Archive for the ‘marriage’ Category

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else’s. – Mary Schmich



 This woman did not alight from the wedding car, on the morn of her special day, pausing for the photographer, smile and click, all the while thinking her marriage would be half chance.



This gentleman did not raise his glass, as Father of the Groom, and say a toast to communal property negotiations.




This newly married husband and wife did not smile and celebrate with their friends all the time wondering what their signatures would look like on the official divorce documents.




These wedding guests did not stop the newlyweds, who were on their way to the honeymoon, only to wish them all the blessings of shared custody arrangements.




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 Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements. – Mary Schmich


belovedSitting underneath a basket of baby clothes I can’t bare to part with is a ruby red box, flat and rectangular. 

Inside are the papers that track a relationship from its infancy. 

And infants we were,

Just eighteen and nineteen when we first met.


The box contains lined paper and blue pen detailing starry nights and lofty plans of eternal love. 

Some are epic and some a mere line scribbled on a takeaway napkin. Signed with a kiss.


Over the years the number of letters received diminished. 

But feel no emotion of pity or sadness for me.

As with age you come to learn that things given with less frequency grow large with importance and value.



It’s hard to look at the box now.

Not because I am any less in love.

But because I know there is one letter that remains unopened. 

The box reminds me of that which is lost. Never to be read.


The one regret of my wedding day.

A day that was otherwise a heady experience of whirling ivory, smiling faces and balloons that fell like soft sugared almonds as we ran through the doors and into the lives of Mr and Mrs something.


He’d purchased a gift, a print called The beloved

Rossetti’s muse depicts ideal love, beauty, sexuality, virtue.


And the power that women hold over men.


But in the rush of the reveal the host ripped at the wrapping, holding the framed gift high in the air as underlings whisked the rubbish away. 


Days later we realised it wasn’t all rubbish.

Squashed and compacted within the gilt paper was a card.


The truest gift from husband to bride.

A love letter more special than most.


Gone forever.



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‘I’ve heard people say that
Too much of anything is not good for you, baby…’

What the fock is THAT?” I say pointing at a lump sitting on the dresser in my bedroom.

“It’s the stereo I  found,” my dear hubby says. “You know really I can’t believe that someone’s thrown it in the rubbish like that… all it needed was a friggin’ three cent amp!”

I’m irritated.

He looks very pleased with himself as he twiddles the knobs tenderly and gives it a good spray’n’wipe. 

“Oh no, But I don’t know about that…” 

And I guess he should be…   pleased with himself that is… 

I’ve never known anyone as handy with a screwdriver and soldering iron as he is.

He can open a toaster, a computer or the arse-end-of-the-dolly-that-wees and work out within seconds what’s wrong with it.

Then a minute later the guts are pulled out, tweaked, reinserted and VOILA!  it’s fixed.

It’s amazing.

But there’s a down side.

He’s really attracted to rubbish. 


Hang on!… That doesn’t paint me in a very nice light. I’ll just rephrase that. 


He’s really attracted to the art of “fixing things”.  

Don’t get me wrong…he’s not cheap or nasty…but he does effen-love-a-tight-arse-bargain. 

He is the Aldi to my David Jones.

It’s a constant source of annoyance for me, all that trolling through the cheap and nasty aisles of every freakin’ two dollar shop we come across… but most of all I dread the time of the year when it’s: Hard Waste Collection Week.

That’s when everybody puts their unwantables at the front of their houses- and on a designated day burly-beef-cake-council-men (traditionally in manky stained singlets) come and haul it all away.

That whole week I wait, wide eyed-petrified, wondering what pieces of useless garbage dear hubby, and his mini-me-accomplice-sidekick (aka the son) will haul home… 

This year I beg and I plead…please let’s throw out heaps of stuff and things and bits from our garage (otherwise known as the repository for everything other than the car) and he miraculously agrees!

>cue angels from heaven singing and playing harps

On collection day I walk out all excited…  and see… one single-paint-tin on the front lawn. 


Inside my garage instead of lovely clear spaces is now an even bigger pile of junk.

This year’s collection of unwanted shit treasures seem to have a musical theme, there is:

a guitar,

a karaoke machine,

an electronic disco light ball (I fockin’ kid you not.)

a stereo

and possibly some other crappy-things lurking in the corners.

I tippy-toe sneak in and find him and Master 11 hunched over something, heads close together… tinkering away with their frankenstein creations and enjoying themselves immensely. 

How can I be angry about that? I think… and really… after all, it’s all  in the garage right? … what’s the harm?


But now it has crept into the bedroom…MY bedroom…  

“There’s many times that we’ve loved
We’ve shared love and made love
It doesn’t seem to me like it’s enough
There’s just not enough of it
There’s just not enough
Oh oh, babe…”

He stops fiddling with the stereo when he notices that I’m still standing there, arms crossed, perfectly still.

He looks at me and his eyes grow wide as he realises that I now resemble a character from myth and legend…

I can see him thinking…hmmm, oh yeah…what… was… her… name?  Snakes-for-hair-chick? The one who turns grown men into stone?? Oh shite yeah- MEDUSA

He knows he has some serious damage-control to do.

He leans in close, pulling out the big guns…

“You know,” he whispers, “… I just thought you’d like some… muuusac in the bedroom… mmm…” 

Music? In the bedroom?

Is he fockin’ insane??  We’ve been through this before , I like quiet…silence…a complete lack of digitised-audio in the bedroom. 

“My darling I, can’t get enough of your love babe
Girl, I don’t know, I don’t know why
Can’t get enough of your love babe…”
“What the fock is THAT?” I say, (seemingly-oblivious-to-the-fact-that-my-anger-has-rendered-my-usually-eloquent-speech-useless-and-I-am-repeating-the-same-nasty-sentence-over-and-over.)

“Oh, some things I can’t get used to
No matter how I try”

 Is THAT Barry White?” I say. 

“mmm… maybe…” he looks at me sheepishly. 

FOOOOR-get it!” I say, clutching tightly to my resolve, furious with the junk and bleedin’ rubbish that is invading my bedroom and my house… “Just like the more you give, the more I want And baby, that’s no lie…”oh Barry… my oh my, you do have such a… What kind of love is this that you’re givin’ me? ” deep…throbbing…voice….mmmm…rubbish Carla…don’t forget how much you hate the rubbishhh…. “Is it in your kiss or just because you’re sweet?’” and suddenly I’m all gushy and melty …“Girl, all I know is every time you’re here…”  and maybe even a little wobbly at the knees…

I feel the change, Somethin’ moves…”

and the last thing I remember… as my resolve buckles under that thick-husky-croon…is thinking …okay,well maybe music in the bedroom might not be so…


bad afterall…

“I scream your name…Do whatcha got to do…”  


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full moonPlease don’t judge me too harshly.

I’ve had a little itch.



No! I don’t need directions to an STD website.  *slap*

This is an itch of the ethical kind.


It all started when I read a fellow twitterer’s tweet about her devoted pact with her husband- basically they would not tweet mean stuff about each other. I read it in passing and tried to forget about it immediately.  

But it stuck in my brain like a lone popcorn husk that lodges itself under your gum. My tongue rubbed over it constantly. It lurked at the very corner of my smile, niggling to be dealt with.

What exactly was the mean stuff??? 

I was worried. Not tweeting about the *mean stuff* could potentially wipe out half of my repertoire. I have a wonderful husband. But he is human.

If I can’t make some fun of him- what on earth will I write about?? I panicked.

I have nothing. My life is boring! What will I do?  Then I felt calm. I haven’t really written anything “bad” per se about him already. Had I? …Had I? 

Oh yes…

I did tell you all that he snores. And I guess that is rather personal. 

So there’s only one way to deal with this. It’s time to even up the score.

I will now reveal to you all something personal about myself…something about my bedroom habits.

 Ahem…okay, here goes…

I snore too. 


And I dribble on my pillow. 

And I talk a lot in my sleep. 


Oh, and I also have that strange dream- where I think I am driving a stick shift in a long rally car race (…but my husband says he really enjoys it when I have that dream so I guess that doesn’t count.)


The snoring is pretty bad. The dribbling is gross. But the talking in my sleep is the worst. I grumble and moan and apparently say whole sentences quite distinctly. Our kids do it too. My son has whole conversations with his dream- pals every night at about 11.30pm. But my daughter, well she is something else. She talks AND sleep walks. When she’s doing it she actually looks awake…but…>insert twilight theme song here< she isn’t. She trolls through the house like a pint sized, golden haired zombie in Hello Kitty pyjamas. When she’s finished she walks back to her bedroom, puts herself back into bed and has absolutely no recollection of her nightly adventures in the morning.

Once, my hubby and I were startled awake- by the light in our bedroom flickering. Our daughter was just standing there, in the doorway, perfectly still, one finger flicking the light switch on and off. On and off. On and off.

On another occasion she came into our bedroom and stood in front of me. I very gently asked her what was wrong and [wait- first imagine really-creepy-little-girl-whispery-voice] she said “I’m looking for my mummy”.

I told her that I was right there.

She said… [hang on, now- imagine really-really-creepy-little-girl-whispery-voice ] “I know, but I want my real mummy.”  Shite!


So there you have it. My husband deserves a trophy.

That occasional snore and bum-cough of his I mentioned previously is nothing compared to what we- Dribbly, Chatty and Freaky, do during the night.

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42-17182275There is an ongoing war in my marriage.  A struggle that has occurred nearly every bed time since the official honeymoon was over. 

C’mon- don’t play coy…you know what I’m talking about. 

It’s epic.

It pits will against will.


It’s the battle of the Readers vs. the Television watchers.


My husband is the telly watcher. I am the reader.

He likes the TV blaring and I like a light on and absolutely no sound at all (although I will try my best to persist with my reading through his loud snoring and occasional bum-cough without poking him hard between rib four and five.)

My bed is my sanctuary. After a busy day my pleasure (apart from other obvious ones) is to curl up under my fluffy doona and read until my eyelids droop close just once. I then quickly flick off my light and fall effortlessly into slumber.

Dear husband however likes the telly on. The blare and flickering lights set my nerves jangling. He’s usually not even interested in what’s on. I can ask him what the show is called, who the characters are, which actors are in it and all I get is a shrug of his shoulders, and if I’m lucky, a grunt in response.

I’ve tried earphones for him and earplugs for me. They didn’t help at all. I simply can’t understand why he even prefers the teeny-tiny wall mounted telly in our bedroom when he has a monolithic plasma in the lounge room- complete with comfy sofa, cushy-cush-cushions and fireplace.

He says it’s his way of relaxing and falling asleep.

Balderdash. This is the man who starts snoring half way through saying “good night honey sweet dreamzzzzzzzzzzz”.

Lately we’ve adopted a new tactic. We try to beat each other to bed, in some kind of weird I-was-here-first-claim-rights to the telly or the light. 

“I’m just having a shower” I say and then rush into bed. Ha! Loser!

His strategy is to leave the television on in the lounge room as a decoy. I’m happily Twittering away on the desktop. When ahh- I notice the Americans have started tweeting.  This is my cue for bed (oh that sounded political but this is just about international time zones. I *heart* you American Tweeter pals- I truly do.) I hurry to the bedroom flinging clothes off as I rush down the hallway, only to find him in bed already. With the television on. And a giant smirk spread across his face.

Drats. Foiled again.

I’ve thought about throwing a nice spiked heel into the screen. But that would  only mean two things, 

1. I would ruin a beautiful shoe (sorry oh Shoe-G*ddess for even thinking this alarming and sacrilegious thought.)


2. He might consider replacing the broken teeny-tiny-telly with a mammoth flat screen.

There has to be a better way to win this war.

I’m off to consult Sun Tzu.

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