Exhaustipated - too tired to give a crap :/

This week has exhausted me.

The drama that seems to unfold on a daily basis seems to have wiped me out completely and I have done nothing this weekend by vegetate; and I feel super guilty about it!  I know that it’s probably just my body’s way of telling me to rest, but why the eff do I feel so bad about just reading a book, or having a nanna nap or writing for my blog when the laundry mocks me from the corner of the room?

Let’s face it – there is ALWAYS something to do.  There is ALWAYS laundry to be done, shit to be dusted or something, somewhere demanding to be cleaned.  Relaxation is actually an art form; some individuals are just better at executing it than others.  It’s like meditation – clearing your mind completely and telling the ego to piss off for a while!  I remember a friend used to have a duster in each room of her house and if her husband came home early and she was having a lay down, she would simply hop up, and grab the nearest duster when he walked in and pretend she was cleaning.  WTF is this all about?  Why do we feel the need to justify our actions to others – least of all our significant other?!

I used to do it myself.  Had to justify how much/little I had achieved on a Saturday morning whilst OH was down the gym or grocery shopping.  Had I only managed to iron ten of his shirts whilst he was at church?  Covered the night feeds of baby number three whilst trying not to wake OH as ‘he works full time, you know and can’t be too tired for work!  Noticing a pattern yet?  My Mum often used to make light of things when she could see me running about like a headless chicken.  ‘Have you got a hat for that, Ju?’ she used to ask. 

I would liken my days to a performer in the circus (constantly spinning plates to keep them from crashing around my ears), or a one-woman show theatre production, where one actress performed all the roles; took money for tickets, seated everyone with a small torch – putting them at their ease, making small talk, smiling and ensuring everyone was happy and having a good time - made tea and produced baked goods for the interval, returned for the second act (after ushering everyone back to their seats), put enormous effort into her performance, received a standing ovation, cleaned the theatre when the patrons left, drove home to have to prepare dinner, feed and bathed three children, made sure OH had his clothes ready for his business meeting the following day, remembered where child number one’s paper machier school project was located and ready for presentation to Class in the morning, prepare school lunches, clean the house, take a flask and pyrex bowl to bed to warm babies milk up in the night so as not to wake husband; climb into bed – exhausted.

This is what my days felt like and I guess I still carry some of this with me – which is why I struggle so much with doing very little.

I am not the most house proud person in the world.  Yes, my home is generally tidy, but I wouldn’t take unecesary risks with the 3 second rule now that I have the Halls Head two, neither would I guarantee that it was exactly a week ago that my bedsheets were washed, or promised that I had bleached my toilet rim in the previous 48 hours.  Because, the place where I live is exactly that – a HOME.  There is usually laughter to be heard, love to be given and received and a cup of tea/glass of wine to be offered.  My home does not smell like disinfectant or a hospital.

Maybe I should give time that I spend on me a house-work-worthy name; like vacuuming my hypothalamus, or dusting my synapses – sounds way preferable to a nanna nap or reading a book for an hour, but in reality, we all need a little down time.  Just to listen to music whilst daydreaming; writing virtual lists in our head – you know, groceries needed, bills to be paid, countries to be visited, hunky celebrities to be married, bail money to be posted…..

I will pledge to no longer feel guilty for dropping the kids off at school and then returning to bed and climbing back in for a couple of hours.  I need to understand that this period of my life is flipping tiring.  There are enough battles to be fought, let alone the ones carried out within my own head!

Be kind to yourselves lovelies.  Life is tough – take a nap <3

Pyramid Sales in the Suburbs.

I was going to post this on my Facebook page, but fear I will upset too many of my Facebook friends with my views.

Here in Australia, every other housewife seems to be selling some product or other in a seemingly pyramid-type sales structure.  Make up, underwear, jewellery, candles, food products, cleaning products, craft supplies, adult toys, weight loss supplements, wraps that shrink inches off your muffin top, Botox in a bottle; the list truly is endless and my Facebook newsfeed is constantly bombarded with calls to action for end of month sales targets or pleas to host a ‘show and go’ (WTH?)

My concerns with this are many fold.  Firstly; I honestly don’t have that many friends to invite round to mine to buy a new cleaning cloth ensemble on a Wednesday evening.  To be brutally honest, I don’t think I would WANT to be friends with anyone who would choose to sit round my house on a drafty winters evening fingering a micro fibre cloth that’s passed around the assembled group.  I don’t care that the products are ‘eco-friendly’.  I love bleach.  If it doesn’t smell like bleach – how do I know it’s clean?  I’ve been conditioned like Pavlov’s dog – bleach = clean.  Yes, I was slightly concerned that my one flush of toilet duck contains enough chemicals to neutralise a metre squared of sea water (or something – I’d switched off by this point, but the SB was going down a treat), but hey – have you ever seen a dolphin with barnacles?  No?  Exactly!  They are literally squeaky clean thanks to my u-bend addiction (I can almost hear the letter of appreciation from Sea World landing on my door mat as I type).

And the prices???  Another reason I try not to attend these occult type evenings is I become overcome with the notion that my life with be improved by these labour saving devices; how have I managed to live all my 42 years without a mop bucket that I could also use to spin my salad (and a free micro fibre cloth to clean up the mess, should I TOSS my salad – see what I did there?).  How have I coped prior to this point with a mop that ISN’T able to wash my walls?  Who knew?  WHO CARED? It becomes an elitist ‘keeping up with the Jones’.  There’s an unwritten goal to place the biggest order of the night to win the approval of the suburban saleswoman in the tabard that you normally try not to make eye contact with at school drop off in the morning.  I admit I have spent $ 150 on a mop ‘system’ (who am I kidding – it was a mop, salad spinning bucket, a couple of blocks of magic wall erasers and a cleaning cloth. 

 

When they give things such billing – I expect a system of small people that crawl out of the bucket to clean the bastard house for you!) and not that I am in any way, shape or form bitter, but when I moved out, I left the sodding mop and bucket behind!  And don’t get me started on the price of the cleaning potions.  $ 40 for a bottle of concentrated blah liquid.  Do you know how many toilet ducks on special I could buy for that?  Look, I don’t care about the planet.  What my generation did to the ozone layer in the 80s with our synchronised used of hair lacquer isn’t worth knowing and me deciding to go cold turkey on bleaching my rim isn’t going to save the polar ice caps.

If I wanted to buy jewellery, I would visit a shop, or Google the world wide shop window; not wait for a plump housewife in a Holden to pop round to mine mid-week with a trestle table.  I can’t take sex toy advice from a middle aged woman with three kids that wears slippers on the school run and who double parks in kiss and drop.  It’s just not right.  It opens a Pandora’s box of what goes on in their bedroom and it’s not something I’d really like to think about when I’m stood next to her in the playground on weekday afternoons at school pick up.

I’m genetically engineered to buy something.  I can’t attend, share a glass of wine, heckle the presenter mercilessly and then walk away without purchasing.  It seems to correlate also between my level of piss taking of the presenter to the dollar value of my purchase.  I can’t help it.  I genuinely don’t mean to take the piss, but I honestly fail to see how someone can just be so desperately passionate about a food additive that you sprinkle on your potatoes that turns them from wow L to WOW J There’s a name for that; it’s called gravy!  I am yet to experience the delights of one of these parties for myself.  But, seeing as I am ‘culinarily challenged’ in the kitchen, the best thing I could probably purchase would be an electric tin opener. I just know I’m going to be judged for not making my own dips, or rustling up a pavlova whilst I mop my walls, but life’s to bloody short for all that shit!  There are soaps to be watched (not made!) and wine to be drunk!

 

My final gripe is the incentives that the guerrilla sales women seem to benefit from.  One woman is jetting off overseas again tomorrow on the back of her eco-friendly cleaning product sales.  I just don’t get it!  I understand she works very hard and has a plethora of people working under her and has several suburbs ‘cleaned up’ in the surrounding areas – and I have NEVER heard one individual speak so passionately about micro fibres BUT I don’t want to know that my overpriced effing salad spinner bucket is financing her all expenses paid trip to Phuket (maybe they can only actually travel to places that rhyme with their products).  There are glamourous AGMs in upmarket locations that they live to post photos of.  Hobnobbing with the Regional Managers, who have climbed up the (impeccably cleaned) ladder to the echelons of a Company financed Rav4; so covered in Company sign writing that the Police could probably prosecute the driver travelling behind them on the freeway for reading whilst at the wheel.  I don’t feel the need to see photos of you in eveningwear with your fellow consultants at a Casino on the back of my over-priced rampant rabbit. 

Here’s a novel business model; don’t send the desperate housewives on jollies where they get drunk and post photos of Barbara from Canning Vale drunk with her gown stuffed in her support garments trying to snog the waiter.  Just maybe knock $50 off the price of the sodding mop and bucket and I will use the money to get drunk myself, tuck my own knickers in my skirt and attempt to snog the sales assistant in Dan Murphys?

Now, who would like to host a demonstration?

Ready, Steady, STRIP!

This year I should have celebrated my 20^th Wedding Anniversary.  Well, actually, I did!  I celebrated it in a way that I haven’t ever celebrated an anniversary in my entire marriage – I did something that I actually chose to do!  OK, so my marriage may have fallen apart slightly after our 19^th anniversary (I say fell apart, but really, I think I woke up from a 10 year long coma of abuse and being taken for granted and treated like shit!  So it wasn’t so much ‘fell apart’ as ‘I fucking woke up!’).  We never celebrated our anniversary really.  I think we only really exchanged decent presents on our first year anniversary – after that it was a card and a meal out or a trip to the pictures (if I was lucky); hardly romantic on the ‘Officer and Gentleman’ scale.

So to celebrate MY new found confidence and refusal to be a door mat any longer, I scoured Google for ways to commemorate my metamorphosis into this mythical woman that I was slowly changing into. *insert image of the German caterpillar from a Bugs Life*

Me!

A friend had mentioned that she’d had a Boudoir Photo Shoot (i.e. letting a stranger take photos of you in your undies in a drafty warehouse*).  If ever there was a more un-Julia-like thing to do – you would be hard pressed to find it.  I committed!  I was also inspired by the recent transition of Bruce Jenner into Caitlin Jenner.  OMG – the man was a beautiful woman!  I have NEVER looked as sexy as that in a photograph and I was BORN with all the equipment that he has strived to obtain!  That was all the incentive I needed – I am never going to be as young as I am today and I should celebrate who I am, how far I have come and my wobbly bits that make me a woman! 

The experience was slightly surreal.  I arrived with a bag of my sluttiest underwear, Ralph’s MC jacket (I have never wanted to ‘impress’ someone as much ever before, but I was feeling brave and wanted to shock him (as much as a middle aged, cardigan wearing woman ever could shock a tough ‘Biker’ who’s lived a life!), stockings and a Tutu.  As I unpacked my bottom drawer secrets, I felt like I was on the cookery show, 'Ready, Steady, Cook’.  I explained to the make-up artist that I had in my bag three, slightly past their sell by date, floppy vegetables and a kilo of mince and I would like her to produce a 5 course degustation banquet, fit for a Queen WITH a dessert.  She laughed.  I laughed.  Sparkling wine was consumed. The ice was broken and we were off!

I did lots of things that day that I have never done (and if I’m honest, probably won’t attempt again!).  I have a new found respect for models – it’s tough holding things in, trying to make bones appear (cheek and collar), whilst carrying out hair flicks in 6 inch heels and trying to look alluring whilst attempting not to look like you’re holding in a fart.  I pulled muscles in places I didn’t know I had muscles!  And I became a MASTER of the ‘fake laugh’.  Ha ha ha….. I fake laughed like my life depended on it!  Proper ‘head back, mouth open’ funniest joke in the world, fake laugh!  I had to sniff my shoulder(!).  Apparently, this was a tried and tested way to make you appear sexy without trying too hard.  I have to admit I felt vaguely ridiculous doing this, but when I was instructed it was more of a feint, subtle sniff – as if taking in a fine scent from the Chanel counter – rather than sniffing phlegm after day 3 of the flu – I think I nailed it.

If you didn’t overthink it, it was an enjoyable experience.  I’d never had my hair and make-up done and been the sole focus of a photoshoot.  Even on my Wedding day, I’d slapped on my own Max Factor and tried to camouflage the fact that I’d ripped out all my eyelashes on my left eyelid two days earlier in ‘the Great Eyelash Curler Incident of 1995’.  I tried to embrace the experience for what it was; empowering, confidence boosting and a little indulgent. 

If the photoshoot was nerve wracking, viewing the images for culling was even worse.  I was SO nervous.  We all have this ‘utopia’ picture of the best we can possibly look in our heads.  I guess mine was circa 1992 but with less perm and better clothes.  I was directed to the velvet sofa with a coffee and my images were projected onto a wall for my viewing pleasure.  There is something quite confronting seeing your boobs 2 feet tall, but from over 200 images, I culled them down to 17 that I would look out without immediately shouting ‘NO’ and hating something in the image.  I tried to focus on the parts of me that looked good.  There were bones in some of the photos (good bones – not that there’s a bad bone when you’re over 40 and the wrong side of ‘cuddly’), I especially liked the ones of me smelling my body parts.

I now have three images in a frame hanging in my house to be admired by visitors.  OK, I’m not as thin as I could be and my boobs look slightly like spaniels ears, but I look SO happy!  I have the biggest, most open smile on my face that I’ve seen in a very long time and that’s there for eternity.

I’m glad I did it and it’ll be there forever on the Hallway landing; frightening burglars and reminding me of what happy truly looks like.

Julia Jenner

* It wasn’t a warehouse, nor drafty.

Laughter is the best medicine – unless you’ve got Xanax, in which case, always choose Xanax!

Throughout the dark, nightmare-ish road that I’m currently travelling, named divorce, the only thing that has kept me ‘semi-sane’ is my sense of humour.  Yes, sometimes, it’s proved to be *wildly* inappropriate* but the look of shocked horror on my accomplices faces has only fuelled my ability to shock and stun – it’s ace!!

Today was a pretty shitty day on the sphincter scale.  I had a rental inspection (where a woman resembling ‘The Governess’ from the TV show The Chaser comes round to inspect your home for cleanliness levels and generally how much of a scrubber you are). 

I AM a scrubber – but not in the ‘clean freak’ way.  Unfortunately, OCD evaded me and I’m basically a slob who will be found dead amongst my body weight in empty ready meal containers; I’ll probably feature on the news as my cats would have started to eat me, so that’ll be my 15 minutes of fame, thanks, Mr Warhol.  As if the two days of cleaning wasn’t bad enough, I had to banish my pussies to Ralphs for an overnight stay.  The logistics of transporting two feral cats meowing their hearts out along to Celine Dion with my in car stereo was no mean feat (it makes for a pretty epic Snapcat video though - see what I did there?).

Coupled with cat logistics and fat woman with white glove, I also had my car booked in for a service and had to negotiate the men’s domain that IS the mechanic’s lair.  To be fair, the blokes at the garage that I use do have a sense of humour and I don’t feel that they are always trying to con me into having my big end regassed (or whatevs!).  I managed to vacuum my kitchenette, pack up Celine and Dion, drop DD off at school and swap my Miley Car-us for the Hyundai Jackie Chan (diesel) all before 9am.  I HAD this shit!!

Unfortunately, it was a Tuesday, which means radio silence with the ex is broken for 3 days of ‘open season’ via email in terms of provocation, belittling, and condescension and downright bad manners – but hey - he knew what he was getting when he married me – Boom tisch!  It seems that as soon as my name appears in his inbox, he’s off and running – what shit can I fling at her today until her ears light up like a novelty night light and she can feel her temples throbbing in time with her pulse?  He really is relentless.  If he used his power for good (instead of winding me up like a wanker), he really would be a force to be reckoned with.  But no….. instead, he uses his time, effort and energy into goading me into a miserable fug for three days.

I have therefore decided to award an ‘email of the day’ for the most pathetic waste of wearing down index fingers in the plain hope to rattle me into giving in (extra marks will be awarded for the best ‘spelling error’ of the day and bonus points if the same spelling error is used consistently in subsequent emails).  Let’s turn the negative into a positive.  

Yes, when I initially receive the emails, they do make my blood boil, but when I read them back, later (MUCH later) on the wrong side of a glass of wine, they are actually hilarious!  The sense of entitlement!  The fact that he truly believes he is so much ‘better’ than me – or anyone, for that matter – is genuinely laughable. 

Here’s an excerpt from today’s ***EMAIL OF THE DAY*** (I so need a radio-style jingle for that bit! - and an oversized leather bound folder and a big winged red velvet chair like that old bloke on 'That's Life').
Tuesday 18^th August; pathetic level = expert:

“Until settlement has been agreed, I would like to be able to have unrestricted access to our boat.  I think the best and fairest way to do this is on a by-weekly basis (5 bonus points for by-weekly), and I (think he means ‘it’) would make sense that I have access for the week that I have 'son' (and 'daughter' should she wish to come).

I will leave the boat as I find it.

Please arrange for a set of keys to be made available from Friday 28^th August 2015.”

Now I can see why he’s pissed off.  I ‘have’ possession of the boat and Ralph, the kids and I are often out on it – chasing dolphins, looking for whales, generally having a giggle and fishing.  HE on the other hand has possession of: the family home (including home theatre, swimming pool, spa etc.), A 1000cc motorbike, a 250cc motorbike, full access to the office unit and a Porsche – so I can see why he’s a little disgruntled (NOT).  

Maybe I should have replied ‘sure thing!  Whilst you’re out on the boat, I’ll be at your place, watching a movie in the home theatre.  Or better still, Ralph can give me lessons on your Repsol so I can get my bigger bike license (would be an AWFUL shame if I dropped it under a truck though – or revved it off a cliff!).’

The thing is, I moved the boat as my rental apartment has a mooring included with the rent, so it actually costs us nothing extra to keep it here – and seeing as we’d been paying $240 a month for a Broker to try and SELL it for us, it was a no brainer.  Move it and use it – boats don’t like being sat there with no action (much like my good self).  It’s Private Property, so – sucks to be you! And there is no way on God’s Earth he would be able to park the boat back into its mooring here – it’s the boat parking equivalent of the Top Gear challenge when they couldn’t get the supercars out of the garage in Paris to even start the challenge! 

But – where exactly does he get off barking orders at me?  No ‘please’?  No ‘thank you’?   Just a complete sense of entitlement and that I should bow down to him consistently.   I don’t want Biltong’s scrawny arse on the floating love palace!

There were other strong contenders for today’s accolade, but I think the above is a deserved winner.

After the steam had stopped whistling out of my ears and I had come off the boil, I loaded Barbara and Mavis back into their cat carriers for the return journey home and replaced Celine Dion for a little Mariah – no wonder they have hair in their ears – must be to drown out the warbling!

Dropped off the Halls Head 2 back to their incarceration and headed for the testosterone fuelled garage workshop.  Mr Mechanic took his seat in his faux racing driver office chair (mechanic in a reasonably priced chair)…… I prepared for acceleration from $ 0 to $ 500 in a matter of seconds.  

Ahhh, your back tyres are down to the canvas.  ‘Is that bad?’  Well, yes, actually – quite dangerous.  ‘Oh, OK….. I’d better get 2 new ones then :/  They will be good quality ones though won’t they?  I don’t want any dangerous, cheap imports’ (the irony of this statement was not lost on me, even though I was doing to automotive equivalent of driving round with my skirt tucked in my knickers – only WAY more dangerous). 

Miley Car-us (so named as she’s a show off and takes her top off for attention), also had more oil leaks than was healthy.  I blurted out (in her defence), well, she is getting older – it’s probably just incontinence.  She hasn’t been able to do a star jump for years and who doesn’t wee a little when they sneeze?  Her front brakes are also 80% worn – ‘no worries’ said I, ‘I’ll just use the back ones for a bit’  This is when the look of bewilderment took over the mechanic’s face – I was used to that, half astonishment, 50% WTF?

So, Miley is going back to the workshop tomorrow for a new pair of shoes and to have the skirt picked out of her arse crack. My radio’s also stopped working, but I think in all honestly, the apprentice saw my One Direction CD in the foot well and he removed the fuse on purpose!   

Oh, and when I got home, the Governess had left her calling card.  I had a great inspection; but need to work on the following areas for next time please:

·         My washing machine needed a wipe down (no worries – I’ll bung it in the machine next wash).

·         My door frame between the laundry and the toilet was dusty (I don’t think I’ll ever be able to show my face in public ever again!).

·         The racks in my oven were greasy (who knew).

·         The carpets were un-vacuumed in a teenagers bedroom (get me to the gallows IMMEDIATELY!).

·         The carpets will also require a clean prior to next inspection – not a ‘professional’ clean, but you can hire a carpet cleaner from Bunnings and give them the once over (or pad round the house on my hands and knees with a straw and suck the stains out personally).

My washing machine shame and door frame scandal.  How will I live with myself?

The joke’s on her really as the Halls Head two went undiscovered for another 3 months and they are currently crocheting the stairway carpet with their claws.

And here endeth my Tuesday.

* like the time we were sat at the airport to wave Ralph off to Queensland and I happened to mention that if the 7.05pm Perth to Kalgoorlie shuttle accidentally dropped out of the sky, it wouldn't *really* be a huge loss to Humanity with the 67 overweight, ugly people that the jet contained.  Harsh?  Maybe, but very accurate.

The Comfort Zone

What *IS* it, exactly?  Is it where people go to die?  Where they hang up their ambition, their drive, their hopes and dreams and stay in the ‘safe’ zone of no challenge, boredom and comfort.

When do you enter it?  When do you realise that you are actually boring?  The thought of trying something new is met with a feeling of abject dread at missing Dancing with the Stars?  I can’t possibly venture out on a Wednesday!  Excuses that keep us in the walled prison of this ‘comfort zone’.

Well, let me tell you, in the last few months, I have well and truly driven a Range Rover through these walls like a Bogan on crack.  My lounge room has been decimated and I have a car bonnet as a coffee table (it’s a metaphor people; bear with me!). 

I have challenged myself more in the last 6 months than I probably have in the last 16 years!  I seem to have thrown out my ‘don’t try it – you’ll only draw attention to yourself and everyone will laugh at you when you fall over and flash your sensible kickers’ attitude along with my cardigans.  I know I there is one person mainly responsible for this change in my life – let’s call him Ralph (mainly because that’s his name!).  Now I know that self-worth and self-esteem is and inside job and not to be left for others to validate, but can I just point out, that when you are made to feel unattractive, over weight and so far from sexy you would need a map of the galaxy and a year’s worth of rations to get there, when someone ACTUALLY sees you for the person that you are, nurtures you and gives you more love and heeling than you imagined possible, I guess this magical quality called ‘confidence’ appears.

Do you know how many years I have stood on the beach, longing to jump into the waves; but was stopped by being told that I would be ruining stranger’s childhoods by subjecting them to a glimpse of my cellulite?  I was told to ‘pull myself together’ if I dared to reach for the products on the top shelf in the Supermarket and my jeans should momentarily part ways with my shirt – as if the sight of my Mummy Tummy would immediately turn ALL the milk sour and cause an outrage in our suburb!  The looks of distain and ‘are you wearing THAT?’ when I had spent time and effort trying to put an outfit together.  You see, all of these experiences change a person.  The small creature that IS a woman’s confidence is a very fragile being.  It needs to be nurtured, loved and grown.  Once a woman has confidence, it truly is a magical thing to behold - probably the most sexy thing in the world.  But if this tiny glimmer of confidence is squashed, so is her spirit. 

I’m not talking empty compliments (although it took me AGES to be able to accept one of these too) and if there is one thing I want to pass on to my daughter is the ability to accept a compliment with grace and gratitude.  I will no longer blush and look at my feet and make an off the cuff, derogatory comment when being given a compliment (i.e. ‘oh, this old thing?’  ‘It’s only from Kmart!’ or ‘thanks, but I’m not really’); I shall meet their gaze, smile and own that shit with a beaming ‘Thank you!’  (Bloody way harder than it sounds, if I’m honest – but I’m a work in progress!)

I genuinely am trying not to look around the beach any longer as I drop my sarong to dance into the crashing waves.  I am trying to actually LOOK at myself in the mirror when the hairdresser shows me my new hairstyle.  I am trying to enjoy moments for me, rather than worry about what the complete stranger on the park bench is thinking about me.  Do I really care what the snooty looking blonde woman sat at the bar thinks about my muffin top?  Why should I let her opinion stop me from living in the moment and gyrating and laughing along with Ralph in the Bar?  Should I care that she is ‘tutting’ as Ralph tries out his best ‘Magic Mike’ moves on me (in PUBLIC!)?  Someone very wise once said ‘other people’s opinions of you is none of your business’ and how true is that?  Opinions are like arseholes – everyone has one and as long as I’m not a murderer or harming puppies, should it really be of anyone’s concern if my tummy continues to wobble after the music stops?  Maybe she’s jealous?  Maybe to her it looks like I am having the time of my life!  Being rubbed up against by a hunky man who wants to take me home and ravish me and she’s sat, having a white wine with Geoff from Accounts and is going home to a microwaved meal for one and her cats?  Really – who are we to judge OR be judged? 

I’ll admit to being a ‘confidence novice’.  On the confidence scale, mine is gathering momentum slowly (like a dust bunny behind the sofa).  But now, I (shock horror!) don’t always take a cardigan with me to cover my tuck shop arms – sometimes I let them flap free when I drive my convertible (like spaniel’s ears in the wind).  Sometimes, I buy myself flowers and smile at strangers.  After the initial shock and internal weighing-up of whether or not I’m a mass murderer, sometimes, people even smile back!  I’ve been known to smile and say Hello to my neighbours and this Summer I vow to leave my towel more than 4 feet from the ocean’s edge and I will run towards the ocean with my Bingo Wings flapping and my Mum Tum dancing along to its own internal beat because – I bloody well can! Nobody will die from a glimpse of my stretch marked thighs.  I am not a threat to national security – nor will I ruin anyone’s childhoods!  And secretly, I bet there’ll be 3 or more Mums, hiding behind their towels with their wide-brimmed hats and Factor 50 wishing that they were as brave as me!

Divorce Sucks (just not fat out of your body unfortunately :/ )

For the avoidance of ANY doubt.  Just in case you were possibly of the opinion that divorce would be a walk in the park, let me tell you it is HELL ON EARTH.  Even if you (as I was) are the person brave enough to end the torment that *IS* your marriage, you will still experience more heartache and tear shedding than watching The Green Mile, The Champ, Marley and Me and Titanic on loop for a month; and if you have children, you can quadruple that!  Your suffering is nothing compared to seeing your children torn between parents, or trying to find the right words of comfort whilst you blow snot bubbles and wail into your Chardonnay.  It is very hard watching little minds try and grasp big problems; however, children are FAR from stupid and have probably seen the writing on the wall from as far back as when you were trying to scrub it from the vinyl silk with a magic sponge.

I think there comes a point when your children realise it is game over – possibly even before you do.  They recognise the look of heartache behind your eyes.  The look that says ‘never mind’ when it should.  The tears that spill down your cheeks when your lips form the words ‘it’s the thought that counts’.  Actually, that is one of my most hated phrases.  NO!  It is NOT the thought that counts.  ACTIONS speak louder than words – not thoughts that were fleeting and not fulfilled.  It’s a complete crock of shit.  I ‘thought’ about going back to the shop and buying you that bracelet that you fell in love with, but just ran out of time.  I ‘thought’ about booking a table at your favourite restaurant, but got busy and forgot.  I ‘thought’ about booking the day off work and having a special day together, but I’ve got an important meeting.   Strange that since hooking up with the new girlfriend (or Biltong, as I affectionately call her as she’s old, leathery and in a small child’s words – looks chewy), all these thoughts have been immaculately brought to fruition.  That probably hurts more than all the years of emotional abuse.  The realisation that he COULD have done it all along, but simply chose somewhere along the line just not to.  That’s the kicker.  The real punch to the guts.

The loneliness of a marriage too can be the hardest thing to deal with – whilst you are still in it!  How can you feel so alone when you are supposed to be living with your soul mate for the rest of eternity?  How can your best friend turn into your worst enemy?  Conversation stops. Family runs on auto-pilot without real direction or input and lovers drift into barely more than strangers with some commonality.   I think that’s the hardest sad part.  Admitting that you don’t want to live like that any longer is the brave part and the first step of one of the most horrific journeys you will ever undertake, but you WILL have brighter days.  Nobody ever died of divorce.

I feel nothing but regret when I look at my soon to be ex-husband.  Regret that I didn’t walk away from him years ago when the kids were younger and maybe understood less.  Regret that I accepted the emotional abuse for as long as I did.  Regret that I allowed my self-esteem to be eroded away to the point where I didn’t recognise who I was and just what I was capable of anymore.  Regret that I didn’t see that I deserved so much more!  Love and happiness for a start.  I don’t even recognise him when I pass him in the street.  He is a bitter shadow of his former self; 50kg lighter in weight than he was for most of our married life, yet many times more vicious and vindictive.  Using words as his weapons of choice and coupling them with Narcissistic Personality Disorder and depression for good measure; a veritable pick ‘n’ mix Molotov Cocktail – ooh goody!’

Even with this knowledge, the breakdown of a marriage is still like a bereavement and it takes a long time to come to terms with all aspects of the situation. Watching the person you thought you knew most in the world turn into an evil, revenge seeking walking time bomb of aggression is a lesson that no-one should experience.  The words that get spat in the heat of the moment should never be repeated to anyone, ever, and these words have been crafted carefully with barbs, poison and aimed at the heart for maximum destruction – like those bullets that shatter on impact, causing shards of destruction to travel around your being for weeks on end; the mind is the part of you that always suffers the most; trying to make sense of and diffuse the venom.  Wondering if you truly did deserve that sort of treatment?

You can try and shield the children from this, but sooner or later, they’ll witness the wrath of a parent-wronged or see for themselves the 360 degree head spin with as much bewilderment and incredulity as you did yourself when you first witnessed it. 

Enjoy the good days (there will be some along the way).  Try not to wallow in the bad ones.  You can’t see stars without a little darkness (oh yes, and if you’re like me, you’ll take to Googling inspirational bollocking quotes to get you through the trauma), along with daily personal Mantras (my personal favourite - If I had an alibi and 10 grand, none of this would matter). 

In my personal experience, moments of personal smugness (feeling that one child wants to see you more than the other parent, having all 3 children laughing round the dinner table with you whilst the other parent festers at home, alone or hearing a snippet of information that tells of the other parent sobbing into their designer beer) are usually very short-lived and followed by extreme heart-piercing moments when the other party is experiencing their smug moment.  Smug moments are a fickle Mistress – like eating a massive chocolate gateaux and then not being able to do your jeans up….  Ying and Yang.  Be bitchy as he would be bitchy towards you (probably sounds better in Latin to be honest).

This is my current state of mind: caterpillar undergoing transformation.  These wings were made to flllllyyyyyyy......

Daryl Llama

Yesterday I went to hear the Dali Lama speak (although after a previous night’s entertainment with Russell Brand, His Holiness will forever more be referred to as Daryl Llama).

I loved his enthusiasm and hearing his anecdotes and I believe there was a very high percentage of people in the audience expecting to leave the afternoon’s event with the ‘answer’.  You know…. The one that we all crave.  To life.  To happiness.  To making calories not count. 

He mumbled (a LOT).  Some of his talk was inaudible.  He referred a great deal to his Aide – after all, he’s nearly 80 and English isn’t his first language, so he often stumbled to find the right word (which makes you wonder….. is his Holiness really all that he’s cracked up to be, or if he actually uses the words that initially come into his mind would this change the substance of his Wisdom hugely?  Maybe his Aide is actually the Wise Man and Daryl really waffles incoherent balderdash like a pensioner in a care home?). 

If the mumbling grew too much to bear, or the silence became deafening, he accented the talk with his infectious chuckle.  He could have been taking the piss out of everyone in the audience and we still would have joined in and laughed along.  It’s one of those laughs that MAKES you laugh. 

He talked about spreading love.  About how happiness can only come from within, not from material purchases and things that can be acquired.  A man may have material wealth, but his stomach is the same size as the poor man next to him and just because he has everything his ‘material’ heart requires, doesn’t mean his is spiritually happy or fulfilled.  Modern education is a scourge.  It gives children the idea that they are only to be valued by society by the job that they manage to secure at the end of their educational journey and if it is not financially fantastic, then they have failed.  Surely this is not the correct way to view education?  We should be teaching children love (for themselves and others), gratitude and mediation. 

Stress is a disease of our modern age that we should work to reverse.  A few moments every day of inner reflection and peace.  We need to take a step back from our problems (that can become all consuming) and see the bigger picture.  Yes, we are only individuals, but the change needs to start within.  With us.  How can we be good role models; teachers; parents, if we cannot self soothe, calm and regulate our ego?

He had been worked hard.  It was a 12 day, whistle stop tour of talks, people meeting, meditation workshops and chuckling.  He'd admitted that the schedule was a little gruelling for an octogenarian and they’d agreed to ‘let up on him’ when he returned for his next visit.  The profits from his visit (some $100,000) were being ploughed back into worthy charitable causes and it was made very clear that the man himself received no monetary gain from any of his International trips or teachings.  I wanted to take him a cup of tea and a Rich Tea biscuit (a drink’s too wet without one – now there’s an advertising slogan!)

As I sat there, listening, waiting for the ‘penny to drop’ moment, shovelling Maltesers into my face and doing ‘Godfather’ impressions with the chocolates trapped between my top teeth and lip, (making my partner snort his mouthful of coffee all over the Arena temporary seating) that what we really need in our life these days is to take a step back.  Less truly IS more. 

The new car won’t fulfil you.  The new handbag won’t make you happy for much longer than the time it takes to transfer all your old junk into it.  The new home in the new suburb won’t fill a void that is left by the fact you miss seeing your children 3 hours a day as you have to commute to sell your soul to pay for said house.  Once you acquire all these possessions, the real work commences in working to KEEP them.  The maintenance, keeping up standards, keeping your perceptions, not losing face and having to downgrade.  Why put ourselves under this immense pressure? 

Happiness ultimately, comes through human contact.  Through relationships.  Laughter.  Memories.  Experiences.  His Holiness even mentioned sex and intimacy with our loved ones and being a very important way of connecting and reaffirming our relationships.  About physical beauty being meaningless.  True beauty comes through strength of character, compassion and love – for both yourself and others around you.

The afternoon ended with questions.  I guess Margaret from Perth’s question was the one that was on everyone’s lips in the room:

‘Your Holiness, I am a happily married woman with two grown children.  I have a solid relationship, a lovely home, so why do I have this feeling of emptiness in my soul – a feeling of being incomplete.  That I haven’t found my purpose?’

Oh my god – you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.  It was as if the entire Arena were here for this ONE answer.  As a society, are we not all in the same position?  Struggling to keep our heads above water, but not taking time to relax, appreciate what we have and enjoy life’s simple pleasures.  Wanting the magic answer.  The quick fix.  His Holiness reflected, he looked like he was sick of this self-indulgent question. 

The answer, he suggested, was within us all.  Have less, experience more.  Give something back to our community.  Love conditionally.  Learn (but for the right reasons).  But the ONLY person responsible for our happiness is OURSELVES!  We are our own masters.  Only we can make the changes to ourselves, for inner peace and happiness that can then be passed on to our children and, hopefully, they can then go forward and also carry the message.

My friend and I came to the conclusion a while ago that we could run ‘happiness workshops’ for the masses and charge a fortune.  People don’t know how to take the coat hanger out from their jackets anymore; how to cut loose, have a giggle, enjoy a laugh (at their own expense), take the stick out of their arse!  You mean there’s a recipe? A step by step guide?  A plan?  Take my money now!

In essence, I took the following from my afternoon in the presence of His Holiness, the great, wise, Daryl Llama.

·        You are not defined by the sum of your possessions; they really have no bearing on your happiness or inner peace.

·        Appreciate all that we have.

·        Expect nothing; we are not ‘entitled’ to a good life any more than the next man.

·        Beauty comes from within (said no beautiful person, EVER lol!).

·        Happiness is an inside job.

·        Stress is a disease of our era.  Mediation and relaxation is the only answer.

·        Take a step back.  Your problems are not insurmountable; they may appear huge initially, but put things into perspective.

·        Practice love and compassion.

·        Have lots of sex.

·        I’d be happy too if I had limited wardrobe choices every morning and never had to coordinate accessories with footwear.  Get someone to do your laundry.

·        Maltesers are delicious, make for hilarity and damp jeans.

·        If in doubt – chuckle! (and hopefully the World will chuckle with you).

(and I tried to love my ‘neighbour’ but with their incessant fidgeting and frequent trips to the bar and restrooms (whilst treading on my toes with each visit), I think that aspect needs further work!

ENOUGH!

Where should I start? 

My name is Julia and I am a recovering door mat.

I am proud of the person that I am becoming, but the last 12 months have been the hardest of my life.  Leaving a partner of over 20 years is not a walk in the park, but I was lost.  I was lonely, abused and taken for granted.  The kids were growing older and I have felt like a single parent for many years now. As much as I had tried to make things work and put my own thoughts, feelings and needs to the back of my conscience, something snapped one day and I’d had enough.

• Enough of feeling that I didn’t matter. 
• Enough of feeling my contribution and thoughts were insignificant. 
• Enough of walking on egg shells.
• Enough of constantly feeling like I was propping him up, but he was never there for me in the same way.

There comes a time when you have to do what you need to do for your soul.  For your own sanity and self-worth and I AM WORTH SO MUCH MORE THAN BEING DISRESPECTED, PUT DOWN, CONTROLLED AND MANIPULATED.

I am tired of making excuses for someone else’s behaviour, of picking up the pieces of their destructive personality, of being a mental/verbal punch bag.

I am tired.

This will be the only post I make about the break up*.  The rest of the entries will be positive, happy, uplifting posts about rediscovering who I am.  Learning to love the strong, independent woman I have only recently discovered I am and sharing my journey of discovery!

I have to say that at the ‘ripe old age’ of 42, I feel happier and more free to be ‘me’ than I think I have my entire adult life.  I feel happy, loved, respected and (dare I say it!) even a little bit sexy!

This won’t be a blog of ‘wallowy bollocks’.  I’ll try not to rant and moan, but deal with problems with laughter and humour. 

I hope you can share my journey with me.  I hope there’ll be some moments that make you laugh and some that also make you cry

*actually, I can’t promise that!  Most of my blog is about me and my personal journey.  Of COURSE the break up is going to be mentioned.  I will just try really hard not to refer to him as a wanker – deal?