All The Small Things

Mood: Contemplative
Listening to: Tick Tock

We are all guilty of it from time to time.

We make snap decisions about people based on the way that they look. We assess their clothing, their hairstyle, their makeup, the way they smell, the way they dance, the car they drive.

These things have such little bearing on the type of person that they are though. Why are they so important to us??

Why do I choose with care what I step out my door in? Why do I bother with makeup when I hate it with such a passion? Why do I worry what others will think of me when they see me?

Perhaps it has to do with the insecurities I have about my appearance. I'm no beauty. I know that. I'm not hideous, "I've seen worse", but I'm not going to be fighting off Model School Talent Scouts either.

But what is beauty? What standard do I judge myself by? Where did these ideas come from?

Apparently beauty is symmetry. Those of us with perfectly symmetrical features are considered more attractive than those of us who are horribly lopsided. Am I lopsided? I don't think so...

My more airy-fairy friends would say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps that is true. I've found men attractive when they really aren't, just because I was attracted to them, perhaps for other reasons. If I can find an unattractive man attractive, it stands to reason that a man could find me attractive even if I'm not.

Should this lead me to disbelieve the men who have been in my life and thought I was beautiful?

Why when I look in the mirror do I see different things? Some days I can look, and say, yeah, you look ok today. Other days, I see nothing but my faults. I see my scar. I see freckles. I see bad skin.

Again, by what standard am I judging myself? Magazine covers? The producers of such tripe filled programs as ACA would love us to believe that it is the magazines giving us all terrible body image, causing such evils as anorexia and plastic surgery. I don't think so personally. I would like to think I am too intelligent to succumb to the stereotypical woman airbrushed within an inch of her life on the cover of Cleo. Who would want to look like that?

Perhaps the truth is more about my perceptions than reality. What I see as a fault, others hardly notice. No one looks as hard at me as I do. And what we focus on expands. Like my hips. They take on gargantuan proportions if I focus on them, where realistically, I'm a size 10 so they can't be that big.

Sometimes, I wish I didn't own a mirror. Once I have left the house, I don't worry about what I look like. I have a mental picture of myself, looking average, and I guess that's what I expect others are seeing. But more than that, I hope that they are judging me on my merits and not my appearance. It isn't going to happen, we have all been conditioned to align ourselves with the more attractive people around us. Folks aren't suddenly going to decide that I fit into that category. However.

There is always hope, isn't there. If I begin to look beyond appearances, and deal with people purely on a personality level, perhaps that will become apparent to those around me and encourage them to behave the same way.

My mum says: A change in me makes a change in you.

Something to work on.

Mood: Melancholy
Listening to: Rove Live

I lost my voice two days ago, which has made me nearly go stir crazy. I never realised how much I talked during the day. Or how often I yelled out to people to get their attention. Or how much I rely on the telephone. I had 14 messages on my work answering machine, and I couldn't return any of them, cos I had no voice. Possibly a good thing, as I wasn't supposed to be at work anyway!

I'm a tad excited, as I am getting a special visitor on Saturday. Four sleeps to go!! Just needed to get that out of my system really!

Righto, on to something that you may be interested in reading...

I went to the most interesting engagement party on the weekend, in Sydney. My little cousin (who I really should stop referring to in that way, as he is 22 and 6ft something) got engaged to a lovely girl. Her parents are from Chile, so it was a really interesting evening just from the cultural point of view.

They had the party at her parents house, who had basically redone the entire backyard to accomodate the 100 people that they had invited. There were beautiful fairy lights all over the place, helium ballons, candles, and glittering stars strewn over the grounds. The pool was lit up, and there were flowers and candles floating in it. All the guests were in formal wear, and my cousin had bought his fiancee a gorgeous red dress, and was in a black suit with red tie and hanky. They looked lovely.

There were speeches, priests to bless the food and the ring, dancers doing some traditional dances, traditional foods, (including a very odd concoction of wheat, apricots and nectar, which the waiter assured me was a drink... a dessert drink) a three tier engagement cake, and bonbonierre. All the tables were done with damask table cloths, candlabras, silver wine chillers, the whole deal. 

My cousin and his fiancee had her engagement ring blessed, and then he made a very emotional speech about how much he loved her, couldn't live without her, and was so grateful that she had agreed to be his wife, then he turned and put the ring on her finger. Many sniffles and sighs from the crowd.

I personally thought it was a bit OTT for an engagement - I've been to weddings that weren't as nice! - however, horses for courses. They obviously do things big in Chile. Can't wait to see what the wedding is going to be like... it was too romantic for words.

I left feeling rather melancholy, I guess the whole night put my romantic experiences to date into stark relief . Or perhaps I'm just feeling rather melancholy in general. Losing my voice is a bit of a metaphor for the way I'm feeling now.

I don't really think that I'm being heard. Definitely the people at work aren't listening to me... after all, telling me to go to the doctor, and then in the same breath telling me I should be checking the mail each day despite the fact that I'm on holidays doesn't show much genuine care for me as an employee or a friend.

Mr. D. has been quite vocal in his opinion of my personal life of late. He thinks I should stay home, be single, and value myself more highly. I think what he would really like is to not have to deal with the fact that I am dating.

I understand that his opinion is based on what he truly sees as being best for me. But at the same time, I am going to do whatever I want to do. For the first time in my life, I am free to be me. And I'm really enjoying that. I'm not going to let it go just yet. Most people do this stuff when they are young, I didn't get that chance. I was engaged, I was in a full-on full-time relationship with a guy who didn't like to go out. Then I was with Mr. D. and had Nicky to care for.

Now, I spend most of my time looking after Nicky, but when she isn't here, I will do whatever I like. It's not that I'm even doing anything bad. You have read the worst (?) of my exploits to date, and really, since that failed experiment, I've been a very good girl. I go to the pub occasionally, I play pool, I drink a little - not a lot - and I have fun. Nothing wrong with that. I'm not tired of it yet, and until I am, its my life and I'll do as I bloody well please.

Perhaps I should take on board how angry this has made me. If I really wasn't concerned about the opinions others had of my lifestyle at the moment, I wouldn't be getting so angry about it, would I.

I would love the strength of character to really not give a stuff, but I am aware that it's part of my makeup, I really do care. My intention is never to make those around me upset or uncomfortable, but at the same time, I think I've hit a point in my life where I just have to bite the bullet and do what I need to do for me. This is it. I need to experience that freedom for a while.

Ok everyone, time to get down to some serious business.

Birthday wishes, be they belated, on time, or in advance.

To Tink, my best friend. Through thick and thin (except for those two weeks in primary school that we just don't talk about) we've been together.

We've been booked for drag racing, had hair torn from us with hot wax, had dye poured on our eyeballs. She taught me the joys of driving with no headlights, and Hanson. She gave great advice about contraception, and introduced me to the guy who walked out on me a week before our wedding was due to take place.

She also introduced me to the freedom of skating. She forced me to eat packet after packet of TimTams. She watched the Sound of Music with me when we were old enough to know that it's just not a cool thing to want to do. She's thrown Coke, potato and gravy and numerous other things all over me. She made me get changed on the main street. She's nearly killed me while rallying, and discovered just how much dirt you can get out of your nose and blow on a crunchy old hanky after a full day of doughnuts and handbrake turns.

And now she lives a million miles away, and gives my email out to random strangers... (thanks for that by the way!)

So to my best friend, I wish I could have been there yesterday to buy you a bevvy or three. Fruit tingles!! Hooray!! Nevertheless, Happy Birthday Miss Lima Bean, and much joy to you for the coming year.

 

To my mum, born this day 47 years ago. She's a beautiful, gentle person, who has done so much for me over my life. She gives and gives, asking nothing in return. I love her.

I'm glad she had me young enough to still be cool and funky, she always gets a park by the front door of the shopping centre, she always finds the most incredible bargains on gorgeous clothes. (I'm glad we are the same size!!)

She has a strength that I hope is passed down genetically. She has wisdom beyond her years, and patience beyond belief. She can't cook. She can drink though, and she never gets hungover. Oh - but she has great sympathy for anyone who does, and she'll bring you water and a bucket if you need it after a big night out! My Mum rocks.

So to my Mum, Happy Birthday for today old duck.

 

Also born today: Meg. Today would have been your 26th birthday. If you were here, Mum, you and I would have gone for lunch in the Red Room at the Commercial Club, as was our tradition.

Mum would have the seafood risotto, I would have a big fat steak, and you would have had a pasta. With beer.  We'd discuss the hot / not value of the waiters. You'd fill us in on what your family were up to, your brothers, your sisters, your parents, grandmother and aunt.

We were thinking of you when we had Mum's cake tonight. Nicky said you were having a party in the sky. I bet you are getting the angels pissed, and the beer bottles are creeping around the walls of heaven. Happy Birthday Meg.

 

And finally, in advance (on purpose this time Tink!!) Mr. D. A fantastic Dad, and a damn nice person. I love him, I will always love him, and I wish him nothing but happiness, joy and peace in the future.

A restless soul, constantly searching for something to settle him, to complete him. Boundless energy for our little girl, and a passion for making her life as wonderful, interesting and experience rich as is possible. They went in a helicopter today. Our three year old has been up in a helicopter!!

I hope that he finds whatever it is that he is looking for, a career that fulfills him, a girl to love, and a discipline that will allow him to achieve his goals. Happy Birthday Mr. D.

And to anyone else who is having a birthday today, much joy to you too.

Foofing out the candles,

Sass

Mood: Playful
Listening to: Kenny the Shark

I've been watching the ads at the top of this page change with each topic that I choose...

So I'm just going to mess with them a bit and see what ads come up with a set of random words.

Hugs.

Kittens.

Lawnmowers.

Often.

Rarely.

Houseplant.

Waterbottle.

Milo.

Cartoons.

Telephone.

Bra.

Lamp.

Calendar.

Shark.

Combustion stove.

Sideboard.

Let the games begin...

And YES... I am aware that the ads are generated electronically and this is juvenile. Shut up and stuff.

Sass.

Mood: Despondent
Listening to: Myself snivelling

You'll all know what I'm talking about when I say I have the Flu Blues.

Each sneeze is like a violent eruption, jerking my head almost from my shoulders. This in turn sends shooting stars across my vision, and causes any sense of balance that I may have had to flee.

I am stuck in the land of deep self pity. I cough pathetically, I sniffle, I shiver then sweat. I think to myself "Why doesn't someone come and help me, look after me, pet my head and tell me it'll get better soon."

In short, I behave in the manner of someone who takes their good health for granted, and doesn't have the skills to be a graceful invalid. I hate those sorts of sick people don't you?

It does suck to be a single sick person though. Its the small things that you miss I guess. I wish someone was here to bring the wood up from the shed, to carry the logs in to the fire. To keep the fire burning through the night. To go to the shops for tissues and milk and vicks and lemsips. But mainly just to let me know that they love me.

I'm lonely today. Nicky has gone to spend a few days with Mr. D.

I miss her.

Mood: Proud
Listening to: Adelaide/Westcoast game

Today was my little brothers Best and Fairest count at his football club. Nicky and I try to get to all of his games, and I like to go to his special days. It's nice to give your family a bit of support when you can.

My little brother Ana is a character - probably my favourite sibling at this point in time. He has the worlds worst haircut, the Mullet. It has a life all of its own. He's been growing it throughout the football season. He and his best mate Cogs have a bet going to see who can grow the "best" mullet by the end of the season.

Sitting in the shed watching the count was really exciting! I was expecting to be bored out of my brain, the Brownlow being anything to go by, but a real fair dinkum count is conducted much more expediently. And with more interaction. And beer.

It has a very festive air.

Second last round saw my brother on 35, his mate Cogs on 33, and another guy on 29. It could have gone any way.

1 Vote random other player.

2 Votes Ana.

3 Votes Cogs.

Ohhh - big hush over crowd as the scores become Ana 37, Cogs 36.

1 Vote Ana

2 Votes Cogs

3 Votes another random player.

Hooray! It was a tie! Between my brother and his best mate.

They went up together to collect their matching trophies, shook hands, clinked their plastic cocktail glasses and thanked their mullets.

So this post is dedicated to the flying footballing mullet-sporting brother of mine, currently celebrating by downing "Fruit Tingles" from a slushy machine at the Clubrooms.

Good on ya mate, proud of you.

Mood: Reflective
Listening to: Tick Tock Tick Tock

On my wall I have a clock.

It does not keep accurate time, it does not match anything else in my house, and it really is as ugly as sin.

It is square, with faux wood frame in mission brown with black highlights. The face is gold, and very closely resembles the face of one of those chunky gold watches that scary, leering old men tend to wear.

But I can't bring myself to part with it.

I've been trying to figure out why. I'm not one of those people who can't part with things. Particularly things that are past their useful life.

Realistically, what is the point of having a clock that doesn't tell the correct time, and loses / gains time seemingly at will?

But like everything I guess, the clock has it's own story to tell.

It was given to my parents when they got married, just before they moved into their first house.

My mum was pregnant with me when they moved in, and I can imagine the joy with which they would have unpacked their 70's inspired furnishings, and settled into their new life together.

Not too long after that I came along. The gentle but firm ticking of that clock is part of the soundtrack to my early life. I remember listening to it as I lay on the patchwork of carpets that my Uncle had laid, as my parents couldn't afford to carpet the house straight away. Tracing the various patterns and feeling so very safe and calm.

I remember learning to read at the table under the clock, the tick, tick, tick, working with me to feel the rhythm of the rhymes. I remember sitting in tears one night, because I didn't know how to tell the time, and there was going to be a test the next day. My dad sitting so patiently with me, drawing me onto his knee and comforting me till I calmed down, then explaining what the big hand and the little hand meant. On our clock.

The arguments that my parents and I had about staying up just half an hour longer than my younger siblings. The argument itself could win me up to an hour, two hours if it got really nasty.

Watching the hands creep as I waited for a boy to call... which they never did! Damn boys!

When my parents moved house, a few years ago now, they were going to get rid of the clock. They got rid of a lot of the old things actually, and treated themselves to new furnishings and bits and pieces. The rest went to St Vincent de Paul.

I just couldn't face the thought of someone else taking our clock home and hanging it on their wall. It's OUR clock! It has a personality all of its own. It's our family clock! So I asked if I could have it, and among much commentary from the exended family on the fact that it doesn't work, and some very inventive descriptions of how ugly it is, I packed it lovingly on the front seat of my car and took it home.

So now it hangs in my lounge room. I can watch it while I'm waiting for a boy to ring... I can listen to it while I lie on the carpet and trace the patterns in my cobwebby roof. It gives me a feeling of grounding, of familiarity, and of home to have it on my wall. For all that it clashes and runs inaccurately. I look at it, and it calms me. Sentimental, but that's just the way it is.

Mood: Amused and disheartened
Listening to: NCIS

I always thought that older people were supposed to be kindly, genteel sorts. The retirees that I work with are, overall, of this variety. They are kind. They have gentle conversations about their grandchildren, husbands/wives, their health, their crafts.

They spend their days catching up with the people that are important to them, they spend time tending to their gardens, or contributing to the community by volunteering at the local information centre, opportunity shop or neighbourhood house.

To date, that had been the sum of my experience with our older generation. I hope that I would grow to be a genteel old lady like the ones that I have met.

However, last week I met the SS, and all my perceptions were shattered.

The Senior Citizens (known round our town as the SS - an anacronym given them by someone more taken with phonetics than accuracy it would seem) have a poor reputation.

They have a group psychosis that leads them to believe that the whole town, with the Shire Council at the lead, is out to get them. They believe that we all want them out of the Community Centre (which they continue to refer to as the Senior Citizens Rooms - despite the name Community Centre being painted in 6 foot tall letters on the front windows, and being on the plaque from the grand opening held in the late 1950's).

There are many and varied reasons that "we" want them out, of which these are the most commonly lamented, loudly and at length to anyone who will listen:

*They are old and therefore useless.

*We have no respect for old people in general, and them in particular.

*We want their rooms. (Which is funny, as the rooms DON'T BELONG TO THEM ANYWAY!!!)

I made a deadly mistake last week, when I booked out the Community Centre to cater for a group that I couldn't fit in my own Centre. It was a Wednesday, and the class ran all day.

At 1.30pm, the SS arrived to play cards. As my group were in the big room, the 10 ladies had to go into the smaller room (which is exactly one meter narrower than the other room - 8 meters by 7 meters, opposed by 8 meters by 8 meters. Big enough for 10 people playing Euchre.)

After they had finished playing, one of the little old ladies came down to my office, and demanded to know who had organised to use the Senior Citizens Rooms. I responded with, "I booked the Community Centre, with council over 3 months ago." "Well you didn't ask us."

Hello? I had to ask some aggressive little old lady in a peach jumpsuit if I could use the Community Centre? Mmm, I must have missed the part in the Shire briefings. Cos I could have sworn that was told to book the rooms and collect the keys from the Shire and not some pissed off granny.

I did the right (and I thought respectful) thing, apologised for the inconvenience, explained that I had booked the room well in advance, acknowledged that it shouldn't have happened, apologised again.

Pissed of in Peach stomped off (obviously she wasn't suffering from osteoperosis or she would have broken her tootsies) and I headed up to the Community Centre to collect the keys so that I could return them to Shire.

Sitting outside the building was a group of 10, grey haired, various pastel shaded, wrinkly and very angry people. A small delegation of the SS. I approached them, and apologised to the group for the inconvenience that we had caused them - and holy hell. Have you ever been abused by a mob of angry oldies?

Imagine your gran, hearing aid out. The volume of her voice as she talks to you? Yup. Thats it. Now imagine her abusing you. Now times that by 10.

"You want us out of town" "You want our rooms" "You have no respect for old people" "Everyone in town knows we play cards here on a Wednesday"

"No I don't! No I don't! Yes I do! I didn't!! I swear I didn't!!"

Then came the kicker - "It was sooo hot in there, and our ladies are so frail that some of them were swooning, its just not right to do that to people."

Shit. I felt awful. It wasn't my fault, and I felt bloody sick to my stomach.

And then I realised that the SS had locked my keys in and I had no way of getting in to retrieve them. The lady who had the key had left already. Sorry dear.

Sorry my arse. When I finally got in the next day, retrieved the Shire's keys, I checked out the room that the SS had used. They had rearranged the tables, but not replaced them, so I had to do that, then I noticed something on the wall. You guessed it, blog reading genius. A frigging split system air conditioner. And, oh yeah. It was still ON. On. On. On. On.

Poor old ladies. Sweltering away. Again. MY ARSE.

I used to think that the moniker SS was an absurdity. But having met them, I can totally see it. Jackboots and uniforms, and they would definitely have every one younger than them in camps.

Nasty. Nasty. Nasty.

All I can think is of the lyrics to that Voodoo Doll song. "May I never grow old."

Bloggy Angry Old Folks,

Sass

 

Mood: Bit hungover
Listening to: Nicky playing a game

Last night was the big going away party for Bloke, held at the local pub.

Thought, as this was the first time we'd been out in public together (not counting the time we met up for a quick kebab in a town 50kms away for about 25 minutes) I thought I aught to get a little dressed up. So out I headed, with my cute little denim skirt, fishnets, black knee high stilleto boots, tight black top and demure pink cord blazer.

I had an awesome night - Blokes ex girlfriend was there with one of her mates, and I started the night talking with them and another lady who works at our local bank. Unfortunately I couldn't stomach their conversation, which was covering such topics as using thermometors as dildos for cats who were too young to breed to get them off heat (as recomended by the breeder apparently) and how vets "assist" dogs to collect sperm for artificial insemination. All in all, it was pretty gross, so I went to the bar and started chatting with one of my girlfriends hubbies.

This absolutely cracked me up, cos after we'd been talking for a while, I had to visit the ladies. And while I was gone, the bloke who was standing on the other side of me (a friend of mine) struck up a conversation with my friends partner, telling him he'd better back off, and not "cut Blokes grass mate".

Really!

This is why I love this town. They look out for each other, and in the same way they look after me. It would of course be nice if they could get their information correct before having a go at people!

But (to steal a line...) I digress. While we were at the pub, we played some very very cool pub games. I've never seen anything like it before. Amazing. Only in my town would this happen... or perhaps I've never been to the right pubs!

First game: Lay a pool cue down as a marker line. Get two empty glasses, and two empty stubbies. Glasses for boys, stubbies for girls. Starting with feet behind the line, stretch forward as far as you can, you can put down one hand. Then reach forward with the other hand and put down the glass / stubbie. Then get back up again (and this is the hard part!!) without putting down your other hand, and without moving your grounded hand. No dragging, no movement at all, just cleanly off the floor. The person with the furthest marker wins.

Second game: The box. Take a cardboard box, and put it in the middle of the floor. Then take turns to pick the box up with your teeth. No hands. You may put ONE knee on the ground, but no hands. Once you have the box in your mouth, stand up, and tear part of the box away. As the box disappears, you have to get lower and lower to pick it up - which is bloody hilarious when everyone involved is a bit tanked!

Third Game: You need a bunch of coins, a bucket and a pot glass. Right, so you put the coins between your butt cheeks (the girls seemed to really enjoy assisting the boys to position the coins - any excuse to touch up a hottie!) Once in position, you walk the length of the bar, and drop the coins into the bucket. (This is harder than it seems!) Once you have mastered this one, remove the bucket, and repeat, attempting to drop the coins into the pot glass.

I've never laughed so hard in my life!

Two more days till Bloke goes. Its like the last days of pregnancy - the days when you can't see the end, and every minute feels like an hour. There is also much sympathy - which is funny, because I'm not really sad about it, however, I think on the day I will be sad. He's a good person, and I will miss having him in my life. But, at the same time, there are aspects that I won't miss at all. Its been very cathartic talking to him about it, his opinion is that I'll miss him for a day or two then move on to someone much much better.

I still argue that point with him. Yes, I'll move on. Track records would suggest that I won't be a long time single. However, there is no better. Only different.

Still, belly laughs are the best cure for any kind of blues. Perhaps I should just spend more time at the pub!

Blog, blog, blog, (glug, glug, glug!)

Sass

Yesterday,

All our troubles seemed so far away...

Why she had to go I don't know...

...Now I long,

For yesterday.

 

Yesterday was the second anniversary of the passing of our friend Meg. We all remembered her in our own ways, in our own spaces and our own time.

We cherished our memories, nursed our regrets, and touched gently on the place where she rests in our hearts.

I believe Meg is running with the angels. She's finally got a beautiful body to match her beautiful spirit. And she looks down on us, smiling at our drunken moments, our silly games, our daft jokes. Crying for us when we hurt. Resting a gentle hand on our shoulders when we need support. Caring for us, bringing opportunities our way. Loving us regardless of our faults.

To very roughly quote an old, daggy movie that was a favourite of hers (and mine, and many of your's I'm sure) Steel Magnolias.

"Her poor, sick, broken down body couldn't do it anymore, so she's gone to a place where she can look after and care for us all the way that she wants to"

On the farm, Megs garden is blooming. The grass is green. The dams are full. The sun is shining.

Perhaps I am naive, but I believe that it is Megs way of helping us all to heal, and see the beauty in our lives. Teaching us the value that comes with the simple yet elusive ability to appreciate what we have, complain less, and love unconditionally.

Aspire.

I aspire to live as Meg did.

21st September 1979 - 7th September 2003

"Rest in Peace dear Meg"