Thursday, 29 October 2009
Don't box yourself in ... you are the boss of your own blog. You do not need to belong to any genre, or niche, or style. Be nice .. but do not be afraid to show your dark side; your faults; your defects of character. These are the things that will make people love you more. (We all have them, anyway.)
Don't try to be Dooce .. that gig is taken. Don't worry about stats, or readership numbers. Just write. Even if you just have that one person from Tennesee, or Rome, or Budgewoi commenting ... keep writing. If you stay put and stay true, people will listen. Build it, and they will come.
Spread yourself around ... be generous with your comments on other people's blogs. Think about who the person is. Make them smile if they need it. If all of the comments to one of their posts is about the same thing, choose one other thing to comment about ... the knick knack behind them in their kitchen. What you think the horse in their dream means. Be thoughtful, and mean what you say.
Never blog for comments. Never blog for comments. It doesn't work. People smell falseness a mile off. And don't think too much about what you want to write about. The best blog posts I've written are ones that I've just let flow out. Then think to yourself, well, I can't publish that. Publish it anyway.
It will keep you up at night, then the next morning you will go to take your post down and find that fairies have come in the night, disguised as people, and sprinkled a shitload of fairy dust over your depression-laden, pain-fuelled tirade. And you will crumple and cry at the sheer gratitude and relief you feel. At having been heard.
"I was here," says every comment. "I was here and I saw you struggle and here are some kind words, to help you through. Sounds like you need them."
Sometimes you will be the fairy, and somebody else will need your words, to help them through.
There are blogs for every conceivable thing. They are everywhere. Hang a welcome mat out on yours. Brew some tea. Shoot the shit. What's your darkest fear? What did you think when you were five? What's your take on the Russian Revolution? Do you think Jessica is totally jealous of Ashley now? What's your story?
Start your own damn meme. Make it the "This Blog Kicks Serious Motherfucking Arse" meme, and award it to seventy people. Have some fun. Show your mole! Dance! Tell us what makes you cry. I promise, you are not as boring as you think you are.
I wish my blog was more polished, with less swearing and more intellectual shit that I know I'm capable of. Alas. I started this blog as a way of showing prospective employers my writing style .... yeah right. This blog is now the last thing I would want prospective employers to see. As Jim Carrey profoundly says in Liar Liar ... "I can't ..... lie!"
I can't. My blog became way too personal, way too quickly. Occasionally I get a twinge, that too many people now know my stuff ... but so what. I'm actually not that important anyway. What a relief!
Don't embarrass others. Write often. Write for yourself. Don't think about it too much. Compose your next post as you stand in line at the grocery store, walking the dog, doing a wee. Laugh at yourself. Bring your petty jealousies out for all to see. "Check out what I think about this! Aren't I King Wanker!" People will nod and laugh at, and with you.
Don't mind the trolls. They are here to stay, but try not to let them get under your skin. Imagine yourself inviting them over for a freshly brewed coffee at your house, sharing a joke. That's probably what they yearn for anyway.
Be generous. You are amazing. You are terrible. Discuss.
All of it.
Lastly, but most importantly ... you do not need a reason to blog. None whatsoever!
As Kenickie says in Grease, "Rules are ... there aint no rules!"
I still don't know what I'm blogging for. And I kind of hope I never find out.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Thursday, 22 October 2009
I got a new tattoo last night. Just like that. Drove down with Dave, picked the font I wanted, and had a sharp needle slice my skin and fill it with black ink. I knew I had to do something drastic, had to mark this weeks Neun. Chase away all of the dark that has been calling me lately ... with a pain of MY choosing. So I did.
It hurt like a bitch. Sweet sweet pain that I strangely got off on. Tough and raw and hardcore. "See!" I said to Dave. "We still got it! We're not boring!" He laughed. Then asked me again why I chose to get "Know Thyself." He didn't understand, thought it was pretty stupid. When I was telling the tattooist where to stick the stencil, I moved it from his symmetrical position, and stuck it on my wrist, at an angle. He and Dave stared. I wanted to cover the stupid scars that were there, from that terrible night in my early twenties. Everyone tries to kill themselves and then go to work the next day like nothing happened, surely?
"Umm, I want to cover the scars." Nobody said anything and my face went hot. Then he started it. Halfway through the K, I realised this was REALLY going to hurt, wondered if I could just get KNOW done. Dave kept making small talk with the guy. I didn't want him too, wanted him to just concentrate. At one point, Dave goes, "So, can you push the needle in so far that it bursts a vein?" I turned my neck angrily, said maybe he could ask that question AFTER my tattoo is done, yeah? He didn't get it. Yabbering away, he wants this sleeve and that ... at one point, he engaged the guy in such a way that he stopped tattooing me for a while. I just wanted it to be over. He had done KNOW THYS.
I almost shouted "HON. For fucks sake, let him do the ELF. LET HIM DO THE FUCKING ELF."
We then went out to dinner, and actually talked to each other. About things, and where we are going and where we have been. He told me he thinks my new tatt is amazing, and he really understands it now. On the drive home, we listened to Chilli Peppers sing Scar Tissue, and it was so fucking appropriate on so many levels that I almost cried. But Dave kept talking so I couldn't dive into the moment properly and I laughed and told him I loved him so much right now. I really do.
I love it. It's perfect. I was telling my brother about it, and he asked me if I 'd got the idea from the Matrix - the Oracle has it above her door, which I'd forgotten all about.
This is why I had it done .. feels like I need huge reminding of it, lately. That, and I like the symbolism of those two words covering my scar.
"The saying "Know thyself" may refer by extension to the ideal of understanding human behavior, morals, and thought, because ultimately to understand oneself is to understand other humans as well. However, the ancient Greek philosophers thought that no man can ever comprehend the human spirit and thought thoroughly, so it would have been almost inconceivable to know oneself fully. Therefore, the saying may refer to a less ambitious ideal, such as knowing one's own habits, morals, temperament, ability to control anger, and other aspects of human behavior that we struggle with on a daily basis. To truly 'know oneself' in this sense involves a deeply personal, spiritual transformation whereby a person would seek to orient themselves towards understanding their own phenomenological perceptions of reality, so as to gain earnest insight into aspects of one's own existence."
This last photo is symbolic of the fact that I am the biggest wanker ever.
"Because nobody ever takes photos of me, so I have to take them myself." They groaned. "Actually, you're going to have to use one of these self-snapped photos at my funeral."
Dave told me he will get a really wanky one enlarged, prop it up on my coffin for people to cry over.
That man is so thoughtful.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Last night was a momentous occasion. At the age of 7 and three quarters, Max accidentally entered the world of social networking ..... and it scared the hell out of both of us.
He came home with a website address that one of his friends had given him. No stranger to my laptop ... he loaded it up with me sitting next to him, watching to make sure it was ok. He had to create his own avatar before he could get in, I watched him choose his colour and name. Loading - then suddenly on the screen, were all of these other animal avatars walking around, talking to each other. With cute little speech bubbles over their heads. They were real people. We sat, dumbfounded. Max was shy .... I typed in HI EVERYONE, and we both laughed as replies of HI and HELLO THERE! popped up all over the place. You can walk around in this land, go surfing, play games with others, earn coins to buy stuff.
I said "Max, this is really freaking me out."
"Me too mum!!! But it's the best thing I've ever seen in my whole life!"
He played it until bedtime, with questions of when he can get onto the computer again. I gave him the spiel about being "safe" online, that he needs to be careful who he chats to and come and check with me before he adds a new buddy.
I watched this morning as he trotted off, so happy to go to an excursion to the Sydney Opera House. I told him to behave - to be careful when he goes to the toilet.
I have safety issues around my kids using public toilets by themselves. I've heard too many horror stories. When Max is with me we just go into the parenting room, sometimes he comes in with me to the ladies. He's probably bordering on getting too old now, but once I read a terrible news report about a woman taking her seven year old to the mens toilet at the Australian Open tennis. Her young son got assaulted while she was waiting right outside for him. Right outside!
Dave is the opposite to me, and gives all of his children a lot of freedom. Oodles. He tells me to back off, that Max can ride to school, to let him live, let him go. It's tricky, knowing when to draw the line. At the caravan park last week, Dave thought it was fine to let Max go the games room, and swimming pool by himself. It made me very uncomfortable, I could do it for five minutes but kept walking up to make sure he was ok. I know child abductions and assaults are actually quite rare, statistically. But my children are not statistics, and if anyone ever harms a hair on their head I swear to God I will kill them. Kill.
Watching Max on the computer last night made me realise that in a short while, he will probably build up his own online persona. Facebook, mySpace, mobiles, twitter. All the technological things to come, for my guys. I need to keep them safe, yet still give them space.
In the meantime, my heart went warm when Max came barreling downstairs. "Mum. MUM! Can I make a new buddy?"
I'm such a terribly jaded, cynical person ... his eager innocence took my breath away.
THANK YOU for your wonderful birthday wishes on my last post. I read them all so many times. You are generous with your words. I only ate one measly Mars Bar yesterday! I'd still like to swill around in a champagne vat, but the feeling is losing its power. THANK YOU.
Monday, 19 October 2009
I wanted to dive into a vat of champagne. With a straw. Inhale coke, speed, ecstasy, trips. And sweet, sweet smack. Swill bottles of rum and gin, and I always hated both.
The tricky thing about the disease of addiction and alcoholism is that it creeps up on you when you least expect it. Deal with hubbies cancer, chemo, subsequent remission? Check. Crying newborn who sends you to Crazytown? Check. Childhood issues that will always cast shadows, the length of which is proportionate to where the sun is at any given time? Check. Step-parenting, parenting, wifering, sistering? Check. Easy. Come on.
But - have no car for a week, or my laptop plays up, or I feel a bit down ..... then get me the hell out of this skin, I want to give up on life and take as many things as I can to numb myself.
In meetings, it's called "Broken Shoelaces." You can deal with the big things, but the little things - one day you look down to see that your shoelaces are broken, which sends you running smack bang into the nearest drink or drug.
One night, towards the end - when I knew the party was way over but still could not stop, I remember not making it to the bathroom in time to vomit. Which was nothing new, but I was in a club at the time and I vomited all over this poor unsuspecting girl. She was all dressed up for a big night on the town - blonde, young, glowing, looked pretty. All the things I was not. She went ballistic, and rightly so. I stood over her, glowering like the mean dark twisted soul I was, menacing. Snarling. She backed away, probably went home.
I finished vomiting in the toilet, which made me feel better so I could keep drinking for another few days straight.
This story is not funny. It's hardly anywhere near one of my worst. It's just one of many that I have, tucked away in some space in my brain entitled "FUCKED UP THINGS I DID BUT NO LONGER WISH TO TALK ABOUT BECAUSE IT'S EMBARRASSING HOW FUCKED UP I ACTUALLY WAS."
It was all second nature to me - the booze and pills and drugs and smokes and guys. (Oh, the guys!)
How on earth I am ever going to manage my three boys going out into the world and experimenting with drugs and alcohol I have no idea. (Again, thank God I do not have a daughter.)
No longer do I have bulging ashtrays on my bedside table. The first thing I do in the morning is not light up a smoke and wonder how the hell am I going to manage another day on this Godforsaken earth. I don't only have one pair of dirty shoes. I don't sleep around. (Oh, the guys!) I'm not lonely. I don't spend all of my money on substances to take my mind off the fact that I have no money, no job, no friends, no family, no self-respect, no hope.
But I used to, it was all I ever did, all I ever was. And all of that black and bad is still underneath, swirling around. I call them vultures. The negativity, the sad, the doom. The opposite of All Good Things.
We all have our crosses and our demons, I know this. I always fuck up and try to run from mine, and then give up, and after three days or so, get resurrected again. It always happens, then I go on for a while, get fucked up, forget, remember, get resurrected again, etc.
I laughed on the phone to my sister last week, told her how I want to drink the vat of champagne. This is not usual - I actually hate it when people assume that because I am in recovery, then I must be suffering or lacking in some way. I'm not, and can often be more together that most. But when the desires come, they come like the second Die Hard .... WITH A VENGEANCE. My sister reminded me that I always hated champagne. "Pfffft. I don't care. I never met a drink I didn't like. Hey maybe I can drink 10 Redbulls and go clubbing with Dave and give him a lapdance and then go get a tattoo. I can do that can't I? That's not hurting anyone??" My sister just laughed. I sighed. "Man. Why do I have to be so hardcore?"
I hate how I can't just go the gym. I have to pump it HARD, and load weights on and tear calf muscles. I can't just eat one chocolate - every so often I need to sweep the house of any wrappers and large empty boxes I've hidden from the guys. Anything I find in life that I get enjoyment out of, I use and abuse until it makes me sick. A friend of mine just opened an Asian store - I got addicted to the organic chicken rolls with coriander and chilli. Like, every fucking day, weeks on end. I can't eat them anymore because now they make me sick.
Last week I went to recovery meeting, in a different town. It was packed - there was about forty people. And I was the cleanest one there. Which was strange, considering the state my head was in. I got asked to share, which I did. A lot of the early parts of my story came out. Things I had forgotten about, things come out of my mouth and I think, "for realz??" No WONDER I am a maniacal idiot, sometimes. But I always try to gear my share towards the newcomer in the room, give them hope that they don't have to live that kind of life anymore. There is a way out. And you only have to change one thing ...... everything! I find myself always saying one thing to them.
"There's still a lot I don't believe in, in life. I got damaged beyond repair - we all did. But, I promise you this ..... recovery is real. It is. If I could dig around in my heart and pull some out and give it to you I would, but you have to do it yourself. It's the best thing you will ever do in your lives. I promise."
In the days since that meeting last week, I have been more present with my boys. I've tried to pry my Spirit out, because it keeps getting stuck. Working out what I need, what I don't, what I can change, what I can't.
And the wisdom to know the motherfucking difference.
I gave up nearly everything* to be this new Eden. I need to remember how bad it actually got, how horrid my stories I keep close to my chest actually were.
This week marks nine years, for me. Nine. Since the hab shuffle finally ended and I got a bit real, a bit cracked open. I've never really made that much fuss about recovery birthdays. But this one, I'm gratefully in awe of. And scared. I don't want to slip. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance. Sometimes you need to look back, before you can move on ahead.
The things that I have in my past are not pretty. It was not glamorous or fun or just so cool. It was an absolute fucking nightmare. Heaven and hell both coexist on earth, you know. I may not be in heaven a lot of the time, but my goodness.
I'm still clean. Many aren't. It's a hard gig, this recovery business. The road gets littered with relapsers and death. People - some of them my friends, who have gone back out there and paid the ultimate price.
Sometimes I feel like I stay clean for them - the lost ones, who found it too hard. As much as for myself. To experience all this life has to offer. All the joys and pain. The shit and the sludge and the tinkling of my sons calling my name, the sunny days of spring, the early Christmas decorations, the sweat, the tears from joy as much as pain.
And the sweet sweet smell of all of it.
*Except swearing, chocolate, and coffee. I will never give those up AND NOBODY CAN MAKE ME
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
I got grounded -
And Dave thinks he is the King of the Campers -
Seriously, how hot is my husband? -
Rocco sleeps in his cot in our tent ... he woke me up this morning by throwing his bottle at my head. He didn't miss -
Camping with a toddler is hard work. Camping with Rocco is beyond ridiculous. NO! NO! NO! Is all we hear, as he runs off every chance he can get. He is a wild, wild guy. I had to stop Dave from buying some fencing from the local hardware and building Rocco a holding pen. He and Tim cannot believe how much hard work Rocco is. I'm SO SMUG. "Welcome to my world." We all take turns in minding this slippery eel -
Just after this photo was taken he squirmed loose from my grip, ran straight into the pool, and fell over. With his head under the water. Dave wrenched him out and we all came back to our tents, freaked out -
Tim continues to be the Best Big Brother in all the land -
I'm still not right, but, at least I'm out in the world instead of hiding away. When I first arrived, Max took me on a "tour" - of all the birds. "Ok mum, so there's swoopy swoopsters, teenage magpies, and those crazy ones that don't blink." I asked how he knew the magpies were teenagers, he just looked at me like, duh! "Because. You can just tell."
There are no vultures.
But there's a big fat pelican who I'm a little disturbed by -
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Every now and then, I cannot function. It used to happen once a year, these days it's happening all too frequently and this weekend was the worst and the lowest in a while. The world is grey, I cannot bear to be anywhere, especially in my own skin. I can only write about it now because it's leaving. I don't know if it's indicative of where I'm at in the world, where I have been, or what I'm still struggling to become. The only way I know how to deal with it is to stop and be still ... let the demons stomp all over me. Because they always get bored and leave.
It's so stupid, and I don't talk about it that much, because ... LOONY. I always get better and get respectable and re-join society. On the plus side, my brother lent me the first two series of Rescue Me. I have sat in bed all weekend and watched Denis Leary battle his own demons, fucking awesome. Gritty, real, and raw. I love watching shows with dysfunctional characters and messy plotlines. Makes me feel ok.
I spoke to Dave today on the phone. He said everybody else struggles the same, they just don't like to show it.
I miss the boys so much. Leaving in the morning to drive five hours north to join them camping. Dave text me a photo of Rocco sitting up in his highchair outside the tent and it would have torn my heart out, if the vultures hadn't got to it first. It feels ridiculous, as there's nothing tangibly wrong. I won't be taking my laptop as it done broke (SOB) ... I'm going to try and set some blog posts on a timer, to publish every few days.
A therapist once told me, years ago ... to go home, take off my shoes, and walk around the backyard. To literally get grounded. I need to watch Max on the slippery dip and get dirty. Get sand in my bum crack and toast marshmallows and swing Rocco and laugh with Tim and tell Dave to make his own cup of damn tea. (And then kiss him).
For fucks sake.
An unexamined life is not worth living ... but an examined life is still pretty fucking hard.
- Photo taken by me at a U2 concert 11/11/06
Thursday, 8 October 2009
who turn into mothers
be good to your daughters too.
- John Mayer
Last year I had a secret that I told nobody. If Dave had died, I was going to get my fertility clinic to test the embryos, and I was going to get pregnant with a girl.
Obviously I wasn't rational ... but I kept thinking about our eight frozen embryos ... wondering if any of them is a little girl with red hair. It was a way that I could carry on Daves genes ... and I have bullshitted myself all these years that girls don't need their fathers, so I'm sure if I did indeed have this girl baby, she would be fine with having no dad. (!!)
Immediately after Rocco's birth, I wanted another baby straight away anyway. Probably because his birth was so emotionally dreadful. I would tell my sisters, "Oh, I'm so clucky again! I wish I could have three babies! Four!" They both looked at me like the incredible fucked up loon I was at the time.
A few weeks ago, I was in a cafe with some friends. They asked me if I was ever going to have any more children ... I grabbed a fork out of one of their hands and pretended to stab myself in the eye, then I dramatically slumped to the ground in mock death, groaning. Lucky they own the cafe, or I would have been asked to leave.
"No. Motherfucking. Way."
Apparently, a healthy dose of cancerous tumours + a screaming baby with sleep issues will break your clucker. Forever.
I am done. It feels nice to be done ... done in the way I wasn't after Max was born. The decision to not have another child back then was made in the form of Daves vasectomy ..... well, his balls weren't safe, sperm was extracted, Rocco was created, and our lifes subsequently went to hell in a handbasket.
I am really, really done. I see babies or pregnant bellies and I think, "Thank God that's not me." Which means, that I will never have a daughter. No brushing of hair .... no shared bond, no cute clothes. No talking about guys, talking about boobs, hiring of chick flicks together. No teaching her how to be a woman, how to dress, how to shave your legs, how to save yourself until you really love the guy .... how to love yourself.
All the things I wasn't taught.
Aside: parenting your children properly when you yourself weren't parented properly is HARD. It's like I need a medal every time I don't yell, or don't hit, or don't belittle. And sometimes the Yucky Mum breaks through and I do yell, scare somebody, hurt somebodys feelings. And I feel like the worst mother in the world. I talk about it, say sorry, say that it's hard being a mum .... but I know I do damage sometimes. Does everyone? Don't we all fuck up our kids in some way? Bueller?
So .. I will never have a daughter. I honestly don't care. In fact, I'm relieved.
When I was born, I was "supposed" to have been a boy. I must have known, when I was all crouched up in my mothers womb. I must have looked down, and realised, dang! No penis! Uh-oh! As Jack Nicholson said in Batman ... "What til they get a loadda me."
I came out the spitting image of my real father. I still am - apparently I even walk like him. Tall and lithe and redhaired and totally, utterly alcoholic. When I drank, in my twenties .... I felt close to him. Like I understood something about him.
But he did not understand me, and did not even want to. I was the boy he never had, and he kind of had not much interest. He had interest in his first two girls, my twin sisters. I was 12 when he died. This has left a gaping hole in me so wide - so fucking wide that I can't even SEE it because it covers everything over so I forget it's there. I watch Dave try to forge a better relationship with his daughter and I wish so hard my own father gave enough of a shit to that with me. Alas ... it's all grist for the mill, now.
I've carried gender disappointment in me my whole life. I wanted a boy when I was pregnant with Max, and I wanted a boy when I was pregant with Rocco. Having a girl terrified me in ways I cannot understand, probably due to my own girl-hood, and the terrible relationship I had with my mother. I wonder why it would scare me so? It's probably fun, to have a daughter. It's probably really cool. But I'll never know and I never want to know. Before she had her beautiful baby girl, the awesome Aunt Becky from Mommy Wants Vodka used to call it "Life in the sausage factory" .. and it is. Four boys and me, in this house. All burps and farts and filthy jokes - the boys do some of that too.
I automatically assume that all men must secretly want boys, that having girls are a huge letdown. It's like, I'm a gay homophobe, feeling all these terrible things about my own sex. Like I'm letting the team down. It probably speaks volumes about what I actually think of myself.
No girl for me. It's good .... it means I can take care of the one inside me, hold her hand as she navigates adulthood with no fucking idea of what she's supposed to be doing.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Dave gets home from soccer training ... or is that footy training? Or the gym? Gee, he has so much on lately that I FORGET. He always walks into the house just as peace descends .... Rocco and Max fed and bathed and played with and kissed and yelled at and cried to. I sit down a shaky mess and turn on my computer and in walks Dave, innocently asking what's for dinner? "Geez it's quiet hon, you've got it easy 'ay???"
Cue silent screaming.
Last night he walks in and asked me why I didn't light the fire, I'm like, well duh - I was too cold to light the fire, that's why I'm sitting in bed with the heater on.
He sighed and came to bed with me. I asked to swap sides, but he didn't want to. I told him that I want to be back on my side. Inexplicably, ever since his cancer, we swapped bed sides. I have no idea why, but I want my side back. I think it's symbolic. So he sighed and let me swap. We watched Packed to the Rafters, and then I started playing Scrabble. Dave was interested ... he is an amazing, talented guy .. but my God he cannot spell for shit. It took all of my might to sit there with him as he tried to "help" me play Scrabble. Like a puppy. Telling me to put in "banana", and I'm all, "Well, I would ... if I had a B. Or an A .... or an N, another A, another N."
"Just do it hon - it would fit perfect! And you can make "ackwatic". "Ummm, I have no K, or W ... and that's not how you spell aquatic."
Silent screaming again. It took every ounce to not laugh at him. Very early on in our relationship, I WOULD laugh. I am a very good speller, he is not. So I kept correcting him, earning myself the nickname "correctomondo". Dave would say or write something and I'd go, "What? WHAT?" So rude of me, I know. He asked me to stop correcting him, and I quickly realised it made him feel dumb. Which he isn't, I just couldn't believe his lack of grammar skills. So I stopped correcting him.
After about six months together, we went away with a big group of friends one weekend. We were all to cook a meal each lunch or dinner ... I chose to make Chilli Con Carne, which Dave loved. He started raving about it: "Ohhhhh, Edes is gunna make Chilli Con Curry! You wait .. it's the best Chilli Con Curry you've ever tasted!" I followed orders and did not correct him. Our friends looked a bit puzzled - after we had all eaten it, someone asks, "So, was there curry in it?" I said no, it was Chilli Con Carne. Dave was SO PISSED OFF that I'd let him tell everyone it was curry. I was like, mate, you asked me not to!
I actually love a good spelling mistake, and marvel at them in wonder, which is why I love this blog.
These days, I relish his grammar errors and ask him to repeat them. "What's that Dave? Chilli CON CURRY AGAIN??"
He calls me a very bad name.
So, last night he gets the hint and turns over and goes to sleep and I ended up on my computer until 2am playing Worldwide fucking Scrabble. It's random, people log in and out and end up playing against others from all over the world.
Guess who I ended up playing?
No shit. I got flustered, we each had two minutes to put down our words, and I was busting to go to the toilet the whole time. It was neck and neck .... in the end I had to contortion my body on the floor, to stop myself from wetting my pants. At first I thought, surely it's not THE Deepak Chopra. And then I thought - well, why not? If he's online playing Scrabble, why can't he play against me?
At one point Dave woke up and said what the HELL are you doing?? I was frantic, googling words to see if they existed. "I'm busting to go to the loo but I'm playing Deepak Chopra in Scrabble!" For the third time in one night, Dave lets out a big sigh.
PS Dave calls me "Edes" .... which I fricken HATE. I've tried unsuccessfully to get him to call me different things over the years, but it always comes back to "EDES". Recently I suggested "Edie", which he liked.
This years Valentines Day card started - "To Dear Eddie ....."
So now he calls me Eddie, which I hate more than Edes.
PPS It really was Deepak Chopra. And he WON. Spewing. Dave said it must have been because he was all calm and zen about it, not half-squatting with a red face trying not to urinate all over himself.
PPPS This post was supposed to be about my frozen embryos, but I'm too tired to write it now because I was up all night playing Scrabble with my new BFF Deepak.
Monday, 5 October 2009
He walked over, grumbling something about "Dumb poem ..." but he let me read it to him.
He has been so busy, and stressed, and not himself. For ages, now. He's stuck, in the middle of trying to make some major life changes because of everything the cancer taught him. His values ... both of our values, have changed. It's good, but the transition is a killer.
We just lived 17 weekends in one .... a comedy of errors and bullshit and tangles. Drove down to do a recovery convention in Sydney, have a big blow-up in the car, I storm off and slam the door in the MIDDLE of Sydney traffic. Because I'm psycho and dysfunctional like that. Five phonecalls and one public crying session later, I make it to the convention. Walk in ... every meeting has a different topic. The meeting I walked into? Relationships in Recovery. HA. Thank GOD I did not get asked to share, is all I can say.
I'm halfway through emailing/blog commenting on everybody who wrote such lovely comments to my last post. It sucked to write it out, but it's done now and helped me work through some stuff. Thanks. A LOT. It's taking me some time .... I need to apologise to Almamay properly, tell Free Man how his comments are like a breath of fresh air .... I need to read where other people are at in their lives, take it in, and comment properly. It's satisfying, but hard. I'm woefully behind on everything. I suck. And then I don't post because I haven't responded and then I get emailed and then I post but I always feel bad. Does anyone have a commenting strategy? Help!
This afternoon, I took Rocco's nappy off. It wasn't even halfway down his legs when he promptly did a big fat wee all over me. I'm mopping it up, he's in his room ... I go in there, SHIT EVERYWHERE. All over the carpet, in clumps. I pick him up, put him outside his room, I then kneel IN SHIT ... he starts doing the biggest wee all over the floorboards. So there's piss and shit all over the house, a cranky baby, an even crankier mother. My brother is standing there in shock .... "DON'T HAVE KIDS!" I hissed, on my way to the bath.
But I didn't mean it.
So. Dave's poem. I told him Universe chose it just for him, and was using me as a conduit. He looked at me strangely, wishing he'd just gotten a blowjob instead.
Drink Your Tea
Drink your tea slowly and reverently,
as if it is the axis
on which the world earth revolves
- slowly, evenly, without
rushing toward the future;
Live the actual moment.
Only this moment is life.
- Thich Nhat Hahn