5 Years On

Well, having revisited this blog recently (and having re-discovered some old gems that I had forgotten), I thought that it might be time to review, revisit and reflect, and indeed, to resume posting.

In all honesty, the last five years did not go well. In fact, it sucked.

It started with dreams and hopes, and ended with the crushing reality of life. I am leaving those posts up so that you can see and relish the realities of idealism crushed under the wheels of reality, because real life is often more fascinating than fiction.

My marriage failed, and I am not entirely sorry about that.

Now there are those that would chastise a writer for speaking honestly and transparently, questioning whether or not some things should/should not be aired publicly. I realize now that that fear of honesty and transparency killed all of my writing ambitions and left me mute until today. So, if you fear judgment or retribution for your honesty - kill yourself now.

I have been insanely grateful to read articles from strong, courageous people willing to put their lives under the microscope and not fear the judgement and condemnation of those whose restrictive world view holds sway.

I can only speak from my own perspective - and for the other side of the story, well - blogs are still free. The conflict and the drama are heady and personal - we can only state our position and hope that those with dissenting opinions will exercise their right to free expression as well.

So there.

Now that the disclaimers are out of the way, let's get to the heart of the matter, shall we?

As soon as I can reconcile myself to be open and honest (as I was before I married) I will post my own thoughts and reflections on this life as it is.

Some of you may disagree, but some others may find comfort in the fact that you're not alone, and that in fact, S*** happens to all of us.

I know this info won't reach the one person for whom it might be germane, but who cares?

Signing off in an honestly sad and bitter mood,

The Soon to be Next Ex Wife.

I'll have an Ass Burger with a side of fries.....

My husband is a beautiful human being.

He is kind, incredibly smart, funny, interesting, sexy, intense and intruiging.

He also has Aspergers Syndrome.

That's made life....... interesting, to say the least.

He can be very hard to talk to. He doesn't understand facial expressions, subliminal cues or body language. He can be focused on one special subject to the exclusion of all else. He is hopeless in social situations. He is insanely literal in his thinking - subtlety and double entendre are completely lost on him. He generally thinks only of himself and his world-view.

He has to. Its all he can do.

And I love him and wouldn't change him for the world.

Now, I never imagined that I would be one day married to someone with this condition, although in retrospect, I believe my ex - Brett - also suffered from Aspergers. While we were growing up, though, there was no such thing as "Asperger's syndrome. There were only the "weird kids".

Well, I married a "weird kid", and as I say - I wouldn't trade him for the world.

Life's not easy, as anyone married to an "Aspie" (or AS) will tell you. We NT's (neuro-typicals) operate in a far more complicated and messy world than an Aspie can deal with. Allowances must be made.

For example - my husband doesn't think often of my needs. Aspies don't. I understand that.

But tonight he came home with some allergy medication that I had wanted to ask him to purchase, yet decided not to as I could last until I could get to the pharmacy myself.

But my husband thought of it, and came home with the medication, saying "Oh well, you ALWAYS need this stuff."

I was touched and felt cared for (an unusual situation in an NT-AS relationship), but his thoughtfulness and kindness, in light of his disorder was so touching and lovely, I really needed to write.

If you think you might be in a relationship with an "Aspie", please feel free to email me, or to check out Apsergers resources in your area.

Its not easy, by any means, being married to an AS - but they are lovable, delightful people and can often surprise you......

Bruises, and things that go bump in the day.

I have to most extrordinary collection of bruises.

Truly. I am a fleshy white art gallery exploring the thema of the colour spectrum focusing on black, green, purple, yellow and blue.

Trouble is, is that half the time I have no idea how the bruises got there. Of course, I work with children - all day, every day - and that likely has something to do with it.

See, lets face it, bumps and bruises really only hurt for a few minutes. Most of us have have the luxury of indulging in those few minutes of "ooowww... I hurt myself..." during the course of our day, and thus remember the incident in all its delicious detail.

Not so for a school chaplain. See, when these bumps and bruises are sustained I am generally surrounded by 30 to 50 people, all under 4' 5". So my bruise experience goes something like this:

*BANG!* (insert collision with door/wall/ piece of athletic equipment/ 5 year old etc)

"Owww, that hurt........ HEY!! I SAID PUT THAT DOWN!! QUIT HANGING OUT THE WINDOW!! I TOLD YOU THAT WOULD HAPPEN! GET YOUR FINGER OUT OF HIS NOSE!!! YOU BETTER NOT BE EATING IN THIS ROOM!!! I SAID GET YOUR FINGER OUT OF HIS NOSE!!!!!"

By the time sanity is restored (i.e. the end of break bell) I have all but forgotten my collision with a dull object (usually a 5 year old). The pain's gone, and the world carries on as always.

Then I go home at night, undress for bed, and my husband's eyes widen as he spies my newest acquisition.

"Where did you get THAT???" he says, and my eyes drift down my arm to a haematoma the size of Toowong.

"I have no idea...." I say, much to his disbelief. And yet, that's how it goes.

Resilience, thy name is Chaplain.

Why I do what I do

The Terrible Episode Involving Eggs, the devil and the Spirit of ANZAC

April 25 (or as we here in Australia call it: TODAY) is Anzac day. It is the day to remember our fallen heroes, to respect our soldiers on active duty, to eat many crunchy, granola-based cookies, and to reflect on "the Spirit of ANZAC".

According to a leading website (which I Googled), the spirit of Anzac is defined as "... an intangible thing. It is unseen, unpredictable, an unquenchable thirst for justice, freedom and peace. This phrase is synonymous with 'The Spirit of the ANZACs' which is frequently used to describe particular actions by, and qualities of, people. However, despite being intangible, the Spirit of ANZAC is a cornerstone which underpins our Australian image, way of life and indeed is an integral part of our heritage. Can it be defined??

I believe it can, and I am here to share with you a tale of immense courage, bravery and fortitude. It also involves eggs, and free range ones at that, and some dijon mustard - but I digress.

It was a dark and stormy Thursday night, only the sky was clear, the moon was full, and I'd only just brought in the laundry. I knew that tomorrow, my unit would be putting on a morning tea for the veterans of Samford, and perhaps even a few soldiers on active duty. The tension in the air was electric, as I set the stove with the faulty element to "high", and prepared myself for the worst. My husband, my partner-for-life and my example of the Australian value of "mateship", was only just finishing work in the shed, and I knew that I would be on my own. It was a night primed for disaster, and pregnant with fear.

The moon didn't disappoint.

I placed the biggest cookpot we had on the b@stard element, and placed 18 perfect eggs in it. I knew from hard experience that I'd gotten lucky in the placement alone. Domestic terrorists abounded, and I knew that my devilled eggs recipe would immeditately draw the wrath of.... someone... down on me, but I pushed ahead anyway. I understood the stakes.

I let the eggs boil. Biding my time, I believed I fooled counter-insurrectionists by playing "Free Cell" for four hours in an effort to distract them. I think I fooled my boss too, but that's a different story.

Then, at long last, came the moment of glory: the eggs were boiled, the scene was set, and all that was left was to drain the boiling water, split the eggs in half, mix the separated yolks with some dijon mustard (provided at a HUGE cost by the French insurrectionsist - those "smelly, cheese-eating surrender monkeys") and then refill the halved egg whites with the tasty mixture, sprinkle lightly with paprika.

Oh how over-confident I was! How arrogant and misled!

I knew the danger that lay ahead of me: the risks involved in draining a pot of boiled eggs into a shallow sink will forever haunt me; but I proceeded anyway - uncaring.

My faith was in my cause! My unit was counting on having devilled eggs in position when required. I was incredibly glad to be able to do my bit.

So, I took the boiling pot off the stove, carried it delicately over to the sink - ever cognizant of my mission - and proceeded to stealthily pour out the boiling water, horribly aware of how vunnerable I waz.......

But Oh Perfidy! Oh Treachery!!

I was foiled! The lid slipped off the pot, the boiling water splashed back against my delicate, precious white tummy, and as I screamed in despair (and used a few words I had learned in Portugal from a rather saucy woman name "Roma"); it was all I could to to carry on with my mission.

In agony, I managed (barely) to shell the eggs, cut them in half, mash up the cooked yolks with some dijon mustard, lemon pepper and a hint of oregano, before losing consciousness.

But what could I do?? The Spirit of ANZAC had capture me. My tummy was blistered and raw, my heart was beating erratically - but the eggs had to be made!

At last, my mate - my hero and my confidant, my Bruce - arrived, like my guardian angel and said: "Hey sweetie, what can I do?"

Sweeter words words were never spoken at the Nek, at the front lines of Gallipoli.

And consciousness deserted me, and as my heart fled in fear, it was all I could do to gasp out "don't...............forget.......... the.......... paprika.............................................."

Blogging once more..........

Well, lets see how THIS goes, shall we? I am planning on a weekly blog (because, lets face it, who wants to hear my rubbish on a daily basis??) - but we're all in the Lord's hands.........


Australia is a wonderful, and yet - still - incredibly provincial place. Out here, you still feel as if you are indeed living at the ends of the earth; and that the rest of humanity is merely a theoretical construct.

The earthiness of North America?? Derided!

The cultural brilliance of Europe? Meh.

The passion of South America? Huh?

I am delighted to be married to a wonderful man who I love and adore; and yet, it hasn't quite sunk in that he is actually married to anyone but a "recent Australian". He has no concept of where I come from, or what it is to be Canadian, or even that "Canada" is anything more than a vague idea. He has no interest in any place other than Australia, and cultures outside of Australia are "nice", but not quite.......... real. He hasn't the slightest interest in Canada, or Canadian culture (except that his son really likes maple candy); and my identity as a Canadian is a matter of supreme indifference here in Oz.

I may as well come from the moon.

But that's fairly typical of Australians, as I have found (or perhaps it is typical of "Queenslanders" alone?).

I am not sure what to make of it.

I know that Australians like to think of themselves as "more Canadian than American"; but that's rubbish. Australians are incredibly American, in that (Like Americans) anything not "Australian" (read: American) doesn't count.

You're welcome as long as you don't rock the boat. You're welcome as long as you leave whoever you were "back in the old country" behind. Nothing you do overseas will count in Australia. It truly is "Terra Nullius" (Nobody's Land).

But they are a warm and happy people. They have a strong sense of self - and if you're not Australian, well....... you'd better be.

Fast.

If you're a Frenchman that's just won the Nobel Prize in Physics and decided to settle in Brisbane - well, nobody cares. You'd better learn to speak English, and if you want to teach Physics at Griffiths University - you'd better tender a good resume. Your Nobel Prize will be seen as some foreign thingie; and you'll have to PROVE yourself as Australian.

Its exciting, and depressing all at the same time: if you are a failure, you will get a clean start in Australia - which is wonderful. But if you were successful elsewhere, you won't get any credit for it here. You will be starting (yet again) from ground zero.

Again - I am not sure what to make of that.

At last!!

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