Community Capers

Now that I’m a dweller of regional suburbia I’ve decided, since the coffers somewhat allow this time round, that I’ll take the opportunities that arise to participate or attend community activities.

I’ve attended the opening of an art exhibition which made me a little sad because I couldn’t afford the price tag on any of the pieces although I know exactly where, in my future house, that I will put them. I walked around with a friend, sipping a glass of champagne, admiring all the efforts of NT artists and their creativity.

The following day I participated in the annual “Women Walk the World”, where normally I would sit back and ‘man the stall’ or just be out bush fixing a fence in the blazing sun. There was only a mere 5 of us eager enough to pound the pavement; our new International Officer for the CWA, her friend, our Secretary, our President and me with my dog, Monty, in tow because he was busy peeing on everything or trying to escape that ‘scary’ truck that just went past. I also had to be watchful that he didn’t pee on my friends’ pram. The other, less energetic members and their friends, ate scones and sweets and drank coffee in the hall while we were gone.

But the community event that had me in my element was the Great Nitmiluk Toad Bust at the national park, hosted by Ranger Claire, as part of Parks Week.

There were bloody kids everywhere. Squealing and talking loudly to ensure they are heard over any other possible noise, asking questions like only a bloody kid can. And I was going to make sure I wasn’t going to be outdone by a bloody kid.

My friend, Jac, and I had an agreement. Since she didn’t like toads but wanted to be there, she would shine the torch on them and I would catch them. And catch I did. Every time one of us saw a toad, whatever I was carrying made a sudden exit from my hands and I would leap and bound and jump and slide and climb and slosh and ignore “Please do not walk here” signs till I had that slimy toad in my hands then into the sandwich bag.

Our outcome was good. A team effort though Jac often did question my eye-sight on occasion. We caught three big toads and one smaller toad and prevented an innocent frog from being picked up as a toad by someone who is more blind than me. Though really, my eye-sight is not that bad, this fellow just lacked a torch to see what he was doing but had enough common sense to ask us if “that little one is a toad?”

At the end of the evening the bloody kids, who worked in a noisy, squealing pack with a few reluctant adults in tow, caught plenty of toads. And I even willingly shared our catch so the littlest kid didn’t miss out on being in the group photo.

Catching toads sent me back in my memory bank to my college days, where I would torment toads and people alike. My favourite trick was to tie sinkers to the feet of toads then hurl them onto the roof of the dorms. They would then proceed to hop across the roof, if they hadn’t already fallen off, dragging the sinker behind them with a clankity, clankity-clank. Not everyone thought I was as funny or clever as I did. Take Michael for example. It was above his room that I would normally throw the toads. He got cranky about it. But at the same time he had no problem with being dared by fellow students to sit on a toaster to see if his pubic hairs caught on fire. Go figure.

"Help, I've been put in a sandwich bag by a mad woman!"

Back to the present. I’m sure there will be more, mature activities I can do here in K-Town that don’t involve toads. You never know, next art exhibition I could be throwing my working class poverty into the wind and buying works of art to hang on the walls of my yet built home.

 

My Uniform: In a Gym

My uniform (ie: you’ll rarely see me in anything different) is jeans and boots, depending on the occasion as to whether I wear a nice shirt or a work shirt. If I’m ever in just shorts and a t-shirt it’s because I’ve either just had a shower and am about to head to bed or it’s Saturday and I can’t be arsed getting dressed. So as you can imagine, I rock up to all sorts of things in jeans and boots, even where it is not quite appropriate... Like the gym for example.

I don’t know how she does it but she does. Rinda can talk me into anything. So there I was, waiting patiently in the foyer of the YMCA, after paying $15, for Rinda to stop being late. When she finally arrived she looked at me sideways.

“Is that what you are going to wear?”

Well, yes, jeans and boots and a work shirt. I’ve done more exercise (and got paid for it) working cattle or building or fixing fences in the very same outfit I wore this day. So, yes, the gym? In my adequate attire? Bring it on!

I had never been in a gym before, nor do I want to repeat this event. Other than what’s on TV and in movies I didn’t really know what to expect. So when Rinda swung the doors open I wondered where the rest of the gym was hiding. Grey besa brick walls shape out the weights area and the contraption area. There was music playing from the TV but the wall fans were so loud they couldn’t be heard. The weights area was full of blokes, many of whom were full of themselves. Nope, I didn’t want this area. Rinda convinced me to step on a contraption.

“I don’t like it, it’s weird, it’s making me exercise” I’m such a spoil-sport.

So she popped me on a fake bike that doesn’t go anywhere. I peddled nice and slow and lazy because on this thing there was no destination to reach. I noticed it had a screen though. So, like a kid, I started pressing random buttons.

“This thing won’t work. It’s broken!” and Rinda came back with a bemused look on her face.

“Peddle harder, trust me”

“But I don’t want to peddle harder”

“Just do it!” Bloody Nike ad she is! But I did it and suddenly the screen was working.  She played around with a few things including telling it I was a male and that I wanted to ride up and down many fake hills.

I peddled easy then hard then easy then hard according to all these hills that I couldn’t see. And then the screen went black.

“It’s broken again!”

“You weren’t peddling hard enough” shouted Rinda from some contraption that looked weird.

Damn. This gym business is annoying. So, I hooked back into peddling, reset myself as a male wanting to ride fake hills and got back into it. 20 minutes later the fake hills had finished and between the two stints on the fake bike I MAY have burned off ONE piece of chocolate that I ate before I came in to this crowded room.

Of course, this effort was not sufficient in Rinda’s eyes. She expected more from me though I refused to take any of it seriously.

“Try this thing” she convinced me to stand high up on this thingy that helped me fake doing some chin ups.

“Five times or I won’t let you down”... I did three. She knows better than to argue with me.

She made me sit in a contraption and push some padded bars out.

“Five times!”... I did two.

“Planks!”

“No, planking is stupid and isn’t fashionable anymore”

“Hold it for 30 seconds” she reckoned. I couldn’t hold it for any, I was too busy laughing and perving on a bloke.

“That’s not going to help your stomach muscles!” Liar, I could feel the burn... from laughing so hard.

After a bit of mucking around and “spotting”  Rinda, which I was doing way wrong much to the Haymakers disgust (apparently I’m supposed to stand behind her and help her or something) we left. With an amused smile on my dial, my jeans and boots marched on out... vowing never to march on in again. I think all the other gym users were hoping that too.

Never Just a Horse

They’re your workmate, they’re your teammate, they’re your best mate. But they are never just a horse.

They put their heart into what they do. Always willing to please. So long as they’re treated right.

They’ll lap that break-away cleanskin through the timber for you. They’ll stand tall and proud in the arena for you. They’ll get first place in the barrels for you. They’ll stand there and put up with being hugged, kissed and petted for you.

And when they finally leave this world, they leave the emptiest of places in your heart. Only a hoof print is left behind.

To say goodbye to a much loved horse is a heartbreaking thing. Recently my friend said goodbye to her beloved Toby. As I headed down to the horse paddock to tie up the loose ends all the bad memories of saying goodbye to my own horse, Chief, came flooding back. I knew exactly what she was going through and it was nothing but pain.

But opposite to the heart ache of saying goodbye they can bring us so much joy too. For a Saturdays entertainment, a group of horsey strangers descended on one of the most well equipped horse properties in the Katherine area. One girl was unable to bring her own horses in so I brang in my Ruby to ride for myself so she could ride old Charger who was coming in anyway for an appointment with the vet.

Most people don’t think all that much of Charger. He’s done the hard yards, he doesn’t come from any kind of special blood stock, he’s missing half of his nearside ear and these days he works as hard as he feels like. I was waiting for his condemnation which is what I usually cop from males. Instead he received nothing but praise. He did everything she asked of him. She loved her mount and he loved his rider. What it boiled down to was she was glad to have a horse to ride for the morning and he was glad to not be flogged around a paddock trying to keep cattle together from sun up to sun down.

Charger did me proud. Ruby on the other hand, I’m starting to think I have bitten off more than I can chew. She had a massive dummy spit when being saddled, did not like any other horse other than Charger going near her, her canter (which is normally very smooth) was a series of unwanted pig roots and while I took Charger to the vet I expected to return to find dents in the stable walls and scratches and cuts all over her (thankfully the infrastructure was fine as was she).

Ruby might be an arrogant handful but I still love her. I’ve definitely got my work cut out for me. At least I still have my Charger by my side to balance it out. And as my Territory Mum and I watched him in the afternoon zoom around the house paddock, roll in the mud and whinny at the fence it had us thinking.

“Territory conditions aren’t meant for horses”, she said.

I agreed but added “If it wasn’t for the horses what would the Territory be? It was built on the back of the horse.” Just like the world we live in. It was a horse by the human races’ side helping to make it all happen. Doing their silent bit. Wars have been won and lost on the back of a horse and cities built.

Between the tears and the memories of writing this piece I’ve struggled to find the words that do justice for the horse. I feel that to call them a noble animal is an understatement, to say they are beautiful or graceful is an understatement. All quite simply because they are never just a horse.

The Cleaning Fairy

I bear wings and a chux. I am the cleaning fairy! But my magic is lost.

I’m normally a cleaning freak. I’ll clean in places most people wouldn’t think about. I’ll get on my hands and knees to scrub a small bathroom floor because I want to know it’s clean, I’ll want to see it sparkle. I’ll clean before the cleaner comes. I’ll clean something while I’m using it (showers for example). I like clean. My former partner-in-crime didn’t understand. Yes, I will go ballistic if there is a grain of salt on the kitchen bench that I, not five minutes ago, cleaned to pristine perfection.

I’d like to add that I do not have obsessive compulsive disorder. Otherwise my current situation would not arise.

I can’t find motivation to clean my own quarters. Yet, yesterday I went to a friends house and did a weeks worth of her dishes and folded her laundry, all the while she told me off. It’s not the first time I’ve done that to her. I used to sneak into her house and mop her floor (it was sticky and I couldn’t handle it), do her dishes, do her laundry. I’ve cleaned things in other peoples houses that irked me while their backs were turned. I scrutinise the efforts (or lack of) of the cleaners at work. I like clean!

But why is it my bathroom is filthy? Why is it that after living in this house for at least 2 months I am yet to clean it AT ALL? There’s dust and fluff and a gecko’s tail on the floor being eaten by ants and I just stare at it while I’m on the toilet. My bedroom floor has seen a broom once since moving in. The shower glass has a build up of soap scum. The sink is speckled with mud. Dust is collecting in the toothbrush holder along with 10 cents.

And so, while I have the time to clean all this, I am on the computer... writing a blog... and trolling Facebook. And I feel like I’ve kept my wings but I am no longer a fairy, I am a pig. A procrastinating pig.

If anyone out there happens to find my motivation, my magic, please send it back. I have to have this house clean by Friday morning!

Part Two: The Wait Is Over

I tossed, I turned. Sleeping every night on the same side was uncomfortable but sleeping on the other was painful. I stressed, I worried. And I had trouble falling asleep and having to wear a bra to bed just made things even worse.

Bumps in roads, running, over-doing things. Nearly everything hurt. I was constantly worried I was going to bust my stitches. My breast got hot and it sometimes felt like it was swollen.

Two days before my follow-up appointment with the surgeon I pulled the giant bandaid off. The length of the scar scared me. Why did she have to make such a big cut? I re-covered the wound with three bandaids. The area was too sensitive not to have one on.

Ten days after my operation I went in to see my surgeon for my follow-up. She asked the usual questions and then finally she brought up the results. Under her breath she rattled off a few lines of the results and then finally I heard the words:

“Benign cyst”

Relief swept over me. I wasn’t going to be battling cancer after all! I was so happy I nearly cried. There is not much that could have topped that news.

After getting me a new, more appropriate bandaid for the wound she said “So it’s benign, we won’t be needing to do any more follow ups, that’s it, it’s all over”. Then she winked and smiled and I was on my way with tears welling in my eyes and a smile on my face.

I consider myself lucky. Not everyone out there gets to hear those words and their battles are long and hard, tiring and expensive. Sometimes they don’t even win.

I was surrounded by a support group of select people and the occasional not-so-select. But all the way they were by my side. My family, the 49 ladies who sit at the kitchen table and a number friends. Thank you to each and every one of you for being there for me. And thank you to everyone for your kind words even though you found out after-the-fact.

And so life goes on. My only battle now is to try and get out of bed in the morning after trying to catch up on 7 months worth of lost sleep!

Part One: The Unknown

There was an itch, I scratched it and suddenly 2013 became a trial I just didn’t to face. The dogs constantly barked, I was completely broke and my discovery turned my world upside down.

There was a lump in my right breast.

An appointment with a female doctor and then a referral to the imaging clinic later I saw the lump in an ultrasound as I shivered under the cold of the air conditioning.

“You’re gonna need a biopsy” they said. And so the drama began.

First attempt: Rinda came with me. She held my hand and told me it’s okay as I tried to fly off the examination table when the doctor tried to bring a needle near me while I was dosed but not doped on 3 sedatives. Instead of a biopsy I had a second ultrasound. It had grown

“You really need to have a biopsy” they pressed. The drama continued.

Second attempt: I took 3 sleeping tablets expecting that since people of much bigger build than me got knocked out on one. I asked a friend to come in so once I was asleep he could carry me to the appointment and I wouldn’t know a thing. The biopsy could be performed with me completely out of it. But like the sedatives, the overdose on sleeping tablets didn’t work.  Instead I was wired. As soon as the doctor saw me awake he laughed. He knew nothing was going be achieved that day either. The needles got brought out by the sonographer only to be put back by the doctor. I felt worse about wasting everyone’s time this round as not only had I not gone through with the biopsy again but my friend had driven 100km to come into town only to have him just sit in the waiting room while everyone dealt with my fear. The third ultrasound showed that the lump had changed.

“Maybe it’s better if I get gassed and get the rotten thing cut out?” The doctor agreed.

It took a while but a consult with the surgeon was arranged where she and I debated over the use of gas. She was against it while I was against being without it.

Soon enough a letter came through telling me when my operation in Darwin is. The dogs care arranged, Mum and Peter’s flight and accommodation booked and time taken off work, D-Day approached.

A week before I lay in bed thinking about what awaits me. I burst into tears and sobbed myself to sleep. I’m only 28, I don’t want to die. I want to live a full and happy life. I want to see my nieces grow up. I want to ride my horses, run my dogs, pet my cows. I didn’t want to be too weak to do anything. Too lifeless to hold my head up. I wanted none of what could be. And I certainly didn’t want surgery. But it had to be done.

“Well, you don’t have any major allergies and you’re fit and healthy, you won’t need to see the anaesthetist,” the Sister decided in my pre-admission .
“No, I would really like to speak to the anaesthetist please”, I was firm, but I needed to be, things were going to be done my way or not at all.

“The gas will knock you right out, I assure you” said the anaesthetist with a sweet disposition. I hoped she wasn’t filing my head with rubbish.

And so here goes, the following Monday. All gowned up and waiting to go. Surrounded by nurses, my surgeon and the anaesthetist.

“Gas, gas, gas and more gas” I stressed. Despite me being a handful everyone handled it really well and with such professionalism.

“Just breathe, deep breathes, you’ll be fine”.

...

“Time to wake up now!” says a chirpy voice beside me. What the hell?
“You can’t be serious? It’s all done?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s all over. I’m Wendy, your recovery nurse.

Relief just swept over me. It was gone. For now it was over. I was on a hiatus of a large amount of stress.

Getting the canula out was my final operation hurdle. I struggled to let the nurse pull it out so instead I pulled all the tape off myself in my own good time and left her to pull out the straw while I winced and cried.

I left the hospital with Mum by my side. Results on the lump were at least a week away.

So the wait began.

Feminist is Not a Dirty Word

In an unusual decision for me, I recently volunteered for the entirety of a women's festival in Katherine. I spent most of the time behind the bar where I was fortunate enough to be able to hear the talks of women from various positions in society and many walks of life. Women who have paved the way for other women in their fields, women who have faced such adversity and women who want to leave the world a better place than they found it.
Being a women's festival the attendees were expectedly diverse. Indigenous women, women in law, women from the bush, women who never knock back opportunities to learn new things, lesbians, hippies and randoms who fit nowhere in particular into a stereotype and even a transvestite.
But out of all the talks I listened to it was the talk "The 'F' Word" that I came away with the most philosophies.
In today's society feminism holds a stigma. To say one is a feminist would have others believe that she is a hairy, man-hating, carpet-muncher with too many opinions.
Well, I am a feminist. Always have been. I look at the most influential woman in my life, my mother, and can understand exactly why I believe the things I do. I have seen her sacrifice herself too many times and I look back on her history and understand that so much of it has perhaps been a detriment to herself. So I have an opinion and more often than not I quite freely voice it. As a result I have been branded by some as a "know-it-all" or a "tempered, little bitch". And let them have their opinion, for 9 times out of 10, that has been the opinion of a man. Out of all the people I have ever torn shreds off with words as an adult they have all been men. I have been pushed to a point that I slap the truth in their faces and watch them retreat with a bruised ego. I bring them back down a necessary peg or two. I may be a woman but I will not be bullied.
I am quite happy to label myself as a feminist. I only shave my legs if I intend to go swimming or wear a dress (which, anyone who knows me well enough, is quite rare) but I am not a lesbian. I work what some would consider a mans job, but I am not butch. I am currently quite content with being single but I am not a man-hater. But all the above is not what makes me a feminist. It's what I BELIEVE that makes me a feminist.
I believe, and I quote from the festivals founder, Jude Kelly, "The world is only equal when everyone has the same opportunities". I have lost count of the times I have been knocked back for a job simply based on the fact that I am female. Around the world there are girls who are missing out on an education, a basic human right, quite simply because of their gender. The media has pushed on to society the idea that for a woman to be beautiful in a mans eye's she must parade around in her underwear or a bikini, be of a certain build and cake on the make-up. Leave only what she may look like the following morning to the imagination. When men makes suggestive comments to me along those lines, that I should work in very little clothing or perform sexual favours to get out of being in trouble or get what I want I feel like belting the shit out of them with whatever object I can lift and swing and cause the most damage with. Instead I ignore them or tell them outright that what they have said is inappropriate. If they keep it up they usually end up hearing what I truly think of them which is rarely nice. But the biggest reason I am a feminist is because I am not a sexual object and I was not put on this earth to keep the men happy. I am here solely to keep myself happy and the people I care about happy. I live to my own expectations, not the expectations of others.
But are there more of you women out there like me? Are you a feminist but are too afraid to admit it? Are you a feminist but won't say because you don't like the stigmas attached to the word? Or, in truth, you won't admit to being a feminist because you are too worried about what the men around you may think of it? Bruising a mans ego occasionally or threatening his masculinity is not a bad thing. It's you taking your place in the world. Think back on how many times you have been discriminated against because of your gender. And besides, the males will get over it. They'll have no choice!