Doona Days

Dear hearts,

Miss Michs’ very good friend, the lovely Jules, has the perfect expression for those days when you need to hide. When you need to curl up into a teeny tiny ball and feel ridiculously sorry for yourself.

Doona Days. It of course qualifies for Capital letter worthy status.

It can be the sunniest of days. It can be the weekend or your birthday. It could be the day you finally get that pony. That doesn’t mean you are exempt. And it doesn’t mean it won’t happen to you.

Miss Mich and the lovely Jules have had our share of these days, speaking to each other from under protection of said doona, pretending the washing isn’t there, dinner doesn’t need to be made, children don’t need to be picked up from school…..woops…

All jokes aside, in Miss Mich’s former life there was the odd day when staying in bed sniffling was just the tonic. (Before the 6pm gin and tonic, obvi..). Miss Mich was new to this major disappointment business and still coming to terms with things never being the same again. The sperm donor was cavorting with the English rose in MM’s Eastern Suburbs back garden so to speak, making things altogether very unpleasant and difficult.

It’s a bit different now. I’m much more experienced with disappointment and have developed skills to deal with it that don’t involve losing the entire day, leaving one’s children at school or howling under the pillow.

There is of course my dear friend Discipline of whom we have spoken. There is exercise. The more one moves, the more one can feel one is moving away from the source of that disappointment. With exercise all you need to do is move your body. Move it enough and you won’t have to think, just concentrate on making muscles do their job. Simple.

That old and dependable chestnut aside, there is something MM has just discovered.

Surrender.

I’m giving it a stand alone par. Miss Mich’s newest and dearest, the beautiful and serene Miss Kerie is a devotee of all things spiritual and good. Even better, she practices what she preaches. It was Miss Kerie who has enlightened Miss Mich to the concept of surrender.

I must say here and now that initially the thought of just giving up to something completely went against the do or die fighter that lives within Miss Mich. How can one say bring it on without one’s fists in the ready position? How does one face the fury without the benefit of spear and warrior pose? I must admit to struggling with the concept. Faith is one thing, but letting the current take you with stones in your pockets is quite another thing. Just ask Virginia Woolf.

Miss Kerie gave me a passage to read. An open letter from her Guru to all. An invitation from him, (a funny looking guy with a kind eye, big afro and a sweeping Kaftan), to take on the burden of our worries. To pick us up and lead us, not in the direction that we may have chosen for ourselves, but ultimately arriving at the right place with the best outcome.

Challenging nest pas?

For days Miss Mich mulled this over and eventually came to the point of acceptance that surrender could be the way to go. Even though Miss Mich can now deal with things without the security blanket (read doona), the legacy of disappointment is the stone one carries around, not in one’s pocket, but in the stomach. This unhappy feeling in one’s belly is a terrible thing indeed, Dear hearts. And one that can render, and I speak for myself, one almost unable to go on. I’m sounding a little melodramatic and if I’m not careful I shall put myself under said doona and stay there until I get my emotional shit together (so to speak)

To avoid all of this, Miss Mich put a scroll under the Buddha’s arm surrendering to the will of the universe, lit some incense, had a robust glass of something fruity and put herself to bed.

How I have reconciled this surrender business, and a little clue for you Dear hearts, is that one can do one’s best to move towards the desired outcome, be as responsible for one’s self as is possible and hope for the best. Not exactly sitting back and not exactly surging forward. A compromise perhaps? A deal with whatever devil it may be? Or a collaboration between your own spirit and the omnipotent spirit that drives the universe.

Enjoy the compromise.

With love
Miss Mich

You are invited to a Play Date...

Dear hearts,

Miss Mich loves to play.

Now.

Whilst she was erstwhile Eastern Suburbs good wife and mother there was no time for play. She was too too busy staying abreast of the expectations of a competitive and avaricious little microcosm. It may have existed within a 3km radius, but let me tell you, the pressure was worldwide. One needed to have not only holidays overseas, but preferably homes in major cities just in case one happened to wish to ski in Aspen, hunt with the hounds in Dublin or have afternoon cocktails by one’s own pool in Bel Air.

It is with relief that the far far north is the new microcosm. Don’t misunderstand me, I am all for travel and hanging out in beautiful homes in beautiful places. Just not all the time, and certainly not with the Sperm donor.

Miss Mich now has the luxury of deciding which deserted beach to lie on and watch the turtles play and feed in the shallows. She has the cottage with all of its humble woven shit (said with love, obvi), handcrafted by folk who really know how to live. Butterflies and Sunbirds who hover over the little flowers just outside MM’s bedroom window whilst the Libertine strokes her back. Given the choice of her former life and this, I know where I would rather be.

But it is play I wish to speak of today. The Libertine loves to play. Perfect.

Psychologists will tell you that we are made up of different selves within the whole. Not in the Sybill sense so much, more that the child within is always within. Miss Mich was under the impression that as soon as one could fly the nest that was the end of said childhood. It appears not. As a result of Miss Mich being her Mother’s mother from the get go, Miss Mich kind of fast tracked the whole concept and put that child of hers in a box on the top shelf of you know which cupboard.

Where she stayed.

Until now. The Libertine loves a game. Miss Mich loves a challenge. Not that she’s competitive, oh no…just that she likes things her own way. And if that means winning, well then….look out. As a result, the cottage and that lovely cloud of a bed, vibrates to sounds of hooting, scuffling and wrestling. All in good fun obvi…

One can never laugh too much. Ever. One can never wrestle too much. Well, until one comes perilously close to popping one’s kneecap. Miss Mich types as we speak with said knee elevated, just to encourage the swelling to disperse. Sex wound aside, title courtesy of the Songbird…”ooh she says, I love a good sex wound…” Miss Mich is thrilled to be able, after so so long, to welcome the child within to come over to the Cottage for a play date with The Libertine. And if she’s lucky, she may stay for a sleepover. Here here I say. That kid makes me laugh. She makes me sneak up and surprise, she makes me feint and then go in for the tickle, she makes me see the world with a sense of pure wonder. All the while holding The Libertine’s hand.

He lets her tuck her head under his arm. He lets her rest her cheek on his chest curls. He puts his arms around her and spreads his hand across her back so that she feels the monsters will never get her. Holds her head and her face in his hands so that she will never be scared again.

Pretty good huh, Dear hearts.

I’m now quite evangelistic about embracing ones inner child and the concept of play itself. Life is so bloody serious. It is so easy to get caught up in the minutia and dross of money, position, appearance and one up manship. Bring on a good race around the garden. Bring on a good belly laugh. Bring on friends who make you feel like the dag you really are. Miss Mellie, Miss Christine. These girls make me laugh. The Libertine makes me laugh.

I want you, Dear hearts, to laugh, to be silly. Miss Mich, on her trip up to the beautiful Thursday Island, became a part of Team Silly. Oh yes, that team will be playing golf at the annual Chamber Golf Day, don’t you worry about that. And there will be laughter. There will be silliness. Of that you can be assured.

Enjoy Monday.

With love
Miss Mich

Who would have thought....?

Dear hearts,

Good news! Piglet has found another just like herself... I know. She is thrilled as well. It seems here was this Boy, just waiting to be found. And there was Piglet, not even really looking and Bam!

You can imagine what ensued...Last I heard, they were still indulging in each other, and to be honest, I don't think they're ever going to stop. How lovely. According to Piglet, Boy is just that. Big and full of Boyishness. An appetite as large and unrelenting as Piglets. An enthusiasm for all things sport to match Piglets. And as playful as a Piglet playing with a Boy. In mud...

There may be a little clashing of teeth and ripping of clothes, but this is the territory of love's true abandon. The beauty of this liaison is the honesty and sheer giving into the power of attraction. The abdication of inhibition, shame and convention.

For two Catholics, there is nothing Catholic about this union. And yet, there is something very religious in the epiphanies that are reached. This all according to Piglet, obvi.

Miss Mich was just talking to her first Love. The Artist. Reconnecting after nearly 30 years, it was as if not a day had passed. Spooky I know. He sounds the same and looks the same. I am thrilled. We were speaking about the need to reconnect with the past at a certain point. Is it to confirm the points of reference that have made us who we are? Is it to feel that bloom of youth once more? Miss Mich and the Artist were 17. MM still intact and the Artist with a little experience and a desire of his own. Tempered by the unfurled flower in Miss Mich's tie-dyed pants, her long blonde hair to her waist and her penchant for poetry and Neil Young, he never quite could wrestle her down to the ground. She hadn't found her Piglet and he was too sweet a Boy.

So unrequited it remains. And I think this may be for the best. The Artist agrees. Why spoil so pure a past, so sweet a memory. Miss Mich must confess, and to the Artist did in fact, that it is this ideal that has sustained her all these 30 years. A very particular corner of MM's heart set aside just for him.

And then The Libertine came along. To Miss Mich he is the realisation of the dream. The personification of the Ideal. Miss Mich has discussed at length, The Libertine with The Artist. And The Artist, with The Libertine. Miss Mich is confident that they will coexist very comfortably. It's true that separate states may assist, but more than that, they are similar souls. That is why there will always be that little corner for the Artist, whilst the lion's share is laid at the feet of that beautiful Libertine.

Who can say who you are going to find, or where Dear hearts? Who can say whether it is right or not? All one can do is trust in the wisdom of one’s heart and belly. And even if it takes 3o years or 30 minutes, you will know and you will have no choice but to capitulate.

Enjoy Surrender.

With love
Miss Mich

I'm Gaga for the Lady

Dear hearts,

There comes a time when one must just do it.

Embrace who we really are. Take Lady Gaga. I love her. It was about time someone took the mantle from Liza Minelli. Let’s face it, she is a little past it, God love her. However, having said that, no one, but no one will ever replace her as Sally Bowles in Cabaret. In Miss Mich’s Top ten. And how good was she with the Rat Pack?

Back to Lady Gaga. Burlesque. On the right side of Euro Trash. Goes where Madonna tried to go, but couldn’t quite get there. Just my opinion of course, but Lady G does it so naturally, so effortlessly. With Madonna, I always have the feeling that she’s trying just that little bit too hard to be outrageous and edgy. You know, one eye on the mirror with the question in her eye, Do I look sexy? Do I? Do I? If you have to ask Dear hearts…

In contrast, Lady Gaga wears the latex as a second skin very comfortably. Carries the teacup as the perfectly natural accessory. Writes on the Birkin with Nikko as if everyone should do it. Noone wears a Hello Kitty bag as merkin better than this New Yorker. Hilarious! And I won’t even start on the whole hermaphrodite controversy. To quote the artist’s words “It’s just a little bit of penis and really doesn’t interfere much with my life. I consider myself female. I’m sexy. I’m hot. I have a poon and a peener. Big deal.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Posing on the cover of UK Q music magazine, the singer articulates the whole fuss perfectly when she says “I want to comment on that in a beautiful, artistic way” She did this by holding a latex gloved hand across her breasts, wearing spiked skin tight pants, with a strap on. Lovely.

She is who she is. And makes no apology. Publicly.

We should all take a leaf out of her individual, artistic look book. And to be honest, it doesn’t matter whether the whole thing is a beat up or not. What she has done is turn the whole gender question into an excuse for more self expression. She looks great, sounds good, so what.

Boy George had a bit of a go in the 80’s, but this chick has taken it so much further. I’m all for it obvi. Just think Dear hearts. If I could wear latex to work, do you think I would sell more pens? I’m not sure the far far north is quite ready for that kind of day wear sadly.

I guess what I’m getting at is the idea of having the conviction to stand up and say, this is me. You may not agree, you may not like me, but too bad. It took me 21 years to put colour into my manicure. For that long I had pale pink fingernails. Perfectly groomed, but invisible. The baby cannot remember ever seeing colour on my nails. I have stepped out from the shadow of pale and am typing as we speak with the chic-est of Chanel dark dark. I feel like a vamp, a vixen and sexier than usual. The Libertine loves it. I love watching my hands as they make the grooves down his back. The deep dark red of my nails matching the red lines of the scratch. Yummy.

And once one takes the first step, well then, who knows what will come next. I suspect the colour on the nails is just the beginning Dear hearts, of more conservative barriers to fall. Changing something as little as the colour of one’s nails has quite the effect. I feel bolder, more confident. Perhaps the compromise is to wear latex underwear? As opposed to outer wear…something to think about. And let’s face it, even thinking about it is liberating, even if one never acts on the thought.

At least the thought is there.

Enjoy Sunday and self expression.

With love
Miss Mich

There's Something Familiar about You...

Dear hearts,

It has been a little while between thoughts, and Miss Mich does apologise. It is not neglect, more the business of sorting things out “offline” if you will. Miss Mich assures you that things are working themselves out and going forward, the rest of the Capital letter worthy thoughts that present themselves in Miss Mich's pea will circulate more freely and find their way onto the screen before you. Before too long.

But today Dear hearts, Miss Mich has been thinking about what constitutes a family. I'm not talking about Mummy, Daddy and the babies. More about the eccentricities and rituals that make our families unique. That give us the memories, the opportunities to tease one another when we reminisce and the glue of shared experience that binds us. That makes us who we are.

The Baby and I were talking just this evening about this very topic. After a lovely hour and a half with Nuri, we floated out to the northern beaches listening to Angus and Julia Stone. Her choice. But how perfect. Exactly what I was thinking myself. All four of us have musical crossovers that make the Cottage vibrate with good vibes no matter who is the incumbent DJ.

Once the Sperm Donor left to concentrate on procreation with the English rose, we four banded together into a groove that was at the same time both comforting and liberating. I do love the idea that music provides for everyone, a timeline of significant events, even if it is just the Summer of 2004. (Christine Agulira and Justin Timberlake)

The sense of smell is the same. Miss Mich must confess to being very sensitive when it comes to smell. We all know, if someone doesn't smell right then.... I'm sorry.

My Darling boy, when seconded to the Scot's College country campus Glengarry for six months and two school terms of Outward Bound, cross country bike riding and dorm living, lamented that the thing he missed the most about living away from home, was the smell of his washing back from the laundry and not smelling like home. Miss Mich had tears in her eyes and a swollen heart at the thought of so significant a point of difference for the boy. This only inspired her more to subvert the the rules of no contraband (chocolate and sweets) to be sent to the boys via mail. Miss Mich went above and beyond and became the hero mother, by smuggling Furry Friends in CD covers, red licorice strips in packs of undies and blocks of Dairy Milk in her day pack for the Mother/ Son weekend trek. Nothing was too much trouble.

Family and Familiarity. Yes. Capital letters. There is nothing like feeling at home.

The girls and I wear blonde hairbands on our right wrists. We have for years. Long blonde hair swirls about the Cottage, has swirled about the Eastern suburbs for years. All the boys we have ever known are constantly extracting it from their clothes, their cars and their bodies.

Cuddles. The Songbird still hops on Miss Mich’s lap for a proper cuddle and often on a Sunday there would be many in the bed all snuggled up. My Darling boy will never be too tall or too manly for kisses or the greeting “Hello darling, it’s Mummy” on the end of the line. The Baby dissolves into giggles when we play the kisses that tickle on the neck game,ending up with us both screeching as she pretends she has had enough.

The Libertine is becoming more familiar with the ways of the Cottage. He loves my beautiful cloud of a bed and it loves him. His penchant for tomatoes and feta is impressive and the garden is responding well to his hand. His gentle energy is just what we like and his beautiful olive skin blends well with our aesthetics of beauty.

It’s time for a cup of tea Dear hearts. Twinings Orange Pekoe is the only way to go. I travel with it and promise you, I couldn’t live without it. None of us could. Sharing tea and conversation is just one of the familiar ways we share our love.

Enjoy tea and Sunday.

Love Miss Mich

Vroom Vroom

Dear hearts,

Miss Christine is quite the Minx. We all know that. This is part of her charm, and part of the reason she is Miss Mich's Muse.

We both have stories to tell. Not many of them polite, admittedly, but all of them scandalous, assuredly. If Miss Mich has her charms, then Miss C has hers too. And we both just love comparing notes.

So this, Dear hearts, hot off the press and with the gracious sanction of the lady herself.

Miss Mich and Miss Christine decided early on in the new year, that 2010 being the Year of the Tiger meant it was Bravery all round. Note the Capital letter.

Which can mean trying new things. Miss Mich as you know, is an all or nothing girl. I’m either in. Or out. Miss Christine, it must be said, is somewhat similar.

So in she dived. The online search for love is so very popular. What could, arguably, be safer than browsing for potential online..

With the Macedonian distracted and the Arab in Bali, Miss Christine found herself a little something to amuse herself. A distinguished David Niven look alike if you will. Similar charm, similar look and a bright red Ferrari in the garage.

Vroom Vroom.

And so terribly keen. A whirlwind week of dinners in the East, drinks in town and repeated requests for G/friend status kept Miss Christine’s interest piqued and her calendar full. Just what she needed. Between you and I, Dear hearts, she did have her own reservations and decided to put said Niven to the test. Promises of a country cabin and a long and leisurely lunch provided the ideal opportunity to see what he was made of. So with the wind in her hair and her skirt over her head, off they raced to the South Coast. Sadly, the whole affair began to go south from there as well.

3 dozen oysters could not shore up a flagging flag pole and the country cabin turned out to be just that. Visions of a Glen Murcutt overlooking the wild and woolly south coast vanished, along with said stamina. How sad. Miss Christine began to miss the Macedonian. Niven may have a Ferrari in the garage, but the Macedonian has one in his pants. (I know what I would rather).

It all began to fall into place. Niven thought he was a player. He didn’t realize just who he was playing with. Thinking his miss spelt text messages were as a result of haste and desire, she was disappointed to realize that not only could he not spell, he could not speak and had the vocabulary of a 12 yr old. Perhaps he thought she wouldn’t notice over the sound of that throbbing engine…

She did her best, and even though he thought he gave her the ride of her life, I do believe Miss Christine would have shown him a thing or two that would have had nothing to do with torque and everything to do with seeing where the top gear really is. (I do love a motoring theme)

Miss Christine’s beautiful athletic son, he of Sydney Uni Rugby, lamented that the Ferrari was not parked in the garage. Miss Christine had to inform said Rugby Adonis, that “ Your mother was too much for him Darling” and that was that.

To her credit, Miss Christine has moved on. She may not be travelling 0 – 100 in mere seconds, but she has her skirt back down around her knees ( until the Macedonian is free and the Arab is back from Bali) and her little foray into the world of online love has given her a spin in something red and throbbing, the satisfaction of knowing she can match oyster for oyster as long as you like and a new and amusing story to tell the girls.

As for the David Niven…you may see him driving slowly around town. He is the distinguished looking fellow in the red Ferrari wearing the red Ferrari cap, the red Ferrari Polo top and the red Ferrari jacket. Oh and he has a red Ferrari key ring, just in case you missed the other stuff.

Enjoy Saturday.

With a little racy love

Miss Mich

Could I have a word?

Dear hearts,

Miss Mich is always thinking. You know that. All the mysteries of the world swirling around MM's little pea.

This somewhat cool afternoon here in the far far north has turned Miss Mich inward to her thoughts. What is the thing, the indefinable something that draws us to another. The Libertine has been searching for a new word to describe the attraction, the essence if you will of what it is that makes one want another.

Biologists would argue pheromones to explain the physical. Miss Mich is herself extremely sensitive to personal odour and scent. It doesn't matter how clean one may be, the underlying scent of ourselves is all pervasive and if it clashes....there is nothing you can do. Miss Mich has been forced, regrettably, to end certain liaisons based on scent alone. In contrast, Miss Mich can attest to the scent of The Libertine driving Miss Mich wild, and, once mixed with her own scent, it's a little like the denouement of Patrick Suskind's Perfume. Feather and fur flying, and at the end, not much left of us both. Ah, but such sweet capitulation.

An innate Knowingness. I'm giving it a capital letter. This is your belly speaking. Think of your intuition as the Captain. And the Captain knows where you are going and how you are getting there. Let the Captain navigate. I have said this many times and cannot reiterate enough. As much as your nose knows, so too does your belly.

One does wonder at preferred body types. The Bright young things and I have discussed this. The Songbird prefers the tall, lean, dark and brooding musician. The Baby is attracted to the well muscled, masculine, good smelling and slightly metro sexual boy, and as for myself, a little of both. We here at the cottage, unanimously, are lovers of the olive skin.

Golden brown Dear hearts. Golden brown, texture like sun...lays me down...

So what else? Our largest sex organ. Our brain. Meeting of the minds, Dear hearts. If we cannot engage the brain, the body will not follow. Speaking for myself, I need a good looking brain with a more than healthy libido. Nothing less will do. Miss Mich must confess to a certain inclination towards a good bedtime story. And The Libertine tells the best. Enough said.

I have just spent 388 words attempting to find the 1 word that best describes the best feeling one can have for another. Love seems to fall short. It is overused and undervalued. I love tomatoes...do you see what I mean. Although having said that, I really, really do love tomatoes. But they aren't my reason d'etre. The Libertine did propose Adore. There is the French J'Adore. I quite like it. But is it possible I'm just beguiled by the exotic flavour of another language?

There is Miss Mich's last attempt. The intelligence of the heart. Miss Mich in fact wears a ring with the inscription that one should trust in the intelligence of the heart to distinguish between good and bad. Miss Mich's legal eagle scoffed at Miss Mich, attempting to correct her by saying that the expression is in fact a paradox. I beg to differ. The heart has its own intelligence, there is no doubt. And whilst the basis for this intelligence is very much rooted in the emotional, the heart is not always the fool. The heart has a depth the mind will never have. For does not compassion stem from the heart and temper the judgement of the mind? Does the heart not have the ear of the mind, a whisper of advice before the final thought is processed? All the great thinkers and philosophers have needed and relied on the intelligence of the heart to transcend and arrive at their individual conclusions. The heart has the common good at it's heart, and that is the difference.

Dear hearts, I have not succeeded in finding that one word. That one word to describe the swirliness in your belly, the warmth that radiates out from your middle Chakra. The word that covers a blush, a skip, a faster beat of the physical heart. The smile that blossoms without you realising it is there. The pull, the yearning, the demand and the need.

I don't think there is one, because it is too much for our little language to bear.

Perhaps it is a colour, Dear hearts. Perhaps it is light. Whatever it is, I do hope you get to feel it, to experience it, because it is all I have written and so much more.

Enjoy Sunday and the search.

With love
Miss Mich