You know those days when you have so much going on that everything is all organised and planned down to the moment? You have not a list, but a run sheet of how the day will go.  Replete with times.  And items to tick off as you go.  So it’s satisfying as well as frenetic.

I have that day today.

Take the kids to school, chat with other Mums in case there’s stuff you’ve missed (there always is), go to post Office to post the Mother’s Day things, get some staples from Coles, go to BigW to get stockings for the kid because Queensland Winter has arrived, take the cat to the vet to have her frigging eye checked AGAIN, pay the bills, get the swimming stuff ready for after school, do two loads of washing, do a basic tidy of the house in case aliens arrive and assume all humans live in squalor, go to the solicitor to chat about the contract for the book deal you may have coming up, book the car in for a service, see if you can fix the moody printer that is stuffed (again), make some patient phone calls…

Hang on.  Wait.  What?

A book deal?

Yes, that’s right, maybe, just maybe, that might soon be a thing.

So I’m stopping EVERYTHING.

I have found a cosy cafe, with a spare spot in the window, where us writerly types can sit and watch the world go it’s way… I can look, wistfully out, whilst I muse about.. my musings.  The sun has come out.  It’s Queensland Winter and I am sitting here in a t-shirt, about to slam a capp and a benny, the warm of the sun touching my arms and making my skin tingle as I feel the Vitamin D metabolising, the warm of my very insides bursting out to a smile that I can hardly contain.   I am cradling a contract in my arms as if is my firstborn.  I have a book contract.  Unsigned and incomplete at this stage, but still, a starting point.  So I am hitting the stop button on this day of lists, and for a short while I am going to smell these roses coffees, and imagine that a secret secret that I’ve always held quietly in the deep convolutions of my intestines, mightcouldmaybe happen.

It might never amount to anything, but for today I am gonna play the imagination game that I’m so good at, and pretend that it will.

‘Cos Mark Twain reckons sometimes ‘Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.’  And that sounds all right to me.

What is your secret secret? (You don’t have to show, but I did show you mine…)

How good is a good list?

…From The Ashers xx

Sunday nights in 1991 were something special.  They were the night when I returned back to the freedom and frivolity of uni life after spending the weekend at the place I still called home, where I’d been catching up with the friends from my childhood and earning my drinking and petrol money for the week.  I would unpack all of the frozen and packaged food, that I’d foraged from my parent’s pantry; hearty stews, pasta sauces and cartons of eggs, and load up my bar fridge for the week.  I would unpack my freshly laundered clothes, (somehow they always managed to get back into my bag stain-free and ironed with precision), and give my time-table for Monday a quick once-over to make sure I was up to date and ready, for the day ahead.

All of this was done with a sense of urgency and delicious anticipation, for Sunday nights on 4 West at Menzies College were the best night of the week.  Forget Uni night, Bar night or even Wednesday nights at Chasers.  Sunday night was Simpsons night.

We used to rotate rooms, and the screening would be held in whoever’s room had the home brew in it.  That was the other reason Sunday nights were sacrosanct, they were Home Brew Night.  Someone, sometime had procured a beer still, the original owners had long since graduated (or not) and the skanky, yeasty thing was now owned by the collective.  The brewing instructions were written on the side in texta, and when it was your turn to have the thing in your room, bubbling and stinking up your clothes for the fortnight or so, you were the host of Sunday nights.

As many of us that were back from our expeditions to the real world would crowd into the host room, and if there was any brew left from last time, we would partake of a sensible and responsible amount, to lubricate the evening.  If a new brew was hatched, then we would do just the opposite.

Back then The Simpsons were hilarious.  They were edgy and almost risqué and captured the gestalt.  We thought the makers were funny and clever, and by being in with the joke (unlike the purveyors of our weekday food and washing) we were also funny and clever.  And of course if there was brew to be imbibed, were were funnier and cleverer.

I haven’t watched The Simpsons in a while, probably because I am too old and cynical to think the jokes are still funny.  Or maybe I’m scared that I won’t even get the joke.  Whilst I was watching some middle class middle aged tv just then, I saw an ad that said The Simpsons has been running for 25 years.  WHAT?  Twenty.Bloody.Five.  That is an awful lot of writing lines on the blackboard for Bart.  A lot of ‘hmmmm’s from Marge.  A helluva lot of ‘DOH’s for Homer.   I’ve never done, or had anything in my life for that long.  Oh, except a pair of Doc Martens, but they would survive the nuclear winter, so I guess they don’t really count.

So Cheers to the creators of The Simpsons.  Happy quarter of a century.  Thanks for all the laughs.

Here is one of the original cells, that captures one of my fave Simpsons moments.  Any time I look at it and hear Homer in my mind’s ear saying “Argh, Shark Boy!” I laugh.  Still.  I think that is a sign of funny and clever if there ever was one.

Oh, and thanks a LOT Simpsons for making me feel old… And yet somehow young again.

Do you have a fave Simpsons Ep?

Who is your fave character?  (Mine is Ralph.)

…From The Ashers xxx

Last night was the coldest night ever invented.  Or something.  Which meant there must have been no clouds.  And around these parts that means one thing: beach day.  So we let these two Evil Geniuses prolong our mini-break (more about that later this week), and have a wellness day.  Some people just call it wagging of course.

We went to Asher Cove.  It is called Asher Cove because I named it, and then wrote this sign, so yeah.  Naming rights.

Asher Cove is “quite pretty”, so I took a pic to show you:

One day when I can be bothered I’m going to do that thing where you buy land in Scotland, and then you can call yourself Lady or Lord, by legally changing your name.  When I do, this cove will be my Kingdom (Ladydom?  Clearly there will be some brushing up on my lax terminology prior to this).

But I digress.

The Geniuses found a long flat rock that they decided was their investigation bench, and went about finding “interesting and investigatable things to investigate”.  So, as we are being a little loose with our terminology here, I suppose that is just what they did.  The “interesting things” were mainly shells, a feather or two and a tiny polystyrene ball.  The “investigating” involved them lining them up on the rock bench.  Best of all was when they found this “fossil”.  Liam was quite excited, and thought he might sell it to a museum for “heaps of money, maybe millions, enough to get a GoPro anyway.”

Check it out here, for free, while you still can:

The Fossil

So, yeah, clearly a fossil.  It became something quite precious to these intrepid investigators.  Coco did this “diagram” of what the organism would have looked like prior to it being fossilised:

Scientific fossil diagram

Clearly we have two future palaeontologists or scientists growing up in our home, such is their discerning and superior skill in rigorous methodology.  Especially useful is their ability to extrapolate simple findings to create complex ideas.  I’m sure you can tell by now I didn’t use the word “genius” flippantly before.  (I began to doubt the wisdom of us letting them have a day off from actual learning, as clearly they need every bit they can get.)

By and by, they had enough of their endeavours, had a fight over the fossil, lost it in the sand, and had to be separated before anyone got punched in the guts or nuts.  I know what you’re thinking: Parenting Geniuses.  And yes, I use the term loosely.

Don’t worry, it’s school tomorrow.

How was your day?  Cold?

Are you too raising Geniuses?

…From The Ashers xx

Once upon a time, a feisty little lady with eyes of blue stained glass who loved trees and mountains, strong filtered coffee and wild, sweet blackberry jam and crisp air, gave me some tea.  The tea was from the mountains she loved the most.  She gave me the tea at a time in her life when her days were drawing shorter and her vision was becoming tunnelled and she was getting fuzzy around the edges.

She gave me the tea because I loved her son, and I guess she thought I always would.  But one day we didn’t love each other so much any more, so I left and I took the tea with me.  I guess it was mine to take.

I moved to Sydney then back to Melbourne, then all over the country, crissing and crossing, and finally up to Queensland, and the tea came with me.  It is a tea that likes travel.

I only drink it once a year, and so I can’t tell if the flavour has changed much.  I don’t know if tea goes stale, I assume it does.  It doesn’t taste stale, but seems different all the same.  Or perhaps it’s me whose tastes have changed as the years flip over and then over again.  The tea seems more mellow, more relaxing, less sharp.  Or perhaps that’s just me.  They say that you can read tea leaves to find out your destiny.  Perhaps your tea can read you too.

It takes a while for the cool of the seasons to set in, up here, from where I perch.  There is no real Autumn, for no trees lose their leaves, but around Easter-time there is a dampness in the mornings and a nibble of cold in the evenings, and you can get the sense that further South it has started to change.  The nights draw in a little, and so I get out the Himalayan tea.

My Himalayan tea has fancy aspirations so I brew it in my Nanna stuff.  A Royal Doulton teapot, and a fine cup and saucer beside it.  Sometimes I use the matching set, and other times I use one of the cups salvaged from one of my Nanna’s homes.  Jean or Marjorie, the ladies I knew well, or perhaps Kathleen, a fine old girl whose mind had gone away before I came on the scene. I also have one from Lesley, that little lead-footed dynamo who is still going strong, and sharp as a tack with her emails and iPads.

The noise of the tea cup on the saucer takes me back to slow days of scones and tea cosies and crocheting and cards.

The whispery tinkle of the tea pouring takes me to a place of warmth and comfort and safety and love.

Today I can feel a tickle or two of cool in the breeze as it ruffles the hairs on my arms and tries to tease them to attention.  Looking down from my writing eyrie I can see a slight change to the blue of the sea, it is moving to grey tones, just like those startling blue eyes did when they started to fade.

Today I will choose a teapot, new.  A gift from a stranger, with a heart as colourful as it’s knitted jacket, and I will sip my tea, grown from a mountain soil that I will never visit.  I will imagine the prayer flags that were laid down with me in mind, and I will wish things to be different.  I will wish that all of these beautiful tea-loving women still walked these living paths.  That they were still here, making fresh brews and fresher stories, rather than these tales in my mind.

…From The Ashers xx

I’m off to the Melbourne Comedy Festival Roadshow at The J tonight, so chances are I will be testing out the patency of my Menopausal pelvic floor, and attempting not to urinate with mirth on those around me, at the time that I would usually be tucked up with a cuppa and reflecting on my hits of the week for you.

So here they are, contrived a little early, during a week that was shortened due to: VET VISITS.  Did I mention I drove to BRISBANE (yes, I left The Shire) to go to the PET OPHTHALMOLOGIST?

HITS PEOPLE:

1.  Woofa Butterball Popsicle Asher the cat, may be blind in one eye (bummer for her) but doesn’t need an operation with the teeny tiny instruments flown in from El Salvador.  That puts me one up on good old George here.

2.  The following is a snarky tweet (I know, sarcastic, who me?) I sent to the Twittersphere during the #MKR final, that was then favourited by TW Week.  It made me laugh.  Apparently they didn’t read my previous tweets.

It’s my second favourite claim to Twitter fame.  The best was when I tweeted Rodney Eade when he was on AFL 360, that Bob Murphy needed a haircut, and Robbo read it out and they all laughed.  It should be noted that Bob has since had a lovely neat haircut, so, who knows how one small thing we think or say today can affect the lives of, well, one person, tomorrow?

3.  And whilst I’m on the Twitter thing, there is a man I follow over there who I follow so I can keep an eye on what he is up to, not because I like what he says.  He is extremely vehement on all manner of things, and of course, he is entitled to his opinion on how the world should be, that is his right.  He can also run his Twitter and FB however he likes.  What I don’t like is some of the horrible things he says about people I know and love.   People just doing their best in their daily lives, trying to help those who come and see them for assistance.  It gets me cross.  To soothe myself,  I like to imagine that he is coming from a place of concern for others and maybe even working for what he truly believes is the greater good.  Or maybe he is just a weasel.  IDK.

Anyway, this week he got blocked by Ricky Gervais (after Ricky warning Twitter he was going on a “blocking spree’ and blocking any negative comments).  Call me a nasty pastie, but I was a bit gleeful when I read the fallout from a blocked bully:

Oh yeah, tell the man how to run his own FB

Look at him seething (Ricky can’t even see these tweets, mind you)

4.  And on balance, to restore the nice glow of the interconnectedness of all of us, there was this lovely post on Instagram by gorgeous Smilechickie.  I love Mark Twain. ( And he doesn’t even mention Twitter… Go figure.)

5.  I’ve kept the best and possibly, maybe, dare I even say it out loud, most exciting thing until last.  Feast your eyes on this:

It’s only early days, and maybe Steve and Emma are just toying with me and my “tortured artist” sensibilities, but hey, it’s fun to think that this may one day be a thing.  And perhaps one day soon you’ll all be carrying a little part of From The Ashers around with you on your idevices or whatever it is you youngies read things on these days…  Who knows?

Aside:  I just wanted you all to know that I am of sound mind, and I am happy.  I know I post a lot of dreary stuff about people who have died and who I miss like sunshine, but please know that I am okay.  This little space that I have claimed as my part of the internet is for my musings and ramblings and yes, sometimes outpourings.  Part of me writing about the things that fire up my neurones is to bring my emotions into sharp focus so I can examine them properly and clearly.  Even to dissect them at times.  Also, I like writing about things and people that matter to me, so that they too will share this internet cubbyhole with me.  I like them sitting by my side, as my fingers fly across the keys, making the only kind of taptaptapping music I know how to create.  Thanks to all of you who have expressed concern, but I am okay.  I just have a lot of feels sometimes, is all.   As Hayls would say, Big Love xx

…From The Ashers xx

Me, showing off Infinite Possibilities late in the evening..

I first met Ali when she was young, and blonde, and back on our soils with a hybrid American-Australian accent.  She was a tiny little poppet of sunshine and giggles and I thought her gorgeous, and funny when she stamped her foot when I called her Alison. “My name is Ali!” she said as I laughed and told her that Alison wasn’t that bad, thinking she would grow into the name like I did.

The next time I met Ali she was rebellious and blonde, and back on our soils with a hybrid English-Australian accent.  She was a ray of light and fun and she made me laugh, with her ripped, oversized jeans and bare feet.  I thought it was funny when she stamped her foot when I said she would probably be a great Chiropractor one day.  “I will NEVER be a chiro!” she said as I laughed and told her that it wasn’t that bad, and she would grow into the life like I did.

The next thing I knew, years had gone by and little Ali did all sorts of study and travel and stuff and somehow without me noticing, had gone from being my babysitter, to a grown up woman with a degree, and a shiny new office in a new country, and a fiancé.

I don’t know how or when it all happened, because I know she was only just looking after our kids a minute ago whilst we went out to Sabai Sabai for tea, but here she was in front of me, all grown up and with a ring on her finger.  Some events just jump in your face and force you to feel old, and this was one of them.

I was excited to trot down to the home of her parents and see who she had chosen to hold her hand and her heart, in this next part of the adventures.  This time when I saw Ali she was poised and beautiful without even a hint of a hybrid New Zealand-Australian accent.  We sat on the couch, and chatted about all of the things under the sky and she made me smile with her stories and insights, and this time I didn’t laugh at her at all.  I just sat with her and reflected on what a rare privilege it is to see someone grow into their skin, and become somehow more of themselves.  To observe the changes and the letting-go that happens as we become our true selves.  I listened to the man she has chosen to be the one she lets see all of her, both her fragility and her core of stubborn strength.  I watched him, watching her, and my heart smiled as I knew she has chosen well.

For she is still Ali.  Never Alison.  I suspect that she will still stamp her foot on occasion, but I love seeing that she will also listen carefully and consider deeply before rushing off to catch the next Piscean rainbow she sees.  She came from a home of Infinite Possibilites, which she has gracefully managed to distill down to the ones that speak to her best self most of all.  And that is a joy to see.

Congratulations on your betrothal, Ali.  MWAH.

…From The Ashers xxx