That's What You Do

When I was about 18 I had a boyfriend called David. He was a friend of my sister's then husband and about five or six years older than me.

I was his first serious girlfriend and he was my first seriously boring boyfriend.

He was the sort of guy who did things because "that's what you do".

He moved out of home and into a shared house with others because "that's what you do".

Went overseas for six weeks holiday because "that's what you do".

Travelled with a friend around Australia because "that's what you do".

Changed from driving a gorgeous red, convertible MG to driving a blue UTE "because that's what you do". All his mates had UTES so he thought he might get one as well. Besides, having a UTE means you can carry stuff when you go camping. And we went camping with the others because "that's what you do".

He worked for the public service sector and had done so since he left school because "that's what you do".

He probably had a girlfriend because "that's what you do".

Every Sunday morning he liked to have bacon and eggs for breakfast because "that's what you do" on a Sunday. One Sunday I invited him over to my house to have a bacon and egg breakfast. I was still living at home then.

I was the worst cook then. No lovely sunny side up eggs would be cooked by me. Broken egg yolks mixing in with the fatty bacon. And loads of it. Who cared what it looked like, in my mind if it tasted okay, then that was all that mattered. Never mind the burnt edges of the white of the eggs. That would match the burnt toast that I served up with it along with the burnt percolated coffee that was there to wash it down.

David was a polite boyfriend and kindly ate everything I dished up to him that morning because "that's what you do". I ate the unattractive dish as well (I knew it was going to come up later on anyway so was not fussed).

Not long after he said he had to get back home and as we stood at the front door saying goodbye he looked a bit pale. I asked him what was wrong and he said that he felt sick, perhaps he had eaten too much.

Naturally, all my sympathetic instincts came out and I poked him, with full force, in his stomach. Obviously I hit the panic button in the right spot because he suddenly leapt from the front porch with his hand over his mouth. He managed to get to the front fence before performing a spectacular projectile vomit all over the garden.

He apologised profusely as he ran to his car and drove off. I almost wet myself laughing because "that really is what you do" when someone vomits after eating your cooking.

In fact, I still laugh about it when I think of his face as I poked his stomach. I mean, I know it was unkind but I meant it in the funniest possible way. How was I to know that my cooking so disagreed with him.

Anyway, we went our separate way months later (I dumped him). There was nothing wrong with him, I was just young and he was hoping to get married to me and I was not interested at all. A few years later he got married to a girl and told my sister he was getting married because he was thirty years old and "that's what you do" when you are thirty.

Around ten years ago he sold his house and moved to a more exclusive suburb. My father was at the auction and asked him why he was moving from such a lovely house and David told him he was moving because "that's what you do".

I wonder if he is still doing things because "that's what you do".

Ciao
LC

Boring Sunday Moan

This weekend has been a nice and easy one. With the warmer weather making it's way into each passing day, I feel much better about getting out and doing things.

However, it is that time of the month where all rational females are entitled to a big, fat moan. Yes, this week I had awful PMT and it has been followed by an equally awful and painful period. And then I thought to myself that this is the second last one I will be having so perhaps I should enjoy it.

Enjoy moaning about it that is. It is bad enough to be blessed with a monthly personality change, let alone the aching pelvis, bloated stomach, pain in the back and heavy dump of unwanted uterine lining every 28 days. I know that I will still be hormonal but at least I won't be physically unwell for a few days each month, and that is a good thing.

So, while I am here, I am also going to admit that I won't be sorry to see the removal of that little hothouse that kindly grew my son for nine months. I know that somehow seems that I am ungrateful for the miracle that is what it is. But the human body is a miracle in itself so I am not going to single out any part of it. The very fact we eat food and the body does what it does is a miracle in itself.

I was initially anxious about having to take time off from work and exercise to enable a complete recovery from the impending surgery, but really, having a good think about it all, I know I will feel much better later on. There is just not enough room in my body any more for an overgrown and grumpy womb.

And, having written that word "womb" and "uterine", I have realised that there needs to be a better word. I think handbag would be nicer. Or hothouse. I like that word "hothouse" to describe it.

So, I am not having a "hysterectomy".

I am having a "hothouserectomy".

Or a "handbagerectomy".

Whatever.

I am feeling okay about it all now.

Ciao
LC

Hmmmm, Children

Today I had the day off and took my son and his friend to do some ten pin bowling.

Whilst they played their game I read a book and just watched what was going on.

Years ago, in the 1970's, bowling was really popular. My older sister was right into it. She had her own shoes, ball and bag. She would go bowling a couple of nights a week and often got little badges that boasted her strike rate success.

I then started to think how my older sister was also into "things". In fact, all my siblings were very busy with being part of clubs or groups.

The older sister. Well, she like horse riding, cooking, played piano, did some Girl Guides for a while. My father would always make comparisons between her and I. He would use her as a shining example of what a good daughter should be. However, she became pregnant at almost fifteen and then became a shining example of what a good daughter should NOT be.

My younger brother joined the Scout group and I think that took up a lot of his time. As did my younger sister. She was very sociable and always willing to be a part of things.

I know I was extremely resistant to any effort made to socialise me. Not just socialising, but basic parent pleasing. I recall that I had a bit of a silently rebellious demeanour and was very unwilling to do anything to please my parents, in particular my father. What was the point? He would still be a foul tempered parent irrespective of whatever I did or did not do.

When I had my son, I was determined to introduce him to a sociable life by being part of a Mother's group that would meet up weekly. In fact, we used to go to two groups each week. It was hard for me as I had PND, was quite shy and often did not want to go but felt that I had no right to impose my anti social ways onto my son. It was a good thing to do anyway, as we made good friends and I even became Godmother to two sisters later on.

It was important to me that my son was confident with himself in a variety of situations. I would take him to cafes where he would order his own food and drink. I would encourage him to ask for help to find things in stores. Showed him how to answer the telephone. Just little things like that. Help build his confidence.

Today, when I was sitting and watching them bowl, an employee came up to me to talk about a programme they have where over a ten week period they will show children how to bowl, play competition games and things like that. I thought it was great as my son has no such commitments in his life. Whereas most of his friends play football, cricket, soccer or go to language school, my son does none of that. Once, when I suggested that we enrol him into Chess Club on Saturdays he said to me that he did not want to commit himself to anything on a Saturday because he did not like the idea of waking up and having that hanging over his head.

So, I brought up the prospect of joining this bowling group with him. His reaction was one of hostility and fucked offedness (is that a word, it should be) and his face fell halfway to the ground. To top it off, the woman came over and chatted to him about it and he politely declined. The more she tried to encourage him, the more his body language became that of a block of concrete. In the end she left him alone.

Shortly after I said to him that I was only suggesting the positive part of it. Thought it might be a good social thing to do, learn the craft of the game and get really good at it etc.

To which he replied:

"I am my own person. If I want to make friends I will do it in my own good time. I am not interested in winning at bowling, I just want to have a good time. I don't like group things. I just like doing my own thing, being who I am and choosing my own friends."

"Right, okay. Well, eventually you will have to be part of groups, you cannot always be on your own. It is important that you have social skills in life," I explained.

"Well, when the time comes, I will do what I have to do. Until then, I just want to do what I feel good about. No joining groups or anything else like that," he replied.

I am not sure if I thought his response was good or bad. He reminded me of myself. His resistance was bordering on rebellious. Then I realised that there was absolutely no sense in taking the conversation any further. His heels were dug in.

Funny how certain traits are passed down, but the environment in which they develop can make them either flourish or fail. He is confident with his social ways, whereas I know I was not.

So a child who is super active can be considered annoying in one family and refreshing in another. Just as a quiet child is called shy in one family and reserved in another.

It should not be nurture versus nature.

It should be nurture the nature.

I think you get better results.

Ciao
LC

Bring Home Into Work

During the school holidays it is always a bit tough on my son. He ends up spending quite a lot of time at my work place. Which is fine as I am able to bring him along anytime.

It really isn't so bad. We have an area where he can watch television and we bring his Xbox, Nintendo Wii and DVD's from home so that he can pass the time. He will make his way from the kitchen and then into the office where he will play computer games for a while. Plus he gets to eat whatever is in the fridge. And my boss has a dart board to play with. Also some Space Invader electronic game thing.

We also make him hot chocolates and toasted sandwiches on call.

Actually, thinking about it all, it is pretty good you know.

He had to come in with me for three days this week, six hours each day. I felt really guilty. I was concerned he may be bored. So I bought him a couple of DVD's to watch plus some computer game. Today I apologised a few times and he said it was fine, much better than school.

Tomorrow I am taking the day off and we are going bowling with a friend of his. Friday he will be at someone's house.

To tell you the truth, what with the two of us hanging around each other for four solid days , I am rather looking forward to going to work alone on Friday.

Nothing personal.

But things did get a bit tense in the car on the way home today.

You know how it is. Confined space, too much of each other's company.

Plus I had PMT.

It was tough.

Ciao

LC

Stop Changing Things

I am not afraid of change. I understand the importance of some change, but I am getting just that little bit sick and tired of change just for the sake of change.

Years ago, things changed because they needed to. Medical practices changed as professionals learnt more about how the body worked and the invention of better equipment. That makes sense to me as it ultimately saves lives or makes living more manageable.

Then things around the home change to make life less laborious. Better stoves, automatic washing machines, electric iron, heating and those sorts of things. All pretty obvious as to why change had a natural occurrence then.

Somehow, along the way, there has been a turning point, or a tipping point in the relevance of change. Sometimes things really don't need to change. It serves no real purpose. I think that these days, change happens that is completely unsettling. And it is also, in a fashion, making people feel as though their existence on this Earth has no real relevance.

The other day on the radio they were talking about how in ten years the AM radio band will be digitised. Why? What for? What purpose will that serve? Suddenly tens of thousands of transistor radios will no longer work. Radios in old cars. My lovely 1940's radio will just be a thing to look at. Why? Why? Why? Why bother? Why not leave it as it is. Everyone is happy.

But another change is on the cards which just beggars belief.

In the next James Bond movie there is talk that the famous Bond line will be taken out.

You know the one. When he introduces himself.

"Bond, James Bond"

Yes, that one is most likely not going to appear in the next Bond movie.

Apparently it is too twee.

James Bond movies have always been tongue in cheek. Now they have to be serious.

Another change.

Ciao
LC

I Love Spring Sunshine

Yes, Spring is settling very nicely here. This weekend has been all that I could ask for in the weather stakes. Warm and windy. Blue sky and bright sun. A little chilly in the morning, but the promise of a nice day lurks behind the chill.

It is now warm enough to for me to hang out the washing and not worry about the rain. How I love the smell of freshly dried washing. And the look of it drying as the wind moves through it. It is quite beautiful and it makes me want to bury my face in it.

K has worked most of Saturday and Sunday so my son and I just hang out together. Yesterday we went down to shopping strip not far from us and had lunch in a warm cafe. I read the newspaper and S read a book. The warmth of the cafe was intoxicating and I wanted to put my head on the table and close my eyes. My lunch was a lentil and tomato soup and had the most aromatic flavour.

After the lunch we went for a walk down the street. Occasionally we stopped and looked in at the shops. I used to bring S down here when he was around three or four years old. We would go into a cake shop called Holly Cakes where they sold little cup cakes and pretty meringue's. He would pick out what he wanted that day and then he would slowly eat it as we walked back to the car.

Often I wonder if he remembers half the things we did. Yesterday as we passed the cake shop he stopped and said in a loud voice "Hey, I remember this place". He looked in through the window for a few seconds before we moved on towards the car. I remember holding his small hand in mine as we stood at the glass fronted counter looking at the treats on offer. Most times he would pick the little meringue that looked like a mouse. If the cake had a funny face it would be chosen as opposed to a plain one. He still does that.

This morning he and I went for a walk down the street to visit the Sunday Market. I wanted to get some seedlings to plant. Prior to leaving the house he had a bit of a moan about having to walk. He knew the moan was a waste of time, but he did it anyway and I ignored it. As we walked he chatted away. Talked about friends, school, computer games and wrestling. I love when he chats without prompting. It just flows and his humour comes through.

Once down at the market I came across a pile of old Charles Dickens books. They were a bit fusty and tired but I could not bear to leave them there and bought all thirteen of them for $40. S was suitably impressed despite the fact I had refused to spend money on a console game. I explained to him that buying games and DVDs from the market does not guarantee that you are getting the real thing. He had to agree. Instead he chose the vegetable seedlings to plant and was happy with that.

After the market we bought some fruit, vegetables and bagels. It was then I realised how long the walk home would seem with my thirteen heavy books and bags of groceries. But we managed, now and then swapping the heavy cargo from one side to another. Whilst I trudged along, S was behind me by a few steps. He talked non stop and then said that maybe he should shut up for a while.

"Why should you?" I asked.

"Well, I don't know. I have so much to say that it might be boring," was his reply.

"Listen, just because I don't respond back with fifty words, it does not mean you are boring, it just means that I have only those words to say. Sometimes there are only a few words that can be said and other times there are more. Don't stop expressing yourself just because you think others are bored. Let them tell you that themselves. Don't assume anything," I responded.

"Yeah, yeah you are right," he agreed and then continued talking to me.

As we got closer to home my son said it wasn't that bad walking after all because the sun was shining, the day was warm and people seemed happy.

"Not bad at all." was my reply.

Not bad at all.

Ciao

LC

Junk Mail

For a number of years I have sported a "No Junk Mail Please" sticker on my letter box.

The reason I made a decision to put that little sticker upon my letter box was purely environmental. My thought was that I was saving one tree by taking such a stand. Plus, there was some comment made about the fact that one Christmas I wrapped all the presents in junk mail. Apparently I had taken recycling a bit far.

I have to say, it took me months to gather enough courage to put that little sign on the box in the first place. And then, it took me even longer to get used to the lack of reading material - even though it is garbage (I am only saying that to let you know that I know it is garbage but the truth is that I still love it - garbage or not).

Somehow I satisfied my urge to read junk mail by reading other people's. I have many times sat on someones front fence whilst reading their junk mail. Then I fold it up neatly and pop it back in their letter box. When I think about that, it is rather tragic. I would never do it if my son or husband were with me. Once I mentioned that I had done it and the response ensured that I never admitted it again.

Another thing I have done, before we had wheelie bins for recycling bins as well as general rubbish, is rifle through people's recycling piles. I have even taken magazines and quality junk mail home with me and sat reading it in my kitchen. When my son was little and I pushed him along in a pram, I would really load up the basket underneath with magazines and other reading material.

Now that the Council provides a yellow lidded wheelie bin for those items, I can no longer do that. I mean to say, it is one thing to pretend to be doing up your shoelace as you surreptitiously go through a pile of neatly tied papers, it is quite another matter to lift the lid on someones bin and risk falling head first into it as you dig deeper.

At work the junk mail is a boring as can be. Loads of dreary office tat comes through every day along with information about factory real estate. Even I cannot read them.

Anyway, I am kind of resigned to not having junk mail so much now. I have junk email instead. But it is not so pleasing as poring over a brightly coloured catalogue of grocery specials or toy sales.

Recently our next door neighbour went on holiday and asked us to check his mail box. So I have an opportunity to read lovely junky mail for ten days. I love it. It makes me feel part of something consistent.

You see, as crappy as junk mail is, it signifies that life cycle of shopping, just as the seasons of Nature bring on the life cycle of the weather.

January is always full of the best sale's catalogues, then comes the Valentine's day drivel, followed by Easter temptations, then along comes Mother's Day (always lots of pink junk mail). Then the pre stock take sales, and then the super stock take sales, and then the sales for the stuff that did not sell at the stock take sales (you know, extra % off the alread reduced stuff). Then the Father's day junk mail (lots of shirt catalogues) and followed by the Spring fashion stuff and the Spring Season Racing Fashion catalogues. Then along comes the pre Christmas toy sales (get toys on long term layby) and of course, the year ends with copious amounts of general Christmas catalogues.

And then it starts all over again in January.

I wonder if Vivaldi could have been moved enough to have written a symphony for the catalogue seasons?

Ciao

LC

Hospital Stay Ahead

Over the years I have had many visits to the hospital for a variety of "female" bouts of surgery. In fact, the relationship between me and my pelvic region has been a tough one indeed. It started at aged 17 with ovarian cysts and continued on with multiple laparoscopies, IVF treatments, fibroid removal and other odd poke arounds.

Today I had to visit a specialist to discuss the future of my second bout of fibroids that has appeared in my body. Bit of boring thing really. Last time I had them I had day surgery to remove them. That was three years ago.

Well, I went into the consulting rooms expecting to leave with a date for day surgery and instead left with a pamphlet outlining what I will expect when I have a hysterectomy.

Yes, I have to have a hysterectomy. I hate that word, surely they could come up with something else. And, yes I do have to have it as I am having problems that just cannot be fixed with minor surgery any more.

Because I did not have that thought in my head, I was kind of floored when he told me. It was always on the cards, but I thought I would be a bit older when it happened. And I am not overly bothered by the prospect of no longer having a uterus. What I am concerned about is the time off I have to have.

Time off exercise and time off work. Ultimately the end result will be worth it. That I am sure of, but it is not a small operation.

Anyway, the funny thing is, the hospital I am having the surgery at was the very hospital I was born in, it was the hospital my son was born in and now I will be leaving my uterus behind there.

So, surgery is not until 19th November and I have plenty of time to organise things before then.

My mother tells me it will be the best thing for me. She had one at aged 35.

Whilst I was talking to the doctor, I meant to ask him how much my uterus would weigh - I figured it was at least half a kilo.

That is one way to lose weight.

There is always humour to find in any situation.

Ciao
LC

Square Eyes 2

I am a bad mother.

I let my son sit on the computer longer than is acceptable by standards set by the "experts". All the time on the news they bang on about how children should spend no more than one hour each day in front of the computer and television combined. Yeah, yeah, in an ideal world I say.

In fact, both him and I may sit in the office on the computer for three or four hours chatting away as we do things on our respective computers. So, I foster his bad habits by indulging in them myself. However, the moment I say he has to get off the computer, well, he gets off without too much complaint. Not sure I can say the same about me.

He has his own You Tube account and loads up little Pivot animations he makes. There are three subscribers to his account which thrills him no end.

Having a You Tube account has exposed him to the flotsam and jetsam of Spam mail and other unsavoury things. At first he was offended, now he realises that the world is full of opportunistic weirdo's and he just filters out the shit that goes with it all and takes the good.

The other day he came into me and said that he has looked at 4000 You Tube videos since he started his account.

"Are you serious? Four thousand!" I asked in absolute amazement.

"Yep, each time I log into You Tube it counts every video I watch and I can see the total," he told me.

Now, I am not sure if that is funny or not. Four thousand times he has watched a You Tube video.

I should be cross or something. Do something that reflects some sort of disapproval that I should have. But the disapproval is not there. I just laughed.

He may well have looked at 4000 You Tubes, but I think I have looked at 10,000 EBay items.

At least he is being entertained, whereas I am just avoiding housework or something similar.

Ciao
LC

Square Eyes 1

I remember ages ago I did a post about my son's bad sleeping habits.

I would like to say they have gotten better, but that would be lying.

My son is still watching a DVD to go to sleep. Initally I did not make a big deal about it. Told my husband to get it sorted since HE introduced the bedtime habit because he was too soft to say no.

When he first started watching the DVD to go to sleep at night he would just have TinTin or Asterix playing. Short little cartoons that would send him off to sleep very quickly.

The other night I noticed that he was watching a fucking movie to get to sleep. George of the Jungle actually. A movie to keep him wide awake. Then he woke up in the middle of the night and put it on! I put a stop to that with a loud "Turn it off NOW" screech from my bedroom.

This morning I went in to wake him up and he was laying in bed watching it!

I went into the kitchen and said to my husband that it had to stop and it was his job to sort it. So, the ball is in his court for now. Until then, I am expecting to see The Simpson's movie playing in the Front Bedroom this evening if you want to come and watch the flicks.

Ciao
LC

Weather On Holiday

Graham made a mention about the awful weather that has been occurring in the UK during Summer.

It made me think about the weather that I have experienced nearly every time I have been on a holiday.

We got married in 1991 up in Cairns and there just happened to be the worst cyclone arrive just after we did. I remember we went for a trip over to a little place called Green Island. It was a small sandy island with a rainforest perched in the middle of it all. The cyclone, however, had blown most of the rainforest canopy off and the island was completely covered in debris and not much forest.

In 1994 when K and I went overseas, it was an unseasonal stinking hot summer. We were in the UK and also in Denmark. Countries which generally have no air conditioning in the hotels. Plus I had brought clothes over with me that would have suited the traditional European Summer which is usually quite different to the stinking hot ones we have here! So there I was with my jeans and blundstone boots and warm tops sweating like a pig in London.

Then there was the dreadful cruise we went on about seven years ago. It rained most of the time and the seas were so rough we could not dock in at a couple of islands. Apparently it was unusually wet for that time of year.

And last year when we went to Noosa for a few days. It rained almost non stop. I was told that it just happened to be the worst weather they had ever seen in almost a decade.

Then this year. We go to the UK and I was told it was the coldest Spring they could remember. I froze and whinged about it for the first week before resigning myself to misery of it for the remaining two.

I'm staying home from now on.

The weather is always as I expect it to be here.

Nothing unseasonal.

Just warm one day, cold the next.

That's fine by me.

Cia
LC

The Stud And His Stag

When I was around 14 years old I used to babysit the children of a family who lived just a couple of doors from us.

They were Polish and very fashionable sorts. Always having people over, always going to the movies and out to dinner. It was a great atmosphere when I went to visit.

This was the mid 1970's and their home was an architect designed suburban block that stood out like a sore thumb amongst the 1920's bungalows that nestled next to it. Archways, textured white bricks, cream shag pile carpet, orange laminex kitchen and velour covered couches were the style. The bedrooms were covered in geometric and bold wallpaper.

I thought they were fabulous. Her with her beautiful black wavy hair, large brown eyes and thick Polish accent. Him with his Burt Reynolds moustache and lazy gaze. He had a motorbike and took me for a ride around the park on the back. No helmet, him bare chested. I remember having to hang onto his waist as he drove over the grassy slopes around the park. It made me very self conscious but kind of thrilled as well.

Both of them always wore the latest fashion. Once they went ice skating and when I came over to babysit their son and daughter, I was amazed at their matching outfits. Denim, quilted jeans with red stitching and matching vest worn over a white t-shirt. In hindsight, it was really hideous, but at the time it sure looked pretty good to me.

One time I went over to say hello to them and they had lots of visitors. One of the visitors was a guy who probably thought he was rather handsome. I suppose he was, but at that age I just thought he was some old bloke. He had blonde curly hair, a matching moustache (it was the 70's) and on this particular day he was wearing a pair of black leather pants and a white shirt.

I recall very clearly that on that day I felt particularly attractive as my sister had given me a really nice dress that she no longer liked. It was a going out dress, but I decided to wear it anyway. It was black and a bit off the shoulder with a black ruffle along the hem. It was possibly a bit grown up, but I did not mind. When you are around 14, feeling grown up is nothing to do with feeling sexual, it is just about feeling pretty I suppose.

Anyway, this guy had bought himself a lovely, chocolate brown Triumph Stag. It was just gorgeous and as I was peering into the interior of the open top dream car, this guy came out, keys jingling in his pocket, and asked me if I wanted to go for a drive. I thought it would be fine. So I got in the passenger side and he jumped in, started the car and off we drove.

I can still remember the purring sound of that V8 engine as he accelerated off. The top was down and the wind slipped in and out of the car, pulling at my hair like a mini tornado. My black dress blew up from my lap and showed my legs. This guy was chatting to me as he drove. He said my dress was beautiful and then he put on a cassette and the sound of Dire Straits thumped out from the speakers in the doors and parcel shelf. It was so cool. I was so cool.

When we got back, I hopped out of the car and went home with a happy skip in my walk. What a cool car. My dress was beautiful. Dire Straits were the best band in the world.

The next day I was at home alone when the wife of this couple came over for a visit. I thought she wanted to see mum but it was me that she wanted to speak to.

We sat down at the kitchen table. I was wondering if I had done something wrong as she was looking rather serious.

Then she asked me if I knew the facts of life. I mumbled that I knew that you had to have sex to have babies. I mean to say, my older sister had gotten up the duff at 14 years old.

Well, this obviously was not a good enough answer from me as she started to go into more detail about it than I cared for. She talked about how a man's penis got engorged with blood as he became aroused and this would make it nice and hard for when engaging in sex. My face was engorged with blood by this stage, so much so that I swear the hair on my head lifted to escape from the heat on my scalp. I mean, she even had the hand gestures to match the description.

This conversation went on for around half an hour. She used words like "juices" and "orgasm" and "oral sex". It was so graphic I just wanted her to get out of the house. I mean, I wanted to watch fucking television, not talk about what old people did when they had a bonk. How revolting. It was Saturday afternoon movie time not "sex education" time.

Instead I nodded politely and kept my beetroot coloured face as passive as I could.

After a while she figured that she had gotten the message across. Whatever message that was I did not exactly know. After she left, I tried to settle into watching a movie, but felt so put out by the unwelcome visit that I just put on a record and lay around listening to music instead.

A couple of weeks later I was babysitting one evening again. Whilst I was at their house, the phone rang. It was the Stag guy. I told him that his friends were out and that I was babysitting. He asked me if I wanted him to come over to keep me company. I recalled the sex education discussion that had taken place not so long ago and made some sort of hideous association. I declined his offer and hung up the phone.

Looking back, I think she must have realised I was quite naive and that Mr Stag would have seen me as a juicy piece to tackle. She had a duty to educate me with the cold, hard facts.

She probably did me a favour.

But still I associate the Triumph Stag with some sort of delicious freedom and groovy sexuality.

Vroom!

Ciao
LC

The Enemy Within

Over the past two and a half years I have posted on my blog I have made mention of the various relationships I have with my son, my husband, my work, my digestive system, my mind, the world around me, my house, my studio and even the odd one about my garden.

I don't really think I have ever gone into much detail about the relationship that I have with my body.

I am not talking about the internal workings of my body, but the size and shape of my body. Like most females it is an antagonistic relationship.

Many years ago I had eating disorders that ranged from bulimic to anorexic. I suppose it started when I was about 17 and continued until I was around 22 with intermittent bouts of other eating issues in my twenties. I have a very well developed gag reflex and can still bring up a full meal without shedding a tear. Not that I do these days. However, I am still inclined to become very controlling with food when I am overly anxious.

I put on a lot of weight after I became pregnant at 33. Going on IVF dumped on one load of unwanted weight, the pregnancy alone was another stack and being on anti depressants for 7 years really was the icing on the cake. I spent my late 30's being totally disgusted with my body. I could not even look in the mirror without feeling a most intense hatred for what I saw. Which was not that bad when reflecting back. But I certainly would not ever want to go back there.

When I went off the anti depressants at the end of 2004, my weight started to drop off. I ended up 30kgs lighter which resulted in me being severely underweight. In fact, I lost so much weight that even the fat covering the sheaths of my nerves was lost, leaving me with residual nerve damage. However, eventually the body (and me) sorted itself out and I put back on what was needed to keep me from looking like I was suffering from a life threatening illness.

Last night I was reading a diary I kept for a number of years whilst I was depressed. Apart from the usual entries about what was going on, there were constant referrals to how fat I was, how I hated my body, how disgusted I was with myself. It was so negative and it showed how tied in I am with the whole body issue. Whilst I accept my body as it is now, it is only because I am able to exert a level of control over the overall look of it.

This year I have put on unwanted weight. Not that much, but enough that I am aware of it and my clothes have become tighter. It is not so much food related as I keep a diary of everything I eat, but after my overseas trip I dropped back on the exercise whilst nursing an injury.

Unfortunately, it appears that I am never really okay with putting on any weight. I can feel that level of self loathing step in and motivate me to make moves to get the weight off. It would be very easy to just vomit up what I am eating but fortunately I have enough sense to know that such action would lead to a bad frame of mind and poor body health. It would be impossible for me to be a good mother, a good wife and a useful employee if I were to jeopardise my health by depriving myself of good nutrition.

I would not be lying if I did not say that I think of what goes in my mouth every single day. I know the calorie value of everything. I know how much my clothes and shoes weigh. When I become obsessive about my weight I will step on the scales ten times a day, it is so compulsive.

When people say that they think size zero is too thin, well I secretly think that level of thin is beautiful. I have a couple of friends who are of the same ilk as me and we confess to each other how beautiful we think Posh Beckham is with her narrow, child like legs and thin arms. When we saw pictures of Angelina Jolie at her thinnest, we all commented on her waif like beauty, thin arms and hollowed cheek bones.

It would not matter if you said my body looked good for there is some sort of inbuilt revulsion of my physical self that has always been there. Besides, I most likely don't see myself the way others do. Perhaps it stems back to the childhood years of my father always telling myself and my sisters how fat we were. In fact, I remember when my younger sister was severely anorexic and my dad commented how lovely she looked. My older sister is at the other end of the spectrum and has issues with overeating.

These days I go with the feeling I have for to deny it just denies what is part of who I am. I treat it all like a project that has to be constantly worked on and assessed.

It all must sound so pathetic. A middle aged woman who seems to be unable to just be happy with who she is. In a way, I am very happy with most aspects of my personal self, but my body will always be my worst enemy.

Ciao
LC

Monochrome

Sometimes my son and I go for a walk down to the local shopping strip to have lunch or breakfast and a general mosey in at the shops.

My son always likes to visit the book shop to sit and read some of the books they have on the shelves. Whilst he is doing that, I read the various art books or whatever else is on offer.

He has to then accompany into the odd clothes shop. His body language is a dream to see. Rolled eyes and drooping shoulders indicate his begrudging resignation to the fact he has to spend all of - say - five minutes within the clothing filled store. The interesting thing is, I always give him the option of sitting outside on one of the street benches and he always says no and that he may as well come in. What a martyr.

Recently he has taken it upon himself to advise me as to what would be the best outfit for me. Or he responds to my questions with the most unsettling honesty I end up buying nothing.

Here are a couple of snippets of his advice:

"What do you think of this skirt?" I ask as I hold up a fetching olive coloured sample.

"No way, it is the colour of dirt or cow poo or something," comes the response.

So I hang it back up. Then I pull out another, more colourful one and ask for his opinion. What I fail to tell him is that I would wear it with black tights and boots. He thinks I may want to wear it bare legged.

"No way mum. You are too old to wear a short skirt," he informs me.

"What do you mean "too old," dreading the answer but wanting to know regardless.

"Well, you know....you have white legs and they are not that young looking. You know, kind of, well, not that wrinkly or anything, just not young. But they are okay, not ugly or anything, " he tries to mend the damage after seeing my incredulous look on my face.

"Well, thank you for your honesty. I was going to wear the skirt with black tights and for your information I do know the rules about wearing short skirts and bare legs when you are of a certain age so don't worry about seeing my pegs in a mini skirt," I think my words reassure him.

"Oh, well, that is okay then," he looks pleased at my obvious awareness of my place in the fashion world.

Another conversation - today actually - goes like this:

I am looking through some different tops on a rack and hold up a couple of really brightly coloured ones for his opinion.

"Er, no way. That is granny looking," comes the response immediately.

I get the same response from the following three items of clothing.

"Well, you tell me what you think would suit me," I challenge him.

"Here, this one. This is your style," he kindly points one out.

I step up to look at it. It is a grey singlet style top. About as plain as it gets.

"What? That? That is my style is it?" I ask.

"Yep, that is you. You know, grey, brown, black," he duly informs me.

I did not buy anything.

It was all too colourful for me.

Grey, brown and black.

I better go off and blend into the background like a little grey mouse.

And for the record, my legs are perfectly fine.

Ciao
LC

How To Waste Time And Not Give A Toss

It is Friday today and my last one I have off before Christmas.

My boss is going on a six week holiday to Tuscany, Spain and a few other lovely places. Trust me when I say he has earnt it. So he will be leaving the business in the hands of three people. Myself, Project Manage and Site Manager. It is a good feeling that he trusts us enough to look after his million dollar baby. So, more hours are needed to keep it all hunky dory.

So, I decided to take today off and enjoy it.

There was an early start to the day as I went to an Osteopath to treat my sore back at 8.30 in the morning (that is early for me OKAY). What a way to start the day. I have a chronic injury and I have let it go too long. After he is finished fixing my back I will be off to a neurologist to get the the source of the problem. I limped out of the surgery relieved yet aching.

This was followed by a trip the the hairdressers. Oh, how lovely to visit her. Hear the latest gossip, read the latest trashy mags, have a coffee and then step out of there with fantabulous hair.

After that I meandered up the street and looked in some shops, made a few completely unnecessary purchases and mosied back the other way to the car. On the way I bought some freshly baked bagels and the warm, yeasty smell of them was divine. I thought about eating one as I drove home.

Once home I realised that the house needed to be tidied.

But I needed lunch first. I mean to say, one needs fuel if one is to do housework.

Turned on my little laptop and chatted to Catherine online whilst I ate my lunch.

Went into the bathroom and noticed how grubby it was. Decided that needed a clean.

But I needed a cup of tea first. And one of those chewy bagels.

Still drinking the tea, taking my time, putting of the inevitable.

Bagel met all my expectations.

House is still messy.

Maybe I will make the bed. Load the dishwasher. Put on a load of washing.

Yeah, that sounds very good actually. That way I can say I cleaned the kitchen, did clothes washing and cleaned up the bedroom. If I hang up the towels in my bathroom I can then say I tidied the bathroom. And if I plump up the cushions on the couch I can say to myself that I cleaned up the lounge room.

Okay, a slight exaggeration.

But the fact is, no matter what I do today you can bet that I will do the same again tomorrow.

Using that argument, I think I will go out to the studio and finish my painting.

It's my last Friday to myself this year.

And I ain't spending it doing housework.

Ciao
LC

Mobile Phone Twaddle

I have a mobile phone.

It has every function you could possibly ask for, most of which I never use.

It even has a GPS function, but it keeps putting me as living in Canberra which is about ten hours north from me. I cannot be bothered ringing customer service to get it changed because I then have to speak to a person in another country. And that is AFTER I have had to speak to a robot voice to get me through to the correct section.

I could go into a mobile phone shop and get them to organise the change, but no matter the time of day I go to one of those shops, it is crowded with people looking at mobile phones and I have not the time nor the inclination to hang around to get attended to.

So, I make calls and receive them, send and receive some sms messages and take a few silly photos with it. I get very few calls and generally they are from the same half a dozen people. As I get so few calls I am a bit precious about anyone else answering my phone. It's mine. Leave it be. I can answer my own calls. It makes me feel popular when someone rings me. So, don't take that small pleasure from me by answering it if I am in another room when it rings.

All that stuff above is to let you know about my relationship with my mobile phone.

Now, I expect everyone else to have a similar relationship with their mobile phone. Perhaps they may be more into the gadgetry aspect of it that I am, but essentially, it is their baby, not mine.

That means, if their "baby" cries don't expect me to pick it up.

My husband will go out of the house and leave his phone behind. It then rings and I leave it to go to voicemail. Then he comes home and asks me why I did not answer his mobile!

So, then what? I pick it up and say he is not there and take a message (which I will forget within five seconds). There is voicemail for that purpose.

And, at work, we have two office mobile phones which the tradesmen use. They ring the Project Manager and ask technical questions only. I cannot answer any of the questions they ask so why answer the mobile?

Plus, I never know what button to push on other people's mobile phone. One on the right, the left, slide mechanism, green button with smiley face or black button with white tick! By the time my eyes have squinted and roved all over the screen the call diverts anyway.

There is a reason it is called a MOBILE phone.

Mobile = portability.

Take it with you. Put it in your pocket or handbag.

Pick it up when it cries.

I have my own baby.

Ciao
LC

Sock Twaddle

This morning I was sitting in the lounge room and putting on my make up. At the same time I was watching some television. You know how it is.

My son was getting his shoes on and I noticed that he had one pair of clean socks sitting on one side of him but putting another pair of clean socks instead.

I questioned why he had two pairs of socks. He told me that the first pair he chose were not nice on his feet. They were hard and rough.

"Well, we can throw those out then. No point in keeping socks you won't wear," I said.

"No, don't do that. You just need to iron them. That will make them nice and soft," he suggested.

Oh, yeah, of course.

I will just add all the socks to the ironing basket.

It was at that point that I let him know, in the kindest possible way, that sock ironing was not something I would do as a rule.

Well, okay, I have ironed socks in the past.

And also underwear.

It looks nice and neat okay!

Not any more - not much anyway.

I would hate to let my son think that his future wife had to reach that standard.

Ciao
LC