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I deleted 1024 text messages from my phone this morning.

This was a minute job that I had been avoiding for quite a while. Not because I am unable to use my hands or because I don’t know how to do it. Every time my phone took 5 million hours to load a photo or refused to take a picture for lack of memory, I knew some deleting was in order.

I know I’m crazy as a coconut, but I just could never do it. Each of those little texts was a pocket of a memory. A reference to a long forgotten in-joke, a reminder of why I dated that guy, a reminder of why I dumped that guy, late night mini conversations from friends continued in a sleepy haze and bland reminders about appointments kept.

I’ m one for hanging on. I hoard organisers from high school and university (there’s something blissful about realising that on this day in 2001, an English essay was due…) Hidden in the depths of cardboard boxes, deep in storage is a tiny sparkling bucket of erasers my Dad bought me when I was home sick from school in Grade 1. I constantly refer to the past for tips about the future.

But this is a new year. Some say a new decade. So, I’m resolving that the only object jammed up with memory will be my head. It’s a new day, I have an empty inbox and I feel good.


Yesterday I climbed a rocky tower at a hidden beach. One of those gigantic rocks that everyone in the town knows exists, but nobody eludes to where it actually is, because telling of its whereabouts could spoil its exclusivity. I’d spoken about this rock with friend’s siblings. Guys I have dated had asked me if I’d known about it. It’s that kind of rock.

My cousins dared me to climb. It was high. I’m scared of heights. But I love a challenge.

As I began to clamber up the vertical wall, loose sand spilled from under my bare feet. My fingers panicked and searched for rocks that jutted out, that would give me strong leverage. Reaching the top seemed impossible, but I could feel the smoothed, worn limestone where others had climbed before me. Other people had done it, so why shouldn’t I at least try? Even friggin’ kids were up there, it had to be possible.

I made the mistake of looking down while halfway up and realised that I had the choice to keep going or fall down. Vertigo shot through my body in a wild rush as I imagined tumbling down the rock face and I knew that like with so many things, it was easier to push on.

Eventually, crawling on all fours and clinging to the ledge at the top, I made it. A man I didn’t know, who had been climbing behind me gasped, “It’s like God made this rock just for us”.

As I tiptoed along the edge and stared at the azure water and people were   expectantly watching below, I couldn’t help but make a cheesy comparison to reaching a certain point in life and beginning a new year. Sometimes it’s easier to keep going when you feel like giving up or the dream seems too big. Maybe you keep going because it’s easier than going back. Perhaps it’s because you can’t let down those who are watching you climb. But you reach a stage when it’s a matter of self preservation. When it’s better to jump than be pushed. Jumping is scary, but standing on the edge waiting is worse.

So I hope you jump in to 2010, ready for whatever you may land on. (Just remember, it’s all about ‘The Climb’…cue Miley…)

Happy 2010 kiddies!

Do you adore sameness and predictability? I’m a sucker for tradition.

I am comforted by the knowledge that no matter  the disasters that have occured throughout the year, my Mum will ensure that Santa still leaves pressies and Lotto scratchies fly out of the Christmas Bon Bons when they are ripped apart (even though nobody ever wins more than $5).

It feels good knowing that Christmas day is a small family affair, with the day sliding past in a slippery blur of chocolate for breakfast, lunch with all the trimmings, Macadamia Mango crunch for dessert, wine and sunshine all afternoon. Channel 9’s ‘Carols By Candlelight’ will buzz in the background, I will munch on cherries til I’m ill and will walk on the beach all afternoon.

I get a little lump of excitement in my throat, countered by reassurance, with the expectation that Boxing Day will be better than Christmas, that I will wear a new dress, shower my little cousins with tickles and glow on the inside when they brag to me about their VCE scores, performances in dancing contests and hopes of moving to the city. I will be forced to sit on the knee of a distant cousin in a tacky Santa costume, participate in Irish dancing competitions and sing ‘Fame’ with my many female cousins, even though I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.

I like these Christmas events because I understand them, I know how they work. As I get older, I begin to wonder if it’s merely the familiarity that makes them good or whether it’s the way that they remind me of past memories. I often think about the episode of ‘Sex and the City’ (‘cos this is where I get my life lessons) when Charlotte decides to give up Christmas for Harry, but is spurred on by the thought that the new memories they can create may be better then those she ever had.

Do you like to do the same thing every year? Or are you brave, do you try something new with the hope of a new tradition in the midst?

Do tell…. I wanna know.

Five year olds speak the truth. It’s a cold hard fact, in the same way that Britney is terrible at lip synching and Oprah is a god. This morning when my class sat down in front of me  one little girl gasped “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR FACE?”

You know what was wrong? Today, fair ladies and gents, I went sans make up. This wasn’t due to laziness or a social experiment to see how people would react to my fresh skin, I just went to school early to do a bi-weekly fitness session with the other teachers and forgot my make up bag.

I know I am a princess, as I am frequently reminded by my brother. I do wear light make up daily (the usual combo consists of foundation, blush, mascara and lip gloss). However I do not apply said make up with a trowel and like to think my face is somewhat visible underneath it.

I was a little startled when I remembered my make up bag was sitting at home on my bathroom counter. My face felt naked and I spent the day feeling like I hadn’t woken up properly. It was all very “Stars Without Make-Up” edition of Who magazine. I wondered if I would get any other horrified reactions, but I only had a few of my colleagues ask if I was ok or comment that I looked tired (which I kinda am… but only 3 weeks til holidays!)

So maybe I do have a make-up addiction. Yet I’m not really keen to spend anymore work days looking exhausted and feeling that something is “wrong with my face” to find out.

How frequently do you wear make-up? Do you feel lost without out it? Tell, tell..

Me all made up on the weekend… I can’t help my ongoing lipstick/gloss infatuation.

If one of my five year old students howls their lungs out while curled in the foetal position because their shoelaces are tied together, have a mosquito bite or they have jam in their sandwich instead of Vegemite, their cries are met with a chorus of “Ricky Resilience, not Cathy Crumble!”

Their peers advise that they adopt ‘Green Light Thinking’, a term that our school system uses to encourage positive thinking. Most of the time the Green Light Thinking words, although sometimes the only thing that can make a kid smile during this type of dilemma is a big sparkly sticker of a ladybird.

I like to think that I’m positive. I’m smiley. I see the bright side. I still hang on to the dire hope that Hamish Blake marry me.

Despite this, for no apparent reason, I sometimes tend to go a bit five year old foetal position tantrum myself. (Normally in the privacy of my own home, not in a classroom, you’ll be glad to know).

What’s my Green Light Thinking?

I’m thankful that it wasn’t my two year old who I witnessed licking the floor at ‘Bed, Bath & Table’ this afternoon.

I’m wrapped that on Friday I got given a free ticket to the Britney concert. I’m doubly wrapped that I shared the experience with one of the most amazing people I know, who chuckled with me about poor old Brit’s woeful lip synching attempts and danced her little hips off with me when ‘Hit Me Baby, One More Time’ was performed.

I have a secret giggle remembering how one of my friends told a lady that while her baby was cute, he preferred his iPhone. He has a point, you can’t hold a baby up to the radio to tell you which song is playing.

The knowledge that one of my colleagues didn’t know what fruit cheese was. I had to explain that it was just cheese with fruit in it.

I think about planes and how I will be on one in 2 months.

The fact that mangoes, cherries, houses decorated in Christmas lights, children wearing elf hats and 30*C days are currently in abundance.

Two words: Taylor Lautner.

The thought of freshly laundered sheets, late night DVDs and no alarm clock.

Knowing that there are so many people I know who put the happiness of other people (and the introduction of quality literature to children) above everything else.

What’s your Green Light thinking?

It can set you up to bring you down. It  can become a way of thinking. To protect yourself, you can choose to guard yourself with sarcasm, with humour, with self depreciation that veers away from the rawness. Lock the gate so no one comes in and no one gets hurt. Remember the negative to prevent the opening up of old wounds, but in the process block out the positive and opportunity to fix yourself up with a soothing balm.

You have the choice though. In the same way you almost choose to be enchanted by the secret smiles, the rush of complements, the sound of a text message ringing in your ears with the treacly words from the mouth of a new adventure. In the same method that you can let liking a boy wash over you like a wave and be excited about meeting someone who seems excited about meeting you.

You can throw down the walls around you and let the new one in. Because you might possibly get hurt again or you might just get healed and let your awesomeness shine through.


I’m just like all you others.

I watch ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ and think ‘ooh yes, I’m a professional too’ (I just save Prep’s yoghurt covered lunch boxes which have fallen in the bin, not lives).

I read autobiographies by women who inspire me, who work in political positions and are elected by others who support their cause.

I stalk Michelle Obama & Princess Mary on the net and ponder, ‘Hmm, I too could study law. I might land Prince in a bar, then could help rule a nation while wearing gorgeous frilly dresses’.

I take risks, I travel and crave new experiences in the same way that I crave Malteasers. I try to encourage the kids I work with to strive to reach their full potential and to think about other people. I then discover they are much better at it then myself, as well as most adults I know.

I hang out with independent, like minded girls and women, who can rock a cocktail dress as well as a political conference. I think about the future a lot.

The more I read about the past, the more appreciative I am that I live in the present. I am aware that as a woman today I have choice. I am thankful to those who fought so that I have that choice (even though I totally don’t agree with Germaine Greer’s opinions about the Crocodile Hunter…). I also feel fortunate that I was born into a country where freedom of choice is viewed as a right.

Then I have D&M (deep & meaningful, for those not up with my Year 9 girl vocabulary) conversations with some gorgeous, smart friends, who are overwhelmed with the choice, with the freedom. Who want to stay home and not have a career, but support husbands and children. Who know that this is what they want, who know that this will make them happy. And I can see their point.

And who am I whether to say it’s wrong or right? Do we have too much choice? Have our choices made us happier?

Tell me what you think.

I encountered an interesting old, old lady this week. She made me cry.

Well, she didn’t intend to. I didn’t know her. And it wasn’t her so much, rather her whole situation.

We took some Grade 3 students to visit the Nursing Home across the road and I watched with pride and wonderment as these kids, who run around like crazies most of the day, presented themselves as polite, sweet cherubs. They chatted to the residents in rehearsed sentences, making friendly enquiries about families, children, lives.

Most of the elderly ladies, seated at Bingo tables in lavender and silky scarves, chatted to them about kittens, First Communions and school. Both parties were doing a good job at making pleasent conversation.

Except for one lady, hunched over a walking frame, reciting poetry in a loud and commanding voice to an 8 year old audience of mesmorised (although somewhat frightened) children. These kids stood in front of her like statues, with glassy, teary eyes as they listened to her speak with grand gestures.

It was a moment in which the Earth seemed to stand still. I watched the old lady and the children, and no one else in the world existed. Them and Me. Me and them. When I glanced up at my best friend, another teacher who came along, I knew she had seen the water creeping into my eyes.

Especially when a little boy whispered, “You’ve got a real talent there!” A smile lit up the lady’s face and she exclaimed, “Fancy you telling me something like that! Gosh!”

The lady told me she was 89. Born on the West Australian goldfields, she used to recite that poem, in the same clear, commanding voice, when she was young. I imagined her narrating in front of large crowds. Except that now she only speaks to the same people, other resident and visiting strangers. And I dreaded that day, if it ever comes, when I will have wisdom and experience, but no room left for fresh new future dreams…

*Inspired by one of Mollie’s posts…

Almost 24, yet safe and secure in the knowledge that:

I am taking advantage of the period in my life when I can still eat chocolate for breakfast. It’s ok to still have your friends over and part take in play fights, involving hair pulling and a very queasy tummy after jumping around too much following the consumption of Thai take-away. I can still get away with talking like I am 15. Like, totally just get away with it. I’m on the precipice of a time when it’s acceptable to buy tissues because they have Hannah Montana on the packet.

Degrees: Check. Job: Check.

My friends and I have reached a suitable age when we can criticise teen fashion (white socks over leggings? Hello?!) but still follow them if we find said fashions to be of a superior class (Headbands? Yes!) I’m still young enough to plan and dream about stupid schemes and dreams, which still have a remote possibility of coming true (live in a Northern NSW treehouse? Sure, why not. Marry a Prince I will meet at a bar, a la Princess Mary and become future Queen of European country? Hell yes! Work for a fashion magazine? Look after native animals at my house? Have an organised filing system in my classroom? Be on ‘Dancing with the Stars’? Shack up with Hamish Blake? Dare to dream…)

Saturdays are for spending the morning in pajamas, eating overpriced salads for lunch and dancing all night. Sundays are for sleeping in, gelati, chats on the balcony with people you partied with on the previous night, reading the paper, watching movies and doing last minute work preparation (while eating toast for dinner).

Having said that, it’s perfectly acceptable to spend Saturday night watching DVDs and eating burnt microwave popcorn with fabulous people.

I’m mature enough to be besties with the more mature ladies at work, but still young enough to love discussing the Teen Choice Awards with the Grade 6 girls.  Old enough to make grown up choices (buy a house, get married, la di dah…), young enough to kiss random boys at parties. Old enough to drive, young enough to car dance. Draw wisdom from movie quotes, gain inspiration from great women, adore my friends.

Yep, not bad. Not bad at all.

Ever since I was little, I have been told. Be independent. Make sure you are financially responsible. You are just as good and deserving as the next person. Work hard and you will reap the rewards.

I listened to my parents. I worked hard. I got a job which let me be in charge, if only of a small number of small people. I learned to get the things I wanted by doing the right thing, being nice to people and as a result, (in the words of the great philosopher Destiny’s Child) I depend on me.

This has always seemed like a fabulous idea. The only way to go. Until recently.

I have reached my happy place, where I have friends who are like my family, a job I love and exciting possibilities ahead. I have been going out with boys, having fun and I have just experienced a revelation. I am so used to being on my own, for setting myself up and focussing on me, that when I am not in control of where things are heading, my head screams “Run! You’re independent! Remember?!!”

I don’t want to lose my independence. I love the fact that I’m not scared of removing spiders from the house, that I earn enough to get by, that I have the confidence to attend a party alone. I also don’t want my independence to prevent me from taking risks and having happiness in the future. I’ve had many a conversation with my single friends about this topic and they feel the same way. I saw ‘The Ugly Truth’ today and it seems Katherine Heigl’s character also felt the same way.

So now, since I do depend on me, it’s up to me to make sure I don’t hold myself back with my own efforts to be fabulous. I will try to go out on a limb, to take the risk, to stand up straight, have pretty hair and let someone else open the door for a change.

Days of My Life

July 2018
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...and it got me thunking... A dip platter is my idea of a perfect meal beach Beyonce` would know Bill Cosby was right and kids do say the darndest things birthday girl bloggers bloggers who rock boys with black nail polish are the sex bushfires champagne child of the 80s chocolate Christmas cupcakes make the world go round dancing to cheesy songs could end war forever david jones dogs are some of the best people i know dreaming family fashion fashion thrills me forwards free friends morph into family frogs Gen Y gluten Gossip Girl XOXO half a letter and half a list Hamish Blake gives me a lift on my ride home Hard to believe but sometimes we are even cooler then Carrie Bradshaw headbands are what dreams are made of Heels equal power honest I'm actually 15 i'm bored therefore i blog i'm such a girl i adore kids books I am you are we are Australian I can't remember as I was a bit smashed i love HK and all its mango drinks i really hope you don't know me i still believe in Santa i wish i spoke in amazing quotations I would have a Diet Coke IV if i could jokes just a moment life long love Lilo Lily Allen Melbourne Miley Cyrus miranda kerr my friends are the best friends once upon a time i loved Hanson parents are intesting sometimes read my brain sad but true sometime i think little kids are smarter then me Spice Girls Spring has sprung Summer Sunday Taylor Swift teaching this show is my life travel unrealistic is more realistic we're all dying too weekends when I'm bored I'm crazy when will i will i be famous? Winter yes i rock singstar

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