Perhaps

This picture was the subject of another post over at Pleasant Ave a while back.

Looking at the couple, you might assume they have sat on that beach, together, yet apart, every summer Saturday for the past 50 years. Except of course, for the years that they spent out of the country, working in Singapore and Italy. And of course, not the year that their first child drowned at Palm Beach.

He worked hard and long hours, enjoying golf and the beach in his time off. She was a teacher when they met, at a dance held at the surf-club 100 meters from where they sit now. She left teaching and stayed at home to raise their 5 children. She enjoyed weaving as a hobby, in the seventies and eighties. He secretly disliked her woven creations, and was not saddened by the recent replacement of her formal-lounge monstrosity, with a Guy Gilmour original.

His busy working life, is now a not-so-quiet retirement, what with all those grand-children to mind now and then (all the time). She is still busy, having replaced caring for her own children, with caring for grand-children, and volunteer work teaching disadvantaged children to swim.

Lately, she has noticed that he sometimes forgets words. She lies awake at night worrying for him, and still he refuses to see a doctor. He has noticed himself that he sometimes forgets words, he'd just rather not know what that means. And secretly, he loathes that rainbow umbrella and the constant attention of strangers it draws to them, as they sit, together, yet apart, on their beach.

Annoyed (but not overly so)

That when a friend’s husband found out about my separation, he said, “What is wrong with women these days?”

That I have now watched two entire episodes of Gray’s Anatomy.

That super-league fucked up rugby league forever.

That my mother waits for me to call these days, because I have voIP, and she gets shitty because I don’t call enough.

That no matter how many sit-ups I do, every-fucking-day...I still have a mummy tummy.

That I may well watch more of McMoronic McDoctors, and find myself wishing that there were more McHotties in the show.

That I actually stooped to write the 'words' McMoronic, McDoctor and McHotties.

It's always in the last place you look

Most of you that read my scratchings here, know that this is not the first incarnation of Blissed. A while back, before things came to an end with my husband, we had a fight, which in itself was unusual, as we had never fought in our 11 years together (paraphrasing my therapist, you should always worry if there is no conflict).

Anyway, the fight started over something he'd read on the blog, and resulted in me deleting Blissed, just...like...that, no backup. Initially, I was okay with the decision to delete the blog, but after a while...well here I am.

Today, I found a file lurking in a dark and dusty corner of my wee hard-disk. Odd that it should be a post from the original Blissed. Please indulge me while I post it again.

When I was a kid, every year, at least twice a year, my family would holiday at the same place. It was a small coastal town, sleepy and peaceful out-of-season, busy as hell over summer. Usually, we would meet up with another couple of families, so there were always friends at hand, they were boys, but I was a tomboy, so that was okay. But when I got sick of them, or they of me, I enjoyed making holiday-friends at the caravan park in which we always camped. Strangers from strange places, were always more interesting than the known quantities. We were kids on bikes, in the bbq smoke-haze of the early evening, in our pyjamas for a final cavort before bed, where the giggles persisted until sleep claimed us.

Fishing was the main pastime of the men-folk. I loved it too, so I would fish by my dad's side for hours, on those white as white, squeaky-sand beaches. Our lines were often heavy with bream, skipjack, whiting and the occasional flathead. Their silver bodies darted and flapped in the azure water as we wound them in, little mouths gasping for water as we de-hooked them and buried them in the sand, to keep them fresh. My dad taught me to clean fish when I was really little, and after a while, this was my job. Each fish was a mini-anatomy lesson, and I loved doling out the gut-largesse to the rabid seagulls, that flocked hitchcock-like around me as I cleaned. I could gut fish but I never could eat them.

The holiday town is relatively unchanged in 30 years, I still visit it, as my parents now live there. The other day I bought a bag of mixed lollies from our corner store (it is literally at our nearest corner), and in it, I found these:

I was instantly transported back to the caravan park, in the not quite dark, of a hot summer evening, a kid again in a gang of bikes, without a care in the world, ensuring I stayed out of earshot of my mother, lest she send me to bed. My kids got really peeved with me when I ate the teeth, but hey, memories like that are to good to pass up on.

OK, OK, OK

According to the texta toting extrasensory, everything will be OK. I'm willing to go with that.

Secrets, wind and trees

I stayed up way late drinking with my friend Green. Bean had wilted earlier in the night, that woman has no idea how to pace herself. As Green and I soaked up all traces of alcohol in the house, I suddenly felt the need to share an embarrassing secret with him. After I had unburdened, Green looked at me, well he tried, he found it hard to focus, and said, "You are a freak! That, is so fucking funny!"
"I know," said I, "that's why I had to tell you. But you've got to promise not to tell a soul, except Bean, it's OK to tell Bean."
"Of course!" nodded Green.
At the sight of him nodding and sitting cross-legged on my sofa, I blurted,
"You look like Buddha when you nod like that. Oh shit, sorry that was meant to stay in my head."

The following day, Green, Bean and I spent the afternoon with friends. After the most fantastic vegie burgers, we took a walk down to the beach at the front of the property (see pic below). It was one of those languid summer days, where you laze in the shade after eating, and you can hardly hear your own thoughts above the cicada buzz. We lay on the beach, talking about nothing and everything. The conversation gradually fell away as the cicadas droned on. I was on the verge of sleep, when Green decided that it was the appropriate moment to spill the gem of a secret he had been entrusted with the night before.

I lay with my hat over my face until the laughter of my friends subsided, then I sat up ready to reprimand Green. I looked at him, and there he was sitting cross-legged, nodding like Buddha as he says,
"If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees." At which point I pissed myself laughing, and had to go for a swim.

Hard as nails

Recently, I read about how a postcard sent during WWI (by a soldier to his sweetie), was delivered, 92 fucking years late, to the 86 year old daughter of the sender and intended recipient.

And the daughter's reaction to the postcard was this,

"I think it's rather excessive...there's lots more interesting things going on than a postcard arriving 92 years late."

That old bird must have some really good stuff going on in her life huh?

I was the nominated driver

last time I saw The Rifles, so I was not happy when Damo flung this at the crowd,


"If we sound like shit, drink more beer."



I just don't get to go out and see bands like I used to...

Road trips

I had a pleasant reason to travel west of the Blue Mountains last weekend. The drive to my destination was nostalgic, following a road often travelled with my family when I was young. One of the last times I'd travelled over the mountains was with my brother. That had been a glum trip, to visit our dieing uncle, a man we admired and loved. It may have been our shared sorrow, or simply the shared memories, but as we drove west that day, some of the barriers that had built up between my brother and I in the time since I had left home, were removed for good.

Last weekend, as I drove, I had vivid recollections of some of our conversation on that trip 5 years ago. We'd passed some memorable places; The Hydro Majestic, the fruit stalls (delicious peaches and apples with real crunch), The Ugg Boot Centre. Each of those places prompted recollection of little snippets from trips with our parents. Those trips were not often free and easy, most began with nervous anticipation of our father losing it. My father has a pathological need to leave "at the designated time" and would generally spend the first half of any trip fuming because of my mother's inability to give a shit about time. They were also laced with liberal doses of god-awful music (an Australian legend, he may be, but Slim Dusty (RIP), your music was not, never will be, my thang).

As we recalled events from those family trips, it was interesting to see the perspective that each of us had stored away. It was revealing listening to my adult brother and his take on our past. I saw a new side to him on that trip, a maturity and sensitivity that had previously eluded my perception. I guess Hollywood has it right on the road trip. There certainly is something about being thrust together in a small space for hours, that breaks down those walls that we allow to form between us. Even a solo journey can be restorative.

Friends

It has been my experience in life, that good friends are hard to come by. I do not let people into my life easily, but for these people, I let down my guard almost instantly. These friends are some of my best, they would help me with anything, and their wives are twice as amazing. I love my friends. And the absolute best part of that, is knowing that they love me also.