Harridan Hell

I never realised what an absolutely perfect ex-wife I am.  Some could say that is because I’ve been an ex-wife so many times; but I don’t think so.  I think it is just that I'm a rather rational human being and when you break up, both parties want and need to move on.  I was fair in asset splits and I walked away, let it go.

I spent my 46^th birthday on a farm with ex-husband number 1. 

He didn’t think I was a harridan; we were just too young and too stupid to make a marriage work.  Husband number 2 would tell a different story although he did run off to the Gold Coast with his girlfriend when I was about five months pregnant with my daughter.  This puts him in “scum of the earth” category, so what he thinks doesn’t really count as far as I’m concerned.  But hey, I didn't kill him either - that was reasonable in my books!

Husband 3 and I did our own settlement and divorce.  Hell, we went to the courthouse for the divorce and then went out for lunch.  Very civilised; but we had decided a long time ago that our son was more important than anything else.

So please explain why some men get utter harridan’s as ex’s.

I have two brothers.  Both divorced.  One did ok; managed a reasonable relationship after.  Reasonable in my book is polite.  Ability to attend functions that you must.  Discussion when there is issue.  Brother two did not so well.  His ex-wife, affectionately known to the family as the “fat, brown toothed, slut” is just plain evil.

Now I am in nut case hell with the squeeze's ex-wife.  And trust me, she is a can short of a six pack.  A sandwich short of a picnic.  A screw loose.  A window licker.  Loopy.

We are all packed and ready to go to happy camping land and the squeeze calls me to say that he was on the receiving end of an hour long tirade with the harridan depicting what a lousy father he is (lousy because she refuses to answer the 54 calls so he can speak to his son).  Then it is on to parenting skills - and this from the moron that made him sick with her hillbilly ideas on evil penicillin!  Then we move into making demands on things to the point where we are now at a loss to work out how we get to go camping.  I don’t intend to drive two cars because she has decided that she will take number 2 son’s car while he is in Vietnam.  As he had a towbar, we were taking it.

The squeeze doesn't think it is worth the argument.

Frankly, I’m going to put it in writing now.  How the squeeze does not knock this bitch on her arse is literally beyond me.  It is exhausting!  And I am trying not to let it bother me; but as per now; her utter unreasonable tantrum throwing bullshit affects my life too!  Because suddenly all our plans have to be reworked.

How on earth I’ll survive down there with a one week cross over and not tell the bitch what I think is beyond me really.

Then again, maybe that is what she needs.  And he sure as hell is too moodle-ish to do it.

Bugs vs Great Outdoors

I’m almost sure that those who know me well and are somewhat surprised that I seem prepared to venture off into ‘camping’ territory.  Not only do they seem to be amused by this, but I have received many embellished tales of mozzies the size of cats and march flies the size of dogs.  At least I hope this is embellishment.

More so than the lack of a pool with an island bar, worse than the thought of no air conditioned room to retreat to at the end of the day, is the thought that I will be fighting off prehistoric insects that could practically carry me away (at least they could have prior to me gaining six kilos).

As luck would have it, (my sort of luck) I believe that the mosquito sees me as chocolate mousse.  I’ve already packed a large bag of bug treatments including ‘old wives tale’ concoctions of olive oil, tea tree oil and detol plus some hillbilly vanilla mozzie treatment I bought eons ago at some velvet wearing market.  These are combined with various store bought products of areoguard, raid and bug off.

I can already see that there will be little point in packing the Chanel – which was pointless in any case as the squeeze happened to inform me at one point that when camping; they compete for ‘who can go the longest without showering’.  I merely pointed out that he will also be competing for ‘who can go the longest without sex’ with that attitude.

So while I toss and turn and try not to get carried away with the thought of insects and create spreadsheets about what we need to pack and plan for; the squeeze comments rather smugly that mosquitos avoid him due to the fact that his dicky heart means he is on heart medication.

WTF?  Ok, I understand that mosquitos would appear to be fussy bastards these days and would rather leap on the healthy and consume them (I’m picturing it more like a school of piranha devouring a cow); but smug; because you once had a heart attack?

Think I’d rather put up with the mozzies!

Blogging and Holidays

For anyone that actually reads my blog, you should note that I am about to slink off to the beach for three weeks.

Camping.

Yes.  You heard me.  Camping.

Think bugs.  Probably snakes.  No power.  No laptop.  Zip other than my iphone and although I dare say I could leave the odd comment on my blog to signal that I’m still alive, I doubt I’ll waffle on as I usually do.  If you an avid reader over your morning coffee; have no fear, I will return.  Or at least I’m not anticipating ending up in a shallow grave at the Prom, but who know what he has in store for me!

Now.  Camping…  I used to have a fantastic theory on holidays.  Sadly, this appears to have gone out the window since the squeeze came on the scene.  (Along with romance)  When holidaying – don’t go anywhere you can’t wear high heels.

That doesn’t mean you have to wear them, it’s more about luxury level.  Holiday luxury level should encompass huge beds; floating your lilo over to the bar; drinks with little umbrellas; dining out; romantic dresses and high heels!

I’m really not seeing a requirement for any of those things at the beach.  Hell, I haven’t even packed any heels.  If annoyed with the squeeze, I’ll have to show my displeasure in a different way it would seem.  That’s alright.  I can be creative.

Strangely, I’m quite looking forward to three weeks away.  I have a bag of books; and plan to totally relax.  No computer, but even better…  No television.

Hell.  What will the squeeze do..?  How will he exist???  He may have to spend the nights in; ‘gulp’; conversation!

Now this ought to be fun.

An Over Abundance

It seems the ‘well fed’ decree at my place has been a tad extreme.  Well it is if the comment this morning by the squeeze is anything to go by.

We were doing a morning stroll around the neighbourhood.  I will admit that sometimes I view this as freak watching.  Over my side of town the people are old, Greek, loud.  You walk around and there are tables of wrinkle faced old men, smoking and sipping coffee while they prattle on in Greek a million miles an hour.  Young women all dressed up and sipping coffee.  There is a lot of laughter.  They are big, happy families.  I love it.

Around ‘clean freak hell’ the people are young, trendy couples who are so desperately trying to stand out, be different, show how original they are – that they stupidly missed the reality that they have achieved the opposite.  They are all the same.  Either tubby lesbians who are dressing like men; complete with singlet tops, crew-cuts and no makeup; or skinny girls who look about 16 with long braids, multi coloured tights and clothes your mother would have worn – God knows when.  Everyone has a pierced something and those with long hair have a streak of blue or vibrant red.

I am coming out the other side of my adverse reaction to antibiotics and some of the repercussions of this have been an aching everything – but mostly a dull throb in my joints that has me walking around with a pinched expression on my face.  It is washing out of my system, thank God, but I’m not unaware that this is what arthritis feels like either – it sucks getting old.  So to walk and people watch, I like.  But I can’t meander.  I need to move at some sort of pace or my joints start to throb.  Today, the twinge started in my feet.

When I happened to mention that we needed to pick up the pace as my feet were hurting, the squeeze turned to me and asked why.  I mentioned the fact that although he had done a runner and hidden out at ‘clean freak hell’ while I was home almost dying; I had in fact been sick!  Really sick; so sick I’d actually gone off and got my epipen because I figured I may well just up and die!  I finished it off with: “it’s either that or I’ve got so freaking fat that I’ve squashed my feet.”

And then he made life rule mistake number 1. 

He had an opinion.

In fact his opinion was that he wasn’t even going to comment on that one.  Hell, he may as well of hired a good year blimp to fly over Northcote declaring his squeeze was a over the top, Fat freaking cow!  Ummm; not going to comment?  What about: “No my love! You are a Goddess!”

And all this from a guy who has gained over 10 kilo since going out with me!  Yep, suck me in then just let that flubber fly!  Hell, 2 inches shorter and he would be a damned circle!

Humph!  Well, let the games begin fat boy!

Christmas, Families and Food

Christmas went off without a hitch.  As per usual, I had over catered.  If an additional ten people had knocked on the door, we could have fed them without even having to think about it. The mud cake looked fantastic, the marmalade, herb and chilli leg of pork looked so good my daughter took a photo of it, the beef was leaking just enough blood and the chooks, complete with pine nut stuffing oozing out of the end, were plump and tasty.  The trays of food just kept coming…

Although today I tried the “if everyone had of turned up, I think we would have got it exactly right!”  Number one son pointed out that if the four missing males (late teens/20 year olds and one boyfriend of a sister) had of turned up, there still would have been enough food to feed a small army.  In fact, he paused to point out that our catering to fourteen far exceeded the amount of food that the other side of the family had done and they had twenty plus people to lunch.

Oh well.  It’s Christmas and no one is ever going to starve at my place.  And surely that is what it’s all about.  Abundance.  An abundance of everything.  Food, love, gifts, champagne…   And at the end of the day, we do abundance quite well.

The squeeze and I had worked our ass off the day/night before and I’d been up at 7 am to put the pork on.  It was the first Christmas where we actually spent the day together.  It was the first time his family had been to my home.  It was the first time some of our children had met.  I was nervous and tried to stay away from the champagne for a while but suddenly, the harridan changed plans and was bringing kid three.

Yeah.  That was going to happen over my dead body.  We had already discussed it after she pushed her way into the birthday breakfast and proceeded to take over.  There wasn’t a hope in hell that she was walking through my door.  And I was annoyed that she didn’t just stick to the plans that had obviously been discussed because I could see the squeeze’s stress levels rise while on the phone.

Of course that was probably due to the thought circling in his head like a shark; that I would wig out.  As it was, I tried to keep my anger in check but the reality was suddenly I am left alone to do all the last minute things and a little fearful that I’ll be there on my own when his family start turning up.  So I skulled a few quick champagnes - like there was no tomorrow; painfully aware that I would be teetering on the edge between getting smashed and making a total dick of myself and alleviating nerves.

Although quite a few of my glasses sacrificed themselves in the name of “dampening nerves” (some I’m sure just leapt to their death from my hand), I am eternally grateful that I had the good sense to buy good champagne – and today I am fine, other than being tired.  Of course the squeeze has repeatedly teased me about the sacrificial glasses and being smashed.  Luckily, his family had all left by the time I reached "staggering stage". 

The no show of the sisters boyfriend and brother’s adult children didn’t dampen our day; it just reinforced the fact that families are difficult and in the breakdown of the day this morning, we were eternally grateful that our children each seem to like us.

No Win Situation

We had session two with the nut doctor today.  I shed a few tears.  The squeeze sat dry eyed and shaking his head; looking confused much of the time.  Aside from the normal roller coaster ride that is a “counselling session”, I thought it went well.

When we walked out, we decided that the nut doctor was probably skirting offices even as we stood at the kerb, taking bets that we wouldn’t last the month.  I wanted to go back in and slap five bucks on the counter and ask the odds that we would.

Although I’d had a few tears, mostly these are due to the fact that my boyfriend {must be anger here as I dumped the squeeze title} is an utter moron that can’t see a question for what it is and answer it accordingly!  As per last time, ten minutes in and I wanted to burst into tears and run out.  But then later, clarification as to what he means.  Idiot!

For all that “couples counselling” was my idea, I think I’ve gone off it.  The whole thing is centred on discussion; talking things out… Compromise.

Yet when I spoke of our “issues” with communication; in that communication is my middle name and Mr Silent Treatment wouldn’t know how to communicate if it jumped out of the water and bit him on the ass!  I told her that to combat this difference, I had created a ‘blog’.

The blog was about me being able to download, or dump – without sending him a 24 page email that he then promptly ignored.  With the blog, I could write whatever I wanted.  It didn’t matter because if he read it, he did so on my terms and I didn't have to get upset if he didn't reply to it.

So we go out of our way, find a compromise that allows for my need to communicate and his need to stick his head in the sand - and it works!  Not only does it work, but it allows me to write as well.  And what does the nut doctor say..?  I don't like what this says about your relationship!

I did find it somewhat amusing that he didn’t realise I was writing specifically for him. 

Still, funny really; the nut doctor seems to think the world is visible from our thoughts.  Walking out, I knew our thoughts are no real dialogue or map to our minds. 

We are strong.  Even with our weird idiosyncrasies, even with my emotions equalling an ocean and his equalling a puddle.  We each know who the other is; and that this relationship is right.

Brain Turns to Mush

I’ve now been sick for five days.  During this time, before I knew I was actually sick, I got to go shopping, picked up some stuff from ebay and went to dinner with friends of the squeeze who I hardly knew.  Once again, I’m the alien; fitting in.  In fact, other than the ‘man factor’ it was a really good night.  They were my kind of people so it was good fun.
You may wonder what the ‘man factor’ is.

It is that environment where testosterone is flying around the room and there is a remote control or a white board pen within arm’s length.  It can be anywhere really; at the end of a good night out or the office meeting room.  It’s some weirdo voice in their dumb head that says “he who has the whiteboard pen shall rule the world!”  Its either that or it’s got something to do with penis size.  Probably both.

Either way, we ended up back at one of the couples places where all the men sat on one side of the room, women on the other – and like taking shots in turn, we got to pick a You Tube song to play.  Man factor meant that basically anything we picked got at least 3.7 seconds of air time to their ‘to the last damned note’ of their stuff.  This was then followed by lengthy reminiscing about ‘remember when we saw them…”   I did get to comment at one stage “umm, no.  I was six”.  At least I got them to watch one Lady Gaga clip, but that may have been out of politeness which I’m tipping I won’t get on the next outing!

Anyway, the days have been long.  It’s not like I’m feeling good so I can’t concentrate enough to write or even read.  I’ve had bursts of reading followed by hours of sleep.  The odd movie – more sleep.  This morning when I realised I was watching day time tv and even worse, some guy who had written a book about “finding successful love” or something similar; I realised that not even a week and I’m basically brain dead!

I just put music on because I realised that I have mooched around the house and the only sound track I’ve had is the odd groan; or when the daughter is here, a groan followed by “God, I feel like crap.”

Crap Boyfriend 101

I have been sick.  Actually; I have been really sick.  Bad reaction to antibiotics and suddenly, I know exactly what it would feel like to be 1000 years old.  Every single thing on my body hurts; even my hair.  To top off all that joy, I now have a cold.

I have 18 people coming for Christmas lunch, and couldn’t shop if my life depended on it.  I have also had a big week at work – which I’ve had to leave to others to deal with. [I will point out here that SK is making us look fantastic]

I’ve finished my Christmas shopping, thank the Lord, but I keep thinking about the mud cake I have to make for 18 people.  I haven’t even thought about the actual dinner!  I’ve had to shop for more glasses, more dinner set – and God knows where the hell we are all sitting…  But it’s all just “no sweat” according to the squeeze.

And speaking of which, where in all this is the squeeze? 

Well bet your ass he is not here bringing me hot toddies! I’ve barely seen him! I had to ask if I was in “silent treatment hell” today simply because I’ve barely seen or heard from him. He said no to the silent treatment [he always says no, so that doesn’t really mean much.]

What the hell?  What is it if not silent treatment?  He left Sunday morning and it is as though I don’t exist!  Idiot has a lot to learn about being a reasonable boyfriend.  I’m not even thinking about “perfect”!   I’m striving for mediocre for crying out loud!  Kill me now if this is all I can get!

Of course in between the silence, I get the odd email to suggest we do a ”Chadstone Ramble Shop” prior to Christmas.  I had to reply WTF?  What the hell is a ramble shop?  According to the squeeze, that is that last minute wander around Chadstone, grabbing all and sundry for God knows who – and probably nothing that they want in any case.

Sounds like a nightmare for someone as organised as me.  Also sounds freaking expensive as you smash and grab your way to a whole world of impulse buying.  I put a great deal of thought into my gifts!  I have four under the tree addressed to him.  One amusing; one he would think is groovy, and two to further his talents.

I don’t do “ramble” when choosing presents!!!  And besides, we are cooking mud cake!  Why oh why couldn’t I find a normal man to go out with?

All I can say is that next time his dicky heart needs tweaking; he’s on his own! 

The Nut Doctor

On Thursday we have a follow up visit with the nut doctor which should be interesting.  Last visit, which was my first time, I felt as though I was on the back foot to some degree.  The squeeze had an established relationship and had gone through many of his issues, hang ups etc.

He is my hang ups and issues.  Other than the normal desires of a perfect job, winning lotto, waking up ten years younger and ten kilos lighter, there isn’t a whole lot more I want.  My problems tend to centre around him, so walking into that room the last time, I found it a little difficult.

You can’t just throw issues and problems on the table in a heap.  It’s more like digging through a pile of Christmas decorations – you have to be selective; choose what you place on the tree, and where.

This time, I feel as though I have established myself a little also.  There was a perceptive change in her attitude midway through the last visit because I sensed she could understand what I was saying.  She had raised her eyebrows during my account of the previous ‘Where’s Wally’ episode and had then turned to question the squeeze in an attempt to understand his thinking. (or lack thereof)

Her finishing up with the divorce discussion, wasting time and setting boundaries indicated she knew where all my problems and issues lay.  Going back on Thursday and discussing the last six weeks will show that nothing has really changed.

We did go a weekend without answering the 54 phone calls (and that is only a slight exaggeration) and since then, calls have been virtually non-existent.  This of course, could be that there are no pressing matters to be discussed or he has put the phone on silent to make sure we are not inundated as we were last time – thereby escaping a verbal stoush with me.

The divorce is still a pipe dream and there has been no discussion with the harridan around this.  Boundaries are still breached whenever she feels like it.  He still prances off like a good little moodle when told to.

Yep.  Fun times!

How Do You Feel..?

I’ve been happily taking medication for a few days to get rid of a problem which of course, got much worse.  By today, I figured I’m having a reaction so have ceased taking the drugs – but that left me with the original problem.  Not severe enough to seek out a doctor on a Saturday eve, but enough to make me feel decidedly crappy for the day.

Saturday usually consists of sport.  Cricket has finished up for Christmas so we would have had the day off but the squeeze was brow beaten into taking number three kid to a course for epi pen injection.  I could have given him the instructions in three sentences, but that sure as hell wasn’t going to be good enough for the harridan.

I will point out here that I am anaphylactic so it isn’t as though I don’t know what I’m talking about; and no one needs a three hour lesson on an auto inject pen – you push it to the thigh… Any fool could do it – so I guess he could.

So although I would generally have felt annoyed as he pranced off like a moodle for an utterly pointless afternoon; I figured I’d go to bed for a few hours and rest up since we are going out for dinner this evening.

We actually don’t go out very much.  Our combined phobias mean it has to be something good to drag us out.  I suspect his is worse than mine, because every so often I think if I have to sit and watch him watch tv for another second, I’ll pitch something at his stupid head.  When the kid is there – it is double whammy. 

So off he prances and I go to bed for the afternoon; already I can feel the original problem (which didn’t go away with the drugs, I just copped more symptoms); but the secondary stuff began to recede.  So I get up, have a shower, get dressed; actually put makeup on and start to feel almost human.

We are dining with two couples.  One I have met, one I am yet to meet; but they do sound like my kind of people so I am looking forward to it.

Half way through my makeup, the squeeze calls to ask: “how do you feel?”

At first I thought ‘how sweet’, but as the conversation progressed, I realised what he really wanted was to mooch out of the night.  If I was still as sick, or sicker, he could have stayed home to “hang” with the kid!

So now I am about to walk out the door with some fricking moodle who has tried to make a three hour session of ‘nothing’ sound like it was worthwhile; and knowing that his preference for the Saturday evening, was to stay at home in front of the TV with the kid!

Going to be a real good night; I can tell already.

Where’s Wally..?

Number two son was flying out to Vietnam on Thursday to spend a few weeks.  We decided to stay in “clean freak’s hell” for the night.  The upside was that we went out for dinner so I didn’t even have to think about kitchen; or the little cockroach squashed on the bathroom floor.

We stayed over my side of town for the weekend prior and although I thoroughly enjoy our ‘my side of town’ weekends; I pay for it the next time over there – it is particularly nasty when we haven’t been there to clean intermittently.  Not one speck of bench space was visible.  Food, empty tins, dishes littered every available surface.  At least my wine glass was clean.  I made use of it.

I turn off the ‘clean freak’ gene when there.  At least I try to shut it down and just thank the Lord that the squeeze knows enough to change the bed prior to my coming.

So off we go to dinner.  All in all, it is a good night full of food, wine, lively discussion.  The kid is smart, funny - so conversation always flows – well it does when you don’t question.  If the squeeze dares to ask: “what did you do last night..?”  He gets the same answer every time.  Nothing.  No one.  This kid is amazing how long he can be out with no one, doing nothing.

We get home in time to potter around and go to bed.  It’s always an early gig when on that side of town as we both work over this side.  We go to bed relatively early but I toss and turn because number two son is excited and playing loud music as he packs.  (The very thought of packing for a month long trip the night before, sends shivers down my organised spine)  Number one son is staying over and suddenly there are two voices and we whisper in the darkness “who is that?  Can you hear a girl?”

I don’t sleep well when there at the best of times.  I lie on the stupid trendy futon that feels like a brick and I feel my hip go to sleep until I turn to the other side.  But that night, all I can think about is the little squashed cockroach on the bathroom floor – I’d rather see a big one.  This size could crawl into my ear in the middle of the night.  As soon as the thought leaps into my head, I know it will never leave.

I finally drift off then wake to hear the mysterious girl, leave.  More loud music.  I toss and turn some more, curve into the squeeze’s back – he is out like a light.  Bastard.

Next thing, the alarm is going off and he is rolling out of bed and five minutes later, parading around the bedroom in his speedo’s – wiggling it in my face.  He knows how much I love those speedos… Not.  It is barely light out and he is off to do laps at the pool.  I wish I had the commitment; hell, I wish I had the desire to have the commitment…

I can’t go back to sleep and decide I’ll get up and shower and get ready early.  I’m back in the bedroom dressing when I hear the squeeze walking around the kitchen and I decide I’ll go and tease him that his stint of laps was the shortest history.  So, barely dressed, hair a mess – I go hunt him out and as I round the corner to the kitchen; Wally jumps out.

Actually, it wasn’t Wally.  It was the Harridan.  WTF???  It’s six-freaking-thirty in the morning.  She has come to take number two son to the airport.  WTF?  He has to be there at midday!  But what the hell is she doing walking around the damned house?

I go back to the bedroom, shut the door and get ready for work; all the while fuming about this person who has no freaking idea about manners – or boundaries.  And wondering how the hell I can deal with her from here on in.  Because I know damned well the squeeze is incapable of it.  When I think of her – he becomes the “moodle” in my head (a man poodle).

The squeeze tends to make excuses for her; yet I persevere and remind him that for us to have some sort of life together means he needs to set boundaries.  I’m uncertain why anyone needs to be told to not enter someone else’s house – but she obviously does.

And he seems to get it.  Briefly.

He takes me out for breakfast and then walks me to the train station and off I go – into the city, secure in the knowledge that it is sorted.  We have talked about it.  He is going back to talk to her about boundaries – and the divorce that he has been going to talk to her about; is fine with talking to her about – yet never seems to have the time or opportunity.

That night, at home, I ask about the divorce.  No time to mention that this morning.  I ask about a discussion on boundaries; and why the hell she feels as though she can enter someone else’s home… Why it seems to be ok for me to turn a corner and she is leaping out at me.

What did I get?  I’ll be moving soon so what is the point?   ‘Get over it…’  That was the comment that ended the discussion.  Fifteen months and still no change.  At what point does the moron think I will walk away?

All I’ve thought about since is the nut doctor telling him, “no one wants to feel as though they are wasting their time…”  And knowing by her words, that she thought I probably was.
Next time Wally jumps out at me; I’m going to whack her in the face with a frying pan.

Learning...

Although I love my iPhone, I can't update my blog as a one finger typist.
How the hell can thoughts just run free when you can't let your fingers fly?

Sitting in my course yesterday, I realised I'd far rather be blogging; but I'm sure they would frown at me.  That is if I could discount the frustration of typing with one finger, spell check changing everything and the fact that whenever you hit the 'M' key, I tend to back space instead!

My Eyes Keep Leaking!

I was dumbfounded a couple of months into my relationship to discover that the squeeze had been looking for a ‘hard hearted bitch’.  That was his definition of the ‘ideal’ woman.  Makes him something of a fool if you ask me; because his married life was a bit like that – and look how that turned out…

Still, it did get me thinking.  Cold hearted.  Was that who he thought I was..?

We had known one another for ten plus years!  How could he not know that I’m a marshmallow?  That I cry over commercials!  Books!  Give me any little reason and I have no problems at all crying.  Hell, when they introduced the TAC ads years ago, I couldn’t watch the “give me back my boy!” one without crying hysterically and running from the room.

A hard hearted bitch…?

Before I went ballistic at the fact that this idiot had started a relationship; made me fall in love with him – and he is actually dating some weirdo dominatrix he has created in his head, I realise that there is a whole host of things about him that I didn’t know either.  When did he ever demonstrate a talent in cooking?  I knew he was into music however; I had no idea I’d have to get my head around some of the stuff he plays.  In fact, yesterday afternoon I had to take “music rights” out of his hands.  It was that or stab him to death.  Having said that, I guess he wasn’t expecting Lady Gaga in his world, either.

So when I delved a little deeper, I realised that I do cover my eccentricities with a bit of bluster.  The guys at work were talking about what an ‘extrovert’ I am the other day.  I actually snorted, because they obviously don’t know the ‘real’ me.  The person they see emerges to cover the person I am.  Borderline agoraphobic.  In short, a scaredy cat - of the highest order.

But the squeeze?  Ten years of friendship in and he still didn’t know who I was?  How does that work?

The first time that we were at the movies and I cried over the shorts for another movie, I thought he would choke he laughed so hard.  Actually, I’m not sure if it was choking with laughter or spluttering “you’ve got to be freaking kidding!!!!”  Either way, suffice to say he was relatively shocked at my display.  Lucky for him it was only leaking eyes – he is yet to see the full shebang of hiccup crying.

Movies…  TV shows… Stories…  Reality TV where they do up a struggling someone’s back yard…  And my eyes start leaking.  See someone else crying – I’m right there with them.  Do I have to know them?  No.  Maybe I’m just a sympathy crier.

And as much as he teases me about it, I realise that he didn’t want a cold hearted bitch at all.  If he did, then I suspect we wouldn’t have made it through the first month, let alone fourteen or fifteen of them.

And wanting a “cold hearted bitch” doesn’t change the fact that the idiot is gun shy.  I only have to move suddenly; raise my hand to pick a bit of lint from his shirt – and he flinches like a beaten dog.  Scratch him and he’s yelping.  Tap him a playful punch and he is squealing. 

Yeah – wanted.  One cold hearted bitch.

I guess it’s good that we each recognised who the other was beneath the surface…

Chalk and Cheese

Sometimes all I can do is shake my head in wonder at how different the squeeze and I are.   We are similar in some things; almost the same in others and at totally opposite sides of the world for the rest.  In reality, this could be because he is just a dumb arse, but I think that even for a dumb arse, he doesn’t quite think the same as ‘normal’ people do.

I have spent the morning cleaning outside because we are having Christmas lunch here and his family will be in my environment for the first time.  What started as a couple for lunch has now blown out to 18 or so, making it a requirement for an outside affair.  Not only is it a little easier to house, it creates a relaxed atmosphere which is what I’m aiming for.

Obviously, I would like them to think that he has done well, as opposed to going home and whispering behind their hands; wondering how the hell he hooked up with such a skanky ho who can’t even clean-up for Christmas.

He of course, thinks having a crowd to lunch is no work, no problem; and can’t see why I would stress about it.  Idiot.

Even writing that is almost funny because I know they have been to his house – and we all know that his house is clean freak hell – yet they sat… and ate… and didn’t even look that uncomfortable really.  I didn’t even see anyone check their cutlery was clean (as I do); or come out of the bathroom panting since they had to hold their breath for whatever timeframe they were in there for.

Although I’ve never been in the harridan’s environment; I suspect we each learn from the environment we exist in.  I’m pretty sure my ex is neat as a pin.  He sure was for the years I was coming and going through kid pick up.  As for the harridan, the one time I sat in a car outside the little shed structure she lives in when we did pick up, I could see by the weeds and make shift steps that she sure wasn’t going to be serial killer anal like I am (and I freely admit, I am over the top.)

Anyway, I am not even going to worry about “clean” and just go with who I am.

Now all I have to worry about is the menu!

Nothing’s As Queer As Folk

The squeeze and I both write; or try to.  For inspiration, we often squeak off to the Writers Centre or a library to hear various writers speak.  This is a ‘motivation’ thing, as opposed to an ‘ideas’ thing.  If you are going there for ideas about what to write, I suspect you should just give up and become a fireman or something.

If you are lucky, the writer is well known, exceptionally witty and we sit there laughing or dumb struck with admiration.  I would put Lee Childs into this category; he was fantastic. 

Still, Lee is a rarity and there are a lot on the circuit that I find inexorably boring.  I am talking ‘just kill me now and get it over with’ boring.  And when you have your ass on that seat; you can’t get up and walk out. 

When ‘boring’ comes down like a shutter over my brain; I basically tune out.  There is no turning it around.  From that second on, I don’t want to be there.

I should probably clarify that these are actually not boring people.  It can be the acoustics are bad and so we can barely hear them; or there is no interviewer leading them so therefore no structure; they are instead, left to waffle on.  Sheesh, if I wanted to listen to a writer waffle on, I’d stay at home and listen to the squeeze.  At least then I have a glass of red in my hand that I can enjoy, as opposed to the Draino you usually get at these things.

So with ‘boring shutter’ in place, what else is there to do other than people watch?

Actually, ‘people watching’ is what you do when you sit in a window seat of a small Italian restaurant on your own, book in hand, glass of red and pause every so often just to look up and watch who passes by.  Writer events - that is more like ‘freak’ watching; and what an array of oddities seem to turn up at these events.

So I sit on a very uncomfortable chair, the Draino is empty but I can hardly stand up and stagger over to the makeshift bar, although I do not miss the fact that two others have.  Instead, after spending at least ten minutes mesmerized by the number of mosquitoes that are outside banging on the glass, I glance around the room wondering who the hell these people are.  Why are they here?  What do they want?

Who was the strange woman who kept slinking off for another glass of wine..?  When we arrived, she had perched herself on a step out the front and were it not for the glass in her hand, I’d have assumed she was a homeless woman.  She was large, with a puff of white/grey hair styled into some swirly thing like a wave on the top of her head.  Once we sat as an audience and the shutter came down, I couldn’t help my eyes returning again and again to the large mole on her chin that had a veritable goatee growing out of it – about two inches long.

Then there was the weird Jewish guy to my left.  I wasn’t sure if he had an accent or a speech impediment.  He sat on the edge of his chair with a serial killer smile on his face and rubbed his fingers in a strange way.  I almost expect him to shudder in ecstasy, such was his expression.  I felt my skin crawl whenever his eyes slithered over me; I couldn’t imagine how the authors felt.  Aside from the fact that I found him creepy, he was also one of those annoying fools that asks a million questions and then looks about the room to check that everyone is looking at him; raising his eyebrows a little, as if to question that we all understood how knowledgeable his is.  Mostly, he came across as insensitive and somewhat invasive. 

Frankly, I wanted to stand up and shout “Yes, we all came out in the rain and traipsed across town just to hear you speak.  Idiot…  Now sit the hell down and zip it!”  But managed to restrain myself (possibly due to the ‘serial killer’ vibe I was getting.)

Guy at the back of the room, directly behind me was the token ‘know it all’ who not only attempted to ask somewhat high brow questions, but corrected other people who asked questions and even at odd times, tried to actually answer for the female authors at the front – if not answer for them, at least dissect their answers for the hapless idiot who had posed the original question.  Astounding!

Fat girl to the left in the front seat; she had to twist her hair around her hand and then drape it over the left shoulder as she asked questions.  At least had a forceful voice so we did get to hear what she asked – even if I couldn’t remember what it was.  And her hair was nice, chestnut… Long, thick.

Sparrow woman and man – I suspect elderly husband and wife who had been together for so long they began to look like one another.  Tremulous voice, bird like features, thinning hair.  Questions regarding fiction writing and if there was a holy grail of books on ‘how to write a novel that is guaranteed to be accepted by a publisher.’  I wanted to put my hand up and say “yes actually, there is, it sells on eBay for $45.95 and I suspect the money goes to some guy in Nairobi”; but hell, who am I to wreck someone else dreams?  Let them continue to look for the damned book.

All in all, I felt as though I had just sat through two hours of my life that I was never going to get back.  I didn’t learn anything; yet left with a vague feeling of unease and depression and a healthy dollop of fear.

Are we one of the want-to-be-writer freaks..? 

What if we are and just don’t know it?

Christmas… Yeah.

Ok.  Well I have wanted to blog; but between the cast of thousands coming for Christmas lunch, planning the menu and wondering if I have enough champagne glasses; and work being hell on earth as I upgrade two SANs at two campuses, I have barely had time to do anything else.

In between those two joys, I have driving lessons (I am the teacher, which freaks me out – today it was parallel parking… kill me now…); cooking; selling my car; searching for a new car – and some form of ‘primp and preen’ – which at the moment, consists of washing my damned hair!  That’s it.  Nothing else!

I’m sure I’ll have something witty and funny to write about tomorrow.  How couldn’t I?  The squeeze is coming new car shopping with me.

Now this should be fun… 

Because we all know, I’m the bloke in this relationship.

Kids – The Gift that Keeps on Giving

The squeeze and I have a busy life at the best of times.  More often than not, the hectic pace comes from his side.  He was stupid enough to have another kid while most people are shooing them out of home; or at least trying too.

I suspect it was a “let’s save the marriage” baby since they had broken up (again) prior to the last one, but who knows?  And at the end of the day, we all know how well that theory works, so what does it matter? 

Frankly, I’d rather buy him a Harley to save the marriage.  At least you can sell it after the marriage is done and dusted.  With a thirteen year old boy, about all you can do is sell him for healthy organs.

Either way, with a kid around on weekends there is a hell of a lot of too and fro.  He lives a distance away in the land of velvet and the school is even further from that so the squeeze is off in the car a lot.  Today it is cricket.

This morning, while they got up at dawn and drove to God knows where to do the cricket thing, I got to stay in bed.  Now, at 9am – what I consider a far more civilised hour to wake up on a weekend; I get to still be in bed blogging.  As you can see, I’m alright with the down time, even if that down time is done on the other side of town in ‘clean freak hell’.

Once, I would be up doing housework by now.  These days I’m on strike.  When I walked in last night I changed the bed and did the washing.  That was it.  I didn’t touch any dishes – not even the glass sitting on the bench that had something mouldy growing in there.  I have a hair trigger gag reflex so I didn’t get too close to look.

I should point out amongst the organ selling and house from clean freak hell, that these are great kids.  They are witty and funny and possess a good dose of sarcasm, which I admire.  They also possess the stupidity of youth which as adults provides us with endless entertainment.  For myself, it is because I remember well all those stupid things I did.

Last night, when I walked in, middle son is in the bathroom, twisted around in an odd fashion and giving himself a haircut.  I pray and hope he doesn’t ask me for an opinion, because even from the doorway I can see the huge bald patches all over the back of his head where he has pointed the clippers in the wrong direction so is now effectively bald in hand sized patches all over the back of his head.  Not to mention the longer bit on top is now varying in length, some bits are inches longer than others.

I put my head down to stifle a grin and set about tidying the squeezes room.  I can shut down the clean freak gene since this is not my environment and am on strike – but I sure as hell can’t shut it down where the bedroom is concerned.

Number two son goes back to the bathroom with clippers and does that age old mistake that we have all done – attempts to fix it. 

I change the bed and drag limp and somewhat grey looking sheets out to the laundry.  Although the emotional husk is somewhat proud thinking he is an emotional husk, I’m not unaware that he has purchased new bedding sets when we started going out.  I remember raising my eyebrow at the time; not because it wasn’t cute that he had done that – it certainly was cute.  But he had purchased white.

Much of my bedding is white; but since I wash regularly and iron everything, it is pristine white; and I just know that these bed sets are not going to get the same attention.  One quick sweep of the room tells me that.

Anyway, I walk the limp sheets to the laundry passing the bathroom and there it is.  “Does it look that bad?”

Well I’m not going to lie to the kid, but I figure I can at least soften the blow so I tell him it looks a little uneven but not too bad.  I take over and attempt to fix the long parts that now reside amongst the bald patches but mention to him short of shaving it completely; there isn’t much to be done.  Instead, I even the top. 

Amazingly, he seems pleased, showers and dresses to go out. 

I continue making the bed, grinning and hoping he doesn’t turn his back on anyone he fancies.

I'm just glad he has gone out before the squeeze and number three child get home, because I know they are going to ignore my text that said "don't mention his hair when you get home!"

The Porn Star

I can’t help sniggering and yet cringing as I write this. 

The beauty of a blog is that as far as 99% of the world is concerned, I am totally mysterious; nameless.  Still, there are those that know me well and to those, I have sent a link.  This includes my family and the squeeze.  Perhaps I didn’t put enough thought into how limiting that may be.

Still, I suspect that the chance that someone religiously reads my blog is slim.  Except the squeeze – he reads them with utter glee, astonishingly proud of how I have portrayed him.  Go figure…  It fits nicely with exactly what I have said about him, doesn’t it?

How could being called an emotional husk even come close to a compliment?  He actually laughed out loud when he read about the ‘little book of romance’.

Well today, I can almost picture the grin slithering from his face.  Today, we are talking about pubic hair.  His pubic hair.  I know… I know…  Crass.  But hell, things have been pretty good between us of late and I have to write about something.

Pretty good, I should clarify, means that nothing is leaping out of closets at me.  I’m not Rubik’s cubing every word and he isn’t receiving 3000 word emails about what a dick he is.  We are familiar, used to one another.  Sounds boring, doesn’t it?  And in a way, I expect it does have a vibe of “normalcy” about it.  Usually, this is not a good thing for me.  The three ex-husbands would attest to that.

If I have learned anything at all after having three husbands, it is that you have to think outside the square.  You have to make an effort.  You have to keep making an effort; add a little spontaneity…  If not, it doesn’t work.  Or at least, it doesn’t last.  And men are deplorable at romance; at keeping it alive.  At least mine is.

The squeeze has a damned good head of hair, and hardly any grey.  Not bad considering he is 56.  Nor is he an exceptionally hairy man; unlike my brother in law who looks like Huggy Bear when walking around shirtless – except he is not wearing a fur coat.

The squeeze has no chest hair and no back hair; none at all; all good.  Tick.  A1.  There is only one problem.  He has more pubic hair than should be permitted in the western world.  It is literally creeping up out of his shorts.  We are not talking curls either.  We are talking wire.

Ok, I can get the idea that waxing may actually make his heart give out.  Not that I wouldn’t do that for him…  Not that I don’t love him enough to just rip that patch right off.  I’ve told him I would do it; quickly – but he won’t even give that a go.  So much for love.

Shaving – too itchy.  So I buy him a hair trimmer and figure that at the very least, he could give it a tidy!  But no.  The trimmer is still in the box, sitting up there on the top of the record shelves.  Mocking me.

If I knew how to set up voting on here – I would. 

Am I alone in my desire to see the Porn Star look make a comeback?

You Can Choose Your Friends

One of the worst elements of 40s+ dating is the fact that you have to meet a whole host of people for the first time – and know that you are being sized up; judged… compared.  Even if you are not actually being evaluated in any way, shape or form; it is certainly the case inside your head before and while meeting them for the first time.  Hell, sometimes I’ve waited for them to lift up the score cards!

This is made much harder if family and friends actually liked the ex; because they are basically prepared to loathe you on sight.  They can’t help themselves.  Even if you are dating the dump-ee as opposed to the dump-er, in their eyes, you are still just the obstacle standing between true love and happiness.

I didn’t fear that they would hate me on sight; because I’d experienced the harridan first hand.  You can fool some of the people some of the time, but I’m figuring they would have picked up that she was a pushy cow at some stage.

For the squeeze, he had it easy in some respects; harder in others.  He had no ex of any import to be compared to.  My last ‘partner’ was a narcissist and made my life hell.  My sister once sent him an email imploring him as ‘a human being to a toad’ to stay the hell away from me.  As you can imagine, the squeeze didn’t have a lot to live up to.

The ‘against’ would be my deplorable taste in men; put one self-centred prick in a room of men and yep, you guessed it – that’s the one I’m leaving with.  Why?  No idea, but after the last one which cost me five years of hell, I decided to find out.  For the first time ever, I spent quite a long time on my own; trying to work it out.

No light flashed in my head.  I wasn’t struck by lightning nor did I fall and strike my head while designing a flux capacitor.  I just spent time thinking about what I wanted; what I needed; and what was not good for me.  I changed my perspective.

For my family, given that there was no evidence to state that I had actually found the answer, I took my time introducing him.  Eventually, I figured I could turn up with Quasimodo or even Hannibal Lector – and that would be an improvement on the last.

He also took his time in the introduction circle.

My first meeting with his family happened on my birthday, which also happens to be his mother’s birthday.  I figured this should be relatively easy.  We are both Geminis; communicators. 

There was a brother and wife, both nice and friendly.  There was a niece, with brand new baby – which provided me with some camouflage as I walked about the place rocking it and trying to look inconspicuous.

It was relaxed.  Football was on the television; Geelong was playing.  Other than introductions, I don’t think there was any form of communication between the two Geminis in the squeeze’s life.  In fact, she sounded rather scary snarly.

Eventually, the squeeze turned to the television and said ‘turn that up a bit’ and happened to mention to the room that as I was raised in Geelong, football wise, I would always follow the Cats.  At this point, I finally had his mother’s attention. 

She gave me one look, and then muttered “Geelong.  Hate people from Geelong!” 

Then she proceeded to sip her cup of tea where I am sure she missed my grin at the squeeze.  It was such an outlandish thing to say, I couldn’t help but find it funny.

All The Bits Still Work

When I was a teenager there were two things that were really important to me - Getting my license, which I did at 18; and moving out of home – also done at 18.  Both of those achievements gave me some measure of independence.

I am a mother and have pushed independence on to my children; hoping they would at least acquire enough autonomy to be able to exist on their own.  Mostly it has worked – except for maybe my youngest, he is 19 and still living with dad (can’t cook either which is why he got a swag of cookbooks for his birthday from moi!)

My daughter has only just moved back to Melbourne and is staying with me until she finds a place.  My older son has just moved to Cairns – children are so much more loveable when they live in another state…

So why is it that a hell of a lot of kids in their 20s, still live at home?  I see it all the time; adult children – all living at home.  WTF?  Where did the independence go?

I suspect one of the biggest deciding factors of it is cost; after all, I know my daughter and her friend will struggle financially when the move happens – but they see the struggle as worth it.

Still, there are a million variables that kids just don’t seem to get.  For example, living at home is so much easier if parents are still married and relatively happy.  There has been no asset split, generally speaking, they can probably afford it.

It’s a little more difficult when the parent is single.

But it’s not just the financials.  I remember saying to my daughter once, “hustle and find a place of your own!  You are cramping my style!” – To which she walked to the front door, pulled it wide open and said “I’m not exactly seeing a queue!”  Sadly, all I could do was laugh; she was right.  She did inherit my sarcasm after all.

I’m sure kids don’t actually want to even think about their parents have sex, but news flash – all the bits, actually still work. 

When I started going out with the squeeze, he had two adult children living at home.  They are about as messy as any kids could get.  We are talking leave it where you like, drop it where it falls, messy.  Three men living in a house; makes me shudder even thinking about it.  Hell for the first month I couldn’t use the bathroom without having my eyes water.

Because the squeeze is not a clean freak like me, he wouldn’t walk around saying ‘put that away!” or “wash your dishes!” – He would just let it go.  By the time I was staying there most weekends, the monster he had created had turned into Gigantor and the first order of the evening when I arrived on a Friday, was to pour a glass of red.

As you can imagine, discussion on the squeeze and I moving in together has been a lengthy and rather protracted exercise encompassing odd references to the fact and then warnings to find a place to live because this is happening; homelessness is imminent!

One moved out a few months ago, albeit, not successfully from what I gather, however he has been persevering.  The other is off to Vietnam this month on holiday; then there is Christmas, then the squeeze and I are off to the beach for three weeks – so the move is still a way off; but I’m not seeing any planning happening.

Then; yesterday, I get it.  An email from the squeeze…

“Boy 1 dropped around last night and in the midst of a conversation re the landlord painting to possibly sell the house, I mentioned that i wasn’t worried because I was moving in with you.  He took that as a good thing because it meant he could move in too…”

Lucky it was on email, because my face must have been a picture.

Fairy Tales & How It Began

I thought it was time that I give a little history about who I am and how I came to be.  Given that I’m an emotional person; (a marshmallow the squeeze calls me) and he is an emotional husk (at least on the outside).  How does that work..?

Weirdly; it works very well – but it’s not without effort, that’s for sure.

I am aware of my need to examine every word spoken or written – looking for the real meaning…  We call it “Rubik’s Cubing” and the description fits very well.  Sometimes, I can almost hear the ‘snick’ turn, ‘snick’.  The problem with this method of thought is that you over think everything; more often than not that stupid, off the cuff comment that just shattered my heart, really was just that – a stupid, off the cuff comment.

Hell, with the squeeze I’m beginning to get used to the fact that he really just doesn’t think before opening his mouth and letting something completely brainless leap out.  However, I regress.  I wanted to talk about how I came to be this emotional, Rubik’s cubing, roller coaster ride.

I blame most of my woes on the fairy tale conspiracy; that unshakeable knowledge that love conquers all; life ends with happy ever after.  That is how I was raised.  Of course they never wrote Cinderella II; her life with three kids, a sick dog, bills to be paid and finally, the discovery that the Prince is humping his PA.

I should point out at this point in time that due to the fairy tale conspiracy, I had been married three times by the age of 28.  This is fine if you are a movie star however, for a normal woman it offers no more than a way to wow guests at dinner parties.  I was no Za Za Gabor.  I didn’t get to be a brilliant keeper of houses, for my husbands were not rich.  I was in love.  That is what I do.

Up until now, my life has played out like some pitiable sitcom. Comparable to ‘Friends” – everybody watches, but no one on the planet really lives like that. Except in my world, my sitcom is real.  I really have dated, and in at least one instance, married the scum of the earth.  I once spent years dating a PI who was a total narcissist.  Why?  I’ve no idea really.  Initially, I suppose it was because I felt like Miss Scarlett in the ballroom with the dagger – it seemed exciting.

There is an old saying: Opposites attract. Looking back, I think everyone I have ever been out with has been my opposite. 

Armed with my fairy tale theory of ‘love conquers all’, I am incapable of understanding someone that has never experienced love; or has trouble expressing it.  I remember a song with the line: “if love was red, then she was colour blind.”  That was most of the people I have dated - colour blind – and I saw everything in rainbows, so colourful that it could burn your eyes.

Often, I have wondered if I am a journey that no man has a map for.

Although I have no intention of Rubik’s Cubing just how opposite the squeeze and I are – I understand that the romantic husk, is a façade.  One that I think he enjoys – yet the issues within our relationship are not because he has an inability to love; it is that he is fearful to let go of the past.  And we are conquering that.  I’ve always known that if we could muddle our way through; if I could wean him off the wife – then we would have a perfect relationship.

Well, weaning and learning to shut the hell up until he has thought about what is about to jump out of his mouth…

Rivalry – Friendly or Otherwise

The yanks did it.  They were desperate to get into space prior to the Russians – to no avail.  Next, it was a yearning to walk on the moon, be first because surely the moon walk outweighed the space thing.  They wanted it so badly that many people still believe that the ‘one small step for man’ – (which is one of my earliest childhood school memories I might add) was faked and filmed in some remote warehouse – hell, probably Rosewell, New Mexico. 

Google it – you’d be surprised how many fruitcakes rant and rave with all the evidence they can think of.  But if you think about it, it’s like Nostradamus – you can make anything fit if you look hard enough.

I was very young when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.  In fact I only have a very hazy memory; it was 1969 which meant I was about 7 years old.  They got the whole school together to watch it and I remember teachers with big hair and eye liner, wiping tears from their eyes.  As kids, I think we drank in the atmosphere of ‘awe’ rather than have any real understanding of what it meant.

My blog of course is not about the moon walk.

It’s not even about faking it – but I’m sure I could think of a damned funny blog regarding that notion. 

Instead, it is about two people – the squeeze and I.  We both write.

I think I wrote a while back about brushing a tear from my eye when he accepted an award for a short story; and I have no doubt that he would feel the same if it was I up on stage… (Except he would definitely be without the tear; because if anyone has been reading this at all, they all know what a non-romantic, somewhat shallow, emotional husk he is.)

However, I am going off on a tangent…  If one of us got a manuscript accepted; the holy grail of a writer… What then?  Would I stand back and silently scream at him “what about me…???!!!”  Would he?

I somehow doubt it.  But frankly, I think it is good we do not dabble in the same genre.

When I Grow Up…

When I was growing up, there was a whole host of nerdy kids that knew exactly what they wanted to be when they grew up.  I wasn’t one of them.  Nor was I part of the “click” set – those with the perfect looks and more perfect bodies. 

I fit in to that funny/sarcastic group.  I'd joke my way through school – sometimes at expense of others.  One of the best brains at work once told me that he had been captain of the chess club at his boys college; to which I replied “you got beat up a lot at school, didn’t you..?”

My point is that we each reach for that one thing that we want to be – even if it takes some of us longer than others to discover exactly what that is.

For me, initially, it was avoiding school.  I wagged whenever possible (usually to smoke and listen to Carole King) because I was bored and therefore hated school.  Then I fell into graphic design.  Then I fell into the internet.  Oh... And in between those things, I fell into marriage every so often.

At a particularly low point in my life, my best friend said to me: “write a book”.  In her head, that would fix everything.  She had written her way through all of the dramas life could throw at her.

I realised years later that the “write a book” line didn't exactly make me special, it fit every damned thing she saw wrong in anyone’s life.  Didn’t matter if they could write or not.  God love her.  She still says I’m the only one that actually did it.  I shudder to think who she threw that line at; and how many people with nothing to say actually sat at the computer for hours on end, waiting for inspiration to hit.

If you think I am writing this to thank her, trust me… I’m not.  I’d have done better to have wanted to be an astronaut – except I’ve no intention of going anywhere that has no air.  Or maybe president of the U.S…?  Mostly I suspect I’d have had a better shot at those things than making it as a writer.

It is that vicious circle.  Can’t get published, until you are published – what the hell..? 

So, there is little money to invest in new writers..?  Does that mean the world has to exist on who we already have..?  And lets face it, it’s all based on variables.  If you write romance and send off your manuscript (all perfect, single sided, double spaced) – and your perfectly beautiful romance lands on the desk of someone who just found a bunch of text messages from some skank on her husband’s phone – well… I’m tipping she’s not going to feel overly romantic; and your book is not going anywhere.

So given all these variables, you can imagine that you take whatever crumbs you can grab along the way.  The ‘just write a book’ girlfriend happens to be an established writer.  She sent me a contact to send my book to; and I printed it out (all perfect, single sided, double spaced) and sent it off.

Five months – no reply.  This is usually good - unless it is lost.  So I email my girlfriend to say “I haven’t heard from the editor.  Should I email to ask if they received it?”

Several emails later; we discover why I may not have a reply as yet.

She gave me the wrong name.

Yeah – thanks Isa – just torture me a little more!  Write a book my ass!