22 Oct 2012
I read this article by Annabel Crabb over the weekend and loved it. I giggle every time I think about #proudtobecurious and amused myself on the train this morning thinking of moments where the hashtag is super funny (I’ve been up since 4am – humour and caffeine are essential for today’s success).
I shared the article with an English friend of mine who spent three years living here in Australia and put in a concerted effort while here to visit all 132 of Australia’s ‘big things’ and the smaller out of the way towns that nobody ever visits.
He replied that when he stopped in Benalla in Victoria they were going with ‘Why go to Paris, when you can shop in Benalla?’. Which is EXACTLY why he got so much enjoyment from his slightly diverse approach to travelling around Australia. And he still hasn’t figured out the answer.
I must admit that I have shared the article, and re-read it a few times because it continues to make me laugh and I am committed to going to the Home of the Meat Ant before I die. But it struck me as I re-read it this morning that one of the things I like about the article is the simple enjoyment of the daft. And I really don’t think we get many well written chuckles from newspaper columnists these days without some major agenda underpinning the joke.
And I liked it.
19 Oct 2012
This week we found out that one of our beloved friends has leukaemia. Aged but 30 years old and not feeling particularly sick, she went to the doctor about a bruise that wasn’t healing and less than a week later she’s having chemotherapy and her husband’s heart is breaking as he rallies to provide her with the love and support she needs.
This is the second of my girlfriends to be diagnosed with cancer this year. The first was diagnosed with breast cancer, gave up a boob and underwent extensive chemotherapy and radiotherapy to kill off the disease. She’s now in that post poison stage where life becomes relentlessly normal while you wait and see. She’s back at work, her kids are playing up and her husband still doesn’t clean the bathroom quite the way she would. Life changes. Life doesn’t.
Another friend my age has had cancer for 11 years. He’s down some lymph nodes, a rib and his Bondi lifeguard lifestyle but he has a beautiful daughter, wife and doesn’t skip a beat when it comes to giving his all to life. A couple of weeks after his last chemo round, he rowed a silly amount of kilometres as a member of a support team for an ocean swim over in WA. Just to be helpful. Life changed. Life did not.
And this is the bitch about cancer. Diagnosis is a shock. Treatment is nasty. It all takes time and you are powerless to do anything useful (unless you happen to be a research scientist finding a cure RIGHT NOW).
Ultimately it’s a battle they face on their own. They will argue again with their partner about the housework, you’ll moan again about your weight and the clock will keep on ticking. You can offer the support, you can share the love, send cards, raise money but ultimately it’s all peripheral. Cancer follows no rules, shows no mercy and it takes considerable strength not to drown under the weight of the word, let alone the actuality of the disease.
As a friend, you can’t share the poison, you can’t magic the cancer away and and you can’t fix it by writing a list. A person once told me the most tedious thing about cancer is reassuring people when all you want to do is drum your feet on the ground and scream “how the hell do I know??” and “Why me?” and “I don’t like casserole so stop making them for me.”
So, for this friend, no casseroles. I’m a crap cook anyway and she lives in another country and exporting bad casseroles is surely illegal. I’m going to be resolute about being there for her and for her husband. I’m going to be educated so I don’t just say “there, there”. I’m not going to be a better person despite all intentions but I’m going to think positive thoughts, send prayers and I’m going to be present and in touch.
For while they are small things, they are all I have to offer. And if you happen to have discovered a cure for cancer – please let me know. I know somebody very special that would think that news marvellous.
In the meantime. Big love LD. Big love.
16 Oct 2012
I was following the twitter feeds from people attending the Problogger conference over the weekend and noticed that about, ummm, ALL my favourite bloggers of the moment seemed to be attending that event. Making me mad with envy (well apart from the bit where I attended my beautiful friend’s wedding and watched her declare her love for happily ever after).
And I noticed that time and time again people were talking about their blogs needing to have a purpose and that we should always talk about what we know.
Which I find kind of interesting. Because I think I blog because I don’t know. Really. I don’t think I know much about anything. I sure don’t have the answers. I find the act of blogging gives me the opportunity to explore my thoughts on a subject, lay them out, cleanse the spirit as it were. It gives me a chance to find out if I have words to express my feelings on a subject, ask questions on a topic or generally ‘rant’.
But do I have answers? Do I know? I don’t think any more than most. One of the things I’ve been a lot better at in recent months is acknowledging that the things I am good at are not things I should apologise for just because other people aren’t good at the same things. But do I know why? No. Can I hypothesise? You betcha! What’s my pop psychology like? Second to none!
I mean I don’t know why heaps of bloggers take photos of their feet for perspective in their illustrative shots. I don’t know why people can justify trolling as art. I don’t know why people find the act of volunteering to be so difficult. I don’t know why people can’t use deodorant before getting on public transport. I don’t know why people are obsessed with the Kardashians. I sure as hell don’t know why people are so vile to each other. I don’t know why Madonna’s Hanky Panky doesn’t make it on her Best Of Album. And I really am unsure where I was the day the music died. (That last one I don’t know because I have never bothered to google when it was supposed to be so I could take an educated guess).
Anyway, perhaps next year I’ll go and schmooze with other bloggers and try and act really cool when I meet the ones who I admire. Which gives me 12 months to work out what the fuck I know.
11 Oct 2012
I was talking with a friend today about when we realised our parents could be wrong. It’s a fairly pivotal moment when your entire life to that point has been steered by their moral compass, their world views and their preferences. And then, with a small sigh of a tear, there is a chink in the completeness of that world and before too many years go past, that tear will move from being barely noticeably to a schism the size of the grand canyon.
And its part of growing up, learning to negotiate that rent in your relationship. First you question that thing you notice, then you question so much more. You firm up your own views and create the black and white universe of your adolescence where everybody else seems so sure of themselves that you yourself adopt absolutes to try and navigate your way through without drowning.
And the world gets more grey as you move into your twenties and beyond and all being well, you can look back with increased self awareness and laugh at your earnest ‘right’ self and understand that there was so much more for you to learn, but you hadn’t quite fathomed that the learning didn’t stop with graduation.
Your colleagues, new friends, lovers and the world at large present you with more options and because your world is bigger and wider and brighter and more brightly coloured, the chances of your parents being wrong increase. And along that journey, you have that second revelation that your parents are people. And fallible. And in fact, they even have names that aren’t Mum and Dad.
And hopefully, if you’ve any self respect, you accept responsibility for the person you’ve become and are thankful for the things they were right about and recognise that they too once had a moment where they realised that their parents were not always right.
In fact, because they are people just like you, they are still travelling through a world of black and white and grey and the glorious kaleidoscope of colour that is experience. And there is something quite powerful and reassuring in that shared reality.
And while it wasn’t the first thing – I just want to have it on record that the bubbleskirt did come back in and it would not have been a waste of money.
9 Oct 2012
Today has been a fascinating day to be on twitter. I appreciate that some of the success of twitter lies in who you follow, when you’re looking at it and the events of the day in question but wow! What a day!
The election of the new speaker, the resignation of the old speaker, Julia’s double pow pow to Abbott, Stella Young’s brilliant observations on what constitutes a valid life, Father Bob’s biting retorts invoking Hitler as the original architect of genetic selection, some passionate support of the Destroy the Joint campaign – it was a wonder I got any work done. And then laced through it – David Campbell’s bumhole hashtag providing some light relief and a little bit about Legally Blonde – The Musical.
And this is what is great about social media. The ability to engage with people that challenge your thinking, articulate your point of view better than you can, re-evaluate your opinions, contribute to public debate or give you an evil chuckle.
It is invigorating. It is maddening. It is addictive. I love that it connects me with issues I am passionate about and educates me about things I would like to know more about and occasionally bores me rigid. In the midst of all the really fascinating things going on today I ‘unfollowed’ somebody who I believe has a profile and an intellect high enough to talk about more than her swimsuits.
It makes me laugh, it pisses me off, it perplexes me. It has introduced me to some fascinating writers and worlds. It’s awesome, awesome, awesome. And occasionally tiring. It definitely keeps me occupied when my daughter’s need feeding in the early hours of the morning!
If I was actually speaking this rather than typing, my words would be tumbling over each other – with my voice going up and down and my hands waving all over the place. I’d be bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet and you’d be looking at me oddly. But I find it strangely intoxicating to have been privy to such a variety of passions, interests and opinions.
And only 20 years ago I was wondering whether or not I needed a mobile or an email address. I absolutely adore progress!
8 Oct 2012
I just saw an article entitled ‘Rise of the designer vagina’.
I can’t even keep up with designer fashion or shoes or haircuts.
And now there are designer vaginas.
Rising.
On this occasion I’m going to run with ignorance is bliss. I know what vajazzling is – surely that’s enough?
