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Episode 9 Online dating: How I had a tantrum, but found a kitten

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This starts with scones for morning tea. An innocent trigger, exploding into a phone fight across 1600kms, as two feisty, stubborn women clash values.

“You want space to process? Have the entire state of Victoria then! I am NOT going to text first” rants my inner Grumpy Avoidant dwarf in silence.

Arms folded. Hackles up. Snarling. Feel sick though, down in the pit of my stomach. I know this isn’t right or healthy.

Ring my dear friend R; launch myself into the story of the fight, feeling myself getting crosser, yet sadder.

‘Why don’t you have a tantrum about this, and see what lies beneath?’ she says. ‘You know, dance round the living room, thrash a pillow, see what you find?’

OK, I can do that. And I know the perfect song: Fatboy Slim ‘What the Fuck’ 

So I’m 50, and flailing arms, legs, head, like a toddler. I’m shaking out my brain, belly, butt, and bile. I fall to my knees, and pummel the couch. I’m spoilt, selfish, silly, and acting out all of it. What the hell. Nothing to lose; I feel terrible anyway.

The 5 minutes passes. I’m panting, sweating, released. What lies beneath indeed?

I write:

“I feel angry with you for being so sensitive. I feel angry with myself for being so insensitive, and hurting you.

I’m angry that we’re not communicating, which feels to me like I’m being punished.

This morning, driving in the rain, I wondered, for the first time ever, if this relationship was too hard/too distant/not worth it.

I hated that.

I wondered if you were thinking the same thing. If you were going to dump me.

I was terrified. And I hated that.

But my Avoidant was up & cheering, marching off into the next new sunset with anyone easier/lighter/closer. 

I hated that (although it did feel horribly comforting). And I especially fucken hated that.So now I’m Here.

Feeling sad. Abandoned. Rejected for making a stupid mistake.

Love & Connection being withheld.

I hate that.

Yet I’m totally doing it too.

Wail & howl. Hang my head in shame & sorrow. Feel dumb. Careless. Sad.

I’m tired. Slept so shit.

Feel soft soft vulnerable scared… 

“I don’t want to lose this love” whispers my heart.

“I don’t want to fuck this up. I’m so dumb, insensitive, clumsy, defensive.”

I’m angry neither of us has better models & skills to navigate these trying times more easily.

I’m scared of losing our fragile, precious, incredible connection.

I’m wondering what to do to make it all better? The over-anxious child, wanting to ‘fix things’- to get it ‘right’.

To not fail.

To not cause pain to the one I love, even if they’ve also lashed out and hurt me.

To understand. To understand us both.

To be kind. To be kind to us both.

To Love. To Love us both.

To soften and open and lean into Love.

To say ‘I’m sorry. I fucked up. I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. I see your pain. Forgive me.’

To soften. To open.

To give a defeated shrug of my shoulders, and ask ‘Can we just let it go?’

That’s what I found inside me, curled up scared like a near-drowned kitten, shivering and cold, looking for a safe place that feels like Home.”

 

It’s 2 days before our 6 month ‘anniversary’ of first meeting HERE. Are we going to make it any further?

 

:(

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I’ve been devastated watching the Grenfell Tower tragedy unfold, not least because my cousin lives not far from there, and I know the marginalised communities this is traumatising. And still no official body count, hidden by the mainstream media owners (who are probably the Tower landlords)! The power of this poem just summed up all of how I feel, so I’m reblogging it. Read it twice. It’s all there. And watch this interview by singer Lily Allen: she’s just speaking the truth:
https://youtu.be/N1TbRejDv80

This is why we need social media, and creative responses to unspeakable tragedies; then we need to damn well riot!

lois linkens's avatarLois Linkens

as your flame-grilled steak sizzles just metres from your plate, so the fiery tongues of Grenfell feed upon the lives of those who deserved better.

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Blog tales for the Over 50s with positive ageing, dating & relationships

Driving with teenage son No. 4

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Me: I need something humorous about driving with you for my Blog… Ooh, look at that ‘grey nomad’ old lady over there with her massive brand new shiny RV … mmm, it’s even got a satellite dish… she must be driving round Australia… that’ll be me one day y’know, spending all your inheritance…

Him: Well, that’s certainly not funny.

bone&silver

Learner Drivers in Australia need their Mum

 

Smashed eggshells drowning

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We are on flood watch again. Last time this happened, due to Cyclone Debbie, we ended up with thigh-high water through my son’s garden-level bedroom: photos and story are all HERE. Nearby towns were devastated, and are literally only just recovering after 11 metres of brown filthy water rushed through the entire CBD.

Flood4

I hardly slept last night. I lay wake from 1.30 till at least 4am, tuning in to every increase or blessed pause in the rain’s fall. I kept picturing my garden 2 months ago, over and over, drowned by floodwater. I’d moved my car at midnight back then, just in time before the water went over the bottom of the doors; last night I kept worrying if I should get up to check it.

IMG_8338

My neighbours didn’t move their van in time. Water got to the bottom of the steering wheel

Early this morning friends texted or called to see if I needed a hand, and I decided to keep ’17’ home from school. I’ve noticed I’m chewing on my tongue or my inner lips, and feel so on edge (plus exhausted).

I’m kind of  hyper-vigilant, yet also numb.

Expecting the worst.

Feeling out of control.

Scared. Angry. Wanting to flee.

And I thought: ‘Wow, this is like a domestic violence nightmare- walking on those damn clichéd egg shells, waiting for the emotional explosion. Or like living in a ghetto, where you never know who’s going to be shot next. It’s like living in Syria, waiting to be bombed. It’s like being a refugee, in camp or detention centre.’

Except it’s fucking Not.

I’m still surrounded by intact walls & roof; electricity; internet; food and fresh water. Emergency services and Council trucks. Hourly updates on local radio with friendly voices and familiar tunes.

Support.

Freedom.

Love.

Yes, I’m feeling pretty anxious, and definitely a bit re-triggered by memories of the last flood. But nothing, NOTHING, like a woman being beaten by her partner in her own home, or having her children shot at, bombed, or drowned in rough seas fleeing political persecution.

I hang my head at my simple lack of resilience, and wonder if I’d ever be tough enough to survive a genuine traumatic situation?

I pray I never find out.

bone&silver

 

Episode 8: Best thirty bucks I ever spent

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Online dating for the over 50 can be a fun adventure in self exploration

Love is Love, and ‘We’re here, we’re Queer, get used to it!’ #rainbow #queer #lgbt #over50 #onlinedating #romance #australia #love

Last night I went out for dinner with 9 creative and vibrant women aged 40-50. There was much talk of art, young children, partners, teenagers, social media, Feminism, sex, hair colour, food, fitness etc; I hope you can picture it.

I arrived late, and ended up sitting at one head of the table, between two women I didn’t know, P & S. Slowly our conversations delved deeper, like cats burrowing under the quilt in winter. Do you reveal yourself easily, like P, red-stained teeth, bolstered by her 3rd glass of wine? Or with deliberate care like a tightrope walker, which S actually used to be in her 20s? I’m probably a mix of the two (always without the wine though), and as we chatted about kids and dads, relationships and dating, I said something about ‘…my current tomboy girlfriend in Melbourne’.

I noticed the split second of surprise and/or understanding flash across their faces, then we continued talking. P admitted she was currently dating 2 men at once. ‘Go girl!’ I said. S agreed; no disapproval or shaming here thanks. S told a sweet story about her husband, then juiced it up with tales of her various love affairs with women and men in Europe when younger.

I was struck by the ease with which we traversed so many different behaviours and presentations: travel/parenting/work/sex & romance/committed loving… there was both a fluidity and flow that delighted me. I know some love the stability of long-term marriages, the comfort of religious faith, the predictability of the same career path, or clear identity labels. Others need to explore and weave changes; surely we have evolved successfully by valuing both these states in our cavemen cavewomen cavepersons’ tribes?

Online dating has brought me so much adventure and thereby self-knowledge. I don’t care if you’re 20 or 75: there’s someone out there who wants to meet you. As I wrote HERE in Episode 1 (including my fabulous tips), I’m a Queen of it, and proudly so.

It must therefore be time for my romance update hey? Well, we just passed the official ‘8 months’ marker since that inaugural online ‘Hi’ during my 3-month/$30 trial subscription.

Softly looming is the actual, physical, 3D-satisfying reality-based ‘6 months’ flag.

And it’s a rainbow flag, layered with glitter, sequins, type-written words and handmade comics. Yes, it’s Pride month in June, and I want to honour that old saying ‘I’m not a lesbian, but my girlfriend is’.

Backyard Comics celebrates over 50s love with a hand drawn sign for our Skype dates

H’s hand drawn bespoke sign celebrates being unique, queer, and in love in Australia #handmade #over 50 #lgbt #Pride #authentic @boneAndsilver

Some of us humans like labels, and some of us don’t. Sometimes we need them, and sometimes we don’t. I want to decide how I define myself, and when; what you think of me is none of my business. And now that I’m passing through the tumultuous year of turning 50 (my coming birthday is late July- don’t worry, I’ll remind you- there’ll be plenty of opportunities for gift giving), I’m relishing my absolute, hard-earned freedom to just Be Myself.

And 1600kms away, H loves that.

In gratitude for freedom of expression, G xO 

 

The Weyward Sisters: Back to Black/ Collaborative Amy Winehouse Tribute

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10 quick brilliant poems as a tribute to singer Amy Winehouse. So good. What a loss (she died on my birthday 2011)

Sudden Denouement's avatarSudden Denouement Collective

Rana Kelly/2nd star to the Left, straight on ’til morning

Oh, Amy

Whenever I go walking

In my stilettos,

I hear you talking.

Dream me up a way

Of swishing my hips

And pursing my lips

And singing your riffs

So that I find beauty

Like you.

lois e. linkens

she puts her black dress on
in the dark,
anxious nails red and messy
in their early-morning artistry.
he left the candle burning
in the winter window –
vanilla and cinnamon
on a Sunday evening,
tears and vodka
on a Monday morning.
last week’s relief
breathes
into tonight’s regrets,
but the shadowy smear
on the glass
is all that is left of him.

Aakriti Kuntal/Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Rummaging through

black air,

nauseous red nails bearing oily seas

Suffocating

existence with conversations,

conversations

with glittering nail cutters,

cracked moons

laughing hysterically in them

Conversations

of fallen boyfriends, of fallen love

Fallen being

the new being

Aurora…

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Blog tales for the Over 50s with positive ageing, dating & relationships

Driving with teenage son No. 3

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Me: I know you love them, but you can’t use the good white bathroom towels any more, they’re actually meant for guests.

Him: Well… they’ll just have to adapt.

 

‘You have such a three-year pattern! Look at yourself, for god’s sake!’

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The door slams. It’s 1994, in a hot Sydney summer, when even the fat cockroaches in our slummy student house look a bit sweaty. My friend R has left the living room, but her dark mood and comment lingers. I frown back, staring down her words. Am I really a 3-year addict? Does it matter? Obviously it does to her, but I’m not feeling that distressed.

The sink pipe knocks as usual while I pour myself a glass of water; is our hopeless landlord ever going to fix that? Well, it won’t matter anyway, if I move out… I’ve lived here for a while now, and it feels like time for a change… to the beach maybe, over at Bondi.

How long has it been, this inner city dwelling? Nearly 3 years of hot pavements, squashed terrace houses with fragrant frangipanis, the endless hum of cars and their exhaust fumes. Before that, it was a scruffy flat in Coffs Harbour, with greasy carpets, and peeling paint on all the weatherboards and windows. Did I live there for long? I moved a few times, from my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend’s parents’ house when we came back completely broke from Canada, to a caravan with a wide deck under a massive fig tree, to a couple of shared flats with other single women looking for fun like me…

Hmm. Is there a pattern? Do I need to look at it? It’s 1994, I’m 28; isn’t Life about changes, transitions, new adventures?

1995
Hitchhiking with a friend aged 30
Being silly aged 31

I’m yet to go to Uni, move into a circus warehouse with 10 other people, grow dreadlocks then shave my head at 30, begin performing and creating, move to Northern NSW to study dance, start a mixed ability dance theatre company with my best friend, have a baby, leave his Dad, get a girlfriend, go back to boys, hurt my back badly for the 3rd time, turn 40 in an old barn in France, move to Adelaide to study Pilates and make adult puppetry shows, lose my Dad, suffer Depression, explore Polyamory, move back to near Byron Bay, turn 50 in Paris with an amazing and challenging woman… then fall in love online with ‘H’, the best of both worlds. My list goes on. The list of Changes, Patterns [and potential juicy blogposts : ) ]…

What about you? Have you noticed your patterns? Are they helpful, or destructive? Have you ever thought about your habits of making changes… or not changing?

5 easy steps to make beeswax cloths & banish plastic wrap over your food FOREVER

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There are a million links on the web for doing this, but as part of my “Have a break from Blogging” policy, I tackled this today (has been on my To Do List for ages)

SO EASY:

  1. Cut out cotton cloths using pinking shears (various sizes/shapes to fit over your bowls/plates)
  2. Line baking tin with sheet of baking paper (oven on about 120-150 i.e. low/medium)
  3. Sprinkle cloth with grated pure beeswax & 1/2 teaspoon of coconut oil (optional) gratedWax
  4. After it all melts (approx 3-5 mins), use clean paintbrush to make sure all edges are soaked in wax (the material just sucks it up)Brush
  5. Hang on line to dry (I just strung .5 metre twine between fridge & pantry), newspaper underneath to catch drips, & put tray there so the wax falls back in to be re-used. Takes 1-2 mins to harden. So Simple! OnLine
  6. Repeat
  7. Wash in cold soapy water only after use, and not good for meat products
  8. Fantastic gifts for every single person you know, so we can banish plastic wrap forever! There are tutorials online re putting buttons on so you can make sandwich bags etc etc, but I can’t/don’t want to sew.
  9. If I can do it, YOU can do it : )
    Done!

    I’ve seen packs of 3 retail for $30- these 8 cost me $5 for the block of pure beeswax, and 1.5hrs of my time. Cotton cloths from op shop, or friend’s material box. Too easy!

    How cute do they look? Are you inspired to give it a go? Please let me know : ),    love G

Moon Ate the Dark Writing Prompt Challenge: Moon/Hazel Reid

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So I entered a short piece into this Writing Challenge; like so many other submissions, mine veered toward the darker side of life: https://braveandrecklessblog.com/2017/05/23/moon-ate-the-dark-challenge-findinggabrielle-griffin/
Then today, I saw this entry, so had to re-blog. I love it! Thank you to Christine at her Blog Brave and Reckless for all this creativity and activity

braveandrecklessblog's avatarBrave & Reckless

“Mum Moon ate the dark chocolate!” yelled Ash. Mum panicking, yelled back asking him did Moon actually eat it all. Ash getting more panicked told her that he did and that he’s lying on the floor moaning and that his tummy looks funny. Mum frantically getting out of the bath drips large drops all over the floor making it slippy. “Ash you’ve got to get him outside quickly”. Finding clothes she tries to get them up her tacky legs and thinks ‘yet another terrible start to the day’. “Mum he’s going to be sick” a plaintive Ash calls up to her. On reaching him she grabbed Moon and dragged him outside. He did indeed start throwing up; black vomit. She was glad that she knew he’d eaten the chocolate because it looked like blood.  Stupid dog.

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