Unemployed

Well, I'm unemployed. And I feel bad about it. Only last night, Graham and I were talking about renting a house (currently we're living with his parents, which is very kind of them). We came to the conclusion, that even though he has just started a brand-new full-time job, we cannot afford to rent a house on our own on just his wage.

I felt like crying when I first realised this. I felt so guilty. Graham works so hard to support us, and I've been unemployed for four months now. It's not because I can't find a job, either. Although I don't have many qualifications, several years of working in cafes means that I can get most jobs in hospitality. No, the reason I'm not working is because I am quite sick. My bipolar disorder makes working very difficult, especially in the hospitality industry. Who knew that working in a fast, noisy, high-stress, low-paid job would be detrimental to mental health?


I left my last job because it was so demanding; I was having panic attacks in the bathroom, and shaking so badly that I was spilling coffees on customers. I was crying before going to work, crying after work, and dreading the next rostered shift. So when my doctor told me to take three months off, I jumped at it.


One month after the doctor's ordered time has expired, here I am, still unemployed. Its pretty awful. While it might seem great to have time to oneself everyday  - time to rest and relax - I can never quite enjoy it. I feel guilty over not working, so I try to compensate by cleaning and cooking. This tires me, and then I feel sick from worry and work. It's hard to let go, and just realise that I may never work to the capacity of other people ever again.


And then there's trying to explain my lack of working to other people. It's difficult, when meeting new people, to realise that I no longer have a job with which to describe myself. What do I say I do? I'm a professional sleeper-inner? I occasionally write blog posts and create digital art? I'm a champion dinner cook? I don't even feel comfortable describing myself as a housewife; it's not my house, after all, and (at least for me) the words "housewife" describe someone who keeps their home spotlessly neat and clean. That doesn't really fit me, somehow.


Even if I muster the courage to say I'm unemployed, that leads to all sorts of other questions and implications. "Unemployed" could mean a professional seeking new and better employment, but I'm not looking for a job. It could just as well mean a lazy dole-bludger. It's hard to deny that that is what I am, when I have a sneaky feeling that I should be doing more.


So usually I end up telling people about my bipolar disorder. It makes me sound semi-crippled, which I hate, but I'd rather sound disabled than lazy. Either way, I feel less than other people, a person who is always asking for special treatment and consideration from others. Whether I deserve it or not, doesn't matter to me. I used to pride myself on my self-sufficiency. Now I'm dependent on my husband and his family.


I guess one day I'll feel better about this whole situation. Maybe I'll get better, or I'll start a family, or maybe I'll just learn to accept my limitations graciously. Until then, my goal is just to reduce my expectations of what I can do, and to be satisfied that, if I do my best, that that is good enough.

Venturing Into The Bush

You may have noticed fewer posts from me over the last few days. That is because I was away with my husband on a trip to Western Australia's Southwest region. We drove 353 km from our house in Mullaloo to the little town of Pemberton. We left on Friday afternoon. I was very excited, as it felt like an adventure. Graham seemed happy too.

We drove for several hours. Well, Graham did. I can't drive. It was dark before we reached the caravan park where we had booked a small cabin. Even in the dark we could tell it was clean and tidy, and we appreciatively gloated over our good fortune before making the double bed and falling asleep.

Poor Graham. I was so excited about exploring that I woke up early on Saturday morning. To be fair, when I woke him, I did sweeten the blow with pancakes, but I think he was still sleepy! At my insistence, we ate quickly and got ready to drive out in search of adventure. We decided we would travel to the Valley of the Giants, which we were assured was only an hour and a half drive away. The sun was shining, the air was beautiful and clean, and we were ready to take on the bush!

Our GPS system has always irritated me. It is old and sometimes erratic. However, we've never had too much trouble with it. So I plugged it in and tried to get direction to the Valley of the Giants. The GPS came up with a route - only to inform us that it would include unsealed roads. But we were optimistic. Surely we could make it? So we drove along winding roads, and eventually came upon the warned unsealed road. It looked fine:

So it was a surprise when a sign declared the road closed due to flooding of a river. Oh well, never mind. Surely there is an alternate route? The GPS declared there was... one that would take us several hours to traverse. Undeterred, we decided to keep going.

The southwestern area of Western Australia is stunning. Tall karri trees are skirted by lush scrub and ferns. Graham and I sat back and drank in the breathtaking views. We got ever closer to our goal, until the GPS turned us down one last road. 70 kilometres and we were there! The road had no lines, but it was wide and sealed, so we started driving.

Then the road turned into an unsealed road. No worries; it was still wide and graded.


Then it got narrower.


Then it got bumpier.


Until finally we were driving along a sandy death-trap suitable only for tractors. Graham suddenly spoke up. "How long is it until we get to the end of this road?"


Surprised, I asked why. 


"Because we are close to running out of fuel. We need to get off this track and find a petrol station."


"Should we turn back?"


"We actually don't have enough petrol left to do that."


We started to get nervous. Then the GPS went silent - it had no idea where we were any more. Visions of being stranded in the bush, with no petrol and no phone reception began to flash before my mind's eye. Graham looked just as scared.


And then, oh joy of joys! We got to the end of that horrific road! And only a couple of hundred metres away there was the most welcome sight - a roadhouse and petrol station. We filled the car and bought a map. As we relaxed outside the roadhouse we realised just what had happened. The GPS had sent us on a huge 500 km trip, when there was a highway that would have gotten us there in half the time. 

The orange arrows are the way we came. The purple marks the easy way the GPS inexplicably missed. Perplexed and frustrated, we checked our map again. We were only 13 km away from our original destination - the Valley of the Giants. We decided to go and visit it, as we had come so far to do so.

The Valley of the Giants is an untouched part of a National Park, famous for its forest of tingle trees. These trees are over 40 metres tall, and more than 400 years old. The rangers have built a huge and very high walkway among the ancient trees. We climbed up the walkway and found ourselves walking through the treetops, 40 metres above the ground. It was beautiful, and all our worries melted away as we explored the forest.

It was beautiful and majestic.

Eventually, refreshed and happy, we set off back to the caravan park. I packed away the offending GPS and we navigated the old-fashioned way... by map. And it was easy, and took less than half the time to get back than we had spent trying to get there!


We had a lovely trip away. But I now hate that GPS, and have sworn to destroy it in some way. Any suggestions on methods welcomed! 

Identifying Australian Country; A Beginner's Guide

Graham and I went for a weekend trip in the country a couple of days ago. I was quite excited. I'd lived for most of my life in rural areas, and had friends who lived in the country, but it had been a long time since I had really ventured out into the country areas of Australia. 

We left on Friday afternoon, in our trusty stationwagon.  As Graham drove, and I cooed at the sight of cows and snakes and rednecks, I began to wonder - where does the city end and the country begin? While you might think it's just a case of wide-open spaces and grass indicating the country, that's not always true. There are parts of the city that are beautiful and rustic, and there are parts of the country that bustle. So I began compiling a list of signs which one should look out for when trying to determine whether one is in the country.

Traffic Lights

Have you been through a set of traffic lights recently? Do you know if there is another set within a 1,000 km distance? If the answer is no, you are entering country. Traffic lights are unneeded in the country, a place where if you are in a traffic jam, you have inadvertently stumbled into the yearly agricultural Show on the day the Slim Dusty tribute band is playing.

Roadkill

Check the roads. Are there dead animals? In posher, "rural" areas, most roadkill is quickly swept away. Not in the country. There are simply too many roads and not enough cars to make it worthwhile clearing away the unfortunate furry victims. The most work put into clearing these carcasses is hauling away particularly large kangaroos and rolling wombats off the tarmac before decomposition causes them to explode. Because that would be messy.

I was going to put up a picture of roadkill, but the photos made me sad. Here instead is a photo of a happy baby wombat.

Utes

Count the cars passing you (and in the country, they will pass you, as they consider speed limits to be merely guidelines). If 8 out of 10 vehicles are utes (pick-up trucks, as the Americans term them) or four-wheeled drive vehicles, you have made it to the country. Look out for R.M. Williams stickers, red dust or clay, and sheepdogs in the back. If the driver is trying to impress a girl, he may have washed it. But probably not, as that wastes water.

Tyres

There are farms, and there are farms. Or to be more precise, there are hobby farms run by enthusiasts, and then there are real farms, inhabited by farmers. One is built, the other accumulates and grows. One thing that always seems to turn up on real country farms are discarded tyres. Watch for drifts and piles of tyres in various desolated paddocks - the higher the pile, the longer that family has been there. One would think that they would haul them away and dispose of them, but that would only be feasible if one could find a functioning vehicle. And that's not easy because...

Country Farms Double As Auto Wreck Yards

For every fully functional, well-running car on a country farm, there is likely to be 10 more, ranging from fully rusted, disembowelled wrecks, to clunky bombs kept "for the kids to learn to drive in". It seems to be a point of honour not to get rid of them, perhaps because of a fear that, should they dispose of a vehicle, the very next day they will find that they needed a part from it. Or that they have broken their children's hearts by hauling away their playground and cubbyhouses.

A Sign Isn't A Sign Without A Bullethole

Many country people own guns. Many country roads have signs. How a respectable farmer's rifle ends up putting rounds into the local speed limit sign seems to be a mystery though. However, the fact remains that a true country sign is battered, riddled with bullets, and probably singed from recent bushfires. Legibility is for city slickers.

The Pub

If the settlement has a pub, it is a town. If it does not, then it is only a tiny village undeserving of mention. It may have churches, cafes, a garage, a general store and a doctors - but it is only when it acquires a pub that it truly becomes a town. The bigger towns may have two or more pubs. While it may seem that there just isn't enough people to meet the supply, these pubs usually have a strict clientele that they cater for. There are the rough pubs, where all the farmers and workers go to drink; there are the posh pubs meant for families, where one can get a meal; and there are the tourist pubs. If it has a title such as "Ye Olde Tavern", it is for tourists. Go to the tourist pub if you get a choice. The drinks are more expensive, but there will be more choice, rather than the three beers on draft in the local pub.

Isolation

Depending on when you recognise these signs of impending country, you may be quite a way into real country Australia. If you have any sense at all, you will make sure that you know where the next petrol station is, and how far you can drive without your petrol running out. The reason why?

Get out your mobile phone. Look, no reception bars! Check the roads. Look, no bus signs! Taxis? Even if you could call one, how far do you think they are prepared to travel to find you? So, when next you go to the country, be prepared. Watch the signs. And if you feel faint of heart, make sure you have enough fuel to get back to civilisation. 

The Australian country is a foreign land, and no one has yet tamed it.

The Long Distance Wedding

I knew soon after Graham proposed to me in October, 2010, that I wanted to get married in my home state of New South Wales, in the little village church of St Michaels in Mittagong. Perhaps this was silly. I have written before about my ridiculous lack of organisational skills. How was I meant to organise a wedding from across the country? 

I live in Perth, WA, and that is a huge distance away from NSW. It is a 5 hour flight from Perth to Sydney, or a week's drive across a desert. For my international readers, that's the equivalent to flying from London to Greece, or from New York to the Caribbean! I would have to organise everything long distance, as well as organise flights and luggage for myself, my husband, his groomsmen, and his family. How on earth was I to manage?

I quickly found myself bogged down in tasks. Wedding dress shopping, invitations, guest lists, reception venues, catering, booking the church, bridesmaids' and groomsmens' attire... the list seemed endless. Faced by a gargantuan collection of jobs, I felt like cancelling the whole thing. It all seemed too hard, and too expensive. 

Who on earth has the money to pay for a wedding these days anyway? With the average wedding costing around $30,000 Australian, I knew I couldn't afford the sort of wedding presented as "essential" in all the wedding magazines. Apparently you need professional photographers and cameramen, rented wedding cars, professional hair and make-up artists, DJ's... the list seemed endless. Even if I had the money to pay for all of them, how would I ever coordinate them all?

The answer came in the form of family and friends. When I confessed to my mother and some close friends that I was overwhelmed, they stepped in and helped in so many ways. Firstly, they helped me understand what was necessary, and what could be safely dropped. The most important thing was to get the ceremony right. Then the reception needed to be organised. And then flights and accommodation. All else could be dispensed with or left to others to do.

And the amount of help I got from other was amazing! Julie, my good friend in Perth, gave up 4 or 5 afternoons to help me create gorgeous hand-made invitations and mass booklets. I paid only for the basic materials, and ended up with gorgeous professional-looking invitations. She helped me make sense of the ceremony, and was a great source of support and advice from her own lovely, low-budget wedding. Many days when I would have rather forgotten about the whole thing, Julie made me feel like I could manage.

My mum found the site my bridesmaids could get their dresses from (especially helpful when they lived in three separate states!). On my sisters' request, I selected a short sleeved, high-waisted style of dress. Each bridesmaid got one made in her own measurements and in the colour she liked best, so that I could have a rainbow of bridesmaids. My mum then found two darling flowergirl dresses in white with bright sashes for my younger sisters.

My sister Imogen made my wedding cake - a beautiful cupcake stack decorated with white edible flowers. She also volunteered her exquisite singing voice, and sang the Panis Angelicus and Ave Maria solo during the ceremony. My brother Callum cleaned and organised his car, and acted as my chauffeur for the wedding day.

An old friend offered to pay for and arrange my wedding flowers. Mrs H. took me down to the flower markets in Sydney the day before the wedding and allowed me to pick out the flowers I wanted. I ended up with a gorgeous bouquet of white tulips, roses and lilies, while the bridesmaids and flowergirls got bouquets of multi-coloured tea-roses. She even squeezed her supply of flowers far enough for button-holes for all the men, and corsages for my mum and Graham's mum!

My friend Francis generously agreed to take my wedding photos, and brought, not just his professional camera, but a colleague to help. Another friend, Joshua, brought his guitar all the way from Adelaide, and played and sang at the ceremony. And so many people put aside their time and made the huge effort to get to the wedding, especially my two bridesmaids from Melbourne, the groomsmen from Perth, and my maid-of-honour from Albury.

I could go on describing the gifts of time, effort, money and support we received, but I think you understand just how much help I received. After all this, my own efforts seemed insignificant - as if, knowing I didn't have the skills necessary for organising our wedding on my own, my family and friends decided to do most of it for me.

I guess this is a "thank you" post. If you read this and see your name here, or even if you helped me and I haven't acknowledged you by name, please know how grateful I am. What seemed like such a mammoth effort became a work of love, as so many people made sure our wedding day was special. 

I am glad we didn't have the money to afford a "normal" wedding. How could a wedding organised by distant professionals and paid for out of a large bank balance ever be as intimate and special as our little wedding? It may not have felt like a "professional" event, but it felt better - a celebration with those people who love us best. 

I love you all so much, and I look forward to when I can next celebrate with you.

Just Dance

I'll be the first to admit this: I am not built for dancing. I am built like a refrigerator, strong and solid. I am big and cuddly, not graceful and lithe. Therefore it makes sense that I don't dance very well. Oh, I can jiggle my blubber and wiggle my hips with the best of them, but, really, most of the science of dancing escapes me.


I guess I just don't know how to move. Sure, I can follow a beat, but apart from the aforementioned jiggling and wiggling, I don't know what to do. My feet stay firmly planted on the floor, as I can never find a way to move them without looking like a tap-dancing hippo. So while everyone else is shuffling, I'm bouncing along like an Irish-dancing planet. Arms? How do I move them without knocking someone out with my arm chub? And some people can do awesome cool movements with their head and upper body. I can't.


So, for a very long time, I refused to dance at all. Why betray my lack of grace with my obese chimpanzee style of dance? But I love music, and I love a good beat, and so, in the privacy of my study, I've developed my own way of moving to the music. And I took another step in confidence when I found myself comfortable jiggling and wiggling in front of my husband.


I don't think I'll be making YouTube videos of my unique style of dance however. I know very well it must look spastic. And it is a bit odd that I refuse to stand up to dance anymore, I suppose. You see, I dance in my office chair now. It cuts out half the movement and coordination needed. The most I'll do with my feet now is tap along with the beat.


The rest of my dancing relies on me flailing my arms around. I can only imagine that it looks like an attempt to take off, helicopter style. I bob up and down in my chair, shake my shoulders, roll my head and use the most incredible jazz hands ever. It must look retarded (and Graham certainly laughs hard whenever he catches me doing it), but it feels fun.


So, the next time you visit, if you decide to game with me, be prepared! I now celebrate victories in dance! I'll turn on the Prodigy's "Voodoo People", start waving my arms around, and bounce up and down, to the accompaniment of squeaks from my long-suffering chair.


It's not graceful, it's not even viable anywhere outside my study, but it's nice to allow myself to dance, even in the strangest ways... Now I feel like dancing! I'll leave you to imagine me, bouncing and wobbling in front of my keyboard...

Insomnia

Today I am feeling manic, and that means I am finding it hard to sleep. Yesterday, I was awake all day, and when Graham went to bed, I just didn't feel like sleeping too. Of course, I did try, but after a couple of hours, I realised my body just wasn't going to cooperate. At other points in my life this has been really frustrating, as I used to worry about being alert for work, but at the moment, as I'm unemployed (or funemployed, as I've heard it termed), I am really not bothered. In fact, I've found some real benefits to being awake when others are asleep. Benefits I want to share with you for the next time you also may be experiencing insomnia.


I'm not talking about the tired insomnia brought on by worry and stress. No, when I'm happy manic, I am awake through an overabundance of energy. My body insists I stay awake, as if there was something really really exciting about to happen at 2 AM. I never know what that thing may be, but it is definitely exciting, as if Christmas, my birthday and my best friends' visit were all the next day, and I am waiting for them whilst hopped up on caffeine and sugar. I feel that much anticipation, and I need to do something, anything, to pass the time. Here's some of the things I have found that are better when done in the middle of the night:


I can listen to any music I like, without worrying about boring anyone else. Graham is very tolerant of my listening habits, but it's nice to know after he's asleep that no-one is going to be worried if I obsess about a particular song. I can play Owl City's "Saltwater Room" 10 times in a row if I want, and no-one can stop me!


I can go outside in the dark. It's summer here in Perth, and the nights rarely fall below 25 degrees Celsius. Perfect for sitting outside looking at the stars. I love the stars, even though I can only identify one constellation, and I don't even know what that's called. I can't even find the Southern Cross - and, seriously, when one looks for that, EVERYTHING seems to form the cross shape. How am I meant to find it then?


I can also go in the pool if I want. I mean, I never put my swimming costume on and get in properly (what if there's monsters in the pool filter?!), but I am perfectly fine with dipping my feet in while I drink a cold drink. No sunburn, no unbearable heat, just a comforting warm and the cool of the water. And that cold drink? Well, that leads me to my next point.


I can raid the fridge, and no-one will bother me. Seeing as I get my sleep during the daylight hours while Graham is at work, dinner becomes my breakfast, and my other two meals consist of whatever I can find in the pantry or fridge. Am I really hungry? I can make custard with bananas from scratch if I want, or soup, or leftovers. I do have to be careful about the microwave noise, but I've become an expert at stopping it before it makes that loud "ding!" noise at the end. Am I just hot and bothered? I can raid the freezer for icypoles, or drink that last soft drink in the fridge without feeling guilty that I'm depriving someone else. 


I can watch all the YouTube videos I want after midnight. Free internet is awesome! And I can watch all the episodes of Life In Cold Blood back to back if I want, or get creeped out by the parasites in Monsters Inside Me, or catch up on episodes of My Little Pony. Anything too big for me to download during the day, every show Graham's not interested in watching, it goes on my insomnia list.


I find it easier to think at night. Somehow, I get the best blog posts after midnight. And I have lots of quiet time in which to type. And when I find I need a break, I just surf the net, or open Photoshop for some art time, or watch the PowerPuff Girls. All those things I find I feel slightly guilty about doing during the day, when washing and cleaning and other jobs await me.


I have heaps of time in which to have a loooong shower. No one else needs the hot water, and I have the bathroom all to myself. I can spend an hour plucking my eyebrows if I want, or just enjoy sitting in the shower. (I do know the shower makes noise, but it is at the opposite end of the house to all the occupied bedrooms, so I feel ok about doing this.)


And of course, there are all the usual benefits of being up late at night. No telemarketers call, the dogs are sleepy, and the house is quiet. It's peaceful, and I enjoy it. Really, the only downside is that when I want to talk with people, I have to wait for them to be awake. I don't think people appreciate it if I call them in the very early morning.


In this way, I spend my sleepless nights. I keep myself busy until 5 AM, when Graham's alarm goes off, and I jump back into bed for a quick cuddle. He then goes for his shower, while I, all clean and cool and finally tired, stretch out in the middle of the queen bed... and finally go to sleep. I sleep for 8 to 10 hours, and then wake up, refreshed and alert, as Graham arrives home from work.


Insomnia is not ideal. I would live my life without it if I could. But it's nice at this time that I am able to enjoy some aspects of being awake when the rest of the world is sleeping. Next time you are unable to sleep, try some of things I mentioned - somehow these experiences are different at night! Or simply see if I am awake to commiserate with you. Because if I miss anything during my manic vigils, it is friends to share them with.

Human Contact

All humans need physical contact. Physical touch has been linked to all kinds of health benefits, from relieving depression, stress, anxiety and pain, to actually healing a person physically. Premature babies grow and thrive better when regularly touched, while it has been found that a baby left untouched will become very sick, or even die.

Growing up, I never had any problems absorbing the love of my family through physical contact. There were always siblings to be hugged and babies to be held. We would cuddle, wrestle and kiss.

This all changed when I left home for the convent. This very strict convent had all kinds of rules limiting communication, from a rule of silence, to separate rooms (or "cells") for the sisters to sleep in, to barriers between sisters in their pews, to a huge gate barring the sisters from the public. There were rules for everything, and most of them seem to have been designed to make each sister as invisible as possible.

I actually didn't mind being silent. I understood that to foster a prayerful environment, there had to be rules (even though I broke them often). I saw the individual cells as a privilege (I couldn't remember the last time I had a room just for me!). I didn't even mind the huge bars between me and the public, making me look like an animal on display.

What I found myself missing was human touch. Whether it was by accident or design, the sisters did not touch each other. No hugs, no touching hands or shoulders, nothing. I would go to bed at night and yearn even for the brief hug and kiss I used to get from my parents before bed. I didn't want much. Just a hug. And I never got one.

Eventually I realised the only time that the sisters ever touched was during Mass. The priest would invite us to exchange the Sign of Peace. Where most people would shake hands or kiss, we had a ritual. The junior nun would put her hands together in the gesture of prayer, and the senior nun would put her hands over them. Then both nuns would bow their heads as they exchanged the words: 

"Peace be with you." 

"And also with you."

It was all rather stylised. And it certainly didn't make me feel very loved. I felt lonely.

I left the convent, and in time, travelled across the country to Perth, Western Australia. Again, I found myself very lonely. This time, however, I was lucky enough to be part of a church community where physical touch was welcome. I remember going to prayer gatherings, where I had made friends with a little girl named Bridget. She used to ask permission from her mum, and run over to me to sit in my lap, hugging me while everyone sang.

This little girl made me feel so loved. I don't think she ever realised that often when I held her, I had tears in my eyes. The unconditional love, expressed through a hug, made me feel better when everything else in my life seemed to be going wrong.

Today, I have an inexhaustible source of comfort from my husband, who never seems fazed when I demand a hug. Sometimes I wonder if he knows why I prize our hugs so much, that because I had been deprived of human contact, I now crave touch. It probably doesn't matter. Graham gives amazing hugs, and I am able to just relax and enjoy the moments I spend in his arms.

My littlest sister Gemma-Rose is known in our family as the best kisser and hugger. I remember reading a story of my mother's where Gemma-Rose protested that she was dissatisfied with this role. She wanted to be bigger and have more responsibilities. I only wish I could let her know just how important her role really is, that everyone would find themselves sad and lonely without her enthusiastic hugs and smacking kisses.

Yes, Gemma-Rose has the most important role in the family. Because cuddles are all about sharing love, and that is the most important job of all.

Be My Valentine

So, yesterday. There I was, planning another blog post in which I could express my tortured soul, (ha!), when Graham arrives home from work. I get up from the computer so I could cuddle and catch up with my husband, when he reminds me that the next day is Valentine's Day. 


"What would you like to do tomorrow for Valentine's Day?" he asks. I look at him in confusion.

"Weren't you going to organise something and surprise me?" I say. "I thought we'd agreed you would plan Valentine's Day this year."


"Well, yes," Graham says sheepishly. "I was going to take you to that expensive restaurant you like at Hillarys Boat Harbour, but... I sort of can't afford it. Payday isn't until Wednesday, you know. Is there somewhere cheaper you would like to go instead?"


I start laughing. Now Graham looks confused. "What's so funny?" he asks.


"You do know Valentine's Day is the busiest day of the year for restaurants?" I giggled. "There's no way we could get a reservation anywhere the day before Valentine's Day."


Graham looks deflated, and still a bit confused as to why I am so amused. I couldn't find a way to express the reason to him. The reason was that it was just so typical of Graham. As I've written before, both of us have rudimentary organisational skills. Graham just doesn't grasp how to organise a romantic date. When said date involves choosing and reserving a table at a restaurant, it was almost certain he would forget to do so.


I could have gotten upset at my forgetful and scattered husband, but I simply found it funny. I can't blame him; I have frequently done just as badly in organising stuff. And, where once I would have been a little disappointed, taking this display as a sign that I wasn't special, I know by now that this is simply not the case.


Graham is a very loving husband. He constantly spoils me, sometimes in the most unexpected ways. But his method of showing his love doesn't revolve around remembering special occasions, but rather by making the ordinary days special. He might forget our anniversary, or when my birthday is, but he constantly thinks up special little gifts. I have to be careful what I admire at the shops, lest he go back later and buy it for me!

Graham has lavished all kinds of gifts on me. Whether its the latest book by my favourite author, a mouse for my computer, a tiny ladybug ornament, or a expansion to a favourite game, Graham has found unique gifts for me. He can never wait to give me them either. While I am still accustomed to buying a gift, hiding it, wrapping it, and waiting until a special day to give them, Graham is so eager to give them that you would think they were red hot! For Valentine's Day this year, Graham got me a chain with a single pearl suspended from it, to match a set of pearl earrings I wear often. But he couldn't keep it a secret once he had bought it, and insisted I unwrap it as soon as he saw me. So I got it four days early.


Graham has also got a gift for making ordinary days and activities special. Whether its a sing-along session on the freeway, a tv show marathon on the weekend, or shooting baddies from the back of a speeding dune buggy in a game, some of my favourite memories are of very ordinary days.


So, tonight will most probably end up with us ordering pizza, pouring ourselves glasses of bourbon and coke and co-operating together to destroy the evil aliens of the Ascendency as we protect a base with lasers and flamethrowers. And I am perfectly happy with that. Another day we can be romantic and go out for dinner. But there is no reason to be upset that instead of sitting in a crowded restaurant, we are relaxing in our home doing some of the hobbies we like best.


I truly appreciate Graham's way of showing love. Why would I be disappointed for not getting a wilting bunch of roses and a generic box of chocolates on one designated day, when I am spoilt so completely on every other day? Everyone else can keep their mass-produced expressions of love; I am happy with our quirky relationship.


Happy Valentine's Day Graham. I didn't get anything for you either - but I will gladly watch your back as we shoot our way through crazed mercenaries tonight. I'll use my trusty revolver if you bring the rocket launcher, and between headshots, I will let you know: I love you.

Big Girl... Are You Beautiful?

I've always been a bit self-concious about my weight. From being a fat baby, to a chubby toddler with pronounced jowls, to a solid teenager, I was never slim. I would have given so much to have taken after my beautiful mother, who was as slim and graceful as a small bird. My sisters all got her genetics, and I ended up being the chunky older sister of the family.

If you have read my older posts, you will probably be able to guess how I dealt with the issue. That's right, I stuck my head firmly in the sand, and refused to address it in any way. My mother tried to help, suggesting exercise and healthy diet, but I angrily refused her help. I felt ugly and I took my mum's offers of help as a sign that I wasn't loveable as I was.

I grew up envying my friends. They were slim, active, beautiful people who wore clothes well, while I felt frumpy. Every time I put on an outfit, the thought running through my mind was not: "Do I enjoy wearing this outfit?", but rather: "Do I look too fat in this?" 

When I was 18, I went to a convent, and ended up wearing the habit for two years. All issues with the convent aside, the habit was awesome. It was loose and flowing, and the only thing that changed with weight gain was one's belt hole placement. It felt like wearing a ballgown all the time, and while it could be hot and awkward, it was definitely the ultimate cover-up!

Time passed, and eventually I left the convent. I was left with an ultra-short haircut (due to the nun's policy of shaving their heads), moon-white skin, and as big an issue with my weight as ever. I had few clothes left from before I entered the convent and what I had was old and ill-fitting. I had little money to spend on clothes as well, as I quickly began volunteer work in Perth, and was trying to subsist on an allowance of $25 a week.

I ended up wearing cast-off clothing for the most part. Again, I felt chubby, as the two girls I shared a house with were both slim and gorgeous. I walked everywhere, and got really fit, but I never morphed into the petite shape I longed for. Instead, I was known as the strong one, and any heavy lifting that needed doing became my responsibility. 

For all that I was strong and fit, I hated my shape still. So it was a surprise when Graham first asked me out. I thought of all the other attractive girls he had met at the same time as me and wondered why he hadn't chosen any of them. I remember spending hours before a date, trying on as many different combinations of clothing as possible, looking for the "thinnest" outfit.

It took a long time dating Graham for me to relax about my looks. Eventually, I realised Graham didn't care about my weight, and thought me beautiful just as I was. I started to relax, and I even became ok with wearing comfy clothes around the house - something I'd not allowed myself to do for years, as I thought they made me look ugly.

But an even bigger step was taken when I learnt, not just not to worry about my shape, but to enjoy wearing clothes. I remember finding a clothing shop that specialised in plus-sized clothes. But these weren't the ugly drapes most plus-sized clothes looked like; no, these were fitted for curves, and cut from bright and fashionable fabrics. The only problem? They were expensive.

I remember describing this shop of wonders to Graham, who then decided to spoil me. He drove us to that shop, stood in the shop while I gathered a bunch of clothes to try on, and then paid for a new wardrobe for me. I went home, changed clothes, and looked at myself in the mirror.

I was beautiful.

Of course, it wasn't all the clothes. I'd always had pretty blue eyes and nice skin and curves. But I'd never seen them from the depths of my insecurity. The self-esteem I gained from those clothes was incredible. I shone - and everyone could tell I was finally happy with how I looked. Graham remarked how my posture changed and my attitude improved once I had put on those clothes and decided I could look good, no matter what size I was.

This is not an apology for an inactive and unhealthy life. I know I need to exercise more. I need to eat and live healthily. Excess weight is a health issue which shouldn't be ignored. But a health issue doesn't need to be a self-esteem issue, and while I try to attain a healthy weight, it's good to have a positive attitude. I can happily admit now that I am strong and curvy. I know I will never look like my beautiful mother, but I can show my own unique happiness and beauty.

I may be a big girl, but I am finally comfortable in my body. It might be chubby, but it is mine. It is strong and cuddly, and I am happy with it.

The Couple That Game Together...

When Graham and I met, it didn't look as if we had much in common. I was a chubby ex-nun with a social life consisting of church events, while Graham was a programming student at TAFE with a gaming obsession. I remember most of our first dates revolving around various movies, followed by dinner.

This was nice and safe, but eventually, we ran out of movies we wanted to watch in the cinema. Plus, it was really expensive. We tried various activities - swimming, picnics, going to the beach, but soon realised that we were both homebodies. If given the choice between going out and staying at home, we found ourselves preferring to relax at home. But what should we do there?

For all that he enjoyed spending time with me, Graham started to miss his gaming hobby. He talked about it a bit with me, but I had little understanding, having spent two years in a convent where all electronics were shunned. I realised that computer games meant a lot to him, and I was happy to listen to him talk about them, and watch him play them, but I didn't show any inclination to join in.

Eventually, I think Graham realised I was unwilling to join him in his hobby, not because I thought it silly, but because I felt I would be bad at them. He asked me if I had ever played any computer games. I thought about it, and then remembered an old game from years ago. It involved building a civilisation up, from having just one or two little peasants to a thriving city with farms, castles, monasteries, soldiers and cavalry. The aim of the game was either to destroy all one's opponents, or completely advance through all historical ages and build a world Wonder before anyone else.

I couldn't remember the game's name, but I told Graham about it anyway. Surprisingly, he recognised it from my description, and had a copy of it at home. He installed it on my laptop. 

As I played it, all these memories came flooding back. The game was called Age of Empires, and I had played it with my brothers. Unfortunately, limited playing time, and several siblings clamoring for a turn had made completing a game very difficult. I remembered how much I had enjoyed playing. Then Graham asked if I wanted to play with him. I agreed, and we sat down and built civilisations together all day.

I think it was then I became a gamer.

It didn't take long for me to feel comfortable learning new games, and Graham and I became gaming enthusiasts. We spent hours together enjoying games - much to the chagrin of Graham's parents, who had hoped a girlfriend would get him out of the house! But we were happy. We had found something we truly enjoyed doing together.

I am glad we found gaming good as a shared hobby. We initially had little in common, and it would have been easy for us to have drifted away from each other over time. But now, Graham and I are best friends, able both to work and play together. And, to be honest, I get a kick out of beating him at his own games now!

Now, I'm sorry, but I have to go. I think I need to play a round of Age of Empires...

Some Observations On Sleeping

Queen beds are wonderful to sleep in, particularly when one has a husband to snuggle with. Over the couple of months we have been married, Graham and I have experienced how nice it is to fall asleep in the others' arms.

Of course, it is summer now, and here in Perth it is very hot. 40 degrees or more during the day, and not very much less at night, combined with no air-conditioning in our little bedroom, makes sleep difficult. I go to bed at a reasonable time and attempt to sleep, but often after Graham has drowsed off, I am forced to get up and wait until the temperature has descended to an acceptable level.

The problem is, when I return, Graham has usually rolled into the middle of the bed. And his default position to sleep in is usually "The Starfish".

Like this:

And I have to push hard to get him to roll over.

Graham tells me, however, that I am not blameless in my sleeping habits. Apparently I am greedy when it comes to the blankets and pillows, and Graham has often woken in the middle of night to find me wrapped in all the blankets, and using all the pillows. I wrap myself so tight, it is near impossible for him to get anything back, and thus he has often been forced to sleep in the cold.

But once we have both fallen asleep, Graham has one more trick that has startled me several times.

I lie, asleep, or very drowsy, when Graham rolls over, grabs my shoulder and whispers urgently:

"It's ok! I have enough gold for the two of us!" 

- before he promptly rolls back over and starts to snore. I try to wake him and ask what he was talking about, but even when he wakes, he has no idea what he said. Eventually I work out that we had been playing a computer game together, one which involved earning money in order to buy soldiers, and Graham had been careful to share his good fortune so that I could have as strong an army as he. Obviously he had been so focused, he was still playing in his sleep!

I have never experienced sleep-talking before (although I think one of my brothers tried to sleep-walk out of his upper-bunk-bed once!), and now I find it very funny. I only wish I was awake to hear what Graham says more often.

I might go to sleep now, as I think the temperature is dropping. Time to wrestle some space off my husband!

The Sharing of a First Kiss

Can you remember your first romantic kiss? Who was it? Are you still in contact with that person, or have they drifted away on the tides of life?

When I was 21, I wasn't sure I was ever going to have a first kiss. At an age when many people have had a romance of some kind, I had never had a boyfriend. Maybe the two years I had spent in a convent had had something to do with it. In any case, I had managed to crush most expectations of a relationship in my mind. They happened to other people. I was just glad if I could make friends. I was living in a single room in Perth, Western Australia, with my family living all the way on the other side of the country. I decided friends were essential, and I was glad for all they did for me, but I tried not to expect any more.

And so, when Graham asked for my number after giving me ride home from youth group one night, I told myself it was just so we could organise future lifts. Graham was a nice young man, quiet, with an unexpected sense of humour. I liked him, but I thought he was just being nice to the chubby girl who needed a lift home.

I entered his number in my mobile, and promptly forgot about it.

A few days later, I walked home from work. I'd arranged to go to the movies with a workmate, and I was keen to shower and change before she came to pick me up. I walked into my room, threw my bag and phone onto my bed and jumped in the shower. After I'd finished, I walked back to the bed and realised I had a message. My heart sank. I was sure Katie was cancelling on me.

I read the message. "Hi, it's Graham. I was wondering if you'd like to see a movie with me tonight?"

I'd been asked out. I was stunned, and I had to re-read the message several times for it to really sink in. Eventually, I replied, enthusiastically accepting. Then I wrote another message, to cancel my evening with my workmate.

"Katie, I'm really sorry, but I am not going to be able to go out with you tonight. I have a date! YAY! I'm so excited!!! Wish me luck!"

I hit send, and then realised. I hadn't sent the text message to Katie. I'd hit "reply".

I'd sent the message to Graham.

In an instant, my dream of impressing Graham with my poise and charm crumbled, and I was hit by a wave of embarrassment. He probably thought I was silly now, some relationship-obsessed girl who took a simple evening at the movies as a sign of something much more significant than it was.

It didn't take long for my phone to beep again. I had another message. I checked it. It was very simple.

"I think you sent your last message to the wrong number. I'm glad you're excited. What time shall I pick you up?"

And, even though tone is hard to express through text, I felt better. I realised Graham didn't mind my silly text message, and my forthcoming evening started to shine with excitement again.

Our evening went really well, and on the way home our conversation turned to when we would see each other again. We decided that the next evening was fine for both of us. Graham pulled into my driveway, and parked the car. I started to say goodbye, when we kissed.

My first kiss.

And then we said goodbye, and I went inside, only to lie awake all night in astonishment at how fast life could change.

When I look back on it now, I realise this story is probably very typical. The interest comes from what stemmed from our first date. The man who asked me out on my first date and shared my first kiss, also became my first boyfriend. Eventually, he asked me to marry him, and in October of 2011, I did. I love Graham so much.

Most of the time, life is not like a fairytale. People usually fumble their way through their relationships, learning through experience and heartbreak. I don't know why Graham and I were so lucky, or why we never made a major mistake. I can only believe that we were meant for each other, and that we are being guided through our relationship. I don't know where we will end up, but I am grateful, right now, that we are so happy, and have shared nearly three years of joy together. I pray all my friends find where they are meant to be and find themselves as happy as I am now.

Thank you for reading my rather soppy post. I leave you now with a picture of Graham and I, taken right after we totalled up the cost of a wedding: