My Friend Dom

When I was at Uni, maybe 14 years ago, my friend Liza introduced me to a guy she had met at Uni House called Dom. He had been cooking his fish fingers in the shared kitchen and offered to share his long neck of VB with her for dinner.
It was the beginning of a wonderful friendship for our little crowd of ladies and this wonderful man called Dom. He had seriously good op shop style, mostly dressed up with thongs, he wore black rectangular glasses and his eyes twinkled when he looked at you. He was a skinny but very handsome man. Women fell in love with him, easily, but so did men and that was his thing. He loved all of us, but only bedded the men ;)

One night after too many wines and a serious heartbreak (mine) Dom and I slow danced, repeatedly, to Ben Harper 'Another Lonely Day'. He was so comforting, so kind. He made me feel valued, and beautiful. That's not easy to do! But he did it every time I was near him, just because of how he treated me and how he looked at me. Always with love and kindness.
Once we went to a 'Stretch and Strength' class together and toward the end we made eye contact. Bad idea. My nostrils were flaring, my shoulders shaking, tears pouring down my face as I try desperately not to burst out laughing. He had this wonderful cheekiness about him, that was so infectious.
My favourite Dom memory, is a written one, an email I had written to him lamenting my recent weight gain. His was a short reply, but perfect. 'Oh darls, me too - don't worry - I can't even find my penis at the moment'. Oh I loved him for those words.
Last week I was scrolling through Facebook and I saw that several people had posted on his wall. Time slowed down as I read message after message of condolence, RIP, Can't Believe It. Dom had died, suddenly, whilst out for dinner with friends. He was about 37.
The outpouring of grief on facebook has been remarkable. It turns out, unsurprisingly, that Dom was loved by everyone who knew him. There is so much love on his wall it is overwhelming.
I can't write on his wall to join in on the collective grief. Part of me wants to, I want to shout out - I LOVED HIM TOO! But I can't. Instead I wrote his family a card, telling them some funny stories of Dom & I and offering my condolences. It will never be enough. The world is a little less light without Dom in it. I can't bear to imagine how they must feel. But I'm sure they must be comforted in some ways, by all this love that their Dom created. I was so lucky to call him a friend. I will never forget him.

Ms Clare Remembers

I'm 13, it's a sunny Christmas morning and my Dad dies, exhausted and consumed by a cancer that was strong enough to steal this mans life, his future.
I try to forget him, to let him go. It's too much, too hard to remember the good times, so instead my teenage angst and terrible grief leave me with only the sickness, the sadness, the dead father. It hurts, mostly in my heart but often in my head.
But this isn't about losing him, it's about finding him again.
So years later I'm an adult and I'm staring at my now grown brother up brother across the dinner table.
He says - Can you not be so creepy?
I say - Sorry, it's just - do you know who you look like?
And he smiles and says - Well I have been told I resemble a fuller faced Eddie Vedder
And I say - What? No, oh, well, maybe, sort of....No, I mean, you look like Dad.
He looks a bit surprised, then smiles, proud, says - Well that's good.
And I can see that my Dad lives on, here in the face of his son.
Later that year my first child is born. The moment I meet him, I know him. I recognise him. He is of me and I am of him. For the first time in a long time, I feel my Dad, alive, in me, in my child.

Finally, my daughter. This little, amazing girl, who shrieks with joy when she sees her Dad, who welcomes him home each day by barreling into his legs and throwing her arms around him. So I remember what it is, for a girl to love her Dad. She looks at him like he is the best man alive, her strong, funny Dad. And he gathers her up, holds her close and loves her because, for him, she is the best little girl in the world. And I remember. That was me. How lucky I was to be so loved. How wonderful now, to bear witness to it all again.

How good it is, to remember.

(This was a spoken word piece I did last night at Wild Words, an open mike night for writers. It got a wonderful response from the crowd and I am still walking on air a day later! I felt very nervous to read it, for it's truth and it's emotion, but, I'll be honest, I totally nailed it ;))

C.A.M.P.I.N.G

We went camping over Easter. It was excellent, but it did get me thinking.

C - Stands for Crapping. I will not poo with my companions 10 metres away. No way. I will hold that   shit in.

A - Stands for Alcohol. 10.30am - anyone want a beer? Sure. Love one. Cheers.

M - Music. Don't. Not your doof doof, not fucking Redgum, please not Chisel. Just listen to the birds. Seriously. Just birds. Try it.

P - Park, as in Nature Park. Don't leave your fucking toilet paper around. It disgusts me. Burn that shit up. Or drip dry.

I - Itchy. Inebriated. Irritable. Me at about 3.30pm after having my first beer for breakfast.

N - Nap time. Camping is exhausting.

G - Get me home. I'm tired, I'm hot, I'm hungover and I really need to do a poo.

Can't wait to do it all again soon.

She Is Three

She is 3 and if she wants to blow bubbles in her drink, you better believe that's what she'll do.
If you try and prevent her, from achieving these bubbles, she will have her vengeance.
She is 3 and taking her to a pub, with your mother in law, for a relaxing drink....is foolish.
You can ask her politely to 'please stop blowing bubbles with your straw, darling.'
She will look you in the eyes and tell you - No.
You can remove the straw, which will ensure all other diners having a 'relaxing' drink at the pub are informed as to this travesty. You then give her the straw back, under strict instruction there is to be no more bubbles blown.
She starts blowing bubbles, again, louder this time.
'Darling - what did we just talk about? Aren't you going to drink like a Big Girl?'
No.
I like blowing bubbles.
'Nobody here likes it darling. Daddy doesn't, Granny doesn't, Mum really doesn't and I'd like you to stop or I will have to take your drink away.'
No.
I like to consider myself a person of considerable strength of will and it prides me that my daughter has inherited similar tendencies. So you understand, I had to take the drink away.
You will of course know, that this resulted, in some distress.
She cries. Repeatedly shouts, MY DRINK, MY DRINK. GIVE ME MY DRINK BACK. Repeatedly.
We grownups try to continue our relaxing drink. It's not really that relaxing. People are staring.
She climbs atop the table, screeching now, a desperate individual. Her Dad reaches out to get her from one side, I come in from the other and we have her arms....but not her legs.

Granny's glass of reisling gets kicked to the ground. It explodes on impact, soaking Grannys lovely shoes and scattering glass all around us. We are in a warzone and it is time to evacuate.
Eyes in front, screaming child over the shoulder, quick apology to staff member who currently despises me and my gorgeous family, back to the car.
She recovers, refuses to discuss the incident (never mind an apology) and Mum drinks a bottle of wine easily that evening. No problem.
I've never been loved more by anyone than this daughter of mine. Actually nobody has ever even liked me this this much. She is amazing. Just probably good to know for future reference that if she wants to blow bubbles, let her blow them. She is after all, only 3.

Wax off

Recently I paid a young Irish lady $55 to put burning hot wax on my vagina, then rip it off with some strips of linen.

I took 2 nurofen plus an hour before my appointmentt and was feeling pleasantly fuzzy as I lay back on her table.

Then she slathered boiling hot lava on my labia and the pleasant feeling vanished. 

She relentlessly applies the hot lava wax, then rips it off. Several times the wax hasn’t fully set and I’m terrified she’s about to tear a piece of my vulva off.

It hurts. Oh it hurts. I want to scream out but strangely I’m sort of embarrassed, like I deserve this pain for having such a hairy bush. 

I think the worst of it is over, after a terrible 15 minutes. I swear to myself NEVER again, then to my own surprise, when she asks in her pleasant Irish lilt if I would ‘like my bum done’ I say ‘yes please’.

Yes please? No, god, no. It’s too late. I have to lift my legs up and wrap my arms around them. My whole body is shuddering with the effort in keeping them raised.

Then she liberally applies more burning hot lava to and around my asshole and I’m clenching my fists and making strange gasping sounds, and it’s entirely possible she thinks I may be about to come.

I’m not.

All finished doll, she tells me kindly, pointing out the lotion and some hygiene wipes for my use. I smile weakly and as she leaves the room I look at myself in the mirror and wonder why did I just let this happen?

I pay my $55 and limp out of there, go to the toilet and my wee sprays out in 16 different directions. So far, this is not so great.

After a few days the red dots subside and I look less like I have some contagious disease. I feel lighter and fresher. It’s quite pleasant. But dammit my hairless vagina, sorry vulva, looks so vulnerable. Not like a proud and strong woman at all, more like a timid child. I decide the next $55 I have lying around will be spent on a full body massage or possibly a nice bottle of gin and I will never, I repeat NEVER, undergo such an outrageous procedure again.
The End.

Sharing is Caring.

Well, well, well.
Quick summary. I emailed my Aunty Kate with my story Mummy. Asked her to please show my 96 year old Grandpa, who is, quite simply a wonderful, good, kind man. I spoke to him about a week later, he encouraged me to share it, asked it he could share it.
I had a few glasses of wine and thought It Was Time. I tried to post just the story on Facebook, couldn't, so instead posted the link to Mummy on this blog.
I've been writing this blog for over 3 years. It's like a private public journal, where I write my truths, knowing only a few friends will read it, maybe some strangers. It has kept me honest, it's become a 'hobby' and has made me pay more attention to the quality of my writing. I love to write and when I read back on this blog sometimes it hurts, often I laugh, always I'm proud. This is mine, these are my words, my stories. My life.
Only once have I publicly linked it on Facebook. I am afraid of people judging me, of putting myself out there, of (god forbid) someone not liking what I have to say.
Wink wink. Bring it on.
So I post it at 10 on a Monday night. Close the computer, go to bed.
Tuesday morning. 11 Shares. 20 comments. 300 views.
Wednesday morning. 700 views. Comments on the shares.
Thursday morning. 900 views. Many likes. Comments on the blog.
900 views! Of my story. My words. My boys, shared with 900 people.
I've been overwhelmed by the love. People have been overwhelmed by my story. They have said wonderful things. They have begun to understand. They have empathised. They feel compassion.
This is more than I could ever have imagined. And I am humbled and delighted.
Thank you.

A Holiday

The kids and I are currently in Adelaide for a 10 day holiday at my Mums. She sold her big house in the Adelaide hills and bought a much smaller duplex in a beachside suburb - thank you cheezuz.
We are 10 minutes walk away from everything, shops, cafes, pubs, beach - compared to the 30 minute walk to not much in her previous suburb.
I'm loving it. We are 3 days in and have been to the beach everyday and it is glorious. Sunny, sandy, surfy, shelly. I feel like a child again, in a grown up sort of way. Collecting shells for sandcastles, chasing the kids around, splashing about in the salty water. I feel healthy, happy and relaxed.
I said as much to my darling first born today and he replied  thoughtfully 'well, you don't look any worse mum'.
Thanks dickhead.
He and Mum are the best of mates and have been watching old episodes of Mr Bean together for 'resting time' in the afternoon. The sound of them giggling/chortling/cracking up is like music to my ears. It's brilliant.
Yesterday Maggie and I laid down together after lunch. As we drifted off to sleep she whispered to me 'My Mummy. My Mummy here'. She sure is kid, she sure is.