The fabric of time.

Next on the list is Yoga Boy.
A person who has long displayed little to no interest in my quilts at all.
Damned if I'm gonna let that stop me.
That just makes me want to make it bigger. BIGGER! That's what she said.

I'm making him a quilt of his beloved pond as it appears when you look down on it.

I have decided to enlist Hell Boy's drawing skills to help me capture the look and personality of each and every one of the little scaley dears.

So, yesterday I summoned the courage, ventured forth into the fabric wilderness and purchased 4 m of really cool variegated blue fabric.

Despite my abhorrence of the quilting mafia, I have somehow developed a relationship with the lady at the local discount place.
This began, quite strangely, due to the horror quilt I made for Yasmin a couple of years ago. Of all the stuff I've made, she liked that one. OK...
You never can tell, can you?
I like people like that.

Since then she has always taken the time out to ask after my projects.
She adores my Aboriginal quilt.

I did my best to explain Dad's Schimpf Quilt to her right before I explained what all this blue fabric was for....she grabbed my forearm and laughingly said,

"It's OK, you're family's normal..."

I replied the only way I knew how, with,

"I certainly hope not."

What's so good about normal?
I've never seen the appeal.

Nope. To Hell with that.

While I was there, I grabbed some wadding so that I no longer have an excuse not to complete Poppy's quilt.
Damn me! What was I thinking?!
Due to all the embellishment, I'll have to quilt the bloody thing by hand. Or at least some of it anyway.

Then, I looked around for fabric that was aesthetically close to some of the more difficult fish to cast such as Bandette, Pfuitsch and Dr. Leo Marvin.

Bandette was really worrying me.
She's yellow with black and looks like she's wearing a zoro mask or really bad nerd glasses.
Yoga Boy told me once that she looks like someone dropped a banana peel into the pond.

I cannot argue with that.

Additionally, she is currently loaded with eggs and has a grossly misshapen undercarriage.
I mean, she's completely irregular in shape.
Poor darling looks like a banana peel with a wicked case of cellulite.

By hook or by crook, I will capture her likeness though.
The Universe demands it of me, and I know this because I found a piece of fabric that looks just like her.
I could scarcely believe my eyes!
Stoked.

Next step is for Jeff and I to sit down together and draw up a plan of this virtual pond so that I can figure out roughly what shape/direction the kids will all be heading in.

Then we can draw them precisely and after that all that must be done will be to reverse the images, draw them piece by piece onto Vliesofix, cut them out, iron them onto accurate fish coloured fabric, trim that and iron it onto individual rectangles of blue fabric, sew those all together in the right order, figure out how to make fabric lily pads, pin it, quilt it (or fob it off onto Joanne to do) and bind it.

But can we pull it off by March before he goes to India again? That's what she said.

No worries mate!

And hide it all while it's in progress?

Sure, why not?

And then I need to get on with Mr. Daniels' quilt for his first birthday.

I have decided not to go with a dog theme after all, as I know both his parents dislike dogs a great deal.

I think I'll do a big fuck off religious scene instead.

Perhaps I'll even give Hillsong a call and see if they have any nice Jesus fabric. I'm sure they would.
I'm also sure it'll be all razzle dazzle and blonde.

Just the thing, the very thing.
I can see Daniel now, growing up, playing hide and seek under graven images courtesy of Auntie Simone, the red and green heretic.

For those I am about to deceive, Lord make me cynical?

OK, best get on with it, the fabric of time waits for no one.

Why girls go to the toilet in pairs. Part Two.

Well, we hadn't been there very long at all when Clair assessed the roadside peeing situation as being poor.

As much as she was willing to anoint the scrub, she quickly saw that there was really nowhere to do so without being in full view 20 pairs of bored eyes.

The wait had obviously already been so long that people were getting out to stretch their legs and walking between cars anyway.
People were providing each other with water, chatting, getting things from the boot and so forth.
Not your usual traffic jam.
This was much more interactive.

What scrub there was by the side of the road was pitiful at best, and in plain view.
Even men were struggling to get away with anything, which serves them right anyway.

And yet those icey poles wanted out.

So, faced with an emergency, Clair went into survival mode.
And it was magnificent to watch.

"I'll pee in something and just throw it out," she said.

But what?

Together we pulled the place apart, searching for something appropriate - we needed something the right size and shape...
But what is the right size and shape for the average piddle?
Are we talking a cup, a litre, a handbag? I dunno. How much do we pee in one go?
I tried to think back to my geriatric nursing days, but they were all on drugs. And we never served icey poles.

At some stage, one of us found a pink metal gingerbread tin which housed my ribbons and such.
Yes! Perfect. You could easily fit a twat over that, and it should hold a very decent sized piss too.

I was ready to turn my head discreetly and create a distraction while she did what she needed to...
Good thing Clair took the time out to discover whether gingerbread tins are watertight or not...

They are not.
German efficiency indeed.

OK, so by this stage, it was becoming dire.
We had placed a couple of phone calls to our partners to find out what was going on up ahead.
All they knew was that the road was closed and that they couldn't say when it would be re-opened.
No good waiting until it grew dark to pee either - it was only 4 o'clock and Clair really didn't seem to have 10 minutes in her, let alone 6 hours.

We hastily assessed every other possible vessel for seaworthiness with no luck.
For a few seconds there, we both believed that she could just refill that damned water bottle...

As preparations for this event proceeded, Clair made me promise that if she peed in a container in my car, then so would I.
Like blood sisters.

About now she had one twinge too many. She turned around in her seat, rifled through all the stuff on the backseat of my comparatively roomy yet small 2 door car, discovered her long, flat plastic storage container with her cross stitch in it and made a decision.

Turf the precise, painstaking work of 4 years out onto the seat and piss in the Goddamn thing!

Now, Clair's taller than me by quite a bit. I'm saying she'd be 5'10 slouching. Maybe more.
I'm also saying that the distance between the top of that container and the roof of my car is a lot less than that.

Next time you dearly need to pee, see if you can do it all scrunched up, off balance and laughing.
Pissing yourself laughing, no less.

If you can also take the time out from your embarrassed (I still don't know why), contorted hysterics to remember and apologise for your B group vitamins yuo had this morning, then you're in the vicinity of Clair's experience.

I think she'd even unwrapped a pad in the hope of mopping it up and reducing splash back, but with little effect.

Now, all the commotion of a full grown woman jumping into the backseat, sitting with her head pressed up against the roof, laughing and then climbing back into the front seat, had obviously attracted the attention of, well, everyone around us in that jam.

And then it was my turn.

"You promised!" she begged me.

OFFS
I certainly did need to pee, but it wasn't a desperate need.
But I thought it would make for a good anecdote and it would antidote Clair's embarrassment.

Even so, I could see no way that I was going to be able to manage this feat in the tight jeans I had chosen to wear that day.
No way at all.

Helpfully, Clair bounded out of the car with all the joy of a person newly relieved and fossicked through my luggage for a hippy skirt I'd brought along.
Then I got changed in the driver's seat as people walked by and while the man in the car behind us watched on.

Not having attracted enough attention already, I now had to crawl over the seats as Clair jumped into the driver's eat in case we had to go.

Negotiating a long flat container and negotiating a long flat container full of piss, is quite different of course.

And hitching up your skirt, trying to fit over it without knocking it over, and trying to look as though you're not shaping up to piss, and try to stop laughing long enough to actually do the piss itself, although simple enough individual tasks, are really farken difficult when you do them all together.

Throw into this mix the fact that the pad got caught in my stream and completely ruined any chance I had of sanity as it moved around in the piss like a ferry in a nasty storm.

But of course it was at this very moment, when I was struggling to catch my breath long enough to tell Clair about the pad, that we started to move.

I made it maybe 100 metres on my throne before I just cut the exercise short, dipped my skirt in urine, got splashed due to braking, pulled up, readjusted whatever I could and climbed back into the front seat just in time to be ushered onto the emergency exit and the real world again.

Mercifully we had a lid for that container.

You may imagine Jeff's surprise when he met us at the garage upon our return and helped us to unload the car.

Clair and I both now keep soft, folding dog water bowls in our glove boxes.

Why do girls go to the toilet in pairs? Part One.

Of course, I shouldn't be telling you this, but it really was a fine example of the taking one for the team mentality that one gets at some stage during a good friendship.

And I really did take one for the team, I don't care what you say.

The trip home to Sydney from Bron's place in Merriwa is long.
Especially when it's 40 degrees celsius outside and you need to pee.

Due to the January heat, Clair and I set off home with snacks, cold drinks, and I believe that we stopped for even more cold drinks and icey poles at Cesspit, which is pretty impressive considering that I don't like ice cream or ice blocks at all.

So, passing Tuggerah, I heard Clair say,

"I could really pee."

"No biggie", I thought, "We'll make that. Only an hour and a bit. Easy."

But make it, we did not.

Not too long before the Berowra turn off, we saw smoke.
Just a little at first, kinda like a cloud flipping the bird at us as it drifted across the sky.

Then we saw the cars.
The brake lights.
The complete absence of movement.
The smell of petrol from cars that had stopped , but still had their A/C on.

Bushfire!

But just a little one. And just about exactly where we needed to be.
They were trying to stop it jumping the highway and heading off to Manly.
Pfffft , it's only Manly FFS.

"This is gonna take a while....and that's a pity because Clair needs to pee. And I will soon too," I thought as my mind raced back to my childhood.

Now, back in the 70's, there seemed to be some sort of national obsession with pulling over on highways and peeing in the bushes.
Reluctant children in particular.

Maybe it was considered a rite of passage back then to take your kid out and make them keep Australia beautiful?

My estimation is that by 1974, highways all throughout Australia were all but lined with these unhappy, desperate little people.

Even by 3 or 4 years of age, we had to be able to gauge for ourselves whether semi-trailers or snakes posed the greater risk to our longevity as we gave in and squatted.
Too far into the scrub and you were sure to meet with natural disaster, too close to the road - well, let's just remember that these were the days before there was any chance of being caught by a speed camera.

And grown ups were certainly no use when it came to assessing our safety. As I recall, any complaint coming from a small, squatting person, was met with,

"A leaf, a leaf! Use a leaf! Use a leaf!"

"But...I don't need to..."

"Don't be silly, no-one can see you!", they would say, the last bit usually being drowned out by the frenzied honking of car horns from the very cars of the people who couldn't see us...

By 1977, I'm saying you couldn't back out the driveway without seeing kids being forced to urinate (or worse) in public - being stood over by parents in safari suits, bell bottoms and body shirts..

The highway pit stop was always a nightmare for me, what with my sense of decorum and severe allergic reaction to ant bites of all kinds...
Nevertheless, there's many a spot in the Australian countryside that has been tended to by me personally.

I never used a leaf though.

So, thirty years later, discovering that I needed to repeat the performance, came as something of a surprise to me.

Damn those icey poles!

But what I found out by putting myself in this unenviable position once again was this;
what was humiliating as a small child, is hilarious as an adult.

Hooray for the passage of time!

To be continued...

South Sydney - Part Three.

One of the most touching moments that came to me courtesy of the Rabbitohs, happened by the fridge one day at work.

Clair was telling me that she had been away and had encountered some scary guy in Souths thongs, had got excited and really wanted to approach him and talk about Souths, but was a bit put off by his general trailer creepiness.
But later she informed me that she,

"...had feelings for Souths."

How beautiful is that?
Just because it's something I love, she kinda loves it too.

That's what I love about being a supporter.
Nothing to do with the sport. For me it's sharing experiences - passion, triumphs, tragedies with the people I hold dear.

When we lose I worry about how Jeff will cope at work with the kids giving him grief, how Jo will feel all week, how it will impact all of the people I care about.

The joy of winning is just the same, only backwards.
I'm thrilled to finally see so many people who have done it tough, rewarded for their loyalty and endurance.
Good on us.

A few years ago on the forum, a couple of the boys were running an NFL Fantasy League comp.
My brother-in-law convinced me to join.
I thought that if I was going to learn a new sport that I should first choose a team - without any preconceived ideas.

So, I took myself team shopping on the internet.
I had to be careful.
I didn't want to accidentally wind up supporting the wanky, rich, cheating Roosters like side just because I thought their uniform was pretty.
Or because they were green like Souths.

Although, for the record, I do think that choosing a side because their fans wear cheese on their heads is quite a good idea.
Gretchen, it's probably best if you don't read that bit.
Good girl.

But I resisted the temptation to choose anything other than the perfect fit, and I barged into a few of the gigantic NFL fan forums.
Holy fucking fuck fuck.

There was something about the orange team that felt familiar and comfortable to me, so I posted an introduction in their tightly policed "football only section", telling them who I was, that I was thinking about supporting their team and asking them what the hell they were all about.

Then I went and did my grocery shopping.

By the time I got home, I had some proposals of marriage and a vote for Rookie of the year.

I also had a warning, "not to expect too much this year, we're in a rebuilding phase..."

I beg yours!?

They went on to explain to me that the club had been kicked out of the competition for 3 years (FFS- Twilight Zone or what?) and that they had pretty much been more or less fielding sub standard players, with a shitty admin and a crap coach...but were improving.
Slowly.

Sounds kinda familiar, hey.

"Pfffft, no big deal", I thought, "I can do that standing on my head."

And I did.
Am.

Once again, I recognised some extraordinary voices on that forum, even though I was asleep when they were awake and most of the time I had no idea what they were talking about.

I can do that standing on my head too.

And then Gretchen....the mother load.

Someone who is now loved by everyone I've ever mentioned her to.
And I pretty much mention her to everyone.

"Good morning, Vitamin King. Have I told you about my friend Gretchen?"

It could happen.

But you know what is going to happen? Tailgating at a Brown's game with Gretchen et al - hopefully as soon as next season.

I wonder what colour (color) her Tupperware is?

If she doesn't have any, I have a brown and orange 1970's set she can have. It's perfect.
__________________________________________________________________

PS You know what else makes me happy?
Clair and Gretchen have become friends.
That's as awesome a spectacle as Godzilla and Gamera uniting.

Hooray for football!

Day trip to Clair's

Until recently, road trips involving Clair and Simone, have always started at my place, ended at Bron's, and have involved apples, incredible heart to hearts, the aggressive tooting of the car horn at The Hut signs, yelling "Up the Rabbitohs!" at Vicki and Gavin's house, plus a selection of music best described as uncalled for.

Oh, and KFC at Cesspit with the very scary locals.
I promise you that one time we saw a couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary there.
Well, not really, but it was certainly possible.
And that's bad enough.

But that was B.D. (before Daniel), and if you'd like to adjust your time pieces, it's now 33 days A.D.

And what this means is that road trips now go backwards.

They still start at mine, but now it's Bronnie's smiling face that greets me as I struggle out the door with my hexagons slung over my shoulder and altogether too many pieces of fabric crammed into my bag.

Tooting the Hut has now been replaced with waving at ANZ Stadium- home to the South Sydney Rabbitohs, the heart to hearts are different in content but just as warming.
Haven't yet settled on which of Clair's neighbours will be the lucky recipients of my particular attention, but my decision, once handed down, will be final.

A day at Clair's is always fun.

But then, so is having Clair follow me around whilst using a breast pump as I vacuum for her.
In truth, it didn't occur to me until today that that was a strange thing to do. Or even that she had done it at all.
It was all just so casual.

God knows what else she did that I didn't notice yet. ;O)

I mean, apart from decorating her toilet with faux skid marks fashioned out of vegemite and corn in order to make my dunny cleaning experience more interesting.

I'm perfectly certain that not every new mother can find the time to see to details like that before guests arrive to see their baby for the first time.
More's the pity.

I think Clair should achieve domestic goddess status for that.
Priorities define you, you know.

Meeting Clair's bubba for the first time was unforgettable.
Watching her relax and trust herself as a mother was extremely satisfying, and it left me feeling very proud and contented.

My wish for Daniel is that he is able to experience and enjoy his mother as much as everyone else does.
And I hope he has her laugh. ;O)


PICS: Me, Clair and the watermelon.
Bron and Daniel
Bron and Arrrrrrrgh the Pirate Baby.

Oopsi!

CORPORATION.

How the Hell did I forget that!?

Well, I'm sorry about that.

When I have a little more time, I may go on to compile a list of C words that I like.

Yes, Gretchen, Cleveland will surely be on this one.

As will crisp, cookie, cumquat and Clair.

Try and use all three of those in a sentence why dontcha?

Please note that there are a couple of glaring omissions, but having already said cunt several times in a few days, I thought it best to leave out the more obvious ones. ;O)

My fucking ripper of a funeral.

Jeff's suggested title for this blog was THIS IS NOT A DRILL. LOL @Jeff.

Just to let you know, my funeral will be very long.
So wear comfortable shoes.
Or no shoes at all, what do I care?

Don't panic, I'll not be taking up your time with religious nonsense, but with music, tea, laughs and a couple of live acts.

I have some very specific wishes, so I'd like to outline this all here and now, entrusting these plans to Clair and perhaps Yoga Boy.

Should both of them predecease me, instructions may be handed over to Taryn (who will hate them all, but carry them exactly), and maybe chkn and Monica.

I would like some Buddhist monks there to chant and do whatever it is that they do. It's not my belief as such, I just like the robes.

Because I don't actually know anyone who shares my spiritual beliefs, let alone anyone who makes a living from them, I think it's just simpler to ask people to write a few lines of what they thought of me (like a report card) and have someone read them out. That way no-one feels pressured to speak.

No priests. Don't trust 'em.
In fact, if one even happens to be walking by, I'd like the Benny Hill music to start up and everyone to pile out and chase the bastard down.
Yes. I'd like that.

No Jesus, no Christian prayers, no hymns.
At no point do I want the word amen uttered.
Should anyone feel the need to do so, they may replace it with glory glory instead.

Plainest coffin possible, red and green flower arrangement.
No carnations, babies breath or gladiolas - puke.
Souths flag on the coffin please.
No photos.

And please, no White Lady funerals. Those women look so stupid in those hats that the sound of my corpse spinning nearby may detract from the overall ambiance and tone of the proceedings. Probably not though. ;O)

You're welcome to wear black (I do so love black), but the request for people to also wear something red or green must be taken seriously. Souths jerseys considered appropriate.

Any Roosters supporters in attendance must stand together in one corner, facing the wall in a state of contrition.
They know why.

Tea and coffee is to be available all throughout the service. Good stuff too. Can you hire a couple of carts? Not Gloria Jeans, they support Hillsong.

OK, so to the entertainment... I cannot think of a time or place where you need entertaining more than at a funeral, so honestly, I don't know why it is so commonly overlooked.
Well, not on my watch.

• at the beginning - 2 bellydancers - 1 dressed in red, 1 dressed in green, but NO audience participation to be requested...it's a funeral FFS ;O). No, that just really annoys me...seriously, do your own job - I never ask people to join in while I'm doing mine.
  
• at the end - if Jo's still kicking, I'd like her to sing Glory Glory, as she has an excellent voice and no-one means it more than her. A song sheet (designed by Clair, with loads of stickers) will have been distributed so that everyone may join in. If Jo's feeling frisky, a round of "Still hate the Roosters" is definitely in order.
  
• finally, a group of bagpipes is to join in and the event is to conclude with them walking out playing Glory Glory.
• at this point, anyone with the balls to start the South Sydney chant, is be remembered in my Will (well, not really, but it sounded very Agatha Christie to say so, didn't it?)
• bonus points to anyone prepared to start the "bullshit!" chant randomly during the service. My money's on my brother-in-law, Greg, as he's successfully started it at every Souths game we've ever been to together during the last 20 years. He started it at the Cannes Film Festival too, when his Z-grade horror film was playing there, but he changed "bullshit!" to the film's title, which was, "Bloodspit!"
  

The music for the service and the wake is with Clair and Adrian, although I do need to update the listing.
Punctuate proceedings with tunes as you please.

I have yet to decide the venue for either the service or the wake, but neither will be anywhere churchy or deathy.
I'll let you know, otherwise, Clair would best decide on the service (outside is OK by me so long as the sound is good), Taryn would be the right person to decide about the wake.

Well, there you have it.
I've related most of these requests to people bit by bit over the last few years, but I thought it was best to cough it all up at once, firstly so that you can sort it out, and secondly, so that you may look forward to it. LOL

No burial. Yuk, I have no wish to be landfill.

I'd like my ashes to be, well actually, I don't really care where most of them go, but I would like some of them to be scattered around under that tree in the Domain where we sit for Opera in the Park each year. That way, I will be there nice and early for each performance and I can mind the spot. Shit, I just realised, that means I will also have to sit through Carols by Candlelight- eeewwww.

Just stuff the rest somewhere sunny.

I feel rather good now that that's sorted out.

So, my friends, when I stop seeing you tomorrow, I'll see you on the other side.


Up the Rabbitohs!

luv sim xo

PS I'm serious.

Sewing updates.

I have been behaving.
Unless you count that little visit to Spotlight's sale last week. But I'll tell you about that later.

But, in terms of focus and completion, I'm doing very well.

The top pic is of my hexagons. I have all but finished the blocks and now have only (hahaha, did you get that?), only to sew a billion mud coloured hexagons, stitch them all painstakingly to the rest and then attach all the finished blocks.
Simple really.
But then, I've discovered that hexagon quilts don't finish with a straight edge, and therefore I must find a way to deal with this...
This is what comes from just jumping in and learning as you go.

But the biggest problem I have is that I must decide whether or not to log on and purchase more indigenous fabric and make the quilt huge. Then I won't have to worry about finishing it off until a lot later.

My extravagant creative instinct says go.
My even more extravagant creative instinct says, well, if you do that, then you won't be able to start on the multi coloured one, or the vegetable one one have planned...
Dilemma.

Oh well, so in the mean time, I'm doing Dad's jigsaw quilt and I avoided facing hexagon reality yesterday by pulling out all the friendship blocks I have received so far and sewing them together instead.

Since October 2006, I have been in a block swap with 3 other girlies and just a few months later, it became 4 other girlies.
The basic idea is that each month you make a block for someone and post it to them, and of course, each month, you receive one yourself.
There is a roster so that you know who you're sewing for, and have a basic idea of their fabric tastes etc.

I don't believe that I have consulted this list even once.
No, that's not entirely true.
I did notice that Clair doesn't like brown just before I chose to sew her a block with chicken drumsticks and eggs, which is all brown.
Pfffffft to Clair, I say.

Well, the first pic is a block I received from Vicki...apparently she thinks I like Souths...no idea what could have put that in her mind.

The WANKE hand cream block is from Clair (in advance) and refers to my first ever blog where I confessed to have 9 types of hand cream in my bedside drawer. Still do.
Make of that what you will.

The next pic is the whole lot so far.
Not one stitch done by me - except that border of Vicki's I had to fix up, and the seams of course.

It's amazing to see so many different ideas and styles side by side, and even more incredible that they look good together.

Down the bottom left there is a section that my Aunty Kitty contributed to.
I can pick her work a mile away. Technically perfect - strangely elegant yet naive cottagey stuff. She loved the idea of the swap and sent me a few for Xmas last year.

The centre piece is what started it all. Pretty good likeness of me too.
Originally, I had the idea to do a banner with all of us on it, that we could hang out the front of Bron's place, warning passers by that our group was in session.
But legally I think that puts us in a difficult position, like warning people of a vicious dog...

The last pic, is one that I received recently, from Vicki I believe (hooray for leopard skin), and it has all of our names on it.

I have no idea at all what I will ever use this thing for. Too big for a wall hanging, too encrusted with beads and buttons for a table cloth, too out there not to be displayed.

Maybe I'll use it on my sewing table.

Lots of love, you dog, Clair.

If you arrived home to discover not one, but two hand written letters from the same person waiting for you in the kitchen, you would most likely be surprised.

And rightly too.

For one thing, who posts two letters to the same person at once?
No, the government doesn't count. Anyway, I think they use machines, don't they?

Apart from that, who actually takes the time to write letters these days?

Well, there's always one, isn't there?

And I always seen to have befriended them. Or to have been befriended by them.
Not exactly sure about that dynamic. I'm still too busy enjoying it.

And even if you accept that quirky people are an important and cherished part of my life, who starts a letter with, "Hi Trollop!", anyway ?

And why aren't there more people like that?
I'm not going to get my crackers in a twist about it though, because I happen to know that there's at least one more on the way.

Trollop?

Bloody hell! I'd forgotten all about that word.
But I like it. I really, really like it.
It's no twat of course, but I'm bringing it back nevertheless.

Lurking beyond the glamorous salutation, the contents were informative, accusative and then insulting - if you think that being referred to as "FUCKING SIMONE!" is insulting.
I don't.
I'd never have survived.

Finally, this marvel of modern science was signed off with,

"Lots of love,
you dog,
Clair
xoxo"

Now, call me sentimental, but at this point I teared up and sheepishly snuffled my way to the tissues. I then thanked my lucky stars that I have friends who can say I love you in so many ways.
And that I have friends who choose to do so.

Most of you know that all those God-awful, phoney, mainstream Hallmark friendship blurbs in cards nauseate me.
And they make me cranky because I feel as though they say what they should and what's expected, rather than having any real respect for the concept of friendship itself.

To hit the nail on the head, all you need ever do is simply acknowledge what's shared and remarkable between two people. To let your thoughts and feelings for someone become generic is such a terrible waste.

So, to be approached by an adored friend with such absolute confidence and freedom of expression is truly remarkable.
It shows me that the friendship is very real. And that it's ours to keep.

Hallmark be damned.


BTW Clair, you're really something, but get a dog up ya, ya dirty twatted mole.
xoxoxo