How a perfectly good ranty blog post was ruined with a kind gesture

My husband, Steve, is a tall man. He has a tiny car.  Let me illustrate:

Image Source:  The Simpsons (of course) and here

No, I mean... He's reeeeally tall. And it's really small. Let me be clear about this:

Source

Okay, so now you know all you need to know, I think, to picture the look on my face when I realised that our pending two-week driving trip to Sydney would have to be undertaken in Steve's car. Not my luxurious, roomy LEMON of a car but his two door trolley sized vehicle.

See, here's the thing (and why my ranty blog post was ruined by kindness):  This week we have been handed a quote from the mechanic for $2,500 worth of repairs to my little French delicacy. We have spent at least that much in less than six months on the blasted thing for incidental "we've never seen that happen" repairs. As one good friend put it, "Ahhh, Kirril, French cars are like French women; they look good, they're petite, appear fun and relaxed... like a secret affair. Then when they know they've got you, they start draining your wallet." He is not far wrong. Not far wrong at all.

There is just absolutely no way that we can a) go to sunny Sydney and back without the fan (note: not the air conditioner, this $2,500 is simply to get the not-working FAN fixed!) or b) spend that sort of money right before we go away. 

Our driving trip has been described to the LGBB lately as "our adventure in Daddy's car." We've had no choice but to use the fallback run-around. The phrase "We'll just have to pack light" is putting it mildly. We both know it. Without saying it, we've been dreading it. But thinking positively. Hey! It'll be memorable. Let's see if we can do it and survive each other. So the plan to take Steve's car has been moving forward.

The plans have been coming together fairly well:

...with MUCH less animation (source: here) and no festive balloons

If you ask me what I picture in my mind when I think of having to "pack light" for two adults and a five year-old in a folding seat two door hatch with a boot space the size of a glove box, it sorta looks like this:

Except these people have it lucky, they have rear doors. Bastards.  Source

Imagine my utter - sputtering, gobsmacked - humble delight, then, when on my way up to Peace Space for a preparatory refresher day of a course I did back in 2009 (I'm taking on some new energetic healing work, it's another post for another time... but I'm excited!) I was sent a message from the mum of one of the LGBB's closest kindy friends.

Turns out, she was telling her husband last night about our car trouble. He suggested, "Why don't I take Steve's car and they can borrow mine? I only use it to run to the station anyway."

Despite the absolutely shitty drizzle that had settled in for the long haul over Melbourne today, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine beamed with an angelic "Ahhhhhhh". Okay, maybe not that last bit. But I swear, you could have shoved me with a feather.

To say Steve and I are humbled and grateful for this massive offer is putting it mildly. We did the "Are you SURE" dance back and forth a couple of times. But finally, to avoid any offense being inadvertently taken, we graciously accepted this awesome hand-out.

I'm still speechless by it. The generosity of some people still delights and renews me.

So, I guess... Sydney and surrounds, here we come! In a Honda 4wd! And not a matchbox! Whaaat?! This is nuts. Am I dreaming? *still pinching myself*

Are you a giver?

What have you been given that knocked you for a humbled six?

Note to self: NEVER Google "packed tight", "tight squeeze" or "tight man in car" EVER again.

Trick-or-treat friends: Why cheese in a box was better than Halloween

So Halloween is coming up on Monday here in Australia.

I'm sorry, I am going against the grain here and saying - as I have done consistently in previous years - we don't "do" Halloween. Just the whole headless, bloodied, ghoulish mask thing is one that freaks our sensitive little petal right out. See, the LGBB likes the idea of Halloween (what's not to love, on the surface? You dress up, you walk around your neighbourhood in groups of friends, you go door to door receiving sweets for nothing). But she always forgets that witches terrify her. Masks make her hysterical. And the sight of (even fake) blood has her father and I assured for the time being that she would not make a very good vet. Or doctor. Of any description.

I was talking to a friend earlier today about why it is that Halloween is such a big deal here. 'Have we missed something?' I always ask when I find that rare person who doesn't go in for the ritual.... a term I have to use loosely.

We were none the wiser after discussing it, realising that we are uneducated about the practice of Halloween and are more than happy to allow for people who partake in it. But that it is simply not something our children join in on (because of not enjoying the dress-up bit when it comes down to sheet-adorning, mask-applying crunch-time).

We agreed that all we see is a chance for our children (nothing personal here, just talking about her children and mine) to be delivered rather mixed signals: That out of the blue, we're encouraging the notion of going along with something simply because everyone else is doing what they collectively think is a good idea (peer pressure reinforcement... and don't you be thinking for one second that mothers aren't pressured by their peers!) and, more's the sticking point for me, be rewarded with so many treats it would make your eyes pop. The kind of treats that, at any other time of year, are meted out with great restraint in our house. Why would I be okay all of a sudden with the LGBB collecting lollies from strangers, only to bring them all back here and have what would effectively be (the way I ration them) a few months' supply of junk food? The thought of having all that in the house - and her being aware of it... and nagging me hour after hour for more - is more than I can sanely bear to imagine. These two things alone are simply not the kind of mixed messages I want to send her. Call me a prude. A stick in the mud. It just doesn't sit well with me.

It got me thinking, though, about my upbringing. Namely, the fact that we never did trick-or-treat-ing (we lived in a place where the houses were so spaced apart by paddocks that you'd be lucky to visit ten in a 1/2km stretch... too much for little feet!). But I wasn't short for treats. Oh, no. When I wanted the really good stuff, I had my friends. Better yet, I didn't have to pester anyone! They did it all and I just sat back and cashed in with eyes bigger than my little stomach.

Paula was the junk food friend. She was the kind of kid who pestered her busy mother for food even as she was finishing her final mouthful of the last thing she asked for (and received). In one 2-hour play at Paula's after primary school, I could be assured of an Augustus Gloop-type array of gluttony. Pure bliss and delight to my seven year-old eyes! Crisps, ice lollies, packets of Tic-Tacs, a choc chip biscuit or four. I remember the time I went there and was crestfallen to realise.... I had eaten so much I felt full. So full, in fact, that I couldn't possibly fit in the Wizz Fizz, popcorn or bowl of cocoa pops (because "cereal is a healthy snack") but did anyway. Oh, how I was ill.

Michelle was the soda fountain friend. Until the magical year we received one of our very own (1984, I believe it was), it was Michelle's house you went to if you wanted carbonated water mixed with the most disgustingly good imitation cola syrup. Oh, yeah. That was The Stuff.

There were others, each with their own delightful contribution to my childhood treaties stage. However, of all of them, Caroline was by far the top shelf friend. For you see, in Caroline's house one could be assured of the Expensive Cheese. The heavily over-processed long-life no-refrigeration-required-until-opening Kraft blue box cheese.

Oh my. I was instantly in love. With the cheese, not Caroline.

My childhood - sadly or not, you be the judge and keep the judgements to yourself thank you very much - was improved greatly by the discovery of thickly sliced "cheese in the box" (as we called it) sat atop white bread and stuck under the griller. The base of the cheese slices would go gooey, while the top would lift away up towards the heat and grill to browned perfection. Once cooled down a tad, you could stick your finger through the dome-puffed cheese crust and break it away. Delectable. Taking a bite, the cheese would ooze and string. Sheer. Delight. From-a-box.

I took a survey (of one) and discovered my friend also remembered the name of her Treat Friend - Margie. Margie who introduced her to slabs of real butter atop hot toast. Now, to a girl who'd only known fast and efficient margarine to that point in her life, the discovery of butter was akin to finding her religion.

So I maintain:  Halloween does not have to be. It never factored in my childhood and I was no worse off for it. Granted, I essentially thought cheese with a shelf life with no end-date bunged on some bread and grilled was the absolute shiz. But still... we won't be bowing to the pressure bestowed on us increasingly each year to join in that over-commercialized "festive fun" occasion known as Halloween. It's so northern hemisphere, it's almost embarrassing. Mind you, how in the heck we are going to continue to get away with this as the LGBB grows older is another thing. I guess I should also add a disclaimer here that I will "never say never" definitively. But for this year at least, once again, we'll be conveniently unable to hear the doorbell. Oh, what a shame.....

Go on. Hit me with your bah humbugs! I'm used to it!


Do you have a treat friend? Do you remember their name and what they had on offer at their house? Please share!

The hills are alive

It's okay, don't click away. I'm not doing a post about Julie Andrews' Maria or any of the von Trapps for that matter. Unless, of course, you were expecting some exciting new information about the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical or some juicy tidbit about the Baroness Shraeder (and wooh, that link right there is rather interesting.... if that's what you were looking for....)

But I digress.

These hills are majestic. I love them. LOVE them. When we found this pocket we thought we had hit the jackpot. Energetically speaking, I reckon we have. The land, even the house, seemed fertile. No, not like that. But certainly in terms of rich atmosphere. Deep thinking. Soul-reviving.

Yeah. It's here. Ever-present. And I also seem to forget that (or take it for granted, at least) until a visitor inadvertently reminds me how lucky we are.

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Okay, so.... Kristin of Wanderlust fame is here. I have blogging royalty in my humble abode. As I live and breathe.

I also have lasagne in the oven. And a child happily watered and fed at a neighbour's place (where she secretly wishes she could live on time-share). Here I am, sat in my relatively clean and tidy kitchen and I'm happy.

You know how I know?

I can't stop bloody singing.

This happens to me every time someone comes and stays with us. I don't realise until I have visitors just how much I sing. Like..... at least 70% of my day. I don't mean like my old Uncle Will (rest his soul) who is purported to have spent his years on his remote South Australian sheep station (astute readers will know the homestead I am speaking of) sing-talking his way through the day - which sounds kinda cute and lovely but is apparently really annoying to be around 24/7. I mean singing everything that comes on my playlist.

I have music on in the house all the time. ALL. The time. Would that annoy you? Does that annoy Kristin? I haven't asked her. Let's do a little experiment. Let's see how long it takes the powers of Twitter and Facebook and etc. to find out.

So I'm making dinner before and I'm singing my heart out. My heart outttt. To Scenes From An Italian Restaurant. I swear, I would belt it out in front of you no matter where, no matter when. Then James Taylor (oh, young James Taylor, how you make my heart flutter so) and a bit of How Sweet It Is. Along comes Elton John who, okay I'll admit, doesn't reeeally float my boat but I respect him musically. But even his little-loved (by me, anyway) I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues gets me singing. By the time I am humming the really high harmonica bits - you know the part I'm talking about? no, I will not vlog me humming it - I remember.

Oh, shite. Kristin is in the next room. Having some chillax down time. Hey, by the way, do we say "chillax" any more? Is it what the kids are saying? Or have I just shown my dagginess? Er.... if not in the previous several paragraphs?

Okay, anyways, so here I am on my second layer of lasagne laying when I realise I have HRH the US blogger in my lounge room. And I'm mid "woooooooo-ooooo" when I do.

This is getting serious.

I have already admitted my Hall and Oats guilty pleasure to her today. It happened when Kiss On My List came on. I fought every urge not to sing in front of her then.

And this is the funny thing (probably what stops me from pursuing a career in singing or some form of music like several of my more with-it relatives have): I am really self-conscious about singing in front of others even though I can sing well.

Do you sing well? Would you ever sing in front of someone? (drunk karaoke doesn't count)

More importantly.... how long do you think it's going to take before I find out if Kristin has even noticed I can't seem to stop singing??

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Just before I go, today I was flicking through letterbox catalogues. Gorgeous kitchen table sets (we have a dining table but no chairs and I lust after lovely dining chairs when I see them). I pointed out one I liked and the LGBB, sitting next to me, adjudicated, "Nope, don't like that one. That kitchen's too clean. I like our kitchen." Which of course begged the question.... and the answer to her question was "Yes, I like our messy one."

Sigh.

Oh God. King Of Pain by The Police just came on. Gotta go..... can't type and sing at the same time.

There's a little black spot on the sun todaaaaaaay.

Conversations with friends: The beauty of keeping it short

I am limping, guys.

I'm on a slow dongle (settle down) that's giving my laptop some pissy lame excuse for "internet connection" while we swap providers. I hereby solemnly declare.....

TPG, I promise, we will never leave you again

We left them at Christmas time because Steve grew indignant that we couldn't get ADSL2+ here with them (they took their time rolling it out) so we changed providers. WELL. Hasn't that been haphazard, to say the least? Let me just say, I know why their plans were so cheap. Down-time was a lot higher than what we'd previously experienced with TPG.

Now we're moving back to them and changing a few other home services around as well. But this interim period is going to be around twenty days long. I reached 50% of my limit in a DAY, folks! This does not bode well for blog posts (or visiting yours).

So please know that's why I've gone quiet. Bad timing, really, given that Blogopolis is just around the corner. I can't very well keep up with what you're all doing. Ack. Ah well, can't be helped. If you think there's something monumentous that I haven't commented on.... fill me in if you see me on the day. Yes?

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Now, to me being a winner:  No, really. I won something! From the very delightful and amusing Megan Blandford (she Writes Out Loud...). Thanks so much, I was very surprised to win the Coles Myer voucher. And very chuffed.

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I have a cold. I feel like shite. That is all I can say about that.

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My baby girl turns five on Wednesday. As with many of her milestones (and all of her birthdays), I am heading into the strange bittersweet balance-dance of being happy for her, proud of her (and us) and thinking about Ella. Not sad, not anything really. Just... holding her in my awareness more, I guess.

The other day, Lolly had a dear friend over. They played joyfully for five hours straight and both had eyes standing out on stilts when she went home. During the afternoon, I was doing dishes while the girls sat at the kitchen bench eating sandwiches.

I heard my daughter tell her friend, totally unrelated to anything they were nattering about.

"Before, in the hostibool, I had a sister. And her name was Ella. But her heart was a bit funny, so then she died in the ground."

I didn't turn around. Didn't weigh in at all, although I listened keenly to how her friend would respond. Lolly tends to throw this in at moments that don't seem to fit. But they do to her. And this is what I respect about her and the friends she will no doubt gravitate towards and learn to keep - for her friend merely said, "Ah" with a half-interested, half-"this-sandwich-is-yum" tone.


Simplicity, people. Simplicity is what I need to get back to. And ADSL2+.



So, I will see you when and where I see you! If you're wondering where I am, just imagine me under my pile of tissues, stalled by my grossly underweight data usage cap and struggling with my own self-imposed project to "keep it simple." Mark my words, though, I WILL be back with birthday cake photos some day soon.

On the importance of Friends and Online Connections

Over the past week or so, I have been thinking back over the past ten or so years of my life. Specifically, looking at the friendship and/or support circles I have been amongst and how these have grown, evolved, shattered and, ultimately, become something I am able to be genuine and my authentic Self amongst.

The brief rundown goes like this:

• High school - never properly fit in. I eventually found a group of 'safe' girls (who still had moments of excluding me and I was never "in" with any of the groups in any way that I felt properly safe, never to be "dropped") and we muddled through to the end of our school days together. Mostly at high school, I was the target of the bitches. I don't know why. I suppose I was a bit of a soft/easy target. When I was cut with their words, I bled noticeably. When I defended myself, I was ridiculed even more. It was not a comfortable time for me, high school.
Note to self:  Remember to execute healthy level of detachment from personal memories of school when helping the LGBB through her school years.

• Post-school years - My first job didn't yield any more personal friendships. I worked with Steve for four years during the mid-'90s. It made the two of us tighter, but my 'circle' didn't increase. Those same high school buddies were my only friends during those years, but I rarely saw them. Mostly due to our vastly different lifestyles. I had the house and the picket fence already, by the time I was 21. My friends were house sharing in the inner city and studying. Their first jobs were highly paid and saw them spending as much money on a pair of shoes as I was putting towards my share of the mortgage for the week.

• By the year 2000, I had had and lost my first pregnancy. This shot me right out into the stratosphere, way beyond my friends and their concerns. They couldn't understand if they tried (and I'm not certain they did put much mind to it). In my youth and confusion, I withdrew from them completely and we parted ways. It was long overdue, but I finally admitted that we just weren't in the same place and my friends, therefore, probably weren't doing me any favours (nor I them, being a bit like a dragging ball and chain already amongst their partying, uni-style, carefree youth).

• During the years between 1998 and 2003, I held jobs that brought me a few very firm, enduring friendships with co-workers. Several of these remain to this day. Some of them did not outlast what was to happen to me in 2004. And that's okay.

• After we lost Ellanor in early 2004, reality kicked in. After spending 12 months floundering in a sea of unknowns - who was I now, how difficult was I to be 'friends with', how the hell could I go back to who I was before knowing Ella and, therefore, what did that mean for existing friendships and relationships - I emerged in 2005 with a refreshing new arsenal:  The Internet. Forums. Blogging.

• Firm friendships formed from expressing myself online. And while I lost a relationship or two along the way through that same sharing and expression, the benefits and return have been inconceivable. Far more than I could possibly have imagined. What began as an investigation into what I was in for with my first IVF cycle in early 2005 turned into membership of an online community/forum that sealed the friendships of at least half a dozen wonderful people who, to this day, I call my friends.

People who know my struggles, are willing to stay in touch and go through them with me - many people who have themselves lost a child or been through miscarriage/s - and don't see me as some social leper because of all the loss I have experienced.

These are women who, although a year had passed since Ellanor's passing, treated me as they found me. Used compassion, a sense of knowing innately what they would have wanted if it had been them in that situation. They matched me better. We fit. It was worlds away from what had been my reality for the previous 12 months - which was, basically, "get on with it, I can't keep listening to you, I have to talk about me and my life and my children... you're, frankly, cramping my style and boring me with all your infertility and loss talk... come over and play with my kids, entertain me! Entertain them! Like you used to... Oh, what's WRONG now??" My newfound, unexpected friends sent me little gifts in the post, I arrived home to flowers on my doorstep on Ella's birthday in 2006 from several people, I got to start meeting some of these fabulous fellow online buddies, some of whom were following a similar path to me, others sharing only the similarity of desiring another child and chatting the days away as we all waited.

The point is, where once I was conditioned to think that I was not a decent friend now that I had too many burdens and opinions to share, I've actually made the healthier choice. This is not to say that I haven't had a baptism of fire - I've been burned and have burned others with some of my choices and opinions - but I have grown from this. I am very grateful to have seen this early on, even through my grief-stricken, low self-worth eyes, because had I not, I would have closed this blog and run away from this online life forever.

But I have stayed. I have learned. And I have grown.

And now, I have so many cherished blogging friends that I can't possibly link to them all! Some are very dear to me for personal reasons, others are dear because they are always here with a helpful word or dose of reality, a unique perspective on something I have written, or a bloody good laugh (and I always love doing that!). I was only able to meet up with and spend time with a very small portion of those bloggers - some of them were unexpectedly kindred and they were some of the most pleasant surprises of all to come out of the Conference for me - but I learned to let go and accept my Self even more after that weekend in March.

Me (left) with adorable Seven7Cherubs, the inimitable Glowless and the ravishing Diminishing Lucy

If you read my blog, you pretty much know who I am. Blogging has helped me stay on the straight and narrow. It has shown me so many things about myself, most importantly how to get real with my writing and expression. About the reality of not knowing ANYTHING about anything. About broadening my love and acceptance of All - my Self included ;-) - and about the things that keep me ticking. I know more about myself now, having been through this weeding out of my close circle and have come to realise a few things that I need to do to remain balanced in my life.

To keep writing

To keep sharing and expressing

To always remember the Bigger Picture

To get off the computer and get amongst the reality around me (whether it's a messy kitchen, a weed-filled garden, a needy house with four pairs of eyes following me wherever I go - that being, my child, the cat and the two dogs...)

To never, ever write anything here (or in comments) that I would not be comfortable saying out loud

To never forget why I started this in the first place and to be thankful, eternally, to that guiding light of mine. Wherever she is now.



So, what about you? Have you ever had a complete friendship cull? Have you shed the layers of your outer reality and found that your real Self needed to seek more like-minded souls? Have you never done it and perhaps grown together with the same people you've known since childhood/early adulthood? 
I'd love to hear from you! Email me instead if you wish, I always love to learn more.

Bloggy silence

In everything I am doing since finding out about Lori's husband, Tony, last night, I find I have them in the front of my thoughts (Lori updated her post earlier today). A loss of appetite is a sure sign to me that I am required to concentrate on this respectfully and do all that I know to do, from afar.


Right now, scores of people across the blogging world are doing their own bit in their own way, in the same united show of strength and support for the Purple House. Marketing To Milk has initiated a call for bloggy silence and, to me, it fits perfectly with what I am intuiting is the correct thing (for me) to do. I hadn't planned to do any more posts due to that exact thing... but I guess this one more time is for just cause.


It feels correct (for me) not to write, as writing is an expression of me – and I don’t want to be focused on ‘me’ right now when my positive thoughts and all my spare energy are required there. I remember all too well the pain of watching people, oblivious as they were, outside the hospital window, chatting and laughing and flicking their hair and enjoying the sunshine.... when inside, in that stark neonatal department office, my world was rubble.


So. While it doesn't mean my life is not going on and I'm not reading things elsewhere away from this community (and getting on with life away from the computer), I can't with clear conscience carry on with any sort of posts here - the place where I house my 'online voice' - until the situation for Lori's husband and family becomes clearer. 

How can this happen?

I was gone from the computer for barely 24 hours. Driving home tonight, I was thinking about Lori's blog and how I looked forward to that little jellybean banner across the top as I waited for the FYBF post to load each week.

Now, of course, the dogs are unfed - pacing around me impatiently as I type this - and thank goodness my own family is not here for I cannot concentrate on them right now. I appear to be unable to think past the news that immediately hit me upon sneaking a look at Twitter. Never, ever in my wildest dreams did I expect to read that Lori's husband is fighting for his life in ICU. Less than 48 hours ago, we were chatting! Sharing quips (and tweets)! How the hell could something like this happen????

The answer, of course, is that it does. It can. And it will continue to. I just get so complacent sometimes with everybody I know, taking for granted that they and everybody they know, will all remain healthy and ever-present in my life, nothing ever changing. Logically, of course, I know this is simply not the case.

It can happen as quick as a click of your fingers and then..... the person you once were is all of a sudden... gone.

The blogging world who now rallies around Lori and supports her young family - solely relying on Tony for their income - is forever changed. This is where we can see what group consciousness can do to effect change, on a global scale. It doesn't have to be reported in the media to be a groundswell of force that immeasurably alters how we live our lives. If you are so moved (and/or have the means), I urge you to make a donation to help ease at least some of the immediate term financial burden - the Donate widget is on the right at Kristin's blog. Of course, money only goes so far, though. All the money in the world can't remedy some circumstances. I only hope and pray, along with pretty much everyone I've checked in with so far since arriving home, that all Lori needs in the end is a bit of financial assistance.

By now, it will be quite obvious to Lori and her family that they are dearly, dearly loved and cherished. Together, you have lent a voice today to a collective that I am so humbled and privileged to be a part of and bear witness to.

Please join the Aussie Mum Bloggers as we linky up in support of Lori for Kristin at Wanderlust's special FYBF:

Six

It's an age of continued newfound wonders. An age where the first, perhaps the second, year of school is well underway. An age of growing awareness of the importance of firm friendships, and of the pain we can cause our little friends if we don't include them. It's an age of really loving the family unit, of drawings blossoming into full-blown works of art, of gazing with wonder at the page as our hand - our own hand! - makes words that others can read.

Alliecat from In A Pea Green Boat holds a little girl closer to her heart today more than all the other now countless days. For today, her firstborn daughter Kristen would have been turning six. If you have a moment, pop over to her blog and leave a message.

Remembering her brief existence that has cast an enduring light on your family today, Allie, and wishing you peace and love now that the lead-up is 'gotten through' for yet another year.

Simple

Thank you for last night, blogosphere. I could not have put my chin up without you. Surely you've all at some point in your lives snuck away when you've had guests to check your emails? (if you are saying no, I don't believe you!)

It was a truly gorgeous night. I did not mention to our guests the reason for all the candles I had lit around the house, for never one to do things by halves, I had lighted them all and was thinking about the vast number of people around the world who would be lighting their own throughout the night. And when I looked at the flicker of the flames, I felt the shift in my heart.

It's a great relief to notice joy, you know, when your life at times feels cloaked by depression. You have to remember to grab it, for it can tend to seem as though it is fleeting.

There was a joint tie for the best part of the evening for me. Perhaps you could help me decide, because I think they're equally EEEEEK-AWWW!-worthy:


Exhibit A:

The 'Welcome For Tea' poster Lolly drew for our guests... very AWWWW!

I love that "David" looks like he's recovering from a lobotomy and "Mum" is the only one, suitably, who doesn't have filled-in eyes, giving her that dazed-crazed 'I've been really busy today' look. The little feet, the detail of "Dad's" beard (he wears a perpetual 5 o'clock shadow) that was drawn along with the narrative that "Daddy's looking that way".... it's very special, the most detailed drawing she has ever drawn. Our Keep Artwork box is filled to the brim already but this one, too, is a keeper.


Exhibit B:

An sms came in while I was making the salad, talking with my sister in-law. It was from an old friend, who had given me the name of someone he knew at a major, well-known Australian publishing house. And I was shaking as I read, "Well congrats, Kiddo, X and Y were impressed. Sounds like 'Mind, Body & Spirit' might get back to you. Keep me posted!"  Very EEEEK! I actually let out a sob then an expletive, to the excited amusement of my dear SIL. At around 9pm, another not completely unrelated email landed in my inbox - sometimes my emails go the long way around cyberspace, it had been sent almost five hours earlier - and it was from a potential agent I was put in contact with and had sent my work to the previous day (expecting to be passed along to someone else, not taken up by him per se), and in the email, the agent said he was keen to look further into my work but if I could just give him six weeks..... Er.... Okay! Sure! Can do *that sound was me dropping to the floor again to do a shrieky-kick-dance*

Swings and round-abouts. Swings and round-abouts.

Thank you again for being there to carry me through. Your comments boosted me greatly
*grabbing collective blogosphere in a head-lock, giving it a knuckle-rub.... cue embarrassed shifting of feet*

It's the dog who won't die

What the vet found? You may well ask....  She found:

The contents of half a 12kg bag of Pedigree dry dog food.

That's right. Yes. I shall put you out of your misery/suspense right now, unlike what has just happened to me over the past two hours of sheer agony as I waited on news.

When we arrived, they took one look at her and soberly led me to a tiny waiting room for one. The kind of waiting room that has a one-way arrow on it. Down the back. Closest to the .... well, I don't even want to imagine. And I cried. I cried and cried, as silently as I could. Then the vet came. Explained to me that they needed to listen to her heart. Each possibility was worse than the last - cancerous tumours, or heart failure, or .. oh I can't remember, something or other else. I began to accept that Pep had lived to see her last weekend. I told the vet, "Well, whatever it is, I have to take her home. I just cannot do that to my four year-old, she needs to say goodbye tomorrow." The vet gave no such reassurance that she would let me keep her to that promise. After a good 10 minutes or so, waiting on my own, the vet came back and said that there was so much body cavity noise (and breathing, oh the noisy breathing! as I type this, it is drowning out the tv) and that they needed to take an xray.

So I waited. I waited a whole hour and nobody even came to give me an update. It was good in a way. It gave me time to properly, honestly let her go. I told her that on Monday - I looked her square in the eyes and told her, through my tears, that she really could go if this was it. But I discovered tonight, waiting, that a small piece of me had been lying. So I sat there and contemplated Pepper's life and time with us. With me. All those days at home together. In the sun, at the beach, on my bed (ho, yes, the night before my wedding and I was nervous and couldn't sleep, it was Pep who consoled me as I tried to go to sleep on my own for the first time in years).

And then, out came the vet. "Her lungs are remarkably fine. Her heart, from what we can see and hear, is okay, although she is under enormous pressure right now..... She has an awful lot of food in there, what has she eaten???"

"Nothing!" I replied, shocked. I had been sitting there getting worried that my poor old girl would be getting starving by now, well after her pensioner tea-time and having had no meal for the day... But then, "Wait a minute.... I found a broken bag of dog food outside this morning...."

Turns out, my 17 year old, can't-walk-for-falling-over dog had worked on the plastic outer bag of the new dog food I bought them and apparently used it as A CHAFF BAG all night last night. Hence, she looked like Violet Beauregarde.

To say I am immensely embarrassed about racing in here in a flat panic a couple of hours ago is an understatement. And I couldn't let the night pass with any more of you incredibly kind folk out there worrying about us, or reading the previous entry and becoming sad.

She is incredibly old. She has acute deterioration going on. But she is not uncomfortable... well, save for this self-mutilating act of gluttony. She is mighty uncomfortable right about now, but that will pass. Literally. Hopefully. I mean, how can you not have some issues if you have gone from 18kg to 25.5kg in a day?  I wince at the thought. And she has to have a blood test ASAP so we can clear her for starting on medication to help with her incontinence.

My Finding Pepper In Her Forever Slumber Under The Lemon Tree hope is still alive! Thank you for your care and kindness, I really truly needed it and knew you were with me as I sat there, blubbering at the vets. I'm so emotionally drained right now.

Pepper lives to wheeze - and fart like a beauty - another day. And all I can say is, I'm glad I'm not sharing a tent with her tonight. Phewwww-eee.

But seriously.... CAN YOU BELIEVE IT WAS THAT??!! Food. Shaking my head. Laughing. Crying. Going insane.

Pepper update

Damn damn damn. I think my old dog is in renal failure. Off to vet now. I'm ready for them to tell me the worst. But shit... I'm SO not ready for her to go.

Pepper :(  My best buddy for the past 15 years. Shit. I remember telling Steve I was hopeful she would live til she was eight, because she was such a tough old dog. I thought that translated into 'hard life, short life'. But no.

This dog has taught me so much.  I told her on Monday - the crying day - that if she had to go, she should go. She has deteriorated since then and I noticed tonight big saggy fluid sections in her underbelly. Her breathing is even more laboured. She appears to have bloated hugely overnight.

I have to let her go. I know I do. I just guess I could be selfish and bargain a little more time.

Getting a bit tired

Look, I don't mean to harp. And I promise I'm not moping about this. But I just want to say.... nay, let me SCREAM it....

I don't care so much that I "still have plenty of time" and that, apparently, at 35 now, I am "still young". What the HELL!?!?  I have heard these same two sentiments since I was 24 and was scraping myself back together after our first miscarriage. Twenty-four! Now thirty-five. Thirteen babies conceived within that time. Still hearing it. Still hearing that I am still young!! Perhaps it's meant as a compliment, after all, I do still look like I'm a twelve year-old....

Do people honestly think these platitudes bear any weight with a woman who's just lost a baby?? If you have ever said these words, ever intend on saying these words, ever overhear these words and think it's a nice thing to say...... please have a good, hard think again.

I don't appreciate the inference. That I am somehow still good and should still be up for another 5, 7, maybe if I'm "lucky" 10, more years of this pain and torment. I never have liked it and never found comfort in knowing I still have all this time in the world to accept, graciously, more and ever more pain and sadness. This is my 11th year in this "game". It goes far beyond what I'm experiencing physically and I know it. I've stared that realisation in the face for a good seven years now. Ella taught me that.

This trite spouting of words is not helpful. The best thing that a few people have said this week to me is, "God.... that is just awful. I don't know what to say, except that I'm sorry."

The rest? All bullshit. Especially, and not only, the neighbour who replied (when seeing me hobbling around after Lolly in the front yard and learning what was happening), "Oh, geez.... well, you don't want to hear that I'm pregnant with number two, then, do you ha ha ha?"  No. No I probably didn't. But what choice do I have? You've blurted. I've heard. Ya think you could've maybe told me some other way, some other time perhaps? Considering we don't move in the same circles, it could have waited. Anyhow, congratulations.

That is all. As you were. I'm off to the chocolate shop to drown in a mug of mocha with Lolly and my dear friend and (another) neighbour. Still nursing these crippling cramps, four days post-bomb-drop.

The Big Reveal

There were two unveilings today at the LGBB's party.

First, we had her outfit to render all other outfits inferior. Weren't her father and I sucked in with that one, when we discovered, on her "Ta-dahhhh" moment in the kitchen after dressing herself, that she had merely thrown on the same (very most favourite one of all) get-up she had been living in this entire past week.

Dressed by "Ebolie" [ok, so that one's an in-joke, for her dresser's name is actually spelled with an 'n' not an 'l' - my girlfriend sends us boxes of clothes each year, a very humbling, generous and gracious gesture, she is Lolly's style guru now, apparently, which also helps our hip pocket AND keeps a connection between our girls: Lolly just looooves to wear anything that was once "Ebolie's"].

So, we get in to the car, buckle the LGBB in. And Steve has a brain-wave:  he'll sit in the back next to her, put the back of the front passenger seat down and rest it there like it's on a table. Good idea, says I.

In gets Steve. In I get. Can you just push the front seat back towards me a little, so I can reach the tray and hold onto it, he requests.  Sure! No problem, I say. And I reach for the closest handle on the seat..... which releases the backrest like a catapult, hurling the tray and the top-heavy cake into his lap.

*****BREAK IN TRANSMISSION:  TOO MANY EXPLETIVES IN POST******

Oh, it wasn't so bad. Nobody noticed. We only maimed a couple of fairies - maiming by mortar - by impaling their wings into the wall of the toadstool, their pathetic little fairy legs dangling at right angles.  Honestly, if I wasn't so shaken (mostly with fury that I had been so dumb) I would have taken you all a photo so you could laugh. I knew you'd care like that. But I couldn't think of anything but where the skewer (which was holding the two bits together) had ended up - if it had pierced Steve in the chest, I hoped to God none of the icing had been stuck to his top. That would have been tragic to bear witness to.

I had to calm my good self down then, for not only was I driving but the dear little LGBB could be heard repeating rather shocked and panic-stricken, "My cake! My cake! My house cake!"  As we had been loading her and it into the car, she had been saying joyfully, "I love this house." She was full to bursting about it. And then we tried to slingshot it out the back window but her father had been sitting in the way. He is a good catch, that Steve - of cake, I mean.... mostly - and he saved it. The guy saved the day, I tell you now, because otherwise, my makeup would have run down my neck with the amount of tears I would have cried.

As it was, I did cry. With relief. As we drove along, the tears turned to hysterical laughter. You get that, living with me. I'm a bit volatile with my weather patterns, some days.

"I don't think that I could take it

'cause it took so long to bake it...."

Anyway, the day went off without any more hitches. Lolly had a wow of a time, truly gorgeous to watch her and her friends enjoying a respectable round of mini golf.

I adore each of her friends and their parents are really lovely people as well, all of them. It makes me feel happy, particularly so that she is so enamoured, individually, with each of her little friends. I pondered occasionally today what it will be like for her, for them all, next year. Which friendships will not be able to remain? Who will she no longer see? I am going to have to keep a watchful eye on the girls and boys who are influential, in a positive way, during these, her formative years. There are already a couple of stand-out, stellar families we have vowed to stay in touch with and it is working so far. It is the girls' connection that endures, despite only seeing these friends a couple of times a year - one of these girls is Lolly's self-professed "best best BEST friend" and their love for each other is gorgeous.

Lolly managed a game of air hockey with her uncle. Only problem with that was, my little bro forgot he was playing a 4 year-old and kept automatically defending his goal space so she couldn't get a look-in and THEN, adding insult to injury, he kept accidentally scoring goals!

A nail-biting 0:0 tie breaker.

Photo evidence: Why you should never let your brother play a game of air hockey with your kid -

Oh! Sorry, Lolly, I forgot you're 30 years my junior  

*smacks forehead after puck goes sailing in the goal...again*

A little private smile from my poppet

I'm doing a bit of a 4-year retrospective of Lolly in the next few days on the private blog - a few videos, a few photos from back in the day... So make sure you go check it out! Or email me if you haven't already received an invite and would like to view the new blog.

And as always, despite the new haul of toys, her old pals Scraps and Bun were there in the car waiting to be told all about the day.

Tonight, the LGBB has gone to bed with a few of her new friends: a meowing, moving cat (strangely, its name is also Tabby); a Hello Kitty figurine; a dancing ribbon; and an Aussie Rules football. Let the games begin!

When your father is an editor and you're writing a book

For over three years now, I have been writing my story about Ellanor. For over 15 years, my father has been an editor in his 'spare' time - he is actually a doctor of civil engineering by trade, acts as adjunct associate professor to one of the largest universities in the country and somewhere in there, he also manages to volunteer as an advocate for aged/special needs members of the community (which involves various mediation duties between families and courts/councils and so forth).

Would it surprise you to learn he has not read one word of my book?

Despite offering his very capable assistance, I've not taken him up on it. I think I'm scared, for a number of reasons. First, I know it would represent a heck of a lot of work (for me and for him) - he is a fine-tooth comber - and second, I'm obviously too worried it won't impress him.

As if a child who had a very well educated, studious, highly expectant father wasn't going to be concerned enough about making him proud already, now I find myself in this ideal position to call on the services of an extraordinary editor. But I cannot do it!

I have given Dad my synopsis to play with - it's the single page book 'summary' that you send as, basically, an introductory cover letter (the pitch, if you will) along with your chosen chapters as a submission to publishers and/or agents.

Getting the synopsis just right is probably THE most important thing to me at the moment. I sent it around to a few friends, only a couple of whom have had the time to provide feedback. They were as thoroughly impressed by it as I had hoped they would be. But Dad.... Dad has given me something to think about in every second sentence. This sort of advice is amazing to have at my disposal, I am a lucky girl.

But something in me is holding back from giving him a teaser chapter from the actual manuscript. It may be that I don't want him to read something that has not yet been edited (by an editor) - even my own editor, when I mentioned my father does it for a partial living, groaned and said, "Oh my GOD, the pressure!" and although I thought she meant the pressure on her, she was referring to the pressure that I must be feeling.... uh, hell YEAH!, tell me about it! It may also be partly that, as I mentioned before, when or if Dad were to get his hands on this to edit it, he would find so many technical no-no's that it would make enormous work for me, which would be detrimental to me finishing the book at this point.

Mostly, though, I really wish for my father that he can read this from beginning to end, forgive me any slip-ups (and believe me, he would find PLENTY, even if it had been edited professionally) and just feel the story. Hear me. And understand the journey we have been on.

My Dad remains one of my greatest supporters, though his role is quite peripheral, especially now he is in his latter years. I only hope I can be clear enough with him what it is I need him to do when he reads it. I was so sure that the first time I wanted him to read it was when it was in book-bound form (yes, I am heavily entertaining that fantasy now!). But now, I am not so certain. I regard his input and his intelligence so highly. I also realise that part of his intention with my work would be to ensure I, as his offspring, am producing something so close to perfect that it may as well be.

My manuscript is FAAAAAAAR from that point of perfection. I have only just become 'okay' with that, after being told for the countless time, "SHUDDUP! YOU WRITE VERY WELL! OKAY?!? ENOUGH!!!" by several who know great writing when they read it (ie. I have only been able to accept their validation of my writing because they are in the business or run a writing course or are published themselves, etc.)

The question is, though, can my own voice stand up to such heavy-handed, albeit enthusiastic and loving, editing in my story by my father? I have to be sure, in my own head, first, before I welcome him in any further to what my writing world has been these past three years.

I think the synopsis is far enough for now. I am already awestruck how he has opened it up and reflected back to me, pretty much, what I was thinking, even going so far as picking up on one of the questions I pose (to myself), stating it seemed less like the original "core" moral question I had really asked myself and more like a simple question I had thrown in for good measure. He was bang on the money! And I had not even mentioned the deeper question, assuming what I was questioning, rhetorically, was the "core". He had gleaned, from my words, the internal doubts I had been mulling over about that very question - I'm shocked to realise that what I was doubting, and how I felt internally as I wrote it when I was slightly unsure of the question's relevance, is so apparent to the astute reader.

So he knows what he's on about. He obviously has my best interests at heart. Why, then, am I so afraid to let him "addit"? (Don't worry about replying with an answer to this, also a rhetorical... oh, unless you know why! Then, do spill! With many thanks...)

I came to read this blog and all I got....

....was a lousy, whining post.

To top off my birthday yesterday, someone decided to un-Follow me! WAHHHH!! I don't think I've ever stopped following someone in all the time (a year? two? more??) the feature has been around. It's not the first follower that's dropped off my count, but it's the first one in a long while.

Mind you, I don't use my Blogs Following list the way I used to. These days, many of the blogs I don't like missing posts on come crawling through my Top 10 feed. There are still quite a few I've yet to add in there, though, and I still do miss many of the posts from people I like to keep loose track of. Gulp. Maybe the un-Follower (sounds a bit like the undead) had a keen eye on my favourite blogs and noticed his/hers didn't ever come up in it. If it was you.... ummmmmmm *small voice* Sorry!

It's got me thinking, though. How do you really see this Followers thing? I'm more appreciative when I come across blogs that have a link to mine down the side - when you're a follower, your little picture comes and goes (moreso if the blog has heaps of followers and you're just one of many). While the number of followers might indicate how many people have had a passing - or longer - appreciation of what one writes about, I think the longevity of that interest in a blog is more indicative of where your blog is 'advertised' on other blogs.

What do you think? Have you ever lost a follower (or more)?

Oh dear, a cyclamen. You shouldn't have...

Oh, how you very shouldn't have.

Steve knows (or he should by now, but sometimes he forgets) that I kill cyclamen. Not that it's something I'm necessarily pathological about. I don't plan it. I don't deliberately treat them poorly. I don't overwater them, I twist the stems of spent flowers carefully so as not to harm the mother plant. I do all of that.

And still....I kill every single cyclamen that's ever been given to me. How can it be, that I am most often given the plant that meets its demise in my care? Why am I never gifted a lovely maidenhair or a daisy or, better yet, a native of some sort? Nope, 'tis always these poor little blighters, so perky and upright with their beautiful leaves all nice and stiff and healthy looking.

I'm looking right now at the gorgeous white cyclamen I was given last night at my birthday dinner (hold your wishes, peeps, it's actually this Sunday ;). I know it's probably not going to see out the winter.

I always get so nervous when people give me potted plants to care for. Just about the only one that has ever survived has been Ella's rose - thank goodness, oh I wouldn't have been able to bear losing that one - and it was given to us by an old friend who never comes over so doesn't see the plant in its thriving glory.

The friend who gave me this cyclamen visits our home quite regularly, though. This puts added pressure on me to keep it alive! Unless anyone knows of a fake cyclamen shop where I can get a decoy (preferably dish washer safe, that'd be handy).

Either that, or...... any green thumbs particularly versed in the best care for these sensitive little beasts?? I'd be ever so grateful to learn what I'm doing wrong.

In the meantime, there is a paper on Cyclamen, I'm sure of it. I'm going to go dig it out now. What's the bet, the Plant Wisdom in this is something I need to really listen to? Crap. Forgot about all that...

E·mo·tion·al

–adjective
1. pertaining to or involving emotion or the emotions.
2. showing or revealing very strong emotions.
3. governed by emotion.
4. all of the above.

I don' t know exactly why - that is, the root cause is unknown - but I have been a tad "all of the above" these past couple of days.

Today was my tipping point.

I have been bombarded with Ella-related statements this week. I eventually resorted to showing the LGBB her baby album (a scrap book which I started when she was born, continued up til she was about 11 months old and haven't looked at since.... you know, one of those jobs), when I was being challenged about the fact that she and Ellanor were at one point the same baby.

I know she is not confused about this. She never has been before and I have to work hard to keep my adamant refuting at bay. It's simply not going to be an issue, I cannot allow it. But in her mind, the way she sees it at this point in her evolution, Miss Lolly was indeed Ellanor when she was a newborn. She is very specific too, about the time period. It is a little disconcerting and if I didn't know any better, the hairs would be raised on the back of my neck. But this kid has had plenty of experiences in her short four years so far that have sometimes rendered me stunned. So I am not about to continue to challenge her and make a "thing" of it. I am just going to do the grown-up thing..... cover my ears and "la-la-la-la" my way out until she gets distracted and drops the claim.

So that was the first thing to rattle my cage. Next, there was the nail-biting wait when an interested overseas publisher responded favourably a couple of weeks ago to my request for permission to send some of my book chapters for consideration for publication. Today, I received feedback - in the positive!!! - and a feeling like second base has been achieved there. Oh my giddy aunt, but I haven't finished and it's all a mess and my characters are flawed and nowhere near strong enough (anyone know where I can get some inspiration for beefing up character development????) and... and... and...

I feel like Charlie Bucket being roused by his granddad the night before presenting the Golden Ticket at the chocolate factory. I need to shine my hair, brush my shoes, polish my teeth! I'm all confused and a-tizz!

Third, and finally, on the subject of This Parenting Gig and not realising an almost-four year-old could already slay me with words and make me feel like I was back wearing my high school uniform being taunted by the most cruel of the girls in the group, as well as feeling sometimes like I'm the only grown-up in the house, I sent an SOS email to a kindred friend. She sent me a very sympathetic - and topical - reply that made me feel very much more normal in my Good Cop/Bad Cop role.

I freely admit: I was in my Kid Shoes when I wrote this. Felt completely raw and stripped bare after a week of it. But thought it wouldn't be an honest-injin blog if I didn't offer up the downright ergly as well as the witty. Right?

Me: Am choosing to feel a bit kicked in the teeth right now. Just spent the morning out of the house, went and booked Lolly's party (mini golf) and did all of that. Got Steve a couple of new shirts, L some swimming shorts and a beanie. Had lunch all together. Was a decent morning of family time.
Came home, Lol helped me "clean" the kitchen so we spent good time together then. Sat together writing out all the invites, more time together. Then, and I can only think it's because lately I've been saying I can't play with her a bit more than usual, she tells me "I don't want you to come to my party. I just want to go with my Dad." And she said it really possessively.
You know how BIG an event a kid's party is to a kid - I can't help feeling that her intent was to hurt me. I was just like "WhatEVERRRR".
I hate that I have to be the one who dishes out the discipline, dishes out the instructions on chores, reprimands the two of them (sometimes when they're the two who are bickering!). Just on and on and on. I've been crying this afternoon. I'm so over it today.

She: Ah dude that sucks :( Was she looking at you when she said it, like trying to see your reaction? Was she just over-partied out cos of writing the invitations etc?
It sucks that you're the bad cop (I'm guessing?) Because you're sooooo a good cop. The type we need as police commish cos you won't be corrupt. The type who won't go out to Sizzler when there are bushfires. (eluding to this, for if you're not within Australia, you won't get the reference, I daresay)

Me: That just made me cryyyyyyyyy more! You know when you've been crying and your eyes hurt and then something makes you laugh, so you laugh sort of like a crazy person and then you cry again because the act of laughing after the big cry makes you remember you've been.... crying?

THAT, dear reader(s), is why good friends are worth their weight in gold. I feel mucho better and snapped out of it.

And when you get around to reading this.... Much obliged, my good lady friend!

(but can I just say, again, in very small, small print: SQUEEEEE! A publisher!????!!!)

Titanic Sunday

I'm about to head off to the museum to visit the Titanic Exhibition. And I am full of anticipation and, I admit, a bit nervous because I know I am going to get really emotional.

I cannot quite express how obsessed I have been all my life with the Titanic - I mean, just deeply, respectfully, humbly interested and concerned, not rooms-full-of-crazy with replicas of the ship or third class passengers or life boats or anything creepy like that.

Would you believe, I actually sourced this image from a website that recommended it as a "Fun idea" for a gift. Ho-ho-ho....

I will never see the 'umour to be had in making light of human (or any living thing) tragedy and suffering. Never ever ever. Mind you, my one exception is the now seemingly endless/timeless "I'm the Kinga tha Werrrrld" ridiculing of 'Titanic' Director, do I even have to tell you his name James Cameron.

Nor would I ever be seen at any tribute stage shows ("Titanic - The Musical" is not on my bucket list).

Steve keeps singing to me this morning, "Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip..." and I have to admit, I have been chuckling at that, despite myself. Not that the Titanic even fits the description of a "tiny ship" leaving from a tropic port for a three hour tour.

Some may say I'm caught up in the romanticism of it (neh, I don't think so), or the rubbernecking "value" (ummm.... maybe a little, but it's not the driving force of my interest in the disaster). I've thought about it from time to time over the years and certainly in the past 48 hours since discovering the exhibition is on from this month until October and I reckon what it is, is purely a deep connection to the human element. Imagining myself in a life boat watching that enormous stern rise up out of the water. Then also imagining myself surrounded by other doomed, screaming or silent souls as we plunge into the water. Unfathomable, consuming, suffocating grief and tragedy. Not that I am a ghoul about that part of it - shit, I've had enough of my own unfathomable, consuming, suffocating grief and tragedy that I don't go looking for more of it. But there's something almost symmetrical in that same emotion that I think I now recognise and can instantly connect with.

So on the trip to the museum today, I wanted to have as much time to freely browse (and cry, I know I'm gonna need tissues, for I am a sap) and honour the stories I'm going to come across. I made a vow to myself that I would NOT take the LGBB and, if he was not so interested, I was also not going to take my other whiner in galleries - the husband. I was fully prepared to go by myself and thought, there was only one friend in Melbourne I could think of who would take an equally leisurely amount of time to blubber and read, snivel and be surprised and amazed.

Yesterday, those friends came to lunch. And without me even needing to bring it up, she mentioned the same thing: that she was going by herself if she had to, because she knew it didn't (sorry) float her husband's boat.

So we're going together. In about 15 minutes! Sheet, better go get ready. Such a crisp, sunny clear day here in Melbourne. A stark contrast to that dark, below freezing cold night in 1912.

Heeeere, book-book-book

I received a most humbling email of praise for my book recently.

Rather unexpectedly, I have enlisted an old friend, one of my very very dearest (and a writerly sort herself, with technical wiz on the structure of sentences and whatnot), to read my latest book draft. She is making her way through, chapter by chapter, as I feed them to her. It seems it might make for a more hungry reader!

It's so wonderful - you are writing a book! A book about your experience. I'll tell you one thing - your first chapter - and the words - had that contageous energy that you have, that you've always had. That energy you project. The words grabbed me, gripped me and threw me into a space of yours and then my own... Brilliant.

Gah-dang...nabbit. I HAVE to finish this juggernaut if it kills me!

A lasting legacy

To all those in Australia, I'd like to bring your attention to the first episode of Backyard Blitz, which airs at 6.30pm on Sunday February 28th.

When you watch it, you'll be seeing a number of things. Firstly, you'll see one of the dearest, most supportive friends to ever grace my life (she's the one who has warned me is the "token emotional crying chick" on the episode going to air - and with good reason). She is Lisa, one of the mothers involved in Hills' Angels, a mothers group that has gone on their own blitz to bring in donations for one of the mothers in their group. You can read the smallest little snippet of Hilarie's story here.

Secondly, you'll be meeting Hilarie. A woman whom I have prayed for, cried for, worried about over the duration of 2009 via Lisa, and just all-round sent very gentle energy to, despite never having met her (I didn't even know what Hilarie looked like until I saw the full ad for the tv show's return during our weekly family televisual feast, Funniest Home Videos... oh, how I adore to see Lolly slap her thigh at all the "funny dog ones", as she calls them).

Thirdly, you'll be seeing the logo I created for this unspeakably generous and phenomenal group of women. My breath caught in my throat when I saw them all wearing their matching uniforms, with the little familiar halo that seemed to fall out of nowhere and come together so beautifully last year after they approached me to "see what you can come up with". In the most miniscule, smallest of ways, I feel like I have contributed something and I am so very proud to be part of what these selfless friends are doing for one of their own.



For, you see, the other thing you will see is that Hilarie has a terminal brain tumour. She also has a young son. And a husband. A family trying to cope with the sheer enormity of what their future will bring. And how they will survive the day to day, let alone the crushing weight of the grief that is to come. I can't even bring myself to think about it...

This amazing group of women - a mothers group I'd be more than proud to say I am in (I've had little luck in this area) - have now become a fully fledged charity group. Raising funds for Hilarie's son, Hadley.

So I will be watching, as many others of Australians, on Sunday night. And I wanted to give you all a heads-up. A bit more of a human 3-degrees of separation insight into this story.

I also want to urge anyone who can help or sponsor this support group in any way to contact them (info@hills-angels(d0t)com(d0t)au) and make yourselves known, please.

This is one exceptionally good cause.