The Shitcat isn’t dead (again).

On Tuesday morning there was quite the commotion at Asher HQ, as the MASSIVE horsedog who is agisted next door and who is, how shall we say it, not a cat person, pulled his owner over and dragged her over our driveway like cheese on a grater, to chase Woofa the Shitcat. (Who was most likely lying supine and flashing her derrière at him.) The owner came running at me, screaming, “My dog just killed your cat.”

So I calmed down the sobbing jockey whilst I looked for a trail of blood, tiny cat bones and general destruction in the direction of #deadcat. None. And no deadcat to be seen.

Except said cat was nowhere to be found. Strange behaviour for a dead cat indeed.

As if in response to the mayhem and maiming, the heavens opened up, and we had what Queenslanders call “a drop of rain”. The type of rain that makes you glad you are wearing a bra. And waterproof mascara. And you have sandbags in your garage that your Mum made you get from council once, when they were going for free (I case of floods. No we don’t live near a river. But: free.)

I searched and searched through the deluge for #deadcat for at least two minutes, before deciding the lack of blood spatter meant she was without harm or without a trace (I’ve watched the shows, I know how this stuff rolls) and it was time to do what all good cat owners do: wait, call “pusspusspuss” in that high pitched voice that cats universally love loathe, wait, shake the dry food pellets, wait.

By and by, the thing that all cat owners know about happened: #deadcat reappeared. Bedraggled and a bit skittish, but decidedly #alivecat. No sign of blood or eviscerated entrails or shards of bones chewed by the jaws of megalodog. Nothing.

She stared at me for a beat, did one cross sounding miaow, demanded food and then started licking her puckered area. Definitely not dead today.

The overall casualty count was: two skinned knees (The Meg owner), one wet t-shirt that was winning NO competitions this day (cat owner), one heart on the verge of infarction (cat owner).

I know one day #alivecat will be #deadcat, but my goodness it’s hard to believe that supershitcat will ever meet her maker. And she sure knows how to burst my corpuscles. We do love you Woofa, but can you hold off on the near death action for awhile?

The vet said ‘cats like this’ often live into their twenties. Pass me the smelling salts.

Have you got a friend like mine? If you haven’t, you need to go out and get yourself one post-haste, and pandemic be damned. Let me tell you why..

When I first met Jools we had both showed up to the first day at a new uni in skimpy clothes and big hair (it was the early 90s and we were still attached to the hair, goddamn it). We would have been wearing scrunchies to match our tans.

The grade of any uni student back then could be read in the depth of the tans, and by the looks, Jools and I were solid Cs. Lots of time in the sun with our books, trying to convince ourselves that we were furthering our edumacation, when really we were just exciting our melanocytes.

The difference between us, was that Jools had swagger. You know that thing? When you meet someone and they are really comfy in more than just their Le Tanned skin, but in their own good self. And not in a showy or flamboyant way (although, by the look of Jools in that crop-top, she probably was pretty buoyant #boobenvy) but in that way that you just know that they know who they are- their strengths and foibles and the whole caboodle- and they are okay with that.

Yes, this is about my Glittery Cheer Leader

So it won’t come as a surprise to know that pretty soon Jools had a little crop of butterflies drawn to her shine. And rightly so. Because the thing about Jools, is that one of her gifts is that she embraces the truth of who she is so effortlessly, that it somehow rubs off, and settles on your own skin like so much disco glitter. And pretty soon you can’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, you are okay to be who you are.

As you look at your arms in fascination, turning them this way and that in the sun, watching the glitter catch the light, you start to think that some of the things you’ve been carrying around, that you are toofattoolazytoodumbtoouglytooloudtoomuch are not too at all. They are just you.

And you is a pretty okay thing to be.

My glittery friend turned fifty yesterday, and still she shines like the sun. With a bit of moon-dust wisdom thrown in as well. She was the first person to show me that I could be all of me without the need for apologies. And that is glitter that is worth the riches of all the world.

Happy birthday, Old Luv. Thanks for cheering us all on, for all those times, when you were just being you. You sure do bring meaning to the word cheers.

It’s fun isn’t it: not choosing. When we are at some sort of a crossroads in thought, and we decide not to choose. Maybe we toss a coin, ask someone else to decide, or even just refuse to choose until the choice is made for us by some external event or person.

I love how we can dally and dilly all over the place, making nice little crop circles on the carpet whilst maintaining a definite and definitive decision not to decide. It’s like that we think that if we somehow wait long enough it will “all work out.” Because, and here’s the hallelujah and praise the baby cheeses: it will. It will work out some how. It just might not be the how that we really wanted. And then sometimes, weirdly, it is. Which I suppose is why we do it in the first place. At some time in our personal history we have not chosen, and life has worked out just fine and dandy thank you very much.

So we keep doing it. This not choosing.

The best and most funny thing about not choosing, is that it is an actual choice. Which is why it’s the best cosmic joke going around. When we abdicate responsibility and say, “I just can’t choose right now” we are making a choice. And the energy/universe/whatever comes on over and matches that up and says, “Here you go, have this then”.

I have a feeling that the thing you then get is actually a perfect match for what you really wanted all along. Or at least it’s the thing that you think you deserve. And so goes. So when we find ourselves flipflopping all over the place and being in analysis paralysis, then maybe it’s a chance to say, “I choose not to choose.” And then see what happens next.

As long as we are happy with anything much, or nothing much, or all of the much- who knows with this little roulette wheel- then all will be well. Just know that not choosing is choosing.

Someone* once said, “Things have no inherent meaning, just the meaning we bring to them.”

It’s a statement that comes to me time and time again, because it’s so simple and true. I use essential oils a lot, and I like them for the ‘properties’ they have. You know, how Rose Oil needs the massacre of fifty bazillion rose petals to make 5ml of the stuff, and it has a vibration of 325mHz and is the oil of Divine Love. Now it may or may not be those things. And it may or may not bring me divine love when I inhale it, but it’s the meaning I bring to it that gives it at least some of its power. You might smell it and say, “That shit stinks, it reminds me of the 80s” (potpourri was a thing) and bring a completely different meaning to it.

And so it goes.

For all of the things. Whether it be the transformative or mundane experience of birthing a child, bringing home a new cat, or that first sip of silent coffee. It’s the meaning we bring that gives our life meaning.

The cool part is: we get to choose. We get to choose if that fancy champers is a story of female empowerment, success and innovation, or an expensive way to get pissed. We can choose if putting on some lipstick is a sign of gender-based oppression, ridiculous vanity, gorgeous nurturing of our feminine (or masculine- get on it fellas) beauty or a reminder to speak our truth. Très exciting. (Or boring- yet again, you get to choose).

My life motto is “choose your own adventure”… a variation of “You do you, Boo” because I believe it’s the source of true freedom. From FOMO and JOMO and growing a Mo. (Shut up, I’ve got The Menopause okay).

This week Coco did a hard thing, and, as it is with many hard things, there were opporfuckingtunities galore. Some of the biggies were her expanding belief that she can do hard things, along with an ability to control her own state. Often in life it is alluring to believe we are the victim- of crappy circumstances, mutated genetics (sorry Coco) or financial flukes that are outside our control. And although it might be kinda easy to go along with that flow, we’re going to end up in the crappy creek if we keep the story running. And the converse is so cool. We already know it, don’t we? When we jump in (not to shit creek, into the pool of potential) and accept the reality of the sitch, and wonder, “What can I do with this clusterfuck?” the real fun can begin.

When Coco did her hard thing this week, we chose to make some meaning from it. And because I am nothing if not good at shopping, of course I chose meaning in a little blue box. We trotted off to Tiff, and once our eyes grew accustomed to the opulence, we found just the thing. A little bracelet with silver balls, that she can use like Mala Beads to calm her state when things get freaky. A little bracelet as shiny as the moon, that she can use to know that the power of nature is within her, and she is a force of her own. A little bracelet with a blue heart to remind her that she has “cor” or courage waiting within her, any time she wants it.

So is a Tiffany bracelet a silly present for a thirteen year old? Probably. Is it indulgent to buy a kid something like this for ‘no reason’? Maybe.

Or maybe it’s just the meaning we bring.

*If you know who that someone is, please tell me. I use the quote a lot and I would like to attribute it. Guy Riekeman perhaps?

..when you know stuff and don’t do it and then you find out that all you ever needed to do in life you already knew? But you just didn’t do it. Or maybe it’s just me.

I’m doing a course at the moment and the coach (Katrina Ruth) is kicking my arse. Not because it’s new and challenging information (but she does have a cool way of cutting through the BS) but because it isn’t. We just had some homework to do, and one of the things she said was, “How can you expect consistent results if you don’t do consistent work?” SO annoying.

There’s a meme getting around on StalkerBook at the moment saying something about how exercise is hard, but being a fat bastard with no cardiovascular fitness and dying of a heart attack is harder. And being married is hard, but going through a divorce and using your kids as weapons whilst your solicitor banks the drama-cheques is harder. So choose your hard.

And so it is with getting what we want, in the areas we say are important to us. If we profess it’s important to be healthy, and we want to be surfing when we’re 80, then there’s a fair chance we need to be doing that now. I have a feeling that things don’t magically just fall into place at 79 years, 11 months. The same goes for all of the life areas. Things aren’t just gonna happen if we don’t put in the effort, and that means now. Not next week or year. And not just today, but tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Question: What do you want to come to fruition? What do you say that you want to be happening when you’re 80? Say it out loud right now, and then chop chop, take a tiny step. Want to be fit? Drop and give me ten right now.

I bet you can’t wait to hear mine.

Pause for effect.

I’ve been saying for years that when I’m 80 I want to be a crazy old lady who drinks Champagne on the regular (not sparkling mind, the proper stuff) and wears high heels every day. So it’s only fitting that I got myself into training, and got these bad boys to celebrate Coco’s gallstone removal. Or just life.

Now someone pass me the Veuve.

Today has been a day of discovery. We began not knowing what it would hold (does anyone ever?) and as we panned along, we found a richness that we didn’t know was there. The gold is always hidden in the dust isn’t it? You have to be prepared to look.

We are in the hospital getting the next part of Coco’s gall stones dealt with. Hopefully the hand is a good one. If we end up with a pair of threes I’m asking for a reshuffle. But that is a game for another day. Today we held some aces.

We arrived at the hospital “way too early” (sorry, but you kinda need to tell us when to rock up if “too early” is gonna be a thing) so what else were we to do but hit the shops?

After the last surgery and our extended stay, I did that thing every desperate person does: make a deal with ??the universe?? and the deal was: if we ever get out of hospital, I’m going directly to Tiffany to get Coco a present. I had something in mind, but I wanted to see if she loved it too. Finally, as we were released onto the bustle of Stanley Street, we couldn’t do anything but go home to our people and have our minds and bodies enfolded in their arms. We wanted to smell sugarcane marinated in humidity, and for the salty air to wash the disinfectant from our nostrils. We wanted for things so simple that Tiffany felt out of step with us.

Today was different. Today we were spilling over with hope and spark so we bought hot pink shoes and gold skirts, plush cuddle cats and silly sushi keyrings. And we went to Tiffany.

A small while ago, a healing angel, dressed as a fairy taught Coco how to regulate her state with mala-bead breathing and a dusting of magic. So I had a little idea that a beaded bracelet would be the perfect thing for her to move through life with. An anchor to help her hold fast when the wind springs up, or a little rip appears. An anchor with a heart-shaped charm to remind her of her brave, if the days threaten to wash it away.

For courage is coeur is heart, and what better place to hold that Robin’s-egg blue charm to match the sky and the sea and her eyes and the bluebird of happiness than in her heart? Ready to come out any time she chooses.

All part of the gold we found, on a day that could have been dusty.

My girl has gone to sleep now, Mimi the horror-faced toy who has been at every hospital visit since babyhood (and would hold the reaper at bay), under one arm, and the cuddle cat over her head to drown out the mobile phone conversation from the Dad in the bay next to us who is planning a breakfast-shift somewhere. I asked Nathan earlier why people must speak so loudly on mobiles and he said it’s because the other person is so far away. The breakfast must be in the North Pole. Hey dude, tell Santa I said hi and I’d like some noise cancelling headphones, STAT, please and thank you.

As soon as I’m sure she’s in a deep enough sleep I’m stealing the cat, because between North Pole guy in bay one, snoring Mum in bay two and the elevator-style bedtime music coming from bay three, I think I am going slowly insane. Actually, hold the slow, I’m already there.

Just me and you, blog. Sitting in the dust.