Taking this girl to Roller Derby tonight with the French and the other small person. We will eat meatball sandwiches, the adults will drink wine that may or may not have been smuggled in on our persons. If we are in luck the smallest might distinguish herself with a solo on the rink at half time. Hope you are having an ace weekend.x
It's important to acknowledge that i don't really know what this blog is about. At all. I discovered this while trying to categorise Rummage on Feedly. It sure as hell isn't a craft blog now. Fashion, no. Cooking, no. Deco/interiors no, unless you count innumerable photos of my coffee cup sitting on a magazine. Me whinging about my children does not maketh a 'kids' blog. At best Rummage is a bunch of random photos with the odd bit of commentary. Until now, YESSIR! This is now a 'how-to' blog, or at least for the next ten minutes. It goes like this. Get some bulbs, preferably ones that have been kicking around freezing their arses off outdoors at your local garden centre. Bring them inside and whack them in a vase. I've used shells as ballast. Fill aforementioned vase with water and shove bulbs in water just so their bottoms are wet. After wee roots start to grow don't let the water touch the bulbs (no one likes a mouldy bottom). These bulbs are tulips with bits of blossom stuck in because I am impatient. Updates soon. X
And here's what I currently look like. Just to prove that I have moved on from sparkly pants although some might argue that the hair is an 80s throw back. Mum knitted my cardy, that's her belt too (there wasn't much breathing today btw). X
That's what's known in the business as a long time between drinks. With the year of sparkly pants behind me I feel it's time to get this ramshackle show back on the road. Lots of good things in the wind, people. I can feel it in my bones. Hope you have been keeping well. X
Poor old Rummage has fallen into disrepair. There are metaphorical tumbleweeds in the form of junk spammers ago go . All it needs is a whistling wind, lone violin and John Wayne to appear menacingly on the left.
In contrast, the family of Rummage is peachy keen. The small children continue to be the highly excitable lunatics that they have always been. Give them a darkened room, a brown paper bag and some yoghurt and I guarantee you they will have created some kind of rocking installation whilst screeching with laughter. That's how they roll, those two.
The French is, as ever, exactly who he always was and who he will always be. As much as he might complain about being compared to sedimentary rock. And I know he will read this and complain. My answer is to look to the beauty in those fixed intransmutable layers of integrity and strength.
There are other good things too. The band continues to evolve with bass player and drummer. There are times when we are akin to a scene from Flight of the Conchords - the contentious issue of a name for example. I'm thinking of listing them all here and asking for a vote. I saw Jello Biafra of Dead Kennedys fame do a spoken word piece on band names in the 90's. He had nothing on us. We are currently known as Honey West and the Dukes of Haggard but that is subject to change without notice.
I turned 40 in August and am pleased to discover that I didn't wake up with a burning desire to book myself in for some bizarre facial augmentation. I did buy a pair of hot pants and I DO wear them. And if that passes for a mid-life crisis, I am good with it.
There's only so much time I can handle a photo of myself sulking in a fedora at the top of this page. So enough already.
Actually, it could well have stayed there for eternity if some bright spark from a Channel 10 production company hadn't suggested that I appear on some god forsaken insightful reality show to discuss infidelity. It took me all of a heartbeat to decide that I would prefer to stab myself in the eye repeatedly with a pointy stick before doing that. Also not so keen on the placement of ads for marriage counselling here at chez rummage. Lord knows I am most certainly no expert.
The one thing I am rock solid on is a very large feeling of gratitude to the people who responded to that last post without prejudice or judgement. Thank you for your kindness and giving me the benefit of the doubt. I want to pass on thanks from the French as well - he read through each comment and I know it helped him too.
I want you to know that we are good here at the house of rummage, my little family and I. Life is a curious and colourful beastie and I never seem to be able to take the easy road in anything, the french says that's why he married me, I can't quite believe that he hasn't changed his mind. But he hasn't and I am finally beginning to understand the meaning of unconditional love when I look in those gentle brown eyes.
The knowledge that I am surrounded by people with grace and big hearts is an unexpected kindness that I treasure. I have a friend in Adelaide who I've never met but have known now for years and her emails during this time I have read and reread as a kind of sustenance. I don't know why I woke up a month ago and had to write about what happened and I don't want to dwell on this but releasing it out into the ether has helped me in a profound way. There is a Ruth Park novel titled Dear Hearts and Gentle People and that's how I often think of the people who read this blog. You've helped me through a dark time and for that I am grateful.
This is a post that I have felt the need to write for a long time. You may like me less by the time you get to the end of it. So be it. I can't avoid writing it and there might be someone out there for whom it may even be of use.
When I was in my twenties I saw things as absolutes. Black or white with no room for shades of grey. And I judged people accordingly. People I met were either fabulous or hideous, there was no space in between. The self-appointed queen of judgementalism, me. There were a whole lot of things that I held in contempt - things like marriage (during the Trotsky period), becoming a wage-slave and infidelity.
I got over the marriage aversion pretty quickly when there was no other alternative but for the French and I to go through the ritual. And then I shocked the hell out of my socialist pricinples by sobbing through the ceremony. An irony that was not lost on most of the people at the service. Becoming a wage slave came with the territory, you know the deal, the sudden acquisition of whitegoods, the house and car mortgage. One moment you're in torn jeans with multiple body piercings the next you are in a tailored pantsuit with a tasteful string of pearls. What the fuck happened?
Infidelity. Not cool in my book. You meet someone, you realise they are your partner for life. You settle down together, maybe bust out a few kids - FIN - No messing about. Not that the odd bit of flirtation is out of the question. I could flirt for Australia if it became an Olympic sport, I like men, can't help it. But no funny business.
So what do you do when someone comes into your life who turns you inside out and upside down? This happened to me last year, I met someone and fell completely and uncategorically in love with them. There were no corners or handles to hold onto. I was in that space of which the early cartographers would write 'beyond this place there be dragons'.
I am not going to try and defend my conduct in this. He was and is a married man. I knew this and yet it didn't stop me. I actively sought a relationship with someone I had no right to be with, I knew that I was betraying not only his partner but my own. Still this didn't deter me. I would have done almost anything for this man if he had asked. None of this sat lightly on my shoulders, I lost my appetite, I lost weight, I couldn't sleep. I cried my body weight in tears of blood.
The one thing I am proud of is that I told Olive at the outset. He knew and amazingly he watched and waited. His conduct was amazing - he didn't judge me, he didn't ban me from seeing this other man. He simply bore witness and asked me not to leave. This might sound weird but remember, he is French and they have a very different take on infidelity to we Anglo-Saxons. In hindsight it was probably the smartest thing he could do. If he had tried to ban me from seeing this man chances are I would have done exactly the opposite.
As it was the man that I fell in love with did not feel the same as me after some time. It ended before it had really begun. And I have been floundering ever since. It would be a lie to say I no longer feel the same way, if I could make it go away I would. My hope is that with time this will recede for me.
Do I regret that this ever happened? No, I don't. I know a lot more about myself even if itsn't the kind of things I would have liked to know in my twenties. I am no angel. But fuck it, I'm trying. I struggle with my demons and try to chart a choppy path towards integrity. I have a helluva lot more empathy for people in this situation now and I mean ALL the players.
This will also sound bloody awful but I am still grateful to have a deep capacity for love. When I fall for people I do it deeply and irrevocably, friend or lover. I know I will always love this man, I don't have any anger or resentment towards him that he doesn't share how I feel, it is what it is. My gratitude and love for Olive and the way he is trying to steer us through this is without words.
This post is not to ask for your forgiveness or for you to grant me some kind of immunity from blame. I write it because I need to and because no one ever really talks about this kind of stuff. We sweep it under the carpet and pretend it's not there. But it is there and for better or for worse it helps to talk about it.
I was burrowed so deep in a tangle of patchwork blankets and bizarre early morning dreams that I missed the alarm. Then it took me a good ten mins to psyche myself up to take my clothes off and then another ten to throw myself out of the boiling hot shower to kit up. Today I seem to be wearing three layers of clothing on my legs and four on my chest. Le sigh.
Each autumn I congratulate myself that I am now a true Canberran and at the first frost I know it ain't so. As I write I am watching the sunlight refracting off the patches of silver on the grass - a kaleidoscope of colour.
Cold but beautiful.
Mother's Day is not the happiest day for everyone out there. Your mother might do you your head in, she may not be with you anymore, maybe you're trying for kids without success.
It can be tricky. So I don't want you to think I am thrusting my handmade A4 paper briefcase with pipe cleaner handles in your face. Just want to say I hope you have a good day whatever your circumstances are and if you are a mum I hope you got a cup of tea in bed. You totally deserve it. All my love. Xx
Well little Jett's been written off and today has been an official Day of Mourning except for when I bought a super pair of boots, I am so shallow. We're going to look at a zippy little car tomorrow that involves stripes and 6 speeds so the grieving period was brief but meaningful.
There has been much secret mothers day activity in the house that had me locked in the bedroom for some time. I suspect there has been a raid on my fabric stash so it will be something that I have to wear (oh god).
In other news I am obsessed with that show 'Friday Night Lights' thanks to that Kootoyoo hipster - cant link to her on this software but you already know who she is so hop on over. Xx