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 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.

“Do one thing every day that scares you.” -Mary Schmich

I don’t wear a lot of make-up but when a friend of mine heard that I remove it every night with *shock* and *horror* just plain-ole-water she looked at me as repulsed with my habits as though I had just told her that last night I’d had group sex on the beach with a bunch of accountants from a two-star-convention. 

Next time I saw her she pressed a lovely sleek tube of famous brand make-up remover into my hands. You simply must use this she told me.

The label touted itself as “Professional formula…Skin tolerance dermatologically tested”. I flipped the lid. It actually smelled quite nice.

That night I gave it a go. Creaming it onto my face and wiping it away with a babies-bottom soft flannel as I had been strictly instructed to do.

Feck me! I thought. It really does get rid of the poly-filla quickly.

I stared into the mirror.

I saw a face shining, almost glowing back at me.

But my elation was shattered, almost immediately. I noticed a wrinkle tiny line at the corner of my eye that I hadn’t ever seen before.

Tears welled and fell stinging on their way out.

I couldn’t believe I’d had such a reaction to such a teeny-tiny-effen-line.

It really was barely noticeable, but perhaps I was being over-sensitive… I had just recently had my thirty-fifth birthday for…well… several years ahem in a row…

The next night I braved the mirror again. Armed with my new make-up remover tube I waxed on and waxed off and then peered into the mirror.

Fockin’ bitch I thought, that line is still there. I tried to hold back the tears but they fell once again, stinging and reddening my eyes.

I went to bed feeling quite sad.

On the third night I had calmed myself, deciding that I didn’t really give-a-toss about a dumb tiny line anyway. I had a steely resolve to embrace that little line as the accumulation of many happy days over the years of my life. It was after-all a *laugh-line*.

I faced the mirror. Swearing to myself the ultimate oath… I would not freakin’ cry this time.

Make-up remover on…gunk off.

I bravely looked in the mirror and all my self-conviction melted away as the tears flowed uncontrollably, stinging my eyes as they plopped down onto my cheeks.

I buried my face in my pillow and went to bed early.

I rang my friend the next day,

“Do you like the cream?” she asked excitedly.

“No!” I said emphatically.

“Oh,” she said, a surprised note in her voice “why ever not?”

“Every time I use it my face is so clean that I can see every effen wrinkle I have. THEN I start crying…. uncontrollably. I can’t stand it! I’m disgusting!!!!It’s depressing!!!!”

She was silent for a minute. Then she said,

“Do your eyes go red?”

“Yes! Of course they do…I’m CRYYYYY-ing!”

“Do they sting?”

“Yeeeees!” I whinged “I told you the tears are un-con-troll-able with a capital TROLL. It’s a psychological sign that I hate getting old and I am! I am getting soooo ooooold!”

“Oh…” she said quietly “you’re not crying because you think you’re getting old, you’re crying because I think you might be… erm… allergic to that cream.”

The tube of shite is now in the fockin’ bin where it fockin’ belongs.

In Melbourne Spring arrives in suggestive doses.

A day of sunshine mingles with three or four of chill. Then there’s two days of sunshine in a row- teasing us to prematurely shed our coats and scarves (but not…I repeat not our knee high boots). Like true Melburnians we will then friggin’ curse that left at home jacket and temperamental friggin’ weather until we emerge fully from winter- triumphant at its’ proper passing.

But until then the very earliest signs of Spring mean several things to me.

There is a delicious tingle to the skin- marking the return of the sun.  There is a yearning for short sleeves and fake tan.  There is a craving for salad.  There is an eye brow raised in disdain at all the black in my wardrobe (which incidentally I never do anything about )…and…

There is the dreaded womanly review of the gardening that needs to be undertaken for the sunny season ahead.

It’s not a pleasant task.

Under scornful, almost averted eyes I began my survey yesterday. What I found was a mess- a mess that was only two short months before a neatly tended landscape. Ugh. It’s been a long winter.

In the northern areas what had previously been weeded religiously- showed the effects of my sporadic attempts at upkeep. Freezing mornings and water restrictions haven’t helped- but they are poor excuses for the patchy results. Diagnosis- damage done there is extensive- but fixable.

The case was not as charming upon surveying the entire southern section. Completely left unfettered this region was showing obvious signs of neglect. It had grown amok. I’m fearful that no whipper snipper or weed whacker will now suffice. I will have to seek help from the professionals.

Now before you scoff at me and gloat or email me pics of your perfectly-tended-all-through-winter-driveways please remember that I have been married for over fifteen years, have two kids, run a business (actually two up until earlier this year), study at Uni and wear pants all winter long. Gardening, I’m ashamed to admit, has not been a high priority.  All my Autumn resolutions of ongoing maintenance dimmed with the passing of daylight savings.

I’m not good at keeping promises to myself. But right now I’m feeling more than a bit sorry for the garden hose.

So garden hose here is my apology to you.

I’m sorry.

How you navigated that territory and did your best all through the cold season I’ll never know.