Picture this - sweet sixteen.
1985. Sweet sixteen and an absolute dork. A witty dork, sure. A getting fitter (due to being in the up and coming 3rd IV rowing combination) dork, but still un-hourglass shaped, unsexy glasses-ed, un-stylish, uber-academic dork. Sweet sixteen, an absolute dork (checks around to see who is listening) never been kissed.
Now, you know and I know how truly dire such a state of affairs can be to the average sixteen year old girl. I mean I had kissed heaps - there were posters of Paul Young that I had plastered over my walls that will testify to that. But I dreamed of it being real - and without the real Paul Young to assuage my desire, I would have to find a stand-in - and fast.
Because we know there is only one thing worse than being sweet sixteen and never been kissed - and that is reaching seventeen in the same sad state.
Even though I was cloistered at the Red Roof Jail (aka boarding school) I was extremely lucky that the school was not above offering us chances of interaction with the opposite sex. Not many, mind, since so many boys boardings schools had gone co-ed and we weren't talking to them any more, the number of opportunities was exactly one. That one was St B's.
Now, St B's were not in such dire circumstances as us. There were two other girls boarding schools in the area, and they too were limited to St B's for male interaction. St B's had the sort of problems many teenage boys dreamed about (well, except for the being stuck in boarding school that sort of kyboshed a few fantasies, although if the rumours about the matron were true...)
Anyway, as I was saying, a school social was coming up, St B's were coming and I had an unkissed status to strip.
Here was my simple plan.
Exactly - I had none! What I knew about attracting boys would form white on black in a red lit room.
I knew they liked me being funny. I had been funny all my life and boys would flock around. Then they would go and get attractive girls and flock around getting me to make their girls giggle also.
So that ruled out my trump card really.
I knew they didn't like you to be too smart. Made the mistake once of telling one what subjects I was studying and it was instant repellant.
I knew they liked a well-formed figure (which I didn't have), blonde hair (ditto), plucked eyebrows, shaved legs and pits, a bit of bosom (yay - my one asset) and girls who knew what they were doing (I had no clue what that meant) - at least according to Dolly, the magazine aimed at my demographic.
Cleo, the magazine aimed at a few years older also advised that men knew just by the way a woman walked whether she was a virgin - I hoped their younger counterparts wouldn't notice the unkissed bit as easily!
So I did with what I had. I let a hairdresser streak my hair (and tell me, if you ever want to pay for pain, start there - back in the 80s with the cap and crochet hook).
I wore a brown, cream and gold drop-waisted dress that I thought was divine, hid my worst faults (in the way a cardboard box would have) and gave indications that my bosom was there, although not flashing the neons.
I shaved, plucked, made-up and blow-dried like mad to achieve something close to what the magazines advised was "sexy".
I took off my glasses and flew blind, with all of my friends on watch to advise if any boy I danced with were too ugly.
"I Want to Know What Love Is" blared from the speakers and the girls waited for the buses to arrive. Girls of all ages were hanging from dorm windows to catch glimpses of the elusive males, but we, the lucky grade 11s, lined the Hall anticipating 80 Prince Charmings to answer the song for us.
"Better Be Good to Me" belted out Tina, and our prayers were one below hers - let me not be left a wallflower as the phalanx of gorgeous, built 16 year old boys burst into the hall. Well, they were all gorgeous and built according to my unassisted eyesight.
"Say You, Say Me" stirred the boys into action and one by one we were peeled off the wall and enticed to dance.
"Don't You (Forget About Me)" as relevant questions were asked and answered between moves. Name. Where from. What subjects. I knew enough to mumble through that last one.
"Neutron Dance" by the Pointer Sisters. The standard dance for boys was shuffle, shuffle, shuffle from one leg to the other, while sort of shadow boxing with clenched fists - it didn't matter the music, tempo made their shuffle faster or slower but not one deviated.
"We Belong" clap clap. Unpicked girls danced together. Girls bored with the shuffle danced in front of the boys who had asked but with the girl beside them.
"Everybody Wants to Rule the World" - a great song but unable to maintain the shuffle, the boy would ask if you wanted a break, a drink, and chance to look around and see if there was anything better offering.
"We Built this City" in the background as I escaped to the bathrooms with a girl I knew slightly who was dancing with his friend. "What's he like" I asked. "Oh" she said. "Cute enough." Which, in girl speak is not exactly hot but unless there is an unclaimed gorgeous one wandering the hall, he will do.
"Take On Me" and every couple on the dance floors were exchanging meaningful glances - I assume. I prayed I was sending the right signals and being sent a few. It is very hard to read a face when you can only see a blurred outline.
"Like A Virgin" and now the night was coming to a close, there was no time to change our minds or partners - just a matter if all this spadework would result in a peck at the end.
"Everytime You Go Away" oh and Paul was playing. I melted into the music and the boy saw whatever signal said "you may touch me" and put his arms on my shoulders.
"Suddenly" and he moved in closer. Okay, close enough I could see he was "cute enough" and given enough detail that when I closed my eyes I would know what face to focus on. I could edit acne scars and make his eyes a little brighter, his brow a little less heavy, give him darker hair and an English accent - oh, who was I kidding, no-one would ever replace my ultimate fantasy.
"I'm On Fire" and the heat generated by Bruce and the boys in the hall brought the houselights up. It was time to say goodbye, to wave those boys off on buses and send us back to the dorms.
We gathered on the steps. Our hands remained entwined and we had the last few minutes without music under the eyes of the boarding misstresses and masters. Murmurs, last call and then I closed my eyes and leaned forward to accept the ultimate gift...
This was written in response to Scribbit's August Write-Away prompt "First Kiss".
Oh, this takes me back. Sigh.
Showing posts with label Scribbit's Write-Away. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scribbit's Write-Away. Show all posts
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Friday, December 14, 2007
Break Up Day
Its the most wonderful day of the year - or at least, it is for 'Salina and many of her counterparts in the Queensland Education System.
Break Up Day!!!!
I remember how we looked forward to it when I was a girl.
In those days (post-slate but pre-computer) there were 3 school terms of about 13 weeks apiece. They were long terms, it is true, but the last term was longest with the heat of Summer sapping our brains and the knowledge that at the end of its interminableness were 6 well-earned weeks of holidays at Christmas - Hooray!!!
My memory, however, is at odds with 'Salina's experience.
How come our teachers didn't quit teaching two weeks earlier and allow us to colour in and watch videos?
No, they quit teaching about two days before - but it was only to harass us into picking up every scrap of rubbish (of which there was very little - we were constantly harassed about such and therefore it rarely hit the ground); get us scrubbing desks and chairs; cleaning blackboards, science shelves and sports storerooms; sorting stuff, throwing out stuff and shoving stuff in to our bags to take home for our mother's to treasure (or throw out).
On the final day, however - break up day - every child was at school, smiles a mile wide and pleased as punch. It would be hot but we were all in our best playing clothes. Our parents also joined us in their going to town gear - with every adult and child from a 15 mile radius, however tenuous their connection to the school was.
Big Sandy - perpetual president of the P&C - would dig pits and all the boys would gather wood for fires to be lit. The ladies would gather their plates of sandwiches and cakes in the cool of the library and we girls would run to their every whim - water for the urns, scrub another pot or mug, rock the baby, talk to old ladies and give them seats in the shade.
When the fires had died, Big Sandy would put camp-pots of damper in the ashes and we would all head to the oval for various sporting events - sack races, egg-and-spoon races, 3-legged races, mother and son relays - it all happened - and prizes awarded were cheers from the crowd amidst the laughter.
At the first smoko break, the urns would have boiled and large pots of tea heralded by the grown ups, with icy cordial our treat. This was used to wash down damper and jam, cakes and slices. As children, we were expected to drop everything and attend to the older members of the community if directed, and so various of the over 70 brigade used to sit on the sidelines and grasp us to bring a refresher for tea or a bit more of that jam tart.
During the heat of the day, presentations were made - to the students, to the parents and to the teaching staff. We once presented a rather horrid teacher with the detention chair he had made our lives hell with for his two year posting as his farewell gift - the parents all applauded our generosity wildly.
Lunch was more of the previous meal with sandwiches added, and the students were generally allowed one can of softdrink and an icecream as a treat. At this point, a few yellow cans of a different persuasion used to circulate amongst the men.
Afternoons were a walk around the classroom showing off your meritorious work, plum and apple dunking (very refreshing in the heat), slabs of watermelon and finally the biggest game of cricket on the oval involving everyone - if you couldn't bat or field, you could add your power through extremely loud commentary on the sidelines.
Farewells were generally made with the dipping of the sun, as everyone suddenly remembered animals to feed or milk and dinners to be made - and as we all left waving wildly, our thoughts were not on returning in 6 weeks or the work our fathers would give us during that time - but the feeling of freedom and fun and joy.
Today, I collected 'Salina up early from school - she was one of only 10 in her class to arrive this morning and the place was a ghost town. I wish so hard that she could have the memories that I held - but we bade a glad farewell, as the outcome is the same.
6 weeks of school holidays - woo hoo!!!
This post was mainly inspired by circumstance, but the kick up the pants to actually put it down was Scribbit's December Write-Away contest - about "My Favourite Day". She has been holding monthly contests for the whole year now, and I often mean to do something about them, but this is only the second time got my act together! Anyone can enter, with entries closing December 21 her time.
Break Up Day!!!!
I remember how we looked forward to it when I was a girl.
In those days (post-slate but pre-computer) there were 3 school terms of about 13 weeks apiece. They were long terms, it is true, but the last term was longest with the heat of Summer sapping our brains and the knowledge that at the end of its interminableness were 6 well-earned weeks of holidays at Christmas - Hooray!!!
My memory, however, is at odds with 'Salina's experience.
How come our teachers didn't quit teaching two weeks earlier and allow us to colour in and watch videos?
No, they quit teaching about two days before - but it was only to harass us into picking up every scrap of rubbish (of which there was very little - we were constantly harassed about such and therefore it rarely hit the ground); get us scrubbing desks and chairs; cleaning blackboards, science shelves and sports storerooms; sorting stuff, throwing out stuff and shoving stuff in to our bags to take home for our mother's to treasure (or throw out).
On the final day, however - break up day - every child was at school, smiles a mile wide and pleased as punch. It would be hot but we were all in our best playing clothes. Our parents also joined us in their going to town gear - with every adult and child from a 15 mile radius, however tenuous their connection to the school was.
Big Sandy - perpetual president of the P&C - would dig pits and all the boys would gather wood for fires to be lit. The ladies would gather their plates of sandwiches and cakes in the cool of the library and we girls would run to their every whim - water for the urns, scrub another pot or mug, rock the baby, talk to old ladies and give them seats in the shade.
When the fires had died, Big Sandy would put camp-pots of damper in the ashes and we would all head to the oval for various sporting events - sack races, egg-and-spoon races, 3-legged races, mother and son relays - it all happened - and prizes awarded were cheers from the crowd amidst the laughter.
At the first smoko break, the urns would have boiled and large pots of tea heralded by the grown ups, with icy cordial our treat. This was used to wash down damper and jam, cakes and slices. As children, we were expected to drop everything and attend to the older members of the community if directed, and so various of the over 70 brigade used to sit on the sidelines and grasp us to bring a refresher for tea or a bit more of that jam tart.
During the heat of the day, presentations were made - to the students, to the parents and to the teaching staff. We once presented a rather horrid teacher with the detention chair he had made our lives hell with for his two year posting as his farewell gift - the parents all applauded our generosity wildly.
Lunch was more of the previous meal with sandwiches added, and the students were generally allowed one can of softdrink and an icecream as a treat. At this point, a few yellow cans of a different persuasion used to circulate amongst the men.
Afternoons were a walk around the classroom showing off your meritorious work, plum and apple dunking (very refreshing in the heat), slabs of watermelon and finally the biggest game of cricket on the oval involving everyone - if you couldn't bat or field, you could add your power through extremely loud commentary on the sidelines.
Farewells were generally made with the dipping of the sun, as everyone suddenly remembered animals to feed or milk and dinners to be made - and as we all left waving wildly, our thoughts were not on returning in 6 weeks or the work our fathers would give us during that time - but the feeling of freedom and fun and joy.
Today, I collected 'Salina up early from school - she was one of only 10 in her class to arrive this morning and the place was a ghost town. I wish so hard that she could have the memories that I held - but we bade a glad farewell, as the outcome is the same.
6 weeks of school holidays - woo hoo!!!
This post was mainly inspired by circumstance, but the kick up the pants to actually put it down was Scribbit's December Write-Away contest - about "My Favourite Day". She has been holding monthly contests for the whole year now, and I often mean to do something about them, but this is only the second time got my act together! Anyone can enter, with entries closing December 21 her time.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Chrissy Hols
When I was a kid we used to have a 3 term year at school. That meant weeks and weeks and weeks of school before you got a break. I tell you, those weeks and weeks and weeks felt like years when it was getting hot (Central Queensland Summer runs hot from early October until early April some years) and the fans were hypnotising (and the boy next to you had blood noses and bladder problems)...
There was always a build up of anticipation for ages before break up day. There was always the swimming carnival to make you feel like you weren't really at school, then there was a few days of scrubbing the classroom and putting together your show pieces for your family - and then break up day.
The whole community would come in to help us "break up" at the end of the year. Big Sandy would bring in a few damper ovens and the men would dig pits and build fires - meanwhile the ladies would be in their town clothes firing up the urns and laying out the plates of slices and sandwiches. One or two dads would have found a good deal or good crop of watermelons, so they would be put in the troughs and covered with damp tea towels and we kids would be as scarce as possible - generally right at the other end of the oval playing Tackle British Bulldog or Tackle Red Rover or Tackle Soccer or Tackle Catch'n'kiss.
After lots of food was ingested, we would have sack races and egg and spoon races and 3 legged races - then we would eat more food and have parents vs kids Cricket matches - then we would eat more food and have plum dunks and apple dunks and then show our families our work, grab all our books and ports and leave for the eternity of Christmas holidays spread out before us.
Every morning we would be up early during the school holidays - without daylight savings to help us out we would be up by 5, swimming in the pool (doing laps - Dad still is a big believer in laps), feeding the horses, having our bacon and eggs (cooked by Dad - Mum had trained Dad to deliver a cup of tea and not bother her for a bit), cutting our tucker, catching and saddling the horses - and then waving bye to Mum by 7.
Every day we would muster cows and calves and drove them down to the dipyards. We'd have smoko then some would muster a second paddock while the first paddock was sorted through the yards - dry cows one way, calves in the pen, bulls out and the cows through the crush and dip (so they would be able to swim when the flood came). We learned to count by counting the cows out of the draining pen, because that is a good job for a kid.
Then the second paddock would come in and we would do the sorting all over again - and then the yards would be full.
After another smoko the fire would be started, the brands warmed up and Mum would join us with her notebooks. Each calf would be checked on Mum's mental checklist and confirmed by Dad as Stud (keepers, no castration, tagged and numbered) or Commercial (steered, earmarked and branded). Dad bred Brangus - polled cattle as he hated dehorning from his own childhood of Hereford horns (and cancer eyes, apparently).
Generally during branding, if you were too little you could play, a bit bigger and you got to put the numbers on the pliers - and a bit bigger than that you "brought the calves up" - a technical challenge regarding hind legs, butting heads (still quite hard enough without horns) and steering molten lava to your way of thinking.
After smoko we would then "mother up" - this entailed letting the calves back to their mothers and working out who belonged to who without who catching sight of you and considering you as a threat to her baby and having a serious chat to you about it. Again, still quite scary enough without horns.
Taking them all back to their paddocks was always a fairly quick trip - and if there was time Dad would organise another paddock to be mustered before sundown.
Every day was in the saddle. Every day we would get sunburned, windswept and dust drenched. Nearly every day a cow would threaten you to climbing the rails or you would have to stare down her bluff. Sometimes she wasn't bluffing.
Nearly every day there would be moments of high tension as a slide gate didn't get shut quickly enough, as a calf went through the wrong side of a fence, as a horse didn't have the hump properly out of its back and would pigroot, as the dogs got into the tucker box or the oyster bag and had a feast.
But then, every day would start with swimming. Every day we would get watermelon with smoko. Every day we would be in fresh air, on horses, singing, laughing and carrying on. And every day we would go home, feed up, have another swim, a hot bath (if you were quick enough) and a good dinner. And every day we would fall into bed and sleep immediately - until next morning.
As Dad used to say when we whinged about working in such a manner for most of our Chirstmas holidays "people pay to do this" - and it is only now that I can really understand that they were the best holidays.
****
(Written for Scribbet's May Write-Away Contest) - Not sure if I made deadline but it was fun to write...
There was always a build up of anticipation for ages before break up day. There was always the swimming carnival to make you feel like you weren't really at school, then there was a few days of scrubbing the classroom and putting together your show pieces for your family - and then break up day.
The whole community would come in to help us "break up" at the end of the year. Big Sandy would bring in a few damper ovens and the men would dig pits and build fires - meanwhile the ladies would be in their town clothes firing up the urns and laying out the plates of slices and sandwiches. One or two dads would have found a good deal or good crop of watermelons, so they would be put in the troughs and covered with damp tea towels and we kids would be as scarce as possible - generally right at the other end of the oval playing Tackle British Bulldog or Tackle Red Rover or Tackle Soccer or Tackle Catch'n'kiss.
After lots of food was ingested, we would have sack races and egg and spoon races and 3 legged races - then we would eat more food and have parents vs kids Cricket matches - then we would eat more food and have plum dunks and apple dunks and then show our families our work, grab all our books and ports and leave for the eternity of Christmas holidays spread out before us.
Every morning we would be up early during the school holidays - without daylight savings to help us out we would be up by 5, swimming in the pool (doing laps - Dad still is a big believer in laps), feeding the horses, having our bacon and eggs (cooked by Dad - Mum had trained Dad to deliver a cup of tea and not bother her for a bit), cutting our tucker, catching and saddling the horses - and then waving bye to Mum by 7.
Every day we would muster cows and calves and drove them down to the dipyards. We'd have smoko then some would muster a second paddock while the first paddock was sorted through the yards - dry cows one way, calves in the pen, bulls out and the cows through the crush and dip (so they would be able to swim when the flood came). We learned to count by counting the cows out of the draining pen, because that is a good job for a kid.
Then the second paddock would come in and we would do the sorting all over again - and then the yards would be full.
After another smoko the fire would be started, the brands warmed up and Mum would join us with her notebooks. Each calf would be checked on Mum's mental checklist and confirmed by Dad as Stud (keepers, no castration, tagged and numbered) or Commercial (steered, earmarked and branded). Dad bred Brangus - polled cattle as he hated dehorning from his own childhood of Hereford horns (and cancer eyes, apparently).
Generally during branding, if you were too little you could play, a bit bigger and you got to put the numbers on the pliers - and a bit bigger than that you "brought the calves up" - a technical challenge regarding hind legs, butting heads (still quite hard enough without horns) and steering molten lava to your way of thinking.
After smoko we would then "mother up" - this entailed letting the calves back to their mothers and working out who belonged to who without who catching sight of you and considering you as a threat to her baby and having a serious chat to you about it. Again, still quite scary enough without horns.
Taking them all back to their paddocks was always a fairly quick trip - and if there was time Dad would organise another paddock to be mustered before sundown.
Every day was in the saddle. Every day we would get sunburned, windswept and dust drenched. Nearly every day a cow would threaten you to climbing the rails or you would have to stare down her bluff. Sometimes she wasn't bluffing.
Nearly every day there would be moments of high tension as a slide gate didn't get shut quickly enough, as a calf went through the wrong side of a fence, as a horse didn't have the hump properly out of its back and would pigroot, as the dogs got into the tucker box or the oyster bag and had a feast.
But then, every day would start with swimming. Every day we would get watermelon with smoko. Every day we would be in fresh air, on horses, singing, laughing and carrying on. And every day we would go home, feed up, have another swim, a hot bath (if you were quick enough) and a good dinner. And every day we would fall into bed and sleep immediately - until next morning.
As Dad used to say when we whinged about working in such a manner for most of our Chirstmas holidays "people pay to do this" - and it is only now that I can really understand that they were the best holidays.
****
(Written for Scribbet's May Write-Away Contest) - Not sure if I made deadline but it was fun to write...
Friday, February 09, 2007
No more sleeps!!!!
(Written for my darling and Scribbit's Write-Away Contest for February)
My first thought this morning was "Oh my goodness!!! 5.14am - a sleep in!!!"
My second thought this morning was "No more sleeps!!!"
Because Friday is special. Friday is fish, calamari, chips and salad night. Friday is the start of the holiday. Friday is no more sleeps until my darling gets here.
It hasn't always been that way.
I mean, since my daughter has been old enough to voice opinion, Friday has been generally reserved for F&C.
Since my daughter has been attending school, Friday has been the beginning of the holidays.
And since July 15 last year, Friday has generally been "no more sleeps".
This time last year, I was happy with my life. I had a wonderful daughter. I lived in a marvellous house. I had delightful flatmates. My study was nearly completed. My freelance work was steady.
I had no care about being my child's only parent. I have had a very chequered relationship history, and I find it is better to be happy and single than to be partnered and stressed. Of course, it is lovely to be partnered and happy - but I was not quite willing to spin that particular roulette wheel.
It is not that I had entered a cloister since my daughter's father and I separated. There were a lot of issues at hand, ones that maybe I will tell another day - but the bottom line is it was not a horrid, wrenching, awkward or debilitating break-up. He died about a year later - that was pretty horrid, wrenching, awkward and debilitating , but again, another story another day.
I am your average 30 something woman who packed a heap into her 20s before doing the whole creative choice and baby route, so was (a) sensible enough to know that my child was my primary concern, (b) qualified enough to know that maybe there could be someone nearly right for me in the world but more likely to find anyone but, and (c) experienced enough to know that there are assets to even a bad boy - but, as I said to some girlfriends the other day, there are other avenues available if you don't want the problem with the attachment - if you know what I mean.
So anyway - no cloister. The fact that I never went anywhere likely to house eligible sane members of the opposite sex may have offered me a similar level of protection, however.
Several months later, I was still fairly happy with my life. My daughter was still wonderful. I was about to move from my marvellous house to Paradise, but my delightful flatmates were taking on the lease. My freelance work was going to the dogs due to client politics, which directly affected my study completion problems.
Yesterday, I mentioned that messageboards had helped me a lot in coming to terms with a lot of things in my life, and they were also a factor in changing my social life.
One member of one of my boards was feeling a little ummmmm - spritely and tried out an online dating service. Now, I would like to pretend I was naive to the ways of online dating services, but the truth is I had been on such a thing. I had exchanged emails with several slightly interested punters, I had spoken on the phone to a few and I had been on two face to face meetings - both, while not disastrous, did not exactly light up my life and coerce me into contemplating another shot at the "R" realm.
Anyhow, Clanc started a discussion about her efforts which led several members (yours truly included) to reactivate old accounts and do a spot of fishing ourselves - purely for research purposes.
Due to all the imminent changes in my life at the time, I thought I would try a new fishing hole - and set my geographic limits to within 500km of Paradise. A large cast net, I know. But in the interest of our investigation I thought it best to cast wide.
And as I REALLY wasn't that keen a fisherwoman, rather than entice with baits about what I thought might be tempting, I threaded my hook with absolute honesty. I workshopped it with my flatmate and wrote the things I was and the things I wanted.
Soon after I had dropped the line (my lure was "I was wondering, what is your creative outlet?"), I got multiple responses.
Two were easily eliminated - I mean, where in my profile did it say I would even contemplate watching motor sport as an activity? (Under sport, I had written: "I am a good one. Best at barracking and fantasty...")
One unfortunately was eliminated because he reminded me of Robin Williams - in Mrs Doubtfire (I am superficial occasionally).
One was eliminated because no matter how much spring in your step you have at 78, I am just not that into crossing the generational divide.
And several were eliminated by timing - because an early responses was very intriging indeed...
You see, he mentioned honesty and integrity, his love of reading, loving world music, his cat, poetry, compassion, lasagne - most of the page made me go "wow" - not in a girlie "I have found my man" sort of tone, more a "does this guy really exist or has my imagination created him" tone.
And he sent me his password to his photo - and again I went "wow" - not because of his rugged good looks, his smile, his shoulders and his eyes (well, not just because) - but also because he was NORMAL - he had that "this is me and I am not putting on a show for anyone" look about him - and for me, that is sort of important because I am that sort of woman.
Creating a long-distance friendship in the modern era is splendidly easy - no more writing letters and waiting for the steamer, no sirree - we could react, think and feel immediately the other person instigated the reaction.
And not long after I fished, I moved and was out of all communication range. Except for very erratic (and expensive) mobile communication our constant and immediate lifeline to one another was stymied. We dreamed of the moments where he would find a good signal, where we had free moments or cheap rates or when I could get online at a cafe.
Now, I am a bit of a hoarder so if you ever want to trawl through the archives of my computer, you will find all of our IMs, emails and even text messages.
This was good, as by then I had 23 pages of printed communications. I needed something to tether me to this earth and not enter dreamland - because I, the greatest non-believer in internet relationships, the girl who was very happy being on her own and self-sufficient, the woman who had the cares of her daughter and herself to put before all other matters - well, you see, I had fallen in love.
And it wasn't of the unrequited variety. I received poems. I received silken words. I received daily communication that said that wherever I was, that was where his thoughts centred.
He told me he was a diver - an all or nothing prospect. I had told him I did not necessarily believe in love forever, but you might as well shoot for the moon. He told me his faults - all the better for me, I said, I do not desire perfection. I told him of the importance of my daughter and he said that was the only way he would wish it to be.
We wanted to see each other immediately but did not. I had just moved, I had to settle in, I had to take care of my daughter and I. We agreed upon a strategy - a timeframe, a babysitter and a first date was set for a month hence.
Well, obviously the first date went very well, because he was keen on making the 350km (each way) drive again - as soon as possible, the next weekend.
And he was still keen after my daughter asked him to marry me because she wanted a sister - fairly soon. (That was week 1)
And he was still keen after my daughter decided she didn't like him because he didn't provide the sister straight away AND he had messy hair. (That was week 2)
And he was still keen after my daughter decided she sort of liked him and showed it by very physical combat while playing. (That was about week 10)
He was even keen after meeting my family en masse, my friends in small groups and my ex-family-out-law!!!
Hey - I am not starry eyed about this guy, nor him about me. We have had our differences, we have even had quite heated discussions and a dummy spit or two. We are real.
We are real enough to know that we have to work on all the mundane matters, all the family spotfires, all the petty gripes. We are real - we have both been where it was tried and did not work for whatever reasons.
But he is also real - and not a figment of my imagination (my biggest fear in the beginning).
Yes, I have been in love before. I thought I had loved other men unworthy of such prior to my daughter. I loved my daughter's father.
But my love for V is larger, realler, more immediate and more forever.
Because he is not flawless, because I have lived my life and know that I do not desire perfection.
Because we are suited on so many levels, because we both read and contemplate and because we both have our beliefs.
Because he wants to be someone my daughter could trust and respect.
Because we desire each other and fulfil each other and can trust and respect and love each other.
And because we both know the most important factors are honesty and integrity.
He is real - and he will be here any minute now...
My first thought this morning was "Oh my goodness!!! 5.14am - a sleep in!!!"
My second thought this morning was "No more sleeps!!!"
Because Friday is special. Friday is fish, calamari, chips and salad night. Friday is the start of the holiday. Friday is no more sleeps until my darling gets here.
It hasn't always been that way.
I mean, since my daughter has been old enough to voice opinion, Friday has been generally reserved for F&C.
Since my daughter has been attending school, Friday has been the beginning of the holidays.
And since July 15 last year, Friday has generally been "no more sleeps".
This time last year, I was happy with my life. I had a wonderful daughter. I lived in a marvellous house. I had delightful flatmates. My study was nearly completed. My freelance work was steady.
I had no care about being my child's only parent. I have had a very chequered relationship history, and I find it is better to be happy and single than to be partnered and stressed. Of course, it is lovely to be partnered and happy - but I was not quite willing to spin that particular roulette wheel.
It is not that I had entered a cloister since my daughter's father and I separated. There were a lot of issues at hand, ones that maybe I will tell another day - but the bottom line is it was not a horrid, wrenching, awkward or debilitating break-up. He died about a year later - that was pretty horrid, wrenching, awkward and debilitating , but again, another story another day.
I am your average 30 something woman who packed a heap into her 20s before doing the whole creative choice and baby route, so was (a) sensible enough to know that my child was my primary concern, (b) qualified enough to know that maybe there could be someone nearly right for me in the world but more likely to find anyone but, and (c) experienced enough to know that there are assets to even a bad boy - but, as I said to some girlfriends the other day, there are other avenues available if you don't want the problem with the attachment - if you know what I mean.
So anyway - no cloister. The fact that I never went anywhere likely to house eligible sane members of the opposite sex may have offered me a similar level of protection, however.
Several months later, I was still fairly happy with my life. My daughter was still wonderful. I was about to move from my marvellous house to Paradise, but my delightful flatmates were taking on the lease. My freelance work was going to the dogs due to client politics, which directly affected my study completion problems.
Yesterday, I mentioned that messageboards had helped me a lot in coming to terms with a lot of things in my life, and they were also a factor in changing my social life.
One member of one of my boards was feeling a little ummmmm - spritely and tried out an online dating service. Now, I would like to pretend I was naive to the ways of online dating services, but the truth is I had been on such a thing. I had exchanged emails with several slightly interested punters, I had spoken on the phone to a few and I had been on two face to face meetings - both, while not disastrous, did not exactly light up my life and coerce me into contemplating another shot at the "R" realm.
Anyhow, Clanc started a discussion about her efforts which led several members (yours truly included) to reactivate old accounts and do a spot of fishing ourselves - purely for research purposes.
Due to all the imminent changes in my life at the time, I thought I would try a new fishing hole - and set my geographic limits to within 500km of Paradise. A large cast net, I know. But in the interest of our investigation I thought it best to cast wide.
And as I REALLY wasn't that keen a fisherwoman, rather than entice with baits about what I thought might be tempting, I threaded my hook with absolute honesty. I workshopped it with my flatmate and wrote the things I was and the things I wanted.
Soon after I had dropped the line (my lure was "I was wondering, what is your creative outlet?"), I got multiple responses.
Two were easily eliminated - I mean, where in my profile did it say I would even contemplate watching motor sport as an activity? (Under sport, I had written: "I am a good one. Best at barracking and fantasty...")
One unfortunately was eliminated because he reminded me of Robin Williams - in Mrs Doubtfire (I am superficial occasionally).
One was eliminated because no matter how much spring in your step you have at 78, I am just not that into crossing the generational divide.
And several were eliminated by timing - because an early responses was very intriging indeed...
You see, he mentioned honesty and integrity, his love of reading, loving world music, his cat, poetry, compassion, lasagne - most of the page made me go "wow" - not in a girlie "I have found my man" sort of tone, more a "does this guy really exist or has my imagination created him" tone.
And he sent me his password to his photo - and again I went "wow" - not because of his rugged good looks, his smile, his shoulders and his eyes (well, not just because) - but also because he was NORMAL - he had that "this is me and I am not putting on a show for anyone" look about him - and for me, that is sort of important because I am that sort of woman.
Creating a long-distance friendship in the modern era is splendidly easy - no more writing letters and waiting for the steamer, no sirree - we could react, think and feel immediately the other person instigated the reaction.
And not long after I fished, I moved and was out of all communication range. Except for very erratic (and expensive) mobile communication our constant and immediate lifeline to one another was stymied. We dreamed of the moments where he would find a good signal, where we had free moments or cheap rates or when I could get online at a cafe.
Now, I am a bit of a hoarder so if you ever want to trawl through the archives of my computer, you will find all of our IMs, emails and even text messages.
This was good, as by then I had 23 pages of printed communications. I needed something to tether me to this earth and not enter dreamland - because I, the greatest non-believer in internet relationships, the girl who was very happy being on her own and self-sufficient, the woman who had the cares of her daughter and herself to put before all other matters - well, you see, I had fallen in love.
And it wasn't of the unrequited variety. I received poems. I received silken words. I received daily communication that said that wherever I was, that was where his thoughts centred.
He told me he was a diver - an all or nothing prospect. I had told him I did not necessarily believe in love forever, but you might as well shoot for the moon. He told me his faults - all the better for me, I said, I do not desire perfection. I told him of the importance of my daughter and he said that was the only way he would wish it to be.
We wanted to see each other immediately but did not. I had just moved, I had to settle in, I had to take care of my daughter and I. We agreed upon a strategy - a timeframe, a babysitter and a first date was set for a month hence.
Well, obviously the first date went very well, because he was keen on making the 350km (each way) drive again - as soon as possible, the next weekend.
And he was still keen after my daughter asked him to marry me because she wanted a sister - fairly soon. (That was week 1)
And he was still keen after my daughter decided she didn't like him because he didn't provide the sister straight away AND he had messy hair. (That was week 2)
And he was still keen after my daughter decided she sort of liked him and showed it by very physical combat while playing. (That was about week 10)
He was even keen after meeting my family en masse, my friends in small groups and my ex-family-out-law!!!
Hey - I am not starry eyed about this guy, nor him about me. We have had our differences, we have even had quite heated discussions and a dummy spit or two. We are real.
We are real enough to know that we have to work on all the mundane matters, all the family spotfires, all the petty gripes. We are real - we have both been where it was tried and did not work for whatever reasons.
But he is also real - and not a figment of my imagination (my biggest fear in the beginning).
Yes, I have been in love before. I thought I had loved other men unworthy of such prior to my daughter. I loved my daughter's father.
But my love for V is larger, realler, more immediate and more forever.
Because he is not flawless, because I have lived my life and know that I do not desire perfection.
Because we are suited on so many levels, because we both read and contemplate and because we both have our beliefs.
Because he wants to be someone my daughter could trust and respect.
Because we desire each other and fulfil each other and can trust and respect and love each other.
And because we both know the most important factors are honesty and integrity.
He is real - and he will be here any minute now...
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