Tag Archives: blogging

The Climb

Standard

Yesterday was exactly one year since I couldn’t finish a fun run. I was doing the Maitland River Run and a surprise asthma attack had me sidelined at around the halfway point, waiting for a medical chap to come with Ventolin to my rescue. I had to make a decision: Do I do the run again this year to prove I can, or do I do something else?

I did something else.

Not because of fear or anything like that. But because, quite simply, I knew if anything went wrong again, that there wasn’t any real first aid stations along the course. It took ages to get medical help, and I was totally unimpressed that one of the official photographers told me he couldn’t help me and that I should walk up to the drink station, which was around 500 metres away. This isn’t an event I want to support.

So, the something else.

Mount Tomaree is a very big mountain. It’s near Nelson Bay. The gradient of the hike is Level 5 – very steep and difficult. But it promised stunning views, and I am generally up for a physical challenge. And so, off we went.

Within the first 5 minutes, I was panicking internally. This was steep, and we were nowhere near the summit. In my head I was trying to come up with the words to say that I couldn’t do it, and trying to justify to myself the reasons for not finishing this attempt. But while I was thinking all these things, my legs were pumping away and my feet were happily doing their ‘one in front of the other’ thing. It’s like they were not aware that I couldn’t do this, and they just kept right on going.

Something I see often, and have experienced particularly when it comes to running, is that your brain will give out long before your body does. You’re mind will challenge what you’re doing and tell you NOOO but if you don’t listen to it, your body can and will just keep going. It’s funny because it’s my mind that makes the decisions to do this stuff, but it’s my body that does it and it’s my mind that tends to be the first to back out.

But I digress.

The walk starts on paved ground. Then it changes to mega steep metal stairs and walkways. Then it changes to steps cut into the rocks. There are more metal stairs and more metal walkways, then more rock steps. And the whole thing just keeps going and going. But it goes somewhere. Directly up. Up and up and up.

18745209_10154692425345897_305615090_o (1)

As the ups became steeper, I realised that I was doing it.

And as we got nearer to the top, the views got better.

One more step of steps. One more metal walkway. One more twisting path. And then!

18762294_10154692719850897_493456254_n

Amazing. Totally worth the climb.

But to be honest, we didn’t spend a huge amount of time at the top.

Because that’s not what the joy was.

The joy? Getting there.

Setting a challenge and completing it.

When we were at the top, I wasn’t really thinking about the views. I was thinking about these feet of mine. That have been to hell and back, rebuilt, relearning, and now doing the best they can to keep up with the goals and ideas I come up with. I was thinking about the way I was ready to pack it in before I’d even started. I was grinning because despite my brain and my feet, and a killer leg day on Friday, I’d done it. We’d done it. And I hadn’t struggled anywhere near as much as I had assumed I would.

18789254_10154692425285897_1092490228_o

One of the reasons why?

18741878_10154692719635897_256386427_n

There she is, right next to me.

And so, Maitland River Run, you didn’t defeat me last year. And instead of coming back to prove it, I took on something harder, something more challenging, something that has brought me undone in ways you never will:

I took on myself.

 

 

Extended

Standard

A couple of weekends ago I had to fly to Brisbane. It was for a 90th birthday, a beautiful gentleman who, when asked what it felt like to be 90, replied with, “Up the shit!”.

The last time I flew was around two years ago. That flight, I was heading to Melbourne. I remember the angst on the lead up to the flight.

I knew without a doubt that I would need a seat belt extension. Some people don’t even know what they are, or even that they exist. You know the seat belt they use in the safety briefing before you take off? Well that can click into both ends of the standard seat belt on a flight, thus extending the length of the belt so that every passenger can be safe. I rang the airline to get the seat measurements. I wanted to be sure that my sizeable bottom would fit. I contemplated booking two seats, so that my overflow wouldn’t affect the person sitting in the same row as me.

Because that’s one of the things I used to worry about, that my too-bigness would infringe upon other people. That taking up too much space would inconvenience the people around me. That I should do whatever I could to make amends for being the size I was.

That I should wear a sign, apologising for myself.

For me, my weight was a shame that I wore on the outside for the world to see. I took on the stares and the comments. I absorbed the giggles from children in the street. I carried every single one of the observations about my size and even though they were pointy and hot and uncomfortable, I carried them close to myself until they became myself and there I was, a walking ball of shame and grief and sadness and disappointment.

For me, my size mattered, 100%. And a lot of my time was spent trying to minimise it. I’d sit hunched and curled into a ball. I’d move with a nimbleness that belied my size when I felt like I was in someone’s way. I’d stand rather than sit, lest I break a chair or block an aisle.

Now, I still stand. But it’s more about not wanting to sit still. And now, when I do sit, I tend to sprawl in a most unladylike manner. Because screw being a lady.

When I booked the flights to Brisbane, that little voice made me wonder. Would I still need a seat belt extension? I’ve tried and tried again to explain how hard it is for your brain to catch up when your body changes. I knew that in losing over 50kg, the chances of me needing that extension were pretty slim. But what if. What if I hadn’t really changed my body shape that much? What if that apron of skin was going to be still too big for the standard seat belt?

Turns out, it wasn’t.

17820543_10154537686115897_1917689240_o

And it also turns out that the tray coming down is a thing. The tray never used to come down. Not even close.

17522195_10154537658080897_1796681640_o

No worries.

These are the victories that, for the run of the mill person, seem a little odd. If you don’t even realise that a seat belt extension is a thing, then what’s to celebrate if a normal aeroplane seat belt fits you?

Here’s what’s to celebrate:

I didn’t have to walk sideways up the aisle. I didn’t have to whisper that I needed an extension when I boarded, and hold it close to my body as I took my seat so that nobody would notice. I didn’t have to tuck it down the side of my seat when I got off the plane, trying to hide the shame I felt. I didn’t have to pre-book a specific seat at the window, so I could at least spread in one direction in an attempt to minimise the impact I had on the person sitting next to me.

You might think I am being too hard on myself. You might think that most people wouldn’t care.

If that’s the case then thank you, you’re a human with a beautiful heart.

But the reality is that a lot of people are not like that, particularly with strangers.

I’ve discovered that as a whole, society still believes that fat is something that people choose and therefore something they can quickly change. And as a result we have created what seem to be quick fixes for this problem. I’ve always been very careful to state clearly that for me, what was going to work was earning every single gram lost through sheer hard determination, through pushing my body, through walking and running and riding endless kilometres and lifting and pushing and pulling different weights. I had to respect what I had done in order to maintain the weight loss. For me, and I can only speak for myself, that’s what I had to do. Not everyone’s solution looks like that. But I can’t speak for everyone, only for myself.

As the seat belt clicked shut, and I tightened the strap, it sounded like victory.

But in my victory, as in any victory, I remembered the battles lost in winning the war.

So to the me in the plane. Taking up space. Wearing an extension. Desperate for the flight to end:

I’d rather you were safe with the extension on. You have an equal right to be on board this flight. Where are you going? Are you excited? Who are you seeing? Don’t let this moment rob you of your joy regarding travel. You go, you get there, you have an absolute blast. Because regardless of your size, you matter. Your heart is ticking, your soul is full and your smile lights a room.

Extensively.

 

Yesterday and Today

Standard

Today, I woke up early. It was cold. It still is cold.

Swung my feet out of bed and was surprised that they didn’t shatter like glass when they hit the ground, it was so cold.

Pulled on some clothes. Tied up my laces. And went outside for a walk.

 

Yesterday, I woke up slowly.

I woke up and felt defeated before the day had even begun. I had a doctor appointment to get some results, and I was terrified I’d have to get on the scales.

The thing is, despite continuing to train and eat properly, last time I weighed in I had gained weight. Just a couple of kilograms. But a gain. This sparked off a series of blood tests (and a 24 hour wee test, which I spilled on the bathroom floor prior to discovering my coffee machine was dead – but that’s another story), and the mention, the suggestion that it might be time to explore other ways to continue my weight loss.

I’ve been doing this for 11 months.

Working my arse off. Investing time and money and choices and decisions into every single step along the path to make myself fit and strong and healthy. And my proudest thing along the ride has been that I have done this with no short cuts, no fad diets, nothing that isn’t wholly and solely down to choice. So to even consider, for a moment, that I might have achieved all that I can this way – devastating. To hear the gentle suggestion that it might be time to consider medications or even surgery? Destroying.

For a week, I’ve sunk to the depths of defeat. I’ve worked my arse off, and it’s not good enough. I can’t do this my way.

Then yesterday, I went to get the results of these tests.

Overall, they were testament to the work I have done. Sugars are normal. Cholesterol, well lowered. There was one element that had improved but is still an issue – but it had improved.

But all I could think was, “I am getting nowhere, I’ve failed”.

You see, the issue for me is that I want to look like I’m having that ongoing success. I know it isn’t just about the scales – but the reality is, I want that damn number to go down. Because let’s face it. We judge people based on their appearances. My beautiful beloved told me to not make it about the scales, and to remember the health benefits. I growled back at her that she could only say that when she had to haul my ten tonnes of fat around with her. Look, I was really not in a good place at the time.

I tried to get to the gym, but couldn’t get out of the car. Sobbed and sobbed. My legend trainer messaged me to find out where I was, I tried to explain what had happened but just kept saying “I can’t do it” over and over again and I was starting to believe it. Finally got myself into the gym and she mopped up my tears and told me to get on the bike.

That night, I had a think.

And I remembered.

I remembered this:

12993519_10153624150720897_4289015247623824608_n

And this:

13528240_10153775504860897_2260856090543971267_o

And this:

13616137_10153813733075897_401588590_o

And I remembered the fun runs. The kilometres walked. The hours lifting weights. The fact that I don’t have to even hesitate when I look at a new physical challenge. That my driver’s seat in the car has to be forward now so I can reach. That I have lap for friendly dogs to sit on. That I’ve been able to ditch medications and reduce doses. That my lung capacity is enormous. That I am fitter and stronger than I have been ever before. That I don’t have to look for the absolute biggest sizes in shops now.

And I remembered my beloved. And my friends. And my family.

Which is why I did this in the first place.

And so, today, I woke up early. It was cold. It still is cold.

Swung my feet out of bed and was surprised that they didn’t shatter like glass when they hit the ground, it was so cold.

Pulled on some clothes. Tied up my laces. And went outside for a walk.

They came to dance

Standard

13428361_1084188311627816_6294657720373394192_n Like the rest of the world I’ve been totally horrified and dismayed by the tragic shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando.

Beloved and I both are reeling from this act of senseless violence. It’s been constantly on our minds and we’ve talked about it many times.

We’re in Australia, so geographically not close to Orlando. But the people who died, the people who had their life ripped from them: they’re members of our community. And as gay women, the sense of grief is strong.

Imagine.

Sexual orientation is such a deeply personal thing. People spend years in closets and unshared spaces, coming to terms with who they are. Some people never ever come out of those places, the sense of shame or guilt driving them to a life of pretence and half living. And then you find out about a place you can go to. A place where you won’t be stared at. Judged. Laughed at. Brutally beaten. Cruelly taunted. A safe place. A safe place for people just like you.

And so, you go. You meet people. You might dance with someone of the same sex for the first time ever. You might finally say those words – “Yes, I’m gay”. You feel the exhilaration of freedom; the weight lifting from your shoulders as you gaze around and see people who are like you but happy and open and themselves. And in that moment a life outside of the closet no longer seems so scary. You have a community. You have a people. You are part of something bigger and you are totally, utterly safe. And like everyone else there, you dance.

Then it changes.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6 7 8 9.

10.

11. 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22.

23.

24. 25. 26.

27 28.

293031323334353637383940. 41. 42.

43.

44.

45.

46.

47.

48. 49.

50.

The dance floor slowly empties.

Joy turns to chaos.

Life turns to death.

Freedom turns to oppression.

The closet becomes the only safe place once again.

You hear tears. Worse than that, you hear phones ringing and going unanswered. Worse still, you hear sobs desperately trying to be stifled.

And worse still, you hear silence where there should be no silence, silence where silence is the devastating reality of no further noise.

This is not about religion. This is not about creed or colour. This is not about gun laws or lack thereof.

This is about people. About a community attacked. About the right to be yourself, being snatched away and scrunched up like some used piece of cling film and flung carelessly into the bin.

They came to dance. To dance.

But now, the steps have changed.

I don’t know what to do from here. From Australia the reality is that I don’t know a single person who was at Pulse, and it’s really unlikely that I will ever go there. But I’ve been to gay venues. There’s a pride festival coming up later this year that beloved and I are going to. But the question dangles.

Will we be safe?

We can’t live, constantly scared that our love might flick the switch for someone who has a problem with it. But maybe we’ve had a reminder that we also can’t assume that what is normal for us, for our loved ones, for our community – we can’t assume that everyone is as welcoming or inclusive as we are. Because ours is a community that was primarily forged through exclusion.

For someone to enter that community, to go to a place that is safe for that community, and to singe handedly destroy exactly what it stands for: maybe that is what’s at the heart of the way beloved and I are feeling. That the physical safeness of our safe spaces are so utterly vulnerable.

But our hearts are strong.

And as a community, we love fiercely.

Yes, we will be targeted. Yes, we will be discriminated against. We will be judged. Denied freedoms. Experience shame. We will forge connections and explore life and get to know that person we kept in the closet, and when we come out you can be sure that the Mardi Gras Parade will be storming proudly through our hearts and our heads as each footstep shows that we are not alone and we are not less than anyone else.

We still can’t get married.

But we can love.

And from what I can see, that’s the true safe space.

13227233_10153705154650897_8532534791408346371_n

 

 

There’s a fork in the road and it’s loaded with kale.

Standard

Regular visitors here and to the Facebook page would have picked up on a bit of a shift in gears at the Naughty Corner.

I’ve never really hidden much from this blog.

I’ve written about all sorts of shit, haven’t I. The ups, the downs, the ins, the outs. We’ve been together through this blog for I think about three years now. And I’ve loved getting to know you, and I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride thus far.

The thing is, as my own life has changed and twisted and turned, so has the blog. I just feel like it’s something worth talking about, so that you know where I’m at and I know that I’ve been upfront and honest – things that are priorities in my life, often to the mortification of those around me!

I started this blog sitting on a hill at the Byron Bay Writers Festival. It came out of a decision to write more regularly. And I’ve tried to write here fairly regularly. I know there have been quiet times, but I’ve usually come back and explained the reason behind the silence. And it’s like coming back to an old friend. I love your comments and your likes and your questions. Because the other aim of my blog was to make sure people knew that they were not all alone. Be it mental health, same sex attraction, being on the spectrum, chronic awkwardness – it was important to me to make sure that people knew there was someone else.

And I’m still here. Tapping away on the keyboard.

But yes, things have changed.

You see, because this blog represents my life, it’s taken a turn.

A turn towards documenting weight loss, getting active, making changes towards a better quality of life. And I know that this isn’t everyone’s power smoothie cup of tea. But I wanted to be honest, so here I am, pointing out the obvious in my delicate way.

I’m still blogging. I’m still ridiculous. But I have a goal. And I’d love to take you with me as I close in on it.

Because there’s this thing:

Many years ago, back when I lived in Sydney and was at the peak of my weight training and fitness, I had a small idea that one day I might be a personal trainer. But then life happened, and I left that idea on the side of the road that I was stumbling along.

But you know what?

I’m fit now. Yes I am still fat. But I am getting closer every day to my goal weight, through a mixture of sensible eating and dedicated exercise. No short cuts. No fads. Just making choices, every single day. I have an army of supporters, including my beautiful beloved, the flatmate who isn’t my flatmate anymore, my awesome family and friends, and one very dedicated trainer. And I’ll get there.

So, in a couple of weeks, I’m heading off to an information session. To start a Certificate III in Personal Training. I know I’ll need at least a Certificate IV to actually do anything, so by starting now, at this place, I am giving myself another year to keep working towards my fitness and weight goals.

I’m totally shitting myself about this. But I reckon I can do it. And it feels ridiculous to be putting this out there on a public forum – but fuck. I want to do this and I’ve worked my arse off to get this far. Yes, I’m still fat. But I am fit. And every day I am capable of doing more and more.

And I’d love it if you stuck around.

Because I’m still going to be blogging. About doing life as my body shrinks. About taking on challenges that freak me out. About navigating gym classes and fun runs and lycra and the sore bottom of spin class. But most of all, about being myself in the Naughty Corner while I plod on towards a dream.

Come with me?

Lucked Up

Standard

I got dressed for the gym today then immediately got changed. I wanted to go to the gym but my head is so bleark at the moment. Very frustrating battle of wills occurring regularly. But I thought to myself, I won’t let it beat me – I’ll go out and finish some Christmas shopping.

Because that will help.

Doing battle with crowds.

Parking wars.

Trolleys.

Six seater strollers blocking aisles.

But I persisted.

I was in Big W for about 5 minutes, hunting everywhere for stockings. The kind that you wear on your legs, I’m not sure why people wear stockings, I used to wear them for school and have holes in them by recess. Anyway I needed them for a game at Cubs on Monday night. Logic told me they would be in the underwear section. Near the socks, I reasoned.

But there were no socks in the underwear section.

I was close to losing my shit when I heard a voice say “Some people are so fucking rude!”. I turned around and saw a friend of mine with her two kids, both sporting massive grins because Skunk (they’re two of my Cubs) didn’t spot them. We made plans to grab a coffee then went on to finish shopping.

It turns out that Big W now has their socks near the shoes, and the stockings are indeed with the socks.

I then met up with my friend with a coffee in tow, and promptly got shat upon by a bird.

Now, apparently this is good luck. I have a feeling that the person who deemed a head full of bird shit ‘good luck’ is also the same tool who suggested that it is good luck if it rains on your wedding day. After encouraging me to buy a lottery ticket, my friend wiped the shit out of my hair.

I drove home, returned to my funk of a mood. I don’t know what is going on in my head but it isn’t nice there at the moment.

Yesterday, beloved and I were driving somewhere, and a 4WD pulled out in front of us. In my panic and fright I wanted to get out of the car. And I was rude to my beautiful beloved. And I felt like a total bitch of a person. I apologised and bawled and tried to explain that I don’t know what’s wrong with me but something is wrong. But I don’t know what – just that horrible anxious feeling that fills my head with a sense of doom.

When we got home, beloved stopped me and said, “Instead of thinking about what is wrong, let’s say a few things that aren’t wrong: It isn’t you. You’re not wrong. You’re OK. This stuff is just external.”.

She’s the best ever.

On my way home, one of my favourite songs came on the radio. It’s kind of like a unicorn, I hear it really rarely but when I do it fills me up with hope. So I kept on driving, so that I could hear all of it. And I sang badly and loudly and just drove, swallowed up in the bath of music and splashing around in it, letting it wash away all the shit in my brain.

And it helped.

Then I went home and did the same thing, but in a shower, and removed the actual shit from my hair.

Swings and roundabouts.

Moon and More

Standard

I shared this morning about how that pain in the arse anxiety had been lingering around this week making a nuisance of itself. I write about this kind of thing fairly openly. The reason? Because I figure if I have to battle with this kind of thing, then I can’t be the only one. So by writing about it, I am letting at least one other person know that they aren’t all alone. Makes pretty good sense to me.

We’ve had a funny old week.

I turned 38 a week ago, which we marked by getting a birthday tattoo. I’d been wanting to get this one for a long time, so it was really special to see it finally etched onto my skin:

IMG_0939.JPG

My mum’s signature, and a butterfly in ‘her’ colours. 

But before we did the inking, beloved and I went to a writing awards afternoon tea. I’d entered a writing competition a couple of months ago, and got an email inviting me along to the presentation to the winners. It was on my birthday so I figured, why the hell not. And beloved and I went along.

But it turned out that I totally WON! I took out first place with my piece, “Check Out”, which you can read here. Let me know what you think. The writing competition coincided with the International Day for People with Disabilities. I wrote about Aspergers.

Here’s me with cameras in my face. Awkward.

12322452_10153347436685897_8506572430682429643_o

Winner winner, chicken dinner!

The weekend was of course the Santa Run. It was awesome, and I am still really proud that I did it.

But then Monday. Then Tuesday. Then Wednesday. And now, Thursday.

And for some reason, the culmination of those days resulted in a bit of a slump, with anxiety lurking around behind me as I try to navigate my days. I don’t know what the cause is, I don’t think there is a single cause.

But there is good news.

Because after I told the lovely folks on the Facebook page that I’d been duelling with anxiety, several of them said “Same here”. And just like that, I wasn’t all alone. And it helped, enormously. Because we’re all in this together, aren’t we?

A bit of a smile to end the day upon:

Beloved and I have been doing the Elf on the Shelf thing this year. I’ll do a full post about our Elf and his adventures later in the month, but this morning I had a brilliant idea. Beloved was fast asleep after coming home from a night shift. I was boiling Christmas puddings, when it came to me: The best ever idea for our Elf. It involved a bauble from the Christmas tree, some string and a big piece of tape. I positioned him, then woke up my beloved. As she got out of bed I started singing Wrecking Ball. She gave me a look for introducing Miley Cyrus to the bedroom, but when she opened the floor she collapsed into giggles.

12311318_10153131323407181_4427201739245789325_n

So, you know. Life. It goes up and down. In and out. But we’re not alone. There’s always someone to talk to, be it a friend or a doctor or a relative or a pet or your reflection. They’re all valid resources. And days are temporary, there’s another one on the way. And in the meantime, there are always elves.

Once bitten

Standard

Twice, actually. Not that we’re counting or anything.

You see several years ago I was bitten on the foot by a redback spider. For the uninitiated, these little beasts are… well… spiders. With a red stripe on their arses. Perhaps this spider identification chart will be of assistance?

uU3esSL

Source: Reddit.com

After I was bitten I started to feel a bit average. Fronted up to one of those bulk billing McDoctor places, and was told that because the anti-venom treatment was pretty nasty, my best bet was to treat the symptoms and wait it out. “Redback not kill you,” said the doctor I saw. “Redback kill baby, kill old people, not kill you.” I filed away that information, hoping to never need it again.

I NEEDED IT AGAIN.

Saturday morning was a flurry of panic and chaos. Beloved had a market on and we decided that I would come and help her set up, then go to the gym, then home to get changed, then back to the market for pack up. But as they do, plans changed and I would up spending the day at the market. Which was quite fun actually. HOWEVER, it meant that my morning getting ready was no longer appropriate for an all day event.

It was early, I was in a hurry, I thought I’d be coming straight back home. So I didn’t put on that most basic of attire, the underpants.

MY GOD HOW I HAVE PAID FOR THIS NEGLECTFUL MOMENT.

Because somewhere, in the midst of hauling market gear and sitting on a camp chair that was festively decorated with spider webs, a redback crawled up my shorts and bit me fair and square in the midst of mine lady garden.

Bloody pervert.

I told my GP yesterday and she wasn’t overly surprised.

So now, I am achey and sore and feeling quite pathetic, but I have a very good story to tell, which I have just told.

Have you ever been bitten by a spider? Have you ever been bitten in a delicate location before?

Little Memories

Standard

Mrs Woog posed a question last night, regarding the heat and whether kids should be sent to school.

It reminded me of a time, when I was in around year 4.

It was swelteringly hot at the time. I was in a demountable classroom at my tiny little primary school. I was partnered up with a boy named Luke, and we were learning about invertebrates and skeletons and the like. The teacher had (somewhat foolishly, given the heat) brought in a couple of tins of sardines. We were pulling these oily little fish apart to look at their skeletons, when like a mirage my mum appeared at the classroom door. She laughed about the smell in the classroom and said she was here to take me home early, because it was hot and she’d finished work early.

That was a great day.

maraylya-public-school

Nothing Without Labour. My primary school emblem.

I remember another time at primary school.

I’d lost something in the playground, and had pilfered permission to go back to the playground to search for whatever it was I had lost. In a moment of ten year old logic, I climbed up the highest bars we had in the playground. Now, ordinarily I wouldn’t have attempted to climb these bars. They were really high. But up I went. Got to the top, turned myself around, and gazed over the empty playground. Then I realised how high I was. My friend Paul came trotting out of a classroom and asked me what I was doing. I shouted down to him that I was maybe a little bit stuck. He climbed up and then we climbed down together. I can’t remember if I found what I had lost.

208123_18460565896_4524_n

Miss Naughty Corner, in Kindy. Nothing much has changed.

The bus trip to and from school was long. I remember we were among the first kids on the bus and the last ones off. But in the morning as we came close to the school, there was a particular hill. And if you were in the back seat, and you bounced up and down and timed it just right, when the bus hit the bottom of that hill you’d get jolted up in the air. Another friend of mine lost her front tooth that way. But it was OK, it was a baby tooth.

This last memory I’m going to share with you is a bit fuzzy. Kind of like the lights are fully turned on in this part of my remembering, but I do like this memory.

It was very early in my schooling career. I think it was my first ever day of school. So I would have been 5. My sister, 9. And I remember her helping me get dressed. I had Strawberry Shortcake shoes. And a lisp. And for some reason I think my clothes were hanging over the grate that surrounded the fireplace, but then logic kicks in and I think but it would have been summer, why did we have the grate in place? Then adult reasoning kicks in, and to be honest I can’t imagine my parents packing up the grating just because the fire wasn’t being used. But yeah. My sister. Helping me get ready for school.

I loved primary school. It was small, it was safe, it was familiar. The wheels fell off a bit in high school because it the high school I went to was freaking huge. But isn’t it funny, how sometimes memories creep up behind you and embrace you and carry you back to a time when things were easier and gentler and nicer.

What was your favourite thing about primary school?

 

 

All Dressed Up

Standard

There’s a new layout on my blog writing thing and it’s slightly offputting. I have this feeling that I’m about to publish a blog to an entirely different universe but what the hell. Let’s see what happens.

After the fancy dress party on the weekend for beloved’s son, I was discussing the various costumes that I’ve come up with over the last few years. You see I love dressing up. I frigging love it. So I program dress up nights into my Cub program as often as I can. I thought the time was right to take you on a fancy dress trip down memory lane. Inspiration, ideas, down right idiocy, it’s all here. None of these costumes cost more than $15 to pull together. And each is more ridiculous than the next.

So strap yourself in! Here we go.

12212552_10153316940955897_750151479_n

First cab off the rank is the cat in the litter box. This was for my friend’s Crazy Cat Lady party. Please note the actual kitty litter, and the (fake) poo.

12243884_10153316940890897_1642939839_n

Pirate Night was for Cubs. This was a dress up night that was actually badge work – Codes and Signals. SO. MUCH. FUN. The pirate shirt got another run a few years later:

12226518_10153316944685897_1683110197_n

Beloved’s daughter had a Carnival themed 18th. She’s now planning her 21st and that is going to be one hell of a challenge. I’m a fortune telling machine, kind of like the thing in Big that sets Tom Hanks off on his crazy adventure as a big person.

12248497_10153316935110897_519081555_o

You know those friends you have where you’re so frigging honoured that they picked you to be in their life? Well my one of those friends had a 50’s housewife kitchen tea. I was still unable to walk when that one rolled around, so I wasn’t going to be able to rock a bubble skirt and high heels. Actually I can’t do that anyway. So this is what I came up with.

The same legend chicky had a Circus themed 30th. She issued the challenge for someone to go as the “blow job clown”. You know, the clowns with the mouth open wide waiting for someone to shove balls into it. Challenge: accepted.

11924837_10153316944610897_1088955257_n

What’s next…

12242814_914729301895765_1160101742_o

Cowboys and Indians night at Cubs! This one is totally out of focus but gosh it was a good night. I remember telling the kids I wanted to see at least one horse. AND I GOT MY HORSE!

12243828_10153316944645897_261045520_n

Medieval night at Cubs was the night I scared some of my younger kids. These pustules were truly gross. They’re made out of bubble wrap. The joy was that it was a hot night, and because they were secured with bandaids, they eventually filled with sweat and condensation. So I was able to pop them. Brilliant.

12248557_10153316933925897_1518557918_o

We also had a rock n roll night. I can’t remember the reasoning behind this one but does it matter?

And this brings us back to the most recent costume, Gru.

12214204_10153317143075897_376484309_o

My reasoning with dress ups is that you either throw everything into it, or you don’t bother. And the person dressed up will never look like the goose – it’s the person who doesn’t try that ends up looking silly.

Do you like dress ups? Have any costumes of note?