Own it!

For over 40 years I deliberated about a tattoo.  I spent hours on Pinterest researching designs.  I was probably voted by my Peers ‘Miss most likely never to get a tattoo 1991’ which added to my bucket-list determination to have one.

I didn’t want anything tacky (oh the irony!).  I guess in the end, I kinda panicked a little?  Possibly?  I haven’t really got regrets, I’m glad it’s not bigger as it hurt like fuck.  God knows why it’s purple though as I really wanted it smaller and not coloured at all, but in true ‘Ju’ fashion, I smiled and nodded when the tattoo artist got her crayolas out.

But why can’t I own my own opinions?

I think I have a gene missing.  I seem to lack conviction.  Whenever I list something for sale on Gumtree, I always want to list the microscopic things that are wrong with it.  If I share an opinion with people, I’m almost ashamed of it.  I can’t sell anything as I literally can’t back myself and my own choices – let alone embellish the truth.  What the fuck is that all about?

Can you imagine me robbing someone?  ‘It’s a stick up!  Give me all your money.  I mean….. if that’s OK?  I know times are tough and we all have bills to pay.  I’m really sorry I chose you.  It’s only that you’re a bit chubby and I thought I’d have more chance in outrunning you if you decided to take me on.  Yes, of course, I’ll accept a cheque.  Do you have a cheque guarantee card to accompany that?  I also run a loyalty programme, five muggings and you get a free bumper sticker on the sixth, just remember to have your card stamped.’

You get the picture.  Whatever the situation, I’m not very good at backing myself – that look of raised eyebrows that people give me when I tell them of my goal, it just makes me stop; back pedal even, and almost apologise for my dreams.  So when people ask to see my tattoo and what made me pick a purple elephant (see, you could almost hear the eyebrows raising in that question, can’t you?), I generally laugh it off.  Say I’ve got ‘Regerts’ like the advert on the radio when the bloke gets his tattoo spelt incorrectly.  Or take the piss out of myself by saying, ‘over 40 years it took me to pick a design and I chose THIS! Ha ha ha’  But really, yes, I DID choose this and there actually was a reason I chose an elephant.

For one thing, elephants are cool!

They are the only mammal that can’t jump (I can relate – I tried a STEP class once)

Their skin in an inch thick – no comment.

Elephants cry, play, have memories, show empathy and can actually laugh; three more qualities than my ex-husband.

They can spend up to 16 hours a day eating and only 2-3 hours sleeping. 

They grieve for their loved ones and can even show signs of depression.  They also carry out burial rituals for members of their herd – how beautiful is that?

They are one of the most intelligent animals on Earth.

An elephant herd is considered one of the most closely knit societies of any animal, and a female will only leave it if she dies or is captured.

Baby elephants are initially blind and some take to sucking their trunk for comfort in the same way that humans suck their thumbs.

Homosexual behaviour in elephants is common and well-documented.  Who knew?  I shall for ever after now thing of Elton John as an Elephant.

Amazing really, don’t you think?  Of all the animals in the Kingdom, you could do a Hell of a lot worse than being an elephant!  So, my first tattoo may well be of a purple elephant with a love heart blown from her trunk, but in a lot of ways, it symboliises my journey, my passion for my children, my empathy and the fact I can no longer do star jumps.

#OWNIT

Join the dots.....

I’m feeling really disconnected from everything at the moment.

No matter how hard I try, I just seem incapable of finishing anything important – APART from wine.  This is probably why I drink, so that at least in ONE area of my life, I’m not a complete, dismal failure!  Give me a bottle, I will finish that bitch!

My friend said yesterday that I attract ‘shit’.  She has never known anyone that has as much stress and associated bad luck as I.  Basically, I am the equivalent of those things you put in your dryer that attract all the lint and shitty bits of tissue that kids always seem to accumulate in the far corners of the pockets of their school trousers.  Only instead of lint and tissue, I attract drama and tossers!   She asked if I had ever been ‘saged’ and said she was going to get some and ‘smoke me’ to rid me of my attractive abilities. 

I am dealing with more bureaucratic organisations currently than is healthy.  Normally one call a quarter to Centrelink is enough for anyone.  I have ongoing weekly conversations at the moment with the ATO, CSA, Optus, Passport Office and a Real Estate Agent to try and get the bond back from my previous rental – OH and a psychotic ex-husband that I’m still having to run a business with!  Do you feel sorry for me yet?  Surely even only one of those is enough to bring anyone out in a hot sweat; these are currently on my friends and family call list!   If they were on Facebook – they’d be on the ‘people you might know’ section.   Add my call list to the fact that we live in Australia and even the most simple of tasks can easily have its completion timeline doubled – due to kangaroos on the line, or Koalas in the post box or I don’t f*cking know why, but everything takes years to complete!

I genuinely love Australia.  I love living here and I think I will be forever grateful that we made the move when we did to follow a dream, but for FUCKS SAKE it frustrates the pants off me that you can call the same organisation 5 fives, ask the same question of 5 different employees and get a different answer every blooming time!  WTF is that all about?  What if it was a medical emergency and you were on the phone to Health Direct.......

- yeah you should be OK to mix the meds. 

- I wouldn’t take those two together if I were you.

- Erm, go for it….what’s the worst that can happen?

- You read what happened to Michael Jackson, right?

- She’ll be right.  Knock ‘em back with a mouthful of VB and call the GP in the morning.

This was confirmed when I had an issue with my back.  The GP suggested a CT scan, so I laid in a thumping circle for 30 minutes, threatened with an extra bill for re-scanning if I dared to move and handed over the best part of $ 500.  Within a few hours I received a call from the scanning place –  you NEED to make an urgent appointment, sooner rather than later with your GP to discuss the results and good luck with everything.

OMG!  I’m dying!  I’ve got a growth; or a cancer of my coccyx or a tumour in my humour (thanks for that one, Robbie!).

I made the appointment, planning my demise the whole time I was sat in the Dr’s waiting room, flicking through a 1986 edition of the Woman’s Weekly (probably covered in Ebola and dysentery!)  I sat, braced for the words ‘riddled’ ‘terminal’ or ‘hopeless’ but instead was met with ‘leaking’ ‘nerves’ and ‘bulging’.  Was this my CT results, or my Tinder profile?

I’ve got bulging discs and might need to have something fused?  Should I call a DJ or an electrician? 


She referred me to a specialist.  A 3 month wait (with no feeling in my toes on the right hand side – how can it be right HAND side when it’s my feet!!??)  and que appointment with possibly the most arrogant Consultant I’ve ever met.  I paid this ‘Professional’ to insult me!  What was I thinking?  I could have just stayed home and tried to converse with the kids and saved a packet. 


I should have known things weren’t going to go well when he asked me if I suffered from dementia.  Apparently, my answer of ‘Yes!  No!  I don’t remember – I get confused!’ Was NOT funny and there was no place for humour in his Consulting Rooms.  I guess I missed that sign.  Maybe they should have had a tick box for that on the form with the Receptionist with Forked tongue, or a locker, where you could leave your cheesy one liners for collection at the end of your appointment, along with your dignity.


He examined me.


Do you expect me to operate? He asked immediately after I crawled from the examination table to try and fold myself into the chair opposite his MASSIVE desk.  Errr, I don’t know?  Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?  Maybe if you actually told me what was wrong with me in words with less and 6 syllables? 

‘……Because I’m not going to’.

Oh, right, OK.  Was it just a trick question then?

‘Quite frankly, I had exactly what you have and the day after I was diagnosed, I flew to Europe for an 8 week holiday.  I was in agony and every photo of me taken in and around the great Architectural sites of England, France and Italy shows me hunched and grimacing; however, I did it and so can you.  I was slightly confused at this point as I only had a long weekend booked in a caravan). 

If it gets worse, phone and make an appointment. 

If it gets better – YEAY, well done you!

Give this form to the Receptionist as you leave.  KER-CHING.

I am pleased to report, I am the small percentage of the world whose body decides to take matters into its own hands and harden the fuck up.  

The Electric DJ worked magic!

MUUUUUUMMMMMMMM!!!!

The older I get, the more inappropriate my mouth (and the things that seem to spill from it) appear to get!

The amount of times I hear the words – ‘Mum!!!! You can’t SAY that!’ seem only to correlate with the number of thread veins that are appearing on my thighs* 

Saying that all Asian people look the same; or that I wasn’t surprised by the super academic achievements of the Chinese kids at school; or a graduating boy looked like Augustus Gloop from (the original) Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film are not condusive to acceptable behaviour whilst out in public ear shot apparently. 

Neither is commenting whilst passing and elderly gentlemen on the foreshore with advanced arthristis – ‘that reminds me – when we go back to England, I really miss Twiglets’

I am suffering from ‘Mother’s Mouth’.  I seem to remember (probably when I was a similar age to Darcie) that I also was mortified by the verbal witticisms that my Mum would drop, in everyday conversation, like a pensioner with flatulence.  No acknowledgment for the level of nastiness, no shake of the trouser leg, just ‘WA-BAM!’  drop the insult and keep walking, leaving the then teenage me stood, mouth open and incredulous in the aisle of the supermarket, checking to see who else would have heard

*what the actually fuck is a thread vein?  Who invented them and what exactly IS their purpose? And don’t even get me started on liver spots :/

Maybe it’s because as we get older we are less likely to tolerate fools and bad service?  I remember being mortified when my Mum would apparently ‘make a fuss’ in a shop over a warranty issue; this was well and truly recreated when Sam’s 18^th birthday present of a watch, appeared to not work the day of his birthday when it was put on his wrist for the first time.  Sam was horrified when I made a fuss in the shop as I didn’t think it was acceptable for it to be sent away for 6 weeks!!  I would have made a much bigger fuss had he not been there, pulling me away from the counter like a PitBull with a tug toy.

I’m going to Hell.  I know this already.  In some ways I’m pleased.  I’m not very good at laundry and couldn’t cope with the stress for all eternity of getting stains out of Angel-white clothing.  I much prefer rock and roll to classical and I’ve never had much fondness for a Harp.  Think of the musical soundtrack for downstairs!?

The older I get, the more I tend to let things flow from my lips that really should never be allowed to escape.  I’m convinced that age is directly correlated to one’s fuck it response.  Here are a couple of examples of things that should probably have remained in my head:

Tupper-where?

Apparently, it was an elderly couple that made their fortune from Tupperware.  ‘How fantastic’ chirped I, ‘I wonder if they had a Tupperware coffin each with a life time warranty and if you happened to stumble across them in 10 year’s time, they’d both be perfectly preserved and daisy fresh in their clip locked sealed containers?’ 

Gopher one / Give her one?

I was told about an OAP’s swingers party.  It wasn’t keys that were placed in the fruit bowl – rather keys for their mobility scooters.  If you aren’t financially stable enough for your own gopher (they have two seater ones in Australia – so Johnny and Sandy from Grease can reinact the T-Bird scene immortally), you can chuck in your dentures.  I guess it gives it away though when you look up from the fruit bowl and your eyes lock with Norman and his gummy grin.  If you were quick thinking, you could pop the teeth back in the bowl – no one would willingly choose ‘Slurper Harris’.  To an OAP, the height of virility must be watching a man biting into an apple – no cutting it with a knife first, or removing it from your mouth with your choppers attached.

Blurred Vision.

It may be mean, but I asked my eldest not to lend my bike helmet to a particularly spotty mate.  It would only take one last minute breaking decision and I would be wiping off a dot-to-dot puzzle from the inside of my visor for days.

Plane boring.

dropped Ralph off at the airport once for a cross country trip and there was a plane ready to board before his.  I watched intently as old people limped towards the gangway, children cried and whinged, middle aged bland women wearing beige shuffled and over weight men in tshirts that exposed the bottom of their bellies all headed towards the plane.  My comment of ‘well, that would be no great loss to humanity if that plan fell from the sky’ was not acceptable apparently.  Who knew?
 

All things to all people?

So, today, I have been contemplating how many people I can potentially ‘disappoint’ in the space of one day.  The list is quite astounding.  Today I am feeling the pressure.  Today I no longer wish to ‘adult’.  I want to run away.

If I list the jobs I undertook today – a ‘typical’ Monday in the life of Julia; non-descript, suburban Mum of three.

Alarm clock.

Packed lunch entrepreneur (yes, entrepreneur – I do magic with a cheese slice).

Hunter of the lost sock.

Feeder of felines.

Sole emptier of the litter tray.

Moaner to make children wake up, dress and look semi-presentable for school.

Retriever of Friday’s discarded school uniform from the washing basket (unwashed – of course), a quick shake, a febreeze and it’s good for another week J

Co-ordinator of breakfast – i.e. make toast to eat in car on way to school.

Director of bag packing.

Negotiator of BAD traffic and new detour that appeared overnight.

Taxi service to the school gates.

Dropped car off to garage for attention to excessive whine in back (even when kids AREN’T in car – and that was wHine – not wine).

Late to self-worth course (obviously don’t value myself enough to be early).

Reinforced stuff that I know.  Don’t have time to put me first really – maybe I can reschedule the date with myself that I’ve been promising myself for weeks.

Received hug from woman as wet as a weekend in Bognor, who declared that she was thinking of me all week and however bad her life is, at least she is comforted in knowing that she isn’t dealing with anywhere near as much shit as me.

Felt like shit (made mental note that I don’t want to be ^that person – meaning the wet weekend, OR the person that others ‘feel sorry for’).

Drove to Ralph’s.

Counselled him and talked him off the cliff.  Listened to his rant.

Ranted with him.

Had a social worker visit – got angry.  Bloody do-gooders.

Left to drive to solicitor.

Got arse chewed – need to be better ‘Mum’.  More stern.  More tough.  Bad Cop.  F I R M.

Must spend 2 hours a night with youngest doing homework.

Can’t have life.

Must listen to monotone reading EVERY night for at least half an hour…..

Need a plan for school.  Should be on top of things.  Should have plan in place to educate my children outside of school hours when professionals that have been to University to be taught how to…….. well, you know…. educate them.

Struggle with Year 7 Math homework.  Can’t even pronounce some of the spelling words.

Prepare meal that kids will push around the plate for ten minutes, but not actually eat any of seeing as they polished off a whole bag of Doritos prior to me coming home from work.

Listen to everyone moan about how much they hate the sliver of onion / capsicum / tomato / LOVE that I put into their dinner.

Give up telling them that there are starving kids in the world after youngest offers to post them tomorrow’s Doritos.

Start negotiating about homework.   Kids are like terrorists.  Before I realise it, I have agreed to a sleepover and a trip to the movies in exchange for 10 math questions and assignment prep.

Television goes off – tuneless inane singing starts.

2 hours to complete 10 questions.

Where’s the wine?

Take DD to dancing – forget about detour.  10 minute drive takes 30 minutes.  Get home just in time to return back to dance school to collect her.

Forgot kitchen looks like a war zone.

Start mentally preparing the children for heading upstairs to bed.

Favourite TV programme comes on and finishes.

Shower, pyjamas, 30 minutes listening to youngest read.

30 minutes feels like 30 years (surely this book is on DVD? NO!  Bad parent!! Listen….. do NOT day dream….).  Made worse my knowing that George Clooney film is on now – make that 40 years.

Need wine (badly).

Hang washing out that I put on last night.  Smells slightly musty after sweating in the machine all day – blame new fabric softener scent.

9pm – youngest comes downstairs for the third time to tell me he loves me, or there’s a spot in his ear, or he’s worried about polar ice caps melting, or ANYTHING to avoid going to bed.

Choses this exact moment to tell me he has been relentlessly bullied for 7 years.  Why didn’t I know?  Why haven’t I helped?  Starts uncontrollably sobbing. Don’t say anything to anyone – let alone a teacher – will only make things worse.  Worry about how to address the situation.

Console sobbing child.

Don’t notice snot on shoulder.

Still need wine.

9.45pm finally sit down.

9.50pm - nod off on the sofa.

Wake up with dribble on the cushion and pins and needles.

Forget that the kitchen STILL looks like a bomb’s hit it L  Load the dishwasher and tidy the kitchen before bed.

Watch cat silently MEOW in complaint as I left her on the balcony – like the Marcel Marceau of the cat world.  Decide to let her in – do NOT want to piss the cat off; she is a force to be reckoned with.

Lay in bed worrying about child’s bullying, musty washing, type of preservatives in cheese slices, number of chemicals I am poisoning our home with my trying to keep my toilet rim squeaky clean and germ free, where is that missing sock?

Sometimes I wish I was gravely stupid.  Surely morons don’t go through life this badly stressed?  Maybe I could have an IQ reduction.  It works for boobs – why not brain cells?  I wonder if the happiness of your life is directly correlational to your stupidity?  Surely there’s a graph for that?  If not, why not? 

Consider applying to do a PhD on this exact topic…… probably need training for that…..too stupid…….but happy.

Self Worth begins at home - Part I

This week children, in search of personal enlightenment, I find myself enrolled for a self-worth course.  A six week, intensive ‘learn to love the shit out of yourself’ course.  It’s the first time I’ve had a name badge pinned to my lapel in a long time and the nervousness of a room full of middle aged women with no self-confidence was palpable.  I have never seen as many women in man-made, beige coloured fabrics.  If it was possible for women to merge into the background any more than the specimens in this room, I would be shocked.  It was awkward.

In personal growth terms, I felt that I was already nearing the finish line in comparison to these women; some of whom were still hunting for their sensible shoes to walk to the starting line.  I don’t consider myself blessed in the confidence department, but when asked to introduce themselves and say a few words about what brought them here, I thought they were going to die – one of them even asked to pass!

I have already learnt that self-care is a big part of the healing process and ties in significantly with your self-esteem; could it be that Maureen’s crushing self-doubt was in fact, directly proportional to the fact that she hasn’t seen the inside of a hairdressing salon since 1987 and was still ‘rocking’ a Kevin Keegan perm with matching pastel blue eyeshadow.  Maybe the money she invested in the course would have been better spent in ‘Curl up and Dye’ and Superdrug. To add to her woes, Maureen also had an accent originating from the North East of England; I’m not being judgemental (much), but even the most intelligent of people appear to lose a good 25 IQ points with the introduction of that accent.

Moving round the room, next to Maureen was Gwyneth.  Gwyneth had teeth.  Lots of teeth.  I noticed that there was a less than subtle scrunching noise emanating from her groin area when she walked into the room from her wide leg trousers rubbing together at the crotch.  I hoped there wouldn’t be much moving around the room for group activities, or we may have a small bush fire on our hands.  Other than the teeth and the trousers, there was really nothing else notable about Gwyneth.  At least she had seem the inside of a salon this side of the noughties; maybe she was further advanced than Maureen in the evolutionary scale.

Janet seemed fairly together, but she laughed nervously at every sentence and accompanied the laughter with the deepest blush I have ever seen. She was so crushingly shy.  She was also very plump.  When she talked her chins wobbled and it was both very off-putting and rhythmically enchanting.  It was very hard to maintain eye contact with her when there was so much movement going on.

Even the names of these women were dull!  Maybe that it, your life’s path is somewhat defined the hours after birth when you are given your title to carry you through your existence for the next three score years and ten. Anything circa 1940s and you’re screwed.  Yes I know the ‘olives’, ‘ednas’ and ‘Ediths’ are regaining popularity now, but I think this is only because the world has had enough of children just named with Vowels or items scoured from the room whilst on an acid trip.  There must be an option available in life between Dora and Doolittle Rainbow Honeyflower Zapper?  Let’s call it ‘common sense’ – for the sake of well….. common sense!  Your name should be somewhat expiring.   When I type my name into my phone for example, my surname is given as an option, next to ‘Roberts’.  Julia Roberts.  What would Olive be suggested ‘Oyl’?  or Edna – ‘Dame Everege’?

There are two other participants in the class; Ruth and Rose – R&R.  They formed an instant bond walking to the class from the bus stop and were always to be found congregating round the tim tams at morning tea. Because of their bond, it was almost impossible to engage in conversation with either one of these women. They clung to each other like Rose in Titanic to her plank.  I never overheard their conversation (as everything was conducted in hushed whispers), but I should imagine it consisted on fevered debates about bondage garments, S&M and sex toys.  Actually, that was irony.  If either of these women had had a sexual encounter within the last 20 years, I am hanging up my Max Factor and leaving now – because well….. seriously.  I know you cannot judge a book by a cover and sometimes, the shy quiet ones are the go-ers, but if they have seen more sexually charged action that me in the last 5 years, I may just drive my car into a tree on the way home!  My pet shitz shu is more sexually alluring that either of these women and has less hairy legs than Ruth if I’m honest.  In actuality, their conversation would probably be Women’s Country Association Victoria sponge recipes, when the best time is to prune ornamental roses and a share subscription for crochet monthly.

The teacher was lovely (on the first meeting).  All enthusiasm, sensible shoes and lavender.  She loved running this course; mainly I should imagine for the reason that she could return to her comfortable home, loving husband and delicious children, warmed by the knowledge that she has her shit together compared to a lot of sad, man-made fibre wearing women that pay for the privilege to read a book together on weekly basis and time after time be reminded just how disastrous they all are as assertive individuals.  Over the passing weeks, she would furnish us with snippets of her life; the home cooked meals, the excelling children, the garden that flowered on command.  No one has their shit together that much. 

The image she was trying to project was starting to slip slightly where I could imagine her at 8.30 on a Thursday evening, two gin and tonics down, screaming at her husband with a dishevelled French pleat and smudged lippy – ‘Graham, I will not stand for your lumpy mash any longer!  I am leaving you for Malcolm from Bridge club who does a nice polenta and a smooth cianti that he actually opens prior to pouring, to let it breathe for an hour’.

She looked like a diva.  I’m all for self confidence, but this woman looked high maintenance.  One of the women that breezed into the room as if on wheels, but had a host of nervous people on tenter hooks behind her, waiting to be picked up on a shortcoming; a slightly tepid tea, a warm sangria, not enough garnish on an hors douvre…. You know the struggles. She’d look at you and impart a compliment, full of hope, but then crashed and burned, leaving flames on the lino.  She’d finger the fabric of your blouse and say ‘what a lovely shade of pink; not many people can pull that off without looking deathly and how very brave to risk a polyester on a total fire ban day’. 

Blimey!

I guess one of the (many) unexpected aspects that this divorce lark opens your eyes to is male attention.  I’ve always been the quiet type – never really wanting to draw attention to myself or put myself in the position where I could be ridiculed…. But I guess for every opinion to tear you down make you feel not good enough (i.e. my marriage), there seems to be an equal and opposite reaction to of people that you never even considered that would only be too happy to have the opportunity to idolise you and appreciate your qualities.  Who knew?

I wouldn’t say I have had shit loads of male attention, but heck, it’s come from the strangest of places.  Old school friends that (despite your best efforts), actually DID notice you though your school life and liked what they saw.  Friend’s SONs!! Old work mates.  Some of these feelings have been festering like home brew for years, it would seem.  All from a stupid conversation 25 years ago, or a shy embarrassed smile from a first part-time job at 14!

It is very flattering and I must admit, does the ego no end of good, but heck!  How long have they felt like this?  Would they ever have mentioned it if I remained married?  How often do others think about me, my childhood, my life now?

How many people’s lives and thoughts do we actually touch over the course of our existence?   (Carry Bradshaw moment…. J ).

How many memories and lovely thoughts do we carry with us of people that we no longer have any contact with that would probably warm their heart if they were only to realise the impact (however seemingly insignificant) they have had on our lives?  I can still transport myself back to the Junior School playground in a heartbeat.  The popular kids, the nerds, people I would literally hold my breath as I walked past them so that I didn’t give them any cause to notice me.  I guess no matter how inconspicuous we attempt to be as we travel through life, we DO make an impact on people and it’s lovely to hear about it.

I’ve had such an experience just today; being told that I am the ‘one that got away’!  I haven’t seen this guy for over 20 years, but he still thinks of me and what might have been!?  How amazing is that really?  I guess Facebook has a lot to answer for and now it’s easier than ever to find and reconnect with old friends, when we go through a relationship breakup, it’s comforting to revisit happier, more carefree times in our lives and hey – it’s cheaper than a Match.com subscription J

This also ties in perfectly with the self-worth course that I am currently enrolled in.  Everyone has their own fears and insecurities that they have to deal with on a daily basis; we just assume that the popular girl from school who now has the high flying job actually does have her shit together and is infinitely more happy with her designer lifestyle than you could ever be in a million years.  Little do you know that she’d possibly swap all the trappings of her success (and the pressure to maintain it) in a heartbeat for a husband that truly loves her and a child.  Everyone has their own demons.  I think we need to acknowledge them; invite them over for dinner!  Get them drunk and make an inappropriate pass at them over dessert ( the demons that is…..not the friend – although whatever gets you through the Winter).

We are all treading water really – pretending we are swans with our shit together.  I don’t believe anyone really has – not if they’re 100% honest.

So take a few moments to think about who YOU consider to be the one that got away.  It might only have been a gaze held over a school desk, or something more meaningful, but send love out to them into the Universe and hope that they can feel it.  No matter how ‘hopeless’ we all feel from time to time, to someone out there, we could mean the world.

We just don’t know it.

My 'Thing' - psychic edition.

I have searched long and far for my ‘thing’.  The thing that I will ‘get’.  The thing that will get ‘me’.  God, I’ve tried lots! I don’t know anyone that’s looked as far and wide as I have for my purpose (that’s purpose – not the be confused with a marine animal similar to a dolphin), but blooming heck it’s hard!  I’ve tried card making, dress making, meditation, medication, spiritualism and spirits in a bottle but that illusive connection with my ‘thing’ just evades me.  In some ways I wish I got the Church – or the Church got me! But I stand when I should be siting and vice versa and find the whole ritual of the service a little freaky and somewhat ‘cult-ish’ if I’m honest.

This week, I tried a spiritualist church.  Less formal than the traditional church service and the collection is usually taken by a dead relative (joke!)  If I’m brutally honest, at one point, seeing myself stood in a drafty, soulless community centre at 8pm on a Saturday night, I did have a bit of an epiphany – never in my life would I put myself in a position when I would be stood in a room with complete strangers, swaying and being forced to sing along to Cliff Richard’s Millennium Prayer on a CD Walkman!

In my quest to reach new heights, I appear to have plunged to new depths.

If the spirits were with us, I could feel my Mum taking the piss.  She never felt the need to ‘find herself’ on a Saturday evening in this way; she’d always find herself in an armchair with Noel’s house party on the TV, a cherry Bakewell and a cup of tea and quite frankly, I could see her point!  The woman was a genius!

This spiritual evening involved two guest mediums – although one was definitely more of a large (boom tisch). For the avoidance of any embarrassment I will call them Pam and Shirley.  Pam was a slightly weasely looking woman, nervous as a rabbit caught in the headlights.  Mind you, I don’t blame her – Shirley looked ravenous and ready to pounce.  Her hair looked like she had ridden and motorbike to the Hall, either that, or Elnet have a new product that sets like concrete.  I didn’t warm to her; she seemed insincere and nobody should be that nervous stood in front of 11 women dressed primarily in velour or nylon.  If there was a sudden spark, lives could be lost.  Shirley was matronly and more confident.  She had a warmth to her; like an oil filled radiator, or a Radox bath.  She as dressed in an elaborate floral ensemble – Hyacinth Bucket, the missing years.

The idea was that everyone brought a flower in from their garden; the mediums would connect to its energy and channel a message from a loved one.  Now, I should have known that I’d put the cat amongst the pigeons with my Bird of Paradise, but I was still hopeful.

My positivity continued even through the second Cliff Richard song when I swear I saw the flowers even appear to wilt and lose all hope.

The smell of anticipation was palpable in the room – or that may have been the gentleman in the beige slacks shoes chair ‘squeaked’ every time he changed buttocks.  Pam was up first.  Her little scared eyes darted from flower to flower.  She picked up a beautiful passion flower and held it close, wrapping her fingers around the delicate petals.  ‘I feel travel is on the horizon for whomever brought this specimen this evening.  ‘Wednesday’ is being brought to my attention and the number 3’.  ‘Bloody Hell’ I said to my friend, may be a little too loudly, what is this?  Sesame Street?

I should have held my tongue however when the owner of the flower announced they always get the 8 3 7 bus into town on a Wednesday!  How accurate!  There were actually gasps and a spontaneous round of applause.

I literally had to pinch myself to stop my jaw from hitting the floor.  I bet these people are always surprised on the outcome of reality TV shows too.  I thought people this gullible were extinct!

Pam picked up my friend’s flower next; a delicate frangipani.  ‘I can feel a lot of pain’ she began.  I saw my friend wince and moved my chair leg from her toe; maybe she did have a gift!  ‘I can feel a lot of strain and expense, the feeling that you are too easily taken advantage of’.  Now saying that about my friend is like saying that Hitler was a little bit mean.  Someone took advantage of my friend once.  ONCE.  I think they year was 1986, but they made a full recovery following 2 months in an iron lung. Yeah…right.  Travel again was mentioned. ‘Well’, I said’ ‘you do drive to work every day’.  Again, gasps filled the room like a Mexican Wave from the congregation.  Next Pam mentioned a close proximity to something silver.  I thought my friend was having a mini panic attack; ‘well’, she began hesitantly, ‘I was actually polishing my flute earlier’.  Well, that was it.  The crowd erupted and Pam looked exhausted with her achievement and sat down, smoothing her helmet hair with price and passing the baton to Shirley.

Shirley had this way of doing a little shuffle whilst she gave her reading; as if she was line dancing to a silent disco with Nut Bush City Limits playing on loop.  I found this endearing at first, but after the 3^rd flower reading, I wanted to nail gun her feet to the floor.  She kept asking Pam if she wanted to give another reading, but she was just too exhausted with her triumphs from earlier in the evening.  If she was an iPhone, her battery would be on 8%.  I hope she wouldn’t be too exhausted and fall off of her moped on the way home; nod off on a sweeping bend, only to be found by the third passing bus on a Wednesday…..

Anyway, by the fourth Nut Bush chorus, Shirley looked visibly flushed, but selected my small, unassuming Bird of Paradise bloom – nearly taking her eye out with the ‘beak’. 

‘How exotic’ she began, ‘full of Eastern Promise’.  She wasn’t channelling – I hate Turkish Delight!  Come on, Shirley!  Whack another HRT patch on and let’s get some action!  She went very quiet, stroking the long, angular stem of the bloom, hunting for a deeper connection.  She almost entered a trance-like state.  She was completely lost.  Absorbed within her own thoughts.  Minutes passed and the crowd searched her face for snippets of information.  She looked so ‘in the zone’.  It was as if she’d been taken over by a higher being.  You could hear a pin drop in the cold community centre; not even the constant dripping of the ‘boiling billy’ in the kitchen could dispel the tension.  Her eyes rolled back in her head.  He looked so tense; visibly in pain.  It felt like she’d held the room captive for hours, when in actual fact, it was probably only a few minutes.  Even Pam look rattled; she’d never seen Shirley quite like this before.

Perhaps she was having a turn?  Does anyone have a Werther’s Original in case she’s falling into a diabetic coma?  This sent a flurry of elderly women rummaging in their handbags; old tissues went flying with the excitement.  When suddenly – all eyes were back on Shirley!  There was a high pitched, strange sound, like cheeks being clenched.  Shirley was redder than a post box.  Every eye in the room was on her when she sighed, visibly relaxed and let out the most enormous fart and exclaimed ‘nope.  I’ve got nothing!  Sometimes the only useful thing the spirits use me for is channelling their wind’.

At this precise moment, I burst into tears.  I knew in that instant that she’d connected to my Dad. I was an immediate convert.  The woman was a genius.

Crochet for the conception

So, in my quest for personal development and to ultimately try and find my place in the Universe, my latest escapade is….. Crochet lessons.  In know right?  Super hard-core!

Crochet has got a very bad rep.  When I think of crochet, my mind is instantly drawn to images of Barbies in tiered crochet dresses; their underskirts covering a toilet roll in a kitsch bathroom with a coloured suite.  Even Kirsty Allsop would struggle to make crochet cool and appeal to today’s 20-something woman.  Lavender crochet pomander for your wardrobe to hang alongside the mothballs?

I am trying to make crochet ‘cool’ – which in itself is an oxy-moron, as I don’t think I personally have EVER been cool, so goodness only knows what makes me think that I can attribute this aspired to state to a ball of wool and a stick with a hook.  I shall only crochet to a soundtrack of Death metal and Skrillex.  I will add studs wherever possible and refuse to produce anything that may be classed as ‘retro’.  My personal crusade is to make crochet ‘hip’ – not to be confused with a hospital waiting room full of pensioners waiting for a replacement of their hip.  In the same way that Justin Timberland brought sexy back, I’m bring crochet back (those knitting Grannies don’t know how to act!).

My initial thought was a crocheted ‘S&M’ line.  I don’t think the cat’o’9 tails would be very effective (although I’m sure I could add a spiked bead here and there), but I thought a range of willy warmers, sex toy covers and nipple tassels might go down a treat with the older Ann Summers customer.  I did Vox Pops with my friends but they seemed a little hesitant when I asked for diameters required for their made to measure tassels!  Everyone’s different, you know.  Some need egg cup diameter, others need side plates; obviously the price would be size driven.  Sheep aren’t cheap.  I wonder if I could attract a glamourous celebrity endorsement?  Harriet Harman or Nigella Lawson?  I shall whip up some prototypes and approach the bank for a business development loan.  Now I’m mastering the art of the ‘magic loop’ now, I can even offer full coverage and peep hole.

There’s a real niche here. I could get a stand at Sexpo near the entrance and take orders.  By the time they have visited all the exhibitors, there could be a custom made pair of tassels or a personalised Willy warmer waiting for them to collect on their departure.  I need to investigate the popularity of this – I might need a rotation of pensioners from the Lifestyle Village enlisted to help me on events such as this.  I will obviously have to factor in the additional cost of Werthers Originals and a box of tissues to ensure that the Grannies always have a tissue up their sleeve in case of emergency!  I will have to investigate embellishments and chafe-proof sequins.  I could even look into those small voice recording units that they insert into ‘Build a Bear’s, so the theme from Frozen is played from the Willy Warmer at the appropriate moment….. ‘let it go…. Let it go…. Can’t hold it back anymore……’

Never mind crocheting baby blankets or bootees, let’s crochet for the conception.  OMG – there’s my Company name right there! 

I appreciate that crocheted thongs don’t sound very appealing, but I could work on a range of Mankinis, singlets and peep hole bras.  There’s a shop in the local shopping centre that sells basically as string of pearls marketed as a thong.  I could adapt my pattern to make the pearl strand length adjustable – for those days when we need a longer length than others :D

Feel free to contact me now for an investment opportunity of a lifetime! 

Alan.....ALAN!!!! Al! AL??

So, my eye twitch ‘Alan’ as I have affectionately named him – after Alan ‘Twitch’marsh has now become a permanent fixture in my life.  He used to just be a temporary visitor; you know pop over once a Quarter for a Business Activity Statement Marathon.  Then it became more frequent and now it appears that he enjoys my hospitality so much, he’s refusing to leave.  Maybe it’s my fault – I shouldn’t have named him, started talking to him, added his favourite foods to the weekly supermarket shop.  Familiarity breeds contempt and I contempt Alan currently!  He’s also a barometer for stress.  His TPM (twitch per minute rate) seems directly correlational to just how stressful my life appears to be.

I tried Reiki.  This worked well until I’d been back home with the husband and the kids for 20 minutes and he was back!  I could almost see him, running behind the car like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone 1, 2 AND sodding 3.   I went to the GP; there was nothing they could really do – maybe up your magnesium dose?  And an Optometrist – maybe cut down on your screen time?  Yeah right…. I’ve just found Pinterest love, that’s never going to happen!
I was sceptical in the beginning as I could hear the pulse in my head throbbing along in time to the ticking clock in her treatment room, but I actually succumbed to the twinky twonky music and drifted off to (horrors of horrors!) sleep.  I was broken my from own state of complete relaxation by my own snore!  The embarrassment.  What else had I lost control of?  Had I trumped in my doze?  Was there dribble on the pillow cover?  I really couldn’t risk the embarrassment of a return visit.

Although my worst experience by far was with a fraudulent hypnotherapist.  She was SURE that using timeline regression would cure me of my twitch in one single session.  I was desperate, so I toddled off full of hope with $ 150 of crisp ATM droppings with the expectation of a full on Lourdes experience. 

Well, what a crock of shite!  She was Irish (which I wouldn’t ordinarily have an issue with – apart from possibly THE worst week’s holiday we have ever had which happened to be in her home land.  It rained so much, my feet actually webbed themselves within my espadrilles.  The Blarney Stone was closed, but it took the attendant over 30 minutes to actually tell us this – goodness only knows how many times he’d kissed it himself! The kids drove us insane with Shrek 2 on constant loop on the borrowed in-car DVD player, so much so that even to this day, Smashmouth’s ‘All Star’ brings me out in a hot sweat and a temper.  Guinness tasted like (drum roll please......) Guinness.  I never once saw the Irish ‘craic’ (apart from a bricklayer that we passed one day) and – insult of all insults – you had to pay for your carrier bags at the supermarket).

I should have known that Ireland wasn’t going to be for me when I was violently ill on the ferry trying to reach the Country in the first place!

The Irish connection wasn’t really an issue until she tried a relaxation exercise to try and coax me into a trance like state.  She told me to breathe in.  I complied.  I also managed to breathe out as instructed.  Who knew??  Perfect student.  But it was when she was counting me down to the next phase of the ‘treatment’ that the struggle started.  On the first count, you will feel your eyes growing heavier.  You will give in to the feeling.  You will relax.  Allow your body to give in to the relaxation.  On my second count, you will feel light as a cloud.  All your troubles will be long gone from your mind.  You are an empty vessel ready to receive new fulfilment.  On my TURD.

Wait.

What?

Did she mean third?  She said turd. 

And that was it.  Every single piece of reprogramming she tried from there on in was completely lost on me.  My timeline therapy continued as she speed-read through a pre-prepared script.  You could have emailed this to me really, love.   You lost me at ‘turd’ and it’s all a lost cause from here on in.

Basically I was supposed to recall a time before I had my twitch.  A happy time.  No twitch.  Visualise myself above my own body and go back to that point in my own timeline when I didn’t have the twitch.  WTF?

When I arrived at this point, I was supposed to tell her how I was feeling. Was the twitch there?  Before getting back into my virtual reality, imaginary DeLorean and coming back to the future, leaving my twitch in the past. 

She took me back to losing my Mum and make me cry – asking me to double park the DeLorean whilst I stopped off to see Mum in the Intensive Care unit to say goodbye all over again.  How did you feel?  Was your twitch there?  Err – I was a little bit preoccupied to check on Alan’s wellbeing at that point, I’m afraid.  I tried to go with the flow, I really did, but I think my DeLorean was prevented from reaching terminal velocity by all the turds on the track.

So I ended up having a row with the alternative therapist that was supposed to offer me help and strategies to cope with evicting Alan.  I could have used that $ 150 in so many other ways that wouldn’t have cured my twitch either, but would have been much more fun and not left me with a complex over the word ‘turd'!

After a well-executed Facebook row during which she defriended and blocked me, I grew a pair and texted her requesting a refund.  The refund wasn’t even really for me as by this point, Alan had developed an alcohol dependency and was spending a fortune on Lambrini.

So it would appear that Alan is here to stay for the time being and I need to embrace his presence.  He has joined a monthly wine club and we now receive post in his name.