ANTICIPATION

The dark grey clouds seemed to pull themselves across the sky as the day wore on. They’d been there early in the morning but when the sun broke through it seemed that there was some hope of a fine day.

Around lunch time all hopes were dashed and the sky turned dark.

The wind, sporadic and uncomfortably warm, pushed the trees at odd angles. Pedestrians clutched at their smart business jackets, pulling them to their chins, and tried in vein to keep their hair from loosing all shape and style.

From no where the mood has changed and the air is scented with something sweet, it’s something alluring. During high school I would spend days like these up the back of the playground just letting the wind pick up my hair and ruffle my clothes. I could feel it seeping into the pores of my skin.

Weather like this makes me miserable and uneasy.

Rain is rhythmical and eases your nerves. With the rain you can curl up in a blanket and drink coffee. The air smells woody and there is the chance of a storm with its boisterous thunder and pouring rains.

The sunshine is joyous and enticing. When it’s sunny the sweat curls down the backs of your legs and sends shivers up your spine. No matter what you’re doing, even if you hate the heat, it smells of the beach and BO wherever you go.

But this weather, overcast and windy, is the weather of anticipation.

It’s 4.30pm. The office I’m in looks out onto a small patch of grass and a few native trees seem to be throwing themselves around as if in some sort of religious ecstasy. These trees are possessed.

And despite the wind it’s eerily calm and quiet. The sound seems to be swallowed by the thick grey descending onto the city.

The light has all but gone from the street and you could say it seemed like dusk only that’s not quite right, that’s not what it feels like.

This is what wrong feels like.

STEPS
Chimpanzees – Barenaked Ladies

This weekend I came to one conclusion – I am full of shit.

The whole step parent thing for me was always in theory. I had looked down my nose at friends of the family where the step-mother constantly refers to the children as “his kids” and doesn’t include them in family functions.

“That’s his past,” she’s told me once. “I’m all for him seeing them but we’re his family now.”

At that time I had scowled at her, walked away. To me if you take on a man and you’re aware he has children then you have a responsibility to those children too. You are essentially agreeing to be a parent and those children are as much a part of your family as any you two will produce.

I had strong beliefs about the role of a step parent but in practice it’s a lot harder than I thought.

“Mummy always cooks me this and she puts in two packets to make it taste nicer,” Ms 7 said without a hint of nastiness.

In that moment I was bitter and angry and wanted to sneer in her face “well I’m not your mother”. The last thing I wanted was to be reminded that her mother even existed. I’d been having a tough enough week end already.

I put the dinner mix back on the shelf and walked off, a little disturbed that I’d allowed myself to think so meanly.

For the past two days the children have not stopped talking. They have talked from 6am to 10pm without a break. They have talked to me while I was having a shower. They have talked to me while I’m sitting on the toilet. They have talked at me while I was still asleep.

As Tom and I tried to get a few things around the house sorted they have followed us everywhere, only straying occasionally to play with the computer or go to the bathroom. Because of their proximeity the kids have been knocked, elbowed, pushed and were in real danger of being injured during our minor renovations. No matter how often they were told they simply would not move away the metres necessary for safety.

During meals they had barked their orders like arrogant restaurant snobs without a please or thank you. And they had expected each whim and craving to be catered to or they would complain incessantly.

All the while I couldn’t shake the thought that these were some one else’s children.

Someone else was teaching them how to behave; shaping their beliefs; instructing them on manners; pandering to their fears.

It made me wonder about this someone else and if I have any right to be correcting the children for anything they do, especially when it contradicts this someone else.

I’ve been doing my best to shake this concern and tried to treat them as if they were my children. I have asked for the please and thank you when they’re making requests and they’ve been more than happy to comply.

But how far can I go?

Can I tell them to stop talking? Can I demand that they sleep in their own beds (they wanted to sleep with their dad on Friday night)? Can I ask Ms 7 to stop her baby-talk? Can I tell Mr 10 to shut up about Pokemon? Can I tell them “that’s what’s for dinner and if you don’t like it you can go hungry”?

It’s not nearly as simple as I thought. It’s not all about showing them they’re welcome and that they belong. I have to define my own boundaries. The love part I can handle and I still completely believe that they should be treated as part of the family.

But in this small family Tom is their father and someone else is their mother.

What am I?

AT PLAY
Rabid Child - They Might Be Giants

We had been promised a fridge and washing machine on Saturday but it looked as though the manufacturer had given our sales assistant misleading information and the fridge was now out of stock.

So last night we returned to the store to choose another fridge so that would could get something in a reasonable time but the only one available was a 360ltr, an upgrade from our chosen 280, which would cost another $130 and wasn’t going to arrive until next Tuesday.

I huffed and puffed at the sales assistant about the inconvenience. I moaned about the fact we’d been without a fridge for two weeks and that if we couldn’t get one on the weekend it would be another week because we couldn’t afford to be taking time off work.

“Well at least we can get the washing machine. We’ll survive until next week.” Tom said helpfully.

We’d been fine without a fridge for the past two weeks and to be honest it hadn’t really bothered me not to have one. But I didn’t fancy the idea that one of us would have to take time off from work because the fridge we’d ordered two weeks ago wasn’t available two days before it was due to arrive.

“We’ve got kids coming on the weekend,” I snapped, half at Tom and half at the sales assistant. “I was thinking it would be nice to give them fresh food." I focused on the sales assistant and made my voice bitter. "And I’m not exactly impressed by the idea that we have to pay an extra $100 for the pleasure of being inconvenienced.”

The shop assistant shifted on the spot uneasily as though he was getting ready to run should the conversation break into a full on confrontation. The region we live in isn’t exactly known for it’s cool-headed and rational people and I was playing on the sales assistant’s desire not to become involved in a full brawl.
“Look, um. Just give me a second and I’ll see what we can do.” He said before disappearing into the back of the store.

Tom looked at me for a few seconds. “You know, it’s not going to help to take it out on me.”

I smile apologetically. “Sorry honey, I’m just playing. There’s no way we’re going to get this fridge tomorrow unless I play the bitch of the piece. The only problem with that is when I’m in the role I have to keep it going or I loose momentum.”
Tom smiled and nodded. “Oh, in that case, play away.”

When the assistant returned he was smiling. “Well, I’ve done what I can. I spoke to the manager and we can give you the fridge for only $10 extra. And we’ve got a truck here so we’ll drive over to the warehouse and pick it up tomorrow so it can be delivered on Saturday.” He shook Tom’s hand. “Once again, I’m sorry about the inconvenience.”

Anyhow, we’ve got the kids this weekend so as you can imagine I’m going to be a little busy.

Don’t expect to see me until Sunday.

D DAY – 30

I had wanted to write something about the phenomenon of turning 30.

I had wanted to finally expose the experience for what it is.

I had wanted to say “today is my birthday and I am officially 30. I am no longer cool. I am no longer capable of understanding the kids of today. I am falling apart at the seams (my knees are going, my back aches, my hair is falling out). I am considering purchasing a home and a four-wheel-drive for me, my husband and my 2.6 kids.”

The truth is there’s nothing to write about.

Turning 30 is insignificant.

Yesterday I got up at 6am, went to work, came home and went to bed.
Today, now that I am 30, I got up at 6am, went to work, came home and I’ll be going to bed tonight at around 10.

That’s the way it is I guess. You don’t notice to years roll by because to you they’re not years - they’re a single day at a time. I could look back and compare myself now to the me at 20 and say “wow, I’ve changed so much” and I know that I have. But what would be the point?

Sitting on the train this morning I watched a young girl of about 14 run and then jump so that she could reach up and touch a sign that was well out of her reach. She had sized up her target from more than five metres back and as she leaped had missed the sign by a good 20cms.

The action made me smile.

Not because of the futility and not because she had failed but because it was something that typified childhood. I smiled because it was an indication of naivety and hope to defy the odds.

I smiled, because only yesterday I had done exactly the same thing to reach a tree branch as I was walking home hand-in-hand with Tom.

So what if I’m 30, I still have faith I can achieve the things that are beyond my reach.

USELESS DATA
Lump - Presidents of the United States

This office is quiet most of the time. My coworkers slaving over their own piles of paperwork. The only sound that of the radio replaying its top eight songs over and over in the eight hour time frame that I am here.

Behind me the scanners hiss. We're transferring these files onto the computer. Tonnes and tonnes of paper all with varying pieces of information.

Names. Addressess. Tax returns. Assets. Makes. Models. Signatures.

I know enough about the strangers, tucked into these files, that I could build on this information to create their life. I know if they're married or single. I know if they're running their own business or if they're working for some conglomerate. I know how many houses they own or the details of where they're renting. I know the car they're buying and from their age I can determine if the purchase is part of a mid-life crisis or a responsible acquisition.

And I shuffle. My brain slips onto auto pilot and I am accumulating data somewhat like the scanners are. Faces and images that are taking up my vital memory. My real-time memory.

Today, for the first time, I have the down time necessary to write and it's nice to stretch my brain in this way. It's comforting to stop and listen to what's going on around me. It's liberating to look out the massive window beside me and see that the sky is a beautiful blue and that the high rises around me can't block it out.

For all my moaning and complaining, I do love working. I'm not sure if it's because it gives me something to do, that sense of completion when I walk out the door, or if it's because I get these moments when I can stop and absorbe something other than useless data.

TEMPING
Sweet Harmony – The Beloved

When you’re a temp you keep your mouth shut.

A scanner jammed mid-job and I hovered over the machine trying to clear it.

“Here, you’re doing it all wrong,” she had reached across the table and using her shoulder pushed me out of the way and was concentrating on the machine. However she wasn’t concentrating too much, she wanted enough of her focus to condescend.

“You should take the paper from her and then put it over here,” her back was to me and my eyes were boring holes through to her spine.

“I was about to do that I was just…”

She didn’t let me finish, “You know if it’s too difficult for you to handle then I’ll just do it.”

She walked away with an offending piece of paper in hand and I counted to 10 before walking in the opposite direction and returning to my original job.

While my back was turned all hell broke loose as a third woman stepped into the fray. She tapped on the temporarily halted machine and continued with its operation, oblivious it was missing a vital component.

“Why didn’t you tell her not to start up the computer?” She’d returned to the room and stood, hands on hips, behind me. Her face pointed out and her voice louder than necessary.

“What?” I looked back at my work and began typing the final few pieces of data that needed to be entered. I really didn’t have any time for her.

When I was finished I looked at her again. She pointed at the computer that had been once again halted mid-processing. I looked at her without saying a word, giving her my best blank stare.

“You should have told her that I was fixing something and that she shouldn’t start processing. Now we’re going to have to start the whole batch over again.” She hollered at me.

“I didn’t see her come in.” and it’s there that I should have stopped. I should have kept my mouth shut. But I have tolerated the condescension from the woman for the past three weeks. I have listened to her endless whinging about how cold she was, how hungry she was, how her life was oh so hard. I have tolerated the non-stop barrage of criticism and her brimming arrogance.

I refuse to be treated like crap just because I’m a temp.

So I continued. “Besides, I thought you were running the show.” My voice was sharp and pointed. The sarcasm dripped from the words and pooled on the floor.

“What’s with the attitude?”

I smiled and walked out of the room to the toilet. On my return she corned me, the arrogance bristling her spine.

“So what’s your problem?”

“Look, I don’t need someone hanging over my shoulder. I am quite capable of doing my job so just let me do it.”

“You’re a temp love, that’s what happens. People hang over your shoulder. We’ve got to make sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing so can the attitude.”

I couldn’t resist.

“As usual, you don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” And I was off. Leaving for home at exactly 5pm. The last thing I heard was her huffing and puffing something about my attitude and the disrespect.

Whatever.

The beauty of temping is that in three days I’ll be somewhere else and I’ll never have to deal with her again. I don’t have to care what she thinks of me and I don’t have to develop some phoney persona to keep the peace.

ROADTRIP

I was 14 when I saw my second dead body. Or rather it was three dead bodies.

My parents tried to shelter us through their actions. However, mum could never keep her mouth closed.

“Oh my God, it’s a baby on the road!” she howled, drowning out the dull radio they had been listening to on our trip back from Queensland.

There had been a car accident and our parents had told us to cover our eyes but being who I was, and who I still am, I looked through the cracks in my fingers.

There were two cars involved. From what I could see one car had clipped a concrete retaining wall, spun, and taken out a second car. On the road were shadowy figures.

Some were standing, carrying sheets that they allowed the wind to fan out. Others were crouching over motionless figures laying flat on the bituman.

It could have been us.

The timing was right, we could have easily been one of those two cars but dad had decided to turn of and go to the toilet only fifteen minutes earlier. I did the math, we would have been exactly at this point along the highway if we hadn’t stopped.

If.

I couldn’t make out the bodies clearly but their size told us the entire story. Two men and a child, no older than two. The tiny shape obscured by a man who placed a towel over the mass on the road.

I wondered then why they were hiding the dead. Of all the things that had to be done there were several men involved in the task of spreading sheets and towels over the bodies. Surely there were more important things that had to be done.

Such as redirecting the slow traffic, moving the cars blocking a lane or making the effort to revive the people on the road.

My brother reached an arm across the span of the back seat and covered the gaps in my fingers. He pushed hard against my face, trying to lighten the moment with some sibling jostling.

“Don’t look,” he hissed quietly, ensuring our parents didn’t hear that I’d been disobeying their directive and causing more trouble.

My brother and I don’t see eye to eye on many things. We are from different worlds. But I have never doubted that he loved and respected me. I have never doubted his desire to protect me from the things he feared – both the real and the imagined.

But it was too late.

BIRTHDAY BLISS
Everytime – David Gray

My sister-in-law and brother had arrived at my place early to help Tom and I prepare for the Chinese-themed birthday bash. When they’d pulled up in the driveway and popped the boot the contents almost crashed out onto the concrete. The boot had been stuffed with Chinese robes, an esky, two cameras, a rather large present, a make-up kit and alcohol.

From nothing Tom and I were transformed. My sister-in-law, who has a gift for bringing together any function, had sculpted a wig to turn my short blonde hair into a big black bun. She draped me in a robe and sent me on my way. Tom, who had the outfit, was given a long plat to wear and she drew a dark moustache with eyeliner.

Within an hour we looked fabulous. What’s more, we felt fabulous.

“Now turn like this,” she posed up for the camera to capture the moment and for the first time in a long time I didn’t mind having my photo taken.

For the first time in my life I had the feeling this wasn’t going to be a complete disaster.

Jumping into my brother’s car we had made the five minute trip to Trevor’s place and he’d gone to so much trouble. Or rather Trevor, Michael and Milo had all gone to so much trouble. The table was covered in a red tablecloth and carefully placed white paper plates and napkins. Each plate and each napkin had hand written Chinese, or Chinese looking, characters.

From the two main lights in Trevor’s apartment hung red Chinese lanterns.

We had plans for the night. The idea was to play a murder mystery game called Who Hung Woo but we never got there. Drinking, dancing, laughing and eating took most of our time.

As the night dwindled down my wig was unfurled for a stirring Cher impersonation and at least one ass was bared. Really, it’s not a party if someone doesn’t get naked.

The presents were brilliant. A massive candle in a wooden bowl, sheets, and towels, a beautiful woollen blanket and sweet photo frames to set up the house. The gift that made me cry came from my parents - a nose stud and an anklet – two things that tell me they’re finally seeing me for who I am.

I had been dreading my birthday.

With everything that’s gone on in the past two months, which could only be described as absolute happiness, I had been stressed. There’s just been so much to do and I had really wanted to let my birthday slip by unmarked but this year I’m glad I didn’t.

When I woke up this morning, ill and hung-over in the worst possible fashion, I realised that turning 30 gave me a chance to see just how lucky I am. I have a brother and sister-in-law who turned themselves inside out for me. I have friends who, although exhausted from a week of illness, transformed a house to create the perfect atmosphere. I have a boyfriend who is willing to withstand uncomfortable clothes and a face covered in eyeliner just to make me smile.

I really believe this is going to be my year. Although with all the distractions my writing has been suffering.

I’ll find time for writing when the dust settles but for now I’m taking some time just for me. Just to be happy.

LONELY
Bigger Than My Body - John Mayer

She's sitting on the seat alone.

Young. About 18. Squeezed into an unflattering purple top that accentuates the two rolls of fat pushing from under her breasts. Jeans. Her thick thighs are spilling onto the seats beside her.

The train is packed. She's taken the first seat of a three seater and as the passengers spill down the stairs they eye the vacant seats enviously. Knowing the train is only going to get fuller she offers to make the seats available to a young, slender suited man standing next to her.

"Would you like me to move over?" Her voice is soft and feminine and it's taken some showing of courage to make the weak offer.

He doesn't look at her only grunts his reply. "No thanks." He blantantly looks away and she knows that she's invisible to him, that he can't stomach to look at her. Her eyes stare out the window at the scenery flashing past, so far away from her.

If she could she would completely disappear.

The train continues to fill and still she's sitting alone. She's watching as the seats around her fill to capacity. Seats filling through desirable travelling partners. Seats next to the attractive and skinny are taken first. Seats next to the elderly second. Seats next to the ratty looking blue-collar workers third. It's a dilemma choosing between the vacant seats next to the men who stink of alcohol and cigarettes and the seats next to the fat that would require squishing uncomfortably into a smaller space.

"Would you like to sit down?" she offers to a woman who's carrying three shopping bags and barely managing to hold onto her handbag. It's not an offer. It's a request. The girls doesn't want the entire seat to herself. She doesn't want to be alone.

"No thanks. I'm getting off in two stops." This time the woman at least looks at her. But it's a fleeting look, as though she's acknowledging the effort it's taking for the girl to make the offer.

True to her word, two stops later the woman departs. Still there are four people standing beside the girl. Their eyes are making their way to the seats enviously. Resenting the girl's presence.

She tells herself that she's lucky. She tells herself that while everyone else is being squashed in the crowd she's got this entire seat to herself and she's comfortable.

But she's not comfortable and the lies she tells herself can't cover the truth that while everyone else has someone, she's alone. And her dark, downcast eyes tell the story even if no one's paying attention.

Then she stands and makes her way into the isle akwardly. The crowd shifts forward and as she clears the seat three passengers spill into the seat, taking their place. They don't look at her but fix their eyes out the window, on the wall, on something else.

As she ascends the stairs she looks at the floor, glancing once at the seat no one had wanted to share with her.

SILENCE

This could take a lot longer than I thought. I'm currently going through internet withdrawl. Our phone lines are down and I can only grab a few minutes in my lunch break to write.

I'm now in the new house and despite a phone line that hasn't been used for more than five years the place is perfect.

Tom's kids ran into the place and staked a claim on the two bedrooms we had allocated for them. Thrilled with the new home and I'm pleased that they're so comfortable.

Other than that there's nothing I could tell you in the three minutes I've got to write so I'm afraid it could be a little while yet before there's anything of substance.

I'm writing, just not posting.

I will be back as soon as the dust settles.

MOVING AGAIN
Not the Same – Ben Folds

I’m packing again after only four months and there are boxes scattered across the lounge room floor of Trevor’s apartment.

This time there’s less sweat, panic and adrenaline and there’s more Christine.

She’s hovering in my doorway and I can tell she’s got something to say. But for a good 15 minutes there is only silence as I shove my few possessions into the small boxes left from Trevor’s cocktail party.

Finally the silence is broken.

“Are you sure?”

I keep packing, chewing on the question. A lot’s happened in the past few weeks and I had kept the dilemma of whether I should move in with Tom to myself until I had made my decision.

Occasionally I wonder if I should have called in counsel. I wonder if the decision would have been easier had my friends and family played their part in shaping my decision.

But my resolve is unquestionable.

“Yes.”

This is my decision. For the first time in my life I am taking complete responsibility for the direction of my life. I am doing what I want to do because it’s what I want and not what I think everyone wants for me.

It had to be done. The time had to come.

Christine walked into my room and began passing the smaller things from my desk that I had been straining to reach. We’re silent and I’m comfortable with that.

There’s nothing more that needs to be said.

I love Tom and it’s only practical to live with him at this stage in my life.

This is what I want and what I need and I won’t ask others to make this decision for me anymore. I’m going to be honest and courageous from here on out.

Christine drops a collection of CDs and grins at me apologetically. Bending to pick them up I flash back to the panicked rush from Canberra and how desperately I clug to the belief I was heading back to Sydney for a reason.

“Christine?” I ask with a sense of urgency that concerns me. “This is it”.

I frozen mid-reach by the realisation and she’s picked up the CDs. Holding them tightly she leans in front of me to place them in the box, obviously aware that I’ve become stuck in the moment.

“You know better than that,” she’s back to collecting the few items left on my computer desk – a box of blank CDs, a book and computer speakers. “There is no ‘it’. This is the right thing for right now. Tomorrow it might be a different right thing.”

I’m still stuck. I’ve no hesitation about Tom but I’m hesitating now that I’ve faced the reality of this move.

“But…”

“No buts. Deal with tomorrow tomorrow.”

I love Christine. She’s as stressed as I am but she’s like the eye of the storm for me when I need it. I’m going to miss having her around to keep me in line. And I'm going to miss this room. I'm going to miss Mick and Milo and the dream of midnight Magarittas. Most of all I'm going to miss Trevor. He's been my rock and without him I would have drowned long ago.

This is so much I'm going to miss. Thers is so much I'm looking forward to. I'm frozen to the spot. Torn with equal parts grief and joy.

Anyhow, I’m off the air for two or even three days depending on how good the move goes.

Wish me well.

DOWN TIME
I Love Work - Butterfingers

First. Paul Ford is back. Break out the party poppers (that's just a personal yipee and sigh of relief. Ftrain has been quiet for a while and I've missed it something shocking). Drop on over and wish him a happy birthday.....

Now, as for me....

This office is quiet most of the time. My coworkers slaving over their own piles of paperwork. The only sound that of the radio replaying its top eight songs over and over in the eight hour time frame that I am here.

Behind me the scanners hiss. We're transferring these files onto the computer. Tonnes and tonnes of paper all with varying pieces of information.

Names. Addressess. Tax returns. Assets. Makes. Models. Signatures.

I know enough about the strangers, tucked into these files, that I could build on this information to create their life. I know if they're married or single. I know if they're running their own business or if they're working for some conglomerate. I know how many houses they own or the details of where they're renting. I know the car they're buying and from their age I can determine if the purchase is part of a mid-life crisis or a responsible acquisition.

And I shuffle. My brain slips onto auto pilot and I am accumulating data somewhat like the scanners are. Faces and images that are taking up my vital memory. My real-time memory.

Today, for the first time, I have the down time necessary to write and it's nice to stretch my brain in this way. It's comforting to stop and listen to what's going on around me. It's liberating to look out the massive window beside me and see that the sky is a beautiful blue and that the high rises around me can't block it out.

For all my moaning and complaining, I do love working. I'm not sure if it's because it gives me something to do, that sense of completion when I walk out the door, or if it's because I get these moments when I can stop and absorb something other than useless data.

I'm learning about my coworkers through the infrequent conversations which seem to come from nowhere. Silence and then chatter and then silence again.
One's having a crisis over her boyfriend. One is planning her daughter's wedding. One is trying to have a baby. One is quiet and says nothing much. One just got married and is deflecting the inquiries from her family about when she's going to have a baby.

I've been wrapped up in my own world for so long. I've had the trauma of ending my career and finding the money to pay my debts. when that was done Tom came along and I've been wrapped up in my own little relationship. Now, I'm constantly thinking about the move into our new home.

And the while the world continues to spin around me I remain largely oblivious to everything that's going on. i don't have time for TV, I don't have time for the news in any way shape or form. I can't call my friends so we've been out of touch for at least a month.

Because I only know these superficial things about strangers they're not intruding on my world and I've been incredibly relaxed and at ease. I have the work relationships that keep me in contact with the human race but once I walk out the door I am leaving it all behind.

It's so peaceful outside of the loop, wrapped in my own little world, but that doesn't mean I want to lose complete touch with humanity.

LIVING IN SIN
Lovers in a Dangerous Time – Barenaked Ladies

I told my dad that I was moving in with Tom (I’ll tell you about the house when we get to move in but just quickly – it’s perfect) and I asked if he’d be able to help me move when the time came.

He declined.

“You know why.”

“You don’t approve.”

“That’s right.”

My father strictly believes in no sex before marriage and definitely not living together. It’s his belief and I understand that he doesn’t want to support me in this venture.

It doesn’t make me happy. In fact I’m upset at the idea that this may damage our relationship or that he may look at me differently.

My greatest concern is that he’ll see this as an act of disrespect. It’s not, as you know by now I’m a firm believer that everyone has a right to what ever they need to believe to make life easier to understand.

Part of dad’s reaction was my fault. I didn’t tell him until the last minute. I delayed that conversation and the consequences of my avoidance was that he felt I didn't value his opinion. I do, I always will.

But sometimes I disagree and I’m so terrified of disappointing him I just couldn’t bring myself to open my mouth and tell him.

I repeated the conversation to my mother and she began to weep, trying to hold back the tears. Oddly enough mum is a big supporter of the move. Well, not so much of the move but she has faith in me and believes that if this is what I need to do then I should do it.

“You should have told him earlier.”

Her crying makes me want to cry and I’m really didn’t want to start. “He would have reacted the same way. I knew how he was going to react which is why I was afraid to tell him in the first place.”

That’s the thing. I didn’t want to tell my dad not because I thought I was doing the wrong thing but because I knew he believes I am.

You can’t fight someone’s beliefs. They can’t be reasoned away. Beliefs are just that, they’re firmly held convictions that we create so that we can try and understand the world. We build these guidelines for ourselves so that we can strive towards what we see as a better way.

My dad believes moving in with Tom is a mistake. It’s his belief and I respect that.

I believe this is the right decision. That’s my belief and no one can change my mind.

All of my life my dad taught me the importance of respect and tolerance and having an open mind to other people’s beliefs. He taught me that the world is full of people who wouldn’t necessarily agree with what you believed but that they had a right to live their life whichever way they wanted as long as it didn’t violate the rights of others.

And it’s his teachings I live by. Tolerance. Understanding. Respect.

I guess tolerance, understand and respect are for strangers, not your own flesh and blood.

He never mentioned that.

COCKTAILS
Oh – Dave Matthews

I’m exhausted to the point of woosiness.

Last night Trevor celebrated his 30th birthday in style with a cocktail party. Our small apartment filled to the corners with friends, family and lovers. The room was filled with balloons, lounge music and the warm babble of eight different conversations.

I spent the night buzzing around. Making cocktails and running interference to keep Trevor out of the kitchen and having fun rather than taking on the responsibilities of serving the food and refilling glasses.

But the star of the night was Milo who didn’t stop once. He had gone to a great deal of effort to make Trevor’s night special.

Washing dirty glasses, cooking the food, clearing away rubbish and making sure everyone was having a good time.

When everyone trickled away I finally sat down with Milo to chat about the night.

“It all went well,” I said. Sipping my millionth alcoholic concoction.

“Yeah, it did. You know what?” He paused to drag on his smoke. “I really had a lot of fun.”

“You were going all night. I mean, I didn’t see you stop once. You really were running the show.”

Milo smiled. “It was worth it to see Trevor having so much fun. And it was about him. You only turn 30 once and it should be something memorable.”

I agreed and left him to relax on the balcony. Inside an exhausted Trevor was saying goodbye to his final guests.

In the next couple of weeks I am moving out. I am starting a new life and it’s only just occurred to me what I’m leaving behind.

In the past four months I have lived with the most amazing people. I have been blessed by their concerns and their honesty. Through them I have managed to redefine myself and while the process wasn’t exactly pain free it was productive. I couldn’t have done it without them.

And I look at everything.

The way Milo laughs at all my jokes, the way Mick dances his way across the lounge room, the way Trevor thoughtfully considers everything I say and the way Christine makes it clear that I need to stop whining and get on with things.

I’m back on my feet because of them and I don’t know how I’m going to handle not having them around to kick me in the butt, to comfort me and to have faith in me when my confidence is shattered.

So I hid in the toilets to cry, blaming the rampant emotionalism on the alcohol. But we both know it wasn’t. We both know that I’m happy, I’m excited and I’m thoroughly convinced I am the luckiest person on this earth to have friends such as these.

The perfect time to leave any party is when you’re having a lot of fun.

I’m happy I’m getting to leave when everyone want me to stay and that I'm not being kicked out on my ass.

BEAUTIFUL ARROGANCE

Your Body is a Wonderland – John Mayer

I’m not exactly fond of my new coworkers.

“So, Tim, what’s with the beard – trying to catch yourself a girlfriend.”

The woman is a lot younger than me. About 23. Still she should know better.

The deliveryman continued with his work and tried to ignore her.

“I mean, you’ve got a girlfriend.”

I watched as the man blushed a little. His white face pink under the dark beard. “Nope. Not looking.” He said with his voice wavering a little.

“You’d wanna condition that thing. You’ve gunna scratch some poor girls face. I mean, God here I am assuming, you do like girls? Right?”

I’m so embarrassed for him. I’m so terribly uncomfortable and I really just want her to shut the hell up and leave this guy alone.

He finished with the boxes and walked to her desk, watching his feet and not looking up. She stood to meet him and reached out her hand to take the invoice. Gingerly he offered it to her.

“You know, I don’t know that I want to sign this for you. I might just ring up your boss and say Tim came in today, was rude and didn’t deliver half the stuff we needed.”

Tim shifted from foot to foot and glanced at the door. “I’ve got other deliveries.” he mummbled the hollow threat of impatience.

“What, you haven’t got time to hang out with the girls. You know that’s why you haven’t got a girlfriend. You don’t know how to talk to a woman.”

She signed the paper and handed it to him. Tim nodded his thanks and moved quickly out the door.

For a few minutes I stood in his skin, I imagined how terrifying it would be to walk into a room full of women and to have the most beautiful of the bunch mock him.

It’s no wonder he hasn’t got a girlfriend. I wouldn’t want one either if this is the way the women he met acted.

It got worse as she tormented every man that approached her. Commenting on their hair, telling them a new style made his face look fat.

“Oh, wait their.” She corrected herself. “Your face was fat already.”

There’s just something about this woman, no matter how beautiful she looks she one of the ugliest people I’ve met.

I JUST WANT TO GO HOME

In the past two weeks Tom and I have dealt with more than eight real estate agencies, conducted 28 inspections and rejected 26 houses. We’ve applied for two houses but lost them both to bidding wars.

Now Tom’s back at work after a week’s holiday and I’ve just begun a six week assignment.

We’re both eager to begin but the stress of searching for a home is exhausting. I’ve been stressed and over-tired for the past couple of days. So much so that the yawning begins at 9.30pm and being awake now, just minutes from 11pm, I am barely conscious.

I know there are things I should be writing about. There’s my new job and the endless experiences that come with it.

Learning to file paperwork for the finance company I’m working for.
Dealing with a room full of cackling women.
The password debacles.
Train rides from hell.
A man trying to sell me on the saving power of Jesus.
The joy of a full tax refund and the obliteration of my financial worries.

But, as I said, I’m exhausted.

Today you’ll only get the list. Tomorrow, well tomorrow you’ll probably just get another list.

I need sleep.

A MARKED WOMAN
I’m Amazed - Pixies

“How long were ya just gunna stand there staring at me before you said anything?”

I admit that I was intimidated.

As part of a newer family tradition I was in an alien environment, surrounded by bikers and women dressed in black leather skirts. The walls of the first-story tattoo parlour were splashed with colourful designs but since this was my first venture into body art I had decided on something simple.

“Um,” I stumbled for an appropriate response, gauging my surroundings. “Just long enough to figure out what you were doing.”

It was a lie. I had been frozen to the spot in terror but I knew that he would have considered me a complete loser if I admitted I was hesitant.

He grunted at me and snarled something about getting to me when he was finished.

The man in question wore black tattered cargo pants. On top a black woollen jumper that had seen better days and as he reached for another bag into which he had been placing what looked like steel syringes I could see colourful tattoos spilling down his wrist and along the top of his hand. His face was rough and largely hidden by a grey beard that fell from his chin and was long enough to reach the middle of his chest.

“Ok, what do ya want?”

I pointed out the designed I had chosen. Like all of my decisions it had been a three-week consideration. I’d wanted a tattoo since I was 14 but now the day was here I was doing everything I could to hide the fact I was shaking.

He went about his business. Photocopied the design; laid cling wrap onto the bench and began spraying some sort of solution onto the thin film of plastic.

As he did this I thought of the possible things I could say to him to ease what seemed like his bad mood. I scanned the designs and chose a few to talk about; I considered his job and the possible challenges it posed; I considered the man himself and how unsatisfying jobs such as my little venture into the world of tattooing must have been.

“Here,” he grunted and patted the seat next to him.

I took my seat and raised my leg onto his (I wanted the tattoo on the inside of my right ankle). He made two short squirts of solution onto my leg and pulled out a razor to shave the area. As he shaved I laughed involuntarily – I’m not sure if it were nerves or the absurdity of a strange man shaving my legs.

And then it happened. A sly smirk crept up one side of his face.

“No insult intended.”

I laughed again. “Well, it’s a first for me.”

Then his mood softened and I felt less alien, less intimidated. I asked him about his job and he asked why I was getting the tattoo.

Halfway through the job he stopped and patted my leg. “How ya holding up?”

It had been, to me, painless. More of an annoyance then anything else. I’ve felt more pain stubbing my toe on the couch.

When I told him this he smiled. “Ya know everyone runs getting a tattoo by their friends to see what it’s like and they’ll tell ya all sorts a horror stories. But when people ask me what it’s like I all give them the same reply. ‘I can’t tell you how you feel’.”

After I paid for my tattoo I thanked him for the job and bounced out of the shop with a spring in my step.

I have fulfilled a 30th birthday family tradition. My first tattoo.

As of today I am a marked woman. Inside my ankle the Japanese character for courage and bravery.

I thought it only fitting.

BANDWAGON JUMPING
The One – Foo Fighters

Do you want me to write something about the state of the pre-election election campaigning?

It seems the go of late.

Everyone has an opinion on politics and I’m no different. I’m an ex-journalist who majored in Federal Politics and no doubt I could do a rather analytical piece if that’s what you want.

But for me it’s watching our two major politicians play the media game that’s the real buzz.

And the winner is….

I used to work for a local paper where Mark Latham was the federal member for the region. During my time at this particular publication I had three phone numbers for Mr Latham.

His office, where a polite secretary would answer the phone and patch me through; his mobile, where I could leave a message but more often than not talk directly with Latham and; his home, where his wife or Latham himself were always ready to chat.

Policy aside, Latham plays the media to his advantage.

Other federal and state members had snotty little press secretaries to play door bitch to the media’s attempt to get a decent quote and more often than not this was their downfall. After leaving messages, having to pre-warn them about your questions and getting smarmy press releases you figured stuff them, if they want to come across as a pretentious snot then that’s their decision. You would quote them all right but more often then not their answers were incomplete and the argument against them prevailed making that particular politician look as though they didn’t know what they were talking about or that they were hiding something.

Their quotes were hollow and insincere.

Latham didn’t have a door bitch, or perhaps he did but his particular media advisor was smart enough to know that the last thing a journalist wanted was to be jerked around.

As a result Latham managed to have his say on absolutely anything because we were always guaranteed of a substantial quote that addressed the question at hand.

Quotes such as “Conga line of suck holes” and the infamous “arselicker” comment made Latham appear real. I’ve no doubt they were his honest opinion.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve played the game long enough to know that the appearance of sincerity is just that – the appearance – but compared to Howard who comes across as a cardboard cut-out, Latham has created an image that is down to earth and appears honest.

He’s talked on Triple J and Rove to reach out to the common man. He deals with the media directly and while there are many who think him an arrogant twat he has one thing to his advantage.

Scan the papers and watch the TV. Whether he’s the better of the two or not seems irrelevant. He’s the one we’re seeing. It’s his life and his quotes that we’re constantly hearing.

If elections are won on media coverage alone then Latham will throttle Howard.

Mark Latham is the name people will remember because they have no choice.

His name is being imprinted on our brains by the overworked and understaffed Australian media who need their stories given to them with ease.