silly, undying, 12-year-old best friendsm, back of the milk shed blood brothers kind of loyalty.
The real kind - that gets you through someone else's foibles and mistakes and keeps your eyes fixed on the things you love about them.
I figure if you know someone long enough, through good and bad times, you're going to find out things about them that you don't admire. And you get over it...that's friendship.
It's been very empowering to have people who (while not inclined to bag The Man -which I couldn't deal with, ironically) have been completely loyal and supporting to me.
These are the friends I cherish right now, who know that The Man doesn't have to be a villain for me to be hurt and I don't have to be a saint to deserve support.
I spent two hours on a phone to my friend in Adelaide the other night playing 'your life is shittier than my life" and I haven't laughed so hard in so long.
He shocked me, with his own capacity to be hard. He keeps telling me 'it's over - you can't think like that, you can't plan for The Man' - and he's not the only one who says it, but, for some reason, maybe because he's The Man's friend too, or maybe it's just because he's a guy I don't expect him to be good at blunting the edges, it doesn't hurt so much coming from him.
Or maybe it's because his own wife his paralysed in hospital and he's sitting at home at night waiting to see if she'll live or die - it's hard to be impatient with someone's honesty when they're dealing with their own hard reality.
My friend gave me good advice - something I had realised, and am working on.
He said "you need to find new things to fill your life - I found gambling, I wouldn't reccommend that".
You can see why we laughed for so long now, can't you?
I've got great things in my life - and The Man and I aren't fighting, that's the big bonus.
To be trapped in a permanent battle with the person your heart is wrapped around is just poisonous...that's the true meaning of a broken heart, when you tear it apart all by yourselves.
There's been minimal conflict between The Man and Me in front of The Kids - that's a bonus.
They've escaped the whole 'your Daddy, your Mummy' emotional propaganda that used to upset me so much, watching other couples breaking up.
Although it almost hurts the way they're taking it so well - how sad that we're teaching them that this is normal and OK.
It shouldn't be.
My divorced and separated friends have warned me how difficult it would be - the division of property - and I guess we're doing ok.
I rolled on the ground laughing when one friend told me about throwing his ex-wife's CDs, Stereo & LPs out the 2nd storey window after she demanded their return, dropping them on the ground in front of her and pissing on them from a great height.
Or the electric toothbrush set he'd given her for Christmas, her meekly asking for it and him saying "no, no take it, it's yours - take everything" knowing that he'd wiped his arse with each of those tiny, sterile-white little attachments.
I don't do these things because I know my own capacity for cruelty.
My friends have spent a lot of weeks telling me "well that's just not you, you wouldn't do that, you have too big a heart...blah, blah, blah" BULLSHIT!
If they knew how hard a hold I keep on the reins of my own malice they'd jump back a step.
I remember, listening after The Man's affair, to friends saying "as long as you're happy - that's all that matters" and me snapping - "no, as long as she's unhappy for the rest of her life - THAT's what matters".
The shock on my friend's face was so sincere it made me laugh out loud. I know for a fact, that she felt the same way - she just didn't expect me to.
I don't think people realise that The Man and I had to live with each other's moods and insecurities and anger and brooding and malice - because we're both such 'on' personalities in public.
We truly let each other into our hearts and lives - but that meant we let each other into the dark, nasty parts of our souls too. And it was just a bit too intense I think.
So here we are, making lists and totalling up investments and splitting up bank accounts - all very sensible and I've realised how tough I can be without having to actually be a bitch.
I have friends warning me that property is where things get nasty - and I remember The Man, one day leaving the Big Girl's mother's house just red with fury when he realised that he'd furnished her entire house, the house she now lived in with the man she'd been sleeping with while she was pregnant with The Man's daughter.
It's memories like that which have ensured I do this cleanly.
We had weeks of 'it'll be the same, I'll look after the kids the same way, I'll still help with money" and he almost seemed offended that I said 'no, we can't rely on that'.
I couldn't imagine it being ok to ring up and say 'can you come have the kids for an hour tonight' when he's supposed to be meeting his next girlfriend. I couldn't bare watching him get on with his life without me. And it's never going to be 'the same way'. And I can't ask him for help - for fuck's sake, I can't even look him in the eye without crying.
He left me, and then got hurt that I wanted his clothes and books and personal things gone straight away. I'm always amazed that he can only imagine consequences one step ahead.
He fucked around on me - but didn't want to leave.
He left me - but didn't want me to give him back his shit.
He doesn't want to be with me - but he's not ready to get a divorce.
Surely, by now, he's sure of his feelings. Why be such a pussy about it? Why hedge his bets? It drives me NUTS!
Does he need an off-ramp - is he liked the woman he slept with, he needs something better to go to, to let go of what he's unhappy with now?
God knows, I don't, and he's sure not talking to me about it.
I've realised that loyalty is important to me.
Not that silly, undying, 12-year-old best friendsm, back of the milk shed blood brothers kind of loyalty.
The real kind - that gets you through someone else's foibles and mistakes and keeps your eyes fixed on the things you love about them.
I figure if you know someone long enough, through good and bad times, you're going to find out things about them that you don't admire. And you get over it...that's friendship.
It's been very empowering to have people who (while not inclined to bag The Man -which I couldn't deal with, ironically) have been completely loyal and supporting to me.
These are the friends I cherish right now, who know that The Man doesn't have to be a villain for me to be hurt and I don't have to be a saint to deserve support.
I spent two hours on a phone to my friend in Adelaide the other night playing 'your life is shittier than my life" and I haven't laughed so hard in so long.
He shocked me, with his own capacity to be hard. He keeps telling me 'it's over - you can't think like that, you can't plan for The Man' - and he's not the only one who says it, but, for some reason, maybe because he's The Man's friend too, or maybe it's just because he's a guy I don't expect him to be good at blunting the edges, it doesn't hurt so much coming from him.
Or maybe it's because his own wife his paralysed in hospital and he's sitting at home at night waiting to see if she'll live or die - it's hard to be impatient with someone's honesty when they're dealing with their own hard reality.
My friend gave me good advice - something I had realised, and am working on.
He said "you need to find new things to fill your life - I found gambling, I wouldn't reccommend that".
You can see why we laughed for so long now, can't you?
I've got great things in my life - and The Man and I aren't fighting, that's the big bonus.
To be trapped in a permanent battle with the person your heart is wrapped around is just poisonous...that's the true meaning of a broken heart, when you tear it apart all by yourselves.
There's been minimal conflict between The Man and Me in front of The Kids - that's a bonus.
They've escaped the whole 'your Daddy, your Mummy' emotional propaganda that used to upset me so much, watching other couples breaking up.
Although it almost hurts the way they're taking it so well - how sad that we're teaching them that this is normal and OK.
It shouldn't be.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Phew!
Well, I'm breathing again.
Must be at an up bend on the grief cycle eh?
It feels wrong to feel good.
I must have a martyr complex.
So I've enrolled to start my teaching degree - I'll definitely be doing Children's Services III externally through Whyalla and I'm still waiting on news about the Open Learning program for secondary studies.
But if I do both, it should get me half way through my degree and make me eligible to do the degree externally.
It'll also boost my chances of getting part-time, flexible work as an ECW at the Kindy or an SSO at the local primary schools.
I'll still have time to freelance, start some other projects, be a great mum and a half-decent renovator...that's the plan at least. And it's nice to have a plan again.
Before then, I'm going to go see my friend in hospital.
I'm going to hold her hand, make sure she's got a silky pillowcase, decent music, all her personal skincare and I'm going to read her some HILARIOUS books - maybe Kaz Cooke's latest 'Kid Wrangling' book...I know she wet herself over the KC baby book 'Up the Duff'.
I'm going to take her little girl to the zoo and take her husband out to get drunk.
I'm going to buy myself some shoes and a new pair of bathers, maybe a sundress for Christmas, and go sit at the beach with a good book.
And if, occasionally, I feel like crying, there'll be no one to get all panicky and worry about me (love you all though I do).
This week my friends are throwing me a girly going-away night full of giggles, hors douvres and shouting over the top of each other - at least that's what I hope is going on because they won't tell me.
I've been assured that I won't be tied naked to any streetlamps.
But exciting to have a party organised for me instead of by me for once.
Work has taken a backseat, finally, at least in my mind, and I'm taking back the driver's seat...so all is good.
Phew!
Must be at an up bend on the grief cycle eh?
It feels wrong to feel good.
I must have a martyr complex.
So I've enrolled to start my teaching degree - I'll definitely be doing Children's Services III externally through Whyalla and I'm still waiting on news about the Open Learning program for secondary studies.
But if I do both, it should get me half way through my degree and make me eligible to do the degree externally.
It'll also boost my chances of getting part-time, flexible work as an ECW at the Kindy or an SSO at the local primary schools.
I'll still have time to freelance, start some other projects, be a great mum and a half-decent renovator...that's the plan at least. And it's nice to have a plan again.
Before then, I'm going to go see my friend in hospital.
I'm going to hold her hand, make sure she's got a silky pillowcase, decent music, all her personal skincare and I'm going to read her some HILARIOUS books - maybe Kaz Cooke's latest 'Kid Wrangling' book...I know she wet herself over the KC baby book 'Up the Duff'.
I'm going to take her little girl to the zoo and take her husband out to get drunk.
I'm going to buy myself some shoes and a new pair of bathers, maybe a sundress for Christmas, and go sit at the beach with a good book.
And if, occasionally, I feel like crying, there'll be no one to get all panicky and worry about me (love you all though I do).
This week my friends are throwing me a girly going-away night full of giggles, hors douvres and shouting over the top of each other - at least that's what I hope is going on because they won't tell me.
I've been assured that I won't be tied naked to any streetlamps.
But exciting to have a party organised for me instead of by me for once.
Work has taken a backseat, finally, at least in my mind, and I'm taking back the driver's seat...so all is good.
Phew!
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Patience...Right Now Please!
The world is conspiring to teach me patience.
Why can't I just learn it RIGHT NOW?!
It's true you know.
I need to learn more about kharma and about learning lessons in each life because I've come to realise that the things that have hurt me the most in this life are the worst parts of myself reflected.
Gossip, carelessness, lack of trust and patience, and a heavy-handed tendency to judge others.
Wow...I could get really spiritual about this if I wasn't so shallow.
But back to the issue of patience.
I can't fix my house all in one go...I'm going to have to do it myself, slowly, and live with it until then.
I can't fix my relationship or my friendship with The Man... I need to back away and let us both breathe and see how the world shakes down.
I can't run away to see my sick friend in Adelaide...because I can't leave my job just yet.
I can't leave my job just yet...I need the next few pays to clean up our shared financial commitments.
I can't get a new job until I'm actually in Gladstone.
I can't even sign up for some study because the damn courses for 2006 aren't on line until next week.
And I can't go home and pack my house yet because I have work to do today.
My feet are so itchy it's practically metaphorical tinea.
Why can't I just learn it RIGHT NOW?!
It's true you know.
I need to learn more about kharma and about learning lessons in each life because I've come to realise that the things that have hurt me the most in this life are the worst parts of myself reflected.
Gossip, carelessness, lack of trust and patience, and a heavy-handed tendency to judge others.
Wow...I could get really spiritual about this if I wasn't so shallow.
But back to the issue of patience.
I can't fix my house all in one go...I'm going to have to do it myself, slowly, and live with it until then.
I can't fix my relationship or my friendship with The Man... I need to back away and let us both breathe and see how the world shakes down.
I can't run away to see my sick friend in Adelaide...because I can't leave my job just yet.
I can't leave my job just yet...I need the next few pays to clean up our shared financial commitments.
I can't get a new job until I'm actually in Gladstone.
I can't even sign up for some study because the damn courses for 2006 aren't on line until next week.
And I can't go home and pack my house yet because I have work to do today.
My feet are so itchy it's practically metaphorical tinea.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Kick Start my Heart...isn't that a song? A bad one?
It might be a bad song - real or potential - but I really do need to kick start my heart.
I've been wandering around in my dirty house and my unorganised office, eating takeaway and sitting in front of the TV, telling myself that I need this time to mourn and feel sad.
Bugger that for a game of soldiers!
I've been feeling sad for a long time (and had a dirty house and unorganised office for slightly longer, I'm sad to say).
Time to get up and find something else wonderful in my life
What advice would I give someone else?
It doesn't have to involve a man - The Man or any other FDA-approved substitute.
I know that. How many sad women have I said that to over the years - you don't need a new man, you need to find yourself!
Well, once I get her unbundled from this couch and quilt and sad wallowing - I just might find my own woman too!
I think it might be time to substitute dancing for despair.
While I'm dropping the weight, why don't I go jogging?
I quit the gym to be able to afford my separation but, I was doing great, and the depression and lack of appetite since has kept me in my new jeans at least.
The kids aren't home every night, I'm trying to give them and The Man as much time together as possible as I can while we're all still here...why am I still doing the same thing? Avoiding the dishes and feeling sad for myself?
I've tried
I start seriously packing this week - I've done a few boxes here and there, I've been paying attention to the money, keeping things on track, making plans...anything to not slip backwards.
I want to be ready to go by the weekend - the kids will be with The Man.
God I'm manic.
When I'm good I feel so good...I feel like this weight has just slid off my back.
It's the realisation that, no matter how good I feel or how good I get, there's no promise that The Man and I will be happy together again.
I guess that's a good thing, there's no unrealistic expectations, no promises to break and no chance to fall back into bad habits - it's horrible to be hanging out there in the wind though, wondering which way it'll blow me.
I need a rubber band around my wrist.
Every time I want to call him, I'm going to snap it.
I've already started trying to write stuff down rather than let it spill out of me all over him.
The problem is, there seems to be enough stuff for blogs, journals, notebooks, phone calls and late-night stalker visits all put together.
So...what plans can I make? What positive things can I choose to do over the next few weeks that aren't reliant on him and will make me feel good?
Looks like I'm singing in the Christmas pageant - here and at My Mum's homebase.
We're taking The Kids for swimming lessons in the ocean at My Mum's and I've got a week before Christmas to spend with my friend in hospital.
While I'm down there I think I'll go sit on a beach for a long time - maybe catch up with another old friend and talk silliness.
Near The Farm is a latin dance class - I might make that night a 'visit the in-laws' night and finally learn to Salsa!
I'm going to finally make time to go to the dentist and get my jaw fixed.
I've got my writing...some of it's really good and worth doing something with.
And maybe I can make myself put pen to paper again for drawings - the kids would love to do that with me.
I really do need to lighten up, so they can enjoy me too.
And next school holidays I'm going to visit my sister - no excuses, just get on a plane and be with her.
I'm going to go back to study - going to get my Dip Ed. and try and get as much SSO work near The Farm as I can...it's something I'd be good at, something I can use overseas in third world communities later with my experience of setting up The Paper, and something that won't take away from my time with the kids and at home.
I need a job that won't take over my life anymore.
I want to be the mum I need for my kids - they deserve it, they're so wonderful.
And I'm going to learn how to make My Mum's chocolate eclairs from real soux pastry!
And scones! Can't wait for The Man to make me some anymore!
It's all good stuff!
With so many opportunities in my future, how can I possibly let the sad stuff overwhelm me?
No wonder I feel better every time the mood dial swings back to 'happy'...I really am a lot closer to that place every day.
Remind me of that next time my dark side re-emerges eh?
I've been wandering around in my dirty house and my unorganised office, eating takeaway and sitting in front of the TV, telling myself that I need this time to mourn and feel sad.
Bugger that for a game of soldiers!
I've been feeling sad for a long time (and had a dirty house and unorganised office for slightly longer, I'm sad to say).
Time to get up and find something else wonderful in my life
What advice would I give someone else?
It doesn't have to involve a man - The Man or any other FDA-approved substitute.
I know that. How many sad women have I said that to over the years - you don't need a new man, you need to find yourself!
Well, once I get her unbundled from this couch and quilt and sad wallowing - I just might find my own woman too!
I think it might be time to substitute dancing for despair.
While I'm dropping the weight, why don't I go jogging?
I quit the gym to be able to afford my separation but, I was doing great, and the depression and lack of appetite since has kept me in my new jeans at least.
The kids aren't home every night, I'm trying to give them and The Man as much time together as possible as I can while we're all still here...why am I still doing the same thing? Avoiding the dishes and feeling sad for myself?
I've tried
I start seriously packing this week - I've done a few boxes here and there, I've been paying attention to the money, keeping things on track, making plans...anything to not slip backwards.
I want to be ready to go by the weekend - the kids will be with The Man.
God I'm manic.
When I'm good I feel so good...I feel like this weight has just slid off my back.
It's the realisation that, no matter how good I feel or how good I get, there's no promise that The Man and I will be happy together again.
I guess that's a good thing, there's no unrealistic expectations, no promises to break and no chance to fall back into bad habits - it's horrible to be hanging out there in the wind though, wondering which way it'll blow me.
I need a rubber band around my wrist.
Every time I want to call him, I'm going to snap it.
I've already started trying to write stuff down rather than let it spill out of me all over him.
The problem is, there seems to be enough stuff for blogs, journals, notebooks, phone calls and late-night stalker visits all put together.
So...what plans can I make? What positive things can I choose to do over the next few weeks that aren't reliant on him and will make me feel good?
Looks like I'm singing in the Christmas pageant - here and at My Mum's homebase.
We're taking The Kids for swimming lessons in the ocean at My Mum's and I've got a week before Christmas to spend with my friend in hospital.
While I'm down there I think I'll go sit on a beach for a long time - maybe catch up with another old friend and talk silliness.
Near The Farm is a latin dance class - I might make that night a 'visit the in-laws' night and finally learn to Salsa!
I'm going to finally make time to go to the dentist and get my jaw fixed.
I've got my writing...some of it's really good and worth doing something with.
And maybe I can make myself put pen to paper again for drawings - the kids would love to do that with me.
I really do need to lighten up, so they can enjoy me too.
And next school holidays I'm going to visit my sister - no excuses, just get on a plane and be with her.
I'm going to go back to study - going to get my Dip Ed. and try and get as much SSO work near The Farm as I can...it's something I'd be good at, something I can use overseas in third world communities later with my experience of setting up The Paper, and something that won't take away from my time with the kids and at home.
I need a job that won't take over my life anymore.
I want to be the mum I need for my kids - they deserve it, they're so wonderful.
And I'm going to learn how to make My Mum's chocolate eclairs from real soux pastry!
And scones! Can't wait for The Man to make me some anymore!
It's all good stuff!
With so many opportunities in my future, how can I possibly let the sad stuff overwhelm me?
No wonder I feel better every time the mood dial swings back to 'happy'...I really am a lot closer to that place every day.
Remind me of that next time my dark side re-emerges eh?
Letting Go
How do I get over this?
How do I get myself together and get well?
Especially when, not-so-secretly, a part of me is hoping when I get myself together he'll magically discover he's still in love with me, or back in love with me or whatever?
How healthy is that?
He knows it's not right! I know it's not right! Fuck it, the spiders crawling this blogsite know it's not right.
And how do I take that leap of faith anyway?
At what point do I say well, it's done, I'll start my new life with him totally off my radar? I'll be open to other people and other futures and other opportunities.
I won't plan for him or around him or in the hope of him.
What's so sad is we both know I wouldn't accept less anyway.
Not now that he's taken that final step and actually left.
Before I could be with him, I'd want him to prove I was worth waiting for, worth fighting for, worth all the crap we've already been through.
I'd want to prove it to him, and go into something new, sure in each other.
Even now, I don't want him to rush back into my arms crying "it was all a mistake" because it wasn't - we've both been dying inside watching something wonderful spiral down into misery.
What was happening between us wasn't what we wanted, what we deserved to have - we both wanted more from the other and felt betrayed that there wasn't any more on offer.
If one day, there was the chance to be together and be happy, I'd want quiet, tentative friendship to start with - I'd want to laugh and talk and write and phone each other and go to movies and on walks and take the kids to the beach.
I'd want to ease into each other and be sure again.
I'd want to be loved and liked again.
I know that those things will, one day, apply to any relationship I walk into because that's what I've learnt from this - that's what I've discovered is really important.
I think I'd be very suspicious of the drama we both mistook for passion when we were kids.
How do I go on, by myself, and still keep that hope alive that we might be ok...but ok together...without undermining my being ok by myself?
& how in hell do I find someone who can answer all these fucking questions I have?
How do I get myself together and get well?
Especially when, not-so-secretly, a part of me is hoping when I get myself together he'll magically discover he's still in love with me, or back in love with me or whatever?
How healthy is that?
He knows it's not right! I know it's not right! Fuck it, the spiders crawling this blogsite know it's not right.
And how do I take that leap of faith anyway?
At what point do I say well, it's done, I'll start my new life with him totally off my radar? I'll be open to other people and other futures and other opportunities.
I won't plan for him or around him or in the hope of him.
What's so sad is we both know I wouldn't accept less anyway.
Not now that he's taken that final step and actually left.
Before I could be with him, I'd want him to prove I was worth waiting for, worth fighting for, worth all the crap we've already been through.
I'd want to prove it to him, and go into something new, sure in each other.
Even now, I don't want him to rush back into my arms crying "it was all a mistake" because it wasn't - we've both been dying inside watching something wonderful spiral down into misery.
What was happening between us wasn't what we wanted, what we deserved to have - we both wanted more from the other and felt betrayed that there wasn't any more on offer.
If one day, there was the chance to be together and be happy, I'd want quiet, tentative friendship to start with - I'd want to laugh and talk and write and phone each other and go to movies and on walks and take the kids to the beach.
I'd want to ease into each other and be sure again.
I'd want to be loved and liked again.
I know that those things will, one day, apply to any relationship I walk into because that's what I've learnt from this - that's what I've discovered is really important.
I think I'd be very suspicious of the drama we both mistook for passion when we were kids.
How do I go on, by myself, and still keep that hope alive that we might be ok...but ok together...without undermining my being ok by myself?
& how in hell do I find someone who can answer all these fucking questions I have?
Stars
This was emailed to me this week and I felt it was particularly poignant.
As we grow up, we learn that the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will.
You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.
You'll fight with your best friend.
You'll blame a new love for things an old one did.
You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love.
So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every 60 seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.
Good friends are like stars.
You don't always see them but you always know they are there.
& now refer to my blog...
Sympathy Run Rampant
As we grow up, we learn that the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will.
You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.
You'll fight with your best friend.
You'll blame a new love for things an old one did.
You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love.
So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every 60 seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.
Good friends are like stars.
You don't always see them but you always know they are there.
& now refer to my blog...
Sympathy Run Rampant
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Chicken Little in Love
For the past few years I have been the romantic equivalent of Chicken Little - flapping around in a panic because my sky is falling.
And now, as I'm climbing out of the rubble...as my rage burns off...I'm discovering the depths of my own sadness.
I didn't know I was capable of this deep, down-in-the-bone sadness.
Before The Man I really didn't have much of a heart to break and now I wonder how these poor saps who fall in love every second day bear it.
How could you possibly want to love someone else, when someone's already ripped your heart out and left you bleeding?
Why on earth would you pick it up, dust if off, and wave it at someone else?
(And yes, I'm still talking about HEARTS, thankyou)
I was reading my favourite book of all time last week, 'Magician' by Raymond E Feist, and I'm always drawn to the dream scene of Thomas and Ashen Shuruga talking and the human boy trying to explain sadness.
It's a strangely poignant scene (I always was a sucker for literary images) and as I read it I realised it completely encapsulated how I feel these days.
A strange, calm, silent depth of sadness that creeps up on you when the rest of the world stills around you.
Something you wouldn't recognise in yourself until the panic dies down and you simply accept.
This must be what it's like when someone you love dies.
Except, of course, if they die, you don't have to ring them up and ask for The Kids' floaties and thongs back so you can take them to the pool.
You don't have to watch them selfishly being not-sad.
Well, it won't be long and I'll only be watching it occasionally from a long, long way away - easier for us, but I dread what it's going to mean for The Kids.
To head off on a tangent - The Man was working on rigs once and heard about Feist doing a book signing in Qld. So he gave one of the Rig Pigs money for when he went back to that town, to get me an autographed hardcover, and then deliver it back to the rig so The Man could bring it back to me two states over.
I start flapping again when I remember moments like that.
It wasn't a mistake - we really were in love once.
And now, as I'm climbing out of the rubble...as my rage burns off...I'm discovering the depths of my own sadness.
I didn't know I was capable of this deep, down-in-the-bone sadness.
Before The Man I really didn't have much of a heart to break and now I wonder how these poor saps who fall in love every second day bear it.
How could you possibly want to love someone else, when someone's already ripped your heart out and left you bleeding?
Why on earth would you pick it up, dust if off, and wave it at someone else?
(And yes, I'm still talking about HEARTS, thankyou)
I was reading my favourite book of all time last week, 'Magician' by Raymond E Feist, and I'm always drawn to the dream scene of Thomas and Ashen Shuruga talking and the human boy trying to explain sadness.
It's a strangely poignant scene (I always was a sucker for literary images) and as I read it I realised it completely encapsulated how I feel these days.
A strange, calm, silent depth of sadness that creeps up on you when the rest of the world stills around you.
Something you wouldn't recognise in yourself until the panic dies down and you simply accept.
This must be what it's like when someone you love dies.
Except, of course, if they die, you don't have to ring them up and ask for The Kids' floaties and thongs back so you can take them to the pool.
You don't have to watch them selfishly being not-sad.
Well, it won't be long and I'll only be watching it occasionally from a long, long way away - easier for us, but I dread what it's going to mean for The Kids.
To head off on a tangent - The Man was working on rigs once and heard about Feist doing a book signing in Qld. So he gave one of the Rig Pigs money for when he went back to that town, to get me an autographed hardcover, and then deliver it back to the rig so The Man could bring it back to me two states over.
I start flapping again when I remember moments like that.
It wasn't a mistake - we really were in love once.
Sympathy Run Rampant
It's happened, I am officially the victim of SYMPATHY - which, let's be honest, is much more deadly than a broken heart.
If another person sends me an 'uplifting' email, if another sleazy man rubs my arm and offers his shoulder (or cock) to cry on, if another friend sends me inspirational poetry or offers me a self-help book I think my head will explode!
I'm so infected with the dreaded sympathy disease I almost bought MYSELF 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus' at the recent markets.
Aaargh!
It's not that I don't appreciate it. I do. My friends have been incredible and the chance to talk and write and blog honestly has lifted a weight off my heart but...well, come on now!
It's all just a bit too much.
So I've found some of my own applicable quotes - touching, sometimes humorous, and probably all I need for now, thankyou.
Here goes...
Parting is all we know of heaven
And all we need of Hell.
Emily Dickinson
Love makes the time pass.
Time makes love pass.
French Proverb
Love and war are the same thing, and strategems and policy are as allowable in the one as the other.
Cervantes
It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.
Lawrence Durrell
The heart has its reasons,
of which reason knows nothing.
Blaise Pascal
Never go to bed angry. Stay up and fight.
Phyllis Diller
The way to love anything is to realise that it might be lost.
G K Chesterton
Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your heart or burn down your house, you can never tell.
Joan Crawford
Love is like pi - natural, irrational and very important.
Lisa Hoffman
A woman has got to love a bad man once or twice in her life to be thankful for a good one.
Mae West
There is no remedy for love, but to love more.
Henry David Thoreau
So there...it's ok!
I'm reading the books, pinning up poetry on my fridge and talking to my counsellor.
I haven't drowned in misery yet but I'm definitely treading water in this flood of sympathy.
Please, everyone who's out there listening, if you see me on the street or get a strung-out phone call late at night, don't send me any more sympathy...send me a few laughs. That's what's really missing in my life right now.
...and maybe an occasional cold vodka delivered by a hot male underwear model.
If another person sends me an 'uplifting' email, if another sleazy man rubs my arm and offers his shoulder (or cock) to cry on, if another friend sends me inspirational poetry or offers me a self-help book I think my head will explode!
I'm so infected with the dreaded sympathy disease I almost bought MYSELF 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus' at the recent markets.
Aaargh!
It's not that I don't appreciate it. I do. My friends have been incredible and the chance to talk and write and blog honestly has lifted a weight off my heart but...well, come on now!
It's all just a bit too much.
So I've found some of my own applicable quotes - touching, sometimes humorous, and probably all I need for now, thankyou.
Here goes...
Parting is all we know of heaven
And all we need of Hell.
Emily Dickinson
Love makes the time pass.
Time makes love pass.
French Proverb
Love and war are the same thing, and strategems and policy are as allowable in the one as the other.
Cervantes
It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.
Lawrence Durrell
The heart has its reasons,
of which reason knows nothing.
Blaise Pascal
Never go to bed angry. Stay up and fight.
Phyllis Diller
The way to love anything is to realise that it might be lost.
G K Chesterton
Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your heart or burn down your house, you can never tell.
Joan Crawford
Love is like pi - natural, irrational and very important.
Lisa Hoffman
A woman has got to love a bad man once or twice in her life to be thankful for a good one.
Mae West
There is no remedy for love, but to love more.
Henry David Thoreau
So there...it's ok!
I'm reading the books, pinning up poetry on my fridge and talking to my counsellor.
I haven't drowned in misery yet but I'm definitely treading water in this flood of sympathy.
Please, everyone who's out there listening, if you see me on the street or get a strung-out phone call late at night, don't send me any more sympathy...send me a few laughs. That's what's really missing in my life right now.
...and maybe an occasional cold vodka delivered by a hot male underwear model.
A Question Answered
Just a few days ago, I asked, "when does it get easier?"
But today, it is easier, and yesterday, and the day before that...for a little while.
I'm told that what I'm experiencing is grief, and I guess I'm wallowing a bit in the ability to finally mourn the love and friendship and dreams I have lost.
Instead of getting up each day with a broken heart and having to still plod through the day, trying hard to make joy and rarely have it offered to me without effort.
I feel like I have just been working too hard for too long.
And the truth is, everything's suffered.
When I say I've been working too hard, I don't mean the hours at The Paper, or housework or anything except fighting my own sadness.
Everything has become a job. Everything has become a duty. Every day I have had to make myself look at the good things in my life with fresh eyes so that the tiredness doesn't stretch to The Kids who are, truly, a joy.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel. A time without deadlines, without someone saying "where's the paper" and someone else saying "when are you going to get over this" and all those day-to-day demands "where's dinner", "when are you going to wash the dishes" and "why aren't you ready yet?"
Eventually, the deadlines will reestablish themselves, you can't escape bills and being a Mum for too long, but I am going to disappear for a little while - let My Mum look after The Kids while I look after me.
It's almost worse to be doing OK.
It's so final to be officially "getting over" each other and "getting on" with new lives.
What it's going to do to my Babies I just don't know - how will they survive without their Dad being just a armslength away? Isn't that half of what bolloxed up The Man himself?
I'm not strong enough to look after myself right at this minute, how do I get myself together enough to enjoy my Babies again? And for them to enjoy me?
I'm so tired.
Even getting well is too much hard work.
But today, it is easier, and yesterday, and the day before that...for a little while.
I'm told that what I'm experiencing is grief, and I guess I'm wallowing a bit in the ability to finally mourn the love and friendship and dreams I have lost.
Instead of getting up each day with a broken heart and having to still plod through the day, trying hard to make joy and rarely have it offered to me without effort.
I feel like I have just been working too hard for too long.
And the truth is, everything's suffered.
When I say I've been working too hard, I don't mean the hours at The Paper, or housework or anything except fighting my own sadness.
Everything has become a job. Everything has become a duty. Every day I have had to make myself look at the good things in my life with fresh eyes so that the tiredness doesn't stretch to The Kids who are, truly, a joy.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel. A time without deadlines, without someone saying "where's the paper" and someone else saying "when are you going to get over this" and all those day-to-day demands "where's dinner", "when are you going to wash the dishes" and "why aren't you ready yet?"
Eventually, the deadlines will reestablish themselves, you can't escape bills and being a Mum for too long, but I am going to disappear for a little while - let My Mum look after The Kids while I look after me.
It's almost worse to be doing OK.
It's so final to be officially "getting over" each other and "getting on" with new lives.
What it's going to do to my Babies I just don't know - how will they survive without their Dad being just a armslength away? Isn't that half of what bolloxed up The Man himself?
I'm not strong enough to look after myself right at this minute, how do I get myself together enough to enjoy my Babies again? And for them to enjoy me?
I'm so tired.
Even getting well is too much hard work.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Fuck Me Gently With a Chainsaw
Somebody fucking help me!
I am so broken up inside and I just can’t fix it. No one can fix it.
When does it get easier?
This is my family, the love of my life – who used to love me back so much, so incredibly - and a future I imagined would outlast anything…survive everything!
How do I survive this? Do I even want to?
Of course I want to.
I’ve seen happiness – and I want it again, someday.
I want to be well and happy and loved.
I want my babies to grow up and be happy too.
I miss laughing and laughing and thinking there was no one else in the whole world?
How can that kind of feeling just go away?
How can you have it one day and then, down the track, another day, it all be gone?
Even the memory of it is so amazing it blocks out the chance of me even imagining something new, someday, with someone else.
How can that be?
Why don’t I understand?
Why can't I fix this?
A Permanent State of Sixteen-ish-ness
For me, being ‘in love’ thrusts me into a permanent state of sixteen-ish-ness.
It’s humiliating, as an adult, to watch my behaviour from the outside – makes me squeamish at my own sad, cheesiness.
I can count a half a dozen man in my life whom I obsessed like this over, whom I clung to and coveted and…eventually, made a damn fool of myself over.
Ironically, if I didn’t have any feelings for a man I could be a downright maneater – it was a lovely, powerful feeling to not expect something of a bloke and get much more than you planned for.
That’s what The Man always offered – much more than I could hope for.
As soon as I wanted…no, needed more, then he had less to give.
I had a good friend, when The Man and I went rotten, who got caught up in the idea of us running away and licking each other’s wounds perhaps.
And I remember saying to him that I cared about him too much to start something with him when we were both sad and hurt – that two sad people trying to fill the gaps in each other’s lives were doomed to hurt each other all over again.
So now The Man and I are both sad and hurt and we can’t help making it worse.
Even stopping it cold…still hurts.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Sex and the City...and the Country...and Everywhere in Between
'Sex and The City' has given us all some unreasonable expectations of relationships, I believe.
Not that we didn't have them before Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte minced their way across the small screen - but, I think, perhaps, they've now been institutionalised.
See, in Mills & Boons, if a man treats you badly, dumps you terribly, and disappears with a younger, slimmer (European) version of you...you don't kiss and make up in Season 5.
And you certainly don't become 'just friends'.
(And, when it comes to both SaTC and Mills & Boons - and sad reality TV for that matter - I'm a bit of an expert because, whenever my lovelife goes bung I escape into other people's lovelives. Embarassing to admit, I know, but I'm brave enough to be honest...are you?)
Anway, I spit on the concept of 'just friends' - ptooie!
Who wants second prize - who needs the Troll when you're shooting for the Tiger on the top shelf?
Don't get me wrong...the sane, grown-up part of me knows that one day we're going to be 'just friends'...but right now I'm 'just hurt' and the two terms are indelibly entwined.
If another person tips their head at me and says "at least it's amicable between you two" then I'll leap across the desk and tear their misty-eyed head off because it's a lot harder to be 'just friends' then to 'just fuck off somewhere else and be away from that wanker' - a feeling that, to be fair, is not mine alone.
But back to SaTC's cultural endorsement of dysfunctional relationships.
We all know people cheat and stay together, break up and try again later, or just be mean to each other for 50 years of so-called-happy marriage...who wants to watch THAT on TV?
(Well me, but let's leave me out of it for once.)
By putting it on TV you're making it the norm...you're making it ALL RIGHT!
I can watch that crap through the neighbour's kitchen curtains and be a lot closer to the fridge while I'm at it.
And right now, I don't want to be bogged down with the 'maybes' of real life.
I know about fighting and cheating and lying and avoiding each other and bills and dishes and access to the kids...I want fairytale romances!
Recently, I talked to two of my friends about the key elements of Mills&Boons (and associated romance-type books) and the trend towards widowed or deserted women (never amicably divorced...keep that in mind) with children creeping in as heroines/lead romantic roles.
My friend without partner or children gets impatient with these themes, while my friend with children and a once-complicated-but-happily-married-these-days relationship applauds the kind of love that can survive nappies and looming bankruptcy.
But I'm with Friend Number One - why should literary romances have to be realistic?
I want The Princess Bride, and Cinderella, The Princess Diaries and My Fair Lady.
I want to see unreal situations and uncomplicated solutions.
I want to see insurmountable odds mounted!
(Which, let's face it, you CAN see on SaTC - in fact, there's a lot of mounting going on all over the place.)
And I want my kids to be watching it with me. (But not SaTC, obviously.)
They're going to learn soon enough that life's not that easy...come on, they learnt it this month when Daddy moved out!
The only time I want to see reality on TV is when it's showing someone else's shortcomings...I just luuuurve watching America's Top Model with a bottle of Coke and a family-size block of Cadbury's Chocolate while they tell those little bendy twigs that they're overweight and ugly.
If I'm going to wallow in the ugliness of the real world, let it be someone else's real world...I'm busy trying to escape the ugliness in mine right now.
So bring on the Coke and the Fruit & Nut - I've got my beanbag and my TV Guide and I'm ready to go!
Hey, and if there's no sex going on at my place right now...at least there'll be Sex in The City.
Not that we didn't have them before Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte minced their way across the small screen - but, I think, perhaps, they've now been institutionalised.
See, in Mills & Boons, if a man treats you badly, dumps you terribly, and disappears with a younger, slimmer (European) version of you...you don't kiss and make up in Season 5.
And you certainly don't become 'just friends'.
(And, when it comes to both SaTC and Mills & Boons - and sad reality TV for that matter - I'm a bit of an expert because, whenever my lovelife goes bung I escape into other people's lovelives. Embarassing to admit, I know, but I'm brave enough to be honest...are you?)
Anway, I spit on the concept of 'just friends' - ptooie!
Who wants second prize - who needs the Troll when you're shooting for the Tiger on the top shelf?
Don't get me wrong...the sane, grown-up part of me knows that one day we're going to be 'just friends'...but right now I'm 'just hurt' and the two terms are indelibly entwined.
If another person tips their head at me and says "at least it's amicable between you two" then I'll leap across the desk and tear their misty-eyed head off because it's a lot harder to be 'just friends' then to 'just fuck off somewhere else and be away from that wanker' - a feeling that, to be fair, is not mine alone.
But back to SaTC's cultural endorsement of dysfunctional relationships.
We all know people cheat and stay together, break up and try again later, or just be mean to each other for 50 years of so-called-happy marriage...who wants to watch THAT on TV?
(Well me, but let's leave me out of it for once.)
By putting it on TV you're making it the norm...you're making it ALL RIGHT!
I can watch that crap through the neighbour's kitchen curtains and be a lot closer to the fridge while I'm at it.
And right now, I don't want to be bogged down with the 'maybes' of real life.
I know about fighting and cheating and lying and avoiding each other and bills and dishes and access to the kids...I want fairytale romances!
Recently, I talked to two of my friends about the key elements of Mills&Boons (and associated romance-type books) and the trend towards widowed or deserted women (never amicably divorced...keep that in mind) with children creeping in as heroines/lead romantic roles.
My friend without partner or children gets impatient with these themes, while my friend with children and a once-complicated-but-happily-married-these-days relationship applauds the kind of love that can survive nappies and looming bankruptcy.
But I'm with Friend Number One - why should literary romances have to be realistic?
I want The Princess Bride, and Cinderella, The Princess Diaries and My Fair Lady.
I want to see unreal situations and uncomplicated solutions.
I want to see insurmountable odds mounted!
(Which, let's face it, you CAN see on SaTC - in fact, there's a lot of mounting going on all over the place.)
And I want my kids to be watching it with me. (But not SaTC, obviously.)
They're going to learn soon enough that life's not that easy...come on, they learnt it this month when Daddy moved out!
The only time I want to see reality on TV is when it's showing someone else's shortcomings...I just luuuurve watching America's Top Model with a bottle of Coke and a family-size block of Cadbury's Chocolate while they tell those little bendy twigs that they're overweight and ugly.
If I'm going to wallow in the ugliness of the real world, let it be someone else's real world...I'm busy trying to escape the ugliness in mine right now.
So bring on the Coke and the Fruit & Nut - I've got my beanbag and my TV Guide and I'm ready to go!
Hey, and if there's no sex going on at my place right now...at least there'll be Sex in The City.
Running Hot & Cold
I have had an epiphany!
All my life I have been asking - "how could they do that?"
And now I understand...it's anger.
I was always horrified by these people who turn every interaction into a conflict, these little men who shape up for a fight over how their hamburger is cooked or how long they have to wait in line at the bank.
But, the key is, if you can convince yourself right down to your bones that you're right and the other person has NO right to question you, that's it UNTHINKABLE they wouldn't agree with you, then you can ride into any little crusade with your sword swinging and God on your side.
It explains everything to me.
It explains why The Man honestly though that being the loudest person in a conflict made him the most righteous person in the room.
It explains why people can be malicious or cruel and 'get you back' because - if you're angry enough, it's not selfish, it's JUSTICE!
The quieter fighter is just getting their just desserts.
Take that - slash!
If you think too far ahead into the future, if you think too much about consequences and hurt feelings you can't do it, you can't just take a swing at someone.
And that's the good thing about anger - if you're just seeing red, you can't see the consequences - and if you WIN the imaginary battle, there's no consequences for you, the victor, anyway...is there?
History is always written by the winners, eh?
I have found myself, this past few weeks - maybe these past few years - bogged down in 'don't say that, you'll regret it', 'don't do that, you'll never be able to get back if you cross that line' - even when The Man was busy crossing all the lines, left, right and centre, with a 10-foot pole even.
And I was so JEALOUS of his ability to just lash out when he felt bad, and his willingness to forget about other people's feelings when he felt hurt.
And sadly, I still can't go that far...as far as I secretly, in the dead of night, would like to go sometimes.
As much as some days I'd like to just pack up the kids, dump the bills & loans in his lap, change my name and move to Fraser Island...I can't tromp all over 10 years of friendship and working together and beautiful children and slightly-tarnished dreams just because he SHITS ME TO TEARS right now.
See, even I know it's a case of 'just now' - who the hell knows what I'm going to feel tomorrow on this out-of-control roller coaster I'm on at the moment?
I can be mean, I just can't plan it.
The kind of damage I do to people is a general, self-obsessed, unthinking, neglectful kind of hurt.
I'm quite horrified at the righteous 'FUCK YOU' some people can manage...but I do, now, understand it at least.
When you've got a cause, when you've got ANGER on your side, you're never alone...because you've always got the horse you rode in on!
All my life I have been asking - "how could they do that?"
And now I understand...it's anger.
And me? Well, right now there's no blood in my veins because rage has burned it all alway and I'm running on pure fury.
I was always horrified by these people who turn every interaction into a conflict, these little men who shape up for a fight over how their hamburger is cooked or how long they have to wait in line at the bank.
But, the key is, if you can convince yourself right down to your bones that you're right and the other person has NO right to question you, that's it UNTHINKABLE they wouldn't agree with you, then you can ride into any little crusade with your sword swinging and God on your side.
It explains everything to me.
It explains why The Man honestly though that being the loudest person in a conflict made him the most righteous person in the room.
It explains why people can be malicious or cruel and 'get you back' because - if you're angry enough, it's not selfish, it's JUSTICE!
The quieter fighter is just getting their just desserts.
Take that - slash!
If you think too far ahead into the future, if you think too much about consequences and hurt feelings you can't do it, you can't just take a swing at someone.
And that's the good thing about anger - if you're just seeing red, you can't see the consequences - and if you WIN the imaginary battle, there's no consequences for you, the victor, anyway...is there?
History is always written by the winners, eh?
I have found myself, this past few weeks - maybe these past few years - bogged down in 'don't say that, you'll regret it', 'don't do that, you'll never be able to get back if you cross that line' - even when The Man was busy crossing all the lines, left, right and centre, with a 10-foot pole even.
And I was so JEALOUS of his ability to just lash out when he felt bad, and his willingness to forget about other people's feelings when he felt hurt.
And sadly, I still can't go that far...as far as I secretly, in the dead of night, would like to go sometimes.
As much as some days I'd like to just pack up the kids, dump the bills & loans in his lap, change my name and move to Fraser Island...I can't tromp all over 10 years of friendship and working together and beautiful children and slightly-tarnished dreams just because he SHITS ME TO TEARS right now.
See, even I know it's a case of 'just now' - who the hell knows what I'm going to feel tomorrow on this out-of-control roller coaster I'm on at the moment?
I can be mean, I just can't plan it.
The kind of damage I do to people is a general, self-obsessed, unthinking, neglectful kind of hurt.
I'm quite horrified at the righteous 'FUCK YOU' some people can manage...but I do, now, understand it at least.
When you've got a cause, when you've got ANGER on your side, you're never alone...because you've always got the horse you rode in on!
Monday, November 14, 2005
Tammy Wynette knew what she was talkin' about
Do you know how many "somebody done somebody wrong songs" there are out there.
Since The Man left I can't listen to Country Music - which isn't such a bad thing, I can hear somebody saying.
I know it's comforting to know you're not the only one who feels like your heart is ripped out, but how's Tammy Wynette for summing up the whole damn thing in four chords?
Tammy Wynette - D. I. V. O. R. C. E.
Our little boy is four years old and quite a little man.
So we spell out the words we don't want him to understand.
Like T-O-Y or maybe S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E.
But the words we're hiding from him now,
Tear the heart right out of me.
Our D-I-V-O-R-C-E; becomes final today.
Me and little J-O-E will be goin' away.
I love you both and it will be pure H-E-double L for me.
Oh, I wish that we could stop this D-I-V-O-R-C-E.
Watch him smile, he thinks it Christmas.
Or his 5th birthday.
And he thinks C-U-S-T-O-D-Y spells fun or play.
I spell out all the hurtin' words
And turn my head when I speak.
'Cause I can't spell away this hurt,
That's drippin' down my cheek.
My kids keep telling me things like "you're not fighting anymore Mummy, when are you and Daddy going to live in the same house again" - or "don't worry Mummy, Daddy loves you, he'll come back" - or worse, "when will we do things again as a whole family?"
And I have to be cruel - because it would be worse for them to think something was going to change - I have to say "Daddy and I won't live together, he's never coming back to live with us but he'll never give up on you, and no, Daddy doesn't love me anymore and we're going to be a different kind of family".
And all the time, I'm a hypocrite, because I'm wishing it could be that way.
Now I have to plan Christmas around three little kids, not just The Boy and The Girl, but The Big Girl as well - and I have to be calm, and kind and grown-up when really I want to be the one sitting under the blankets crying because Daddy won't be there to read stories tonight.
How do people get through this and come out OK?
How am I going to?
When is there going to be time for me to sit under the blankets and cry?
Since The Man left I can't listen to Country Music - which isn't such a bad thing, I can hear somebody saying.
I know it's comforting to know you're not the only one who feels like your heart is ripped out, but how's Tammy Wynette for summing up the whole damn thing in four chords?
Tammy Wynette - D. I. V. O. R. C. E.
Our little boy is four years old and quite a little man.
So we spell out the words we don't want him to understand.
Like T-O-Y or maybe S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E.
But the words we're hiding from him now,
Tear the heart right out of me.
Our D-I-V-O-R-C-E; becomes final today.
Me and little J-O-E will be goin' away.
I love you both and it will be pure H-E-double L for me.
Oh, I wish that we could stop this D-I-V-O-R-C-E.
Watch him smile, he thinks it Christmas.
Or his 5th birthday.
And he thinks C-U-S-T-O-D-Y spells fun or play.
I spell out all the hurtin' words
And turn my head when I speak.
'Cause I can't spell away this hurt,
That's drippin' down my cheek.
My kids keep telling me things like "you're not fighting anymore Mummy, when are you and Daddy going to live in the same house again" - or "don't worry Mummy, Daddy loves you, he'll come back" - or worse, "when will we do things again as a whole family?"
And I have to be cruel - because it would be worse for them to think something was going to change - I have to say "Daddy and I won't live together, he's never coming back to live with us but he'll never give up on you, and no, Daddy doesn't love me anymore and we're going to be a different kind of family".
And all the time, I'm a hypocrite, because I'm wishing it could be that way.
Now I have to plan Christmas around three little kids, not just The Boy and The Girl, but The Big Girl as well - and I have to be calm, and kind and grown-up when really I want to be the one sitting under the blankets crying because Daddy won't be there to read stories tonight.
How do people get through this and come out OK?
How am I going to?
When is there going to be time for me to sit under the blankets and cry?
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
To Shag or Not to Shag
My gym instructor says she loves obsessive people - because, according to her, most addictive personalities can swap bad habits for good habits if they just stick at it for 12 weeks or more.
I guess, most people with addictive tendencies don't ever give up their addictions - they just swap them for new crutchess, even if that new habit is only righteousness.
Smokers start eating, eaters start jogging and people in bad relationships find themselves new partners.
Well, in my case, The Man has gone cold turkey! Slick bastard!
Nice to know I'm an addiction he can 'get over' isn't it?
Whereas me? Well, I'm not over him at all - so should I just swap him for a new obsession?
Do I even have the energy to go find myself a new addiction, or deal with one nicely if it drops in my lap?
I think - once I can get myself 600km away from the temptation, my new obsession is going to be self-obsession (I know, I know, I can hear the smartarses typing from here).
I am going to look after MYSELF and just be FABULOUS! And not, in a Bridget Jones-esque effort to remind The Man what he's given up...well, maybe just a little bit.
But because, beneath the skin of this three-packs-of-luvvin-a-day addict lies a strong, vibrant (and slightly thinner) girl who used to be very happy to be by herself.
I wonder how deep I'm going to have to dig to drag her back up to the surface?
Well...at least I'll have you to talk to in the meantime eh?
I guess, most people with addictive tendencies don't ever give up their addictions - they just swap them for new crutchess, even if that new habit is only righteousness.
Smokers start eating, eaters start jogging and people in bad relationships find themselves new partners.
Well, in my case, The Man has gone cold turkey! Slick bastard!
Nice to know I'm an addiction he can 'get over' isn't it?
Whereas me? Well, I'm not over him at all - so should I just swap him for a new obsession?
Do I even have the energy to go find myself a new addiction, or deal with one nicely if it drops in my lap?
I think - once I can get myself 600km away from the temptation, my new obsession is going to be self-obsession (I know, I know, I can hear the smartarses typing from here).
I am going to look after MYSELF and just be FABULOUS! And not, in a Bridget Jones-esque effort to remind The Man what he's given up...well, maybe just a little bit.
But because, beneath the skin of this three-packs-of-luvvin-a-day addict lies a strong, vibrant (and slightly thinner) girl who used to be very happy to be by herself.
I wonder how deep I'm going to have to dig to drag her back up to the surface?
Well...at least I'll have you to talk to in the meantime eh?
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
And going on...
BreakUpBabe's recent blog struck a cord in me.
She asks, why do only married people have to wear rings to show their relationship status?
I say, we need a relationship mood ring!
Red for the recently-burnt.
Yellow for all those arse-puckerers who are too scared to own up to whatever bastard thing they've done to ruin their own relationship.
Purple for the closeted gays and Green for the just-plain nauseous at the idea of getting hurt again.
It's a winner - I think I'll get the idea patented.
She asks, why do only married people have to wear rings to show their relationship status?
I say, we need a relationship mood ring!
Red for the recently-burnt.
Yellow for all those arse-puckerers who are too scared to own up to whatever bastard thing they've done to ruin their own relationship.
Purple for the closeted gays and Green for the just-plain nauseous at the idea of getting hurt again.
It's a winner - I think I'll get the idea patented.
BreakUpBabe
I may have badly maligned BreakUpBabe - http://www.breakupbabe.blogspot.com/
I just read one of her latest blogs and cracked myself up laughing.
I quote:
So no doubt SOMEONE has asked this question before, but is it really fair that only married people have to wear rings that signify their status?
For those of us who have not yet bought into the whole have-sex-with-the-same-person-for-the-rest-of-your-life-bliss phenomenon, there are many fine gradations of relationship status and/or emotional availability that remain completely invisible to us until we make fools of ourselves.Here, forthwith, are a few other helpful accessories thatI suggest.
Married People - Yeah, keep your gold bands and stupid sparkly diamonds, ok? But do us a favor, WEAR your damn ring if you are married, OK? Unless, of course, you are a cute male rock star, in which case please take it off while you are on stage.
Recently Divorced People - A giant chain and padlock around your neck for which the key has been either temporarily misplaced or forever lost.
On the Rebound People - A string of Mardi Gras beads (which they can use to lasso their unsuspecting victims; however, if we are alerted to their status by the Mardi Gras beads, we won't be so unsuspecting, will we?).
Single but Emotionally Unavailable for Whatever Reason (pick one: I'm just not ready for a serious relationship; I have to get my life together before I can date anyone; I really need to focus on work right now ; I only like girls who aren't interested in me; I'm a manic-depressive, alcoholic, pot-smoking, as*hole) - A plastic tarantula ring from a bubble gum dispenser.
Completely 100% Emotionally Available, Just Like Me, No Issues, None Whatsoever: A choker with a bright red flower on it, wide open and in bloom. (In other words, the necklace I wear every day.)
So...where do I get one of those damn padlocks, and when can I swap it for the Mardi Gras beads?
I just read one of her latest blogs and cracked myself up laughing.
I quote:
So no doubt SOMEONE has asked this question before, but is it really fair that only married people have to wear rings that signify their status?
For those of us who have not yet bought into the whole have-sex-with-the-same-person-for-the-rest-of-your-life-bliss phenomenon, there are many fine gradations of relationship status and/or emotional availability that remain completely invisible to us until we make fools of ourselves.Here, forthwith, are a few other helpful accessories thatI suggest.
Married People - Yeah, keep your gold bands and stupid sparkly diamonds, ok? But do us a favor, WEAR your damn ring if you are married, OK? Unless, of course, you are a cute male rock star, in which case please take it off while you are on stage.
Recently Divorced People - A giant chain and padlock around your neck for which the key has been either temporarily misplaced or forever lost.
On the Rebound People - A string of Mardi Gras beads (which they can use to lasso their unsuspecting victims; however, if we are alerted to their status by the Mardi Gras beads, we won't be so unsuspecting, will we?).
Single but Emotionally Unavailable for Whatever Reason (pick one: I'm just not ready for a serious relationship; I have to get my life together before I can date anyone; I really need to focus on work right now ; I only like girls who aren't interested in me; I'm a manic-depressive, alcoholic, pot-smoking, as*hole) - A plastic tarantula ring from a bubble gum dispenser.
Completely 100% Emotionally Available, Just Like Me, No Issues, None Whatsoever: A choker with a bright red flower on it, wide open and in bloom. (In other words, the necklace I wear every day.)
So...where do I get one of those damn padlocks, and when can I swap it for the Mardi Gras beads?
Real life people in cyberspace
Want some good, fun, real blogs to read?
Log onto 'the Voice of Vanity' - http://vanity657.blogspot.com/
Or check out a real sea change - http://downbythesea.blogspot.com/
And recently I discovered the very well-written
http://luckycrackers.blogspot.com/
and the lovely and harmless
http://fourtwelve.blogspot.com/
I was also a fan of http://www.breakupbabe.blogspot.com/ but her life is starting to sound a little bit too much like mine now and I can just wait for the book, if it's well-edited.
Let me know if you've got any great sites I can waste time on - I'm looking for interesting ways to fill my dull existence - gratuitous voyeurism is always a great option!
Log onto 'the Voice of Vanity' - http://vanity657.blogspot.com/
Or check out a real sea change - http://downbythesea.blogspot.com/
And recently I discovered the very well-written
http://luckycrackers.blogspot.com/
and the lovely and harmless
http://fourtwelve.blogspot.com/
I was also a fan of http://www.breakupbabe.blogspot.com/ but her life is starting to sound a little bit too much like mine now and I can just wait for the book, if it's well-edited.
Let me know if you've got any great sites I can waste time on - I'm looking for interesting ways to fill my dull existence - gratuitous voyeurism is always a great option!
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