Meg Fraser

Ebb of a lost poem

Dirty dishes make little towers 

I fancy they remind me of the Sydney Opera House

My inbox isn't zero 

Nowhere near it

A few little broken promises

Lay here and there

I trust my friends know...

I'm not exactly sure what

Maybe just that I've not forgotten them?

Yes, that.

My dog-daughters talk amongst themselves

Sometimes bitching and itching

But mostly sunbaking in the Spring-ness

People who rely on me can't

Not now

The phone made noises that went ignored

But I know how to stop the noises now

My hair is tangled and unwashed

I'm beginning to wonder what dreads might be like

Laundry sleeps in its basket 

Very safe from being woken

People will be disappointed

People will ask questions

Or worse -

They might not

Someone will have to find their own dinner

(And their own answers because I'm all out.)

Maeve the mouse gets to spend more time with her sister

Instead of being endlessly cooed at and coddled by me

I'm tired

And yet tired isn't even remotely apt

The torn parts of me want to join up

And make a little quilt

To wrap myself in

I hope they can do it

 

 

The Beaver Whisperer and the Yoga-er

Yeah, I know it was only supposed to be a twig. But it's a branch big enough to swing off.

My unconscious is a seriously authentacious broad. She's been knocking on my skull every night lately during my precious little sleep. That girl's got quite a bit to say and isn't afraid to make a scene. She kicks arse. I'd not want to mess with her even in broad daylight. Last night, she demolished my house with a humongous wrecking machine-y thing. Let's just say I'm ducking for cover while scribbling notes.

Before I blather on, two things:
1. I'm on three separate medications today, including some trippy cough syrup.
2. Given several factors, the chances of wit or depth today are very low. You know that 'probability of precipitation' thing on the Weather Channel? Yeah, well this is the fucking desert. But the chances of vaginas is extremely high and they tend to be damp. So there's a certain kind of balance herein.

So are we good to go? Most excellent.

 

You know that super-duper amazing vagina doctor who exists in every woman's health fantasy?

The one who has the perfect combination of skill, humour and empathy?  And doesn't bill you as if cocaine was rubbed on your cervix for the smear test? No? Well then, I've got news for you. I met her. Apparently, we don't have enough Australian doctors qualified to wrangle beavers (which we absolutely don't) so we import them from Zimbabwe. Not the beavers. The doctors. And although I've had imaginings of visiting this woman's beautiful country for many years and know she wants to return, I'm learning about positive selfishness lately. And in that selfishness, I really need her to stay in Australia for the sake of my beaver. Either that or my beaver and I will move to Zimbabwe when she does. And yes, given that beavers are not native to Zimbabwe, I could have to spend a couple of months in quarantine. Totally worth it.

Of course, my beaver is not at issue. She's happier than Snoop Dogg weeding his lawn.

It's just that by virtue of organ placement, wrangling of beavers is needed to access the jungle. It seems sometimes a girl's jungle is complicated. Apparently, mine is exceedingly complicated. Or troublesome. Maybe just troublesome. Some of my vagina shenanigans have been discussed here already so I won't bore or gore you with too much talk of it. But my life is currently ruled by those girly innards of mine. Will I be able to eat, get out of bed, think straight, walk the dogs or cook myself a meal? Only by consulting the oracle of my uterus will one receive such wisdom.

It's taken me quite some time to get around to The Appointment. The one where I would really insist that I receive help rather than merely recite a list of my sufferings and hope the doctor gives two shits. And while I have immeasurable respect for doctors who do, I've had harsh lessons in recent years about doctors who don't.

To my amazement, I made an appointment at one of those free women's health-type clinics.

This meant I had no idea who would be looking at my beaver until I got there. I'd been to this establishment before and found myself thoroughly underwhelmed. So it was only due to desperation and debt that I returned. But upon entering the joint, I saw immediately that a revolution had occurred since my last visit. Mystify Me by INXS pumped through the speakers of a decent music system and the reception staff were chatty and welcoming. They did what reception staff are meant to do: offer a pleasant reception. It took a good ten minutes for me to fill out the paperwork about the history of my non-productive reproductive system. This ten minutes gave me an opportunity to see the usual medical hierarchy had, unlike rock music, been rendered mute here. Staff at all levels mixed together like they were on the same team. My vagina let out a sigh of relief. Not a fanny fart, people. She merely allowed the anxieties of her musculature to go delta wave.

Then I heard a sweet voice call my name.

And there she was. The Beaver Whisperer. A gentle-vibed woman with dark chocolate skin and a quiet confidence. Any anxiety held in the other parts of my body melted away. She listened carefully to my history, asked valid questions, wrote notes as I spoke and seemed genuinely empathetic to my suffering.  She nodded at the right times, said "hmm" when a doctor should and actually expressed sympathy when learning of my failed pregnancies. These are observations about a doctor that should be unremarkable, of course. But I'm finding they're quite remarkable. The burn out rate for medical professionals is high anywhere. Take that rate to regional Australia and we're talking here of doctors who spontaneously combust upon hearing the term common cold. After listening to the whole sordid tale, this rare woman even remarked that she didn't blame me for thinking a quickie hysterectomy sounded good. Even though I've had no children. Even though this is a relatively young age for such a procedure. But she reckoned we'd better have a good look-see first.

Within a few minutes, I found myself in that most vulnerable of womanly positions - naked from the waist down, flat on my back with knees apart.

Here's where the Beaver Whisperer really earned her title. She asked me about myself, what I do with my time, what I think about and responded to my answers all while attempting to get a decent swab from my rather wonky cervix. It takes extreme dexterity not to cause me considerable discomfort while doing a smear test. Usually, I bleed afterward for several days. But she was exceedingly careful and used a plastic speculum rather than a metal one, all while chatting happily. The woman can multitask in a big way. For my part, I fumbled through two of my biggest vulnerabilities - medical intervention and being asked what I do. I stutter through the latter at the best of times. So I tried to answer by explaining what I believe in and suggested that maybe I would somehow carve a living out of it one day. I found myself yakking about creativity and rebuilding a new life from the ashes of an old one. There was a point where I raised the topic of ordinary courage, authenticity and being brave. At this point, she waved a vaginal speculum in the air and said, "That's really what it's about isn't it? Fear. It's all fear." This woman understood more than vaginas.

The Beaver Whisperer ordered some blood work and a pelvic and transvaginal ultrasound. Oh, the transvaginal ultrasound. That right there is a humbling experience for everyone involved.

If there is a runner up in the the Beaver Laureate stakes, it's the Beaver Fairy.

She carries a magic wand that, rather than having a glittery star on the end, is instead equipped with a magical photographic device. It goes right up your petunia and takes pictures of all the bits that supposedly make you a girl. Given that I might be losing those bits, I call bullshit. I am the girl of all girls, despite what John Gray may think. [Today's Digression: I once dated a dude who read 'Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus'. I attempted to warn him that I'm not a girl according to John Gray. But he doggedly read it. He said afterward, "Uh. You're from Mars".] I hope the Beaver Fairy is paid well because this sure as shit isn't a job for everyone. Apparently, I was dehydrated during my visit so the full bladder she was hoping for was absent. Don't be thinking I didn't do what I was told either. I'm nothing if not an obedient patient. But the water I drank didn't get to my bladder. So the Beaver Fairy had to poke quite a bit in the deep caverns of my girly bits to get those cover shots. My left ovary was particularly photo shy but after a glass of champagne, she came out of hiding and flaunted her stuff. Thank goodness. Because by then, I was ready to ask for a glass of champagne myself. It's only right that a girl be romanced before opening her legs. And in the absence of Javier Bardem, surely a little tipple would have been appropriate. 

Intermission.

Ah, let us take a moment shall we, while the Beaver Fairy does her thing. I need to think of something else. Mmmm, Javier. I am so fucking happy Javier and Penelope got hitched recently. It only took them 18 years. I adore them both. Hell, I'd become a traditional Mormon so we could all be married together and do swapsies. I'm not sure there are many Mormons in Spain, are there? I'm too lazy to Google but I think they're mostly Catholic. Either way, I suspect me and Penelope sharing a bed when Javier has a headache would be frowned upon by Mormon folk. In any case, here's my second favourite couple during a great scene from Jamón Jamón, Penelope's first ever movie. How the hell did she resist him for so long? Darlings, this amount of testosterone ought to be illegal. I bet that's why he doesn't drive. Too much hotness behind the wheel isn't safe. Anything could happen. I can sympathise, Javier. I don't drive for that very same reason.

^{_{Jamón Jamón, 1992.}}

She may be frosty, but the steam coming off him just ended winter six weeks early down here.

 

 

 

 No shit. Eighteen years, baby.

 

 

She finally warmed up. I can't believe either of them got paid to do this.

Just one more, please. I've got a non-vibrating hard plastic wand up by beaver, remember?
I need to be laying back thinking of more than just England. I need Spain here, sweethearts.

 

^{The dude is on fire.
Photo credit: The rather awesomely fabulous Bruce Weber}

 Okay, enough of that caper. Let's clean this one up.

The Beaver Fairy was so kind to give me some luxury tissues and lovely unscented wipes afterward.
"A little of that lube goes a long way" is what she told me. First class all the way, I tell yer. I felt like I was a priority client in a top shelf brothel. Or maybe just flying economy on Thai Airways. Flying economy on Thai Airways is like business class on any other airline. You get lovely little hot wet towels every couple of hours and nothing is too much trouble. Furthermore, I'm sure a sophisticated warning system must be in place to alert the staff when your blood alcohol level goes below 0.2%. A cart of free grog seems to appear every time you begin to sober up. Come to think of it, their management needs to have a word with beaver wranglers worldwide.  [Sticky note: Must tell story of my job interview at brothel one day. And no, I was not applying for the position of receptionist. Silly billy. You really ought to know me better by now.]

 

Anyway, the results are all in. And they're pretty good. Olé!

I don't have cancer, cysts or fibroids and while not entirely ruled out, it's unlikely I have endometriosis. Bravo! Of course, it also means we're none the wiser about what the fuck is going on. So it's been suggested I get a Mirena IUD inserted. After reading about what that entails, I can't say it appeals much. Neither does the fact that I have to get the bloody thing removed and wait a while (because I'm nearly 40, quite a while) before falling pregnant. But the possible relief is very alluring. My window of opportunity for making a last ditch effort to procreate is closing fast. Of course, the Mirena and attempting to get pregnant are completely at odds. This girl's got some serious thinking to do about the rest of her health situation and life.

So just for starters, I fired my non-Beaver doctor.

He was really only on trial anyway since my usual doctor recently retired. I had reasonable hopes that he would work with me and listen beyond his own thoughts. But what I went through this week in terms of attempting to get decent care for a potentially serious issue (asthma, from which I once nearly carked it) was beyond the realms of mere ridiculousness. It wasn't all his fault and he wasn't the only person who seemed casual about the situation. But lessons were learned and learned well. No one should have to try that hard to get medical care.

By Monday, I was tired, sick, angry and didn't know what to do. I barely knew which way was up. A shit salad of epic proportions this month (trust me) on top of the health drama left me wondering who I am and what I'm doing with my life.

When I went to bed exhausted that night, my unconscious came out to play. And shout.

Reading about other people's dreams is boring as batshit. So watch how quickly I get to the important bit. Thank you for your rare brevity, Meg. Why, it's my pleasure.

Scene: At a fair. My doctor is serving at a hotdog stand.

Me: I'm in line, waiting. I have ants in my pants. He's serving other people who arrived after I did.

Him: Ignoring me.

Me: Increasingly out of breath. A little panicky but I have my asthma spray in hand.

Him: Glances over. Just barely. Which is all it took.

Me: I begin a tirade about how he didn't do his job properly when he saw me last week, how I'm tired of having to tell doctors how to do their job, that I'm worn out from advocating for myself, how it's about time he or someone actually listened to me, how he was negligent, that just because I'm a former nurse doesn't mean I don't need support, that if I say I need something I'm not kidding around, that just because I'm animated and chatty doesn't mean I'm not struggling...

Him: "Well, why don't you just COME OUT AND SAY IT?"

Me: "Say what?"

Him: "Stop beating around the bush, playing it down, being wishy washy, treading carefully, playing small, not admitting it! I'm sick of it. JUST SAY IT."

Me: "Say WHAT?"

Him: [Staring directly at me] "WHAT ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU?!"

Me: "I'M AN ARTIST and A WRITER and A THINKER and a A YOGA TEACHER! I'M NOT A FUCKING NURSE ANYMORE. I'M NOT MY DOCTOR EITHER!!
I'M AN ARTIST, WRITER, TEACHER AND YOGA-ER!!!"
[Yoga-er? Turns out my unconscious, rather like my conscious, doesn't care much for correct word usage.]

Him: Morphs into a scornful middle aged lady with a cat's bum for a mouth.

Me: Walk away completely fucking shocked and exhilarated at my public display.

  And I can breathe.

 The Beaver Whisperer is to be his replacement for the time being.

We hope to work on the parts of me that are not my beaver. Because lord knows, I could use some support with that. For a while now, I've done the job of researcher, carer, advocate, suggester of options, guinea pig, nurse, doctor, prescriber and giver of two shits all on my own. It's time to begin outsourcing at least a couple of those jobs.
Managing an autoimmune disorder is no longer my full time occupation.

I'm a writer, artist and yoga-er now. Better believe it or I'll make a scene at your hotdog stand.

♡

_{I've been sternly told I should have a Creative Commons thingie on the sidebar there. Sorry about that.}

Beware the evils of Picnik

Oh darlings, you too could look this amazing(ly like you need immediate medical attention). And even if you don't, people will assume if you fuck around on Picnik like that, you're in even greater need of said medical attention. They'll make a new page just for you in the DSM-IV. I'm thinking something like Acute Self Portrait Masturbation. Or they might just be kind and operate on that dodgy left eye.

Either way, you better like the smell of hospital grade disinfectant.

♡

A few twigs from the tree of wondering. Now with grog.

When I admitted to having a lot of seemingly disparate thoughts lately, my lovely friend Jane called this process "branched wonderings". She suggested that a few folks might be happy with just hearing a few "twigs" and would forgive me for not being able to offer "the whole tree". Not only do I think that's poetic and beautiful, but I think it's a very accurate metaphor for my process lately. I feel like I can't see the whole picture of my life (the tree) and only occasionally catch sight of a branch. The abstract bit is fine (the tree's spirit) but abstract things are hard to articulate. And who really wants to read the broken twigs of my few concrete thoughts? I don't know. But maybe I need to write them for myself.

Therefore, I offer these twigs. And yes, some are a trifle wacky.

Twig 1: Did you know it's really easy to accidentally buy a domain name? Too easy it would seem. I don't imagine it's an easy accident for everyone but it's shit easy for me. I'm one of those technically challenged types who needs to swear like a trucker and have two shots of brandy just to upload a picture of her dog. But apparently, I can buy a domain name without even noticing. There seemed to be a window of opportunity to back out the following day. Some poor soul called me and left a message on my answering machine. I imagine he thought I was slightly off my trolley at the name I'd chosen. He was, of course, correct. But a little whisper told me not to ditch it. That whisper was the part of me who has an Authentacious Quotient (AQ) of 150. Highly authentacious inner people can be a bit crazy (in the nicest possible way, of course) and so a little inner debate ensued. The authentacious chick won. And thus, I have a hosted domain and no idea what the fuck to do with it. I don't know shit about all that fandangled Wordpress stuff. I looked into it. But it's all in Greek. Not that I have anything against Greek. The most amazing girl I ever made out with was Greek. I recommend Greek in all forms, especially the female form. But not when I'm trying to do something technical. Greek girls are complicated enough.

Twig 1.5: I'm a bit tiddly because I'm halfway through a pint of Guinness. And before you say I shouldn't be having that because I'm sick and all, shove it. Oh purleeze, I don't tell anyone to shove it. The truth? I've had more than one practitioner tell me to have one Guinness every day. I shit you not! Sick girl's honour! I'm sure I've said that here before. Hell, I said it somewhere. Don't expect the correct details.

Twig 2: I have a mouse who is going on for three years old. In human years, that's dead. Oh okay, maybe it's about 120 but some scientists would argue it's older. In any case, she makes old age look mighty fine. Her name was Coco, she was a showgirl (oh Barry, look what you're doing to me), she's a vegetarian and she jogs like a maniac every day. She has chosen a life of celibacy, doesn't like other mousepersons but loves humans. She has a rather dominant personality, yes ma'am. And she will assert her dominance with other mousepersons by attempting to ride them like a cowgirl on a mechanical bull.

Coco lives in an open house. Essentially, this means that while she has an area to call her own filled with mouse luxuries, she is free to do what she damn well pleases. And she does. This results in some interesting high jinks. Last night as I was going to bed, she was missing from her house. I panicked a little because it was a cold night and the dogs were sleeping inside. Bella and Janey have been trained to see Coco as a member of the family but shit happens. So I'm not too cocky about it. I searched the entire house before finding her in a cupboard eating Christmas wrapping paper. She looked up at me and said "Ah shit, game over" before engaging in a chase worthy of a Die Hard flick. One day I caught her eating right through my acrylic paint tubes. I was so glad it wasn't Cadmium Yellow or some other horrible shit. I'm sure that's how Vincent decided to chop off his ear. Those pigments are poisonous and trippy. Not that I think Coco would chop off her ear. She'd be more likely to eat paint and chew off my ear while I slept. Though I rarely sleep so that would be hard. Here she is after eating plastic and a little Unbleached Titanium.  Everyone's ears are still intact.

Twig 3: Mr Mouse and I will soon be making a humongous move. Basically, we're broke. Well, not broke. I think the word broke is overused. Broke means you have absolutely no money and no way of making any, right? You're completely on the bones of your arse. So we're only halfway there. In any case, we're headed for a royal fuckover if we don't get out of our mortgage. So I'm obsessively checking sites on the net like a porn addict. Thank God for online real estate. We will probably be moving to Hicksville, way out in the sticks. And probably in a shed. No, seriously. Have you seen those cute sheds people do up? Amazing. I'm gonna be a hillbilly with hippie sensibilities. It will no doubt be very interesting since I don't drive and also need to see a doctor regularly. But there are upsides to everything and I'm looking into some workarounds. We're hoping for a little block of acreage. Somewhere to have chickens and hear Kookaburras without traffic in the background. A vegetable garden. No more harsh winters. A lower heating bill. A lack of drugged twats in the street at night. Mr Mouse at home more often. Lots more sex. Basic shit like that. Good lawd, Janey just farted. Sorry, I blame our sponsor Guinness for bringing you that announcement. To appease your horror, I present Janey in all her farty glory. Just to clarify, Janey is a dog. Jane is a human. Here is the one who creates olfactory bombs worthy of scientific note. As it turns out, she also creates cushion bombs.

_{Janey, the bomber.}

 

Where was I? Oh yes. Broke! Moving to the boonies! Kookabuggers in the morning! YAY! Can't wait! Batshit crazy stress!

Twig 4: Okay, Twig 4 got totally out of control and we moved onto a cure for cancer and living for a thousand years. It was epic and tangential. Perhaps I'll edit that one when I'm sober and see what I can do with it later, eh?

Twig 5: Anyone who thinks all dogs are fundamentally the same have not met Bella and Janey. Bella would stay locked in a shed for a week without food or water before uttering a single whine. And she would sooner burst her bladder than pee inside that shed. She barely ever asks for a pat and willingly lets visiting canines sleep on her bed and eat her food. In contrast, Janey makes demands for goblets of milk spiked with Kahlua and braised chicken breast served promptly at 5 pm. She will gut you with a spoon if it arrives 5 minutes late or the temperature's not right. She demands attention in a way that gives me bruises and claw marks. If the urge overcomes her and I'm not paying attention, she will just use the guest bedroom as a toilet. I actually have photographic evidence of this. If you want, I can email it to you. Hell, I'll post it here one day when I've had enough Guinness or someone puts $10 in my PayPal account. Her nards are like works of art, people. Mr Whippy is still an amateur. In any case, Janey's head is currently on the keyboard and I can only barely type. The noise of protest she's making is halfway between a bored groan and the sound of a Harley Davidson. Translation: Get off that bloody computer and make my dinner, woman!

Twig 6: Confession time. I'm not a well person. No, not like that, silly. Though my mental health has been a tad wonky of late too. But no. I mean a fair bit of my life is spent in reclinement. And I don't mean for sexytime either. Oh, how I wish. It's more like sicky time. So it's next to impossible for me to write and edit my posts. Which is why I only post as often as Chelsea Handler has a night without Grey Goose. Wait a minute, it's Belvedere now, isn't it? That floozy. She dropped Grey Goose like a hot stone when Belvedere started romancing her. Can't say I blame her really. Grey Goose was too late to the party. Guinness, are you listening? All I need is a 6 pack a week. Or maybe I should go all Moulin Rouge and do Absinthe? Is that even legal in the States? I think it is. I nearly fell over when I saw it the other day at the local grog shop. Did you know that Australia has it's own brand of Absinthe called Moulin Rooz? That's some kooky shit right there. But I have my eye on the imported stuff. Because I'm all fucking class. It's about a million percent proof and will probably lead to a vile but fabulously Bohemian death. Just call me Too-Loose Le Meg. Megas? How about Megigliani? Actually, Modigliani rocked my socks clean off one day and did this portrait of me in the skiff. It must have been in a previous life because, a) He's been dead for about 80 years, b) I shave my armpits in this particular century, and c) My arse isn't nearly so pert in this incarnation. That said, I am in reclinement there. In fact, this is how I look right now as I'm typing live from my bed.

_{Behold, The Nude Meg.}

So a voice-to-text software thingie is in my near future. Since I often have difficulty typing and concentrating even when stone cold sober, it's pretty much the only way I'll get the book written that I've been toiling at for a decade. And given it will probably never be published, it's important I write crap here. Furthermore, a few lovely people (bless you) have emailed me to kindly suggest I get my shit together and write more often. As in publicly. Like as in so that they can come here and read my dribble. This perplexed me slightly before I figured they lived somewhere with heavily fluoridated water. Or drank a lot of Absinthe. Or maybe they still cook in aluminum pans. I'm really in no position to speculate.

Twig 7: Recent events have really brought what matters into sharp focus for me. You know how I was on about not being able to see the whole tree? Well, I can see the branches, the twigs and the very small concrete things. The things that matter have become small. They're not things like Mr Mouse, my dog daughters or my friends, cherished though those things are. I'm talking the most basic concrete things I can grasp in the moment. Those things turn out to be very few: My favourite tea cup containing my favourite tea, good lip balm, my favourite graphite pencil, a good eraser, a little sketchbook and Monica Bellucci. Monica is so hard to draw. She has an unusual shape of face. It's not quite a heart shape but close to it. She's a challenge to get right but I'm practicing because she's worth it. I suspect she's sneakily become my muse. And I'm glad for that.

_{A few of my favourite things.}

Duty calls. Her Ladyship is demanding warm chicken and rice or she'll shit in the guestroom.

Coming soon to this space: Twig 4: How Coco the mouse can cure cancer. Twig 8: Adventures with The Vagina Whisperer. And a whole bigarse branch about post-concussion syndrome being craptastically awesome.

♡

Self portrait: The Blues

Since Mr Pill and I have been hanging out together, life has felt very different. I had no idea I would respond so quickly to his company. And although our relationship is very new, I'm prepared to say I really like him. For now. This coming from a girl who dislikes Big Pharma, thinks inhaling sweet orange oil is a good antidote to The Blues and was raised to believe one should just pull oneself together.

Bringing Mr Pill into the picture was a last resort, since I had a whole lot of psychological baggage about the prospect of going out with him. In my former life, I was a Psychiatric Nurse. Notice how I used capitals just then? It makes me chuckle. Just a little. So in my mind, unless you'd been diagnosed with a major mental illness, psychotropic medications were unnecessary. If you had a major life crisis, say grief or serious physical illness, it was up to you to just cope. Deal with it. Pull yourself up by the bootstraps. Get therapy. Read the right books. Burn some hippie oil. Get over it. Take responsibility even if you're not at fault. Don't be weak. Go have Reiki. Just be happy. Other people have it far worse. Just do your yoga and forget about it all. Think of the people who suffer unspeakable hardship. Think of the breathtaking poverty you saw in the slums of Thailand. Think how lucky you are.
Bottom line: You have no right to feel like you're drowning in shit.

I'm finding that I still believe a lot of those things at this time. But I'm going to continue dating Mr Pill while I attend to each of those beliefs. Some need questioning, at the very least.

You know what has surprised me most about coming out of the Blues?

It's not just that I'm capable of contentment for intervals longer than five minutes. Which is lovely.
It's all the emotions that return. This is my second go with Mr Pill. The first go was last year after sustaining a head injury (a story for another day). But I stopped meeting with Mr Pill after only a week. Why? Because he made me angry. Not just irritable and pissy. Oh, no. I mean he made me want to gun down every person who'd ever treated me with unkindness. Furthermore, I wanted to line up every oppressor, violator, human trafficker and animal-abuser that ever lived and let them have it with both barrels. I wanted all of them up on that wall, bar none. It was one long hit list. I'm not even sure the ANZACS had enough ammunition to have satisfied me. So I broke up with Mr Pill and went back to being numb. I found it preferable. For a while.

So it was with great trepidation that I resumed my relationship with Mr Pill. But he's not so much making me angry this time as vulnerable. It's as if an emotional gate opened and everything in the world is rushing in.

The other day while waiting for service at Muffin Break (that I was even out of the house alone was nothing short of a fucking miracle), an elderly lady ahead of me found herself in a quandary. She could not take her tray of morning tea to her seat and watch her wheelie-shopper at the same time. It held her purse and all her shopping. I offered to carry her tray which she politely refused. Her frail form hid a woman of major mojo. She just oozed oomph. Realising she needed to retain as much dignity and independence as possible, I offered her a compromise. Very casually, I suggested I'd stand there and mind her belongings while she carried her own tray. After all, I had to stand there waiting for my muffin anyway. She hesitated for a moment before agreeing this wouldn't put me out too much. Two minutes later she arrived to collect her wheelie-shopper. As she touched my arm with her soft hands, the kind of softness of skin that only women of a certain age possess, I was overwhelmed with her tenderness.
By the time she had beamed at me with a "Thank you, dear" it felt like I'd been touched by Grace.
She happily went off to have her morning tea leaving me there in a state of mild shock. Only the lady behind the counter asking me for my order broke the trance. It took me a full minute to recover. She asked if I was okay. Little did she know, I was more than just okay. I felt truly alive.

And then browsing YouTube, I find a few homemade videos put together by fans of Monica Bellucci.

 

Now, she is one beautiful woman, no doubt. She is also talented, intelligent, articulate, wry and multilingual. And I cry watching those YouTube videos. The totality of her beauty stuns me as if I've never witnessed something so magnificent. Just hearing her speak is like a religious experience.
I figured it was just me. I'm a tad fragile lately and drugged to boot. But apparently, I'm not alone in my worship of Ms Bellucci. Because among all the tedious sexually overt comments was this gem:

God, you are the greatest artist.

And it was then that I really bawled. For it is true.

God, however we perceive Her to be, didn't just create the pure awesomeness that is Monica Bellucci.
She created everything. The pearly smiles of grateful elders. Aged skin that feels softer than silk.

She created everything. Even me. Even you. Even The Blues.

 

♡

A dog and her dad

Janey and Mr Mouse share a very firm and special bond. This is Janey's routine behaviour when her Daddy is going away truckin'. Who says dogs don't know everything their humans are talking about? She eavesdrops as we're discussing his time of departure. And then takes opposing action.

Yes, that really is a truck she's laying under. And no, it's not easy to get her out.

He'll be home soon, darlin'. I promise.

Pills, Pulp Fiction and planetary push

Mercury going retrograde gives me the shits. Both Mr Mouse and myself have our Sun and Mercury in Virgo (which is ruled by Mercury). He turns into a werewolf three or four times a year. Hairy palms, howling, the whole nine yards of werewolfery. As my friend Donna would say, it all goes to shit in a handbag from there. I find there's a Pulp Fiction quote for most shit storms in life (yes, I'm one of those people) and this Mercury Retrograde is no exception. So as Jules says, I'm on the motherfucker.
And indeed, I am. Pills and all. Mercury can BITE ME.

Of course, it did bite me. Words have failed me in a way only possible when Mercury goes wacky. Stand by for typos. I've begun this post a dozen times over. Actually, it became more of a tragicomedy manuscript than a blog post. I'm tangential at the best of times but this week it was epic rambling. I'd get caught up in how much I should say or not say, how I should say it and when. And of course, the inevitable question of why say anything at all was frequent. Ah, but it was that last question that held the key. When I answered it, I found the words.

Right now, it is important to me that I practice authenticity with a side of fuck-you audacity.

I don't recommend this for everyone. In fact, if you can avoid it, do so. It can piss people off. And unless you're in a position to cop that kind of heat, stay out of the campfire. But I'm finding it's a necessary part of my fortieth year. It has little to do with Mercury and a lot to do with me. Practicing authenticity means sometimes I communicate in ways that are not tidy, polished or complete. If I wait for those qualities, chances are good I'll remain silent for a long, long time. In fact, I may as well sew my mouth shut and sit on my hands forever if tidy is my aim. Growth is frequently messy. So I expect my writing and art will reflect this as I negotiate new terrain. I'm going to need an industrial strength doing it badly net for a while yet.

The audacity thing is a hugely challenging one for me and I know I'm in good company. But one of the most audacious people I know is Mr Mouse. He's dyslexic and didn't learn to read beyond primary school level until after we met. In his struggle to read, pronounce and remember certain words, he would make them up. And still does. At 56, he's got quite a unique vocabulary. The other day, we were talking about my struggle toward the authentic and audacious factors and how that struggle came about. In previous weeks, I'd attempted to define both words. Mostly so that he had at least a brief understanding of the themes of his wife's midlife crisis. So driving along the other day, I began to share about my latest and greatest moment of putting authenticity and audacity into action. Quite the cheerleader, he responded, "SEE!? Baby, you need to be authentacious more often!!"

And so begins the sometimes rocky path of the newly authentacious.

I began this blog after feeling gently but firmly pushed from my comfort zone. The push was a strange combination of feeling silenced, grieved and inspired. What I didn't realise then was that most of my perceived comfort zones were unstable. I was on quicksand. And yes, I've sunk to a place I can't pull myself out of. I could probably explain every intricate detail of how and why this occurred. But in the interests of mental health - mine and yours - I'll refrain. In any case, very complicated situations can often be reduced to a single sentence. In this case, Jules does it again: I'm in a transitional period.

Click here if your name is Mollie-Lynn or you can't play clips or you just have an itchy finger.

Thank you, Jules. You are the shepherd. I am the weak. And it's good to know even gangsters have midlife crises.

It's time for some good ol' self-care and a little selfishness.

That time is past due really. Like a bill way overdue, my needs are way in arrears and accruing debt. The soul feels that debt and it demands payment. My days of waiting for the approval of others, waiting for a green light, waiting for people to be comfortable with my presence are over. My patience is as thin as my physical frame has become. My tolerance and diplomacy were learned early and once well-known. Mr Mouse has sometimes lovingly and sometimes angrily referred to these qualities as "pathetic", such are the lengths I go to at smoothing ruffled feathers. But I no longer feel I owe that to people. That obligation seems to have diminished. This is good, of course. But it doesn't mean it's easy for me or anyone else. I've moved out of that role and am not quite sure what role to play now. No one else around me knows either.

Mr Mouse and I discussed going our separate ways during the last couple of weeks.

Not because we don't get along or adore each other. On the contrary. You know that couple who won't stop whispering and canoodling in the corner while you're trying to eat a meal out? That's us. And I want to take this opportunity to apologise on behalf of crazy-in-love people the world over. We do not mean to put you off your morning latté. We're just ridiculously in love. And therein lies part of the problem. Mr Mouse loves the woman he met eight years ago. The woman I am today is rarely recognisable to me, much less him. The old me is here some days and it's great when she is. Wooee, I love that girl and don't mind admitting it. She's a kooky broad, not to everyone's taste. But I miss her and so does Mr Mouse.

The word why can be a painful one. And here at the Mouse House, we're dealing with a battlefield of Why's. Why are our families the way they are? Why can I not find a doctor who deals effectively with autoimmune disorders? Why do I even have this condition? Why has $80K worth of interventions not fixed it? Why is my uterus only good for cat mince? Why did we wait so long to get married that we can't adopt? Why did we let other people's bullshit influence us? Why are the adoption laws in Australia so fucking crazy? Why are we going broke despite starting off well? Why did the loveliest person in my world have to die? Why didn't I ignore her insistence that she was okay and fly over to be with her? And the perennial why do bad things happen to good people? Arggh. It's enough to give anyone the bloody bothers. Or a divorce. I nearly went right round the twist doing The Work on those Why's, let me tell yer. And I'm still a long way off done.

With all that said, I feel very much in a place of not knowing which is quite lovely. I've had this experience before and it's like the eye of the shit storm. One of the few things I do know is this: it's time for me to practice the very gentleness with myself that I tend to encourage others to engage in. It's time to smooth my own feathers. It's time to reflect on what I really need and see what I can do about fulfilling at least some of those needs. It's time to ask for support and back-up. It's time to grieve several different losses that seem mindbogglingly overwhelming. But before any of that happens, I need to see my life as worth living. And right now, I'm just not quite there. In light of losing my dearest friend to cancer, that may seem contradictory, ungrateful or just plain stupid. However, the fact remains that my world seems like a very different place to what it did just a few years ago. Or even a year ago. Hell, even a couple of months ago life seemed somewhat doable.

And so it is that I began anti-depressant therapy three days ago. It's a gamble.

Typically, drugs and I do not get on. We don't get on from a philosophical perspective nor a chemical one. But things are not well in this mouse's world. I'm drowning in the same quicksand all of my comfort zones sank. After a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and trying alternatives, I'm prepared to attempt making friends with this pill. Only time will tell if we're compatible. And so far, it's not the worst three-night-stand I've had. After all, Mr Pill has a cute smile and makes me tea in the morning. Janey and Bella love him because he takes them for daily walks. He even shampooed them in the sun yesterday. What canine girl isn't gonna love that?

So yes, it's a transitional period alright. And I know I'm nowhere near done. So thank you, Jules. I owe you breakfast. A pig-free one given that you apparently don't dig on swine. Of course, I don't eat bacon either because I adore the swine. So I'd say we're pretty compatible. Yeah, we know each other well. Especially since I've watched you do your thing about fifty times. Now if you could just have a man-to-man talk with Mr Pill about the finer nuances of my chemistry, I'll let you have the final word: We're gonna be cool. Real cool.

♡

If you can't handle talk of vaginas, look away now

 My periods have turned into fire-breathing dragons who eat LOL Cats just for kicks. Did you see that LOL Cats is for sale? Perhaps this means my menstrual cycle will need to make other arrangements. That would be nice because, cute and LOL-ish as they are, kittens make me itchy.

 They are vile. My periods, not kittens. Duh. And no, my intention is not to make friends with it. Fuck that. I barely get over being hit by an 18 wheel truck built of hormones when another one arrives. For me, the experience is like a mix of food poisoning and having my insides dragged out with a pitchfork, all while on some godawful el cheapo version of crack.  Oh, and let us not forget the migraine factor. That's where I wake up feeling as if the 18 wheeler struck me in the head every night for a week. During these times, Mr Mouse often comes home and says, "Darl, you look like you got a 1080 bait." I signed up for input like that when I agreed to marry a Crocodile Dundee type. He even comes complete with 22 Magnum bullet hole in his shoulder and associated shrapnel.

Anyway, that's how it is. Rinse and repeat monthly.

And this was how it began for the pre-Easter menstrual visit.

 Mr Mouse arrived home last weekend after a three week trip to find a rather disheveled premenstrual wife, an untidy house and holes dug in the backyard. Just to be clear: I am not responsible for the holes. A certain canine person acting out regarding her father's absence is. But I nearly joined her in the hopes of burying myself.

 Within 48 hours of His Lordship's arrival, I'd managed to painfully pull a gluteus muscle. For the medical fraternity: pretty sure it was my right medius. For the non-medic folk: half my arse hurts. So everywhere I walked this week, it appeared to onlookers that I had a pine cone lodged in my rectum. Which is ridiculous because the injury was not even near my rectum. It was a good dozen inches from there. But a cursory glance at my gait suggested the injury was up-the-bum when it was actually upper-bum. Perhaps my hip. The distinction is important. After all, I eliminate with one and walk with the other. Furthermore, it was actually later in the in the week that I did get something lodged somewhere. But it wasn't my rectum.

So I pulled a glute during my daily yoga practice. The same yoga practice I recently committed to and thoroughly adore. The injury may have been exacerbated by the whole post-sexual hiatus thing too. Yes folks, I may have overdone both yoga and sex last weekend. Too much of a good thing? Quite likely. In any case, the aftermath meant the only hot cross bunny around here was me.

Then my net connection died for a day when I was attempting a blog post.

When it finally resurfaced, it sauntered along at the speed of dial-up. Several phone calls to my Service Provider Who's Not Providing and it's now dawdling at about 256kbps, a fraction of what I'm paying for. The call centre informed me that "with Easter happening and all", the issue wouldn't be fixed for a week. So I can't upload pictures without a shot of bourbon, YouTube is like watching grass grow and my dear husband can't view his usual truck porn (Scania being his current preferred fetish).

And then my period arrived

Now, here's the thing. Okay, two things:

Thing One: I know that many people of all genders tend to consider menstruation part of the TMI brigade of topics - along with things like tampons, vaginas and fibrocystic breasts. Actually, not even Spellcheck recognises the plural of vagina, so apparently there's only one in existence. But my TMI threshold is pretty bloody high. Admittedly, part of that is probably due to being a second generation nurse. If I'm honest though, much of it is just about me needing to quit squeaking and begin roaring. So you can just imagine how this amused the heck out of me the other day (via the lovely @faerian). Dr Lissa made me laugh and think at the same time. Excellent abilities in anyone, but especially someone who deals with vaginas for a living. She made me want to say VAGINA a lot. Even yell it. To be fair though, I want to yell a lot of things when the moon is nearing fullness each month. The point? I don't much care for the censorship of vaginas.

Thing Two: A week out of every month is a doozyfucker. Did I mention that? If I knew a decent Gyno like Dr Lissa in this town, I might see one. But honestly? I've already been through the gamut of hormones, herbals and a good wad of cash to treat what is apparently an inherited estrogen dominance. Most of the women in my family have no uterus. Please don't give me advice on what I should do. You could lose an eye doing that. I'm just stating the situation.

Thing Three: So I lied about there being two things. Whatever. The third thing relates to how The Diva Cup/Luna Cup/Moon Cup are not compatible with my vagina. The other night, I used a pair of pliers to set one free from the confines of my petunia. This is one of those times I wish to God that I was kidding. But no. Said petunia had a good hold on that Luna Cup and refused to let go for anything. I begged and pleaded and huffed and puffed. I did everything suggested in the directions and then Googled my little heart out looking for unconventional ideas. But that thing just lodged itself happily in my vagina. I mean, why not? It's a nice place to be if you're a piece of orange silicone. Apparently. [Digression: Did you know the Luna Cup comes in different colours? Cool, huh? The Diva Cup only comes in one colour and it's not really a colour at all. In any case, I chose orange for my Luna Cup because I have myself some artistic sensibilities.] I love anything orange. But since I also prefer things unlodged from my vagina, I yelled to Mr Mouse from the shower requesting a pair of pliers. After dealing with his questions and considerable shock ("YOU'RE GONNA WHAT?!"), the pliers and I skipped dinner and a movie and instead headed straight for third base. Five minutes later, the Luna Cup begrudgingly moved out with a lip-smacking POP!

Now I'm sitting here with a beer celebrating. Happy Easter, darlings! Here's looking up yer kilt!

Janey and Bella appear to be one verrry long dog. Spooky, huh? Janey is the Bunny. Bella is camera-shy.

♡

The yoga of doing it badly

The concept of doing more things badly is something I've read and thought about a lot. One of my favourite authors, SARK, is a big proponent of this philosophy and has been writing about it for some years. Rather than shunning excellence, this concept is about a willingness to risk being imperfect. For all the reading I did though, it was all in the thinking rather than doing for me. I practiced a bit. But not a lot. I'm a perfectionist in recovery, after all.

A few years ago, I began a 'Beginners' belly dancing class and it was a real lesson for me. Not just about dancing either. Lacking in both rhythm and co-ordination, dancing wasn't something I was ever daring to try. I finally began at age 33 and bloody well loved it!

I went to weekly lessons for a couple of years. One day, the teacher took me aside to let me know that I needed to move to the 'Intermediate to Advanced' class. This came as a rather uncomfortable shock. Firstly, I'd become so resigned to being bad at it that I'd not realised I'd become... oh, the horror! ... good. Secondly, it went against everything I thought I knew about myself. Stuff like:

I'm ungraceful.

I'm uncoordinated.

I can't dance.

I have no rhythm.

I lack that mojo a good belly dancer has.

So I went to the new class and was nearly scared out of my wits. These women were really, really amazing. And truthfully? I was kind of gob-smacked that this podunk town had dancers that good. But I was uncomfortable. I really tried to find my groove in the new class - literally and metaphorically - for several weeks. And it didn't happen.

I wasn't enjoying the necessity to be good. That necessity was never spoken but was definitely implied. In contrast, my old class was full of a bunch of girls happily prepared to do it badly. We didn't always do it badly, of course. We even performed publicly. But the Do It Badly Net was always there. Above all, we had FUN and laughed. There was silliness and gossip and love. The new class lacked that. They took dancing and themselves quite seriously. I quit and never went back. I've been thinking, in the couple of years since, that I might begin again. Go to the next Beginners class and just stay there.

But this is now. And what's happening now is that I'm trying to use what I learned then and apply it all over the joint. Even as I write this now, I've provided myself a Do It Badly Net that will safely catch me at every tiny imperfection I self-witness. Otherwise? This would never, ever happen.

I do yoga. I'm not bad at it but not good either.

That said, I've moved from the good-bad mindset when it comes to yoga. After several years of it, I'm finally grokking that it's not about the good-bad thing at all.

Yoga is... different. Yoga just is.

I'm also wondering if everything is like that. It's just more obvious in yoga.

So I've committed to one whole hour of yoga every day. No exceptions, no excuses. This will be a serious challenge for me both physically and psychologically. But life is short and I'm up up for the challenge.

Last week, I began by doing a series called The Infant which is part of Yin Yoga by Paul Grilley. Havi Brooks described it as "Non-Sucky Yoga" which very much appealed to my bullshit-free sensibilities. Although I'd had the DVD kit for several months, I found myself deliberately avoiding this particular hour-long series of postures. I'd sat and watched it, marveling at the significance of the moves. Like it sounds, it's about symbolically and literally moving through the stages of infant development and movement. It's hard. You know how babies can grab their feet and just about pull them over their head? Yeah, that's where it's at.

In any case, I was avoiding it. And I knew why too. My birth signaled a critical event in my family of origin. It's a little trigger-generating and I get that some folks are sensitive. So just skip past the next paragraph if you wish to avoid it. I won't mind, I promise. Just so you know, it's not about abuse if that's a concern for you.

The week before I was born, my mother's ex-husband told her he was going to commit suicide. He wasn't happy that she'd moved on, remarried and got up the duff. He said he'd wait until he knew that she and I were going to be okay (mum was 41). My birth was a little dicey and true to his word, he waited until both of us got the all clear. He shot himself at home when I was barely 3 days old. My half-sister and brother (his kids) found him. He was much loved by everyone and held people together. Upon his death, the family split into factions, most of which exist to this day. Somewhat to their credit, my brother and sister have both been able to admit they blamed me for their father's death.

So I did the Infant Series for the first time. Sure enough, about 20 minutes into it, I'm crying. Not blubbering. But a quiet, deep kind of crying. Bizarre flashes of memory come up. Some make sense. But dude, most are way trippy. It made me think, not for the first time, about how much infants are like little recorders or sponges. It made me think about how I've been unable to carry a child to term and why that might be. It also made me think about my seeming inability to experience or feel a sense of belonging. Actually, it made me think about a lot of things and informed me of a few things that are kind of wordless.

Mostly though, it made me feel really bloody grateful that I'm willing to risk doing it badly. There is so much freedom and growth on the other side of that risk and willingness.

♡

Learning worthiness

This is long. I ask for your patience if you're able to give it.

And if you're not, I offer you this link to a worthy woman who comprehends brevity. Brevity isn't my thing today.

My movement toward feeling worthy has been a humongous stretch for me in so many ways. There have been times I even wondered if I was worthy of this life. So I'm grateful that I feel an intense need to stretch and build that worthiness muscle. 

Of course, much of that stretching and building has been inspired by outside forces - worthy women. 

The more I see women demonstrate and share their dance with worthiness, the less I'm able to deny my own worth.

Brené Brown's light began blinking wildly on my radar last year. Artist Kelly Rae Roberts, on whose Blog I'd been lurking for some time, had enthusiastically suggested her work.

But my dear friend Virginia had ocular melanoma which had metasticised. I was spending many hours a day researching treatments while we emailed ideas back and forth. We had the Pacific Ocean between us so we also spent a lot of time on the phone. I sure as shit didn't have time to read what I (wrongly) assumed was a schmaltzy new take on personal growth. Yes, I was a tad jaded.

When I finally surrendered to it, Brené's book I Thought It Was Just Me changed my life. Yeah, I know. It's a cliché alright. Right down to the bit where I had to email her and tell her about it. When she acknowledged my existence, I nearly threw a party in my own honour.

How many Social Workers does is take to change a life? Just one. But it has to be the right Social Worker and the owner of the life has to be willing. (Hell, I could sell these clichés door-to-door.)

So when Brené said she was doing a Week of Worthiness in celebration of her new DVD The Hustle of Worthiness, I grinned at the thought of so many people coming together to talk about being worthy. I read a fair bit and commented a little. After a few days of that, something (possibly this super-worthy chick) made me feel like being The Mouse Who Roared instead of The Mouse Who's Too Mousy To Even Leave a Blog Comment. I needed to speak. Even if I didn't get it out before the Week of Worthiness was over.

Love, money, good health, holidays, parenthood, a loving family, comfort, belonging, caring, living fully - these things have all seemed rightfully beyond my grasp, seemingly beyond what I was worthy of experiencing.

I met Virginia online about six years ago. Her influence changed a lot of my feelings about worthiness and how I experienced it. She became my friend and eventually, we formed what Brené refers to as a 'body moving' friendship. In case you're not familiar, it's the kind of friendship in which you feel you can ask that person to help you move a body. Not necessarily a dead body (though it could extend to that) but a body that is incapacitated. In the vignette she describes, that body belongs to a very live woman experiencing alcoholism. This pinched me hard as both the daughter of an alcoholic and also one who inherited those genes. The crucial qualifier is that the friend is able to help you move that incapacitated body with no negative strings attached. I was hearing this via the readalong at the time and found myself listening to her describe this type of friendship over and over. 

I have only two people in my life who fit that bill. One is my husband and the other is Virginia.

Virginia is one of those friends who's pure gold. She's a witty, dark-humoured and wickedly intelligent single mother of a vivacious teen. We've helped each other weather all varieties of storms, some the most severe of all.

And the laughter! Crikey! Being silly is a big part of how we spend our time together. Philosophising, wondering, visioning, planning, joy-sharing and dreaming are important too. She is someone with whom I can be entirely my oddball quirky self without censorship. Nothing I say is wrong, stupid or unacceptable. The chaff is automatically sorted from the grain without justification or over-explanation.

Virginia is a bullshit-free zone. Don't expect to hear it and don't expect to get away with speaking it either. She is real and authentic with the biggest and warmest heart of anyone I know. Name a cause and chances are good Virginia's had her head, heart or hand in it at some juncture. She worked with folks experiencing mental illness and substance abuse in both a paid and voluntary capacity before she became ill. Even since then, she's always finding someone homeless who she takes under her wing. Sometimes this involves advocating for them with local agencies and sometimes it's about providing them with necessities.

One day last year after a particularly critical visit (in every sense) from my mother, Virginia sent me one of her emails. I'm blushing just reading it now. But here's an excerpt:

Mostly it’s a reminder that we are all worthwhile and it takes time and practice to value ourselves. I understand it from the inside and yet when I hear you beating yourself up it makes me want to tell you how amazing you are… you were encouraging and supporting me when you needed encouragement and support yourself… You are intelligent, kind, generous and very silly. Your friendship has made it possible to be stronger and cope with what’s happened. I owe you more than I could ever say, really.

I vividly remember crying when I read that. It was a moment of realisation that I was the friend of someone who knew about being worthy from the inside and yet found me truly worthy too. Continuing to make out I wasn't worthy was daft. Someone smart, sassy and streetwise saw into me. Someone who knew everything bad and neurotic about me. Someone big on heart and small on patience. Someone who didn't suffer fools or pull punches. Virginia saw me as worthy. And there's no way I was about to argue with her.

It is a fortnight today since I learned Virginia died. Each hour seems to bring something new to learn.

Sometimes it's unbearable. Other times, I'm almost high on the gratitude of having known her at all.

I love you, Virginia.

Thank you for everything, including those 4am phone calls when you didn't check the time in Australia.

Please remember me as I remember you - a most worthy woman.

♡