Whinge-fest

I'm alive and have managed to resist punching anyone in the face thus far... which was a major achievement considering the mood I was in last week. Mind you, the skanky chick that threw herself into my path during my mad dash for lunch today obviously didn't realise the risk she was taking. It might be for charity but that doesn't give her the god given right to be obnoxious. And dress like a "giving it away for free cause noone would pay for it" trollop. DO NOT GET BETWEEN ME AND MY BOOK READING DURING MY LUNCH BREAK!

Don't get me wrong, it isn't that I'm tight fisted. It's just that I have, with due consideration, chosen three charities that I donate to monthly, and that is as much as I can afford. Normally I explain this, but as she was the third of these red clipboarded types to step in front of me in a matter of three minutes, my patience had worn thin. She got away with a grunt and sidestep.

While I'm on a whinge... what in god's name have I done wrong in my life that I am condemned to spend my days trying to avoid the unpleasant sight of arsecracks everywhere?? On the train, in the lift, in the shops, anywhere that requires the slightest bending and WHAMMO. Bum crack galore. I don't care how much you paid for your crack and flap wax... I don't want to see it!!! Once it was just a well earned right of the brickie, unable to keep his shorts any higher due to his equally well earned beer gut, to flash a bit of bum cleavage. But now, every second woman seems to be spending her life hitching up her duds over the not so subtle g-string. I mean, if I was still a smoker, at least it would give me somewhere to ash... but as it is, I can see no benefits. Cover it up girls and boys.

Ok, used up all my whinge vouchers... going muttering off to bed.

Till next time.

Walks like a duck. Looks like a horse.

I've spent my day progressively walking more and more duck-like, and I wouldn't change a thing. Ok, settle. I went horseriding yesterday. It was a beautiful morning, sunny, unseasonly warm, and the valley was green and lovely. The valley

I had a lovely mare who was a nice combination of feeling safe and sensible, yet she had a little bit of get up and go when you wanted it. I haven't ridden for around six months now, so to ride for over two hours has left the old thighs, and abdominals, feeling the strain. It feels fantastic!

It was just the four of us; myself, my sister, a friend for work, and 'that' friend. Everyone got on well, but riding through the sun-dappled trails with the bellbirds calling their lovely light 'bings' that do, indeed, sound like small clear bells, we stayed for the most part quiet, each enjoying the scenery and connection with our horses in our own way. We had some nice canters through certain spots where the riding path opened up to an open field. Even though our least experienced friend had only ridden a handful of times, at no time did anything happen to cause anyone to be frightened or unbalanced. All in all it was just the loveliest ride I can remember in a very long time.

I've ridden on and off since I was a young girl, but I have never been a confident rider. My grandparents bought us our first ponies when I was perhaps 8, and although I have some lovely memories of putting my hand and face against my pony's heavily pregnant belly and feeling her first foal kicking, my grandparents were particularly overprotective of me (the city kid). Once they retired and started up a pony stud, I had more opportunities during my school holidays to play with the ponies, but still, riding was something that I approached with a mix of excited anticipation and fear. Lessons between holidays did help somewhat, but I was still never a brave rider. I would watch the other girls my age and younger who had a no-fear attitude race about with my instructor. She was 5 foot tall and rode a horse whose back she would never be able to see over. Pure gymnastic skill saw her vaulting on bareback, and she liked her horses fiery (like her boyfriend, who I didn't particularly trust). So even though I loved riding, I never felt particularly safe and seemed to do my fair share of falling off.

At 20 I came off in a rather nasty way. I had gone with a friend on a guided trail ride and I was riding a fiesty gelding who didn't like any horse being ahead of him. Because of this I spent most of the ride talking to the old (well, he seemed old at that age anyway) man who was leading the ride, but my friend was further back in the group.

When we stopped for a rest, I rode back to meet my friend and we sat chatting and relaxing. All of a sudden, something spooked a woman's horse, and it tore off up a side path into the bush. And before I realised what had happened, and completely unbalanced, off we went after them.

All I could do was try and keep low so I wouldn't get wiped off by the low hanging branches that were becoming more and more frequent along the path. Suddenly, ahead, the path split around a burnt out stump, which still stood around 10 feet tall. We seemed to be heading straight for it and at the last moment the horse swerved... in the opposite direction to that which I thought it would.

If you imagine Wiley Coyote hitting the cliff face and slowly sliding down to the ground, well that pretty closely resembled how it felt to me. I ended up lying face down, very winded, trying to take small breaths to determine how many ribs I might have broken. As it turned out, nothing was broken, but I was black and blue for a long long time. A haemotoma the length of my thigh meant I still, 15 years on, have a slightly 'dead' sensation when the skin is touched.

At the time, the old bloke caught up with us, along with the rest of the group. He hopped off his horse and walked over to me. "Geez" he said. "I thought you could ride. You looked like a sack of shit back there!" (He was right, but that didn't make me feel any better.) I did eventually get back on and walked the rest of the way, but any confidence I had (and that was the smallest pinch) was gone for good. So I packed away the riding boots

Skip ahead ten years. I'm happily married, but am going through a bit of a crisis. I had played competition sport, and in particular basketball, since I was seven. But now the 24 years of impact on my ankles was causing me problems. I had plantar fasciitis in both feet, which meant physio before and after my games just to be able to walk. I managed that for over a year, but knew that the only real 'cure' was 12 to 18 months rest. That seemed intolerable. The lack of exercise, compounded by turning 30 and being happily married (read, lots of eating out - we lived in one of the best suburbs for great cafés and restaurants) meant that I was putting on a lot of weight that normally my exercise would have controlled. Then I had to have surgery for a bone spur in my ankle, and at that point I decided that my future on the court was over. This put me into a deep depression. I didn't like the way I was looking. I felt terrible. I was in constant pain. Even walking to do the grocery shopping left me hobbling. And I wasn't getting much sympathy at home. The only exercise he liked was walking, and somehow my hesitation to want to walk places was made to seem like I was letting him down constantly.

So as a present to myself, I decided to get another tattoo. It was something about my body I could still control, and I had been thinking about it for quite a while. I had the idea of a celtic dragon on my upper arm, something that reflected my irish heritage, and had a sense of freedom about it that my body no longer did. When I walked into the Celtic Dragon tattoo studio in Newtown, I had an idea, but little more. I'd planned to talk with the tattooist and come up with some design, as I'd done for my first tattoo (a moon overlayed onto a sun, on my back). However, almost as soon as I walked in, I was drawn to an image on the 'flash' wall. It was a small, calligraphic style pony, like a chinese style. It seemed wild and free. And no matter how much I walked away from it, telling myself I was after a dragon, I kept finding myself in front of that image over and over. When I finally enquired about it I learnt that although it had been designed by Kiwi Kim, the owner (and famous for her tattoos), it wasn't that popular. The tattooist hadn't ever seen anyone get that particular tattoo. Well, it became a part of me. Or I became part of it. Five years on and I still love it.

When I had the tattoo done, I hadn't ridden in possibly ten years. Nor been near a horse. I had no intention of ever riding again. But with the ankle surgery to remove the spur, I needed something to keep me motivated to do my physio. And I couldn't play basketball anymore. So I did the strangest thing. I turned back to horses. I began having lessons at a riding stable in the city. I was incredibly overweight, unbalanced, and terrified. I used to have to take Rescue Remedy (a combination of Bach Flowers in a rum base... not sure which did the most good) just to get on the horse. I felt guilty about riding when all the slim young things cantered past and I was still having trouble keeping my balance trotting. Something happened though. Whereas when I learnt as a child, it was always expected that you'd just be able to 'do' things, because that's how the instructor and all her favourites learnt, this time I could take it at my own pace. And I could learn the theory behind everything. Between my lessons I read voraciously. I kept notes on what I did during my lessons, and tracked my progress. I had a fantastic instructor who instilled confidence and trust. And I fell completely in love with all things equine again. I spent my Saturdays watching lessons and riding in lessons. And on Sundays I started working in the stable office to help pay for more lessons. I was smitten.

Right up until January 2003, when I had a silly accident and broke my leg badly, needing surgery and 3 months of crutches and home rest. Even throughout that, I was watching videos and reading books on horse psychology, dressage techniques, anything I could, to fill my days. By this stage I was living alone. My marriage had dissolved, but my love of horses hadn't. I couldn't wait to get the final OK from the surgeon to be able to ride again. And when he finally gave it, my instructor (a different one, as the original one had moved interstate) and I developed an 'on horse' physio program. Even though my body wasn't as strong, I didn't have the fear I expected. It was like I was back home again.

Unfortunately, broken legs might not have stopped me riding, but lack of work has. Not having regular income made it increasingly difficult to justify the rather expensive habit. So I have put it on hold until I get my life back on track, financially. But it is only on hold. My great grandfather rode until he was 83, I figure I have a few years left in me yet.

So it had been six months since I had ridden when I drove up on Saturday. Because of my bad leg (I'm not allowed to run or do any impact exercises) mounting from the ground is impossible, and dismounting takes a certain technique to ensure I land on my 'good' leg. I had to forcefully put my case to the yard workers that I would need a mounting block. They tried to tell me I would be alright (why do they assume they know my body better than I do?) but I eventually won that argument. After such a long time out of the saddle, would I be afraid? Would I have any balance? Would the horse listen to me at all?

I had nothing to fear. It all came back in a flash.

I had a dream on Friday night. It's a wonderful recurring dream. In my dream, I am running and twirling and dancing about. I'm in my body of about 25, and I feel so free and light and 'in tune' with my body. It feels so incredible that I cannot even really explain it. It feels like I have no weight tying me down to the ground. The ride I had on Sunday felt a little like that. Like nothing was holding me down.

It's just his way.

He is an affectionate person with everyone. When he has had a few drinks that affection magnifies. Then, when he hugs me hello and kisses me on the top of my head (as very few can do due to my height), well, I on the inside, I purr and want to hold him even closer.

But my realistic nature comes to the fore and awkwardly judges the shortest time deemed polite before disengaging myself. In part this is so noone suspects my feelings, and in part so I don't embarrass him by turning his innocent gesture into something that might make him feel sullied. And of course, in part it is to protect myself from the pain of being tempted by something I can never truly know.

In a dream world I would place my hand on his as he rested it on my knee, in a concerned moment during our conversation, and I would lean into him and gently kiss him on the lips. But instead, I shift in my seat to move out of his reach before that physical contact causes me to blush. For I know that in those seconds, as I leaned towards him, he would pull away from me, confused, flustered, and possibly hurt, and he'd have no idea why I'd just done what I had. And I would be mortified by the ramifications of that one indiscreet, impetuous moment. I would never have thought that an imagined kiss could ever again fill me with such anticipation and fear.

A brief kiss cannot be worth a friendship. It's a foolish thing to even ponder. Except in the safety of this blog where I'm free to let flights of fancy fill my screen.

My little babies are all grown up

Yep, the little kittens, Ziggy and Chloe, went and had their respective 'ops' yesterday. She is now sporting the latest fashion sensation, a bald tummy, and he has a little nick mark where once were his pride and joys. Their recovery really is amazing. Hours after being under a full anaesthetic and I brought them home and put them in "the cage" to let them sleep it off, and they were all... let me out, let me at it, let me play, let me out. This morning they're loose in the house, and apart from still being a little subdued, they are their mischievous selves, nonetheless.

I went and saw my first ever 3D movie last night. What fun!! Although I have a headache this morning caused I think from keeping my neck so tense trying to focus. It was the movie about the Titanic, which, apart from the slightly cheesy 'human interest' aspect and the over-narration, I enjoyed a lot. I especially liked the overlay of actors to put the different parts of the wreck into context. That made it more real for me. I've done a bit of scuba diving in the past, and some small wrecks, so I don't know if this experience made me feel more respect for the whole adventure, but it certainly was spectacular. I'm looking even more forward to the 3D movie of the Great Barrier Reef. The sharks looked amazing.

Well, better get to work.

Till next time.

All things are poochy

Just a quick note, as I'm shortly heading out to meet up with my friend Amy and her new dog!!! I love dogs (well I love all animals) but because of my lifestyle (long working hours, etc.) it just wouldn't be fair for me to have one, leaving it alone all day long. Cats don't mind it that much, and mine keep each other company.

Anyway, on to the dogs. There is a famous café near where I live called Café Bones. I have never been there but I have heard so much about it. I've been curious for years, but, not having a dog, I hesitated about going there. Didn't want to appear like a complete puppy tragic! I told Amy about it and showed her the website http://www.cafebones.com.au and she was keen as mustard. So in an hour I get to meet her new dog Charlie and hang out at a place I've wanted to see for ages. See a famous puppacino. Watch the dogs play around. Sit back and enjoy my long black. What more could I wish for (well ok... but trust me, this will put a big smile on my face for the day). I'll try and get some photos while I'm there.

Charlie is an adult dog that had been in an abusive situation at some stage, judging by his reaction to men. He growls and growls. He's finally come to accept Amy's husband (who I'm also meeting for the first time... guess my priorities show that I'm not all that good a people person... oops). So it will be interesting to see how he reacts to all the other dogs as well, as Amy doesn't know anything about his history.

The mother cat that I've adopted, Nina, used to be terrified of brooms. If I picked one up she would run and hide, trembling. These days she just watches me, or should I say the broom, but she at least is learning she won't be hurt by it. She also hates the bells on collars. She managed to get hers off her collar (I have no idea how) and when I put collars on the kittens, she really attacked them, and was constantly growling. Initially I took the collars off, and she was fine again, but they really did need to wear them, so when I tried it again two months later, and after three days she was still attacking the poor little mites, I got some pliers and de-belled them. Now she's fine. But what could it be about the bells I wonder? Oh, and speaking of de-belling (hehe) the little guys are booked in for desexing on Thursday. It will be sad seeing them all sore and sorry when they come back (and it will be rather sore to the hip pocket for me I have to say) but once they have healed, I'll start introducing them to the back yard. They will be in kitty cat heaven then!

Well I'm off to meet a new canine friend.

Until next time.

Well, Hooch has been out and about for a change. On a school night and all. With a man!!

No, it isn't really that exciting. It looked nice when I typed it though. I went and saw Shrek 2 at the movies with a friend. Actually he's an online friend. We've been messengering each other for ages... at least 6 months, and so we finally decided to meet (isn't that an awkward phrase, "messengering", both to say and the slightly desparate inference that is associated with meeting people from 'the Internet'). No romance. No lust. Just some nice company. It was fun!

I've been lucky that I've made some really nice friendships from people I've stumbled across online. I love corresponding... when a friend was sailing around the South Pacific on a tall ship (I kid you not), I would write to him letters that were pages and pages and pages long. The letters would chase him from port to port and finally catch up with them. The whole crew grew to know my handwriting and it seems they all looked forward to those letters. (The fact that I was usually a little inebriated when I wrote them probably helped.) When I broke my leg last year and found myself housebound for three months, well, the Internet became my link to the outside world... saved my sanity and introduced me to some interesting people I would never have met otherwise (and to some rather unsavoury types, but that's another story). And now I've discovered blogging, which has been a great opportunity for me to start actually getting into a routine (ok, maybe not a great routine) of writing, and slowly dispelling the fear of letting people see my words. So, for me, the Internet has been a godsend.

I'm not really going anywhere with this, just some stream of consciousness ramblings. I'll take my flu medicine and take my snuffly nose and myself to bed.

Till next time.

I was having drinks with two friends last night. These people are amazing and fun, and they were regaling me with stories of their extensive world travels. They both have an incredible sense of lightness about them. Then, as the conversation turned towards things more serious, one said to me that he needed to focus on his own happiness, and that meant he couldn’t think about politics. I thought to myself that it would be nice to be able to absolve myself of worrying of things beyond myself, but realistically, if we are not willing to take an active part in our society, and government is a part of society, then who will?

For as long as I can remember, I have been politically aware. By that, I suppose I mean that I’ve been aware of the effects that political decisions have on the grass root level. I don’t have a degree, I don’t come from an affluent family, I don’t own property and I don’t have a husband and children to validate me. I do, however, have a strong sense of what I believe society should be.

There were several key people and key events in my life that affected my social sensibilities deeply. The first was my mother. She was, and is, an incredibly strong woman who embraced feminism in its fledgling years. She brought up her daughters with the belief, and the expectation, to be the most they could be. That sense of expectation perhaps backfired a little, but regardless, my sister and I are both women with a strong sense of self who have never accepted any limitations in our lives due to gender.

The second key person in my life was a high school teacher, Mr Johnson. Keith. (Or Keef, due to a speech impediment. Or Mono Johnno, due to an unfortunate accident during a practice sesson with the Girl’s Cricket team that he coached, which required surgery to a delicate and somewhat personal part of his anatomy). Mr Johnson was our Social Science and Economics teacher throughout high school. He didn’t work from a set text, but collected together news clippings, news stories, and up-to-date statistics to form his own source material. I still have my copy. It is the only thing from highschool I have kept. He was also a Communist, and introduced us to alternative political leaders and views, such as Mao Tse Tung and the PLO. He encouraged us to question everything, including him. He provoked us. He taunted us. He was passionate and cynical and most of all he was honest and treated us like adults. For a feminist non-conformist girl in a school with a strong ‘born-again christian’ presence, he was a life-buoy. We fought often. But in his class, participation was key. He was far more upset when I slumped in the back row and fell asleep, than when I was yelling and arguing with him. He was undoubtedly the most important, and most constant, male role-model during those important teen years.

The key event that strongly influenced my sense of social justice happened not long before I started high school. My father left our family (again and finally). My mother didn’t have a job. She didn’t have a driver’s licence, let alone a car. She didn’t even have a bank account. She just had the responsibility of her two daughters and a variety of pets. I watched her have to go to welfare offices to get a pension to tide us over until she managed to get a full-time job. That experience put a very human face on ‘single mothers’ and ‘welfare mothers’ and ‘dole bludgers’ and the fact that there, but for the grace of God, could go any one of us. I recall sharing my bedroom during the day with the child that she cared for to help bring in a little more money. She scrimped and saved, and worked and worked so she would never again have to ask for a hand-out and be made to feel the way she did that first day she had asked for financial aid.

Yesterday I felt sad about the society I live in. I had been reading about the lies, deceit and corruption that are part of the day-to-day workings of our government. Today, I am inspired that there are people writing books such as the one I’m reading, who are questioning, who are caring, who are capable of overcoming differences in party politics to work towards a common aim to strengthen the democracy within Australia. It is our country. It is our society. It is our government. We can’t just wash our hands of it. We can’t just take the ‘it’s too hard’ line. It isn’t a case of us against them. We are all one. We all play our roles. And if we don’t like where things in our society are heading, then isn’t it our responsibility to gain some knowledge and participate??!!

An American friend once described voting in America as a right. In Australia, it is a responsibility. I take my responsibility very seriously.

I will never be non-political. My soul will never be light. But would I really want it to be?