It's the afternoon. I'm at my computer. The flat is untidy, but at least I can see the lounge room floor and it's been hoovered to remove the last remnants of the squeeky cat that came to stay over Easter. My bed has been made. The dishes are done.
There is something to be said about not working. The house looks a bit better than it normally does.
The benefits of temporary unemployment are good, so I'm finding. There's been a few hiccoughs with this new contract coming through - I'm waiting on emails and phone calls, but with any luck I'll be working from next Monday. But for the moment, I'm enjoying not working.
I'm really enjoying not working.
Silly thing is, I feel as busy as when I'm employed. I also make a to do list and I try and stick with it. Contrary to hard set thought, I've only slept in past 8 a.m once.
The two constants on the daily list are go for a run and write. Both are getting done regularly.
On running, I finally put in my entry for the Great Ocean Road Half Marathon, so I have to get every kilometre that I can into my legs. Tomorrow, being what looks like a nice day, will see me do a loop of the Tan - 10 kms. Friday, I'm allegedly running with the boys from Bastard Bank early in he morning. It's all working well the running lark.
The writing is going well too. I finished my never ending Greek travel article job - thank goodness, though with the Greek economy as it is, heaven knows when or if I'll get paid for it. I've also started the novel - and at 2000 words in, I'm good with that -2000 words that I know will be slashed, cut, revised and reviled over time, but at least it's a start.
Time off means getting some of the jobs that I've been putting off done. First one off the ranks was what I will politely call the two yearly girly maintenance check. This is a horrible, but necessary doctor's appointment. Much worse than going to the dentist - but thankfully not as tortured or drawn out. Necessary, needed, not overly comfortable, but not painful either and thankfully paid for by the government, but it's still revolting. Thankfully my doctor is 1) a woman, 2) gentle and 3) quick. Over in two minutes. And it will stop the stroppy letters coming saying I'm overdue for this test. I didn't mean not to have the test in the allotted time - I've just been waiting for a bit of time off to get it done (and for the memories of endless gynaecological tests of two years ago to subside).
Besides, I'm still traumatised from the time I went for one of these girly maintenance checks and the nurse told me to imagine that the speculum was my boyfriend's tongue.
Hmm.
I've also booked a dentist's appointment.
I'm having a massage on a week day for a change.
We had book group the other night - Breakfast at Tiffany's - small group, great conversation, even better parma.
I go to the gym during the day.
Most mornings I visit my favorite barista, Phoung, who makes me a mug of skinny cappuccino and draws a picture in the foam for me - just to get me out of the flat.
I'm meeting people for coffee and lunch around the place.
I have on the list to start doing some work on the books for the Co-Masonic Property Association - start to get the books in order. Fun. A really wet and rainy day is needed for that.
Today was lovely in that I went out to see Blarney and the Units and we went down to the feral shed. As a childless woman, the feral shed, also known as kid's play centre, is modelled on Dante's fourth level of hell, where everybody pushes round stuff with their chests and wails about their lost possessions. Chance and Lance are fed a baby-chino here too -which sounds fancy, but it's a buck a throw for some milk froth with a bit of chocolate sprinkled on top which normally ends up down their respective t-shirts. And the little heathens chuck the marshmallow.Blarney and I are learning to pinch them before they get their grimy hands on them. The boys are two. I suppose they can be forgiven for the lack of table manners.
The feral shed is noisy and filled with children and their harangued parents. In all honesty, the place should be used as a contraceptive. Painted above the door should be the words, "Abandon all hope, Ye who entered here." (Or possibly more apt, "You went through seven years of university - look where you ended up...")
I make the place sound worse than it is - but I last an hour there if there are more than ten kids there, and with peak hour looming, I bade my farewells .
The lovely bit about going round to Blarney's, other than seeing her and the boys, is the reception I get from the cat. Walked in today, and he followed me round the house until he was picked up and given a cuddle. After an hour at the feral shed, I walked back to Blarney's to get my car. A window had been left open so Maow Maow could get in and out. I spied him sitting in a sunny spot inside. I tap on the window. He comes galumphing out for another cuddle.
Love that cat.
The last thing on my list is filling me with a little trepidation. A few months back I took up an offer on a group buying website. The offer was for something I've wanted to try for a long time, but have not had the funds or the courage. The appointment for tomorrow afternoon. My mind boggles as to whether I will be blogging about the joys of colonic irrigation or not. As I said, it's something I've been curious about... as an alternative therapist you have to give other alternative therapies - over the years I've tried ear candling, rolfing, past-life regression, hypnotherapy, crystal healing, theta healing... why not give colonics a go? Why not?
Ask me about it tomorrow night - I'm curious about the whole deal.
Px
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Front Running
So much has happened this week.
So much has happened today.
Where to start.
Okay, first thing this morning I went for a run with Desi - the last before the run for the kids. I had my annual flu shot on Tuesday. The ensuing dead arm and slightly snotty nose made the thought of running a bit of a chore. Desi was in a similar mood and health state so we settled on a slow five kilometres along the river. About a kilometre in this is what we saw.
A good omen I thought.
This is my favourite time of the day in my favourite time of the year. I had to slow down and take a picture.
See, in this funny week, I've had a heap of opportunities thrown at me.
First up, running. This Sunday is the 14.38 km Run for the Kids. I haven't trained enough for the race, but I know I'm more than fit enough to complete the course and walk home after and not do myself any injury. Last week I ran with a couple of guys from work - we did the normal 8 km lap from work, round the Botanical Gardens and back in 56 minutes - doing intervals. So my strategy for Sunday - long intervals. Run five minutes, walk one or two - and do that all round the course. Should get me in in under an hour and forty minutes - well, that is the theory. I have a tarot reading in Daylesford the night before, so this is going to be a bit interesting. Long drive for two hours. Might go to the hot springs before the reading. You never know.
On the running, I've also challenged myself to the Great Ocean Road Half Marathon at the end of May. 23 kilometres along the Great Ocean Road. I've always wanted to do this run but injury and lack of accommodation have always been an issue in previous years. Then the other day Gloria asked if I'd like a blow up mattress with the people from Gaynor's running club.
Gaynor runs with Melbourne Front Runners, a gay and lesbian running club.
"Are you sure they'll have me?" I asked Gaynor.
"Of course they will. You can be our mascot." she replied.
"What, a slow, chubby, silly breeder for a mascot?"
"Why not? You're not that slow, chubby or silly and as a breeder you're not too bad."
I'm actually chuffed that G & G offered me the blow up mattress option in their rental in Apollo Bay for the night. I was thinking of asking a mate if I could borrow his camper for the night and stay at the caravan park. But that thing is a bitch to drive.
So as of this week, I'm back in half marathon training - it's actually a bit longer than a normal half marathon - 23 kilometres. I'm not going to put a time on this - not even looking to run the distance - long intervals all he way will be great - I just want to participate. I'm not at my best running weight, but my fitness and technique are a lot better than they were. Just to run this road will be wondeful. Reindert says it's one of the most picturesque marathons in the world. Must get some hills in and soon (anybody up for a few laps of the 1000 steps over Easter?)
After the run, showering, changing and going to work, I prepared for coffee with somebody who was courting me for a job.
My current contract is up tomorrow. It's been great. Interesting work, great people, learned a lot, but the project is coming to an end and the writers will be dropping off over the next two months or so - and being the last one in, I'm the first one out.
In the last few weeks I've been shoving my CV around. My current consultancy said they had something for me - but nothing concrete had been put in front of me. My old consultancy put me in front of a company for an interview on Tuesday. Never before have I felt so conflicted. One interviewer was great. The other gave me the impression that they would be a nightmare to work for. The interview went well, but I had this sinking feeling in my stomach that if I ended up in this company and working for the nightmare, I'd be miserable.
I've also spent the last fortnight playing phone tag with somebody I know from the old consultancy about a third job. After having to postpone this meeting we finally met up for a coffee.
Push comes to shove, she's headhunted me. She's been doing a bit of investigation - grilling some workmates about me (Allegedly I'm flaky but really good at what I do. Me, flaky! Hmph.)
We had a good conversation.
45 minutes later, I walked away with a six month contract in a top Australian company working on one of the largest projects about. On more money. Working with people I respect. On a job that will be a challenge.
Stoked!
I've never been headhunted before. It's a nice feeling, but rather daunting as well. My reputation is fine. It's the reputations of the people who recommended me that I fret for. What if they don't like me? What if I can't play nicely with the other kids in the office? I just don't want to let people down.
The one comment that sticks out for me is, "Well, I need a project eccentric. You're it. Only have room for one nut bag. You're it."
I've been tripping over my botton lip for most of the day. Eccentric?! Moi?
On skipping back to the office, we had a leaving morning tea for me. There goes the low carb diet. Never to mind.
Had lunch with an old podmate from Tin Can, String and Whistle - he was blown away at how happy I was. We talked about all the things we normally talk about at lunch. Who's leaving Tin Can String and Whistle, his kids, his parent's divorce, the joys of siblings, my running and fluid job prospects.
But today we talked about hope and opportunity most of all. The two things left in Pandora's Box after she opened it.
Really, I'm just happy that I don't have to fret about work. I feel strangely at peace.
So now I'm here, staring down ten days of freedom.
And all I have planned for the next ten days.
Lots of running
Lots of reading
Lots of writing - get a bit more of that novel underway
Finish the Greek Writing job that has been irritating me for the last few months
Clean the flat
I might go visit some friends
I have to spend some time with Glen Waverley's cat (and Kitt's cat is coming over Easter)
See a few films
Sounds pretty good to me.
So much has happened today.
Where to start.
Okay, first thing this morning I went for a run with Desi - the last before the run for the kids. I had my annual flu shot on Tuesday. The ensuing dead arm and slightly snotty nose made the thought of running a bit of a chore. Desi was in a similar mood and health state so we settled on a slow five kilometres along the river. About a kilometre in this is what we saw.
This is my favourite time of the day in my favourite time of the year. I had to slow down and take a picture.
See, in this funny week, I've had a heap of opportunities thrown at me.
First up, running. This Sunday is the 14.38 km Run for the Kids. I haven't trained enough for the race, but I know I'm more than fit enough to complete the course and walk home after and not do myself any injury. Last week I ran with a couple of guys from work - we did the normal 8 km lap from work, round the Botanical Gardens and back in 56 minutes - doing intervals. So my strategy for Sunday - long intervals. Run five minutes, walk one or two - and do that all round the course. Should get me in in under an hour and forty minutes - well, that is the theory. I have a tarot reading in Daylesford the night before, so this is going to be a bit interesting. Long drive for two hours. Might go to the hot springs before the reading. You never know.
On the running, I've also challenged myself to the Great Ocean Road Half Marathon at the end of May. 23 kilometres along the Great Ocean Road. I've always wanted to do this run but injury and lack of accommodation have always been an issue in previous years. Then the other day Gloria asked if I'd like a blow up mattress with the people from Gaynor's running club.
Gaynor runs with Melbourne Front Runners, a gay and lesbian running club.
"Are you sure they'll have me?" I asked Gaynor.
"Of course they will. You can be our mascot." she replied.
"What, a slow, chubby, silly breeder for a mascot?"
"Why not? You're not that slow, chubby or silly and as a breeder you're not too bad."
I'm actually chuffed that G & G offered me the blow up mattress option in their rental in Apollo Bay for the night. I was thinking of asking a mate if I could borrow his camper for the night and stay at the caravan park. But that thing is a bitch to drive.
So as of this week, I'm back in half marathon training - it's actually a bit longer than a normal half marathon - 23 kilometres. I'm not going to put a time on this - not even looking to run the distance - long intervals all he way will be great - I just want to participate. I'm not at my best running weight, but my fitness and technique are a lot better than they were. Just to run this road will be wondeful. Reindert says it's one of the most picturesque marathons in the world. Must get some hills in and soon (anybody up for a few laps of the 1000 steps over Easter?)
After the run, showering, changing and going to work, I prepared for coffee with somebody who was courting me for a job.
My current contract is up tomorrow. It's been great. Interesting work, great people, learned a lot, but the project is coming to an end and the writers will be dropping off over the next two months or so - and being the last one in, I'm the first one out.
In the last few weeks I've been shoving my CV around. My current consultancy said they had something for me - but nothing concrete had been put in front of me. My old consultancy put me in front of a company for an interview on Tuesday. Never before have I felt so conflicted. One interviewer was great. The other gave me the impression that they would be a nightmare to work for. The interview went well, but I had this sinking feeling in my stomach that if I ended up in this company and working for the nightmare, I'd be miserable.
I've also spent the last fortnight playing phone tag with somebody I know from the old consultancy about a third job. After having to postpone this meeting we finally met up for a coffee.
Push comes to shove, she's headhunted me. She's been doing a bit of investigation - grilling some workmates about me (Allegedly I'm flaky but really good at what I do. Me, flaky! Hmph.)
We had a good conversation.
45 minutes later, I walked away with a six month contract in a top Australian company working on one of the largest projects about. On more money. Working with people I respect. On a job that will be a challenge.
Stoked!
I've never been headhunted before. It's a nice feeling, but rather daunting as well. My reputation is fine. It's the reputations of the people who recommended me that I fret for. What if they don't like me? What if I can't play nicely with the other kids in the office? I just don't want to let people down.
The one comment that sticks out for me is, "Well, I need a project eccentric. You're it. Only have room for one nut bag. You're it."
I've been tripping over my botton lip for most of the day. Eccentric?! Moi?
On skipping back to the office, we had a leaving morning tea for me. There goes the low carb diet. Never to mind.
Had lunch with an old podmate from Tin Can, String and Whistle - he was blown away at how happy I was. We talked about all the things we normally talk about at lunch. Who's leaving Tin Can String and Whistle, his kids, his parent's divorce, the joys of siblings, my running and fluid job prospects.
But today we talked about hope and opportunity most of all. The two things left in Pandora's Box after she opened it.
Really, I'm just happy that I don't have to fret about work. I feel strangely at peace.
So now I'm here, staring down ten days of freedom.
And all I have planned for the next ten days.
Lots of running
Lots of reading
Lots of writing - get a bit more of that novel underway
Finish the Greek Writing job that has been irritating me for the last few months
Clean the flat
I might go visit some friends
I have to spend some time with Glen Waverley's cat (and Kitt's cat is coming over Easter)
See a few films
Sounds pretty good to me.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Snippets from February
So, over February I was busy posting photos and I didn't get to reflect on what was going on around the place. It was a great exercise, but I look back at February and think, "Wow, did that all happen?"
So here are a few snippets from February.
Discovery of the month: Elastic shoelaces.
The triathlon was a few days ago. Of the elastic laces, Jonella was always at me to tuck away my shoe laces when I'm on the bike - she reminded me about that mercilessly. Ultimately, when riding, just like when running, they'd come loose and I get scared that they're going to get caught up in the chain - so I shoved elastic laces in my runners. No laces coming loose. No shoelaces - just toggles. Wish I'd discovered them years ago.
Faux Pas of the Month:
Glen Waverley's Porsche has arrived in the country and he's finally got it in his custody after a few weeks of having it go through the rigmarole of checks, balances, undeadening the battery, registering it etc. Every time we spoke he would tell me of the ensuing dramas. It appears it's easier to adopt a child than bring in a classic car into the country.
Anyway, late in February one Saturday morning, around 8 a.m. the phone rings. It's Glen Waverley. Would I like to go for a quick ride in his Porsche. I said that a lap of the block would be lovely, but it was my mediation morning and he's have to be quick. He said he was sitting outside in the car.
Being eight in the morning, not-showered, bed-haired, freshly roused from slumber and barely dressed, I had a choice. Send him away or shove on a dressing gown and go. I chose the latter. So I sneaked outside, found him, got into the 1973 yellow Porsche 911 and Glen Waverley took me for a ride around Richmond.
Thing is, my summer dressing gown is a shorty kimono arrangement. I managed to shove on some knickers and thongs in the process, but Glen Waverley just laughed at the sight of me. He's seen me in my dressing gown before - he and Merijn are the people who bring supplies when I get ill - Glen Waverley is like my brother, but seeing this on the street, on a lovely sunny Summer morning. Not a good look.
Ten minutes later, he dropped me off. I joke that it looks like he's dropping off his trollop for the night with me looking so delightfully disheveled. I also joked that I was glad that it was so early that the neighbours wouldn't witness what would look like my apparent downfall.
Glen Waverley let me out of the car (no internal handles on the passenger side you see.) I gave him a peck on the cheek, thanked him for a ride in his jalopy and skipped down the driveway, giggling.
Only to be met at the door by my downstairs neighbour Mel.
Glen Waverley gave me a toot and roared off. For a muscle car, old Porsches have very girlie horns.
"My, my, you've gone up in the world! Where have you been? You look like you've been up to no good at all. Getting dropped off in a classic car. Well done, you! Onya!"
If only she knew...
Exhibition of the Month: Harry Potter at the Powerhouse
I spent a weekend up in Sydney recharging the batteries and visiting friends. Having the Sunday morning free, I took myself off to the Harry Potter Exhibition at the Powerhouse. Being a Potterhead it had to be done. The exhibition isn't coming to Melbourne and knowing that I wouldn't be meeting my old friend until lunch time it gave me something to do in the morning.
Loved the whole thing - okay, except for the fact that the exhibition was filled with kids. It was really well done. Seeing the props and costumes from the movies was great - though I am a purist - I do prefer the books. If you're in Sydney in the next few weeks and enjoy Harry Potter, I highly recommend it.
Catching up with my old friend afterwards was the highlight of the trip. She's a very special person and it was great to finally meet her son. The last time I saw him he was 'in utero'. Will have to go up there again soon.
Book of the Month:
Anna Funder's "All That I Am".
Stunning read - the beauty of her prose had me gasping almost ever page. Phenomenal writer giving presenting an important story. A must read in my opinion.
Film of the Month:
My Week with Marilyn.
Also superlative - Michelle Williams deserved the Oscar nomination - and I'm a little sad she didn't get the gong. Had some of my favorite British actors in it - including Kenneth Brannagh (be still my beating loins - he can plant his boots under my bed any time he wants) and Judi Dench. Well worth it. Also gave me a "hit of home" as I like to call it. Films like this make me miss England even more.
Workmate of the Month.
I've been working as a tech writer / training materials designer back at Bastard Bank for the last few weeks. It's a shame that the contract is nearly over as the work is interesting and the people are great.
The big shame of leaving here in a fortnight's time, other than I have to go job hunting again, is that I have to leave my lovely pod mate behind.
I'm sitting next to Dave. Dave is in his early sixties - he's been tech writing for twenty years. Rides his bike into work on Fridays with his trousers tucked into his socks. Up until recently he lived in England, where he resided to get away from John Howard and his cronies - disgusted with the whole political scene. We talk film and books. I'm going to miss him - he's been one of my favorite pod mates of the last ten years. Actually, the whole team are great. This has been a great gig. Hopefully something just as good, if not better, will be around the corner.
So here are a few snippets from February.
Discovery of the month: Elastic shoelaces.
The triathlon was a few days ago. Of the elastic laces, Jonella was always at me to tuck away my shoe laces when I'm on the bike - she reminded me about that mercilessly. Ultimately, when riding, just like when running, they'd come loose and I get scared that they're going to get caught up in the chain - so I shoved elastic laces in my runners. No laces coming loose. No shoelaces - just toggles. Wish I'd discovered them years ago.
Faux Pas of the Month:
Glen Waverley's Porsche has arrived in the country and he's finally got it in his custody after a few weeks of having it go through the rigmarole of checks, balances, undeadening the battery, registering it etc. Every time we spoke he would tell me of the ensuing dramas. It appears it's easier to adopt a child than bring in a classic car into the country.
Anyway, late in February one Saturday morning, around 8 a.m. the phone rings. It's Glen Waverley. Would I like to go for a quick ride in his Porsche. I said that a lap of the block would be lovely, but it was my mediation morning and he's have to be quick. He said he was sitting outside in the car.
Being eight in the morning, not-showered, bed-haired, freshly roused from slumber and barely dressed, I had a choice. Send him away or shove on a dressing gown and go. I chose the latter. So I sneaked outside, found him, got into the 1973 yellow Porsche 911 and Glen Waverley took me for a ride around Richmond.
Thing is, my summer dressing gown is a shorty kimono arrangement. I managed to shove on some knickers and thongs in the process, but Glen Waverley just laughed at the sight of me. He's seen me in my dressing gown before - he and Merijn are the people who bring supplies when I get ill - Glen Waverley is like my brother, but seeing this on the street, on a lovely sunny Summer morning. Not a good look.
Ten minutes later, he dropped me off. I joke that it looks like he's dropping off his trollop for the night with me looking so delightfully disheveled. I also joked that I was glad that it was so early that the neighbours wouldn't witness what would look like my apparent downfall.
Glen Waverley let me out of the car (no internal handles on the passenger side you see.) I gave him a peck on the cheek, thanked him for a ride in his jalopy and skipped down the driveway, giggling.
Only to be met at the door by my downstairs neighbour Mel.
Glen Waverley gave me a toot and roared off. For a muscle car, old Porsches have very girlie horns.
"My, my, you've gone up in the world! Where have you been? You look like you've been up to no good at all. Getting dropped off in a classic car. Well done, you! Onya!"
If only she knew...
Exhibition of the Month: Harry Potter at the Powerhouse
I spent a weekend up in Sydney recharging the batteries and visiting friends. Having the Sunday morning free, I took myself off to the Harry Potter Exhibition at the Powerhouse. Being a Potterhead it had to be done. The exhibition isn't coming to Melbourne and knowing that I wouldn't be meeting my old friend until lunch time it gave me something to do in the morning.
Loved the whole thing - okay, except for the fact that the exhibition was filled with kids. It was really well done. Seeing the props and costumes from the movies was great - though I am a purist - I do prefer the books. If you're in Sydney in the next few weeks and enjoy Harry Potter, I highly recommend it.
Catching up with my old friend afterwards was the highlight of the trip. She's a very special person and it was great to finally meet her son. The last time I saw him he was 'in utero'. Will have to go up there again soon.
Book of the Month:
Anna Funder's "All That I Am".
Stunning read - the beauty of her prose had me gasping almost ever page. Phenomenal writer giving presenting an important story. A must read in my opinion.
Film of the Month:
My Week with Marilyn.
Also superlative - Michelle Williams deserved the Oscar nomination - and I'm a little sad she didn't get the gong. Had some of my favorite British actors in it - including Kenneth Brannagh (be still my beating loins - he can plant his boots under my bed any time he wants) and Judi Dench. Well worth it. Also gave me a "hit of home" as I like to call it. Films like this make me miss England even more.
Workmate of the Month.
I've been working as a tech writer / training materials designer back at Bastard Bank for the last few weeks. It's a shame that the contract is nearly over as the work is interesting and the people are great.
The big shame of leaving here in a fortnight's time, other than I have to go job hunting again, is that I have to leave my lovely pod mate behind.
I'm sitting next to Dave. Dave is in his early sixties - he's been tech writing for twenty years. Rides his bike into work on Fridays with his trousers tucked into his socks. Up until recently he lived in England, where he resided to get away from John Howard and his cronies - disgusted with the whole political scene. We talk film and books. I'm going to miss him - he's been one of my favorite pod mates of the last ten years. Actually, the whole team are great. This has been a great gig. Hopefully something just as good, if not better, will be around the corner.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Little Rituals
5.02 p.m. Friday - the brunette in the stripey top streaks for the door, flashing a pass to get her through the umpteen air locks to let her finally out to the street and apparent freedom.
It's Friday night, nothing's planned. That's a ritual in itself. After years of going out and going hard in the week, the most exciting thing that gets done on a Friday night is turning up at beer club at my old company for a Brok or two. Not that this will be done on this night. The beer club mates are still out of town or busy - no beer club tonight.
Friday night is about feeding the soul. Which means doing things I love doing - not things I have to do. A walk to the post box, a banal act in itself, but the perfect foil after a tedious week in an unwanted office. A feed of hot chips, a weekly serve to stop the cravings from setting in. A trip to the macaron shop - not that it's open at the moment. A visit to Chokolait for a chilli hot chocolate dialed up to nine (I don't normally do hot chocolates, but I make an exception for these - Reindert put me on to these a few years ago and they are sublime). This is the ritual if I don't turn up to beer club, where I will dribble crap with old friends for an hour or so.
I've been thinking at the little rituals of my life - exclusive of the ones that go on at my Freemason's - which I'm forbidden to talk about.
My wandering along among the arcades and narrow lanes of the city bring me peace - as all good rituals should do.
The final stop on the walk back to the tram is to Spellbox, my witch shit shop in the Royal Arcade, where the wheel at the back of the shop is spun to obtain advice for the weekend. Wandering through the scent of frankincense amongst the talismen, tarot cards and idols gives me a sense of belonging. This side of me is hidden for the most part of the day.
This weeks message read, "The Wheel speaks of: Happiness and Freedom - Great happiness will be entwined with your fate; dancing, romancing, and joy for joy's sake. Knowledge and health, an abundance of wealth; a future to connect with your magical self."
It gave me a little hope - dactylic trimeter will do that for you.
Friday evening, once home, is quiet. A little television. A load of washing. Maybe hoover the floors. Maybe do the kitchen and bathroom floors - jobs so hated but so necessary. Maybe a little writing or editing. My book editing job is almost over, thank heavens. I have another Greek Tour description to do by the end of the weekend - nearly there. The ritual of typing and considering - not that writing about tours around the Northern Peloponnese takes much talent or skill - it's just the ritual of sitting, considering, writing and refining.
The writer's life. Look. Consider. Write. Refine. Write. Slash. Refine. Hope.
It's really what ritual is all about.
I've other rituals. My visits to Blarney's on the weekend. I drop over for a cup of coffee most weekends to see Blarney, Barney, her 18-month-old twin boys and most importantly, the Maow Maow. On entering, giving everybody in the room a peck on the cheek (has to be done - including if Grandpa is over from Launceston) I find the cat, pick him up, place him on my shoulder, and there he stays for around 20 minutes, or for what ever time is required - it depends on who moves first - do I need to sit and have a cup of coffee? Is he over being carted around like a fox cape. It's our ritual.
Other rituals are now coming into play as the boys are getting older. Bouncing the twins in my knee to the tune of "Row Row Row your Boat" , or "The Wheels on the Bus" are now in order. They're at the stage where they can sort of sing along in their joyous, discordant 18-month-old voices. I'm hoping I'll get a name soon. But there is nothing more joyous than the toothy grin of a toddler as he descends into your lap from a reasonable height. Chance has discovered that I hate being tickled - so five minutes of tickling has to take place before he goes toddling off to play with his truck. Lance, the more serene of the two likes his bouncing too - but he hasn't worked out about the tickling yet - thank goodness. Chance is a little bloody minded. Lance is the more laid back of the two.
Pump on Sunday morning, another ritual. Up the back of the gym with Jay on one side and Emm on the other, we have our version of brinkmanship - Emm blitzes the squat track - I'm doing heavier weights for the shoulders, biceps and back track. It feels good. We all roll our eyes at similar places - normally at the end of the back and lunge tracks. After class we go for a coffee where we discuss the rituals of Sunday afternoon. For Jay, a trip to see her mother or a game of football. For Emm, some studying, for me, normally a trip out to Blarneys or an attempt and taming my feral flat. Today it was just Jay and me in the back row - Emm's sprained her ankle.
My other ritual - a free Sunday night with nothing to do. I don't go out on Sunday nights. I refuse invitations on Sunday night if it is more than having my dinner cooked and nothing more strenuous than a bit of telly. Sunday sets me up for the rest of the week. Even if it's just a bit of ironing or reading. It's my night for me. It's comforting. It's enriching - it may not be very interesting, but it's what makes me tick.
I won't go into my other little OCD like rituals around running or the start of work (fire up computer, go fill water bottle, get a cup of coffee, email Jonella good morning....)...
A friend once told me that it was the little things that give us such joy. I never thought a walk through the streets, a cup of hot chocolate and a night in front of the telly could give me such comfort.
It's Friday night, nothing's planned. That's a ritual in itself. After years of going out and going hard in the week, the most exciting thing that gets done on a Friday night is turning up at beer club at my old company for a Brok or two. Not that this will be done on this night. The beer club mates are still out of town or busy - no beer club tonight.
Friday night is about feeding the soul. Which means doing things I love doing - not things I have to do. A walk to the post box, a banal act in itself, but the perfect foil after a tedious week in an unwanted office. A feed of hot chips, a weekly serve to stop the cravings from setting in. A trip to the macaron shop - not that it's open at the moment. A visit to Chokolait for a chilli hot chocolate dialed up to nine (I don't normally do hot chocolates, but I make an exception for these - Reindert put me on to these a few years ago and they are sublime). This is the ritual if I don't turn up to beer club, where I will dribble crap with old friends for an hour or so.
I've been thinking at the little rituals of my life - exclusive of the ones that go on at my Freemason's - which I'm forbidden to talk about.
My wandering along among the arcades and narrow lanes of the city bring me peace - as all good rituals should do.
The final stop on the walk back to the tram is to Spellbox, my witch shit shop in the Royal Arcade, where the wheel at the back of the shop is spun to obtain advice for the weekend. Wandering through the scent of frankincense amongst the talismen, tarot cards and idols gives me a sense of belonging. This side of me is hidden for the most part of the day.
This weeks message read, "The Wheel speaks of: Happiness and Freedom - Great happiness will be entwined with your fate; dancing, romancing, and joy for joy's sake. Knowledge and health, an abundance of wealth; a future to connect with your magical self."
It gave me a little hope - dactylic trimeter will do that for you.
Friday evening, once home, is quiet. A little television. A load of washing. Maybe hoover the floors. Maybe do the kitchen and bathroom floors - jobs so hated but so necessary. Maybe a little writing or editing. My book editing job is almost over, thank heavens. I have another Greek Tour description to do by the end of the weekend - nearly there. The ritual of typing and considering - not that writing about tours around the Northern Peloponnese takes much talent or skill - it's just the ritual of sitting, considering, writing and refining.
The writer's life. Look. Consider. Write. Refine. Write. Slash. Refine. Hope.
It's really what ritual is all about.
I've other rituals. My visits to Blarney's on the weekend. I drop over for a cup of coffee most weekends to see Blarney, Barney, her 18-month-old twin boys and most importantly, the Maow Maow. On entering, giving everybody in the room a peck on the cheek (has to be done - including if Grandpa is over from Launceston) I find the cat, pick him up, place him on my shoulder, and there he stays for around 20 minutes, or for what ever time is required - it depends on who moves first - do I need to sit and have a cup of coffee? Is he over being carted around like a fox cape. It's our ritual.
Other rituals are now coming into play as the boys are getting older. Bouncing the twins in my knee to the tune of "Row Row Row your Boat" , or "The Wheels on the Bus" are now in order. They're at the stage where they can sort of sing along in their joyous, discordant 18-month-old voices. I'm hoping I'll get a name soon. But there is nothing more joyous than the toothy grin of a toddler as he descends into your lap from a reasonable height. Chance has discovered that I hate being tickled - so five minutes of tickling has to take place before he goes toddling off to play with his truck. Lance, the more serene of the two likes his bouncing too - but he hasn't worked out about the tickling yet - thank goodness. Chance is a little bloody minded. Lance is the more laid back of the two.
Pump on Sunday morning, another ritual. Up the back of the gym with Jay on one side and Emm on the other, we have our version of brinkmanship - Emm blitzes the squat track - I'm doing heavier weights for the shoulders, biceps and back track. It feels good. We all roll our eyes at similar places - normally at the end of the back and lunge tracks. After class we go for a coffee where we discuss the rituals of Sunday afternoon. For Jay, a trip to see her mother or a game of football. For Emm, some studying, for me, normally a trip out to Blarneys or an attempt and taming my feral flat. Today it was just Jay and me in the back row - Emm's sprained her ankle.
My other ritual - a free Sunday night with nothing to do. I don't go out on Sunday nights. I refuse invitations on Sunday night if it is more than having my dinner cooked and nothing more strenuous than a bit of telly. Sunday sets me up for the rest of the week. Even if it's just a bit of ironing or reading. It's my night for me. It's comforting. It's enriching - it may not be very interesting, but it's what makes me tick.
I won't go into my other little OCD like rituals around running or the start of work (fire up computer, go fill water bottle, get a cup of coffee, email Jonella good morning....)...
A friend once told me that it was the little things that give us such joy. I never thought a walk through the streets, a cup of hot chocolate and a night in front of the telly could give me such comfort.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Surrealism 101
sur·re·al·ism /səˈriəˌlɪzəm/ Show Spelled[suh-ree-uh-liz-uhm]
noun ( sometimes initial capital letter )
A style of art and literature developed principally in the 20th century, stressing the subconscious or non-rational significance of imagery arrived at by automatism or the exploitation of chance effects, unexpected juxtapositions, etc. (http://www.dictionary.com/)
Life's been somewhat surreal for the last 48 hours - actually, the last week has been something of a roller coaster. I'm blaming the huge full moon in Gemini, blitzed with and eclipse. It feels like I've been in the midst of a spin cycle of a wonky washing machine. I'm sitting here now, grounded, still pondering just what has gone on in the last few days.
Edna St Vincent Millay partly sums up the last few days:
Sonnet XLIII
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
Somewhat mournful, but somewhat true. The last few days have been a blur of occurrences that have left me gasping, wondering, tearing up, contemplating, enjoying and generally going "What the Fuck! Has that just happened?"
Maybe it's the universe performing Ho'onponopono on me. Ho'onpononpono? It's a Hawaiian healing technique. By healing yourself, you heal the world. By looking at yourself, and others, you release the old pain. By saying, and meaning, the words, you begin the healing process. I love you. I'm sorry. I forgive you. Thank you. It's a simple, but incredibly effective healing tool, yet when I see it in action - or have it used on me - I'm left rather breathless. Like now.
A lot of the last year has been spent looking at myself, my relationships with others. Working on gratitude, forgiveness, apologies and love. It appears to be all coming back now.
First there was an expression of gratitude that I never saw coming. A friend said thank you for some stuff that I'd done for him. Not that I was expecting or wanting this to be said.
It meant a lot. It meant a hell of a lot to me - not that I didn't know that he was thankful, it's just not something I though I would ever hear verbalised. At the time I was doing the stuff for him, things that I thought pretty minor and things that anybody else would do for somebody in the same predicament, especially when you had feelings for the person involved. It felt good to be acknowledged. That is all.
So this started the week on a good note.
Work has got a little better. I'll be finishing up where I am at the end of January - and this is fine as long as the ear plugs keep working and my friends keep making sure I get out for lunch a few times a week - I can cope. I've forgiven myself for ending up back where I am, able to see that I'm truly no longer who I was, or where I was when I was working in these area - a huge call.
Book Group came and went. The books have been chosen for the year. A lovely meeting was held. I was a little disappointed that the books I put up didn't make the list - Ian McEwan's 'Atonement' and Anna Funder's 'All That I Am' - but the rest of the list is wonderful, so I am not complaining in the slightest.
Dream Group, as always brought up some stuff. It's good like that. Maybe not so strangely, themes of loss and atonement came up. I really have to read that book again.
Thursday, Pinochet got his birthday workout. I stupidly promised him birthday chin ups. He got twenty of the buggers. I hate chin ups (assisted of course) almost as much as I hate burpees. But I will do chin ups. I won't do burpees. He was also presented with 3x20 100kg leg presses, 3x20 40 kg dead lifts, 3x10 22 kg clean and presses and a whole heap of other heavy weight lifts. Pinochet was delighted. I was a little sore the day after.
Friday had me motoring down to the Mornington Peninsula for the consultancy's Christmas Party. As somebody who takes a minimal participation view of Christmas, I was rather looking forward to this one. The company hires out a resort for the night, we all stay the night, get fed, drink up, party on and get breakfast, on the company. It was fantastic. Sharing a suite with Jonella was great too, as being friends, there was none of the formalities you have when sharing accommodation with those you don't know that well. Wandering around in our dressing gowns, putting on make up, borrowing cosmetics and hair goop - it's was like sharing with my sister or a very old friend. Even nicer, Jonella took the fold up couch, leaving me with the bedroom for which I am grateful. (as I was hoping to leave early in the morning and Jonella was intending to have a late one, it was very much appreciated - and I'm very glad she got a good night's sleep on the fold up).
The only downer was having to drive through a major thunderstorm - the wipers going full bore and still couldn't see where I was going for about ten minutes. Never to mind, the car is clean now.
Also, being a corporate do - I decided to get the 'dead ant' out the way. Do it in the privacy of my own room rather than three sheets to the wind in the middle of the dance floor. (Note gleeful expression on face - and nice ankles...photo courtesy of an incredulous Jonella.)
See.
The whole evening was sensational. The company prides itself on its people and with good reason. A lovely crowd, great food, plentiful wine. A great night was had. Got to bed about one. I registered Jonella coming in sometime later before a great night's sleep.
Coming home the next morning, I had about an hour before I was due out again. This time, a large gathering of the Elks for a special ceremonial meeting. It was something I was looking forward to and dreading in equal proportions.
Problem one. Already ratty from a night away, a day of housework and gyming would have been wonderful - but I had to turn up to this event. I had a job to do. I planned to sneak away for a nanna nap before dinner after the ceremony - didn't happen.
Problem two. It was tropically hot in Melbourne last week. 32 degrees with 90% humidity. It felt like Bangkok. Being stuck in an airless room with 70 others with only the humming of ineffective fans for relief wasn't that great- okay - uncomfortable and exhausting are better words for it. The ceremony, however, was lovely. To top it off, there was one of the members who gave a small recital on her harp.
This is where the really surreal stuff happened. She played a couple of songs, the last being the "Skye Boat Song". During the song - some of the group started humming along. It was ethereal.
I lost my body!
I'm not kidding. For a few moments, my physical self disappeared. All I was aware of was my inner self, and the music.
Losing myself to music is something I'm prone to. I can't feel my body any more. It's a rare and rather special feeling. The last time I remember feeling it was at a Jeff Beck concert. "Brush with the Blues", a favourite song of mine came on, and I was gone.
My friend who was with me at the time has always commented on how easily I lose myself to music - allowing my body to disolve - well that's what it feels like.
It left me a little shaken. It's never happened in such a public arena before. Or so completely. It took a bit to get myself back again.
I spent the rest of the afternoon staving off panic attacks by standing outside with the smokers - trying to hide my panic. Little old lady induced claustrophobia isn't fun. Eight hours after arriving, I walked the short distance home -arriving to the really surreal stuff.
A few months ago I told of how I "found" an old boyfriend on facebook. That was a bit trippy.
To have three more significant people who I've heard nothing from in years contact me in 24 hours. It's just a bit too surreal for words.
All of these men have had a lot to do with shaping my life in one way or another.
First up, after a virtual absence of a year, Lachlan sends an email. Like the proverbial bad penny, he comes back for a chat every so often. This one is under control. The heart is clear - it's just funny that he chose yesterday to get back in contact.
The second person sent my life off in completely different direction - for which I am indebted to him, even though he has to be kept at arms length and little attention given to him.
Terry got me to Greece. Terry was the one who organised for me to go work on a Greek Island for a few months. Okay, so the visa situation was stuffed up. So I dismantled my life because of this 'opportunity' - one, which, in hindsight, was one of the formative of my life. It let me learn how to take risks. It got me out of my rut - and even though I was back in Australia in four months, it got my life moving again in a much better direction.
Terry will be kept at a distance. He can be more trouble than he's worth - but I do hope he knows that I'll always be grateful for the three months I spent in the Greek Islands in 2003.
The third person to contact me is another "Never, ever, ever going to have contact with this person again" people. Another very significant person who I pretty much never talk about, to nobody.
Of the men in my life, Lucas has a significant place. Like one other before him, he's somebody that I've occasionally thought about how things could have been if things were different. There's no point regretting what happened. There's no point even asking, "What if?" But I look back on my time with him, know he was put there for a reason and let it go.
Looking back, he's somebody I would fight for now if he was to come into my life at this stage of proceedings. I wasn't capable of fighting for myself back then. I was capable of existing and that was about it - nobody wants a serious relationship with a shell.
Lucas was around for a while, on and off. Geography wasn't going for us - as he lived in Cardiff for most of the time I knew him - I lived in London. Me pondering being chucked out of the country at any point never helped the formation of serious relationships. Not a great base for anything.
Lucas - whip smart, an engineer, played concert violin, with a silly, geeky laugh, lank hair and a gentle nature that was hidden by walls of shyness which came across as arrogance. Appeared to fall for my gormless "Fancy a shag?" line when I came back from the pub pissed one night - first and only time a chat up line worked.
Neither of us were up for anything serious. I treated him poorly at times, but then again, he wasn't that great to me at times either. He fascinated me. Soon after things went pear-shaped, I moved back to Australia. I'm in loose contact with a good mate of his - but I've never asked about him. Water under the bridge and all that.
We've had a brief chat online. He's still in Cardiff. One of his first questions to me was 'Are you still writing?"
Thing is - I thought he'd have forgotton me. Like the other one before him, I though they'd have just moved on, met somebody, got on with their lives, married, kids and the like - and I'd be forgotton. Just one of those fleeting people you meet. In my case, I was that pernickety woman who shared a flat with a mate of his.
It's just been a strange weekend for people getting in touch. I'm not sure what the universe wants me to look at. It's all just a bit surreal. Three getting back in contact in 24 hours! I'm blaming the full moon.
This afternoon I grounded myself with a lovely, brutal Thai massage, a cup of tea with Blarney, a cuddle with Maow Maow and the throwing around of Blarney's boys - it appears I give good airplane to toddlers.
For this week - hmm - tarot client tomorrow, Opera Tuesday (Don Giovanni - yay), dream group Wednesday, Pinochet Thursday and some friends are coming round for pizza and a viewing of Donnie Darko on Friday.
Yeah, it's a bit busy. It will help stop me pondering just what the hell the universe wants from me.
I'm sorry. I forgive you. I love you. Thank you. Repeat.
Maybe it's to find Summer singing in me once again. Unlike Millay's poem, I'm not sure that part of me is as dead as I like to think it is.
noun ( sometimes initial capital letter )
A style of art and literature developed principally in the 20th century, stressing the subconscious or non-rational significance of imagery arrived at by automatism or the exploitation of chance effects, unexpected juxtapositions, etc. (http://www.dictionary.com/)
Life's been somewhat surreal for the last 48 hours - actually, the last week has been something of a roller coaster. I'm blaming the huge full moon in Gemini, blitzed with and eclipse. It feels like I've been in the midst of a spin cycle of a wonky washing machine. I'm sitting here now, grounded, still pondering just what has gone on in the last few days.
Edna St Vincent Millay partly sums up the last few days:
Sonnet XLIII
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
Somewhat mournful, but somewhat true. The last few days have been a blur of occurrences that have left me gasping, wondering, tearing up, contemplating, enjoying and generally going "What the Fuck! Has that just happened?"
Maybe it's the universe performing Ho'onponopono on me. Ho'onpononpono? It's a Hawaiian healing technique. By healing yourself, you heal the world. By looking at yourself, and others, you release the old pain. By saying, and meaning, the words, you begin the healing process. I love you. I'm sorry. I forgive you. Thank you. It's a simple, but incredibly effective healing tool, yet when I see it in action - or have it used on me - I'm left rather breathless. Like now.
A lot of the last year has been spent looking at myself, my relationships with others. Working on gratitude, forgiveness, apologies and love. It appears to be all coming back now.
First there was an expression of gratitude that I never saw coming. A friend said thank you for some stuff that I'd done for him. Not that I was expecting or wanting this to be said.
It meant a lot. It meant a hell of a lot to me - not that I didn't know that he was thankful, it's just not something I though I would ever hear verbalised. At the time I was doing the stuff for him, things that I thought pretty minor and things that anybody else would do for somebody in the same predicament, especially when you had feelings for the person involved. It felt good to be acknowledged. That is all.
So this started the week on a good note.
Work has got a little better. I'll be finishing up where I am at the end of January - and this is fine as long as the ear plugs keep working and my friends keep making sure I get out for lunch a few times a week - I can cope. I've forgiven myself for ending up back where I am, able to see that I'm truly no longer who I was, or where I was when I was working in these area - a huge call.
Book Group came and went. The books have been chosen for the year. A lovely meeting was held. I was a little disappointed that the books I put up didn't make the list - Ian McEwan's 'Atonement' and Anna Funder's 'All That I Am' - but the rest of the list is wonderful, so I am not complaining in the slightest.
Dream Group, as always brought up some stuff. It's good like that. Maybe not so strangely, themes of loss and atonement came up. I really have to read that book again.
Thursday, Pinochet got his birthday workout. I stupidly promised him birthday chin ups. He got twenty of the buggers. I hate chin ups (assisted of course) almost as much as I hate burpees. But I will do chin ups. I won't do burpees. He was also presented with 3x20 100kg leg presses, 3x20 40 kg dead lifts, 3x10 22 kg clean and presses and a whole heap of other heavy weight lifts. Pinochet was delighted. I was a little sore the day after.
Friday had me motoring down to the Mornington Peninsula for the consultancy's Christmas Party. As somebody who takes a minimal participation view of Christmas, I was rather looking forward to this one. The company hires out a resort for the night, we all stay the night, get fed, drink up, party on and get breakfast, on the company. It was fantastic. Sharing a suite with Jonella was great too, as being friends, there was none of the formalities you have when sharing accommodation with those you don't know that well. Wandering around in our dressing gowns, putting on make up, borrowing cosmetics and hair goop - it's was like sharing with my sister or a very old friend. Even nicer, Jonella took the fold up couch, leaving me with the bedroom for which I am grateful. (as I was hoping to leave early in the morning and Jonella was intending to have a late one, it was very much appreciated - and I'm very glad she got a good night's sleep on the fold up).
The only downer was having to drive through a major thunderstorm - the wipers going full bore and still couldn't see where I was going for about ten minutes. Never to mind, the car is clean now.
Also, being a corporate do - I decided to get the 'dead ant' out the way. Do it in the privacy of my own room rather than three sheets to the wind in the middle of the dance floor. (Note gleeful expression on face - and nice ankles...photo courtesy of an incredulous Jonella.)
See.
The whole evening was sensational. The company prides itself on its people and with good reason. A lovely crowd, great food, plentiful wine. A great night was had. Got to bed about one. I registered Jonella coming in sometime later before a great night's sleep.
Coming home the next morning, I had about an hour before I was due out again. This time, a large gathering of the Elks for a special ceremonial meeting. It was something I was looking forward to and dreading in equal proportions.
Problem one. Already ratty from a night away, a day of housework and gyming would have been wonderful - but I had to turn up to this event. I had a job to do. I planned to sneak away for a nanna nap before dinner after the ceremony - didn't happen.
Problem two. It was tropically hot in Melbourne last week. 32 degrees with 90% humidity. It felt like Bangkok. Being stuck in an airless room with 70 others with only the humming of ineffective fans for relief wasn't that great- okay - uncomfortable and exhausting are better words for it. The ceremony, however, was lovely. To top it off, there was one of the members who gave a small recital on her harp.
This is where the really surreal stuff happened. She played a couple of songs, the last being the "Skye Boat Song". During the song - some of the group started humming along. It was ethereal.
I lost my body!
I'm not kidding. For a few moments, my physical self disappeared. All I was aware of was my inner self, and the music.
Losing myself to music is something I'm prone to. I can't feel my body any more. It's a rare and rather special feeling. The last time I remember feeling it was at a Jeff Beck concert. "Brush with the Blues", a favourite song of mine came on, and I was gone.
My friend who was with me at the time has always commented on how easily I lose myself to music - allowing my body to disolve - well that's what it feels like.
It left me a little shaken. It's never happened in such a public arena before. Or so completely. It took a bit to get myself back again.
I spent the rest of the afternoon staving off panic attacks by standing outside with the smokers - trying to hide my panic. Little old lady induced claustrophobia isn't fun. Eight hours after arriving, I walked the short distance home -arriving to the really surreal stuff.
A few months ago I told of how I "found" an old boyfriend on facebook. That was a bit trippy.
To have three more significant people who I've heard nothing from in years contact me in 24 hours. It's just a bit too surreal for words.
All of these men have had a lot to do with shaping my life in one way or another.
First up, after a virtual absence of a year, Lachlan sends an email. Like the proverbial bad penny, he comes back for a chat every so often. This one is under control. The heart is clear - it's just funny that he chose yesterday to get back in contact.
The second person sent my life off in completely different direction - for which I am indebted to him, even though he has to be kept at arms length and little attention given to him.
Terry got me to Greece. Terry was the one who organised for me to go work on a Greek Island for a few months. Okay, so the visa situation was stuffed up. So I dismantled my life because of this 'opportunity' - one, which, in hindsight, was one of the formative of my life. It let me learn how to take risks. It got me out of my rut - and even though I was back in Australia in four months, it got my life moving again in a much better direction.
Terry will be kept at a distance. He can be more trouble than he's worth - but I do hope he knows that I'll always be grateful for the three months I spent in the Greek Islands in 2003.
The third person to contact me is another "Never, ever, ever going to have contact with this person again" people. Another very significant person who I pretty much never talk about, to nobody.
Of the men in my life, Lucas has a significant place. Like one other before him, he's somebody that I've occasionally thought about how things could have been if things were different. There's no point regretting what happened. There's no point even asking, "What if?" But I look back on my time with him, know he was put there for a reason and let it go.
Looking back, he's somebody I would fight for now if he was to come into my life at this stage of proceedings. I wasn't capable of fighting for myself back then. I was capable of existing and that was about it - nobody wants a serious relationship with a shell.
Lucas was around for a while, on and off. Geography wasn't going for us - as he lived in Cardiff for most of the time I knew him - I lived in London. Me pondering being chucked out of the country at any point never helped the formation of serious relationships. Not a great base for anything.
Lucas - whip smart, an engineer, played concert violin, with a silly, geeky laugh, lank hair and a gentle nature that was hidden by walls of shyness which came across as arrogance. Appeared to fall for my gormless "Fancy a shag?" line when I came back from the pub pissed one night - first and only time a chat up line worked.
Neither of us were up for anything serious. I treated him poorly at times, but then again, he wasn't that great to me at times either. He fascinated me. Soon after things went pear-shaped, I moved back to Australia. I'm in loose contact with a good mate of his - but I've never asked about him. Water under the bridge and all that.
We've had a brief chat online. He's still in Cardiff. One of his first questions to me was 'Are you still writing?"
Thing is - I thought he'd have forgotton me. Like the other one before him, I though they'd have just moved on, met somebody, got on with their lives, married, kids and the like - and I'd be forgotton. Just one of those fleeting people you meet. In my case, I was that pernickety woman who shared a flat with a mate of his.
It's just been a strange weekend for people getting in touch. I'm not sure what the universe wants me to look at. It's all just a bit surreal. Three getting back in contact in 24 hours! I'm blaming the full moon.
This afternoon I grounded myself with a lovely, brutal Thai massage, a cup of tea with Blarney, a cuddle with Maow Maow and the throwing around of Blarney's boys - it appears I give good airplane to toddlers.
For this week - hmm - tarot client tomorrow, Opera Tuesday (Don Giovanni - yay), dream group Wednesday, Pinochet Thursday and some friends are coming round for pizza and a viewing of Donnie Darko on Friday.
Yeah, it's a bit busy. It will help stop me pondering just what the hell the universe wants from me.
I'm sorry. I forgive you. I love you. Thank you. Repeat.
Maybe it's to find Summer singing in me once again. Unlike Millay's poem, I'm not sure that part of me is as dead as I like to think it is.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
On Holding Hands
At our Elks rehearsal the other night we were walking through the ceremony that we will be doing in ten days time.
At one part of the rehearsal, the group are called to hold hands during a bit of the ceremony. I took the hands of the people next to me. To my right, a little old lady, her paws cool, the skin dry and papery, reminiscent of my grandmother's grip. To my left, a middle-aged gentleman with a crew cut. He picked up my hand in his roughened tradie's mit, studied my hand in his and commented, "My you have small paws."
My hands aren't anything out of the ordinary, though they're a favourite part of my body. I've got long fingers, elegant, yet squared palms, well-shaped fingernails, thanks to my mother's gene pool. I keep them plied with hand cream regularly so the skin is smooth and even. I have a silver ring on the middle finger of my left hand - a leaving gift from workmates many years ago - the mother-of-pearl feature fell out years ago, but I still love the ring. On my right hand, the ring finger is adorned with a silver and garnet ring I found in Ubud, Indonesia a few years ago. As I write, massage, sew, knit, cook, crochet, you name it - my hands get a lot of use. They also raise quite a few comments about the fact that they're "pretty", "lovely" and "nice".
I also know that I missed out on the genes my sister was blessed with, thank goodness. Affectionately-known-as-Manhands is known by this moniker for a reason. Bless. Thankfully her hands have the same attributes as mine - just quite a bit bigger.
For those who've received a massage from me, people have commented that I have "hot" hands, able to produce great healing heat in seconds If you feel them after I lose contact, they're just normal temperature.
For me, holding hands is a particularly foreign feeling. I know it happens, but when it does, outside of lodge ritual work and helping friends children cross the road, I never know what to think. I always find when somebody holds my hand it's rather surprising.
Maybe it's something cellular. I remember taking my mother's hand at my grandmother's funeral. Grandma passed on at 104 years of age. She'd given Mum the runaround for nearly two decades in some ways - up until the last three years she was pretty good. Mum's hands and mine are similar, square palms, long, shapely fingers, good nails, and they're about the same size. All I can remember is Mum's hand rather limp in mine. It was one of those days. Tactile isn't a word I'd use to describe my mother.
I think back to other times my hand has been held. Undergoing minor surgery to have some cysts removed from my scalp over twenty-five years ago - the first time it happened - a nice nurse held my hand as the doctor injected the numb from under the surgical drapes. I think back and look at how I get this done now every few years when the bloody things grow back , in the doctor's surgery, chatting to my doctor about all sorts of things, no theatre lights, no drapes, no nurse. It was good to have the nurse there that first time, keeping the gremlins at bay.
Holding hands often means drinking to me. Dim memories of trawling the sex shops of Soho with Lachlan in the early hours of a winter's morning, hand-in-hand so we didn't lose each other in the crowds, plastered on lager and crisps. The last time anybody held my hand outside of lodge, a friend and I were wandering around town trying to find some dinner - far, far too much beer had been imbibed. Again, holding hands was practical - we wouldn't lose each other on the busy, warm, February night, my hand quite nicely fit in his palm.
The funny thing about holding hands is once you start, stopping is hard. If you break for any reason, you normally search each other out to join hands again. I'd forgotton about that too.
Sitting next to an ailing friend as he lay in a hosptial bed a few years ago, I held his hand - he gripped onto my for dear life. "There's warmth going up my arm." He mumbled. As he was not in a state to do anything more than lay there, I gave him a thorough hand massage. What frightened me more was as he was feeling warmth up his arm, all I was aware of was the cold despair I was feeling coming from him. I returned the following day to sit by his bedside and hold his hand once again. Though he could barely string a sentence together or know what day of the week it was, it was demanded that I massage his other one to even him up. He was quite insistant.
Of course then there are those who hold your hand because they want to be with you. Fingers laced together walking down the street. That's been years since that happened.
It's quite sad and scary, really.
I get all angsty when my mum and step-dad hold hands in public. Thinking about it, I think it might be a bit of jealousy.
It's struck me a while ago that I have very little touch in my life - monthly massages and the odd hug off friend excepted - the last time anybody kissed me - hell, four years ago now. But I can almost count the times that somebody has held my hand in my adult life.
So surprising is the act to me that it burns in my memory like a brand.
At one part of the rehearsal, the group are called to hold hands during a bit of the ceremony. I took the hands of the people next to me. To my right, a little old lady, her paws cool, the skin dry and papery, reminiscent of my grandmother's grip. To my left, a middle-aged gentleman with a crew cut. He picked up my hand in his roughened tradie's mit, studied my hand in his and commented, "My you have small paws."
My hands aren't anything out of the ordinary, though they're a favourite part of my body. I've got long fingers, elegant, yet squared palms, well-shaped fingernails, thanks to my mother's gene pool. I keep them plied with hand cream regularly so the skin is smooth and even. I have a silver ring on the middle finger of my left hand - a leaving gift from workmates many years ago - the mother-of-pearl feature fell out years ago, but I still love the ring. On my right hand, the ring finger is adorned with a silver and garnet ring I found in Ubud, Indonesia a few years ago. As I write, massage, sew, knit, cook, crochet, you name it - my hands get a lot of use. They also raise quite a few comments about the fact that they're "pretty", "lovely" and "nice".
I also know that I missed out on the genes my sister was blessed with, thank goodness. Affectionately-known-as-Manhands is known by this moniker for a reason. Bless. Thankfully her hands have the same attributes as mine - just quite a bit bigger.
For those who've received a massage from me, people have commented that I have "hot" hands, able to produce great healing heat in seconds If you feel them after I lose contact, they're just normal temperature.
For me, holding hands is a particularly foreign feeling. I know it happens, but when it does, outside of lodge ritual work and helping friends children cross the road, I never know what to think. I always find when somebody holds my hand it's rather surprising.
Maybe it's something cellular. I remember taking my mother's hand at my grandmother's funeral. Grandma passed on at 104 years of age. She'd given Mum the runaround for nearly two decades in some ways - up until the last three years she was pretty good. Mum's hands and mine are similar, square palms, long, shapely fingers, good nails, and they're about the same size. All I can remember is Mum's hand rather limp in mine. It was one of those days. Tactile isn't a word I'd use to describe my mother.
I think back to other times my hand has been held. Undergoing minor surgery to have some cysts removed from my scalp over twenty-five years ago - the first time it happened - a nice nurse held my hand as the doctor injected the numb from under the surgical drapes. I think back and look at how I get this done now every few years when the bloody things grow back , in the doctor's surgery, chatting to my doctor about all sorts of things, no theatre lights, no drapes, no nurse. It was good to have the nurse there that first time, keeping the gremlins at bay.
Holding hands often means drinking to me. Dim memories of trawling the sex shops of Soho with Lachlan in the early hours of a winter's morning, hand-in-hand so we didn't lose each other in the crowds, plastered on lager and crisps. The last time anybody held my hand outside of lodge, a friend and I were wandering around town trying to find some dinner - far, far too much beer had been imbibed. Again, holding hands was practical - we wouldn't lose each other on the busy, warm, February night, my hand quite nicely fit in his palm.
The funny thing about holding hands is once you start, stopping is hard. If you break for any reason, you normally search each other out to join hands again. I'd forgotton about that too.
Sitting next to an ailing friend as he lay in a hosptial bed a few years ago, I held his hand - he gripped onto my for dear life. "There's warmth going up my arm." He mumbled. As he was not in a state to do anything more than lay there, I gave him a thorough hand massage. What frightened me more was as he was feeling warmth up his arm, all I was aware of was the cold despair I was feeling coming from him. I returned the following day to sit by his bedside and hold his hand once again. Though he could barely string a sentence together or know what day of the week it was, it was demanded that I massage his other one to even him up. He was quite insistant.
Of course then there are those who hold your hand because they want to be with you. Fingers laced together walking down the street. That's been years since that happened.
It's quite sad and scary, really.
I get all angsty when my mum and step-dad hold hands in public. Thinking about it, I think it might be a bit of jealousy.
It's struck me a while ago that I have very little touch in my life - monthly massages and the odd hug off friend excepted - the last time anybody kissed me - hell, four years ago now. But I can almost count the times that somebody has held my hand in my adult life.
So surprising is the act to me that it burns in my memory like a brand.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
The Repeated Actions of Falling and Righting Oneself
Trin looked at me like an overbearing librarian."Pand, shut it!"
Desi was standing next to Trin, looking at me with surprise.
"Don't worry, Desi, she's always like this before a race. Never heard anybody moan so much about doing something she loves."
"Who's effing idea was it to do this? The sun is barely up." I moaned. "It's alright for you, you'll be done by nine 'o' clock. I have to wait about for another half hour to start and then I'm not going to finish for over two hours. This isn't fun. I'm surrounded by thousands of lycra clad people, all thinking exactly the same thing. This is shit!"
"Pand, shut it!" repeated Trin and Desi in unison.
Okay, I admit it. Part of my race day plan is to moan for at least ten minutes before the race. If I'm not getting clocked in the face by some person taking off a jumper, or tripping over a pram or having a dog growl at me, I'm being freaked out by the crowds - or in today's case, just a bit tired and grumpy because I didn't quite get enough sleep and I'd been up since 5.45. Desi, arrived at 6.20, Trin at 6.30 and we walked to the event together. You have to have a little bitch about that....
Thing is, my grizzling is my way of shedding my nerves. I'm standing there knowing that I have 21.1 kilometres to cover. Yes, I'm nuts. Yes, nobody else signed me up for this. Yes, I know I've done the training. Yes, I know I've done the distance before. But still! It's 7.30 on a damp, cool Sunday morning and I'm standing there about to wave my friends off on their ten kilometre run and I still have to schlep down St Kilda Road, Round Albert Park Lake and back again.
Phooey.
My race started at eight. Double Phooey.
I was thinking about going back to bed.
Once Trin and Desi were on their way, I continued my internal moaning, whilst doing some gentle stretching and keeping an eye out for Anna from the gym. She was down for the half as well. I didn't find her however. Nevermind.
Today was my fourth half marathon.
The first one was done in Adelaide in May 2009. Reindert walk/ran it with me (he did the full marathon - just met up with me at the two kilometer mark of the half. Two hours thirty nine it took me.
A few months later, I ran the Melbourne half marathon. A warm, sunny day, a bit too warm in many ways. Two hours forty four that one took me. Lost a toenail too.
Last year, in May, I did the Williamstown Half Marathon. Possibly the proudest moment of my life. I ran all the way. It was a seminal moment. It proved that I could do ANYTHING! The official time came in at 2.33.58.
Then I got injured and needed surgery and I had to give up running for six months and that was bloody awful. I was getting back into it in October and I did my right knee. Things didn't look good.
A year later - here I was lining up for the half again.
Of course, all of the rituals were performed the night before. A big bowl of pasta for dinner, my clothes set out, $20 put near my bra to go down the front of it (cab fare). The bum bag was packed. Credit card, driver's licence, gels, light weight house keys. Done.
The only two small changes to my racing outfit - I changed my go-faster red singlet top for a quick dry t-shirt as it was looking like rain - at least the rapid dry t-shirt wouldn't weigh me down or keep me cold. The other change was the black toe socks I picked up in Sydney. These are great - they stop my toes aching too much on longer runs. The other consideration - with the likelihood of rain, contact lenses were placed in my eyes, not my normal glasses. I hoped it wouldn't get too sunny - I don't have any non-prescription sunnies.
Desi, Trin an I walked the three kilometres to the MCG. Halfway there Trin said she'd left her heart rate monitor behind. I stopped myself from saying something. My heart rate monitor is like a critical piece of equiment - up there with my two bras. Being a control freak, I need to know what time I'm doing, where I'm heading, how I'm tracking. It was then I realised that I'd left my hat at home. Oh well, buy one when I get there. Which I did. Can't run without a hat. That's the rules on race day.
Finally, I set off. Passed through the arch at 8.03.
I've learned a lot over the last few years of running.
I don't hit my true stride until the five kilometre mark - I bitch and moan internally until then - and it's all a matter of seeing this period through.
Not being as fast as I would like doesn't upset me any more. Today's humidity made my apply the brakes a bit. Humidity and I don't get on - thankfully it wasn't any warmer.
There are all the normal obstacles to overcome. Not tripping at the drinks stations is one, the sea of plastic cups can be lethal.
The mental obtacles get easier as the race goes on. You tell yourself to be somewhere at a certain point - make the ten kilometre mark by 65 minutes (I got there around 66 minutes - okay with that - certainly not a failure on my part) Have a gel at the eight and sixteen kilometre marks (I had the spare at eighteen as well - was feeling a bit whooshy). Give encouragement where encouragement is due. You chat to a lot of people in the last few kilometres, egging each other on getting each other over the line.
One of the highlights of this race was passing a girl I ran with in the 2009 race. She and I sat on the same pace in 2009 and we helped each other along for an hour or so. It was lovely to see her. We ran together for about a kilometre before I bid her well. She was aiming for around 2.40. I was looking at around twenty minutes quicker. No point slowing myself down to that pace. I had some things to prove to myself.
The only downer to the race - invisible kilometre markings. Psychologically, these markers are critical. Just seeing that you only have seven, three, two kilometres to go can give you an edge. I remember seeing the one, two, three, six, ten, eleven, seventeen, eighteen and twenty kilometre markers only. Not happy, but I was running well, so I took pleasure in that. At the nineteen kilometre mark, one of the volunteers said that it was just ahead. I let out a whoop and a "thank f*ck for that!" before running around the corner and not finding it.
Oh well, I was nearly home.
Did I walk. For twenty or so metres at each drink station (sorry, I can't run and drink) and twice, I walked for about fifty metres to regulate my heart rate, which was up a bit high. No shame in that. Ostensibly, I ran all the way.
My legs held up really well, my breathing was good, except for an occasionaly dry cough - the joys of blossoms flying off the trees down St Kilda Road.
Finally, in the last kilometre, it dawned on me - I've just done this. I wouldn't say it was easy, but I've done it. My knee was good. My legs, though a touch stiff, were good. I was pretty tired tired, but fine.
Two hours, twenty one minutes and thirty five seconds after running through the first arch, I finished.
Twelve clear minutes faster than my last personal best.
And I cried.
Why cry, other than I'm physically wrecked, my toes feel like they're about to drop off and there are thousands of people jostling about?
I cry for a stupid reason. There is nobody here to meet me.
It's like, if a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
I run a half marathon, nobody is there to collect me at the end - have I really done it?
Well, I have. I did it. The results will be up in the next day or so on the website. Pandora Behr, aged 43 - runs a 2.21.35 half marathon, making the 10 kilometre mark at 66.05. I've done it! It will be a matter of public record in a day or so.
Despite not having a friend to meet up with, I regained my composure in a minute, found the water table, downed two nurofen and settled myself. My achilles throbbed for a few minutes, nothing some concentrated stretching didn't fix. Gathering my showbag, going to the toilet, buying a SPIbelt as a well done present (Small Personal Items Belt - much more efficient than the bum bag I've been using to haul things about during races) then I walked the three kilometres home, chatting with another half marathoner down Bridge Road and grabbed a coffee and a finger bun as a treat.
Reindert was very pleased - we caught up on skype when I got home, me, all sweaty, but happy. It's great to rehash a race with somebody who understands.
Doing a body check after my shower, my breasts have not been cut to ribbons. My toenails are intact. My limbs are working well. Just a bit tired, that is all. It's great.
Two years on from my first half marathon, what have I learned, other than I have the spirit of a warrior, that running requires generousity of spirit, tenacity and commitment, that not cutting your toenails can hobble you, that like cycling gear, running clothing is not particularly sexy and that not drinking at each water station should be done at your own risk?
What else other than reaping the health benefits of far fewer colds, a toned, slimmer frame, healthy bones and muscles and far more energy?
I think that running has taught me that I truly can overcome anything. If I can beat myself, I can take on the world. It's taught me that I am worth the time and effort it take to keep fit to such a level. It's taught me that there is some suffering that is truly worth it - that the sacrifice of mornings in bed, of drunken nights out, of time out on the road pays more dividends than the initial sacrifice. I'm truly worth all this effort.
Running has given me a sense of peace. Long may it continue.
I've just finished a book about barefoot and distance running. "Born to Run" by Christopher Mc Dougall details the lives of ultra-marathon runners, including a tribe of Mexican Indians, the Tarahumara and the wonderful, barking mad, inspiring Caballo Blanco - a guy by the name of Micah True.
Get the book. Read it. It's one of the best non-fictions books out there about running. Even if you're a non-runner.
Everything they say about the 'soul' of running is what I've believed for a while.
We're meant to do this.
After all, running is just the process of repeatedly falling down and getting back up again.
Desi was standing next to Trin, looking at me with surprise.
"Don't worry, Desi, she's always like this before a race. Never heard anybody moan so much about doing something she loves."
"Who's effing idea was it to do this? The sun is barely up." I moaned. "It's alright for you, you'll be done by nine 'o' clock. I have to wait about for another half hour to start and then I'm not going to finish for over two hours. This isn't fun. I'm surrounded by thousands of lycra clad people, all thinking exactly the same thing. This is shit!"
"Pand, shut it!" repeated Trin and Desi in unison.
Okay, I admit it. Part of my race day plan is to moan for at least ten minutes before the race. If I'm not getting clocked in the face by some person taking off a jumper, or tripping over a pram or having a dog growl at me, I'm being freaked out by the crowds - or in today's case, just a bit tired and grumpy because I didn't quite get enough sleep and I'd been up since 5.45. Desi, arrived at 6.20, Trin at 6.30 and we walked to the event together. You have to have a little bitch about that....
Thing is, my grizzling is my way of shedding my nerves. I'm standing there knowing that I have 21.1 kilometres to cover. Yes, I'm nuts. Yes, nobody else signed me up for this. Yes, I know I've done the training. Yes, I know I've done the distance before. But still! It's 7.30 on a damp, cool Sunday morning and I'm standing there about to wave my friends off on their ten kilometre run and I still have to schlep down St Kilda Road, Round Albert Park Lake and back again.
Phooey.
My race started at eight. Double Phooey.
I was thinking about going back to bed.
Once Trin and Desi were on their way, I continued my internal moaning, whilst doing some gentle stretching and keeping an eye out for Anna from the gym. She was down for the half as well. I didn't find her however. Nevermind.
Today was my fourth half marathon.
The first one was done in Adelaide in May 2009. Reindert walk/ran it with me (he did the full marathon - just met up with me at the two kilometer mark of the half. Two hours thirty nine it took me.
A few months later, I ran the Melbourne half marathon. A warm, sunny day, a bit too warm in many ways. Two hours forty four that one took me. Lost a toenail too.
Last year, in May, I did the Williamstown Half Marathon. Possibly the proudest moment of my life. I ran all the way. It was a seminal moment. It proved that I could do ANYTHING! The official time came in at 2.33.58.
Then I got injured and needed surgery and I had to give up running for six months and that was bloody awful. I was getting back into it in October and I did my right knee. Things didn't look good.
A year later - here I was lining up for the half again.
Of course, all of the rituals were performed the night before. A big bowl of pasta for dinner, my clothes set out, $20 put near my bra to go down the front of it (cab fare). The bum bag was packed. Credit card, driver's licence, gels, light weight house keys. Done.
Desi, Trin an I walked the three kilometres to the MCG. Halfway there Trin said she'd left her heart rate monitor behind. I stopped myself from saying something. My heart rate monitor is like a critical piece of equiment - up there with my two bras. Being a control freak, I need to know what time I'm doing, where I'm heading, how I'm tracking. It was then I realised that I'd left my hat at home. Oh well, buy one when I get there. Which I did. Can't run without a hat. That's the rules on race day.
Finally, I set off. Passed through the arch at 8.03.
I've learned a lot over the last few years of running.
I don't hit my true stride until the five kilometre mark - I bitch and moan internally until then - and it's all a matter of seeing this period through.
Not being as fast as I would like doesn't upset me any more. Today's humidity made my apply the brakes a bit. Humidity and I don't get on - thankfully it wasn't any warmer.
There are all the normal obstacles to overcome. Not tripping at the drinks stations is one, the sea of plastic cups can be lethal.
The mental obtacles get easier as the race goes on. You tell yourself to be somewhere at a certain point - make the ten kilometre mark by 65 minutes (I got there around 66 minutes - okay with that - certainly not a failure on my part) Have a gel at the eight and sixteen kilometre marks (I had the spare at eighteen as well - was feeling a bit whooshy). Give encouragement where encouragement is due. You chat to a lot of people in the last few kilometres, egging each other on getting each other over the line.
One of the highlights of this race was passing a girl I ran with in the 2009 race. She and I sat on the same pace in 2009 and we helped each other along for an hour or so. It was lovely to see her. We ran together for about a kilometre before I bid her well. She was aiming for around 2.40. I was looking at around twenty minutes quicker. No point slowing myself down to that pace. I had some things to prove to myself.
The only downer to the race - invisible kilometre markings. Psychologically, these markers are critical. Just seeing that you only have seven, three, two kilometres to go can give you an edge. I remember seeing the one, two, three, six, ten, eleven, seventeen, eighteen and twenty kilometre markers only. Not happy, but I was running well, so I took pleasure in that. At the nineteen kilometre mark, one of the volunteers said that it was just ahead. I let out a whoop and a "thank f*ck for that!" before running around the corner and not finding it.
Oh well, I was nearly home.
Did I walk. For twenty or so metres at each drink station (sorry, I can't run and drink) and twice, I walked for about fifty metres to regulate my heart rate, which was up a bit high. No shame in that. Ostensibly, I ran all the way.
My legs held up really well, my breathing was good, except for an occasionaly dry cough - the joys of blossoms flying off the trees down St Kilda Road.
Finally, in the last kilometre, it dawned on me - I've just done this. I wouldn't say it was easy, but I've done it. My knee was good. My legs, though a touch stiff, were good. I was pretty tired tired, but fine.
Two hours, twenty one minutes and thirty five seconds after running through the first arch, I finished.
Twelve clear minutes faster than my last personal best.
And I cried.
Why cry, other than I'm physically wrecked, my toes feel like they're about to drop off and there are thousands of people jostling about?
I cry for a stupid reason. There is nobody here to meet me.
It's like, if a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
I run a half marathon, nobody is there to collect me at the end - have I really done it?
Well, I have. I did it. The results will be up in the next day or so on the website. Pandora Behr, aged 43 - runs a 2.21.35 half marathon, making the 10 kilometre mark at 66.05. I've done it! It will be a matter of public record in a day or so.
Despite not having a friend to meet up with, I regained my composure in a minute, found the water table, downed two nurofen and settled myself. My achilles throbbed for a few minutes, nothing some concentrated stretching didn't fix. Gathering my showbag, going to the toilet, buying a SPIbelt as a well done present (Small Personal Items Belt - much more efficient than the bum bag I've been using to haul things about during races) then I walked the three kilometres home, chatting with another half marathoner down Bridge Road and grabbed a coffee and a finger bun as a treat.
Reindert was very pleased - we caught up on skype when I got home, me, all sweaty, but happy. It's great to rehash a race with somebody who understands.
Doing a body check after my shower, my breasts have not been cut to ribbons. My toenails are intact. My limbs are working well. Just a bit tired, that is all. It's great.
Two years on from my first half marathon, what have I learned, other than I have the spirit of a warrior, that running requires generousity of spirit, tenacity and commitment, that not cutting your toenails can hobble you, that like cycling gear, running clothing is not particularly sexy and that not drinking at each water station should be done at your own risk?
What else other than reaping the health benefits of far fewer colds, a toned, slimmer frame, healthy bones and muscles and far more energy?
I think that running has taught me that I truly can overcome anything. If I can beat myself, I can take on the world. It's taught me that I am worth the time and effort it take to keep fit to such a level. It's taught me that there is some suffering that is truly worth it - that the sacrifice of mornings in bed, of drunken nights out, of time out on the road pays more dividends than the initial sacrifice. I'm truly worth all this effort.
Running has given me a sense of peace. Long may it continue.
I've just finished a book about barefoot and distance running. "Born to Run" by Christopher Mc Dougall details the lives of ultra-marathon runners, including a tribe of Mexican Indians, the Tarahumara and the wonderful, barking mad, inspiring Caballo Blanco - a guy by the name of Micah True.
Get the book. Read it. It's one of the best non-fictions books out there about running. Even if you're a non-runner.
Everything they say about the 'soul' of running is what I've believed for a while.
We're meant to do this.
After all, running is just the process of repeatedly falling down and getting back up again.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Alone Time
Finally - I got some quality alone time.
Time for me to do absolutely nothing.
It seems to get me to stop being busy it takes a rather large hangover, a swanky hotel room and a rainy day.
I had plans of going for a run this morning, going around the Opera House, Mrs Macquarie's Seat and the Botanical Gardens round to Wooloomooloo.... but the copious amounts of alcohol imbibed the day before meant I was up half the night with the 'screaming dries', drinking my body weight in water between the hours of three and six.
Then looking outside, it was raining. Not conducive for running in a city I don't know that well.
Besides, the room was hot, the bed too soft, there was no fresh air... It was a lovely hotel room - but I would have been better off in my own bed, with a bit of fresh air coming in the open window.
Then again, I wouldn't have got my alone time if I was home.
Today reminded me that I'm so glad I don't drink to excess very often. Sometimes it gets done. Thankfully it's a very rare occurrence. I barely drink as it is - the odd bender will not hurt - it's just the next day that stings.
There were loose plans to meet a friend who'd emigrated in the last few weeks for brunch - but as she has moved house the day before, I never heard from her, not that I was upset by this. It would have been nice to see her - but I know what moving house is like. I'll catch her next time I'm up there.
So here I was. Feeling a little like a sump pit, with a day to myself. No chores to do - they're a thousand miles away in Melbourne, no exercise to be partaken of, no need to be anywhere until check out, no friends to visit - did that Friday night before I went to Sydney, going round to Blarney's for a cuppa and a chat.
I just had to get myself to the airport by two pm and the rest of the day was free. That was all that was on the agenda.
First port of call - a nice long bath. The room had this fantastic tub. I climbed in, book in hand, cup of coffee on the side for a long soak.
Bliss.
It got me thinking. There are three months left of this year. Time to set some real goals again.
This is what I came up with.
I want to have lost 20 kilos this year - I have put on a few over winter - so there's about seven to make my score. I can lose seven kilos in three months - I just need to focus. This started today. Watch this space.
I have a half marathon to run next weekend. I'd like to do it in as close to two hours and fifteen minutes as possible. I can't dwell on this too much - it will come down to the day. My best half marathon time is 2.32 - I'm running far better than I was then - it will be interesting to see how I go. One of the girls from the gym may be running with me.
My other running goal - I want to be able to say I can run ten kilometres in under an hour - I don't care if it's 59.59 - it's my goal. I've got the time to around 63 minutes at the moment if the City to Bay is anything to go by. It's something to train for and work towards.
Talking of work - another major goal is to keep myself employed. I'm feeling a bit better about things at the moment, but I'm putting it out there that I keep gainfully employed for the future.
At the start of the year I promised my friend Kath that I'd get two articles published before the end of the year. Better get cracking on that one too. Yes, this is down to luck and editor discretion, but I take pride in the fact that when I've submitted stuff to newspapers on the fly, the editors write back and say "no thanks." This is a good rejection. If you're crap you get no acknowledgement at all.
And I'd like to go on a date. Or two. I'm emotionally available for the first time in a few years, it's time. I'm not dwelling on this one either. It will happen. You can't plan these things - you just have to put it out there.
Seems my thinking time got put to good use.
After check out time, I left my suitcase with the concierge and went for a walk. As there was no friend to meet, it was a case of look for things to do. Sydney's never been my favorite place, but given I had a few hours to kill, I went for a wander.
As luck would have it, being a Sunday morning, I thought of my cousins who live at the end of George Street. My cousin Joanie is married to Andy, the Rector of one of the Anglican Churches.
It was Sunday. They'd be around. But it would mean that I'd have to turn up to Church.
Finding the chapel, I entered, met with a haze of frankincense and what sounded like Latin being bounded about at the front (it was just a well pronounced High Anglican catechism) My stomach was growling under the weight of copious red wine from the day before - I had an empty coffee cup in my hand, purchased on the way there. This was going to be fun.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
Entering the church, I genuflected, crossed myself and took a seat in the back pew, hoping to hell the building didn't fall down around me - old, well ingrained habits die hard.
At least I missed sacrament. I can't go up for sacrament, though if my cousins knew I was in the congregation, it would be seen as a bit odd if I didn't go up for a blessing.
The family aren't all aware of my conversion to the dark side of spirituality. Never to mind. These two are good folk. Andy and I are normally found behind the woodshed at family reunions having a cigarette. Andy changed denominations when he became a priest so he could have a beer on Sundays. Andy's a great bloke.
The service was over in about ten minutes. I found Joanie, who was thrilled to see me, and we caught up. We worked out last time I saw her was at her father's funeral - three years ago. This visit was a bit overdue.
It was great to see them again. I got a tour of the old church - one of Sydney's oldest and grandest.
Then it was time to go.
I made my way back down George Street, stopping at Wagamama for a quick meal and I found another coffee.
A train ride, a plane trip, a bus ride and a quick run on a tram and I was home.
And for the first time in I don't know how long, I got a day all for myself.
I hope it doesn't take another trip to Sydney and an overnight stay in a swanky hotel to get another day to myself.
As for the hangover. A small glass of the hair of the dog is drained next to me. The rather charming Bleasdale Malbec went down like silk - one small glass only. The bottle was purchased in a drunken haze as a traveller. I love Langhorne Creek wines. Always have. I just don't remember buying it last night.
I might donate the rest of the open bottle to my charming next door neighbour with whom I share a bottle every now and then. I can't see myself having the time to drink the rest of it over the next week.
If anything, this weekend's made me question how I live my life.
Hopefully this is a good thing.
Time for me to do absolutely nothing.
It seems to get me to stop being busy it takes a rather large hangover, a swanky hotel room and a rainy day.
I had plans of going for a run this morning, going around the Opera House, Mrs Macquarie's Seat and the Botanical Gardens round to Wooloomooloo.... but the copious amounts of alcohol imbibed the day before meant I was up half the night with the 'screaming dries', drinking my body weight in water between the hours of three and six.
Then looking outside, it was raining. Not conducive for running in a city I don't know that well.
Besides, the room was hot, the bed too soft, there was no fresh air... It was a lovely hotel room - but I would have been better off in my own bed, with a bit of fresh air coming in the open window.
Then again, I wouldn't have got my alone time if I was home.
Today reminded me that I'm so glad I don't drink to excess very often. Sometimes it gets done. Thankfully it's a very rare occurrence. I barely drink as it is - the odd bender will not hurt - it's just the next day that stings.
There were loose plans to meet a friend who'd emigrated in the last few weeks for brunch - but as she has moved house the day before, I never heard from her, not that I was upset by this. It would have been nice to see her - but I know what moving house is like. I'll catch her next time I'm up there.
So here I was. Feeling a little like a sump pit, with a day to myself. No chores to do - they're a thousand miles away in Melbourne, no exercise to be partaken of, no need to be anywhere until check out, no friends to visit - did that Friday night before I went to Sydney, going round to Blarney's for a cuppa and a chat.
I just had to get myself to the airport by two pm and the rest of the day was free. That was all that was on the agenda.
First port of call - a nice long bath. The room had this fantastic tub. I climbed in, book in hand, cup of coffee on the side for a long soak.
Bliss.
It got me thinking. There are three months left of this year. Time to set some real goals again.
This is what I came up with.
I want to have lost 20 kilos this year - I have put on a few over winter - so there's about seven to make my score. I can lose seven kilos in three months - I just need to focus. This started today. Watch this space.
I have a half marathon to run next weekend. I'd like to do it in as close to two hours and fifteen minutes as possible. I can't dwell on this too much - it will come down to the day. My best half marathon time is 2.32 - I'm running far better than I was then - it will be interesting to see how I go. One of the girls from the gym may be running with me.
My other running goal - I want to be able to say I can run ten kilometres in under an hour - I don't care if it's 59.59 - it's my goal. I've got the time to around 63 minutes at the moment if the City to Bay is anything to go by. It's something to train for and work towards.
Talking of work - another major goal is to keep myself employed. I'm feeling a bit better about things at the moment, but I'm putting it out there that I keep gainfully employed for the future.
At the start of the year I promised my friend Kath that I'd get two articles published before the end of the year. Better get cracking on that one too. Yes, this is down to luck and editor discretion, but I take pride in the fact that when I've submitted stuff to newspapers on the fly, the editors write back and say "no thanks." This is a good rejection. If you're crap you get no acknowledgement at all.
And I'd like to go on a date. Or two. I'm emotionally available for the first time in a few years, it's time. I'm not dwelling on this one either. It will happen. You can't plan these things - you just have to put it out there.
Seems my thinking time got put to good use.
After check out time, I left my suitcase with the concierge and went for a walk. As there was no friend to meet, it was a case of look for things to do. Sydney's never been my favorite place, but given I had a few hours to kill, I went for a wander.
As luck would have it, being a Sunday morning, I thought of my cousins who live at the end of George Street. My cousin Joanie is married to Andy, the Rector of one of the Anglican Churches.
It was Sunday. They'd be around. But it would mean that I'd have to turn up to Church.
Finding the chapel, I entered, met with a haze of frankincense and what sounded like Latin being bounded about at the front (it was just a well pronounced High Anglican catechism) My stomach was growling under the weight of copious red wine from the day before - I had an empty coffee cup in my hand, purchased on the way there. This was going to be fun.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
Entering the church, I genuflected, crossed myself and took a seat in the back pew, hoping to hell the building didn't fall down around me - old, well ingrained habits die hard.
At least I missed sacrament. I can't go up for sacrament, though if my cousins knew I was in the congregation, it would be seen as a bit odd if I didn't go up for a blessing.
The family aren't all aware of my conversion to the dark side of spirituality. Never to mind. These two are good folk. Andy and I are normally found behind the woodshed at family reunions having a cigarette. Andy changed denominations when he became a priest so he could have a beer on Sundays. Andy's a great bloke.
The service was over in about ten minutes. I found Joanie, who was thrilled to see me, and we caught up. We worked out last time I saw her was at her father's funeral - three years ago. This visit was a bit overdue.
It was great to see them again. I got a tour of the old church - one of Sydney's oldest and grandest.
Then it was time to go.
I made my way back down George Street, stopping at Wagamama for a quick meal and I found another coffee.
A train ride, a plane trip, a bus ride and a quick run on a tram and I was home.
And for the first time in I don't know how long, I got a day all for myself.
I hope it doesn't take another trip to Sydney and an overnight stay in a swanky hotel to get another day to myself.
As for the hangover. A small glass of the hair of the dog is drained next to me. The rather charming Bleasdale Malbec went down like silk - one small glass only. The bottle was purchased in a drunken haze as a traveller. I love Langhorne Creek wines. Always have. I just don't remember buying it last night.
I might donate the rest of the open bottle to my charming next door neighbour with whom I share a bottle every now and then. I can't see myself having the time to drink the rest of it over the next week.
If anything, this weekend's made me question how I live my life.
Hopefully this is a good thing.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Snippets from a Busy Week
Not having time to put a proper blog entry together I'm going to give you some snippets of what is going on at the moment. It might read a bit like meme, but it's all that I can write for the moment. Finding more than half an hour to sit and write at the moment is proving hard. Making matters worse, I'm writing all day at work. I find that when I'm stuck writing all day, it's the last thing I want to do when I get home.
But I can blurt out stuff between documents - so here goes.
1. Proudest acheivement of the week.
I went to Pump with Emm at the Collins Street franchise of the gym last night. This is my back-up gym, the one I go to when I have to go to the gym but have something on after. To walk a few doors down from work, throw on my gym clothes and get home for seven is a good thing. Last night, we queued up, got our weights and participated in a great class. A new instructor for me - he had the voice of a 1970's radio DJ - with great form. Not too annoying. Emm and I have a slight competetive streak. Emm has heavier squat and back weights to me (by 2 kgs) - I'm a bit stronger on the lunge and shoulder tracks. I noticed the gym was far cooler than my normal one - so breaking a sweat was getting hard. I also noticed the instructor looking over our way regularly. It was a great class. 400 calories burned an hour later. Emm and I got a high five off the instructor. "You guys ROCK! You pump some serious weights. There are a lot of blokes you put to shame out there." Emm and I blushed.'Yeah, we're hard core - and stupidly competetive." We grinned at each other. We are stupidly competetive - in a very friendly way. The recognition felt really good.
2. Nuff Nuff moment of the week
Coming out of the gym after pump class, Emm and I clammer on the tram to go home. I hunt around for my house keys. No house keys to be found. Went though my bags and all the pockets. No house keys. ARGH. Called the gym - that was an ordeal in itself - stupid-centralised-bloody-computerised-switchboards. After five minutes, talked to the gym receptionist. No, no keys had been handed in - and she couldn't look in the locker rooms as she was the only one on the desk - but she took my details. I had my suspicions that my keys were either on my desk or in the lock of my locker at work (joys of hot desking - I keep my locker key with my house keys so I don't forget it)
Next, make a call to Glen Waverley, who lives a few streets away and is possession of my spare keys. He and Merijn were about to sit down to dinner. I said I'd be there in 20 minutes. Felt like a right idiot, in my gym gear, hobbit shoes flapping, tail firmly between my legs. The only good thing was that Merijn was looking just as fetching in her dressing gown as she greeted me at the door - both of us fashion plates. I'm really thankful that my contingency plan worked out. Glen Waverley drove me home with my spares. Without them, I'd have had to have stayed on Emm's new couch for the night. It's nice to know that this support network is in place.
My real house keys were found in the lock of my locker this morning when I got to work. Where I suspected they would be.
Still feel like a right nuffer.
3. Result of the Week
After a few weeks of having my blood pressure through the roof it appears to be coming down a little. The symptoms are subsiding and I'm feeling a lot more normal. This is thanks to the naturopath - and a clean up of my diet which had strayed from the course a little - and enough fish oil to make me feel like a salmon fillet. Sugar and salt (read sodium) have to be kept to a true minimum, milk is being imbibed in strict moderation. Cheese is banned. Back on 1400 calories a day with a slight gentling of my exercise regime. It all appears to be working in my favour. It's still a bit high, but not scary high. The energy is returning to it's normal levels. I have to say thanks to my naturopath - the thought of going onto blood pressure pills is as enamouring as having my armpit hairs plucked from my body with a set of pliers. Thankfully, the natural remedies are working well. Long may it remain.
Oh, and addition to this - as of this week, I've been six month clean of junk food. By junk food I mean McDonalds, KFC and that awful greasy take away stuff. I've had none of it for six months. One McDonalds coffee doesn't count. Subway doesn't count either as I only have the healthy choices there. Quite proud of myself. I also know that I can never have this stuff again. It does me no favours at all.
4. Discovery of the Week
Going out to dinner with the girls from my online weight loss support group on Saturday night, it was an everybody brings a dish affair. It was a lovely, healthy, varied meal. For dessert, one of the girls brought along this liqueur. Called Moonshine Madness, its brewed up in the Gold Coast Hinterland. This stuff, something like a mix of heavenly ambrosia and the devil's own private brew, is the perfect foil for quality vanilla ice cream. I swear, I could happily have drank the bottle, if I wasn't driving, and I didn't have to share it with the 14 others at dinner. The nip I had left me wanting more, and more, and more. A devilish mix of fortified wine, coffee and chocolate. At something like 26 percent alcohol, the one nip I had did me well in its grasp. Oh, my, oh my - I keep going back to that memory. Thinking of ordering a case. Then I rememeber that the naturopath has sworn me off alcohol as well as ice cream... dammit.
5. Outing of the Week
Another "dammit" moment - I got outed. .
Leaving work the other night, big boss asks me what I'm up to from across the desk. "Gym and client", I reply. "Client?" he asks. "Aha. Client." I respond. Oops. Should have left it at "gym".
I'm not sure if I should add that I have a small soft spot for big boss. He's a bit enigmatic. I'm not normally one for suits, but there's a boyish, hyper-intelligent charm to this one .A bit too private school for my normal tastes, but he's proving to be a nice, intelligent, sometimes funny person to be around, as big bosses go.
I explained that I was a professional tarot reader, among other things. This was said with an immense blush. 'Really, what other services do you provide?" he questioned. "Oh, this and that." was my response. "No, really, what else do you do?" he pressed on.
"Reflexology, reiki, reference point therapy, aromatherapy, massage and website copy." I responded quickly, still blushing - aware that my "hobby jobs" probably made me sound like an alien to this corporate, career banker.
"A woman of many talents, eh."
"A woman with too much time on her hands and a real dislike of being bored."
"And you fit this in after the gym." he shakes his head.
"Yeah. It's called my life."
"When do you relax?"
"Between midnight and seven when I sleep - and Sunday nights." This is a bit of an overstatement, but there are times when it's true.
I felt very exposed. And a little bemused. Why would this ultra-corporate be interested in me - a lowly word nerd?
6. Tragedy of the week
It was announced in the paper today that Reader's Feast bookstore - an icon of the inner city, a place of peace among the heathens, an intelligent, rational haven of truth, beauty and wisdom - will be closing later in the year. This is an absolute travesty. This book store is run with dignity and honour. It's been an intelligent haven for many seeking a place away from the brash commercialism of Borders of the world. Run by the enigmatic Mary Dalmau, it will be sorely missed.
Mary is an institution among the book sellers of the world. It was noted in the paper that Mary championed the works of a Spanish writer, Carlos Zafon Ruiz - he who wrote "Shadows of the Wind. " (do read it - it's fabulous. Sure enough, a few years late, in the novelist's next book, there is a person working in a bookshop called Dalmau. Mary runs her bookshop with an iron fist. Is she wasn't running a book shop she'd be a school librarian. She's somebody I greatly admire for her taste, her dignity and her persistance.
I will miss Reader's Feast even more, as this is the bookshop that employs me every year to do its stock take. It is also the bookstore that runs the festivals at which I volunteer. All good things must come to an end. I'm really bummed about this. I love it there.
7. Travesty of the week
Last weekend on our local tourism show, "Postcards", they featured my favourite macaron shop. Please note, it is 'macaron', a delight of almond meal, sugar and wonderful, delicate flavours and not "macaroon", that slab of dried pastry topped with jam and coconut that took a litre of milk to wash down which your nanna used to feed you. What used to be a twice weekly treat stop on the way to my post office box has become and ordeal. There's always a queue there now. I love La Belle Miette, but I don't like the queueing. I loved going in, having a chat with Cyril in French and ordering my Vanilla and Olive Oil macaron. Now the shop is filled with Japanese tourists and plebs who ask for a dozen "Macaroons". I want to scream at them "IT'S MAC-AR-ON! You dimwit - now piss off back to the suburbs."
Okay, it offends my delicate Myponga-bred sensibilities - how dare they let plebs in La Belle Miette. I have a feeling Caty and Cyril may just think the same way. (For those interested, check out their website www.labellemiette.com.au ) Okay, I'm just getting old and grumpy. And I'm a snob. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea sempre culpa. You can hear the beating of my breast.
8. Purchase of the Week
I'm not one for impulse buys at the moment as I'm saving for a car and a flat and funds in case the work dries up. However, I'm trying to also make sensible choices when it comes to replacing things. Last weekend, on sale at my local shopping centre were quilts. I call a quilt a duvet. Most people in Australia call it a doona. Regardless of nomenclature, I bought a new one - almost half price - a nice, new, warm, pure wool stuffed thing that will go in a cover and keep me warm at night.
I'm a bedding snob normally. I love my bed. I love my high-thread-count sheets - but my duvet.... Well, it's a duvet. I always thought that this one would be retired when I finally got married and got to banish my current bed to the spare room and a new bed could be bought and enjoyed - with new bedding to match. Unfortunately, this has not happened yet, though we wait with baited breath.
So what, you say. Well, it's a bit of an end of an era. I've had my last duvet for nearly twenty years. The one I was sleeping under at the moment was bought down the Edgeware Road Markets in London in 1993. I remember buying this as it was the time I'd just split with my boyfriend Seb and was about to move into a share house the other side of Willesden Green. I bought my duvet for ten quid. Over the last nearly twenty years it's seen me though umpteen share houses, a number of very cold winters, quite a few dodgy paramours, the odd longer term boyfriend, a surgery or two, numerous bouts of bronchitis and flu and has played host to a few visiting cats and dogs who have come to sleep behind my knees over the years. It's always been used with a cover, aired out and stored during summer as it's just too heavy to use during a Melbourne heatwave. I've also worked out that in the nearly twenty years I've had it, it's never been washed.... like eww.
Part of me thinks ridding myself of this piece of bedding may lift some bad juju. Well, we live in hope.
9. Peaceful moment of the week
Was around at Blarney's for my normal Sunday afternoon visit. Chance is still not very well, though not unwell enough to be in hospital. On walking in the door, I collect the Maow Maow and shove him on my shoulder. He stays there for his normal twenty minutes or so. It's what we do. Then I find Chance in his greyhound run - an oversized play pen. Poor little bugger looks wrecked. Blarney tells me to give him a cuddle while she gets some stuff done.
Spending some time cuddling a sick baby - who was thankfully not too whingy - was lovely. He the size of a small bar fridge. He snuggled into my chest, gave me the odd gummy smile and waited patiently for the baby panadol to work. I read him a book or two. I passed his sippy cup full of water to him. I fed him some sandwich and berries, all from the warmth of my lap.
Despite the fact that poor old Chance was lurgy-filled and listless, he was a complete joy to cuddle. I have to make the most of these things - he'll be a teenager in to time - and you can't cuddle teenagers - they bite - everybody knows this.
10. Rediscovery of the week
Work has dealt me the most boring of jobs at the moment. I'm transferring and reformating documents. I have a fortnight of doing this - a thankless task that will make life better in the future. But I know that without music it will do my head in. I've got my iPod with me to help make the time go quicker - and I'm finding some gems. When I don't have my iPod, I beg some music off another member of the team - with various results. I wanted to tip one of the BA's iPods down the loo. My bosses iPhone had some great stuff on it. Danger Dood and I did a swap - he asked to borrow my catelogue of music - poor, misguided lamb. Appears my somewhat eclectic taste is not seen as bad here. I've converted another one to the Pixies's brilliance.
Today's rediscovery is the magic of Portishead. No, not the town in Somerset, the 90's band. Superb, edgy, experimental, sublime. Beth Gibbons' smooth lyrics with a bass and techno edge thrown in for good measure. Glory Box is still one of my favorite tunes ever. The whole album reminds me of another, far more edgy, far more innocent time. A time of jaded streets, of dodgy evenings in dimly lit bars, with a pint in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It reminds me of Cool Water for Men, a hand playing with a tendril of my hair and late nights home on the Jubilee Line. It is the music of illicit nights making love on the roof terrace looking over the chimney pots of North London.
Okay, you didn't need to know the last bit.
Needless to say, it's a special album from a very different time in my life.
But I can blurt out stuff between documents - so here goes.
1. Proudest acheivement of the week.
I went to Pump with Emm at the Collins Street franchise of the gym last night. This is my back-up gym, the one I go to when I have to go to the gym but have something on after. To walk a few doors down from work, throw on my gym clothes and get home for seven is a good thing. Last night, we queued up, got our weights and participated in a great class. A new instructor for me - he had the voice of a 1970's radio DJ - with great form. Not too annoying. Emm and I have a slight competetive streak. Emm has heavier squat and back weights to me (by 2 kgs) - I'm a bit stronger on the lunge and shoulder tracks. I noticed the gym was far cooler than my normal one - so breaking a sweat was getting hard. I also noticed the instructor looking over our way regularly. It was a great class. 400 calories burned an hour later. Emm and I got a high five off the instructor. "You guys ROCK! You pump some serious weights. There are a lot of blokes you put to shame out there." Emm and I blushed.'Yeah, we're hard core - and stupidly competetive." We grinned at each other. We are stupidly competetive - in a very friendly way. The recognition felt really good.
2. Nuff Nuff moment of the week
Coming out of the gym after pump class, Emm and I clammer on the tram to go home. I hunt around for my house keys. No house keys to be found. Went though my bags and all the pockets. No house keys. ARGH. Called the gym - that was an ordeal in itself - stupid-centralised-bloody-computerised-switchboards. After five minutes, talked to the gym receptionist. No, no keys had been handed in - and she couldn't look in the locker rooms as she was the only one on the desk - but she took my details. I had my suspicions that my keys were either on my desk or in the lock of my locker at work (joys of hot desking - I keep my locker key with my house keys so I don't forget it)
Next, make a call to Glen Waverley, who lives a few streets away and is possession of my spare keys. He and Merijn were about to sit down to dinner. I said I'd be there in 20 minutes. Felt like a right idiot, in my gym gear, hobbit shoes flapping, tail firmly between my legs. The only good thing was that Merijn was looking just as fetching in her dressing gown as she greeted me at the door - both of us fashion plates. I'm really thankful that my contingency plan worked out. Glen Waverley drove me home with my spares. Without them, I'd have had to have stayed on Emm's new couch for the night. It's nice to know that this support network is in place.
My real house keys were found in the lock of my locker this morning when I got to work. Where I suspected they would be.
Still feel like a right nuffer.
3. Result of the Week
After a few weeks of having my blood pressure through the roof it appears to be coming down a little. The symptoms are subsiding and I'm feeling a lot more normal. This is thanks to the naturopath - and a clean up of my diet which had strayed from the course a little - and enough fish oil to make me feel like a salmon fillet. Sugar and salt (read sodium) have to be kept to a true minimum, milk is being imbibed in strict moderation. Cheese is banned. Back on 1400 calories a day with a slight gentling of my exercise regime. It all appears to be working in my favour. It's still a bit high, but not scary high. The energy is returning to it's normal levels. I have to say thanks to my naturopath - the thought of going onto blood pressure pills is as enamouring as having my armpit hairs plucked from my body with a set of pliers. Thankfully, the natural remedies are working well. Long may it remain.
Oh, and addition to this - as of this week, I've been six month clean of junk food. By junk food I mean McDonalds, KFC and that awful greasy take away stuff. I've had none of it for six months. One McDonalds coffee doesn't count. Subway doesn't count either as I only have the healthy choices there. Quite proud of myself. I also know that I can never have this stuff again. It does me no favours at all.
4. Discovery of the Week
Going out to dinner with the girls from my online weight loss support group on Saturday night, it was an everybody brings a dish affair. It was a lovely, healthy, varied meal. For dessert, one of the girls brought along this liqueur. Called Moonshine Madness, its brewed up in the Gold Coast Hinterland. This stuff, something like a mix of heavenly ambrosia and the devil's own private brew, is the perfect foil for quality vanilla ice cream. I swear, I could happily have drank the bottle, if I wasn't driving, and I didn't have to share it with the 14 others at dinner. The nip I had left me wanting more, and more, and more. A devilish mix of fortified wine, coffee and chocolate. At something like 26 percent alcohol, the one nip I had did me well in its grasp. Oh, my, oh my - I keep going back to that memory. Thinking of ordering a case. Then I rememeber that the naturopath has sworn me off alcohol as well as ice cream... dammit.
5. Outing of the Week
Another "dammit" moment - I got outed. .
Leaving work the other night, big boss asks me what I'm up to from across the desk. "Gym and client", I reply. "Client?" he asks. "Aha. Client." I respond. Oops. Should have left it at "gym".
I'm not sure if I should add that I have a small soft spot for big boss. He's a bit enigmatic. I'm not normally one for suits, but there's a boyish, hyper-intelligent charm to this one .A bit too private school for my normal tastes, but he's proving to be a nice, intelligent, sometimes funny person to be around, as big bosses go.
I explained that I was a professional tarot reader, among other things. This was said with an immense blush. 'Really, what other services do you provide?" he questioned. "Oh, this and that." was my response. "No, really, what else do you do?" he pressed on.
"Reflexology, reiki, reference point therapy, aromatherapy, massage and website copy." I responded quickly, still blushing - aware that my "hobby jobs" probably made me sound like an alien to this corporate, career banker.
"A woman of many talents, eh."
"A woman with too much time on her hands and a real dislike of being bored."
"And you fit this in after the gym." he shakes his head.
"Yeah. It's called my life."
"When do you relax?"
"Between midnight and seven when I sleep - and Sunday nights." This is a bit of an overstatement, but there are times when it's true.
I felt very exposed. And a little bemused. Why would this ultra-corporate be interested in me - a lowly word nerd?
6. Tragedy of the week
It was announced in the paper today that Reader's Feast bookstore - an icon of the inner city, a place of peace among the heathens, an intelligent, rational haven of truth, beauty and wisdom - will be closing later in the year. This is an absolute travesty. This book store is run with dignity and honour. It's been an intelligent haven for many seeking a place away from the brash commercialism of Borders of the world. Run by the enigmatic Mary Dalmau, it will be sorely missed.
Mary is an institution among the book sellers of the world. It was noted in the paper that Mary championed the works of a Spanish writer, Carlos Zafon Ruiz - he who wrote "Shadows of the Wind. " (do read it - it's fabulous. Sure enough, a few years late, in the novelist's next book, there is a person working in a bookshop called Dalmau. Mary runs her bookshop with an iron fist. Is she wasn't running a book shop she'd be a school librarian. She's somebody I greatly admire for her taste, her dignity and her persistance.
I will miss Reader's Feast even more, as this is the bookshop that employs me every year to do its stock take. It is also the bookstore that runs the festivals at which I volunteer. All good things must come to an end. I'm really bummed about this. I love it there.
7. Travesty of the week
Last weekend on our local tourism show, "Postcards", they featured my favourite macaron shop. Please note, it is 'macaron', a delight of almond meal, sugar and wonderful, delicate flavours and not "macaroon", that slab of dried pastry topped with jam and coconut that took a litre of milk to wash down which your nanna used to feed you. What used to be a twice weekly treat stop on the way to my post office box has become and ordeal. There's always a queue there now. I love La Belle Miette, but I don't like the queueing. I loved going in, having a chat with Cyril in French and ordering my Vanilla and Olive Oil macaron. Now the shop is filled with Japanese tourists and plebs who ask for a dozen "Macaroons". I want to scream at them "IT'S MAC-AR-ON! You dimwit - now piss off back to the suburbs."
Okay, it offends my delicate Myponga-bred sensibilities - how dare they let plebs in La Belle Miette. I have a feeling Caty and Cyril may just think the same way. (For those interested, check out their website www.labellemiette.com.au ) Okay, I'm just getting old and grumpy. And I'm a snob. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea sempre culpa. You can hear the beating of my breast.
8. Purchase of the Week
I'm not one for impulse buys at the moment as I'm saving for a car and a flat and funds in case the work dries up. However, I'm trying to also make sensible choices when it comes to replacing things. Last weekend, on sale at my local shopping centre were quilts. I call a quilt a duvet. Most people in Australia call it a doona. Regardless of nomenclature, I bought a new one - almost half price - a nice, new, warm, pure wool stuffed thing that will go in a cover and keep me warm at night.
I'm a bedding snob normally. I love my bed. I love my high-thread-count sheets - but my duvet.... Well, it's a duvet. I always thought that this one would be retired when I finally got married and got to banish my current bed to the spare room and a new bed could be bought and enjoyed - with new bedding to match. Unfortunately, this has not happened yet, though we wait with baited breath.
So what, you say. Well, it's a bit of an end of an era. I've had my last duvet for nearly twenty years. The one I was sleeping under at the moment was bought down the Edgeware Road Markets in London in 1993. I remember buying this as it was the time I'd just split with my boyfriend Seb and was about to move into a share house the other side of Willesden Green. I bought my duvet for ten quid. Over the last nearly twenty years it's seen me though umpteen share houses, a number of very cold winters, quite a few dodgy paramours, the odd longer term boyfriend, a surgery or two, numerous bouts of bronchitis and flu and has played host to a few visiting cats and dogs who have come to sleep behind my knees over the years. It's always been used with a cover, aired out and stored during summer as it's just too heavy to use during a Melbourne heatwave. I've also worked out that in the nearly twenty years I've had it, it's never been washed.... like eww.
Part of me thinks ridding myself of this piece of bedding may lift some bad juju. Well, we live in hope.
9. Peaceful moment of the week
Was around at Blarney's for my normal Sunday afternoon visit. Chance is still not very well, though not unwell enough to be in hospital. On walking in the door, I collect the Maow Maow and shove him on my shoulder. He stays there for his normal twenty minutes or so. It's what we do. Then I find Chance in his greyhound run - an oversized play pen. Poor little bugger looks wrecked. Blarney tells me to give him a cuddle while she gets some stuff done.
Spending some time cuddling a sick baby - who was thankfully not too whingy - was lovely. He the size of a small bar fridge. He snuggled into my chest, gave me the odd gummy smile and waited patiently for the baby panadol to work. I read him a book or two. I passed his sippy cup full of water to him. I fed him some sandwich and berries, all from the warmth of my lap.
Despite the fact that poor old Chance was lurgy-filled and listless, he was a complete joy to cuddle. I have to make the most of these things - he'll be a teenager in to time - and you can't cuddle teenagers - they bite - everybody knows this.
10. Rediscovery of the week
Work has dealt me the most boring of jobs at the moment. I'm transferring and reformating documents. I have a fortnight of doing this - a thankless task that will make life better in the future. But I know that without music it will do my head in. I've got my iPod with me to help make the time go quicker - and I'm finding some gems. When I don't have my iPod, I beg some music off another member of the team - with various results. I wanted to tip one of the BA's iPods down the loo. My bosses iPhone had some great stuff on it. Danger Dood and I did a swap - he asked to borrow my catelogue of music - poor, misguided lamb. Appears my somewhat eclectic taste is not seen as bad here. I've converted another one to the Pixies's brilliance.
Today's rediscovery is the magic of Portishead. No, not the town in Somerset, the 90's band. Superb, edgy, experimental, sublime. Beth Gibbons' smooth lyrics with a bass and techno edge thrown in for good measure. Glory Box is still one of my favorite tunes ever. The whole album reminds me of another, far more edgy, far more innocent time. A time of jaded streets, of dodgy evenings in dimly lit bars, with a pint in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It reminds me of Cool Water for Men, a hand playing with a tendril of my hair and late nights home on the Jubilee Line. It is the music of illicit nights making love on the roof terrace looking over the chimney pots of North London.
Okay, you didn't need to know the last bit.
Needless to say, it's a special album from a very different time in my life.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Life Lessons
I've been dealt a few life lessons of late, hence being quiet on the blogging. This is not a bad thing - life is fine, but I've found I've needed a bit if time out of late to ponder these rather major lessons. I've also been racing around like a blue bottomed fly for the last two weeks - it's made making time for writing really difficult.
So, what have a I learned in the last ten days?
Children's Hospitals are modelled on the eighth level of hell. Dante tells of the place where the fraudulent go, a placed that can only be reached by a winged creature down a steep ravine. The Royal Children's Hospital at 10.30 pm feels like such a place. One of Blarney's boys was in again with a bad chest cold - the only place for a little tacker who can't breathe that well. I got a call from Blarney after Masons on Monday, telling me that she was with Chance at the RCH. She also told me that she'd gone there straight from work and was a bit glum. Being a good friend, I raced home to collect some supplies for her - a toothbrush, toothpaste, some moisturiser, leggings and t-shirt, some dry shampoo and a pair of orange underpants. These along with a few stray magazines were taken to the hospital, where Blarney would wait for me at the McDonald's downstairs.
I can't be the only person who finds it strange that there is a McDonalds in the ground floor hospital of the Children's Hospital.
Regardless, arriving at 10.30 p.m., the main doors are all locked - the only way in is through the Emergency Department, which is badly sign posted and hard to get to being off the main road, down a ramp, around the corner and two storeys down in the hospital basement. It truly felt like I was descending into some Dante-esque oblivion. At least the gate keeper, a nice male nurse, gave me clear directions when I finally got there. The waiting room of the mmergency department was a flurry of sobs and shusshes - frazzled parents and even more frazzled children. Awful place.
Ten minutes later I find her, cup of tea drained, looking a bit ragged. We go up to the ward to see Chance. He's in the same ward as last time. He's in with the same thing as last time. Nothing life threatening, but in need of a bit of help to get him through. He's snoring like a steam train. That's a good sign.
"Never going to keep a girlfriend snoring like that, Little Mate." I tell him quietly, careful not to wake him. He looks like a normal little boy (or man for that matter - ever noticed that men look like little boys when they sleep?) just with a nasal canula taped to his face and a monitor strapped to his foot are the only anomilies.
Blarney looks around. "I could cope with this place if it wasn't for the bogans. The kid in the next bed has been having regular heart attacks. She's two. The other kid's mother is a drug addict. During the day the social worker is here. Both of them get fed McDonald's food. They're two."
"You realise how lucky you are, don't you."
She nods. Blarney is lucky. Her boys are ostensibly healthy - just being born early their lungs take a walloping when they get a cold. Nothing a day or so in hospital won't fix and they should grow out of it soon. Blarney also knows that her boys are going to have every opportunity to grow and live and enjoy a happy, healthy life. Not every child is that lucky.
I pass over the care package, showing her the items I'd brought for her.
"Orange underpants?" She questions. We're of a similar size. And yes, they're freshly laundered.
"Yep. How can you not have fun wearing orange underpants?"
I think her smile was the first genuine one I'd seen since I'd seen her two nights before when I was dropping the cat back.
I left the hospital twenty minutes later, absolutely drained. It's not a fun place. It's a place that reeks of illness and death and shattered dreams. I also know that it's a place where miracles happen as well to negate some of this bad stuff - but all I feel is the loss and sadness when I go there. I'm just thankful that Chance is now back to normal and that the time they spend there is minimal.
Life Lesson One: A small amount of gentle humour can go a very long way in most circumstances.
Life Lesson Two: Blessings can be found in the most awful of places. You have to look for them. Or look at what is going on around you to work out how blessed you are.
The next lessons have been found at work.
Bastard Bank has extended my contract for another three months. I can't complain about this. The consultancy will be happy. I'm fine where I am. The natives are friendly and the work is good when you can get through the bureacracy.
Yet I have been wondering about this work thing and the role the consultancy plays. I found myself at lunch in a boardroom full of men midweek. Standard catered sandwiches and party fare, cans of soft drink and a fruit platter. Anybody in corporate Australia knows this as the standard catered lunch.
I'm wearing a suit. My handshake meets that of the managing director and the rest of the board as confidently as the rest of the men in the room. I can hold my own. I'm a professional.
Yet I wonder, who is this woman? Why are they talking to me like an adult? Like somebody who knows what they are doing... I still don't get how people see me as this corporate flunky, but it appears it's the persona I take on at work. Hard working, professional, competent.
I had a similar reaction from another colleague later that afternoon. She was asking for my opinion on something. This is something I'm only just getting used to. I'm used to doing a good job and keeping under the radar. It seems I'm sticking out a bit more, for good reasons, of late. Another conversation with yet another friend had me meeting a similar comparison. I told her about the consultancy I was with to which she said ,"Oh, they only take on the best. I've been in the business for ten years - you only get top flight people from there." I was gobsmacked.
Life Lesson Three: How we perceive ourselves is not always how the world sees us.
This weekend has been lovely and quiet. Lots of exercise and a bit of cleaning thrown in for good measure. A trip the the naturopath has me back on herbs for blood pressure - herbs which taste a bit like a mix of dirt and compost. The mix might taste like crap, but it is good for me. Anything to keep me off the poisons the regular doctor will try and feed me. She's also made me swear off sugar, artificial sweetener and to give a wheat free diet a try to see if that makes any difference. My naturopath is a killjoy. She's also a realist. I've been told to give it a go and see if it helps bring my blood pressure down and my flagging energy levels up. If things don't get better quickly then I'll be encouraged to go back to the quack.
Speaking of pills, I've also been feeding another friend's cats this weekend - one lovely, but rather decrepit Burman and the fattest orange tomcat you'll ever meet. The Burman needs a pill twice a day. My friend gave me instructions the other night on how to use the cat pill giverer contraption - an item that looked like a large syringe. After two feeds I've worked out that shoving the pill down his throat with my finger was far easier, kinder and less problematic.
The cat is a junkie. He knows what's good for him, pill syringe or finger, it gets the job done.
Life lesson four: Medicine, in what ever form it comes in, may be revolting, but it is there to help. However it is administered. You have to trust the process.
The last lessons were learned at beer club. I popped in for the evening, catching up with a few old friends. Which is always good. I skulked home a few hours later, two beers down me.
I like beer. Beer keeps me honest. It makes me look at my life honestly - a bit too honestly at times.
Life lesson five: Beer is my friend.
Another friend was at beer club. One who I rarely see or speak to any more. We were once close but time and circumstances have deemed we have limited contact now. It's for the best. We're not the same people any more. It's not that we aren't friends any more, we just don't spend time together. It's not worth pushing it. Too much has happened. Glen Waverley brought it up at lunch the other day. I told him to leave it. Not worth pursuing. I can't go back there. There was too much pain associated with him. This loose friendship is all I can hope for and all I want. I'm better on the path I'm on now.
I can look at him now and no longer feel any remorse.
Life lesson six. Letting go is often the kindest thing to do when it comes to friendship. It's also the most humane for all concerned.
It's been a big week.
So, what have a I learned in the last ten days?
Children's Hospitals are modelled on the eighth level of hell. Dante tells of the place where the fraudulent go, a placed that can only be reached by a winged creature down a steep ravine. The Royal Children's Hospital at 10.30 pm feels like such a place. One of Blarney's boys was in again with a bad chest cold - the only place for a little tacker who can't breathe that well. I got a call from Blarney after Masons on Monday, telling me that she was with Chance at the RCH. She also told me that she'd gone there straight from work and was a bit glum. Being a good friend, I raced home to collect some supplies for her - a toothbrush, toothpaste, some moisturiser, leggings and t-shirt, some dry shampoo and a pair of orange underpants. These along with a few stray magazines were taken to the hospital, where Blarney would wait for me at the McDonald's downstairs.
I can't be the only person who finds it strange that there is a McDonalds in the ground floor hospital of the Children's Hospital.
Regardless, arriving at 10.30 p.m., the main doors are all locked - the only way in is through the Emergency Department, which is badly sign posted and hard to get to being off the main road, down a ramp, around the corner and two storeys down in the hospital basement. It truly felt like I was descending into some Dante-esque oblivion. At least the gate keeper, a nice male nurse, gave me clear directions when I finally got there. The waiting room of the mmergency department was a flurry of sobs and shusshes - frazzled parents and even more frazzled children. Awful place.
Ten minutes later I find her, cup of tea drained, looking a bit ragged. We go up to the ward to see Chance. He's in the same ward as last time. He's in with the same thing as last time. Nothing life threatening, but in need of a bit of help to get him through. He's snoring like a steam train. That's a good sign.
"Never going to keep a girlfriend snoring like that, Little Mate." I tell him quietly, careful not to wake him. He looks like a normal little boy (or man for that matter - ever noticed that men look like little boys when they sleep?) just with a nasal canula taped to his face and a monitor strapped to his foot are the only anomilies.
Blarney looks around. "I could cope with this place if it wasn't for the bogans. The kid in the next bed has been having regular heart attacks. She's two. The other kid's mother is a drug addict. During the day the social worker is here. Both of them get fed McDonald's food. They're two."
"You realise how lucky you are, don't you."
She nods. Blarney is lucky. Her boys are ostensibly healthy - just being born early their lungs take a walloping when they get a cold. Nothing a day or so in hospital won't fix and they should grow out of it soon. Blarney also knows that her boys are going to have every opportunity to grow and live and enjoy a happy, healthy life. Not every child is that lucky.
I pass over the care package, showing her the items I'd brought for her.
"Orange underpants?" She questions. We're of a similar size. And yes, they're freshly laundered.
"Yep. How can you not have fun wearing orange underpants?"
I think her smile was the first genuine one I'd seen since I'd seen her two nights before when I was dropping the cat back.
I left the hospital twenty minutes later, absolutely drained. It's not a fun place. It's a place that reeks of illness and death and shattered dreams. I also know that it's a place where miracles happen as well to negate some of this bad stuff - but all I feel is the loss and sadness when I go there. I'm just thankful that Chance is now back to normal and that the time they spend there is minimal.
Life Lesson One: A small amount of gentle humour can go a very long way in most circumstances.
Life Lesson Two: Blessings can be found in the most awful of places. You have to look for them. Or look at what is going on around you to work out how blessed you are.
The next lessons have been found at work.
Bastard Bank has extended my contract for another three months. I can't complain about this. The consultancy will be happy. I'm fine where I am. The natives are friendly and the work is good when you can get through the bureacracy.
Yet I have been wondering about this work thing and the role the consultancy plays. I found myself at lunch in a boardroom full of men midweek. Standard catered sandwiches and party fare, cans of soft drink and a fruit platter. Anybody in corporate Australia knows this as the standard catered lunch.
I'm wearing a suit. My handshake meets that of the managing director and the rest of the board as confidently as the rest of the men in the room. I can hold my own. I'm a professional.
Yet I wonder, who is this woman? Why are they talking to me like an adult? Like somebody who knows what they are doing... I still don't get how people see me as this corporate flunky, but it appears it's the persona I take on at work. Hard working, professional, competent.
I had a similar reaction from another colleague later that afternoon. She was asking for my opinion on something. This is something I'm only just getting used to. I'm used to doing a good job and keeping under the radar. It seems I'm sticking out a bit more, for good reasons, of late. Another conversation with yet another friend had me meeting a similar comparison. I told her about the consultancy I was with to which she said ,"Oh, they only take on the best. I've been in the business for ten years - you only get top flight people from there." I was gobsmacked.
Life Lesson Three: How we perceive ourselves is not always how the world sees us.
This weekend has been lovely and quiet. Lots of exercise and a bit of cleaning thrown in for good measure. A trip the the naturopath has me back on herbs for blood pressure - herbs which taste a bit like a mix of dirt and compost. The mix might taste like crap, but it is good for me. Anything to keep me off the poisons the regular doctor will try and feed me. She's also made me swear off sugar, artificial sweetener and to give a wheat free diet a try to see if that makes any difference. My naturopath is a killjoy. She's also a realist. I've been told to give it a go and see if it helps bring my blood pressure down and my flagging energy levels up. If things don't get better quickly then I'll be encouraged to go back to the quack.
Speaking of pills, I've also been feeding another friend's cats this weekend - one lovely, but rather decrepit Burman and the fattest orange tomcat you'll ever meet. The Burman needs a pill twice a day. My friend gave me instructions the other night on how to use the cat pill giverer contraption - an item that looked like a large syringe. After two feeds I've worked out that shoving the pill down his throat with my finger was far easier, kinder and less problematic.
The cat is a junkie. He knows what's good for him, pill syringe or finger, it gets the job done.
Life lesson four: Medicine, in what ever form it comes in, may be revolting, but it is there to help. However it is administered. You have to trust the process.
The last lessons were learned at beer club. I popped in for the evening, catching up with a few old friends. Which is always good. I skulked home a few hours later, two beers down me.
I like beer. Beer keeps me honest. It makes me look at my life honestly - a bit too honestly at times.
Life lesson five: Beer is my friend.
Another friend was at beer club. One who I rarely see or speak to any more. We were once close but time and circumstances have deemed we have limited contact now. It's for the best. We're not the same people any more. It's not that we aren't friends any more, we just don't spend time together. It's not worth pushing it. Too much has happened. Glen Waverley brought it up at lunch the other day. I told him to leave it. Not worth pursuing. I can't go back there. There was too much pain associated with him. This loose friendship is all I can hope for and all I want. I'm better on the path I'm on now.
I can look at him now and no longer feel any remorse.
Life lesson six. Letting go is often the kindest thing to do when it comes to friendship. It's also the most humane for all concerned.
It's been a big week.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Of Tarot and Teflon
There are rules of tarot reading that cannot be broken.
The first one is never to make grand statements around bad things. You never tell anybody that they're going to get horribly sick or that somebody close to them is going to die. Never. There are are ways of delivering what appears to be bad news. Telling somebody their granny is about to die just aint on. What if they don't? What if it's the other granny? What if nothing happens? What if they get cancer. Tarot readers shouldn't make large negative statements - ever.
The second big rule of tarot reading is when one of your own issues comes up in a reading, do not shy away from looking at what is going on - after the reading is done. You're there for the client. You can deal with your issues later. You have a responsibility to yourself to look at your own crap as well as helping others to sift through their stuff.
The third rule of tarot reading is to always self-protect. Do not take other people's issues on as your own. Acknowledge their pain and suffering, but do not take it on board. It's their pain to deal with - not your own. You can empathise, offer guidance, provide alternatives, but you do not take on other people's pain and suffering and wear it like a lapel pin. Techniques to avoid this crap transference can involve techniques including white lighting, setting up a sacred space to work in, reiki empowerment or in my case, I recite the teflon prayer ("I'm made of teflon - no crap sticks to me". Repeat regularly - it works).
The last big rule of tarot reading is that you never give advice when reading, per se, but provide alternative routes if you can. And if it's all too much - out of your league, realise this, take the time to gently recommend professional help if it's what the cards are indicating - offering no diagnosis, blame or shame, what ever help that may be. This is not copping out. This is being responsible - knowing your boundaries and abilities and recognising that the person you are reading for could benefit from some more guided, pointed, professional help help could be the difference between years of misery and a life which gets back on track quicker.
Thing is, these tarot rules translate easily into four life lessons.
1) Look at things in the positive - giving things a negative slant gets you nowhere.
2) Meet your demons head on and quickly - take responsibility for them sooner rather than later.
3) Put yourself first. Until you are okay, you can't give to others. Never put yourself last as its proof of how you value yourself.
4) Rather than suffer, seek help. Recognise you have a problem and do something about it.
So here I sit as a part of a group of people trying to lose weight. I have a wonderful online support group - absolutely fantastic people. There are a number of groups I'm alligned to. There's the girls from the 12wbt that I know through the Biggest Loser Club - magic people and great friends - they've become a part of my daily life and I'm blessed to have them there. There's the people from the 12wbt that arrange activities that I keep an eye on - great for finding extra boxing classes and people to do runs with.
And there's a couple of other weight loss groups, larger groups, which I'm part of with people at every stage of the journey - from depression, denial, bargaining, anger right through to acceptance.
Eh, I've heard that list somewhere before.
Yes. One of the common elements, the elephant in the room that is rarely acknowledged, is that the psychological side of weight loss is very alligned to the grieving process.
You see it time and time again.
Working through the issues of what is really going on, whether it be dealing with a long undiagnosed or unrecognised depression cycle (Tim Tams are my friend - really they are! Tim Tams make me happy.), to the bargaining moves some of us do (if I go for a ten minute walk that will get rid of the Tim Tam I just ate) to the anger many of us feel and subsequently turn towards themselves (I hate Tim Tams and I'm never going to have one again) to the denial that a lot of us divert to, whether we admit it or not (What me, eat Tim Tams! Never!) to the final acceptance of the real issues (Hello, my name is Tammy and I am a Tim Tam addict. It's been three weeks since my last Tim Tam).
I'm trying to not light of something that's far more serious, but to show a point.
Unfortunately, there really isn't a state which encompasses fat and happy.
Being overweight is just a very long process of grieving.
For many of us who've been blighted by obesity, we've tried for years to hide our pain through a sunny disposition, a wisecrack and the willingness to be invisible. Nobody's pain is exactly the same, but we can all empathise. For those who've been overweight - and not just a couple of kilos, but very overweight, will know what it feels like to be pointed at in the street, have car horns blare at you, to be asked how far your pregnancy is going along, have clothes split at the seems, to walk into a shop and know that nothing will fit, the eyes of the size 8 shop assistant staring at you as if you were dog poo on your shoe. You avoid public transport for fearing not fitting in the seats. You avoid going to bars for fear of being barked at. (And yes, most of these things have happened to me in the past, and yes, it's crap)
Most of us can also recognise the behaviour patterns that come out when stressed or emotional.
When my aunt passed away the other week I turned to my old friend ice cream. Ice cream doesn't make judgements. Ice cream doesn't care if you want ot be completely antisocial. Ice cream, for a minute or two takes the pain away. I'm pleased to also say that in turning to ice cream, I went the one paddle pop route, not two tubs of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia - which I would have done in the past.
I acknowledge the behaviour pattern. I chose to give in to the ice cream, but I also chose to not damage myself and my compromise my weight loss too badly by taking a lesser route. I also made sure to look at why I was doing what I was doing, feeling the pain, knowing full well that these hurts were spiritual and made the choice not to let things spiral further. I'm not perfect by any means, but my actions were far less self-destructive than in the past.
Which is why I've found myself stepping way from these groups for a while.
To see the pain and frustration on a daily basis is difficult for me. I want to help. I want to give advice. Sometimes I want to slap a few people over the head and yell "STOP BEING SO STUPID! STOP RUNNING AWAY AND TAKE FULL RESPONSIBILITY - GET HELP!". Other people, I just wish I could pick up and cuddle, wishing there was a fairy with a magic want to take their woes away. Other people I look at and I see a former version of myself. In denial, depressed, scared, angry - wanting for things to change and helpless to do so. These people are the hardest ones of me to look at.
I look at them and I want to ask why they are avoiding getting real assistance? I want to tell them to start changing their thought processes. I want to tell them that this can be a very long process. What they think they want to do in changing their bodies will make everything better is wrong and that changing the inside is the only way to make things better.
And how do I know this. Ten years in and out of very good, focussed therapy - and the knowledge that I'm still a work in process - physically, mentally and emotionally. Also knowing that all of the work I've done has made me far, far more happier with myself and my body. I'm certainly not perfect, but I know that when I take full responsibility for my thoughts and actions I feel a lot more in control. I also know when I reach a point where I have to go seek help - and I seek it quickly. But generally, I'm okay. I'm not the happiest person on the planet, things aren't perfect, but I'm okay. It took me forty years to realise this.
Looking back at all this, I'm not made of teflon - which is why I'm giving the online forums a wide berth for the while. Some stuff that really belongs to other people does stick. Some stuff really does hurt and some stuff makes me despair about not only the person in pain, but myself.
But at least the teflon coating makes it easier to wash away.
The first one is never to make grand statements around bad things. You never tell anybody that they're going to get horribly sick or that somebody close to them is going to die. Never. There are are ways of delivering what appears to be bad news. Telling somebody their granny is about to die just aint on. What if they don't? What if it's the other granny? What if nothing happens? What if they get cancer. Tarot readers shouldn't make large negative statements - ever.
The second big rule of tarot reading is when one of your own issues comes up in a reading, do not shy away from looking at what is going on - after the reading is done. You're there for the client. You can deal with your issues later. You have a responsibility to yourself to look at your own crap as well as helping others to sift through their stuff.
The third rule of tarot reading is to always self-protect. Do not take other people's issues on as your own. Acknowledge their pain and suffering, but do not take it on board. It's their pain to deal with - not your own. You can empathise, offer guidance, provide alternatives, but you do not take on other people's pain and suffering and wear it like a lapel pin. Techniques to avoid this crap transference can involve techniques including white lighting, setting up a sacred space to work in, reiki empowerment or in my case, I recite the teflon prayer ("I'm made of teflon - no crap sticks to me". Repeat regularly - it works).
The last big rule of tarot reading is that you never give advice when reading, per se, but provide alternative routes if you can. And if it's all too much - out of your league, realise this, take the time to gently recommend professional help if it's what the cards are indicating - offering no diagnosis, blame or shame, what ever help that may be. This is not copping out. This is being responsible - knowing your boundaries and abilities and recognising that the person you are reading for could benefit from some more guided, pointed, professional help help could be the difference between years of misery and a life which gets back on track quicker.
Thing is, these tarot rules translate easily into four life lessons.
1) Look at things in the positive - giving things a negative slant gets you nowhere.
2) Meet your demons head on and quickly - take responsibility for them sooner rather than later.
3) Put yourself first. Until you are okay, you can't give to others. Never put yourself last as its proof of how you value yourself.
4) Rather than suffer, seek help. Recognise you have a problem and do something about it.
So here I sit as a part of a group of people trying to lose weight. I have a wonderful online support group - absolutely fantastic people. There are a number of groups I'm alligned to. There's the girls from the 12wbt that I know through the Biggest Loser Club - magic people and great friends - they've become a part of my daily life and I'm blessed to have them there. There's the people from the 12wbt that arrange activities that I keep an eye on - great for finding extra boxing classes and people to do runs with.
And there's a couple of other weight loss groups, larger groups, which I'm part of with people at every stage of the journey - from depression, denial, bargaining, anger right through to acceptance.
Eh, I've heard that list somewhere before.
Yes. One of the common elements, the elephant in the room that is rarely acknowledged, is that the psychological side of weight loss is very alligned to the grieving process.
You see it time and time again.
Working through the issues of what is really going on, whether it be dealing with a long undiagnosed or unrecognised depression cycle (Tim Tams are my friend - really they are! Tim Tams make me happy.), to the bargaining moves some of us do (if I go for a ten minute walk that will get rid of the Tim Tam I just ate) to the anger many of us feel and subsequently turn towards themselves (I hate Tim Tams and I'm never going to have one again) to the denial that a lot of us divert to, whether we admit it or not (What me, eat Tim Tams! Never!) to the final acceptance of the real issues (Hello, my name is Tammy and I am a Tim Tam addict. It's been three weeks since my last Tim Tam).
I'm trying to not light of something that's far more serious, but to show a point.
Unfortunately, there really isn't a state which encompasses fat and happy.
Being overweight is just a very long process of grieving.
For many of us who've been blighted by obesity, we've tried for years to hide our pain through a sunny disposition, a wisecrack and the willingness to be invisible. Nobody's pain is exactly the same, but we can all empathise. For those who've been overweight - and not just a couple of kilos, but very overweight, will know what it feels like to be pointed at in the street, have car horns blare at you, to be asked how far your pregnancy is going along, have clothes split at the seems, to walk into a shop and know that nothing will fit, the eyes of the size 8 shop assistant staring at you as if you were dog poo on your shoe. You avoid public transport for fearing not fitting in the seats. You avoid going to bars for fear of being barked at. (And yes, most of these things have happened to me in the past, and yes, it's crap)
Most of us can also recognise the behaviour patterns that come out when stressed or emotional.
When my aunt passed away the other week I turned to my old friend ice cream. Ice cream doesn't make judgements. Ice cream doesn't care if you want ot be completely antisocial. Ice cream, for a minute or two takes the pain away. I'm pleased to also say that in turning to ice cream, I went the one paddle pop route, not two tubs of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia - which I would have done in the past.
I acknowledge the behaviour pattern. I chose to give in to the ice cream, but I also chose to not damage myself and my compromise my weight loss too badly by taking a lesser route. I also made sure to look at why I was doing what I was doing, feeling the pain, knowing full well that these hurts were spiritual and made the choice not to let things spiral further. I'm not perfect by any means, but my actions were far less self-destructive than in the past.
Which is why I've found myself stepping way from these groups for a while.
To see the pain and frustration on a daily basis is difficult for me. I want to help. I want to give advice. Sometimes I want to slap a few people over the head and yell "STOP BEING SO STUPID! STOP RUNNING AWAY AND TAKE FULL RESPONSIBILITY - GET HELP!". Other people, I just wish I could pick up and cuddle, wishing there was a fairy with a magic want to take their woes away. Other people I look at and I see a former version of myself. In denial, depressed, scared, angry - wanting for things to change and helpless to do so. These people are the hardest ones of me to look at.
I look at them and I want to ask why they are avoiding getting real assistance? I want to tell them to start changing their thought processes. I want to tell them that this can be a very long process. What they think they want to do in changing their bodies will make everything better is wrong and that changing the inside is the only way to make things better.
And how do I know this. Ten years in and out of very good, focussed therapy - and the knowledge that I'm still a work in process - physically, mentally and emotionally. Also knowing that all of the work I've done has made me far, far more happier with myself and my body. I'm certainly not perfect, but I know that when I take full responsibility for my thoughts and actions I feel a lot more in control. I also know when I reach a point where I have to go seek help - and I seek it quickly. But generally, I'm okay. I'm not the happiest person on the planet, things aren't perfect, but I'm okay. It took me forty years to realise this.
Looking back at all this, I'm not made of teflon - which is why I'm giving the online forums a wide berth for the while. Some stuff that really belongs to other people does stick. Some stuff really does hurt and some stuff makes me despair about not only the person in pain, but myself.
But at least the teflon coating makes it easier to wash away.
Friday, January 7, 2011
What Quiet Life?
I'm sitting in my "office" on the 17th floor of a tower block in Collins Street. I hear the hum of the efficent air conditioner and my own tapping on the keyboard. I have a great view of the IOOF (Institute of Odd Fellows - that always makes me laugh - why are they so odd that they need an institute?) and that new stadium that looks like a blown up witchety grub - I'm not sure what they play there, but lots of feral fans seem to pile in each week.
I'm supposed to be updating my CV. I came into my temporary office - part of the service that the Tin Can, String and Whistle career consultants offer, to do this.
I'm supposed to be doing a lot of things, but there are some things stopping me. Firstly, friends have asked to meet me for coffee - who am I to complain? I'm just back from a long macchiato and a chat. Secondly, the keyboard here at the this temporary office is crap.I think I'm better doing this on my own computer at home.
I could have stayed stay home and do this, but I have a house guest at the moment. Her name is Miffy and she belongs to Geerrt, my old boss. Other than disgracing herself in the car on the way over, more than likely through fear, she's been perfect. I was told that she slept in her own bed. Right..... this is what I've found the last two mornings. How can one small cat take up most of a double bed? She's the biggest cuddle slut I've every laid my hands on. She's lovely, but not conducive to getting things done.
I can always find better things to do than look for work anyway. I've already made two appointments for next week and I wasn't going to look for work this week. Besides, the contents of my handbag are on the desk for diseminating. How one small red, leather handbag can contain the following I will never know.
My wallet
My mobile phone with it's cover that looks like a block of chocolate
Two small bags of tampons
Three biros
A Berlei sports bra in beige, size 16DD (bought on Ebay, just collected - I don't normally cart around a spare bra)
50 mls of Stella McCartney Rose Absolute perfume
One Moleskin lined notebook
One rose coloured lip gloss
One dusky amber coloured plumping lip gloss (the plumping is very important)
One hairbrush
One lavender bag, just given to me by Merijn for looking after her cats over new year
One spectacles case with sunglasses within
One MAC lipstick, colour X-TREME (my favorite)
One small bulldog clip
One Moon Diary containing various bills, christmas cards and a ticket to Mary Poppins
50 mls of 30+ sunscreen, complete with crampon for easy access.
One pack of Eclipse mints of the peppermint variety
One pack of Eclipse mints of the cinnamon variety (why are they called mints when they don't even taste of mint?)
One ventolin inhaler
One ArtDeco compact if the HydraMineral variety, shade 65
One large yellow hairclip
One litter ninja badge (thanks Kath)
Three letters from the post box
Two flash drives of the 2 GB variety, pilfered from Tin Can, String and Whistle
One book - The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson - which has to be finished by tomorrow so I can pass it on to Blarney.
Nothing more will fit now. Funny that.
Then tonight, it's off to Georgie's birthday drinks before seeing Pinochet for a grunt session. Tomorrow morning I'm heading out to Blarney's to be with Chance and Vance for their first swimming lesson - that should be pretty cool.
Sunday, after Pump, I'm reading cards.
Monday I'm massaging in the morning, then meeting Gloria for a film.
Tuesday I have interviews and pump and Zumba before meeting Sam for a film.
Already this week I've given two massages, cleaned out my spare room, met people for coffee, done the 1000 steps in the Dandenongs, entertained the masses with my sensual Zumba moves, stuck to my calories, done an hour of reading, writing and exercising a day and lay on my bed reading with Miffy purring gently next to me.
And next week, in the evenings, I have films and dream group and theatre tickets and dinners and....
I think I'm busier now that I'm between jobs. Here I was thinking that this between jobs lark was going to be quiet.
I had better shut down now and go off to Georgie's drinks. I'm certainly not looking forward to the session with Pinochet. It's 34 degrees outside and he's mean in the heat.
But if I want today's star, that's what I'm going to have to do.
Pand
I'm supposed to be updating my CV. I came into my temporary office - part of the service that the Tin Can, String and Whistle career consultants offer, to do this.
I'm supposed to be doing a lot of things, but there are some things stopping me. Firstly, friends have asked to meet me for coffee - who am I to complain? I'm just back from a long macchiato and a chat. Secondly, the keyboard here at the this temporary office is crap.I think I'm better doing this on my own computer at home.
I could have stayed stay home and do this, but I have a house guest at the moment. Her name is Miffy and she belongs to Geerrt, my old boss. Other than disgracing herself in the car on the way over, more than likely through fear, she's been perfect. I was told that she slept in her own bed. Right..... this is what I've found the last two mornings. How can one small cat take up most of a double bed? She's the biggest cuddle slut I've every laid my hands on. She's lovely, but not conducive to getting things done.
I can always find better things to do than look for work anyway. I've already made two appointments for next week and I wasn't going to look for work this week. Besides, the contents of my handbag are on the desk for diseminating. How one small red, leather handbag can contain the following I will never know.
My wallet
My mobile phone with it's cover that looks like a block of chocolate
Two small bags of tampons
Three biros
A Berlei sports bra in beige, size 16DD (bought on Ebay, just collected - I don't normally cart around a spare bra)
50 mls of Stella McCartney Rose Absolute perfume
One Moleskin lined notebook
One rose coloured lip gloss
One dusky amber coloured plumping lip gloss (the plumping is very important)
One hairbrush
One lavender bag, just given to me by Merijn for looking after her cats over new year
One spectacles case with sunglasses within
One MAC lipstick, colour X-TREME (my favorite)
One small bulldog clip
One Moon Diary containing various bills, christmas cards and a ticket to Mary Poppins
50 mls of 30+ sunscreen, complete with crampon for easy access.
One pack of Eclipse mints of the peppermint variety
One pack of Eclipse mints of the cinnamon variety (why are they called mints when they don't even taste of mint?)
One ventolin inhaler
One ArtDeco compact if the HydraMineral variety, shade 65
One large yellow hairclip
One litter ninja badge (thanks Kath)
Three letters from the post box
Two flash drives of the 2 GB variety, pilfered from Tin Can, String and Whistle
One book - The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson - which has to be finished by tomorrow so I can pass it on to Blarney.
Nothing more will fit now. Funny that.
Then tonight, it's off to Georgie's birthday drinks before seeing Pinochet for a grunt session. Tomorrow morning I'm heading out to Blarney's to be with Chance and Vance for their first swimming lesson - that should be pretty cool.
Sunday, after Pump, I'm reading cards.
Monday I'm massaging in the morning, then meeting Gloria for a film.
Tuesday I have interviews and pump and Zumba before meeting Sam for a film.
Already this week I've given two massages, cleaned out my spare room, met people for coffee, done the 1000 steps in the Dandenongs, entertained the masses with my sensual Zumba moves, stuck to my calories, done an hour of reading, writing and exercising a day and lay on my bed reading with Miffy purring gently next to me.
And next week, in the evenings, I have films and dream group and theatre tickets and dinners and....
I think I'm busier now that I'm between jobs. Here I was thinking that this between jobs lark was going to be quiet.
I had better shut down now and go off to Georgie's drinks. I'm certainly not looking forward to the session with Pinochet. It's 34 degrees outside and he's mean in the heat.
But if I want today's star, that's what I'm going to have to do.
Pand
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