Joy, relaxation and happiness
Current mood: blissful
Category: Is this real? Goals, Plans, Hopes

 In over two years, I have only spent one night alone. A momentary misunderstanding, an area in our relationship that needed to be brought out into the light of day and dealt with.

But other than that, every night, I have been held in the strongest, safest arms I know. Two bodies that fit perfectly, that move together in unison, and understand each other implicitly.When one rolls over, the other shifts and then wraps themselves around you again.....

When we're apart, we chat by emails. Our last email campaign consisted of nothing but images, no words. We didn't need them. Each knew what the other was saying. The laughter was tangible over the ether......

He makes me cry though. I can't remember the last time anyone had such power over me. Two words, one cross look, and I find myself wanting to bring back his smile, to give him back his happiness. I can't bear to disappoint him, and never would I, nor could I, betray such hard won trust. When he smiles at me, which he does now, often, I can see in the clarity of his eyes, the simplicity of his expression, that his trust has been rebuilt. He believes in me, and believes in my love. He knows that I don't give it lightly, and that what I gave him, so very early in our relationship, was my beating heart, damaged and trusting at the same time.

When we play, we compete, fiercely. When we fight, it is also fierce. But when we make up, it's beyond description. We are proud of the other's intellect, achievements and abilities, of what we can do when we combine our strengths. Neither doubts the other's ability to achieve whatever they want in life, nor would hesitate to help, support and encourage.

Never have I been so content, so blissfully fulfilled and relaxed. To know that he will be there for the rest of my life, and that I have the gift of being able to do the same for him... to recognise his expressions, the colour of his eyes for the indicator of his mood.... to laugh at the same jokes, to turn the pages of the paper at the same time, to move at the same speed through the articles... to stop and read out loud to each other over long lazy beachfront breakfasts.....

Sometime, very early on, we agreed that there are probably no "one true loves" in life, that there are a number of people who could be the right partner.... but I think I've found my perfection.

Love you Will XXX

9:40 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Life, living, love.....
Current mood: happy
Category: Goals, Plans, Hopes

Ah leave, glorious leave. Holidays, sabbaticals, soujourns, vacations or trysts… call them what you will. They are a time for doing whatever you want. Time for sleeping in. Time for crosswords and quizzes and long lazy games of Scrabble. Time for walking to school with your child, and picking him up afterwards for a bike ride. Time for cooking long and slow delicious meals and digging in the garden.

Time to cook properly, garnishing with fragrant herbs from the garden. Time to clean up the cobwebs and exhume the contents of the fridge. I've matched up all the odd socks. I've found out what the cause of the smell was in the boy's bedroom. I've been under his bed with the can of air freshener, the rubber gloves and the really long barbecue tongs. I've even delved into my own untidy drawers of tangled bras and knickers, odd hankies and the cake of (once) scented soap in the corner have been organised with military precision…. First time I've ever been able (however, not inclined) towards coordinating my socks and knickers…

Anyway, I think my unusual and fervent burst of domestic deism is a perfectly normal allergic reaction to an overexposure to corporate life. I liked my job, loved it even on many occasions, but I'm glad it's over. The boardroom is pretentious, the company boring and the language ridiculous. Why say it in English when you can put it in corporate-speak? I learned the jargon, I did the job well, I got my rewards but… from press releases and promotional artwork to account management? Whose brilliant piece of workplace HR fantasy is that? It's certainly it's out of my comfort zone. I mean, numbers! I can't do numbers, graphs, charts or spreadsheets. My ability is based firmly around words, and the thought of having to learn how many man hours are needed in which freezer picking which products for which convenience stores so I can quote to some toady of a client who's going to be treated like my new best friend until the tender is signed is beyond abhorrent. It's sales, but worse. Sales with numbers AAARRRGHHH! If I have to sit in one more pretentious Southgate restaurant pretending to be interested in the life and habits of the Greater Supermarket Executive, I'm going to hurl my glass of chardy across the room. Wagyu beef may be spectacular, but the company gives me indigestion….

(Consolation, however, came quickly. Seeking an immediate conference with my boss, I was duly offered, and accepted, unconditional severance pay with the promise of an excellent reference, announced my intention to leave immediately, and after a few shocked goodbyes, hefted my little cardboard box and requisite potted plant and exited the building, handing in my security pass with a little skip in my high heeled steps).

Home awaited, with all the solaces therein. Kicking off the aforementioned shoes, I rang a long remembered phone number, asked for the editor, and was reemployed before 48 hours were out. How nice to still be remembered fondly, and offered a permanently open door…And how lucky that thought had already entered my mind…..

But I digress. I'm meant to be writing my usual blissfully happy little housewife blog. And so I shall. The tomatoes were struck by a dreadful blight. Real Irish Potato (well tomato) Famine stuff. They grew, they fruited, they dangled invitingly… and then bam. Within a couple of weeks, they languished, stricken and yellowing, with fruit tauntingly red with plague-like white splotches. They were floury and horrible. We would have taken it personally if everyone else's weren't the same. Although there were some surprising crops from unexpected sources. I'm sure the Scrumptious Scientist meant something else when he said "Come and see my tomato plants", but to the surprise of both Won't and myself, they were indeed tomatoes, green and lush and laden with suspiciously healthy tomatoes. Oh well. Apparently working for a pharmaceutical company has it's perks….! And our eggplant and capsicum more than made up for it, although they would have been all the better cooked with homegrown tomatoes. The corn was cooked over the open fire and the peas and beans didn't make it inside. (YUM) They were all consumed within 12 inches of where they began their life, crisp and warm from the sun.

Won't has completely taken over the garden. My protests are futile, and I'm reduced to doing little more than pulling out weeds. I have to sneak out and stake my claim quickly, and if I go too far from home on a fine day, I'm likely to come home and find half the garden dug up and moved, and a suspicious quantity of cactus and succulents where my cottage garden was supposed to be…. And the Japanese garden has more of a Spanish theme. But I can't say we aren't having fun, and working together in the sun is its' own reward. Two years of giggles and snuggles and grown up silliness, and yet we also deal with each other, and the realities of life as mature adults in a cohesive and measured fashion. Our strengths compliment us, and we support each other's weaknesses. We make each other laugh, and of course, sometimes there are tears. But most of all, I read the smile in his eyes when he sees me, and I feel the pleasure in mine when I see him, and I know it is working better than ever before.

My beautiful boy is taller and wiser and more responsible. He's more aware of the wider world, becoming less of a child and preparing to be a teenager. Of course, if you happen to share your home with a 10 year old boy, you would know it is inherent to their nature to push the boundaries on everything, especially those imposed by a parent. It's the nature of the parent to resist, only to be gradually be worn down through sheer exhaustion. But undeniably, the persistence is, in it's own way, a cause of tremendous pride. My child is starting to decide how he wants his environment to be structured, and how he wantS to shape his destiny. He's ready to learn from making his own mistakes. Okay, it's hard to accept that for the next (at least) 10 years or so, I am going to know a great deal less than him, and he will not hesitate to point it out, and I think I understand parents' resigned smiles while their angel starts to lengthen out and develop an attitude (it's either that, or they are hiding how hard they are gritting their teeth)…… But still, he's undeniably my boy, with an extraordinarily insightful sense of humour, a vivid imagination and a bright and sometimes too discerning mind. Sometimes, when we come in and he happily walks the dog, helps put away the dishes without being asked, and hums to himself as he loads up the clotheshorse, I can't help but think he's going to grow into a marvellous man….

And the rest of our happy (part time) little home? We bumble along, fitting in with each other, enjoying our time. This is "us time" this long weekend, just Won't and myself, making homemade pasta and bagels, enjoying the fire, pottering in the garden. Breakfast with eggs and hollandaise and hot tea and coffee tomorrow or the next day, whatever morning we get up in time and crosswords and movies and cooking and just pleasing ourselves for the rest of the weekend. Next weekend, the kids will all come over, and we'll hang out. Sous Chef (aka The Computer Genius) will cook while I lounge around and give vague directions. Then we'll make vague plans, pack a vague picnic and head vaguely out the door. We'll go exploring, poking around and generally just enjoying ourselves. Or we might stay in, and the Future Party Princess and I will do some sewing, or go and look at antiques and old homesteads. We might bake a huge batch of cupcakes and make 20 different coloured icings and have a tea party. We might get out the pasta machine and make noodles, or more of our incredible bagels (sorry Mr Glick – I know we've known each other for long enough that you will understand – after all, you gave me the first tips and hints all those years ago…).

It's quite funny how life turns full circle. Nearly four years ago, I found myself alone, homeless and terrified. I worked hard, I saved furiously, and I bought a house. I underwent a divorce, soothed and settled my child through the necessary upheavals and moved on with my life. But whatever I had envisaged for myself (and of course, the boy), you never really know what is going to happen. Life is a journey where, sometimes, it is best to just "get in, sit down, shut up and hang on". And now I find myself in a place with a partner who loves me, who receives my love openly, and shares every piece of himself with me. He gets the same in return from me, with a promise of continuing openness and generosity. I can't imagine not sleeping wrapped around each other, waking to smile at each other. I have [pretty much self imposed] obligations, as the "housekeeper" to provide meals, keep the house clean, do the washing. How much better is it when beside you at the bench, keeping you laughing, sharing the load, is the person you are going to spend the rest of your days with? How nice to come home from a long day and find the washing in front of the fire, as "Mr Washy" turns the kitchen into a Chinese laundry (Mr Irony also visits…). How warm and happy (and yes, domestic) a feeling, to come home and see the wood chopped and stacked, the lawns mowed, and the new garden bed underway? Let's face it, there are many things in life that are erotic, but a man swinging a mattock in the backyard is quite possibly towards the top of my list…. Or perhaps it's the man who firmly removes the tongs from you and pushes you away from the barbecue? No, perhaps it's the man who leaves a hot cup of tea on the bathroom vanity when you are showering…

Love you Will XXX

MMMWAH.

6:25 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Happy days, happy Christmas

Well, my first baby has had it's little buttons done up and has been dispatched out into a world that I can only hope is receptive. Two and a half thousand copies, plus it's been published on the company website. It's a lot of words on a subject about which I know very little, but am rapidly learning more than I ever thought I'd want to know.
I've done my first press releases, and had them published verbatim (always a good sign when it hasn't been overly subbed)…and my big glossy front page pic has come up a treat (hey, there's not a lot you can do with an MD, a CEO and a couple of assorted managers other than drape them over the front of a big truck in a suggestive fashion!), although they manfully resisted my efforts to dress them in safety vests, hard hats and nothing else….
Alas, my little car, faithful and longserving sidekick that it has been has, I think, officially died. It struggled, puffing and panting, through the heat last week before depositing me as close to home as it could get. With great regret, my tousle haired boy and I have accepted that we must let the Little Red Car go in peace, to rest in the great scrapyard in the sky. It has been an absolutely amazing little workhorse that has tolerated being unserviced and unpolished for far too long.
So, a decision must be made. What sort of BRAND NEW CAR do I want? Because yes, I can actually consider getting a new car, and not just a $14,990 driveaway deal. Oh no, we're going slightly (ever so slightly) upmarket….. The temptation is to go Subaru, due to my experiences driving one of that genre, but will very happily accept advice. Basically, I want great fuel economy, manual, good stereo, working air con., and a feel of slightly more luxury than the old Telstar, which, while top of the line when purchased, has not carried its' years well.
The next question to be addressed is that of accommodation. To extend, or enlarge? To move out entirely and become a landlord? These are the decisions to be faced, at some point. While nothing has been decided permanently, on given weekends, The Computer Genius is now sleeping diagonally across the bottom bunk, and given that he is now his father's height and only just turned 14, I think we must accept that he will burst through the end of the bunk before too long. And the Future Party Princess, while grateful to have her own room when she stays over, can't remain on a fold out couch for that much longer. I think it is important that they feel that they have their own, sacrosanct, space within their father's home. And if that home ends up being shared with me, which looks increasingly likely, then even more important that they have a sense of belonging, as well as somewhere to spend time away from each other. Let's face it, how many 14 year olds can tolerate a (rather blond and noisy) 10 year old? While his humour and tolerance are undoubted, it's to be expected that as he heads deeper and deeper into the murky waters of adolescence, the Computer Genius will reach the end of his patience eventually.
My boy has demonstrated a surprising facility for music – guitar lessons were just for fun, but he has taken it very seriously (even teaching me some riffs!), and he has started teaching himself the keyboards as well. I wish he would take up singing though – he's got an incredible set of lungs that I would love to see him use for good instead of evil! End of year school reports have confirmed what I already knew (and fervently hoped). He's applying himself, he got As and Bs, and his comments all say "a considerate and cheerful member of the class group". Well done, Boy, I am so proud of you!
The garden is still glorious, although the first of the spring crops are well finished – but we must have picked five kilograms of fresh sugar snap peas, and are still munching our way through fresh spinach, lettuce, snow peas and runner beans. The tomato plants are groaning under the weight of the green fruit, and the corn is bountiful, to say the least. Capsicum are flowering, eggplant burgeoning (always wanted to use that word!) and red onions popping their heads up among the garlic bulbs.
The cactus and succulent side of things has become a definite love! Due to the reactive nature of gardening with cacti etc., every time you touch them, they respond. And they've all had pups galore. Under the trees, the canna lilies, bromeliads and stink lilies (there is another personal nickname for those...) are all putting their heads down for summer, while the penstemons and ginger lilies and haemanthus are reaching for the sky.
Our first (as in "our" first) party was held over election weekend, with people wandering in and out as they felt the urge. The empty recycling bin was undeniably full, with a few empty cartons stashed under the trees to be disbursed in the neighbours' bins while they weren't looking… The weather was amazing (thanks to the weather gods) and not too hot, the flies kept away and the food was just enough – not too much. Although it would have been good if I had resisted the last glasses of bubbles long enough to actually COOK the burgers… not that I think they were necessary, but I could be wrong!
Work is turning out to be the challenge I wanted, with perks and bonuses I had never considered. I mean, fair enough a Christmas party, even a senior management Christmas party. But in my previous experience of dodgy Chrissy parties held at the Cuckoo or the Dandenong Workers Club or something similar, it was a really enjoyable change to be faced with a decent menu. Combined with fantastic morning teas for one excuse or another at least once a week, lunches in the boardroom during meetings (cos I have to be there to get the facts!); fabulous bribes from clients (mmmmm Ferrero Rocher!), and Christmas hams (yes, real on-the-bone, here you are everyone, Christmas hams the size of my fridge), and the perks are looking fabulous.
It is with a tremendous sense of relief that my first mag has gone to bed. The feedback has been excellent, and the general sense is that I have handled the task well, with little direction needed, and maximum information sourced. Given that it is the major component of my position at present, it is not without some little pride that I announce that I have done it… and done it well.
The final subject, of course, is Won't. We've had a few bumps, but so far our road has been pretty smooth. He's Facts, I'm Feelings. And we understand each other extremely well. Just so that he knows, though, the candles will always be burning. I don't turn off the lights unless I know that there is no one left who needs to see…..
He has my heart, and holds it safe.
SmileX

2:38 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Yawn

How tedious. Of course I check out the site of one who I used to know. It's a subject of great amusement to more than a few of us. More amusing is the knowledge that she is as weak and foolish as she always was.
So, good luck to she who found love in every bed in Berwick (and many others besides). May she have good luck mojoing her way through the boudoirs of Malvern... (and a hint? Check out the fourth finger of the left hand before you grope their pants)....
And thanks for keeping up with the blogs - more exciting news soon!
Keep pretending Mojo - one day it may come true. My reality is perfect as it is...
PS Saw a most amusing letter from Centrelink the other day.. but oh, that doesn't relate to you, does it? But then, I shouldn't lower myself to responding to the comments attached to your illiterate blog....

1:45 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

ARRRGJHHH!

    First big meeting yesterday. All of us in the boardroom. Up on the projector screen goes the hierarchy of the company. There is, of course, the CEO. Then a layer of Australian Managers. Then a layer of their immediate Officers.
OMG. I'm two steps below the CEO! ME!!!!!
(And they've asked about my passport). GULP.....

12:44 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Laughter

I have never sniggered. I have laughed, giggled, chortled, gurgled, rumbled, roared, snorted, guffawed, hooted, tittered, shrieked, snorted, broken up, cachinnated, convulsed, pissed myself, laughed my arse off... but never have I sniggered or snickered.

12:40 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Things I learned today.....
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

Well, I actually hate consumerism. Large refrigerated transport, the degradation of the land, the destruction of small landholdings, the corporatisation of everything... globalisation, in fact (this, from a massive internet fan!).
So my new job is an eye opener. The fact is, I'm hugely impressed and somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer logistical nightmare that is refrigerated transport.
So, I'll give you some facts I learned today. For a start, do you know, chickens are delivered (to a well known, reputable company which shall remain nameless) live, in large cages that look like the plastic crates that bread is delivered in, but with lids. Stacked dozens high on semis. The guys who unload these cages have 1.6 seconds, yes, that's one point six SECONDS, to unload each chook and get it into the production line for slaughter.
One lucky chook obviously saw and opening, and escaped, and was wandering around the trucks happily pecking... slightly surreal.
I went for a ride with one of the truckies today, to get a feel for the work done on the floor. So, he delivers an empty refrigerated trailer, picks up a full one, goes back to the depot, unloads into the cool store, returns empty trailer to same place, picks up another full one, returns... and so on.
The cool store is literally the size of the MCG. And freezing, obviously. Men in thermals race around on forklifts like maniacs. And in that cool store, dedicated to this one company, we deliver 40,000 (yes, forty THOUSAND) pallets (yes, PALLETS, not individual chooks) to Victoria EVERY WEEK.
Man, who says Australia rides on the sheep's back?
Enjoy. More fascinating info to come later......

12:53 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

A work in progress
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

I have always loved to write. I write poetry (purely for personal consumption), and letters and long articles on the things that matter (to me, at least).
I left school in year 12, and decided not to go to university at that time. Well, in all honesty, it wasn't possible. We were living in a two bedroom unit, while my stepfather built a house in the hills - although I wasn't ever going to live there. I'm 17 years older than my oldest stepbrother, and 20 years older than the youngest. So chances were, I was leaving home anyway. So I had to get a job, and support myself, which I did.
But the path that led to my career to date has been fairly unplanned, and purely fortuitous. I worked in newspapers for 10 years, and then left to have my son. To supplement my income at that time, I started my own catering business. That would lead to my second great love - cooking, and growing my own food. I was moderately successful, and had good bookings, good people... pretty good money. I got to work from home, and it was great.
Then I divorced. Well, a single Mum can't work weekends and after hours, and it isn't regular enough work, anyway, to be certain of a constant and reliable income. So back into the office I went, back into the printing industry. Unfortunately, I am a good natural salesperson (which I hate), so without fail, I'd find myself put out on the road, chasing leads. Did I mention I HATE sales?
So, when I was headhunted to a new organisation, with the promise of no cold calling, targetted sales, great results, flexible hours... well, how could I not be thrilled? But it didn't pan out. The database was five years out of date, and while I started off well, and developed a new, up to date file, when the business was robbed, all our files went with the computers. So I started again. And nine weeks later, we were robbed again. Our backup server was found, and also stolen. Arrrghhh! Again, my database was totalled. I gave up. I couldn't find the sales, I couldn't find the clients, and I couldn't find my inner drive to do it. My boss protested, but agreed that if the sales weren't coming in, he could understand my frustration. I spent most of my last week of employment on Messenger chatting to a good friend in Sydney, who pretty much talked me through it. So I left, although it was requested that I consider returning after Christmas.
For the first time in three years, I had a break, although I couldn't enjoy it that much, because I felt an urgent need to find a new job, a new method of support for myself and my son, immediately. So I spent most of the past five weeks online, cherry picking jobs. After all, seemed no point in applying for roles similar to the ones I had had in the past. I HATE sales, remember?
I did apply for a couple of sales roles, and was, invariably, offered the job. But advice and gentle reminders from family and friends would lead to me turning down the position, as I would just end up where I had been before - frustrated and unhappy. Plus, the money was worse than crap.
And then, lo and behold, my perfect job appeared in the paper. If I could sit down, and write out a description of what I most wanted to do, it would be this job. I whacked off an application, attached my resume, and figured that I was in no way truly qualified for the position. And I got a call in for an interview! Golly, I haven't been that nervous since I bought my house (see previous blogs for that lovely little interlude!).
Well, I googled the prospective employer, obviously. And they are huge. Multinational, and the position advertised is at their Australian head office, which is fortunately within a good commuting distance to home. So I suited up, and armed with as much information as I could, winged my way to the interview. I thought I was being interviewed by one of the Business Development Officers. Apparently, I was being interviewed by the General Manager, the HR Officer, and the Business Development Manager. Thank goodness I didn't know before I went in, or I would have been even more nervous.
Guess what? Oh, you already know. I got the job. I am the media officer for a truly enormous entity, responsible for doing what I love - writing. I don't know the exact specs, other than writing promotional material, developing artwork, sourcing printing, and writing press releases and advertising material, exactly what the job will finally entail, because tomorrow is my first day. But I've been promised a flying induction, and a "hit the ground running" start.
I hope (believe) this is the job. The one that will finally take all my extensive experience and tie it together in one nice neat bow. The stepping stone up the corporate ladder that I have been attempting to scale for the past three years. I will be travelling interstate (difficult on my tousle headed boy, but doable), interviewing, collating, and writing material. Some of it will be boring, mindless corporate dribble. And some will be personal, funny and anecdotal. I'm going to be the fly on the wall at meetings, and presentations. I will also be doing some presentations.
Can I do it? Of course I can. Hell yes. Sure, no problem.
I am so nervous, so scared and so apprehensive, I can hardly breathe.

6:49 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Last night I dreamed I went to Manderlay....
Current mood: distressed

I went to Benalla yesterday. I thought it would be fun. I packed a fabulous picnic lunch, baked cookies, magnificent, garlic laced calzones, the first mangoes of the season. Watermelon, pineapple, lots of carrot sticks (some of us are so inclined). Packed it all the night before, so that I wouldn't be the last one out the door as usual.....
We were going to pick up (I know, it sounds gross) half a cow. Fully butchered, grown on a farm we know of, etc. So it was good, from a transport perspective, that it was a miserably cold day. It was also somewhat appropriate to my mood.
My grandparents moved to Benalla when I was 17. My parents were not bad parents, nor were they great. I just wasn't particularly special to them, and as the eldest, probably a great babysitter and certainly a reasonable household assistant, but generally I was just a nuisance. My grandparents, reasonably or not, loved me without reservation. They adored me, they spoilt me. They bought me clothes and foolish things that my mother professed to abhor. Quite often she removed these objects from me, and soon enough, my more persuasive younger sisters would turn up wearing them, while I wore the op shop clothes that mum passed on to me. So wherever my grandparents were, was a special place to me.
Before Benalla, they lived in a ninth floor apartment on Beaconsfield Parade in St Kilda. My fondest memories are built around that place. Gelati at Leo's (yes, I knew Leo himself), chicken and cashew nuts from the Jade Tree in Chapel Street, movies and shows in the city, shopping at Vic Market. Walking out of the cinema after seeing Chariots of Fire in a world of wonder and magic, to step straight into the middle of a large troup of Hari Krishnas and being swept along Burke Street with them. The apartment was a glorious panoply of colour and texture, old and new. When others were throwing out their past, my grandparents bought it, together with the artwork of the era - Charles Black, Mirka Mora, McMillan. Glorious old blue and white china, of varying origins. Unusual sculptures, Beidermeyer furniture, Victorian screens and orange flokati rugs.
My grandfather was variously a member of the navy, a successful employee of Kraft Foods an amazing artist and a desperate alcoholic.
My grandmother was a mother of identical twins, one of the first women in Australia to break the glass ceiling and succeed in a high level corporate position, and the possessor of the biggest set of balls in Christendom. I mean seriously, in her industry, everyone was afraid of BB!
So they retired, and moved to Benalla. Bought a very ordinary but nice little miner's cottage and prepared to join the CWA and assimilate. What actually happened is that my grandmother ended up working at the art gallery and my grandfather began creating amazing terracotta sculptures, and pieces of art. Some of his work can be seen on the folly over the bridge on the way into Benalla.
They created a garden of found objects. Unusual pieces of metal, rocks, plants from abandoned homes discovered deep in the bush. Every time they went for a walk, they came back with something odd, or unusual. The turned an ordinary block of land, flat, boring, into the most amazing garden of wonder. A winding collection of paths, paved with broken tiles, old bottles, pieces of my grandfather's abandoned work. Into walls built to divide up and section the garden, a'la William Rickett, he carved Mayan masks and whimsical faces. He built castles and erected statues with greenery draped all over them.
The front verandah became hidden from the street under the shade of huge phoenix palms, and cacti. You could lie out there on the lounge and not know there was a street and passing traffic three metres away. Along the driveway, improbably large cacti grew up to the roofline. People would stop and look, and ask to see the garden.
When my grandmother had her first stroke, my grandfather didn't tell me. He didn't tell me until she was transported from Shepparton by Air Ambulance to Royal Melbourne. He only told me then, because while he had enjoyed staying at home and drinking without his keeper to moderate him (my grandmother ruled him with an iron fist), and my great aunt could drive him to the hospital, he felt he was doing his duty. But once my grandmother was in Melbourne, he claimed that he couldn't stay with her, he had to go home. He couldn't "handle" it. So he left her there by herself.
My grandmother, before she started her corporate career, had been a moderately successful actress. By which I mean she played in a few vaguely successful plays, never a leading role, and had cameos in a large number of television series. She spoke beautifully, and her voice, and her language were her best methods of communication. She loved food and hospitality, but it was her spoken skills that best explained her. And her stroke took away the power of speech. So she lay there in the bed, in terror, trying to communicate. Trying to tell the doctors she was allergic to penicillin, with only me there to translate, jiggling my two year old in a stroller.
She wouldn't eat, when she was in hospital, so I'd fly home to Berwick, cook up delicious tantalising treats for her and then drive back to Melbourne to tempt her. And my grandfather, for a week, stayed home and got drunk. One afternoon, after my grandmother appeared to improve, sat up in bed, permitted one of my sisters to visit her, I went home, reasonably confident that tonight I would sleep.
When I got home, the sister from the hospital rang, and suggested I might wish to come straight back to the hospital. Again, into the baby seat for my boy, and down to the hospital, where a phalanx of doctors and specialists and nurses waited for me. My husband was parking the car – I had sprinted up to the ward. They all advanced on me, and took me into (I kid you not – there was a sign on the door and all) the "Quiet Room". Obviously, she was dead. They couldn't tell me that straight away, even though I kept telling them. It's okay, I don't need the clinical detail. Just tell me she's dead, and let me see her.
The matron disappeared, and did her best to make my grandmother look like she hadn't died in pain and terror and loneliness. They couldn't take out the rescuscitation tube in her mouth.
My grandmother used to refuse to open the door until she had her "face" on. Even when she was dying, she had to put on her makeup. So I sat with her, and I read her the 23rd psalm and I PUT ON HER MAKEUP. I've never touched a dead person before, and I can't say I ever want to do it again. But it was the last thing I could do.
Then I had to ring all the family, who had all said "it's no big deal, she always was a hypochondriac". The phone in the hospital had lousy reception. I rang my uncle in Queensland. He at least got on a plane. Her brother came down from Sydney. No one else. When I rang my grandfather, I had to tell him, over the phone, that his wife was dead from a massive heart attack.
My husband was waiting at the desk. They wouldn't tell him anything. When I came out of the "Quiet Room", I just said "let's go". He stood there, with an expression of confusion on his face. I realised I hadn't told him. I just said "She's dead. We can go home now". I got in the car, and went home.
The next morning, I drove to Benalla. I scraped my grandfather up off the floor, and asked about funeral money. There was none. I committed credit card fraud – I used my grandmother's credit cards, and withdrew every last penny to pay for the funeral. I found a funeral director, and tried to explain to him that there would be no service, no ceremony, in fact, it would be tiny. I gave him a nighty that I had bought from Georges some years before – as a stylish individual, I knew my grandmother would want to be wearing something pretty. My uncle and great uncle arrived, and my grandfather asked me to read something for my grandmother. I didn't want to. There was one wreath on the coffin, and we stood in the tiny front room of the funeral parlour. The wreath was from my son and his baby cousin. I was so short of money that when I went to the florist, I had $40. For a funeral wreath. The lady there was wonderful. She raided her own garden and created the best wreath she could for that. I wrote a card from the little boys. "We're sorry we didn't get to know you, but we will learn about you through the stories of our mothers". After I choked through a poem, unsure even why I was doing it, we all went back to the house, leaving her there. We never even collected the ashes. My grandfather didn't know what to do with them. I cooked food, and fielded neighbours and business associates and people from all over Melbourne who were DISTRAUGHT that they hadn't been told, and needed to pour out their distress onto someone else. I don't think anyone ever considered my distress, or my need for comfort.
I spent the next six months driving to Benalla once, twice a week, to try and feed my grandfather, sober him up, get him to decide what to do with the rest of his life. And finally, my uncle offered him a home (around about the same time as we found out what the house was worth – suddenly his father became dramatically more attractive).
I took out a loan, sold the house to a couple who professed to love everything about it, helped pack it all up, loaded my grandfather into the car with all his stuff and brought him to Berwick, where he stayed "detoxing" for six weeks. Unfortunately, it wasn't the last time I would provide that service. His grief was overwhelming and terrifying to see.
Some time before she died, my grandmother, who had a morbid fear of ageing and death, and I, had had a talk about what would happen if she died first. I said I would look after my grandfather, and she said "Oh darling, you couldn't. You have NO idea". I started to understand what she meant.
Then, again parcelling up my child, we flew him to Far North Queensland, and saw him hopefully settled in a new life. The ending of that is another long, sad story also, and for another time.
So, on Saturday, I went to Benalla. I thought I would go buoyed up, happy, interested to see how things were. The morning started badly. Very badly. I think I started crying at about Glenburn, and the tears just slipped down my face as we drove. But when we got to town, I was still excited. I gave directions – left here, look at that, my grandfather made it, turn right, there's Lois's coffee shop, oh god there's the funeral parlour with my grandmother's ashes still waiting to be collected… turn here, there, it's over there.
But it wasn't. What I saw was the house my grandparents had originally bought. A cheap, nasty iron fence across the front, a bare and neglected front yard. A huge, ugly, paved concrete driveway straight up to a classic, cheap, tacky nasty Colourbond garage. You could see straight up both sides of the house. The backyard was flat, green. Filled with a swing set.
The narrow minded boring little suburban shits who had bought a classic garden, a garden and house they could have had heritage listed, had obliterated it. They had taken the unique, the original and the unusual and as quickly as they could, turned it into every other house in the street. Every other house in every other overcrowded suburb in Melbourne. Another ticky tacky little box made of ticky tacky. Scorched earth.
And I realised, as we drove away, with me sobbing helplessly and everyone in the car (three males) trying to alternately ignore me and comfort me, that I had never mourned. I never mourned for my father when he died a long, horrible death from a brain tumour, when I carted my tiny son up and down the peninsula trying to help my stepmother nurse him from home, and I never mourned for my grandmother. I was too busy. I was too busy being the one who made soup for everyone else. The one who remembered to make up beds and keep my son happy, and look after my own house and just generally being fucking superwoman. I mean, why bother? You don't get thanked, you don't necessarily make anyone else happy, it's like pissing in a dark suit. You get a warm feeling and no one else notices.
I've had a shit weekend. I hoped this morning would be better, and it wasn't. I'm going back to bed now, and in the peace of my own bedroom, with no one else to witness it, I'm going to cry and cry and cry. And I'm going to cry for myself, and my father and my grandmother. Because I think, in this whole sorry saga, we were the three who got forgotten.

But there is a lesson in all this.

NEVER EVER try to revisit the past. It just breaks open old wounds.

I have nothing else to say. But I'm sure as hell not smiling.

1:19 PM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

The end of that.....
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

Well, it's hard for me to admit defeat. I'm usually painfully exuberant, resilient... pneumatic even! But defeated I am. The dream job has turned to ashes, and blown away in a bitter wind of pre-election jitters. Or that is the excuse the MD used. He apologises, he says, for the downturn in the industry that just happened to coincide with my start date. Almost precisely!

But I've had my heart ripped out over this one, because even though it wasn't my fault, I feel a great sense of personal responsibility. Okay, "write your own reference and I'll sign it" and "I'm recommending you highly throughout the industry" is very reassuring, but isn't putting bread on the table. Although the severance pay is pretty good for five months work....

On the upside, I chucked off a really rough email yesterday to test the waters at the first job I saw, which does have distinct possibilities, if you ignore the commute, and they have been very quick to get me in. It probably isn't the job I want, and I am going to spend some time looking carefully at what I do take on next, because two jobs in three years is too much for me, unless of course, you are succeeding and moving up each time! I moved up last time, guess I'll consider sideways temporarily... as long as it isn't downwards.

So, there it is folks. Between burglaries, financial downturns and total technology failures that have plagued this job from the start, I am officially leaving. Today. No more ifs or buts, just "it's over".

But thanks for the opportunity.....

5:37 PM - 4 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment