Mirror, Mirror.

Dear hearts,

It has been too long, but Miss Mich has been busy. Learning how to learn. Being a good student and redefining the way I think. It has been a fabulous semester and only excites my appetite for more. But then again, that is Miss Mish….once I have the taste for something,…more please.

Now is the time for reflection. The year has all but come to its conclusion. We have the opportunity to assess our performance, take stock of our behaviour and examine the outcomes as a result.

The heart is a deep and often dark place, particularly where the truth of ourselves lies. It is here that we often seal those boxes that we designate for the top shelf of the emotional cupboard. Along with those boxes big and small, the too hard to face basket sits at the very back of said cupboard. In the dark where one can pretend it does not exist. One can close the door and even turn out the light, but it remains.

Some of you create elaborate fictions to live within that you wrap tightly around you and around those over whom you have undue influence. With a religious fervour and the determination of the zealot, you perpetuate the fiction until the cupboard could not be opened even with the key. You keep the light out and banish from the house any truth, any integrity.

But this becomes your burden. Your albatross. Your cross to bear. You are Dorian Grey, being eaten from the inside out. I don’t really care for you. It is the innocents who trust and accept that which, if truth be told, they question. Sadly such it is, to use a favourite word of yours, the toxic and twisted truth that you offer, along with bitter greens to those who should be exempt from manipulation and coercion. It is these unfortunate darlings for whom I feel sadness.

You may read this and say Miss Mich is on a bit of a tangent, a bit of a high horse. And whilst Miss Mich acknowledges that some things do happen and there is nothing you can do, what you can do, indeed what you must do, is protect those who deserve our protection. And not cross lines into places where cruelty has no business to be.

Miss Mich wears a ring with the inscription “Il aura fallu toute l’intelligence du Coeur pour distinguer le bien du mal” – Trust in the intelligence of the heart to distinguish between good and bad. It is optimistic, I admit, and in the opinion of Miss Mich’s legal eagle, a contradiction. However, whilst the heart is all emotion and the ability to distinguish may be considered a logical process, the heart still knows.

It is how we interpret what our heart truly knows. Our heart can only put that truth on the mirrored table. It is up to us to determine how we interpret what it is showing us. To examine all the angles. All the little fissures and clefts, where truth can slip into a fold and appear lost or hidden. So examine closely and pay attention.

Be brave, Dear hearts, because it is only by taking a deep breath and looking, really looking into the heart of the matter that you will find the truth. What you do after that really depends on how evolved one is. And how honestly one truly loves.

Consider.

With heartfelt love
Miss Mich

This will just take a minute...

Dear hearts,

Time has become the marker of all markers for Miss Mich. Never before has a minute or an hour taken on so much weight and import.

Quick!…we don’t have a minute to spare…

It seems I may have been marking time all this time. Until now.

I don’t know, are the planets aligning? Are all my ducks in a row? Am I juggling those balls so that now they fall into place?

Whatever it is, it seems I am coming of a certain age. And no, not the big 50. Not that I ascribe to chronological age. Just ask Miss Christine…she of the younger lover. Much younger. And he a lucky man, let me tell you. It is true he knows it..

Younger men aside. And yes the Libertine may be a little younger than Miss Mich. And sooo lovely. But I digress.

Time. Of the essence and of the moment. There is nothing like squeezing in a little 40 hours to one’s workload. Admittedly, the reduction of pen selling hours to 20 is a welcome concession, but still there remains the maintenance of one’self. The walking of the puppy. The collecting of shells and the sharing with you, Dear hearts, of all thoughts entertaining. Not to mention mothering the Bright Young Things, reading to elevate one’s consciousness, a little socialising to bring balance into a serious world and last but never least…you know what with you know who…

So far, so good. As one of Miss Mich’s best ever friends has said. It is a matter of fitness. Study fitness. At first, it hurts. To think more deeply. To understand. Truly understand. And to recall. And we haven’t even touched on creative thinking.

Goodness me! So much to do and so little time.

But things are slowly falling into place. I was, and in many ways, still am, overwhelmed by how much I am yet to learn. We are speaking of rules and principles and philosophies and methodologies. I won’t bore you to death. Suffice to say that these fundamentals are embedding. Miss Mich is absorbing and looking forward, so much, to applying her own, very special, creative interpretation to a world that on the surface, may appear to be stuffy and without flexibility, but upon Miss Mich’s own, tentative interaction with, has the potential for much debate, interpretation and good.

Enough!

Time to study, to reflect and to learn, learn, learn!


Enjoy Tuesday.

With love
Miss Mich

What would Henry Higgins think?

Dear hearts,

I love a good word. We all know that. But have I told you how much I love a good accent?

Oh, I do. I do.

Just ask the Bright Young Things. As you know, we lived in London. Central London. Eaton Place actually. Yes. SW1.Talk about a covetable postcode. Talk about covetable neighbours. Google Earth if you don’t believe me. Joan Collins lived down the road and Maggie Thatcher in the next square. We used to buy our sausages together at the Chatsworth Farm Store in Elizabeth St. That is of course, once you excused yourself past those big bodyguards who stood on point at the front door (to make sure noone got away with Dennis’ pork porkers).
I would chuckle to myself as she rifled through her purse for change. The biggest Queen like sparkly brooch on her suit, her hair like a helmet and absolute determination in her eyes to get the last of those porcine packages.

Personally, I’m not a huge fan of the sausage…well…

Charles Saatchi and Nigella lived at the back of us in Eaton Square. I used to wonder if they slept in that unmade bed of Tracy Emin’s. But I doubt it. Nigella would not stand for the smell of another woman I’m sure. The cup cake sweetness of her bits would demand a set of fresh sheets every day.

Which reminds me of the story I read about Jacquie Onassis. According to this snippet, Jacquie was partial to a little nap in the afternoon. Aren’t we all Dear hearts. One of my favourite things to do when I am left with a little time, is to hop under the covers, have a Baby o and drift off for a half an hour or so.

But I digress. Back to Jacq. In her bedroom on Park Avenue, she had the absolute luxury of fresh linen on the bed for her afternoon snooze and then fresh linen again at night. That my friends, is when you know you are rich.

What I love about Nigella and Maggie and Jacquie is of course their accents. Nigella with her lovely creamy sweet uppercrust nuance. Maggie with her imperious, I have transitioned from the Grocer’s daughter and don’t you challenge me haughtiness. I think I preferred the Kennedy accent to the Bouvier accent, although both had a laconic sense of entitlement to them.

Which brings me to my own. I suppose I should explain its rather circuitous journey. It started on the north shore. Mosman don’t you know. My Mother and Father good lower north shore kids, but when we moved to the western suburbs my poor mother had to change her accent just to fit in. Just to survive. She had to pack away her little boucle suits and sparkly brooch’s and wear Bermuda shorts and keds. I was a little confused as you can imagine. My Grandfather with his orator’s voice, my Grandmother with her penchant for opera and my Dad with his musical ear.

I ran away from the western suburbs just as fast as I could. In the opposite direction, straight to the eastern suburbs. All those thick and rolling Eastern European accents, the Jewish shrug in a grunt and those Vaucluse lilts made for a cacophony of internation, annunciation and cadence.

And then Dear hearts, we moved to London. My goodness. After nearly three years I had quite the phony English accent, as the Bright Young Things like to call it. Noone can do an upper class English lope like me. Think Eddie and Pats with a touch of Jonathan Ross. Throw in a little Kristen Scott-Thomas and some Keith Richards and I think you might have me. Not too try hard (like Maggie T God love her), not too starchy. I’m quite proud of it and will not be bowed.

Of course now we are in the far far north and I am sure it has evolved again. A little bend and perhaps a touch of twang. All quite charming, obvi. And all quite me.

I should tell you I am currently reading a book set in the South. The gracious and not so gracious southern states of the USA. You know I am reading aloud in my head and you know it’s Blanche who’s narrating. Too too enjoyable.

It will be interesting to see how that little sojourn affects this accent that has meandered around the world.

Enjoy mon ami.

Amore
Madame Mich x

I have become accustomed to your face

Dear Hearts,

I have a secret. To be honest, it’s not really a secret. I think you know me well enough to probably have figured it out by now.

It’s a part of who I am and a part of where I have come from. I could blame those who made me, but why? I have learnt to live with it and in many ways, am comforted by it…the consistency of it. The constancy of it.

Once I recognised it, it became not my burden, my albatross, but my friend.

One word Dear hearts,

Binge
Lots of
Multiples
Plenty
Too much
Never too much

Ok that may be more than one word, but you see my point nest pas?

I’m sitting here hoovering my way through an entire small bucket of semi dried tomatoes, at their peak may I say. A generous block of Australian full cream fetta cheese and a somewhat cheeky Sav Blanc courtesy of a certain training institution who thanked me for my attention.

This has been a constant dining companion to me for the better part of I can’t remember how many years. And I don’t care to. Because it is the perfect light dinner partner. Tasty, salty and fruity. With a trio like that who needs a fourth?

Which brings me to my attention. If you have it, you seriously have it. 110%. Maybe 200010% (is that like a gazillion %??) If I’m into you, then I’m in to you. Speak and you have me. Completely. Nothing else exists.

If I like it, I like it. I can never leave Cairns now, unless the Mungalli Biodynamic Dairy comes with me. I would have to pack up those sweet Jersey cows, pack their not so little udders in my suitcase and hit the road. But then I would have to make room for those super sweet Mareeba tomato vines. Drape their heavy, fruit laden branches around said Jersey necks to make sure I had the best, freshest tomatoes this side of anywhere.

And would there be room for that secret beach in my suitcase? It must be 3kms long. Where would I fit the shells and the sticks and that brown and white dog that likes noone but us?

Hmmm, I haven’t mentioned the moon and the far far north sky yet have I? That’s going to take some packing. I would need to squeeze moon trails from full moons over Ellis Beach and the Southern Cross could not be folded I imagine. Not without a crease…

I haven’t mentioned a certain banana bread and coffee from a certain near Esplanade café? Well, Kelly may be little but that suitcase is getting full. Could I fit David’s mother in as well so that the banana bread was never ending?

I may need to abandon the little brown cardboard suitcase I had as a five year old. It was full of treasures as special as these mentioned here. My favourite matchbox cars, wax ballerina candles from my 5th birthday. The one where my mother sang to me in a tent in Lightening Ridge. Those very same and very beautiful candles stuck in a store bought loaf cake, sadly so beneath them. My mother singing through her tears because my father didn’t come home to celebrate my blowing out of those most beautiful candles. I jiggled on my bottom, just wanting my mother to stop singing, not stop crying, because I wanted to save those lovely ballerina heads from melting away. I wanted to keep them perfect, intact. So I could have them forever. And ever. I carried those stumps around in my little brown suitcase for years, the wax tutu's chipping away, some of the heads lopped off.(do you see where it comes from?)

I sat on the verandah of my grandparents enormous Victorian house on the hill overlooking Balmoral Beach and the harbour, ignoring the pretty little boats, too absorbed in sorting methodically, precisely, over and over again, the buttons my seamstress grandmother collected as a result of her impeccable needlework. It was all I ever wanted to do. Perhaps the shells I am compelled to collect now are the bright little buttons of then.

And I haven’t even mentioned you know who. Perhaps I shouldn’t. I had become accustomed to his face on my pillow. And elsewhere. My suitcase is only so big. And my will only so great.

But to be honest, Dear hearts, as much as we would like to squeeze and squash these things into our suitcase, the suitcase of the mind is more than capacious. More than accommodating.

I still have those ballerina candles. I swear I do. Sadly I also still have my mothers tears, but I make sure they stay locked in the little brown suitcase at the top of the emotional cupboard, you know the one, where my sentimentality lies.

For everything else, I am here now. Enjoying all these things now. With a light touch, just like Miss Christine says…hold them lightly and they will always be yours.

Enjoy your treasures.

With love
Miss Mich

The Perfect Diorama

Dear hearts,

Miss Mich is enamoured of the natural world. It is true. Give me nature over artifice any day. Over the built, the contrived, the imposed.

I am a girl of simple things. Well, sort of. As long as they are beautiful, then I am in. Simple and ugly does not an aesthete make. I’m not being mean, just well, selective. Or asesthetic. Or maybe just Libran. Actually, I sound like a first class wanker. Albeit a discerning wanker.

Alright. Enough of the tosser. Let’s get down to what I am trying to share.

The Natural World.

Charles Darwin had it. Joseph Banks had it. The Victorians had it. Dr Tim Flannery has it. Gomez Adams has it in spades…

The groove of the Natural World. I am going to keep giving it capital letters. You know it deserves it.

There is nothing better (except maybe you know what), than being out in the natural world. I mean IN IT. Not innit..yeh…or innuit…although I do love snow sports.

The Libertine and I spend most weekends “Beachcombing”. He doesn’t like me giving it a title. Given his current circumstance, he is not into titles at all. And I can understand. We take that beautiful mauve puppy to a special stretch of beach that shall remain a secret and walk and search for treasure. Such treasure! Seashells in the pinkest of seashell pink. Driftwood that is twisted and turned smooth by the wind and the tides. Stones that are tumbled and yet somehow homes to happy crustaceans. Carapaces of crabs and lobsters and all manner of examples of the exoskeleton. Coral that is surrendered by the reef and left to be discovered by me…

I collect these things. I cannot help it. I am compelled to. I search and I sift and I cull and end up with trinkets of the sea and shore. The Cottage is becoming somewhat overrun by the detritus given up. I assemble these bits into arrangements that amuse me. I carefully put together bits of things that once were real and yet are now still vivid despite the fact that in some cases they are mere fragments of their former selves.

A bit like the Victorian diorama. One of my favourite things ever. A folly in a box. A world in a box.

According to John Kean, Dioramas are enigmatic artefacts hovering enticingly between reality and illusion. The surreal stillness of the recreated natural environment paradoxically shrouds the very chaos of nature that the diorama purported to represent, and which today renders them rather archaic interpretive strategies. The 'frozen moment' is now seen to be a profoundly limited take on nature.

Whilst that may be so on the one hand, I like to think of the diorama as a keyhole view into what may have been. In a perfect world. The dollhouse view if you like. All of us as children played games where we made our own reality. Made our characters behave in a certain way to achieve a certain outcome. The diorama is no different really.

My bedroom and The Libertine are the perfect diorama. The world that exists there is a perfect world. One of completeness. One of perfection. Step outside and sadly it’s a bit like a snow dome. It starts to shake and the snow obscures the view. And the truth.

But enough of that.

I was walking that beautiful mauve puppy along the beach at Trinity just this morning and the natural world was at its heartbreakingly best. The sky was colouring pink and orange and red. A portent of rain. The light was making the surface of the water liquid and then the fish started jumping. Summertime…..and the living is easy…I couldn’t help myself. I promise you, the fish were jumping for joy. It was extraordinary. I have seen dolphins, and even a beached dugong, God love it. But these simple little fish were so sweet and so full of joie de vivre that to be honest, they eclipsed the flashier creatures by their simple joy. The puppy and I stood and watched as they flipped and skipped across the surface of the sea. Maybe they were being chased by something bigger, something more sinister that lurked beneath the surface. But maybe it was a Diorama moment and in that perfect world they were just having a really good time.

I prefer to ignore the sinister undercurrent. Even though I am pursued by my own. I will not capitulate to coercion. And I will continue to live in my own diorama. Call me Pollyanna. Call me foolish. I don’t care.

For every morning I watch the natural world wake and wake with it, it is worth the risk.

Enjoy am.

With love
Miss Mich

Dazed and Confused...

Dear hearts,

It seems this little blog has ruffled a few feathers.

Hmmm…what to do. What to do?

Miss Mich is quite careful about naming names. Miss Mich is not even sure who is real and who is a just a lovely fiction. Who is but a dream within a dream, a fancy to while away the monsoon hours here in the far far north. It’s all about possibilities Dear hearts. About potential. About what could be.

Miss Mich loves to entertain you, engage you and sometimes arouse you. I should think I never offend you, because as we all know…it’s all about the love.

Well mostly. Sometimes there is a dark side that needs to air its dark heart. But only to educate and elucidate. How I love alliteration.

Sadly, this brings us to the thorns in Miss Mich’s side. Miss Mich is lucky to have only three unlike you know who; who suffered five. I would like to think we both have God on our side, but as we know there are times when one is compelled to say…why have you forsaken me? Alright, I’m coming over all Catholic and melodramatic and in fact, probably offending a whole bunch of people by alluding to me and you know who in the same par.

Which brings me to the point of this rather unnecessary and somewhat rudderless tete et tete. Referencing two players in the one par. It seems the Sperm Donor is concerned that you Dear hearts are so simple that you may confuse said Donor with that of the Last Charm….

I know. But what can you do? Some people are never going to get it. It hurts me that he underestimates you. And merely confirms my opinion of him.

It is interesting though. I honestly thought that the last Charm was different to the aforementioned Sperm Donor. He was fun, liked to play and made Miss Mich feel 16 again. And then it all went down hill. As we know.

Whilst the Sperm Donor did not assault me or slash my clothes like the last Charm, he did threaten to take me to court (just today in fact) and was as threatening over text message, facebook and email. All of which my very good Solicitor has logged copies of. Just in case.

So it is interesting and has been an exceedingly pointed lesson for Miss Mich to have to learn.

Not to repeat the mistakes of the past.

I implore you Dear hearts, to be on the lookout for the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

I suspect the Sperm Donor is going to be up in arms again over the mixing of Charm and Donor in this little entry.

What can you do? Dissapointment is as Dissapointment does. I’m channelling the dear Forrest Gump obvi.

Call me Robin Wright Penn ( I love her so please do call me Robin Wright Penn), there was a time when threats, bullying and coercion would have had me shaking in my boots. Would have made me want to run, Forrest, run.

But not anymore.

To the Sperm Donor I say this. You are not the Last Charm.

OK?

Miss Mich

The First Amendment.

Dear hearts,

Censorship. According to the Concise Oxford it is the suppression of whole or parts of books, plays, films, letters, news etc on the grounds of obscenity, seditiousness etc.

Hmmm…. If that which I write about here in this little tete et tete with you Dear hearts gets you thinking and talking, then my work is done. Whether you deem the content obscene or seditious, it really is a matter of your opinion. And you are most welcome to it.

The Internet is a wonderful open forum that allows freedom of speech without censorship. You can say what you like. Fact, fiction, it’s all here and it’s all ok.

We are big boys and girls and have the freedom to pick and choose from the vast volume of material that which we need, or like, or just simply wish to view.

Or not.

So much to see, so little download time.

Take this little blog. I have 12 followers and I thank each and every one of you. To those who have not pledged their allegiance on line and yet still dip in and out from time to time, I thank you as well.

Miss Mich is a girl after everyone’s heart. There is a little Miss Mich in us all. Even the boys. She has always described herself as a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. Just ask Sha ron Morrie…

She is a chameleon and so very proud of it. She can be whatever you want her to be. Sometimes you would be surprised. Really..

What she will never be Dear hearts, is censored. She will continue to tell you the stories that come to mind to entertain you, educate you, inspire and delight you.

All with love. Obvi.

Enjoy the first amendment.

With a twinkle in her eye
Miss Mich

Addendum - post Barbie.

Dear hearts,

Miss Christine has made the point, quite rightly, that I have missed out on a few Barbies. She feels that I have been a bit Goody too-Shoes about the whole thing. She wants to see a little balance. A little Yang to counter what she perceives as too much Yin.

So here, just for you Miss Christine, is my selection of Dark Barbies. And maybe a few Dark Kens. Just for fun.

Bitch Barbie comes top of mind. Bitch Barbie is your friend to your face and your enemy as soon as you leave the room. She wears the smile painted on her mouth while the gaze from her eyes is enough to cut through steel. It goes without saying you can’t trust a word she says.

Butch Barbie. I want to see lesbian Barbies on the shelf. She can be in the box next to Equal Opportunity Barbie.

Lipstick Lesbian Barbie. See above.

My own personal favourite – Latex Barbie. Now she can be a Dominatrix or she can be passive. Or she can just be a very naughty girl. Personally, I like to think of her as all three. We all know that she will come with a whip and paddle as her accessories. Nice. Very nice.

And now to some of the Darker Kens.

First of all, these Kens are all anatomically correct. They have penises.

Latex Ken. Obvi. The perfect match for our Latex Barbie. Both dressed by Westward Bound (see the website and you will know what I mean). Looking nice, naughty and shiny.

Stalker Ken. Dear hearts I include this Ken as a warning to you all. Having had my very own Stalker Ken I think it only fair to have him as one of our Dark Kens, if only to use Lawyer Barbie and Lara Croft Barbie against him. It will make for good action play. Lawyer Barbie will crucify him in court whilst Lara Croft Barbie will crucify him in the 10 mins she is given whilst the Seargent is turning a blind eye in the Watchhouse.

Just a snapshot dear hearts, I’m sure you can all think of loads more. For Miss Mich, I’m a little distracted by the Westward Bound site and really must add to cart….

Enjoy…

With love
Mistress Mich

I want to be just like Barbie.

Dear hearts,

It’s funny how the rules of relationships make it almost impossible to succeed in any long term arrangement.

I am supported by statistics here. One in every three marriages will fail. Fact.

And yet. We are taught from very early that Ken and Barbie get married. Once. On the shelves of the local toy store, I have never seen Divorce Barbie…there’s a marketing opportunity. Or Blended Family Barbie. That one’s a challenge. Ooh what about Bitter ex-wife Barbie? Hmmm…she would be the one that comes with all the assets – Barbie’s dream home, Mercedes Benz, the kids and the dog. As you can imagine, you pay through the nose for her.

Being an Ex, without the bitterness, what would I be Dear hearts?... I’m thinking Second Chance Barbie. Allow me to explain.

I didn’t choose to change my life. It was chosen for me. Having said that I decided from the get go, and I’m talking Day Three (Jules will attest). Sitting at Jules kitchen table, shaking, with my twentieth cup of tea, that my success would be my best revenge. I would not need to resort to any of the common methods of torture, manipulation and destruction.

He could leave with the English Rose and I could stay with my dignity. That’s not to say there were not days of depression (Doona Days), days of resentment (Exercise Days) and days of Extreme Uncertainty (Panic Days). Without my girlfriends I could not have survived. Those girls remain Miss Mich’s bestest ever and I will always be grateful for their care and concern.

Back to Second Chance Barbie. Once over the hump of the aforementioned early days it was onwards and upwards. There were the charms and their lovely distractions. The last charm and the move to the far far north. When that whole thing went seriously pear shaped, then came the realisation that only I could be responsible for myself. That only I could direct and create my future.

It has taken nearly eight years to get to the point, Dear hearts, where I have finally decided what I want to be when I grow up. More importantly, Who I want to be when I grow up. Yes Capital Letter.

Who.

Yes. Stand alone par.

I want to be a role model for my children. I want to show them Strength and Consistency. Dependability and Generosity. Watch out, Capital Letters are going to fly Dear hearts.

I want to Contribute. To the Common Good. From the grass roots to the glass ceiling, I want to make some kind of difference. Personally, professionally and environmentally.

I want to share the Love.

With all.

I want to be Accountable. For the past, the present and the future. I am happy to confess my sins, reconcile my differences and go beyond the penance of three Hail Mary’s. If you have an issue with me. Bring it on.

If I can achieve all of that, I won’t be afraid any more.

None of this comes easily. And to try and be successful at all of that and an arrangement with someone significant is optimistic to say the least. But we must try. We must try to look beyond the complexities and beyond our own fears. We must value the good in each endeavour and honour the integrity of the original intent.

If Barbie can do it, then so can I.

So what does Second Chance Barbie come accessorised with I hear you ask? I’m thinking a mid-life University degree, a bunch of Capital letter worthy attributes and most impressive of all – Peace of Mind.

Enjoy the opportunity.

With love
Miss Mich

Spite the Difference

Dear hearts,

Spite.

A nasty emotion. I certainly do not wish to accord it capital letter worthy status, it is merely a function of grammer that I defer to. The fact that I give it a stand alone par is only to educate and emphasise in the hope that you, Dear hearts, never go down that bitter and twisted path.

Spite. It sounds as it is. A thing of ugliness that is spat out and flung at the target with no thought. No care. No concern for the recipient. I won’t say victim, because I wont entertain that word . It is not in my vocabulary.

Sadly that does not make us exempt from the glare of its gaze. Trust me I know.

Without going into the sordid details, or maybe I will just to make the lesson count, the last charm employed said Spite to, at the least unsettle, and at the worst terrify Miss Mich after she made the decision to leave the Big House.

I was astounded at the intensity of the spite. I was astonished that someone who, at the same time as I was leaving said relationship (now you know why I abhor the word), spoke of true and undying love, and yet at the very same time could employ such tactics as physical abuse, harassment of oneself and one’s children, slashing of one’s clothes, theft, destruction of property, fraud, summons to court, and defamatory accusations to one’s employer.

I was speechless. I was without speech.

For a moment.

Then I picked myself up. Dusted myself off. Wiped the spit out of my eye and walked on.

He taught me a lot. Nine court appearances in twelve weeks. 4 kilos lost. One upset stomach. A physical reaction that lasts to this day when I may, on the rare occasion see him. And I know he reads this blog.

But let me tell you Dear hearts, no amount of spite or coercion, or bullying or stalking or downright intimidation and assault is going to do this little black duck in.

And nor should it ever happen to you, God forbid.

I have a friend. A friend who is experiencing the same amount of vitriol, of spite. To you my friend, I say learn from my experience. It has been the hardest thing I have had to bear. The sperm donor and his infidelity was no match for you, last and smallest charm.

But I thank you. You have made me dig deep. Made me find what I am truly made of. And that is steel. Without you I may never have reached my true potential.

To my dear friend who is sadly wearing shoes similar to mine two years ago, I send my love and urge you to look within yourself and find the determination to succeed.

When the Sperm donor left to be with the English Rose, I said then as I say now, my success will be my best revenge.

It is the same for all of us Dear hearts. We don’t have to be stalked and bullied to employ these pearls of wisdom.

Use the experience of adversity to encourage you, not defeat you. I don’t want to hear you whine. Ever. I don’t want to hear excuses that it’s all too hard. I’ll tell you what’s too hard. Don’t get me started.

Don’t be a baby. If you give in to the torment, you will never get out. We are all better than that.

Don’t whinge. Get up and make a cup of tea. Twinings Orange Pekoe makes everything feel better. A good run before and a cold shower after is the ticket.

Think of me as your coach. Your coach against the negative. The spiteful and the nasty.

There is no competition. Snuff it out like a flame. Give it no credence, no value and it will only have retreat as its only sorry sorry option.

I might sound tough, but you know me well enough by now to know that I am only determined.

Determined to share the love.

Enjoy strength Dear hearts.

With love
Miss Mich

Get Your Motor Running

Imagine Dear hearts,

Imagine if you could say you are truly satisfied…that everything was in place and the planets aligned…there’s not many of us that can say that, are there?

I don’t think we are trying hard enough. No, I don’t.

The Libertine and I went for two walks yesterday. The first along the most beautiful stretch of beach here in the far far north. I can’t tell you where it is because it’s a secret. Our little secret. The second walk was later under the most perfect crescent moon. We could have been in Morocco, we could have been in India. Turns out we were in Paradise. Which makes me think of that classic 70’s chestnut and in my top ten …”I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me…” I want to wear Halston and hang out at Studio 54. I want to wear “Le Smoking” and speak French with Serge Gainsbourg. All on the beach here in paradise. All with the Libertine.

I am digressing, it’s true, but there is a point to my meanderings.

It doesn’t take much to feel good. Really good and satisfied. The Libertine satisfies me. Also makes me hungry for more, but that is a hunger that will never be satisfied. And I’m ok with that.

But I don’t understand what it is that holds most people back. Or maybe I do. Most of us make everything so bloody complicated. We have too much. Too much choice, too much opportunity to dwell on what we think we are missing out on. Too much aspiration. Too much exposure to too much of little value.

Just too much.

And then there’s not enough. Not enough money. Not enough time. Not enough Super. Not enough wine…(maybe I’m channelling Serge…)

I am going off and I don’t care. We are all too avaricious. Myself included. Case in point. Here I am with 20 handbags strewn about the Cottage, and I’m contemplating the next handbag purchase. Am I nuts?

I have a sunglass wardrobe. Did you hear what I said??... I am nuts.

Back to the classic…”I’ve been to Paradise…” Maybe it’s because we are too busy being told what we should be doing, eating, wearing, driving, reading, and thinking that we don’t have the opportunity to strip away all of the extraneous, clear our head space, lie back and day dream and let it come to us. Let the joy of a crescent moon wash over us. Let the thrill of cold water run over our feet. Feel the thrill of skin against skin when fingertips touch.

Are we too busy taking the photograph to see the view? Are we too intent on the next big thing that we miss the achievement of what is here and now. Are we simply marking time until the next Iphone is released and the next gen Ipad is available.

I am so sick of stuff. And people who covet it.

But I do have a hankering for the 70’s. I had a dragster bike in the 70’s. My little brother and I both had one. We would ride our bikes together in the street behind our house. I would leave my mother a note with a great flourish to say we have “gone riding…”out on the open road (albeit a sleepy little street) wind in our hair and the feeling of freedom. We thought we were daredevils. And we were 12 and 7 years old. We didn’t wear helmets and I had hot pants and a halter neck top. My little brother had a Batman cape and an attitude to match. We were Kings of the Road.

I am not going to let myself contemplate that 21st handbag. No I am not. In fact, I am going to donate handbags. And more than one Dear hearts. I am going to practise a little giving instead of acquiring. A little less rather than more.

What I am going to acquire is more crescent moons. More walks. More stars and more hunger for good loving. And maybe a new pair of hotpants and halter neck top….

Enjoy giving.

With love
Miss Mich

The Perfect Storm?

The Perfect Storm?

Dear hearts,

Was it the Perfect storm? I think perhaps it was. Because it missed hitting us head on. It was a little to the south, just enough to save us from the eye. The little sugar town of Tully (Pop approx 2500) took the force of that cyclonic stare and as a result every second home is no more. So as much as I breathe a sigh of relief for the Northern beaches of Cairns I say a little prayer and shed a little tear for the good folk of Tully.

It was my first cyclone and a Category 5 to boot. I would like to take you through the experience. The text messages from the State Disaster Coordination Centre started the morning of the whole affair. If that was not disconcerting enough, Anna Bligh was warning of our impending experience as “ a catastrophic weather event”

As the day progressed the hyperbole and warnings increased, but the weather remained calm. Which was confusing as our constant scanning of the BOM weather website showed an ever increasing angry swirl malevolently covering the coast of our fair state with its black and red heart. We were all getting a little bored to be honest and at 4pm began to wonder if the whole thing was going to be a no show. The text messages continued urging us to evacuate low lying areas and the urgent pleas of the Premier that the “window of opportunity to relocate was fast closing” made all feel uneasy and slightly put out that perhaps we were missing something.

Be careful what you wish for Dear hearts.

By nightfall the wind began to pick up and the intensity of the warnings were delivered at fever pitch. The Baby and I were lucky to be with seasoned Queenslanders. Salt of the earth die hards who were not too perturbed by the whole thing. It was decided we would all bunker down in the living room and just see what Yasi had to throw at us. We cooked dinner. We watched a movie. The wind increased and we continued to ignore it. The boys had their beers and the girls had their wine. Even the Spaniels lounged around.

Then the power went out.

You could hear the wind whipping those palm fronds into quite the frenzy. I took the super duper LED torch for a look outside and found those palms bent over trying to hide under a bush. The rain was chasing us from all angles and the noise was like nothing I had heard before. Intense is the only word I can think of.

We decided to stay in after that. We spent the night listening to ABC local. Weather updates on the hour and reminders on the half hour. In between the calls in from listeners all over the region describing their experiences. From Mossman to Cardwell and Atherton to Cairns City the story was similar but different. I lie on the sofa with my torch in one hand, my phone in the other. The Baby on the floor next to me. The puupies finding possies in between. The Boys snoring their beers.

I was alert and alarmed. But calm.

The camaraderie that came from the callers into ABC local made me feel like I was not alone. I was tense, tired and unsure of what was going to happen next. But so was everyone else. It was an extraordinary feeling of community Dear hearts. My hat is tipped to the ABC broadcasters. My heart is forever with those who endured and lost so much more than we.

The eye of the storm crossed at Mission Beach at 12am Wednesday February 2nd 2011. The Captain’s father lives on the hill overlooking South Mission Beach and out across to the beautiful Dunk Island. I haven’t heard if all is well and am praying that it is.

I was only afraid twice. When the wind moved up to an intensity I hadn’t felt or heard before and when there was no sound at all. But that is nothing compared to some.

Say your prayers Dear hearts, give some thought to those who have lost everything. This state is a cracker. All or nothing. We live in paradise, but there is a risk when one chooses to dance so close to perfection.

With love
Miss Mich

Calm Before the Storm

Dear hearts,

Four years in the far far north and it appears the Baby and I are to experience our first Large and Powerful Tropical Cyclone. I quote the BOM site, they even used caps all the way through, but I didn’t want to shout so loud and frighten you.

All jokes aside (just for the moment), Cyclone Yasi is a category 5 cyclone about to hit the coast of far north QLD at 10pm tonight.

The Low pressure system started out off the East coast as a Category 3 then moved quickly to a Cat 4. I started thinking about it like a delivery. I liken this impending event to my first delivery. My darling Boy was a whopper. No other description. And I’m only a little girl. God love him. After 24hrs of effort he ended up a Mid-forceps delivery. At Category 4, I decided this was going to be a Mid-forceps delivery of a Cyclone.

And then we had the upgrade to Category 5. I love the expression “Ignorance is Bliss”. That’s how I approached my first pregnancy. None of these Ante natal classes. I was not interested in lying around on yoga mats with a bunch of other first timers and their partners blowing rapidly in intervals and having my back rubbed in public. No birthing centres or underwater births for me. I had no plan, no soothing music or preference for support persons. And I certainly didn’t want my mother with me.

At the end of the day, I could have given birth on the street. In front of anyone and delivered by anyone. No drugs, just sheer force and energy.

A little bit like Cyclone Yasi. Although this time Dear hearts, I wish I had drugs to help me through. Thank God for wine.

Upon advice the Baby and I decided to decamp to safer ground. The Cottage lovely as it is, is tucked into the rainforest with enormous palms, enormous glass windows and facing right in to the head of the enormous storm. We did our best and moved the chairs into the corners, packed up the shells and the candles, grabbed the vino and headed to the safety of Brinsmead . Sweet little Cassie Conan Kemp and her family have taken us in like the strays we are.

I did manage to pack a few essentials before we evacuated. I am more than happy for you to keep this checklist as a reference for the next emergency you find yourselves confronted with. ..(holiday in Palm Beach, trip to Hawaii, in laws coming to stay.)

Emergency Packing List

Trench coat. Obvi. - I have three to choose from but decided to narrow it down to just one. It was a difficult choice. The snow white Burberry seemed a little too formal for cowering under mattresses and the black silk evening trench was just all wrong despite the cyclone crossing the coast after 5. This left me with the practical all purpose Max Mara. The trench I travel with, that does the hard yards and gets me through customs, along Chapel St and through the antique markets of Clingancourt Paris. The logical and stylish choice for a Cat 5 event.

My Collette Dinnigan LBD. Again, obvi. After the whole shebang calms down I am going to want to go out for dinner. Stat. And this little number can take me anywhere. I can even wear it with jewelled flip flops. How I love love love Collette. A little sophistication in the midst of chaos.

Books. A selection of Stieg Larsson, DBC Pierre and Anais Nin. Something for every mood. Failing that we have the checkout fodder of Cosmo and Who Weekly.

My Jewels. The sum total of my entire net worth. My fortune moves with me. Such as it is.

My Child. Obvi.

Photos of the two Bright Young Things who are only with me in spirit. How I love them so.

My Rosary beads. Or as the Baby says, my Rosemary beads. I am currently sporting the yellow crystal beads that my darling Grandmother had blessed for me by the Archbishop of the Northern Rivers. Novena’s will begin at 9pm me thinks. Say a little prayer for me…

Everything else is only what is necessary to survive the next three days.

Oh and wine.

Unfortunately I couldn’t pack the Libertine. I would have put him in my bag first if I could have. But there you go.

I believe this will be an experience that will be good for me. It will test me and show me a little of what the universe is truly capable of. I look forward to sharing my thoughts post storm with you.

Here’s to survival of the fittest.

Enjoy the calm before the storm.

With love
Miss Mich.

Sweep, Sweep

Dear hearts,

New Year. New Broom.

That’s the motto for 2011.

At the risk of repeating myself, no more pussy footing around. That’s not to say the pussy won’t be fooling around. With you know who, obvi.

What it does mean is this the year for action. Sweeping away the detritus of the previous year and Dear hearts, one only has to take a glance back to the musings of Miss Mich Circa 2010 to see that I have so much to sweep…I’m using an industrial sized broom.

According to Moonslipper this is the year of the Rabbit. I’m giving my furry friend a capital letter, more for what the Chinese believe it represents than the mammal itself. Although points must be awarded for “maillot d’lapin”…soo soft and yummy….

Back to Moonslipper (what a divine name..), the year of the Rabbit should be quiet, positive and inspiring. Just what we need after the trials of the year of the Tiger. It was tough being a tiger in the year of the Tiger, let me tell you. I am somewhat glad to be released from those jaws and paws. Much better a year of consideration, virtue and wisdom. That Tiger year was a bit of a roller coaster.

Over the festive break, Miss Mich had opportunity to reflect and revise her game plan. Not so much to devise New Year resolutions, more determinations. The Libertine and I were discussing the NY Resolution. It turns out he is not a fan. And rightly so. One can put a scroll under the Buddha’s arm no matter the time of year, but a contrived promise is no promise at all.

These determinations I hear you ask. Some are for now and some for later. In broad terms for you Dear hearts, Miss Mich is getting her shit together. Before you raise your eyebrows…you may think you have heard it all before. But. The Trinity of heart, head and pocket are all the focus. Quality is the key and Miss Mich is determined that heart and head will benefit from stringent quality control. The pocket is an unpleasant necessity and one Miss Mich would rather not talk about at all. Growing up it was considered impolite to discuss the indelicate dollar. Sadly now that it is all former life stuff, and Miss Mich has to pay the bills. Somehow. Ho hum…

It all probably sounds a bit airy fairy…I promise more details as the details come to hand…

I n this year of the rabbit, Dear hearts, I am very determined to keep calm, stay on topic and choose my battles wisely. Too much time was spent last year agonising over things I couldn’t change. We can only change ourselves. I will also learn to trust more. Trust that the Universe really is looking out for One’s best interests and if the desire is truly worthy and one is truly virtuous, then one will be rewarded. Before you start laughing and saying God Save the Queen, I promise not to use “One” again. Even this “One” is finding it tiresome…

So there you have it. A quiet year of head down, tail up (one of Miss Mich’s very favourite’s). Perhaps this year is going to be like an iceberg. On the surface, it may appear that there is not much going on, or floating by as the case may be. But below the surface….it’s going to be Big.

Until I have more to share with you…

Enjoy Friday and some furry love.

Love
Miss Mich