Friday, October 28, 2011

new followers and old friends

I seem to have picked up a few new followers in the last week or so, and so I'd like to take this opportunity to say WELCOME and also apologise in advance for not being as sparkling as you'd hoped, or for the occasional profanity, or for the frequent fits of near-lunacy.

I would also like to say THANKYOU to all my 'old friends', who keep reading in spite of the lack-of-sparkle, the profanity and the near-lunacy; you make my mornings worthwhile.

And if you're a 'lurker' -- someone who reads but never comments -- unmask yourself and say hello? I've often thought of giving up blogging, and then someone will say "Oh, yes, I check your blog every day" and I had no idea they had ever looked at it.

Bloggers DO write for themselves and we probably would even if no-one ever read or commented, but NEVER under-estimate the power of a little encouragement!

Thursday, October 27, 2011

and waking up from the nightmare.

I've had some private comments about my last post, because yes, the girl was me, and yes, that is what really happened.
One of the things, anyway.

Many of the commenters (most of whom are related to me) were concerned about me being so public with that story, and some were hopeful that in some way, it might allow me to heal or move on.

I rang my sister the day after I published, to see what she thought, if I'd crossed a line, and she said that hadn't even occurred to her. She only thought how bizarre it is that we used to think of that as our normal lives, and how amazing it is that we all grew up to be normal, functioning people.

Neither of us think that we're 'stuck' in the past, but obviously it has had an effect on us.

I wrote the story to get it out of me; I published it because for the whole of my life, I've been ashamed of where I came from, and even of who I was.

No more!

I didn't DO those things, I didn't CAUSE them, and I'm not going to bear the weight of that shame any longer.
This is where I've put it down, and this is where it's staying.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Nightmare on Ellie Street

Imagine this.

A girl wakes up in the middle of the night, and for no reason, she feels the need to go to Mums' room. She doesn't know why -- she is 14 years old now, far too big to be needing Mum in the middle of the night.
She creeps through the house. Everything is dark and silent.

But when she peeks through Mums' bedroom door, her heart skips a beat. Because the room looks like a bomb has gone off.
The wardrobes are tipped over all the drawers on the floor clothes flung anyoldplace a door torn off the mattress sliding rumpled unkempt off the base the smell of spilled aftershave and there is no mum anywhere.

The girl is beyond frightened. She tries to swallow and hears the click as her dry mouth and throat protest. Her heart is thudding.

She creeps out to the kitchen, hoping to find someone hoping not to find someone, and there is her dad, sitting at the table with a loaded gun.

The gun looks 18 feet long, cold and deadly. Her heart stops, then thuds so hard she can feel it in her ears and neck.

"Where's Mum?" she whispers.

"I dunno," her father slurs, belligerent, surly, unthinking. "But when she comes back I'm gonna fuckin' shoot her. Alright???"

The girl thinks fast.

"OK," she says. "Well, I'm going back to bed."

On the way back to her room, she checks on her two little brothers. They are just 4 and 2. They are in the room next to her parents' room, and they're still fast asleep. How they weren't woken by the fighting and the smashing, she'll never know, but she's thankful. They're too little for this shit.
"Bloody hell," she thinks. "I'M too little for this shit!"

She climbs out her bedroom window, still in her nightie, and runs up the street to the Post Office.
This is back in the Olden Days, at the very end of the 70s, and the town still has actual people working on the Telephone Exchange. She bangs on the door and frightens the girl who's doing nights.

"Get the police to go to my house," she says. "My dad's got a gun. He says he's gonna shoot my mum."

In a small town, it's better not to give too much information, but the girl is 14. She's more concerned that her mother might be shot, than worried about what the town will say next day.

She hobbles back home. She didn't wait to put shoes on, and her feet are hurting now. She sees the police at the house, and creeps back inside when they're gone.


The next morning, no-one mentions what's happened. It's as though she dreamed it all.

She checks in her parents' room just to make sure, and the bed is neatly made, the clothes all put away.
The wardrobe doors and drawers are missing.


Some days later, she comes home from school, and her father snarls in his beer-sodden voice, "Look out, I'm runnin' amok! Ya better go ring the cops!!"

"If you do, I WILL!" she snaps back.

She goes into her room and cries till her heart stops hurting so bad.

It takes a long time.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

surviving the zombie apocalypse

Some married couples sit around in the evenings, discussing the mortgage and who's picking the kids up from school tomorrow.
Not us.
Fabio and I have been updating our Zombie Apocalypse Survival Plan.

I can't tell you what it is, because frankly we don't need anyone stealing our awesome Plan and then having to compete with them for resources, so you'll have to think of your own Plan, then tell it to me, and I'll see if ours is better.

(I know lots of you haven't bothered to think of a plan, and to be honest, that's just fine with me too. You'll be eaten and we'll be getting away.)

Fabio had to have a couple of shots at it. One of his ideas was to move us out into the wheatbelt of WA, so we could see anything coming -- but I pointed out that zombies come at NIGHT so you CAN'T see them, and you're better off in a place with access to WATER and SUPPLIES, and told him to Plan better or I'd have to remove him from the Planning Committee.

So then he came up with a Really Good Plan, part of which involves stealing a 60 foot motorboat.

I asked him if he knew how to drive one, and he said "Enough."

A little concerning.

I said, "Well, it better be more than 'enough', cos I can't swim very well."

He looked at me kindly.

"You can't RUN very well, either," he said, "so we'll take our chances with the yacht."


My amendment to his Plan is to grab a bunch of people from our karate class. You should SEE some of them do a roundhouse kick!

Friday, October 14, 2011

blood and bones and what are friends for?

Remember that kerfuffle when Angie said she had Billy Bobs' blood in a necklace around her neck, and people got all snarky and said she was a freak and the blood was a bio-hazard?

I thought it was amazingly romantic (if mis-guided -- I mean, Brad, yes, but BILLY BOB??)

Anyway, I was thinking about this one night in bed, and I was also thinking about bones.

Bones are cool.

The most ordinary, everyday human beings' skeleton is a marvel of engineering and architecture, and yet we take them for granted until we develop a bad back or sprain an ankle.
Look how beautifully we are supported, cantilevered, and balanced, just so we can do something as ordinary and humdrum as walking to the laundry with a basket of dirty clothes on our hip.

I love bones.


I had an epiphany. Which, of course, I had to share with Fabio.

me: Honey! when you die, can I have one of your bones?

Silence. Then he put down his book and slowly turned his head to look at me.

Fabio: what. the fuck. for?

me: so I can hang it round my neck on a chain.

Then, I see concern in his eyes and I think maybe he's worried about the weight of his skull or one of his thigh bones hanging round my scrawny neck so I quickly add

"Just a little one. A finger bone or a toe bone."
(the end finger bones are properly called 'distal phalanges' -- you're welcome)

There is a long silence.

F: No.

me: why NOT?? you won't be needing them.

F: just.... no. My God, you are the weirdest wife I've ever owned. Am I going to have to post guards around my coffin????


Fast forward to the other day, when I repeated this conversation to my BFF. Who IMMEDIATELY offered to help, by distracting everyone with a hysterical fit, while I whip out the shears and nip off a finger.

See, THAT'S what best friends are for.

disclaimer: just because, you know, it's the Internets -- I am NOT planning to harvest anything off my husband, dead or alive. Don't report me to anyone or give me well meaning advice. {{Unless you're going to help.}}