A lady I much admire for her ability to tell it like it is, Mrs.Woog once wrote a post about her “diamond shoes being too tight”.  Oh how I laughed at the time.  So funny, Mrs.Woog, so funny.

Well, it pains me to tell you, that today, not only are my diamond shoes too tight, they seem to have given me a small blister.  In the following, I shall outline to you all of the things that have caused this calamity.

1. I was woken this morning* at 4.15am by a child who was wide awake, and would not go back to sleep.  No bribe, threat or IOS device would shut her the hell up calm her.
2. I made myself a delicious drinkable coffee from my Nespresso machine.  I spilled most of said coffee.
3. I then made myself some yummy eggs, free range, and given to me for free.  One was rotten.  Really rotten.  I was faced with a tri-lemma: eat rotten egg, have only one egg, make another egg.
4. I went to get dressed and found that my maid husband had ironed everything.  Except the top I wanted to wear.
5. It rained a little bit on my newly washed, new car (aka Miss Xtrailia 2013) on the way to school dump drop off.
6. I had a patient forget his last appointment, and he promised me a Lamborghini as recompense.  This is the Lamborghini I received.

This simply won’t do

All this, and it’s only midday.

So I shall leave off now, lest I tempt fate and create space for more evils to befall me.

As reward for the horrors I have survived this day, I will be eating the pictured cupcake, stolen acquired from The Son’s birthday cache. I’m wearing a white top (un-ironed).  What could possibly go wrong?

*4.15am is NOT morning.  It is dark.  This means it is night.  The end.

Do you too have a blister from your diamond shoes?  C’mon, share!

Sunday the 15th of September would be the 40th Birthday of my friend Ricki.

She died at the end of 2006 from breast cancer, which by then had ravaged her body.  She was an amazing chick, and she amazed me, right ’til the end.  She had a loving husband Greg, and two gorgeous, kids, who are still the strongest, coolest, most lovely children around.  The following is a little something I wrote, about a week after she died.

Painting by Ricki

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower,

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief.

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

-Robert Frost

I first met Rick when she bounced into work looking for a job.  She was all froth and bubble, and filled a room completely.  I had my reservations, but our manager had the foresight to let her join the team, and so our learning began.  Over time, I found that Ricki was an artist, and lived that way, so rules were less important to her than connection, or passion.  Or beauty.  Or the search for truth.

Later, observing Rick and her sister Hayley working together to open a cafe, I saw another side to her: her organisation, her creativity and her ability to stay on purpose.  I also saw how that big hearted, big sister just gave and gave unconditionally.

Of course she was always giving.  Little gifts for me every Monday night when I’d visit her at her home, when she was too fragile to come into the office for her care; home cooked food, or a present for Liam.  And even more valuable, were the gifts she gave of herself, always in that courageous way she had, without fear or reservation.

In writing about death, Stephen King once said there’s a lot we aren’t told about death.  Of how it is secret, how difficult the letting go part is, because none of us would ever want to get close to another if we knew we’d feel like this, for even a second.  But I think Ricki would.  She’d risk it.  Because she was so brave.

Someone once said that “books read us”, that we see things not as they are, but as we are, and maybe it’s the same for people.  At least I hope so.   For if each of us has even a little of what we loved and admired about Ricki within us, then we are truly blessed.

Monday just gone, Greg said to me that “Rick always felt better when you’d been around”, and I felt honoured to think, that especially in those last few weeks, I have been able to help her a little, because I know I always felt better.  Like somehow just being in Rick’s glow made me a better person, or a least want to be better.  Somehow stronger, or closer to my truth.

This week her kids and I had a play in the house that is somehow still so full of Rick, (she still fills a room), and I had a fun time learning from those amazing two.  The Boy was the ever practical one, wanting to take down Ricki’s Christmas stocking because “She’s not going to be here for Christmas you know”, and The Girl shared with me how, if you go and put your whole face in Ricki’s clothes, you can still smell her.

And so it is for all of us.  We all carry things within us that remind us of Rick.  It might be a smell, or the taste of good chocolate, or a snippet of a song we know she loved, or the emotion from a great piece of art, or a big irreverent belly laugh, or just a bloody-minded stubborn desire to face challenges head on.

We carry these memories within us, because Rick was a chick who made markings on people’s souls.

So nothing gold can stay?  Maybe not physically, but with the brush strokes she left on our hearts, Ricki our artist, will always stay.  Golden.

Still miss ya Ricki.  Happy 40th.  

RIP.

Life is a funny thing.  We take it for granted, mostly.  We zoom around, dotting all the i’s and crossing most of the t’s, getting things done.  And then we’re done.  John Lennon is reported to have said, “Life is what happens while we’re busy making other plans.”  And I guess that sounds about right.

Often, it’s only when we are faced with death, that we even stop to consider life.

I heard a story this week, that was both the best and worst tale from this election.  It was about a woman, my age, who took her ailing father and her eighteen year old son to the polling station.

It was her son’s first opportunity to vote, the first time he would have a say in who runs this country, and the choices they will make for us, with the money and power we bestow on them.  For me, voting is wonderful exercise in trust and collectivism.  We place some numbers in some boxes, and believe those scratchings will translate into a better life for ourselves and our community.  I can still remember the pride and sense of responsibility I felt the first time I folded those green and white pages and tapped them into the oversized cardboard box.  Turning eighteen is one thing, but deciding who will govern this big-skied land, well that’s becoming an adult.  I like to imagine he was a little nervous, this young man, realising the magnitude of what he was now allowed to do.  He might have read the instructions once, and then once again, ensuring his vote counted for something bigger than himself.  He might have looked at his Mum and smiled, as he posted his papers.

I’m sure she looked at her son with new eyes that day.  His first vote.   Her boy was grown.

And then it was time for her father to vote. I imagine he shuffled over to the little booth.  He might have needed a bit of help to steady himself.  She might have held his shaking hand a little, lest he lean on the house-of-cards booth, and make it all fall down.  His eyes were probably bright with the intelligence that resides within him, but there might have been a little cloud or two dimming the lucidity.  The cancer can do that.  He might have looked at the paper for quite awhile, trying to make sense of all the  names, and all the people.  He might have had a flash of remembrance, and voted for Clive because he once knew a good bloke from work called Clive.  Or perhaps he remembered every person, and every policy, and placed his vote with care, drawing his numbers in the boxes, in a script from years gone by.  He might have smiled at his daughter for reassurance, as he posted his papers.

I’m sure she looked at her dad with sad eyes that day.  His final vote.  Her dad was almost gone.

So come what may from this election day, I know there is a woman who will be forever marked by the process.

She is not busy making other plans.  But she is seeing what happens with life.  And the changing of the guard.

Are you busy making other plans?

Do you love voting?

Bubbles…

My Twitter has been all a flutter with both outrage and confessions, regarding Neil Mitchell’s tweet about women in the workplace bursting into tears: “is it weakness or tactic?”  Now, there are others I’m sure who have written about this more eloquently than I ever will, but I would like to weigh in on this one: how about neither one Neil, you arsehat?  (Yes that’s right, I just said arsehat. No, I don’t know what it means either, but if the cap fits, etcetera.)

I can think of quite a few times that I have been moved to (almost) tears at work, and I don’t think any of the instances are me being weak OR manipulative…

I sometimes get teary when I hold a newborn baby in my arms and think of all potential within them, and how I get to be part of the full expression of their health.

I sometimes get teary when I have a child on my table, who I’ve known for years (probably since they were a baby) and I realise they are growing up. When I get a glimpse of the adult they will become, and I get all emo thinking about how lucky I am to be part of that trip, and how too-fast the time seems to go.

I sometimes get teary when things go really well.

When a new Mum tells me how her life has changed since her bubba has calmed down and relaxed, and now she gets to love them for their true little selves, and not try to love the bright red bundle of writhing, that just can’t be calmed.

Or when an old man tells me how he feels the spring has come back in his step, the spring that was lost when his wife died three years ago, and he descended into a world of darkness and physical pain.

Or when a teenager tells me she reckons she just aced her exams, and she was able to do so because we spent some time visualising and relaxing and breathing together, and she felt that she could think more clearly once her body was clearer.

Or like today.  When a man I regard in high esteem has finally come home.  When he was accused of things untrue, and he handled them with a calm grace.  When he moved away with his family to rewrite and rebuild his life, his work, his finances.  When he and his wife sketched out goals, and moved toward them, step by tiny step, until they could jump right into that painting.  And when today he said to me “I just can’t believe it, I just keep on waiting for the bubble to burst.”

Well, I just about thought my heart might burst.

So yeah, Neil Mitchell, sometimes I do cry at work.  But it’s bloody good.

How about you, do you cry? 

Do you cry because you are piss-weak, or are you just trying to manipulate everyone?

Mmmmmm

I just ate six slices of Fruit Toast. With lashing, lashing, lashings of melted salty butter.  So good.

Fruit toast reminds me of Sundays.

I remember when I used to sleep over at Lissy’s on a Saturday night, we would have a whole Winter Saturday at Willi Lacrosse Club.  We’d watch little bits of games I suppose, but the day was really about exploring.  It felt like we were allowed to do whatever we wanted.  Climb the trees lining the Ferron (they’re probably fenced off now), go and tease the wogs playing bocce (they’re called Italians now), do a death-run past the top of the cobbled naughty-boys lane (it has million dollar houses flanking it now)… We had lollies and chips, and red-lemonade and Four ‘n’ Twenty pies for dinner.  Some weird kid would always get mussels in a jar from the Fish and Chip shop.

Once it got dark and the lacrosse was over, the parents would move into the warmth of the clubrooms that smelt of liniment and fusty beer.  It would be noisy and happy and a couple of blokes would start singing “I am the music ma-an, I come from down your way,”  and we would go outside to play in the crisp night.  Some Dad would turn on the lights to the box-lacrosse court, and we would play British Bulldogs until someone would break a bone, or almost break a bone, and we would get called back inside.

I was always allowed to sleep over at Lissy’s.

We would wake up to the sound of the guns going off at the Rifle Range, (there’s a whole housing estate there now), and we would imagine the shots were firing out the beat of the opening bars of Blue Monday.  Our parents didn’t know who New Order were, so we knew we were cool.

We would laze in bed, and Lissy’s parents would bring us fruit toast.  Not the thick slabs, like dry sponges, that shops seem to favour nowadays, but lovely thin slices of Tip Top Raisin Bread, lightly toasted, with Western Star on top.  The butter would go on like cheese, then melt to a delicious golden liquid. Our chins would be slick with it.  We would keep calling for more toast, more toast, until Lissy’s brother would come in and tell us we’d get fat if we didn’t stop, and we’d giggle underneath our quilts because we’d knew never get fat.

We would lie on our backs and Lissy would make up songs.  She would write new ones, or invent better verses for songs we already knew; Kids In America, or Don’t You Want Me? or The Power of Love, but with surfing lyrics.  We didn’t surf yet, but we thought we might soon, so it was important to have the songs ready.  Lissy always had a plan, an idea, something fresh to think about.  And I would lie there and listen, or fall back asleep, or read Sweet Valley High books.

I suppose we eventually got up out of bed, but nobody ever made us.  We didn’t have to go anywhere, be anywhere.  It was Sunday.  And Sundays were warm, toasty.

Do you have a food memory?

Do Rifle Ranges still exist?

I know you are going to be shocked to hear this, but I found out today that I am officially a grumpy old lady.

I was already a bit cross before I started the week: I have a slight cough, I finished my book ‘Gone Girl‘ in one day, with no new book at the ready, and it’s a bit windy here.  I don’t like wind. Gets me all tetchy.

I was also already a bit cross before I started the year: I have The Menopause.  I assume that’s all I need to say about that.

Regardless of these portentous signs, today I did “literacy rotations” with the Grade One class, followed by a trip to the shopping centre. I guess you can see where this is heading…

So I made a list in my head of all the things that confirm that I am, in fact a grumpy old lady.  It made me grumpier.  I now provide this list for your reading pleasure:

• I saw a youth chuck some litter on the ground, I said “Oi,” and shook my head at him.  He picked it up.
• I made that “tch-tch” clicking sound with my tongue, when someone tried to push in front of a kid at the newsagent. They let the kid (and me) go first.
• I saw a man my age staring at a friend of mine’s 18 year old daughter in the queue at Woolies.  He had one look, then a pretend “I’m just moving my head around here, oh, look, a hottie young enough to be my daughter” look.  Twice.  I narrowed my eyes and stared at him until he felt me staring.  When he looked at me, I flicked my eyes in Hotgirl’s direction.  He got busy with his shopping after that.
• My iPhone went all weird and non-workingish so I gritted my teeth and seethed at it “You better work right now, you piss-poor excuse for a computer, or I’m replacing you.”  Then I hit it twice.  It works again.
• I was in the bakery section of the supermarket, and hungry, so I picked up some pizza rolls, saw the price, and put them back down.  The bakery lady smiled and said, “Wrong flavour?”  I said, “No, wrong price.”  She pointed out to me some rolls that were on special.

So it appears that there has been an increase in my powers, proportional to the reduction in my youthfulness and sunny disposition.  I’m too grumpy to decide what I prefer yet, so don’t even ask me, because: The Menopause.

On the way home from school, I observed two unsafe driving practices, so I told the children a long and educational story about each.  It seems my new powers don’t work quite as well with them.  Their eyes went all glassy, and I’m pretty sure Liam was air-guitaring the chords for ‘Funky Town‘ with his left hand. He better not have been changing the words to ‘Grumpy Town‘.

And then I looked down at my hand and saw this:

OLD LADY HAND!

Do you have power or beauty? Can you have both?

Can you see my old lady spots yet? (lie to me, lie to me!)