Waxing and waning

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I’m getting waxed tomorrow. Just my legs. This is nothing out of the ordinary for me, I do it fairly regularly. What is out of the ordinary is where I am having it done. 

You will have heard about my friend, whom I refer to as The Bear. So, The Bear has been studying beauty therapy this year, and is totally killing it. I’m so proud of her. And I am *so* impressed by how well she is doing that I am DONATING MY LEGS to her further training. Yep, I’ll be rocking up to the TAFE tomorrow with my hairy pelts, ready and waiting for her to seek revenge do her thing. 

I’ve known The Bear for ages now. And while this totally is isn’t a post to convince her to do a gentle and thorough job, I feel it is only fair to warn her of what might occur. 

You see, I’ve been a guinea pig in the past. 

Another dear friend was studying massage. She needed test dummies, and being quite adept at lying still while someone massages me, I popped my hand up. All went well until I was face up on the massage table, and she was doing something over my face. My friend had created a really zen and peaceful space in the room, and to be honest I did feel a pang of something similar to regret when the plan hatched in my brain. 

I waited until I felt her leaning over my face. I could almost hear the concentration, and the inward giggles almost resulted in a wet massage table. Just when I wouldn’t hold back my laughter any longer, I opened my eyes as wide as I could and shrieked BOO! at the top of my lungs. 

Yep, think Crazy Eyes from Orange is the New Black: 

Sorry about that, Erky. Your massage was awesome, by the way. 

Here is a list of things I have considered doing tomorrow during my leg wax: 

1. Crying. 

2. Naming my leg hairs, and bidding them each farewell as they leave my leg. 

3. Asking The Bear to leave “just that one there”. 

4. Farting. 

5. Farting loudly

6. Farting loudly and blaming The Bear. 

7. Asking The Bear what she does in the woods. 

8. Asking why I wasn’t allowed to wear undies. 

9. Then asking why I had to bring undies (and waving a very large pair of full briefs around the room). 

10. Stripping off in preparation for a Brazilian. 

So, my dear Bear, I feel I have done the right thing by getting all these ideas out of my system before I come for my leg wax tomorrow. I’m hoping that by saying them in a public forum, my inclination towards this kind of mayhem may be slightly reduced, come pluck time. 

And if not? 

You’ve been warned. 

To Tuesday

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Oh, Tuesday. 

Much ignored of days, silent follower to the despised Monday and precursor to hump day. A sneeze of a day, a mere cough or chuckle. Generally, unregistered. A “meh”. 

Tuesday. 

I came across a peculiar feature on a social media app recently: you could save an article to read later. Later. The word promises that you will have a later. More time. So much more time, in fact, that some will be spare, and it is during that excessive amount of time that you will do things like read articles that you saw on social media. 

But what if later isn’t promised? Because the reality is that, well… it isn’t. And I’d hate, hate, hate to think of you saving all these articles to read later, and then not arriving at the promised later. 

So here we go: 

If something is worth saving to do, read, be, say, write – If it’s worth saving for later, why not do it now? Because there is no promise of later

I could be writing to you as one who has spare time. As someone who isn’t tied down to after school sports or the morning rush. But in the instance of saving articles to read later? I’m pretty sure you could do that reading in under 5 minutes, which incidentally is plenty of time for a toilet visit. Multi-task if you must, but if it is worth doing, seize the hell out of that day and do it

Tuesday. 

Today. 

My mum’s last day on earth was a Tuesday. Tuesday was the day we awoke to the news that Robin Williams had died. 

If that isn’t reason enough to just do something, then I don’t really know what is. 

Tuesday. 

Take Tuesday, now that it is almost done. Take Tuesday, and do something. Something you could put off. Something you could put off… but won’t. Because it’s Tuesday. 

And if you’ve left your run too late? If it really just isn’t practical?

There’s Wednesday.

 

 

The days that happen

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I reckon everyone who has a Facebook account has had the same images and the same statements of shock and sadness regarding the death of one man:

Image by Monty Brinton, at www.imdb.com

Image by Monty Brinton, at http://www.imdb.com

And it is shocking. It is sadIt’s horrific to think that there are depths of sadness and despair that can eventually swallow a life up, permanently snuffing out the flame of existence.

The thing is, I wish it wasn’t so shocking. I don’t want us to be so dumbfounded when suicide occurs. I want us to know that this is what can happen, when depression and mental illness spirals out of control. Suicidal thoughts are a symptom of depression. And if you don’t know what it is like on that precipice of life and death, let me tell you:

Hope disappears. There is no more will to live. And regardless of every single spark of brightness around you, there is a certainty that it is not of you. It is not a part of you. The sparks do not belong to you, and the sparks shine regardless of whether or not you are there to see them. There is no light. No hope. No reason. And rather than ending with a moment that changes the world, in your suicidal state, you know that yours will be a simple and silent end of being. A relief, not just to yourself, but surely to every single person you interact with.

I don’t want this to be unknown. I don’t want you to have no idea of what it is like.

Because if you know, then you are aware.

And just like that, a scrap of stigma is stripped away.

We need to talk about this shit.

People often thank me for the more revealing posts I write, about mental health and my own times of total and utter despair of life. And I always reply the same way: Someone has to write about what it’s like. Someone has to be telling the truth and breaking the silence about this. And if I had to experience this stuff, the least I can do is try to force something good to come out of it.

Because, there are people.

There are people now, envying Robin Williams.

Thinking he had the right idea.

Wishing they could do the same.

Knowing beyond a doubt that this is the only answer to the way they are feeling.

And if that’s you, I can’t offer you a solution. Because mental health just doesn’t work that way.

But what I can offer you is this: Just… wait. Give it a day. If a day is too much, give it 12 hours. Still too much? Fine. Just put your plans on pause for an hour then. OK, half an hour. Take half an hour. And if you are inside, go outside. If you are outside, go inside. Change the scenery.

And then, count.

Not happy thoughts, not blessings or good things or any of that. Because right now, they just don’t cut it.

I want you to count what you can see. Grass? That’s 1. A wall? 2. Your feet? 3 and 4. Keep counting until you’ve run out of things that you can see. Then move on to things you can hear.

And as you feel those internal systems slowing down and calming. As you start to catch your breath. As you manage to lift your head, know this: It isn’t over. This is a battle. A battle that you are going to want to lose. A battle that seems to already have been won. No… it isn’t over.

But you did get through.

Now what?

Ask for help. Please. Find someone to ask for help. Your GP. A friend. Your neighbour. There will be someone.

I’m not going to tell you that your life matters, or that it’s a bad choice. But I am going to tell you that there are alternatives. You just need to slow down and put suicide off for long enough to start working out what those alternatives are.

And I’m sorry. I’m so very, very sorry that you are in this space. It’s fucked up. I know that because I’ve been here, too.

Which proves that you are not alone.

Which proves that survival is possible.

There are days like these. And the more we can talk about them, the better.

Image source unknown.

Image source unknown.

If you need someone to talk to, call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or chat to them online at http://www.lifeline.org.au 

Returning to regular transmissions

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And hello to you, from my new home which is freshly hooked up to the internets, thus allowing me to be blogging once again! Oh how I have missed you all! 

So much has happened since I last wrote. 

I left you all after sharing the first part of the recent road trip my beloved and I embarked on, up to Byron Bay and surrounds to see family, friends and attend the Writers Festival. When I last wrote, I had two more posts to write about that particular road trip. You see, I hadn’t told you about my car breaking down in Macksville: 

That's my car, being pushed. Image by the Naughty Corner.

That’s my car, being pushed. Image by the Naughty Corner.

My beloved and I ended up spending a night in a seedy little motel room with questionable plumbing. We got the room with dodgey plumbing because as my car was being pushed across the road, three buses full of pensioners pulled into the motel car park. The car was patched up by morning, and we got home safely. However, the car hasn’t survived and is now back at the mechanics. We are seeking quotes for a suitable funeral. 

I had also wanted to tell you about the things with faces that I spotted in my travels! Meet Birdy Fan Switch, and Smug the Bus! 

Birdy Fan Switch. Image by The Naughty Corner.

Birdy Fan Switch. Image by The Naughty Corner.

Smug the Bus. Particularly annoying when they cut us off. Image by The Naughty Corner.

Smug the Bus. Particularly annoying when they cut us off. Image by The Naughty Corner.

And of course, I had a wrap-up of the Byron Bay Writers Festival to offer you! 

Image by The Naughty Corner.

Image by The Naughty Corner.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

But I didn’t get to do any of these things, because when we returned from our adventures, we had to get straight into packing. Yes! The Naughty Corner moved again! Did you know that a sudden and ferocious bout of gastro is the only acceptable reason to stop packing boxes? Or, that when your bestie comes to visit from interstate, she will absolutely help you pack and unpack and deliver and pick up and do it all without a word of complaint? 

All of that brings us to now.

I have words to say about the passing of Robin Williams, but I am going to write them properly over the coming days. I also have stories of stuff for you, and a tale of red candles.

But what I also missed out on writing about, was the second birthday of this blog.

I had hoped to do some fandangled post relating to the birth of the blog, and I even collected topic suggestions on the Facebook page. But you know what?

The fact that I really missed writing the blog, and that I have really missed my awesome Naughty Corner fans on Facebook – that’s enough of a statement for me. 

In two years, the blog has grown. Words and sentences and statements and quotes. Photos and stories and goals and dreams. Hearts on sleeves and tears in eyes. Laughter. Tears. Honesty. Realness.

Two years on, and I have no real niche. I have no idea of what genre my blog is, and apparently it is very important to have both a niche and a genre. 

But I do have a passion for writing this blog. And I think it’s important to thank you guys for reading. I really appreciate it. I honestly, really do. 

Thanks for humouring me.

 

Sleep well, and rest your eyes – because my god have I got some stories for you.

 

All the way up

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You know, I started this post on Wednesday, only to be struck by a hideous bout of gastro which indeed witnessed every part of my being coming all the way up. It was awful. But I am now well and in one piece, and ready to start telling you about our adventures in Byron Bay! Yay! 

Every year at around this time, my beloved and I head off on a road trip. I like to pack the essentials, to assist in ensuring my beloved doesn’t fall asleep while driving: 

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Eight hours (give or take) after we left, we finally arrived at the home of my beloved’s sister. I love it there. The dirt is red and the dog showers me with hero worship. Here’s a photo of both red dirt and Abbie: 

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

The other thing that greeted us when we arrived was the campfire to end all campfires. It was set up in a barrel that my beloved’s nephew had turned into a piece of art. Actually, if you want to find out more about his barrels of arty goodness, let me know and I’ll make sure he gets in touch. The barrels themselves are re-used drums, which he then cuts original artwork into. When you light a fire in the barrel, you wind up with some dancing, moving, warm fire art. It’s awesome. Here’s the one he made for my beloved: 

Image by The Naughty Corner. Concept and design (c) D Wilson

Image by The Naughty Corner. Concept and design (c) D Wilson

One last stop before we hit the Byron Bay Writers Festival: Further north a couple of hours, and to the home of more family – including three munchkins who are among the most awesome kidlets you could ever hope to meet. I made them beanies and the little one asked if she could call me aunty. Heart = stolen. 

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

By this stage, we’d gotten all the way up. All the way up as far as our trip was going to take us. From here, we would start the journey back down, via the Writers Festival, the impending birth of a new family member, sightings of my beloved in the 80s and an unexpected stopover in Macksville. 

Stay tuned for the next installment! 

Do you do road trips? What are your essential items for surviving such madness? 

Forewarned

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You know how you see those predict-a-text errors? And you laugh and wonder how on earth that could happen? This is one of my favourites, partly because my beloved’s name is Lauren:

Now, I’m someone who reads these and thinks, “How the hell did that happen? Surely not!”. However, I am now on the other side of it. Friends, I dropped a clanger yesterday. So big and so bad and so very totally unaware. Honestly. It took me ages to work out what I had exactly said.

It started when I asked my friends on Facebook if anyone had a pair of forearm crutches that I could borrow while I am at a Writers Festival this week. From experience, the grounds at this Festival site are pretty uneven, and I do not want to anger my ankle this close to surgery. So here we go:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Yup. I asked for foreskin crutches. Not forearm.

It continued:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Over forty comments later, and the madness continued.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

It got even worse when my sister got in on the act: she sent me a text, saying “Sheepskin looks nothing like foreskin”. I thought about it, then replied with, “I meant forearm, not sheepskin”. At least I can blame auto-correct.

But here’s the thing: My particular phone won’t even predict its own brand name! Yet it’s quite happy to fling random foreskins into my social media. So obviously, friends, I have to ask: Have you ever had an auto-correct fail?

 

I will be careful around videos

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I was totally on the radio today. I’d like to tell you I’d been harbouring this secret and practising in private for months, but in all honesty I got a call about an hour before it went to air. I let social media do the spreading of the news, rang my beloved and organised to meet her at home. 

Then I got COMPLETELY LOST. 

What is usually a ten minute drive took me a good 25. Keep in mind that the call I got was only an hour before this particular ABC show started. I was chewing through time as I swore at random cows and hurtled down streets that I tried to convince myself looked familiar. 

They didn’t. 

I essentially ended up returning to where I started, and beginning again – minus the damn short cuts. 

I arrived home to a flurry of fur, a bemused beloved and a bladder threatening to burst. But there was no TIME to wee and no TIME to play and no TIME to reassure. 

The phone rang. 

It was the ABC. 

This is the interview… I kick in at around the 6 minute mark. After me is the awesome Jessie Ansons. I’ll have to warn her… video apparently tried to kill radio stars, at one point!