If you don't laugh, you'll cry

What a slack little blogger I've been. Months and months without a blog post - slay me! In a world seemingly filled with addicted daily bloggers, I'm not much in comparison. A post here, a post there - whenever the mood strikes me.

But I've actually had a really good reason for being so slack. The subject matter of this blog centres around the sad, slow destruction of my marriage. And, for the avid readers (all two of you), this blog became kind of unnecessary. Because, you see, as of early August, The Husband and I have been Back Together.

It all happened at my little boy's birthday party. The Husband had a football game and was late to the party - no big deal, as I had urged him to go. Because, if I didn't, I was worried about what moodiness and darkness would be cast over my otherwise peaceful household. So he went, then joined myself, my boys, and ten of our youngest's little friends at the local skating rink. So far so usual.

But then, amidst the chips and lollies, and the birthday cake, and my little boy whizzing around the rink on his new skates, something happened that hadn't happened for seven-and-a-half years. The Husband smiled. Voluntarily. For no reason, other than he was happy. That doesn't sound so strange does it? For most people, I hope it doesn't. But, for The Husband, it was very strange behaviour indeed. It was behaviour - welcome I might add - that had been missing for our family for so long. So naturally, I was a little taken aback. Waiting for the bubble to burst. Waiting for the moodiness and the anger that have been his constant modus operandi for so long, to take over and plunge us all back into misery.

But then a funny thing happened. We came home, and a guy who had bought a single bed from me on eBay came to pick it up. We both helped him load it into his truck, he paid his money, he smiled and waved, and he was gone. And as I went to hand The Husband the money - money being one of his great bugbears, and I owed him for something he'd bought earlier that week - he smiled, laughed, touched my cheek, and said, "No, you keep it."

To those of you in normal, functioning relationships, this kind of behaviour doesn't seem odd. In fact, I bet you're waiting for the "funny thing" to happen. But that's just it. He laughed. He smiled. He willingly offered affection that was in no way related to sex. He let me keep the hundred bucks that I owed him. And it floored me.

But then, this new behaviour continued. For the next day, and the next day. There was kindness in his voice. There was understanding towards the kids. There was laughter. There was gratitude. In fact, the guy that I married, who had disappeared so many years ago, was suddenly back, with his sweetness, and his thoughtfulness, and all the reasons why I chose him in the first place. A miracle had occurred. Prayers had been answered. The Husband was back from the dead.

So it was with trepidation that I decided to put my proposal of reconciliation to him in a text message. Yes it's the coward's way out, but I was so fearful of rejection that I figured that would be the easy route. I wouldn't have to see his face flicker into pity should he decide to reject me. So I shot off a text message to him - "You have been so different this last couple of days. I would like to try to work things out if you are willing." I hit 'Send'. And then it was out there, hurtling from phone tower to phone tower, my destiny in its tiny digital hands.

After an hour, I thought, 'well, I guess he still wants to separate. Oh well. It was worth a try.' Then, a little later, he responded. "I'm floored. What's brought this on?" How do I tell someone that they're back from the dead? That the cloak of misery and anger they've been torturing you with for the best part of a decade has seemingly been lost, and the love of my life has risen, Lazarus-style? I can't even remember what I texted back - but the upshot was, we chatted that night, and agreed to give it a try. It was worth trying anything for the sake of our family. Finally, what I had been praying for for seven years - hope was restored.

The week progressed, some affection was regained, shy smiles exchanged, in so many ways it was like the beginnings of our courtship all over again. And then came the final  (or so I thought at the time) piece to the puzzle. The Husband had arranged some weeks before to have dinner with an old mate, a good mate, but one who lives far away so we don't get to see him and his wife as often as we'd like. Now, I don't know all that was said at that dinner - but crazily enough, The Friend suggested to The Husband something I'd been suggesting for a long time - that he suck it up and go see a counsellor.

I firmly believe everyone - EVERYONE - has crap that they can't sort through for themselves. Counselling should be a compulsory part of life - like getting a Tax File Number (that's a Social Security number to you Americans). It should be that you register for tax, and get a few appointments with a counsellor thrown in just to sift through and rise above the shit that life throws at all of us. But some people - most notably, in this case, The Husband - see counselling as a sign of weakness. His constant excuse - "I don't want to tell my problems to strangers." Well, you know what? I would settle for him telling his problems to ANYONE. Because the man has issues. Deep, dark, damaging issues - issues that have brought our marriage to the brink. And FINALLY, someone OTHER than the nagging wife says to him, "I think you really need to see a counsellor."

Well, at last, it seemed that the penny finally dropped. Hallelujah. A door was opened. Insight gained. Counselling was NOT sought - "we can't afford it" was the latest excuse - but at least he ACKNOWLEDGED that he was in need of help. What an enormous obstacle had been overcome. We were on the path of healing. Anything was possible.

And so, we began our second honeymoon.

There was joy. There was affection - willingly given I might add. There was hand-holding. Kissing. Hugging. Couch time. TV shows were watched. Movies were discussed. There was sex. Lots and lots of really good sex. Kids were paid attention to. Smiles abounded all around. The kids were over the moon at their parents' reconciliation. All was right with the world.

And yet, my instinct kept telling me it was all about to burst.

In some things, I am a mighty slow learner. For years I have been ignoring my instinct, and bulldozing its tiny voice with rationality and assumptions. Business deals that have gone wrong, that my instinct told me wouldn't work, but I proceeded anyway. People who backstabbed and hurt me, who I pursued a friendship with, and confided in, despite my instinct telling me they were just a little bit mental. Jobs that, in some part of my brain, I knew were not right for me, but I chased after them anyway, only to be let down in the end. It's been a long journey for me to learn to trust my instinct. Even now, 3 months shy of turning 40, I have a hard time trusting my instinct over other empirical data.

But one thing I have learned. Over the 4 decades of my life, I can be pretty sure, despite my logical arguments to the contrary, that if my instinct tells me a bubble is about to burst, it's almost always right. And as it turns out, this bubble was the most fragile of all.

I Dreamed a Dream of Life Worth Living.

What an eventless couple of weeks it has been since my last blog post. I was so hoping to regale you with stories of adventure, of joy, of emotional highs and lows that would leave my audience gasping with admiration for me. Alas. The last two weeks have been, to put it simply, as boring as batshit. I've had all 3 kids home on school holidays, and it was nice to take it easy and relax with them. They fought, they cried, they played laser tag. All in all a fairly ho hum couple of weeks, but the monotony was a welcome relief from the rollercoaster of emotions plaguing me these last few months.

My visit to Centrelink, which caused all the emotional angst I explored in my last blog post, turned out to be fruitless after all. The loophole comes with the fact that my husband and I are still living under one roof. An unpleasant necessity brought about by economic challenges. In other words, he's still here because we're broke.

It turns out, that in the eyes of the government for which I voted, we are separated, but not quite separated enough. There is still some level of financial support, I still wash his clothes. The level of detail requested in the form I filled out was quite astounding. Who cooks? Who cleans? Who does the shopping? Who pays for the shopping? Do you eat together? Sleep together? Talk to each other? 12-or-so pages needlessly ripped from a dying rainforest (probably not, but let me have some dramatic license) just so the Government can say "No, you're not a welfare case. Yet."

There has been some good come of the process however. You can't just be a single mum in receipt of a benefit in this country unless you have a child who is 5 or younger. And because that's not me, the nice people at Centrelink (and yes, they were all very nice people actually, even the guy who phoned me to turn me down) set me up with a job agency. To be perfectly honest, I had no faith in the job agency whatsoever, however, they arranged an interview for me, and told me today that I've got the job.

I should actually be really excited. Yay, I have a job! It's in retail, a field I love! There are so many who are struggling for work in retail at the moment, and I landed a job with very little effort. I'm not as excited as I should be however. It's a "greeter" at a supermarket. My job will be to hand out those little uncomfortable-to-hold shopping baskets at the entrance, and tell everyone where the condoms are. But only, much to my trouble-making disappointment, if they ask where the condoms are.

But I can't help feeling somewhat let down. I've been the manager of my own business in the past, with 26 contractors working with me who I had to manage and train. But apparently, in the big bad world that is the job market, that counts for nothing. Nor does my 155 IQ, or my ability to sell ice to an Eskimo. But, my new employer has promised to be flexible with hours, so the chances of me being allowed to work in school hours are a distinct possibility. Plus, if I work Sundays, I'll earn more than $30 an hour, which isn't to be sneezed at.

But an additional reason why this makes me sad, is that my beautiful Scarlett and Miss Pink have helped me turn on a light which has been crackling away in the darkness for 30 years. And it's all because of this crazy blog. You see, after reading it, Scarlett told me - and you really should brace yourself for this - that I am the best writer she's ever read. You heard right. But Scarlett, I said, that can't be right. You've read Marian Keyes. You're better, she said. Ummmm.... what??? That can't be right. I can't be better than Marian (my literary idol). No, said Scarlett, You're better than Marian Keyes. 


Insert stunned silence *here*.


It took me quite some time to absorb this information. How can I be better than Marian? How could I possibly write something more entertaining, more profound and more moving than Rachel's Holiday, or Is Anybody Out There? Marian's books are an adventure in emotion. I laugh, I cry, I am transported across the world to wherever she chooses to take me. And someone whose opinion I value, who is a clever little duck, thinks I have the talent to do what Marian does. Wow. WOW, WOW and a thousand times WOW!!!

And so, with Miss Pink nodding and agreeing next to Scarlett, that little switch that I have been too scared to flick for 30 years, has finally been snapped into the "On" position. And then another penny dropped. I had read years ago, and Scarlett repeated this fact to me, that the only thing that sets "real" writers apart, is that they write every day. Even if what they write is a load of crap, they write every day. They don't go to creative writing courses (which I discovered while I was trying to find a creative writing course), they don't wish and hope for a publisher to come knocking on the door, they don't write an anonymous blog and hope that someone will turn it into the next Harry Potter (my other literary idol). They just write. And my visions of pounding frantically on the keyboard have been somewhat tarnished by this news that I have a job, a job that, while it will pay the bills, will drag me away from my passion and dream.

I had hoped that, once the kids were back at school, I would sit at my keyboard in a bubble of zen, my creative aura pulsating around me, and the Great Australian Novel would fly out of my fingertips, and in a matter of a month or two I'd have a best-seller that the best publishers would be fighting over. Of course, I am worldly enough to know that that's not how the process goes, but nonetheless I love to dream, and that would be an exceptionally cool set of circumstances. So now, as a retail hag, I find myself in a situation where the luxury of time is not available to me. Working 8 till 3, and mothering from 3 till 9, doesn't leave too many windows of time through which my best-seller can climb out and take the world by storm.

But one thing I am learning, and it is a lesson I wished I'd learned long ago, is that the best things are worth fighting for. And if I have a novel, or six, or twelve, in me, I need to make it a priority and write whenever I've got the chance. But more than that, I have to make chances. As a fatalist, I have always had this view that whatever will happen will happen. To some extent I believe that in the great scheme of the universe, that's true. But if I'm perfectly honest, I've also used it as an excuse for laziness and inaction in the past. No more. Whatever I make happen, will happen. That's the mantra I must retrain my brain to chant. I have the power within me to make my dreams come true. I just now have to find the door to my courage and determination, and make those little puppies come out to play as well.

Help me, I'm drowning

I turned up to an appointment I had never, until a few short months ago, believed I would ever need to make. It was quite a confronting appointment, because as of today, I am part of the social security system. For someone who's always held a bit of a prejudice towards "dole bludgers" and single mothers who keep popping out babies in order to take advantage of Australia's generous social security laws, it's really painful to kick my pride in the teeth and join their number. But it's a situation in which I have little choice. The inevitable is coming, my husband is going to find somewhere else to live reasonably soon, and I will be left completely single, and completely alone in charge of the upbringing of my 3 beloved sons. My job hunting efforts are driving me to despair - quite literally - and so this safety net of social security is one which I must seek. I hate it. I hate being a single mum in receipt of welfare, but since my husband started his new job and has cut me off somewhat financially, it's a situation I sadly find myself in.

My feelings are quite mixed. On the one hand, I'm grateful to the Whitlam government who introduced the single parent's pension back in the 70's. I think of women - and indeed my own mum - who were in much more dire straits than me, women with abusive or alcoholic husbands, who, because of a Labor government, suddenly had the means to support themselves and their children, protecting them from men whose selfishness or addictions drove them to cause harm to the people they were meant to love. I think of the women widowed or abandoned, who for the first time were given a safety net, and not cast out on to the street, or on to the charity of friends or relatives. For those women, social security for single mothers has been a godsend, and as a Third-Wave Feminist, I am immensely grateful for the freedom from tyranny or poverty our government gave them.

But then there is the other end of the spectrum of single mothers, and this is the end that looms far larger in the consciousness of most Australians. This group probably isn't as predominant as it seems, but the vulgarity, selfishness and laziness of the girls and women who pop out another baby every few years, to keep or increase their single parents' payment just angers me. Women who have never held a job, whose only talent is creating babies who they often don't have the ability or desire to parent effectively. Women who spend money given to them for the welfare of their children on smokes 'n' grog, while the children wear torn clothes and eat nothing but frozen chips.

I'm sure this group of single parents is among the minority, but their calculation in working out exactly what they have to do to ensure the free money keeps on coming infuriates me. I've paid taxes for years, and it's these people who hope to never work who disgust me. And it has been this image that has held me back from contacting social security for so long. That, and the knowledge that once I'm financially secure, my husband and my safety net will be leaving.

As a newcomer to "the system," I find the whole thing quite daunting.I feel like I am drowning in an ocean I cannot see the edge of. And the social security system, the very ship sent to rescue me, doesn't inspire much confidence I'm afraid. While on some level it feels like it's dragging me out of a vast abyss, it's as though my rescuers have sent me a very long and inadequate rope, which I must hold on to as this ship drags me to whatever port it deems me worthy of. In other words, I am again completely out of control, and completely at the mercy of something which I cannot influence. Even walking into the office today was upsetting. I had made an appointment, but upon entering the social security office I was confronted with a long, long line of people. Do I take a seat? Or do I wait in line to let them know I'm here? I decided not to take chances and stood in line, fighting back tears as I did so as I sent my pride packing, and became a welfare recipient.

Thankfully a few minutes into my wait, a short, blonde lady with a kind smile called my name and led me to her desk. I was crying before she'd even had a chance to sit down. The whole situation was so overwhelming, the only thing I could do was cry. It's not productive, but since I was unable to do anything that could help my situation, it was the only option left to me at that point. I don't want to be a single mother. I don't want to be on welfare. I don't want to give my kids uncertainty. This is not the life I wanted for myself and my children. It is not the life I chose. For the first time in my life, my 160 IQ and dazzling personality are not enough to get me by, and I felt lost, hopeless, and completely at the mercy of others.

There were tissues and water offered, an appropriate level of understanding given - I have to say I am really glad my kind Centrelink lady didn't try to counsel me, as I already felt like a complete failure without being offered advice by a stranger, however well intended - and so the business of officially becoming a single mother began. Forms were filled out, questions asked and answered, phone numbers offered and I was sent on my way.

The whole process took half an hour, but now that it's done, the feeling of drowning has not abated. I am now part of the "system," a system that, despite the kindness of the individuals I've met, still feels uncaring and merciless. A system that will make me jump through hoops to ensure I'm not claiming anything I'm not entitled to, and which, at the end of the day, will not actually give me enough to keep my head above water.

Thankfully, I have had some clarity offered to me this week. The encouragement of Scarlett & Miss Pink has given me more hope and direction than I've had in years, a subject to be explored in a later blog post. But for now, I must be dragged through this ocean by the rope that's been offered to me, and hope like hell it doesn't break.

Soul Food

I feel immensely nourished today. I spent yesterday devouring Soul Food - not the type you'll find at a Mississippi barbecue, but the type that literally nourishes your soul. Sharing with people who I know have got my back - it never fails to top up my tanks.

I have these two great friends. For the purposes of anonymity, we'll call the first one Scarlett - which she would absolutely love because she loves all things red. Scarlett used to live quite near me - "nineteen corners" in fact, which is how my little munchkin measured distance back in those days - and some years ago she packed her family up, and moved up the coast to be near her sister and mum. Of course, a move up the coast is a fabulous dream for most people, the fact that she made it reality is a blessing for her and her little crew - but, quite frankly, it's shitty to have someone I consider a sister move so far away. It's a 2-hour drive, so it's a major effort to see her - let's just say it doesn't happen during school term when we both have to be at the school gate at 3 for pick-up.

So it's a real treat to see Scarlett. We chat online, but it's never the same as a face-to-face gasbag. And for some reason, our school holiday meet-ups are always at the other friend's house - not sure if I should call her Sparkly, or Miss Pink, she would be in fits & giggles at either of those pseudonyms - but I love hanging at Miss Pink's house because it's spacious, and uncluttered, and warm in temperature and in welcome, and I always feel at home around her table or on her couch.

So I spent today, with my little mite tearing around Miss Pink's backyard in cahoots with with her little fella, chatting, drinking endless glasses of water and cups of tea, eating scrummy sandwiches, and generally having my heart and soul topped up by people who love me and believe in me.

And a couple of awesome things happened. Firstly, the told me that they've read my blog. I actually have READERS! They told me some other great stuff too. But the thing I'm going to tell you about, Miss Pink didn't even know about.

You see, the singles scene scares the crap out of me. I can't think of anything more horrific than dating - except, perhaps, eventually letting someone into my heart. The idea just fills me with dread and makes me want to run a million miles. There are a few reasons - what if I meet someone who's really awesome at first, and then turns into an angry, hostile, sullen man with a mid-life crisis? In other words, what if my next relationship is a repeat of my marriage? If a guy is "on the market" so to speak, my initial reaction is to think, "Of COURSE it's because there's something wrong with him, WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM???" Add to this that my faith in my own judgement in people has been pretty much shattered, and I'd rather be stabbed in the eye than consider a new relationship.

Then there are the horror stories about post-divorce dating. Two-timers, users and abusers, those who have horror stories about their "frankenspouse," but upon closer inspection, it's actually them that's the damaged, freaky one. Friends my age who are on the dating scene can rattle off horror stories as quickly as they order their drinks at whatever bar they happen to frequent. It's not an inviting place for someone who never thought they'd have to navigate a first date ever again.

And that's where Miss Pink has given me hope.

You see, a few short years ago, Miss Pink was in a really similar boat to the one I find myself in now. With 3 boys, the youngest one just a baby, she found herself single, and I can only imagine, the fears and pain she held were probably identical to mine. And yet, here she is a few short years later, with a gentle, kind, thoughtful partner who loves her and her kids, and who brings wood in for the fire. I even told him - "there's nothing more attractive than a man with wood". You can take or leave the double entendre. But he steps up when needed, he acts with kindness and consideration, and he thinks not just about himself, but about Miss Pink and her 3 great kids. In short, he's just what everyone says they want in a partner.

Of course, Miss Pink is not the only person I know who's found happiness post-breakup. But it's great to see what she, and some of my other friends, have found in the battlefield that is "mature-age" dating. There is light at the end of the tunnel. I'm sure it won't be laughs all the way, but she has reminded me that, when the time is right, it might just be worth having a go, and maybe I'll find some kindness and love in a person who, for once, might make me smile. It's been a long time, but it might just be worth looking forward to.

Be careful what you wish for.

So it's been quite some time since my last blog post. Mainly because of one very confronting event, which effectively paralysed me, blog-wise. But it also reminded me of the phrase, "be careful what you wish for."

My last blog post saw me saved by the power of Roller Derby. I have to say my Derby journey is continuing with gusto. Putting those skates on makes me feel like I am flying, and fills my soul with joy. It's the one thing in my life guaranteed to put a smile on my face. Even the crashes and falls feel good because they're MY crashes and falls. I'm not doing them because I have to, and I'm not doing them for someone else. Everyone should have something in their life that makes them feel like throwing their arms wide, and raising their face to the sky. Roller Derby makes my heart sing.

So it wasn't too long after my last post, that my husband started a new job. Now, one thing he is not, is disorganised or sloppy. It was one of the friction points in our marriage - I take a more bohemian approach to life, housework, cooking, which irritated him immensely. After all, being a Free Spirit is what I crave most. And in his new job, disorganisation and sloppiness seemed to be the norm. Even I, spontaneous soul that I am, was appalled by some of the slack practices in this new organisation - like the lackadaisical attitude to payday for instance. And when he was finally paid, it didn't quite seem right - it seemed like a larger-than-necessary chunk of tax was being taken out of his pay.

So, me being me, if I have information that might help someone, I love to share it (sometimes this goes down a treat - and sometimes I just come across as a know-it-all). In an effort to discover this information, and help someone that I thought I could help, I jumped on the Australian Tax Office homepage and clicked my way through the maze that they call a website. I'm not sure whether he was amazed at the fact that I knew what the Tax Office was (high finance and the taxation system never having been one of my passions), or that I was willing to help him, or whether he was just horny, but after I discovered the rate of tax he should have been paying, he tenderly took my face in his hands, bent over, and kissed me softly on the lips. And with the gentleness and love I have been craving now for seven years, with sweetness in his voice and softness in his eyes, he told me that he wanted to work things out. He wanted to try and rebuild our marriage, and try to recreate the magic that we had for ten years. 

It was then, when I had gotten what I had been craving, hoping, praying and wishing for for months, I realised I didn't want him.

The realisation didn't come immediately - it took me about a week. Because, that's how long it took for me to see that nothing had changed. Within hours after that crazy moment when I thought that balance had been restored to my world, everything went back to the sad, lonely way it had been before. The chasm between us returned, even wider than before in some ways. He went back to his old communication style (i.e. non-existent). He resumed his seemingly-permanent spot in front of his laptop, his online strategy game being the only thing that seems to bring him some contentment. He didn't help with the kids except when pestered to do so. He didn't talk to them. He didn't talk to me. In fact, he was quite annoyed when I tried to speak with him - because, inevitably, I would be interrupting some keyboard chat or skype conversation with the people he shares his game with. The walls went back up, he took his energy away from us and channelled it into that online world again, and proceeded as though he wished we weren't there.

Reconciliation over.

But it wasn't just his withdrawal into his virtual world that made me not want him. By telling me he wanted to work things out with me, he restored to me some sense of power in this whole crazy chain of events. And with power came strength. And with strength came clarity. And, sadly, that clarity made me realise that he had steamrolled and bulldozed my heart for too long, and any love I had for him had been beaten out of my heart, with his cruel words and cruel actions, until I felt almost nothing for him. How do you rebuild something with no walls, with no foundations? You don't. You chalk it up to experience, and move forward to see what the world holds for you elsewhere.

Don't get me wrong - the idea of sharing my life, or any part of my body, or even my thoughts, with a new man just fills me with dread. I have a friend in a similar boat to me, she has a casual sexual partner and in some ways I envy her ability to live for the moment, to enjoy her time with him, to not get hung up on the emotional side of things, or to dwell on "the relationship." I am not in a place where I can do that. I find I have no trust in almost anyone. I trust my mum, my precious nanna, and a few close girlfriends, but that's pretty much it. The secrets of my heart remain under guard, and will for the foreseeable future. The only two men I've ever loved have let me down, so right now the only person I'm willing to trust my heart to is myself. 

But what awaits me, while brave, and new, and exciting, is also pretty frightening. What awaits me is singledom. Like Bridget Jones, but with 3 great kids in tow. I haven't been single since I was 20, and even then I wasn't particularly good at it. Maybe it's time for me to invest my energies in myself and my kids, and skip the whole relationship thing for a few years. I wouldn't want to introduce a new partner to my kids for a long time anyway, so for now, the only deep and meaningful relationship I can muster is with my new set of roller skate wheels. They may spin too fast, and feel out of control sometimes, but at least they're taking me somewhere I'd like to go.

How Roller Derby saved my soul.

So it's been a few weeks since my last post. I've had a few ups and downs. Actually no ups, but a few downs and a whole lotta average. So much average it's almost mind-numbing. Right now I'm in a bit of a zen place - after an awful, terrifying weekend where all my fears reached up to suffocate and blind me, I have come to a place where I feel ok. Maybe this separation is the first step to a happier life. I hope so. But as I write this I'm also aware that denial is the first stage of grief, so I could very well just have my head up my ass.

I have never been a naturally brave person. Risks are just something I avoid as much as possible, so it's quite out of character for me to do what I have done this year, which is jump feet-first into the surreal, hard-core world of flat-track roller derby. After a friend convinced me to check out a bout, I was hooked, I knew it was the sport for me. It's all-female, as unconventional as its possible to be, fast, furious, outrageously fun, and just a teeny bit dangerous. So with my world at home falling apart, it hit the spot. My fledgling roller derby career shouts to the world "I am a force! Hear me roar!!"

I am the first to admit that I spend a portion of each skating lesson on my ass. I'm not bouting yet, but I am a big believer in goals, and that's my short-term goal - to earn the White Star qualification that will see me in a competitive team. And most days when I lace up my skates, there is a voice in my head saying "What the hell do you think you're doing????" But then I remind myself, "I can do this. This is fun. And I can be awesome." And usually, by the end of each skating session, I can notice little improvements in balance, skills and confidence.

One of the things I love about derby girls is the implied assertion, "I'm not changing for anyone." This is something I've done in every major relationship in my life. I have always tried to mould myself into what I think the person wanted me to be. And each time, I've buried away a little part of my soul. But derby is about bringing all that inner awesomeness to the surface. Derby says, "We don't care what you look like. We don't care if you look like Barbie or Marilyn Manson. We dont care if you're tatooed or have skin as virgin as a baby's. Hell, we don't even care if you can skate. You bring a spirit that wants to give it a red hot go, and we'll help you roar." And it's precisely this acceptance, this "you go girl" attitude that I love about derby. I suck pretty badly at skating. I sucked a whole lot more 2 months ago when I took it up. But they don't care. I want to try, and they want to help me try. I have found that aspect of derby culture to be one which has held my soul together in recent weeks. And, for the first time in my life, I am one of the cool kids. So right now, my sucky life has a silver lining, and it's got wheels on its shoes.

Joy from the French

I have been giving some thought lately to just why it is I pay someone $45 a month to pour hot wax on my hoo-haa, and pull hairs out of my va-jay-jay. I admit I prefer the 'clean' feel that I'm left with after my monthly French wax, but even I wouldn't put it on my list of top ten 'fun things to do'.  Yet every month, I trot down to my local shopping area (I believe Americans call this "downtown" but I honestly don't know what that word is supposed to really mean), park behind the cake decorating shop and a sex toy store (the cake decorating shop is closer to my idea of pornography - sometimes I go in there to just look at the mouth-watering pieces of art they have on display, and marvel at the many colours of sprinkles that are available) and visit my beautician for my monthly wax. She is pretty much the only beautician I've ever known, and by her own admission she's not a 'posh' beautician. We compare stories of partners, kids (she has a step son), houses, Tupperware (a shared passion), friends, news, families, joys and heartaches. And I believe this is where the value lies for me.

I could trim the ladyparts with a delicate little razor, or go to - as she calls it - a 'posh' beautician where they wear white coats and aren't allowed to talk to the customer unless the customer intiates the conversation. But, as my fabulous beauty therapist says, "Fuck that"!!! Because it is precisely this banter, this friendship and mutual sharing of burdens which takes me back there month after month, and is the reason I won't go to any other beautician.

Take this morning for instance. Since my last post 2 nights ago I've been swinging like a pendulum between immense sadness and overwhelming fury. Last night and this morning I was so angry at the soon-to-be-ex. It's almost 2 months since he told me he was leaving our marriage, and while he has moved to the couch, he still hasn't left our house and it's driving me insane. I can't move on, I can't grieve, I can't begin the next stage of my life because he's still THERE. And it hurts so much to see him every weekend, every night, and know I can't give him a hug, I can't rest my head on his lap while we're watching TV, I can't ask him for help or advice or open my heart to him at all. I feel trapped in the initial pain of being left after 17 years of marriage, and until I actually have been left, I can't move past that. I never knew limbo hurt so much.

As I got into the car this morning to head to my monthly wax appointment, the anger and hurt was so strong it was almost seeping from my pores. And then when I walked in for my appointment, my gorgeous beautician who loves to say the F word as much as I do, asked "So how is the bastard, has he left yet?" and immediately I was not alone. I had camaraderie, comradeship, I had someone who, by nature of the beautician/client relationship, was on MY side. I get to whinge and bitch to her and in return she offers me validation and acceptance.

So our banter continues through the 'hot wax torture' as I fondly refer to it, and by the time I leave the salon half an hour later, my journey to my car is significantly lighter than the journey from it earlier in the morning. I feel less alienated, less unsure and a hell of a lot less scared about the future, because there are people who have been through it and survived, and I will be one of them.

My questions about why I spend $45 to undergo sadistic rituals were answered today. I go because of the friendship that my $45 buys me. Half an hour of therapy with a fabulous looking hoo-haa to go with it. Even though my beautician's the only one that sees the lady parts these days, I still think it's $45 well spent.