The Answer Is...

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew When I bit off more than I could chew And through it all, when there was doubt I ate it up and spit it out I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way.

- Frank Sinatra.

I have been attempting to start this new blog - which may I add, is now permanent - since I actually turned 42. But due to 2014 starting with mosquito borne illnesses, a fractured wrist and what could be considered the return of the Plagues of Egypt (on a personal scale) - it has taken a little longer than anticipated.

Nevertheless.

In tribute to Douglas Adams -

I may, perhaps, have found the meaning of life, the universe and everything.

It really is 42.

Last year was all about ticking things off a list. As it turned out, the things I eventually saw as 'achievements' were perhaps not those that I would have expected at the start of 2013. But they ended up being far more profound, and far more difficult, than I could ever have anticipated. So. To all those who loyally followed the41steps, here is my 'Year of Wonders' - make of it what you will. Not quite 41 things, because I don't want you to fall asleep!

1. Survived cancer.

2. Decided I hadn't had enough, and had another go.

3. Managed 3 countries in 3 days. With several buckets of champagne.

4. Got the Dread P back safely from some serious buccaneering. 

5. Moved states. 

6. Moved states again. 

7. Stayed loyal to the Tahs.

8. Remained an idiot (see above).

9. Co-launched an amazing online magazine. Pride. 

10. Made some serious mistakes. 

11. Made more mistakes. But not the same ones. Win. 

12. Sat in the middle of a dam on a mattress. It worked out OK. 

13. Wrote like a maniac.

14. Didn't give up.

15. Fell desperately in love. With someone who may vaguely resemble David Tennant.

I think that's enough to be going on with. Especially points 1,2... and definitely point 15.

I hope that those who have stuck with me throughout the two incarnations of my blog so far continue to do so. I love writing. It is a part of me. And this year - well, it's going to get bigger than ever.

Once I recover from mozzies and muddled bones.

Huzzah.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent

““Winter is nature’s way of saying, ‘Up yours.’” ”

— Robert Byrne

I'm lying here in bed this Friday morn feeling very grumbly. Not only do I have the flu (and yes it is the flu, Mum, not just a bad cold, I'm not playing Hypochondriac Heaven) - but I've just read through the magic of Facestalk that juniper berries are being threatened with some weird disease. So not only am I sick, but there exists the possibility of NO MORE GIN.

EVER.

Time for a strategic retreat under the Doona of Destiny methinks. Unfortunately without a gin in hand, but eight o'clock in the morning would be pushing it.

This has not been a good week. It may be the Winter Solstice, but there will be no naked skylarking to celebrate this fact. It's too bloody cold, even in Golden Queensland. And sniffles and nude frolics don't really go together, so again doona downtime wins out.

What else can I grumble about? My hatred of telecommunications behemoths? Hmmmmm. Possibly not. That would take up more time and space than a dozen blog posts, reduce people to tears and/or yawns and make me so cross that I might get a bit vigilante-ish and end up in the news on Facestalk myself.

So maybe I will just say this.

Yesterday was a bloody awful day for a lot of people out there it seems. This week and in fact 2013 in general seem to not be on the money for many of my loved ones; and I'm buggered if I'm going to be the one saying 'turn that frown upside down' when their crises are real and significant.

For me, I know that my grumbles are (mainly) just that; grumbles. They are the product of feeling physically heinous and frustrated with said condition. This year could be dubbed 'The Year Of The Sick As A Dog' if the Chinese horoscope felt like breaking with tradition, and yes I'm fed up with it.

But I will stand tall - or lie tall, as I can't get out of bed without fainting - and be positive. Ish. When it comes down to the crunch, I am grateful for so many things. Not least of which is the fact that I have people to care for me when I am sick (grammatical pats don't really count Dread P, but I'll take what I can get) and that I have friends and loved ones to rely on when things are tough.

That's a privilege, not a right, and my gratitude for these people is very wide and deep.

So perhaps I shall stop whinging for a little while at least, and count my blessings instead. As a wise friend said just a few moments ago on the ever present Facestalk, Mother and Father to us all:

"When life hands you over-ripe bananas, make strawberry-orange-banana smoothies."

And maybe add a dollop of gin.

While you still can.

Cough.

Twisting By The Pool

““Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.””

— William Goldman, The Princess Bride

It has been, to put it mildly, a very trying week. I am not even going to pretend otherwise. There are times when it is better to lay down one's arms, stop trying to rule the known world and simply admit defeat; to say to the dragon 'come out, come out wherever you are' and let it flame you for a few moments before taking up shield and sword again.

Even princesses in shining armour need a break every so often.

I was talking last week about not sucking it up. And yet again, I may sound as though I am having a bit of a whinge. In a way I suppose I am, because I am talking about being in physical agony. But I am also talking about gratitude, and how I feel about normally having it - well, normally having it pretty damn good.

Planet Pain. It stinks. It is not a nice place to be - at all. I don't like visiting, and I cannot believe that I used to basically live here on a full time basis.

What I also cannot believe is how much I take for granted now in terms of how well I am generally, and how grateful I am for the progress that I have made, and continue to make, in terms of staying healthy and fighting what my body and brain would quite like me to give in to at times.

I am also grateful that I know the reasons behind my pain this week, and that I know there is a 'most of the time I am fine' end in sight. For so many people whom I know who have Parkinson's or Dystonia - or both - they are not so lucky. They hurt all the time.

All. The. Time.

Imagine being 30 years old. Or 35. Or 40. And you wake up in the middle of the night and your back is twisted, and your feet are in cramps so severe that they form circles, and your jaw is trying to make its way through your collarbone just for the hell of it. And it just won't stop. Not just for minutes, or hours; but days. Or weeks. Or months.

Or years.

I have only faced days at a time.

My beautiful Rogers - and in fact so many people I know - face, and have faced, the latter.

Sometimes I underestimate her bravery because of her silly sense of humour and because she is so gorgeous that you forget about the lean-over. And she doesn't talk about the pain.

But then whenever I end up as a pretzel I remember.

And I think all over again about how amazing she is. How amazing all of the wonderful people that I know are.

And how grateful I am for their strength.

I will say this, and it is something it has taken me a long time to learn; if you are in physical pain, don't be afraid to admit it. I am not talking about sitting there and  constantly griping 'I'm hurting', because believe me, people will get sick of it pretty bloody quickly. But - if you don't speak out, then nobody will understand just what is going on, and when you are irritated, or sharp, or simply aren't coping, they will be puzzled, and perhaps angry, because it will be out of the blue. If you are factual and admit to what is going on with your body, then understanding from those who care about you will be there. Not from everyone - but from those who care for and love you, yes.

I am constantly and consistently grateful for those who express empathy to and for me. Not in a 'keep me in an illness box' way, or a pitying way - but in a 'let's get you better, constructive, slay that goddamn pain dragon' way. Particularly the Dread Pirate who has been very good (in a piratey fashion naturally).

It helps me put the armour back on, however heavy it may feel, and get ready to fight the good fight again.

Mistress of the Universe?

You bet your sweet... donkey.

Works for me.

Blow Out, You Bugles

“Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.”

— Laurence Binyon, For The Fallen

It's ANZAC Day. To be exact, it's three in the morning, and in about an hour and a half, I am going to get up and get ready to go to the Dawn Service. So yes, I should be asleep, but for various reasons I am not, and one of those reasons makes me very happy indeed, and is also relevant to the day.

I speak quite often on my blog about the Dread Pirate, and the fact that he is off buccaneering. Those who know me, and said DP, are aware that he has not exactly been sailing the seven seas, but has in fact been in rather more of a landlocked location - but as for rip-roaring adventures - well, those I can definitely attest to (some slightly more rip-roaring than I am personally comfortable with, may I add).

It must be said, however, on this occasion, that he is more on the side of Her Majesty's forces than fighting under the auspices of the Jolly Roger.

And thankfully today - well, even pirates get to come home to their family and friends if they are fortunate - and even more fortunate for their family and friends, they get their pirate back in one piece. That is something I will be forever grateful for.

I am obviously massively proud of someone I care very much about. He has served not only with distinction and courage, but with conviction. He was true to his personal beliefs, to his mates, and to the ethos of the Australian Defence Force. To me, this sums up the ANZAC spirit, and so it is incredibly appropriate that he gets to return home on April 25.

Sometimes, a bit like other occasions, ANZAC Day seems to become more about the trappings and the ra-ra than what it truly represents. When it comes down to it, what we are talking about is remembrance. Remembrance and literally not forgetting; not forgetting not only those who have died in past and current conflicts for the rights of those who couldn't defend themselves, but not forgetting those who are out there now. Because we are still going. And sometimes, if you watch the news - particularly the commercial channels - you'd be hard-pressed to realise this. I have, over the past six months, mentioned in passing conversation to acquaintances where the Dread has been. And to my resignation - unfortunately not my astonishment - more than once they have said 'where's that?'

So today, if you are going to a service, or watching a parade on TV, or even eating ANZAC biccies, don't just think of the past - even though that is important.

The ANZAC spirit is alive and well, and out there fighting hard, and doing it bloody tough in most cases, in our amazing men and women of the Australian Army, Royal Australian Navy and Royal Australian Air Force. And doing it despite most people not thinking much of - or thinking much about - what they do.

364 days out of 365.

Lest We Forget.

And welcome home DP. With immense gratitude. And equally immense pride.

All That Is True

““I paint things as they are. I don’t comment.””

— Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

I was at the NGA yesterday with the Dread's delightful parents (yes pirates have parents - where do you think they come from - treasure chests?) Anyway, the work of the above-quoted artist is currently on special exhibit there, which is wonderful for the NGA and for Canberra, particularly in her big birthday year.

Toulouse-Lautrec has been one of my favourite artists ever since I chose him as my particular study way, way back in my HSC - or the year 637 B.C. (Before Choos).

Incredibly (and ridiculously) ambitiously at the age of 16, I chose to reproduce one of his most well-known works - that of La Goulue (The Glutton) on stage at the Moulin Rouge - what is essentially a poster, which along with his images of Aristide Bruant are what come to mind when people think of T-L.

And I didn't do a bad job. For a 16 year old school girl who is not and never will be Toulouse-Lautrec, or any other great artist (although I will try absinthe any old time if pressed), it was a bloody great job.

But for me his work has never been about the Eldorado cabaret posters of Bruant, or the cynical twisted grin of Mlle Weber as she enters a restaurant on the arm of her sister. It has always been about his fascination with the demi-monde and his - and I mean this - respect for the girls who made their living sleeping with men for money.

Walking around the exhibition, I saw so much tenderness in his paintings and sketches and lithographs of those from a sphere of society totally removed from his own aristocratic upbringing. His studies give a dignity to these women - but also don't pull any fairytale happy ending punches - about the end state of the life of a prostitute.

I love that he could see the beauty in these broken women. That he found a way to show their humanity in an age when they were treated as no more than pieces of meat. And as they aged, like Mlle Lucy Jourdan sitting at Le Rat Mort, out they went, to be replaced with the fresher and younger and newer.

It'd be nice to say things have changed Henri.

But your sketch pad - or more likely your Nikon, or LifeFrame - would still find plenty of material in 2013. Of a first world and third world variety.

What I am grateful for is that I know you could find the beauty in the subject still. What I would be more grateful for is if the subjects didn't have to exist - or perhaps subsist - to be there for you to capture.

But that I know is a pipedream. So I shall just have to be grateful that things are better than they once were, and keep striving for change. And put up my prints of Henri's sketches on my walls, and feel gratitude for his compassion. And his wisdom. Because with the quote below, in any age, boy he hit the nail on la tête.

““Love is when the desire to be desired takes you so badly that you feel you could die of it.”
”

C'est vrai. And I am grateful for that too.

Dr Livingstone I Presume?

I woke up this morning, and it was a toss up between wishing I hadn't at all, and wishing I had woken up in a far off magical land where there may or may not be flying monkeys and little orange people and a yellow brick road. Because let me tell you, I would far prefer to put up with a few wicked witches than what I faced through bleary eyes when I took a look around my apartment.

Actually, I may well already be in Oz. Because quite honestly? It looks as though a farmhouse has fallen on my living room. Either that or a mess bomb has gone off very quietly.

I don't like mess. At all. But at the moment? It would take a whole party of explorers to hack their way with machetes through the wilderness that is Katetopia. It's a jungle in here.

I would love nothing more than to stick my head back under the covers, block my ears with the doona and not do a triage assessment of the site, but if I have any hope of sitting on my sofa in the next 24 hours then a clean up is going to have to happen.

Maybe one of the Oompa Loompas sabotaged me. I don't know. But somehow, between my return from swashbuckling with the Dread P and today, my usually neat and tidy abode has become a post-nuclear apocalyptic awfulness, and it just won't do.

So to the lifeboats! 

Or at least the vacuum cleaner and Mr Sheen.

Blech.

Is there a reward for cleaning your place up instead of doing fun stuff? Aside from not contracting bubonic plague that is.

Maybe (she says brightening) there could be some new shoes at the end of this grubby rainbow!

Suddenly things don't seem quite so grim...

Forty-One Is The New... Oh Forget It

““Women like a man with a past, but they prefer a man with a present””

— Mae West

So life is tough here in the tropics. Between eating, sleeping, swimming, drinking cocktails and - well, repeating the above - it's a hard knock life. I do have the small aggravation of the Dread Pirate's ability to tan in the space of a millisecond whilst I turn into the world's largest freckle to put up with, but these things are sent to try us. And I am enormously grateful for the amazing time I am having traversing South East Asia, with the opportunity to catch up with very old friends and really relax for the first time in a long time.

But the whole trip - there has been a certain something lurking. A shadowy spectre of doom. That phantom finger of uneasiness which caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up at odd moments, to feel as if the proverbial grave was being tangoed upon.

The clock has been a-ticking on the calendar of life. Specifically, on the days until February 6th. Which of course, came along yesterday...

And I officially got OLDER.

I know that there shouldn't be an emphasis on age, and I was pretty happy with the way I was doing for fuh-fuh-fuh...

Forty.

But then it had to click over to forty-one. Why? Can't I just stay perennially forty? Because it sounds so much cooler saying 'yep, I'm 40' than 'yep, I'm 41'. I don't know why. There is probably a thesis in there somewhere for some enterprising non-forty-one year old (read: young person) who has an inclination to explore this issue, and can manage it without the subjects of said thesis snarling at them like tigers; but something about the whole year '41' makes me feel all T.S. Eliot's 'J. Alfred Prufrock' and as though I am going to start wearing my trousers rolled and start going around groaning that I grow old, I grow old.

However. There is a solution. And it's a very simple and cost-effective one. In the words of the timeless and magnificent Mae West, you're only as old as the man that you feel.

I never, ever thought I would be grateful for a six month age difference.

As it turns out however, gratitude does come in mildly annoying but ever so slightly more youthful buccaneering packages.

With a light case of sunburn.

And a fair bit of cutlass wielding idiocy to take my mind off the approach of the Angel of Death.

Except of course when he is reminding me how much older I am than him.

Remind me why I am grateful again?

Planes, Trains And Automobiles

Sitting here at Sydney International Airport, where the big jet engines roar (you probably have to be of a certain age bracket and geek level to get the reference to this song), I was of course tempted to title this entry 'Leaving On A Jet Plane'. But then of course I thought about the way Mr J Denver, singer/songwriter, met his end, and had a bit of a re-think.

Besides which, by the end of the day, I will have covered at least two of the above categories of transportation, so all's hopefully well that ends well.

I must admit I have impressed myself. I have managed to restrict my packing to one - count it - one - medium sized bag (not counting carry-on, which doesn't count in the count of counting bags anyway). I actually culled and put the kitchen sink back where it belonged - in the kitchen - and only brought ten tops that look the same instead of twenty.

I may quite possibly have an aneurysm.

Either that, or for once in my life I thought about what I will really wear, versus what I would wear were it 1932 and I had a lady's maid and the Dread and I were going cruising with the Duke of Westminster in the South of France - and changing for every possible social occasion known to man in the course of a 24 hour cycle. 

Quite like that idea. Binky and Bertie and Whoopsie throwing the pink gins back with abandon while I wear Chanel and swan around sneering at Wallis Simpson.

As it is, the pool awaits, the Dread is en route with a bit of luck and a following breeze, and I am massively grateful for both of those things.

Mainly the latter.

Not that I'd tell him that.

Planes, Trains And Automobiles

Sitting here at Sydney International Airport, where the big jet engines roar (you probably have to be of a certain age bracket and geek level to get the reference to this song), I was of course tempted to title this entry 'Leaving On A Jet Plane'. But then of course I thought about the way Mr J Denver, singer/songwriter, met his end, and had a bit of a re-think.

Besides which, by the end of the day, I will have covered at least two of the above categories of transportation, so all's hopefully well that ends well.

I must admit I have impressed myself. I have managed to restrict my packing to one - count it - one - medium sized bag (not counting carry-on, which doesn't count in the count of counting bags anyway). I actually culled and put the kitchen sink back where it belonged - in the kitchen - and only brought ten tops that look the same instead of twenty.

I may quite possibly have an aneurysm.

Either that, or for once in my life I thought about what I will really wear, versus what I would wear were it 1932 and I had a lady's maid and the Dread and I were going cruising with the Duke of Westminster in the South of France - and changing for every possible social occasion known to man in the course of a 24 hour cycle. 

Quite like that idea. Binky and Bertie and Whoopsie throwing the pink gins back with abandon while I wear Chanel and swan around sneering at Wallis Simpson.

As it is, the pool awaits, the Dread is en route with a bit of luck and a following breeze, and I am massively grateful for both of those things.

Mainly the latter.

Not that I'd tell him that.

Dye Another Day

““There is grey in your hair/Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath/When you are passing””

— W.B. Yeats, Broken Dreams

There is a terrible condition that many women my age seem to suffer from. It isn't strictly speaking medical, but there is definitely a psychological component attached to it. It can rule our lives on a daily basis - at least if we look in the mirror, and I am yet to know a woman who can get ready for the day without doing that.

I call it OCIHSMGH Syndrome.

What is this dreadful disease, I hear you cry? Is it terminal? Is there any relief to be had? Should I simply give up now and stay under the doona for the rest of my natural life?

The answers are respectively it isn't a disease, although it makes one want to take muscle relaxants (read: drink wine) on a regular basis; it's not terminal, although there is no comeback from it; there is definitely relief, although it's temporary... and as for the doona call?

It's tempting at times, but probably not. You would be missed.

So what exactly am I talking about?

Grey hairs.

WHY?

I have been going grey since my early 20s. If it was a nice, even, all over effort, I may even be tempted to just let it happen. But no - it's more like a piebald pony. Or a very strangely patched rabbit. So that means hair dye. Which means hairdressers. Because every time I do a home job, I stuff it up so comprehensively that I have to go to my lovely hairdresser to have her roll her eyes and fix up my mess.

What is particularly unfair is that guys the same age look great with the whole salt and pepper sprinkle going on. They don't spend zillions hiding the roots of all evil out of a need to look and feel like a normal human being rather than a 1,000 year old bog monster.

Silver fox indeed. Nobody ever says silver vixen.

And the worst part? I am weak. I like my hair looking nice. I willingly hide the damn grey, instead of embracing it. Much as I would love to say that I am prepared to totally give up and say 'sisters, rebel - we have nothing to lose but our peroxide', I know, for my sins, that tomorrow I will trot off to said hairdresser in anticipation of the rendezvous with the Dread Pirate and lustre up the locks.

I am so weak.

But in this instance, I will embrace my weakness.

And just be grateful that it's 2013 - and that foils, colour shampoo and my darling hairdresser Rachael exist.

Otherwise it would be head under the doona time until I popped my clogs.

Or lots and lots of hats.

*OCIHSMGH stands for, not surprisingly, Oh Crap I Have So Much Grey Hair. But you probably worked that out for yourselves.

Listing Slightly To The Right

““He had a wonderful talent for packing thought close, and rendering it portable.”

”

— Thomas B Macaulay

So - next week I am off with the Dread Pirate on a swashbuckling adventure - well, as swashbuckling as one gets lolling around a pool slurping cocktails if one can be bothered picking up one's glass. I am so grateful that this IS only a week away that I think this post could possibly count as a month's worth of gratitude in one big hit.

Aside from my near hysteria at the fact that whilst I am away I will be turning a year older than my now perpetual 21 (that's certainly my mental age and even that is generous), and thus have a need to shovel into my hand luggage large amounts of Valium, I am currently faced with my usual conundrum;

What on earth will I pack?

I am an inveterate list maker. I love lists. They are ace. And what better time to whip out the pad and pen (or as it is now, the packing app) and get ready to rumble on the suitcase of style?

The trouble is though...

I quite often end up with enough stuff for fifteen said suitcases.

And two or three Lusitania standard First-Class steamer trunks.

Whoops.

It's just so hard! Boys have it easy - throw in some shorts, a few shirts, a pair of shoes and some yum aftershave to hide the boy smells and they're set. Because they know that anything else they need you will bring because you bring everything.

Hmmmm. They're not as stupid as they look.

And the trouble is, one never knows what may be needed! Yes, I could be headed for the tropics... but that doesn't mean there couldn't be a sudden sub-arctic spell. Who can tell these days? And I may definitely need that fifteenth top that looks exactly the same as the other fourteen, because look at the hem - it's totally different. It's got two rows of stitching, not one! And as for the shoes...

Even pirates know when not to argue. Ever wonder who came up with the first Jolly Roger? A very annoyed Mrs Dread P who had to leave her favourite shoes behind in a hurry and took it out on the nearest crew member, that's who.

So the list goes on. And on. And - well you get the picture.

Usually that is.

However, this time I am turning over a new leaf - or a new list, as the case may be. I am determined to be sleek, and streamlined, and encapsulated. I am going to embody the essence of holiday wardrobe wear and take only what I know I need, not what I think I want.

And I will be grateful for two things as a result.

One, that I do not have to bring ten cartloads of washing home with me afterwards; and two...

That for once, my bags won't weigh more than I do.

Probably.

Maybe.

I'll try...

Stand In The Place Where You Live; Now Face...

“Your feet are going to be on the ground/
Your head is there to move you around/
If wishes were trees, the trees would be falling/
Listen to reason/Season is calling”

— Stand, R.E.M.

Apart from the fact that I am in serious, SERIOUS countdown mode for a swashbuckling adventure - bikini buying traumas notwithstanding - I am actually doing some genuine contemplation on the whole 'next life scenario' schiznitz.

Well, attempting to anyway.

Visions of swimming pools and cocktails, and the two combined, keep running through my head and interrupting our regularly scheduled program.

For some reason a pirate swings in every so often too.

Where was I again?

Oh. Decisions.

Ugh.

I have been very guilty in the past - oh let's face it, I am guilty in the present - of putting off making decisions. I farnarkle about, I find other things to do, I help other people make brilliant life choices - while I procrastinate wildly and rearrange my shoes by colour and brand.

Which admittedly is important - they are shoes, people!! - but really doesn't get me anywhere near where I need to be in terms of the serious stuff.

This is changing.

I am making up my mind as to where I want to be, both physically and mentally. It has - and is - taking a lot of soul-searching, and quite a few pros and cons lists, but there is clarity coming from said note scrawling and a feeling of hopefulness and strength.

And that's where my gratitude stems from. Finally getting a bit of focus into my future.

Sometimes we need a push to make us stand on the rose of the compass and see which way the prevailing wind is blowing. Sometimes the wind is in a direction we may not have expected; sometimes the breeze may be fickle and we may need auxiliary power to supplement our sails.

But that's OK.

I always keep a set of oars about the place.

You never now when you might be becalmed.

Or conversely, need to hit marauding pirates for being naughty.

And I am back poolside.