When I was doing my counseling assessment the other morning (was it yesterday? it feels so far away) I was asked about my support structures. Do I have any? Do I talk about my problems with anyone?

At first I said no, no I don't and I was shocked at this realisation. I sort of gasped as I explained that there was nobody in my real life that I speak my real and honest truth too. I joke about putting on weight and being a whale, or not having confidence to talk to boys, but I don't share honesty behind those self depreceting statments.
And then I went, no, hang on. I do tell people...I write on my blog.

As soon as the words came out I know that must of sounded a bit hokey. So I elaborated. I have a blog you see, that I write in and tell a lot of private things to. I talk about my eating disorder on a blog and I have a lot of people that write to me back and tell me to keep trying and to believe in myself.
I don't think you guys out there even know what a life line you are when you write to me. The other week? when I flipped out and wanted to hide under a rock and not share anymore and then I had a moment in the doctor's surgery and there was nobody else I could have told but write it up on this forum? I had so many nice emails and so many supportive comments. You kind of dont' appreciate what you have sometimes until you leave. Those words really mean a lot to me. You guys mean a lot to me.

I'm crossing into hokey, but I feel very sincere about this. This blog helps me. The people who read it and then write to tell me they've read it, help me. I tell the truth on here. It's kind of a big deal to me.

thank you.

what I've been up to...

I'm still feeling a little sad knowing that I'm in the bad books with my parents and they are in mine. Haven't heard boo from my Mum and I feel so guilty knowing I am the cause of her silence, and guilty because I am enjoying the little break.

I won't be winning any daughter of the year competitions anytime soon....



Today was my assessment for the mental health and eating disorders unit. Yay! So proud. I know it's something every little girl dreams about; one day being able to sit and find out if you qualify for free psychiatric care, I'm certainly patting myself on the back about it.

Gripes aside - it wasn't so bad. I managed to give straight and honest answers and a pretty condensed life story covering all the bases and major story lines - like I moved lots of times and changed schools. Like my Mother is controlling and never wanted a fat daughter. Like I was a bit of a boy-crazy lunatic in my early teenage years and got a bit of a name for myself. Like I then turned into a reclusive heavy metal loving teenage girl with acne and a muffin top. Like I married the first guy who said he loved me, even though he was damaged goods. Like the break in. Like the suicide attempt. Like the divorce and having the baby on my own. The big things. The things that shaped and changed the course of my life - have you ever sat and thought about what your major life shapers are?

I got through it all without crying or blubbering. It was a bit touch and go right at the end part however because I had to answer the question of whether or not I thought I was depressed. Am I depressed? I don't think I am, even though I do feel sad, and I feel scared about being the world's oldest bulimic (and the fattest)....in my heart I know I am not officially depressed.
I'm just in a bit of a 23 year slump, that's all. Any minute I know I'm going to snap out of it :)

The psychologist thought that I sounded very much like somebody who would get much from having individual counselling. She wanted me to think about what a strong, resilient person I am and that I actually have come further than I think. I have been thinking a lot about that, and I have decided that I am going to agree with her. I am resilient and I do fall down a lot and get back up, but gosh, does it ever end - this falling down part? My knees are so dirty and sore.

I talked quite openly about my parents and how on the one hand, they are so kind and loving and supportive of me and on the other, they are so quick to judge and expect perfection and they just feel so awfully entitled on having a say on my life.
We talked about why I feel stuck. Why I don't feel like a self sufficient grown up handling her own affairs in life.... money has a lot to do with it. Living in my parents house has much to do with it. The kids settled in their school has a lot to do with it - I'm not planning on moving them again now that they have established friends and a life here.
I can't afford to leave my parents house and go and live in another private rental. I am on the waiting list for public housing but it's been two years and still no word....
I know these things will work themselves out in time, but at the moment feeling stuck and dis empowered creates many feelings of resentment and frustration for me, and I daresay my folks too.


And then there is the actual eating disorder. The disordered eating. Is it the chicken or is it the egg? Which part came first?

That riddle and more to be solved in the next instalment of:

(dumdumdumdaaaaaaa)


MEL GOES TO COUNSELLING, SESSION NUMBER 85785475733.

The neighbourhood up-date

So I've been avoiding my German-shepherd owning neighbours for a week now. Still simmering away thinking how rude and ungrateful and arseholish that bloke is and how I will never speak/look/talk/sign language him ever again.

Until yesterday when he was out having beers in the lane way with the other neighbour and he waved at me and called out a bunch of sentences but because I couldn't hear him properly I just did the royal smile and wave and got my arse inside quick pronto.
Then a bit later I went to empty the bin and those two blokes were still out there drinking and chatting and they saw me and again yelled out. This time I got, "Oi matey! Come have a beer!" and I smiled and waved like the royal enigma that I am and got the fuck inside.

Internal debate raged on whilst making my kids' some paupers style food of baked bean jaffles. I took a good look at the facts.
Fact number one was clearly that Mr Friendly-neighbour obviously had NO clue that I have been hating his prickly arse this whole week or plotting my nasty comebacks and fiesty confrontations.
Mr Friendly-neighbour is completely puzzled why I won't speak to him or come anywhere near him, hence he really doesn't have a clue into the complex workings of the female brain (Ok, my particular female brain has been known to drive people completely whacko because apparently what goes on in there does not add up to anything resembling a rational or steady thought process)

So I do the only thing I can do and that is go outside and join them both for a drink. He pulls me up a fold out chair and hands me a bottle of midori mixed with coconut rum and pineapple. In two seconds flat he asks me what's been up and what's with the avoiding? -have I turned into a fucking snob or what?
I have my chance to say, "Listen, I hate feeding your dogs because frankly I can't be sure they will not chew my arm off to the bone and I'm terrified. And secondly, I hate that you saw me in my pink night gown and my boobs were loose and you caught me off guard and I have spent the last week or more imagining scenarios of you making fun of me."

But of course I don't say any of that. I say this: "What? Me? Avoiding? Noooooo, I haven't been avoiding. I've just been really busy. So did you have fun that weekend or what?"

And after two drinks we were all jolly good mates and there was laughter and merriment all round. UNTIL..I got up to go home and wobbled a bit on my feet and patted my head. "Oh lookie here, I'm half drunk," I tell them, "Yay!"

And you know what they say to me, "Good! Maybe you'll relax a bit and let someone get into your pants for a change."

Oh my God. Do they not get that I am royalty?

I immediately did the hand actions to create an invisible forcefield around myself just like they do on the cartoons. "You can't say that to me!" I protest and then I sing, "Lah lah lah, not listening."

"Stop being so damn conservative!" my friendly neighbour tells me and the other nuggett chimes in, "Ya need a root mate!"

And that my friends was the end of my drinkies session with those two neighbourhood bogans. I went home and put my head under the doona. Why do I even venture out in public?

plodding along with my head in the clouds

Thanks to Ms Smack, I've got some old posts I can again post up here. She's a gem, eh?

So I'm still feeling sad and sensitive about the other day so I've been doing what I usually do when I'm in hermit mode: I watch movies. And read. And drink.

Last night I finished off, almost, a bottle of dry white wine from Vasse Felix Estate in Margaret River. By golly it was lovely - who'd drink that cheap stuff when we have such beautiful wineries making gloriously crisp plonk, wine from the Gods?
I have been to Vasse Felix Estate, when I was on my honeymoon with Nevin and then again a few times with visitors. Drinking the wine last night I remembered how much I loved being down that part of the world in WA and what a magic spot it is. Have you been to Margaret River? You really have to see it!

Anyway, yesterday I went and wasted 2 hours of my life watching 'Couples Retreat'. Some parts were entertaining and amusing, other parts were just frackin' 'orrible. Ridiculous. Cringe worthy - clunky dialogue and over the top acting. And really - I know a few Americans and there is no way that they'd be so boorish and vulgar and rude like the Americans portrayed in this film.
So yeah, while I was grateful to get out of the house and see a film, I wouldn't recommend this one.

Today after walking the dog I am off to see The Time Traveler's Wife..... and I think that will be amazing, I'm so excited.
What's that you say? I'm meant to be studying? Yes, I actually am meant to be studying but you know what? I'm in a mood. I'm hurtin'. Movies make it better ;)

So here are some more posts from the vault that I wrote about 2 years ago. I hope these don't make you cringe!

Being passive-aggressive is no fun at all

Kimba, the groovy chick, wrote something about when somebody at work humiliated her at work and made her cry. I read her account and felt myself welling up with my own experiences of embarrassment - that feeling of being cornered and made to feel ashamed.

Last Friday night, so almost a week ago, I was at home in my pink nightie with the teddy bear on the front.
It was 9.15pm...the kids were up late watching a movie and I was pottering around doing an assignment. I was bra less. Yes that's right, I was letting the girls out free and wild and there was saggage of the boobage; there was wubblies of the jubblies.
But hell, it was late and I was in my own home with my own children (they can talk about it in therapy later).

So there is a knock at the door and before I can say, "Wait a minute guys!" my three kids have answered the door in excitement at who our late night guest might be.

The lights in my house are all on but outside the door it is dark. He can see me but I can't see him. As I walk down the hall and towards the front door I see that it is my neighbour - the man from over the back, the one with the two German shepherds that never get walked.
I immediately put my hands over both my breasts and grab a cushion from the couch to shield my chest. He is a friendly man, a bit of an Aussie ocker - he used to cycle for the Australian national team in bike racing and traveled all over Europe. Generally, I like him and we can share a quick chat.
"G,day mate," he says to me.
"Oh hi," I reply and hide myself behind the door.
"Yeah look, we're about to go away for the weekend..last minute decision. Would you be right to feed our dogs for two nights?"
I really really don't want to do this but he's put me on the spot and I nod, yep, ok, sure.
He stands there looking a bit dopey for a second and I wait for him to give me some follow up details and....a key, is there a key?
"Oh shit yeah sorry mate, a key. I was just a bit thrown off from watching ya walk down, that's all."

I immediately take this as a reference to seeing me walk down the hall in a pink nightie with my gallavanting gooligans swinging across my chest. I am ashamed.

I half laugh and say in a dry tone, "Yes well I suppose that would put anyone off their train of thought. And their lunch. Enough to make you feel sick, really."
He laughs with me. He doesn't agree with me, but he doesn't help me to feel better about myself either.
After he walks off I resent him twice as much. How dare he ask me to feed those two huge animals when he knows I don't like to do it and that I'm nervous around big dogs; and two , how dare he make a joke about me when he was the rude asshole who knocked at my door that late at night.

They have been back from their trip now for four days now and neither him or his wife have been over to say thank you to me for looking after his animals, or for leaving his key on the counter with a plate (MY plate) of home cooked apple slice.
I know this is my issue but every day that goes past I hate him a little bit more and worry about me being made the source of a joke to him and his wife.

You had a bad day

Yes I did. Yesterday was horrible and I couldn't even collect my thoughts together about why it was so horrible, until I woke up this morning:


First off was my middle son, L, who decided that he didn't like his bedroom anymore because he has to share a bedroom with little O and that this is beneath him. He hates the posters on the wall and he hates the 'baby toys' and he hates the bedspread and he hates EVERYTHING. I told him he could swap rooms with his sister if she agreed and if O didn't mind.

That was my first mistake.


L worked really hard for an hour, and the kids seemed to be getting along and doing everything cooperatively. They emptied their rooms out and all we had to do was swap the beds over.

I told them that my Dad would have to come and dismantle the bunks and it was a big job - he might not say yes. L ran and asked him on the phone.

Second mistake.

My Dad said no. Absolutely not - those bunks are new, he only spent four hours putting them up a couple of months back and he thinks the whole idea was bad.
My Mother rang me and said, 'Why would you stress your Father out like that? He's very cross about it."

Now have I ever written before about L and his meltdowns? The meltdowns that can last FOUR HOURS?! When he was a little boy, he'd have them quite a lot. I was a wreck parenting him - I tried so many ways to get him to stop throwing huge tantrums, I saw social workers and counsellors and parenting classes for years. Anyway - he rarely has them. I'd say one every quarter to half a year usually over things like not wanting to go to school because of an incident or hair cuts. Hair cuts set him off....
Anyway - after having his hopes up (my fault) they were very quickly dashed and he threw himself in his bedroom and started screaming and wailing.

Have you heard a nearly-10 year old boy scream and wail? It's kind of distressing.
I tried talking to him gently. He argued and pleaded and begged and I had to keep on saying no. No. You can't swap rooms.

PLEEEEEASE MUM! PLEEEEEEEASE! I'll do anything - I'll do all the work. PLEASE!!

I had to keep saying no. No no no no no.

So he got worked up - started breathing funny and his red cheeks were tear-streaked and he did the stuff he used to do when he has a full blown meltdown. There is hitting his head. There is rocking. There is threats of wanting to die. And then he starts on how much he hates everything - how he has nothing that is his. He has no toys that are his...he has no 'stuff'. I told him that's because you don't play with 'stuff'. You've never played with stuff! Not lego, not blocks, not cars or trucks etc. The only reason O has so much 'stuff' is because he actually plays with it. L has never played like other little boys - the things he likes are play station games, and basketballs and bikes and clothes. So he has lots of those things. Unfortunately none of them are in his bedroom so he kind of forgets....

Anyway. FOUR HOURS of this went on and on an on. O got upset - hearing his brother scream about how much he hates sharing a room with him. I didn't know this, but during those four hours, O rang my Mum and told her that they were so mean not helping us with the bunks.

My Mother called me back. How dare you let O ring us and speak like that. "Mum," I explained, I have a distraught child that I am trying to calm down, I had no idea he did that. He's upset because L is throwing a tantrum."
Yes well, my Mum replied, thanks a lot for making us look like the bad guys. Why couldnt' you have just said no in the first place?



So I try to move the bunks on my own and I don't do a great job, but I move the furniture round a little bit so that L can have his own corner of the room that is his own bit of a space. We take the baby posters down. We draw a compromise that there is equal amounts of 'stuff' for each boy and each boy has a section of the room that is for their things. Thank God O is such an easy going type.... most of his toys are now out in the lounge room.
After a while L's tears stop and he helps me put books back in the shelves and he has settled down. I discover that the ladder for the bunk bed has loose parts so I try to fix it myself but I need bigger screws. I tell L to call my Dad and ask if he'll come over and fix the ladder to the bunk bed. L leaves a message.


An hour later my Dad calls us back and I tell him what has happened. I tell him that the bunks are fine and all I've done is shift them over a bit, but a screw has come loose from the ladder and does he mind popping over with some tools? He says he is on his way.

My Mother calls me straight after.
"How could you do this to your Father? After everything he does for you and the kids. You get L to leave a message saying, 'the bunk ladder is broken' and your Father, who paid a lot of money for those bunks, is so stressed out with this Mel. He's so disappointed."
I tell my Mum to cut it out. There is nothing to stress about.
She goes on. And on. And I have had my fill of listening to warbling shit, that exhausts me and takes away my will to live. So I yell at her, I yell at her that she doesn't know what she is talking about. That we havent' done anything wrong and once again she's too involved and thinks she knows everything.
She puts on this superior voice and says, "The ladder is broken because you tried to move the bunk, isn't that right?"
NO! I yell. The ladder isn't even stuck to the bunk. Those screws have been loose for a while. You dont' know what you are talking about - get your facts straight!
And I hang up on her.

Woops.

That won't go down well.


Dad comes over and it's awkward. He does a lot of sighing - I hardly speak. I feel judged by my parents.... because I am. I feel defensive because the kids and I seem to be disappointing them quite a bit. My parents think I dont' keep my house tidy enough, that I dont' do enough. I don't weed or garden. I don't clean the fish tank out. I don't stop the kids running amok. I don't make the kids have more respect and on and on it goes. Everytime something goes wrong in my house they are so quick to say to me, "It's because you let the kids swing/jump/pull/sit/run on it that is has broken." They don't listen for the story about what really happened. This takes its toll on me.
It was not a good day for my Mum to chastise me about the way I stress my Father out. I was spent. I had had enough of attacks and I snapped at her. She DID have her facts wrong as well - moving the bunks did not cause a screw to come loose in the ladder. It's because I was around the ladder that I noticed - but my Mum only sees what is wrong with what I do.

It is not good to have your parents have so much a say in your life but with their support (financial, emotional) comes a price. I live in one of their homes, so they come over a lot and know everything that happens here. They know a LOT about my life and I guess they feel entitled to comment on it. For instance: I asked my parents would they mind babysitting the kids for me this Saturday night? A friend is leaving for Canada and Julie and I want to go out for dinner and then back to my house for some drinks to farewell her off.
"When's your exam for uni?" Dad asks me.
It's the Monday following.
Mum and Dad both laugh at the same time, "You've got buckleys" my Mum says.
"Absolutely not," my Dad agrees.


Way to go eh? Way to be 35 and treated like an adult. Woohooo.



So last night I was feeling really bad about yelling at my Mum on the phone. I was feeling exhausted from four hours of dealing with my irrational, highly strung son who has real trouble dealing with disappointment. And then I jumped on facebook and commented on finger's status in a dopey way and some lovely woman obviously didn't get my sense of humour and well, she just topped off what was a fairly crap day.

I went to bed feeling blerch. I read New Moon by Stephanie Meyer and pretended I was an 18 year old girl who lived in Forks and was in love with a vampire. Sooooo much better than reality.

Some more stories from the vault.

Motherhood, Mammaries and Money

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

I believe I have the motherhood thing down pat. I know that if somebody handed over a fussing baby to me, I would know just how to settle it and mash up some sweet potato and rock it to sleep. I'm good with babies. The only baby who ever tested me to my limits is my second child and it was with him that I got my first real taste of despair at 3am in the morning where you think that if they scream at you one more time, you can't trust yourself to handle them with fragile care. But I got through that. Most parents can get through that.

After I had my third child I was sure that some day, somehow I would have another baby. I told a group of school Mother's that if I was 35 years old and without a partner, so long as I was financially okay - I would investigate ways to get pregnant without involving a man in the long term. They looked at me in thinly veiled amusement and distaste.

I am 33 years old now and terribly embarrassed I made that assertion. There is no way I would want to go back to long and lonely days and nights of raising a child by myself. Not a chance. And even if I was in a loving and respectful relationship, I would say no to any more children. I'm done with that methinks. It's time to look ahead at what I would like to do without being tied to the home as much as I have been. It's time for me to graduate from uni and get a career going. Part two.

(Why is it with every strong assertion I make a tiny voice in my head always says 'you know you always go back on your word')


Onto the mammaries. I've always had a big chest but now that I am carrying too much extra weight, they are really matronly and heavy. I no likey.
It is literally like carting around two bags of oranges on the front of your chest. You just cannot get a good profile shape with big boobs - I look like a soft foamy ball.
There was a girl that I saw the other day who had twice the size of my chest. I had to double take to make sure that I wasn't imagining it.
My very first thought when I saw her was, "gosh why doesn't she have a breast reduction?"
and then I wondered why I myself don't have one.
Imagine pulling on a little top and have pert breasts that don't hang downwards or create a band of sweat underneath; that would feel like true freedom.
I was watching The Girls from the Playboy Mansion last night ( I know - high quality viewing) and all those girls have had implants and it just makes you wonder why women never appreciate what they have.
I also had to concede that even though they all have huge knockers I bet they don't have the problems I do because the silicone keeps them buoyant. They probably can't run though.

Money. Sigh. It goes as quickly as it arrives. As soon as I get a tiny bit in the bank I am down at the shop spending it before anybody can take it off a me. I think that comes from just never having 'enough'. I wish I could be a frugal and sensible person but I am not. My way of thinking is, "live it up right now because you might not get to tomorrow" (such an optimistic little flower) and that is why I am always buying chocolate and dvds and books and toys for the children. At least I think that is why I do it though I could do with giving it a bit more depth and analysis.

I know I am not the only sole parent who does this. My Mum calls it overcompensating for not giving the children a traditional home life, but I just say it's just me rebelling against being poor and making shitty choices in life based on low self esteem and lack of self belief.
I make very bad money management decisions (example: Dad will cover my bills) and just like I tell myself every morning about my weight - 'Today is the day we take the SMART option'...it goes up in smoke at about lunch time.
I believe 'Fuck it' is my next second most popular mantra.

It's fun to be me. Every day in my brain it is like a television show: Judge Judy for the mean little nagging voice in my head; Days of Our Lives for all the frikkin dramas; Rebel without a Cause for my excessive spending and eating; Dr Phil for moments of true insight and lightbulb moments (ka-chiiinig) plus I Dream of Jeanie (for the fantasy element).
I do not need friends for any lack of conversation but I probably need them to keep my mind in the land of reality.

It may sound like I am very glum about all of this but I write this with a touch of humour and love for myself. I like that I am dysfunctional and honest about it. I'm the first one to put their hand up and tell my faults and then try and figure out why I do what I do. If I met somebody like me at the bus stop, I would be glad I could sit next to them.
Chatty, honest people truly are the best sort.

Making harsh judgements

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

I never liked the French woman who lived next door. When I first saw her, I thought she looked wild and fierce. Unfriendly. Rough. I heard her scream, "SHUT UP!" at her son a couple of times. I saw her trip over his legs getting out her car and she lunged to give him a whack. I thought she was one of the most horrid people I had ever seen.

For months I ignored her and she ignored me. Her youngest son attended my youngest son's preschool. My young son often asked to play with, "that boy." I kept saying no.

One day, she brought around a letter that was addressed to me, but placed in her letterbox. I opened the door to her and we chatted by the front step. Her accent was so thick and broad that I missed most of what she said but I watched her closely. She was not an attractive woman. Her eyes were steely blue and her hair a mock-up of reds and oranges and black. Her gait was masculine and when I first met her, she was a very large sort of person. Quite overweight; weeks of dedication at the gym however means she is now a smaller build than me.

But gradually over the months her son began to come over and play.
One day she knocked on the door with him and I invited her into my house. She sat for over an hour and talked and talked and talked. Without exaggeration, this woman told me enough information about herself to open a book.
I did not understand everything but I caught the roundness of the conversation.
She had been married before, in France. Her husband was a good man, a nice man, but she was bored. She wanted some adventure. She was nearly 40. She met a Polish man on the internet - but he lived in Australia. He bought her air tickets and she holidayed with him here, in Canberra. Twice.

She left her boring but nice husband and began a new life here in Australia. She left her family of brothers and a sister. A good job. A nice apartment. A good car. Her Mother was distraught.

In Canberra, her new Polish/Australian boyfriend (an older, unemployed man living in public housing) gave her two black eyes and a blood nose the night before she began English language classes. She wore sunglasses for a week and nobody said anything.
She was in Australia for two weeks and could not stop fighting with her partner. He wanted her to leave. She took a bottle of pills and had an epileptic seizure on his lounge room floor.
With no English, no family, no friends and no money, she ended up on the inside of a psychiatric ward for a month or so.

Her boyfriend took her back and they had a baby together. When the baby was a few months old, he kicked her very hard in the stomach. She called the police and moved into a women's refuge and got a restraining order against him. It was the first of three or four AVO's.

My neighbor raised her little son in a women's shelter house for two and a half years until the government gave her citizenship and a public house of her own. Next door to me.
She has been in the country for nearly seven years and is on her way to a diploma in office management. Her English is solid though her accent is still incredibly strong.

My neighbor began to warm to me after those first few visits. She told me once that the reason why she could not stop talking to me is that she has been so long without a friend. She sees me as somebody she can tell things to because I also am a single parent. I also married a man with a filthy temper. I am not perfect either - I struggle with my weight and I have a lot of problems with money and raising children.
We do not talk often but when we do talk it is a by-pass of all insignificant niceties. She tells me instantly the latest problem with her child's father -her fears of him making a false accusation to the child abuse team (something he is very fond of doing so he can take their son away).

We never talk chit-chat...I think I am a sounding board for her. She does not ask me about my own situation but if I offer her information, she listens eagerly and nods her head in that excitable French way. "Yes, yes, you see," she bobs her head in agreement, "This I know."


One day I told her that her neighbors, before I moved in, were two Federal Police officers.
She looked at me in surprise.
"You mean to say, that all those years, I had police living next door to me?"
My neighbor looked away as if to process that bit of irony.
All those nights she had lay in her bed terribly afraid of her stalking husband (they eventually did marry but I haven't worked out when that was). All those times he came to her front door and picked fights with her and ranted and raved, screaming threats and abuse. The police had been living right next door.


When I talk with my neighbor I act more empowered than I actually am. Even though she is almost ten years older than me, I still feel the more wiser - savvy almost. I put it down to me having three children and having my oldest child 5 years before her. Also, there is no language barrier for me; I find the Centrelink and Child support systems quite easy to navigate. I know my entitlements, I know how the tax process works. I can pick up a phone and get around a calling center easily. I know how to write out a parenting order and go to legal aid and file it. I know all these things because I understand this culture and language and society of mine.
My neighbor, Muriel does not. To her, everything is unsteady and she is wary. "What if I do this?" she asks. "Will the government not pay me?"

I ask her why she does not go back home to France where her Mother is. "I can't go back, " she says. "He will not give up his son and I will not leave *Sebastian in Australia."
She also gave up her apartment in France and a good apartment is very hard to find in Europe. People live in the same apartment for fifty years without moving.
"I left it all behind for an adventure," Muriel says to me with self-deprecating humor, "Look at what I got."


*name changed

Something chirpy

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

Instead of being Ms Glummy pants 2008, I came across the winners of the youtube best shows...watch the giggling baby one.

If you don't sit and laugh along with this then there is something missing in your heart - it is a nice way to remember what is good in the world.

Back to normal dark and depressing submissions later.. ..

What we ignore

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

I think that in the quest to make something of our life, we overlook or willfully ignore warning signs. We never believe that anything bad will come to us.

When I first met my husband, when he was a blonde haired sailor in the Australian navy with a huge smile - I watched him insult a young Asian girl working at her parent's liquor shop.

We had gone in the shop to purchase beer to take back to his hotel room. It was going to be our first real night together (after five or six dates) and he had postponed his flight back to Perth so that he could be with me.

" Do you have your ID please?" she asked him when he put six beers onto the counter.
He grunted in a half laugh. "Are you joking?"
"I'm sorry but please can I see your ID?"
He stared her down and I felt embarrassed.
"Just show her your ID," I told him, "Come on."

This was my area; it was my city and he was in my territory. How dare he create a scene!
I walked out of the shop in disgust when I heard him say to her, "Yeah, well how about I ask you for your fucking ID huh? You don't even look old enough to work here."

I walked back to the hotel with him without saying a word. He tried to grab my hand. I pulled it away. He made small talk about the things he saw. I ignored every word.
Inside, I remember seething away to myself. I hate people like him! I hate bullies and I hate rudeness.

Why didn't I go home? Why did I not look at him and say, "You know what? It's been nice knowing you up until this point but I don't believe you are the person for me. See you later and have a nice life."

I did not say it to him, for the same reason that women quite often do not say such assertive things; they don't want to hurt their feelings. Then they make excuses for bad behavior from men, who in all other aspects offer them things that they want. Attention, praise, spoils, love, the ravishing of their bodies by men who act like they cannot get enough.

My life was an open slate back then. I wanted it to be filled. I desperately wanted to be married and have something, something exciting and grown up and interesting. I wanted a relationship and to act like my life was going to be filled with grown up stuff, such as paying rent and grocery shopping together and buying salt and pepper shakers.


I have three salt and pepper shakers now in my house and whatever it was that I wanted so badly I got. I'm somebody who cannot be 'told'. I am determinedly set on figuring things out the hard way, though it happens less and less with every year that I a

I dunno, maybe she is telling the truth....

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

Good to see her looking less than polished for a change, but still, does her brow ever wrinkle?!




Hmmm, me thinks something funny going on up there...



I know it's mean and unbecoming of me but I took great delight in finding these papp snaps






And still she insists that she is completely natural! In the words of a true Australian: PIGS ARSE!


Because I am supposed to be writing a report for a uni assignment and because I really do not buy the whole "Our Nic" (barf) worship, I am taking huge delight in putting on my blog a link to a wonderful site I have just come across in highlighting what a possible fraud Nicole Kidman is.

Nicole Kidmans' Forehead - I love it!

Here is the interview Nicole Kidman gave a little while ago confirming she does not use botox, or actually, anything on her face...

"To be honest, I am completely natural. I have nothing in my face or anything. I wear sunscreen, and I don't smoke. I take care of myself. And I'm very proud to say that."

So she hasn't used Botox? "No," she replies, exasperated. "Anybody can do anything to themselves, their bodies. I have no judgment on it. I personally believe in physical health because of the way I was raised. I can't go in the sun; I'm fair-skinned.



Hmmmmm, what do ya reckon?

Don't ask me to be a bridesmaid

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

I was asked to be a bridesmaid way back in 2005 by a friend I met at our children's school. Over the year or so of knowing her, we became quite close. Her name was Mary and she had three beautiful daughters a partner named Simon and they all lived together in one of the largest houses on our estate.
I made a terrible bridesmaid.

I hated the bright pink silky dress Mary picked out for me to wear ( and buy, I might add) that clung to every curve of my figure and made me look like a Christmas bauble.
During the three month preparation for her wedding day I even put on so much weight that I had to exchange my dress for a larger size (it's a rule of thumb that if there is any pressure on me to slim down for an event you can guarantee I will bulk up and podge out)

I didn't pay off a lay by that was holding the specific pair of silver strappy shoes Mary chose for me to wear. The lay by had been canceled by the time I went to pick it up and nobody in the store knew where I could find the exact same set. Mary was so angry at me for that I was going to be wearing the odd pair of shoes out of all the girls.

I decided to get myself a tattoo on my right arm of green vines and tiny flowers with a small purple butterfly perched atop a bud about three weeks before Mary's big day. This tattoo somewhat went with the coloring of the dress but it's not every day your bridesmaid flows down the chapel looking like a friendly biker lesbian. Thoughtful of me, yes?

I did not find a bra that was suitable for the thin spaghetti strap dress until two days before her wedding day in which case my options were extremely limited since I've got bigguns and not every bra store makes invisible bra straps for big boobies. I was not successful in finding invisible bra straps so I purchased a bra with electric pink bra straps and hoped Mary wouldn't mind (I suspect she did but my breasts were a soft topic)

Mary chose out a lip stick and actually bought it - for me! to keep! but I hated the colour and unfortunately couldn't keep that information to myself so she asked for her lipstick back and directed me to find my own.

On her last wedding gown fitting, Mary and her matron of honor (head bridesmaid) went to the wedding dress shop together in Simon's brand new Lexus. I rung her mobile and asked why I wasn't invited and in my passive-aggressive way made her feel guilty enough that she turned the car around and sped back twenty miles to come and collect me so I could come to.

On the actual day, I began drinking at 9am. By 11am I was flirting madly with her older brother who couldn't stop staring at my huge bazookies that overflowed from every angle of that stupid pink dress and Mary was casting me the evil eye from between her portrait sitting shots.

By midday, the video photographer captured me on film swigging back more champagne from Mary's fridge and then making lesbian suggestions on camera whilst watching the head bridesmaid roll up Mary's stockings. Classy.

When the stretched limo came to collect us, I immediately insulted the music that was playing inside the vehicle. "Who put this crap on?" I demanded. As it turned out that crap music was from a compilation CD one of the groomsmen sitting opposite me had spent all last night downloading.
Even though he frowned at me in distaste, it didn't stop him from looking up my dress and down my cleavage during the 40 minute ride to the botanical garden's for more photos.
Who knew about mirrors inside of flashy cars? Kinky.

During the photo shoot I could not but help let everybody know that the location was eerily similar to that out of the Blair Witch Project. "Look at the trees!" I told them, "Look! It's like we're in that movie."
Somebody spat out behind me, "Keep her off the freaking champagne."

The actual wedding ceremony was fine.

I went down the aisle slowly, like they told me to do and yet on video replay we see me basking in the limelight and taking sweet mother of time whilst the other two girls (including the bride) practically sprint down, trying to flag down the groom before the end of the music.

At the reception I drank my vodka in doubles and kept them coming, cold and fast. When it was time for speeches the head-bridesmaid couldn't bring herself to stand up in front of everybody and speak. I had no problems with that.
"I'd like to tell you all about my friend, what a wonderful, warm and funny girl she is......" and on I continued singing her praises. When it came to her husband however, words escaped me.
"Simon. Simon is a very nice man. Cheers!" I said. But every one liked it and Mary's mum let out a small gasp of relief.

I could have said a lot more in my speech...and oh! the things I wanted to tell everybody there, but of course I could not. Like how just six months prior, Mary had been screwing a surly Maori dude called Leroy after working the supermarket night-fillers job and how she had been plotting to leave Simon for this Leroy only Leroy was too scared to leave his wife in case she killed him (for real).

The reason I was asked to be a bridesmaid by Mary was because the only two people in the world who knew about her affair (apart from Simon) was myself and the Matron of honour.
We knew all about it and we knew how close Mary had come to loosing Simon and her daughter's. Mary had been suicidal but Simon's proposal and the chance to rekindle their fractured relationship by a $25 000 wedding was too good an offer.
Simon gave Mary a new chance - Leroy skulked off into the distance - and Mary was pregnant with her fourth child shortly after her wedding.

I sold my bridesmaid dress to a 2nd hand clothing store and told anybody who would listen to never ask me to be in a bridal party again. The whole hoopla is a drawn-out pain in the ass.

Who are you, pesky audience member?

I was watching Dr Phil the other day and something about his show really annoyed me. Have you noticed that when Dr Phil gets on a roll -starts really laying down the law to some flawed ignoramus 'client' on his show - that he'll usually end his tirade with a punch line?
After he says his defining comment, for example, "You don't have a say in that. You. Don't. Get. A. Say," some annoying audience member will break out in a clap and another person and one more and then the whole audience follows suit.

What really bugs me more than Dr Phil sitting back rather smugly is that audience member who made the first couple of claps. Who are they? What are they wearing? Are they Republicans? Do they put rollers in their hair? Do they believe everything written in the Bible? Are they middle-aged?

I really wish the camera would pan to that person, I just would like to see them. They annoy me enough without seeing who they are, but I just suspect if I saw them I'd be even more annoyed. I don't know why, it's just a guess.

Why

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

Why is it that as soon as I pronounce something as fact, the universe conspires in such a way to prove me absolutely wrong. It hasn't happened just the once ...it's been like this my whole life.

I wear hypocrisy like a set of underwear.

If I was

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

If I was a morning television host and it was required of me to introduce a home shopping direct infomercial I would do it with a scowl of disdain so obvious that the viewers at home would be shocked and the network sponsors would have me fired.

I love the way tv personalities act like they are so much more than just smiling faces and a cue card. The whole thing is just fluff and air.

Some early morning analysis

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

You know how some people say, "Oh I'd rather be around dogs than people?" For me, I would say, "I would rather be around cupcakes and chocolate bars and toasted cheese and mushroom sandwiches."
It is a sad indictment on my personality but it is the truth. And it's why I'm fat and I probably have an eating disorder.

The other day the vacuum cleaning man came over to do the carpets. He came when I was just a quarter way through my re-heated bowl of spaghetti bolagnaise, the one I make with diced carrots. The vacuum man wanted to see the puppy dog and to make polite conversation. I just kept thinking, 'will you hurry up and get out of here?'. It's no wonder I'm single. I don't even miss sex, I truly and honestly do not care less if I never have a man slobber and slide around my body ever again. I can't even imagine loving somebody enough to let them do that to me.

If obesity did not cause heart disease (what I am very scared of) and all other manner of distasteful side effects (like legs chafing, three chins in photographs and profuse sweating) then I would probably allow myself to get completely obese. Instead of just hovering around the fringes of fat, chubby, porky and big, I'd get frightfully large.

The desire to attract a man is just not on my priority listings and so even when I drop a few kilograms and I look a tiny bit lovely and I see men lightly passing over my features, I usually go home and bake high carbohydrate foods.

There is not a single thing that occurred to me in childhood to make sense of the way I am now. I blame most of my distaste in sex and men on my ex-husband and a bunch of disinterested boyfriends and one night stands that left me feeling emotionally hollow for at least a week or two afterwards.
I know that sex can be lovely and wonderful and amazingly fun; when I loved my husband ( and I did for years) our sex life was better than good and satisfactory. But when it was bad in our home, I still had to have sex with him and the image of him all over my body, doing things with my body, is enough to make me reject men for good.

I'm not quite sure how my weight and eating habits are so wrapped up in men and sex. In fact, long before I had sex I had an eating disorder; but then, there were boys. Lots of boys. The boys themselves were not the problem especially but it was how I was when I was around them, and how I felt about myself afterwards.

Shame. That.

Digging up the past

Ms Smack has found old posts for me. She kept them when I did not..... by golly, am I not lucky eh? Thank you so much Cath.

Bit by bit they'll come through and I thought for something different, I'll post some really old writing. I'd forgotten I'd written most of these. Here's one from 2008.

I am not that woman

from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate

He comes to my house to pick up his son. His frame is large and his presence in my kitchen has me in a flutter. My hands go up and down to my face. Why must he make such determined eye contact? Does he want to focus on my eyes because everything else about my face and body is quite unpleasant to look upon?

I use my voice a lot. I use it to sing song my way through our stilted conversation.
"Yes," I chortle lightly, "yes, the boys have certainly used up their two hours together. They've hda a lot of fun."
My voice is pretty and light even though the rest of me is not.

Can voice and eyes make up for so much that is wrong with me?

Weeks later I find out, through casual non-specific questioning, that J's Dad is in fact married and there are two children in the family.

I am no little spider laying in wait. I am no sneaky insect plotting meal time. And yet I allow myself to wonder about the repercussions of what would happen if this man left his wife for me.

This is not the first time I have had a crush on somebody else's husband. Last year I found myself flattered by the interest Daniel showed in me and took pleasure in the fact a witness grabbed a hold of me in private conversation and wanted to know was anything actually going on between us? Why then was he looking at me that way?

What way? I asked and felt my heart rate rise as a conspirator in making good men fall.

Daniel stopped inviting me around after that evening. His wife had been aloof with me and did not want my help in clearing away plates and crockery. I saw her at the shopping center only a little while ago, her two children in the trolley. She had to rush off, sorry about that, no time to chat!


My son had his birthday party last weekend. J was invited. I bought a new top for the occasion, kidding myself that I was merely shopping for general enjoyment but I knew. I knew what I was doing - I was shopping for him.

His wife dropped J off and she came to pick him up. There was no sign of J's Dad and the message to me read loud and clear.

I was a silly woman with silly ideas.

So like I wrote yesterday, my weight has currently sky rocketed upwards into the outer regions of galaxy blimp. Xanu xanu take me to your leader, the one with the hot chips.
I am dealing with the mortification that two months ago I was two stone lighter and I could have bloody stayed that way too, but no, I insisted on duck diving into traditional stone oven pizzas and danish pastries. Thanks a lot, willpower - way to jump ship and desert a girl (pun intended!!!)

Being fat, oh what can I say? It's sort of like an old friend, a plodding along kind of exasperation. But I do hide a lot more - I tend not to go along to social gatherings and I don't show my face up at the school as much and I work less and I scurry about shopping malls with my head down and my hair falling about my shoulders silently willing people not to notice me. Not today, thanks I telepathically tell them, my bottom is expanding this very second.
And you know, when I'm in the fat zone, I don't even THINK of sex. I'm like an asexual. You could pack a bag for my vagina, wrap a ham sandwich for an evening snack and put it on the interstate train. I wouldn't even hardly notice.


I once saw a really cool young, hip sort of doctor girl about a year ago. I was ramming my head against the surgery wall (not really. I'm not a goat. Or Bambi's Dad. anyway...) and I was despairing about my fat and she waved her doctor's hand and said, "Ah, it's just weight. It comes and it goes."
I love her for that.

And so it does.

It's just temporary blubberness. I'm not going to be fat forever, no of course I am not. My fat is just visiting, like Uncle Ken and Aunty Sharon with their cask wine and blow up mattress - only here for a quick stop over. Bit of a chat, bit of a bbq, you know. Just a catch up.

I feel better already.... I might even start thinking about sending my vagina home from up north. It's been long enough I reckon.




*post transcript*

I rang my vagina. I said 'yo girl, when you comin' home?' and my vagina said bugger off I'm on a beach in cairns with ben and daniel from east london and later on tonight we're off to $2 backpacker happy hour at the bar.
So I guess I'll have to wait a little while longer to have her back....

oh well. what a shame. pass the biscuits please.