When Neighbours are NOT good friends

We have our very own soap opera going on in our neighbourhood. About 6 months ago we got new neighbours. They are right next door to us, but its not us directly they are having the feud with.

The mud map above shows the approximate layout (I am no town planner or artist). The black wavy lines is the river, the parallel lines on the left is a major road. We are in a little cul-de-sac that was just a dead-end when the old house subdivided its land and 5 blocks of land were created. The people who bought the 5 blocks, us included, all built within a year of each other. The only one who didn't was Noisy Kids, they were about 5 years later. 

Hippy Neighbour has lived in her house across the road for over 25 years, she is a very sweet, kind lady, who keeps to herself, and has 2 dogs. You have to have dogs where we live, there are a lot of undesirables wandering about, and the houses without dogs get broken into. We have been broken into 3 times, once while we were in the house and asleep. It happened when we didn't have an outside dog.

It has been a happy place to live. Most of us get along, we have parties in the street, know each other, have helped out when needed, rescued dogs when they got out etc. There are a few characters (the latecomers with squeely girls) who are a little prickly, but on the whole its amicable.

Then the new people arrived. Not very friendly as in, we stop to say hello and we get a brush off, or their little puppy gets out and we take it back and there is barely a thanks but a whole lot of yelling at the dog and kids. Little things that tell you they are just not friendly neighbours and that's fine, Mr K and I have got used to living in suburbia now. This is what you get. We get along fine with Hippy Lady, she is warm and chatty, and the Old House people are the same. The Noisy Kids family are luke-warm too, bit weird (that's a whole new story there) but they generally keep to themselves.

About 3 months ago, Mr K gets a phone call from a very distraught Hippy Lady. She has had a visit from the rangers saying there is a complaint about her dogs barking. Its never happened before. Her dogs do bark a bit, but only because she lives on the main road and opposite is a service station that is frequented by some people who think its their local pub. There are often fights and police and of course the dogs are going to bark - that's why we have them.

Hippy Lady confronted the New people, and said that we have been a nice little neighbourhood and we normally just talk to each other if there is an issue instead of rushing off to the Ranger. She was upset, she is a very touchy feely type, but sensible. New Man just was rude and said to keep her dogs quiet.  A few weeks after this, Mr K gets another, more distraught phone call from Hippy Lady. She has had an argument with the New people and a letter from the council. Mr K advises her to just do the best she can about the dogs, and to ignore the New people. She has also found out that the New people have gone to all the houses in the street (except us) and asked them to sign a petition against Hippy lady. None of them did, but she is now furious at New people.

Mr K talks to her for a while, trying to get her to see a lighter side, to not take it as her problem but theirs. Hippy lady lives alone so her dogs are her protectors and company. Mr K suggests she write them a note telling she is doing what she can (she bought a bark buster collar and locks them up when she goes out) and jokingly, to lighten the mood, he said "give them some earplugs."

So she does!!  She writes a long letter (she gave us a copy) and includes some earplugs for the family. You can guess what happened next! Mr K comes home from work and there is an all out fight going on, not physical but verbal, between Hippy lady and New man. Mr K, ever the negotiator steps in and calms them both down, when New Lady gets home, sees the letter and the earplugs and comes ranting and raving out her house to confront Hippy Lady. 

Its calmed down a bit since then, but there are flare ups and these New people are quickly running out of friends. They don't realise that they make as much noise and disturb people too. Their kids are very noisy, he starts up his truck at 6am, he is a compulsive blower-vac user, and we have heard rows that get loud.  They have an alarm that goes off regularly and guess what?  All of us ignore it. That's all part of living in a close neighbourhood. You just have to mutter under your breath (or blog about it like I do) and get on with your life. We can't go about complaining and whining about every little thing that bothers us. 

If New people wanted quiet, they should not have picked a house that was so close to a main road, a train line, a B&B and other houses. I work from home. Yes it can be noisy, but you know what? I either close my window or play music or put in earplugs. If I want perfect quiet I will move to the country! 

I can't see it being a very friendly Christmas party this year, but it will sure be interesting. Stay tuned for further episodes.

Feng Shui and Home Office Layout

Never one to really believe in unicorn ideas, I need science to explain to me the unexplained and proof that there is a tangible reason behind it. So Feng Shui at first glance for me falls into the positive thinking will get you everywhere, praying, The Secret, Lucky Bamboo category. Until we bought a house many years ago and when Mr K and I were viewing it, we both felt the same thing and commented how good it made us feel. A year or so living in this house, I received a book on Feng Shui and for giggles, I overlaid the principles on this house.

And you guessed it - this house followed all the basic rules of good Feng Shui. So whether it was just luck, or designed this way, or coincidence, the house certainly felt nice to live in and made for a happy house. It never made us wealthy however! We sold this house as we needed to look after my MIL, but when we designed the house we were to build (the one we still live in) we subconsciously applied some Feng Shui rules. Within reason anyway, the block is a battleaxe and the house is huge with a granny flat so we had space constraints.

So what about my home office? As you may remember, last July we renovated the house, including turning the old guest room into my office. It was the last room done and as I had to be up and working very quickly, it was all put together in a rush and that'll do for now. Over the months, it has been feeling all wrong, but I just ignored this as I am so busy and need to work, not re-arrange furniture. The worse thing was having my back to the door, don't know why but it felt all wrong. (Probably because I am a born sticky beak and I like to know who is walking past my door.)

On Thursday, I had a major assignment due, some work deadlines and yet I had this loud and determined voice shouting at me "You have to move your desk, its bad energy to have your back to the door". I tried to just get on with my work, but I kept drifting off and thinking of a better configuration. Friday I knew how it would be. I would move my desk to the commanding position, so I had a view of the opposite wall (and all my books) a view of the door and a view out the two windows outside to my front porch and garden beyond. I would have a solid wall behind me, for strength. 

With the aid of Son#1 and Mr K, I moved it all around and it does feel better. I feel more creative. Lets see if my grades at Uni reflect this!

Now, according to the experts, I have to get an indoor plant (please not bamboo), an inspirational poster to look at, and pack away all my books, except for ones with uplifting titles......

.... WHAT???  Hang on.  Lost me right there. Pack away my BOOKS? Apparently the edges are poison arrows and harmful. I can keep them only if there are a few, there is some softening of them like an ivy draped over, or some crystals scattered in the book shelves. This is not going to happen, so I guess I have just lost any hope of this being my wealth centre and becoming a millionaire.

Oh well.

Pumpkins and Apples and a Garden Show

Pumpkins and Apples mean winter is on its way. My favourite season, the time when I feel most like myself.  I found a shapely butternut pumpkin at the markets. She was the Marilyn Monroe of butternuts, shapely and curvaceous and alluring.  I had to take her home with me. Pumpkin soup, pumpkin risotto, pumpkin pie. (ooh just found a recipe for a pumpkin quiche, now that sounds nice)

Old Granny Smith, green and so shinny and firm, it was like the old girl had had a face lift. A bag was purchased - they now lie in the bread making bowl, waiting to be peeled and cored and sliced up, to be laid in a pastry bed with sugar sprinkled over. Did I ever tell you the connection I have with THE Granny Smith of the Apple fame?  No?  Well stay tuned for a blog post right there.

On the weekend we went to the Garden Week at Perry Lakes. Highlight for me? Not all those amazing plant displays, the water features, the 'birdcage' (although they were amazing and inspiring) - nope it was a stand where they were selling apples - from the Perth Hills - just picked yesterday. It was like finding the gold at the end of the rainbow.  I was so busy buying and eating apples I forgot to take a picture!

Funny, the little things are the ones that mean the most.

Here are a few non-apple pictures of the Garden Week.

The Writer's (or wannabe writer's) Lament

The problems with trying to become a writer -

• The writers lament - no words at all and a white page in front of you.
• Self doubt cleverly disguised as general doubt.
• Not being able to put anything more sophisticated on the page other than - Here is Dick. Here is Dora. See Dora run. (No. No. Even that's not right!)
• Drinking way too much (bad) coffee and Vegemite sandwiches.
• Having great ideas in the shower/toilet/just dozing off and by the time you get a hand to paper, the ideas have vaporised, never to return. 
• You just know those vaporised words were the start of a best seller.

I have done a number of writing classes now. They have all had a recurring message - Good writing is not because of a muse or natural talent, but sheer hard work, daily discipline to sit at the computer (or over a notebook) and perseverance.  Well, there are days when I have to disagree with this notion. Today is one of them. No matter what I try and write, its utter and complete crap. I start a sentence and its pathetic. Cliched, flowery and just boring. The question is - is it that my writing is always like this and its just that some days I am in a hedonistic cloud and don't see it? Or, other days, like today, I have clarity and see it for how it really is?

Gawd, I hope not!

I submitted a short story to the Country Style magazines Short Story Competition today. I wasn't completely happy with it, but the time had come the walrus said. C'est la vie. The theme was Chance. Thought that was a bit funny - fat chance I have!! 

At least, for the moment, I can hide in the shadows of being a student. It's ok, this phase will pass, it always does. 

I googled "writers doubt" and had a trillion hits. Good to know I am not alone. On the plus side, a found a few great writing blogs. I am off to read them and leave the writing for another day Tara.

Overcoming Perfectionism

I got my first assignment back on Saturday. I had been waiting, dreading, waiting, dreading it. I was disappointed with the result - 13/20 - but can honestly say I deserved it and with hindsight, it's more than I should have got. It's still a credit, but that damn little perfectionist voice in my head wanted no less than 20/20. Which is nearly impossible at Uni, especially in the arts.

A battle has raged in my head since that day, but now we have a truce. My first knee-jerk reaction was to give all this up, declare myself a loser, berate my stupidity, tell myself who was I kidding to ever think I could do this. It was a blow for sure, but realism has to be allowed to play the game too. 

So, this is what I learnt (after a good talking to myself):

• It was my first assignment attempted for over 10 years. I am bound to be rusty
• I am here to learn - no point getting a perfect score - means I know it all
• There is plenty of margin to improve
• I have learnt where my weakness's are, and where I need to put energy to improve
• 13/20 is not a failure
• Analytical essays are tricky at the best of times.
• I need to work hard at my technical side of writing - that's what let me down, my ideas and argument where well received.
• I need to use less comma's (my lecturers comment!)

I have a new assessment due on 3rd May. I have done a lot of the research and notes, ready to write a draft today. Then the hard work of editing - this is where writers really earn their keep.

I feel good about this - I overcame my natural tendency to give up when things are not perfect. Maybe I am growing up at last!

Can women have it all and more important, do they want it?

It has been a recurring theme I seem to keep bumping into, one way or another.  I have tried to stay out of it, or at least tried to keep my opinion to myself, but each time I read more or see more, I get more and more distressed. The issue is - can women really have it all? Or maybe, do we WANT it all?

My generation, and downwards, has certainly been told we can and should.  And its almost a travesty if we don't take it and run, after all, our mothers and grandmothers worked long and hard for our so called equality. A lot of it I am very grateful for, being able to work in any job/career I so choose, being financially independent and not reliant on a husband, the pill, having an opinion I can voice.  The list goes on.

But there is a growing concern, both by myself and others, that telling women they can have it all, and then expecting them to do so, is having a detrimental effect. On their health, mental and physical, their happiness, their future.

I worry for these young women, I really do.  I worry that the choices they have been expected to make are not fair.  They put aside the one thing they can't change, and that's their biological clock.  So many are going to uni, getting a great job, building a career, finding a husband (or not) and then, after this checklist is ticked off, they look to a family.  A child.  But by this time, they are well into their 30's and 40's and time is against them. It's not so easy to fall pregnant, or stay pregnant.  Their body is winding down its fertile phase. A lot miss the boat.  Will they, as old women, resent this?  Will they feel betrayed by women singing the virtues of having it all? 

Our bodies are designed to have children in our 20's.  That's biology. How can we argue with that? I have a lot more to say, and will need to corral these thoughts into a coherent argument. It will make a good essay subject, but for now, I thought it may be a good thought provoker for my bloggers.

What are your thoughts?


A story about a 38 yr old women wanting a child.

I watched Q&A this week - I normally have to walk away from the TV Monday nights as I yell at it (the TV, not Monday) too much.

But this was worth watching and very interesting - women talking about this very subject.

ABC IView - Q&A

Men, Women and New Shoes

So we all know that women cope better with childbirth and a cold.  Men don't cope with either.  But did you know that there is a third thing we do more stoically than those big, tough, brave brutes?

New Shoes.

Women will bear the pain of a new shoe, soldier on and grimace smile the whole day with one glorious thought overriding the pain - I LOVE these new shoes. She will tell her friends, her work mates - even convince herself - how much she loves them.  A little (or a lot) of pain is a small price to pay.

Men, however, will avoid any shoe pain, at any cost (although I do wonder how Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley got on).  

Take Mr K. (please)

He wanted a new pair of shoes.  He only wears RM Williams boots. The same pair last him years. He has a brown pair and a black pair.  The black pair were looking a little agricultural for work, so he retired them to work boots and we went on the hunt for a new black pair. Easy hunting. 

We went to the RM Williams shop, he said he wanted black boots - they have a whole shelf full, and of course 1/2 sizes.  There are his exact size.  He tries them on, just to keep the assistant happy, and said 'yep, they'll do". 

That's it.  Shoe shopping for a man over.

Now the enigma. Where as us women would rush home, try them on again, totter about, plot when we can go out so we can wear them, men just take them home and leave them in the box/bag they came in, until they decide they are ready for the normal rotation.

Mr K's new boots sat (well still sit) in their bag, on the bench near the front door.  Not touched since Saturday when he bought them. There have been no loving glances, no second try ons, no proud displaying in the shoe wardrobe, introductions to all the other shoes. 

Today he has an all day meeting that he attends once a month with fellow CEO's. The PERFECT day to show off a new pair of shoes if ever there was one. I asked him if he was wearing his new boots today? 

"Nah, I want to be comfortable today, I will wear the brown ones."

Huh?  Comfortable?  You don't get more comfortable than RM Williams boots, I am sure part of the hefty prize tag is to pay a cowboy to wear them in for you.

I tell you, men are such wooses.

My Secret River - Wisemans Ferry

My Dad, Mum, dog Cindy and me.  I LOVE this picture - taken on my river abt. 1968

Sometimes, a book comes into your life that opens up a vein and lets you bleed your past and hidden memories for a while. Such a book has come into my life, and yet, I resisted reading it for a long time as I had a preconceived idea that it was a book that would preach at me.  Funny how our minds work.  I  'eased' into reading The Secret River by Kate Grenville by first reading the book she wrote about writing it.  Called Searching for the Secret River, Grenville created an inspiring book for writers - the how and why and where - of writing a novel.

Standing in a book shop, reading the first paragraph of Searching for the Secret River I caught my breathe at the last two words...

In the puritan Australia of my childhood, you could only get a drink on a Sunday if you were a 'bona fide traveller',  That meant you had to have travelled fifty miles or more. Around Sydney a ring of townships at exactly the fifty-mile mark filled with cheerful people every Sunday. One of them was a little place called Wiseman's Ferry. 
(Grenville, Kate. Searching for the Secret River. Melbourne (2006)

Will become one of my top 5 books for sure.

Wiseman's Ferry is the place I have always called home. Its a strange notion, as I only spent about three years of my life there, yet it holds the strongest memories and yearnings in me.  Helen Garner wrote about this notion too, in her short story Writing Home in the book, The Feel of Steel, ... "Whats home supposed to be, anyway?"  Only one other time did I feel like I was coming home, and that's when I flew over the checkered fields of England for the first time and wept with an emotion I did not understand - I truly felt like I was now home, yet I have never lived there and was born in Australia.

I have lived in Western Australia for 86% of my life, yet it still, does not feel like my home. In my heart, I am still a Sydney-Sider. All the significant things in my life have happened to me in WA - meeting my best friend, my husband, owning a horse, having my children. Just shows how powerful our early memories are.

I devoured Searching for the Secret River in a day, and I could not get to its big sister quick enough.  Now three quarters the way through The Secret River, I have slowed down and am savoring it slowly, like a good drop of port on a cool night.  I don't want to leave the place, its my childhood place,   where all my memories come from, its my home. When Grenville wrote of the tides and colour of the river, I am taken to times when we crossed the ferry and I stood on the edge and watched this majestic river. When she talks of the flats and the cliffs and ridges, I am taken back to long walks, exploring the bush behind our house, playing on those flats, swimming in the river, my dad crossing all the way to the other side to steal a watermelon and the wonder that such a heavy thing can float. I recall my Mum milking a cow in a field and the sight of my river one side and the cliffs the other, the thick grass and flat cow-pats, the old farmhouse that I still yearn for. I am not at all religious but there is a derelict church on the side of a hill that I always said I wanted to get married in. I have so many warm and golden memories of this place - my grandfather and boats, my catholic friend and her many brothers and sisters, the smell of rain in summer, the thrill of playing in a cave, moss on rocks, getting purple while sitting in the mulberry tree on  the river, crabs in the mud, dead animals floating during a flood, the whip birds, poplar trees, winding roads, my baby brother, my happy parents, my tiny school of 17 kids.

The Ferry that takes you to Settlers Road and my home.  I can still hear the chug, chug and the sound when the ramp scrapes up the bank.

The house my Dad (and Mum) built as it looks today - note the rock wall.

My Brother, Cindy and I with Dads rock wall in progress behind us.  The mountains all around still feel familiar to me.

I have a lot more to say and show about this place, some good writing fodder.  

Is there a place you call 'home'?  Why?

Searching For The Secret River

A confession - I need ANOTHER bookcase

Sorting just some of my books on the dining table

A small sample of bookshelves in my reading room

My books (mostly) in Mr K's study

I already have eight.  But I need another one.  Does this constitute an addiction?  

I have been trying hard to buy books electronically (last count was 56 books on my kindle) but there are just some books that have to be real. And I really did try and cull the books, I took about 10 boxes to the book exchange.

Since we renovated last July, I have collected another 4 shelves of books, and as they have no home at the moment, they are stacked beside my bed, beside my reading chair, in a basket beside my reading chair, on the coffee table in the lounge-room, on my desk, on the floor beside my desk.

I am not sure where this new book case will go.

Maybe challenging myself to read 100 books in 2013 was not helping this addiction?  I see a trip to IKEA in my immediate future.

Billy Bookcase - I want one with doors this time. I will have to rearrange my office.

Good Reads

Found this fabulous website yesterday, which has probably been around ages and I am the very last to cotton on, but I just love it.

Good Reads

You can link it to your Facebook and track all the books you read, want to read, what your friends are reading and you can set yourself a challenge to read a number of books in a year.

I set the bar high at 100 books to read this year.

Which will mean less blogging and more reading.  Ciao :-)