Category Archives: stuff

family

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It might be the yucky headachy low feeling I get after my zoladex implant thats making me feel a little sad today. But I don’t think it is. That just makes me grumpy.  The sadness I think is what I’ve felt amongst the immense joy at Jem’s performance as Alice this weekend. Sadness that our family wasn’t there. I suddenly felt so damn far away again. It’s moments like this that piss me off. Albeit momentarily, then acceptance and yes, sadness takes over. I’ve made peace with it, I understand our reality, I am grateful for so much of it, but shit, sometimes I just want to cry. For me, for B, for my girls, for our family. For all the moments we are all missing out on. Moments like these are never to be repeated, can never be captured and would have been lovely to share with those who we matter to. I am sorry that I didn’t make more of a fuss about it with my friends here, to be our surrogate family. I’m understanding more and more that that is what eases the pain. A little.

doozy

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I realised the other night to be taken seriously, in a networking context, you need a business card. Never mind how bad. It was hilarious as we all stood around with our glass or glasses of champagne the gap in the conversation when my friend and I didn’t whip out our business cards.  And seriously it really doesn’t matter what it says, there were some doozies, but you’re nobody without a card. It was such a fabulous moment as my friend and I exchanged glances, fuck, what can we hand over so we’re not left out? I’m joking of course, we really couldn’t care but it was very funny. She offered her visa card but it was not accepted despite being of the most value. And I don’t mean only financial. Anyway, I’ve already started designing mine. Seriously can’t wait for our next event so I can hand mine out.  It’s going to be a doozy.

classy

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A friend and I were chatting and the description ‘she is classy’ came up. But is she? What is ‘classy’? To my view a classy person is one who treats everyone with respect, treats everyone the same, no matter their so-called status. Who is kind, who puts others at ease, who isn’t brash, who values their own and others inner beauty as much as their outer beauty, who enhances what they have tastefully, who never displays their assets in a vulgar manner, be they physical or financial. Who is consistent, genuine, authentic and real. Who is honest. And especially who believes all are equal, who never ever believes they are better than anyone else. A classy person is most definitely not one who feels they are better simply because of the car they drive, the clothes they wear, the religion they follow, the job they do, the school their children go to, the size of their bank accounts or the area they live in. That, in my view is the opposite.

kate

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4

I am in awe of my daughter. Kate turned 15 today and I just so love the person she is and will continue to grow into. I can’t even be concerned that this might just come across as a mother bleating on about how fabulous her daughter is because that would make her feel good about herself. Because it genuinely isn’t that. Kate has so much to teach me. She just has an innate sense of self beyond her years, an innate sense of fairness, a kindness that is true, she is compassionate, she is incapable of untruths, she will never let anyone down, she is a friend to all, she forgives those who are unkind, she has no need for all to like her, she is who she is and will not compromise her ideals, her sense of fairness for anyone, even if it hurts her, she has a true grasp on her ego, she puts others before herself, she allows them to be who they are, she sees the good in all, she genuinely celebrates others success and talent without ever feeling what about me. My friends know how I worry a tad that she has no competitive edge, and she doesn’t. But that’s my stuff. She has no desire to prove she is better than anyone else, to prove she is good enough, because she is already so secure in who she is.  She is noble and kind and stylish, filled with grace and never-ending dignity. She is bright, she is cheeky, she is ambitious but not greedy, she talks back, she has a twinkle, a naughty and fabulous sense of humour, she has a wonderful ability to laugh out loud, she is argumentative and yes a tad disdainful and dismissive of her parents and her sister, but appropriately so, with a love for us that oozes out her pores. I am so proud and so in awe of my daughter. I hope one day I grow up to be just like her.

sprung

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2

I have a friend to thank for much sobbing today. I spent an extended morning with her kinesiologist/naturopath who made me truly acknowledge some things. To understand me a bit better. Well he helped me to start to access what I already knew. In my subconscious. My main motivation for going to see him was wanting to wean myself off these damn mood stabilisers, without harming my children or B. I am definitely off balance (in the gentle sense of the words, I am not off my rocker. yet) and needed help getting my balance back preferably without chemicals. In essence continuing the journey being here started which is giving me the chance, the ability to deal with the cause of my disease, not just to focus on the cure. For the incurable. Without any prompting he accessed words like disappearing, anonymous, alien, loss of mojo, abandonment, different, disempowered from me. It was quite unsettling. And a theme you would have come to be familiar with if you had been part of my oversharing.  But he knew nothing about me. Nothing. I have self effacingly spoken a lot about avoidance as a strategy, my coping mechanism to deal with change, which all manifests itself in my need to control. See Lianne, everything is ok. I’ve always convinced myself that knowing I did this, acknowledging it and laughing at it, meant it was not an issue.  But, someone’s not buying it. So, it seems it’s time to lift the lid on the I’m coping, I’m strong, I’m able melodrama. Shit.

chuckle

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I had a chuckle at myself today. It took all I had in me not to “client service” a meditation/discussion I went to. What is it with me and the need to make everyone at ease. There was an uncomfortable pause begging to be filled (by me) as we milled around waiting to be seated. And once seated. And thats when I chuckled. When I realised I didn’t have to. I didn’t need to make anyone feel anything. Why me. Old habits die hard. So we all sat there in uncomfortable silence until the buddhist nun gently led the discussion. It was uncomfortable, it wasn’t just me needing to fill silence. But I guess thats the point. Uncomfortable is ok. I am slowly getting that it is not up to me to try and make things better. My idea of better. I cannot control anything but my own response. I love that today it was a chuckle.

straight

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The girls want a house. And a dog. I want to stop living in limbo. Or I think I do. I think I want a house too. And a dog. B wants neither. He loves apartment living. I think I might just like the idea of a house and a dog. Because conversely I also like the notion of non attachment. I’m trying to learn to let go and not hold on. Living in limbo enabled that. But I think not being able to make too many decisions because of my health was a huge cop out. And a delightful one too, because we could just avoid doing anything. I feel we’re at a crossroads, or actually a tjunction and I think I want to go straight. B knows I often do just want to go straight. Even when its dangerous. And especially when I can’t. I’ve been waking up with an anxious feeling in my tummy. Anxiety at change. And at permanence.  Even though nothing really is. I think these feelings are all tied up in our decision to buy here. I could smile with a nonchalant air at the question of settling before. I wasn’t rejecting anyone by saying yes or no. But as we get closer to making a decision I realise thats whats unsettling me. I like the idea of settling. Not the reality of it. I’m scared of disappearing. Of anonymity.

funky

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I met two older women yesterday who really made me stop and think. I have become boring. I have no funk. I love a woman with a classic look but with an edge. A little funk. I’ve lost mine. Francesca is a 50 something year old who arranged a fabulous birthday lunch for a friend of mine. She wore a black edgy coat with high boots, black jeans, a classic black fedora style hat, an artfully tied loose scarf, funky blue ray ban readers. But it was less about what she wore but how she wore it. With flair, with confidence. She was stylish, quite classic, but funky. The other is also 50 something and from one of my favourite decor shops. She was wearing her hair parted and twisted into knots not unlike Bjork, a black jacket with a flair, over a black knee length skirt with a flair and heavy docs. She also had ray ban style prescription frames. She also looked stylish, classic, yet quirky.  And age appropriate. And was confident about who she was and her style. She liked my Number Six Karen Walker sunglasses (yay me), and we got chatting about teenagers, docs, converse and style. I realised I’ve allowed myself to disappear. And allowed my kids to censor me. I say I’ve lost my funk, but I’m actually not sure I’ve ever been funky. I think I would love to be. I love all things creative, I appreciate talent and anyone with an effortless style. But I’m not visually creative in the obvious sense of the word, I’m too restrained, too self aware, too risk averse. And I’m cool with that because thats me. But I used to like my style too. Classic with a little twist. I’ve lost my twist. I think I got scared of standing out. I lost me while trying to assimilate. Into all my new worlds. So maybe when I hit 50 I’ll be inspiring too in a funky classic way, because I’m determined to get my funk back. My twist. And not give a damn what my kids say. Or anyone else.

confusing

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Kate’s going on a date tonight. She looks exquisite. But she thinks she looks fat. I had a real moment. I know we all joke about how we become our mothers, but fuck, I felt like I was starring in a generational sliding doors. And not only because it’s exactly how every night out played out for me and my mom. The thing I found particularly freaky was the frustration I felt at her not hearing me. Just like I never heard my mom. I felt the very emotion I know my mom felt. It was weird. The futility. The frustration. Sometimes it really is just futile, even commenting as a mom, because they just don’t believe you. I never did. And as much as you profess (and they know it to be true) that the only one they can really rely on to be honest is you, their mom, they still don’t believe you because you are their mom and that’s why to you they are perfect. It’s quite confusing. In fact I know the only way Kate and I are ok is if I agree with her. It usually works, but clearly I can’t tonight. I daren’t. And anyway, I don’t. She looks gorgeous and she looks skinny. And that is really all that matters to her in this effed up world we inhabit. Anyway, she flew down the corridor in a huff, just like me, sorry mom, I know it never was your fault how I was feeling but I now know I knew I could take it out on you and we’d still be ok, anyway, she ran to Jem and asked her if she looked fat. Jem looked up and said nah. And that was enough for Kate. I didn’t even feel offended, I was just relieved. But I am determined to never ever ask B if I look fat in whatever I’m wearing again.

blubbering

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I embarrassed Kate again today. This time because I started crying over my cup of coffee. We had a fabulous girly morning shopping. Then went for a coffee at Canteen. I always feel quite melancholy when we go to Canteen because this was the place I used to hide out in when we first arrived in Noosa. Not really hide because no-one knew me to look for me. Hide I suppose so it wasn’t obvious how lost I was. Or lonely. Or how invisible I felt. We weren’t set up at the house yet and Canteen is long and narrow and dark and cosy and at the back are computers you can use at your leisure as long as you order a coffee. Well, order anything. If any of you got those early I’m ok, I promise I’m ok emails, which I hope you never really believed, well they were from Canteen. Anyway, I think I felt a little of this emotion today, in fact I know I did, cos I always do. Then I checked my facebook, only cos Kate checked hers and we were waiting for our coffee and milkshake and anyway we’d been chatting non stop all morning so we had nothing left to say to each other. I read a status update from the Matt Golinski tribute page (for those of you who don’t know about Matt, he is a local hero and chef who tragically lost his wife and three daughters to an horrific house fire) which was in essence a plea for people to support an initiaitve to provide solace to those lonely or isolated, mostly the aged, by writing letters. Just a newsy chit chat letter from a stranger. With or without a reply address. Just an act of reaching out and making a difference to someone. Kate asked what I was reading so I started reading it to her and started crying. She said mom it is sad and you should write but stop crying now, its ok. And it’s embarrassing. It was but it just breaks my heart. That someone is so sad. And lonely. And that it can take so little to make someone smile. Just the act of someone seeing them. Even just a stranger. I think thats what really set me off. Because I know how sore it is not to be seen. And my guilt at knowing how much easier it is sometimes not to see someone. And my guilt at being away. And maybe I do need to up my meds. Anyway I’m going to write some letters. Maybe you want to too.