Meet Scooby


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This is my new little guy. Well, he will be if our two week trial goes well. I filled out all the paperwork, did a FaceTime walkthrough of our apartment so the rescue group could sign off on his potential new living quarters and now I’m just waiting to hear from his current foster parents about when will be the best time for him to come live with us.

And, don’t get me wrong, I’m super excited to have a little doggie in the house again. I want nothing more than to hear four little paws following me around the house and a warm, furry little body snuggling me on the couch but I am also very, very nervous. Scared even. Despite having dogs before, for some reason, this feels different. My other dogs, I all had since they were puppies. They didn’t come with any baggage. Although, to be honest, I did stay up all night worrying that Oscar, my pug, wouldn’t like me when I first got him (I needn’t have worried, I had plenty of beef mince to feed him with and he was nothing if not food driven).

But Scooby is a rescue. He has a history that began waaaay before me. He’s nearly twelve. He lived with his owner until his owner suddenly had to go into care and then he was left at his owner’s apartment – all alone – with just family members dropping off food to him FOR THREE TO FIVE MONTHS. All alone for so long after being a cherished family pet. So needless to say, he doesn’t like being alone for very long as he has no fucking clue if anyone will ever come back for him. Which is fair enough. Luckily, I have a job where I can be at home most of the time or I can take him with me if I do need to go in for whatever reason. But I’m still worried.

I’ve met him twice now and we’ve got along fine but that’s different from living together. Oscar loved me straight away. Scooby’s foster parents said it’s taken him a month to really get comfortable with them and now I’m uprooting him again. I’m stressing myself out looking at my calendar trying to figure out the best time to take him so I can spend plenty of time with him so his first two weeks can be as stressfree as possible.

I know how big a responsibility a dog is but I’ve never had a rescue dog so I’m scared I won’t be up to the task, especially with how I am just in general at the moment. I’ve been doing some excessive partying lately and that will have to stop if I take Scooby because he can’t be left alone for so long. Do I have the will power to say no and go home? Oscar didn’t really need much walking and would happily stay inside with us on the couch if we were hungover. Scooby needs walks. What if I’m hungover? Will I force myself to get up and take him?

Am I just getting the ‘wedding night’ jitters now that it’s all actually happening? I don’t know. All I know is I want to do the right thing by him but all of a sudden I’m having nightmares and feeling more scared that excited. Terrified actually. Hopefully it all goes well and it’s just nerves. We’ll see, I suppose.


Being honest with myself


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Image credit: Slideshare

This is something I would normally write on my other blog (mainly because my mum reads this one – hi mum!) but I’m feeling like I should be more honest with myself, just in general. For those that read both blogs, there will obviously still be some things that stay on the other site, just due to the G rating of this one (if I keep up my writing that is, it’s not like much of that has been going on lately!), but I don’t feel this is something that should be hidden, just because it’s on the more negative side and involves aspects of our non-conventional relationship.

Ok. Here goes. 2018 has been a pretty fucking shitty year all round. Hopefully all of you had better years but mine fucking sucked and I’ve been seeing a therapist since July to try and sort my shit out. Actually, I was seeing two therapists for awhile there because I couldn’t decide but I finally dropped down to one in October. Brief rundown of the shit this poor woman (and, for a few months, poor women) have to deal with:

  • Really low self-esteem, self-worth and body image issues that are wreaking havoc with my insecurities and ability to trust. I think this is something that has gradually been increasing over the last three or so years since we seriously opened up our relationship
  • Processing the fall out of our break up with Cherish, the girlfriend we had for about three months earlier in the year, and how this has affected/is affecting our relationship (yes, still, but mainly just me)
  • Our oldest (and last remaining) dog died in April.

That’s it in a nutshell, really. But this has been going on for months so why am I just writing about it now? Well, I slept really badly last night (as I have been a bit the last few forevers) and I was lying on the couch, head spinning with thoughts, and figured, ‘why not let everyone else in on the mess that is currently me?’ Writing has always helped me get my head around things so why am I not using it now, at my lowest point?

The thought that prompted me to pick up the computer instead of continuing my downward spiral of negativity was the fact that I am considering adopting a rescue dog. It’s taken me just over seven months to be able to even consider this but, two weeks ago, something in me clicked and I started going to dog pounds and seriously looking on rescue websites. I’d been looking on and off for awhile but always decided I wasn’t ready but, two weeks ago, IT WAS ON. I think partly because I knew Jared was going to be working a lot (he’s opened a new venue in the last week and a bit) and I wanted a companion to help stave off the loneliness.

Anyway, I may go more into the detail of my search in another post but, long story short, I may have found a dog. His name is Scooby and he’s an 11 (nearly 12yo) terrier cross. I met him last week and then they brought him over to our house so he could see the place and meet Jared and I’ve decided to go ahead with the two week trial period (when we get back from Tasmania next week).

So this morning, for some reason (probably because I’ve yet to her back from the rescue people), my head is whirling with thoughts about this dog. What if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s not like Oscar (my pug that died this year)? What if he is like Oscar? All the imaginary scenarios are playing out in my head of him being like Oscar and – bang – too much. Tears. Fuck I miss that dog (and Ami, our other dog as well, of course). But Oscar was mine. I’d had him since he was a puppy and he was the reason Jared got Ami (because he loved Oscar so much and wanted his own dog). He would have been 14 this year. Anyway, I think I may be a bit more emotional than usual because I didn’t sleep well last night but this has been my life of late. These crazy swings in feelings, waaaaay too many feelings. Sometimes so many feelings I take a Valium (or two) just so they will go away and I can have some peace and quiet (and/or get to sleep).

I don’t know. I know we all struggle with lows from time to time and I definitely don’t feel like the way I feel right now is me. I think I have had a genuinely bad year and I’m just trying to deal with it but sometimes I worry that it’s more than that. Sometimes my thoughts are darker than I would like to admit and I’ve never actually felt this way about myself and my body specifically (I’d generally consider myself quite confident, at the very least in how I look) so it scares me to be so unsure. And not even unsure, so outright negative about myself.

A GP I saw recommended anti-depressants but I don’t feel like I’m there yet. Or maybe I just don’t want to admit it. My therapist doesn’t think I need them. But I just want to feel good again. I want to feel like ‘me’, like the old Natalie, the one I can still pretend to be if I’m in public, even though I know the whole time it’s a fucking lie. I’m beginning to feel like she’s just an act now but I hope she’s still in there somewhere. Rest assured, I’m doing my best to find her.

4.57am is a totally normal time to wake up


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I’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately. You know the deal (or maybe you don’t and you’re one of those people that can sleep anywhere, anytime and for as long as needed, in which case, fuck you) but anyway yes, broken sleep, waking up super early (like still-dark early) then can’t get back to sleep.

I’d previously chalked it up to there now being three of us in our bed (“us” being myself, Jared and our new girlfriend of just over two months, Cherish; we’re in a polyamorous relationship) but she slept at home last night. And while I slept solidly for a few hours (from about 11pm or a bit earlier), I woke up when Jared came home just before 3am and then had a series of nightmares after that.

The first one woke me up crying (it was about my dog that recently died) and the other one was your garden variety, brain-doing-a-number-on-you type of nightmare and after that I was like right, that’s enough of that! I got up, got some water and walked around for a bit. I find if I go back to sleep too soon, I just go back into the same bad dream or something like it. But then I couldn’t get back to sleep and when I checked the time – lo and behold – it’s just before 5am. It’s like the fucking witching hour for me or something. The last few nights I’ve woken up and haven’t been able to get back to sleep, I’ve woken up exactly around the same time and then I lay there getting furiouser and furiouser about my lot in life and my inability to get a decent sleep.

So I’m currently writing this from the couch at 5.36am after finally deciding to get out of bed and give up on trying to kid myself that I’ll be able to fall back asleep. Once the sun actually comes up (yep, it’s still dark outside), I might go for a walk. In the meantime, I have my book so I’ll probably read. Ah, that reminds me of another thing I was going to write about. Well, at least on the plus side, it’s giving me ideas for writing and a quiet space to do it in. Yeah thanks, insomnia/my asshole brain. Give me my creativity back but trade it for some very fucked up sleep. I don’t believe I ever signed on to this deal.

I’m going to be in a great mood today, aren’t I?

In loving memory of Oscar


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WordPress tells me I haven’t written anything on here since December and I would believe that (they keep records of these kinds of things, I suppose). It has been awhile, I can’t argue with that. I often think of writing though, of committing my thoughts to the ether of the internet but somehow the time always escapes me. But I’m writing now… and what a doozy of a topic. I kind of want to apologise in advance for what I’m about to say – this will not be an uplifting post (spoiler alert: the dog dies at the end).

On Tuesday 3 April, we had to put down my dog, Oscar. I’d had him since he was a puppy. He would have been 14 in June, if he had’ve made it that far. Aside from family , he was my longest relationship. I had him before I met my husband, who I’ve now been with for 12 years. My sister remarked that I’ve had him for nearly as long as she’s been back in the country (she returned to Australia in early 2004 and I got him around August, I think). He’s been the furry little man in my life for so long that I don’t really know what to do without him.

Our French bulldog, Ami, passed away two years ago and, while that was extraordinarily painful, it doesn’t quite compare to this. Maybe because we still had Oscar to come home to at the end of the day (and boy did he hate copping the brunt of all our grieving hugs; he only ever liked to be touched when it suited him, kind of like his mum, I guess). Unlike Ami, we were able to have pug at home when the time came. The vet came to our house and we were able to be in our living room, holding him when he died. I remember trying to commit his smell to memory, trying to force myself to remember how soft his little ears were. Now he’s been gone for just over two weeks and I feel like that detail is fading.

I had nightmares the first few nights after he was gone. The worst was one where I dreamt he wasn’t dead after all (god knows how) but I woke up convinced he was alive and was then faced with the crushing realisation that it was, in fact, just a horrible fucking dream my psychopath brain conjured up just to fuck with me.

Aside to my brain: WHY, BRAIN? WHY?!? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? WE’RE MEANT TO BE ON THE SAME SIDE HERE! Or at least that’s what I always thought.

Anyway, it’s been a fucking brutal two and a half weeks and, on top of that, work is crazy and my personal life is somewhat more complicated than it usually is so I feel I can’t really grieve as much as I want to. Add to this the fact that I work from home most of the time and it’s just. too. fucking. silent. without him here. He was a pug so he snuffled and snored all the time and I miss that so much. I miss the little click, click, click of his claws as he’d follow me to the kitchen or the bedroom.

Oscar had always been the self-appointed greeting party for anyone who visited our house but, for the last few years of his life, he was totally deaf so he couldn’t hear when anyone came in or when we came home. You’d have to go looking for him (he’d always be sleeping somewhere – loved a nap, that one). Sometimes I’d let him sleep and eventually he’d smell me or feel the vibrations of my footsteps and come looking for me. But other times I’d wake him up and he’d be so startled that he’d missed you come in, like ‘how’d you get here?!’ He’d even look a bit peevish or ashamed that he’d missed his chance to waylay you at the door as you came in.

He was a tough little guy. He was diagnosed with mouth cancer in December, I think it was. Or maybe January. They put him on chemo but it didn’t help. At the end, it wasn’t even the cancer that killed him but his breathing, his airways started collapsing and he would faint and Jared would have to give him nose to mouth to try and open his airways. At the end, he just kept fainting too much and we knew it was time. The night before we knew. That morning we knew but we thought we’d be able to have the day with him but he kept crashing. The vet was meant to come over at 7.30pm but he ended having to come around 1pm because he kept fainting. It felt funny – calling the vet to come earlier to kill him when he was already clearly dying (and nearly died multiple times in front of us that day) yet somehow this ‘vet-dealt’ death was preferable. I know it was. It just felt weird, feels weird still. Seeing his floppy little lifeless body get rolled up in a towel before the vet took him away was probably one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever seen. Or perhaps I’ve lives a sheltered life. I don’t think I have but obviously there are people out there having much bigger problems than a dead dog.

After that, we cried for a bit, I had a bath that was interrupted almost straight away when my sister came over in tears (she’d tried to get there in time to say goodbye but didn’t make it), we went down and had sushi for lunch and then we both got on our computers and worked. It was just avoidance, I know that, but, when Ami died, we took the day off and cried. I feel guilty, like we didn’t give him the time he deserved, like we just got on with it, like it… like he was nothing. Oh well, that’s over with. Best get back to work now. Maybe that’s why I feel so bad, why it feels like the grief is tearing at my heart and seeping out of my pores. Because I didn’t let it out properly to begin with so now it’s trapped inside me, doomed to rattle around for god knows how long.

His absence is like a ghost following me around this crypt of an apartment. Everything reminds me of him. Everything. Sometimes a particularly strong memory will come back to me and I’ll have to sit down – on the floor, on the couch, go to bed, whatever – and just cry. Big, heaving sobs because it feels like my heart’s never going to stop hurting. I can’t imagine not feeling this sad about him. I know I will. I know it will get better. But I just can’t imagine it right now. All I want in the world is one more day with him. Even one more fucking minute. Just to hug him, to tell him I love him, to rub his ears.

Anyway, I miss him and I hate the quiet he’s left behind. He was a noisy beast so it’s in the silence that you notice he’s really gone.

Vale, Oscar. You will forever be missed.

Being ok with not being ok at something (or Espanol 101)


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When we were on holiday in Europe, I had so many things I was going to start doing when I got back. Read! Not spend hours in FB/IG! Gym! Pilates! Learn spanish! Write! every. damn. day. Some I have achieved, some not so much. But one thing I got stuck into straight away was starting back up with my old Spanish teacher.


Image credit: Pinterest

We studied with her for a few months quite a few years ago but stopped when it became hard to manage Jared’s changing work schedule. I’d always wanted to start back up but never did, until we got back from our trip. It’s now been nearly four months of 2 x 1hr sessions per week and, while I wouldn’t say I’m fluent and watching Narcos without subtitles, I can certainly see some very slow, painstaking progress taking place. Next year, I’m increasing to 3 x 1hr per week as I feel it’ll ‘stick’ more.

In my opinion, the hardest thing with learning another language – after simply building up your vocabulary so you know the damn words to say what you’re thinking – is confidence. It’s so hard to go from talking fluently and knowing literally millions of words to being reduced to a few handfuls and cast adrift in a sea of tenses and prepositions, which make absolutely no sense to you. Oh, and don’t get me started with the whole gendered nouns thing. What the hell is wrong with Spanish/French/German/Portuguese speakers? Just ditch that shit already – why do you torment yourselves? Or more to the point, everyone else who’s trying to learn your language?

My Spanish teacher has gotten to the point where she talks to me in Spanish and I can understand quite a decent amount (and when I can’t, I know how to say ‘que significa xxx?’ – very handy words, I tell you). It’s when she expects me to speak back that things go pear-shaped. I feel sooooo stupid. I’m slow. I have great need to write things down before I speak. I fuck up the tenses. I fuck up the matching of the gendered nouns and the plurals. I fuck up the prepositions – damn prepositions, who would have thought they’d be so difficult? Basically, I’m reduced from being someone who is relatively articulate )on a good day) to child-status. It’s humiliating.

And yes, I know this is how I have to learn and I know I went through all this as a kid to be able to speak English but DAMN if it isn’t a huge blow to my self esteem to struggle to make myself understood like this. It gives me a whole new appreciation for people who come to an English-speaking country and try and learn our fucked up language. My Spanish teacher has lived here for years (is married to an Aussie guy) and I regularly show her something new or correct her spelling or pronunciation. We laugh about it together but it just goes to show speaking English/other languages is HARD.

But then again, I don’t think there’s any language that’s easy to learn as an adult – unless it’s something that’s already similar to what you speak, like maybe Italian and Spanish or something like that. Starting over from scratch with something as essential as communication – verbal and/or written – is such a drastic thing. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I was trying to learn something like Mandarin or Russian where I also had to learn a new alphabet. Fuck. That. Shit. Not a fucking chance, senor!

There was a Nepalese guy that started at one of Jared’s bars a few years ago. When he first came on board, he could barely speak a word of English. Most communication was by pointing and charades but, after a few months, you could see the improvement. That element of being thrown in the deep end and absolutely needing to speak this new language meant he picked things up fast. Now he’s pretty much fluent, cracks jokes all the time (being funny in another language – fucking hard!) and is running the back of house team across two of Jared’s bars. He’s one of the most respected people in Jared’s business and, a few years ago, he could barely speak English.

Ok – I went a bit off tangent there. It happens. My point is: language is hard. I’m not being thrown in the deep end so I don’t see myself excelling anytime soon although I do think three days a week will give me more of a chance to practice without such long breaks in between each session. We’ll see how it goes. It definitely gives me purpose and I like it – even if it does make me feel stupid for the time being. I know if I keep at it, it will pay off and I’ll be doing conversation-only classes in no time (ha – we’ll see!).


Image credit: Pinterest

To breed or not to breed… sorry, mum, there’s not really a question here


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Image credit: Pinterest

Lately, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about children and probably not in the way my mum would hope. Last Sunday, we spent the afternoon with Jared’s family for his mother’s birthday and, as per usual, there were children cutting around. Only two this time (usually there are four) but goddamn if they didn’t make up for it. And then some. At one point, the kids were so noisy (well, one kid mainly) that I actually felt disoriented and a bit unwell. I don’t know if it’s a certain pitch they hit when they yell or what but I just can’t deal with it. It makes my head feel like it’s going to explode.

I’ve been on birth control since I was 16 and, since I was about 17, I’ve been fairly confident I don’t want children. When I say this, I get the usual “oh, just wait” spiel like and other people are in on some big joke I’m not party to. You just wait – your ovaries will explode soon and you’ll be craving babies out the wazoo. Hilarious! Well, a few months ago, I was seriously considering getting my tubes tied and every friend I spoke to about it was shocked, more so than when you just say you don’t want kids. This is permanent shit, you guys (well, for the most part anyway).

You’ll change your mind!

You’ll want one soon.

You’ll regret it.


Image credit: Pinterest

But I haven’t wanted a child in 17 years so why would I start now? I am one of those people that really doesn’t like children very much (and has felt this way for quite a long time) so why would that change all of a sudden? Are hormones really that powerful? I don’t know. Maybe they are. I don’t look at any of my parent friends and think, “Gee, that looks like the life for me.” They look fucking tired, miserable or stressed (and sometimes all three) or their kids are little assholes. With the exception of maybe one or two, it looks like a downright deplorable situation. Yuck. In fact, I coined a new term over the weekend; children are now only to be known as fun prophylatics. You like it? I think it’s hilarious and also perfectly on point. But I suppose some of us have to be adults and continue the species.

I’ve since given up on getting my tubes tied. Apparently, it’s not a great surgery for women to have (much easier for men to get the snip, which I know Jared would never agree to) plus I would still get my period, which I like to avoid at all costs. I suppose I’ll just plod along with the pill. At 18 years, it’s the longest committed relationship I’ve ever had and it’s with a pharmaceutical that keeps me good and barren. And I’m ok with that. Well done, Microgynon whatever number you are. Pat yourself on the back. You did good.

And to all the people who like to trot out the old ‘but you’d make a great mother!’ line, I say this: no. I’m an ok mother to my dog but I’d suck at being a parent to a real life human. No patience. Intense desire for peace and quiet. Lust for fun and freedom. Prone to flights of fancy and spontaneity. No, that’s a lie. I’m very much a plan-it-out-three-months-in-advance type of gal. But hey, a kid’ll fuck that shit up too. And yes, of course I know having a kid makes many, many people very happy, even if it does make them tired or occasionally miserable or nostalgic for their old life. But I don’t think it would make me happy. I think I would be one of those women who would regret it and, knowing how dismal my pokerface is, any poor fucking kid I popped out of my vagina would definitely know it. And that’s not fair.

The End.



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Not that I’m advocating cannibalism, you understand


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After nine weeks of holidaying in Europe, I resemble a woman in a Rubens’ painting – dimpled and delicious. If you were to flay me, you’d peel back layer upon layer of pasta, cheese, cured meats and baked fish and Greek salads beyond measure, until finally you come to an excellent steak frites and possibly the best rice pudding I’ve ever eaten.

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This me now. Except I’m brown skinned. Image credit:

Not that I’m advocating cannibalism, you understand. I just want you to appreciate the hard work and dedication that went into this layer of pudge that now insulates me against the brisk Sydney winter. It’s almost a shame to strip it away what amounts to 63 days of food memories and quite a bit of well-spent money. I slaved for this human pork belly. Do you know how many times I ate until I felt ill simply because it tasted just too good to stop? It was hard, you guys. Some sympathy would be nice.

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Me from various angles. Again, still brown. Image credit:

Ha. Just kidding. I know I’m not going to get any and nor should I. I had a glorious holiday on which I ate, drank and grew fat and jolly and now I have to face the consequences of my actions. I’m ok with it. My clothes actually feel nicer all snug and close fitting. Some of them that others. Others are just plan unwearable. But still, it was worth it. I regret nothing!

The value add 


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Image credit: Picture Quotes 

I have a very real fear of being considered boring. Not real in the sense that I am boring, just that I worry about being considered boring. Which is weird for me because I also like to think I don’t worry much about what others think but clearly I do. I’m a woman of contradictions, ok? I’m not afraid to admit it. 

I’m brought to this conclusion by the events of the past two days (and also the rest of my life leading up to now 😉). We’ve been staying at the chateau of cognac house Pierre Ferrand and, during our stay, we’ve had to go on tours/socialise with people we’ve never met before. As a rule, I’m not a huge fan of big groups where I don’t know anyone so my first response was to quietly freak out and retreat into my shell. The introvert in me won the first round. Then the performer came out… I’ll explain why. 

I have a thing about people who come to events, parties, dinners, etc. and, in my words, “don’t add any value.” Yes, I’m aware of how bitchy this makes me sound and yes it’s mean but I can’t help it. Despite being an introvert myself when surrounded by strangers, I always have this phrase in the back of my mind and it’s a rare social event that this mantra doesn’t force me to be more social, despite lacking a natural inclination to do so. Back to that fear of being considered boring. No one puts Nat in a corner, if you will. 😉

So, on our first night in Cognac, we’re surrounded by boozing Brits, Americans and various other strangers and most of me wants to hide in my room (to be fair, I was also quite tired) but the other part says, “No, you’ve got to get out there and be fun. Get on, hop to it.” And so I did. I jumped in the fountain with everyone, balanced a wine glass on my ass, challenged people to boules and upped my banter game to 11. When my social energy ran low, I went and sat in our room and headed back down when I felt recharged. I often feel like there’s a fun me and a quiet me and, on that night, the fun me won. 

Last night, we were at dinner with the owner/master blender of the cognac house, his mentor and one of his distributors and the distributor’s wife. The conversation around the table was in English so I was thankfully able to participate but the distributor’s wife didn’t say much. I think it may have been more of a language barrier thing or maybe she was tired (they had a full day of tours and tastings) but this is exactly what I fear for myself when I’m out and not “on”. She was fine when you specifically engaged her or asked her a question, which I did a few times, but aside from that she was very quiet. Which, of course, she’s allowed to be. She’s not there to entertain anyone or be their all-singing, all-dancing ra-ra girl and she was a-ok with that. 

But the thing is… I’m clearly not. Not for myself anyway. And, if I’m honest, usually not for others when there isn’t a good excuse. So it’s a very rare day when I won’t be able to somehow pull myself out of my shell to work my supposed charms in a group setting. Because, for me, one of the worst things you can be is boring and I often don’t care how much it costs me. 

The terror of the road


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Image credit: Shear Comfort

I have to confess: I’m one of those half-adults that never learnt to drive. Cue shock, horror and possible unsubscription.

When I was growing up in Jamaica, learning to drive wasn’t the right of passage it is for many teens in developed countries. Not many families had cars and, even if they did, you often had to bribe officials to get your licence. When my mum’s Australian licence expired, she refused to bribe anyone to get new one but she still drove around so we ended up just lived in fear of getting pulled over by the police and her getting in trouble. And most likely having to pay a bigger bribe to get out of said trouble. I learnt to drive in the back streets of the rural area where we lived (inc. reversing up a long, steep driveway) but never drove on any main roads. Actually I lie. Once I ended up accidentally having to drive on a main road for about 5 seconds – it was fucking terrifying!

Anyway, it seems I haven’t lost my talent for digression. When I moved to Sydney, I was the right age to get my licence but I lived with my grandparents. I knew if I learnt to drive I would end up becoming my grandpa’s chauffeur and I didn’t like my grandpa so I refused to get my licence. Yep, I refused to learn to drive out of spite and, honestly, I regret nothing. Fast forward sixteen years and here I am. On my third round of L plates, wondering if I really and truly need to learn to drive.

See, I’ve sat the computer test three times but never actually taken my driving test. The first time, Jared had a manual car, the lessons were hard and then the guy was a creep so I gave up and my Ls expired. Eventually, I sat the computer test again, can’t remember why I didn’t bother learning properly that time but, either way, my licence expired again. This time, I’ve sat the computer test and done lessons with an instructor, Jared and my mum and I’ve got the test booked in for 2 weeks’ time and I’m fucking freaking out.

You see, in Australian teen drivers have to keep a logbook and have 100 (or is it 120?) hours of driving time before they can sit their test. When you’re over 25, you don’t need a log book and the hour limit doesn’t apply to you. You can basically sit your test whenever you’re ready. And I don’t feel ready. The thought that I might be loose on the streets behind the wheel of a moving vehicle is a terrifying thought. I don’t think I’m an intentionally unsafe driver but I’m definitely not super confident. And driving on the road and seeing how other people – supposedly qualified drivers – drive is definitely not making me feel any safer.

It’s scary out there! People don’t follow the rules and driving takes so much concentration. I find it hard to stay focused when something is really monotonous so I’m worried I’m going to zone out on a long stretch of road, go through a red light and… let’s just end this nightmare right here. Gah! I live in the city. Why do I need to drive?! Also, I have a husband who is an excellent chauffeur. Then again, he has said I can get a Mini Cooper if I get my licence… so there’s that little incentive. But then again, it means I have to learn to drive. Ahhhhh… being a grown up is full of tough decisions, you guys.

I suppose I can get my licence and keep driving with supervision until I feel more confident. But – PLOT TWIST!! – I can’t drive Jared’s car if/when I move up to a provisional licence because his car is on a forbidden list for P Platers (i.e. it’s too powerful). So I suppose I’ll just have to get that Mini Cooper then… 😉


Image credit: Everything Bikes

Day two!


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Image credit: Inspiration Boost

After posting for the first time in ages, I felt awesome. Energised! I went to bed later that night and my mind was whirling with ideas, which was annoying because I was tired but it was still better than having no ideas. Three years ago, when I first started this blog, I struggled so much with what to write about. I would trawl through the Daily Prompt desperate for ideas. I kept a list of links to appealing prompts saved in my phone to bust out when inspiration failed to strike me. And, back then, it failed to strike me often.

It took awhile but one day I noticed I hadn’t used those prompts in ages. In fact, nothing grabbed me when I looked through them. I had heaps of drafts lined up in WordPress and ideas would pop into my head on the bus, in the shower, before I went to sleep (which is where I got the idea for this post along with two others). It’s like your brain builds a natural curiosity about things or starts using writing as a way of thinking complicated (or sometimes very mundane) things through.

Not to say that I think it’s going to be easy from here on out but I definitely want to try and commit myself to writing more frequently. I might be busy but I’m not that busy that I can’t spare 30mins or an hour to do something I love. I can’t work all the time and do not much else. I tried that for six months and it fucking sucks. Take it from me, guys. Make the time, you’re never that fucking busy. You think you are but you’re not. And fuck, maybe you are but still, you can’t spare even 10 – 20 mins to do whatever it is you really enjoy? Go for a walk, watch your favourite program, play with your dog, whatever. You’ve got to have some ‘you’ in all that ‘them’.

So I have two more ideas for posts and we’ll see what else comes to me. There are other things I want to do besides write, like, I don’t know, maybe exercise. That’s fallen by the wayside as well. But let’s just start small. Baby steps. One day at a time. Plus I’m not super keen on getting back to exercise (to be honest, I’m that unfit I’m a bit worried) so we’ll just focus on the writing for now. It’s much less taxing. 😉