The Good Girl Confessional

Tales from behind the picket fence

Mindful Buying – Discovering Melbourne’s secret ethical designers

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Buy less, choose well,

Make it last…

– Vivienne Westwood

Donna Cameron and Briar Jasper-Batson of Fashion by Foot

In a world of instant gratification and disposable everything, there is a new wave starting to push back that encourages sustainable fashion, buying locally, sourcing pre-loved and making better choices.

As Melbourne Fashion Week 2019 approaches, I was lucky enough to spend a day with Donna Cameron and Briar Jasper-Batson, two Melbourne based style specialists who together have created Fashion by Foot. Spurred on by their love of style and their concerns about the environmental footprint fast fashion is leaving in it’s wake, Donna and Briar began taking guided walking tours throughout Melbourne that introduce customers, tourists and locals alike, to a number of independent Melbourne designers and labels.

“Melbourne really is blessed to have such a vibrant independent fashion scene. It’s a big part of what gives our city it’s uniquely creative culture and helps make it one of most liveable cities in the world,” Donna tells me.

The fashion industry is a booming business, worth an estimated 2.5 trillion dollars but it comes with major impacts. According to the UN in 2018, the fashion industry, including the production of all wearable clothes, contributes to around 10% of global greenhouse gas emissions due to its long supply chains and energy intensive production.  The industry consumes more energy than the aviation and shipping industry combined, as well as using other valuable resources.

To make just one pair of denim jeans, for example, 10,000 litres of water is required to just grow the one kilo of cotton needed. In comparison, it would take ten years for one person to drink that amount. Add to that the burning and dumping of cheaply made garments, exported around the world, which creates toxic chemicals that escape from the dying and bleaching processes to leach into the environment. The impact is so great that the U.N. is now working with the fashion industry on an initiative called the United Nations Alliance for Sustainable Fashion. There are also unethical working practices in the race to produce more and more products at extremely cheap prices. Fashion by Foot hopes to encourage local, ethically produced brands, and to change the perceptions of disposable fashion.

I first met Donna and Briar at the ground breaking Access to Fashion event at Melbourne Fashion Week, where she was the lead stylist. The brainchild of author and appearance activist Carly Findlay, Access to Fashion was the first Melbourne Fashion Week event to feature models with visible and invisible disability. The event also featured unique Australian designers.

Gourmet lunch at Charcoal Lane – Fitzroy

Donna and Briar, and others supporting the sustainable fashion movement, work on the principal that quality is more important than quantity and by choosing well and taking care of the garments that we purchase, we can lesson the impact on the environment while also supporting the local fashion industry. As stylists, they also aim to help people through the confusion of what personal style is, what colours best suit skin tones, and how to achieve looks that make sense for your lifestyle.

As a Melbourne girl, born and bred, I was probably their worst nightmare, turning up in all black. One of their goals is to help people in Melbourne, renowned for the black uniform, get past the fear of colour and introduce diversity into our wardrobes. Donna and Briar have a lovely way of disarming clients and I’m greeted with warm smiles, a glass of bubbles and croissants. Workshopping colour palettes and shapes that might suit the individual happens before we set our walking around Melbourne’s iconic suburb of Fitzroy. Fashion set to a back drop of street art and hipster cafes and barber shops is a very cool way to spend a sunny winter day.

Being able to meet the designers and store owners added to this unique shopping experience, and I was impressed by their knowledge and the high level of customer service. Donna and Briar encouraged me to step out of my sombre-Melbourne box and experiment with colour. I am now the proud owner of an olive coloured dress from Elk, a Melbourne based brand who prides itself on ethical sourcing and production. I made the purchase at a lovely boutique in Smith Street called Inspirasia.

If you’re unsure of your own personal style, or you’re visiting Melbourne, or perhaps you’re a local looking for some bespoke garments and accessories to enhance your wardrobe, I can highly recommend a guided walking tour. Donna and Briar have very different styles but both are brilliant and allaying any fears or anxiety you may have on the fashion front. They introduced me to some wonderful, playful designers of garments, hats and accessories, with a very hands on approach. (I may have had too much fun trying on hats at Smart, Alec Hatters!).

Fashion by Foot run guided tours in Brunswick, Melbourne city and Fitzroy. They will also take you out for a gourmet lunch, offering advice throughout the day and asking any questions you might have. We dined at Charcoal Lane which has an amazing social program, incredible food they describe as “A showcase of native fresh produce from across our great land, foraged and found.” (Prince Harry and Meghan Markle dined here when they were in Melbourne. I thoroughly enjoyed the emu spring rolls).

The tour certainly opened my eyes to how I can add a pop of colour to my wardrobe, and also to some of the amazing emerging and established designers Melbourne has to offer. Grab your girlfriends or book for yourself!

You can book a guided walking tour at https://www.fashionbyfoot.com/

*Please note, this post was not sponsored. I just loved the tour and the concept behind it!

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Under the male gaze : Why we still need Feminism

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A look at Football, fury and Feminism

– Sandy Lowres

Tayla Harris – Image by Michael Wilson


“Here’s a pic of me at work…think about this before your derogatory comments, animals.”
– Tayla Harris – Boxer and Carlton footballer, AFLW,

I was recently asked to be on a panel for International Women’s Day, and I was honored to be asked. The MC introduced me as a writer, blogger, full time working mother and advocate for women over 40.  The Good Girl Confessional does proudly write to an audience of women who are forty plus, (and I’m almost fifty), but I am most definitely an advocate for women of all ages.

I would like to live in a world where my daughter who is on the cusp of Millennial and Gen Z, wouldn’t have to suffer the misogyny my mother did, or as I have.  I would like to and yet, sadly, I still can’t which is frustrating and like so many women, it makes me bloody angry.

Australia has the capacity to be progressive on the issues of women’s rights and equality for all, given we were the second country to give women the right to vote back in 1894, and as history would have it, the first to give women the right to be elected to a national parliament in 1903. And yet, our own PM declared, on International Women’s Day no less, that ‘we don’t want to see women rise only on the basis of others doing worse”. He then added that he has a wife and two daughters as if being in the presence of women justifies his antiquated and misogynistic comments.

Using the ABC Q&A program as a platform, Greens Senator, Sarah Hanson-Young, rightly called him out, “What he said to women right across the country on Friday was that, ‘yeah, you can be equal, just not as equal as men’. That’s what he said. And it’s not on.” The bigger message of course was if the leader of our country fails to understand the basic concept of equality, how do you then achieve it in the real world?

This week when the Channel 7’s 7AFL social media platform removed a striking photo of athlete and Carlton footballer, Tayla Harris, I was left bewildered, frustrated and angry at how far we are yet to go in the struggle for equality for women. Some 46 years after my own mother was “detained” for marching for women’s rights in Melbourne, and even with the #MeToo movement in full swing, we are still needing to fight for equality.

Case in point is the photo (above) is an image taken by Michael Wilson and it’s an impressive action portrait of a strong elite athlete.  This photograph however became the eye of a storm that erupted about the lewd, sexist and transphobic comments that women in our modern society still face.

When the image was first posted, it attracted so many misogynistic and sexually abusive comments from male trolls that 7AFL made the bizarre decision to remove the image of Harris rather than addressing the abysmal behaviour of their male followers who chose to troll her. An outpouring of support for Harris, and anger directed at 7AFL, swiftly followed. In the knee jerk decision to remove her imagine, 7AFL not only punished the victim, they also excused and ignored the grotesque comments of sexist bullies.

Harris re-posted the photograph to her Twitter account with the message “Here’s a pic of me at work…think about this before your derogatory comments, animals.” Photographer Michael Wilson proudly creating a GIF from the images of Harris he captured throughout the game.

In the aftermath of this, I was so angry that I sent an article about this to my partner to read. He glanced at it, and without reading the story texted back that he couldn’t see any issues with the photo.

Because the issue is not the photo, but the response taken.

In fact, this occurs in all areas of life, in any arena where light is shone upon the achievements of women, threatening the fragile egos of the patriarchy and it gets tiring and frustrating. I have witnessed the damage that trolls have unleashed on close friends, and others that I admire, who went about their business as writers, sports women, leaders or advocates for their communities. 

This is not the only time of course that women in sport have had to deal with trolls and it may not be the last given that the trolls involved seem largely to be excused or ignored even when their comments include hate speech and overt threats of violence.  Across various Olympic sports, AFLW, NRL and tennis for example, women are often subjected to hateful comments about their weight, their muscular development, their fashion choice and their athleticism. The below meme of Liz Cambage, NBAW Star, emerged after she fired back at negative comments she received. Cambage has spoken out against the pay disparity between male and female sports stars, claiming women in some sports continue to be treated as second-rate professionals.

Liz Cambage on how she deals with negative comments

If you still think trolling isn’t rampant, check out Troll Hunting by Aussie Journalist Ginger Gorman in which she explains the psychology of trolling and seeks to show the damage inflicted on the victims, as well as stripping back the veil on keyboard warriors who seek to inflict harm. Ginger herself was a victim of online trolling in 2013, including a death threat after writing an article some took offence to. It’s incomprehensible that trolls covet some joy out of tearing others down. Yet, they are out there in numbers. Apparently something as simple as media displaying a photo of a sports woman is enough to incite them into action.


“Don’t tell me to get back in the Kitchen. Honey, I can pay you to make my sandwich for me…I turn that negative energy into my power.” – Liz Cambage WNBA player

If the problem of misogyny is to be solved, it first needs to be recognised by men as well as women, and we need men to be in our corner to call out the bullshit, to take a stand against trolls along side us. We need men involved in sports networks and media outlets to disallow this behaviour and shut down hate speech, and block those who dare to cross the line. We need our politicians and leaders to call out misogyny and start to tear it down so that our entire culture changes. Feminism is not a dirty word. It seeks equality for both women and men, and clearly we are still fighting for it. It seems a slow road ahead, but we as women will not go quietly into the night.

@SandyLowres

To report online abuse or trolling, contact the eSafety Commissioner: https://www.esafety.gov.au/esafety-information/esafety-issues/cyber-abuse

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Music, heart strings and bumble bees

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playing music musician classic

“There you go, you got your hooks in me,

And I’m secretly high off the feeling that keeps

you hooked in, holding on.

Feel the push and pull so endlessly,

And I’m looking to find another sequence that drops me in the Golden Dawn….”

Golden – Kingswood

If 2017 seemed like a red-hot mess between losing my mum, and wading through the estate legalities afterwards while dating guys that just seemed sooooo wrong, 2018 in comparison was a stellar year, filled with healing, spontaneous brilliance, travel and actually falling in love.   

This year my youngest child turned 18, graduated from high school and got his licence.  He also got his braces off. In a blink of an eye, I’m now mum to three adults and with that I had reached yet another chapter in my life. He performed in many plays and really, it’s been a huge year for him. My daughter just turned 21 so throwing both an 18th and 21st in the one year was quite big, not to mention draining on the purse!

2018 saw me take my first holiday in over 5 years. I went to Bali with three brilliant girlfriends. I found myself in Seminyak in a private villa in tropical surrounds with cocktails, massages and so much laughter. We ate brilliant food, we danced the night away and watched glorious sunsets of purple and orange hues. We laughed so much I thought we all might pee our middle-aged pants! I felt incredibly humbled to share the experience with friends I have known since childhood  and love dearly. For the first time I can remember since my marriage ended 8 years ago, I actually relaxed.

I went to the USA for the first time, starting in San Fransisco with my daughter, and felt blessed to be at the wedding of my niece and her gorgeous wife in the Napa Valley.  What a stunning wedding it was too. I feel incredibly lucky that I was able to fly over and share such a joyous occasion. Being in San Fran really made me think of my mum, hippy child that she was, given that’s where the hippy movement began. My daughter flew home and I continued onto New York which was a dream come true. I met my friend Deep Kick Girl in NYC.  You can follow her blog here. I loved meeting her gorgeous sister and brother-in-law, who live in Brooklyn.

It was an incredible adventure and we were on the go the whole time but I loved every minute of it! The noise, the chaos, the sounds, the food, the cocktails, Harlem, soul food, Manhattan, Greenwich Village…just sublime. NYC didn’t disappoint. Seeing Hamilton on Broadway was a huge thrill, and checking out Edie Falco perform in The True off-Broadway was a highlight.  Perhaps the most mind-blowing event was actually seeing Patti Smith perform spoken word and music at the Minetta Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village. I cried during her performance of Because the Night. Breathtaking.

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2018 was also filled with music.  I saw Frank Turner not once, but twice, with Sydney sider Deep Kick Girl. She flew to Melbourne one weekend to see him and I flew to Sydney to see him again with her. It was really lovely to spend so much time with my friend this year given we live in different states. She turned 50 this year, so earlier in the year she came to Melbourne and I took her out to Maha restaurant where the head chef invited us into the kitchen and made her a special dessert. We checked out the Alice exhibition at ACMI where I surprised her with a high tea (think Mad hatter tea party). We went to see the Smith Street Band (and laughed at the fact it was an All Ages concert)…partying with the young folk! We celebrated mother’s day with my gorgeous ones over yum cha and cocktails. What a brilliant weekend.

I was honoured to help out at the Access to Fashion show for Melbourne Fashion week, which was the brainchild of the lovely Carly Findlay.  My lovely daughter assisted me and it was the first time my girl really got to see me in action at an event. We had a lot of fun and the brilliant models, designers and make up artists were a delight. You can read more about it in the link above.

My love affair with great food, live music, film, art and hidden cocktail bars continued in this great city of Melbourne and I’ve managed to catch up with so many awesome friends this year to share these passions with,  but it wasn’t the only love affair happening this year. Seven months ago, after a self-imposed hiatus from dating, I decided to dip my toe back in the water. My little British friend suggested I try Bumble. Who would have known that the first guy I reached out to would be the guy I’m still dating?! Maybe it’s fate, or timing or the stars aligned, or I was ready…or maybe all of the above, but it just seems to be working. He’s a musician (yep, another creative), but he’s also a State Manager for a software firm so he’s grounded. He broke a number of self-imposed rules I had also. He wore sunglasses in his dating profile pic (which is a no-no for me) but something about him still prompted me to reach out. He’s not tall.  Now to put that in perspective, I’ve only ever dated tall men in my life. The joke being that they kept getting taller. At 5’7″, the Muso doesn’t fit that bill, but let’s face it – I’m only 5’2″ so he’s still taller than me. He lives in the same suburb as me which has never happened to me before!

Where did he come from? Apparently just around the corner! He is sweet, funny, gentle, helpful and kind but he’s also a creative extrovert and we seem to just be on the same page. He has on occasion strummed his guitar, serenading me with Nick Cave songs. I don’t want to get ahead of myself here but I will say that he’s met my children and all three really like him, and he’s met my friends, who are my family. He just seemed to slot right in. We share the same passion for music, live gigs, street art in Melbourne laneways and great places to eat. We’re at different stages of the divorce stakes. I’m eight years down the track, making me a seasoned professional at it, while he’s a novice having  been single for 18 months. He still has external things to sort through, but he never makes these things my problem. I get it, having been there. So right now, it’s passionate and fun and we can talk about anything but he also makes me laugh out loud. Most importantly, I feel completely myself when I’m with him.

I’m so grateful for this incredible year and I’m very much looking forward to new adventures in 2019. I’m off to Bali with my adult gorgeous ones, my new man and one of my favourite girlfriends in January, and I’m just so excited. What a great way to start the year. So instead of stepping gently into the new year, I’m happy to leap in with both feet. After a number of really hard years, 2018 made me feel anything is possible and I’m excited about the future. I walk forward feeling healed, calm and optimistic.

I wish you all a wonderful New Year.  Please be safe and well. Thank you all for your continued support even when I went quiet to regroup.  Much love xxx

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Bare Chests, Tigers…and fish?! Oh, my!

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Image result for abs

Every time I launch back into on line dating, I’m always stunned by the sameness of online dating profiles, and just how lazy a lot of men seem to be when it comes to creating a profile. Actually, a lot of men use one picture and write nothing on their profile…as if they are so amazing and dazzling that their one lone picture will elevate them to the top of a sea of other profiles!

Seriously, guys, you might be doing yourself out of some dates here!

Yes, I’d love to find the man of my dreams organically in a coffee shop, or at a gig…let’s face it, it’s not happening. Online dating is as mainstream now as iPhone selfies. Now, I don’t claim to have a full proof or top class profile myself but I think it’s important to at least write something that sums you up even just a little bit. For example, I state that I’m left wing politically, that I write and that I have eclectic tastes in music. I add what I like to do in my spare time – live music gigs, exhibitions, etc. It’s a small snapshot of who you are after all. Are you a wiz in the kitchen? Do you love the ballet or are you a trivia aficionado? Do you jog, cycle or run an animal shelter?

If someone has one photo and no written profile on Tinder, for example, I’m going to swipe left (meaning no for the uninitiated), regardless of your pearly whites. I mean, fellas, if you can’t even take two minutes out of your busy day to sell yourself, I’m guessing you’re a lazy dater in the real world. When I first entered the online dating arena years ago, I would have thought that was the norm. I now realise one’s effort on their profile is generally an indication of how much effort they are prepared to offer on the romance front.

I am on two different dating sites right now, also common these days. Some stick with one and others are on multiple sites of course. Whatever works for each person may be different. There are no hard and fast rules for such things. I’ve found though that while I’m an incredible multi-tasker in my day job, and in my busy life, I’m really not that great at juggling multiple conversations with many men. It just feels very weird and keeping track of who is who can be tricky and time consuming. I have likened it to job hunting…it takes a lot of patience and a dash of courage to put yourself forward. Some people are amazing at this and I take my hat off to them!

What most struck me most about dating profiles this time around was how many men use similar pictures to promote themselves (and let’s face it, we are all promoting ourselves on line hoping to catch the eye of someone awesome).

Certain profile pictures seem more common than others. Here are the serial offending pictures.

Image result for tigers

The Tiger Selfie…

What is with every third man putting a picture of themselves draped over a sedated tiger?! I can only assume these pictures are taken where such things are legally permitted – Asian holiday destinations? Many, many years ago, I held a baby tiger in Thailand. I have always felt guilty that I have helped in that way to keep animal captivity for tourist trade going…but there are so many men in the here and now posing with live big cats, mostly tigers, sedated for this very purpose. How many tourists must these poor creatures have to pose with on a daily basis?! If the dating site I’m on is anything to go by, a considerable number of Aussie males, apparently.

Is this common place profile picture meant to portray the “hunter” in men and perhaps play to the “gatherer” instincts of women?

Yeah, it’s not working guys. Draping yourself over an animal in captivity does not make you seem more strong and sexually appealing. It makes me sad for the large cats and you less appealing.

Some savvy men get this concept already. I have seen some very clever profiles where guys have written “Ladies, I have no pictures with tigers…”  Well played, sir. My profile actually states “must be wearing clothes and not be draped over a sedated tiger…” which goes some way in explaining how many tiger pics I’ve seen. I have to be honest. I wouldn’t date a smoker, nor a guy with a tiger pic.

Image result for tigers and fish

The Fish Pic…

Now, if I thought there were a lot of tiger pics, they have nothing on what I refer to as the ‘Fish Pic’. Before you think that was a typo, I’m referring to how many photos there of men holding actual fish!  Fish of all sizes, shapes and sizes… Look at me, great provider…check out the size of my very ample fish…

Are the fish indeed metaphors for their phallic extremities? Is the size of the fish they hold indicative of the size of their penis? I love seafood as much as the next person, and I’m sure to catch a fish takes great skill, but I had no idea so many middle aged men considered themselves to be fishermen. I mean really? So many fish, so little time.

I started taking screen shots of men-with-fish and sending them to a girl friend who finds them incredibly amusing at how many there were. On the rare occasion, one will be slightly different.

Man-holding-crab…He has crabs!!…

Or man-holding-lobster….Is that a lobster in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

In fairness, I have male friends who are online dating who make the same comment about women holding cats. Apparently there are many women holding felines…I guess the same argument could be used then for a lack of creativity in female profiles. At the very least, if you must include the fish pic, don’t make it the first picture we see!

The Family man pic…

Something else that really struck me too was how many men have photos with their children on their profiles. My best male friend assures me women do this often too, and that he finds it particularly creepy.

As a parent myself, I find it a little bit strange that anyone would want to put photos up of their children on a dating site…on the internet…the world wide web, people! The internet is a strange place, and the online dating world is fraught with uncertainty…and hello, strangers!  I understand that perhaps people are trying to say “look, this is my family and I’m family orientated”, but  you can write that in your profile and not have your kids exposed to complete strangers you’ve never met.

My advice would be don’t put your kids on an online site where countless strangers can and will view them on a daily basis.

Which leads me to the last one…

Half-Naked, topless pic…

This is a common one among men. I get that if you are including these pics on your profile, you’re generally happy to show off your wares and all the power to you.  I’ve seen men of all sizes and shapes using this half naked pose.

When I asked around before writing this post, a lot of women I spoke to said they find it off putting. Rightly or wrongly it’s viewed as an advertisement that guys are just seeking casual sex, or they are seen to be narcissistic or arrogant. At the very least women think you’re the type of guy who will send unsolicited dick pics if they initiate contact…and I don’t mean memes of Donald Trump.

If this is the case, go forth all ye bold men. If you’re only wanting casual encounters, it’s okay to state you don’t want anything serious and you don’t want to settle down!  There are women out there seeking the same, and I respect people for being honest about it. It saves time and energy.  There are also many less mainstream sites that cater for casual hook ups…

But if a man is actually seeking a deeper and more meaningful encounter then the shirtless selfie might have women dismissing you as less than a serious contender. One male friend of mine who is super fit and a body builder shared his profile pic of me, which was him showing off his naked guns and six pack. He conceded that he eventually changed the picture to a smiling selfie with his shirt on when he was being propositioned for sex all the time when he wanted a relationship. Another male friend said if someone wants a half naked pic, they’ll ask you for one. Good call!

My Good Girl tips for a great profile?

In the big scheme to things, be yourself, share something real about you.  Keep your shirt on unless otherwise asked,  put up more than one photo (and no group pics where people have to guess who the hell you are!), save the fish for the BBQ and the tigers for the jungle…women will thank you for it!

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All the pretty words…the tale of the Author

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Be careful what you pray for, you just might get it

Be careful what you pray for, you might regret it

You get your hands on the glittering prize

Now everybody’s coming at you from every side

Be Careful what you pray for – Paul Kelly

Once upon a time, in down town Melbourne, as I, the Good Girl, professed to the universe that I was ready for the right guy to come along… my phone buzzed. I had seriously spoken out loud to the universe, verbalising a wish list of the qualities I want the perfect guy to possess in some attempt to perhaps manifest him. It seemed like a lame thing to do, sure, but in saying it out loud, perhaps I was also clarifying things in my own mind. And it’s not like I was baying at the moon!

Seriously, spookily, thirty seconds after actually verbalising what I wanted, a text message was delivered from a guy I hadn’t heard from in over a year. The very first man I had chatted to after things finished with the Producer. Was this a sign?!

On paper, this was the guy. On paper, he had all the qualities I hoped to find in a man. Single, intelligent, creative, thoughtful, articulate, generous of spirit, affectionate, humorous, left wing, ….and a writer.  A published author to be precise, and the host of a popular podcast where he interviewed famous, well-to-do writers. He was the chair of a writer’s association and guest speaker at many literary events.

When I first started speaking with him a year ago, there was definitely a spark, with  banter that flowed easily. He was both interesting and interested in what I had to say.  He made me laugh, such a welcome relief after a break up.

Although we talked on the phone often, we never actually met face to face.  One night he called me to say he had an opportunity to get back with his ex-girlfriend and me being me, I encouraged it.

Leave no stone unturned, have no regrets, I advised. I wished him well and that was that. I had felt that tiny sting of disappointment, at a missed opportunity. We seemed to have so much in common, but timing is everything.

So a year later, a lovely message had popped up on my phone from the Author.  Clearly he was single again. He had been separated from his ex-wife for over two years, and the relationship in between hadn’t worked. He reached out on the off chance I might too be single…it’s all about timing.

As expected, it felt like we just picked up where we had left off. He handed me a gift, which was a copy of the Tex Perkins biography, remembering that in my conversations from 12 months before, I’d mentioned that I had selfies with Tex at a country music festival, along with James Young, music promoter. He managed to make me smile in the first few seconds.  It was very thoughtful. After drinks, he walked me to the tram stop and kissed me gently. Lovely. Easy.

So here I was again, with another Northern suburbs, inner-city, left wing creative. He was an ex punk rocker with a killer vinyl collection, an athiest Jew formerly of Sydney, and 56 years old.  Yes voter in the ridiculous Marriage Equality survey here in Australia.

Vote yes, just get it done. 

The Author pursued me, and was driving every catch up. At each date, he was already suggesting the next. He planned them all. He took me to many literary events and introduced me to people within his writer’s world. He invited me to come and watch him work on his podcast, where I met the producers and fan-girled while meeting one very famous Australian writer, whose books had been adapted for film by the likes of Spielberg. I got first hand wonderful advice from the famous writer…It was like a dream come true.

Watching him work was lovely, in the sense that he was so openly happy to allow me into his world, something that had taken such a long time for the Producer to do. Everything about this just felt easy and okay. What is this strangeness? Where is the hard work part, I questioned.

On one particular night he  invited me to stay in town and booked a hotel room. We had dinner, and then went to a cosey wine bar for drinks. He’s a tactile guy, lots of lovely hugs, and kisses and holding hands, and quite comfortable with public displays of affection.  Romantic, clever and funny, this guy was starting to win me over.  In the wake of my mum’s sudden departure from the earth, he was caring, sweet and lovely.

Like a fairy tale…

As we all know, fairy tales don’t really exist. Most of them cleverly are moralistic tales of foreboding outcomes…And so it was with the Author. For six lovely weeks, he made me feel like I was the only woman in existence, wining and dining me, hanging out, watching films, laughing a lot. On the last weekend we spent together, he opened up, admitting that his marriage had failed when he’d had an affair on his wife of twenty years.

Oh. 

Worse, the “girlfriend” he went back to a year before was the woman he’d had the affair with.

Oh, shit.

And, he admitted, he had previously had a gambling addiction. He liked to flutter on the ponies.

Holy hell.

I kept an open mind.  I listened to what he had to say.  He didn’t try to justify his behaviour.  So, on the tail end of his confessions, I explained how my marriage had ended to the Taurus, and the devastation of his financial betrayal. The next day, as we untangled limbs and he climbed out of bed, he confirmed our dinner plans for Tuesday night and confirmed our attendance at an event the following Saturday.  He lingered in my kitchen over coffee, kissing my neck, telling me I was amazing…and then he left.

Not three hours later, he was phoning me. My openness and my ability to articulate my pain at what my ex-husband had done, and the truth of the aftermath apparently was like an epiphany for him that what he had done to his ex-wife must have been devastating.  Didn’t he get that in the past two years?!

He felt he owed it to her to throw himself on her mercy. To go to counselling with her and ask if she might take him back and forgive him.

You fucking what now?!

Wow.  Didn’t you just climb out of my bed only hours ago?!  I listened.  I took a deep breathe. Tears betrayed me, though I’m sure it was just the shock of his words and their consequent meaning. That he had gleefully fed me hope,  How dare he, I asked, use my pain to somehow garnish some redemption from his ex-wife?  He spewed forth a sea of “I’m sorries”…So very sorry. Sorry. Oh god, very sorry…

“Perhaps, “ I pondered to him, “The best course of action might be to live your life in such a way that apologies aren’t required to the women you leave in your wake.  Try being single and working out your issues.”

He sent me a message the day after explaining that his ex-wife wasn’t keen on taking him back.  No? Really? Gee, I wonder why?   

Especially when he was still friends on social media with the woman he’d had the affair with. Oh, and you just climbed out of my bed to boot! Or was it all just an elaborate excuse to get out of yet another relationship?  Who can say for sure? The Author was a teller of tales, a weaver of deceit.

The Author was no Prince Charming.  He was however, a Wolf in Sheep’s clothing.

I have no doubt there will be a happy ending for me, but in this case I definitely dodged a bullet. This won’t dull my optimism! I’ll just need to stay a few more dragons to arrive at the prize.

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Of brains and brawn…enter the Strongman

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Image result for lego strongman

 

 

So no one told you life was going to be this way.
Your job’s a joke, you’re broke, you’re love life’s DOA.
It’s like you’re always stuck in second gear,
Well, it hasn’t been your day, your week, your month, or even your year.But, I’ll be there for you, when the rain starts to pour.
I’ll be there for you, like I’ve been there before.
I’ll be there for you, cause you’re there for me too.
The Rembrandts (I’ll be there for You)

Dating can be a bit of a three-ring circus. I don’t have to tell you that if, like me, you find yourself on the so called wrong side of 40, and you’ve been on the dating hamster wheel for a little while. In fact, some of you are no doubt rolling your eyes thinking “no shit, Sherlock.”

As some of you know, I suddenly found myself single at 41 when my marriage ended and now, with another relationship under my belt, I’m standing here single at 48. The Producer and I gave it a red hot go, even living together, and lasted 4 years, though in truth we were so wrong for one another.   Blind Freddy could see it. I just didn’t want to.

He was the King of mixed signals and let’s face it, I was the Queen of wanting to believe it could be different (Ugh…perfect). I learnt valuable lessons from this relationship, I now realise.  I could love the fuck out of someone without it being healthy. A fact I should have known in my 20’s but I seriously hadn’t known that. I learnt that codependency isn’t awesome and I learnt that a mutual value base is important to make something work. Most of all, I learnt that two people with good intentions can trigger bad things in each other when compatibility is missing.  We loved each other, no doubt about it. He was  both terrible and brilliant, as was I. Even after the break up, we were there for each other when needed.  And then we weren’t.  I have no regrets. For the first time in the 16 months since we split, and maybe because I’ve just gone through losing my mother which puts a lot into perspective, I can finally smile when I see memories of the Producer pop up on my Facebook feed, or I hear a song on my playlist that reminds me of him.

Yet, I continue to date with a sense of optimism, which is how I’m built I guess.  One of my friends thinks I’m brave that I continue to open myself up to the possibilities of meeting someone, even though I’ve been very hurt…that I’m prepared to my heart on the line. Ha! Well, I’m either really brave or a little bit crazy…or probably both! If you are hoping to actually have a relationship, beyond hook ups, there are no guarantees or handbooks on the dating front.  It does require a dose of courage and a measure of vulnerability. I’ve become more cautious with time, but I fight not to be jaded or scarred by the past.  That’s not always easy.

Sometime after the Producer, I dated the motorcycle riding, right wing, Fox-watching American and obviously that was never going to work. I’m so left-wing, and my feminist views were too much for him. What I had absolutely learnt from my previous relationship though was that I couldn’t ignore red flags. It didn’t feel right and I didn’t feel okay about certain things, so walking away was an obvious decision. As I often say, if someone shows you who they are, believe them. He showed me he was a bit of a dick, and I believed it. You can read about the American here https://goodgirlmedia.wpengine.com/the-mother-load-music-mothers-and-mayhem/

Then out of the blue, along came the Strongman.

We had been work colleagues but to be honest, I hadn’t viewed his potential dating material.  Though he worked in the corporate arena his passion was simply lifting heavy shit. He was offended by those that thought he was a weight lifter.  No, he corrected them….he was a professional strongman. He didn’t just pump iron.  Strongman competitions involved lifting awkward heavy objects. Think truck tyres being flipped, or concrete spheres, known as Atlas stones, weighing in around 100 kg (sometimes more) being lifted onto pedestals.  He once carried 400 kilos in a competition, which just seems impossible.  Who actually does that?

Perhaps fortune favors the brave. and when he was made redundant from work he summoned up the courage to ask me out.  I was initially taken aback. It was most unexpected but since I live my life with a sense of adventure, I said yes. Why not? Now at this point, he was also adamant he was going to to live in the Uk, so initially I said no.  He decided to stay and I agreed to a date at the ballet.

He was 9 years younger than me, sweet but not really my usual physical type. Sure, the Strongman was tall, like most men I date.  At 6 ft. 4 inches (193cm) tall, this guy was built and big, as you would imagine. He was a bald, former red haired man, with an Irish heritage. He spent hours every day in the gym. He consumed up to 4000 calories a day on the lead up to competitions. While we were dating, he represented Australia as a part of a team at a competition overseas, where he was required to pull a bus.  I kid you not. Now, I don’t pretend to understand this sport on any level, but he was extremely passionate about it and committed to it and I admired that.

I can’t stress enough that he was a nice guy. He was affectionate and kind and I really liked his sense of social justice but he was also a man of simple taste seeking a simple life. Yes, he had a dark past, and anyone playing along will know that I do have a soft spot for former bad boys.

He’d been raised as an elite private school boy, but joined the military and had served in both East Timor and survived a couple of tours in Afghanistan. Serving his country had left him with a small scar where a bullet had shattered his jaw, and, a large dose of PTSD.

Disillusioned by the military and feeling abandoned by the government that sent him to these foreign wars, when he was discharged he found himself in a bikie gang,   along with an alcohol and drug addiction. Survival is a powerful instinct, and he realised that he had to do something drastic to save himself, or he was going to die.

I don’t quite know how one extradites themselves out of a biker club, but I guess there are ways. He certainly didn’t elaborate or talk about it. He walked away from that life, turned to the Catholic Church after a long hiatus, and joined Narcotics Anonymous. All of this was a huge surprise to me, given I knew him to be a caring and spiritual man who raised money for orphans in the Philippines and happily worked alongside his dad at Melbourne soup kitchens. He considered his altruism to be much needed redemption.

His hedonistic life was long gone by the time we met. As a reformed alcoholic, he didn’t drink, of course. It did get me thinking however, that the last three men I’d been with – The Producer, the American and the Strongman, all had past demons with alcohol. Former addicts.

Go figure.

What I soon found out was that spending so many hours in a gym was great for his soul, and a newer healthier addiction than those in his past, but it didn’t lend itself to a social life.  He was in the gym at 4.00am every day so by 7.00pm at night he was exhausted and wanting to go to bed.  Weekends consisted of training followed by chilling out on my couch, eating and watching Netflix. Though not always Netflix & Chill, which is an entirely different thing all together…and sometimes he was even too tired for that!

On that note, I have to say that the gentle giant and I were quite compatible when he wasn’t too exhausted.  Not going to lie…it was quite lovely to be with someone who could pick me up and who would take control in the bedroom.  The thing is though, I also need mental stimulation, and passion. It almost felt like the Strongman was too agreeable.  If I said it, he agreed.  I didn’t need a yes man.  I needed a man of principle with his own ideas.

I guess I just felt restless. Life is about passion, and I love taking chunks out of life as much as he loves the gym, so I’m always out and about finding new things to do. A weekend in front of the TV was, for me, a slow kind of torture. He no longer drove, didn’t own a car and lived over an hour away.  In some ways it just didn’t feel grown up. As sweet as this gentle giant was, I felt like I was dating another man-child, who had little responsibility and no plans of adopting any soon.  My life was so different.

In the end, after three months, we decided that we weren’t made for each other, and mutually decided to call it quits while we were still friends. I raised it first, and after a few days he conceded. It was a lovely adult break up, followed by a cuddle. He didn’t need to change for anyone and I had no intention of doing so either.

As one door closes however, another is always certain to open. My heart is resilient, despite the setbacks, and I am the eternal optimist…having said that, if you know a grown up man who is both spiritually and emotionally evolved, who has sorted out his his baggage enough to date, by all means send him my way!

p.s He must like life, books, movies, food, cool bars and have a sense of adventure…just saying!

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The Mother load…music, mothers and mayhem

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Say “nighty-night” and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me
While I’m alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me

–Dream a little Dream of Me

Lyrics by Gus Khan (1931) – Recorded by Mama Cass (1968)

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There’s no delicate or easy way to say this. I’ve needed to say these words so many times in the last few weeks.

My mum passed away, suddenly. Unexpected.

The words don’t get easier to say. I’m not sure anything prepares for such a life altering moment. It happened like a blur, as such things often do.  One moment I’m at work, and then next I’m hightailing it to a country hospital after my mum, ever stoic, called me herself to tell me she’d had “a little bit of a heart attack.”

Instinctively I knew I had to leave work straight away, even though she insisted she was fine. My dad had a heart attack and bi-pass surgery and emerged physically fit beyond it.  In my mind, I actually thought this would be the same outcome.  Everyone knows someone who has had a heart attack, right? Medical advances are incredible.  Keyhole surgery sees stints implanted into arteries and hearts, and their owners, literally given a new lease on life.

My mum was strong, and fragile. Fragile-strong with a determined soul rivaled only by others whose lives were were plagued by pain.  Contracting polio as a small child altered the course of her life  that would be challenged by disability, pain, endless surgeries and limitations. Australia in the 1950’s was intolerant of disability and terrified of unknown diseases.  Actually, Australia in 2017 is still intolerant in many ways, with our current government cutting necessary funding to disability services and pensions. In the 50’s, people thought they would contract polio from those in leg irons, long after they ceased to be contagious. Children were cruel. They wouldn’t play with her, eat with her and often bully boys would knock her down and laugh at her attempts to get back up.

In high school I read I can jump puddles by Alan Marshall, which opened up a dialogue with my mum on her own polio ordeals. My mum was only four years old when she was struck down, and spent over 12 months in Fairfield Hospital in the Infectious Diseases department. When I think of any of my children being isolated for over a year, away from me, from their family and friends, it makes me quite emotional. No doubt it was etched firmly into her psyche, and played out throughout her life in various ways, good and bad. Some of her coping mechanisms were difficult to deal with as her child. Her high tolerance for pain and discomfort made her fairly intolerant of those that complained about anything she viewed to be a lesser affliction to her own.  Common colds for example were met with her urging to soldier on.  I carry that with me to this day. I often felt that she wanted, or needed, me to achieve more and be more given that she felt she was limited.

 

To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power.

-Maya Angelou 

 

My relationship with my mum was fraught with highs and lows as mother-daughter relationships sometimes are, but for some time I had reconciled how we were.  She was never going to be Carol Brady, just as I was never going to be Marsha. Mine was not an idyllic childhood like those I watched on the television growing up.  What I did inherit from my mum, and proudly so, was her strength, determination and independence, though I suspect the latter was forced upon me.  Having a disabled parent meant that I did a lot around the house from an early age.  She didn’t dote on us, because she couldn’t, but also I think she wasn’t geared that way by nature. It’s hard to say how much her personality was skewed by her experiences.  That’s possibly true for everyone.

What her disability gave my mother was her undeniable love of the underdog and a unwavering passion for social justice.

She was arrested for protesting against the Vietnam war, and another time during a march in Melbourne streets to urge the government of the day to bring our soldiers home from Vietnam.  During the 70’s, she took to the streets to march in solidarity with her American sisters for women’s rights. During several rallies, she was “detained” by police. Not wanting to add to the chorus of female oppression, the police called it ‘detaining’ rather than arresting.  A rose by any other name…

She became part of the ‘new left movement’ and even with babies she protested for civil liberties – women’s rights and gay rights. I once dared to question her commitment to the feminist front when at 14 years old I presumed to know more than her. I asked her as she stood at the kitchen stove cooking my dad’s breakfast how she could call herself a feminist when she was a home maker and cooked for my dad every day.  Not skipping a beat, she put down the spatula in her hand, turned and looked at me levelly. She explained in her ‘don’t fuck with my ideals’ voice that she had fought for my rights to be whatever the hell I wanted to be, and that feminism meant exactly that…having choices. She told me she cooked for my dad every day because she chose to, not out of any sense of obligation.  And with that, she turned back to the stove and her cooking.

I never viewed my mum as an anarchist but in truth she always stood for the principals that she believed in. Even in the emergency department she asked me what I thought of this “plebiscite bullshit” on marriage equality.  We laughed about the state of politics and she thought they might think she was faking her heart attack and send her home.

A hippy child at heart, she ended an unhappy, conservative and abusive marriage and at 30 she moved in with my (step) dad. There’s was a love story, and I think I’ve spent a great deal of my life hoping to emulate the sentiment behind what they shared emotionally though not the drama attached to their beginning…they both left marriages for one another.

Patience was a lovely virtue that my dad owned, thankfully as my mum definitely walked to the beat of her own drum.

She had been born in Fitzroy and raised in Carlton, a northern suburb of Melbourne and she had a bird’s eye view of an area that quickly became one of Australia’s most multicultural cities after World War II.  Visiting my grandmother in Carlton in my childhood gave me an affinity with the Northern suburbs (and let’s face it, inner city creatives) ever since. Ironically my eldest son now lives in the same street where my mum attended high school.

Music was woven into the tapestry of my life. Our home was filled with tunes from the Vietnam era and usually filled the house along with country music she loved.  Janis Joplin, Johnny Cash, Patti Smith, Bob Dylan and Cat Stevens were played so endlessly that somehow they are also on my playlists. She had loved the Stones and chose the Beatles over Elvis. She loved Bowie and The Mamas & The Papas. Even as a young toddler, I knew every word the Helen Reddy anthem, I am Woman.

My mum struggled when she lost my dad 7 years earlier, and in truth I think I had always believed he would have survived her. True to form, she spontaneously decided on a tree change, buying a house in the country, site unseen that she found on the internet. Ignoring my advice to stay near family and friends, she packed up and lived as she always had, on her own terms. Fiercely independent and always defying the odds, her body betrayed her. Had it just been a heart attack, I’ve no doubt she would still be here but as it turned out, the blood thinners administers at the hospital uncovered an ulcer, attached to an aggressive stomach cancer yet to be detected.  Sadly, they couldn’t stop the internal bleeding. Though she slipped in and out of consciousness, she was brave and stoic to the end.  I stood with the surgeon while he calmly explained the no win-no hope conundrum we found ourselves in, choosing to comfort me in the face of this news, rather than thinking of herself.as she faced her own mortality. She joked with the doctor that if surgery would take out quicker, she’d consider it.

She  knew she was going to die. “I’m not going to make it this time, darling,” she said and smiled at me, squeezing my hand.

Everything happened so quickly.  I arrived at the hospital Friday early afternoon, and by Saturday morning my close friend arrived, my incredible soul sister.  At some point my Mum’s best friend also arrived which seemed fitting, that my mum would be among strong women at the end of her life.  My darling Italian soul sister held my mum’s hand and mine through the most painful hours, for which I can’t seem to grasp enough words here to thank her for.  When I told my mum that my friend was coming, she said “your girls have always been your family, haven’t they?” I think they are indeed the closest thing I may have to family, beside my gorgeous children.

My darling friend comforted my mum, telling her she would look after me.  I have tears even now writing that.  I can’t think of another person who would be more fitting to be standing by my side in the terrible-beautiful final moments of my mum’s life. A life well lived.

In the late afternoon on a cold Saturday, they rushed in a young and inexperienced priest to say the last rights. As an atheist it hadn’t occurred to me. She had faith in God but thought the church to be hypocritical and lacking. Having the priest there however was poetic in the end.  As he said the last Amen, my fierce little feminist mum slipped away.

I take consolation in the fact that she is now with my dad and that she left express and clear wishes, to be cremated and her ashes, along with my dad’s, are to be scattered on the ocean on  a sunny day. She expressly asked for no church service, but she agreed to a celebration of her life.  I think I honoured that, surrounded by my gorgeous ones as they talked of their Nanna.  I got to say my final good byes to my mother among  my lovely friends. We drank bubbles which was fitting. Many in fact as we exchanged stories of her life. It’s hard to sum up a life with a photo slideshow and a playlist, but I think we did her proud. The outpouring of support and love shown to the kids and I was both humbling and overwhelming.  For a single woman without close blood-family ties, I feel honoured to be surrounded by such love.

I am forever grateful for her lessons, and for her strength, a gift even at the very end. I loved that she loved my children with an abandon not shown to many.

She told me she was proud of them and of me. She told me she loved me and loved my strength, and I of course told her how much I loved her.  She had fought the hard flight her whole life.  She had defied experts by walking, and living in a way they said she wouldn’t.  She lived her truth even when it didn’t fit with social norms. Sharing her final moments was such a gift for which I will always be grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Nick Cave, motorcyles and American flags

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Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around

The Ship Song : Nick Cave 

 

It’s been months since I’ve written here and for that, I’m really sorry. While I absolutely chat with everyone regularly on the Good Girl Confessional Facebook page, and you know I  love that, I haven’t sunk my teeth into a juicy, confessional style post in months. What’s with that?! Recently several friends have rightfully pulled me up on it and asked me where was all my saucy news from the world of online dating from behind the picket fence…I realised that I have so much to spill but have been working on other projects, so with the encouragement, and some berating,  by my writer/blogger friends (thanks Deep Kick Girl), I’m back baby!

I recently reached a milestone. It’s been 12 months since I split with the Producer.  A whole damn year, which has been a roller coaster of emotions, learnings and letting-go’s. The Producer and I had a tangled, weird connection for a lot of that time. I had asked about possible reconciliations much earlier on after I had a health scare and he was supportive, and he had said no…then he continued to reach out on a regular basis. It seemed that while my declarations were more heart based, what he missed most about me was my prowess in the bedroom, which to be honest hardly felt flattering.

What he continued to propose for some time was sex without any commitment, nor hope of there ever being one.  He told me he was willing to offer me “emotional intimacy and sex”, but no relationship and no exclusivity. He actually tried to frame it by saying he was my friend. Ummm…No thanks! There is no “emotional” intimacy without an emotional connection. That’s just drive-through fast-food sex. He didn’t just meet me on a hook up site, after all. We lived together, we were engaged and he shared my life with my kids. If I just wanted casual, meaningless sex I could have probably found it anywhere. For the record, I don’t fuck my friends. People you sleep with are lovers. The Producer is an ex.

So I declined his very generous offer, and said I’d rather not be used as a convenient whore and bed-warmer while he waited for something else, supposedly better, to come along. I know, I know…I’m so fussy! Who could possibly give up such a heartfelt offer? The spell was broken and the rose-coloured glasses finally came off.

Much has happened since I split with the Producer. I have moved home twice. Man, that will take it out of you. I have had an amazing start to this year though, filled with live gigs and great catch-ups with friends. It’s been a smorgasbord of bands – I’ve see the Menzingers, Dinosaur Jr, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, the Pixies, the Descendants, Adele as well as Blondie and Cyndi Lauper. Last week I attended a VIP night DJ’d by Boy George. It’s been great fun.

As it turned out, music was how I happened across an American I dated for a few months.

The American was all kinds of opposite to me. The Harley riding Yankee-boy from the state of Maine was politically right wing (he went to great lengths to tell me he wasn’t alt-right and that he didn’t vote for Trump….phew), he worked for a large pharmaceutical company and was ex US military (airfare actually). He was opposed to Hilary Clinton and believed in gun laws (though was quite happy to raise his child here in a country that had strict fun controls…go figure). He had reached out to me on a dating site and started a conversation. The one thing that struck me was our quirky tastes in music completely aligned.

I told him I was left wing with socialist leanings, and truthfully told him I wasn’t into motorcycles. He was a rather large guy, sporting tattoos under his corporate suit, and had a grey biker beard. In fact, I had to ask him if he was a biker or a bikie (huuuuge difference!).

Yankee Boy, with his deep Boston drawl, eventually got me to go out with him through music. He bravely reached out one night to tell me that although he might not be my cup of tea, he happened to have a spare ticket to a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds concert in Melbourne. How could a girl say no?! I mean it’s NICK CAVE!! That’s a hell of a first date. So we stood under the stars on a perfect, warm Melbourne night listening to the haunting sounds of Nick Cave singing heartbreaking songs from his album Skeleton Tree, sipping  G&T’s and getting to know each other. He had a dry sense of humour and soulful eyes. Like everyone in my age bracket, he’d been through his fair share of crap. His brother, a Vietnam veteran, had tragically taken his own life 4 years before. His mother had passed away 6 weeks after that. His marriage had crumbled eventually under the weight of grief and apathy…and the universe reinforced once again that I am a sucker for a bird with a broken wing.

 

The American was on one hand so much fun. Hedonistic, he loved copious amounts of fine food and expensive champagne. He was interesting. Deployed in the military to Japan during the Chernobyl melt down, he was now pescatarian, unable to bring himself to eat meat. He’d seen amazing bands play all over the world. He had ridden a Harley Davidson across the states to honour his brother. He had a daughter the same age as mine (In fact I took both of the girls, both young feminists, to their first International Women’s Day rally as I adorned my pussy hat).  On our one-month anniversary, he paid a busker out the front of a restaurant to sing Nick Cave songs to me. I am a sucker for romance. He finally convinced me to don the leather jacket and hop on his motorcycle too. I admit, it was a little bit terrifying and a little bit fun.

Something however was amiss. On more than one occasion, I witnessed the darker side of his drinking. There was something quite brooding  about him, with a sash of self absorption and selfishness thrown in.  He would turn up to planned dates late without apology or explanation. He was at times argumentative and cold. He spoke about his ex-wife only through gritted teeth, snarling about her despite their 22 years together. When he told me his ex-wife has accused him of being aggressive, a red flag went up. I will not go into detail but I will say I have learnt to listen to my instincts. I removed myself one night from his city apartment as quickly as possible and headed home crying in an Uber. Crying from the shock of watching someone unravel. Mad at myself for wasting tears on someone who treated me badly…again.  I was proud of myself for heeding the signs. I can’t say if the situation would have escalated, further…I’m saying I didn’t know if it would and I didn’t feel safe.

Weeks later, Yankee Boy asked me to lunch, at a very expensive restaurant. He said he wanted to explain himself. He ordered many oysters and champagne for me, and then told me he had given up drinking, and was seeing a psychologist. He professed lots of pretty things, telling me I was amazing and that he felt so lucky to meet me. That losing me had made him want to be a better man. Damn. Well, all of it sounded huge and genuine and I agreed to see him again. It lasted only 3 days. The aloof, brooding, selfish and rude behaviour happened again, only this time in his sober skin.

The moral of this tale? When someone shows you who they are the first time, believe them. He had shown me early on who he was. Red flags were raised. His behavior didn’t just stem from too much alcohol fueled by grief. As it turned out, the man from Maine was just a bit of a dick. I admit I was a bit stupid to fall for it twice.  Fool me once…etc etc.

There were great lessons in this adventure. I found out I had turned a huge emotional corner and could no longer put up with being treated like crap. Not by the Producer, the American…nor by any other man.  I would no longer continue to date anyone who didn’t treat me with the respect I deserve and while I own my own failings, I’ve stopped blaming myself for their bad behavior, and thinking of myself as less-than.  In the end, all the pretty words don’t mean anything if they are spoken from the lips of someone incapable of delivering on the promises.

By turning the corner, I think I’ve opened myself up to the possibilities of greater things. I have no regrets. The Producer taught me I could love again after my marriage failed, but the relationship also taught me that you can love someone with all of your heart with no guarantees they’re  the right person for you. Perhaps the American was a test from the universe to check if I’d listened and learnt. Listen and learnt I had. While I love the idea of brooding bad boys, like Nick Cave for example, it’s not really what I need in my love life. In the end, I’d rather be a bad seed on my own while I wait for the main attraction to arrive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Brand New Beginnings – Here’s to the new year!

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Image result for new beginnings

 

My house smells like raisin toast as I sip coffee in bed…it’s 2.02pm on New Years Eve and yes, I’m still in bed tucked up with my laptop. I’ve been writing. I hadn’t written any poetry in awhile but I’ve written some today. I’ve started working on a novel…and here I am here writing for this blog…my happy place. I started the Good Girl Confessional back in 2012 and finally created the site in 2013, and it was cathartic. It still is! I’ve met the most amazing people through this blog, both on line and in person.

You can read the first post here  https://goodgirlmedia.wpengine.com/i-cant-go-back-to-yesterday-i-was-a-different-person-then/

I have evolved and changed quite a lot since then, and yet here I am on the eve of 2017, single again. I’m looking forward to the new year I have to say. This year seems to have been a hard road for a lot of people I know and from some of you who have followed and commented on the blog.

For me, 2016 involved a lot of highs and lows. As I’m mad for music, I saw Gillian Welch not once, but twice during her visit here in February. If you haven’t listened to her, I highly recommend Time (The Revelator) which is an incredible album. In March one of my musical dreams came true when I saw The Violent Femmes play live at A Day on the Green at a Victorian winery in March. They played along with Rat Cat, Died Pretty and the ever great Hoodoo Gurus.

Once again though I found out what I was made of. In May, I moved out of the house I shared with the Producer, and out of the area I had so much wanted to be living in. I was heart broken, overwhelmed and bewildered to be honest. I left someone I was in love with, feeling broken and emotionally bruised. I don’t know where I found the courage, but things between us weren’t good. We were on a constant hampster-wheel of extreme highs and extreme lows. I moved with the gorgeous ones, my kids to a tiny, old little place in a suburb that was new for me. And I cried. A lot.

The producer and I have had such a journey and it’s played out here on this blog over the years. We were dating and together, and not together. In the early days I thought we were together but he was sleeping with others. I walked away graciously when he wouldn’t commit, only to have him call me months later professing love and we became an official couple. It was never easy, not even then I guess, but we genuinely loved each other. He proposed and we got engaged, but he didn’t want to marry me. It was a constant push me-pull you situation. We were always so different.

I first wrote about the Producer back in May 2013 in a post, not so ironically titled Good Girls Fall for Bad Boys. You can revisit it via the link below:

https://goodgirlmedia.wpengine.com/good-girls-fall-for-bad-boys/

Earlier this year I had a five stay hospital visit after getting a crappy infection in my small intestine. I’m really grateful to have avoided surgery, and so grateful that the first  night my amazing girlfriend, Italian goddess that she is, stepped in to look after the kids. On the second night my eldest son came to stay with them. Then, of all people, the Producer stepped in to help out. As an ex, he did go above and beyond, staying at my place and driving the kids to and from activities and parties. He walked the dog, and brought me home from the hospital when I was released from hospital.  The place I had moved to when I left him.

I was really grateful for the kindness, but it’s fair to say that it stirred up feelings and longings. He started reaching out, getting flirty. I reciprocated in kind. We had dinner and went to farewell drinks together for his house mate who was going to live over seas. Things were hot for a little while, which is dangerous ground for hope to start sprouting like spring grass birthing through dry soil. I asked him if we could try again, which I’m not sorry about, and he said he’d think about it. In the end, he did what he always does. He pushed me away the moment I got too close.

He wasn’t kind about it. He told me that he didn’t want to date me, or get back with me but he was happy to sleep with me. What?! The sex was always amazing because we were compatible in that sense, but also because we were emotionally and spiritually connected…or so I thought. Take away the emotional connection and all else ceases. That’s how I’m built. He didn’t just share my bed. He shared my life, and he had my heart.

Reading the post above, even after knowing him for 4 years, getting engaged, living with him and sharing every aspect of my life with him, he still thought it okay to treat me like an object than a person? You can’t be someone’s fuck buddy after all we’ve shared. Still, I’m not sorry I met him and loved all the happy times we shared – our love of music, films, documentatries and exhibitions…and a trip to MONA which I will always adore. Of course I miss those moments.

I had lots of highlights too that shone light on dark days.

My gorgeous friend Deep kick Girl (https://deepkickgirl.com) flew me to Sydney, and we drank cocktails and saw the Frida Kahlo exhibition. Seeing Frida’s works, and spending time away with my friend,  reminded me that as women we are stronger than we think.  I’m really feel grateful that I got away and we laughed and cried and walked like a zillion kilometres around Sydney. At least. I’m so damn lucky to be surrounded by great people.

Image result for frida kahloOther exhibitions also inspired me! I also saw the Degas exhibition at the NGV (three times!) and I saw the Banksy exhibiton and the Martin Scorsese exhibiton (ACMI) with my gorgeous friend Sandra from The $120 Food challenge http://www.120dollarsfoodchallenge.com/wp/

I ate lots of great food (including Greek food served by George Colombaris with my Italian goddess bestie) and I saw lots of films. I saw Meshel Laurie speak about resilience which I probably needed! You can check her out here: https://meshellaurie.com

I went to Catherine Deveny’s book launch for Use Your Words http://www.catherinedeveny.com and her words inspired me so much I started writing a book…it’s slow going! I met yet another lovely writer online through my blog, and our interests – Juliet Madison who has freely offered amazing encouragement.  https://julietmadison.com/

So here I am again. Slowly regaining my mojo, single and knowing my worth. My Christmas this year was tiny and quiet, but it was lovely. Just me and the gorgeous ones eating seafood and roast pork. It felt a bit surreal  but it was still lovely. It’s always a weird time for me. No extended family and missing the Producer’s family I had shared Christmas with for three years. I am luckier than some and I’m always grateful for my amazing kids and brilliant friends.

So as 2017 looms larger than life, I can’t help but wonder what’s in store. I am moving house again – the same area but a bigger place which will be good. I have tickets to see bands every month from January through to April, and I’ve started dating again. I’ve not met anyone as yet where there has been chemistry but I am back in the game. I do know that I’m not interested in casual flings or being anyone’s friend with benefits.

The world is a strange place. We have lost truck loads of celebrities in 2016…Trump got elected…friends have been sick…it has felt like the world has gone a little mad.

Though life hasn’t quite gone to plan (and hasn’t for some time), I’m so looking forward to 2017 and all the adventures it brings! Tomorrow is not just another day, it’s a whole new year.

Happy New Year (or Hogmanay as my lovely Scottish friend would say) to all of you and I hope next year is happy and peaceful for all of us!

 

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The very Bridget life of the Good Girl

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Daniel Cleaver

Just as you are?

Not thinner? Not cleverer?

Not with slightly bigger breasts and a slightly smaller nose?

BRIDGET: Mm-mmm.

Well…fuck me.

Scene from Bridget Jones’ Diary (2001)

 

As the next Bridget Jones film in the franchise is about to launch, fifteen years after the original, I’ve decided to come clean about something. The thing is, a much as I like to think I’m a red hot single mama,  I’m definitely more Bridget Jones than Dita Von Teese. Don’t get me wrong, I am most definitely a red blooded woman, who is both open and sexual. You only need to look at my earlier posts, like Love Me, Love my Vagina…but I digress. I’ve just come to understand that the reason I could always feel an infinity with Bridget Jones is because, actually I’m very much like an Australian version of her.

When I started this blog 4 years ago, way before the Producer came along, I talked a lot about seeking my own Mr Darcy. Of course I had the glorious Colin Firth in mind when I talked of Darcy…and more the Bridget Jones version of him (even in a reindeer sweater) than the Jane Austen classic. Obviously I wasn’t too clear with the universe, because in meeting the Producer, what I actually got was more Daniel Clever of the Hugh Grant variety…all bad boy hormones but not enough emotional intimacy to keep the relationship going.

In fairness to me, and to the Producer, our love affair started out with incredible sparks, and he made me laugh…a lot. He will thrilling and the sex was incredible. I adored his arse. That’s the thing about bad boys. Sometimes they start out irresistible and end up…well, just bad for you, even with the best of intentions on both sides. Man, we loved each other, but love alone is not enough.

“Come on, Jones, for God’s sake. You’re sexy. You make me laugh…at you of course, not with you. And you were, incidentally, the best shag I ever had…”

Daniel Cleaver (Bridget Jones – The Edge of Reason (2004)

Bridget Jones Diary of course started out as novel written by Helen Fielding in 1996. By the time the film adaptation came to life, Fielding had sold millions of copies of her book worldwide. People couldn’t get enough of Bridget, a woman in her thirties who chronicled her entire life – from family, friends, career, her weight struggles and, of course, her love life. British Bridget is of course played to perfection by American actress, Renee Zellweger.

Bridget, for me, seemed like the “every woman”. She just made sense. She was goofy and endearing, and felt accessible. I simply wanted her to be okay because in truth she reminded me in some ways of me. I have similar characteristics. We are both, for example curvy women, with quirky tastes in literature, men and the odd drink. Our cooking skills are dubious and we like bad men.  I often lament about giving up wine and losing some kilos, just as she does. While Bridget penned a diary, I write a blog about much the same thing. My dating, my weight, my friends and my ridiculous optimism that my very own Mark Darcy might be out there.

As much as I like to think I’m quite all together in some ways, I’ve had some extraordinary Bridget like moments. Most recently was on my way to a black tie event in Melbourne. I’d had my make-up done by a gorgeous young make-up artist, my hair was great and I had donned a classic black lace dress, over my Bridget style spanx…(oh, come on, we’ve all got a pair hidden in the back of the knickers drawer!)… and spiky patent leather heels. When I jumped into the cab, I felt like it was a Cinderella moment of epic proportions. Honestly, there was almost a Hollywood screen reel running in my head and I was loving myself sick for the first time in a long time. Oh Good Girl, you’re back, baby!

Whilst in the cab, the phone rang and on the other side of that call was Fashion Guy. Fashion guy headed up a well-known men’s fashion label and had a boyish face that belies his fifty years. He was sweet and flirty. As the cab pulled up near the event, I managed to step out as elegantly as I could whilst holding my mobile to my ear. Then the unthinkable happened.

Snap!

That’s the bloody sound of my stiletto breaking. And my heart…I loved those damn shoes and, ironically, the Producer had bought them for me. Was that a sign from the universe?

Stifling a gasp while I acted cool with Mr Fashion, I said my very calm goodbyes, hung up and then panicked! How the hell could I rock up to a black tie affair with a bloody broken shoe?! Given this was a Saturday and still quite early, I spotted some shops and hobbled towards them, limping in my one good heel and one broken shoe. Of course the stores had just closed. So I did what a Good Girl needed to do and banged on the window of a shoe store like a crazy person until finally a bewildered assistant opened the door ever so slightly.

“Please,” I gasped, quite dramatically, “Can you please help me…it’s an emergency!”

Women are the best. They totally understood my predicament, let me in and three shop assistants scattered in different directions to find black heels in my size. Bless those girls. I managed to get a pair of gorgeous shoes at very short notice that actually felt comfortable all night!

Heels

These heels saved me!

If I was in any doubt about Bridget Jonesy-ness, just yesterday as I was coming down an escalator with the Greek Goddess I work with, when we lost control of a trolley full of water bottles and in the process, my work security pass flung into the gap between two moving escalators. So there I was, in heels no less, running upwards on the downward escalator, like a mad woman, arms flailing everywhere, heart racing, trying to fling myself over to get my pass. Eventually a lovely young woman used her umbrella to fling my pass to a place I could actually retrieve it. Ugh…so glamorous!

Since Bridget ended up with Mark Darcy, a human rights Barrister…and I’ve just chatting with a nice, but seemingly unavailable, man who happens to be a family law barrister…could this be another sign that Bridget and I are indeed aligned?! Now that would be hilarious…and a little bit spooky! In the meantime I shall remain, just like Bridget, a wonten sex goddess…

Mark and Bridget

After all, aren’t we all waiting for someone who loves us…just as we are?

 

 

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