Tag Archives: honesty

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.

one hundred and fifty nine

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Today I met my latest inspiration. I am grateful I went along to Marieke Hardy’s talk as part of The Noosa Longweekend Festival. She is controversial, witty, insightful, sharp, honest, political, vulnerable. She is an author, an actress, a blogger, a contributor to frankie magazine and The Age, a scriptwriter and often seen on ABC. When asked what she believes she is best at she replied ‘at telling the truth’. Even though sometimes her family wish she wouldn’t. No prizes for guessing why I found her inspiring.

one hundred and fifty six

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I washed today and ironed today and washed some more and ironed some more. I am grateful B is home with a bag full of washing. I am. Really I am. But I hate ironing. And no, I simply cannot find my meditative ironing bliss.  But I am grateful for the little chuckle at my life. At change. At choice. I am grateful for my newfound humility and my silly pride at a job well done.  But I still hate ironing. And I still don’t do windows.

addict

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Approval Addiction is the title of a book my friend gave me to read. She wasn’t trying to tell me something. It’s something we recognise in each other. Seems like such a harsh word, addiction. Am I an addict? I like approval. We all do, if we’re honest. But am I that dependent. That needy. The more I read the more I recognised myself. And I never got past the first two chapters. Because I stopped. Because I’m not. I am not that dependent. Not anymore. I talk a lot about respect and honesty but my other big thing is fear. Fear is the thing. It strangles us. It makes us make the wrong choices or none at all. Books like this exist because of our fear. The world is as it is because of fear. It is what feeds my need for approval. The fear of not being liked, the fear of not being taken seriously, the fear of offending, the fear of being anonymous, the fear of failure, the fear of being ignored, the fear of being alone, the fear of illness, the fear of being destitute. The fear of death. Of late I’ve pissed a lot of people off because I don’t care so much anymore. I can’t pretend anymore so you’ll like me. I like me. And I’m truly not afraid. Maybe the book is not so relevant to me anymore. So, I will not be ending this post with my name is Lianne Cawood and I am an approval addict. Not anymore.

dare

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I dare you. If you knew me when I was younger you would know that was all it took to make me do things I probably shouldn’t have. That’s the reason I hold the dubious honour of doing a bungee jump at the Rand Easter Show. Not at some fabulous waterfall, or bridge or river …. over a slab of concrete. At a tacky annual agricultural and exhibition show. And I really shouldn’t mention the car my friends and I borrowed and crashed at 15. The car belonging to my friend’s father. That I drove into a restaurant wall. And only because the boys in class said we’d never dare. I realised today that those three words still do it for me.  Sneaky B took this of me this am. And no I’m not meditating Jo. Some of you won’t get the humour, but those who shared a boardroom table with me, you will. And those of you who like me, until I came to Australia, have never ever cleaned your own kitchen floor on your hands and knees, you will. Those of you who know I value honesty above most things, but still seem to need to keep up appearances, you will.  B never thought I’d share this. Not exactly a good look. The I dare you was implied. Damn I am a sucker.  But, you should see my floor.