Can You Hear, Can You Hear The Thunder?

It's Australia Day. Or, more correctly, Austraya Day. Which means different things to different people admittedly - not all of them positive, not all of them with a 'celebration of a nation' spin. And that's fine. I personally don't feel the need to drive around with Austrayan flags pinned to my car and wearing fake Southern Cross tattoos, but each to their own. If it stays benign of course.

I'm not sure that I need a special day of the year to know that I am proud to be Austrayan. Because I just am. I honestly cannot think of another country on the planet I would rather be a citizen of (even Sweden, although if the SkarsGod was offering marriage, I'd accept dual passports, thanks Alexander). We still are the Lucky Country; despite seeing baboons attacking cars at Macca's drive-throughs with shovels and other primates attempting to wreck the Cenotaph, I do firmly believe this. And there are some very big reasons why I am grateful to this big sunburnt country of ours.

1. Vegemite. Seriously - what's not to love? You don't like the taste? It's made of yeast, people! Yeast is in beer, beer is good, therefore Vegemite must also be good. Q.E.D.
2. Our beaches. Nothing more needs to be said really. 
3. Our obsession with sport. Thank goodness.
4. Freedom of speech. I may not like what a lot of troglodytes out there have to say, but then again, they may not like what I have to say either. What I do like is the fact that we can all speak out without fear of being hurried away in an unmarked van - or in my case, as a woman, quite possibly shot on the spot.
   
5. Our sense of humour (or yewma, as Kath and Kim would say). We still take the pi... - uh, mickey out of ourselves better than most.
6. The way we stand up for our mates - whether that is over the back fence or across the world. I know we indulge in the occasional tall poppy cropping, but I still think that in terms of standing by our friends - Aussies are fairly amazing.
7. Our incredible food and vino. Yum.
8. Our amazingly talented actors, musicians, artists, writers, scientists - all of whom we send out into the world... and never see again. Ha! (see point 9 for the ha).
9. Our irreverence. Our mockery. Our sense of the ridiculous. Which thankfully has not yet been swallowed up by the almighty Bald Eagle. We may be on the road to the Hotel California - but we haven't checked in yet.
   
10. Our ability to see when as a nation we have stuffed up - and acknowledge it. Sometimes it may take us a few hundred years... however, we get there in the end.

Random reasons? Probably. My reasons? Absolutely. Which is part of being an Aussie - I get to have my reasons - not reasons that anyone else wants me to have.

Australia, my gratitude to you. You rock.

Or that should be, you Uluru.

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...

Send Me A Letter, The Sooner The Better...

““If you want something, it will elude you. If you do not want something, you will get ten of it in the mail.”

”

— Anna Quindlen

Dear Mr Australia Post Delivery Dude,

When I first moved in here, we had a fabulous relationship. You were such a lovely man - you even delivered on a Saturday. You knew I worked from home, and you often rang the buzzer a couple of times just in case I was doing the proverbial hair wash or something similar like dozing off at my desk over my laptop.

That never happens of course.

Busily wiping dribble off the keyboard.

But then - something happened. You left, and someone new started. The relationship just wasn't the same. I started getting strange e-mails saying 'delivery onboard with driver' - and I would get terribly excited and wait for you to arrive. Then the next thing I knew - another e-mail.

'Attempted delivery. Parcel can be picked up from GPO after this time'.

Well, bollocks to that. Because I am afraid to say that it is very hard to have an attempted delivery IF NO ATTEMPT AT DELIVERY HAS BEEN MADE.

Now I am not saying that I am here all the time. But when I know I am here, unless I have mysteriously drifted into some parallel universe in my linen cupboard, I would really appreciate my parcel schlepping its way up the stairs. It can even take the lift if it wants to. I'm not precious. If it is feeling lazy, it can even use a particle beam accelerator for all I care.

Just don't try to tell me I am not here when I am.

I have enough problems dealing with reality as it is. This is just messing with my head for no reason whatsoever.

And denying me IPG.

Instant Parcel Gratification.

So please Mr Postman, instead of sitting in your little van and busily writing out a card, and then getting out of said little van and putting said card in my mailbox, take the five extra steps to my apartment building's front door. And ring the buzzer. Who knows? In the long run it might save you getting RSI. And give you a little bit of exercise.

And I will get my parcels!

You Can't Stop The Music

““One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” ”

— Bob Marley

The Panda posted on Facebook this morning that he was listening to certain music, and it made me feel the need to immediately get my butt out of bed... if only to put some music on.

And then get back into bed and write this.

Admittedly now I look like I have St Vitus' Dance, as I resemble a spider doing some kind of weird headbanging mattress jump up and down to Chris Cornell, but still. The ambition to be incredibly rhythmic is there; sadly, it just doesn't translate very well.

Music is amazing. I know I have talked about the the songs or pieces of music that I am most grateful for previously, but this isn't about favourites, or even about genres.

It's simply about rhythm and melody.

Rhythm... and melody.

Who in their teenage years didn't dream of being in a band - come to think of it, who still holds fast to that dream somewhere deep down? I have no hesitation in admitting that somewhere, somehow, Kate S is about to appear in another sell out stadium - or appearing out of the blue in a small jazz club to sing 'My Baby Just Cares For Me' and disappear into the night leaving people to wonder 'was that who I think it was?'.

That's the power of the beat. Songs are insidious - they get into our psyche and if they get a grip on our emotions, it's a life long love affair. You will always remember that moment where or when you first heard that song.

And sometimes it's a case of never forgetting the person who first played it for you.

So today, throw on some music. Dag it up. Play what you love, not what you think you should be listening to. As long as it's not the Bieber, I am not Tuneist. Anything goes. Oh what the hell - it's your eardrums - play the little weasel if you want. Just dance, as they say, like nobody's watching. Sing into your hairbrush, or your rolled up magazine, or toss the vacuum cleaner around like it's a microphone stand and you are doing the Mick Jagger strut to Start Me Up.

And the beat goes on.

And I am grateful that I can hear it.

The Night They Invented Champagne

““Remember gentlemen, it’s not just France we are fighting for, it’s Champagne!””

— Sir Winston Churchill

I must immediately 'fess up to something - I owe the lovely Sara L for the inspiration behind this post. Because I was stalking her Pinterest board, and naturally, as she has impeccable taste, she had fifteen pins with fabulous champagne inspired bits and pieces on them - and after that, well, it was a done deal.

I had to have a glass immediately simply to start the creative juices... uh - bubbling.

Champagne - where to begin really.

And yes I am talking about champagne.  Yes, I know that Australia makes some magnificent sparkling numbers, and yes I sound like a snob, but they are not the same as a truly toasty, dry, built of the tiniest bubbles imaginable flute full of fizz that is a truly magnifique mouthful from La Belle France.

Le sigh.

Nor are all champagnes created equal for that matter. Just because something costs the equivalent of the GDP of 3 South American countries does not make it great. This is something that most people learn very quickly. Unless their name rhymes with Huffy. Or possibly Liddy. I'm not sure which he goes by these days. Obviously my attention span is taken up with far more worthy things.

Like shoes.

Anyway, back to the precious drop. When you think about it, it's not surprising that it was a bunch of boozy Benedictines who kicked off the whole champagne shebang. Even if it wasn't actually Dom Perignon who started the grape non-escape, he certainly helped his brethren along their initial path of enlightment. Although as champers was once called le vin du diable (the Devil's wine), one wonders how devout they actually were.

I must admit I personally send up a little prayer of thanksgiving whenever I take my first sip of Perrier-Jouët.

This is all very well you may say, but what does champagne actually stand for? One might argue that it's an alcoholic beverage; it doesn't actually have to stand for anything much at all, except getting one tipsy. But this isn't accurate. This is a drink that thinks. This is a drink with - well, soul.

Champagne is for fun. It is for life, for love, for laughter, for romance - sometimes it is even to toast the craptacular times as well.

Champagne is for breakfast.

Champagne is the skip in your heart's step, that happy little hum when putting on a slinky frock and knowing you are going to sit somewhere beautiful with someone who may or may not think you look fairly damn amazing. It doesn't much matter; you know yourself that you do. Because you are thinking champagne thoughts.

Champagne is, like the bubbles that tickle your tongue, totally frivolous and unnecessary - but an absolute delight.

I can cope with turning 41 in three weeks.

Just don't make me do it without a full glass in my hand. And an even fuller bottle close by.

Salut!

Break On Through To The Other Side

I have a bad habit of getting what I suppose could be termed tunnel vision. I focus on the positives in people, and put aside the so-called negatives of their personalities. This can mean that I dig myself a very, very big hole that I find hard to climb out of when they behave - well, as humans tend to, and as I certainly do myself - as a normal numpty with feet, legs and a torso of clay.

This is usually a bit unfair on them, and certainly on myself, because the person who is most affected in the long run is me. And this is wasted energy and emotion. And sometimes a whole box of Kleenex. 

I am trashing the planet through my inability to cope when people are less than nice to me.

What a sook!

I have written before about the fact that none of us is without flaws, and we should accept them. This is all well and good. But being who I am, the trouble is that sometimes I don't see the wood for the trees in terms of what is a true problem area in the psyche and what is simply a quirk of personality - and as a result go charging round with friend Napalm. 

Next thing you know there's a bright orange sunrise and everyone's feeling vaguely sunburnt and ill.

And there's a big cleared out patch where some very strong friendships used to be.

So what to do?

Lay off the Apocalypse Now references would probably be a good starting point.

After that, it's a matter of accepting that everyone is different. The whole 'you are unique' blarney isn't actually blarney - I know that I drive many, MANY people in my life bonkers and they put up with my ways with a grin. A somewhat forced grin, but a grin nonetheless. So I therefore need to look at someone as a real boy or girl, not as a Pinocchio-like wooden figure, from the start of any relationship - instead of trying to see just a part of them.

That way when I do drop down into what I think is a pit of despair, I will be grateful that it was actually not a hole at all.

It was just a covered pathway. Or even a tunnel of sorts.

And there is an end in sight.

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.

Come On A Surfari With Me...

““We made the buttons on the screen look so good you’ll want to lick them.”
”

— Steve Jobs

Something was really brought home to me last night; it really is true what John Lennon sang in Beautiful Boy - 'life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans'.

We are often so caught up in the day to day, that we don't notice the momentous until we sit back for a breather, and realise how much things have either changed or progressed in a short period of time.

You may well ask what on earth John Lennon has got to do with a Beach Boys lyric and a Steve Jobs quote. Well, apart from the six degrees of separation issue (Ed Sullivan called The Beatles 'England's answer to The Beach Boys' and of course there was more than one Apple once upon a time) - not a hell of a lot. Aside from the fact that all of the above pieces of rubbish float around in my head where useful information could actually sit.

What Steve Jobs and surfing have to do with this post though - now there is a different story. Everything. For in their own ways they have been a part of the life that has happened to me recently, almost without any volition.                                                 

Because after a lot of what one, if one were honest with oneself, would call dithering, I have found what suits me in terms of work. How I work, what I do for work, and whom I work for. And the answers - to virtually (ha) all of those Jeopardy categories - finally come easily.

Most people can answer these 'what do I want to do when I grow up?' questions a lot earlier in life. They are extremely lucky. And they may not have had to deal with weird diseases hitting them at odd times and making them re-think their working ways.

So now I live in cyberspace to a large extent, and get to write, write, write. And then write some more. It may not be the type of surfing I envisaged as a 13 year old, but that doesn't make it any the less exciting.

And far better in the long run for my complexion. Because let's face it, my dreams of the freckles joining up to make a tan were fairly unrealistic to start with.

So today - I am grateful for the chance to weave an interweb. It turns out I am not too shabby at it. Considering my handicraft handicaps, it was a surprise to me as much as anyone.

Surf's up.

And I am very, very grateful.

Tears (And Laughter) On My Pillow

““Pleasing things: finding a large number of tales that one has not read before. Or acquiring the second volume of a tale whose first volume one has enjoyed. But often it is a disappointment.”
”

— Sei Shōnagon, The Pillow Book

The Pillow Book - well, the most famous one - was written by Sei Shōnagon, a lady of the Imperial Japanese court in the late 10th Century. It contains her daily thoughts, poetry, illustrations, opinions on others at court, the most amazing lists of her likes and dislikes - everything about her life.

It is a truly remarkable tome - yes, it is basically a diary, but it is so beautifully written and drawn that it transcends that into a work of art.

It is subversive. It is naughty. It is sublime.

I would do anything for the Lady Sei's turn of phrase - she was the year 1002's equivalent of Dorothy Parker. 

What a pillow book gives is clarity. A nightly - or daily - way to sort out the tangled jumble of thoughts that sit in a snarl in our craniums, blurring our capability to function and just keep going on a daily basis. For me, it's also a way to express my opinions on life, the universe and everything - whether anyone is reading them or not doesn't actually matter - it's getting them onto virtual paper that matters.

Because as anyone who writes knows, the compulsion to get the words out of one's head and through one's fingers is constant and unchanging.

Much of what I write is never seen by anyone. Because I do have a true Pillow Book. It may be an iPillow - but it is a Pillow Book nonetheless. There is snark, there are what I would like to think of as witticisms, there are dreams. There are photos. There are drawings.

There is a life.

And in the spirit of the original, maybe I do have one of my lists that is suitable for this post.

List 14.

Things For Which One Is Truly Grateful.

Sometimes gratitude is intangible.

And in this case it comes from the sometimes bitter and ugly - but always brutally honest - observations of a woman centuries before her time, who inspired a teenage girl to start putting pen to paper. For which she will be eternally grateful.

““List 71. Rare Things - Copying out a tale or a volume of poems without smearing any ink on the book you’re copying from. If you’re copying it from some beautiful bound book, you try to take immense care, but somehow you always manage to get ink on it.””

— The Pillow Book

They Can Certainly Look Like A Bomb Site...

““The sight of the first woman in the minimal two-piece was as explosive as the detonation of the atomic bomb by the U.S. at Bikini Island in the Marshall Isles, hence the naming of the bikini.”
”

— Tom Waits

Last night, I was obviously feeling particularly masochistic, as was evidenced by what I voluntarily did. Nobody forced me, nobody said 'hey Kate, I will give you a million dollars/the shoes of your dreams/chocolate for life' and made me go out to the Maul...

... and try on bikinis.

I could have done something far more enjoyable. Like volunteer in an 18th century cholera ward. Or have my teeth removed without anaesthetic. You know, fun stuff.

But no, I opted for standing in glaringly bright lights that made me look even paler than I actually am (which as the world knows is Casper the Friendly Ghost blanc de blanc), with a salesgirl who was a suspicious orange colour saying after EVERY pair -

They look amazing on you!!

If by amazing she meant that people would have fallen over laughing, amazed that someone would wear something so heinous, then yes, she was correct on many occasions.

Trying on swimwear is something that evil masterminds should employ as a form of torture. Next time James Bond is in a spot of bother, all they need to do is pop him in a size 007 white string number and parade him in front of a shop full of 16 year old girls.

He will give up the spy business and retire to the country to grow azaleas immediately. Never to be heard of again. That's how effective it will be. Waterboarding's out. Waterwear is in.

This is not to say that the right pair of cossies can't have the desired effect. It just takes, unfortunately, wading through a pile of really bad bathers to end up doing the wade out of the waves like Ursula Andress image.

For all my grumbles though, in this instance though I admit to being willing to make the sacrifice.

After all, there are pirates to impress.

And perhaps even shiver their timbers!

Has Anyone Seen Ensign Jones?

““It’s life Jim, but not as we know it””

— Star Trekkin' Across The Universe

It's not just Star Trek, but each incarnation of that legendary Gene Rodenberry creation provides a perfect example of the throwaway character - poor old Ensign Jones/Smith/Flengman 12 who is given no lines, but is a part of the away party/boarding group/recovery team - and is therefore, blindingly obviously, not going to make it to the end of the episode.

They are either eaten by this week's space monster, the first to succumb to a mysterious space illness, or disappear into a new planet's weird atmospheric conditions never to be seen or heard of again.

Until they pop up in another show.

As the rookie partner of the world-weary cop who just can't catch a break, but needs to emote for an episode.

Hey there Detective There'll Be No Nickname Necessary, cos you ain't sticking around.

What I think we fail to consider sometimes is how many people there are in our own lives whom we perhaps give an Ensign Jones role to - without recognising that in point of fact they are often a leading character whom we can't do without. And when they suddenly exit stage left - well, we suddenly realise that it is in fact Scotty or even Mr Spock who is missing in action.

So perhaps, just occasionally, take a look around you - and make sure that the quiet people in the corners who perhaps don't say much, but always have your back, don't get ready to beam out unexpectedly.

And express your gratitude to them.

Perhaps you could start by asking them about their day.

Maybe they actually defeated a space monster this week on your behalf.

That would be something to be grateful for.