I read this ... and thought of you

I just read these words by poet Brian Bowers from a piece titled The Pain of Separation and the Love Within on The Good Men Project's website.
I'm putting it out there, as it is truly beautiful:

Indeed we are truly blessed if we find someone who will hold us with meaning. And (hopefully) if we are given the chance to hold them in return, their very existence teaches us to hold ever so gently because life is incredibly fragile.

Don't ever let a chance (to love) go by...

Read the story here: goodmenproject.com/guy-talk/cc-the-pain-of-separation-and-the-love-within/

The notes that linger

I'll have what she's having: An Affair to Remember.

I was reflecting on my looooong single status last night - as you do in the wee hours when you have had too much red wine and have unwisely revisited some favourite romantic comedies - and I came to the conclusion: I am an acquired taste (AT).
This is not a bad thing. Not bad at all.
A few of my female friends are ATs. Each has more than their fair share of quirks, but their beautiful minds have taught them how to play well together.
I guess I am a connoisseur of this kind of friend. They are smart, funny, true and never boring.
Some of these ATs have found the Holy Grail of partners - their ultimate connoisseur who has managed to not only keep up with their rhythm, but has amplified it.
It is a sight to behold.
But these men are not your run-of-the-mill types either. They too march to their own drum.
Two connoisseurs sharing a life. It's the ultimate admiration society.
In my mind, these sorts of partnerships never get old. Appreciation grows and the coupling becomes a classic.
So, like that bottle of strange spirit that remains on the (top) shelf, I'll sit tight and observe the passing parade. It's nice, and I know that when I am curious and bewitched enough to leave the shelf again, it will be for keeps ... or at least long enough to make it interesting.
So, salute!
* For the record, I'm the little bottle of pink champagne liqueur on the left (origin: somewhere beautiful, exotic and very, very cool).

80s fashion: a touchy subject (Part 2)

Working it: Joan owns her Big Hair 

Please, don't make 80s fashion a Never-Ending Story. 
The ozone layer is in enough trouble.
Here's Part 2 of the Don't Touch This (DTT) list.
Man perm/New Romantic mullet combo: John Farnham, Iva Davies and Michael Hutchence  gave the mullet a red hot go for Australia. The rest of the world was represented by most of the men, and some of the women, who took part in Live Aid. Duran Duran was a perm super group, as every member embraced the new wave. 
It was crazy hair for crazy times. But it never needs to be that crazy again. 
Think of the children.
Bleached hair tips (for men): Foil freaks included Howard Jones, Limahl, Don Johnson and Whamsters George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley. Wham's contribution is best appreciated in the Club Tropicana video clip as Ridgeley's hair frosting clashes with Michael's white budgie smugglers (another DTT candidate, by the way).
Enormous hair (for women): There is nothing wrong with big hair. Cyndi Lauper still rocks the big do as does Siouxsie Sioux.  Amy Winehouse's beehive was sublime and Rhianna is keeping the dream alive. 
But if you already have big hair and you think a  perm  is a good idea, think again. 
I didn’t. 
My mid-80s spiral perm looked good for about two weeks ... tops. A male  admirer commented at the time that I looked like Nicole Kidman. That is, Nic in BMX Bandits (1983). I was flattered then; not so much now. If you don’t believe me, have a look at Working Girl (preferably rent it on video ... Beta or VHS) and see if you think Melanie Griffith’s or Joan Cusack’s dos have travelled well.
The 'Lady  Di' hairstyle: If you want to look like the kindly organist at a county church, go for it. But it’s creepy if you are just 17.
Man makeup:  I’m not talking about a hint of guy-liner and a smudge of  mancake.  I’m talking a full face of slap (see Adam Ant, the Cure’s Robert Smith, Boy George, Nick Rhodes and Marilyn – not Manson, just Marilyn. Google him, he’s fancy). Basically, it belongs on a stage. It looks acceptable in a spotlight – or headlights. But if I saw a youngster wearing it in the supermarket I would get out 20cents and wait for him to start his little mime act.
If you decide this is the path for you,  stop wearing it when you reach 30, unless you are a serial killer or a bona fide sad clown.
Alarmingly, the horse has bolted on a few DTT items: Canvas slip-on shoes in jaunty colours for blokes, male skinny jean, and the pastel suit/no shirt combo.

Kids, disregard this advice at your peril.
Go forth and create your own fashion catastrophes.
Choose right, because guilty feet have no rhythm - and that's a really, really bad look.

80s fashion: a touchy subject (Part 1)

The men, the mullets: Mick and Dave.

Loads of stuff in the 80s was, and still is, pretty great. 

But it wasn’t all black and white. It was fluoro, shiny, eye-wateringly bright and a bit hyper-colour.
It’s always fun to borrow from other decades, and today’s kids have been known to turn their hungry eyes to the Greed Is Good decade.

Generation X, and the younger Baby Boomers, have been watching this revival very carefully, mainly because they are concerned you crazy kids might moonwalk into the vortex of stupidity that was ‘80s fashion.

It’s all fun and laughs until someone gets hurt.

Musical maverick MC Hammer boasted at the end of the decade, U Can’t Touch This. He was alluding, I think, to the fact that his clothes – and indeed his moves – were too hot to touch, like molten lava. Unfortunately, the friction caused by his enormous synthetic pants was the only thing raising a sweat. (You can buy MC Hammer “old-school rapper pants” on eBay. Search under “costume” – that’s a hint).

The following items have been filed in the Hammer-esque category “Don’t Touch This”.

That is, they should never be revived, well at least until every person who grew up in the 80s has gone to the big Studio 54 in the sky.

OK,  let’s ‘‘break it down’’.
Garments made of parachute material: Aviation kit, usually pants and jackets,  should be worn only if you are doing a job that has ‘‘Air’’ in the title. 
“Air Guitarist” doesn’t count.
Jumpsuits: Now this is a controversial area, as a few of my younger female friends have admitted to owning new-age jumpsuits. I’m still going to say don’t touch them, especially if they have elasticised waists/backs, and good luck avoiding that camel toe.
The jumpsuit is particularly bad if you are a bloke. 

Any doubts? Check out David Bowie and Mick Jagger in the Dancing in the Streets video. Yes, Jagger’s shirt and pants are  puffy, but his mate is rocking out in a snakeskin jumpsuit. The only thing that saves him is a cream trench coat, and that’s saying something.
He looked more than happy to be wearing the get up, but I’m guessing that had something to do with his love, at the time, of Peruvian marching powder rather than fashion joie de vivre.
So, to sum up, only wear a jumpsuit if you are qualified to work in an enclosed space, a carnival worker or involved in a HAZMAT ‘‘situation’’.

Knickerbockers: They appeared on the Paris catwalk a few years ago but never took off. For one good reason: they look bogus. If you have any doubts, put on a pair – preferably made from velvet or corduroy – and ask someone to take a picture of your arse.

Lady Di fancied them, but she also thought Chris De Burgh was a musical genius.
I know of no man, outside those in New Romantic pop groups, who wore knickerbockers in the 80s.
But, if you are a young male who is convinced that the knickerbocker will revolutionise your wardrobe, enact a 24-hour cooling off period and, in that time, Google pictures of Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, Nik Kershaw and Ultravox in their heyday. They usually paired this pant with a frilly, or “poet” shirt. Bless their little synth-pop hearts.

Any garment with zips and ties that is able to be transformed into a jacket, dress, shorts, skirt, bag and boob tube: I bought one in Bali in the 80s. I got it home and realised it only looked good as a crumpled mess at the bottom of my wardrobe.
Tight acid-wash jeans: These look putrid worn on their own, but it’s a whole different ball game when they’re matched with an acid-wash denim jacket. If you commit to this combo, you also have to commit to a greasy mullet and a criminal record. It’s the law. 

One sequinned glove: Enough said.
White court shoes with  ankle socks, or anything else: They look like the ‘‘dress shoes’’ your great aunt pulls out for  weddings. Always did.
In the next ground-breaking instalment of this fashion report, I will discuss the perils of chemically induced curls and man makeup.

Zen and my shed

I have a girl shed and I’m not afraid to use it.

The little bundle of joy was brought into my world as a heap of panels wrapped in plastic.

A bucketful of rivets later, it had blossomed into a fine figure of a shed. The icing on the cake: it matched the colour of my house perfectly — it’s a girl thing. 

Who would have thought four walls and a roof could enhance not only your backyard, but your life? But, for me at least, it has.

Plenty has been written about blokes who regard their sheds as temples for Secret Men’s Business. In these havens males can tinker, drink home brew, get away from the kids/the “ball and chain” and think about, well, nothing much.

I did a quick stocktake of my female friends and not one of them has a girl shed. So why is it that I have yearned for one since I bought my first house about 15 years ago?

 I guess my love of sheds is genetic, inherited from my father who is a notorious hoarder (he prefers ‘‘collector’’) of all manner of stuff that he swears will one day either come in handy, be needed by a mate or realise $1million at auction. As far as I know, the family of mummified rats he found in the Great Shed Clean-Up of 1998 haven’t attracted the attention of Christie’s yet, but the old man lives in hope. He’s marketing them under ‘‘antiquities’’.

Besides my dad’s pride and joy, the sheds I knew and loved as a child were inhabited by my granddads and uncles. These man caves had a few things in common: the smell of grease, a damaged roller blind on the window, a bench displaying the ‘‘work in progress’’ (usually a car part), a bottle or can collection and a dodgy transistor radio that seemed to only pick up Dad Rock AM.

As a happy little single, I have no need to escape anyone in the big house, but a certain peace descends upon me when I enter the girl shed. Maybe it comes from a sense of purpose.  If I’m standing at my shed’s threshold I have work to do, tools to collect, stuff to find, world domination to plan.

At one stage, my parents owned a hardware store and I happily worked there at weekends. It was here I learned that hardware knowledge was power. I  made it my business to acquaint myself with screw threads, gauges and the intricacies of plumbing paraphernalia after a few tradies sniggered at when I nervously asked if they needed help with screws. Like a scene from Carry On Hardware, my response was to yell out across a crowded shop to my father:  ‘‘Jimbo, these confused blokes need help finding a screw’’. 

 I have no mummified rodents in my girl shed, but I do have an impressive collection of jars filled with screws, nails, nuts, bolts, wall plugs and other top stuff. They are lined up like weird museum specimens and elicit the appropriate level of interest/awe from male shed visitors. Some even pick up the jars for a closer look, turning them carefully before eventually nodding knowingly and restoring them, reverentially, to their spot.
Female visitors are mostly impressed by my collection of hooks on which hang power cords and ropes. The hooks are sturdy enough, but not exactly industrial grade as they are decorated with flowers. Consequently, they lose a bit of cred with traditional ‘Sheddies’.

I’m most proud of three galvanised shelves. They belonged to a former boyfriend who forgot to take them when we parted. They fit one wall perfectly.  I guess the shelves, unlike the ex, were always meant to be mine. That said, every time I look at them I mentally give my old mate the two-fingered salute.

As I was sorting through my hardware in the former ‘‘shed’’ — an old cupboard under the house – I discovered about six Allen keys. I’m going to come clean and admit I have no idea what they are used for, despite my extensive hardware store experience.

Regardless, these shiny specimens have their own jar as the penny might drop some day and I’ll start Allen key-ing all those things that need Allen key-ing. I could ask someone, or Google it, but that would spoil the mystery. 
Yes, my girl shed is almost complete. The only things missing are my gratuitous Hottest Tradies and Sizzling Firemen calendars.

I don’t care if they are a few years out of date, it will give the shed the right vibe ... 

It’s a girl thing.
  

Panic in the suburban wilderness

It makes me wild when suburbanites are confronted and angered when they have an "uncomfortable" encounter with native wildlife. 
A few weeks ago, in my neck of the wild woods, a fired-up kangaroo lashed out at a teenager in a suburb built near bush. Sure, it's horrible for the teen who was hurt, but maybe if we stop appropriating huge amounts of the roos' home (aka 'vacant' bush) for inefficient housing estates, we could all live in harmony. 
Bats, possums, roos, snakes, spiders and wombats need somewhere to live, eat and thrive. 
Take it away, and they'll plonk their furry, scaly arses in your suburban backyard.

Dump the cliche

Women can be their own worst enemies.
Why do celebrity types, after being dumped by their husbands or boyfriends, wait a year and then come out with "I Learned To Love Myself After [enter dumpster's name] Left Me" media blitz?
Usually these women have lost quite a few kilos, have accepted that their dumpster is now dating - or has married - someone who's 100 years younger than him, and are getting all giggly about the prospect of returning to the "dating game".
Just do it OK? Shut up about it.
These stories are not inspirational, well not to me at least. They are based on a cliche that's trotted out all the time in magazines and the "chattier" (see "white noise") sections of newspapers and the TV news.
You rarely, if ever, see dumped celeb men paraded in this way. Apparently they are allowed to get fatter, or skinnier, go silly with their mates and generally carry on with getting over being rejected without the nation judging them. Then, in time, maybe our hero will meet someone, maybe he won't. Amazing.
All this goes on without lame stories about these poor dumped blokes undergoing extreme manscaping to make themselves more attractive to the ladies, starving themselves or wondering aloud if anyone will ever love them again because, after all, they aren't that young anymore.
Maybe these dumped men have been approached to tell their story, but said no.
There's an idea. Just say "NO". A single word with so much power.
Yes, being dumped is horrible and can tear massive holes in your self worth, but this crap hurts women more.
Ladies, it's time to dump this cliche.
C'mon, I'm sure you always suspected it was a stupid, boring, good-for-nothing presence in your otherwise fabulous existence.

Face it, it's a minefield

I don't think I am alone when I say Facebook drives me nuts.
It messes with my mind, makes me laugh,  makes me cry, makes me sentimental, grumpy, nauseous, bored, mystified and confused.  And, on the odd occasion, I can experience all these feelings at the same time.
Facebook can do that.
With just a tiny tweak of the scroll bar, you can be engaged by an insightful comment, snorting with laughter over a friend's drunken selfie or stupid joke, chuffed about how deliriously happy a girlfriend looks on her wedding day, gutted by news of someone's passing, enamoured by the first photos of mate's baby, shocked by a news grab about another atrocity in the world or mystified by a post that can be described only as social road kill: you want to look away, but it is so compellingly bad that you just have to give it a closer look and maybe a sly prod to see if it really is that stinking awful.
It reminds me of the TV, except you know the stars of these shows (or at least know them through another friend who went to primary school with a bloke who remembers your brother who beat him up in the playground for stalking you at play lunch — true story).
And, just like the Idiot Box, you could always just switch it off. But only the strongest among us can turn away from the passing parade and never look back.
I have ditched Facebook a few times, only to be happily reconciled a week later.
I stood strong until someone mentioned that I was missing a bit of niggle between two acquaintances and, like a cork on the tide, I was inevitably drawn back.
I was talking to a friend today about starting a Facebook court where you could ban 'friends' for a certain number of days over various indiscretions. Each person would have to make up their own rules as tolerance levels of "sharing" vary — just like pain.
 For example, some might genuinely be interested in what you are preparing for lunch or dinner (usually with a pic). Others would find a soggy tea towel more engaging.
Here is my list of indiscretions that will attract a ban (one to 10 days, depending on severity and frequency)
Posting what you are having for dinner: just to clarify, if it is a saveloy with a few peas, or any variation on the three-veg-and-meat theme, you are banned for a few days. If it is from McDonald's or any of his mates, same penalty. If it is a photo of the only sausage left after you accidently set the kitchen on fire, that's OK. If it is a lump of chilli con carne that looks like Elvis, that's freaking unreal.
Posting a pic of your child doing nothing: c'mon they have to be doing something mildly interesting, or at least wearing a silly outfit or a bucket on their head. Not just, sitting/standing/staring at nothing in the backyard. Interest factor: nil for anyone not known as "nan" or "pop". This rule does not apply to photos of anyone's dog, as dogs are always interesting — especially mine — remind me to post the latest photos of them sleeping and chewing on their toys, awwww.
Posting that you are feeling sick: everyone knows you are hoping the boss will read it, making your 'severe gastro bug' seem less bogus.
Couples over-sharing details of mini-breaks: call me crazy, call me envious, call me heartless, but I don't care if you and cutie-pie went to a seaside B&B and ate lobster and drank spumante on your private deck. Actually, the only people who might be interested would be Facebook stalkers who take an unnatural interest in their ex-partners' activities.  If you post a photo of anything to do with you and your latest squeeze in a hot tub, you are banned for life.
But, I have a few loopholes: if any of the pictures are of you and Daniel Craig or George Clooney on a mini-break in Paris/Rome/Lake Como, please share them with me because you are a legend ... and I wouldn't mind to see the odd shot of them (just them, mind you) in the aforementioned 'banned' hot-tub.
I will throw out this rule completely if Mr Craig surprises ME with a trip to New York. In which case, all 1,000,000 of my devoted Facebook friends will be flooded with details and photos, as they will be THAT fascinating.
I'm sure there are more indiscretions, but I have the attention span of a budgie these days owing to my whirlwind life on the social network.
It's such a random place where everyone is clamouring to be seen and heard ... but I guess that's just life.

Op-shop OMG

Question: What's creepier than a clown?
Answer: A clown with a yo-yo.
Freaking out the kids has never been cheaper ... this joker is just $4 from my local op-shop (aka thrift shop).
I'm pretty sure it's from the Wayne Gacy Kids Collection.

More hearts than you can poke a cattle prod at

I've just returned from outback South Australia where I was taking part in a documentary about women from different walks of life learning to become jillaroos.
 I won't go into the details of my brush with the world of film-making and farm work just yet, as I am still a little shell-shocked and trying to process all the sights/sounds and experiences of what turned out to be a mammoth month — mentally and physically.
Watch this space ...
But, I am happy to report that I won a few hearts.
Three to be exact: I was given two stone hearts retrieved from the red dirt (one is included above, the other is so tiny that it would not have shown up in a photo) and a rustic tin heart with my initial on it.
 I bought the fancy red one myself, so that doesn't count.
These random hearts were given to me by people who barely knew me. But their timing, in each instance, was impeccable.
As if on cue, these sweet little symbols turned up just when I needed to show some ticker.
How heartening.

Love set in stone

On a recent camping trip to the country, I made it my mission to find a little rock shaped liked a heart.
 I got the idea from one of my favourite blogs, Farmgirl Fare. Farmgirl Susan owns a remote farm in Missouri and documents the daily happenings involving the animals and work on her property. She also is a passionate cook and shares some really great recipes. While working around the property she keeps an eye out for heart-shaped rocks.
 I have been searching for my own version for months.
I must confess I didn't find this little beauty above, a junior member of the family did.
She spotted it near our campsite after I had left for home.
It found its way to me today.
 Thanks little one,  I'll keep it forever.
 It seems a good heart is hard, but not impossible, to find.

This time it's personal

 I have been wanting to read these two books for a while and I got the chance over Christmas. I read Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat Pray Love" first, then Judith Lucy's "Drink Smoke Pass Out".
I felt as if I was the only person in the world who hadn't read "Eat Pray Love", what with all the hoo-ha about its phenomenal success. Actually, I suspect a large proportion of Gilbert's critics on the net have barely managed to read the cover of her book.
Anything that is a success these days attracts swift criticism — positive and negative.
 Opinions on any subject imaginable are dumped on the internet every second. It's like unprocessed landfill. If you want to wade through it you have to hold your nose, trawl through the rubbish and not be afraid to discard or pick up things that catch your eye.
Books, like music, attract such ardent lovers and haters.
It's personal, you see — like these two books.
And this is my opinion: I loved both of them.
Here are two people, and they just happen to be women, who are describing what it is like to embark on a spiritual journey. A lot of people are quick to deride and dismiss anything that is called a "journey", but that is exactly what it is. It's a good word and an accurate description of what it feels like when you are exploring the great unknown that's both inside and beyond you.
Some have no interest in going down that path, some do. Get over it.
It's personal.
Critics can bang on all they like about what they consider to be privileged women embarking on a "self-indulgent trip of self-discovery". The knives really come out when these authors happen to make money out of it. There's nothing like money to get the haters bent out of shape.
Spiritual journeys are universal and come in many forms. It doesn't matter if you live in the "first world" (whatever that is) or the second, third or fourth world. If you are on that trip, you're on it. You don't need a passport, don't need money ... you already hold the ticket.
I've been travelling a spiritual path for years. I've probably been on it all my life. It's just something I do. I don't discuss it unless someone asks me about it, or if I am talking with someone who is going through a similar experience.
It's funny when certain people try to analyse or "understand" what you are doing (like that kooky chakra balancing, crazy kinesiology or meditation ... all clearly the work of snake-oil salesmen).
It seems as if they need you to justify why you are doing it.
I tell them to not concern themselves with my business and that it's just "The Vibe" (wise words from Guru Dennis Denuto).
I'm off to Keep Calm and Carry On.
Peace and love.

Indiana Jones never wore lycra

Here's a job option: archaeology.
But, besides years of study, it seems there is a new "fitness" component.
Actually, I might just stick to marathon running.

*Random magazine courtesy of my favourite op-shop

Life: streaming now in real-time

I spent New Year's Day up the creek.
 It was an odd choice considering I ended 2012 up Unemployment Creek without a paddle.
As I cooled my heels in Craven Creek, at the foot of Barrington Tops NSW, I realised paddles were over-rated.
 I was content to sit and watch the driftwood, leaves, berries and flowers flow by to who knows where.
The butterflies still led a merry dance, a bossy male fairy wren kept his harem in check on the bank opposite, the flies carried on as usual and a few crimson rosellas dropped in for a drink and a chat.
But my feet, the same ones that brought me here, were still ... as were my heart and head.
It's almost time to get going. I'm ready to explore what's around the bend.
But this time I'll have a spring in my step.

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.