“Look at life through the windshield … not the rear-view mirror.” – B. Baggett.

I have never run through a field of wildflowers screaming.
I have never enjoyed a cup of instant coffee.
I have never liked the look of liquid paper on a page.
I have never gotten blind drunk.
I have never liked the taste of raw tomato.
I have never thought I was good enough to be a writer.
I have never won a running race.
I have never liked the saying: “The grass is always greener on the other side”.
I have never liked the way I look.

I have been handed a bunch of wildflowers, that were mostly weeds, by a chubby handed little boy—and my heart screamed with happiness.

I have hand-ground freshly roasted coffee beans, brewed espresso shots and sipped that concoction with my eyes closed.

I have saved writing drafts, calling them version .1, then .2, then .3 and so on, then enjoyed looking back to see where I have come from.

I have experienced being drunk on life.

I have served raw tomato to my children from an early age. Because I do not presume just because they grew in my womb that they have the same tastes that I do.

I have realised that sometimes you just need to ignore your critics.

I have never won a running race but that doesn’t mean I feed my kids lame lines about participation being THE most important thing. No. Winning is important. Striving to do your best IS important. I don’t care if they win the running races of life, but I hope they win at the things that are important. Career. Love. Life.

I have always loved the saying “…that if you think the grass is greener on the other side, maybe you should be spending your time watering your own effing grass.”

I have really got to get over that. One day.





This post is dedicated to Bookboy. Thank you for a writing prompt that challenged my mind: I ran through a field of wildflowers screaming.

In front of me is a Chinese restaurant. The first of the renowned Beijing roast duck restaurants to be franchised in Australia. I walk under the famous three character sign and peer inside. The décor is as expected. Tourist authentic. Polished wood, red and golden accents, snowy linen. They proclaim to be the experts in Peking Duck. One duck is eighty-eight dollars. Lucky number eight.

I look back at Queen Street. She is dignified even under the steady drizzle. No one is huddled under awnings. People walk with purpose carrying on with their business. I know exactly why I’ve been taken here. Through the curtain of rain Queen Street blurs.

Suddenly I’m back in China.

Read part two here

The essence of mathematics is not to make simple things complicated, but to make complicated things simple. ~S. Gudder

subtraction

His eyes squinted ice-grey with anger.
His mouth flat lined.

Disagreeing with my father was nothing new.
This time however felt different.

I looked at him eye to eye. I was granite. Silent.
Then I stood.
He looked up at me.
I looked down at him.
He said, “I’m leaving. I will call you.”
He left.


multiplication

Dad put the book of times-tables in my hand. Then he marched me to my bedroom.
Don’t come out till you’ve learnt the sevens he’d warn.
All of them.
Then he closed my door.

I sat on my yellow chenille bedspread and looked at the numbers and crosses, I watched them blur.
Then I looked out my window.
Then I looked at my books. Arranged alphabetically.
I contemplated again if the Nancy Drew novels should now go under N or D since I’d discovered Carolyn Keene was a pseudonym. I decided on D.
I looked out the window again. Cursed the number seven.
Used the rudest words I knew.


Precisely one hour later he summoned me.
Then he stood me in the line of number-fire.

5 times 7!
8 times 7!
7 times 9!

In the beginning I didn’t hate math.

I just hated standing in front of my father…
getting the answers wrong
and
imagining that he thought I was a failure.


addition

I watch my husband sit with my daughter as she does her math homework.
She runs her fingers up and down a strand of her hair as he explains fractions by pizza slices. She writes down the answer then looks at him expectantly. He claps her back triumphantly and they move on to the next question.

Sometimes I watch, coiled tight, as he edges close to impatience. Especially when she needs to be told the same rule over and over again. That teeny-tiny part of her brain just occasionally seems to be like teflon for numbers.
But it’s funny how things add up.
He tells her the rule one. more. time. and suddenly it has sunk in. Planted.
Taken root.
She knows it. She beams. More back clapping.
“High five Dad!” she commands holding up both hands.
He waves his hands through the air and connects them with hers with a loud thwack.
“Ha!” she cackles as she slaps him playfully across the cheek. “You gave me ten! There’s your change!”
He grabs her. Holds her down in a clinch. The math book and grey lead and eraser tumble to the floor.
“Oh Dad,” she giggles rubbing the cheek that she slapped, “you fall for that dumb joke every, single time.”


division

He never did call.

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.

Of all our possessions, wisdom alone is immortal.
– Isocrates 436 – 338 BC

To my daughter I leave this memory.

In grade six my best friend was Lesley.

She was the school benchmark for all that was clever. And I never begrudged her that, because she was smart, super smart. The smartest girl in school. Everyone knew it.
And she was my friend.

At the end of the year we had a spelling test. The teacher read out the words, slowly and we wrote them down hoping to get them right… because there was a prize up for grabs. A Sunnyboy. A frozen orangey-triangle-treat from the school canteen.

Everyone was hungry for that prize.

We all knew that the last word was gonna be a tough-ey. When the teacher read it out there was an audible gasp of defeat around the room. Most of the kids had never even heard the word before.

The word was: miscellaneous.

Inside I did a victory dance! I knew that word, I knew how to spell it.
It was written on a little filing system hanging on our kitchen wall at home. I saw it every day. I even knew what it meant…
‘miscellaneous’ was where your Mum put all the bills she couldn’t afford to pay.

I could taste the triumph of orange on my lips as I wrote out the word and then stood ready for the adjudication stage.

As the teacher read out the correct spelling the kids who got a word wrong sat down. Nineteen words later there was just myself and Lesley standing quietly, next to each other.

The teacher slowly spelt out ‘m i s c e l l a n e o u s’.

Lesley and I both remained standing. We looked at each other and beamed with jubilation.

The teacher took our papers to verify. Then she looked at me and said,

“You cheated.”

The smile slipped of my face.

She cut off my protest sharply. “It’s obvious that you copied Lesley’s page.”

She then handed Lesley the little slip of paper that granted the beneficiary the tuckshop prize.

“Sit down Carla,” the teacher said “everyone give Lesley a clap… she’s the winner.”

And I did sink to my chair and I did feel the sting of tears plop onto my red cheeks.
But I never looked down.
So I leave this memory to my darling daughter,
because in life there will always be someone that doubts you.

The trick is, when faced with adversity, always remain dignified… and never ever doubt yourself.

The truth isn’t out there.

It’s inside you.

~
~
~

To my son I leave this memory.

When I was a kid, perhaps nine or so, my parents took us the Royal Easter Show in Sydney.
Gawd it was a blast!
Carnival rides and stinky farm animals and showbags full of teeth-rotting candy and loads of yummy-junky things to eat and drink.
And speaking of drinking… there was a shiny new stall with a drink we’d never heard of back then… although you’d all be familiar with it now… it proclaimed itself to be a
“Tropical Slushy… the COOLEST drink in the WORLD!”
…and boy did it look tempting…
But would I like it?
I ummmed and ahhhed… I wasn’t sure.
My Mum, being ever practical decided that my little sister would get one first and then I’d give it a try. If I liked it I’d get one for myself.
It seemed to be a perfect plan… except that when she came back with the drink my bratty little sister wouldn’t hand it over for me to have a try.

At first I was puzzled, “Gimme a try.” I said.
But she gripped that cup like it was her lifeforce.
“Give me a try.” I said more forcefully.
Still she wouldn’t let it budge.
Now I was single mindedly determined… I wrenched the cup from her hand and took a long drink from the straw…
Fekme… it was delicious.
I looked up.
Fekme… that wasn’t my little sister!

I stood rooted to the spot, clutching onto the cup of tropical embarrassment, as the little girl whose drink I’d just stolen let go a screech-of-shock and ran sobbing to her Mother.

The rest of the incident is a vague blur of apologies and lining up to buy her a new drink and so I leave this memory to you, my son, because it always makes you laugh.

And because I want you to know…
that if you want something, if you want anything,
don’t let anyone tell you no.

But if you make a silly mistake, don’t succumb to the weight of the world…
learn to laugh at yourself.

And then move on.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth. – Mary Schmich

When I was a kid we walked to school every day, rain, hail or shine. We had to cross over Simonelli’s farm to get there. Marcello sometimes played his…what do you call it in English again? Harmonica? Si, yes, the harmonica…he played, I sang and we did our best not to fall in the ditches on the way…

When I was a kid I rode my bike to school or sometimes Mum drove us in the yellow station wagon. It was only three minutes by car. Lucky…cos listening to her home-made mixed cassettes was not ‘groovy’, not ‘groovy’ at all. Back then all I wanted to do was listen to was Abba… but instead I got Simon and Garfunkle and Carly Simon. It took me forever, but eventually I appreciated mum’s choice in tunes. Yeah, I really did.

When I was a kid mum drove us to school every day. She said it was too dangerous to walk by ourselves. Gawd I hated the cd’s she played. Robbie Williams mostly sucks. I thanked-the-lawd for my i-pod.

When I was a kid we always tried to carpool to school. Mrs Wilson let us listen to the free-to-air radio, but dad always had some oldies playing… stuff like Kings of Leon and Robbie Williams and some vintage Queen. He always said that Robbie Williams reminded him of Grandma. I don’t get it. But I do miss Grandma.

When I was a kid Mum always drove us to school, heh, as long as she’d remembered to power-up the car. Poor mum, every second week we were running up the staircase to Mrs Arnold’s apartment to try to mooch a lift of her. I liked Mrs Arnold’s car though, each seat had it’s own flat screen and dock station. Back then that was a big deal.

When I was a kid I just fired up my lappy and bing I was at school. Well… I guess the air’s a little better now than it used to be back in my day. Music? We used to file share podcasts on g-wave 19.0. I know, I know… it’s old fashioned protocols for you mod guys. But that’s how we did it back in the good ole days…

When I was a kid we walked to school. Son…we’d all learnt our lessons by then.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own. – Mary Schmich

Gawd remember how contorted we used to get in the back seat of your Cortina?

Yeah…what was that colour called again?

Heh, yeah I don’t remember either…some kinda dark green…

ahh we were so young back then…oh… remember it had the sunroof that always leaked?

Ah yeah… that’s right it only ever leaked on me if you turned a corner too fast. You turned a lot of freakin’ fast corners back then…

Yeah heh… wet-tshirts always were your favourite… pfft…

Oh yeah that’s right…  british racing green…yeah racing green…

Gawd… remember the stick shift knob? It would always fall off…

Yeah really, reeeeally ironic… heh…

Oh my gawd… I forgot about that night…

The egg … heh heh… did it  fall on the boot or the bonnet I can’t remember?

On the boot, yeah you’re right… geez it gave me a fright… I knew we’d been egged… but remember what you said?

Yep that it musta fallen out of that tree… from a nest… fek me… yeah babe …you would have said just about annnyyyything…

Yes… of course I didn’t believe you…

I know, I know you wanted to prove it to me… heh… remember we both got out of the car to look…

You picked up the shell… remember what I said when we saw it?

Yeah, heh…that’s right..hehe… eggs from nests don’t have bloody use by stamps on them!

Gawd… do you think we could still do it?

You know…go necking… in the back seat of the car?

Yeah you’re probably right…

pfft… yeah family car now…heh…ah the booster seat would be in the way…

oh yeah… and your sore back…

Hmm? you’re right… my dumb knee…

God it was great to be young…

What?

Oh… yeah that’s right… we didn’t have a king size bed then though…

…did we?

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts. Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours. -Mary Schmich 

My post today is double inspired by Mary and Dear Me Books.  

Dear sixteen year old Carla,

Today all the wobbly Aunties are going to pinch your cheeks and cough up a lame old joke with a little spittle of phlegm, 

Happy Birthday lovey.

They’ll all say.

Sweet sixteen and never been kissed eh?

They’ll all chortle.

Just smile and nod your head. Only you know about that boy in Surfers.

The one who stared at you in the sauna, waiting till the bubba in her nautical one-piece and gold neck chains had left before launching himself, without warning, at your lips.

In a few weeks time your mum is going to walk out on your dad.

You will immerse yourself in your year twelve studies and avoid the darkest places that are stained purplish-green with blame and hatred. 

You should know that you will eventually find out secrets that will shift your perspective.

You will see that your dad’s eye, the one that was a little lazy, the one that he squinted with, wasn’t quite so lazy after all.

You will, one day, applaud your mother for being brave.

Don’t hide your chest under chunky sweaters. It’s damn fecking annoying that the world is this way, but this is the truth. Your boobs have powers. Take advantage of them. 

When you are eighteen you will be high on life and without the need for artificial substances. On the dance floor you will notice a dark haired guy staring at you. 

This is the man that you will marry. 

On the night that you meet him my advice to you is- don’t change a thing.

When he smiles and motions for you to come over, keep dancing and nod no. Then look up at him through your lashes and motion for him to come to you. 

Trust me he will come.

When you are twenty your boyfriend will be tempted to go solo to a party, by his cousin- the one who likes to play devils-advocate with the relationships of others, because he has a cavity in his own slow-pumping heart. 

When your boyfriend tells you that he has decided to go to the party whether you effen care or not, hold your head up high and drive yourself home. 

There is no need to tell him it’s officially over. Your total absence, your lack of voice will allow him to work this out. 

Do not shed a tear when you hear he has walked into every shop at Chaddy looking for the one who has employed you that Christmas. He would never have found you anyway. It was your day off. 

You will never receive the letters he leaves in your mailbox or the flowers under the windshield wipers. Your mum and sis will sanitise the world for you, because they think that you need it. 

Drive to Queensland and have a wild time with the cop who pulls you over one night, blue lights flashing, just to ask you for your phone number. He already had your heart racing anyway.

In six months your ex-boyfriend will lay his heart out on a sandy beach.

He will walk  back so as not to influence your decision.

You can choose to step on it with your spiked heel and watch its’ flesh split and bleed.

Or accept the mournful beat it plays.

I suggest you leave it for just a moment longer than necessary before cradling it in your arms. 

That organ needs to learn a lesson.

When you are twenty-one your Uncle, the one who offered you a toke, will make another stupid mistake. This will change the relationship that you have with your family forever.

Tears and tantrums will never traverse a divide and they have no effect on any amount of dumbass.

Remember black sheep are unique. And anyway, people always root for the underdog.

Enjoy Europe. It is the last time you will truly be on your own.

At twenty three don’t listen to your mum when she tells you she has a secret. This way you will be genuinely surprised when your boyfriend offers you a carat at dinner.

On your wedding day you realise that you are marrying a man you would die for.

Ignore the short, dark haired woman in the corner who is crying.

She will cry tears of happiness in a few years time. When your belly swells.

Until then you will have to be patient.

When your boy arrives your perspective shifts.

You will now gladly push your husband under the bus to save your baby.

This is a warning. Do not tell him.

There are some things better left unsaid.

At the required hour you will stand in front of your religious leader and request permission for something that is eternally important to you.

You will be denied.

You will want to leave in a dignified manner, but at the last minute you will turn to the leader and beat at your chest and point to the sky and furrow your brow.

After this agony of conviction the balance of power is swayed.

Your wish will be granted.

One day you will sneak into a pumpkin patch and avoid all that is blue.

The thing you hold in your hand is like a wish upon a pinkish star.

When your girl arrives contentment will plump out your heart.

Think twice before sending your daughter to crèche. It would be better to wait one more year before returning to work. It’s feasible that she’s going to meet her bestest-besty-best-friend in the entire world at school anyway.

The universe works in strange ways.

Don’t make business decisions based on emotions.

Learning how to render your emotions  to create a subjective self will be the most difficult task of all.

It will feel as though you are trying to split your own personality.

You will revolt to do a voldemort but this is very important.

Do not accept being treated as inferior when dealing with the boys of the world of finance.

Remember those boobs? They have powers for both good and for evil. Use them wisely.

By the time your nemesis is completely mesmerized you will have also won him over with your intelligence. Intelligence is the only way to garner respect.

How you captivate your audience to prove your intelligence is up to you.

Some may not want to reckon with your forces. That is okay.

Smile at them and if you get the chance, in their presence, push your sunglasses up your nose using your middle finger.

After smelling like coffee for seven years you will desire to know what it is like to smell like paper and ink.

When you see that advertisement in the newspaper know that it really is a sign.

Do not ignore your own yearnings, the ones that have been buried under maternal duties and wifely duties and work duties.

You are not being selfish.

Everyone will survive.

In fact, they may even be proud.

And now we have arrived here.

Not at the end of the story,

and not even half way through it.

The chapters that remain are yet to be named and the pages are yet to be numbered.

But for now you are still just sixteen.

The world will feel as though it is a mystery.

But I can tell you,

The blood you bleed,

The aches you feel,

The swells of joy.

It is you,

who is the mystery of the world.

“Sing.” -Mary Schmich

Today I am singing the praises of small cheats.

Nothing serious of course.

A shortcut when doing chores, a quick cheats recipe when cooking dinner, time saving measures when you are short on… time.

And that brings me to my post today. Which is a cheat…because I officially did not write it today.

But from the first day I saw Mary’s word “sing” I could not get this post out of my head. It’s tune ran over and over in my mind, like a popular song that you just can’t shake off.

It was the fourth blog I’d ever written, before I learnt  how to add links or even how to socially let people know I was writing a blog.  I think it was read by three people.

But the reason I have chosen to repost it is because it really means something to me. And I think it is relevant to today’s topic of : “sing”.

So flame me if you like for cheating.

But otherwise, sit back and I hope you enjoy…

ps… I don’t think Miley Cyrus tweets anymore… social media… it’s damn hard to keep up with….

Abba and Kiss and Maths and Mercurochrome

Miss 8 just told me that my way of doing subtraction was ‘old fashioned.” On a piece of paper she jots down a two figure sum and proceeds to demonstrate the modern way of doing math.

 “See Mummy’ she said, ‘makes more sense.” I need a cup of tea.

  “Now can we practice my song for choir?”

  “Sure.” I say with confidence. Singing. I can do that.

She pulls out the lyrics. It’s an ABBA medley. She starts singing Money, Money, Money.

When I was a kid you were either a Kiss fan or an Abba chick. Abba was the wholesome choice for a teacher’s pet such as my self. I sat at the front of the classroom and my arm went up lolly-pop-stick straight when I knew the answer. I couldn’t fathom all that heavy rock, men in makeup and skin tight, ball breaking stretchy fabrics. They were all sexed-up, jagged black and white and blood red tongues.

My sister and I, along with a gazillion other little girls, pretended to be the Abba lead singers whenever we could. My Dad bought us the album where they were all sitting in the bubble helicopter. That black vinyl swirled more times on our record player than any other disc we owned. With each song play I grew more mad for the blonde, with her smooth straight, yellow hair and whispy centre part. I dreamt of owning a white jumpsuit that zippered up the front- with sequined flare pants and maybe a braided white and gold belt hung low on the hips. I wrote in my diary that I wanted to marry a man who plays the piano.

When Kiss played at V.F.L park in Melbourne’s south eastern suburbs I climbed onto the top rung of our back yard fence and listened to the low thrum of their rocked-out bass-beat float over my neighborhood. As night filtered through the dusk I slipped down off the fence and ended up with a wood splinter in my finger. Mum picked it out with a burnt needle (oh the agony) and then painted a smiley Mercurochrome face on it. In bed I pulled my pillow over my ears and hummed Abba songs until I fell asleep.

My daughter has an ipod that she likes to fall asleep with.  Her teenage cousin loaded it with songs from High School Musical and Pink and Demi Lovato. She doesn’t  know what the sleeve of the artist’s albums look like, but she knows how to Twitter with Miley Cyrus. I wonder what I would have said to Agnetha if Twitter had been around when I was a little girl?

Miss 8 has started singing the Waterloo segment of the medley. I stop to correct her melody and then look closely at the words,

…..The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself…

She’s singing with her sweet high pitchy voice, swaying in time to the beat.

I go get us two hairbrushes (after all- it’s the only honest way to sing Abba) and join in.

Wa, wa, wa, wa,

Waterloo

Finally facing my Waterloo

Ohhh Oh Oh Oh

Waterloo

Finally facing my Waterloo