I probably have to start this one off by pointing out that since it's 3 January and I'm only just writing this now, one of the first resolutions I make should probably relate to my chronic procrastination. But apart from that, in no particular order;
1.) I will overcome my deep mistrust of cottage cheese. It's creamy. It's delicious. And yet somehow it manages to be low in fat and sugar. I don't know what's up with that but I vow to stop treating the magical cottage cheese like a radioactive byproduct and start eating it more often.
2.) It's taken a year but I seem to have conquered the B12 Beast*. No more highs and lows, energy is consistent and I no longer feel like I will fail to wake up tomorrow morning if I do any more exercise beyond dragging myself out of bed and into my car. Exercise finally feels good again. For this reason 2012 will be about reclaiming my fitness. To kick it off I've started my 30 minutes of cardio a day for 30 days. I started before New Year and I'm on day 6, but it's still a commitment dedicated to 2012.
3.) 2012 will be the year of getting my sexy back. I have attended Charm School three times. I know how to apply red lippy, I know how to do my hair. I am aware of the crime that is the wearing of tracksuits, thongs and a ponytail for any purpose other than exercise, getting a pedicure and going to the beach (respectively). To the intense amazement of all, I do actually own high heels, skirts and dresses. It's true, most of them predate my children, but there really is no excuse now that we've recovered financially from two rounds of maternity leave. Time to update the wardrobe and start pretending I care about my appearance. No more jeans at work. Again. Ever. I will also invest in way more garter belts and Cuban heels stockings because panty hose are gross. And hello Queen of Holloway, how you doing? I love your work. Mwah!
4.) Speaking of sexy, back to burlesque and swing dancing. I love, love, love and should never have stopped. I may even kidnap Kat's husband so I can go learn salsa.
5.) I will learn to be selfish. I have kicked this one off with a spectacular bang thanks to the depression rearing its ugly head. Two choices, meds or survival. I went with survival. Which means doing the bare minimum to keep myself healthy and happy...before I even think about what anyone else needs. I have just had to learn to say no and stop feeling so bloody guilty about it. Having said that, there are those of you who have been there recently in ways I truly never expected and can't find the words to express my gratitude for. You know who you are and you guys will always be at the top of my list**.
6.) RENOVATION. My other illicit love. Oh how many plans I have. Want to know what to buy me for my birthday? BUNNINGS VOUCHERS. So many projects, so little time and money.
7.) New job. For SO MANY REASONS.
8.) I will not cultivate vegetable bin soup in the fridge. This is a big one.
9.) I will return to writing with some sort of regularity...not just TC but my other, secret blogs that none of you know about. ;-)
Much love to you all and best wishes for the challenges you plan to tackle in 2012. So many of you have held me together this year and I am so lucky to have you.
Kisses - X X X
* Only took A WHOLE FREAKIN' YEAR.
** Okay, just in case you don't know who you are: Mum, Kat, Scott, Rowan, Paul, Mark, Sam, Brad, Mon, Sal, Karen, Gayle, Dad, Jase, Lenks...now that I think about it, almost all of you!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Monday, December 26, 2011
The Secret to Successful Decluttering
I wrote yesterday about being at the bottom of the well and finally realising why I'm so miserable. With acknowledgment came a measure of energy and I immediately turned that to good use with some cleaning. And discovered that the key to successfully decluttering your life is to dial your care factor down to about zero and your apathy up into the extreme range.
Generally I'm a thrifty girl and I hate waste. I still darn my socks, take in clothes that are too big and generally repair before I replace. Unfortunately my thriftiness goes a little too far sometimes (like hanging onto my maternity pants for mowing the lawn and just clipping all the excess wastage together so they stay up) and as I put away the washing last night I realised that I've reached an intersection where changes must be made and a new direction sought.
Because no girl who struggles to get out of bed in the morning is ever going to win that war if she has to put on underwear that's too big for her or a bra where the underwire is sticking out. And thus commenced an epic purge. Underwear that's too big. Gone. Bras that need any kind of repair - turfed. Jeans with rips, ruined zippers, etc...binned. Then I went further. All slacks for work - tossed*. Any clothes I've ever been dubious about, out. Unless I feel super comfortable or like a million bucks when I wear it, see ya later alligator.
Now I feel a shopping trip coming on...
* I always feel better in a skirt when I'm at work. Charles perked up at this one and tried to get me to toss all my jeans and cargos so I never wear pants of any kind again but the stars were, unfortunately, not aligned in his favour.
Generally I'm a thrifty girl and I hate waste. I still darn my socks, take in clothes that are too big and generally repair before I replace. Unfortunately my thriftiness goes a little too far sometimes (like hanging onto my maternity pants for mowing the lawn and just clipping all the excess wastage together so they stay up) and as I put away the washing last night I realised that I've reached an intersection where changes must be made and a new direction sought.
Because no girl who struggles to get out of bed in the morning is ever going to win that war if she has to put on underwear that's too big for her or a bra where the underwire is sticking out. And thus commenced an epic purge. Underwear that's too big. Gone. Bras that need any kind of repair - turfed. Jeans with rips, ruined zippers, etc...binned. Then I went further. All slacks for work - tossed*. Any clothes I've ever been dubious about, out. Unless I feel super comfortable or like a million bucks when I wear it, see ya later alligator.
Now I feel a shopping trip coming on...
* I always feel better in a skirt when I'm at work. Charles perked up at this one and tried to get me to toss all my jeans and cargos so I never wear pants of any kind again but the stars were, unfortunately, not aligned in his favour.
Greetings from the Bottom of the Well
It's been a long time since my last blog post and that's because I've been at the bottom of the well. I've written before about my husband's depression. I wrote about how much better he was doing. There we were, sailing along blissfully for the first time in three years. I was remembering why I'd fallen in love and married him in the first place and things were good. Really, really good.
And then, almost overnight (in my eyes at least), it all went horribly pear-shaped when a back injury he suffered two years ago exploded with the fire of a thousand suns. Suddenly he couldn't walk without a cane, had to drive an automatic and was back to spending all day in bed and snapping at me all the time. I did my best, I really did. But it felt like I was circling the drain and then suddenly I was going under for the third time and the light was winking out above me. Clinically depressed for the first time in over ten years. Huh.
Generally most things in my life have a 24 hour limit. I can't do misery for long. But this time it's well and truly got me. I start my day pep-talking myself out of bed, drag myself around while I get the kids ready, slog through work, collect kids, make dinner, feed them dinner, get them ready for bed, put them in bed, attempt to clean and crawl back into bed. I do most of it alone and occasionally I do it with Charles whose pain has given him a terrible knack for making everything that comes out of his mouth sound derisive and deprecating. The whole shebang is like water on sandstone and I can feel myself becoming permanently worn down, the sharper of my features dulled until I don't even look human anymore.
Since I constantly bang on about accepting limitations and not being stupid when it comes to depression, I finally went to the doctor, 'fessed up to my misery and self-destructive fantasies and unsurprisingly was put on medication. The meds make me too nauseous to eat but haven't seemed to do a lot for my mood. I figure their theory is to make me anorexic until I have the body of a supermodel and BINGO, almost instant happiness along with $$$ modelling contract. The one other thing the meds did was remove any care factor I had about most other people, their feelings and opinions of me. The filter on my mouth is completely gone. When people ask me how I am I usually just go with, "pretty fucking crap actually". And I don't bother asking how they are because I don't care anymore.
Kat pointed out to me recently that I need to start showing more restraint because once I start coming out of this thing and caring again, I am going to be horrified by the things I've said and done. I lay awake almost all night mulling this one over, trying to imagine how I would have done things differently, if I wasn't currently ruled by apathy and a total disinterest in what anyone thinks of me. But since I don't care, I couldn't conceive of what caring might be like and this led to an internal philosophical battle along the lines of "do we exist or do we just think we exist". In the end I had to conclude that I lack the capacity to even pretend I care because I've forgotten why I used to care about things like other people who are not my family and who treat me like crap anyway. Infuriatingly it was almost five in the morning by the time I realised this and way too late to try and sleep*. The only positive thing I concluded was that philosophy ought to be crossed off the list of things I spend time and thought on because it is largely useless and lacks practical application.
Anyway today is Boxing Day and I spent it with my cousins, who I do actually care about. In fact, I care enough that despite not wanting to even get out of bed, I packed my kids in the car, drove to Goulburn and pretended that I'm okay. But at a certain point I had to go inside and get away from the people and the talking because maintaining that facade was killing me. And there my cousin Wendy found me and when she asked I told her everything, because all the energy I had had already been taken up pretending I was okay enough to socialise with more than one person for longer than thirty minutes.
Wendy has always had a knack of asking the right questions at the right time and as she asked me about what was going on and why, I suddenly realised why I'm at the bottom of the well and why I haven't been able to pull myself out of this.
For three years I pulled my mouth up into a smile every day, bullied my husband out of bed, pretended that everything was fine so my kids wouldn't notice how broken we were, pushed my way through the day, pulling everyone along behind me. I cried often, raged at the world a lot but I never gave up, I never left and I never stopped hoping that my husband would come back to me and love me again the way he did before that black cloud came down and took away the sun. And when we finally managed to fight our way back into the light all we got was a lousy couple of months before this next God-damn catastrophe landed.
In the end, it didn't matter how strong I was or how hard I tried because something beyond my control landed us back at square one anyway. And the most terrifying thing of all about that is what if we can't pull through this one. What if the surgery next month doesn't work and it's like this forever? What if it's worse? What if something else happens to us that is worse than this? These are not words you're supposed to say out loud when something like this happens but I have to because the fear of it is growing while I pretend it's not there and it's slowly killing me from the inside.
Somehow admitting to myself that maybe it won't all get better made my fear of the future shrink. I have survived. I have come this far. I have no faith in myself but that's completely unwarranted. I am strong and I am capable. I've held it together this long and there's no reason I can't keep holding it together. God and Zoloft willing we will make it through this next challenge, just as we've made it through the challenges so far. We have an amazing family who have stepped in to help us now that we're down. We have friends that care enough to check on us and help us when they can**. There are a thousand different ways that this could be worse but it isn't. It's not brilliant, but it is okay and a slight attitude adjustment will make it even better.
No matter what, I'll keep being me and I like myself better when I'm happy. That thought is like a life jacket I've strapped around myself to try and rise back up to the light and the air where I'll be able to breathe again.
* Actually I think the reality is that my brain realised I was stuck in a circuitous line of thinking I had no hope of ever escaping, short-circuited and my last focused thought was I like purple! It's SO PRETTY!!
** And ignore my filterless mouth.
And then, almost overnight (in my eyes at least), it all went horribly pear-shaped when a back injury he suffered two years ago exploded with the fire of a thousand suns. Suddenly he couldn't walk without a cane, had to drive an automatic and was back to spending all day in bed and snapping at me all the time. I did my best, I really did. But it felt like I was circling the drain and then suddenly I was going under for the third time and the light was winking out above me. Clinically depressed for the first time in over ten years. Huh.
Generally most things in my life have a 24 hour limit. I can't do misery for long. But this time it's well and truly got me. I start my day pep-talking myself out of bed, drag myself around while I get the kids ready, slog through work, collect kids, make dinner, feed them dinner, get them ready for bed, put them in bed, attempt to clean and crawl back into bed. I do most of it alone and occasionally I do it with Charles whose pain has given him a terrible knack for making everything that comes out of his mouth sound derisive and deprecating. The whole shebang is like water on sandstone and I can feel myself becoming permanently worn down, the sharper of my features dulled until I don't even look human anymore.
Since I constantly bang on about accepting limitations and not being stupid when it comes to depression, I finally went to the doctor, 'fessed up to my misery and self-destructive fantasies and unsurprisingly was put on medication. The meds make me too nauseous to eat but haven't seemed to do a lot for my mood. I figure their theory is to make me anorexic until I have the body of a supermodel and BINGO, almost instant happiness along with $$$ modelling contract. The one other thing the meds did was remove any care factor I had about most other people, their feelings and opinions of me. The filter on my mouth is completely gone. When people ask me how I am I usually just go with, "pretty fucking crap actually". And I don't bother asking how they are because I don't care anymore.
Kat pointed out to me recently that I need to start showing more restraint because once I start coming out of this thing and caring again, I am going to be horrified by the things I've said and done. I lay awake almost all night mulling this one over, trying to imagine how I would have done things differently, if I wasn't currently ruled by apathy and a total disinterest in what anyone thinks of me. But since I don't care, I couldn't conceive of what caring might be like and this led to an internal philosophical battle along the lines of "do we exist or do we just think we exist". In the end I had to conclude that I lack the capacity to even pretend I care because I've forgotten why I used to care about things like other people who are not my family and who treat me like crap anyway. Infuriatingly it was almost five in the morning by the time I realised this and way too late to try and sleep*. The only positive thing I concluded was that philosophy ought to be crossed off the list of things I spend time and thought on because it is largely useless and lacks practical application.
Anyway today is Boxing Day and I spent it with my cousins, who I do actually care about. In fact, I care enough that despite not wanting to even get out of bed, I packed my kids in the car, drove to Goulburn and pretended that I'm okay. But at a certain point I had to go inside and get away from the people and the talking because maintaining that facade was killing me. And there my cousin Wendy found me and when she asked I told her everything, because all the energy I had had already been taken up pretending I was okay enough to socialise with more than one person for longer than thirty minutes.
Wendy has always had a knack of asking the right questions at the right time and as she asked me about what was going on and why, I suddenly realised why I'm at the bottom of the well and why I haven't been able to pull myself out of this.
For three years I pulled my mouth up into a smile every day, bullied my husband out of bed, pretended that everything was fine so my kids wouldn't notice how broken we were, pushed my way through the day, pulling everyone along behind me. I cried often, raged at the world a lot but I never gave up, I never left and I never stopped hoping that my husband would come back to me and love me again the way he did before that black cloud came down and took away the sun. And when we finally managed to fight our way back into the light all we got was a lousy couple of months before this next God-damn catastrophe landed.
In the end, it didn't matter how strong I was or how hard I tried because something beyond my control landed us back at square one anyway. And the most terrifying thing of all about that is what if we can't pull through this one. What if the surgery next month doesn't work and it's like this forever? What if it's worse? What if something else happens to us that is worse than this? These are not words you're supposed to say out loud when something like this happens but I have to because the fear of it is growing while I pretend it's not there and it's slowly killing me from the inside.
Somehow admitting to myself that maybe it won't all get better made my fear of the future shrink. I have survived. I have come this far. I have no faith in myself but that's completely unwarranted. I am strong and I am capable. I've held it together this long and there's no reason I can't keep holding it together. God and Zoloft willing we will make it through this next challenge, just as we've made it through the challenges so far. We have an amazing family who have stepped in to help us now that we're down. We have friends that care enough to check on us and help us when they can**. There are a thousand different ways that this could be worse but it isn't. It's not brilliant, but it is okay and a slight attitude adjustment will make it even better.
No matter what, I'll keep being me and I like myself better when I'm happy. That thought is like a life jacket I've strapped around myself to try and rise back up to the light and the air where I'll be able to breathe again.
* Actually I think the reality is that my brain realised I was stuck in a circuitous line of thinking I had no hope of ever escaping, short-circuited and my last focused thought was I like purple! It's SO PRETTY!!
** And ignore my filterless mouth.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Why not indeed?
Spring rain is my favourite kind of weather. Warm air, cool rain and everything bright green around you. Today on the way home from work it was raining that gentle spring rain I love so much and the side of the road was too green to resist. So I pulled over, ripped my shoes off, got out of the car and stood beside my car, arms wide and face to the sky. After a moment I came back to myself and realised the looks on the faces of the people passing by. Concern, disgust, dismissal.
Is she crazy?
Yes. It would be far more sensible to drive my car with the windows up, the air-conditioning blasting away, worrying about what's for dinner and stressing over the trials of the day I'm sure. After five minutes of indulgence I reluctantly got back in the car and drove on to the childcare centre to pick James up.
As I brought him outside his body tensed and he curled into me.
"Oh no!" he cried, "Raining! All wet!"
"Yes, all wet, but it's okay," I told him.
I stopped to look down into his precious little face, screwed up with dismay and it hit me then what all the rushing in my life will one day cost my children. All too soon my son will be one of those people rushing home in a Conformodore, the beautiful Spring rain not a life-giving pleasure to be enjoyed but a nuisance to be cursed. I sat him down right there on the steps of the centre and ripped his shoes and socks off, stuffing them into my pockets.
"Yes, it's raining," I told him, "Which means we can wear no shoes and splash. You have no idea how good that will feel on your feet. Come on, let's do it."
One dubious look was all I got and then I seized his hand and we ran out into the rain, heading straight for the gutter where the water was rushing, both of us giggling. We kicked the leaves, we jumped and then we just stood there and let the water run over our toes. As we played a father with three small children who had parked behind me came out, hurrying his brood until they saw us and collectively stopped to stare. I froze, not sure what to say while he looked at me blankly and James continued to squeal and splash. Then his oldest curled her hand into his and tugged.
"Can we do that Daddy?" she asked softly and my eyes met his. For a long moment we just looked at each other and then I smiled and shrugged.
"Why not?"
"Why not indeed," he said slowly and then they too were pulling their shoes and socks off and before long we were all splashing and laughing. I left five minutes later when a pair of teenagers walking home from the bus joined in. By the time we got home I'd forgotten anything else that happened to me today.
Now turn the screen off. Put down whatever you're doing. Go dance in the rain.
Is she crazy?
Yes. It would be far more sensible to drive my car with the windows up, the air-conditioning blasting away, worrying about what's for dinner and stressing over the trials of the day I'm sure. After five minutes of indulgence I reluctantly got back in the car and drove on to the childcare centre to pick James up.
As I brought him outside his body tensed and he curled into me.
"Oh no!" he cried, "Raining! All wet!"
"Yes, all wet, but it's okay," I told him.
I stopped to look down into his precious little face, screwed up with dismay and it hit me then what all the rushing in my life will one day cost my children. All too soon my son will be one of those people rushing home in a Conformodore, the beautiful Spring rain not a life-giving pleasure to be enjoyed but a nuisance to be cursed. I sat him down right there on the steps of the centre and ripped his shoes and socks off, stuffing them into my pockets.
"Yes, it's raining," I told him, "Which means we can wear no shoes and splash. You have no idea how good that will feel on your feet. Come on, let's do it."
One dubious look was all I got and then I seized his hand and we ran out into the rain, heading straight for the gutter where the water was rushing, both of us giggling. We kicked the leaves, we jumped and then we just stood there and let the water run over our toes. As we played a father with three small children who had parked behind me came out, hurrying his brood until they saw us and collectively stopped to stare. I froze, not sure what to say while he looked at me blankly and James continued to squeal and splash. Then his oldest curled her hand into his and tugged.
"Can we do that Daddy?" she asked softly and my eyes met his. For a long moment we just looked at each other and then I smiled and shrugged.
"Why not?"
"Why not indeed," he said slowly and then they too were pulling their shoes and socks off and before long we were all splashing and laughing. I left five minutes later when a pair of teenagers walking home from the bus joined in. By the time we got home I'd forgotten anything else that happened to me today.
Now turn the screen off. Put down whatever you're doing. Go dance in the rain.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Time To Step In!
As a parent you have to learn to filter out a lot of the background noises made by your kids or they will drive you mad. If you own more than one child there's almost constant bickering, arguing over the remote and squeals of outrage and pain when things aren't going your way. After a while you get pretty darn good at identifying the exact pitch and frequency that heralds a situation worthy of parental intervention.
Tonight I could hear them scuffling behind me while I was on the computer and James was making a few half-hearted whinges along the lines of "Noooo...nooo...." but they were delivered largely in a whiny, resigned voice so I skipped over them. What got my attention was a very crisp and deliberate, "No piggies!" that was delivered in a tone I can only call "intent to cause grievous bodily harm" and I immediately turned to find that he'd snagged both his sister's feet and was about to deliver a very worthy chomp. The instant he knew I was watching it suddenly became a "see how cute I am cuddling my sister's feet" Kodak moment. Busted.
Tonight I could hear them scuffling behind me while I was on the computer and James was making a few half-hearted whinges along the lines of "Noooo...nooo...." but they were delivered largely in a whiny, resigned voice so I skipped over them. What got my attention was a very crisp and deliberate, "No piggies!" that was delivered in a tone I can only call "intent to cause grievous bodily harm" and I immediately turned to find that he'd snagged both his sister's feet and was about to deliver a very worthy chomp. The instant he knew I was watching it suddenly became a "see how cute I am cuddling my sister's feet" Kodak moment. Busted.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Ten Years Ago Tonight
Ten years and three days ago I got extraordinarily drunk with my housemate Jules and allowed myself to get talked into putting up a personal profile on the Internet. Having been in a fairly interesting relationship until only a month or two prior, I was by no means in a well-adjusted ready-to-date place. Fortunately I had alcohol to straighten that kind of thinking out. Alcohol and pot. Anyway, since that previous relationship had been flavoured with a whole rainbow of dysfunction, my head space had angled itself towards "I'm sick of the bullshit, I just want to have a good time and, by the way, you'd better like me for who I am because there's not a chance I'll be changing for you". I was more sure of what I didn't want than what I did want and my good friends alcohol and pot were there to make sure things went my way.
Something about my own special brand of honesty spoke to the hearts of many, many men because when I woke up the next morning I had emails from 29 of them referring to my awesome profile. A mad scramble revealed my profile in all its glory. In less than 24 hours I had become the most popular profile on the whole site. To my lasting shame the cold light of day revealed that I'd gone for drunken honesty gold. Sample sentences include this; "If you don't like dogs, please don't write to me. I have a dog. She was here first." I quickly took my profile down and then started sheepishly writing to my admirers.
Out of those 29 men the majority of responses I sent were something along the lines of, "I'm sure you're lovely and I apologise for wasting your time and the $6 you paid for my email address, but this was a very drunken mistake." In my defence, the majority of them had sent me emails that went something like this, "you sound like da bom, lets get together and Xplod" or "i wish there were more chicks like you and not so many bitches want to meet for a coffee?" I admit I'd been off the dating scene since...well...since I was about fourteen, but to me, writing to propose a date with someone who may become your partner should involve the use of grammar and punctuation. I know. I'm a snob like that. Try to remember I'd spent a long time with the wrong people trying to make it right. I was done. Grammar and punctuation were part of my new minimum.
Anyways out of the 29 one letter stood out. Just over a page long this guy knew how to sell himself. He told me about himself, his family, his job and his life philosophy. And every time he got a little too over the top he'd poke fun at himself. I wrote to him, he wrote to me and it wasn't long before I was telling him things I hadn't told anybody. I consoled myself with the fact that it was all anonymous. In the background my Dad countered all of my praise of this man with negativity. Samples:
Me: He sounds really mature.
Dad: That's because he's older than me and writing to vulnerable young women to get his jollies. You better not send him any naked photos. Have you sent him naked photos?
Me: He's really sensitive and in touch with his feelings.
Dad: That's because he's a guy preparing himself for transgender realignment and he needs to get in touch with how women really think. You didn't send him any naked photos did you?
Me: I really like him and he says he really likes me.
Dad: That's how serial killers attract prey. DID YOU SEND HIM NAKED PHOTOS?
By the second day it felt like I'd known him months and I sent him my phone number. He called almost immediately and we talked for hours. The day after that he asked me out on a date and I accepted. With two hours until date time I made an emergency appointment with my beautician and had enough hair removed to recreate my own small marsupial. Then I endured my father and brother "helping" me choose an outfit* and learned that apparently there are rules about first dates that I'd never had to be told because I'd never really been single. Samples;
If he gets drunk, you don't see him again.
If he doesn't pay for dinner, you don't see him again.
If he tries to kiss you, you don't see him again.
If he wants to come home with you, you don't see him again.
Oh by the way if you sleep with him on the first date he'll think you're a slut and you won't see him again.
Eventually they were evicted because they were making me too nervous and I drove to the restaurant early so I wouldn't have to deal with them if they came back. I wandered around for a bit around the restaurant and watched as a series of ridiculously overweight men with beards and bellies hanging out the bottom of unwashed T-shirts went into the place I was meant to be meeting him**. Eventually I went in, sat down, and waited.
Finally a tall, dark man in dark clothes with the most enormous beard I'd seen in quite some time came in and was directed to my table. "Closely-cropped" my well-waxed derriere. I remember that he had the kindest, warmest eyes I'd ever seen and his smile was gentle. I'd already decided before I got to the restaurant that if he was half as good as he seemed to be, I was going to nail him to the wall so he couldn't get away. Turns out he was twice as good as he'd said he was and he didn't break any of the unspoken "first-date" rules. He was a keeper.
A fortnight later when he brought me a picnic lunch while I worked on building my pergola I asked him to marry me. A few months later he got down on his knee with a ring and made it official. I found out later that he'd asked my Dad and my brother for my hand in marriage - because he knew by then that Jase's approval was just as important as my Dad's and I would not marry a man they didn't like. They both gave their blessing willingly.
I look back now and I still remember what it felt like to become so intimate so quickly. Charles and I never did slow down - we went quickly from engaged to married to children. It was intoxicating, giddy and the whole time I kept waiting for the bad to come. Any moment now you'll turn into a psycho. I didn't believe it could be so easy. But that's what it's like when you find the person you're meant to be with. You fall into step beside them and discover all the things that make you right for each other long after you've actually made the commitment to be together.
It's ten years to the day since that first night when we met in a restaurant. If you asked me what I've been doing consistently for ten years my first response would not be "loving Charles" it would be something like "um...breathing." It doesn't feel like ten years. It feels like the blink of an eye. *blink* Enormous white dress. *blink* Birthing Charlotte and watching Charles make her breathe. *blink* First house. *blink* Now James. *blink* Second house. *blink* Ten years gone. Are you sure we haven't been together forever because I forget what it was like to ever live without you.
*Wear a skirt. But not a short skirt. We want him to remember you're a woman but we don't want him to think he can have sex with you. Yet. Ever. Whatever.
** He'd said he was a bit overweight with a closely cropped beard.
Something about my own special brand of honesty spoke to the hearts of many, many men because when I woke up the next morning I had emails from 29 of them referring to my awesome profile. A mad scramble revealed my profile in all its glory. In less than 24 hours I had become the most popular profile on the whole site. To my lasting shame the cold light of day revealed that I'd gone for drunken honesty gold. Sample sentences include this; "If you don't like dogs, please don't write to me. I have a dog. She was here first." I quickly took my profile down and then started sheepishly writing to my admirers.
Out of those 29 men the majority of responses I sent were something along the lines of, "I'm sure you're lovely and I apologise for wasting your time and the $6 you paid for my email address, but this was a very drunken mistake." In my defence, the majority of them had sent me emails that went something like this, "you sound like da bom, lets get together and Xplod" or "i wish there were more chicks like you and not so many bitches want to meet for a coffee?" I admit I'd been off the dating scene since...well...since I was about fourteen, but to me, writing to propose a date with someone who may become your partner should involve the use of grammar and punctuation. I know. I'm a snob like that. Try to remember I'd spent a long time with the wrong people trying to make it right. I was done. Grammar and punctuation were part of my new minimum.
Anyways out of the 29 one letter stood out. Just over a page long this guy knew how to sell himself. He told me about himself, his family, his job and his life philosophy. And every time he got a little too over the top he'd poke fun at himself. I wrote to him, he wrote to me and it wasn't long before I was telling him things I hadn't told anybody. I consoled myself with the fact that it was all anonymous. In the background my Dad countered all of my praise of this man with negativity. Samples:
Me: He sounds really mature.
Dad: That's because he's older than me and writing to vulnerable young women to get his jollies. You better not send him any naked photos. Have you sent him naked photos?
Me: He's really sensitive and in touch with his feelings.
Dad: That's because he's a guy preparing himself for transgender realignment and he needs to get in touch with how women really think. You didn't send him any naked photos did you?
Me: I really like him and he says he really likes me.
Dad: That's how serial killers attract prey. DID YOU SEND HIM NAKED PHOTOS?
By the second day it felt like I'd known him months and I sent him my phone number. He called almost immediately and we talked for hours. The day after that he asked me out on a date and I accepted. With two hours until date time I made an emergency appointment with my beautician and had enough hair removed to recreate my own small marsupial. Then I endured my father and brother "helping" me choose an outfit* and learned that apparently there are rules about first dates that I'd never had to be told because I'd never really been single. Samples;
If he gets drunk, you don't see him again.
If he doesn't pay for dinner, you don't see him again.
If he tries to kiss you, you don't see him again.
If he wants to come home with you, you don't see him again.
Oh by the way if you sleep with him on the first date he'll think you're a slut and you won't see him again.
Eventually they were evicted because they were making me too nervous and I drove to the restaurant early so I wouldn't have to deal with them if they came back. I wandered around for a bit around the restaurant and watched as a series of ridiculously overweight men with beards and bellies hanging out the bottom of unwashed T-shirts went into the place I was meant to be meeting him**. Eventually I went in, sat down, and waited.
Finally a tall, dark man in dark clothes with the most enormous beard I'd seen in quite some time came in and was directed to my table. "Closely-cropped" my well-waxed derriere. I remember that he had the kindest, warmest eyes I'd ever seen and his smile was gentle. I'd already decided before I got to the restaurant that if he was half as good as he seemed to be, I was going to nail him to the wall so he couldn't get away. Turns out he was twice as good as he'd said he was and he didn't break any of the unspoken "first-date" rules. He was a keeper.
A fortnight later when he brought me a picnic lunch while I worked on building my pergola I asked him to marry me. A few months later he got down on his knee with a ring and made it official. I found out later that he'd asked my Dad and my brother for my hand in marriage - because he knew by then that Jase's approval was just as important as my Dad's and I would not marry a man they didn't like. They both gave their blessing willingly.
I look back now and I still remember what it felt like to become so intimate so quickly. Charles and I never did slow down - we went quickly from engaged to married to children. It was intoxicating, giddy and the whole time I kept waiting for the bad to come. Any moment now you'll turn into a psycho. I didn't believe it could be so easy. But that's what it's like when you find the person you're meant to be with. You fall into step beside them and discover all the things that make you right for each other long after you've actually made the commitment to be together.
It's ten years to the day since that first night when we met in a restaurant. If you asked me what I've been doing consistently for ten years my first response would not be "loving Charles" it would be something like "um...breathing." It doesn't feel like ten years. It feels like the blink of an eye. *blink* Enormous white dress. *blink* Birthing Charlotte and watching Charles make her breathe. *blink* First house. *blink* Now James. *blink* Second house. *blink* Ten years gone. Are you sure we haven't been together forever because I forget what it was like to ever live without you.
*Wear a skirt. But not a short skirt. We want him to remember you're a woman but we don't want him to think he can have sex with you. Yet. Ever. Whatever.
** He'd said he was a bit overweight with a closely cropped beard.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
I'm Never In Photos
Being the one with the flash camera I'm rarely ever in family photos, I'm always the one taking them. Sometimes that bothers me but usually I'm so busy snapping away I don't even notice. But the lack of photos of me with the kids was brought home to me sharply thanks to James' recent obsession with photos of himself. He loves to sit on my lap and order up "Baby James photo", "James and Charlotte photo", "Daddy James photo", etc. He's quite clearly put out that there are no recent Mama James photos.
Then we went away for a family reunion on the weekend. Once again I was designated photographer and I snapped away while people ate, talked and mingled. As the night wore on my poor little man was getting more and more tired. Eventually he sidled over to me and I thought he was going to ask for bed for sure. But instead he turned his pleading eyes up to me and said, "Pwease? Mama James photo pwease?" How can you resist that? So I quickly set the camera, let him climb onto my lap and then extended my arm and hoped for the best. The result was one of the better self-portraits I've ever taken.
The best part about this photo is the reaction it got from James. On the night he just said a triumphant little YEAH. But at home when I put it on the monitor for him he froze, staring at it and then he turned to me, eyes huge with wonder.
"Mama James photo!"
"Yup, Mama James photo. You like it?"
"YEAH! My like it! My like it!"
And then he did the cutest little happy dance, galloping around in a small circle and giggling with glee. When he stopped and I managed to stop laughing I asked him if he wanted me to get him a copy for his bedroom wall.
"YEAH!" he squealed, "Mah bedroom wall! My like it!"
Being the mother of a small boy is to be a movie star in a world without critics.
Then we went away for a family reunion on the weekend. Once again I was designated photographer and I snapped away while people ate, talked and mingled. As the night wore on my poor little man was getting more and more tired. Eventually he sidled over to me and I thought he was going to ask for bed for sure. But instead he turned his pleading eyes up to me and said, "Pwease? Mama James photo pwease?" How can you resist that? So I quickly set the camera, let him climb onto my lap and then extended my arm and hoped for the best. The result was one of the better self-portraits I've ever taken.
The best part about this photo is the reaction it got from James. On the night he just said a triumphant little YEAH. But at home when I put it on the monitor for him he froze, staring at it and then he turned to me, eyes huge with wonder.
"Mama James photo!"
"Yup, Mama James photo. You like it?"
"YEAH! My like it! My like it!"
And then he did the cutest little happy dance, galloping around in a small circle and giggling with glee. When he stopped and I managed to stop laughing I asked him if he wanted me to get him a copy for his bedroom wall.
"YEAH!" he squealed, "Mah bedroom wall! My like it!"
Being the mother of a small boy is to be a movie star in a world without critics.
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