Changes. Well, more changes.

So, long time no blog.

Things change. How many times have I admitted that to myself this year?

It’s been an up-and-down few months.

I finally walked out of my marriage, a little tenderised but mostly unscathed. I can pretty much thank the Manbeast’s level head for much of it. The house sold for a decent price (the range we were hoping for) and we were able to split with a decent chunk of money each, even after paying back the Maternal Unit the amount she gave us for a deposit.

Sadly our promises of “staying friends” seems to have turned to “staying silent”. We haven’t spoken for a long while. For all of his insistence of joint ownership of the cats and visitation rights and such (this was our personal joke – we have no kids other than the fur babies), nothing has really happened in that respect. He hasn’t called to visit them at all. I get it. I was warned that it was most likely to happen and while it makes me a little bit sadder than usual, I get it. And I’ll take it on the chin. I’m not going to chase him down and insist he be part of my life like he made me promise when we were going through the throws of breaking up.

Things change.

What actually hurts most is the abject silence from a handful of our mutual friends and that of his parents. Where my mum (the Maternal Unit) had offered her ongoing support to the Manbeast, something I have absolutely no issue with, I haven’t had the same from his parents. That’s one stony, icy-cold silence. Guess I was a bitter disappointment there. First take their son away, then refuse to have babies, then break up with him.

The other friends… Well, maybe I wasn’t as close to them as I thought. They certainly haven’t reciprocated the “We are Switzerland!” stance that the Manbeast and I gave them when they were going through their own issues. There’s been no pokes through Facebook or emails or texts. Just silence.

And to be honest, that’s ok too. The Manbeast needs their support without my interference.

Deep breath.

Let it go.

Things change. Though I will admit it’s left me feeling very alone sometimes. I don’t go chasing people anymore for attention, particularly when it’s obvious that I am barely registering as a thought.

Moving back into the Maternal Unit’s house hasn’t been terribly fun. It’s been reassuring to know that I had somewhere to go but I’ve packed up a whole independent life and put as much of it as I could into one room. A very small room. Mum is a clutter-bug and has a LOT of stuff she’s been keeping for those “just in case” moments and, of course, things that are “useful”. Unfortunately it means that there’s not a whole lot of space to put other stuff, even before I moved in; an achievement when you think it’s a three bedroom house that has contained one lady and one or two cats for the better part of 10 years. She’s a neat hoarder, though. Very tidily squirreling things away. No piles of stuff or cluttered hallways but nature clearly hates a vacuum in that house.

Not all is doom and gloom though.

There’s a new bloke on the scene.

He makes me happy.

Ecstatic, actually. He gets it. He gets me. He loves me. He wants to be with me. Not just “in a relationship” but physically be in my presence a lot of the time.

The feeling is entirely mutual.

And I am learning what I was missing out on with the Manbeast. This is not a bad thing – how can you miss what you never experienced? It’s just nice to learn these new facets of a relationship. Having someone reach for your hand and actually hold it, leaning in for a kiss (and to hell with who is watching), reading a paper together over a hot chocolate and coffee, dating. Stuff that never really happened before.

The Manbeast and I were a couple but we did our own thing and worked independently of each other much of the time. Too much of the time.

Now, “Sharpy” (as I will call him for he wields very sharp knives on a regular basis) and I do stuff together for the purpose of doing stuff together; sharing and experiencing things together.

He likes to shop with me.

He watches “Say Yes to the Dress” marathons with me. VOLUNTARILY.

That’s true love right there, folks.

He’s not perfect but I don’t want him to be. His imperfections match mine and we can make each other better.

I have no idea where life is headed next, but I know for sure that I’m going to live it rather than just exist in it. My aunt died at the end of July this year. That will be another blog post for later when I don’t feel the crushing weight of her absence anymore, but her death has taught me not to waste any more time.

There and back again. Marriage to Un-Marriage.

How do you know when a relationship is over?

When you know you can live, quite happily, without the other person as part of your life. It’s a simple answer but the most telling one.

How do you deal with it? That’s the bit I’ve spent the last few years trying to work out.

Even before we got married, I knew things weren’t right. I’d known for a long, long time but I thought it was normal. It was shit that everyone felt one time or another, right? No one is perfect. There is no perfect marriage or partnership. But being terminally optimistic (or fatalistic) about such things, I thought being married would bring us closer together; make us happier.

It didn’t. Nothing changed. If anything, things gradually got worse.

For me, the beginning of the end was a brief conversation about whether I was attractive. I was told I “wasn’t… unattractive”.

I kept waiting for a punchline that never, ever came.

The problem was me, right? Of course, that’s what I thought. Who makes a comment like that? Even if they didn’t “mean” it, there’s still some truth to it. I was hurt beyond speaking – fuck, beyond breathing – as I realised that there was to be no laughing “Just kidding!” to follow.

Clearly the problem was me.

It started a spiral that was both downward and upward for me.

I started to take care of myself better – thinking that the problem was me. I lost 50kg – thinking that the problem was me. I started to dress better – thinking that the problem was me.

It was never him. I wasn’t prepared to shift the blame onto him. It had to be me. I had all this rage because I was the problem and didn’t know how to properly deal with it.

When we had a massive fight, it was me who was sent to counseling – and I went, thinking that the problem was me.

The end goal was to be a better, more lovable/likeable me.

So I changed physically and emotionally. I learned to breathe and let things go. To compromise – always compromise and convince myself that whatever I had to compromise on wasn’t important, totally putting aside the fact that my thoughts and feelings were important and valid too. Did it change anything at home? Nope.

And in the three years (from 2011) all that took, I came to the realisation that IT. WASN’T. ME.

I was reacting to the problem, not creating it.

(I realise belatedly this was the stuff my therapist had alluded to. Funny how hindsight is remarkably clear.)

The confidence that came with losing weight meant that I could walk down the street and look people in the eye and know that I was worth so much more than what I was given credit for. I had a brain. I had skill. Fuck, I was even pretty. I was perfectly fine as a human being.

I suddenly got tired of watching all of our friends working as units; well-oiled marriage machines that managed to keep their shit together and even love each other at the same time, and wondering why I didn’t have that. I watched my employers scream at each other (I work for three husband/wife teams) one second but be cuddling in the next second and actually addressing what was wrong and doing something to fix it but couldn’t even convince my own husband that putting empty toilet rolls in the bin was a Good Idea.

After the disastrous Christmas of 2014 when I needed support from the one who was supposed to be closest to me – who had chosen that period of two weeks to give me the cold shoulder because of a fight the week before – I knew I had to face the reality that things weren’t working. More importantly, I had to deal with the infinitely more guilty realisation that I didn’t want them to work anymore.

I wanted out.

(And before anyone rails the benefits of couples counseling and all that stuff at me, I have to tell you now that no counseling in the world will work when both parties aren’t committed to the process. And I was not and am not committed to that process. Deal with it.)

Cue a year of depression and hiding and eating… OMG, the eating.

I rediscovered my love of cake and chocolate and my affair with apathy was back in full swing.

Hello 20kgs. Nice to see you again. At least I’ll be slightly warmer this winter.

But anyway. The year wore on and time and time again I would finally decide that it was time to say something but I would chicken out. I knew I had to say something, and soon. My heart was flying off in a totally different direction at this stage.

Going to another wedding in January this year cemented it for me. It was painful, pretending to be happy while watching two friends who had been tip-toeing around each other for ages finally get married. The absolute adoration…

I was happy for them.

Sad for me. I was tired of being sad. I was tired of all lying and pretending that everything was fine and normal.

And the following week I spoke the words out loud, finally.

“I don’t want to be married anymore.”

And a new adventure begins.

Postscript: I still don’t blame him.

Truer words rarely spoken.
Truer words rarely spoken.

Of Gods and the Godless

The current goings-on in the world are wearying, aren’t they? I always feel an odd sort of exhaustion any time something horrible happens in the name of someone’s omnipotent being called God (or one of His many other names). It’s a weird reaction to have. Most people are terrified or angry. I’m just tired. The tiredness comes from the constant waiting for something else to happen. Expectation of the proverbial muck that is going to hit the rotary blades.

The bombings in Beirut, Nigeria and Paris in recent weeks have been fucking overwhelming for me and I will freely admit that a little of the terror creeps in at the sides of that tiredness. In that small admission, I guess the bad guys are winning. But that’s not really what I wanted to talk about.

A few months ago, I had a conversation with my nephew about God. I can’t even remember why. He ended up telling me about this weird class that his friends were taking.

For whatever her reasons, my sister had the Peanut baptised but is putting him through the public school system where religious education is not part of the regular curriculum. It’s a special class my sister can give permission for him to take.

As a result, the Peanut doesn’t know God. He doesn’t understand anything about the Creator. More over, he doesn’t understand the concept of a higher power at all. God, Allah, Buddha, the Flying Spaghetti Monster… it’s all alien to him. He doesn’t get it and kids like him have no idea why the world is looking down the barrel of what I think will be WWIII – The Religious War.

Back story…

Both my sister and myself were put through the Catholic school system from Prep to (in my case) year 12. From the age of 5-ish, we were taught Faith. We learned about God, Jesus, Mary. We know all the major stories from the Bible. We went through the major ceremonies to cement our membership and ensure our spot on the right side of the Pearly Gates. (So long as we behave ourselves – there’s always that caveat.)

So now… the God question.

To me, God just… is. That’s what Faith is. Inexplicable and fucking insane belief in something that has never been proven and of which there is very little evidence apart from a book of stories written by several different people and translated umptymillion times for the past 2000 years.

PLEASE don’t mistake me for being a Bible-thumping churchie – clearly I am not. Nor are the rest of my family – my parents put us through the Catholic system because they thought the education system was better in such schools. (Pro tip: It’s not.) And my schools were progressive in that while they taught the Word, they also taught stuff like science. Real science. (Like, no, humankind as we are today did NOT walk hand-in-claw with the dinosaurs and that the world was most likely created via the Big Bang and did not actually materialise magically within the universe over a period of seven days.)

But faith. It’s there. I can’t help it. I have it, as disillusioned with it as I may be.

But “it just IS” is not an adequate explanation for those who haven’t been indoctrinated from an early age (or birth) and have absolutely zero experience.

Of course this brings me right back to my initial comment. How do you go about explaining to a kid who has no concept of Life After Death (though he seems to know what ghosts are – probably due to the copious amounts of horror films he’s watched from behind a couch when he should have been in bed) that those nasty people over there in that other country are murdering people in the name of their Invisible Friend because their Invisible Friend is better than our Invisible Friend?

Yeah, it sounds as stupid as it actually is.

I really don’t blame him for the look he gave me.

Yep. This look.
Yep. This look.

No I won’t “suck it up”.

You see me whine on Facebook about being sore and tired. You sit there and smile knowingly or roll your eyes because you’re a gym-goer too. Or a runner. Or a crossfitter. Or an otherwise Tough Mudderfucker, but you’re not me. You know all about muscle soreness and recovery and optimal heart rates and that fabled exercise high.

You think you can say certain things to me that I will react positively to – because we’re friends.

Backstory.

I’ve just started back at the gym and back into regular exercise after watching my weight change eight kilograms in the wrong direction. For someone who was already around 102kg and has fought tooth and nail to get down from 152kg, that’s a scary number to see again. So I’m back at the gym. I’d love to go back to my personal trainer but even at $20 for a session (and I feel I need at least three sessions a week to be worth anything to me health-wise), I can’t afford it. So I do it on my own and try to do a good, honest job of pushing myself.

But you know what? This shit’s hard.

So, yeah, I complain.

Occasionally, like today, I write a mildly amusing-to-me comment on Facebook expressing my current hatred of whoever invented gyms and that I was sore and that I was going to make myself sorer by subjecting my body to yet another session of physical torture known as working out.

What I got in response, among other things, was being told to “harden up, princess” and “suck it up, cupcake”.

Ha ha, right? Really funny. Ren’s just whinging again. Let’s poke fun at her. She won’t mind.

She does mind.

OH BOY, she does.

Yes, she is whinging again but she just needs a little support. Sometimes she needs to be coddled because, heaven forbid, she’s feeling more than a little fucking delicate at that moment. She might actually need for someone to remind her why she am doing this when she hurts from repeated sessions of “sucking it up” and to keep going when tears of actual physical pain are mixing with sweat.

I do “suck it up”.

I am “hard”.

And you will hear/see/read me complain because that’s what I do when I’m feeling bad. Because, fuck you, I want someone to tell me that this IS WORTH IT.

What you don’t see or hear about is the way my hip joints grind so painfully the day after a particularly hard session of squats and treadmill work that I can feel the sensation of it in my back teeth. What you don’t see or hear about is the way my lower back throbs for days because I was stupid and just so happy to be moving that I forgot the “Ren can’t run or jump” rule but did burpees, star jumps and jogged in place on solid concrete for ten minutes.

So DON’T tell me to harden up. I do this shit in SPITE of how much I suffer for it in the days following.

I have to balance what I do in order to be able to walk the next day (if not the next hour) because I’ve got other shit I need to “suck it up” for and get done.

I love my friends but sometimes I really want to smack them up the back of the head.

With a shovel.

Renlish.com
Words to live by.

Stan. Apparently the Biggest Deal in Entertainment.

DISCLAIMER: This is NOT a sponsored post.

If you’re driving along any major roads at the moment, you’re bound to come across this billboard:

Renlish.com - Stan. Review
The fabulous Rebel Wilson on the Stan billboard.

Yep. Welcome to Stan, the new Australian subscription video-on-demand service which is apparently our answer to the very popular Netflix and similar services that are so popular in the States (and around the world).

Now, it’s well known that Australians are the world dominating force when it comes to pirated films and TV shows. We’ve all done it. We all have our reasons. Whether we are tight-arses and tip rats who don’t want to pay for DVDs, movie tickets or the rip-off that is Foxtel (our only “cable” TV service) or we’re just so damned sick of having our commercials interrupted by a few silvers of popular television every couple of minutes – that shit is just not on.

Ideally, Stan is the answer to this problem. A cheap, easily accessible on-demand system that doesn’t lock you into any contracts and doesn’t cost an absolute bomb. At the moment they’re even giving folks who sign up a 30 day free trial and to be honest, for $10.00 AUD a month, I can’t say that’s it’s not a bargain deal. A tenner a month is (generally) easy for most folks. So by that fact alone, this should be a winner.

So why am I so underwhelmed?

Currently, Stan has the exclusive airing rights to the follow up to Breaking Bad, Better Call Saul. It also has the epic Aussie serial, Gallipoli. It’s using these two shows as it’s main draw card at the moment.

Unfortunately, I am not one of the masses who has enjoyed Breaking Bad… and I haven’t bothered with Gallipoli because well, I’m Australian. I KNOW that story.

What I think is bugging me about Stan is that there’s no real new content and there’s not a lot of what’s there. Most of what I have found is years old already with the exception of a few series and films like the Hobbit movies but as I said, most of it is old and, infuriatingly with some of the television series I am interested in seeing again are incomplete. I really am hoping that things like the original CSI will be made available in it’s entirety as opposed to starting from series 11.

ELEVEN!

Fuck’s sake.

Having said that, they do have a couple of old school favourite TV series like Drop Dead Diva and The Nanny  as well as gems like Star Trek (yes, ALL OF THE STAR TREKS) and there are a few cracking movies like Joss Whedon’s Much Ado About Nothing and Wolf of Wall Street available.

Anyway… the other thing that irritates me about Stan is the site itself. I hate the layout. I absolutely detest that I cannot access a simple list of all the movies and shows available, firstly because I don’t like relying on what other people believe certain things should be categorised under (um, Basic Instinct is NOT a romance…) and secondly, the current system doesn’t show all the films on the site or it re-tiles things I’ve already scrolled through. Films that are clearly in the collection aren’t showing up when I’m browsing and frankly, I hate being told what other people think I should be watching.

Anyway, that’s my whiny-arsed review of Stan.

To sum up…

Pros:

  • Cheap – free for 30 days then $10.00 AUD a month (via credit card subscription).
  • No contract and pay monthly as you use – you don’t have to buy a block of time.
  • Fast even on a regular ADSL connection.
  • Accessible on multiple devices – Yes, you can get Stan on computers, tablets and smartphones. (Apparently, I haven’t tested this because my smartphone is not compatible with the Stan app.) This system also allows up to three different users on the same account on three different devices.  While it might be hell on your data usage, it might contribute to domestic harmony.
  • Unlimited access and streaming – you can stream as much as your ISP data plan allows.
  • HD streaming is available.

Cons:

  • Limited content at the moment – most of what is there is VERY old.
  • You have to download software (Microsoft Silverlight on Windows machines) to stream media as it doesn’t stream with native software.
  • Very clunky menu/browsing system.
  • Stream only, you don’t get to download any content…. well… officially. We Aussies are good about getting around that sort of thing.

Pictures of You

Hey you.

I remember you. You may not remember me much, but you are never too far away from my thoughts. A day rarely goes by when I haven’t thought about you a couple times at least. Is that obsessive? Maybe.

It’s not the weird “bunny boiler” kind of obsessive.

I just miss you. It’s been so many years.

So much has changed.

I miss you. I miss you an awful lot.

I’m still here.

Still listening to you. For you.

I owe you a hug. I owe you lots of things.

You left an indelible mark on me – as indelible as the tattoo you had done of the pendant that I gave you. I found that picture last night. It made me smile.

Never fade
Never die
You give me flowers of love

–The Cure, “Bloodflowers”

No, I’m not getting pregnant. But thanks for asking.

So, Christmas. It really is that joyous time of year when family think it’s okay to get all up in yo bizznizz and ask inappropriate questions and say inadvertently hurtful things. The fact that I have not become pregnant yet or made any attempts at becoming pregnant in order to give my in-laws (or my own parents) grand-babies has officially been pointed out to me. This has not been helped by the fact that distant relations of child-bearing age have been popping out kids left, right and centre. Not to mention my own sister is up to number two. The traitorous bitch!

(No. Not really. She’s just a bitch. ;) )

I feel for the Outlaws. While my mother and father have come to accept that I am probably not going to be the one to give them babies to spoil (because my little sister is fulfilling that role spectacularly), my Outlaws, particularly the manbeast’s mum, are feeling left out of the grandparents stakes. They only had one child – adopted one, in fact, so I think that it makes it a little harder for them for them to come to terms with my childlessness.

I should really make it clear that the Outlaws have not said anything directly to me (or the manbeast, as far as I am aware) but comments around the topic have been heard. Comparisons between myself and another baby-bearer in their family have been made – within earshot.

This is not terribly new, though. The whispers of the possibility of hearing the pitter-patter of little feet started shortly after I married the manbeast and turned 30 – three days apart. Those comments were very occasional, most of the time in jest but even so, there was an underlying tone of “So… when are you actually going to have a baby?” Of course now, six years later, those whispers are turning into shouts of “You’re STILL not pregnant?!”

Outwardly, I can only smile and shrug. Inwardly, I cringe. And get a little annoyed.

Renlish.com - Inigo Montoya

Let me say here and now that I love kids. LOVE them. I am not by any means anti-child at all. I would happily steal everyone’s kids. I’m the cool aunty who hypes up all small people under the age of 10 on sweets and evilly hands them back to parents at the end of the day just before the sugar crash happens.

Seriously, that ALONE is reason enough to never have children. Anyway…

I would love to be a mother. But…

I am anti-pregnancy. I am anti-gene pool. I am anti-starting a family in a turbulent marriage. And it’s not just my decision either!

Okay, so probably having my mate Inigo help me sum things up isn’t going to cut it…

Reason 1: Pregnancy is Gross

It is. I find the whole idea of carrying a baby abhorrent – and I am sorry if that offends anyone. And I know perfectly well that my feelings on the matter are totally irrational and stupid but that’s the way it is. No amount of trying to convince me otherwise is going to get me to change my mind. I know a couple of people who loved being pregnant, adored the idea of new life growing inside them, enjoyed the feeling kicks and sucker punches to their bladders. Most people I know who have kids didn’t like the pregnancy so much but it was simply a means to an end for them. They wanted kids, they had them. Of course you have to get pregnant to get the kids.

Me? I tell everyone “I want kids – I just don’t want to get pregnant.” The confusion on their faces as that sinks in is highly entertaining.

PregnantSpray

I find nothing endearing about the process, and no, contrary to what many people tell me when I say that I am anti-pregnancy, I am not afraid of giving birth. That can be virtually painless if I want it to be. It’s the nine months leading up to birth I don’t want to deal with. It’s the idea of this… thing… growing on me and in me. It’s the hormones which, in all seriousness, screw that! My hormones have been messing me around enough as it is. I am a physical and emotional wreck.

Reason 2: My genes suck.

No, I am not talking about appearance because I am gorgeous and the girls in my family get the maternal genes. No issues there.

How do I put this sensitively? I am a firm believer in the idea that mental dysfunction is hereditary. There have been studies which prove this – though I suppose there are studies which prove anything if you throw enough resources at any given topic. But I’ve found this to be true in the case of me. In every single branch of my family there are issues.

No. Just no. I cannot and will not deal with that possibility. I grew up with it.

Selfish much? Hell yes.

This is the reason why I have not take up a friends half-joking-half-serious offer of surrogacy for me. Yeah, she can have the baby but it’ll still be from my genes and NO. All of the no.


Reason 3: It’s just Not a Good Time

I know there are loads of people who’ve been unprepared for their pregnancy – who have felt that they’re not ready, but “Oops!” and they’ve dealt with it with aplomb. I also know a couple of people who HATE being mothers but love their kids and if they had their time over they would make different choices. I don’t want to be either one of those people.

I am however a firm believer in family units. Kids belong in environments where they have loving, supportive guardians who want them. My marriage isn’t wonderful at the moment. Enough said. I refuse to become pregnant and have a baby in this environment and I am definitely not going to get pregnant and start popping out kids just to please specific people or fulfill my destiny in the social norm.

And the next person who says I “don’t know what love truly is” until I have kids, I WILL punch you in the fucking face.

Reason 4: And, well, the MANBEAST doesn’t want them.

This is the one thing that irritates me the most. As the potential sproggin-bearer, I am the one who cops all the looks, all the comments and questions, and all the sideways glances. Does the manbeast? Rarely. Me? Not a day goes by when I am not reminded that my biological clock is running out of battery power.

But has anyone actually asked the manbeast if he wants children?

Guess what? I have.

The answer is no.

Though we both agree that I would make a great mother.

So there you go. If I thought it would make a difference, I would post this blog to all the people who keep asking about the state of my uterus, but I doubt it would make any difference.

I am going to grow old and alone.

And I’m okay with that.

An Open Letter

How do you tell someone they are wrong? How do you cut through their delusion, to show them that what they are thinking is incorrect? That statements they’ve made are simply patently untrue?

You can’t. Not really. Not when they really think what they are saying is true.

So it has been with a friend of mine – no longer a friend of mine.

History has repeated over and over again with this one and I never seem to learn. I’ve tried to understand and come to terms with and, most importantly, accept all the parts of him that make him who he is. This is my failing – I cannot accept his problems because he ultimately turns them into my problems. I found discussions from as far back as seven years ago which are an exact carbon copy of this very situation and I’m sure the break that ensued even before then was a result of the same thing. Like I said, history repeats.

From all the years of (off and on) friendship, from all the conversations we’ve had, I do understand that this comes from a good place. It does. Which is why it’s hard for me to remain mad. I get that part. He is ultimately a really good person.

But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

the-road-to-hell-001

Not even my closest girlfriend here would dare say the things that he has to and about me – and it’s not for fear of my reaction but their respect that those issues are absolutely none of their business unless I choose to let it be their business. They know that to be friends with me is to accept the whole of me, no questions asked, no assumptions made and as I have said to several people, I love just having them there. No one needs to do a thing. Just be there. Be a presence in my life. Friendships are not something you should feel the need to set boundaries on and yet that’s what I found myself having to do so he would just back off and stop making himself so involved.

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He thinks that I am a time bomb of emotion. Tell me, dear reader, if you’ve known me throughout the years have you ever known me to not be volatile emotionally? It was the whole reason I started blogging nearly 20 (holy shit!) years ago. Go through the stuff that I have. See if you end up the same coming out as you did going in.

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But I wear it. I deal with it. I get help when I need it – I detest having “help” thrust upon me.

Boundaries.

Strangely enough, I haven’t had this problem with anyone else. A fact that amuses me a bit because he thinks this has happened before and it has – but only with him. I think he’s forgotten that, much like I had forgotten it too. I have a handful of friends that I have had the most awful blow-ups with but then we’ve moved on, forgiven each other or at least agreed to forever disagree on whatever it was that caused the problem in the first place. In the excitement of all the great things that happened last year, my friend and I definitely got lulled into a sense of delightful ignorance of our past. I guess with some people, you just can’t change rhythms.

I appreciate everything that he’s done for me and everything that he wanted to do for me. I am sorry that I cannot be what he needed in the same way that I am sorry that he could not be what I needed.

I can honestly say that I hope he finds peace in his topsy-turvy world, much in the same way that I am trying to in mine.

Reluctant Resolutions and Plans for 2015

I didn’t really want to make resolutions for the year.  For the past few years I’ve been avoiding making them because I know that putting any sort of pressure on myself for the year really only sets me up for disappointment by the time December 31st rolls around again. But I thought I would make a bucket list of sorts for the year. Stuff that I will aim to do but if I don’t, no big deal.

Last year was horrible. Mentally, emotionally, physically. Just horrible. There were some good parts and some pretty awesome parts but on the whole, 2014 can go right back to where it came from. I don’t want a repeat of it. It involved mental breakdowns, fights, friendships gone awry (more than one of those, oy), physical atrophy, and more. But it also involved a trip of a lifetime, some wonderful moments with friends and family and some small accomplishments.

I am sure this year is going to have a few bumps but I’m determined this will also be the year of trying to simply do better and be better.

So my 2015 Bucket List of Resolutions:

  • Lose weight. Derr. I haven’t got on the scales since just after Christmas and I was at 110kg… There’s been a couple weeks of solid nomming since then and I no longer need to wear a belt to hold my “fat jeans” up.
  • Drink more water. Going for days without a drink of water (or anything) is not good for you, mmmm’kay?
  • Exercise no less than three times a week. The body needs to be doing things. I’ve lost all my gym fitness over the last half of 2014 by simply choosing to sit on my butt at home.
  • Sleep!  My natural light sleeping patterns and stress-induced insomnia have been causing havoc and I average on five hours of sleep a night. For an elderly person, that’s fine. For me? Not so much… the bags under my eyes are so deep and blue that people have started asking me if I’ve been punched.
  • Read more books. I’d forgotten the joy of reading. That was brought back to me at Christmas when I managed to get through two very solid novels.
  • Write more words. This goes hand-in-hand with the reading. I noticed as soon as I got a little more reading done, the inspiration to write hit me. Go figure.
  • Create. Create ANYTHING at least once a week. Even if it’s just a doodle or an epic photomanipulation or a quick pair of earrings. Just create. I find my happy place when I am creating.
  • Learn something new. Whether it be just to cook a new dish or research a topic of interest or a new computer program, learn something new at least once every few weeks.
  • Stick to a project. This is a big one. I have lost count of how many times I’ve started a blogging or a photography project and it’s always lasted approximately 2.7 days before I’ve either forgotten or developed a case of the “can’t be bothereds”.

That’s my resolutions done.

Now, as for plans for 2015, it’s going to be a relatively quiet year, I think. I am going to concentrate on expanding my horizons, starting with this blog. I really want to get stuck into doing more beauty stuff with makeup and post some of the umptymillion looks that I’ve done on myself (I have to get better at taking selfies) and also learn how to do make videos for vlogging and gamecasting. I want this blog to be slightly more meaningful and useful than just being an occasional brain-dump.

I’ve made a good start on that with changing the layout of the blog with a great new face and menu system. Now I just need to add the content.

It, like I am, is ever-changing and always growing.

Or that’s the plan, anyway.