Saturday 28 July, 1956

Well, here I am, the day before 'the day'. 60 years since the day I was born; my mother laboring for 36 hours and my father celebrating at the Mt Gravatt Show in the bar. (yep, heard the story a few times).

I haven't written as much as I originally intended to here.  I can see now why writers rent a house by the sea for a year, or escape to their country cottage or lock themselves in an attic, to write.
The 'things' of the world get in the way. The needs and desires of others, the 'happenings' around you, they suck the creativity out of you if you are not careful.  Not intentionally, but it happens. Your mind is focused and connected with what needs to be done next.  Your emotions are hijacked by the emotions of others, known to you, or not.  The sadness of the world engulfs the heart of an empathetic person like me. I have to be careful of that.
The words don't come, and if they do, they may not be the words you really want to write. Sometimes perhaps they are what may need to be written.  Sometimes they may just be emotional pouring out, and not particularly interesting for anyone else to read. Sometimes they may be your own woes and troubles, again, not interesting for anyone else particularly.  Should you write something that may be hurtful or demeaning to another person.  Why, what would be gained?  All too often, with the worlds latest craze - Social Media - things are written in a moment, with far reaching ramifications.   What if you want to vent, and the person deserves it?  Yes, but what if it also hurts others not directly connected. So my answer is no, something that is hurtful or demeaning to someone else should not be written, or at least, not published.
My mind has been taken up recently with the troubles of the world and my time taken up with the day to day needs of my life choices, keeping the wheels turning. We all have those times. I've certainly had plenty. I've had, to say the least, an eventful life.

So here I am, one day from the big 60. That date, 28 July, that marks 60 years from the day of my birth and 60 days since I decided to take the plunge and try this blogging thing.
Not much has changed but a few things have dawned on me.
You can't force writing:
You have to let it come to you. If you try to force it, it will most likely be empty and false.
You cannot expect too much of people:
For example, M.O.T.H., just this morning, after I explained that I would be winning the Lotto tomorrow because people always win the Lotto on their birthdays, exclaims.... "Oh yeah, that's right, its your birthday tomorrow".  He'd forgotten already...again.
And the big one... I'm not sure who I am:
Not, who does my husband think I am; or even my children; my mother; or my small social circle; but me, who do I think I am? Am I different things to different people? Am I all I can be? Am I who I would like to be? Am I doing what I want to be doing? Am I afraid to explore these questions? Or am I completely satisfied with everything in me, and in my life?

So, I start bucket list.  A real bucket list. One that I actually take on board and think about what I really, really want to do.  One that I actually make the effort to achieve. There's the usual; lose 10 kg for vanity sake; start walking for hearts sake; spend a day at the beach every month for soul's sake; learn the guitar & take more photos for creativity sake ...... and, I'm stuck. I don't want to jump out of a plane; or climb mountains or visit the pyramids; but come on Catherine, there must be something!

You see, if often seems like my own needs and desires are just out of reach; I can't see them; I can't materialise them; or probably more accurately, I don't really have many.  Now, is that because I am so happy and fulfilled that there is little else I want or need in life, which I think is mostly true, or is it because since an early age I have focused my energies on fulfilling the needs and desires of others and have not developed my own interests or allowed myself the luxury of exploring the possibilities? Not complaining mind you, I've had a fulfilling and blessed life. I just don't seem to have explored what I might want or enjoy as just me, Cathie Dawn. So maybe, it's time.

I wonder if other women who have spent their lives happily travelling along life's road suddenly wake up one morning and, now, seeing their children grown adults going about their own lives, decide to ask the question... who am I? I know, they call it the 'empty nest' and I'm sure there's a thousand books I could read, but with my baby about to turn 30 I think I went through the empty nest syndrome about 10 years ago. And although my nest keeps refilling, I think it's more than that.  The empty nest syndrome says to me that you are feeling the loss of having children to do things for, well that doesn't really apply here.  No, It's more about discovering myself.
Again, don't get me wrong, it's not about the past, my past has been fortunate and filled with love; it's about the future. Who am I now?  What do I want for my future? It is a huge question.  One I can't answer yet.
I will probably keep blogging, irregularly, if you are interested in hanging around, please do so, and we will see where we go from here. If not, I thank you and release you, with love.

Maybe this is as good as it gets; and, if so, that's pretty damn good. If I left the earth now, I would leave it knowing I had done all I could within the realms of my reality and leave in my place four magnificent human beings to enrich the world.

However, I feel like there is more to come, something is calling.  I need to go deeper.

Perhaps I'll rent that cottage by the sea and finish my Novel.

And dogs, there'll always be dogs...... and sewing.
* Pics of me, just because I can :)  :)

BE WARNED - I WENT THERE !

I am constantly amazed at how our human brains work, well men's brains really.

The fact is most men cannot name female body parts by their correct name without cringing and blushing and even leaving the room. Take for example the Vagina. (You knew I would eventually go here, right?)

Now, it occurs to me that most men would know at least several different words which they would use regularly to describe this body part, either in jest, in boast or in curse.  So why is it that they cringe and get embarrassed in using the correct word, Vagina.

The Vagina does not stand alone but the way guys.  There is also the Labia (majora & minora), you'd be familiar with these; Ovaries, Uterus & Cervix - most important for providing you with children; and of course our good friend, the Clitoris with which you may be less familiar; to mention a few.

Now guys, * insert sound of Cricket chirping* oh wait, you've switched off after the first Vagina.

"Please Explain?"  Men can talk about and watch images of these parts all day but can't talk about them in a simple biological way using the correct terms.

Is it because it then just becomes a body part, like an arm, and less sexy?  "Oh Rhonda, your arm is so inviting tonight".  Hmmm maybe that's it.

One thing I do know, I wish no one on the planet would ever use that one word I cannot abide which is used as one of the worst possible names you can call someone you are cursing - and this same word is then applied to our beautiful flower, and usually not in a nice way.  It's a horrible word and should never be used to curse, of refer to our beautiful lady parts.

It is hard, in a way, to take away the cute names, especially with kids. I am guilty myself of teaching little ones to call their bits - front bums & willies. But we did move on from that and now often have Vagina & Penis conversations.  Funny, that's about the time M.O.T.H. makes a quick exit.

An older friend was having some trouble with incontinence and her husband of 50 years shared the news by saying they had spent some time at the doctors because she had some lady problems - down there. Oh come onnnnn!  I watched an episode of Call the Midwife yesterday; which I can't watch too much or I begin to spontaneously lactate; where an older lady had a uterine prolapse and couldn't talk about it because she never even knew the correct terms and thought she just had to put up with this. Set in 40's I thought we had progressed enough to be able to talk about these things, but then it dawned on me, maybe not.

So girls, and guys, (if they aren't now vomiting, or watching the Football), liberate our lady bits, our special place, our flower, our front bums, our, 'down there'. Use the correct name and always, always, always, respect our lady bits and demand others do the same.

I challenge you use the word Vagina in a sentence today. Work up to using Clitoris, slowly.

QUIT! GIVE UP! YOU'RE BEATEN!

"Quit! Give up! You're Beaten!"

They shout at me and plead.

"There's just too much against you now.

This time you can't succeed!"

You know what it's like.  When you are moving house and you have packed EVERYTHING, and for that final 24 hours you are asking yourself, what was I thinking?  When, and more importantly, why, did I buy THAT !

You bring things home in a seemingly innocuous white plastic bag, one at a time, and place the item proudly in it's new place to be used or just admired within your home.  Then BAM ! It's moving day and you are asking yourself what the hell you needed all this shyte for.

I think we need to do one of two things. Live more Japanese; less is more; or buy cheap and/or secondhand things that can just be thrown away each time we move.... Hmm come to think of it, that wouldn't work for me, I mostly do buy cheap and secondhand and I still manage to get attached to it.

You know, like your three staple guns.

I have moved many times and the faced this dilemma.  You'd think I'd learn.  And yet here I am in the final stage of moving, from just one room to another, well, swapping three rooms, and still I am at that stage of looking around and; having moved and resettled the major or meaningful items; am left with the WTF items.  I know it has taken a while, but with M.O.T.H. home since Tuesday, the remainder of the move has taken second priority. He does like his room by the way.

As fate would have it, one thing that also resurfaced was my copy of a beloved poem called 'The Race'.  Do yourself a favor, google it and read the whole thing; it's long, but worth it.  I have often referred to this poem over the years; in times of greater conflict and confusion than just moving rooms; so again I sat down and cradled my beloved antique, typed version and sort it's solace and inspiration.

With the second bedroom nearly finished and only the rest of the WTF items to be sorted and placed; either in another box to be forgotten until the next move; or in the bin, I shall once again recite:

"Quit! Give up! You're beaten!"

They still shout in my face

But another voice within me says

"Get up and win the race."

Sweet, Sweet En Suite

The room swap is almost complete. *insert exhausted face* There were numerous times when I doubted the wisdom in this choice, but I am liking the results.  Still some finishing touches to add and definitely a lot more sorting to happen in the newly acquired sewing room, which, as it turns out, is not as big as I had envisaged. *insert disappointed face*

Whilst helping arrange grandad's new room, No 1 granddaughter queried "but Nan, now you and grandad will have to go to the toilet in your sewing room, is that ok?"

Well not in the sewing room, in the ensuite, which is now attached to the sewing room.

 I assured her it would be ok because the doorway to the ensuite is quite separated by the new 'wall' of fabric.

Then it dawned on me... we had been going to the toilet in our bedroom. Seriously, who thought that was a good idea? Even the word 'ensuite' makes it sound nicer than 'having a pooper in your bedroom'.  And where did that name originate? So of course I googled it.

en suite  -  Origin -  FRENCH

late 18th century (in the sense ‘in agreement or harmony’): from French, literally ‘in sequence’.  Apparently referring to the fact that the bedroom is 'in harmony/sequence' with the bathroom.

When I was a girl (groan) we had to go downstairs, rain, hail or shine and use the 'out-house', no confusion there - little house, outside. Yes, I am that old.  It was placed conveniently right at the bottom of the stairs, and other than when in a particular hurry in the middle of the night, it posed no problems that I could see at the time and having two brothers I now consider it was probably a blessing. Although middle brother; (I originally identified him as number 2 brother, but thought better of it); often had an issue with attending yon out-house (AKA Thunder-box) in the dark so brave little sister had to accompany him.

Society progressed and people became much more civilised and we decided it was a good idea to put the pooper INSIDE the house. OK.

Oh wait, we are now much, much, more civilised, lets put the pooper IN OUR BEDROOM !

I know some ultra modern, ultra civilised houses even have just a half; or even no; diving wall to the ensuite.  Oh great, now you can not only poop in your bedroom, but you can WATCH each other poop in your bedroom.

I don't know, but I'm not sure progress is always progress.

(And I'm not sure all photographers, & or brides, make good choices !)

Thought I'd add the 'Urban Dictionary' explanation of Thunder-box.

A toilet - This is Australian slang
It is called a thunderbox because sometimes when you go to the loo you fart, and it sounds like thunder. I don't think I have to explain the box part.

I wonder if she used that caption in her wedding album?

USE THE GOOD CHINA

I've just sat down at my computer with the intention of writing some flippant story about my antics this weekend. Combining my two sewing rooms, yes two, don't judge me, into one. The story was to be about long suffering husband's agreement to me taking over the main bedroom and us now having separate rooms.  Yay for me. I haven't had my own bedroom since I was 19 (and obviously, neither has he, unless you count his mattress up in the shed when he takes sneaky naps) and I'm looking forward to it. His only objection was that he would no longer have ....... the air con.

I was going to include an amusing anecdote about No 1 son's dismay at the 'separate room' thing and my assuring him there was nothing wrong and it would be fun sneaking into each other's room like we used to when we stayed over each other's house before we were married.
He was sorry he'd asked!

Now whilst this is still amusing, before I opened my blog to start, I checked Facebook, and there it was.

You see, my latest charity obsession is making quilts for members of the Australian Armed Forces serving overseas.  Hopefully, bringing them a little comfort and connection to normal life back home. These are personalised as far as possible as the member requests a quilt with a theme close to their heart and interests. I have loved doing it and they don't take too long to make. The most heartwarming satisfaction comes if one of the recipients is in the position to write back and say thanks. It brings me to tears each time.

What brought me to tears this morning was a Facebook post.  It was on the Aussie Hero Quilts page. The beautiful lady who created this wonderful project and puts countless hours into the running and promotion of this Australia wide project which has seen around 6,000 quilts delivered to our serving men and women; along with as many laundry bags to brighten their days; has posted something which gutted me.

Last night, her house burnt down.

She, her husband, two sons and their dogs are safe, thank God.  Pretty much everything else is gone.

How does someone come back from that?  I know people have suffered this terrible loss before but when it happens to someone you feel close to, even thought I have never met the lady, it is so very, very sad.  I can't begin to imagine what that family will go through.  All their personal items gone, and for her, the loss of her records and everything to do with the Aussie Quilts will be devastating.

I know group members will be offering help, they already are, and I know she has built a great relationship with the Armed Forces so I would not be surprised if something comes of that, in the way of assistance for her and her family.

Still, the feeling of loss will be great. I won't even begin to rant about my confusion as to how something like this can happen to someone who spends so much time doing such wonderful charity work for her fellow Australians.  And it dawned on me, nothing in this life is guaranteed.

As I sift through 'priceless treasures' during my sewing/bedroom swap, I'm kind of glad I don't really have much of great monetary value that couldn't be replaced .  My 40 year old un-picker would be a sad loss but replaceable.

One small thing I could advise, take photos of all your belongings not only for insurance purposes, but to help remember the sentimental stuff.  Also, a good idea in this world of electronic dependence, back up your important computer files and photos and store the back up at a friend's house.

Enjoy your life friends, see the funny side as often as you can, be grateful and use the good china.

Don't get caught up in the things around you because they can be taken away.  Spend more time with your loved ones, because, well, ... I won't finish that sentence.

CLOTHES MAKETH THE MAN (or Woman)

I have several photos of myself as a toddler in lovely dresses, which, I am told, my Nan made for me. She was a seamstress in a factory, I believe, as a young woman.  I can remember standing beside her one day and watching her sew on her Singer Treadle and asking who she made the lines so straight.

My wonderful Aunt was probably the next person who inspired my interest in sewing. Each time we would visit she would show me what she had sewn.  She didn't have much money, like all of us then, so it was never anything very elaborate and may have even been recycled, but I loved it.

My 10th grade sewing teach, whose name I can't remember but I remember how she made me feel.  (there's a quote about that) I had not been able to take sewing classes at my previous school, but when I changed schools (as I often did) for year 10 I was elated to find out I could take sewing.  My teacher made me welcome and was always complimentary about my projects, especially as I had not had taken previous years classes.


I bought my first sewing machine when I started work at 15 and began sewing my own clothes (as in the pics).  I bought what fabric I could, usually from Bayards in Queen Street with my $14.00 a week pay packet. It was the 70's and we didn't need much fabric then.

The second thing I bought, by the way, was a little record player. Sewing and Music ...not much has changed.

I loved that I could sew and make clothes for my kids, photos in home made trackies too numerous to show.  Again, not much money to go around raising 4 kids sending me straight to the bargain bin at the fabric store.

Now I have a little more to splurge on fabric should I so desire, but I can't seem to break the habit of getting super, super excited when I see a sale advertised.  Neither can I resist adding to my ridiculously large 'stash' of fabric at said sales.

Clothing shops are probably the most prolific of any retail outlets (assumption).  From thousands of dollars per item to the $10 jeans at Kmart society can't seem to get enough. The babies and children's 'fashion' wear market is huge now.  What's up with that? Thanks baby celebs !
Mine either wore handmade or Vinnies, and they survived.

We see 'makeover' shows on the telly and can't believe the difference in people with some new clobber on and a haircut.  We see 'bosses' dressing down on the telly and going out into the workplace and not being recognised. We have dress up day at school, dress up day at the races, dress up cocktail parties, fancy dress parties, pajama parties, formal, semi-formal and come as you are (never a good idea) all based on the clothing you wear.

I guess my love of fabric makes me more inclined to 'checkout' what people are wearing and look at how things are made and what fabric is used.

I see people who dress, shall we say, without much thought.  Now I'm not one to judge, but I think with the abundance of recycle shops and cheap clothing these days,...... really?  You are wearing a old unclean stretchy t-shirt and crocks and carrying your mobile phone and carton of grog?

I don't wear designer clothes, heck I am still wearing clothes from 10 years ago.  I am determined to update my wardrobe throughout this process.  However, LOOK IN A MIRROR PEOPLE !  It's not about being sexy (please, please, don't make it about that), or even fashionable, because fashion rarely suits everyone.  It's just about being clean and tidy and wearing something that suits your shape. Have some pride. Give yourself permission to look nice. Prioritise you appearance.  Find your 'look'. How do you want to be seen? Think about what look you are projecting.

Happy medium folks.  You don't have to spend zillions, in fact I shake my  head in wonderment at most of the 'catwalk' fashions and those that the billionaire celebs drape themselves in sometimes. I think, 'you got all that money and you chose THAT?'

BTW Men - get on board PLEASE.  Capper shorts - OUT;  Shorts that don't cover your crack - OUT. You guys have it easy, clean jeans and a polo shirt... done, simple.

AND HELLOOOO YOUNG PEOPLE  --- PJ's in public --- aahhh NNNOOOOO

Then it dawned on me...  sometimes it's about looking sexy... Man of the House didn't know what colour eyes I had for 2 years.

GRANNY'S LOOKING BACK AT ME

I know I joked about Downton Abby, but I really am mostly English bloodlines.  I was obsessed with researching our Ancestry a few years ago and although I was very excited when I confirmed I had Irish back there, the dominant genes are English.

As I look in the mirror these days it is becoming even more obvious, I see Granny looking back at me.  I watch a lot of UK TV, I prefer the English programs to the Yank ones. I love the countryside, and the way the actors look so natural, unlike the plastic rubber stamped look of most of the American actors.  I enjoy the lifestyle portrayed, although I'm sure they think we all live on the beach in caravan parks or on perfectly groomed streets with brick houses.  But the more I watch, the more I see myself as having that 'English' look ( if there is such a thing).  I would have enjoyed looking a little more like Lady Mary and less like 'Granny'. But it is what it is.

Man of the House takes after his maternal grandfather in sooo many ways. German through and through. Looks like him too. 

What does all this mean?  Very little really, except that I personally find it satisfying, comforting even, to understand at a DNA level who I am, why I look like I do.

  

It dawned on me that we are so bombarded these days with shyte about looking a certain way.  The American way (for want of a better term), perfect, slim, toned, flat stomachs, hair straightened, hair curled, eyebrows, noses, teeny tiny little 'computer mouse' sized fat deposits sucked surgically from our hips or thighs, and pumped into our lips.  IT'S CRAZY MAN !

STOP THE ROT !! Fight the tyranny of the diet and exercise and plastic surgery industry I say.  And don'g get me started on music videos !

More Meghan Trainor, less Taylor Swift, please.  I know she's smart and lovely, but the body image it must be giving young girls is frightening.

For probably 3 decades or more we have been brainwashed about our appearance. Propelled by the money grabbing companies selling vitamins and weight loss plans and still we hear reports of the obesity rate increasing. How can that be?  The diet and exercise craze has been around so long, why is society still increasing in weight.  PROCESSED FOOD & SEDENTARY LIFESTYLE - for the general population.  The 'you can do it' paleo / gym enthusiasts were probably always going to be fit and healthy humans.  For the rest of us 'give it a go and give up' club members, the constant badgering sends us straight to the fridge for chocolate.

I figure if we could all go back to cooking fresh food, instead of fast food; eating around a table at night with our families and running around at the beach or in a park on weekends, instead of running to the gym; we'd surely be happier and healthier - and richer.

Although this pictorial evidence of my female ancestors would suggest a somewhat predetermined body size and shape for me.  It was never going to end well.

Now, in the interest of honest disclosure, I have to confess to a couple of 'procedures' myself.

The first, when I was 21 and had a nose like Barbara Streisand but without the voice to carry it off. Having some self esteem issue since being teased about it at high school, I sought help.  Although the teaser was a boy with red hair and freckles whose surname was Corn, sooo in hindsight, he probably had his own issues.

Yes, believe it or not, this nose is a reconstruction; it was 40 years ago. I often wonder if my glasses would stay on better if I had left it.

The second, although somewhat vanity inspired, was to lift the 5kg of genetically inherited extra eyelid I had hanging over my eyeballs, so that I could see better, even with my slippery glasses. 

I wonder, if I was offered a pill tomorrow that would strip me permanently of some weight would I take it?  Or enough free money to have a guaranteed 'safe' tummy tuck? Would I do it?

Probably, I'm on the road to acceptance, but I'm not stupid.

Ahh, it's a long road.