I love hard work. I could watch it for hours.

One of the biggest regrets of my life ... and there are a LOT of regrets ... is that I fucked up my twenties so bad that I totally forgot to get a career. I almost had one, as a copywriter in a kick-arse advertising agency in North Sydney. They could see my potential, I tried so hard to believe in myself .... but drinking and partying, etc kept getting in the way. I would turn up to work ROLLING drunk, sober up around 1pm, and spend the afternoon trying to figure out what the hell I had done the night before.

These days, if I'm around somebody who has drank the night before, I can smell it through their pores. Which in turn means that after all my benders, I would have stank the whole office out. It makes me embarrassed just thinking about it. Everybody around me would have known. I had a lot of pretty cool jobs when I was younger. In a travel agency, magazine publishers, advertising, radio stations. And I fucked up every single one. Spectacularly. In a so-not-cool way.

So now, I am a kind of stay-at-home-mum who works from home part-time. And here's the thing about my beloved husband ..... HE IS STUCK IN THE FIFTIES. Yes. Yes he is. Because I do not have a "proper" job, he does not lift a finger when he gets home. Annoying as it is, we have trained the boys pretty well. Tim can clean up the kitchen in ten minutes flat. I'm on Max's back all the time about picking up after himself, and I've just taught him how to unpack the dishwasher. He also feeds the dog and keeps his room clean. I've taught Tim how to cook a few meals, he cooks a better steak than me.

I see no value whatsoever in sending young men out into the world with no idea how to take care of themselves. They will know how to clean a toilet, wash their clothes, and tidy up. I fully expect their future wives to thank me.

This still leaves me with the bulk of cleaning the house. Dave built our house, it's beautiful. But it sucks. I'm forever cleaning it. And cooking. And washing dirty boy clothes. And making beds, sweeping up Rocco's thrown dinner, picking up toys, grocery shopping ... etc. It's full on. Sometimes I think it's good because it takes me outside of myself. I'm just too busy to fuck up my life anymore.

Dave and I have an unofficial agreement - he goes to 'real' work, while I do all the 'pretend' work.

I have a few writing jobs that I do from home. I set up my freelance business (business HA!) .... before Rocco was born, promised Dave I would still earn money. The past few years I've drowned in dirty sheets and shitty nappies and tear-soaked tissues. Any money I make goes straight to Rocco's few days a week daycare fees. So, I'm pretty flat broke. I just don't spend much money - I'm not earning it, so I can't spend it. My idea of a splurge is buying a few tops and long-johns for winter recently, grand total of $75.

This past week I have gone through every single room in our house, de-cluttering stuff that's been there since we first moved in five years ago. I even went through the pantry. My brother came over to visit to find me alphabetising my spice rack. He was like, "Eden what the fuck is wrong?? Are you depressed?"

Dave asked if I was pregnant. I'm not, just organising, man. Who knew it felt SO GOOD. I went through all of my clothes, to sell some cool stuff on eBay so I can buy my plane ticket to BlogHer. (Dave saw the clothes ... hon you look great in that! Ohhh, not that, keep that one!) I told him they are all too small. I may have a fringe, but midriff tops? Totally pushing it.

I turned to Dave yesterday, and said, mate, I *DO* work, you know. I do heaps around here! He was surprised, told me of course I do, there's no way he could go out and function and run his business if I wasn't doing everything at home. I wish he told me this, you know, eight years ago.

A few days ago I put BlogHer ads up in my sidebar. About seven hours after I did it, I ran a report to see how much money I'd made. Because I was born missing a patience gland.

"DAVE! GUESS HOW MUCH MONEY I'VE EARNED SO FAR??!"

He came running, panting with excitement. "Wow - how much hon?"

I smiled at him and showed him the figure.

"Seventeen cents."

Bless his heart, he was almost as excited as me.

Almost.

Fringe Dweller

Max just took this photo for me ... I have been at work all day so it's gone a bit frazzled since the initial sleekness.

I have one word ....... FRINGE. (Or if you are in the U.S. .... BANGS)

I feel so much lighter. Dare I say younger? Yes. I declare fringes to be the new botox.

Max asks me on a regular basis about what things were like when I was a kid. "Did they have this in "your day" mum? What about lollies? Did you have television? Were there cars in your day? Or horses??"

So I was feeling all confident, like I was the shit. (That's an odd saying, really. "The shit." Maybe I should be saying "da shit." I'm not sure ... they didn't have that saying in my day.)

As soon as I walked in the door, Tim took one look at me and shouted.

COUGAR!!!!

If you are Budhha and you live in my house .... I would be scared. Very, very scared.

He *insisted* on wearing soccer shin pads outside his jeans all day. Eccentric much?

___

I done got my hair did, and love it. Just wasted 40 mins looking for the camera charger to upload pics, and have come to the conclusion that there's just too many chargers in the world. Someone should do something.

(Pics tomorrow).

Heir

What with all the babyhood and remission going on around here ... my hair accidentally grew long.

It's time to get it cut. AND a colour, thanks to another year older. I would never get it cut short-short. My mother made me get it cut short when I was 14 years old. I sat in the chair while the hairdresser was ordered to cut it all off. I had no say in it, no voice. The hairdresser was nice, swung the chair around and looked me in the eyes. "Are you sure you want it all cut off?"

I always felt strange when an adult would look me in the eyes, I wasn't used to it. Like, they thought I had something of value to say or something. Odd.

These days I'm teaching Max that it is important for him to be heard, in the world. In shops I pass him the money and watch as he goes and makes the purchase. I'm interested in how the adults in his circles treat him. I'm probably hyper-sensitive towards the power imbalance between adults and children. But whatevs.

I would never make Max cut his hair if he doesn't want to. He recently grew it scraggly and it all stuck up in funny places. Dave and Tim were on his case but I told them to leave him alone. Max eventually decided to get it cut, so I took him.

It's his hair. He is the boss of it.

So anyway, I will never ever have short hair again. I looked SO UGLY. I even got booted out of the cool group at school, lost my "pretty" standing. True.

If I'm ever blessed enough to get to be an old lady, with lines and veins ... I will wear my hair long. Pissy grey plaits. Maybe even some red ribbons.

That was my favourite hairstyle, as a child. Two gloriously thick, deep red plaits.

People would always ask me where I got my red hair from. I would tell them the truth. "From my dad. He was Scottish." Mum would talk over me. "Her grandfather."

After a while I'd tell people that the red was from my grandfather. Until I grew up and left home. Then I would tell everyone I met about my dead red-haired Scottish dad and nobody would shoosh me.

_____

So. Haircut tomorrow. Some kind of sleek style that will last about three weeks. It won't be short, though. Maybe even a fringe?

Whatever I want. It's my hair. I'm the boss of it.

Du Jour

Ummm, it's been a hard day. The kind of day where, if I was a normal member of society, I would joke on twitter about cracking open a bottle of red to celebrate the children finally going to bed.

This Rocco .... he fights me at every turn. Throws things around the house. Breaks EVERYTHING. Chucks tantrums at the drop of a hat. Steals the dog bone, drips oil onto the carpet, screams bloody murder when I dare to lock him in his stroller, runs away at nappy change time. Breaks Max's new lego, climbs onto the table and pushes my candlesticks over, and plays with the buttons on the TV. Burst his way into the bathroom while I was sitting on the toilet, and shoulder charges me! Saying MINE! MINE POO!

He did every single one of those things today .... and more. I'm not exaggerating.

I would like to shoot myself in the head now. I only have one remaining nerve and man did he get on it. Max was NOT like this as a baby. He was the most peaceful, content little thing. Rocco is a frickin tornado. I had to put him in time out today. A LOT.

Know what he did? Taught himself to open his bedroom door and come strolling out, tear-stained cheeks. "Door. Opin."

I was *trying* to supervise Max's homework, unpack the dishwasher, and put away the groceries all at the one time. Max and I clenched our jaws so hard not to laugh at Rocco. He was doing these cute little dances for us, trying to butter us up.

I keep looking at the eyes on my last post ..... Roccos certainly are amazing. They remind me of the swimming pool we had as kids. The bluest blue on a hot day, the sunlight would bore down and make the water shimmer this crazy way. Beautiful, but hard to swim in, on those hot hot days.

Hard.

Dave came home and then left again, so crazy was feral hour tonight. I rang him later, at wits end, to tell him Roccos piece de resistance of today.

HE TRASHED THE BUDDHA.

It was so literally symbolic, I could find no more cranky energy. Just resignation. I knew something was up when he walked up to me holding a metal garden implement. "Lady. Brokin." I felt dread when we walked back to the entrance of the house. He went up and patted her on the head. "BROKIN."

He had banged and chipped away at the head. And lopped off part of an ear.

He seemed remorseful, all with the wet sloppy kisses.


Before tackling it, trying to jump up onto its head.

So, I finally put him to bed. Where he mercifully fell straight asleep.

No bottle of wine cracked open for me ..... there really is only one option after a day like today.

Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Just how *I* like them ..... half cooked, cookie dough still raw in the centre.

So that when I ate them straight off the baking tray some of their insides fell away and I scooped it up with my man hands and inhaled about five in a row.

Maybe six.

OK eight but don't tell Dave.

Eyes Eyes Baby

Mine.


Maxs.

Daves.

Roccos.

EDITED TO ADD: Why are Roccos pupils so big? They are freaking me OUT. Does he pop acid when I'm not looking? Bueller?

PS I need to add Tims eyes .... as soon as I can take a photo of him when he's NOT kissing his guns.

Saturday Night Silly: Jeff Vader

Ten Apples Up On Top

Dave wanted to take his Valiant out for a drive.

It had been so long, he had forgotten how to get into the car properly. Silly Dave!

On the way to the airplane (aeroplane?) park, I announced I needed something juicy and sweet. I was thinking more about a chocolate bar, but Dave suggested the apple orchard. So we went.

Max, about to demonstrate a chin-up on the door frame. This guy is the strongest, fittest, fastest boy in town.

Rocco led the way. "APPOOW."

The shed is ramshackled, musty, and wonderful. Apple juice, apple jelly, apple honey ... and apples.

He has worked here since he was a kid. The photos in frames behind him are of him, as a young boy. He does this trick of holding an apple in one hand, and snapping it neatly in half. I asked his name, "Graham. What's yours?" I told him. "Eden? Ahhhh, like the garden." (I nodded and pretended that was the first time I had ever heard it.)

Dave, balancing his brick of a wallet on the apples. APPOOWS. I have bought him a new wallet, he just needs to go through his old one. I tell him that having a new wallet will create new energy and bring new life to his financial affairs. He ignores me.

About to try the first apple. It's like we were IN the Garden of Eden.

Dave had to start Roccos appoow for him. Max was unconsciously copying him as he bit down.

Better than any chocolate bar. We all quickly ate two each. Except Rocco. He threw his to the floor, so Max gave him his. Rocco cried louder and threw that too. Dave started a new apple for him .... nope. Louder crying. I offered him mine and he just smacked it out of my hands. I realised for the eight billionth time ... we were letting him be a dictator again. So I looked him in the eye and told him to stop this nonsense. To eat his apple or be quiet. That we were going to have fun at the park.

(It didn't work. He just yowled all the way there.)

Lucky the guys had eaten all those apples, they needed energy for the biggest game of tip in all the land.

It wasn't just about the apples.

It wasn't just about taking the kids to the park.

Every day is miraculous. A gift. A second chance. Dave running around the park with Max, no cancer to be seen. Rocco falling over at the park and getting his apple covered in dirt .... this amazing IVF baby. Max himself, growing and learning and asking questions, not being afraid.

And me, once lost but now found, eternally shocked at the beauty of it all.

A regaining of something lost or stolen; a return to health, consciousness.

This is what seven weeks clean and sober looks like:

- August 1998

I hate this photo. Who the hell takes a photo of somebody in rehab? Like it belongs in an album? Although, I am glad I have it. A reminder of a tormented soul. Somebody who can not stop fucking their life up in every way imaginable.

Nobody sets out to grow up to become an alcoholic or a drug addict. It happens gradually. The line in the sand keeps getting crossed again and again, until eventually the idea of any line at all is gone, washed over by tides of mayhem and despair. In my case, I believe it is a mixture of nature AND nurture. Maybe I was born one. Maybe I was made one. Maybe I was just drawn that way. I've come to the conclusion that there's no point questioning how or why. It is what it is. Same as I have red hair and wear glasses. It's just something in life I have to cop.

Today I received two emails, from different people. Both reaching out to me for help, asking how did I do it? What was my rock bottom like? I wanted to reach through cyberspace and hug both of them, tell them I know where they are and how badly it sucks. I know.

Every thing in my life I owe to my recovery. Everything. The other day I sat in a womens meeting - there were only four of us. And Rocco. He was going ballistic, running around, tearing the place up. Grabbing chalk and writing on the table. I was trying to share, and sighed. I asked them - "Look does anyone care that he's doing that? I promise I'll clean it up." Nobody minded one bit, all laughing at him, trying to get him to come over and say hi to them. "CAR. CAR. BYE." He wanted to go. I gave him a biscuit in each hand, tried to get him to please shut up, mummy needs to share.

These were women I've known for over ten years now. We all had time up, so we just shot the shit together. All I wanted to talk about was how fucking awesome the apples from the orchard were.

"I swear these are the best Goddamn apples. They are so juicy and sweet. Dave and I took the kids to the orchard on the weekend, and there's something about doing things like that that always makes me catch my breath. Because there was a time when buying a box of apples from the orchard would be the most boring thing on the planet. Nothing could fill the terrible hole inside. These apples, man .... they have nothing to do with my recovery, but they have everything to do with it. My recovery colours every single thing in my life. I'm just so bloody grateful."

___

A year after the above happy snap was taken, I got off the recovery train. Now THERE'S a hell ... knowing there is another way you can live your life. Head full of program with a bellyful of booze/drugs. People often feel so desperate at that point that they kill themselves.

Why would I pick up again? Why do junkies go back again and again? Why do alcoholics with wet brain keep drinking?

BECAUSE IT FEELS FUCKING FANTASTIC. Full stop. The end.

This is why people destroy themselves. Because it feels great. It takes you away from yourself, is numbing, makes you feel powerful, makes you feel nothing, helps get you laid, get the job, get the guy. When I drink or drug, I can not stop. I am a bottomless pit. One is too many and a thousand is not enough.

But the honeymoon eventually draws to a close. "Quod me nutrit me destruit" ... "What nourishes me, destroys me."

___

There's a line in a U2 song called "Moment of Surrender" that was written about being a junkie

"Playing with the fire
Til the fire played with me."

It burns. I listened to my friend share the other day, about how she came to terms with the incest that had occurred when she was a young girl. She spoke about not wanting to know the truth, hiding from it. About how somebody can come right up to you and tell you the Truth - about anything, really. But if you are not ready to hear it, if your Higher Self wants to protect you, you will hold the Truth for only a second before letting it go because it is burning your hands.

Recovery is turning around and facing the Truth. You hold it with both hands and it burns your skin, melts through it like a hot coal. Leaving a beautiful, invisible stigmata. You need to let go of how you live your life. "Surrender to win," they call it. Put your weapons down. The war is over. Admit your fucked. Talk to other people. Let someone in. Dare to send an email to somebody further along in recovery to you, asking for help. Do you know how much strength it takes to admit you are weak? A lot.

I look at people in the first few months, years of recovery ... and am in AWE of them. How do they do it? What's the magic secret? There is no magic secret. If there was, it would be easy peasy to get clean. I started out with nothing to lose. Now, the stakes are huge. I have so very much to lose. I've also had so many drinking dreams lately ... there's probably a huge part of that wants to chug back on a few gallons of red wine. (And I don't even know how much a gallon is but it sounds like a lot.)

So I've stepped up my meetings, made a conscious effort to do my daily readings, hugged my boys. I now know, instinctively, what I need to do to get back on track. I do not want to mess with my sobriety. It's the most valuable thing I have.

Years ago, an aunt watched me dancing with my new husband at my wedding. She turned to my sister, and pitifully asked, "So she can never drink again?" Shaking her head like it was a tragedy. I can do anything ... anything I want to in the world. Except drink or use drugs. I can fly to New York. Sing in a talent quest. Rap to my stepson. Eat apples straight from the orchard .... anything at all.

I'd say that's a pretty fair swap, no?

I promise you this ..... if you are starting out in recovery, it is the best thing you will ever do in your life. It's not easy ... but it's very simple. A simple program for complicated people. Go to meetings. Talk to people. Reach out. Get honest. Get real. Like the Velveteen Rabbit ... you can get real.

I am beyond jaded with the world. I still think it's a dreadful place. I'm still so fucked up, I don't believe in many things. But I believe in the power of recovery. It's real, and it's cool. It's not boring, I promise. The Universe kind of opens up and you get to hold it in your hand .... your battle-weary hand. You see things differently - mate YOU SEE THINGS. It's getting cool where I live, the changing of seasons is amazing. Who knew that the leaves turn yellow and fall?

___

I heard a story once about how Spirit needed to hide the Secrets of the Universe. The secrets got put in the place that humans would look last - inside themselves.

___

There's a lot of friends of Bill out there. Stefanie has not long surrendered. She turns her blog over to a recovering alcoholic every Friday. Cecily is amazing. The legendary BHJ. The American living down under, Free Man.

Man I could keep writing about this forever. I should write a book, as soon as I work out how to return emails. And comments. And phonecalls. And how to live this stupid life. My life is a boa constrictor and it swallows me whole, nearly every day.

___

This post is dedicated to E. And C. And you .... yes you. Years ago, I was crying to my sponsor on the phone. "It's so hard! I can't do this! It's just so hard! Why is it so hard??"

She said, "Eden, the best things in life often are."

___

"I’ve been in every black hole
At the altar of the dark star
My body’s now a begging bowl
That’s begging to get back, begging to get back
To my heart
To the rhythm of my soul
To the rhythm of my unconsciousness
To the rhythm that yearns
To be released from control."



Think you might need some help? Not sure? Here's a 20-question pop quiz. It was the only time in my life I scored top marks and didn't do an ounce of study!

Gardening

"I'm not the only one,
Staring at the sun.
Afraid of what you'd find
If you took a look inside
I'm not just deaf and dumb
Staring at the sun
Not the only one
Who's happy to go blind."

- U2, Staring at the Sun

I was asked how was the weedkiller going? And did I ever find a good therapist?

Good, and no.

But I need to stop putting it off. I rang two more therapists at the end of last year, neither could fit me in. So I put it off until this year, and now it's almost Easter. The weedkiller I am on has most definitely made a difference ... to my moods, and especially my anxiety. I can seem to take a step back, look at everything that went on the past few years, and get a bit of a grip on it. Instead of running around like Chicken Little, wailing about the sky falling.

The sky will fall again, one day. It falls for everyone. Life happens - the good and the bad. I'm in a holding pattern right now. I need to see a therapist so I can get some shit out. I don't like feeling dependant on medication to manage. I don't like the thought of taking a magic pill for the rest of my life. I feel like I'm cheating. But fuck me if I'm not *terrified* at the thought of stopping them. No bloody way.

So, here I am. Plodding on regardless. Supporting Dave through one of the hardest times in years. We are under a lot of pressure and bullshit financially - we'll be ok, but the gall of some people in this world is truly amazing. I leave Dave notes every night, for him to wake up to, to remember his Spirit first thing in the morning. I try to help guide Tim through his latest emotional minefields, regarding members of the opposite sex. I take Max to swimming lessons and hip hop class, and I marvel at him. This precious boy who grew up so quickly while I wasn't looking. I watch Rocco eat his first Easter egg, his eyes light up in amazement at such a delicious treat. "CHOCLIT BALL!"

And I try to keep my shit together. If I focus on others, I don't crumple to the floor in a self-obsessed wailing mess. Which is really conducive to a stable home life.

And it really helps when I find God in the strangest of places .... like a junkyard in the middle of Sydney.

In this .. Tin Can Town

On the drive back home yesterday, I asked all the guys to name their favourite part of the day. We went to the Powerhouse Museum, Darling Harbour, got caught up in a Sikh Festival and ate vegetarian food, ran in fountains, played in parks, and stopped to look in an antique shop.

I announced my favourite moment was watching Dave and Max, walking in the rain back to the car. Max jumped on his can of Solo, squishing it down to a perfect puck. He and Dave kicked that puck for twenty minutes, laughing together, showing off their ball skills beautifully, through busy traffic and crowded people.



Dave said that was exactly what he was going to say. Best two dollar can of drink ever.

Haaaaa BA dooo YOOO

That's what Rocco sang to me all day yesterday, for my birthday. Actually, he's sang it every day for almost a month and a half - it's his favourite song. And he's singing it again today. But, *technically* I was serenaded appropriately yesterday. I forgot to get video, but I'll just get it when he's singing it again tomorrow.

Dave got me an arse for my birthday. Best jeans ever. I understand what all the fuss is about - usually I buy my jeans for $40 in some cheap shop, sweaty and bribing the kids with chocolate to wait patiently for me.

(I am so proud of an Australian company who has made it big overseas.)

I tried them on .... just to see what a pair of $190 jeans would feel like. Like when Vincent Vega wants to try a "fi dolla shake."




I was genuinely shocked ... no more concave flat pancake bum! I don't know how they do it, I have looked for some secret panels but there are none to be found. I now walk with a swagger.

So, because of such a big purchase, Dave was pretty much off the hook for any festivities. He even played footie last night, guilt-free.

Birthdays are fun. March 11 is always a magic date for me, like a get out of jail free card. I feel special, less anxious, and free. Like I can do what I want, and nobody is allowed to get cranky at me.
Yesterday I woke up to Maxs homemade birthday card, (him and I playing Mario DS together) Rocco's serenade ..... and Tim sheepishly coming downstairs saying, oh, *cough* it's your birthday? And I wasn't even mad at him. He was really sick, I knew he felt bad. I marvelled at how much I've changed as a stepmother, years ago that would have really hurt and pissed me off. I ended up going shopping, coming home with two new T-shirts for Tim. I said, "Mate, I'm sorry but how cool am I? Not only do you forget my birthday and get me nothing but I see two shirts that would look so cool on you so I get them. I'm pretty awesome."

Maybe my new arse makes me a better mother.

I also bought two new bras for myself, Max a new football, Rocco some pyjamas, and Dave some undies. Then got a Chinese massage for an hour. HEAVEN.

When I got home, I was a little disappointed that there was no cake. I told Dave I hope he loses footy, because it was the final knockout and I'm sick of being a sports widow. He totally lost, came home saying I jinxed him. I fist-pumped the air, YEESSS! I told him not to worry, does he want some birthday cake?

"Cake? Is there birthday cake?"

I turned around and looked at the kitchen. "Ohhh, actually no. There's no birthday cake."

Dave looked pissed off and we stared at each other until Tim said, "EDEN! I will make you a cake. It will be the best cake you've ever seen!"

I said, well ....... it better be.

So he's making it tonight, reckons I'm not allowed to look. I told him there needs to be a theme.

My age? Emotionally I think I'm about 11. Maybe 12. Physically I'm 38. Spiritually I feel old, the oldest hag in town.

Old and blessed.

I scored some wonderful loot from my siblings this year. Among my favourites was this skull scarf Leigh got me:

She also bought me some cool thick patterned leggings, said she usually buys me something she likes, but put her Eden Head on to choose. I love this scarf. It makes me tough.

Linda got me some lip gloss and liner, and this card:

She said it reminded her of Dave and I, in thirty years. We're going to frame it.

My brother boought me a box of chocolates. Boring you say? Never. Especially not when they are my favourite kind .... and a very big box. Allow me to use my young helper as a measuring tool, to give you an idea of the size:

After that photo he jumped on the box. But they still taste yummy.

Dave didn't get let off the hook completely .... tomorrow I am dragging him to a museum in Sydney, with the boys. As it is my birthday treat, I laid out some specific conditions:

"Ok. You must enjoy yourself at all times. No dragging your feet, no complaining. We will leave the museum when I say so. And you are NOT to start banging on about finding a park as soon as we drive out the frickin driveway."

He has accepted my terms. He had too, or I wouldn't let him have any of my cake tonight.

CAKE!

Thank you for your kind wishes. It's hard today .... the 12th of March. 365 more days to go!

House de Penii

Lots of things in this house mysteriously get "lost." Especially MY stuff, eg my iPod, phone charger, chocolate. This is why I must be cunning.

I bought some socks today .... ladies king size.

But my socks always go "missing" .... end up being found on other peoples feet *COUGH DAVE AND TIM COUGH*

Tim wears everybody's socks ... even Max's. One day he had Rocco's socks on. Tim is seventeen and Rocco is one. Rocco will be seventeen before he can fit into that now-stretched pair.

So .... anytime I want to actually keep something of mine, I must buy it in a hot pink colour. For example, headphones, lunchboxes .... SOCKS.

I bought these babies home today, gleefully showing Tim.



"Look! Mine, all mine. They have assorted colours in the heel. HAH."

Walking past, Tim took one look at them, and without breaking a stride says, "I can wear the blue, purple, red .... oh look there's another blue. You can have the pink."

TURDBURGER

Tomorrow I'm going to get the frilliest flounciest socks in all the land.

We admitted we were powerless over Cadbury Creme Eggs: that the gooey centres had become unmanageable.

Gluttony is an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires. It can be caused by "improper weaning as an infant." The punishment for gluttony? Being sent to hell, where you will be force-fed rats, toads, and snakes.

All I can say in my defence is ..... the lead-up to Easter can be a VERY hard time for a chocoholic.

And when I say gooey centres, I don't mean this delectable, beautiful gooey centre -

I mean *this* gooey centre -

(I've been off the eggs for four days now .... went cold turkey, straight after I took this photo. Such a coincidence!)

Start Spreading the News

I have been sitting on a big fat morsel of excitement for about three months.

Ready?

Check it out -




SCHWING.

Once up upon a time there was this chick who was born tender then she turned bad then she went messy. Badly messy. So she got better, got babies, a husband. Going to New York was her dream.

One day she started an IVF blog which turned into a pregnancy blog which turned into a cancer blog. These days she just blogs about whatever the hell life throws at her in any given day. Oh - and there were secret squirrel trapdoors in cyberspace which opened up to her and she met some of her best friends online. Angels, disguised as bloggers.

DOUBLE SCHWING

So far I have bought my all weekend BlogHer conference pass, and two nights at the Hilton. That's all I got. I told Dave I was going to America in August. I expected him to say, wow hon that's great .... or, pffft yeah right.

Know what he said?

"Well I'm not staying at home while you're off overseas."

So he is coming too. We have an appointment in a few weeks to go down to the American Consulate in Sydney to get visas. Ummmm, hopefully we will get them. America is a tricky place to visit these days! Lucky everyone loves Aussies. Dave and I may or may not have to answer specific questions about our mis-spent twenties. *cough*

Hopefully we'll be allowed in. I may have to row a boat over, if they say no.

We are trying to save up money for the airfare. Every time I tell somebody, the first question is, "Who will look after the kids?"

I have no idea. I'm terrified of the plane crashing and leaving them orphans .... I was even too scared to fly anywhere for our honeymoon for the same reason.

Anyway. The cat's outta the bag. We're aiming to stay for two weeks, make it a real holiday. I'm so excited that I'm already sad it will be over one day. Gemini, one of my BFFs, will probably not be there SOB ..... but lot's of people will. Heather has promised the pizza is awesome ..... I will be the judge of that, Ms Spohr. I need to hug Mel, especially after her post today.

Katiepie and I are roomies for the weekend, we've promised to not tell the other if we fart in our sleep.

I'm gonna be a part of it.

And I can't wait.

Gold, Gold I Tell You!

I'm in trakkie daks, hair in a messy bun, kids fed, homework monitored, one in bed, one to go, dishwasher packed, unpacked, and restacked. Washing folded, garbage taken out, grocery shopping done.

And I am on a complete media blackout ...... IT'S OSCAR NIGHT.

I can count on one hand the amount of truly happy memories I had growing up in my family of origin. One of the few was lounging around the copper coffee table in the 80's, watching the Oscars. Dreaming at the dresses, but mostly, listening to the speeches. I'm still fascinated by them. Some are terrible, some are so astounding and uplifting.

If we are created in our creators image, then we must be creative. All of us. To make something ... a song, a book, a ditty. A dance. A nonsensical lullabye, a whispered dream, an original recipe.

A cultivated patch of earth, fine wine, knitted scarf, award-winning screenplay. All of these, and so much more.

I remember that year when Whoopie Golberg hosted (too scared to google, it could break my media ban) .... and right at the end, she looked in to the camera and said something to the kid watching, like "You can achieve anything. Yes, even you."

Remember that?

Imagine if we actually could achieve what we wanted to do. What a concept.

HAPPY OSCARS!

Didn't I My Dear

I love this song so bad. We played it .... loud, in the car last night. Blasted it at midnight, driving through the streets after watching Shutter Island at the movies (FANTASTIC FILM).

We went to McDonalds and bought hot chocolates and apple pies and sat in the car park and laughed at our gluttony but promised ourselves we wouldn't feel bad. There was so many more black things we could be doing in that moment. When the song gets to three minutes and seventeen seconds, I sang the harmony SO LOUD that Dave blocked his ears and laughed like a maniac.

Geez I do a good harmony. He knows it, but always calls me a wanker anyway.

"Do you think you'll ever get cancer again hon."

"Dunno mate. I really hope not."

And we held hands, the only sound then was our tongues trying to get all the apple pie pastry out of our teeth.

Best Ten Seconds EVER

It's 9.37am on a Saturday morning. About ten minutes ago, Dave put on his favourite CD in the world, Gypsy Kings. He starts dancing, a long-forgotten look in his eyes .... contentment. Says, let's chuck our swimmers in the ute hon, remember when we used to be spontaneous? So we are going to the beach. (The clock is ticking on the nice weather down here. A cool change is expected tomorrow - I am now an avid weather watcher in my old age. My hip is achy.)

Rocco ran up and starts dancing with Dave. Max sat with me on the couch, snuggling. Dave and Rocco danced in perfect unison for about ten seconds, both delighting in each other. It was one of the best moments in my life.

(And then Dave wanted to drive by himself to his favourite cafe to admire the soccer Grand Final trophy he helped win last night. And I was cleaning up the kitchen and taking the garbage out and I have stinky armpits and I say, can't you just take them with you for ten minutes while I pack? And he pulls a face and walks out and I'm all ready to say NO BEACH FOR YOU but he comes back in after putting the carseat in the ute and begrudgingly takes both the boys so I can finish CLEANING THE HOUSE fricks sake. Dave's all chuffed with himself and I think, why can't you just automatically think about what would help me out you penis head. BUT, those ten seconds were worth all the crap. I think.)

____

I didn't post yesterday. I was about to, but Dave got home late after winning soccer so we didn't put the DVD on til late (Couples Retreat). Five minutes in he's snoring like an idiot. I don't think we've watched a DVD together for about five years. But then I fell asleep and didn't finish watching it either, didn't brush my teeth, and didn't post. So I will post twice today instead.

My friend in Canada, Bleu, pointed out how odd it was that I was feeding a bird bird in my last post. I'm horrified. I created a cannibal kookaburra!!

PS When I was a kid I thought you pronounced it "Canadia." Which is very strange, as I was the spelling Queen of the world from a young age.

PPS Now I'm just wasting time., Dave is going to drive in the driveway any second and I will quickly snap my laptop shut and jump in the shower and he'll wonder what took me so long. Revenge is sweet, oh soccer star.

Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree *UPDATED

I love birds. I wish I could fly. My whole life I've had wonderful flying dreams ... strangely, my best flying dreams happened during my darkest days. I think my soul was trying to escape. It was years into adulthood before I discovered that everybody had their own individual methods and techniques of flying in their dreams. Some just jump and soar straight away. Some have to jump off things to do it. Every time I told people my technique, they laugh. I guess it's very - distinctive.

I have to stand perfectly still, and start flapping my arms up and down. Slowly, then faster and faster. Slowly I start rising up, hovering above the ground. And here's the annoying part .... there is ALWAYS someone who wants to pull me down. Always. Sometimes people I know, often people I don't. Just "baddies."

If the baddies don't grab my leg and drag me down, I build up speed and just fly up and away, and can stop flapping and fly so fast, so high.

So. I love birds. I think souls of people can come down and fly around in them for a while. They just seem so mystical and knowing. We get a lot of birds where we live. Dave always wants to feed them, I didn't for a long time. Too scared of bird flu. Did you know that there is ALWAYS something to be scared of? It's exhausting.

Last week I went outside and there was this kookaburra sitting on the new fence that Dave built for our passionfruit vine. (I showed him my vlog a while back, he now loves them just as much as me. But says he *always* has loved them. And looked at me accusingly, like, I had stolen his passionfruit love?! Because, you know, it's a COMPETITION.)

I was feeding the dog some chicken wings, and just chucked one at Mr Kookie. Just to see what he would do.



Years ago at a campsite our friend Rog was cooking bacon on a frypan and a kookaburra swooped down and stole the boiling hot bacon, straight from the pan. Cheeky little bugger.



They carry their food in their strong beaks ... and bash the crap out of it against the ground. Mr Kookie spent AGES killing his chicken wing.



Here I took a shot of me watching the kookaburra. It was supposed to be artistic and inspiring, but I just look tired. At the exact moment I snapped this photo, Max came outside, saw me, sighed, and went back inside without saying a word.


Mr Kookie was VERY busy.


I went back inside for a while, and when I came out I saw this.

At first I thought, COOL. I can feed them all and have my own feathered army. Then they started laughing.

And laughing.

And laughing.

I love birds, but when it comes to kookaburras, I just don't get what's so funny. Shut UP, stupidhead. It feels like they are laughing AT ME. Maybe it's acid paranoia flashbacks, I'm not sure. I went inside, ignoring them all. They all stayed there looking at me for ages. One would peck at the window, try to get my attention. Another would fake-swoop the kitchen, scare the crap out of me. Alfred Hitchcock eat your heart out.

Go away Kookies .... no soup for you.

Finally they all gave up ... except one. He stayed there for two days, in hope. You can see him on the fence, hungrily watching Rocco eat his dinner.

Rocco's all, I don't give a shit how many birds there are. Nobody is getting their dirty beaks into my pizza.

UPDATED TO ADD: Enquiring minds need to know - how do you fly in your dreams?

Mr Pink

He just keeps wanting to put all of my hair clips and headbands in. It's so cute .... even Dave thinks so. That was until I arrived home today with Rocco trailing behind me, after a big day of daycare. He proudly stomped around with the pinkest pair of boots you've ever know.

Dave flipped. WHAT. THE. FUCK. HON????!!

Rocco had stolen them from a girl at daycare. She had already left by the time I got there, and he refused to take them off so I'll be returning them first thing tomorrow.

It's puzzling ... what did he do, stand over the poor girl? Give me your pink boots, NOW. What shoes did she go home in?

If he turns out to be gay, he will be the toughest gay man in the world. He'll be the Mr T of gay men. I pity the fool who teases him about his hot pink boots.

Dekas

I have been with the same man for ten years. He makes me laugh, cry. He makes me feel strong. He makes me feel weak. Our forces merged together and we have moved mountains. I don't know if we are soulmates .... our arguments have been too loud. Not sure how we have survived so long.

Our first photo together WARNING: DORK ALERT!!!!



Hey Dave remember that time you got cancer and survived? Remember we made sexy love time in that disgusting dunny at Balmoral? Remember how when we first got together I was so scared to give you my all so I lay down next to you and gave you my pinky? And I told you that was all I could give you right now?

Now I give you my all, mate. Everything I got. Thank you for keeping the first $20 I made from writing, as if it were something special. You tell me you're going to make a wooden frame for it and I believe you. Just like that time we went to the aquatic centre when it opened and we sat in the sauna together and you announced that you were going to build a sauna in our house.

And you built our house. And our sauna.

I think I steal pockets of your drive and ambition ... God knows I need it. We are so different.

It amazes yet infuriates me, that you do everything you say you will. How do you do that?

Stay well, mate. We are a force to be reckoned with. You teach me shit, like, how to love someone when you hate them; how to forgive after someone lets you down.

I have absolutely no clue what I teach you. Maybe, to look at the world differently. To embrace the absurd, the eccentric, the fucked-up.

I can kick your arse in a game of Trivial Pursuit, but if we were ever lost in the wilderness you could totally keep us alive.

I almost lost you, man. There's so much more than my pinky at stake now. Stay well, mate.

I love you for real.

Your loving wife, Eddie XOX

I See Alive People

I have tried to write this post out FOUR TIMES. Stupid family keeps getting in the way.

So. Dave and I have stupid snippity arguments on the way to the psychic, leaving me emotionally drained. There were a few hundred people there, all waiting. And all dressed up. So was I. I totally got ready, wondering if anybody would come through for me, who it would be, maybe I should wear something nice. I felt bad for joking about my dads like that. The truth is, their deaths have marked me forever. And like my sisters, I must laugh at the things that hurt the most, try to take back some power around it.

I sat on the edge of a row of chairs in the middle of the auditorium, and then the psychic was there. She looked the part ... a flowing blue top, white pants, an anklet with no shoes. She was nervous. And flighty, rushed. I'm not sure she felt that great, it must be hard to have a show like that booked and "perform" on tap. There was an hour of readings, ten minute break, and then an hour of Q & A. Her intent was to do do spirit readings as proof that the afterlife exists, "life after life" as she called it. She wants to open people up to the existence and importance of Spirit.

She started her readings. She said she would feel drawn over to a particular person by the energy and her own spirit guides. I willed her to come over to me so so hard. The first few readings I was all worked up - at one point, she made a beeline straight for me. She stopped, looked at me, then walked away. I was crushed. I stupidly felt like I was getting abandoned all over again. Why can't they fight harder, to come through? Nothing is different - even in death?

No readings for me. I almost cried, suddenly realising all my expectations weighed heavy. There is no doubt in my mind that this woman was the real deal .... but I gotta say, on the night I went .... my GOD the spirits that came through were as boring as batshit. Wayne, who was a frickin' mechanic. Died suddenly one day - came through to his sister. It took half an hour for him to say that he didn't really have anything to say. SO irritating. Surely my dead people would be much more interesting?

Then it was halftime. I saw a young, pretty, beautifully dressed woman go up to the psychic and talk. The psychic was doing a reading on her, right there in the break. I felt jealous, complained to Dave, then went off to the toilet.

I may not have gotten a reading .... but something from the otherside was in the ladies room that night. It definitely was not human, is all I'm saying. I ran out, almost gagging.

So, it pretty much was a big letdown. I was bored, Dave kept fidgeting, and I wished I'd spent the money on dinner and a movie instead.

Until ...... right at the end of the night, the pretty lady from the break got up to ask the psychic a question. She was crying - turns out her dad had died only a few weeks ago.

And I understood, that I do not need to make contact with them. Maybe years ago, when I was all fucked up, but not now. Their deaths do not rule my life. I am not broken and lost anymore.

So, it was a good realisation. No more psychics for me. And the best part was, I got to get up the next morning and go to the beach with these guys:



The people right in front of me, right now. The people I can touch and hug and tickle. The REAL men in my life. The men who saved my life, so many times.

Blessed beyond belief.

_____

Later, at home, Dave tells me that he thought the whole thing was a big crock of shit. And at the same time I was sitting there willing her to come over, he was sitting there willing her to fuck off away from us. I was SO CRANKY. Told him he was arrogant and controlling. Told him he scared my ghosts away, how dare he. At that moment, Rocco walks up with something he stole from our room. Dave reaches down to grab it .... "A nose hair trimmer? Whose is this?"

Me: "It's MY nose hair trimmer."

I didn't want to laugh - how dare he influence my psychic! But man, we both laughed so hard. Turns out you can't have an argument and say the words "nose hair trimmer."

____

I am posting every day this month. I have no idea why - I still don't even know why I blog. Maybe because I just like it. It makes me feel connected with the human race. I have a LOT of ideas for posts. Some that may or may not include a nose hair trimmer. You're welcome in advance.

Link of the day:

Let them sing it for you.