Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

I woke this morning to find it had snowed ... Australian-style.
My front yard is carpeted in fragrant white flowers dropped by a murraya tree.
The timing couldn't be better:  Christmas Eve.
What a beautiful gift.
Thank-you Mother Nature. Merry Christmas to you, too.

Away in a retail manger

A funny thing happened while I was in a cubicle of a shopping mall toilet the other day: I heard a rooster crow.
Please, just stay with me.
I dare say stranger things have happened in a shopping centre loo, but this was in   "Am I Going Crazy in the Coconut?" territory.
The rooster continued calling ... three times.
No-one else was at the wash basin, so I couldn't check if I was the only one tuned to Cock-a-Doodle-Doo Radio.
I gravitated towards the sound like a sailor to a siren.
I pushed through the kiddies in Santa's photo-op line to find a pen full of cute little cuddlies from a local farm. I patted the assorted exotic chooks, lambs and goats with equal parts relief and affection.
I then entered the mother of all barnyards: the department store.
In my corner of the world (suburban Australia) the pre-Christmas cocktail is a heady mix of humidity, short tempers and unreasonable expectations.
That day, I had a bee in my bonnet and it was getting on my goat.
  "You're too young to be a grumpy old woman," I reminded myself  as  I entered Barnyard Bargains. Hens and chickens were scratching around the shelves as far as the eye could see. Roosters patrolled the perimeter, occasionally marshalling a stray chick or strutting off to the barbecue section.
I joined the rabble, but soon realised I was not in Kansas anymore (hang on, maybe I was ... I believe there are one or two barns in Kansas) as the hens started exploding around me in synchronised screeching at their chicks. Littlies were brought into line with a sharp peck or wing clip.
Mercifully I managed to pluck out what I needed without significant blood loss.
I couldn't hear a rooster crowing anymore, but I sure as merry hell could hear Michael Buble.
Now I've nothing against the Buble boy, but I have a conspiracy theory that a retailers' rule book exists, and it includes the chapter Holiday Playlists to Make the Punters Spend Like Drunken Sailors. I bet it goes something like this: Father's Day (Cranky Frankie,  Creedence or Cold Chisel); Mother's Day (that nice Michael Crawford or Susan Boyle); Easter (who cares? Just make it bouncy); Australia Day (John Williamson) and Christmas (the vocal stylings of Buble, followed closely by Mariah).
I scurried to the checkout and joined the queue, just like a sheep set for dipping.
But relief at reaching the end of the line was short-lived when I was released from the pen not drenched, but fleeced.
How much? Holy cow!
The bee in my bonnet had suddenly taken a holiday. But I could hear something else: Gobble, gobble, gobble.
Who stuffed that turkey in my bonnet?

The secret of my success

Owing to redundancy, I have become a 40-something looking for work. Anyone who is searching for a job accepts that rejection letters are part of the process. But it starts to grate when these dry little missives clog your inbox.  It hurts most when you are knocked back for jobs you know you could do standing on your ear.

Anyway, I can’t stomach another email that begins “Dear Miss Deb, thankyou for applying for the position of blah blah, but you have been unsuccessful.”

I think I might reply. Here’s my letter:

Dear Brick Wall,

Thankyou for at least acknowledging my application. I appreciate it.

But, I want to set one thing straight: I am not “unsuccessful”.

I have been, and continue to be, very successful. 

I did not include the following achievements in my resume because I am not into banging on about things that I just accept as being part of the crazy-beautiful dance called life.  But, I’m going to mention them here because they deserve to be acknowledged — especially by me.

First, and most importantly, I have successfully made it into my 40s without losing my sense of humour. I managed to laugh even when I was paralysed and battling a life-threatening illness in my 20s. It took a while, but I successfully got through it to emerge physically and emotionally stronger. It was one of the best things to happen to me as it made me realise just how resilient, and fragile, we humans are.

Over the years, I have successfully maintained supportive, loving relationships with not only my family, but a dear circle of friends who I would take a bullet for. That bond extends to their children, who have taken me to their hearts – as I have them.

I successfully found the courage to leave a secure job to travel, both by myself and with others, to many parts of the world.

Every time I came home from my adventures, I picked up a job in my profession. That was because I had successfully built a reputation as, dare I say, a talented employee.

I have successfully kept my wide-eyed wonder of the world, especially of nature, and animals still amaze me with the lessons they teach.

I have dragged my arse back to the gym and successfully whipped my body and sorry attitude back into shape. 

Buying a couple of houses was a financial success. Renovating them on a tight budget was another triumph.

I have successfully survived quite a few relationships. One of my more impressive skills was regaining my nerve and sense of worth when various men told me I was either too fat, too skinny, too smart, not smart enough, too nice, too harsh, too loud, too quiet, too opinionated, too flippant, too independent, too reliant and, yes, too successful.  

For some reason, I successfully refrained from pointing out to these men – while showing them the door – that they had paunches, limited social skills, inferiority complexes and a penchant for hiding behind sad-arse excuses.

I successfully managed to not go postal when, for the 10000^th time, I was asked why ‘a pretty little thing' like myself had not ‘settled down’ or ‘found someone’. I successfully replied to one smug (married)  inquisitor: “I'd rather drink drain cleaner than settle for someone like you”. 

But that, of course, was considered very rude. Apparently I was being disrespectful. Fancy that?!

Now, I am trying to re-invent myself. 

Actually, no, I don’t need re-inventing. 

The original version is just fine.

So, Brick Wall, if you have successfully managed to read this far, congratulations.

Yours successfully,

Miss Deb.

On the other side of the turnstile

What becomes of the broken-hearted?
There is probably one standing next to you at the check-out, sitting in the car behind you at the lights, laughing with you over coffee or sleeping beside you.
As far as the wounds of life go, a shattered heart is the pits. Achingly, despairingly bad.
Getting over it is like being forced to ride a dodgy roller-coaster. Just when you think the lurching is over, the momentum builds to take another sickening bend.
Worried loved ones on the ground can only watch, willing you to keep your nerve.
Once you finally get off the hellish ride, and slap down the good-for-nothing clown who bought you the ticket in the first place, you rush for the exit.
What a relief to find the gate still open.
The turnstile of life has let you out.
Wandering home with your heart in your hands you vow to never return to that fun fair. It was neither fun nor fair.
In a few days you might have a closer look at your heart. Still beating? Check; Happy to be home? Check; Stopped bleeding? Check ... but there are a few scars; Fierce? Hell yeah!
It's the same dear heart, but different.
Some decide to wear their heart on their sleeve. Others put it back where it belongs – close ... maybe closer than it ever was. That way they'll hear when it whispers what it has learnt.
Its wisdom will be your beautiful secret.
Then, one fine day, you'll realise the ghost train of your past love has left the station.
But you'll pay the thought little mind.
You'll be in a place far, far away ... your own tunnel of love.

Her name is mud

10.30am: Wash pups Daisy and Poppy.
10.45am: Clean pair released into the sun to dry.
10.46am: One still fresh as a Daisy.
10.47am: The other found giving herself a victorious "paws up" after dirt bath under the house.
Dirty play = clean win ... in Poppy's world.

Hello happiness

Look who I found outside my gate waiting patiently to come in.
I don't know how he got here. It doesn't really matter. He is here.
Hopefully he will stay awhile.
Happiness is here, I just had to open the gate.

It started with some bliss

 

So how did this merry dance begin? I simply looked up. My dance card was full this sunny day with all manner of familiar steps. First step: park car. Second: coffee. Third shopping. No twirls, no twists.
Then, in one unexpected move, my focus shifted from the grey concrete car park to this. It took my breath away ... still does. An eruption of beauty. Its loveliness could never be contained.
"Take note Petal, the season's turned. Time is ripe," these beauties said.
These little  pink show offs really knew how to turn a girl's head.
Promise - may it bloom and grow forever.