Conversation for one?

One of the perks of being me is that I have a million thoughts and conversations running through my head at any one time.

Unfortunately for those around me they often encounter my scorn when they don’t know what I’m talking about.

This is not a new thing. I’ve often been accused of leaping and jumping between topics of conversation.

I can change topics mid sentence and wonder why you aren’t keeping up.

It’s me, not you.

I need to remember that.

I also need to remember that the conversations that I have in my head at 2am have not been heard by you and therefore you should be given a little leeway when it comes to our apparent break down in communication.

I think a lot about things that don’t matter. Like how if Pappa bears porridge was still hot it was likely to be in a heated insulated bowl whereas Mumma bears was possibly in a shallow bowl with a greater air to porridge surface ratio.

Thoughts like these are random and pointless and plague me at the craziest times.

The girl in Rumpelstiltskin should have worn more jewelry.

I should have put the pumpkin in 10 minutes earlier the other night.

Where has the black nail polish gone?

At what age does one start to think about buying a rain gauge?

How come kids don’t seem to wear plastic pants in the rain anymore?

If there are essential oils are there also inessential oils and who chooses? Why did auto correct change that from unessential to inessential?

What will we have for dinner on Friday?

Can I have my breakfast the night before to save time? (I think this every night.)

And there we have it. Just a brief snap shot of my inner dialogue. It can get quite tiring listening to it but it keeps me busy.

And to those of you who take the time to listen to my random thoughts and respond I appreciate the banter.


It’s only words and words are all I have…

Kind words, seriously, are more precious than gold.

That was a terribly punctuated sentence but you get my drift.

I don’t know if it’s me but there seems to be just so much chatter and noise about.

On twitter it’s the trolls bringing people down for no reason other than they can or sycophantic fans fueling celebrities obsessions with themselves.

On Facebook it’s my kid did this and I’m checking in at the airport.

On Instagram it’s selfies with philosophical thoughts to justify them and pictures of coffee and cake.

Now don’t get me wrong. Most of these are examples of my personal accounts. My way of letting people know that I’ve got a life, sort of.

But I think the fact that these are all filtered, edited and shared for the enjoyment of the masses makes it too much for me sometimes.

Today I received quite possibly the nicest text ever and had to reread it 68 times just to let it sink in.

Kind words sent only to me fill up my heart and cheer up my soul.

Today they almost brought me to tears because if someone just gets you it’s a treat and a treasure.

She called me an insightful nut job and told me not to leave or change.

And I’ve breathed deeper and fuller because she took the time to say it.

Lucky me.

This is not a fashion blog…

Sometimes I think that my life would be complete if I could find the perfect pair of black wide leg pants.

And by sometimes I mean that I think this often.

And have for several years now.

The crazy thing is that they probably exist. Just not in a shop that I can afford to shop at or in a county that I’ll never go to.

That one unobtainable life changing thing is out there. Just out of my reach.

I can picture it.

Or them.

They would be long and heavy.

They would have an incredibly crisp cut but would sit high on the waist, covering that bit of muffin top that hangs over my undies on fat days.

I would wear them with a tight white shirt and red lip stick and my black Camper Mary-Janes. One of the buckles came off my shoes about a year and half ago now so I should really get them repaired just in case everything falls into place suddenly.

What price would you put on your dream?

I reckon I could almost justify $400.

They would need to be timeless though. The kind of pants that would make me look cool in my 30’s and dignified yet funky in my 50’s.

It’s not too much to ask.

Maybe I’m being shallow though?

Maybe there’s more to life that the perfect pair of pants?

Maybe it’s a metaphor?

I probably own too many pairs of black pants already.