If I had my way

  I am not a chic or sophisticated eleganté (New word. It's a noun. In french ~ because it has an accentuated 'e' at the end ~ It refers to someone who is graceful, debonaire and charming). And it's not to say I wouldn't like to look like I just stepped off a Queenspark photo shoot. But I'm just not that suavish, fancy type. 

I would so love to have a magical hour all to myself every morning where I could consult with my wardrobe assistant and stylist as to the look we were going for for that day (a la Oprah). I mean, duh! what girl doesn't want to look like a million bucks a million percent of the time? I'm talking hair, nails, make-up, shoes - the whole toot! I could be fantashtic (It means super. With attitude.)

Reality stinks a bit, though, doesn't it? (That question was not directed at any woman who sports a french manicure and Jimmy Choos. Oh, and my mother-in-law. No, it was aimed at the girl with the dark rings under her eyes, the nappy-bag indentation over her right shoulder, and the porridge fingerprints on the back of her pants that she's only going to discover when she goes to bed tonight.)

Yip. Reality smells a bit like household detergent and bunny pee, oh, and the occasional unflushed toilet. To me, anyway.

Take make-up as a f' instance. I'm not a make-up diva (as those who know me will attest to), and perhaps, some of that has to do with my upbringing. I wear make-up when I feel make-uppy (new word: means "to do with make-up"). I don't want to spend an extra 15 minutes putting on my make-up in the morning just to drop the kids off at school, when all I'm going to do, when I get back home, is bury myself in the bedcovers. So I won't. If you don't mind. And that's ok, because it lets me be true to myself. I can just be me. No pressure. Sure, there are days when I actually feel like make-up, and, on those days, I will have the energy to get up that half an hour earlier to apply it. But, generally, the inspiration for make-up on a laundry day is lacking.

As far as my clothing goes, well, er, let's see. If I look like crap, I might be pre-menstrual. OR I might just be out of clean clothing (which tends to happen when I'm pre-menstrual, because I just can't face doing another load of washing when I'm all bloated and pimply). OR, sometimes, I look lousy because I have plans to repaint a wall, or repot a tree, or sort out the STUFF in my study (which, by now, is a permanent feature), so I've dressed for the part. And there are sometimes that I turn up in scrubby clothes just because if I could have, I would have been in my pyjamas, and this was my best effort at dressing up while being totally absorbed in PJthink (Another new word. Means that all you can think about is pyjamas. May also include slippers from time to time). At times like these, I feel people can at least appreciate my cladding efforts a bit. It's really hard to co-ordinate an outfit when you have visions of brushed cotton and loose elastic floating around in your head.

Talking about clothing, remind me to tell you about the Pants Curse I have - it's tragic, really, but I think you'd enjoy it.

My gown is calling. Toodles!

The truth will set you free

I've been asked a fair amount of times, recently, why I write about the stuff I do. In fact, in the last 2 days, it's come up in conversation 5 times. So why do I display myself, warts and all, for the whole world to see? Why do I ask for the criticism that comes with being so blatantly honest?

Well, I've thought about this for some time, and the answer is that total honesty gives me room to breathe. When you aren't pressurised to put on a face and insist on just how fine everything is, when really everything isn't, you can actually make a sanctuary for yourself to muddle over the intricacies of your human brain, and find a path out of the entanglement. 

I like being honest - it's not always easy to do, but it's easier than remembering what story I've told what person, and trying to maintain illusions for those around me. No, that is just too much effort. This is me. What you see here is what you get.

And, since I lack a sense of humor, I may exaggerate from time to time just to make a completely banal blog post slightly interesting. But apart from that, I wear my blog on my sleeve.

Friendship Fees

We always joke about friendship fees - you know - when a pal pops in for a cup of tea and brings a nice fresh milk tart with her - Friendship Fees. When you get you buddy a bunch of pink roses, just because you know that they are her favourite kind - friendship fees. When you stumble across a brilliant 2-for-1 special, but know you don't need the second (toilet brush/ tea strainer/ pot scourer) so you pass it on to a friend - Friendship fees. When nothing else is going to improve you buddy's day, and you slip her a Top Deck - Friendship Fees!

Friendship fees are fun to give and fun to receive, simply because they aren't associated with birthdays or Christmas or any other special occasion. They are just for fun. Just a way for a one pal to say to another, "Hey, I'm grateful for you. It's nice knowing you."

If you were to take the "Love Languages" principles into consideration, you can draw a suitable parallel between these expressions of affection and friendship fees too. It's not always about the giving or receiving of a tangible gift. Sometimes it's an affirming word. You pay your friendship fees when you tell you buddy which of two outfits is more flattering. Friendship fees are paid when you babysit so your pal can go to the hairdresser, or if you just sit together, quietly, when you know that she just needs you to be there. Sometimes the fee is in the form of a massage, or painting your way-too-pregnant home-girl's toenails for her, the night before her induction.

In joking about Friendship Fees recently, and taking to heart the mother of the year's all too wise words, I've come to the conclusion that being a friend is a lot like banking. You deposit time and effort. You invest. You make withdrawals. You grow your friendship over time. And hopefully, after years of careful capital control, your investment has grown into a substantial and solid portfolio.

Same with friendships. You wouldn't put your money in an investment that earns no interest, right? So why put your time and energies into a relationship that offers no interest?

I'm just saying... 's all.

Just not that into me

I know someone who is fantastic. She's wonderful. Kind, gentle, admirable in so many ways. From the day I met her, I thought of her as a friend. I felt like we connected. We view so many things in the same way.

Well. Punch me in the gut! Guess what? Having things in common is not what makes people friends. Who would have thunk it!

You see, I have cared for this person. Loved her. Comforted her. Spoilt her when I could. Loved her children. Supported her in the ways that I could. 

Sure, there were times where I thought she let me down. Thought she could have been more caring and supportive of me when things were rough. She wasn't. And sure, it hurt, but I put it down to the fact that she's a busy girl. She has a lot on her plate. A lot of people are expecting a lot from her. So I didn't put pressure on her to show a degree of commitment to me. I just blindly went on assuming that she was my friend.

And now I think I understand what the last few years must have been like for her (especially my down-in-the-dumps-months where I was verging on the edge of insanity). I think that me hanging around all gaga-like and playing "friend-friend" was like have a horny toy-pom trying to shag your leg in polite company. You try to shake them off, discreetly, but everyone tends to notice a tiny mammal bonking a flapping shin, so you stop. You quietly let the mutt get off on your ankle and hope that no-one's gaze drops below knee-height. That's how it has been. This gorgeous individual is the proverbial ankle, and I am the testosterone-driven canine.

It's kind of embarrassing really. She is just not that into me. Ouch. It's been a hard lesson to learn. But I think I've got the message now.

It's made me wonder about being so open about my feelings, my thoughts, my state of mind. Perhaps honesty is not the best policy after all. Perhaps putting my emotions into this blog is just stupid. Perhaps giving people a really clear view into my soul is more detrimental than not. People don't actually want to know about your short-comings. They don't want to know how you're struggling with issues from your past. The fact that you're on anti-depressive medication is shameful and frightening - if they spend too much time with you, they might catch what you've got too. And, if you are going to be honest about things, you had better have a lot of money to throw around to keep your "friends" close.

Guess I can't be friends with every superhero that walks into my life, right? 

Time to move on, Jessica.

Edgy

It feels like I put on someone else's shoes. They look like mine. They're the same size as mine. Same colour. Same design. But my feet do not fit well against the soles. It feels like I am trying to get comfortable around someone else's footprint. And the worst part of it is that it's not just the feet - my whole body is involved in this discomfort.

(Eeek! Right? And by the way, this picture has absolutely nothing to do with what I just wrote - it just looks hectically UNCOMFORTABLE! Just so you know I have absolutely no footwear in my possession that even remotely look like these shoes)

I often have this experience. It's a type of claustrophobia which starts right inside of me. As it grows I start to feel very uncomfortable in my own skin. My body becomes a burden. It's heavy and awkward and it squeezes me. I sometimes imagine that the only way to shed this pinch would be to climb out of my own skin. Yes, then I would be free of this rigid casing.

I get all itchy inside - but it's not a physical itch - just a longing to shed the restraints of this earth suit. My ankles ache, my back curves, my fingers tingle. Even my scalp starts to creep. And just when I think I need to deworm myself or invest in some kind of medicinal remedy, the feeling melts away, and for a while, I am happy to be me again.