Speeding down Memory Lane

I didn’t mind getting in the car with Dad (Herby) those crisp Toowomba mornings, with socks up to my knees, a brand new pale blue pinafore swimming over my adolescent frame and a navy ribbon tied under my white collar. Only as soon as I sat down, panic would hit, and my stomach would churn with dread.  I couldn’t possibly face another day of grade 8 at my new school… where I knew no one - and had absolutely no friends.

“Please don’t make me go today.” I whispered, turning to Dad, my flat chest heaving hysterically as tears poured down my face. A normal person would have felt sorry for me – guilty for making me go… like they were leading a lamb to it’s slaughter. But Herb just furrowed his brow, and stepped on the gas. After all, we were running late. As usual.

‘It will get better once you’re there,’ he said in a stern but kind voice as we hurtled down the street, towards the bus stop. I could see the bus pulling away in the distance and continuing up the leafy road. Toowoomba roads were lined by dense bush or large evergreen trees, giving it the lush feel of a quaint village, rather than the large country town that it really was.

“Just give it some more time,” Herb re-assured me, patting me on the knee before switching gears and breaking the speed limit by at least $240 in order to chase the bus down. The fear I had felt about having to go to school momentarily gave way to the g-forced induced thrill of accelerating into the wrong lane, as we passing cars that were already speeding, before cutting off the bus at the next stop.

“Have a good day,” he said, like everything was fine. The mix of adrenalin, exhilaration and embarrassment I now felt had jolted me out of my teary state. I wonder if he had done that on purpose. I kissed him on the cheek, and ran out of the car, red-faced - onto the bus. Everyone was staring and my heart was pounding out my ears. I felt incredibly self-conscious making a grand entrance so regularly, and I also felt incredibly self conscious about Herb's car.

It always drew attention - which I would have secretly loved, but in conservative Toowoomba Australia, one must be wary of being a tall poppy.  The car was a Jaguar E-type sports car - red, and it's engine sounded like three Harley Davidson's lived under the bonnet. A classic mid-life crisis car – just imagine, a giant penis, painted shiney red, on wheels. That was the exact shape of his car.

Herb had bought it the minute Mum (Janet) had hesitantly walked out the door. She had barely passed the mailbox before it was in our driveway. It had a V12 engine (that’s gutsy for all the non bogans reading this) and when it opened up on the highway, you felt like you were flying.  It was Dad’s way of reclaiming his life and inadvertently sending Janet a clear message. 

Poor Janet. I wish she’d had the guts to go buy a big vagina on wheels. But what does that even look like. Perhaps one of these:

or these:

I sat in the front seat of the bus, and waited for the boys at the back of the bus to start teasing their little brother about liking me. “Matty likes Ally,” they’d chant. Matty would always turn an even deeper shade of red than me. I tried very hard never to look at him, incase they thought that I liked him back.

In front of me, Herb’s car sped away like lightening as our bus slowly lumbered forward. I had a feeling that my new life living with him was going to be an adventure. Also - it wasn’t going to be easy. He was going make me go to school, when my tears alone would have been enough to for mum to homeschool me for the rest of my life. (Mum would always reward me for crying.) Now it was up to Herb to toughen me up, and deep down, I knew he was doing what was best for me. Just like when Mum would put alphalpha sprouts on our whole wheat pizzas. Both parents were just trying to do their best. And that's all one can ever ask for.

Hello Boots

Not long ago, in the rain….

I stared down at my new $300 investment boots, now saturated, cold and stretchy.

“Just don’t get them really wet.” The creepy Italian store assistant had said to me after I had paid.

“It’s New York. They are going to get wet and pummelled within an inch of their life. THAT’S WHY I’M BUYING GOOD QUALITY BOOTS, so they can last me more than a couple of months!”

He said nothing, but gave me a thin smile - slimier than his slick black, curly hair that he had pulled into a long greasy pony tail.

I’d searched for months for these boots. Wavering off my original course (black over the knees), bargaining shamelessly to haggle them down to a price I could handle, and finally they were mine. The perfect boot! Well almost. I would have liked a zip at the side and a shorter toe. But whatever. These deep brown cowboy boots make me feel confident. Probably because they look 2 sizes too big in the toe,  like I have big manly man feet, which is balanced by the feminine edge of a slight heel and a pointed toe.  Yum.

They slide up (just) over my chunky calves or my ‘muscular calves’ as my mum kindly calls them. (I get them from my Dad, whom also suffers from prematurely lifting of the heel. People who walk bouncy tend to have big calves. Check it.)

It’s the most I’ve ever spent on a shoe, but I’m betting it will be totally worth it. And just to be sure, I plan on wearing them every day for the rest of my life. Rain, hail or shine. 

Rain Heart

The first weekend back in NY it poured down rain. And by down, I mean horizontal, thanks to gale-force-winds. 

Usually I love the rain.  (A fact that has made growing up in a drought stricken country a rather trying experience.) In Australia if it rains, it’s beautiful - and I just drive everywhere. In New York, you walk everywhere, and you get wet. And your hair looks like crap. 

Having left my last umbrella on a boat in the Whitsundays less than a week ago I was reluctant to get another so soon. But after a damp trip to the laundromat, and the grocery store - that are literally across the street from Ada’s, I stopped at a pharmacy and got one... an expensive one - recommended by a customer.

“I’ve had this one for six months now,” she said patting it against her crinkled hands. Hmmm. Either she hadn’t left her apartment since September, or this umbrella had magical powers. I picked up a bright blue one instead of my usual black, trying desperately not to think about all the other expensive umbrellas I’d bought in the past year that I would never see again. This time would be different!

I was heading to the mac store to drool over alternatives to my dying laptop. I jumped on the subway, and started making notes about a crazy man who made a spectacle of himself last night. I’d barely finished my second paragraph, when the train stopped at my destination. So quick! I scrambled to close my book and put my pen in my bag, while grabbing my laptop bag and novel. Just as the door’s shut and the train sped away I realized what I had done. I felt around for my magical umbrella in my bag for much longer than was necessary, trying to stay in denial and praying for a miracle. Idiot! I thought. It was on the train. That was definitely a record. I walked up the stairs to a newsstand, and bought another one for five bucks.

Outside, the wind promptly turned it inside out, snapping three of it’s spokes and rendering it useless. No! I’m not giving up on you yet, damn it! I pleaded. I held it at right angles to my face. Yes! It made quiet a decent face shield.

The mac store entrance way is an enormous glass cube - which is particularly spectacular to stand in when it rains. Awesome. I will have to build one of these giant rain boxes into my imaginary future dream house. I pictured my self alone, wearing nothing but a Snuggie, watching the rain stream down the glass. Cant wait!

Just then a handsome male apple consultant offered to put my umbrella in a narrow bag. He had beautiful blue sparkly eyes, which smiled at me as I struggled to collapse it.

“Here, let me help” he said, also unable to budge it’s mangled spokes into submission.

“Would you like me just to throw it out?” he laughed.

“Yes please.” I said, smiling back.

He’d look good in a Snuggie.

Later, completely drenched, when buying my third umbrella for the day I pondered the convenience of droughts. Had I been taking our perfect Queensland weather for granted all these years? Or did I secretly like these weekly hurricanes that cost me money but gave some drama to my life.

I opened up my new shield then reached into a bucket of blue paint and slapped down half my face.

The answer was suddenly clear. I grinned up at the sky, did a pirouette and yelled "You can take my umbrella, Yorky, but you’ll never take my freedom!"

Here, on a Boat

Here where the sky meets the ocean between the untouched islands on the Great Barrier Reef, we cruise because we can.

Here, where butterflies are seen flying so far from land, you can only imagine they are travelling from island to island, and may not even make it during their short 1-2 day lifespan.

Here, where tiny fish, get so scared, they are able to skip along the surface, like a well thrown stone, using their tails to stand up and run like lizards above water when they get tired of skipping.

It is here, with the wind in your hair, on a boat, cutting through the glassy waters, the sun reflecting up at you from the liquid turquoise, that you feel a freedom like no other. Just you, the sea and the great unknown.

What creatures lie beneath?

What lands lie unexplored?

I dare you NOT to live in the moment

It’s impossible to even remember any nagging thoughts and worries. The sky has untangled them and the breeze has plucked them away. Like an echesketch for your mind. Now all that’s left is for the ocean to fill up your senses and soothe your grateful soul.

Damn you irikanji jelly fish! Damn my irrational fear of sharks. If it weren’t for you two, I’d seize this precious moment and dive into the water fully clothed, like the impulsive, spirited girl I know I can be!

***

It is here, on the boat that Bernard and Abby make their life; stepping around each other in the kitchen in a well-rehearsed routine. I watched from the landing as Abby made toast with avocado and vintage cheddar while Bernard ground coffee beans and brewed tea.

Watching Bernard make coffee is a fascinating experience. He worked diligently in a relaxed methodical manner, with precision that bordered obsessive.  (The same way he does everything in his life.) With beans ground, he set an alarm timer. Seconds later - beep beep beep! He flicked a switch on the coffee machine, then reset the timer… beep beep beep! He poured the coffee, beep beep beep! Inserted the thermometer into the milk jug for frothing. I imagined he was following one of his laminated check lists in his head.

Leaning back I took in the smells of the clean Whitsunday air, mixing with fresh coffee and toast. Behind me the island greenery towers high from the water’s edge. Can I please stay in this moment for ever, I pray.

Abby was now cutting fresh fruit onto a clean white plate, while Bernard was using a spoon to make an unusual coffee-art design in the top of the cappuccinos. If only he turned the spoon upside down, he’d get a better design, the perfectionist in me thought. WHO CARES, yelled my voice of reason.

Nothing broke the stillness and calmness of the water surrounding us, except the occasional breath from a surfacing sea turtle, leaving a small trail of bubbles as it disappeared silently, on it’s way to it’s next breathing destination. Ah the serenity.

“Here we go!” Bernard said, grinning proudly as he handed me a cappuccino. “How’s this hey? Good coffee on a boat.”

I loved it here. Wrapped up in the safe bubble that is my parent’s love. Surrounded by sunshine and nature, and jelly fish and sharks. I wondered if I would ever be able to provide such a wonderful fun and loving environment for my future hypothetical family. I doubt it will be quite as lavish. But then it’s never been about the setting. I’d happily live in a toilet if Abby and Bernard were there. It has always been and always will be more about who they are as people. 

J.K. Rolling Harvard Commencement Speech

http://harvardmagazine.com/commencement/the-fringe-benefits-failure-the-importance-imagination

Back To It

I wrote this in transit back to NY:

My holiday to Australia for visa reasons, has given me the equivalent feeling of receiving a never ending massage: Chats over hot tea and desert with family and dear friends T-bird & Gem in Melbourne; Meeting a close friend’s baby, who was born just after I left for New York, and who’s cheery nature seems so familiar to me, that our bond is immediate. (Genetics must have more to do with personality than I thought.); Driving my car on the freeway; Falling in love with a grey cat named “Genghis” (spelling?) who attacked my foot in the middle of the night, after watching me sleep for a couple of hours. Four whole days in the Whitsunday’s on a boat with my parents, a ride in Sal’s new car, a night at the pub with my favorite Edger’s and; Coffee with Chelsea before my flight back. And not one fight with mum. Horary!

It has all restored my senses, left me a tad of sunburnt, and almost heeled my lingering cough.

Now I must brace for my trip back to New York. Back to Ada and the guilt I now feel around her carer’s for having a job that pays a lot more than they will ever earn, despite being a lot easier than looking after someone with Alzheimers. Back to the fun task of looking for an apartment in a city where renting a shoebox to live in makes affording shoes to put in it impossible. Back to what feels like a daily struggle to survive the unruly weather, the crowds of people and the over whelming feeling of trying to ‘make it’ in New York.

I feel trite to complain, because I should feel lucky. Plus there is an element of excitement that balances out my anxiety. What if I write something fantastic? What if I meet someone special? What if I see a celebrity on the street, and they ask me to be their confidant on their upcoming holiday in Italy, so I can complete my life’s goal.

I refuse to get sucked into the daily grind of work, and stop dreaming. I like some degree of risk, uncertainly, struggle at this time in my life. I do want to live an extraordinary existence. And I do still ache for adventure.

Toe Ring

“If you like me then you better put a ring on it” yelled my right foot, as I dangled it naked over the edge of the boat, soaking up the sun’s rays. (The first bit of light it has seen in many, many months.)

Perhaps it was the smell of the boat’s diesel generator or the rush of vitamin D that was clouding my better judgment, but somehow I knew it was time. If I couldn't commit now, then there was something seriously wrong. After all, we’ve been together 29 years now, and it’s been nothing but good to me the whole time.

I made the trek over the other side of the island to the over-priced, resorty-touristy shops, and persuaded the sales assistant to drop the chosen ring’s price in half, that way bringing it closer inline with the value of silver on the main land. (Don’t ask - don’t get!)

Quite nice, don’t you think?

Then all that was left to do was to throw stones at the glass house of double standards I had just built. It seems that despite finding toe rings on other people rather tacky (no offence to all my besties that wear one), I do love wearing one myself. If this trend continues, next time you see me I’ll be sporting low riders with an overhang of g-stringed strangled muffin top. Something I saw plenty of in Brisbane on Sunday night (but not on my besties).

As for my foot, well it couldn't be happier. Yesterday I caught it bragging to a stray sock about how it can’t stop staring at its own toe, and how if it wasn’t for Beyonce, it would never have felt empowered enough to ask for a ring. I’m praying none of my other body parts have to put up with this gushing for much longer, or they’ll get jealous.
"Jealous?!! As if!" yelled the ring finger on my left hand.