No Doubt

Years ago I took my parents out to dinner... no, actually it was the other way around,  and I asked them the question I ask all married couples I ever meet:
"How did you know each other was 'the one?'"

Abby smiled at me and said "You know, it's not necessarily thinking they are 'the one' - it's more about having no doubts." Then Dad said "Actually, we've both talked about it before. In our previous marriages, we both had doubts  from the very beginning."
"And this time round," continued Abby "there just wasn't any doubts."

Sixteen years - Abby and Dad have now been married. They live together, work together and play together - they don't seem to need time alone. Did I mention they live on a boat? I still catch the affectionate looks they bestow on each other and it makes me want to high five the universe. What fate and luck brought these two together!

(I snapped this last trip home)

This post goes out to you Ali! - and the joy that is spreading through the blog-sphere right now! And, as a reminder to myself, inspired by your post, here's to doubts and acknowledging their existence. It takes courage to listen to those tiny whispers in our mind. I look forward to the day that I meet someone, and they fall silent.

Up Late Adventures #5

Saturday night, Anya and I went on a 'dance-a-thon' in the East Village and accidentally got let into a bar called ‘The Box’ thinking it was ‘Homesweet Home.’

After handing over my taxi fare home for a vodka cranberry, we looked around and realized it was no ordinary place. We were  surround by tall beautiful women and a few lucky men. The curtain went up on a small stage and three girls in a bath towels emerged from a thick fog. With a shake of their head, their towels flew off (their heads) to reveal long perfectly tousled locks which flicked around as they danced. A man was then chosen from the audience, the curtain closed, and when it reopened, he on his back with the three girls on top pretending to hump him.

The curtain closed again and the host dressed in a sequined red bra and fishnets told us we were all on cocaine. The curtain re-opened and there was a large muscular woman tied with ducktape to a chair, with a bag over her head. The Duck tape was wrapped around and around her body, cutting into her breasts, and delicately pinning her penis to her upper thigh.

She struggled like a wild animal to burst out of the tape, before standing up to reveal a beer bottle lodged up her rectum. She removed it and danced around oddly like a drunk gorilla doing an impersonation of The Hulk, before ramming the beer bottle back up her butt for the grand finale. For some reason I recorded this on my camera. Perhaps it will come in handy one day when my grandchildren think I’m boring.

The next act was rather tame in comparison. 2 people using cross-bows to shoot apples off each other’s heads.

I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed the show, although the highlight of the evening was back on the Piano’s dance floor, when a boy asked me if I was a professional dancer. (!!) (We were having an impromptu dance off.)

“I can’t match your moves” he panted.

“Damn straight” I said, touching the floor, then shoving a beer bottle up my butt.

Kidding! It was a vodka cranberry.

Seriously though, the tiny crowded piano’s dance floor is where it’s at. That’s where it’s my turn to perform! 

I Want To Be All By My Self

Sometimes I worry about how much I enjoy being alone, and even doing things alone. (Am I normal? Am I missing out on some aspect of the human experience? Is it because I’m lazy?) But most of the time, I just relax and enjoy it. 

Star Struck

When this woman walked into my office on Monday I nearly fell off my chair. I had watched her interview on Andrew Denton's Enough Rope, and loved it so much that I re-read the transcript. I've seen her on Oprah, listened to her on Ted Talks and put her on my "I'd love to be like her when I'm older" list.

She's awesome because she's a feminist who loves men, a philanthropist, an amazing novelist and an incredibly passionate human being.

I told her that I loved her interview on Denton, and then later she stopped by my desk to chat. (!!!!!)  She shook my hand and told me she hopes I do become a writer - I may have gushed that I hope to be half the woman she is. (I have no shame.)

The girl from the company who had booked her interview slipped me Isabel's latest book (Island Beneath the Sea: A Novel) and I was so overwhelmed by the unexpected generosity of the afternoon that I cried.

Crazy-eyed Reader

"Your father came to bed last night in a lather of sweat. He couldn't breath, he was having heart palpitations," my step mum Abbie chimed excitedly.

"Really? And all from-"

"Yes. His book. He's really into it."

For as long as I've known my father, he had never sat down to read a book in his life. An instructional manual? Yes (millions). The odd aviation magazine - yes. But never a novel... until now, because now he has time - and has discovered a world of movies, television and glorious books.

I got to witness this one afternoon on the boat when he opted to finish his book while the rest of the family played poker.

It was easy to photograph him in this state without him noticing.
We all watched his facial expressions and laughed continuously - especially when his eyes bulged out of his head.

"Sometimes he's so excited he can't turn the page quick enough and nearly tears it off its binding," laughed Abby doing a crazy-eyed impression of Dad.

The whole time we laughed, he remained oblivious, wrapped up in the world of his novel.
How utterly delightful it was to see.

Verbally Yours

When American exchange students stayed on Campus at the University of Queensland, Australia, I was utterly fascinated – especially by the women - the way they would voice every thought that entered their head.

“God, I’m having the worst hair day.”

“I was going to go jogging this morning, but then I decided to work on my assignment for another hour, and now I don't know what I feel like doing.”

My friends and I would hear them talking as they passed outside our window. “It’s like a constant stream of verbal diarrhoea” we’d muse in agreement.

Now that I’m emersed in this highly vocal culture, I am indifferent towards it and even admirable to the extent that I can participate.

Gone is the uptight filter that would sort thoughts that I should keep to my self and those I should air.

“What the hell!” I’ll yell to myself at the smallest of things: perhaps I noticed it was later than I thought or; my coffee tastes weird. And others will respond in turn.

It feels good to lay everything out on the table. “This is me. This is what I’m thinking. What are your thoughts?” is the true beauty of a culture that embraces freedom of speech in its most literal sense.

Of course there are obvious draw backs… and that’s what ipods are for. As for perks? Well, there’s this website – Overheard in New York.

It seems that unlike the American exchange student at uni, I can assimilate to other cultures with ease: In China I happily munched on boiled chicken’s feet and began littering within months of arrival; In New York I watched Avatar 3D and joined the audience in applause on three separate occasions, and; In Australia I will readily go back to walking silently down the street until large enough quantities of alcohol are consumed so that I can let it all out and applaud or glass people as necessary.

Peace.

Once an Adult, Twice a Child

Sometimes Ada will be sitting quietly then start pointing at her apartment, and exclaim "This is all mine! Everything is mine! I own the place!"
(She rents.)

When marveling at her child-like behavior, her Caribbean carer's will chuckle and say "Once an Adult, Twice a Child." And it's true. We are all growing into our second childhoods - especially if we plan on developing dementia.

The circle of life seems so complete when I look at Ada:

• She has soft white downy hair, that covers her face
• She throws tantrums
• She would eat ice-cream for every meal if we let her
• She can only eat soft foods
• She has no teeth
• She is forgetting how to walk
• She needs constant attention
• She wears diapers / wets the bed
• She needs a potty
• She hates taking baths
• Sometimes, she babbles and gurgles for hours in a foreign language - or as we call it 'tongues'
• She is becoming memory-less
• She doesn't care who sees her pick her nose, or flash her privates

Living with her makes me realize what kind of mother I might make. Evidently I'm a good, patient mother who enjoys dressing their kids in ghetto beanies and making them do gang signs with their hands.

Apparently I'm also be a mother who only wants to be there 'some' of the time, and if I'm there too much, all I can think about is my escape.