hey...

I'm a teeny bit in love with my new boobs...

Strangely calm...

...for someone about to have parts of her body removed. I think my overriding concern is that something will happen to me under anaesthesia and I'll die never knowing I died. I wonder if that's how ghosts are really made, a la Sixth Sense... I really believe that when I die, I want to at least know about it. I want that deathbed confession, the weeping family surrounding me - children, grand-children and, what the hell, great-grandchildren touching my hand and wishing me well on my journey, me saying something incredibly witty at the very end (would you expect anything less, really?) and hopefully just dying with a smile on my face at the thought of a life well-lived. But hopefully, the only things to die on the table tomorrow will be a bunch of my cells - only the ones getting chopped out and being deprived of a blood-supply and oxygen. Not any BRAIN cells, or HEART cells or cells I will need for hopefully a long while into the future. None of THEM. So it's time to (as Andrea Bocelli sings so beautifully) say good-bye to those bits that are leaving me.

Good-bye breast tissue - thank you for being there. No thanks that there was so MUCH of you. "Bountiful breasts" - so poetic to Shakespeare and the fantasy of adolescent boys - and adolescent men, to be frank - not so poetic when trying to be shoved into too tight bras and hoisted to somewhere they wouldn't normally reside unless sheathed in lacy lace and stretchy lycra. But definite thanks for the milk, the gallons of milk that have made my babies strong and smart and beautiful. Thank you for the comfort you gave - thank you for providing a bouncy castle of boobiness that my children have loved. Thank you for adding to the hugginess of me, the squooshiness of me. That was not a bad thing. Thank you from Sam for being so much. He loves you, he really does. I love you too. I just need less of you.

Good-bye uterus - thank you for being such a wonderful home for my children. I love your work. Keeping them safe and warm and fed and nurtured. You and Placenta - no place like womb. Thanks for the reminder every month that there are cycles in nature that we are still part of despite the crazy denial that we are above it, beyond it. It's not really your fault. You are the fall guy for those little fucker ovaries. It's their fault I have to get rid of you. But I need them more than I need you. Sorry, I know that's harsh. But true. I need those little bastards to keep doing what they do for a few more years. Otherwise I will turn into a man-beast. With more hair on my lip and chin that I know what to do with. Not ready for that just yet. I was not able to tame them. They had me in the palm of their hands. Squeezing hard. Too hard. So you gotta go. Sorry.

Good-bye leaky bladder - goodbye wet knickers when I sneeze, jump, skip, hop, bounce, scream at Duran Duran concerts and cough. Although you may revisit me later in life...Depends. [Get it? See what I did there?] I will not miss that. That is yuk.

So what's the worst thing so far? The anxiety? The knowledge that I have left things undone? The fear that I will have made a mistake? Bah - done all that. Don't need having multiple procedures to go there... that's my modus operandi for my life. No, it was really the waxing. Sweet Jesus. I had a pretty close wax today. Not a Brazilian. Not even an East German, really. But a little more of a mow than usual. The waxer, aka Sadistic Sadist Grrrl, took a strip off the top of my map of Tassie, right under the leftover pregnancy spare skin I've been hanging on to just in case anyone needed any ["Skin? Anyone got some spare skin and a little fat?" "Yep! Over here!"] and I was thinking, as I broke out into a sweat and almost hit the ceiling, "If that's what it feels like on my tummy bits, WHAT THE HELL DOES WAXING LABIA FEEL LIKE???"

And you know what? I will NEVER find out.

Ch..ch..ch..ch..changes...

Yep. The only thing you can rely on in life is change.

Things that are changing:

1. My tolerance for the crap in my house. While it hasn't made it off the porch, there's been a bunch of stuff to leave the house recently. While it was almost easy to get it out of the house, the paralysing indecision that arises from "whether to sell it/whether to donate" is negating the good feeling from making the decision to put it out the door. Given my inability to organise a garage sale and given all the fires and floods, maybe the stuff should just get taken to a donation bin where hopefully it will find a grateful home. Or at least be someone's answer to what to wear to that 'bad taste' party.
2. My house itself. We have met with an architect and have a 'concept'. Whoa - I don't think you actually realise what a big step that is. Someone else is now involved in my dreams - literally an architect of my dreams. Now let's take that next step and turn a concept into a plan...
3. My daughter's life. New school, new rules, new dress... I wonder at what is happening in her head and am simultaneously pleased and horrified at our decision to move her from her chrysalis and out into the world. She seems different and maybe, and just maybe, to assuage my guilt, I think the change is for the good.
4. My relationship with my husband. Seems more grounded. He is more determined to live his life and I have gotten over my resentment (kinda, sorta) and actually am acknowledging his right to do so.
5. Me. Bits will be removed and reshaped and I'm again swaying between horror and delight at the thought of actually being physically different. Saying 'goodbye' to a chapter in my history - or should that be herstory...

Happy Birthday Dad

Yes, I know. I do go on about my Dad a bit. For someone who's been dead for almost 11 years now, he still tends to occupy my thoughts a lot. He is my Dad, after all. So I'm not really apologising but even when there's been a bit of a 'Picky Bitch' drought, it's usually my Dad who'll get me posting again.

So today would have been my Dad's 78th birthday. Wow. Born in 1933. A long time ago although to my rapidly ageing self, 78 isn't that old. My Mum has a friend who just turned 96 and she's pretty amazing - still making cakes and gnocchi by the truckload.

I have to wonder what kind of 78-year-old my Dad would have been. Would he just look the same but wrinklier and have whiter hair? As he already had white hair at 67 I suppose it couldn't have gotten much whiter so maybe that's a dumb thought.

If he hadn't died of cancer, would he have died of something else by now? His heart wasn't good. Would I be in the fresh throes of grief, mourning my father for having just died from a heart attack? Would my children be devastated at losing their Nonno, having known him for only a few short years instead of being oblivious not knowing him at all? What would have been better, really? I was 25 before losing the first of my significant relatives. My kids would have been less than 10.

Of course, he might not have died of something else in the meantime. He might have been still alive, pottering around the house, driving my mother nuts. I wonder how patient he would have been with this noisy mess of kids.

But he died at 67 and he's gone and my kids don't know him that well. I still remember though. And I still love him and I still miss him and I will forever and ever and ever.

And somewhere as I remember my Dad on the 78th anniversary of his birth, somewhere in Arizona is a family mourning the loss of their nine year old daughter. Their daughter, only two days older than mine. I am so sorry for their terrible loss. I wish she would have lived to 67. I wish she would have lived to 78. I wish she would have lived.

Ding Dong The Witch is Dead...

Predictably, here I am. The 1st of January. All filled up with hope and renewal and such. Making another effort to revive The Picky Bitch, God love her.

What did I learn in 2010:

1. Never take anyone for granted. People can surprise you. Big time.
2. There are still lessons I need to learn.
3. I don't have to do everything on my own. It's okay to lean.
4. I will die someday.

That pretty much sums up the year.

Booyah!

Where have all the emails gone...?

In a misguided effort to be the first cab off the rank, I signed up to switch my work laptop (which also acts, let's admit, as my home computer) to Windows 7. In a miscommunication with our IT Guy (some of my readers will know who he is), I lost about 7 years of personal emails and email addresses.

Lessons learned? Always back up EVERYTHING and always be the SECOND cab off the rack in an IT roll-out.


So does this count as one more thing on my '50 Things' even though it was inadvertent?

While not within that realm of losing your life, limb or country, there is some indescribable (although I am in the throes of trying to describe it anyway) mourning that is taking place within me. It's a loss that is unique to this century - virtual loss.

But to keep it in perspective, it's more a case of an ongoing "Oh, well" instead of weeping and gnashing of teeth and renting of garments - so Old Testament. Okay, maybe I gnashed and rented and wept a teeny little bit and threw in a few other choice words for a little added drama first and the "Oh, well" came later. And I thank those among you who have shown me the appropriate level of sympathy. That combination of "Thank God that didn't happen to me" mixed with "I feel your pain". Anything more would be ridiculous. Words from the Age to mirror a loss from the Age.

I feel as though a portion of my life has been stripped away - all those chain letters, all those offers to purchase shoes, books, holidays...GONE - gone back into the ether from whence they came. But also gone are the emails from people no longer with me, either separated by death or distance.

And to be honest, it's not that I read them all that often. But knowing they were there was a small measure of comfort. It seems that I have the same desire for virtual clutter as I do for the stuff clogging up my cupboards and drawers.

There was also the issue of the congratulations emails I was saving from the birth of my son. Although the child has no Baby Book, I held on to me holding on to these emails as evidence that I at least had done that for him.

So, like paving Paradise and putting in a parking lot, I won't know what I've got 'til it's gone - or what I had now it's gone as there could be other things in there - not just emails - that have just up and left me.

My emails got run over on the Information Superhighway by the 18 wheeler Behemoth that is Windows 7. Virtual Infanticide.

Rest in bytes.

Oh, well.

Throwing out 50 things...

Just been reading Gail Blanke's Throw Out 50 Things.

Fifty??? I could probably throw out 1 bazillion and 50 and it still might not make a dent in the stuff in my life. However - let's not get all negative before we start as that's a prime example of one of the behaviours I need to throw out: my need to put myself down. Guess what? The emotional stuff - the negative voices, the old scripts one keeps living even though they've been outgrown - they count as things too.

But before I get ahead of myself - and let's face it, most of my humour is based on making some fun of myself so I won't give that up completely because that just wouldn't be fun for anyone - I have actually taken on board what this woman is telling me.

Why her? Why now? Did the planets align? Have I finally kept my New Year's Resolution to "Act Like a Grown-Up"?

Dang it - I think I have.

So - what have I chucked?

[And the killer is that 50 magazines count as ONE THING!!! Oi vey - so it's not as easy as it looks.]

• Old non-stick frying pans that are now stick frying pans - did I somehow think that stray Teflon particles in the atmosphere would find my kitchen and miraculously re-coat my pans??? Out they go.


• Old bakeware - I just had an amazing insight that I don't need chipped Corning Ware baking dishes in 5 different sizes as - guess what? - my mother - Queen of the Baking Dish of Any Size You Desire - LIVES NEXT DOOR. Out they go.


• My non-stick 9" cake tins - I have brand new(-ish) Chicago Metallic cake pans that are MUCH BETTER in my oven and so I don't need those crappy old ones ANY MORE - OUT THEY GO!!!


• Django's Faux Crocs from last summer - and I mean LAST summer as in 2008/09. His feet ain't getting smaller, sunshine. And there's nothing to get sentimental about over skanky pitted rubber shoes. Won't be bronzing those.... out they go.


• My skinny jeans. 'Nuff said. OTG!!!*


• This old navy blue wool coat I dragged home from Alaska that used to belong to my friend Jenee' - she was smart enough not to take it back home to North Carolina - WHY, OH WHY did I think that a coat that was too hot for Raleigh, wouldn't be too hot for Perth, freaking Australia??? It also weighs about 10 kilos so not only have I never worn it, I probably also paid some serious postage to never wear it. Out IT goes...(to be donated to someone with bad circulation 'cause you could LIVE in that coat in the winter - okay, now that's given me a sad 'bag lady' image. But at least she'd be warm.) This is getting bad on so many levels.***


• About 48 kilos of tissue paper. What makes me think that I would ever re-use skanky crushed tissue paper. There's being green and then there's being deluded.


• Old nappies. Unused, you'll be pleased to hear. I cannot be sentimental over a Newborn Baby Love any longer. There weren't millions of them - I'm not a total lunatic - just about 6 total in various sizes. I just really don't know why I was keeping them. In case we all went back in time, I guess. It could happen. It could.


• Books. This is a hard one for me. I love to hang on to books but I must admit that I had a few stinkers that needed to go. Actually I had already taken about 10 to a book exchange and got about $70 in credit for them so that's okay. I'm just not into putting them on eBay and I'm not a swap meet person - it kills me to sell things for 10 cents or a dollar - in a weird way, I'd rather just give it away for free. But the book exchange thing is good - I can do that. Those places don't smell gross like they used to when I was a kid - there's a fine line between Eau de Olde Bookes and Eau de Skanke.
  Funny thing though: when I was sorting my books I came across Cut the Clutter, Peter Walsh's It's All Too Much and Does This Clutter Make My Butt Look Big? as well as The Queen of Clean Conquers Clutter. And Simple Steps: 10 Weeks to Getting Control of Your Life: Health, Weight, Home, Spirit . And I say: HUH! Why not them and why Gail Blanke? Is it her engaging wit? She's pretty funny. It is her crazy coiffure? Actually I think I've just figured it out - it's because she reminds me of Nanee Barbara and has that same kick your ass-ness about her coated in love. That's it! She's channeling Nanee. How cool. Nanee though, it has to be said, was probably the biggest pack-rat in the world. Even so, it's something in the way she writes that makes me think of Nanee.


• Magazines. See above. Magazines are magical. I can re-read them over and over and because I have such bad memory retention, they are always new to me. I actually have a theory that the stories change between readings but that's just my kind of crazy. Got rid of a few old IKEA catalogues because I realised I actually own everything in there now.
  [IN AN ASIDE - because I've been known to interrupt myself on occasion - I just bought another bunch of IKEA furniture. I told my friend C that I'd be screwing all weekend and I have. First Micke, who was pretty easy although I got something stuck in him and it took AGES to get it out. Then last night, it was Billy. Wham bang, thank you ma'am. Up he went, nice and erect, in no time at all. And then Billy again today. But this time he was bigger. About twice the size. I still managed to handle him on my own as Sam was out. I put the screws on him and he got himself together and when I put my nails in his back he was done. A bit of IKEA raunch there for my readers' pleasure. Really, it was nothing.]

Okay - so because of the additional IKEA furniture, I've been able to clear through bookcases - and have created some space, both physical as well as mentally. Hence a Picky Bitch posting and everything. See - it does work.

Gotta go now because even though I've cleaned my kitchen - somewhat - that food won't cook itself - damned, stupid food - and I've got to go and apply heat to it and everything.

So - what's my tally? I've also thrown out:

• Video cassettes
• Old shampoos and conditioners - and as a result of cleaning out under the sink, I found the motherlode of NEW shampoo and conditioner bottles - I will not need to buy hair cleaning products until 2012 - and once the end of the world comes, who'll need more, right?
• Skank-fest old toothbrushes - I mean, I use them to clean my tile but only need one at a time - I am not Edward Toothbrushhands, for pete's sake
• Papers - YE OLDE BANKE STATEMENTES from 1873 - on parchment and everything...
• Not one but TWO rusted spring-form pans
• Single socks - 437 single socks
• Random cardboard boxes. The accumulation is because of my kids' penchant for 'making things' out of them. Enough of pandering to their ways!

17 things that I can think of right now.

Not bad.

*Out they go.

***Am getting tired of the whole rousing 'OUT THEY GO' thing so I won't do that anymore - you get the picture.

And in an embarassing PS I also threw out a bunch of 'flours' - about 6 kilos of completely moth and larvae infested flours. Seems as though pantry moths are an equal opportunity insect as they infested the regular flour with as much alacrity as the spelt and rye. In a complete more-lunatic-than-usual-even-for-me lunacy, I purchased all this flour in the weeks prior to going overseas, thinking idiot thoughts that I would have the time to bake some bread. You wouldn't want to eat the bread I would have baked with that flour. Vegetarians wouldn't eat it, that's for sure. Erk. So that makes 18, 19 if you count the moths. 20 if you count the larvae as a separate item.