Made it

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Check these out:

From www.aliexpress.com

From www.dx.com

From www.dx.com

I look at these and they make me think of silicone models of the female anatomy.

It never fails to amaze me, some of the stuff that people can make. My little mate, almost-four year old Divine Miss L, took her first unassisted steps over the weekend, which has resulted in a flurry of research into how to create something that can support her as she enters this more mobile stage. Check this out:

Source: unknown

The other thing a few of us are creating at the moment are big girl bibs, to catch drool. The Divine Miss L cracks the shits if she has to wear baby-style bibs and rips them off. Once she gets a big girl bib on, to collect her bib girl dribble, all is right with the world.

It’s funny. I’ve been so frustrated with this damn boot. In 15 days (fingers crossed) I’ll be out of the boot.

You might remember from earlier posts that the my besty and her partner were told when the Divine Miss L was a bub that she would never sit up unassisted.

Just a couple of days ago, a month shy of her 4th birthday, she took her first steps.

Kind of puts it in perspective.

You know how I just moved house? You should have heard me grumbling about cleaning. And the frigging cobwebs!!!

(c) The Naughty Corner of Social Niceties

OK, so that smile… Wish I have known how much fun cleaning was, when I was feeling so fed up and overwhelmed with it.

I’ve decided that while I have the opportunity, I’m going to make her some new big girl bibs.

I’m also going to write.

What helps you to check your attitude? How do you keep things in perspective?

Loved

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I am loved. It helps to remember this. 

ImageIt may not help you to know that I am loved, but I am willing to bet that you are also loved. By someone, or some creature, or both. 

Today is the kind of day where I just need to remind myself of this. 

I’m fortunate because I am free. I am free to love who I want to love. And she loves me, in return. 

ImageThere are times when I feel pretty shitful. But I’m hanging in there. There are facts to remember. Boots are temporary. Interstate besty is still besty. I am loved, and able to love. 

And that helps.

 

 

 

 

Sunday

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Happy Easter. 

It’s chocolate day, Easter Sunday, the day the stone rolled away, day 3 of the 4 day long weekend. 

I’ve spent today with my sister, the fur babies, and visiting my bakery family. My beloved is at a market, and I can’t go to help because of my boot. But she’ll be home soon, and the fur babies need help with dealing with the intrusion of a rabbit overnight. 

A lifetime ago, a lifestyle ago, I would have been getting ready for church around about now. I’ve thought about finding a church to go to this year, but then I remember I’m gay and I can’t drive at the moment. 

So instead, I’ve spent the day sharing love better than I share chocolate, causing havoc with the Bear and her Mini-Me, and seeing a lot of this: 

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How do you spend Easter? Hungover? Celebrating a risen King? Munching on excessive amounts of chocolate? All of the above? None of the above? 

However you do it, grab hold of it and love it. Enjoy it. Because if nothing else, Easter shows us that the story isn’t over yet. There are beginnings everywhere, and sometimes it takes what looks like an ending to remind us of this. In the face of what would have been overwhelming grief and disappointment, a dead bloke came to check on his mates. 

Nothing ever really ends. 

Except for when you finish that last Cream Egg. Then you know that you aren’t going to be seeing those babies at least until New Years Eve.

Pardon?

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I’ve been somewhat missing in action lately, and I apologise for that. If you are a fan on the Facebook page for this blog you will see that I’m trying to stay in touch via the #100happydays challenge that is going on. 

However, I do have good reasons for being out of touch. 

1. The ankle from hell. I broke my ankle on the cruise recently, and my fuck it has been painful. Not so much in the physical sense, but certainly in terms of tolerance. You would be amazed to know how frustrating things become when you’re strapped into a boot. Snoring. Barking dogs. Slow internet connection. Tony Abbott. Actually, he’s frustrating most of the time. But in three weeks I’ll be out of the boot and seeing the surgeon, who I am hoping will tell me that my ankle now has a clean bill of health and no further interaction is needed, thank you very much. 

2. MOVING. Have you moved house? Yes? It kidnaps every part of your time and thoughts, doesn’t it. And then there are all the things that you didn’t know that you owned. Turns out they have been hiding in all the storage that you didn’t realise you had. Now, if you had known that you had so much storage, you possibly would not have been paying for off site storage for the past 18 months… And it doesn’t stop and getting all of the stuff into boxes. Once you arrive at your destination, every box turns into The Magic Pudding and never becomes empty. So suddenly you arrive at your new home, with boxes everywhere, that you know are going to exceed the confines of the house around them. Fuck!!!

3. My very broken keyboard. You’ve possibly noticed a lack of missing ‘g’ and ‘h’ and apostrophes in this post!! Yes! I now have a functional keyboard and I am not afraid to use it! For the past 2 weeks I’ve been operating with a keyboard that had a massive tantrum while I was on the cruise, and short circuited a bunch of the keys that make it function. I soldiered on, to a degree. I had a few stumbly posts that changed my sexual orientation and gave me a Jamaican accent, but I feel it was worth the effort. 

The good news is that I am now moved, and I have a functional keyboard again. The ankle is still broken but I am learning how to pick up speed be very careful now. So, readers, friends and well-wishers, if you have been concerned about the lack of regularity behind my posts, if you have been wondering what has happened, then worry now more. 

I’m back.

Pure

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When people want to express the epitomal point of something, it’s common to just add the word “pure” before the feeling or emotion, as if that purity enables the emotion or feeling to reach the utmost and extreme point of said emotion or feeling. 

Right now, I am feeling pure exhaustion. 

Which is ironic, because there is not a single thing pure about it. 

I am fuelled by caffeine and thoughts of new adventures. For the past week I have been sleeping (read “napping”) on the fold out couch, even as it is listed on Gumtree for free in the hopes that some sucker person in need comes and moves it for us. I’m surrounded by packing boxes, my best friend and flatmate is moving to Melbourne and I am wearing a huge boot on one leg. 

But I’m happy. 

The only thing I would change about this situation is the damn boot. 

My flatmate and I have lived together for eight years. She had a niece born at around the same time as I moved in, so as little niece grew she marked the time that my flatmate and I spent together. And my god we were a mess when we first met. 

But little by little, then lot by lot, we started getting our shit together. I guess in a way we grew up, grew into the versions of ourselves that we had tucked away as goals and hopes. They came to life as our friendship continued to grow and change and strengthen. 

This is what is pure. The friendship we made. Be it blessing or luck or timing, or whatever pre-ordained serendipity, we have a friendship that time and space will only continue to build upon. 

So dear flatmate, I love you endlessly and purely and wherever we live, you’ll always be my flatmate simply because I know we both co-habitate in the heart of a friendship that won’t change. 

Big love. 

 

Nailed it

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Our little Harry man has very long nails. He wriggles like a tapeworm any time the groomer tries to trim them, so his nails keep growing.

This is Harry, also known as Harold Bartholomew:

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My beloved recently put floorboards through the house. Harry and his nails have quite a distinctive sound as he bustles and prances his way around the house. He clickety clacks to the doggy door, he taptaptaptaptaps his way to the lounge room and he scritches stealth missions into the kitchen.

Last night, I took my boot off. I’m allowed to take it off for bed and showers. Other than that the boot is my constant companion while my broken ankle heals. For some reason, I saw fit to extend my foot towards my beloved’s leg. With trembling toes, I reached out and began scratching her leg. You see, I can’t manipulate my foot into the correct yoga pose for toenail cutting at the moment, so I am growing some pretty spectacular appendages. These nails are long. I’m giving Harry a run for his Goodo, and that, my friends, is saying something.

The moment my beloved realized what was happening was almost audible.

Her breathing changed, and I knew the tone she was going to use before she even opened her mouth.

“That is disgusting.”

I pulled my foot away, and giggled.

Then I stretched it out again. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Would you fuck off?”

“No. I can’t reach to cut them, baby. My ankle is broken, you know.”

It was around this time – 1am, if you’re interested – that she offered to chew the frigging things off.

I felt this was somewhat harsh.

It’s funny, because one of my biggest phobias is unattached toenails. Toenail clippings. They scare the bajeezus out of me.

But if I’m honest, I actually kind of like the idea of being able to clickety clack my way around the floorboards when I am out of the boot. To be able to tap out Morse code messages as I make my way around the house. Obviously it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye, however if someone did lose an eye I could kebab it onto my big toe nail. This would enable me to look under couches and deep inside my shoes.

I told my beloved of these plans. She seemed less than thrilled by my lofty ambitions.

I rolled over and returned to the shredding of the sheets, before I eventually fell asleep and dreamed dreams of a world that appreciated my more brilliant ideas.

The mighty music

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We were walking back to our cabin. My beloved and I had just attended the first “elegant” dinner on our cruise. For me, elegant means clean undies, deodorant, and shoes. But this time, I had to make to make an effort. I had to look like a girl.

It was a little overwhelming, and I had had some practice attempts at dressing up…

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This particular night on board, everything went fine.

I realized I hadn’t packed a hair brush, but then remembered that I hadn’t actually owned a hairbrush since 2007.

It was when we were walking from dinner that we heard it: music.

Soulful, touching, real music. A funky bass that sought to compliment an acoustic guitar. A voice full of husk and heart. And it was a female playing the guitar. Playing the guitar beautifully as she sung.

I was transported back to the times when this was what I did. Making music. Loving it. I know the buzz of being live. The burning fingertips from steel strings. The microphones, the secret hand signals between players. I know it and I miss it. Five arm surgeries have left my beautiful Maton largely untouched for the past couple of years. And it’s like missing a limb or a section of my heartbeat.

My beloved and I paused, and took in the music. From soul to jazz to blues to pop to rock, this woman played it all. I was impressed, I was jealous… And I was inspired.

The duo playing are called Soulfire. The woman with the VOICE and the GUITAR is a very cool chick named Sam Crane. And because of the way the cruise ship was created, Soulfire were currently pressing their music into almost every level. It was like a warm glow, a glow that reminded me that music is my home.

And so, I was inspired.

More determined than ever to get back to my guitar playing and djembe, I vowed that I would wear my wrist brace as often as possible to assist in the tendon recovery. It was a new day, damnit. I was ready to take on the world.

Of course, the next night I fell over on my way back to the room. Went down like a sack of shit and wound up with a broken ankle. Couldn’t wear the wrist brace as I needed to use my hands to help me get around.

But there’s a song that tells it like it is:

You can’t stop the music.