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Another post from Before, the oldest I had in my Drafts folder. I’ve been so reluctant to publish it… it feels like the end of something. I miss this, what I describe, in a round about way, here- the simple camaraderie I had with Tony against the drudgery of raising small children.
Enjoy.
Woooot,
Good morning, my lovely jellybean people. How we doing? I am in a bleeping fantabulous mood. Happy happy joy joy and all that jazz.
Whatever. In honor of this joyous, happy bum-slap-dance mood that I’m in, I thought I’d share with you a very special, very sentimental event that happened in the life of the Man and myself just recently.
We got to wake up our toddler.
I know. Cool, huh? Total awesomeness.What’s that…? You were expecting something way betterer than that….?
You’re a f*cking fussy bunch aren’t you? Work my fingers to the bone at the keyboard and look at the thanks I get.
Allow me to explain.
The Chop is almost three years old. He only just started sleeping through the night about six months ago. Yes, you read that right, no need to go back. Two and a half years before he slept though the night. Shock, horror, welcome to my life. Jump right into my nightmare, the water is warm (OK, that’s probably a light exaggeration…)
These days? Still no guarantee. At least a few nights a week, he’s up and about at all hours. Meanwhile, the Bump, bless her, sleeps like a log most nights. (Excuse me here for a moment while I frantically go touching wood).
Whoever coined the phrase “sleeping like a baby”, certainly didn’t have my first baby. The Chop was not a peaceful, curly, sleepy newborn. The Chop woke, and screamed, and fed every two hours, round the clock, for the first eight months of his life.
Every two hours. For eight months. There were no bottles in this equation, it was all mummy milk.
I was so tired, I wanted to cry most of the time. The thought of six hours of uninterrupted sleep could quite literally, make me weep. Every bit of me- my skin, my eyes, my fingernails- was dipped in fatigue.
I very nearly lost my mind.
As you can probably tell, I’m still slightly traumatized over it. So, is it any wonder that, when given the opportunity to wake the little Chop at 5:30am, the Man and I relished every second of it…?
Remember, when we went to the Zoo a little while back? That adventure involved a very early start (and resulted in a very grumpy child. But that’s not the point of this post.)
The Man and set our alarm for 5am, and jumped out of bed as soon as it went off, bright eyed and bushy tailed, lest it wake the kidlets prematurely and thieve all our pleasure and anticipation. We snuck downstairs, had coffee (two sugars and milk for the Man) and tea (same for me, thanks) and a *ahem* *splutter* sneaky cigarette.
And then, veeeeeeeery quietly, we snuck back up the stairs, and into the Chop’s room.
We had discussed various methods of waking him up. Including jumping on his bed, turning his radio on and up as loud as it would go and the Man farting on his head, well…. various other things.
In the end, poking the Chop awake seemed like the most entertaining option. So that’s what we did. We sat next to his bed, and whispered “Chop.. wake up…”
And poked him* in the arm until he, eventually, and quite grumpily, sat up and rubbed his eyes.
Ahh. The satisfaction. The vengeance. I almost feel like I should feel bad about it, but I don’t. I’m going to be one of those horrible mums who wakes their teenage son up by vacuuming directly outside his bedroom door at 6am. When he has girlfriends staying over. And after waking them, I will burst into the room wearing a polyester negligee with a polar fleece dressing gown and my hair in curlers, screeching that I “Told him I didn’t want any strumpets in my house!” Or something.
My revenge will be served piecemeal, cold, and sweet. Just the way I like it.
There is nothing quite so sweet as waking up a sleeping toddler. Except, perhaps the anticipation of waking a sleeping teenager (and his girlfriend).
* Yes, I know, I’m a terrible, terrible mother. Whatever. I told you the sleep deprivation had left me severely traumatized. As usual, hate mail/ offers of counseling/ letter of support/ spam asking me to give me your bank details so you can transfer me money because I am trustworthy, God-fearing person can be directed here. Thank you.
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Our chooks, Lucy and Ethel, are pretty damn awesome.
Their also… well… kind of stupid. Which is to be expected, I know, they are chickens, after all. I just wasn’t prepared for how base these animals are. They’re not like an untrainable dog of minimal intelligence. A chook’s optimum intelligence level is still quite dumb. Bless their little red comby things.
Speaking of little red comby things, I’m happy to say that Lucy and Ethel’s combs have gone from being droopy and dry and scaly to bright and upright. They are so much fatter than when we first bought them home, and their feathers are glossy and shiny. And they’re getting more and more tame and approachable. Actually, that’s where a lot of the stupid comes in.
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| Chooks- Stupid. |
It seems that Ethel and Lucy have realized that I am the hand that feeds them. They’re not quite so hesitant near me anymore. But come morning when I go to lift them out of their coop, or evening when I assist them back in (while they get themselves back to the coop, sometimes getting in is too tricky. Because they actually forget where the entrance is. Again with the stupid); and you can see learnt logic– this women feeds us and probably will not hurt us– battling with natural instinct– RUN!!– which results in half hearted sprints away from me, and squawks somewhere between ‘distress’ and ‘we want out’. (Or in, depending. And why, yes, they make distinctively different ber–ber–ber–gerk sounds. Really).
I’ve found the easiest way to catch them is to wait until their heads are turned at an angle and their myopic, reptilian, ever–so–slightly creepy eyes can’t see me. I’ve also discovered they have memories like goldfish. I have to leave both entries to their coop open for them to put themselves to bed. Otherwise, they may just forget where one doorway is. Really. They spent three nights in a row roosting, slightly distressed, on the closed lid of one opening while the other was only centimeters away from them.
As I said… stupid. Cute, pleasant to hold now they’ve been given some TLC, and tolerant of a cuddle and a pat… but very, very stupid.
Ethel, who was the most fucked up from her time in a cage, has recovered more quickly than her chicken–sister–from–another–mother. Maybe “recovered” isn’t the correct word. Maybe it’s “broken”– so psychologically damaged she just has no fear. I understand that, too much.
But Ethel- no matter how prehistorically fearless she may first appear- is still afraid of slugs. Seriously. Not that I really blame her– the slugs we get here are leopard slugs and truly terrifying. I’ve gotten into the habit of collecting the few slugs that are silly enough to venture into my laundry at night and feeding them to the chooks the next morning.
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| Slugs- terrifying. Hand for scale. |
The first few days I put them in the chook coop, Ethel did her best chicken scream, ruffled her feathers and backed far, far away; leaving Lucy to the fat juicy slug feast. While the slugs don’t get quite the same reaction anymore– I really should have videoed it while it lasted– Ethel is definitively not a fan of leopard slugs and keeps her distance.
I only wish I could say the same applied to the chooks and my veggie garden. In a matter of total #ChickenFail, the chooks have helped themselves to snow peas, beans and carrots; green tomatoes still on the plant; and an entire chilli plant, stem, roots and all– which, lucky for them, hadn’t fruited yet. They also seem to love marigold seeds– so much so that they can sniff them out from under three inches of soil.
So. It’s time to get a fence for the veggie garden. We still have no eggs– another week or two, surely, and why yes, I am excited. Mr Tree has taken to occasionally chasing the squawking free-rangers across the backyard; but hasn’t been fast enough to catch them yet. Beside, Ethel would fight back, and probably enjoy it.
But other than that, Ethel and Lucy fit into the Tiny Train House perfectly. And they’re doing just fine.
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| Eggs. Win. |
Update- I wrote this post last weekend. Ethel and Lucy must have picked up on the #ChickenFail vibes, because they totally redeemed themselves by laying an egg. Yes, really. I know. I’m excited too.
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February 11, 2012 at 3:59 pm This post was too cute! Afraid of slugs? Seriously? I never thought I'd see the day…
Doug and I used to have two chickens, one was a rooster, and the other a hen. (You can't really tell the gender when they're only baby chicks, so we didn't know what we were getting.) We kept them in the house until they lost their down and accumulated feathers (I'm allergic to birds.) I too used to have a vegetable garden, so once the chickens were outside, and I only had the one cat, I would let him sit outside while I tended the garden. The hen would sit beside me as I dug and fertilized and watered and weeded, and the rooster and the cat would chase each other! It was a hilarious sight!
Unfortunately, somebody stole the hen and the rooster. Anyway, where we live now, we can't have a chicken. It's against the city laws.
February 3, 2012 at 4:23 am Lucy and Ethel are beautiful chickens! I am hoping to one day have chickens! Yay an egg, that's exciting! 
February 1, 2012 at 10:29 pm LOL!!! this post cracked me up! "ber-ber-ber-gerk" !!! I nearly spit out my coffee laughing
Hooray for the egg and GAH that is the nastiest slug EVER!!!
February 1, 2012 at 9:00 pm About the chilli plant… I have a hand raised Quaker Parrot (I bred & hand raised this beautiful green bird- I am rather proud..), he absolutely LOVES chillies… Apparently parrots don't have the receptor that tastes the HOT in the chilli… Not sure if this is the same for chooks though…
Inga.
February 1, 2012 at 7:04 pm Our chicken, Jackson, runs a mile if you go near her. Unless I am opening the door to the chook pen, then she usually follows me in curiously. We had to roof our chook pen though because she kept jumping on top of her chook house and then over the fence she went. Chasing a chicken near a busy road in your jammies just isn't rating that high on my "things I enjoy" list.
The slugs are HUGE at your place, and I really need to see the slug phobia thing. It souns quite hilarious.
February 1, 2012 at 6:58 pm Slugs are awful! Chickens are cool!
February 1, 2012 at 3:51 pm holy CRAP that slug is gross. I'm with Ethel.
February 1, 2012 at 2:14 pm You've got an egg!!! You've got an egg!!! Sitting here with the silliest grin on my face!! Thinking that all you need now is a rooster & you could have chicks (I'm getting ahead of myself again) . You've got an egg!!!
February 1, 2012 at 12:50 pm Ewww slugs! I hate slugs and am sooo glad I've never had to deal with one that big!!
Yay for the egg-laying….go girls
February 1, 2012 at 11:43 am You got an egg! Yip! x
February 1, 2012 at 10:00 am I need chickens to control our slugs. I've been thinking about out for ages…
February 1, 2012 at 9:15 am Congratulations! Will it be celebrated poached or fried?!
February 1, 2012 at 9:05 am How cool to have fresh eggs! I want chickens too.
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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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January 16, 2013 at 1:45 am Oh my gosh Lori I just wrote a post last night about crafting with some of my grandma’s old buttons, she also collected them for years! When I saw your picture, I saw some of the same buttons! http://dishesinthedryer.blogspot.com/2013/01/well-bust-my-buttons.html
Grandma’s are the best…great post!
January 15, 2013 at 8:22 pm Sorry for the anonymity – but this post truly spoke to me. For me, the past two years have been the reverse: a woman i looked up to passing after a long battle with illness, then two tragic deaths last year – a suicide in our work department of one of “the most cheerful guys” who had also evidently been struggling for a long time with illness. He was 25. My close friend’s younger brother was tragically found dead in the flat they shared – he had type 1 diabetes that had only been diagnosed 3 years earlier. he was 20. Sometimes it is birds – I see birds swooping down low on the anniversary and think of her. Sometimes it is a place – I think of him when I visit the beach we’d been to only months before; when I look at a series of pictures I took on his funeral. And sometimes it is just a different face in the office where he used to be and I wonder, do I still know how he said hello? and then I realise I do. And that is how they live on .. and that is what keeps me from crying (too much).
I was also reminded of Joyce Grenfell’s poem “If you should go” and the last stanza –
weep if you must
parting is hell
but life goes on,
so sing, as well.
ps. as for your Gran – I think that despite the loss she suffered she probably would’ve had an outlet too, just something (obviously) very different from this. x
January 15, 2013 at 6:46 pm I love how you write Lori. I am also glad that you got to keep things that not only mean a lot to you, but will mean a lot to the Bump and Chop.
So far as the grief – you are a funny one…. everyone grieves differently and as such you grieve in a way that is “constructive”
January 15, 2013 at 4:46 pm She would be proud of you Lori. Extremely proud and positively beaming that some of the things she loved and now loved by you. xx
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Ugh.
You may have noticed a great big void where I usually am in the social medias since Thursday. For the third time in a year I’m able to say- I don’t think I’ve ever been sicker in my life. So not cool.
The trouble with being a single-business-blogger-person is…. when you drop one ball, you drop many. Watch in amusement this week as I scramble to pick them back up, starting with this one…
And, speaking of being social, I am determined to make it to Blogopolis 2012 on Saturday, as sponsored by Female For Life– they specialize in active wear, maternity wear, and making women feel awesome- real women, like you and me- not Barbie dolls.
Amongst other balls dropped this week was the newsletter…. it may be coming, or we may just call the next one a Bumper Monthly Edition and be done with it. Whatever. Winter is killing me, one temperature drop at at time.
Bring on spring.
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June 27, 2012 at 9:48 pm I hope that you're feeling better in time for NNB2012, looking forward to meeting you and everyoen else
June 25, 2012 at 9:36 pm Feel better Lori! Sickness is bad enough without having so much responsibility on your shoulders.
June 25, 2012 at 2:27 pm This flu went through our house last week… Not cool! I hope you all feel better.
I wish I could go to blogopolis, it would be great to meet you and all the other lovely bloggers. I will be hosting a 5th birthday party instead.
June 24, 2012 at 7:26 pm Wow! You've outdone yourself. I'm loving and drooling over all of these! Sample Business Templates
June 24, 2012 at 7:15 pm Perfect timing for the TV. Please tell me you get to keep it?
You'll be at Blogopolis. Even if I have to drag you and hold you up. Go to the doctors now and get some good drugs just in case…
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I’m still researching The House– it’s slow going. Finding the title number, plan number, or even the accurate street number is nearly impossible.
I can tell you this, though- as I said in the first place, there are things in that house that have no logical right to be there.
The man who I believed lived there, who’s personal effects are everywhere… he migrated to Australia in 1948, and was the first f his family to do so. The stacks- thousands- of newspapers are all Australian, from Sydney and it’s surrounding areas, and date back as far as 1940. There are Masonic newsletters from New south Wales dating back as far as 1932.
I actually went back recently, looking for more information, and took some video footage while I was there. I’ll vlog it for you soon, promise.
Curiouser and curiouser. I still have a few phone calls to make. I’ll keep you posted.
I’ve been on some more urbex-ing adventures…. I just haven’t had time to edit the photos yet. Heh. So sue me. Having pneumonia, again, for the second time in six months… it slows you down a bit.
In the meantime, I know some of you will think this is cool. Locals of this are are gonna say “Meh..”, because we all drive it past it every day and are so used to seeing it.
But what’s not to like about a car with a tree growing through it?
I’ve never been sure if it came about my intention or accident… I don’t think it matters. It’s all kind of living awesome.
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August 15, 2012 at 6:26 pm I guess that's one way to put a beyond repair vehicle to good use. It's definitely a lot better than letting it rot away in a junkyard.
May 16, 2012 at 3:38 am I am really curious about the story of that tree in the trunk. Can someone verify this?
May 16, 2012 at 12:25 am How did the tree got in there? Maybe some kid back in the days threw a tiny seed and thus the magic of time showered that tree.
May 15, 2012 at 3:02 am Aww this is actually cute. The fact that someone planted that tree in that rusty hood is magnificent.
May 9, 2012 at 6:34 am This can be a tourist attraction. Sometimes, driving somewhere out of our comfort zones can lead to interesting finds like this.
ca dmv registration service
March 22, 2012 at 1:50 am The car tree ROCKS! I love that crap. Wish I could come and explore with you. I love the show "If These Walls Could Talk". Such awesome history old homes have, documents in the walls, diaries, money! Cant wait to hear more about that guy and the house. Cliff hanger….. Lisa
March 21, 2012 at 9:50 pm That is awesome!! so cool
and I'm so glad you are researching the house – I'm so curious, too!
March 21, 2012 at 8:49 pm I love the tree car! How awesome!
March 21, 2012 at 1:25 pm I am assuming it's the car tree that I know of that very large house belonging to to a leader in the area?
Because I have always been in awe of that car tree. I told one of my exes, who lived in Tarhmoor that I wanted him to buy that property for me just so I could have the car tree. Yep. I'm a bit special.
March 21, 2012 at 10:29 am Unfortunately it hasn't been there as long as it looks like. The car was placed around the tree when the guy who owns it now (Sasha) bought it – about ten or so years ago I think. Years ago my grandparents owned that property and it was a service station back then ( about 45 or so years ago).
March 21, 2012 at 10:18 am Wow the photo of that truck-tree is awesome.
Can't wait to find out more about'the house'.
When I was growing up (i'm 30 now) I would often come across derelict houses.
You are right there is always something a bit creepy and eerily energetic about them.
Especially if there are items left over to give you a hint at who used to lve there.
My immediate presumption as a kid was that whoever had lived there must have died.
I always wanted to know the story behind it all.
Funny,you don't see many derelict houses nowadays though.
March 21, 2012 at 9:51 am That is awesome!
I can't believe the council left it there all that time and didn't have it removed.
Hopefully it's always a resident in TinyTrainTown. It's very cool.
March 21, 2012 at 9:43 am Luuuuv the photos.The house saga is so intriguing.So many questions raised.Did that person have no one who cared enough to come and help them in the end..did they choose to be alone..mmm curiosity killed the cat but satisfactory brought it back.Thankyou for this wonderful tale of the past.Sending get well hugs to you xx
March 21, 2012 at 9:31 am I totally need one of those in my front yard.
March 21, 2012 at 9:21 am I like that muchly x
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March 20, 2012 at 10:25 pm I am finding this site very useful, I enjoy reading this post. Thanks for sharing. I will keep come back to this site.
by Travel Guides | Travel Tips
January 17, 2012 at 1:18 am Oh the irony….*snap*
I'll admit it took me forever to get it, I kept blinking at the empty page.
January 16, 2012 at 2:23 am Muahaha Perfect! 
January 15, 2012 at 3:07 pm Very funny … like others it took me an age to get it!
January 15, 2012 at 11:26 am Nyuk nyuk nyuk
January 15, 2012 at 4:28 am LOL! I thought at first my page wasn't loading correctly…well done 
January 14, 2012 at 9:18 pm Ha ha – that's hilarious! Very clever.
January 14, 2012 at 4:40 pm In the words of my beloved Sheldon – BAZINGA! Love it x
January 14, 2012 at 2:49 am Heeeeeee.
January 14, 2012 at 2:20 am This gave me the wrinkly forhead for a few seconds. You so clevah.
January 13, 2012 at 10:23 pm You are hilarious, beloved Lori
January 13, 2012 at 9:05 pm You say it best…
When you say nothing at aaaall…
Thanks to you, that is now stuck in my head!
AAAARGH!!
Hope you have a good weekend – and a much easier one than the last…
Hugs, Susan x
January 13, 2012 at 8:41 pm January 13, 2012 at 6:58 pm January 13, 2012 at 4:51 pm You're clever, you are!! x
January 13, 2012 at 4:47 pm Yeah. You totally got me. And then the linked past blogs were so personal, I thought you must have missed pasting something. To post or not to post… Hop the weekend offers you some breathing room. You have been in my thoughts. Xo
January 13, 2012 at 4:42 pm luv it!
January 13, 2012 at 4:17 pm I actually didn't want to open this post! I think if you had written ANYthing else, I'd have been so disappointed.
Thanks for making me smile (and staying YOU). <3 <3
January 13, 2012 at 3:13 pm *snort* love it.
January 13, 2012 at 1:59 pm Bwahahaha. The end.
January 13, 2012 at 1:56 pm Always a smart ass
January 13, 2012 at 1:53 pm I'm such a nong. I started to blame technology until I cottoned on. I used to be so smart………
January 13, 2012 at 1:37 pm BWHAHAHAHAHAHA! Yes. I did in fact refresh a few times.
January 13, 2012 at 12:22 pm god i'm dumb at times! took me a few seconds to get that. LOL
January 13, 2012 at 12:08 pm Love it, brilliant!
January 13, 2012 at 11:51 am Bahahaha. Great way for me to start the day!
January 13, 2012 at 11:47 am Brilliant! Took me a while though after 5 refreshes
January 13, 2012 at 11:35 am This took me far too long to get.
January 13, 2012 at 11:33 am Perfect.
January 13, 2012 at 11:31 am Excellemt. Gold. Awesome Sshhhh!
January 13, 2012 at 11:19 am Dont. Say. A. Word.
January 13, 2012 at 9:33 am Amen
January 13, 2012 at 9:23 am January 13, 2012 at 8:59 am Classic.
January 13, 2012 at 8:42 am Lol. Good one!
January 13, 2012 at 5:43 pm ZINGGGG!
January 13, 2012 at 9:23 am Best blog post ever x
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I know it makes people uncomfortable when I tell them that, makes them squirm and they become unable to look me in the eye. But it’s true, and that’s the problem with it… that’s why it makes people so disconcerted.
I’m not suicidal. Please, no one panic. This one has been run by my shrink and we’re all OK with my safety. I have no immediate plans to take my own life, nor any in the future. I can’t, even if I wanted to. It’s frustrating and feels patently unfair, but I don’t have that option. Not after I’ve seen what it leaves behind.
And, of course, I have children. My babies. Removing any emotional weight, removing the fact that leaving them would break my heart, looking at it from a purely objective point of view… they deserve better than that. They have already lost one parent, which means the odds are stacked against them. I’m certainly not going to contribute to that any further. I never planned for any of this, never even considered this eventuality… but parenting doesn’t come with an opt out close, a gimme button you can push when things get too tough. Tony and I used to say we were in our marriage for the long haul…. we never even needed to verbalise that thought when it came to our children.
But I still spend my time waiting to die. I know, that’s sinful and self absorbed, but allow me to show you this from my perspective, please- from where I stand, right now, with the rest of my life spreading out before me, long and hard and all by myself.
Pretend, for a moment, you are me, in the years Before the Purple. You’re smart and sometimes funny, but your self esteem is mostly non existent and the thought of anyone actually choosing to love you for their entire life seems not only far fetched but laughable.
Then, one blessed day, after twenty five years of feeling not good enough, not pretty enough, all different kinds of wrong, you find someone who loves you. You marry, you have babies…
And for the first time in your life you can really, truly say you are happy. Happy and content and often joyful, with no disclaimers or “if only”‘s, never really wishing for more.
And then the person you love leaves you, in the most violent, horrific way possible; and in doing so takes it all with them, everything they gave you– confidence, self esteem, belief in yourself.
And you’re alone again. Not really alone- you have two children who you adore, to keep you here, to remind you every day that you are physically needed, depended upon.
But there is no one you can cry to. No one who can help. It doesn’t matter how far you pull your socks up, how much you try and rebuild a life for yourself and your little ones. The person who made life a more wonderful place to be is gone.
And what are the chances of meeting another, when it took twenty five years to find the first one? Who else out there could put up with you, tolerate you and your mood swings, and still love you unconditionally?
Odds and probability say there is no one. Odds say you will be alone for a by, very long time.
As I said, I’m not suicidal. I lack the conviction and the detachment required, having seen the actuality of it. But I am not afraid of dieing. Why would I be, when he’s waiting for me, and every thing will be OK again?
The plane starts to dive, a truck comes head on, there’s a big dark shadow on an X-ray… And maybe I smile, and whisper “Thank God”. Because it will finally, finally be over.
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{ 30 comments… read them below or add one }
April 16, 2012 at 3:34 pm Beth,
I read your message and my husband took his life two weeks ago, i to have children i love and i dont want them to go through this again but i to am waiting, my husband was the only one who really knew me, he was the kindest gentlest man, he was 12 years older than me but he is my soul mate. i dont know how to get through this. we were only married 5 months and the day he took his life he was talking bout us getting re married so my family could be there. reading what you wrote was like i was writing it as its exactly how i feel
February 11, 2012 at 3:44 pm I understand why you would feel that way, and I am praying for you.
February 7, 2012 at 2:04 am I think there is a greater acceptance of the fact that life ends by those of us have seen death up close. We know. In whatever the circumstance, we know.
February 5, 2012 at 6:33 pm Oh, Lori! I've been reading your blog for several months now, but I don't think I've commented yet. I'm so sorry for all the loss and pain you've gone through, and it touches me to see the thread of hope you are (unconsciously?) holding on to through all the tough times. Hang in there, hon! It may not seem possible, but I'm sure that you will find the love and acceptance you are looking for when the time is right. Thank you for being you and sharing your feelings – good and bad, and remember that there are bunches of us out here rooting for you and the kids.
February 5, 2012 at 10:38 am It would be such a relief, to die. Without having to worry about the impact on others, on children left behind.
I know it's a cliche to say that "I could have written that", but I could have written that. Except you have a way with words I don't.
It's hard to admit to yourself how little, if any, hope you have of ever feeling any better.
I don't have any advice, because I feel the same. I feel like no-one understands. Because no-one died. Just an idea of someone. An idea of a life. An idea of me.
I hope time does heal you, Lori. I really do.
February 5, 2012 at 8:24 am I am so glad you are writing this blog, Lori. It really will give you some perspective when you look back and see the changes that happen.
I understand. Really, I do understand. I can't feel what you are feeling but I am many years ahead of you and I have seen so much.
Yes, you were 25 when you met Tony, but you weren't 'looking' for him for 25 years. Were you? I don't think so, it just seems like that from the side of the fence you are looking at it.
And even if it does take another 25 years to find love, you'll still be younger than me!
I am not down-playing your pain and I know the day to day slog of single parenting can kill you emotionally, but there is a future, I promise.
Grief is not a prescribed time, but I know you know that, it just feels like forever and never ending.
I have known many widows (many with tragedies) who have loved again (one who has out-lived THREE husbands – just came back from Las Vegas w her g'daughter) and their lives are no less loved than any other.
I sometimes think death and separation is harder for younger people because they have not had enough experience of life to draw on to see the possibilities in the future and believe me you have more productive years ahead of you than I have.
Keep writing.
Mrs. C.
February 5, 2012 at 3:25 am I am ABSOLUTELY feeling everything you said in this post. Everything.
I'm not suicidal. But I'm just living to die. If I got struck by lightening tomorrow and died, I think I would be happier.
It's brave of you to put this post up! My sister hates it when I tell her these things.
February 4, 2012 at 8:30 pm I feel like that too. I'm just waiting to die. I felt like that immediately after the death of each child, and the feeling hasn't gone away. I feel like I have no purpose any more. No career any more. No reason for living. And I've seen death up close and personal, and it doesn't scare me any more. I don't fear death for myself (but it scares the shit out of me when I worry for my hubby). I see death for myself not as anything to fear, just as an end. Because I fail to see the point of my existence (for however long I live) any more.
So, I think I understand how you feel. xx
February 4, 2012 at 8:18 pm I can't write what I feel, but I want you to know that your words were heard by me today. x
February 4, 2012 at 6:04 pm Waiting to die…I know exactly how that feels. If a truck hit me head on or I had an aneurism and fell into my soup tonight I would be so relieved.
I want to die, but cant do anything about it because… The Kids. I've already lost two brothers to suicide and I too know the wreckage it leaves behind. But the wanting to, that doesnt go away.
Today I stayed alive thanks to Facebook and Twitter. You do what you gotta do.
I love your honesty. Keep telling the truth Lori. xx
February 4, 2012 at 9:58 am When you have no expectations, you are not disappointed, but can be pleasantly surprised.
Regardless of who says to you it's been 12 months, move on, I say it's ONLY been 12 months! There is no instaneous fix.
Until someone has walked even one step in your shoes, Fuck 'em. I think you're doing bloody amazingly. You're breathing, loving your babies, being… Yep sure, some days it's second by second. But you do things and go places that I couldn't even begin to imagine to do. I think you're a bloody legend!
February 4, 2012 at 5:07 am Oh Lori. I wish you didn't have to feel this way. I wish there was something, anything, anyone could say or do to lighten this burden. Lots of love to you.
February 3, 2012 at 10:39 pm I have no words, sweetie, but a whole lot of love and respect, being sent straight to you.
February 3, 2012 at 9:39 pm As many have already said. There's nothing I can say except that I don't think you to be selfish and I can ONLY IMAGINE I would feel the exact same way. Except probably moreso because you are incredible.
February 3, 2012 at 8:00 pm You put it so eloquently. Your honestly is infectious. I understand what you're saying but you must know that there just MIGHT be another person to love you and you to love them out there.
February 3, 2012 at 6:40 pm I understand completely what you are saying.
The thought of having felt how you felt in the purple life is dreamy to me.
But take it from me, there are A LOT of people out there who think many wonderful things of you, that you are smart, and funny, utterly gorgeous, and wise. Perhaps in a way that you should be free from.
I feel like every love is different. There are no two that are the same, so you probably won't find someone to love you the way that Tony did, but it doesn't mean they won't love you in just the way that you need them to, and possibly surprise you in loving you in ways you never knew existed.
February 3, 2012 at 4:03 pm Sorry I mean that we couldn't make her happy.
February 3, 2012 at 4:02 pm I have been with my husband for 20 years this year, and I'm only 36. I have learnt that it makes no difference how happy they make you or how wonderful they are, if you aren't happy with yourself, you won't be happy. It's not about anyone else but you. It sucks but there it is.
I have lived my life with a mother who seemed like she was waiting to die and then she got her wish (which I'm sure she changed her mind when it was real) and she died a long slow agonising death from Motor Neurone Disease. It alwasy sucked knowing that we were not enough, that we couldn't be happy. If only she had discovered what she did in those last doom filled years of her life, earlier. I hope you discover it soon. Not just for your kids sake but for you too.
February 3, 2012 at 2:46 pm This may sound like a very strange question to be asking you at this time and I feel selfish in asking but I'm just so curious to hear the answer. I also spent most of my life feeling awkward and wondering if I would ever find someone that would want to be with me forever as a husband. I have, kind of, and I'm wondering, if you had to choose between having what you had and losing it or never having had it at all, which would you choose?
February 3, 2012 at 1:36 pm Becca is right love.It didnt take 25 years so please see the positive in that.There is time to find another.You now have the proof you seemed to need that you are lovable.I cant believe out of millions there is only one for each of us.I totally understand where you are coming from as have been to that place.I wish you peace and hope.x
February 3, 2012 at 1:04 pm You're so honest it's painful to read. But I understand – it's how you feel today, right now. But it won't be forever. And you will find love again, or, it will find you. As always, love and good thoughts to you and your kidlets.
February 3, 2012 at 11:44 am I get it. Sending you so many hugs. xxx
February 3, 2012 at 11:33 am it didn't take 25 years! maybe 10 if you where seriously looking at the age of 15…I'd say closer to 5 if you are talking about actually wanting to spend the rest of your ife with some one! so really, you don't have long at all to 'wait' xxoo (I understand that feeling of "waiting to die" waiting and wanting are 2 different things
February 3, 2012 at 11:25 am My great-grandfather died in his 40's and my parents always told me that although Great Gran (his wife) was happy, loving and caring, really despite all that she was just waiting to die so she could be with him. So I understand just a small piece of what you are feeling.
I've spent the last 2 days reading your story and it brought back memories of 2 years ago when my husband saved a stranger, a young man from doing exactly what your husband did (right place right time, thanks to the grace of God if you believe, good fortune if you don't).
Thank you for finding the courage to speak up and live each day, for yourself and your beautiful children.
February 3, 2012 at 10:33 am I know there is nothing I can say. xoxoHUGSxoxo
February 3, 2012 at 10:30 am I feel that emptiness, I get it completely. To read your blog today on my partners b'day, 9 months since, was somewhat a relief, that someone else feels the same. I have 3 young children whom I love & will be there for, but the longing to be back with my partner makes my heart bleed. Everyday I'm waiting to find him again. I don't fear for death as I know I will be with him, safe & loved. But until then I have my 3 children that need me more than I need him for now. CS
February 3, 2012 at 10:04 am 
Big hugs. It will get better Lori. Really, it will. In time. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
xx
February 3, 2012 at 9:42 am Oh God, I wish I could hug you, or offer some meaningful words of solace, or…something. But there is nothing.
I can't pretend to understand for a second how you feel, but I can only imagine (and, obviously, only wish to ever imagine) that I would feel precisely the same in your position. It's not selfish or self-absorbed, it's just how it sadly is.
But I hope this will not always be the case for you.
*hugs* x
February 3, 2012 at 8:50 am I understand. xo
February 3, 2012 at 3:24 pm I totally get that, Lori. As Becca said, waiting and wanting are two very different things.
I told my husband last week that if anything happened to him, I would cry till the kids grew up, then lay down and die.
I don't know if we'd be together after that, but life would be so empty without him.
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It’s hardly a well kept secret– I think we may have covered it a few times before– cooking is not my strongest skill.
In fact, not only do I not enjoy cooking, I completely suck at it. When my husband was alive, I actually used to put some effort into creating meals for him and the kidlets that were reasonably healthy, reasonable economical, reasonably easy and sometimes even tasted reasonably edible. Fats forward to now and… well…
The night of my husbands funeral (those with particularly sensitive sensibilities, cover your ears, please) I declared in all seriousness to a friend of mine that I was never, ever, ever cooking a roast dinner ever again; be it beef, chicken, pork or lamb.
So far, so good. Let’s face it, the act of not cooking is not the most difficult goal to obtain.
If we could just leave it at that, we’d all be happy. Me, especially. But my children having this annoying habit of wanting to be fed every bleeping evening right about six o’clock. And after eighteen months of sandwiches, oven chips, microwave pasta and homemade Lebanese bread pizza for dinner… maybe it’s time I began cooking again.
The universe seems to approve of this idea because some new Maggi stuff arrives in the letterbox within the week. In my life Before, I felt it was one of my duties as a full time housewife and mum to avoid ‘packet mixes’ at all costs and deliriums. I cooked everything I could from scratch.
But that was Before. When I was up one set of hands, a whole lot more patience and dose less trauma. In the After, I am the person the packet mix was invented for– I have a family to feed and far more important things to do than cook.
And the less washing up, the better.
So bring on the Maggi One Pan range. They also included a pack of their new So Crispy schnitzel coating. And everyone loves a schnitzel. (Randomly, we were playing #SchnitzelAsASwearWord on Twitter a few weeks back. Try it. You’ll be amazed at what a brilliant curse substitute ’schnitzel’ actually is. Mother schnitzels.)
Considering I was cooking a grown up meal I figured I may as well have some grown ups round to share it with. And, you know, do most of the cooking for me. My mates Kristabelle and Pete the Chef were more than happy to oblige. (Kristabelle and Pete the Chef live nearby in a tiny sandstone house named the Daisy Cottage. It’s become somewhat of a sanctuary for me in these last few weeks of winter.)
The first question Pete the Chef asked was whether or not I happened to have any carrots, broccoli or shallots. I told him that if he wished to desecrate my kitchen with such evil, complicated vegetables, then he needed to bring his own.
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| Pete the Chef’s One Pan, one hand flipping awesomeness. |
Which he did. There is something to be said for One Pan awesomeness. You basically take your packet, and add whatever you’ve got. Veggies (complicated or not), meat (beef or chicken or… whatever. I’m sure there are either types, I just don’t eat them very often. Or, for that matter, on purpose) and then your noodles, rice or pasta. Cook it all in the one pan, as the name suggests, and watch the flavors infuse. Yum.
While I did have meat in my freezer (probably chicken) it was most probably frost bitten, so Kristabelle and Pete the Chef swung by to pick some up from the local supermarket one their way. And guess what was on special…?
That’s right… chicken.
Long story, short– One Pan Chinese Beef Stir Fry with chicken instead of beef and hokkein noodles actually stir fried and flipped itself (with the help of Pete the Chef) into a total win. The whole procedure was declared ‘seriously easy’ and quite tasty. And that’s from an actual, real chef (as Pete the Chef’s suggests, no?). As promised– one pan. Add two chopping boards, a couple of knives and a few stirrer–thingies; and consider the dishwasher stacked.
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| Maggi One Pan Chinese Beef Stir Fry. With chicken. |
The Chicken Schnitzel Coating mix was officially designated as dinner for the kidlets. My kids– especially the Chop– are, sadly, just as fussy as I am. And, like me, the best way to get them to eat anything at all is in nugget form. Chicken schnitzel nuggets with good old fashioned BBQ sauce? Nom nom. And when they are super crispy, cooked in the oven without a smidgen of oil- that’s called ‘guilt free child chow.’
My main problem with cooking dinners has always been that the time s
pent in preparation– which I really don’t like, especially any raw chicken factor– is inversely proportioned to the time spent enjoying the meal. The dreaded roast dinner, for example, takes a good two hours to prep and cook. And no longer than twenty minutes to eat. Add the forty five minutes (minimum, dishwasher inclusive) cleanup time, and, mathematically, cooking dinner becomes a waste of time.
I think, on that note, it’s safe to declare dinner in One Pan, and about half an hour, a success. I’m not promising it will become a habit. But it certainly makes everyday cooking an option.
*As I’m sure you already guessed by now, this post is sponsored by Nuffnang.
I’ve got 25 Maggi One Pan and So Crispy packets for some RRSAHM readers to try- Fill out the form here and tell me- how many pans do you use, on average, to cook one family meal…?You can check out the t’s and c’s here, and entries close Sunday 9th September.
{ 9 comments }
This is the post where I not only sell out, I admit I’m selling out. And I’m OK with that. I always have been– this isn’t the first time the whole blogging/sponsors/ sell out thing has come up on RRSAHM… I’ll try not to repeat myself.
Some of you may have seen this article in the SMH last week, talking mummy blogging and how much brands kiss our arses. Woogs looked glam and Eden looked all funky hot. Eden happened to mention that she, like a lot of other bloggers, declined an event invitation, knowing it wasn’t something she would blog about, not being relevant to her readers. Which is awesome- that’s what we do, as our own editors and publishers. We make our own calls.
But the journalist took that one and ran with it, I say. They showcased the blog, Twitter and FB feeds of another blogger, the lovely Samelia’s Mum, who did attend KFC, and blogged about it turn– the general vibe of the article was that she sold out for chicken.
Bjerk.
Had the journal on this article searched my Twitter feed from the day, they would have found sentiments comparable to those expressed by Samelia’s Mum– basic chit chat about the bits and pieces (of chicken) that KFC were showing off.
Did anyone really think the chick with blog covered in jellybeans would turn down an invite from KFC on healthy eating principles…? No? Good. We are all the same page here.
To be honest, when I first received the invite, I felt… dirty. Or greasy, as the case may be. I did have a moment of “ummm”, “ahhh” “what will people think of me?”… then I cracked another can of Coke and forgot about it. The Twitter stream on the morning of the event was a graveyard… It seemed no one was actually brave enough to Tweet where they were going to (sell outs!), and once it was revealed, the number of bloggers who came out to say they had knocked the invite back were… terrifying. I felt like the only girl in high school munching on hot chips while everyone else took sensible bites of their salad sandwiches.
But I accepted the KFC invite. In fact, I accept most invites. I really do attend the opening of an envelope– and I’m OK with that. For a couple of reasons that are very valid, to me– and I’m the only that counts.
Number One– We all know I’m hardly the healthy eating advocate. I’m a learner, an absorber, a sponge… I like to know things. If a company wants to bring me into their space and show me how awesome they are, I’ll go with an open mind and see what they have to say. Just because I attend does not mean I’ll blog about it– you lot would be so, so bored if I did.
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| Deep fried canola flowers. Not really. |
And for the eternal record– KFC actually was quite interesting… even if back of house raw chicken prep made me squirm. While blogger Trish loves the support they are giving Aussie farmers, I respect the fact they are not actually as full of shit as one might first believe. As they firmly portrayed to us, they’re not trying to be a ’healthy’ food option– it’s fried chicken, for canola’s sake. They’re aware that their food is used as a treat, and should be utilised as such. They don’t market specifically to children and are the only major fast food chain in Australia to not offer plastic tat toys with their kids meals. As I’ve said before– and if I haven’t, then I should have– here, we eat healthily but moderately. Having few issues with weight or sugar levels in our extended family, I’m teaching my kids that they can eat any full fat food, as long as they keep moving. I’m OK with a certain amount of sugar and fat in our diets– it’s additives and preservatives that bother me. While the body can burn off sugar and fat, preservatives and chemical additives are simply stored– the human body isn’t sure how to process them, and it will be a few hundred years before we can.
Number Two– I am freaking lonely, and sometimes I need to get out of this house. If you’re a parent to small children, you know how intense the craving for adult company can be, especially if you’re the only adult in the household. My kids go to daycare three days a week and spend one day with their paternal grandmother– if an invite comes for one of those days, I’m there. Why wouldn’t I be, really…? Someone is going to pay for my travel, food and expenses, in a nice venue, with other woman who I adore, or with interesting new people to meet– logic tells me that as a single mum on a limited budget who has lost all her closest friendships, passing up the chance to socialize on the house is just illogical.
Which brings me to Number Three.
I like free stuff.
What…?
Doesn’t everybody like free stuff, especially when it’s practical? Hair dye, toothpastes, pantry items, computer needs, toys and books and movies and clothes and days out for my kids. What do I have to do in return, you ask? Well… not much. Show up. Be an interactive part of whatever experience or product the brand is promoting. If I like, I can Tweet or Instagram or FaceBook anything that takes my interest. I go with an open mind, and then I tell the truth. If it’s something I find interesting or relevant or touches me, or something I think you jellybeans would groove on, then I blog it. And if not, I don’t.
It’s a commonly held principle amongst bloggers that, to quote the so-beautiful-she-can’t-be-real Lady Melbourne, “you can’t pay the rent with shoes.” To a certain extent, I’ll beg to differ– toothpaste won’t pay my rent, no. But if it’s practical or necessary, then the money I would have otherwise spent to purchase it does go to the rent or the bills or the kitchen table or where ever its needed. With two tiny kids to feed, clothe and protect… as I said, I’m OK with that.
Speaking of the munchkins, the low blow comments that seem to follow every article about mum blogging were evident– hey, even TV presenters who featured us just a few weeks beforehand get all weird about the mummy bloggers. Don’t we have anything better to do. We are neglecting our children, being on that computer all the time. We are exploiting our children, writing about them.
To all that, I say– if having their stories shared with people who have a genuine investment in them is the worst exploitation my children suffer in their lives– massive bonus. And, in truth, my children are minor characters on this blog, and they will probably shrink further as they grow older. I’m far too narcissistic to blog about my kids all the time– this is my story, not theirs. And, again, if having a detailed, truthful, if not painful, written account of their formative years available to them at an older is the most traumatizing thing that ever happens to them– again, massive win.
I have far greater concerns for my children than those that result from blogging about them. And, quite frankly, without the extra income and the social interaction blogging gives to me, I’d be a work at least part time. Same amount of cash, same amount of childcare. Less enjoyment and fulfillment for me. And the kids would not have the ample collection of Disney DVD’s that they currently possess. In fact, I think they would complain if I stopped exploiting them– we’re supposed to going to the movies next month. (Again, thanks Disney. You rock.)
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| Lori hides from |
Don’t I have anything better to do? Maybe. Don’t you? How much time does the average person spend a day engaging in passive entertainment– watching TV, for example, or reading a book? I don’t watch TV, and books are difficult to find time to read these days. So I’m simply entertaining myself, the way most people do; its just that I happen to be creating something at the same time.
You’re into Home and Away or playing the piano or collecting ceramic cows… I’m into my laptop. Let’s all agree that all our hobbies and interests are, broken down, probably pretty pointless. That’s the whole point of them– the essence of a hobby is to find an activity with which to enjoy yourself, right? It doesn’t have to change the world. And if you happen to get paid for that hobby and you still enjoy it– ’nother bonus there.
And, while some days my never ending email inbox most certainly feels like work; I can still classify this as a hobby. I thoroughly enjoy it. It improves my self esteem. I could, potentially, become a faceless post farmer and write for nothing but the cash– but it wouldn’t be anything like this place is. Just to begin with, I wouldn’t have you lot. And I’d be having nowhere near as much fun.
I don’t earn as much off this site as I should, I’ve been told; but I like it that way. I’ve kept my ad space rates low on purpose, because I like having them filled with the businesses of work at home parents and small entrepreneurs, cloth nappy sellers and Etsy stores.
I choose my review posts and giveaways on a case by case basis, and I apply all the following factors to the equation– do I like this product? Do I want this product? How many giveaways do I have scheduled for the next few weeks? Is it a PR company I’ve worked with before or a small business owner doing the grueling email outs themselves? Are they Australian owned, organic or natural or environmentally friendly? Is it some awesome new product that I think is way cool, or I know a lot of people would use? Will my readers get any enjoyment out of this post, or will it just tick the off?
I throw in all those factors, and come out with a price. It’s a sliding scale. The less I want to write or publish it, or the more it will irritate my readers, the more I charge– but having said that, sometimes I charge nothing at all.
Case by case, sliding scale– I think it’s the only way to ensure that the products and brands featured on your blog are consistent with that inner thread of yourself that weaves its way through ever post you publish. The accusations of ‘selling out’ have been floating around for at least two and half years now, since I first got here.
Selling out to what, selling out to who? The only person I’m selling out to is me– and as long as I pay me well… I’m OK with that. We all make our own calls- the only people who have to be OK with them is us.
Coming soon… the post where I didn’t sell out. Stay tuned.
{ 18 comments }
I hate bullies.
I hate people who take advantage of their own confidence, their own lack of empathy; and force, with words or action, or the unspoken threat of words or action, their will on others.
But that’s far too clinical, saying it that way. I hate people who throw their weight around. I hate people who pick up on the fear of others, or desperation of others, and use it to support their believes, or their wants, or their opinions. It never seems to matter, to someone with that domineering streak, whether a person’s loyalty or opinion as it’s stated is an honest reflection of the other person’s feelings. It doesn’t matter– it’s the verbal agreement, the social and physical submission– that’s where that ugly, mean power comes from.
I was bullied at school, can you tell? I was unpopular little geek in the final years of primary school; in high school I was downgraded to total nerd worthy of having her schoolbag spat on and put in a garbage can, and teased mercilessly when I begun my period. (Tanya and Emma. Hi.)
Moving schools didn’t help much. My second year of high school meant starting somewhere new where no one knew me. Bullies, they found me anyway. I don’t think it was as psychical the second time around– it was more of that soul crushing ostracism that only teenage girls are capable of. It was rumors and names and something less tangible– again, that push and shove, that abuse of power that bullies thrive on.
When I was about fourteen years old I was so insecure I remember feeling as if I was curved in the middle, like a banana or the letter C– something I’d done to myself. Because if I curled up into myself then no one would notice me and that constant gangly ugliness wouldn’t be so magnified. I remember a boy in my year, for no other reason than to be just… nasty, asking our entire music class if “anyone actually liked Lori?” and no one– not even those who I did consider friends– speaking up to say they did.
As is said… I hate bullies.
One particular chick who bullied me in my middle–ish years of high school– hi, again- what is it with Emma’s?– has turned out to be, sadly, in the percentage of people that never grow out of being bullies, that for some reason still need the satisfaction of making other people feel small to make themselves feel normal. I ran into her about eighteen months ago– in the final few months of the Purple Before– and she went out of her way to draw attention to and make snarky comment about the brand of jeans I was wearing.
I found myself staring at her, wide eyed, head cocked to one side, in silence, for just a beat too long– enough to break the rhythm of the conversation, to make a few people uncomfortable as they witnessed a standoff of sorts.
Fifteen years ago, in high school, I would have dropped my gaze, my face burning, willing my eyes not to fill with tears, that sick heavy shame of just being me sitting in my guts.
Fuck that. I’m not in high school anymore. And I don’t do bullies, not anymore. I still get scared– there is one person in my life who is a blatant, compassionate–less intimidator who literally makes my insides turn to a shaking, unstable liquid. I am scared of her, and she knows it, and she takes full advantage of it.
I try not to let her. Especially now, in the After. I have simply faced too much, to be afraid of her, afraid of that.
I don’t know what it is about me– but I attract bullies, as if there’s some scent that comes off me, some indicator of weakness. Maybe there is– I’m naturally passive, I don’t like confrontation, I’m a ’yes’ person and a pleaser. It makes me an easy target and sometimes I can feel that painted all over my face.
Sometimes I wonder why, if someone had to be blamed… blame the weakest. There’s nothing noble or pleasant about that. But when it comes right own to it, people are just animals, and it’s an evolutionary given– survival of the fittest.
It’s one of those unfair truths of life that some people just never grow out of having that oppressive personality streak. I recognize it more in women than men, but that’s probably just the world colored with how things have been in the past. I hate that some people are just like that. I hate that it still makes me feel vulnerable and unworthy and fourteen years old all over again.
As I said, some people, they never grow out of it. But I’m too old for that shit now, and I know myself too well.
Finally, at thirty years of age… I don’t do bullies anymore.
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{ 21 comments… read them below or add one }
April 7, 2012 at 12:14 pm I guess I never let my bullies go cause it still hurts at 44 I was a large boy and the fat jokes flew well it wasnt all they did things to me that I will never forget and I never will that stuff never leaves you because its made immortal by them I just hope that they all remember me and think of all the things they have done to make me this way just want to be normal but cant its too hard.
February 3, 2012 at 10:56 am Oh yes, been there and felt the pain, http://blog.mummybrain.com/2011/11/the-girl-with-the-book.html it's such a shocking thing. I pray that my kids will never experience it.
February 3, 2012 at 9:18 am I'm currently going through the official processes involved in workplace bullying – the most horrendous of all – a mature woman who has ceaselessly ostracised and intimidated a 16 year old trainee! She's so good at the art of manipulation that I think she really believes that she hasn't done anything wrong. I want to resort to physical violence with her – how could she do that to a kid? She's supposed to be her mentor!! Deranged, I tell you. I sincerely hope the official processes don't let me down and she is removed from the workplace. No-one deserves to be made to feel they are 'less than'.
February 2, 2012 at 6:02 am I know a woman online who is a strong advocate of bullying as one of her children is bullied at school, yet she is the WORST bully I have ever come across to other women in business! I find it incredibly strange that she can be so outspoken about it on one level but the worst kind of offender on another.
February 1, 2012 at 6:12 pm Girls can be so tough and I will never get it. I wasn't really a bullier or bullied…I waded through those years friendly with most and close to few.
But I feel like I suffered at the hands of mean girls.
I lost a bunch of friends, a few of my closest, because I did call another girl who I wasn't really friends with a slut.I never expected a) for my friend to rat me out, but she was in a contest to be popular and was willing to throw me and our years of friendship under the bus to help secure her a spot with a "cooler" crowd. Not so surprised …and back then it wasn't usually a first step with a guy to give bj's. I was just upset because that guy THAT Girl gave a bj,too, was someone I really liked and we were on the brinks of going out when she trumped me the night before the big party…and they actually dated for a few years 8th grade thru part of high school. Yes, 8th grade and I did not even understand what the hell a bj was. REALLY!
I am sorry this happened to you, but I am glad you are YOU and you are sweet.
BTW, I am Facebook friends with the girl who threw me under the bus and she posts all the time about bullying and the importance it is to be nice to others.(because what she did to me was mean and puropseful.I was really hurt by losing some of my closest friends. So, maybe we have both grown.I try not to be judgemental or speaketh everything I thinketh! Looking back, she probably had people being mean to her because she had one of the biggest noses you've ever seen especially on someone petite…
I shouldn't have called that girl a slut. Better her than me!
February 1, 2012 at 5:16 pm I wasn't bullied at high school, lucky me, but have been bullied by an ex-neighbour from hell (we finally moved). I ended up in therapy and taking anti-depressants, in a very low place indeed.
My question is, what advice would you give your children if THEY are bullied, having been through it yourself? Is there any cure for it or is it just a pack-animal mentality that will never go away? I say bullies are always insecure and vapid sociopaths, although it's hard to feel that when you are the victim. Not one of the bullies at my school did anything of note and the nerds are the successful ones these days.
February 1, 2012 at 12:54 pm School bullies did their best to destroy me too. Sigh… Slowly getting over it. I also had an 'Emma' problem…
February 1, 2012 at 9:25 am I can't imagine you being bullied, I thought you would have all the Australian forthrightness that leaves me in nervous tatters every time I go there! I remember one girl at school saying in front of the whole class if I washed occasionally I wouldn't have spots. Of course it wasn't true, I tried so hard not to have spots, butas you say too, nobody stood with me or helped me defend myself. I was pushed out of class rooms, actively ignored etc etc. I try to pretend now I don't do bullies but an unanswered tweet or unacknowledged wave still pulls the raw nerves of yesteryear. Stinky isn't it.
February 1, 2012 at 8:55 am I was bullied in school too. I was bullied when my sister died (what sort of person does THAT to someone?), and now I am being bullied another way. By being accused of being a bully.
It is the perfect tactic by my former irl friend now toxic. Because I am loud, outspoken and seemingly confident many believed her tears, shaking, cries of "foul". But then she did it to another bff, then another. In three years there are now nearly a dozen who have been labelled as bullying her. And yet in reality she is the bully.
And in this world today it is becoming an over-used and abused term.
And things like what you and I experienced are lobbed in with far more trivial incidents wrongly labelled.
Great post Lori.
February 1, 2012 at 7:43 am I was bullied in middle school too, by several people, and pretty much invisible in high school. I keep in touch with exactly two friends (class of over 400) from my high school years, and only went to the 10 year reunion knowing that I could hang out with one of them, and even then I didn't stay long.
I think maybe bullying is something guys grow out of. Eventually they begin to recognize that the geek who made straight A's is the one who went on to be VP by age 25 or invented that thing that made him a millionaire by the age of 30. Guys grow out of it (mostly) but women don't. They can be catty at any age as evidenced by all these Housewives reality shows.
February 1, 2012 at 7:35 am Two things:
1) Brava to you for standing your ground and deciding not put up with bullies anymore and
2) Fuck you to the bullies. Thats right, a big middle finger to all those people who feel they have the right to be horrid and nasty and downright rude to their fellow human beings. May you all choke on a pickle!
January 31, 2012 at 10:43 pm I hate bullies, too. I think everyone hates bullies and bullying – but yet it continues. Frustrating. Perhaps if we're all honest and brave as you have been with this post – we can stop it – one bully at a time.
January 31, 2012 at 7:02 pm You're so good at expressing things. I am inspired by your strength, your honesty and you're just an all around top girl. Thanks for writing this…I am in my late 30's and I don't do bullies either.
Christine
January 31, 2012 at 1:26 pm I am a tough as guts kind of chick.
Year 9 I decided I wasn't playing the popularity game anymore. I wasn't going to fight to be "cool" because the "cool" high was always short lived. It brought A LOT of bullying. A lot. The bag spat on and hidden in some bin, sometimes pissed on. Being referred to by the name of a pest, which, well if you ask me in person I may reveal, but it pains me to hear it. It literally makes my skin burn and I have to excuse myself.
I didn't care about being popular, I worked on making real friendships, being friendly to everyone, but it didn't stop those popular kids trying to turn my friends against me. I had 2 of my very best friends, people I worshipped the ground they walked on, turn on me. I remember bursting into tears in the middle of a spots class, half the year was there because of one of those friends. It still hurts me to this day.
Now I just don't do it. I don't let myself have many people I care about. It's too hard. Too much to lose when they decide they don't like me anymore. Am I lonely? Fuck yes! But that is somehow easier than the pain of caring and then losing someone.
I am glad you have found your feet, that you won't let people make you feel bad about yourself. You are an amazing person Lori, and I am sure those people who are trying to hurt you are because they are jealous, and want to hurt you. How sad for them that they can't be happy for you.
January 31, 2012 at 10:35 am You are beautiful!
January 31, 2012 at 10:32 am I was bullied a lot in school, also being a little nerd. (I am proud to be a nerd now!) However, the bullies I have known as an adult are way worse. There must be something about 30, because that's when I decided I don't do bullies anymore either!
January 31, 2012 at 10:23 am Man I would be afraid of you, Your little but you are fierce! Try not to doubt yourself so much, when i look at you i see strength, resilience, and a sense of self.
Bullies are everywhere, but insecurity is everywhere too, it doesn't give a person the right to be out & out mean (dissed your jeans? WTF? Was probably jealous that their ass couldn't look as good in the ones they had on!)
Your Smart, Funny, Tough as Nails, lovely, and cute. Take it from someone who has nothing to gain from blowing sunshine up your ass! x o x o from your mate Courtney.
January 31, 2012 at 10:22 am Brilliant Lori – never give them any power over you ever again or they have won. And dont forget that tattoo "though she be small she be fierce" each time you need a reminder of how kick ass you really are
January 31, 2012 at 10:20 am Sending strength and applause your way.
As Kelly said, people bully because they are weak and insecure. But even knowing that it doesn't make being the target of their attacks any more fun.
January 31, 2012 at 9:18 am Nicely said Lori but you got one thing wrong. Bullies aren't confident – they're massively insecure, that's why they are bullies. The only way they can feel good about themselves is to pull other people down and throw their weight around.
Meanwhile, I love the mental image of you standing there with your former bully, head cocked to one side and thinking "Did she just say that?"
January 31, 2012 at 8:39 am Such strength! Bullying is such a big issue and has such a profound effect on so many people. It is great to read that, despite your experiences, you are looking the issues (and the people it seems) straight in the eye and saying 'no'. Thanks Lori
Previous post: Better Off Without You
Next post: #ChickenFail
The locals call this place the Maltings, because that’s the name it came with. I’ve driven past it a dozen times and never even seen it– this old brick building, crumbling in places, right next to main road, visible and accessible to the public.
Apparently it’s a hideaway during winter for city street kids– it’s colder here in the Highlands, but space and shelter in the Maltings is plentiful, the police bother no one and what scant social services exist here are not as over taxed as those in the CBD. Ownership of the Maltings is hard to pin down– apparently, developments to create a retro shopping centre a la Melbourne‘s Jam Factory began a few years ago, only to cease months into the work– whether heritage hassles or ghosts are to blame is debatable.
Bunny and I walk straight in to the Maltings, no fences to climb, nothing to sneak through… this time, it doesn’t even feel trespassing.
The Maltings is made up of two massive brick buildings, with a smaller one in between, and tiny cottage on the outskirts of the land. History tells us that once upon a time there were three massive brick buildings, but fire took one of them in the middle of the last century, engulfing a ten foot high statue of a white horse– the Tooth brewery mascot– with it to ashes.
The first floor of the main building is dismay and despair, and if we breath too loudly it will eat us whole.
It’s a dumping ground, a store house for people’s junk. How did all this stuff get here, who took the time to pull it all in here– wasn’t there somewhere more convenient they could dump it? It looks like a whole house full of furniture, and it smells of piss and vomit and stale beer. There are bed spaces here and there, graffiti– lewd and obscure and distasteful in some places, sweet and sad and thoroughly interesting in others.
This building is five stories high, and the further up we traverse, the fewer signs of human debris are evident. The first four floors are solid concrete and safe to walk on– its only the top floor that seems unsafe, with it’s staircase leading to nowhere and unstable, rotting wooden boards.
The stairs between floors are patchy and in some cases altogether unusable– but this is is a funny maze of a building. It reminds me of that optical illusion you see so much you never even pay attention to it anymore. Where the stairs are inaccessible there are ramps, trapdoors, split levels and cellars; and I have a bizarre feeling of inertia– walking upside down.
Time snips itself and folds itself over the way it always does when I’m urbexing– before I know it two hours have passed and my eyes still don’t feel full enough, they aren’t big enough to pass this whole landscape through to my brain.
I haven’t seen anything yet.
In between the two larger buildings is a dilapidated shed, stark and lacy against the blue sky. It feels like it was social place, a lunch room… It feels like men, like mateship, like smoko and tin lunchboxes. There is no darkness anywhere here, once you’re past the bottom floor of the first building with its graffiti and sleeping spots and piss and smell of despair, and that’s all recent– this would have been, for all accounts and purposes, a pleasant place to work.
We follow the pathway across a tiny bridge dripping with willow branches, and the space opens up. In front of us is the largest free standing, horizontal building I have ever seen. It’s huge– so long I can’t fit in all in the lens of my camera. The Tooth and Co logo is embedded into the brickwork. (Wiki tells me the stallion in the logo was secretly gelded during the Seventies… weird. Seventies. Whatever.) It’s surrounded by ample grasslands and there are residential houses just a few hundred meters behind it.
Inside, it’s… disappointing. While not as vandalized as the first building, it’s stripped to nothing. There are massive grain silos that reach all the way to the roof, but no way to access the upper floors of the buildings– I’m aching to see inside the tiny triangle turret rooms on the top floor.
That frustrating disappointment doesn’t last long. There’s one final structure on the Maltings property, and, in truth, I don’t expect much from it– it’s a tiny cottage, gorgeous, but even the cyclone fencing put up to protect it has been pulled down, so I imagine the inside is as messy and gutted as that first floor.
And it is…. kind of. Rubbish, old clothes, broken bottles, filthy blankets… all that stuff is there.
But if you look past that…
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June 14, 2012 at 6:27 am I hit the publish button too soon … was also going to write that that place looks amazing!
Gill
June 14, 2012 at 6:24 am I would love to go urbexing with you!
June 13, 2012 at 9:15 pm Oh you just made my day – love these posts – there's nothing like that here, so jealous!!
June 13, 2012 at 1:14 pm I'll be honest Lori, I don't usually 'get' the whole urban exploring thing when you usually post about it. It's never bothered me, because you can't always 'get' everything about a blogger, and I believed it was good for you.
That said, I always end up learning something about life when you do a post about it, and this one is the most interesting yet! I also think it's a part of society that is hidden away from most lucky people.
June 13, 2012 at 8:41 am Thankyou Lori as I have been hanging out waiting for more of your wonderful adventure writing.Just love it.xx
Previous post: I’m Fine
Next post: The Maltings, Part Two- The Light.
It’s raining.
I am in a foul mood- my kids are not well, their ears are sore and they are grumpy; the weather is miserable and it’s five degrees colder in TinyTrainTown than anywhere else.
I tap my foot impatiently as I wait at the doctors, haughty and irritated. I’m here for a referral. A general practitioner that doesn’t know me- I’ve only needed to come here three times since I’ve been living in the area- is required to write me a referral for the trauma psychologist I’ve been seeing, in order for Medicare to foot the bill.
The irony of it pisses me off. But I can’t afford the fees myself, and God only knows I need to see Charlie.
The doctor who attends to me is new- brand new, fresh out of internship or study or whatever normal people do to become raised to the level of doctors. He has an extremely thick accent, and I’m normally good at understanding speech that is impaired in one way or another; but I don’t have the patience today. I catch only that he’s new and will consult with a more senior doctor over the phone if needed.
The appointment is labored and boring and seems to drag on forever as I’m asked about allergies, sleep, moods and appetite. The doctor fumbles and flushes when I ask him to repeat his question about my menstrual cycle, and I pretend not to hear him the second time too. It’s intrinsically nasty but sometimes I just cannot help myself- I am so used to making people uncomfortable just by being me that when I sense weakness I poke them harder in that spot. It feels like firmly pinning a squirming moth to a board.
The doctor balks at referring me to my shrink because the relatively new practice Charlie works for isn’t in the computer system of this medical centre, nor in the direct area. He suggests others and I am forced to argue my point frustrated and bored with myself already.
‘Anxiety’, he notes on my file, assuming correctly that this is the basis of my condition, given the heavy dose of the medication I take. “I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder”, I say, wondering why that’s not on my file, haven’t I told them this already, on a previous visit? Maybe not, maybe I’m thinking of elsewhere. I have a script in my head for medical situations… “The children’s father suffered a psychosis and took his own life early last year.” It’s crisp and brittle and costs me very little, emotionally, and I’ve practiced it so it can be that easy, that fluent, and I can say it without seeing things in my head.
“Why? What triggered this PTSD?”, asks the doctor, eyes on the computer screen.
And because I’m a foul mood, and this sterile clean little room and this polite, difficult to understand doctor are pissing me off; I wait just a beat too long to reply, long enough so he’ll look me in the eye. And I say, without breaking his gaze “My husband hung himself in front of me last year. He died. I screamed for help…”
And I think to myself… “Boo!!!!!!!”
I watch with a grim, ugly satisfaction as the doctor’s eye widen in shock, and it’s his turn to wait a beat too long before responding. I know that pause… it’s a pregnant one, filled with dismal expectation. He’s waiting for me to say something, anything, to make that statement not quite as ugly as it is. To make this situation more comfortable for him.
I say nothing.
He can’t print me off a referral quickly enough.
I’ve always had a dark sense of humour.
It was intensified working at the children’s hospital- most people who have worked with or come into close contact with death on a regular basis develop a wickedly morbid appreciation of what’s funny. (A mandatory monthly group counseling session, years ago, attended by all the entertainers I worked alongside at the hospital, and we’re discussing this very thing. Another seasoned entertainer relays a joke told her by the parents of a gorgeous three year old boy named Luke, his blonde curls and tiny eyelashes stripped cruelly by chemotherapy, “We call him Lukie,” says his mother in mirth, “its short for leukemia!” It’s not funny, not funny at all, but it was the only thing Luke’s mother could find to laugh at and we laughed too, until our bellies were aching and we couldn’t make eye contact for breaking into more peals of it; as two new staff members stared on at us in abject horror.)
While Tony was in the ICU, and in the nightmare that was the first few months after he died, that warped sense of humour became invaluable.
Laughter, no matter the source, is light. Let yourself get too heavy, and you’ll sink.
The only benefit I could find to feeling like a walking zoo exhibit was the ridiculous nature of it all. I viewed people’s reactions to me through a veil of wonderment, watching the real world go on while mine caved in. (“Am I real? Do I exist? Did I die, too?”) Some people seemed to stare at me, waiting for me to explode, or scream, or cry… (“I’m not going to do what you all think I’m gonna do, and just… flip out, or something.”) and through my veil of surreality, there was a part of me that wanted to make them jump, to engage them in uncomfortable conversation… to draw them into the whirlpool of this reality of mine, rather than have them stare at the puppet show that was my life from the comfortable boundaries of their normality.
The fact that they could look at me look like, that they were people who Didn’t Understand, it just made me jealous.
And it tickled some dark, wicked funny bone I have. It felt like a precipice… scream “Boo!!!!!” and watch the normal people flee, while I laughed.
Hysterically. So hysterically it echoed all the way to the asylum.
Liz, my other shrink, she understands, as much as someone can who hasn’t been there can. She stands with me in the hospital, the last day in the ICU, and together we watch.
In rolls a tiny Asian man with a massive x-ray machine, to take a photo of my husband’s dead lungs. In strolls a group of organ donation coordinator, all ribbons and pink and roses and whispers of “Sign this, please…”. In waddle two coppers, one short, one tall, and the short one is in tears when they leave.
In and out, in and out, a string of people. Some of them weeping, saying goodbye to man who was their world… some of them just work here, and this is just another day that will blur into the rest.
I can’t stand it. My husband has been dead for hours, days in reality… this feels ridiculous and it’s pushing that funny bone the wrong way. Liz can see it through my eyes, and she verbalizes it for me where I cannot… this is farcical. This is comedy. This is a Shakespearean play where the ship’s run aground but everything will be OK in the end.
I’m still waiting for the
punchline. I’m still watching the play.
It’s just not fucking funny anymore.
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If you leave my Tiny Train House and turn away from civilization, rather than toward it, you’ll find yourself following an overgrown, rusted train line, the sleepers rotted and filled with termites, an occasional piece of abandoned rail machinery dotted the lines.
Blink, and you’ll miss where the traffic zone changes, signalling the end of TinyTrainTown– it’s easy to fly right through here and barely even recognise it’s a village.
You’ll drive through a few more like that, too- other tiny train towns, little villages with one multipurpose general store that have continued to grin on, if not to thrive….
The train line has been deserted for the better part of fifty years. What was once a bustling area of chook farms and orchards, a wholesale feed company that made constant use of the train line nearby; is now a sleepy grouping of towns made up of a handful of streets, used mostly only by locals as a short cut to the nearby freeway.
So… you’re driving along a bush road at one hundreds click an hour. The scenery is nothing but scrub, and it all looks the same… it’s no wonder people get so lost in the Australian bushland.
And then, suddenly…
“What the f*ck is that!?”
What the f*ck, indeed.
As we can see, there is quite literally nothing on either side of this… oddity… except for road, scrub, more road, and more scrub.
And this…. thing… on the side of the road. (The rules of writing tell us that there is always a better word than “thing”. But in this case… I’ really not so sure.)
You can tell people who aren’t familiar with this road if you happen to be driving behind them when they pass it. Their brake lights will suddenly flash red as the driver pumps down in shock. The more adventurous hit the brakes hard and swing in to check it out in detail.
Not that detail helps much… it is as it appears. A great bid chunk of concrete. On top of another chunk of concrete.
My mum assures me that it is, actually, a sculpture, and apparently it used to have a plaque on it dedicating it to ‘human endurance’.
Human endurance, my butt. After much thinking and theorising over this (Bunny‘s best guess was that it was osme kind of alien spaceship, and thousands of people had driven past and said “What the f*ck is that!?” but no one ever actually stopped to check it out in detail. Plausible) the best I’ve got is… human laziness. And rampant cost effectiveness.
The sculpture/ alien craft/ thing sits in a very close proximity to where the Tiny Train Road intersects the local freeway, and a whole big chunk of earth has been cut out to allow it go through uninterrupted. Which means Tiny Train Road effectively became a bridge…
Held in place with massive concrete struts.
Say there’s a strut- or two- leftover? Being cut or molded or whatever to a custom size means it’s not useful for anything else. And hauling something so heavy back to the CBD or any major township would cost a small fortune.
What do you do with two tonne of concrete so it doesn’t exactly look like industrial littering…?
You make it into a huge, f*ck off ugly sculpture. And sit back and laugh to yourself at the thought of thousand of people driving past it, almost causing rear end accidents, muttering to themselves…
“What the f*ck is that…?”
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We seem to be missing a few words, in the English language. Other cultures have developed words and phrases specifically for feelings and events that we only vaguely identify.
‘Esprit d’ escalier‘ is French for “Dammit, that would have been the perfect come back but it is far too late to say it now!” (erm… literal translation “the spirit of the stairway“. I don’t know why, either.) The Scots use the word ‘tartle‘ to describe that awkward moment when you’re expected to introduce someone but can’t remember their name. And any good Simpsons fanatic knows that ‘schadenfreude‘ is German for shameful joy- the bitter happiness that comes from watching another fail.
And, as Homer says.. those Germans have a word for everything.
I discovered ‘weltschmerz‘ recently, and it’s a word I’ve been seeking for years now. It describes that feeling I’ve helplessly tried to articulate previously here- a depression caused by the weight of the sadness of the world.
The feeling of a whole Universe spread around you, and everyone suffering, everyone hurting.. and wondering what in God’s name the point of living is, if everyone just hurts and then dies again.
I like to name things, clarify them… there is a strange power in finding the perfect word for what you mean. The pen that is mightier than the sword.
Speaking of words…. I write and publish, on average, about 4000 of them a week. And I do my best to weigh every one of them, to own everything that rests on the pages, and I try to be aware of what I’m saying in the spaces, too- or what I’m neglecting to say at all.
But words are funny things… one of them, written late at night (massive) changes the whole context of what you were trying to say. (Mind your language… we’ve played this game before, folks.)
I’ve been meaning to write a post about how strange it is, being Professional Blog Lori, answering emails, submitting posts, putting myself out there. Rejection of any form In Real Life crumples me into a snotty mess of warm tears. Rejection online, professionally, barely causes me to blink- it doesn’t seem to bother me, and I don’t know why; but it’s such a relief, to have a small space in my conscious mind that isn’t a pressure cooker all the time.
But yesterday, I just didn’t have my thick skin on. As Maree says… it’s a heavy thing to carry. If I don’t feel like I need it, I put it down. Some comments felt like an actual physical dull thud in my abdomen.
I’m tempted to write a whole new post about breastfeeding, outline my beliefs (again)… but, quite frankly, I’m bored with it and can’t be fucked right now.
So I’ll just say… as someone who is fortunate enough to earn money off my writing, I’m more than aware of how careful I should be with every word I type, and how much potential scrutiny it’s under.
You will have to forgive me if, out of four thousand words a week, I fuck up one or two of them.
And now, onto the words I didn’t fuck up.
As part of my bid to dominate the world through pro blogging, I’ve contributed to an e-book. It has exclusive stories- meaning the only place you can read them is in the book– from all the best Aussie parenting bloggers; and includes such topics as school lunches, replying “In a moment, dear” to inanimate but noisy toys, falling in love with your newborn and quenching the urge to strangle your three year old.
Things They Didn’t Tell You is $.4.99, which you could probably raid from your kid’s money boxes right now if they’re at school, and all profits raised go toward getting a different type of kid to a different type of school altogether- Foundation 18 is an Aussie funded orphanage in Bali, started from the ground up by the arse kicking Cate Bolt– she’s got a story in the e-book too.
E-book? Check. The only drawback is- I’d actually forgotten all about the somewhat distressing incident I described in the Things They Didn’t Tell You, my memory being like a pair of trendy jeans with rips right up and down the front for things to fall out of; right up until I read it back to myself two weeks ago.
Memories, words, e-books… all those conceptual realities. They are strange and interesting things.
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I love that you still post these "before" posts, it gives us all a reminder of the beauty of memories and why we shoud treasure them xx
Fucking awesome.
The end.
I just think you are amazing. Before and After. The Funny and the sad. Thank you so much for sharing so honestly. You are an absolute inspiration as a blogger and a writer and a mummy.
Oh the happiness in your voice, in this post. Makes me happy and sad.
Love you, Lori – I'm SO sorry I didn't chat much to you last night, I was kind of frozen and grinning wildly. Like a fucking idiot.
XXOOXX
Oh god! Don't me Tony was a fart-on-the-head father too!? Sounds just like Nigel, except he's never thought about it, he just does it!! He's made his second child (my step son) cry TWICE doing it! (No, the first time taught him nothing)
This post is hilariously funny.
Yet, it makes me sad, too.
You are such a fantastic writer – in this post – your laughter, jubilance, and light come shining through – so sweet and bright.
I'm so glad you captured this memory so perfectly, thanks for sharing it.
Sooo funny, loved this. Although I am slightly in shock – you mean I might have another year and a half to go of THIS?! By the way, it was one of your posts, can't remember which one, which gave me the idea to get the boy checked for reflux, so thanks.
Aw – this one made me laugh!! I can imagine most sleep-deprived, exhausted parents feeling this way.
Sending love and HUGS as always.
Girlfriend stay over?! Oh hells no.
I cannot wait for the day, when both Little Miss and Buddy are teenagers and I wake them up between 4:30 and 5 am . . . like they have done to us for the past 3 years or so. I will relish it, I will take joy in it and I will happily go back to bed and let them stew in it!
Jenn
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Ah, so there is light at the end of the tunnel. My 16 month old doesn't sleep through the night. I forgot what sleep is.
I look forward to the day I can vacuum outside his room door at 6am.
Love that you're happy!
I too relish the thought of some day needing to wake my kids. Hubs regularly suggests we start running around on the floor boards yelling at each other in the middle of the night to get them back for destroying our Sunday morning 'sleep'in. One day vengeance will be ours.