This will be in instalments because there’s simply too much to write about and there are gaps in my memory that only time will fill. It took me a week to write this and then Blogger decided not to cooperate. Anyhow…

BOSWELL GETS MARRIED.

My wedding day began at 6am when Mick knocked quietly on my door. I’d spent the night at his house, my last night of freedom, and he, Milo, Christine and Sarah had done all they could to create an impromptu Hen’s Night because exhaustion on my part saw it cancelled the weekend before.

Despite the big night (at least two bottles of champagne and three daiquiris not to mention a barrage of condom balloons and a viewing of Muriel’s Wedding – plus a 2am bedtime) I scrubbed up pretty well and headed for the shower. Mick, while I was showering, prepared breakfast of bacon and toast.

“Are you ready?” he giggled as I swayed into the kitchen. “I think so – I actually think I’m still drunk which means I’m quite relaxed.” Mick laughed and placed the plate before me. “This’ll soak it up.”

There wasn’t a lot of time though as my Sister-In-Law (the world’s greatest Matron on Honour) pulled up in my car that we’d left for her the night before. She bounced up the stairs to the apartment I’d called home for so long when my life fell apart. Clearly, she’d had a sound nights sleep.

“Let’s go,” she bubbled. Paying no attention to the fact I still had a plate of food before me. I shovelled in a mouthful. “Just a sec,” I replied, bits of bacon spitting out before me. I swallowed hard. “If I don’t eat something to soak up the alcohol then I’ll gush down the isle.”

Sarah stirred on the mattress in the lounge room. “Are we leaving yet.” Sarah is a professional make-up artist and had promised to do the make-up. At that moment I wonder just how drunk she still was. But, still in her clothes from the night before, she bounced out of bed, took a piece of toast and was standing at the door with her make-up kit.

Finally, but not without some coaxing, they pushed me out of the door. Unanimously agreeing that perhaps my sister-in-law should drive because I was, most definitely, still over the limit.

Our first stop was to pick up Ms 8. She’s spent the night with Tom and we swung past the house in high spirits. Ms 8, I found out later, had woken Tom at 5.55am and told him to get up and wash her hair.

Sister-in-law ran into the house and an enthusiastic Ms 8 who jumped into the car and put on her seatbelt before even greeting myself or Sarah, leaving a lagging sister-in-law behind.

But our first true duty of the day was a visit to the hairdressers.

Merrylands was deserted and considering the way we looked when we arrived I was glad to be sneaking in there under the cover of the early morning lag. Our hairdresser, the wrinkled old lady from the tirals, was waiting for us. She started on sister-in-law first. Rolling her hair into tight curls and wrapping it in a 1950’s style of bonnet before sitting her under the dryer. Ms 8 was next, once again the top of her hair tightly wound.

As my bridesmaids had their hair done, Sarah dabbed make-up on my face and I did what I could not to be nervous. But it was slowly dawning on me that in a few hours I was going to be married. By the time my make-up was done and the hairdresser was pulling at my head I was a bundle of nerves.

Not because I doubted the marriage, not because it was such a big day but we were running out of time and I was eager to see Tom.

Ms 8 sat perfectly still the whole time. Throwing me a smile every so often to show that she was ok. Sister-in-law flicked through magazines patiently. She was deafened by the sound of the hair dryer.

We were done by 9.30am. Half an hour late and leaving us only half an hour to make it to my wedding on time.

UPON US

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

But for today I’m a shaking mess. My eyes are blurry and for some odd reason I’m talking a hundred words a second.

I’m a little nervous.

For the past week Tom has been waking me up with a cheery countdown.

“Four days left for you to change your mind.”
“Three days and you’ll be my wife.”
“Two days before I make an honest woman out of you.”

So I’m getting married. Oddly enough I have no doubts, no concerns, about becoming Tom’s wife. Absolutely everything about that is right. He’s all I’ve ever asked for in a man – in a partner.

But the wedding itself is driving me under. You just pray and then pray and then pray a little more (which is difficult when you don’t have a specific God that you pray to) that everything is going to run smoothly.

Today the kicker came from dad. An SMS telling me that while my mother has been amazing over the past couple of months, in fact she’s been supportive and helpful and not at all the basket case that she normally is whenever there’s an important moment in our lives, she’s still up to her old tricks.

“Mum’s been at it again.” The SMS was enough for me to know that behind the scenes it’s been a whole different story to my experience. I know what’s been going on and that while to me she has been blissful, to everyone else I have no doubt she’s been a psychotic mess.

So I didn’t respond. I don’t want to know. It’s enough for me to know that mum has put on a brilliant performance around me and that her anxiety hasn’t been added to my own. I am thrilled that I’ve been left, for the first time ever, completely in the dark about everyone else’s bickering and pettiness.

As for the countdown, just talking about it is helping.

Last night Tom and I prepared the final touches. I hanged the dress, my sister-in-law’s dress and the hoop skirts in our bedroom. I ironed Tom and Mr 10’s shirts. We re-hashed Tom’s speech and laid out the clothes for our overnight bag.

And then we stopped. For the first time in four months we stopped and did nothing. Curled on the lounge we mindlessly watched TV and then fell into bed.

And Tom woke me this morning.

“Only one more day before we begin our life together.”

Tonight I’m staying with Mick. Going back to where it all begun.

It seems only fitting.

COUNTDOWN

And it’s almost here. In four days I’m going to get married. And I’m not anxious anymore. An eerie calm has set upon me.

Long ago, in the early days of tOOleS, I spoke of sitting on the banks of the Thames with one of my exs. I told how we looked at the stars and for the first time I began to see shapes once I realised it wasn’t the points of light I had to follow but the spaces in between. It was then I discovered how to see the big picture.

Now, as my wedding draws closer, I wish I could reach out to this particular ex and thank him for his instruction, how I hope he understood too. I wish I could freeze that moment in glass and keep it on the mantle piece to contemplate from time to time.

You see, on the shores of that concrete river, I finally understood the meaning of life.

That one moment brought me here.

And I look around at my world and for the first time in a decade I am content. Tom is perfect for me, a blend of protection and liberation. He hasn’t once tried to change me and even at my most irrational he seems to take it in his stride.

The instant parenthood thing is a bit of a challenge but I never did like things to be too easy. I’m already getting that warm parent feeling when things go right and I have all the faith in the world that it’s going to be ok.

But then there’s me. With my ring that fits so perfectly.

Sometimes I doubt I am really here. Sometimes the beast does what it can to drag up the darkness into my life and I fight every day to keep it at bay. The darkness is part of who I am and although I know I could easily medicate it away I would be medicating away much more than the beast. It’s a risk I can’t take.

But to date the beast has lost. It tried to convince me Tom was cheating and failed. It has tried to convince me that I am a failure as a parent and shouldn’t be attempting to raise Tom’s kids. It failed there too. It tried to convince me that Tom didn’t love me and was only using me to raise his kids – this lasted longer than it should have but was eventually defeated. Now I think the beast is thoroughly exhausted.

So only now am I really excited about what the future has to hold. Today I am, for the first time, looking forward to my wedding.
Only three sleeps to go.

ONE THING LESS

I’m in a foul mood. I could rip the heads of kittens.

Not literally, I’m not that kind of person. In fact, looking back at that paragraph I’m a little disturbed but you get the severity of my mood.

There’s no real reason. There’s no one incident that has inspired my attitude. Just all of a sudden the beast jumped up and swallowed me whole.

I can feel a storm front coming on.

So I sneak into tOOleS and hope it will calm my nerves.

I love my job, don’t get me wrong. I love the people I work with and I love the technicalities of the industry. There are so many things that make me happy about my current situation but damn…

I’m spending my day explaining a simple premise to morons.

“Superannuation can not be claimed until you are 60 and retired from the workforce.” “Ok. So you’ll send out that claim form then.” “No, you’re 30 and still working which means you can’t claim your superannuation.” “Why?”

One more moron out there breeding.

“How can I make a co contribution to get the money from the Government?” “There are three ways to make a co contribution payment. You can…” “Like send in a cheque or do you do EFT because I don’t have the facilities for that I do have a credit card.” “You can have your employer…” “I’m not talking about the employer contributions I’m talking about my contributions.” “Sir if I can finish a sentence I can explain it to you.”

Still they keep calling. Customer after customer completely incapable of listening, incapable of understanding. It’s not as complicated as they make it. If they would stop for just once second they could see how simple it was. But you could say that of everything about their lives. I shouldn't segregate - I'm one of them too.

“No, I understand the privacy act. I don’t want any personal details, I just want the balance of my son’s account.”

There are more important things I could be doing. I could be filing my nails. I could be choosing shoes and jewellery. I could be lying on the beach somewhere reading my book. I could be at home with Tom curled up on the lounge.

When it comes down to it I doubt there is any work in this world that is really going to make a difference. Not in the bigger sense.

So I’ve stopped seeking meaning in my job. I’ve stopped looking for work that does something. It’s enough for me to get paid at the end of the week for doing something that people are willing to pay for.

I am customer service which essentially means I listen attentively to customers and say what ever it takes to make them feel as though they’ve achieved something. I do what ever it takes to allow them to cross off one of the many chores they have on the neverending list of Things to Do.
And merely prattling eases my mood. Funny how achieving something, however small, is enough to ease the burden we all carry.

STEALING HOME.

I have a dream. Waldon inspired.

There’s a passage in the book which says, loosely, that Thoreau didn’t need to waste money buying furniture because someone was always throwing out something suitable to his needs.

If I can’t live off the land in the bush somewhere then I have a dream of doing the next best thing. Stylishly furnishing my house with completely recycled furniture. I know it’s ambitious and unlikely but to date I’m not doing so badly.

We have found, abandoned and alone, an ironing board, two sets of drawers, a single bed and now a wardrobe. All in fantastic condition and requiring minimal repair.

Last Friday night when we picked up the kids we spotted the cupboard. It was bright green and pretty hard to miss against the red brick wall in front of a block of units. Someone had smashed out the back and the hanging rod was missing but otherwise it was in fantastic condition.

Tom sized it up. “Well, do you want it?”

I hesitated. There was a good chance it wouldn’t fit into the Excel. But still, it was perfect and headed for the tip – a complete waste.

“Yep – I need a project.”

Then we formulated the plan. I would drive Tom and the kids to the spot and we would try to fit it into the Excel and Mr 10 and Tom would walk home while Ms 8 and I drove the wardrobe back.

Unfortunately, it didn’t fit. The plan changed. Ms 8 and I drove back home and then walked the eight blocks to meet up with Mr 10 and Tom. During our walk we got a chance to talk.

By the time we met up with the boys, sweat was dripping down Tom’s face and Mr 10 was beaming with pride.

For the rest of the journey Tom took the lead with the cupboard and Mr 10 and I alternated carrying the back. We joked around about the fact this was a big heist and that we were making a getaway.

Residents watched us suspiciously and we did our best to move out of their gaze as quickly as possible. We moved through the shadows and tried not to draw attention to ourselves but blinds bent as we passed and I wondered what they could have been thinking.

But the work was hard and my arms were stinging from the cumbersome weight. I marvelled at Mr 10 who proved himself to be stronger and more resolute than I was and Tom, who didn’t put the cupboard down once to rest his back.

It took an hour-and-a-half but finally we reached home and I was left with the daunting task of stripping back this beast.

Heaven knows I love a challenge.

OTHER STUFF

Tuesday and Wednesday have been contrasting days. Tuesday was dreary and my mood followed its lead. Overcast and drizzling and I couldn’t find the motivation for much.

I dragged myself to Parramatta Westfields and pottered around the shops seeking jewellery and shoes.

I stopped, uncomfortably, in the perfume section of Myer and considered my options. For the past month I’ve been looking for a scent that reflects me. My odour of choice so to speak. Unfortunately all the leading perfumes gave me a headache. Pure Poison, from its description, would have been the perfect scent. Mandarin, Sandawood and a variety of other scents mingling together. Unfortunately the combination made me want to vomit and I raced from the store in search of a toilet to wash the offending scent from my wrist.

This scene has reoccurred on no fewer than a dozen occasions as I sought that one scent. The blends simply offending my senses. Dior, YSL, Elizabeth Arden and their cronies all too much. Coming together and smelling less like mandarins and sandalwood and more like a congested elevator.

Carrying only paint stripper after four hours of shopping I gave into the dreary day and slumped home.

Wednesday was sunnier and so was my mood so I headed for Merrylands in search of the final touches to my wedding. The shoes were all too small, too high, too low, too pink, not pink enough, too expensive and too cheap. The jewellery was all of the above but without as many varieties.

As for perfumes I thought a little harder about my selection and decided I’m not as complicated as all that. I don’t need every single one of my favourite smells crammed into one small nasal space.

After another three hours shopping I bounced home, happier but still with only one purchase for the day – a sanding block.

Sweating as I worked on the cupboard we had found on Friday I thought about how all of those scents made me feel – inferior, overwhelmed, burdened. I thought about the shoes I didn’t want and the jewellery that just isn’t me and was thrilled that I hadn’t made a rushed purchase just to appease my family and friends who have been nipping at my heels to get these final touches completed.

The paint stripper stung at my nose, burned my fingers and I was truly happy.

Tom will be home soon and I know that he will congratulate me on my efforts. I know he will run his hands along the wood and make kind and helpful suggestions on how I can make the cupboard smooth and ready for painting.

I know Tom will come home and that all the scents and shoes and jewellery in the world won’t make me any more beautiful to him then I am with clumps of stripper handing from my hair and sawdust sprayed across this dirty t-shirt and jeans.

Suddenly my shopping failures don’t seem so bad.

WIRY WOMEN

The first day of my week of sloth began in a hair salon.

I had booked the hair trial for the first day of my week off because I had originally planned to squeeze as much as possible into the week. My mind changed about the objectives of this week over the past month but the hair appointment stayed as the only organised event.

And there I sat for an hour, flicking through the wedding magazines trying desperately to visualise how the stunning models’ hairdos would transpose onto my less than glamorous head. Finally, with the assistance of the world’s best matron of honour – my sister-in-law -, we decided on a design that incorporated my existing fringe style and a mass of soft curls falling to my shoulder.

“No, no cut. You’re hair just long enough.” The elderly hair dresser said in broken English as we pointed to the design. “You sit in that chair and we’ll start.”

It began with foils. My blonde hair just not blonde enough for my liking and in need of some highlights. All I could do was watch as the woman tugged at my hair in small clumps all over my head, painted them blue and then sharply folded them in small squares of foil.

As I sat with my head tucked into the hair dryer and drowning out all sounds I watched the woman take care of two other customers in her busy salon. She talked with them, I know this because her lips moved and theirs in turn, although I heard nothing of their conversation.

In my cocoon I assessed whether this was the woman I wanted styling my hair for the wedding.

But the break seemed brief and after a quick wash and head massage from her silent assistant she began tugging at my head once again. She said nothing but the movement of her muscular arms mesmerized me. This woman was about the age of my grandmother, has she lived through her bitterness to this day. Her hands knotted with overworked muscles and her wiry arms straining.

She pulled my hair and teased it until I felt it was nothing but a big meringue and struggle as I might I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see how she would turn this mass of hair into the creation I had specified.

“You sensitive?” she asked as I winced for what was possible the 50th time that day.

“Uh, only on the side there where the hair is shorter,” I lamely responded.

“No worry. I be quick.”

She moved too quickly for me to see how she did it, only that within 15 minutes my head was the perfect curled mass and my fringe swept across my forehead in a flattering line.

And it was done.

With the hair out of the way I have only shoes and jewellery to purchase and I'm ready to be a bride. Well, almost.

DISAPPOINTING EVERYONE

“Where are you going?” The woman looked at me with hope in her eyes. “What are you doing?” She continued with equal enthusiasm as though my holiday plans would somehow liberate her from the drudgery of her own life.

“Nothing and Nowhere. That’s my plan.” I couldn’t help but beam. Sure, my week’s plans weren’t going to liberate anyone but me.

She looked a little depressed. Clearly my response left her feeling a little let down.

And the scene repeated itself through out the week as I announced I was going to have the next week off. Their questions were dripping with anticipation, their disappointment palpable.

So for the next five days I have a carefully mapped out agenda that will bring joy to no one but me.

Monday I’m getting my hair cut and coloured. Then in the Afternoon I might just have a little nap. Maybe I’ll tackle my latest project – the cupboard (I will explain this in my time). Maybe I’ll do the washing and clean the house.

Tuesday, through to Friday, will not involve hair but will involve the latter. I also have a long list of maybes.

My plan is to be plan less. Free of all obligations and duties.

Sure, there are things I have to do. I have to have my hair done. I have to finalise the DJ. I have to find jewellery. I have to choose the wedding cake. But none of these have to be done at a specific time or specific place. None of these have to be done at all.

There’s three weeks before the wedding and in that time I will find the time to do these few, minor things.

But this week is my week and perhaps it will be enough to curl up in tOOleS and deal with the most neglected facet of my life. My writing.

Either way this week is my week. I’ve been waiting for months to have a little time to myself. Not because I wish to be anti-social nor because I’m finding I need a break from work (because for the oddest of reasons, for the first time in my life, I’ve actually found a job I enjoy) but simply because I’m that kind of person who must lose herself in the world a little so that I can breathe.

There’s clouds to watch drift across the sky. There’s coffee to be drunk as some anonymous café dweller. There’s conversations to overhear and really, really listen to.

So I’m savouring this week. I’m going to drink it dry. Knowing all too well that it will be brief and I’m going to have to return to my responsibilities and ambitions.

But first, above all, I’m going to sit down in the sun, possibly at the beach, and read a book. That doesn’t sound like too much to ask but it’s been out of my reach for the past six months.

I don’t care how disappointed everyone else is, I’m going to have possibly the most relaxing week ever.