Once upon a time there was a group of people at a party playing ping pong. There were drinks and food and everyone was having a great time. At the party there was a mixture of single friends and couples and even a few children running around.

The ping pong game wasn’t competitive at the start but soon became a real competition. They were playing doubles, round robin style. Everyone was forming teams and lining up to play the winning team.

At some point, someone suggested that there should be a prize. There was a lot of debate about the nature of the prize and it was finally settled that all the losers would have to pitch in and buy the winning team a bottle of decent wine each. Once this was decided it became clear who the wine drinkers were.

Bruce and Margie were lined up with everyone else waiting for their turn to play. Everyday Bruce and Margie drank a bottle from the case of Shiraz they kept in the corner of their 2 car garage. None of their friends would have thought that they were so unhappy that they needed to dull the pain of existing together with wine. It had been a number of years since they felt comfortable in each other’s presence without drinking.

One day when work had become routine for both of them and there were no children to distract them, Bruce suggested that they have a glass of wine with dinner. Instead of talking about anything meaningful they discussed the wine and its many aspects and fruity notes. This became how they passed their time together. Because of that they didn’t really know each other anymore.

During the ping pong game they just naturally stood together as a team without speaking. They didn’t know if they could work as a team, especially with something so fast as ping pong. They both stood there waiting for their turn wondering what would happen and wishing they could just step back and not participate. And because of that they were feeling anxious and wanted to be anywhere but standing in that line, together, waiting to play ping pong.

When they were about 3 teams from the table, Bruce had an idea. Without saying a word to Margie, he stepped out of line and grabbed his vintage black and white camera. Bruce announced to the group that he thought such a momentous event should be recorded for posterity.

Margie was left standing in the queue alone while Bruce walked around the table taking photos from various angles. Before long Margie was next in line to play. It became clear that Bruce wasn’t putting down the camera any time soon. In fact he hadn’t glanced in Margie’s direction for over 30 minutes. Margie, as casually as she could, left the line and went inside on the pretence of needing to use the toilet. She stayed inside wondering how her life had ended up like this. Until finally she walked outside to find that the ping pong games was over. Frank and George had been crowned victors and Bruce was busy taking lots of photos of them. It was while watching this scene that Margie realise that this wasn’t the life she wanted. She knew that she had more to offer and wanted a partner in more than just drinking mediocre Shiraz.

Calmly Margie walked over to the hosts and said her farewells. Resolutely she moved towards Bruce and…

Once upon a time there was a couple of middle class parents from average backgrounds who dreamed of giving their children a life more exciting and adventurous than their own. They found they both had a passion for the mountains and set about finding a house to fulfill their dreams.

On a holiday in the mountains one Easter the perfect house materialized. A mountain house with a stone fireplace, pitched roof with exposed beams, tree trunks as supports and an attic for the children’s bedroom. The girls squealed with delight when they saw the attic and begged their parents to buy the house. Thus was the beginning of their mountain adventures in ‘Cold Play’, their alpine home.

Summer in the mountains, they were to discover was just as special as winter when there was snow. There were trips down the mountain to swim in the disused quarry. Surrounded by pine trees with a jetty, a pontoon and a rope swing, the parents felt as if they were swimming in a lake from an American school summer camp.

There was bike riding along the historic rail trail and hiking in the ever changing Alpine National Park.

Winter though is magical, when a blanket of snow covers the ground and the sleepy village comes to life. Although there are many more people around there is also an uncanny silence in the mountains in during winter. Early in the morning walking with fresh snow underfoot you can only hear the crunch of the snow under your boots and the occasional cry of the huskies nearby.

When snow starts falling the whole family get excited. Falling snow is like the best Christmas present imagined, it doesn’t matter how many times you have played with it, the novelty never wears off. This is the place where the whole family can be happy away from the everyday realities of city life, their little bubble.

The perceptions of those with a house in the mountains is often that they are rich. But this family chose to buy the house to give their children a life rich in experiences, rich in family time away from everyday distractions and rich in memories. Already that investment is paying off with the girls becoming more courageous and adventurous than their parents could have ever imagined.

Follow my 2016 Winter adventure on the Facebook page Cold Play, Dinner Plain

Eeeeekkkk, now I will have to write!!

Writing sucks balls. Big, hairy, hangy, veiny, lumpy balls. It takes years of procrastinating, actual blood, and a significant amount of wailing. And never have I wailed so hard as when I realised that Caitlin Moran stole my book. Ok, not stole it, just, you know, wrote it first… and better. After I read How to Be a Woman and I cried because she’d written what I’ve been trying to write my entire adult life and I felt like my life purpose had been maliciously filched by this incredible person that I wanted to loathe, but begrudgingly admired. I’ve considered calling my next book Caitlin Moran Stole my Life, but that doesn’t seem fair to either of us.

Maybe I just need to get over myself and write my own story, in my own words, and let my festering jealousy percolate quietly in the background where all good festering should fester. But my own story feels like an anomalous non-story – a mash-up of odd things. And not a cool Peter-Gunn-meets-Every-Breath-You-Take mash-up. More like Edelweiss-meets-Never-Gonna-Give-You-Up mash-up. You know, daggy.

I started life in an in-between place. Not quite Italian, not really Australian. Not Australian like my friends were: Chicko Roll eating, choc-milk drinking, football-loving Australian. I had leftover Italian meatballs in my lunchbox and ate gnocchi every weekend at my Nonna’s house. But I couldn’t speak Italian and I could sense my father’s discomfort with his Italianess, so it was never celebrated either. We didn’t make tomato sugo or stomp on grapes or sing. We ate and were maudlin and never went to football games or ate Chicko Rolls. It was confusing. Basically I had an identity crisis as far back as the womb, when my dad said he wanted a boy and I was already growing girl bits.

So I was dramatic and withdrawn all at once. And I fought, with my sense of self, my talents, my sex, and with everyone around me. And now here I am, feeling like I’ve swallowed the world and with a story stuck in my throat. One that I’ll never cough out. And it aches. Like my father when he thinks of home and snow and mountains. Like my mother when she yearns for adventure. But maybe this is my story. This stolen, not stolen tale of building a girl.

I am built from many things. From my father’s house. From white rendering and Italian tile. From the smell of spaghetti that makes you weep to be fed. From my Nonna’s thick thumbs. From rose gardens and the smell of frangipani. From a sister who held my hand. From a mother who weeps for the sorrows of the world. From Grandmothers who buried their husbands. From a quince tree in the backyard. From strong women. From bike rides and gumboots in the creek. I am from pig farmers and professors. I am a writer. Yes I am.

https://simonnemichelle.wordpress.com

I’ve always been comfortable with sex and sexuality. Suffering major depression a few years ago my sex drive changed forever. It was both heightened and it lessened over a 12-18 month period.

During the time I was ‘falling off the earth’ my sex drive was massive. I had a few regular hook ups on speed dial or I would spend time in my bedroom with one of my many toys… on some weekends there would be a few visits to my bedroom! I used to think it was seasonal but this was insane!

Then, I started crying, a bit at first which quickly became a lot. My sex drive became replaced by self hatred. Those horrible circular thoughts that go nowhere but down. Each thought would steel more and more of my energy.  Slowly, what felt like a black fog began moving through my body. I let go of my fuck buddies as I had no energy to invest in them, not just on a sexual and intimate level but just general conversation became difficult. My toys began to gather dust. I was too busy crying to feel horny.

When I finally realised I needed help and made an urgent appointment with my GP I was put straight on anti-depressants. I am very aware anti-depressants are not for everyone, but for me, at that time, it was the best decision I could have made.

A side effect of anti-depressants is not only weight gain but also diminished libido. Which, to be fair, was perfectly ok at that time. My brain needed to get better and I was going to do everything I could to get my brain back on track. My toys gathered dust… then were put away in the locked box. I was always wearing black, not wanting to be noticed. I no longer felt a sexual being. I missed orgasms but had absolutely no desire for them nor any sort of intimacy.

Tracy Clark-Flory wrote a great piece on the first time she had a multiple orgasm after being on anti-depressants. This article filled me with hope – Yay there will be a path back!

She was right. It has been slow. I’ve been off anti-depressants for 2 years now and I would say it took me about 9 months to even go near my toy draw. I still don’t feel like the sexual being I used to be, but it is getting better. Depression sucks – but when its not around life is the best!

Check out some amazing sex toys at my store to make the draw beside your bed full of fun.

www.passionatejade.com

I literally couldn’t move as I watched her head be pushed further under water.  I knew I should rush to her aid, defend her, save her life – she was only nine.  But I couldn’t; my feet planted on the floor wouldn’t move forward, my arms by my side couldn’t reach for her, my mouth was fused shut so no protest to save her came.  I was instead, transfixed on the woman – her face red and contorted with rage, her eyes wild. I was mesmerized, hypnotised. The snot mixed with the blood on her cheek – a scratch. Good, the girl must have put up a fight after all?

You stupid fucking bitch the woman menaced.  You will never laugh at your sister again you dirty little cunt. What had the girl done that would surely cause the end of her life? Laugh? I don’t understand and I can’t save her. Maybe she deserved it? Maybe she was a dirty little cunt?

Suddenly the woman let go and the girls head rose out of the water like a phoenix rising from the ashes.  “I’m sorry mummy” she screamed, almost before she took her first full breath.  How is it that she apologised for being so bad before she even thought to make sure she was still alive? What did she do to deserve that? Laugh?  She fell and looked at the woman, the mother, the protector, the nurturer, the bringer of life.  I could move my legs, my arms, my mouth, my eyes. Oh, my eyes!

I looked to my mother, my protector, my nurturer, my bringer of life and I saw the hatred, the filth, the disgust and I knew what I did – I laughed!  I enjoyed life, I felt joy and love and compassion and empathy and ecstasy – I was the very thing she wasn’t.

I moved, I stood up and I walked away from that nine year old girl and I’m a woman now; a mother, a protector, a bringer of life.  And I laugh!

Once upon a time, there was a tree whose roots spread for miles and miles across lands and countries. It is said that if one was to touch one of the roots, and if anyone else was also touching the tree, they could hear each other’s thoughts. The Mother tree was a messenger and wisdom keeper of service to the tribes living around her. Wherever on the land you would be, if her roots were close to you, she could receive your message and answer. The original wireless connection.

The Mother tree had a special affinity with children. They would hear her calling their names in their sleep, telling them to come and listen. Every day, she would call another child who will come to meet her. Today was Lila’s turn.

When Lila arrived by the Mother, she bowed in respect and approached the ancient and vibrant trunk. The Mother tree was huge, and the closer she got to the trunk, the more details seemed to appear engraved in the bark, creating pictures and scriptures. The elders say these are the memories of time that the Mother kept within, just like a living library.

Fascinated, Lila leaned her ear on the bark and heard a deep and warm voice telling her that one day, she will have to be the voice of the Mother tree. The spirit of the Mother, for it was her voice, asked Lila to rest her forehead against the trunk so she could see. As soon as Lila did so, her entire vision was filled with bursting colors, even though her eyes remained closed. She witnessed the vision of a world which did not remember the Mother tree. Because of that, men from foreign tribes were threatening the peace that had been existing around the Mother for millennia. Lila saw and felt that these men were sad, deeply sad inside their heart and she knew that they would find the answers to their longing and their questions if they listened to the Mother, just like she was now. To her intuition, the Mother showed her visions of people from the white men’s tribe, cutting down trees all around the planet. And because of that, they were losing their connection to Nature. They needed to remember and it would change.

Lila knew her role in this story. The Mother agreed until finally she asked:

–       “Please, be my voice to the deaf men tribe which has forgotten to listen. Share my stories with them and be strong Lila.  I have faith in you. And remember, every time you see a shooting star in the sky, there is more love coming to the world and soon enough, the deaf men will love themselves and each others again.”

The end…or is it just the beginning? J

Gin squirmed, trying not to move too much but needing to move more than she was. Maybe if she shifted right? No. Left? No that was worse! She tried to slide forward in her seat and stretch a bit; maybe that would fix the problem.

“Gin, sit still!” her mom hissed. “It’s like you’ve got ants in your pants.”
“Sorry.”

Gin looked straight ahead and tried to focus on the pastor’s sermon but the pulling discomfort was not letting up. It was getting worse. She tried to cross her legs but that didn’t work. She tried crossing her legs the other side…

“Gin, what is wrong with you?” mum lowered her head, with a harsh whisper “Have you got a dirty bum?”

“No!” Gin said but was instantly hushed and tapped on the knee making her almost drop her Bible.
“Sit quietly, please.” her mum said and looked away.

“I need the toilet.” Gin announced and mum sighed, “Can’t you hold it?”

“No.” Gin stood up and shuffled along the pew in front of other parishioners, who tsked and pulled their feet in tightly against the bench as she got to the main aisle. She walked towards the back and noticed people looking up to watch her. Some of them made curious faces but soon they all began turning pages in their hymn books as the organ began to play. She walked faster towards the safety of the church toilets, pain in every step.

When she was in the stall with the lock slid in place, she relaxed but nearly cried while trying to free a pubic hair that had become stuck in the adhesive of her maxi pad. She’d not had her periods for long and this was becoming a regular torture. Maybe the magazines were right and mom was wrong; it’s not dirty to wear tampons. Look, even the church is okay with tampons; there’s a dispenser right here in the church toilets. 50¢ for freedom. If only she had 50¢.

The first feeling was relief. I was just so relieved l was right. I listened to that feeling, that voice. It was right, l was right. I held back until l had enough proof. He couldn’t deny it.

He had unknowing delivered the last piece of the puzzle that afternoon. I choose my moment. I executed my plan, l had been going over in my head all day. I felt l only had one shot at this.

It was late. The kids where in bed, fast asleep. He was on the couch. We just had the most amazing sex we had had in ages. I had to prove to myself that he was capable of it. I had been given so many excuses over the past year, why he couldn’t make love to me – stress, work… I made sure this time that he wouldn’t be able to resist – it was part of the plan.

He was sitting on the couch. I sat on the coffee table in front of him. Eye to eye. “…So do you want to tell me what’s going on with Kate?… I have all the text messages, l could read them out to you, or do you want to tell me yourself?”

I could tell by the look on his face, that feeling l had been carrying around with me for years was right.

Written by A.P