Monthly Archives: May 2016
Bitch- The Muse Wars, Round Three. – RRSAHM
Bitch- The Muse Wars, Round Three.
Playing the Muse Wars again this month… Take the image supplied, add one thousand-ish words, shake and pour.
Bitchin’.
***
As far back as she really cared to remember, her name had always just been Bitch.
Somewhere in the back of her mind there was an unpleasant sensation that came and went, ebbed and flowed. It reminded her of fly buzzing in a corner unseen, the very sound of it swollen and blown; and it was ignited by the gravel rash sound of the man of her house calling her name…
Sometimes. More often it was the sight of his other girl that stirred it, that annoying frantic fly blown with irritation. His other girl, haughty and confident, sure of her place. When he took the two of them out walking together she often heard the man of the house joke to casual acquaintances, neighbors tending to their gardens, that he never played favorites. Every time, in the guffawing symphony of laughter that followed, she was sure she saw his other girl look at her and smile serenely, eyes bright blue and teeth far too canine to call her pretty.
He never played favorites. Of course not. Not that anyone would see as they walked the neighborhood block on sunset, his girl… and his bitch.
The neighbors didn’t see what happened once they returned home, once the padlock snapped closed on the eight foot gates. It was, indeed, just as the man of the house said– he did not play favorites.
This was, after all, no game.
Noone but the three of them knew what happened once the gates were closed. The girl and the man had eyes only for another. Laying together on the lounge in the comfy, warm indoors; they either did not hear or paid no attention to the bitch outside, crying pitifully in soft mews.
One was inside, the other out. One ate only the best broiled steak marbled with wagyu fat, the other the scraps from the table. While one was pampered, bathed regularly and groomed immaculately; the other was washed only on the rare occasion that she needed to be taken in that horrible, noisy car for unavoidable medical attention. That had only happened once, and she had been so terrified of the bright lights and loud noise and vivid red blood spouting from a deep cut that required stitching and a tetanus shot, obtained on a rusty piece of tin half hidden in the dirt of the back garden; that she had been unable to protest, incapable of making even the slightest noise…. and she had been very, very careful ever since.
They were different, obviously, the two females in the man’s life– that much was evident by looking at them. Time and time again she had pleaded silently with her eyes, why? What makes us so different? Only once had she been able to make him understand, and his answer was unsatisfactory. “That’s just the way it is, bitch. Two’s company. Three’s a crowd.” And that gravel rash laugh again, amplifying her confusion.
But really, in the grand scheme of things, it hadn’t taken long to train the bitch to stop pleading with her eyes, to stop asking that damn ‘why?’ question over and over again. The man of the house knew her weak spot, he knew exactly how to hurt her and make her think twice before she questioned her place in the pack. Casting big, sad puppy dog eyes in his direction had little effect.
It was simply a matter of leaving her at home when he took his girl on their evening walk around the block. His human companion was not well, he’d tell the neighbors. But his dog, his favorite company… as they could see, she was just fine.
She was, too, and she knew it. She looked back down the street, teeth bared, seeming to smile serenely.
While the man’s wife… his bitch. She stared out at them through a tiny gap in the eight foot fence.
‘);
Previous post: Emotion Phobic
Next post: So. What Do You Think About Stuff…?
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Falling Into Place
No way! That doesn't happen in real life! **Not for the squeamish** – RRSAHM
No way! That doesn’t happen in real life! **Not for the squeamish**
Monloguing to y’all,
Now, before I begin, I really do not want to lose mahself anymore Followers. Therefore, please take note of the disclaimer….
This one is not for the squeamish. I mean it. It involves girly things including vagina’s and lubricant. Read on at your own risk.
And, just to set the scene, here is a lovely bit of early Nineties sexual health imagery for you, complete with gerbera. Hey, at least it’s not a tulip.
*’hem, hem*.
I don’t know if any of you are Sex and the City tragics like me (surely, one or two…?). But even if you’re not, you may recall one of the more memorable episodes, way back in Season One, where one of the girls has an unfortunate incident with a certain contraceptive and enlists the help of her friends to get her out of the somewhat awkward situation…
“But I just had my nails done!”
If anyone is brave enough, apparently the episode can be downloaded here. Or something. I couldn’t work my way through the migraine-inducing Flash to find it. Whatever.
You see, I remember watching this episode with my flatmate, having a giggle, then engaging in a succinct discussion about how, amusing as it was, it was a situation unlikely to occur in the other world known as Real Life.
As it turns out, we were wrong.
Here’s a lesson to you all. When using a new diaphragm, for the first time ever, for your own health and safety do make sure you put it in the right way up. Just to make sure it doesn’t get… erm… shall we say… lodged.
At least, I think that was the problem. I’m almost not game to try it again. But hormonal contraceptives turn me into a psychopath of the bunny-boiling variety. So my options are very much limited.
And here’s another piece of advice, for free. When you are on the phone telling the fore mentioned flat mate about the fore mentioned incident, and she asks “So, how did you get it out?” and you reply “Lots of lube“, do make sure that you are not in direct in earshot of the three 20-something year old guys that live next door to you.
And that’s another two for the Stupid Things Lori Does files. Tell you what, it’s been a Barry Crocker of a week.
Leave a Comment
{ 12 comments… read them below or add one }
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November 14, 2010 at 8:58 am -
bahahaha, I didn't get to read this post when it went up coz I wasn't in blogland yet!
- July 6, 2010 at 3:49 pm
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I've never used one.. but ever lost a condom 'up there'? Tell you what – THAT is a nightmare getting out !
- March 31, 2010 at 12:40 pm
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Hmmm. How to explain it without getting too vulgar? The problem wasn't so much getting a grip on it- I could *just* get my fingers on it- more actually getting it to move from the position it was stuck in.
If you what i mean
- March 31, 2010 at 11:09 am
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Okay, just to be clear, I'm not looking for MORE information…
BUT…
never having to deal with one of these myself, I am curious…
wouldn't 'lots of lube' just make it more difficult, AKA slippery and harder to get a grip on to remove??
Just wondering out loud…..
- March 31, 2010 at 8:45 am
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rofl Lori. This is the point when I say that girl, you sure have lived! (I have sure been sheltered! I think I even missed that SITC episode
) - March 30, 2010 at 5:25 pm
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You are so funny. I love you. I really do. Hey, if I lived like in the same country as you, I would have helped you get that bitch out. :o) I hope my swearing doesn't lose you any readers either.
- March 30, 2010 at 10:55 am
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I remember the episode your talking about – and i'm so embarrassed for you! I'm also so glad that the Pill works for me without turning me into a demon…
- March 30, 2010 at 9:36 am
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Jaysus Lori, that would have freaked me out!!
Also, I'm now tying to do my best to erase that mental image of you maniacally groping your own lady bits. I may need to drink my vodka rocks.
- March 30, 2010 at 9:33 am
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Wow, that must not have been fun. Despite the complicated workings of our innards, I still would rather have our problems then that dangling hairy thing the guys have.
- March 30, 2010 at 5:24 am
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OMG. This happened to me once, long ago, and I had to go to my OBGyn to get it removed. Yeah, that's right, I paid a professional to do the job. Go you for rocking the at-home removal.
Also, they never really worked for me (something about a tilted cervix) and the hormone things wacked me out too. Which explains why I walked down the aisle 3 months preggers. Guess who couldn't be arsed with condoms?
- March 30, 2010 at 3:45 am
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Love it! Can't believe you lose followers over funny stuff like this. Duly noted. Will avoid inserting right side up. Good to know!
I got some criticism for calling my son an asshole, and I exclaimed, "But that was one of the funniest wisecracks on Sex and the City – when Samantha calls Miranda's baby an asshole!"
People take themselves waaayyy too seriously sometimes!
- March 30, 2010 at 12:26 am
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OMG – like you I can't take the pill – but never went down this path either. We just played russian roulette (hence my 4 children I suppose) as obviously, as my children think, we only had sex 4 times.
Glad you got it out as that must have been sort of scary (oh and that you can laugh about it now – you are laughing aren't you??)
Previous post: Me and My Humungous Yogic Ego
Next post: The Muse Wars- Challenge Six.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The Crappest GiveAway Ever (really, this time)
Shhh It’s A Secret
Shhh It’s A Secret
I know I’m not the only one, who has trouble with this ‘being an adult’ thing. So this post is for all of us, who hate making phone calls and wish Real Life would run itself sometimes.
***
I’m not sure I have what it takes to be an adult. It occurs to me, every now and then, that I’m not very good at it.
I hate making phone calls. Talking to insurance companies and making appointments is like a slow form of torture.
I’m also awful at returning phone calls, and text messages. Texts can sit on my phone, unread for days, before I finally take a peak at them.
I really intensely dislike vegetables. And washing up.
I leave most things- especially the important ones- to the last available minute.
Most of my socks have holes in them, and I don’t own a single pair of matching bra and undies.
I don’t unpack my groceries as soon as I bring them home.
I get parking fines and library fines on a semi-regular basis.
I go for days without washing my hair. I forget to floss and I rarely wash my face before bedtime.
I’d rather ride my bike than answer my email.
I’ve never even once mowed my own lawn.
Even though I don’t dread school pick up as much here as I did in the TinytrainTown, I’m still not very good at making small talk.
I’d rather surf Reddit, or get lost in an hedonistic session of book reading, than fill out Centrelink forms or do the washing.
And I need to cut my toenails.
That one, I should be able to manage today, surely.
But if not… it can wait. Until tomorrow.
Or one day next week.
{ 9 comments }
Softly, softly, softly. That’s how we do it here, every day, for now.
I watch my children adapt and warm to living with a new person in our lives. I watch with amazement as they take things in their stride, as they assess what goes on here and assimilate it into their tiny frames of what life is like.
As those of you who’ve done this before me know, introducing a new parental figure to the family mix is done with care and trepidation, and a definitive sense of not pushing things too far.
Softly, softly.
Small invitations to intimacy are made. The Most Amazing Man offers the Chop a hug before bed, and he responds with his arms wide open. I see the hesitation more with my son than with my daughter. My Chop is hesitant to trust too much, to get too close. He remembers what it’s like to be left behind.
“I will leave you!” The Most Amazing Man says to me, taunting and joking, and I poke my tongue out in response.
Neither of us realised my son had heard that exchange, until his head pops up with shock and he asks “What? What did you say?”
“Joking, baby. We were joking, I promise. The Most Amazing Man is not going anywhere.”
Everything is done in tiny pieces, tiny increments of trust and discipline. Tiny offerings- a hug, a bedtime story, a family day out. All those ‘normal’ things you do with a dad, that my children have been missing for years.
Softly, softly. One tiny baby step at a time.
{ 2 comments }
If you went to high school in a small enough town, and you stay there- or return to there- until your children are old enough to attend school themselves, it’s logical that some of your children’s classmates might just be the offspring of the same people you yourself went to school with.
Having not particularly enjoyed going to high school in this area, that wasn’t a very comforting thought. But, hey, we’re all thirty years old now, right? We’ve all grown up a bit. Or so you’d hope.
Over the course of the last six months worth of the dreaded school pick up, I recognised one of the mums who was milling around the school courtyard, waiting too. Her daughter was in the same class as my son. I know I went to highschool with her. But that’s about as specific as my memory gets. I can’t remember her name, or any particular interaction with her. I do remember that we didn’t get along. There’s been too much life happen in between then and now… the memories weren’t important enough to keep.
Obviously I made a bigger impression on her than she did on me. She remembered me well enough to pass on to her daughter that she knew me, that we’d been to school together. That she didn’t like me.
And, kids being kids, her daughter passed that information on.
I was a bit dumbstruck when the Chop told me, “So and so’s mum went to school with you and she doesn’t like you!” He said it nonchalantly, a point in his rambling list of Things That Happened That Day. I don’t know why it bothered me, because it didn’t bother him. If he’d been upset about it, I might have been, too… I wasn’t, so much. It just bugged me.
Just… for f*ck’s sake. As if there isn’t enough turmoil in the social lives of five year olds, without adding high school bitchiness into the mix. I wonder, vaguely, how much life has happened to this other mum in the years since we finished high school, for her to be able to hang onto that hate so much.
In the end, I just tell my boy that maybe that other mum “needs to grow up a bit”. I’m thinking the tumultuous kindergarten grapevine means that reply get passed on, too.
The spiteful, five-year-old part of me hopes so.
{ 17 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Washed Away.
Grieve Quietly. – RRSAHM
Grieve Quietly.
We’re so uncomfortable in our society, with grief and mourning.
I’ve always had a fascination with those pictures that float around on the Net, taken in the very early 1900′s. Portraits of people, taken after death. Memento mori.
That idea, today, would creep the hell out of people. But it was logical, then- photos were so expensive. If you didn’t have any, what memories could you hold with you, once that person has gone?
(Photos, I don’t have enough, never enough.. I always wanted to, had a feeling I should, get more photos taken of the four of us together… I didn’t, and I wish I had. if this is on your “To Do” list- take more photos of your loved ones- please do it. Today.)
I’ve always been uncomfortable with death, with people grieving. I think it’s a common thing. While some cultures treat grief as a right, our’s seems to treat is an inconvenience.
And a negative. Mourning is not always negative. Mourning can be, at times, a joyful process.
People avoided me, avoided calling me, avoided talking to me. I get it, I understand. Grief is difficult, and I would have been the same. We seem to put a time limit on grieving, and we get impatient when people don’t pull up their grotty socks and get on with it.
I’ve seen footage of women in other cultures, weeping and beating at the grave of their dead husband, or father, or brother. It’s expected and respected, a painful, vocal outpouring of sorrow.
Had I tried that at Tony’s funeral, I would have been carted off to the local pysch ward.
What a strange fucking world.
Leave a Comment
{ 30 comments… read them below or add one }
- June 24, 2011 at 12:10 pm
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http://theserendipitycafe.blogspot.com/2011/06/black-dog-keeping-it-real-post.html
Inspired by you to speak out…
- June 24, 2011 at 11:43 am
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I've recently been surprised by the newfound compassion of a friend who has just experienced grief. After being an arsehole about my behaviour he has for the first time ever, asked me about how I'm travelling. It's made me realise that some people just don't get it until they've faced it themselves. Grief is one of the more isolating experiences we can have, but it also somehow teaches some people a deeper understanding or empathy for others if they didn't already have that ability.
- June 24, 2011 at 10:20 am
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I know a little girl who flung herself on her mother's coffin and cried. Thankfully her father is comfortable with letting his kids feel what they feel.
My husband and I just purchased a pre-need funeral policy for him because he has the health problems he does. Although I know it's a good thing to be prepared, I hated doing it. I hate that I think about my husband's eventual death so much.
Believe me, whenever it happens, I won't take shit from anyone about what THEY think is proper grieving!
- June 24, 2011 at 7:21 pm
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Lori, I've pasted some url's for photos of Mrs Reagan, the late US President Ronald Reagan's wife, grieving at her husbands funeral. In front of the whole world, Mrs Reagan wept, kissed the coffin & rubbed her hands along the length of his coffin as if to feel him once more before he was laid to rest. She did all this in front of leaders from around the world, cameras from around the world, without shame or embarrassment. How we grieve; how long we grieve, is no-ones business but our own. Lori – you grieve long and loud & we will be here for as long at that may take (X)
http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRZvUmfN-ynTvhaFfzKvGddOlTR_cpEPwZl70LUwszhu4VLKBkvzg&t;=1
http://members.tripod.com/~1pops0/photos/nancykisscasket.jpg
- June 24, 2011 at 8:08 am
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It is a strange world Lori. People are quick to judge, even quicker to try and get away from something uncomfortable or difficult, such as the raw grief you are going through.
Friend's of ours suddenly lost a "healthy" baby when she was less than a day old, they had no pictures of her, so took them after she had died so that they had something to hold onto. Those pictures were used on the thank you cards after the service, disturbing but somehow so right. - June 23, 2011 at 10:12 pm
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I was at high school (year 11) and mentioned to a friend (strict Christian upbringing) that I was going to my uncle's funeral tomorrow.
She said, 'make sure you don't cry!' My bottom lip started wobbling and I said, 'what are you talking about? Of course I'll bloody cry!'
She told me that her mother (who by the way had strange ideas about pretty much everything) said that when you cry at a funeral or about someone's death in general, you're being selfish because you want them to be with you, and you should be happy for them because they're going to heaven.
I should add here I'm not a Christian. I tried to calmly tell her I disagreed (didn't want to cry then and there, there were ppl all over the place) and could we please drop it.
I walked off, and she said, 'sure. But don't cry!!' and then she giggled. Bitch.
Two years later we went to a funeral of a school friend, and there was that mother, glaring sternly at all of us who were crying. I felt like telling her, 'this girl was a heathen, no way was she going to heaven, so I'll cry all I bloody want!'
Anyway. I think you can see where I'm going with this. I hate this crap that people go on with, and I don't know what purpose it serves to hold your grief in except so as not to inconvenience anyone else who's not going through it.
People are sick. Let it out.
- June 24, 2011 at 7:59 am
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Having to worry about being judged on how you are or not greiving while you try to handle the grief. Lovely. Ugh!
- June 23, 2011 at 6:41 pm
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I've read in books about other cultures who do the wailing and beating themselves with twigs, painting themselves with ashes etc, but in most of those, they do it for a certain set time, then they "put it behind them" and get on with their lives. It's the expected way, but I'm not sure it's the right thing, even though they've done the very public grieving for their culture, how can they just set it aside? Surely they must still be grieving on the inside, just as we do here.
- June 23, 2011 at 2:06 pm
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I don't know why we in our society have such a hard time accepting others' expressions of grief. I think we lose a lot by keeping it all inside. I say, mourn as you need to mourn. It's a tribute to the person you lost, and a poignant one at that. It's a healing for you, and the first step in accepting that your loved one is gone. About the photos after death, I totally took a few photos of my beloved grandmother in her casket at the viewing. I have them in my scrapbook. I loved her in life, and I love her in death. She's always with me.
Sending you virtual hugs and letting you know that it's okay to feel what you feel and to let it out.
~ Pia
- June 23, 2011 at 1:59 pm
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Maybe we need to be taught how to handle grief and death…. not sure where. Maybe as Western society moves away from religion the teaching around grief is lost. I am not religous so I don't even know if Churches do help, but I wonder what is was like for generations before who "seemed" to have a better handle on what the done thing was. I personally struggle with knowing what to say to someone who has experienced something I can't even imagine, but I figure saying something even if a little off the mark is better than saying nothing. I think with age & experience too plus with reading of other's experiences (thank you Lori) this is something I have given more thought to and feel less awkward about.
Thanks also for the reminder re. family photos. I hardly have any of our little family and even less of me and my little boy as I am always holding the camera.
- June 23, 2011 at 1:47 pm
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Strange indeed, Lori. And thanks for the suggestion of family photos. No, we have't done it yet (not since the addition of Baby Holly) and yes, we should! Your post has been my catalyst. As always, lots of hugs! xx
- June 23, 2011 at 1:23 pm
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I love the way people in other cultures howl and wail at death. Why wouldn't you? Death is so unfair. So permanent. So devastating. Why oh why oh why would we want to force ourselves to hide that love we feel for them.
But we do.
And we are praised for our dignity. For our restraint.
No one in our culture has ever been praised for having a really good screaming fit.
Being forced to just suck-it-up is just wrong. And anyone who says otherwise is wrong too.
Cate - June 23, 2011 at 1:17 pm
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It seems slightly inappropriate to bring it up here (but I'm not above being inappropriate so I'll continue on), I really found this when my cat died. People expect me to move on at a certain pace because she's was an animal not a human. And I haven't.
- June 23, 2011 at 1:00 pm
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Isn't it?
And there are many, many reasons why people need to grieve. Not just death… Loss comes in so many ways…
- June 23, 2011 at 12:49 pm
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I was thinking the other day about the way in our society we used to wear mourning clothes… sometimes I want that back. I want people to know I am grieving. To know I am at a loss, and beyond sad.
I get annoyed when people correct me if I say dying or dead. Apparently passed away is the only right words. I hate it.
I don't know what grief should be, but I'm fairly certain it's not hushed tones and silence. - June 23, 2011 at 12:49 pm
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Grief is a very personal pain and like many here a lot of people have walked away even though I grieved in Private I still made them uncomfortable, it is 13 Years since my Son died and I have recently been able to open up to my new Hairdresser who lost her Son 3 Years ago we talk about our Sons and I think being able to share and talk about the loved one is important and remember it never goes away just becomes gentler.
Also as Suzi said we are here by your side.
Take care Jacki - June 23, 2011 at 10:19 am
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Like all things that people don't understand until they have experienced themselves – mental illness, death, divorce, cancer, loss of a child… anything that creates profound human emotion… people feel uncomfortable and instead of being honest and saying "I don't know what to say, I don't even know what I should I be feeling" they want the person who is creating that feeling of uncomfortableness to "go away" "suck it up" "move on" or as you put it Lori "pull up your grotty socks".
I won't pretend for a moment to even understand your loss hun – but I can understand the nightmare that is PTSD … and if enables me to empathise with you on your journey then so be it.
There is no time limit on healing. Its a process – just like growing.
xxx
- June 23, 2011 at 10:15 am
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Since a friend of mine was diagnosed with Breast Cancer afew years ago [who is now still fighting the brave fight <3] I have made an effort to get more photo's at every opportunity, it was something she asked me to do with my Family, and I am.
Not only pics of the family, but make sure YOU get in front of the camera. Make sure YOU are a part of them moments in pictures. Leave the memory of YOU in there too.
It's too late to have T in them, but it's not too late to build a collection for the kids of you.
I think grief is something nobody really truly understands because it is soooo different for every individual. Back in the day, it wasn't right to openly grieve the loss of a Child/Husband/Loved one. I remember a story my Mother told me of my Nana. My Aunt was born still [my Nana would still to this day question that she was born sleeping], but society wouldn't allow Nana to grieve Aunty S. She was never spoken of for many many years, until us Grandchildren were old enough to ask questions. It was like through us she had permission to grieve the Baby she lost years before.
Don't let society make rules for you. Your grief is YOUR grief. The way you deal with it, is your own way. And if it takes 20+ years to get to the next step, so be it.
I hope you find a little spark of happiness somewhere in today, and whatever that little spark is, it makes you smile.
Miss Cinders xx
- June 23, 2011 at 4:52 am
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Grief is such a normal human emotion. I have NEVER understood the distaste over it. I understand that it can be overwhelming or even uncomfortable for some people, but there should ALWAYS be a profound respect for the person that is grieving.
You can grieve with me, with the people who read your words, any way you'd like ans we will wrap our arms around you.
- June 23, 2011 at 1:21 am
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So so true. Even here in the US, there's this image of the silently grieving widow. Somber, respectful, crying silent tears, still looking beautiful in her black funeral attire. And then after the funeral… there's nothing. no protocol for how grief should look – so everyone hides it away, and hides from it.
You can roar and wail and rage and weep here, Lori – we'll bear witness and try to hold you up. - June 23, 2011 at 12:28 am
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I don't think grief is neat and tidy. It's unpredictable. Perhaps that is why it's so unacceptable.
- June 23, 2011 at 12:01 am
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I think that's hollywood banging on their chest. But it probably has happened.
I actually think people look very peaceful and nice at their funeral.
- June 22, 2011 at 10:27 pm
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So so so true, our society wraps grief up in a nice neat little package that has an expiry date and things you are allowed to say and do. It's the reason I am now back at Uni, my dream is to research and educate on grief at a societal level. I believe people really just don't know how to act or what to say. There is such a limited understanding in so many areas of grief. I think ignorance is the place where all "rules" are set for the bereaved. Not a purposeful ignorance but a plain old lack of knowledge. I want to be able to offer more knowledge.
There are many wonderful cultural ways others deal with grief that I know would have been so beneficial to me.
I did go to my daughters grave and screamed, cried and tore at the grass with an icey pole stick during torrential rain a couple of weeks after she died. I don't care if it sounds weird it helped and for once I was without anyone else especially my living child and I could really let loose. It was an outpouring I needed and I needed to do alone.
Always wishing you peace on your grief journey
- June 22, 2011 at 9:49 pm
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Everybody grieves differently. Do it how ever you need to, we will be at your side.
- June 22, 2011 at 9:44 pm
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In someways I now find some of my grief has got worse with time. The initial stabbing pain is gone but regrets still grow and change and have to be dealt with as each come up. Falling apart after many years is looked upon as a lack of strength or mental illness. It's not it's grief, leave me to get on with it. You've got PTSD to deal with as well but I guess that will be looked down upon too. I think wailing women have something to be said for.
- June 22, 2011 at 9:03 pm
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Oh do I get this. Do I ever. Three years on from the death of my daughter and I KNOW people are over me and my grief. And people have walked away, many of them. This isn't really a process, or a journey – this is life. We'll grieve for the rest of our lives. No getting over it, going around it or moving on – you just have to keep going through it. Every day.
You're right, as a society, we abso-bloody-lutely suck at grief, grieving and knowing how to treat the grievers out there.
Thinking of you, Lori. - June 22, 2011 at 8:49 pm
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No-one will ever be happy with how you grieve, so you just do it in your own way. Only you know how to do it.
x
- June 23, 2011 at 4:59 am
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I certainly got the feeling that a lot of people expected me to be 'over it' after a year, and yet in some ways the second year was harder – partly because so much of the support had been withdrawn. By then it seemed like only family understood that it wasn't over.
I do second the photo point – when I searched I found hardly any of all 4 of us. There were plenty of me with both kids, and him with both kids. But not both of us with both kids – I really wish we had got other people to take more photos of us as a family.
- June 22, 2011 at 9:46 pm
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So true – our culture (yes, I definitely include us North Americans in there) in general does have a very unhealthy attitude towards death and grief. It's like you said; we try to be sympathetic for a while, but then we're all: "OK, aren't you finished yet? Come on, let's go. Hup two, hup two!" It's awful.
I hope you continue to have the guts to grieve in your own way and not to let anyone else tell you how to do it or when it's "time to stop." HUG!!
- June 22, 2011 at 8:50 pm
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I always used to think it was strange that in some countries, you can hire professional mourners.
Now, I think it's a fantastic idea. A heap of people wailing and beating their chests and throwing ashes on their heads — that's just what I wanted to do.
Previous post: The Worst That’s Been Said?
Next post: Vlogged- Ouch.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Running Away Again.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The Crappest GiveAway Ever (really, this time)
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Jeans and Stuff.
The Dark Birth – RRSAHM
The Dark Birth
Hello hello,
I’m guest posting at Good Golly Miss Holly’s again today. Hey, I’ve got two kids, so I have to have two birth stories, right?
This week, I’m talking about the not-so-fun arrival of this gorgeous little dude.
See you there.
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{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
- September 27, 2010 at 6:36 pm
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I'm over there like a shot!
Oh, and thanks for featuring me on AMB. I mightn't have chosen that particular post… I had one lady email me and tell me I was a cyberbully over that one! I cried, such was my bewilderment and heartache at being called a bully… but I am over it now and just happy that you chose me. Really honoured. x
- September 27, 2010 at 5:44 pm
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Wow, what a contrast between your two stories.
I honestly don't know why some women go into a profession where they are supposed to care for people. Your story made me want to slap those women.
- September 27, 2010 at 11:23 am
- September 27, 2010 at 9:15 am
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I can't wait to read this one after the last one!
Previous post: Roll up, roll up, it’s FlogYoBlog Friday!!
Next post: All hail the Dreaded Mummy Bloggers.
Melbourne, Part Four- The Reason I'm Actually Here. – RRSAHM
Melbourne, Part Four- The Reason I’m Actually Here.
Hey jelybeans,
I am one tired chicklet tonight.To be honest, I don’t want to go back to real life… but’s that’s a whole nother post, for a whole nother day.
So.. a quick one tonight, before I crash for a few hours then start the very long drive back home. I just felt I should explain what was going on, for all of those people who have been bombarded with my #nnb2011 Tweets all day.
It’s Nuffnang Blogopolis 2011, people. The first one ever. And it was huge. A roomful of Aussie bloggers- parent bloggers, food bloggers, fashion bloggers, finance bloggers and at least one real estate blogger. We even got a workshop with the ProBlogger himself.
Poor Emma’s Brain had an absess in her face that looked very much like she swallowed a golf ball. She trooped on, long enough to look hot and make an apperance.
The best piece of advice I got was probably from Dave of Nuffnang. I even made a note of it.
There was a Mexican Wave. It looked damn cool. And it was totally ripping off my idea, which I Tweeted half hour beforehand.
I did some very public Tweeting about undies with the very funny Carly Findlay. And we did a lot of giggling. And then we got told off by the blogger in front of us for being too loud. She called us ‘Girls’. It felt just like being in school again.
Anyway. What happens in a room full of bloggers at about 3pm….? Everyone’s batteries start to die. Heh.
And the holiday is now officially complete. I have shopped, shopped, shopped, met one of my idols- Miss Violet LeBeaux….
…. and Melbourne put on a simply kick arse rainbow for us, just outside Federation Square.
I love you very much, Melbourne. Driving away, it’s going to be difficult.
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{ 14 comments… read them below or add one }
- August 2, 2011 at 3:27 pm
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Thank you for writing about me here. Nice pic too. I am not well but will recap the conference when I am better.
I had fun with you. Shhhhhhhhh - August 1, 2011 at 8:45 pm
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Also to answer Tony's question above, I'm 24 but have once had the police called to inspect my ID at a bar because the door guy didn't believe I could be over 18 -_-'
- August 1, 2011 at 8:43 pm
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I LOVE YOU TOO. That is all. <3
- July 31, 2011 at 2:00 pm
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That sounds just amazing. Thank you for sharing your adventure with us. I hope you had a safe drive home.
- July 31, 2011 at 8:28 am
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Awesome! It looks like lots of fun!
- July 31, 2011 at 1:40 am
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I'm so glad you had a wonderful time and got some color. I have a feeling that there will be more rainbows in your life. Just hang in there, love. You're going to make it.
- July 30, 2011 at 11:17 pm
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hope you have a safe trip home.
- July 30, 2011 at 10:50 pm
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Sounds like a fab day was had by all. Drive safe!
- July 30, 2011 at 9:38 pm
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How spewy am I that I live one hour out of Melbourne and I didn't go???? Sheesh. But so glad you loved it, honeybunch. Come back again soon, m'kay? And drive back to Paradise safely xxxxx
- July 30, 2011 at 8:24 pm
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Have LOVED the tweets today. I really felt like I was there (even thought I was on the couch – yes, how boring!). Will definitely be at the next bloggy event. Hopefully I get a chance to meet you! xx
- July 30, 2011 at 8:00 pm
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By the way if you want to try goole+ and need an invite, let me know I am on it already. Safe drive home
- July 30, 2011 at 7:50 pm
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Melbourne loves you very much too! Come back soon!!
- July 30, 2011 at 7:39 pm
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Next time kidnap me please!
Miss Violet LeBeaux is STUNNING. Very jealous. - July 30, 2011 at 7:32 pm
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It made for a very entertaining afternoon in front of the computer thats for sure.Don't sweat too much about your swearing, thats one of the things that makes your blog real! :). I have to ask how old is Miss Violet, some photos she looks like she is !
16!!. Glad you had a great trip and a lot of laughs.
Anthony
Previous post: Melbourne, Part Three- St Kilda.
Next post: Sedation
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Another New House In Paradise….
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Jeans and Stuff.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So Damn Cool I Need My Own Soundtrack.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Washed Away.
Avatar Travesties – RRSAHM
Avatar Travesties
Why hello there,
I’ve been attempting to create myself an avatar. A cute little cartoon mini me. Primarily, to be my virtual self on the Belly Belly forums. But I might even branch out and make me a little one for my blog too.
First off, a big thanks to Sarah, my Internet Guru, for walking me through it. It’s not as easy as I thought it would be. And as usual, I am not as clever as I think I am.
So, in the spirit of a self depreciating sense of humour, I thought I’d share my efforts with you.
My first attempt. Not bad, except it only contains me. Everyone else was cut out. Ahh, I get it, things have to go in the little white box.
Attempt number two. Not bad. But a tad boring.
Attempt number three. Nice, except for the fact she’s in her undies. And is that a massive black head on her nose?
Attempt number four. Groovy, baby. My only objection is that I really wouldn’t wear a midriff top. But at that stage I hadn’t figured out the majesty of layers, and midriff was the only style that worked with the legs.
Attempt number five. My favourite so far. I put the Man in there as well, because he was whinging that “all he is to this family is the bankroll”. *Sigh*. I did try explaining that the program is a doll maker, so the boys will never be as aesthetically pleasing as the chickies. He didn’t listen. Anyway, I do like the peace sign I’m flashing, and the Doors shirt I’ve got on, and the ripped jeans. Very moi. But look closely- does the Chop’s face look just a little like Robert Downey Jr with a Shannon Noll flavour-savour?
That’s all I’ve got so far. I’ll keep you posted with how the next batch goes.
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{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
- March 9, 2010 at 10:19 pm
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Can I admit now that I NEVER got it? The one time I did my own, I have myself 2 arms……
- March 8, 2010 at 10:12 pm
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Getting better
- March 8, 2010 at 8:52 pm
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Not too shabby!
Previous post: 99 Things
Next post: The Muse Wars- Writing Challenge Two.
The Hotel- Blue Mountains, Part Two. – RRSAHM
The Hotel- Blue Mountains, Part Two.
Continued from the Patchwork Hospital, last month- sorry it took such a long time for Part Two. I got… distracted.
There’s a hotel, just past Katoomba- it may be at Medlow Bath, or one of those other tiny villages that you only just see as you cruise past them, driving music pumping, on the highway toward Lithgow. It is all those things that appeal to me about the Blue Mountains of NSW, epitomised and structured and– currently– being refurbished. It’s a glorious, majestic, glamour of a building, the main structure stacked on top of– well, built into, actually– the side of the mountain.
It may have been opened in 1901, the premiere luxury hotel for economically well–off Mountain travelers. Perhaps- just perhaps- it was originally opened as a ’hydrotherapy centre’, it’s siren song fueled by the rumour of underground springs- a flowing, crystal clear sub-terrain stream of mystical spring water. Some kind of life elixir that promised health and healing, a balm to the strains of upper-class existence. Unfortunately, by the time the this establishment, with all it’s flourishes, lead-lit glass and sculptured carpentry was actually opened, the river od mystical waters had dried up. Whether it ever actually existed is a historical anomaly- no one knows for sure.
Not that it mattered. People still flocked to the decadent hotel, dressed in their finest, to partake in the opulent accommodation, be seen in the even more opulent casino room. To honeymoon and bushwalk, canyon and relax.
This hotel may been closed for refurbishments for as long as I can rememeber. It’s one of those things, like the random concrete sculpture, that I like to drive past with unassuming people who don’t know it’s there. Because they almost never fail to say something long the lines of ’What the f*ck was that??!’
I’ve wanted to explore here since the first time I did that myself.
There doesn’t seem to be much to see, many places to go, when you first pull up directly in front of the chain link fence with it’s huge gates that surround three quarters of the property. The far side, the back entrance, ti doesn’t need a fence- the buildings sits only five metres from a cliff face, a gradient so steep it’s almost vertical, covered with the barbed wire of the bush- a dozen different hard-limbed trees and plants, thick scrub to impede movement and break ankles. The hotel (maybe- all this is in theory, of course) directly on the main road, and Dear Brad and I aren’t the only tourists and explorers who have stopped here today for a sticky beak. An older couple are wandering the forecourt of the building, well inside the security fencing; and there’s another car parked here, too, who’s occupants are yet to show themselves. There’s someone else actually parked inside the grounds, again within the fence, one of the makeshift gates slightly ajar. There’s four of five large buildings that make up the property, most of them branching to the left of the original hotel and casino. Only one tall rooming house has been built to the right of the original, and it’s one stark white, ugly against the softness of the original cream, desolate against the perfectly clear skyline behind it. The Person With Keys, the one parked inside, is throwing random, indiscernible junk from the front door of the white building into a shiny silver skip-bin sitting angled near the building’s steps.
This feels stupid, unnecessarily risky, and I’m breaking rules… I’m almost positive that this particular place can not really be classified as ’abandoned’. Caution versus Bravery, and Bravery whispers that if I don’t do this now it may just be years before I come back here again. And by that time this endless construction work– which actually doesn’t seem to have begun– will be over and I’ll have to pay a few hundred dollars for the privelege of checking all this out.
“Come on, then,” I say to Dear Brad, who seems as hesitant as I am, and I sling my camera bag round my neck and walk through the front gate, trying to swagger along as though I have every right in the world to be here.
 |
| The view over the Blue Mountains. |
We pass the older couple, who smile and say good morning, and we reply in turn. There’s a certain surreality in feeling as though you’re taking a casual morning stroll through the windswept grounds of a neglected hotel, the moulded Taj Mahal roof of the casino as a backdrop.
Like the PatchWork Hospital, the gardens here were once gorgeous. While not yet quite as rampant as the hospital grounds, given another few years they certainly could be. Leaves and weeds form heaps around roses that are aaphid infested and badly need a prune. The rudiments of catering white goods– coffee pots and industrial toasters, along with random chairs and tables- are stacked against the ochre-colored walls of the hotel wing that skirts the side of the courtyard. There’s a pool, a dolphin dry docked and suspended mid leap, the only water against the deep blue of the pool’s sides a few inches of murky green curdled algae-sludge layering the pool floor.
Between the casino on one side and the pool on the other there is a rotunda, a circular driveway to pull into while you register your stay or return your room keys. Despite the huge pillars, it takes a moment to realize that’s what it is, exactly– creeping weeds and disheveled gravel have blurred the boundaries and lines of the through-way.
This is the drive past facade, the public front of the majestic, antiqued hotel. Combined with the casino, with it’s dramatic domed roof and carved wood and stained glass doors, set high in contrast against the skyline as the valley falls away behind it; it’s all stark and gothic and fraught and brings a sense of tough but somehow sheltered people, dressed in all their finery but living here, in the unforgiving Australian bushland, with the somewhat desolate, bone–chilling cold of mountain winters. Silly feathers and fuss, the almost willful, blind ignorance that comes with having enough money to close your door on the hard parts of life; contrasted with the rugged savagery of actua
lly surviving in this environment a hundred years ago.
The public front of the building is too easy. The chain link fence sections off these main buildings– connected, it seems, so guests did not get wet feet or freeze the tips of their noses while traveling between dining room and bedroom, bedroom and casino– from the next squat structure to the left, which is old and white and looks like an oversized shoebox with tiny squares cut down the length of it’s side for peeking porthole windows. Dear Brad and I turn and walk back the way we came, aiming for the gate again in order to walk the perimeter that bit further and find a way over to the next stretch of security fencing.
“Fire truck.” says Dear Brad. He’s stopped just inside the gate and looks thoroughly confused.
“What?”
“Fire truck!!”
And that’s just what he means… fire truck. As in, a real, read and shiny full-sized tanker parked right here, behind my car, lights flashing and firemen– paid fireman, not volunteer– in big black shiny jackets climbing up and down into the cab and looking as though they are actually preparing to leave again. One of them sees me looking his way and smiles and waves, and I wave back, again with that surreality– I’m standing directly behind the ‘No Trespassers!!’ sign and nobody is even the slightest bit fussed. Person With Keys is still dumping random things in the skip bin, seemingly also nonplussed by flashing emergency lights, nor trespassers with cameras.
 |
| Back of the hotel, looking north. |
The firies drive off, and one waves to me again, fingers flicking a small salute off his helmet as they pull out on the highway.
Dear Brad and I look at each other, and I’m imagining that, by now, I appear just as confused as he is.
“What the…?”
“I have no idea. But they obviously didn’t mind us being here, so lets go…” (Yes, I said that a lot to Dear Brad this weekend. Anyone who comes exploring with me hears “Come onnnnnn, let’s go!!” on a semi-regular basis.) I don’t care how chilled the local fire brigade are about harmless but still illegal trespassing… The local cops may not feel the same way. And my theory always is- get in, get out. Loitering attracts more attention than stealth movement.
And there’s so much more here to see.
Further down the fence line– the entire property runs for a good five hundred metres along the main highway, and sits directly opposite a tiny sandstone train station– the chain link stops and only the original fencing remains. It’s short and squat, all five foot high concrete pillars connected by concrete spans at the bottom and top. Again, too easy– one leg over, then the other, choose a branch from one the olive trees just inside the fenceline with which to steady yourself, the drop the six foot or so onto the other side,where the ground is slightly lower.
There’s a mismatched group of three or four outbuilding on this side of the fence, most of them still connected to the main hotel buildings with long, tacked on corridors. This is obviously the lower socio-economic end of the Hydro Majestic, and it seems the small white shoebox building we toward first was either the (very) public accommodation for coachmen and traveling servantry, or the staff quarters. It’s dark and dingy and the rooms closest to the road have the feel of dampness, of places so shaded by thick tress that they get very little sunlight at all. And, of course, without the heavy fencing and their imposing security signs making a veritable fortress of this side of the hotel, this building has become an easy target for vandals. It’s not so much graffiti, not even evidence of squatters leaving behind piles of chip packets and soft drink bottles or impromptu fireplaces. The evidence points toward simple, wanton teenaged destruction– things broken, moved and dismantled; order made into mess simply because it’s here and unprotected and they’ve never had so much freedom and power over any environment before in their lives.
In the far back corner of the shoebox building is a kitchen, stripped of anything useful. Every other room, opening methodically off the dark central hallway, is a tiny sleeping space with an identically sized tiny window. The contents of each room differs– some are filled with furniture, some have nothing at all. The roof has come down in some places, throwing merciful thick fingers of slanty sunlight to dry the dampness caught in carpet and upholstery.
The first two rooms are strewn with papers. Cardboard filing boxes are stacked atop one another, drunkenly squashing each others corners and creating compressed heaps of paper. The boxes not stacked up are strewn like snow drifts, piles of looseleaf printed A4′s acting as a slippery, shifting sandhill carpet. I pick up a few of them, shake my head, let them float back toward the floor.
“What are they?” asks Dear Brad.
“Receipts. And invoices and envelopes and stationery and brochures. I’m guessing when the new owners come looking for all the past paperwork from the hotel… this is where they’ll find it.” And again, I wonder… how the hell did it all get here? Who’s job was it, to file and store documentation? What point did they decide ‘Oh fuck it, I’ll just stack all the paperwork here in an unlocked moldy old boarding house?’
Behind the shoebox is another, slighter smaller white Fibro building, fewer windows, more doors. It was, apparently, the care-takers shed on one side, his equipment shed and maintenance room on the other. The tools are, of course, gone, but most of the fittings and random accessories are still here. There’s a calendar on the wall, stopped at March 2007. Screwed to the door of what I’m assuming was, once, the caretakers office– a desk, chair, even a stained and crazed coffee cup still sit dustily inside the small nook– is a sign, obviously salvaged by maintenance when there still was maintenance here. It reads ’Shipley Room’, lettered gold on dark olive paint. It’s from within the hotel proper, and I find myself bre
aking the rules again… coveting. I source a butter knife from the floor, carefully untwist the screws from the thick wood. And take it home for the fairy garden. Righteous bubble broken, I gather intermittently as we pick our way back toward the exit- a red ’fire phone’ with only the handset and cradle, no buttons, lays in a heap of plastic bags and crockery on the floor; so I salvage that, too, and nail it to a pole in the garden for my kids to play with.
 |
| Inside the staff quarters. |
The guilt is only slight. Skip bins… they nullify the notion of stealing, somewhat.
The last outbuilding appears to be the oldest, older even than the hotel itself, ad the romantic in me imagines a pumping station for the ghost of underground springs. Two squat stories of hand-pressed brick, it’s last incarnation seems to have been as an engine room, boiler room and storage shed. The bottom floor is boring, greasy and mechanical. On the far side of the external walls there’s a rusted metal flight of stairs leading to a landing that looks rotted with concrete cancer. I start up them and on the fourth step the entire staircase swings lazily with my weight.
“I’m not sure it’s safe…” I call out to Dear Brad.
“I don’t think so, either.” He replies, and twenty seconds later he’s past me, up on the second floor anyway, laughing and telling me to get a move on, if it held his weight it will hold mine.
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| The bathroom in the sky |
He was lucky it was worth it. Upstairs was another living quarters, same dusty rooms with worn out furniture stored here that has long been forgetten, or that has no place else to go. But, strangely, what was left of the tiny bathroom was… amazing. A small shower next to a large window that looked out over the valley behind the hotel. Hectares of sweeping greenery, too high and close to view the steep drop off of the cliff so you appeared to be standing on the very top of the world. It’s the coolest bathroom I’ve ever seen In Real Life and again there’s that tugging, pensive sadness. The feeling of things being left to fall part, to rot in the absence of every day interaction with humanity.
Miraculously, the rickety stairs don’t collapse on the way back down. We head toward the back of the hotel, toward another outdoor stairwell, this one a huge set of stark silver fire stairs that are attached to the side of the main bulpilding– a legality necessity that is also an ugly modern eyesore. But the view from the top is breath taking, too huge to take in all at once, so gloriously lush that it catches your breath deep in your chest. It doesn’t take long before vertigo chases me down, down, down until I’m just one flight from the top, a comfortable threshold where I can be sure I’m placing my feet on something solid, where I’m no longer dizzy and my body trusts itself to stay vertical and not slide itself awkwardly through a gap too small for me to fit through anyway and send me plummeting toward the emerald green ground below.
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| The hotel, built into the rock |
“Hey… can you see that?” asks Dear Brad softly once he’s caught up again at the foot of the fire stairs, “that door, at the back there… it’s open.”
And damned if he wasn’t right- there was a door, at the very back of the hotel, right against where the cliff drops away. And it was standing open, unlocked, exposing an almost empty room with a huge mirror mounted on the far wall. Seemingly out of place and jarred with the old–fashioned decor, the only objects with the room were two or three huge gym–sized treadmills, a dainty coating of dust and the beginnings and trendilling ends of silky spiderwebs ornating the curving handles and blanketing the running belts.
Continued tomorrow… (really tomorrow, this time. Promise.)
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Previous post: New Year’s Eve. 2012.
Next post: The Hotel- Blue Mountains, Part Three.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Jeans and Stuff.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: 47 Days Later.
Normal and Boring. – RRSAHM
Normal and Boring.
I think the first time I noticed it was a few months ago.
“How are you? How do you feel?”asked Charlie the shrink (who I haven’t seen now for months, due to a simple lack of things to say). I hesitate for a moment, assessing myself. Looking at myself from the inside out and outside in. I see myself as I was the last time Charlie saw me- crumpled into a crying, heaving heap. Still feeling persecuted and bruised and unable to imagine myself feeling any other way but that.
And then I look at myself as I am, in that moment. A head filled with little things- errands, daydreams and ideas and all manner of things that are banal and mundane and ordinary.
“I’m… good” I surprise myself with how true this is. “I feel… normal.”
Charlie is a clever man, and he gives this sentiment the validation it deserves. We’ve defined ‘normal’ before, as it stands in this situation. I’d told him, over and over, that while I recognised ‘normal’ as a relative concept. I just wanted to be ‘back to normal’, as I saw it. I wanted to be able to have normal interactions with people again. I wanted to live a day that wasn’t marked with pain and flashbacks. I wanted to feel like a part of society again, like your average human being. Not like a pariah, a victim, an oddity.
It’s not until I look back at the last six months that I realise how much that feeling of being ‘normal’- returning to the real world- has permeated my life. That’s the thing with normal, perhaps. When it leaves your life, it does so with alarming speed and sudden clarity. But it sneaks itself back in, so slowly and with such settled ease that you barely notice it all.
And it presents itself in the strangest ways. It shows itself when I realise I rarely ever experience that feeling of deep bitterness anymore, the one that used to swarm my mind like a hive of bees whenever I contemplated the reality of parenting alone, compared to wrangling children in a pair.
It’s there when I find myself surprised at the shock on people’s faces as they learn about my husband’s death. I used to dread social interactions for fear the topic would come up- the possibility of that question being asked would permeate the conversation and I’d be able to think of nothing else. Now it’s a blip, an inconsequential dot on my social radar that passes soon enough, and leaves no lasting damage.
I recognise normalcy, oddly enough, in the way I can be bored, apathetic, alone with my thoughts… and not need to run. I can daydream and not cry. I don’t write as much, don’t work as much, because I no longer need to focus that hard on something just to feel I have a substance, a purpose. I still love to explore, but without the same unquenchable thirst I had before… maybe I no longer need to dive into the remnants of other people’s lives in an attempt to forget my own.
Lately, I’ve begun to feel quite boring. I’ve had to reassess that, remind myself that maybe it’s not ‘boring’, but ‘normal’. And as I’ve said before, that’s a blessed state to be in once you’ve been out of it. It’s comfortable and indulgent and fits like a well-worn glove.
It’s like putting the person you’ve always been back on.
***
Normality is a head space… boring could become a way of my life.
I’m about to turn life, and that of my children’s, upside down again. There’s guilt from that, and it picks at me.
At least this time it’s on my own terms.
I think- I hope- it’s for the best; that this upheaval will eventually lead to happiness for all of us.
Normal is great. But I’m selfish and greedy and I want happy, too.
Big changes are happening, here, very soon. I’ll keep you posted.
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{ 10 comments… read them below or add one }
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July 31, 2013 at 4:36 pm -
Normal is a cycle on a washing machine – well used to be not many have that anymore either.
Good to see things are on the up for you.
Multiblogging Mum recently posted…Fertility…
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July 8, 2013 at 6:05 pm -
Normal is kinda boring… for me, I’m feeling very bored with my normal self at the moment.
BUT you feeling normal… makes me feel more than a little happy.. because that word comes from happiness in you
MC x
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July 8, 2013 at 1:51 am -
Cheering from the bleachers – GO HAPPY!
Do whatever it takes, run to the future – whatever happens it will be real. -
July 7, 2013 at 1:54 pm -
Good to read this, thank you.
Muvva recently posted…God on a bicycle? -
July 6, 2013 at 6:54 pm -
My shrink hates it when I use the word “normal” too. Most likely because I am always referring to others as normal and myself with the prefix ‘ab’, as if normality is simultaneously some kind of life I’d never want to live, and something that I don’t deserve to attain…
But boring? I know all about that! When there is so much tumult you wish for boredom, then when there’s boredom you crave action.
Maybe it’s less that you feel boring or normal and more that you feel peace. That’s something different, something beautiful.
–
As for upheaval? Kids are resilient, as you well know. They will feed of the happiness that comes from you, and they will get a kick from the ‘newness’, if this upheaval is what we all think it might be. Though, I demand some kind of real-meat-world interaction before you flee the state!
Whoa, Molly recently posted…One of ‘The Fears’: Wasted Potential and the Well Running Dry -
July 5, 2013 at 12:44 pm -
please say you are moving to Melbourne!!!
Whatever it is… I hope that it enriches your family in ways you have never imagined.
take care
XX Rah Rah
spagsy recently posted…Picture of my life-
July 6, 2013 at 6:25 pm -
I thought it might be a move to melb too. Hope so
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July 3, 2013 at 10:58 pm -
There I something wonderful about normal and boring isn’t there? Chase your happiness. It’s important to at least try. Happiness is not selfish. xx
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July 3, 2013 at 10:33 pm -
I wish you and your little people all the happiness in the world, and hope your ‘upheaval’ brings this to you. You deserve it.
Lisa@Circle of Toast recently posted…Death By Learner Driver
Previous post: What She Will Become.
Next post: My Baby, Growing Up.
Stuff That Makes The World go Round
Stuff That Makes The World go Round
“There are no pockets in shrouds.”
My nan has been saying this for years- I’ve never heard it anywhere else.
It’s almost an irrational concept that once someone dies, they still have all this stuff that hangs around. Just… things. Stuff. Possessions such as the ones stored in my Pandora’s Box– the material goods, the trappings and possessions of an average human existence. They’re not always as haphazard and trivial as an unopened packet of cigarettes, or the newspaper from the day you left the world– although its highly likely that somewhere amongst your other bits and pieces, will be objects as average and everyday as those, that cut and comfort those who loved you.
***
The weekend before Christmas, three weeks after my Gran passed away, my family and I met at the small, cosy house that was her home for the last fifteen years of her life. My mum had been there, off and on, for weeks– months, really, if the truth be known– sorting through her own mother’s possessions, traveling back through her family history a little every time she delved into one of the houses haphazard storage spots. We all have them, pockets in our house where material possessions live and seem to breed– closets and drawers, boxes and cupboards.
When I was a child, my Gran lived with my mother, my father, my brother and I. Her Norm had passed away just months before and, in a way I now understand all too well, she was a woman untethered from herself. (”We applied for social security when he couldn’t work” I remember my Gran saying, not even twelve months ago, “and they said we’d have to wait a bit. Not that it mattered. Six weeks later, and he was dead.” And I wonder how she dealt with that, having just lost her parents and now her husband. How she dealt with missing him so very badly, without any outlet for all that pain to rush to, the way I have here.)
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| Nic-nacs and dust collectors… when I was little, they were friends. |
While we lived on the top floor of the house, my Gran lived on the bottom, with a small lounge room and kitchen, a tiny bedroom and a bathroom we all shared. My brother and I were interned to believe that our Grandmothers space was sacred– as we should have been. We were allowed onto into her area of the house by invite– which came often enough for neither of us to ever feel unwanted– and touched her things only after permission was sought. Her dressing table was, for a part time fairy child such as myself, a wonderland of ostentatious gild and glint and crystal. With her blessing and a concentrated, heavy–handed reverence, I played with heavy brush and mirror sets and beads, lipstick and clip on earrings. I examined shadow boxes full of delicate china ornament and dust–collectors, making tableaux and character of them in the way children too.
But always with a quiet respect that well suited a loving but extremely firm fifty five year old woman with a temper that matched my own.
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| A box of buttons collected over fifty years. And the Bump, playing with them the way I used to. |
That may have been the reason that standing quietly in front of my Gran’s open wardrobe with my mum, twenty five years later, there’s an almost lurking sense of disrespectful intrusion and pertinence. We touch her clothes, her photo albums and jewelry and bank account passbook with a softness and respect that, I think, would please my Gran, knowing her possessions are being treated with a dignity and respect that becomes them. “She would want her things to go to us, rather than the op–shop,” says my mum when I voice my discomfort, as all of us do at one point of another that day. I can the helped– she was such a private, meticulously organized woman; and her room was always such a sacred space.
But it feels special to have her things as my own, none the less. I know she wouldn’t mind her garden ornaments, and some of her much pampered plants, coming to live in my fairy garden.
I take some of her jewelry– only what suits me– and a few hats and gloves and scarves. A photo of her, gorgeous and smoking hot at about twenty years old, circa 1950. Her vases, for fresh flowers in my kitchen.
I ask my mum if I can have the recipe book I photographed for my blog a long, long time ago, and I tuck it away in the top of my wardrobe with my life books– it’s the only thing at feels like ’mine’, not my Gran’s… I may refer to all this stuff as ‘my Gran’s things‘ for the rest of my life.
And the it occurs me to ask my mum about her knitting, her knitting needles– may I have those, too, please? I’m the only member of the family apart from my Gran who ever learned to knit. It was my Gran who taught me, with endless patience, repeatedly grabbing my hands to loosen tight stitches and undoing entire rows to re–hook dropped stitches.
The last thing I created with wool and needles was a pair of scarves for friends going overseas, years ago… before I had children, most certainly. But my Gran, with time up her sleeve, spent years knitting beanies for kids in hospital, wide squares to sow into rugs for the Smith Family. I’m delighted to find three quarters of such a patch–rug already made, folded up within the bags that contain Gran’s collection of a rainbow of fleeces, an assortment of needles from spindly and thin to comforting fat wooden spears.
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| A suitcase, cane wash basket… and my Gran’s collections of yarn and needles. |
Somewhat reassuringly, there is a line or two of knitting already cast on to one set of needles, its stitches perfectly counted so, as long as I don’t drop or double–hook any, it will be another perfectly sized square to add to the rug that I really do intend to finish one day (chronic procrastination not withstanding).
It feels like a gift from her, from my Gran, being the practical kind of woman she was.
She remembered, of course, that I always found casting on- getting started- to be the most difficult part.
***
It’s difficult not to feel guilty and cheap, my grief seems so easy compared to my brothers, my cousins or my mums– while I miss my grandmother profoundly, it seems I am taking this lightly… and I suppose I am.
But, as I’ve said… there is a beauty in learning to grieve differently. Without so much of the horror, the torture. To mourn someone the way it should be.
I whispered an almost thank you to her as the curtains drew shut at her funeral… “Thank you, Gran. Goodbye. I love you…”
I hope she’d be okay with this, with me making what I am of my grief for her.
I think she would be.
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Wow – fantastic! You know I love a good twist, lol.
Hmmm. Thought provoking this one. I love how you spin your webs.