Get Down And Boogie

My husband often has music gigs at old people's homes. Or at an RSL (Returned Services League). The musicians play standards. Music from the 1940's usually. Music that most of the residents grew up with.

If they are not too frail, they will get up and dance. With someone.

Unlike today where people kind of gyrate on their own. I am afraid that I am of the gyrating generation.

I am not of the generation that actually touched another person whilst dancing, unless it involved a bit of a grope or something.

That does not mean that I would not be capable of dancing with another, but I don't. This is because my husband cannot dance and it would not be appropriate for me to dance cheek to cheek with another man unless he were gay or something.

Now, keeping in mind that the music my husband plays at the old folks home is music from their youth, I do wonder what music is going to be played when I hit the twilight homes.

Or, more fascinating. what music will be played when my son moves into the land of silver hair.

And, will he get up and dance to rap? Will the songs be as cutting edge with their rude words and suggestive comments? Will the gals shake their booty?

Really, thinking about the words to the music of now and then, what scenario pops into your head?

Paper Moon sung by the mellow voice of Ella Fitzgerald.

I never feel a thing is real
When I'm away from you
Out of your embrace
The world's a temporary parking place

Mmm, mm, mm, mm
A bubble for a minute
Mmm, mm, mm, mm
You smile, the bubble has a rainbow in it

Say, its only a paper moon
Sailing over a cardboard sea
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Yes, it's only a canvas sky
Hanging over a muslin tree
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Without your love
It's a honky-tonk parade
Without your love
It's a melody played in a penny arcade

It's a Barnum and Bailey world
Just as phony as it can be
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Compared to.....

Candy Shop - sung by 50 Cent.

Yeah...Uh huh
So seductive

I'll take you to the candy shop
I'll let you lick the lollipop
Go 'head girl, don't you stop
Keep going 'til you hit the spot
I'll take you to the candy shop
Boy one taste of what I got
I'll have you spending all you got
Keep going 'til you hit the spot

Now, I am not putting the whole song of Candy Shop on here because it will take up space and you can figure what the gist of the song is all about.

I just cannot picture in my head what music old people are going to be getting down and grooving with in my son's twilight years. Because people like to listen to the music they grew up with generally. Don't they? I mean, it is not like he is suddenly going to want to embrace Louis Armstrong or Ella Fitzgerald just because he turns seventy.

It just seems so weird.

Ciao
LC

Spring Musings

We are into the second month of Spring. My garden is full of green happenings, both weeds and other plants. Each time I step out the front door I say to myself that I must do some gardening. I have a lot of must do's.

In my front yard I have a raised, boxed in vegetable garden. Well, not that there are any vegetables in it right now, but there have been on and off over the past couple of years. At the moment it is a chaos of nasturtium and self seeding poppies. Rising bravely above this chaos are a couple of single stem apple trees, a miniature nectarine tree and a mandarin tree.

My husband would dearly love to see the garden bed removed and some sort of lawn put back there. There have been times when I am tempted, especially during the Winter months. Then Spring arrives and makes even the worst garden look inviting. I change my mind then.

I cannot say that vegetable gardening is a particularly money saving activity but it is nice to have home grown vegetables. But I am inclined to go to the local Farmer's Market and get just as tasty produce.

Friends of ours call our front yard a granny garden. Messy, flowery and a little weedy. Always something coming and going. Perhaps this year I may plant loads of flowers in the vegetable garden. Flowers are very pleasing to look at even when untidy.

Not far from us is a small, cream brick home on a corner block. The people who live there are a most unusual family.

The wife has severe allergies. To everything. Perfume, washing powder, fumes, cleaning products. Although I have not met her, I am friendly with a former neighbour of hers who gave me the run down on things.

The house has no curtains. No blinds even. It is set very close to the street so you cannot help but see in when you walk past. Besides, I love to look in windows when the opportunity arises. The mess in the house is fantastic. Not just mess, but piles and piles of stuff. Books, washing, ironing, magazines and all sorts of things just piled all over the place.

They hang their washing out to dry on a clothes horse on the nature strip. Sometimes they will pop their baby in a high chair just out the front door and feed her there. Or play with her on the nature strip outside the front fence, under the shade of the tree.

The front yard has been turned into a vegetable garden. They have chickens and a couple of rabbits. There are fruit trees and a grape vine trellised to various sections of chicken wire fixed to the low front fence. The pathway up to the front door is partially blocked by boxes in which herbs and seedlings are growing. It is so messy and chaotic. A compost bin is always overflowing with organic matter.

Although they have a backyard, it is small and hidden by a large fence so I have no idea what is going on in there. Probably more vegetables. I am not sure I would care to live next door to them as I wonder if a few rats may not enjoy being around their place.

Even though the house is a little bit of an eyesore, I find it rather sweet that they are trying to embrace a self sustaining life style. They are always friendly and busy with what they are doing. They live a quiet life and that is a nice thing.

Sometimes I get sick of houses being perfect. At work we build homes for people that are so perfect, so finished, so low maintenance that I wonder what on earth those people do. Don't they have any interests? There is so much order in their homes that it reminds me of Stepford Wives. Stepford Homes. The gardens are maintenance free and subsequently resemble the local council gardens. All neat, tidy and drought friendly.

A home that we recently completed has every single gadget you could imagine. Rain sensing louvres that shut automatically when they get wet. Lights that automatically turn on and off as you enter and exit a room. Remote controlled blinds. Even an auto flushing toilet. No thinking involved and even less movement.

They also have an electronic panel that allows programming for everything in the house. Heating, cooling, lighting etc.. Twice the owner has madly pushed the buttons so often that she has disengaged the infloor heating and had to have things reprogrammed.

I am a bit fearful of life becoming too easy. If I didn't have things to constantly do, boring and not boring, I would be concerned that I would become redundant in my own home. I want to open the blinds each morning. Get up, walk to the window and physically do the action. Not sit in bed and push a button.

I want to be a bit annoyed about the weeds. I want to feel there is something to do each day. Even annoying laundry. Dreary dunny cleaning. Sweep a messy floor. Pull hair out of plug hole in shower. Clean the filter in the dishwasher. Annoying as it is, boring as it is, I would rather have those things to do than have it all done for me.

Of course, I may not always do those annoying things when they "should" be done.

And I may complain about it when I am doing them.

But at least it is a constant happening.

Reminding me that I am still capable of all tasks other than button pushing.

Ciao
LC

One Of Those Days

Funny isn't it? You can be going along okay and then suddenly a shitful day arrives on your pillow when you wake up.

That was me today. Woke up from a very unpleasant sleep. The bed was too hot and the sleep very restless, very sweaty and my dreams were vivid and confusing.

When I awoke in the morning I had overslept and felt totally unrefreshed. My son woke me up when he called out from the lounge room "Muuuuuummmm, breakfast". I stumbled out of bed and made toast for both of us. I felt like a puff ball, face had pillow creases in it.

Neither the process of having a shower or a coffee helped at all. Oh, how I love make up on these sorts of days.

My husband, once home from his morning bike ride, was talking to me about the pending overseas trip and I could feel myself getting irrational about some parts of the discussion. He asked if I was alright and I shook my head so he changed the subject to something he knew I could manage.

My son had to come with me for food shopping. On Saturdays my husband visits his father in the nursing home and during that time my son and I do other things, today it was food shopping.

As I got in the car I said to my son that I felt fragile.

"I feel angry and teary, so just be careful what you say as I may be a bit upset", I told him.

"Oh, I know that feeling mum. I always have it. Hormones or something. That is why I like to play Xbox or read or go on the computer", he replied.

"Well, yes, distractions are good I suppose when you feel like this", I said.

He then told me that the best thing was not to think about the feeling or it would just grow and grow. I tried to follow his advice, but the feeling just followed my thoughts.

We decided to have lunch first. Whilst my son's lunch was fine, mine was not. I think I was not hungry, the vegetable soup was made with a beef stock and I could not stomach it. The final straw was the dreary cup of coffee that they made. I did not have it in me to complain as I could imagine it would come out all wrong if I did. Besides, it was not that they had made bad food, I just did not like it, nothing would have pleased me today.

"Not only do I feel teary and angry but I feel fat and fugly. I don't want to be here and I have no idea what I want to do either," I said half to myself.

"Do you feel better now you said that mum?" my son was laughing. I joined him.

"Yeah, thanks for letting me have a whinge," I said.

"That's okay. You will feel better soon. The feeling will pass," my son informed me.

We finished our shopping. My son was so helpful. I know he really did not want to come with but he made an effort to put aside those feelings of teenage resentment. He pushed the trolley around for me, lifted the bags into it and then loaded them into the car.

He was right. The mood passed. My brother dropped around for a cup of coffee and my mind sorted itself out.

After he left I made a batch of chocolate chip cookies and then a humming bird cake.

I felt as though I had been productive. I even went into the studio for a while.

It has been a long week and I think I just hit the wall. Hospital, recovery, work, lack of exercise and poor sleep are always triggers for a fragile state of mind.

Thankfully I feel much better now that the evening is coming on. Daylight savings starts tomorrow so we will get and extra hour of daylight.

Tomorrow I shall wake up and a new day is there for me to enjoy.

Something to be very thankful for.

Ciao
LC

World Post Day

On October 9 it is World Post Day.

Now, if there is one thing that never fails to impress me, it is the life of a letter.

Despite the fact I am notoriously bad at posting letters from work, I have no problems sending off a post card or letter to someone.

I love that you can put a stamp on a letter or card, pop it into a letter box where it will be put into a sack, taken to some other place where it will be put into another sack and then maybe into another van, then on a bike or onto a plane.

I think there may be a conveyor belt trip there somewhere.

No matter how it happens, but it then turns up where it needs to (most of the time).

In anticipation of this special day I would like celebrate by sending a postcard to anyone who wants one.

You can email me your address via my profile. I promise not to pass on your personal details to anyone else.

Only onto the back of the postcard.

Ciao
LC

Cake Blog

CAKE WRECKS

I love this website.

The photos are so funny.

Let alone the spelling mistakes on some of those cakes.

Ciao
LC

The Jungle

My younger brother is a member of Rotary. He was introduced to it by my boss. The two of them have been friends since teenage years and do a lot of things together.

Earlier this year my brother was part of a Rotary team who went over to Papua New Guinea as volunteers to install water tanks in a number of villages.

It was an eye opener for him. The heat especially. Everyone on the team got sun stroke at one point. One of the people who went with decided to cook everyone dinner using local ingredients and as a result of that everyone had the most awful stomach upsets.

The rest of the time they ate Spam sandwiches and bananas.

My brother was surprised by the rawness of the jungle over there. And that most people of all ages carried a machete with them. There were insects that were disturbing and he was constantly being shown what not to touch.

His feeling was that no matter what you did over there, the jungle was waiting to pull you back into it's dark, hot and damp interior. As though it would not let you go, made your limbs unwilling to fight the humid surroundings.

The work took around two weeks and when he got back he was about eight kilograms lighter and very pleased to be back home.

Well, I have the feeling I am experiencing the lure of sloth jungle this week.

I have not done any exercise since Monday of last week. Next Monday I will be going back to my exercise regime and am looking forward to it.

However, I can feel the jungle of laziness wanting to pull me into it's slothful interior. My limbs are heavy and inert.

The trouble with doing regular exercise is that when you do have a break you are reminded of how utterly delicious it is to do nothing.

A couple of brisk walks are on the cards for the weekend.

Once I do that I will also be reminded of how even more utterly delicious it is to do exercise.

When you are finished that is.

Ciao
LC

Clogs, Socks and Cheese

I try really hard to be fashionable about town!

Every so often I buy a couple of items of clothing that will ensure that I look like I have some idea of what is happening in the world of fashion. Although, crop tops, skinny jeans and other items never found their way into my minuscule clothing collection.

Actually, the reality is, now and then I am forced to replace some over washed piece of clothing in my wardrobe and when I get to the clothes shops I have a choice of thirty five versions of the same type of top.

But I can never get my head around buying shoes that are anything but comfortable. No matter what is in fashion.

Today I went to work with my red clogs. They are so comfortable. During the day I take them off and wiggle my toes. When I get home I can just kick them off and do some more toe wiggling.

See those socks? They are a knee length cashmere mix. Soft and warm. All my socks are knee length. I feel I get good value for money. True. I do. I buy knee length socks because they are the same price as shorter ones.

Changing subject.

Last night I held book club at my house so I had to go down to the street to buy something tasty to serve up. Usually there is wine and cheese, some chocolate etc.

So, off I went to a little delicatessen that I know sells all the things I need. They have a cheese fridge that can be seen into from the front pavement. It is full of beautiful cheeses from all over the world. They sit on shelves like wax covered stones, all sizes from small hand made goats cheese that you can hold in your hand to enormous waxed rinds that take two men to lift. Just beautiful.

As I do not eat cheese I no longer have any idea of what is happening in the world of cheese so I asked the girl to pick a number of suitable cheeses for me. Interesting, creamy and full of flavour was all I asked.

I bought a few other things and the price was a bit high but I figured that was more because I don't deli shop very much these days so would not be used to paying a lot for cheeses.

Once home I unwrapped the assortment of cheeses and put them on the plate. During this process I idly looked at the price on one of them. Some creamy, blue veined cheese hand made in the hills of Upperthecomebackwest or something.

The price was $95 per kilogram. The little foil wrapped wedge with it's soft rind had cost me about $20. I mean, it really was small because cheese is dense so small is often weighty. You could have gobbled this wedge in one sitting.

I thought, hmmmm, that is a bit pricey but it must be worth it.

Since I don't even eat it, I was a bit cheesed off (no pun intended) that I would not even benefit from the creamy flavour.

My husband had a taste and said it was vile. But he thinks processed cream cheese in a jar is exotic, so his opinion was not listened to. My son took one look at it and walked away.

Anyway, I served up the cheese platter without making a joke about the ever rising cost of cheese.

But then one said "Oh, Linda, this is the most amazing cheese I have ever eaten".

"Ah, well, I am glad to hear that because there is a little story behind that wedge," I replied.

After I let them know the price of it, the other cheese denying, die hard diet mongers there helped themselves to the rest, especially when I told them that it would be thrown in the bin otherwise.

They all agreed it was the most gorgeous cheese they had eaten.

Now I am worried about the next book club I have at my house.

There may be expectations!

Ciao
LC

Happy Birthday BB

Today is my father's birthday. He was born in 1932. That's all I have to say on him.

Of more interest to me is the fact that today is the birthday of Brigitte Bardot, that beautiful French girl who made being ingenue famous quite by accident.

I love BB.

I love that she speaks her mind no matter the consequences. She has opinions and is unafraid to express them. The approval of the world is not her agenda.

I love that she was brave enough to admit she was not a good mother and thus handed over the child rearing of her son to his father.

I love that she has married four times and had many lovers in between. To me that indicates that she believes in Love and follows her heart.

I love that she freely admitted that she was a bad actress. Personally, I think she was very good.

I love that she is committed to the welfare of animals and supports animal rights in every possible way she can.

I love her natural beauty and how she seemed to always just go with it in a time when going with your own sexuality and accepting your own beauty was still a new thing.

I love that she has not had plastic surgery. That she wears make up still and looks like a lovely aging sex kitten. She looks like a woman who once was adorable looking.

This is what beautiful women look like when they age. Not smooth, not pillow faced, not with over arched eyebrows and tight faces. This is natural and how one should be when aged 75.

This is what getting older is. She is on a level playing field with the general public. It is easy to look good, to look younger with the help of a plastic surgeon.

She is a brave person to be herself and not be so vain that she resorts to medical intervention to halt the exterior process of aging.

She would be unafraid to count the candles on her cake.

If I were not a grown up I would pin posters of her on my bedroom wall and gaze at her intelligent and lovely face. Not because I want to look like her or be like her, but because her beauty is so unpretentious, because she embraced it and accepted it just as one accepts that the sun rises and sets each day.

It is ageless.

It is timeless.

This sort of beauty is rare.

Today's beauty is manufactured, primped and primed for the public to follow and emulate. I cannot think of many current day actresses who come close to what Bardot was.

So Happy Birthday Brigitte Bardot.

Ciao
LC

Wishful Thinking

Today, after the last sad sack post, I started mixing cup cakes.

My husband looked into the mixing bowl and noticed how much butter was in there.

"What else will go in there?" he asked.

"Um, butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla essence, flour, milk - that is about it,"I told him.

"I thought home made cakes were healthy," he said.

"No, not really. Nothing that tastes like these cakes is going to be healthy. But they are simple ingredients. No additives or preservatives in them so they are a better choice than shop bought cakes," I told him.

"I have been eating them thinking they were good for me," he complained.

I had noticed how quickly the cakes disappear each time I make them.

"I can make a low fat vegan spice cake if you like," I suggested.

He declined the offer of a healthy alternative.

And subsequently ate two cupcakes hot out of the oven.

They were small, so two is okay.

Ciao
LC

Sunday Sigh

My son asked me what do you call a person who wants to have s-x with dead people.

Sigh.

I told him the name. He asked me why people would do that. I said that I actually had no idea and that it was against the law. He answered "no wonder".

He also complained about having to get dressed.

Sigh.

And complained about having to put shoes on.

Sigh.

And complained about having to brush his teeth.

Sigh.

My husband went to visit his sister. Whilst he was out I rang him to ask if he could stop off at the supermarket to get some things so I could cook dinner.

I asked for vegetable stock. He brought back beef stock.

Sigh.

I asked for All Bran, the one I always get (and have been for years). He came back with a different one.

Sigh.

I asked for chicken breast fillet. He brought back chicken thigh fillets (and then said the dog could have them).

Sigh.

"I don't know what happened. It was busy and there were people there and I felt under pressure. It is just food. It is all the same to me", he explained.

Sigh.

But, he did bring back butter so I can cook some lovely vanilla cup cakes.

I mean, isn't that what one does when they feel like having a sigh?

Bake cup cakes.

Sigh.

Ciao
LC

Saturday Dreary Blab

After surgery there is always a period of time where you have to just recover.

Ideally, if you are recovering you would sit around reading magazines, watching movies and reading books. Just chilling out.

Sounds rather pleasant doesn't it? I love doing that sort of stuff but not when I have to.

For some reason, when I HAVE to do it I don't WANT to do it.

For some reason, when I HAVE to take it easy I don't WANT to take it easy.

When the choice is taken from you, the urge is strong to do things you shouldn't. It was different when I had the hysterectomy because the level of pain I had made the enforced rest easier. But this time I have no pain and have to utilise some self control.

It also poured with rain so I felt trapped. I did drive up to the local shop with my son to get his lunch and then came home. Also made some home made pizza for my son and husband.

I even made a most horrible tuna pizza for myself and ate it out of boredom.

Sat watching my son play Xbox on the television. Resisted the urge to go out and buy a second television to put in the bedroom. Mainly because I could not possibly justify such an impulse buy.

The rest of the day was spent on the computer looking at holiday places to go to when overseas. Realised that my budget will not spread to staying in grand country homes. But it will allow us to stay in a heritage listed lighthouse just near Land's End in Cornwall.

I was a bit bored.

I also ate too much bread. Lovely and fresh rye bread with a crispy, flour covered crust.

Drank cups and cups of green tea.

I could have done so much more.

However, I think I just did as much as I really could.

Which appears to have been not much at all.

And that's fine.

Ciao
LC

Impulses

Tonight, being totally and absolutely over tired, I decided it might be a great idea to finally start on the skirt that I bought fabric for ages ago.

As I was unwrapping the pattern with a mixture of trepidation and fascination, I was reminded of a feeling I have that is irresistible whenever I hear the sound of this type of tissue paper.

I want to rip it. I want to screw it up in my hands and scrunch it. Especially the stupid, wafer thin brown paper that is used for skirt patterns. I especially want to do it because it would be a disaster if I did.

Then I thought of other impulses that I have had and continue to have.

For example, whenever I eat a jam sandwich on soft bread I want to throw it across the room. Just throw it and see it slap against the television or window or onto the carpet. Or throw it at my husband or squish it into his hair.

There have been times where I have had to put the sandwich down onto the plate and distract myself.

Other times I have had the urge to just squash it into a ball. I have actually done it once and then thought to myself;

"That was fucking stupid Linda. Now you have to clean it up".

Other times when I am in polite company, the urge to say fuck is overwhelming. Or take my clothes off. It must be the shock factor appeal that goes with it.

Either that or I am incredibly bored.

Once, for no reason whatsoever, I took two litres of milk out of the fridge and tipped it down the sink. Just to watch it.

It is worse when I am tired. Which, incidentally, I am at the moment. Very tired.

I have even had the urge to delete my blog. Just because the button is there and would let me. But I know I never would. However, since the urge is there I never actually go to the page that has that button on it. No need to court danger is there.

My son has the same sort of behaviour. Just suddenly, out of the blue, he will start dancing around the room, like a court jester, in just his underwear or something like that. Then pull very stupid faces. He is excused though, as he is only twelve.

Not that long ago, as I was standing in the supermarket, I said to no one in particular (but in a very loud voice) "why is this my job all the time"? A few people shifted uncomfortably, being in close proximity to a middle aged nutter is not a pleasant thing. A couple of young girls snickered to each other and I turned to them and said "trust me girls, in thirty years you will be standing in a supermarket asking yourself the same question".

I think I said it because sometimes I get sick of people just standing around saying nothing. Just staring into space as though nothing is happening. The impulse to break the silence got the better of me. I have done similar things when standing in a silent lift.

Sometimes you just have to give into impulses.

As I get older it appears much easier to do the giving in.

So satisfying.

I am going to make myself a jam sandwich.

Ciao
LC

Hospital Visit

Well, I had a short trip to the hospital for some surgery. Just a couple of days and relatively no pain.

Without going into detail about what surgery I went in for (tempted though I am) the surgeon gave me a little run down of what was done and ended it with the words "and I also gave you just a nice little nip and tuck".

This was accompanied with a little smile and raising of eyebrows. The assisting nurse supervisor gave a little knowing laugh. Obviously she knew something I didn't.

Like he had done me a favour down below or something. What was he saying? That I needed things tightened or something. Or was that an added bonus. A bit of "well, while we are down here with the sewing needle let's see what else we can do".

The mind boggles. That was not what I went in there for. Was that an upsell?

Anyway, whilst I was there, laying around in the hospital bed for two entire days and nights, my son and husband came to visit.

My son went to sit on the side of the bed and I reminded him to be careful to not sit on the catheter tube hidden discreetly underneath the bedcovers otherwise I may explode.

He looked down and then saw the attractive urine collection unit hanging on the underside of the bed and after pulling a face at it said "That would be great to have when playing Xbox. You would not have to go to the toilet".

Oh, what a dedicated gamer he would be.

Now I am at home and feeling normal, if tired.

I did notice one rather alarming thing when I peered into the mirror.

The hairs on my chin grew extra fast in that static hospital environment. Now I really feel like an old bat.

Oh, Mr Tweezerman's, what a comfort it is to have you in my hands.

Ciao
LC

Good Fats

Yesterday one of our suppliers came around bearing gifts in celebration of the end of Ramadan.

Gifts in the form of baklava and lots of it.

If there is one treat that I adore and love more than anything, well, this is it.

That lovely sweetness of them. Sticky, sickly sweet delights that they are.

I love the pistachio in them. The pastry wrapped around them.

I don't even know exactly what is in each type. I just know that when I bite into one it is an experience each and every time. When I was younger it was a regular thing to buy a few different ones and eat them without a care in the world.

Yesterday I had one with my morning coffee. It was loaded with pistachio and some sort of gorgeous shredded covering on it. It may have have been infused with rosewater which gave it a beautiful aromatic flavour.

Today I had another one. Only small. So I then had another small one. Then picked at a third before wrapping the cellophane packaging up again.

Not long after I felt a bit sick. And guilty. I really wanted to eat lots of them irrespective of the prospect of them making me ill.

After the second one of the day I decided to Google the calorie content of baklava. Just in case I had the urge to have another self indulgent piece.

At 334 calories per one inch cube and about ten grams of fat, well, I figured that it was not a good idea to randomly hog the rest of them. Hence the little pick I had before wrapping it up again.

During the search for the crucial information, I came across a statement from someone who was obviously trying to justify the baklava pig out they just had.

They made the comment that "baklava is made up of healthy fats. nuts and stuff so it must be okay".

Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that.

I spent the rest of the day drinking glasses of water and looking at the trays of temptation.

It was tough.

Ciao LC

Frau

As you may know, I am married and have been for almost nineteen years. It would be very, very rare that you would ever see me write anything that is mean spirited about my husband. Firstly, he does not warrant it. Secondly, even if he did, it would not me my style to post about it.

But, sometimes, just sometimes, he comes out with the most tactless comments.

And this morning was a beauty.

But before I tell you about it, let me give you a little bit of background.

My husband was brought up in the classic 1950's home. His mother always wore dresses or skirts. Never long pants, well, except when she was old and had Alzheimer's. He wore short pants and a tie until he was a teenager.

In his mind, the ideal wife was to be a bit like this.

I came from a chaotic house. My mother wore weird clothes and dressed me in even more weird stuff. I hated girly clothes and always felt uncomfortable in them.

Had she been around during my youth, Lara Croft would have been the ideal role model for couture.

So, you can see how diametrically different we are when it comes to "what makes a woman look good" ideas.

For years my husband would say things like "you would look nice in a pretty blouse" or "you have never really looked good in jeans" and "black does not suit you". For a while I went through the stage of trying to dress in feminine clothing. Skirts, dresses and floral things. But it felt uncomfortable and I slowly started to dress my own way.

In fact, one day, years ago, I got so pissed off about being criticised that I said to my husband "Here is how I dress. If you keep saying you don't like the way I dress I shall leave". And I meant it.

Things settled after that.

Well, this morning I asked my husband if I looked okay in what I was wearing.

His reply contained the following words:

1. You look like a peasant.
2. You look like you are going to work at a brewery.
3. Your legs are so white, you should not have them on show - wear pantyhose.
4. I hate clogs. They look clumsy.
5. Black does not flatter you.
6. You look like a hippy.
7. It looks all bitty.
8. That top does nothing for you.
9. You look hideous.

This did not come all in one long rant. I am just picking out the best bits.

I looked at him in absolute and utter disbelief (and borderline amusement) and said "Good, then I am wearing it".


Later on, once my make up and hair were all done, he apologised.

"I don't know why I said that. You look great. It was because you just stared at me each time I said something and I could not stop", he explained.

"It's okay", I replied.

"No, really, I feel bad", he continued.

"No wonder. But really, it is okay and actually, I just wanted to know if what I was wearing made me look fat. I should have been more specific. And, by the way, I don't actually need your approval and am old enough to know if I look good or not", I told him.

I can only think that there are a couple of reasons he may have decided to offload so freely.

1. I am good natured and may even find the rant amusing.....
2. I am forgiving.
3. He has been suppressing his true thoughts for too long and they all came out in one hit.
4. He is INSANE.
5. He does not want sex until Christmas 2050 (joking....).

Later on I said to him that I was going to tell everyone what you said.

He said that was fair and reasonable.

Ha!

Ciao
LC

They Look French

See this photo of my tea towels?

I once loved these tea towels. All the more so because they looked so old fashioned.

Last year when we went overseas, we found ourselves at a huge antique fair in Newark. It was at this fair that I came across these tea towels.

I bought them because I thought they looked "French".

Now, I am not exactly why I thought they looked "French" as opposed to "British" or "Australian".

Perhaps it was that the stall holder was French. I then assumed that the tea towels would be from the same place as her.

I also presumed they were old. Seeing as I did buy them from an antique fair. But we all know that looking old does not not mean something is actually old.

But one thing I can tell you that they were was stiff. Stiff and rigid and hard and like cardboard.

But that was okay because I figured that they were old and possibly had been starched. I also assumed that once I got them home and washed, the stiffness would go and I would be left with lovely, cream French looking tea towels with some stripes on them.

When I got them home, a friend saw them and said "oh, how gorgeous. they look so French".....

Then she said "they are a bit stiff".

I have never, ever owned a more useless bunch of tea towels in my life. All thirteen of them stayed as rigid as a piece of fabric could for a long as it could. Despite hot washes, cold washes, vinegar washes, soaking them in all sorts of softening agents, those stupid tea towels refused to give in for ages.

Honestly, although I know they are just plain old cotton, I am beginning to think they are made from some sort of secret industrial canvas cut up to look like French tea towels for unsuspecting tourists to buy. They would certainly have done well enough being used as deck chair fabric.

Oh, and they just have to be ironed. Because not only are they stiff, they also crease like hell after drying on the clothesline. Or in the dryer. Or on the indoor clothes horse. And ironing those creases out requires great heat, even greater steam and full body pressure from above. Plus a soaking of linen water to soften them up a bit more.

But once ironed and folded nicely, they look so lovely in the linen cupboard.

Now, eighteen months later, after many, many stinking hot washes, they are finally soft enough to dry something properly. Well, almost. I would keep away from glassware for another two years.

Who cares!

They look French.

Ciao
LC

Today

I woke up this morning and made the decision to give the fitness test a miss. An exercise free day. My body just groaned at the thought of it and my head agreed totally. They colluded together to keep me in bed.

It is not often I do that, but today it felt right. Got out of bed, had a shower, got dressed and started to do some things around the house.

I felt like I was wagging work or school or something. The guilty pleasure that goes with being a bit naughty.

Anyway, later on in the morning, my son (still in pj's) asked me if I was going to go up the street and get him his Saturday morning croissant. How could I resist his imploring face.

I actually went to the shops in my yoga pants. Not something I normally do, ever. But they are very stylish ones so I figure I can go a bit casual now and then. Besides, everything was in the wash anyway and it wasn't like I was stepping out onto Rodeo Drive.

If there is something I really enjoy, it is going down to the shops on a sunny Saturday morning. Seeing all the different people doing the same things each week. Sitting outside coffee shops, cigarettes in hand and chatting with friends. Other people inside cake shops and indulging in sweet treats. Older people standing around talking together before heading their separate ways.

When I was walking down there, enjoying the hustle and bustle, the warm sunshine and sounds of shop activities, I realised that I have not done this properly for a while. Haven't been walking as much as I used to. Haven't been stepping out my front door an walking down to the busy shops to do my shopping.

Part of this is because I am working more. And the winter months are a bit of a drag. Also, I think I got sick of just walking for the sake of it. I tell you, I think I had walked the same route hundreds of times and lost motivation.

Now I have the break from doing the same old, same old I feel ready to get back to it. You see a lot when you walk and I have missed that. Not that I actually knew I missed it. Not until today actually. Had it not poured with rain later on in the afternoon I would have gone for a long and aimless walk through the streets.

When down the street in the morning, I popped into a small bookshop to see what was new in stock. Penguin books are becoming the great reads now and the display was full of new editions. For years their low price and diverse range went out of popularity, people choosing them over the flashy chic lit reads. But now they are back in fashion and more and more book stores have a dedicated Penguin range.

I have always loved the austere look of the Penguin book covers. The lovely orange with the white. Simple. There are other colours, but this shop seems to only stock the orange fiction books. Whenever I look at them I know that behind that cover there will be a good story to read. The books are only $9.95 here which is great value for good reading.

Books in Australia are particularly pricey compared to other countries.

Most recently I have reread that great story The Beach by Alex Garland. When I first read it I was a bit shocked at the casual violence that was throughout it. The book is a bit more sinister than the movie and I still find it a very disturbingly satisfying read. It is my turn for holding the book club soon and I am going to introduce that as one of the suggested reads.

Despite wandering around the store for half an hour, I ended up buying my son a book and not me. He is mad about the author Robert Muchamore and the moment a new book comes out he cannot wait to get his hands on it. It will be an early night for him tonight just so he can open up the glossy hardback and get right into it.

Later in the afternoon my brother came over. He is doing the bachelor thing for the next few days and was a bit excited about the prospect of heading home to have pizza for dinner whilst watching a DVD without children climbing all over him. Now and then, it is nice to be free even if for a short time. Even when I offered him a chance to eat with us he declined saying that he was looking forward to being alone.

And my son. Well, he did not get out of his pyjama's at all today. It is the first day of school holidays and he intends to wallow in the extreme sport of slothness. He played a bit of Xbox, watched some television and ate in between.

Since putting in a new rule of no Xbox or computer Monday to Friday, my son has become a more industrious person. School work improved, sleep improved and he started to do other things.

One of those things is to ask to play clarinet.

My father in law always played clarinet. He has been unable to play since being in a nursing home so we kept his clarinet with us. My son has to play a musical instrument in High School and when we asked what his preference was he surprised us by saying he wanted to play clarinet. He even agreed to lessons and has been practicing diligently. The instrument agrees with him and he takes great care of it because it was his grandfathers.

I am relieved that he seems so interested. A couple of years ago he played piano and it was the most stressful thing to get him to practice. In the end we just had to agree that piano was not his thing. Music has to come from the child. If they are not interested, it is a chore of the worst kind.

Not only that, his clarinet teacher is a really groovy guy. Young, good looking and someone my son is duly impressed by. Plus, he comes to our house so my son feels relaxed and unrushed at the lesson..

Unlike his piano lessons had been. They were such an ordeal as mentioned in this post. In fact, my son said to me recently that the teacher he had put him off piano. At the time I had said to my husband that it would be prudent to get another piano teacher because she was so demotivating that it would put S off playing the instrument for life. K said I was being silly and that all piano teachers were like that. Yeah, well, maybe in 1959 they were, but not now.

My husband now agrees. This agreement is followed by me saying "I told you so". Can't resist the opportunity.

So, the day is drawing to a close. There are no plans for tomorrow other than to get out of bed at some point.

I am loving the thought of going to bed tonight because the sheets are freshly changed, smooth, white and crisply ironed and I like to slip between them like they are the envelope and I am the letter.

I shall then be posted off to the land of dreams.

Ciao
LC

Boring Update On A Busy Week

I have been particularly busy at work for the past couple of weeks.

My hours are increasing bit by bit and it has been hard to get used to it. Normally I like to work about 25 hours each week but now it is heading for 35 and more.

I know, I know. What is the big deal about working a 35 hour week these days. But for me, well, working too many hours is something I have to work up to mentally and physically.

I get home from work, make dinner for husband and son, get changed for exercise, go to exercise, get home and then make my dinner and then I may make a cake and then plonk. Lately, I seem to have been doing NOTHING but that little routine and the other day I thought to myself it was getting a bit annoying that my blogging time has been eaten into.

But today I had a day off. Went to the hairdressers in the morning and spent three and a half hours there whilst she did my hair. The day was warm and after leaving the hairdressers I mosied around and enjoyed the sunshine. That was enough to make me feel relaxed and at ease.

During this week I had made up my mind to change my hair colour. Maybe go grey even. Like an Emmy Lou Harris kind of grey. I mean, my hair is 95% grey under that lovely brown colour I currently have. As I started going grey early, it was been at least twenty years that I have been having my hair coloured. I looked at the grey roots the other day and they are almost white. What do I look like under there? Is going grey really that bad?

I cannot say that my hairdresser was too pleased about my thoughts and came up with some very good ideas which would let me grow out the grey without looking like a skunk and without compromising the condition of my hair. Lots of low lights amongst the grey. She has given me her word that if I start to look old she will tell me. I would listen to her as I trust her judgement completely.

The bottom line is, I want a change with my hair. Different look. New look.

Tonight I had swimming lesson number three and we went to the deep end. Talk about being out of my comfort zone. I would not let go of the "noodle" flotation device for ages. I was so tired after the swim. This week I had four nights straight of exercise and my body just groaned at having to put more effort in. Tomorrow morning I have a fitness test and then a day of rest.

I don't really even have any plans for the weekend. Just taking things as they come. Surgery is next week so I am just mentally chilling out as it gets closer.

This is one of those particularly boring posts.

But I like to record it anyway.

Even boring posts are valid.

Ciao
LC

Hmmmmm

On Saturday it was nice and hot.

The sort of day where you like to mosey on over to the fridge, open the door and half lean on it whilst looking into the bright white cavern for something to quench your thirst.

You can tell I am a middle age woman by the contents of my fridge.

There was no fat, calcium enriched milk. Low fat, pot set yoghurt flavoured only by natural fruits and with no thickeners or nasty things in it. Fresh vegetables. Low fat cheese. Probiotic drinks.

And, the biggest indicator of all, two litres of prune juice.

That's right. Not fresh orange juice. No apple juice. No soft drink. Just good old prune juice.

So, when I kept opening the fridge it was either milk or prune juice.

So I kept having a glug of the prune juice straight out of the bottle.

Yep, necking the bottle like a lush.

I can safely say that I am the only fool that drinks it so I am allowed to slobber straight from the bottle.

But, prune juice is not for glugging, slugging, gulping or quenching of thirst.

And we know why don't we?

That's right. Prune juice is for helping the digestion and one should only partake of a small glass in the morning to help "move things along".

It is not for binge drinking on a hot day.

Especially a litre of it.

You see, the only thing that stopped me was that later in the day I had the most frightful pain in my lower gut and realised that perhaps I had been a bit heavy handed on the prune juice.

Without that warning gurgle I may have had the entire two litres.

It would have been as bad as the Gall Bladder Flush I did.

But better tasting.

Ciao
LC

Dear John Letter

Dear John

I know you thought I was going to clean you today, but, well, I have not and don't intend to.

Perhaps you are wondering who took my affections and stopped me from plunging my brush into your not so white depths.

Was it Mr Dyson, that sucker that lives in the cupboard in the office? Was it his handle I caressed instead of the handle of the dunny brush that lives by your side? Did I push him around the house, instead of the brush down toward your s bend, while you languished alone in the bathroom, waiting for someone to clean you? Instead of sitting on you.

Nope, not him.

Was it the shaggy mop head that was used? Or the dust cloth? How about that bottle of spray that promises to make my kitchen look like new (despite being about twenty five years old)? Was it the clogged filter on the dishwasher that captured my heart? The inside of the oven? The grubby front of the kitchen cupboards?

Nope.

Okay, I did put two loads of clothes in the washing machine but, at no stage, did I feel compelled to clean the washing powder off the floor. Nor did I take it upon myself to sort the washing, clean the laundry tub, wipe the dust off the bench or even fold up the ironing board. So, you were not the only one to be neglected today.

And I did make my bed so beautifully, the Marcella bedspread all smooth and white. But that was only so I could lay upon it and read a magazine before enjoying a little nap. Besides, bed making does not qualify as housework.

However, I did sit on the back step and make use of a Ped Egg on my newly exposed heels and tipped the soft white excess skin into the garden. But, that was because today I wore clogs and my heels were on show and what a cracked show it was too.

Why did I get to wear clogs? You see, today was warm. It was as warm as a summer day. The wind was warm, the sky a beautiful hazy blue and broken by scattered grey clouds.

So, why would I want to clean you Dear John? Why would I want to pick the hair out of the shower plug hole, sweep the floor, clear the bench top and wipe the mirror? Why, why and why would I want to do any housework at all?

For outside was so lovely and I just wanted to be there and embrace the loveliness for tomorrow it may rain and what good is that to me I ask you.

Don't worry, even I have my standards and I promise you that tomorrow you and your static bathroom buddies will shine like a new penny.

Until then - no visitors allowed to have a pee.

Ciao
LC

More Swims

Last night I went for lesson number two at the swimming pool.

For the first time in my life I floated on my back.

It doesn't sound like much does it? If you can swim you may think that it is no big deal. Having never floated on my back or my front it was almost like a religious experience.

I lay on my back and looked up at the high roof with it's steel girders and industrial lights. The sounds were muffled as my ears were under the water. It was surreal.

This great event was followed by my actually swimming freestyle half way up the length of the pool.

When I got home and relayed the experiences to my husband he asked me if I was really sure that I could not swim. How could I do a freestyle, a float and breathing after two weeks.

"Because I wanted to I suppose", I replied.

I think it helps that I am confident with what my body can do and understand how to apply the theory behind it.

BUT, do you think I could tread water properly?

Nope.

The girl explained about doing the legs in an egg beater movement and at the same time move the hands across the surface as though over a piece of glass.

I am so sure I did what she explained but the end result was not quite the same as her movements. It was up there with trying to rub your stomach and pat your head at the same time and subsequently ended in a dog paddle.

She said to work on it at home.

At home?

In my bath?

Or just whilst sitting and watching television?

I would Google it, get the theory of it in my head, but there are some things you just have to actually do for them to work.

Until the lesson next week I will work on visualisation.

Ciao
LC

My Blogspot

Where are you parked when you blog?

This is my blog plonking ground. My favorite little chair and my laptop where it should be - on my lap.

The first thing I do when I get home from work is turn on the laptop. It might be another hour before I actually start using it, but I just like it to be ready for me.

When I was little, I can recall my mother sitting in her chair and doing cross stitch. Or crocheting things.

My husband recalls his mother knitting, reading books, doing crosswords or some cross stitch work.

My son will have memories of me being attached to my laptop. Not very homely is it?

But I don't just send emails and read blogs when I am on it. I might read the newspapers around the world which, incidentally, are becoming universally boring and full of sameness.

I also look up different artists on the Internet. Read about their lives. Same with authors.

Other times I may be watching a documentary on television and look for more details about it.

One of the worst things I do is look up information about a movie I may be watching and then read what the end is. Then I will determine if it is worth watching to the end.

Plus the Internet is the best place for recipe searches. I rarely open a recipe book now. Instead I have a few core favorites on my bookmark list. Just a click takes me to the lovely recipe for lemon cupcakes.

Currently I am working on one of those photo books and I go through stages where I am really into it and then not into it at all. It is an ongoing process. The theme for this one is our last overseas holiday. By the time I finish it I will be back from the next overseas trip. Sigh.

When I feel that the laptop is just a mindless drain on my brain I will put it aside and do something more hands on. Read a book. Step into the studio and be creative.

I notice that in Winter I am more likely to plonk with my computer but blog less whereas in warmer months I am less on the computer but will blog more. Must be something to do with the extra sunshine making me more organised with my time.

Sometimes my husband makes comments that I am always sitting with my laptop on my knee. But I say nothing about his falling asleep in front of the computer in the office when watching YouTube videos. More than once by the way.

I have only fallen asleep once with my laptop on my knee and that was when I was in bed, which is totally acceptable.

So, that is my blogspot.

Blogplonk spot.

Both descriptions suit admirably.

Ciao
LC

Lovely Linda

The other day I heard a song I had not heard for a while called "Alison". It was originally written by Elvis Costello. As I was listening to it I had to rack my brains as to when I first heard it and who had sung that version.

It was sung by Linda Ronstadt.

Remember her? Because I sure do. She was a doll. And I wanted to look like her when I was a very young gal.

I used to look at this photo of her and tried to do my hair that way. Put a flower in it and pose a little bit. But it seemed I never was able to achieve that wonderful combination of sweetness and sexiness. I had two of her albums. Simple Dreams and Living in the USA. Before I heard one of the songs from Simple Dreams I had not heard any of her music.

When I got the Living in the USA album I looked at her lovely legs and wished I had the same sort. I wanted to learn to roller skate, but it was a skill I was never to master. She looked great. Although, I did wish that she had not cut her hair. Isn't that funny that I recall that thought.

My friend also had the albums and we used to put the records on and sing to them, using a hairbrush as a microphone. No need for karaoke or anything else then.

I never knew just how much music she put out until I looked up her name just recently. The first song I recall hearing was Blue Bayou. Her voice was sweet and full of wistful longing and I loved it. Over and over I would sing to the record and try so hard to replicate her.

But my big favorite was a song called I Ride An Old Paint. It had the words "For the fiery and snuffy are rarin' to go" and I wondered what on earth that was about. I am still not sure, but I still love them. The word "hoolihan" came up and I had to find a dictionary for that one. It was something to do with a rope or lassoo.

In those days there was not really any easy way to find out about someone famous. It was either in a woman's magazine (of which there were not that many) or in a newspaper that you may have found a snippet of information.

There were music magazines around but I never had access to those. So for me, she was just a bit of an enigma. One day I read somewhere that she was going out with some politician from Canada and that was about it.

It was better then. There was an air of mystery about well known people. A bit of gossip was fine. Now, we even get to see up their dress as they get out of cars - sans undies and all. Truly, I don't think there is any benefit in knowing everything about someone who is famous.

I was able to get through my teenage years looking up to famous people. Or being impressed. Or interested in a healthy way. It was nice without being intrusive.

Years ago people drew a line in the sand, so to speak, as to how much they would reveal about themselves. A little bit was fine, too much was sure to ruin the mystique. That line seems so far away now.

But I am digressing.

This post is about the Lovely Linda Ronstadt, with her sweet voice, beautiful eyes and songs of love, sadness, melancholy and all those wonderful things that made my teenage years so full of delicious angst.

She was one of my favorites all those years ago.

Ciao
LC

Motherly Advice And Curly Questions

My son asks me all sorts of questions.

Usually they are the ones that my husband would never answer. My son has worked out who will deliver the goods when it comes to curly questions. Me. I know I have blogged about it before in this post.

The questions are not so difficult now as I think I have covered all topics.

The other week he asked me what kinky meant. After ascertaining that he was not talking about the texture of hair, I did an internal deep sigh before responding.

"If you wanted to have sex with someone whilst wearing an apron and maybe a feather on your head, well, that may be considered a bit kinky", I offered as an explanation.

Then, as an after thought and also as an opportunity to get any other question out the way I added the following:

"If you absolutely HAVE to wear the apron and the feather every time you have sex, well, that is a fetish".

I continued reading as though the conversation was neither here nor there. My son, however, was laughing about the feather and apron so much that whatever I said was pointless. I wondered if I had handled the question properly, then decided that it did not matter anyway.

On the weekend I was talking to him about high school. All the paperwork has arrived to fill in and there were many questions to answer.

The whole high school thing is big stuff in my mind. He really is going into the territory in which he will grow into himself. Meet girls, have his heart opened and broken and experience emotions that belong to the rite of passage in becoming a young adult.

It fills me with the normal anxiety that mother's feel. Will he be okay? Will what I have shown him be helpful? Will he be able to be strong around negative peer pressure.

I thought I might give him some caring, motherly advice.

"You know, when you go to high school there will be kids who like you and those that don't. Girls will be kind and cruel and you may feel things that hurt to the core and that you think you may never get over, but you will", I told him.

He did a vague nod and peered at his Itouch.

"And, well, whatever you do, whatever happens, well, just remember to always be true to yourself. No matter what is thrown at you and how hesitant you are, just do that", I continued on with my inane blab.

He turned and looked me full in the face and then said, as though speaking to a child;

"Mum, I have been doing that for years".

Oh, er, okay. Of course.

Just checking.

Ciao
LC

Father's Day

Today is Sunday and Father's day here.

Yesterday my son and I went shopping and bought some things to give to my husband this morning.

I never care that these days are considered commercial. For me it is always a nice thing to celebrate and acknowledge how special a person is in your life. My son was right into it, just as he was with Mother's day. He was so excited about giving the gifts. And that is what counts.

The photo I have uploaded is of me with my own father.

I have not spoken to him for so many years. Or, should I say, he has chosen not to speak to any of his four children and I have long ago come to accept that decision without any more grief or questions.

However, I do wonder what goes on in his mind at times. How he made the decision to cut off all contact. Does he ever have a moment of regret at times? I do wish I knew.

My boss often sees him and chats away. In fact, years ago my father used to compare my boss with my brother. He used to talk about how successful my boss was and why was not my brother like him. And not just to me, but to anyone who would listen.

One day I said to him "Dad, J...... is successful because his parents, in particular his father, always did the right thing by him. They supported him, encouraged him and did everything they could for him all through his childhood. They had a happy and caring marriage and never, ever abused either of their children. All that helps".

He stopped going on about it after that. It pissed me off. I mean, you cannot just have a child and tell it to "successful". Whatever successful is anyway is a contentious issue in my mind. My dad may be well off, but I would not call him successful.

The thing is, I know my boss is "technically" successful but I know a lot about him that is not particularly nice. His values are very different to mine and my brother's.

A few months ago my brother dropped in to see my father at the bakery that he owns. The visit started off okay and then went downhill in a tirade of vitriol about, of all things, my brother's wife. My father does not like her or her family because they are - get this - boring. I think he mistakes nice for boring because in my father's mind, nice people are boring and spineless.

My brother was pretty upset but in a way there was some closure. A similar episode happened to me a few years ago when I tried to speak to him. It helped me realise that I was okay and that my father was the one with the problem.

My younger sister is coming down at Christmas to stay in our house when we go overseas. She made mention of catching up with dad and see how he was. Both my brother and I suggested that maybe she give that thought a miss as it may well spoil her holiday down here. Thankfully she saw the light and agreed with us.

I am fairly bullet proof when it comes to the issue with my father now. I no longer think about it like I used to. I am not sure if I really feel sad. To tell you the truth, I feel he is missing out and certainly not me. I know I did a post about it all here.

My son has absolutely no interest now in meeting my father. His attitude is along the lines of why would he want to speak to a man who treats his children the way he does.

My husband, having seen the grief I went to to get to the place of peace I am at, has agreed that my father will never be informed of anything that goes on in our life, in particular, if anything unfortunate occurred. I think this is my defence mechanism. My way of somehow paying him back for making me feel rejected, for hurting my feelings. I say things like "he is not allowed to come to my funeral" or "don't ever tell him if I am ill or if something bad happens". Childish words like that which, strangely enough, offer me some sort of satisfaction. Not that it is likely it will happen.

The other day, my husband heard via my sister who heard via someone else, that my father had been in hospital. He told me of the event and I am ashamed to say I felt a sense of glee and hoped he was suffering and maybe would ask to see me and then I would deny him that wish. It was obvious to me, at that point, that there never was and never will be a proper resolution. I will just have to go through the ups and downs that go with having such a relationship in my life. Or not having it.

Years ago when I was working at a nursing home, I mentioned to my mother that some of the residents there never, ever had any visits from their children. She said to me that there is usually a valid reason for such a thing. I completely understand what she meant, although at the time I thought it was a terrible thing.

Honestly, I don't think my father really thinks he has done much wrong in life when it comes to parenting. One time he was going on about the lovely atmosphere that there was in our last family home. On and on he went. Finally, unable to compose myself I asked him if he and I were actually living in the same house all those years he was speaking of. When I reminded him of the atmosphere he just dismissed that part of it.

When you are on the receiving end of another persons anger I suppose the place you inhabit is very different to the perpetrator. My dad was a bit of a sociopath. He would be absolutely awful to us and sleep like a baby and rarely felt the need to apologise. He was always, always able to justify his ways.

You know, this post is bringing up some things I usually bury down. Now and then it pays to dig over the earth and see how things are composting. You cannot deny certain feelings all the time.

I have felt sad. I still feel loss. I have felt unloved and also angry. I have felt confusion and possibly still do and perhaps always will. I will never understand but I do accept his choices even though I feel hurt.

Today I feel shitful about it and feel like crying but, at the same time, I am also feel it is fine to feel that whereas not that long ago I would have not allowed myself to feel that.

Thinking about it honestly, really thinking about it, I would have loved to be able to have said Happy Father's Day and dropped in to see him and bought him a present. Because he has a side to him that is bigger than his meanness. He is intelligent and funny and has given me good advice over my years.

And, deep down, I do love him. But at the same time, I actually don't want to have a relationship with him anymore. Too much time has passed and the wound has healed over. Why open it up for a salt rub?

Maybe I want someone else's dad. Or a normal dad.

Sigh.......it never really goes away does it.

But I am glad I did this post.

It helps.

Ciao
LC