I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together again and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken– and I’d rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived.
Margaret Mitchell

I sit beside my friend.
She asks: How many coffees do you think we’ve had together?
I laugh thinking about the ocean of espresso we’ve imbibed.
She agrees. An ocean. Maybe more.

I sit a little further away from my friend.
She groans.
I say: Only a few more weeks to go. I’m going to miss watching you waddle. She swats at my arm and rubs at the small of her back.

I’m on the phone to my friend.
I’m just a bit um busy today, do you mind?
Sure. She says. But I know why you’re um busy. It’s my shout. It’s me. I’m not taking no for an answer.

I stand near my friend.
She has her hands in a bowl of sausage meat.
Don’t forget the Worcestershire. I say.
I never forget the Worcestershire. She says.
We are a two-man production line.
Lump of meat-mix. Rolled under the palm. Laid on the pastry. Fold, fold, pinch, milk-paint, sesame-sprinkle, prick, cut, cut, cut.
You know. I say. We could buy these for cheaper than we make them.
I know. She says.
But it wouldn’t be one of our kid’s parties without us doing it.

I sit close to my friend.
I listen for a long time. I make good with the tissues.
We compare notes on Fathers.
We agree there are far more ticks in the Cons Column.

I call my friend.
C’mon. I say. It’s my shout.
And,
I’m not taking no for an answer.
I don’t need to see her face. I know she is smiling.

I sit beside my friend.
A customer walks up to our table. I can tell she has something on her mind.
Words gush from the customer’s mouth.
It’s great to see women in business. She says. I’m all for lesbians you know.
The customer nods, her face crinkles into a knowing smile. Then she walks away.
Close your mouth. My friend says. You’ll catch flies.

I sit next to my friend.
Remember the sweetheart cake you made for your boyfriend, when you were eighteen?
I’m puzzled. I don’t remember making a sweetheart cake.
You made it for Valentine’s Day. She says. Chocolate frosting.
Oh yeah. That’s right. How did you remember that?

I float beside my friend.
We watch two old chooks doing the seniors water-aerobics. We’ve nick-named them Helga and Gretchen. I don’t remember why. Maybe because of the elaborate blonde plaits they wear, even in the pool, entwined around their heads, trapped in place with a mismatched assortment of plastic clips and rubber flowers.
Do you think we’ll be doing seniors water-aerobics one day? My friend says.
Of course. I answer. But if I ever wear my hair like that you have permission to hold me under the water. For a very long time.
I swim away.

I sit beside my friend.
The date on her calendar has been circled in black. Anniversary. Not the kind you celebrate.
I don’t need to say anything. Do anything. I’m just there.

I sit next to my friend.
Her daughter is playing with mine in the shallows of the island lagoon. Their small bikini-bottoms break the surface as they duck and dive into the water. Look at me! They shout waving some treasure over their heads. A shell. A piece of seaweed. Colourless broken coral.
Is it time to head back to the ship? I ask. Five more minutes. She says.
We turn our faces to the sun.
She elbows me. Put your hat back on. She says.

I sit face-to-face with my friend.
She has called a meeting. Laid out what she wants.
I don’t have an answer that matches hers.
I say: Remember when you asked me how many coffees I thought we’d had together?
She looks away. Yes, you said an ocean.
For the first time that day we are thinking the same thing.
All that coffee now lies between us. An ocean of it.

I speak to my friend.
Got time for a drink, breakky? She shakes her head. No. Super busy.
I’ve got your favourite. Sourdough-rye-oatbread. I can toast it.
No sale.

I sit opposite my friend.
We are silent, but the air bristles with spiky words. I inhale them. Feel them scratch as I swallow them down. Digesting them.
We’re looking through the same kaleidoscope.
But she looks through one end and I look through the other.

I sit by myself.
Sipping my coffee slowly.
Today it tastes good.
But I can’t say
that it tastes great.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t. – Mary Schmich

Fek me Mary! I don’t like where this is heading.

Do you really want me to perform a slow strip in front of all these people? Do I really have to expose myself, one painful revelation of dumbass at a time? Button by button? 

Have I ever known what I wanted?

In High School I aced English and Lit, but my teacher was a smarmy bastard with a porno moustache and squinty eyes. The Graphics teacher on the other hand was young and cute. Suddenly I wanted to be a Graphic Designer. 

I walk stage left and begin peeling off one long, elbow length white glove. 

I drop it to the floor. 

Here’s the problem… I was shite at graphics and very ill-prepared to boot. 

I walk stage right and work the other glove…

I’m rolling it down to reveal a smooth bare arm…

I’m  peeling it off slowly finger by finger…and then…

I wait for the perfect drum beat,

the perfect dramatic moment to flick it hard to the floor.

At Uni I fell into an English major, stirring in a little education degree on the side. Everyone was convinced that I’d be a great teacher. And at some point everyone convinced me. But at graduation there was regional work and a few nail-biting gigs teaching year nines. The effen little horrors.

Suddenly I was no longer convinced. 

I return to the middle of the stage and am grateful for the lights that shine into my eyes.

I begin unbuttoning my blouse starting at the unobvious bottom.

Slowly…I undo them and  push one shoulder forward,

exposing pale glowing skin and a peek of cleavage. 

Then a job that unexpectedly fell into my lap became somewhat satisfying. Marketing in the pretty-pill-whorehouse of a multi-national pharmaceutical company. 

It had never been in my dreams, but there were words and brain usage beyond what I had experienced. And it was a comforting way to pretend it was all I’d ever wanted. 

Until the day of the big whoop-it-up congratulations-to-us marketing meeting.

An A-List product had hit a milestone of dollars and sales worthy of tooting trumpets. The product was an anti-depressant. And during the back slapping and champagne corks I felt no less than emptiness.

With pin prick focus all I could see was the sheer volume of money being spent by all those depressives and the irony of toasting the good health of this product. 

Hooray! Hooray! For all you sick-with-the-business-of-livings out there! 

It was time to go. 

I stay centre stage and know it’s time for a bit of skirt…I unzip it at the back and shimmy, shimmy…

I’ve always had this niggle of a feeling, of tickets in my hand that held promises of excitement and adventures to come. But when I look at them I’m painfully startled by the realisation that they are stamped use-by the early nineties.

Well my friends there’s little left between you and me ‘cept for these heels and this ridiculously long and cleverly placed black feather boa.

Fek it.

Sorry, but I’ve never once desired to be the perfect-stay-at-home-mum.

I had itchy feet and itchy palms and an itchy need to find that something I could do, something I could call my own.

But I never picked up my pen.

I answered that call stupidly inhaling the cafes one by one until seven years later I am all coffee beans and gen-y staff and freakin’ cake crumbs. And the deep secret that the thrill of the treacherous learning curve was over, far earlier than anticipated. 

I know I’ve wafted through the last seven years of my life under a radar of sorts, dodging the admiration of my friends who all look at me as if I’m some kind of 

successful business woman.  

I understand why they think that way. But it can only feel like fraud to me.

I’m all feathery black and ivory…

and then suddenly

I’m sick with the realisation of how close to raw-exposure I’ve become.

I clutch at the curtains and wind myself around and around, until I’m deeply wrapped in a warm red-fringed-velvety cocoon.

“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do” is all bloody well and good Mary. 

It’s the guilt you feel when you know what you want to do…and never do it that is the fuck-note of your life.

One day I’ll admit it to myself. Out aloud.

Brave the criticism, the self doubt and the but you’re so, so, unworthy.

And I will have the whole world hold me, 

in just two hands.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYltYpRv-rA]

Chocolate flavour.

I don’t want to sound like a huge whinge-bag (because I am really blessed with family, friends, health and incredible good looks >haha< ) but yesterday was the beginning of one of those chain-of-events-days that sometime happen in our lives…

We all cope well with one little disaster…but then another happens and another…… it all stacks up…. 

It began yesterday at an hour of the morning that I’d only heard of in fables…4.55am.

Between dear daughter and dear cat (known as Sam or Sam-bo or effen-friggin-cat-get-off-my-black-pants) my morning had started about two hours, five minutes and twenty seven seconds earlier than it needed to.

But, believe it or not, eyes riddled by old-lady-varicose-veins was not the lowlight.

Oh no…no sir…

The lowlight was finding out one of my long term employees has been stealing from me.

Jolly good. Things have to get better now…right?            Not.

I then took a phone call from a man whom we shall call  the ‘business associate’, but who is more affectionately known as a name even I am too embarrassed to write on here  (well to give you a clue  it has something to do with bananas and a very nasty-red-itchy-rash).

I picked up the phone (EPIC MISTAKE) and as soon as I realised it was him- I instantly wished that instead of picking up the phone I had simply taken the phone-cord and whipped myself senseless. 

I popped into G-mail (chosen for it’s semi-erotic name only) and quickly looked up my star sign.  Ahhhh…I thought. Now it all makes sense…. 

Gemini’s were copping a big one from Uranus.

I felt relief wash over me. I can handle Uranus!

By the crack of tomorrow’s dawn it would all be over…

Today I locked the cat out, fired the girl and in the privacy of my own home I  flipped the ‘business associate’ the bird. Twice.

The universe is back to normal.