The 'F' word...

Let me know how you feel when you read these quotes:

I love my father as the stars - he's a bright shining example and a happy twinkling in my heart. ~Adabella Radici


There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself. ~John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery, 1994

If you're like me you'll roll your eyes and mutter, "Yeah, right...".


But, occasionally I come across people - often through blogs, and quite possibly through fictional movies... - who have a great relationship with their dad! And I'm amazed. I can't quite comprehend it. I mean, my dad isn't a bastard, some evil horrid person. He just was never much interested in me. No cuddles or advice; no warm support. Mum would have to pester him to spend time with me. So, no warm-and-fuzzies like some people seem to have. No strong, reliable or emotionally connected head-of-family.

The other day, on the phone to my mum, I mentioned to her that I was starting to wonder if other people actually had 'real' dads. You know, how dads are supposed to be: Loving, supportive, spend time with you and are interested in you, create a safe place for you. You feel he's someone strong and caring who you can rely on and... well... he's someone who obviously loves you. You are special and have an important place in his heart. I told mum I was beginning to be suspicious that these men actually existed. She said no way. She couldn't fathom that at all. Obviously a completely foreign concept to her too.


So, as it's stuck in my head, I thought I'd put it out there to you lot and see if any of you feel you have a wonderful dad. You know, one with all the good stuff! Or, do you know of any in existence?
I find it hard to believe... but, I just have to ask!






The place of the father in the modern suburban family is a very small one, particularly if he plays golf. ~Bertrand Russell

[This has also come up because someone recently pointed out to me what I'd been missing from my father - as if these nice, fatherly things could have and should have been provided. What the...! Really? And also because I'm reading A. S. Byatt's 'The Shadow of the Sun' which has a similarly distant father.]

B is for...?

The budget may be requiring "tough decisions" (and no bunnies out of bonnets), but surely there are also tough decisions for voters of Big Brother housemates'!*

Yes. I have just watched almost an entire episode of Big Mouth. Never managed to watch one of its previous incarnations as BB Up Late (the only snippets I caught once were of males bragging about female prey they had caught: "Yeah, mate. She really wanted me." etc, etc, with details too gory to repeat. That was enough for me.) But, of course, tonight Paul McDermott and I are too excited to sleep on Budget Eve (yes, I saw a bit of Good News Week too, oh the shame of admitting to all this Channel 10 viewing when surely you'd pictured me permanently glued to good ol' wholesome Aunty/ABC (with a bit of oh-so-raunchy SBS on the side... (and I'm just talking about the banter between its news hosts (riveting!)))).


Anyway, in case you missed it, here's some highlights:


One guest was Angela Conway from the Australian Family Association. (Egad, I'm yawning just typing that!) Yes, the audience was as thrilled as you would expect (and yes, this show has an audience - grown men did 'woo hoo!' in a loud and exuberant fashion). Being a kind of expert she confidently explained that it was 'not suitable' to put 17 year old Corey on the show because it has 'put him in the spotlight'. Yes. Poor Corey. By getting an agent and organising an 'east coast party tour', you know, which he had to 'postpone' due to 'media commitments', you could tell that he's really been trying to avoid that spotlight thing.



Another guest was newly-evicted Saxon. Oh, Saxon. Gosh. Won't you be missed. He looks like beefy, tattooed Popeye but with a Kewpie Doll head.

It's lovely to know that he's changed from being a bigoted skinhead to a... uh... ummm....


Well, anyway... In the house he brightened up the conversations:

Saxon: "I was like, so close to getting a swastika tattooed on me"
Flabbergast housemate: "Shut u-u-up!"
Saxon: "Yeah man. ... Full on lucky I didn't..."


Also re housemate Dixie - rather musically: "Baa baa fat chick, Dixie is a fool."


Just endearing really.


Thankfully Dixie, although often whingey, has some sense occasionally: "I'm in a house with a bunch of fuckwits."

Indeed...



Saxon also seriously and quite cleverly pointed out to the female host (Rebecca Wilson? who knows... the hosts are that engaging they're near invisible) re his 'cheeky' behaviour with the lads: "It's what boys do. I mean you're a woman, you should understand that."

Uh... yeah...


And what would this BB show be without some nudity (...well, non-existent one would guess)! So, we get to perve *cringes* on narcissistic Rory stripping off to flaunt his manhood (and I use the term 'man' oh so generously) next to Dixie. "You happy you saw dick Dixie?" Not getting quite the reaction he'd hoped for: "I don't want to see your penis. You're like my brother." (Uh, pre-pubescent?)


Other sexual areas of discussion include housemates revealing exciting locales of their (either few or hyperbolically numerous) sexual exploits. And when I say exciting...

I don't mean it.


The panelists also define Nathan (who apparently is quite the honey... but I have (and I proudly admit this) not watched enough of Big Brother to even confidently identify who Nathan is, so this quality of his has gone entirely unrecognised) as "a cryer". Yes. The women have obviously pondered upon him in a profound fashion during their quiet moments and have concluded that he would be the type to cry after sex.

...!


Had enough yet?

But I haven't told you how one guest described 'old nanna' Terri!: "She's no Madonna." (No kiddin'.)

And that the panelists, although they hated Corey to start with, now think he's "a really nice kid"! (Although, one of them was momentarily sensible: "Throwing things at Corey sounds like a great way to spend time!")

Or even how they liked Ben at the start, cause he was all intelligent and that, but now they see there might be a 'dark side' to Ben, that he's 'a bit NQR' (yep. she said 'NQR'. obviously up to speed with the youth of today. impressive.) and that he's actually "not a very nice person... not a very lovely boy". Oh gosh, oh dear. Could that be due to comments such as (re very-blonde Brigette, and in front of very-blonde Brigitte): "I was surprised that a girl with her looks had only been tapped once."

Well, as one half of the barely noticeable hosts said: "You've gotta be completely shallow."

Indeed. And splashing in the shallow end can be somewhat useful when you've been overloaded with depressing news (personal and global) along with the very wonderful and important but even more depressing Four Corners.
So 'on ya!' empty-headed entertainment and the momentarily distracting triviality of Big Bother Brother (look, Brigette is weeping uncontrollably cause she can't wear her own clothes! Oh my!)! And, as Big Mouth concluded:

"VOTE EARLY! VOTE OFTEN!!!"

* Yes. A Big Brother post. Oh!!! Will the (whatever is remaining) dignity of my blog ever survive!?!!!!!

5 things meme (with pictures!!)

The lovely Ariel has tagged me for a meme. Apparently it's for those of us who are random and weird...
Oh... no. Sorry. It's actually for telling 5 random or weird facts about yourself.


The rules of this meme are:
Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
Share 5 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
Tag 5 people at the end of your post by leaving their names, and links to their blogs.
Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.


Right then. These are the facts:


1. I'm someone who needs time on my own more than I need time with other people. I've known lots of people that hate being alone, and some can't even stand silence. I'm content with quiet; it doesn't bother me. Unlike others who say they'd go nuts without company, I think I would go nuts if I never had time alone... which is probably why living on my own suits me so much. I love it!


2. I watch motorbike races; MotoGP.
I have been exposed to a fair bit of motorsport over the years due to various boyfriends, but it's only been the MotoGP that's stuck (I can do without the F1 cars or the V8s).

That I like the GP is probably partly due to Valentino Rossi. He's been the champion rider for years and is very entertaining on and off the track - quite a personality and an exciting rider. (Hmm, this doesn't sound suggestive at all does it?)

Of course last year it was Aussie rider, Casey Stoner, who took the championship off Rossi. So it's been even better to watch.



3. I have a small, private collection of etchings... Would you like to see them?
Sorry. I meant to say: I have a small collection of other people's photos and postcards. They are all decades old and I just find them beautiful and romantic somehow. And a bit mysterious. Have bought them in market stalls and from unusual people at swap meets.

Here are some from the 1920s and 30s. Just click to enlarge them:

Florence postcard, front and back (a few ghosts in this one):


Who are these people? The first one says on the back it is Joe and Peter in 1932.

(Obviously not on a good day...)

These are a bit more picturesque:



And another postcard, front and back:




4. I also love owning old books. I love them all aesthetically most of all, but many for their content too, like Keats' poetry and letters. And the much outdated content of the volumes of 'The Popular Educator':


For example:

"In searching for a record of the process of creation, we naturally turn our attention to that only Book the human library contains which did not emanate from the mind of man. But [in] the Bible... we only find the sacred historian dedicating a few verses to the subject of 'the creation of the world'. Yet we may rest assured that, although the short notice only touches the prominent points, yet every word is true; and the more science has discovered, the more has she proved to be the commentator and unfolder of the great truths contained in those few words.
...Explorers now in every part of the world collect information, and every right-minded man rests assured that in the end Scripture will not be contradicted, but confirmed."

Religious Education, right? No. This is under the heading "Lessons in Geology - I". Yes, 'Educator' indeed.

In case you're interested there are also lessons in Arithmetic, Hydrostatics, Greek, Italian, Latin, German, Geometrical Perspective, Algebra, Botany (eg. Anacardiaceae: 'Flowers ordinarily dicecious by abortion... petals inserted upon a perigynous disc... imbricated in aestivation...' Don't fret people. Spell-check doesn't know what these words mean either.), Readings in French, Lessons in Shorthand, Music, Architecture, Recreative Natural History (where we learn about stages in the metamorphosis of various crabs for example), Historical Sketches, Our Holiday (which includes Athletic Sports, with diagrams: 'Fig. 1 - Running')... I think you get the idea.

There's also Comparative Anatomy, a game boys have always been fond of (after they're shown you their etchings).


5. I lived in the US when I was a kid.

When I came back to a new Australian primary school - after having been well-educated in acquiring a perfect American accent in a US elementary school (only took me 2 weeks) - I found I was a freak. No one had an accent of any kind in this school, possibly not even Kiwi. So at recess I would be in the middle of the school yard with the majority of the student body surrounding me shouting 'Say something! Say something!'.
'Uh, what do you want me to say?'
'Ahahahahahahahaha! Say something else!'
'What?'
'Say rollerskates!'
'Uh... Rollerrrskates'
'Ah-hahahahahahaha!! Say something else!'
and on and on...

Of course, after the above treatment, I tried frantically to get my Aussie accent back - and succeeded, and thankfully stopped getting mobbed.

Oh, but they all decided I was a bit strange and possibly a bit thick as in addition to my freaky way of speaking, I had learnt a different method of long division (of course I was successful at it, but that didn't mean I was allowed to do it that way!) and had never learnt netball (only baseball, softball, indoor hockey... not much use). So me, the American freak.

Many of these kids who continued on to the same high school later could never be convinced I was Australian.

-----

I will now politely tag (ie. don't have to do it if you don't want!) The Blakkat, Mai, Wyn Richards, Davey (cause you're all a bit weird and random... *heh*) and Rosanna (who, of course, is Practically Perfect)!

Easter reflections

Today is Good Friday, and the weather is fine - the brightest blue sky you've ever seen - and I can't recall where I was when I heard my grandmother had been taken to hospital.

She was a devout Catholic, but had a wicked sense of humour. Fittingly, she felt ill when at church watching The Stations of the Cross which was always performed by students of my former primary school. I say 'fittingly' not because one always feels unwell at church, and especially so if having to sit through students clumsily reenacting Christ's crucifixion whilst a giant (probably plaster or plastic) and pained looking Jesus views from the wall above, but because she suffered on the same day as the Lord.

She was in a coma in intensive care on the Friday and Saturday, and the day the Lord rose to heaven so did she.

I was 15 at the time and have memories of the hospital, and the waiting room, and fellow family members, and myself, very upset... but I can't remember where I was when I heard that she was in hospital. A couple of years earlier and I likely would have been at church with her.

I can remember where I was when I heard Princess Diana died. I can remember where I was when, watching live, planes flew into the Twin Towers. I can remember where I was when the Boxing Day tsunami happened. But I can't remember where I was when I heard that my beloved, healthy, vibrant, and strong grandmother was in intensive care.

Perhaps some things are just too close to home to remember, to want to remember.

Anyway, although I can recall the date she died, it is always at Easter that I remember her even more than usual. She figured that one out pretty well. No forgetting Easter.

Of course she was not forgettable. Not at all. My life would have been hugely lacking if it weren't for her. At least I remember that.

Lemons

Am a bit stuck re anything to blog about lately. I apologise.

I could let you know about plants I've bought and put in my garden and all those sorts of things but I think that's pretty dull to most people (anyone else get excited about heliotrope? the flowers smell like vanilla...! anyone? anyone...?).


I could share with you how when listening to the cricket, I get distracted by such remarks as 'he bowled a maiden over' and how they shouldn't expose their stumps: I ponder the absolute truth of this... especially in regard to Shane Warne.


I could tell you about the new gigantic air freshner that's making my home smell beautifully - yet somewhat inexplicably - of jasmine green tea. It's kinda retro. My neighbour's lemon tree was a bit clumsily trimmed. Now if only I can get it to ripen its fruit...


I could tell you how I'm not so interested in my crush anymore. He tends to make disparaging comments about the fairer sex. Tsk.

See? Nothing really of interest.

I could instead tell you of my increasingly abstruse philosophically inclined interior analysis of my self and my life which is not only becoming richer but simultaneously more simple as I learn to analyse less and let go more, and leads to epiphanies of a more practical nature which in turn heads things in a more positive direction which is good, although the letting go of thinking so much part is a little scary as who am I without that!? But it's OK because everything in moderation and all that, and it's good to learn not to take everything to the extreme and relax a bit more, trust yourself and allow life to flow...


So, I could tell you these things, just to get a post written, but I don't think I'll bother you with it...

Ever chased a rabbit?

...Or should I say, ever chased a young and sprightly bunny which you are temporarily babysitting and so cannot afford to lose whilst the lawnmower man is attempting to get in the gate to your back yard?

Ever grabbed said cute, fluffy bundle from beneath a prickly Black Boy only to have it kick and scratch its way out of your arms in a haze of floating bits of fur? Then, standing to chase after it, soundly cracking your cranium against a branch as you dazedly wave to the gent at the gate and ineffectively point in the direction of the disappearing bunny...

Eventually giving in and just ensuring the bundle of joy does not escape each time the lawnmower man comes in and out the gate with one noisy bit of masculine machinery after another... (Also having warned the manicuring gent not to trim the outer garment of your newly acquired pet which is, by the way, nowhere to be found.)

When the lawnmower man has finally left in a rattling, green blur have you returned to the yard to see said bunny out of hiding and happily relaxing in the garden as if there has been no fuss whatsoever? Dragging your nerves inside and, although it's quite uncharacteristic and you've yet to have lunch, hastily break the seal on a six pack of 'Cowboy' shots, wrench one out and shakily throw it's heavenly, soothing milky and alcoholic contents down your throat?



No?




Well, you know... just wondering...




Said fluffy bundle eating flowers off young seedlings:


















Bunny hiding under Black Boy and cranial injuring culprit above:























ho ho *hic* ho...


...

notes

Devolving: Noticed today that my nail polish perfectly matches my rubies. Impressive eh? I figure now all I need is a sugar daddy.*

Cognitive leitmotifs: For some reason the phrase raison d'etre keeps popping into my head. For about a year now I have had the phrase give me a reason pop into my head too... Guess I'm sticking to the theme but changing the languages.
I suppose next will be motivo vivere...?

Musical rivalries: The butcherbirds seem to be in vocal competition with the mudlarks in my garden. Butcherbirds have a pretty full-on call but mudlarks are rather shrill so it's hard to say who's winning.
They're both wearing the same team colours so I don't think it's too serious.

Swinger: Only a butcherbird seems to have discovered the sunflower seeds so far. He or she picks through them (a vego phase?) and then happily sits in the centre of the feeder hanging from the tree.
Not really what I had in mind but it's progress nonetheless.

Passionate plantings: Have planted some nice shrubs and moved some young Bird of Paradise plants to a more suitable locale. Seedlings I've planted so far are pale lilac petunias, berry coloured verbena and some double white impatiens to brighten up the shady spots.
Am happily planning where the herb garden will go and was ecstatic to recently discover a beautiful mint-scented shrub with purple blooms. I nearly cuddled it with joy but Bunnings was kind of busy at the time.

Next: Am feeling more excited about the coming year than I have in a long time. Perhaps the guy at the pub, who said he was a gypsy and read my palm, was right. New things are on the way. Of course I told him that could be true for anyone.
He later asked me to come back to his place for dinner and 'a video'. I declined and later wondered: what kind of 'video'...


*Yes, this revelation did involve much rolling of the eyes.

(pic of mudlark from here)

Sun sets one last time

Am sitting here watching the sun set over the golf course whilst a mother walks her children through the 'power' sprinklers. They're running round and chasing each other with a few squeals of punctuation.
The world was coloured pink a moment ago, but now it's getting dark with just some orange and yellow tints upon the horizon.

It's my last night staying here so I'm savouring the view, the trees and the birds (would you believe I feel really mean taking their bird bath away from them?). My inclination to admire the view and read some of my book has been greatly enhanced by my dad's help with the packing, as the set top box and aerial are well packed away... and the stereo.

Anyway, this post is just to let you know that I may be kinda unreliable for a while as I don't have phone or broadband set up in the new place yet. Attempted to set up an account today but my phone died before I got to speak to anyone (a half hour on hold will do that...). The other company I rang were that flat out I had to leave a message so they could call me back (yet to happen). Oh, and I rang the gas company today but no one was there except for a recorded lady telling me they were all at training. All. of. them. I offered to keep her company but she hung up on me too. Talk about feeling snubbed!

Hmm. A kookaburra just started laughing...


(Sunset pic from unsanity.)

Schoolyard boys

Mai has a story of when she broke a boy's arm at school. I was reminded of this recently and recalled that I too broke a guy's arm at school. Although I'll admit I was less hands-on than Mai (who is quite the formidable opponent). Was no 'hands-on' at all actually.

I was going to elementary school in the US at the time. The boy whose arm I was to break sat next to me in my Year Three class. His name was Chad. Yes, seriously.

Anyway, Chad had the hots for me. It was so serious that he gave me scratch n' sniff stickers. The good ones too, like grape. The attention was nice at first but then it got creepy. He would follow me all day, keep trying to talk to me or touch me. Every time I looked around he'd be nearby and staring at me. I think he even stole from my lunch box and followed me home from school.

It got so that I felt sick at the thought of going to school and tried to get out of it. I'd try the stomachache approach - cause I really did have one I was that anxious. And then came the tears but they were real too cause I was shit scared.

Neither worked.

Mum didn't understand why I didn't want to go. If I'd known all that grown-up, handy stuff called 'wisdom' and 'experience' I'd have said, 'Cause I'm being stalked by a maniac loser called Chad!!!'. But for some reason I was unable to get my point across.

Fortunately, it turned out that Chad's eagerness to impress me solved my problem. The school playground had a great, towering jungle gym. A high metal structure made of lots of crossed over poles so it looked like lots of cubes [see pic but imagine it, you know, without the birds].

Anyway, I recall walking past this contraption set on the sawdust that is abundant in US playgrounds (on the west coast in the 80s at least). Ol' Chad had climbed up to the top with his mates and was intent on showing off. He was doing some sort of daredevil contortion hanging off the side of it whilst looking down at me to see if I was impressed with his grand display of acting like an utter monkey.

I believe I thought something along the lines of, 'That idiot, I hope he falls off', turned my head and heard THUD, 'Aah!'. I looked back to see Chad covered in sawdust and holding his arm. He started crying. Chad really wasn't doing a good job of impressing me.

I believe it was not only me but Chad too who considered this my fault. He still looked at me after that but kept his distance and it was more of a scowl than his previous puppy-dog look.

I don't recall him staying at the school for much longer either.

Hopefully it taught him to desist with his stalkerish ways!

-----

I'll admit I wasn't the toughest kid in elementary school but I did enjoy a bit of a tumble with the boys (the cute ones - still do).

My favourite game was when they would come and chase me and grab me - after I slowed down so they could catch me of course. The boy or boys would then pin my arm up behind my back in a half nelson and roughly escort me back to their hide out, ie. some isolated, grotty corner of the school grounds. They never hurt me cause my arms are quite long and flexible but I acted like it hurt of course, all part of the game acting helpless and such.

Not surprisingly, back at the hide out I would soon escape. The boys seemed a little relieved at this as they likely didn't really know what to do with me. A bit of a fight to escape was always fun too.

And then of course they'd catch me again...

-----

Now these boys giving me half nelsons were my friends. When I had a real fight it was only with my true enemies. The creepy boys who would call you names or pull your hair, laugh when you walked past or, horrors, make faces at you. These boys I usually kicked in the shins.

I recall there was one boy who did all this but was quite keen on me all the same. He wouldn't let me alone but I was pretty tough by now and fiercely held his soft little-boy hand and dug my thumbnail deep into the top of it. I did this each time I saw him. Scary eh? Although I stopped after he begged me. And I saw he had a dozen or more fierce looking scabs on his hand. And he was looking sad and scared. Poor boy. (I wonder if they scarred.)


Mind you it worked, he stopped bugging me. Took the hint. (Now why didn't I try that with my last boyfriend when he persisted after I ended it?... I suppose because his big hairy man-hands are pretty tough. *sigh* Life was much simpler when I was eight.)

-----

The fight I best remember at elementary school was one of those proper 'fights to end all fights' with my main male enemy. No more little skirmishes, it had to be decided once and for all. This fight was arranged formally by time and place. Yes, serious stuff.

We each had two friends with us as support. We faced off in the sawdust playground... And I kicked the shit out of him until he was flat on the ground.

Yay! I won!

I turned and began walking to my equally happy friends... whose faces suddenly fell just before I was shoved hard in the back. Bam! Down I went. And that stupid creep laughed and guffawed his head off like he'd won. Loser.

Cheat.


Dumb boys.


-----

You all have similar schoolyard tales, yes?

...
...

NICE GUYS

I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it. - William Faulkner

I'm always hearing how the nice guy never 'gets' the girl. I understand why this appears to be so. I've gone out with both the creeps and the nice guys.

In my life experience the nice guys have also been the creeps; they were just appearing to be nice, cause that's how they got by in the world. They're known as 'good old such and such', everyone likes them. And this is how they get away with being manipulative and controlling.

I chose to go out with (and then m-m-m... really commit to) a particular 'nice guy' particularly because he was a 'nice guy'. (Really he was not nice, more of a con man because he was actually heartless and controlling. See? Creep!) But, I thought I was being smart. I wasn't going to make that mistake again of going for the other type, the tougher or meaner guy. Of course, I thought they were nice too at first, but I was aware they had other sides to them too. Rough around the edges. Sometimes these rough edges were exciting. So I suppose it could be true that we often see 'the nice guy' as bland or dull...?



Many women don't think enough of themselves to be with a truly nice guy. We often have such a low opinion of ourselves that it would be just plain crazy to be with a guy who sincerely thinks we're great and of value. He must be nuts to look at us as special! What's wrong with him!!? So, this is often why we end up with the less-than-nice guy. He will perhaps say nice things to us - and we all want that - but really he knows our worth is less than his. We know our place and he does too.

In addition to, or instead of this, I think we pick the not-so-great guy because, well, us ladies are nurturers. We might see a guy's flaws but instead of thinking, 'Oh, this guy really needs to work on himself before he's any good for a relationship. He can't take care of himself at all. He. has. got. issues!'... We will instead think: 'Oh, isn't he sweet? He can't even take care of himself! What the poor love must have gone through... what pain he must be in! He needs my love... etc, etc.)'


Why do we do this? Again, I'm guessing it's cause we feel it gives us some worth, we feel needed. We are useful. And we are most useful of course, to the guys who are the biggest wrecks. (Of course these guys just lap it up, let us do all the work in the relationship and they never 'evolve' or 'heal' - instead it's the girl who begins to fall in a hole. And! Then! the nice guys look at this and think, 'Why is she wasting herself on that piece of shit?! I would never treat her like that!! etc, etc.')


Another reason we may go for the creep (who obviously has a heart of gold under there somewhere, he just need us to help him find it...) is because he may appear to be more exciting and/or more interesting.



Of course, all of this can come under the heading: Women who have been messed up by Daddy. Fathers have a massive impact on their daughters. Once I understood this, so much of my own 'stuff' became clearer.

What I'm saying is we find guys like 'daddy', men who will treat us as poorly as our fathers did. Firstly because that is what we know, is all we know of men, so anything else doesn't really turn-up on our radar. Secondly it's because by (unconsciously) putting ourselves through the same shit again we eventually learn how to get ourselves out of it. [Eg. one of my issues with my father is that he neglected me, he wasn't 'present' in the relationship, so I've found men (even when deliberately picking 'the nice guy'!) who will also ignore me and are not present in the relationship; so by going through that over and over I eventually learn that I deserve better and see that just because 'daddy' neglected me doesn't mean I am worthy of neglect, and learn to develop self-worth, etc, yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah...]


Anyway...


I've been thinking that, apart from the above (which everyone already knows), some nice guys perhaps are often less attractive to women because we sense they don't have a richness of spirit. Yeah, some guys are just plain shallow and dumb. That makes sense. No, not just that, what I'm getting at is that maybe we sense there isn't enough depth to some of these men. And this is important because us wonderful women, complex creatures that we are, want someone who will dare to take the time and make the effort to delve into and understand our depths, our complex nature.

This surely sounds dumb to many of you and maybe I'm not putting it very well, but I'm learning more lately about the nature of women. We have more than one side to us. We don't want to be understood merely on our social or shallow level; at face value only. We want a partner to be unafraid to see our darker side; to dare to peer into our inner world.


Of course many women, with some dark and sad issues still to deal with, would also want to avoid this type of man cause she may be fearing these aspects of herself and doesn't want to be with someone who might see them.


But still, I like this idea cause I think it can go both ways (see, now you're getting excited!). It's more about people being ready to really get to know someone else in a relationship. To be profound enough in their own life, understanding their self and selves, so that they can dare to see these darker or deeper sides of someone else.



So, maybe it's not about whether a guy is nice or not. Maybe it's just waiting for the person - this goes for men and women - who has delved through their own issues, their own shit, and got their act together enough that they're not afraid to delve into the depths of their own nature. And by being open to their own complexities they are willing to make the effort to see and understand someone else's. To dare to know someone's true nature; even with all its wildness and paradoxes. It can be scary and take some time and effort. Most of us can't be bothered with that or are too frightened.




Anyway, I've rambled on enough. I guess nice guys just have to understand that a lot of us lasses are too down on ourselves to accept someone who values them. And us lasses have to understand that a lot of guys are too messed up to be good for us, or beyond 'saving'.
So, in between, must be the souls that have done their hard work and sorted themselves out enough to be ready to really have a relationship. I suppose it needs two such people to come together for a deeper and profound connection to take place. By then we should have learnt enough about our own flaws and how to accept them, so that we can do that for someone else. ...Learned to accept that we are complex creatures but worth understanding, so that we can then do that for someone else. And on and on, etc.



Well, anyway, I want someone who is a - genuinely - nice guy but who also has great courage and depth too. And to be damn interesting! Some nice guys only have one side to them. I want to see all sides, and I want him to even know about all his sides. And I want him to be interested enough in me to take the time to get to know all of my complexities too, my wilder sides and all that. (And I'm hoping I won't settle for anything less.)



Jeez, that makes sense doesn't it?

[/end mushy ravings]

I know the answer! The answer lies within the heart of all mankind! The answer is twelve? I think I'm in the wrong building. - Charles M. Schulz

Just wondering...

1. Is it normal to have vodka and ice cream for dinner?

2. Is it common to feel the urge to puke when those dreary slow-motion ads for Idol come on the telly? Ie. effect is esp. bad when slow pan is of a dazed Marcia Hines and *urk* hollow-headed Kyle *imph gak*. (I mean really, is there anything behind those vacant eyes of his? He seems to be rather low on the ladder of evolution. Methinks this may be his soul's first incarnation.)

3. Is it acceptable to collect your mail but not get around to opening it for several days?

4. Is it usual to wish we could all go about our daily business wearing a different wig - hopefully colourful or flamboyant - each day if we so wanted without people creating a fuss about it? Or burst into song as we walk down the street if we so choose? Or suddenly dance with a stranger as one waits for the train?

5. Is it normal, when waiting in a long and quiet line in the bank, to have the overwhelming desire to loudly pronounce, 'WELL!!! We're a quiet lot then aren't we??! Isn't this DULL??!! Anyone want to start a sing-a-long while we're waiting??! Shall I begin..?'

6. Is it normal to find this amusing...





















Or is it just me?




Just wondering is all...


...

Surprise, surprise, surprise...

Reminiscence: The Sundays, ‘Here’s Where the Story Ends’
(Ahh, don’t it just take you back…).

Right, so, here’s where the cheery story ends. Enough false bravado - life sucks (not that this is news, and hardly eloquent, but anyway… blunt can be good…).

It's tough being EB lately. I won’t go into the untidy details of the woe that is me. I’ll just explain that one of the things which brought this tough patch into my life was someone offering me something nice and being quite generous!

Sorry, that just doesn't work with me.

It made me so upset that I've had to ask them to never bring it up again (and therefore 'no' to their offer - well, not even offer, just plain 'gift').


Does anyone else have trouble receiving? Do you, dear reader, come apart at the seams and cry from a deep, ancient, retched grief within when someone is lovingly kind to you? And does this reaction make sense to anyone? I understand it a bit, but it's all so deep and abstruse it's not worth going into.
Basically… practically speaking, it's result is that I am unable to receive. So, universe, don't give me love or anything of importance as I just fall to pieces.

Anyhoo, it's nice to have some clarity upon my reality. (Look, it can’t be all bad - I’m rhyming!) At least now I can deal with my limitations up front. And who knows, with further clarity things might improve. But in the meantime, I recognise the need to keep anything good at arm's length; I know that this way my seams will stay tight and secure.
Paradox: Realizing how dead I am, I feel the most alive.

All is well really. Life’s both sweet and sour, etc... *hums a happy tune*

“so I cynically, cynically say, the world is that way
surprise, surprise, surprise…”

Ah, see, you never know where I'll go with this blog! One day it's all trivial quiz-mania and blondeness, and the next emotional trauma and despair! Oh, hooray for variety eh? (No? Oh well.)

A kitteh a day keeps the darkness at bay… or something like that… eh! whatever…

If you’re feeling a bit like this:





And are in need of some warm and fuzzy, then I’ve found the site for you. It’s called ‘The Daily Kitten’.



Just warm, fuzzy, cuddly wuvley goodness.






*Awww*

Happy Thoughts (the cheery post)

When I was a wee lass I would sometimes sleep-over at my grandparents’ on the weekend. This was referred to as staying at Nanna’s, as Pop was almost a non-entity. Regardless, his mere silence could be quite powerful. No one wanted to upset Pop - he was raised in police barracks and later trained men in the army. You never sat in Pop’s chair, never got in the way of ABC evening news, and never made a ‘peep’ when Pop had his afternoon nap. Never.

Nanna and I would happily pass the time playing games such as Yahztee, Ludo, rummy; or if my cousins came by, 21/Pontoon. We would bet with matches and could sometimes get quite rowdy. (Note: none of us suffer from gambling addictions in adulthood – although, scarily, one has been known to frequent Bingo halls.)

Do not assume my grandmother was the type to let the kiddies win. No, indeed Nanna was overjoyed to thrash us at a game. She would confidently tease, eyes twinkling: ‘I’m gonna beat you!’ (If it was Chinese Checkers, she was right; she always beat me.) Even with simple games like Ludo she would thump her piece along the squares, happily stomping it on top of yours, ‘SMACK!’ sending your man back home. At such moments she would peer over the table with a wicked, mischievous grin. This was no trivial past-time to entertain the kiddies, this was Competition; this was Sport!

She really was great fun my Nanna.

My mother was a good sport at playing games; even would colour-in with me (only child remember). But she had to put up with me praying... Apparently, when losing a game of Dominoes or Go Fish (my cards hidden behind some haphazard shelter because my hands were too small to hold them) I would bow my head, close my eyes and solemnly pray… to win. Mum, being a reasonably devout Catholic at the time, was in a bit of a bind but apparently she usually decided to let me be the victor. (Well, she had told me if I prayed to God He’d help me, so…)

It’s fortunate I haven’t become some kind of con-artist or evil cult-leader after such successes.

If I ever tried that trick on Nanna she surely would’ve bestowed upon me a sneering raised-eyebrow look of, That trick ain’t gonna work on me, kiddo!

In light of the fun and games and flamboyant personality of my grandmother, you may have guessed these are not the same grandparents I have mentioned previously which had scary rules at the dinner table, killer bees, etc. My Nanna didn’t impose proper dining etiquette upon me, quite the opposite. I was spoilt with dinners of heavenly meat pies covered with lashings of tomato sauce and cut up into small triangles. This was placed on a tray, and I was placed in front of the TV. Bliss. And being the wonderful grandmother she was, there was ever the delight of being allowed, even encouraged (!), to indulge in a chocolate-coated ice-cream (they were Home Brand, but still heaven to us grandkids).

The best part of my stay was always the morning. This was then I was well and truly spoilt. Presented before me for breakfast was Rice Bubbles cereal, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. It all essentially ended up being one big bowl of sugar (all good grandmothers know the reverence induced through liberal applications of sugar).

Once I was full of bubbly-sugared goodness I would join Nanna for some fairy stories. We would snuggle up together by the window of her sitting-room and she would invent stories. On cool mornings, she would accompany these tales with illustrations upon the misty window. I would draw too and immerse myself entirely in her world of fairies: sleeping in flowers or atop colourful toadstools, wandering amongst the woods and encountering strange elves and mischievous pixies in their adventures. It was absolute bliss.

Really, I was a very lucky girl.