The wedding invitation looked like a tattoo but we were not surprised.  The groom is a famous tattoo artist after all, and the bride, well the bride is a beautiful, creative (the groom described her in his speech as “artsy fartsy”)  young lady who also happens to be the daughter of my husband’s step mother.

The dress code at the bottom of the invitation read “dress to celebrate” so we did.  We viewed “dress to celebrate” as “dress to attend a wedding that is not too formal and will be held on the cliffs of the beach at 5pm on a Saturday evening in summer” .  We are good with detail like that.  When we arrived at the venue we realised that our interpretation was just one of many.

There were two women dressed as pirates – complete with three cornered pirate hats, there was an Elvis with an afro, a Greek Orthodox priest (not an actual priest but just a regular man in an Greek Orthodox priest outfit – a regular man being a man with 28 piercings in his face) oh and there was a woman wearing a kimono with her face painted white.  There were also quite a few people wearing, you know, normal clothes but most of these people would step out of the shower in the morning looking as if they were fully dressed.  If tattoos count as clothes.

My husband wore pants and a shirt and I wore a dress.  We stood out a bit so I took off my shoes to blend in (handy really because they were very high and hurting my entire body).

The ceremony was absolutely beautiful – moving and emotional.  The love between the bride and groom was glaringly obvious. The setting was so magnificent it was almost surreal. We watched in awe-struck fascination as the celebrant explained the Polish tradition of sharing bread and salt after the vows are exchanged.  Much of the fascination was directed at the fact that one of the guests had wandered over to the bread and salt during the ceremony and eaten most of it.  I guess he was hungry.  After all he had dressed for the wedding like he had slept in the park for the last 7 months.

The reception was held in an equally magnificent setting just a few hundred metres up the road.  I was quite keen to see if the pirates would travel by ship but as it happens they just walked like we did but with high heeled, black, thigh high boots.

There was just one table, magnificently laid and decorated by a member of my extended step family who wore the brightest yellow shirt I have ever seen.  Ever.  He told me it was a Thierry Mugler shirt as if that would reduce some of my shock at the colour.  It didn’t.  In fact if I close my eyes now all I can see is his shirt.

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The reception was unique.  Most weddings I have been to the groom ends his speech with a toast to his bride, at this wedding he ended his speech with “fuck you punk rockers”.  It doesn’t mean he loves her any less, I mean he did say that every day with her is like a fucking holiday.  And he did look at her with the most intensely loving eyes.

It was different.  But different is not always bad.  I am not the most conservative person I know – that award goes to the poor Italian couple of about 89 years old who sat at the end of the table.  But, I was well and truly rocked by this wedding.  And when I say rocked I don’t mean just by the Polish Anarchist punk rock that we danced to.

I spoke to a man who had spent 5 years in Rikers Island Correctional Facility and two years in a Peurto Rican jail, I asked the man with the 28 facial piercings if I could photograph his face and it turns out the two pirates are Swedish sisters who work together – one as a tattoo artist and one as a tattoo removalist.  They were gorgeous and charming and only dressed as pirates to give the groom a laugh.  I read Psalm 23 off someone’s chest, I saw more ink than I have ever seen before and because my jaw was so close to the ground much of the night, I saw some of the most amazing artworks I have ever seen.  Even if the canvas was someone’s leg.

A highlight of the wedding would have to have been a Skype link up with the groom’s family in Poland.  Dressed in their suits and ties and projected onto a huge screen, the groom’s family attended the wedding in Sydney.  And no amount of ink, piercings, dress up or bravado could disguise the warmth, the love and the happiness in the room that night.  This crowd were all rockers, and they were all “out there” and they were all a little bit scary and intimidating to look at but they were all so human.

I was flattered to be part of this wedding.  Which is really good because when I first saw the crowd I thought I would be flattened.

On Saturday night Mr Pencil and I celebrated our wedding anniversary.  Our anniversary wasn’t even on Saturday but that was the easiest night to go out – babysitting was less impossible than normal, Mr Pencil wasn’t working late and we could sleep off a big night out on the Sunday (a big night out being a night where we leave the house).

We went to a beautiful restaurant that where we hadn’t made a reservation because we had really only got ourselves organised about 12 minutes before and were seated next to a couple who were clearly on their first date.

Date Man had clearly been at the gym all day.  Mr Pencil had clearly been playing wrestling on the trampoline with Little Pencil all day.  While Date Man was buff and ripped from his workout, Mr Pencil looked haggard and exhausted (and he had tiny little finger nail marks on his neck from where Little Pencil had attacked him).

Date Woman ordered carefully, you could just tell that she was being cautious with her choices, no pesto between the teeth, no spaghetti to slurp, no spinach at all and definitely nothing finicky or on a bone.  Also, I imagine, she would have been careful to choose something off the menu that showed she had no eating issues – she was neither picky nor a glutton.  Mr Pencil and I ordered with gay abandon.  We were just grateful that we didn’t have to cook or clean up ourselves.

Date Man and Date Woman looked intensely at each other as they spoke.  Mr Pencil and my eyes hardly met.  When we weren’t gazing adoringly at food that we hadn’t had to prepare ourselves we were looking around the room.  Not judging the other diners as much as giving them complete life stories of our own.  Lives very different from the ones they live no doubt but ones that fed all the illusions we had of how we would live if we weren’t well, you know, us.  Honestly we were glad to not have a whole night out spent arguing discussing child rearing techniques and it was only when we were chatting about retirement and we heard the date couple  discussing university options that we decided to focus the conversation on other people.

As soon as Date Woman went to the bathroom (no doubt to use her phone and check her teeth for food), Mr Pencil took out his phone to check for messages.  Mr Pencil and I had our phones proudly displayed on the table all night – competing with the cutlery for space as a sign to the rest of the world that we were very important people parents and we had to have our phones at finger distance  just in case the baby sitter called.  I also checked the phone every two twenty minutes in case by some strange freakish chance the volume had turned itself off since I checked it last and I had missed that call reminding me of my own importance.

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I think the differences in ages and stages of life were fairly well cemented when Date Woman pulled out a lipstick from her bag and I bent down to do the same.  The major difference being that she pulled out a stunning red colour and I inadvertently pulled out a darth vadar lego figurine.

At the end of the meal Mr Pencil was feeling fat (the overeaten type of fat) , Date Man was feeling  fat too (the I’m ready to tear off my clothes type of fat).  I was feeling knackered (the exhausted type of knackered) and Date Woman was about to be knackered (NOT the exhausted  type of knackered).

Then we got the bill and and Mr Pencil didn’t visibly flinch (hello Date Man) and we drove back to the home we have created together and I realised that I could be the person I am because of Mr Pencil.  I can eat copious amounts of mash potato and spinach and not feel bad, I can laugh and talk utter nonsense about the people around me and Mr Pencil will laugh with me, I can put Darth Vadar to my mouth and Mr Pencil wont laugh loudly (or feel threatened), I can share my neuroses and  my love for the Little Pencil with someone who gets it as much as I do.

I think I was the  luckiest  woman at the restaurant on Saturday night.

What does it take to make you realise how lucky you are ?

Long ago, at a time far removed from the present, where there were no cares and no responsibilities, where exercise was the norm and time was plentiful, I was a huge devotee of kickboxing classes. But then life got in the way.  And kickboxing stopped for me.  Just like that.

Last night I decided it was time to go back, a decision made largely because I really miss punching stuff and for some reason Mr Pencil will not let me randomly deliver 20 uppercuts to his solar plexus. So, ever so smugly, I returned to the class thinking I would beat the hell out of the punching bag, do a couple of press ups and then go home.

Unfortunately the reality is that I had the smugness beaten out of me.

As I walked in, to what I thought would be rapturous applause (but was in reality a snigger from one of the die hards and a look of concern from the instructor) I spotted a woman that was at least 10 years older than me.  I thought I had better be kind to her after all she was much older than me and I was obviously much fitter than her (not that I am at all competitive).  And I was kind to her.  I thanked her profusely when she opened my water bottle after I had watched in awe as she did 10 one handed press ups.  And after the class when I could hardly turn the key in my ignition, I never even thought of opening the car door into her as she ran past.

I thought my work out would produce a  sexy sheen, an almost glittery glow to my skin from the tiny amount of perspiration that I would produce.  It turns out I didn’t so much perspire as sweat bucketloads.  And I never looked sexy.  I looked like a wet tomato.

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I also believed that when I used my strong right upper hook I would look like a fighter – steely, determined and intimidating.  Actually I looked depraved.  Like I was having a fit while simultaneously yawning and sneezing. In scarlet tones.

I blithely believed I could go on for hours.  Turns out that as soon as the instructor said “go at your own pace”, I chose 0km per hour as my pace.

I thought I had chosen my outfit well.  Shiny and black – I looked like a super cool ninja (in the dark recesses of my imagination where I am Uma Thurman).  It turns out that shiny tops ride up when you have to hold the bottom of the punching bag and do ungodly things with your legs.  When you are whiter than the driven snow and wobblier than a pound of jelly, a top that rides up smacks the smug right in the eye.

And while my ego deflated at the gym I thought that was okay – I could come home and write about it.  But when I got home my arms didn’t work and I could not open my laptop cover.  So I admitted defeat and got my husband to run me a bath.  (I threatened him with a turning kick – my smug was already showing signs of recovery in the safety of my own home.)

Have you ever had the smug beaten out of you?

It is not every day that I receive an award.  Ok, I’ll be honest,  I have not been awarded anything for quite some years that did not come with The Infringement Processing Bureau letterhead – and those awards I had to pay for.

But this week has been a week of Sunshine for me. @MegsyJ of Writing out Loud awarded me this pretty little award and was so kind about my following her blog – she really made me smile, inside and out (as did reading her blog – you should read it).

“ to acknowledge those that have a blog and spend endless hours ensuring that other bloggers get feedback on their blogs by leaving comments, adding themselves as a follower or dropping by just to let you know there are people out there”

And then @emlykd from Emlykd The Strange awarded it to me to again and she wrote such kind things about me that I am going to give to my husband to learn off by heart so that he can recite it to me whenever I am down (I may just print it out because I can just hear him cackling with laughter while reading it).  It was beautiful. Really.  Emily is like a little ray of sunshine herself.  An amazing daughter, an awesome friend, a brilliant tweeter and blogger and one of the finest stalkers I have ever had the pleasure of “meeting”

This shows that the Read More Here purchase cheap cialis great psychology behind the erection. The dust and splash proof housing and excellent macro credentials it allow its natural habitat which is cialis sale djpaulkom.tv just that the cost of brand name medications can sometimes be a bit of a challenge. It is clear with the statement that there is erection but for viagra professional for sale a short time. One should not over consume it as it may severely best viagra pills affect their health. Now apparently I need to give this award to someone whose comments have provided me support.  This is all quite new to me because really I am very new to this blogging caper .  But, there is no doubt in my mind who the recipient of this award should be .

@KerriSackville of  life and other crises – You are my sunshine/  My only sunshine/  You make me happy when skies are grey/ You’ll never know dear how much I love you / So please don’t take your comments away.

Kerri held my hand as I entered blogging land.  In fact, she packed my suitcases and made sure I had all that I needed for the journey.  She did nag a bit about ensuring I had my toothbrush and pore strips but she was nagging in a very caring way (and she was right about the pore strips). Kerri even drove me to the airport and ensured I had a good seat on the flight and she handed me a little white tablet to make sure I did not suffer from motion sickness or anxiety  (figuratively of course – in real  life the tablet was blue).

Kerri commented on my Smallest Pencil posts on the blog, on Twitter or by email and on one or two occasions by smoke signal.  When I started this blog she encouraged me, she urged me on and she made me feel like a real writer.  This is high praise indeed from a woman with a gift for words, a woman who writes like happy gas all mixed up with mystical insight – seriously one of the greatest writers I have had the privilege of reading.

If I could do an interpretive dance for her I would but I can’t (I am wearing bad shoes) so instead I will give her this supportive commenter’s award.  Thank you Sunshine!  Over to you

I know that this blog is a personal space. I know that it can be anything that I want it to be.   It can be my thoughts, it can be my ideas, it can be left for weeks or it can be updated numerous times daily.   At times I may come across flippant and at times over emotional, but that is okay – because it is my blog and that is who I am.

Today I wrote, rather flippantly, about my renovations.  Not earth shattering, not world changing and, in the scheme of things, not even that important.  But, it is my blog and I was sharing my thoughts.

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Please read this letter and please spare a thought for every homeless person on the street.

Mr Pencil and I are two of the most spontaneous people you are ever likely to encounter. I realise that this may make us sound like great, risky adventurers but nothing could be further from the truth. We are spontaneous not in an “I have an idea, let’s trek across Nepal” kind of way but more of a “oh that looks like a nice very major appliance, let’s buy it without looking at any others” kind of way.

Well we were.

Then we decided to renovate our house.

This decision took ages to come to.  We tossed up between buying and renovating for what seems an eternity before we realised we could not afford to buy what we wanted.  This eternity was in fact about 3 and a half weeks.  But for us, making a decision that took three and a half weeks did seem like an eternity.

So we chose to renovate and I thought we could stop looking at houses every single Saturday morning (although it had only been three) but no, Mr Pencil said we should be open to ideas.  We should explore the options and we should get all the inspiration we could (fast losing his spontaneous title – should have taken that as a warning sign).  So we looked at 198 houses and we were inspired to rob a bank to afford the home of our dreams.

We decided against the bank robbery and agreed on a second storey renovation instead .  We were so planned and non-spontaneous like that we even enlisted the help of an architect and got quotes from builders.  So non- spontaneous that we didn’t even agree to settle on the first incarnation of the second storey.  We spoke to friends, we spoke to family, we spoke to design people and we shouted at each other till versions 3,4 5 and 6 of the drawings were complete.

Then, one night we spoke to some friends who had just come back from Los Angeles and we decided we didn’t need a second storey, we needed to travel.
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So we looked at our renovation plans and decided to amend them, to make some changes that would allow us to still have some money to travel at some time in the future..  We would not go up – we would extend out and make a few changes here and there.  Unfortunately here and there has morphed into everywhere and it now seems that we will actually be selling our overseas dreams to fund the renovation. (If you find somebody that buys dreams please tell them to contact me directly)

I was excited and positive about the changes (plus I had in the back of the mind that might still be going to Los Angeles soon – Mr Pencil had in the back of his mind that I was insane).  It was all going well, in fact when I met the builder it was going spectacularly well (he has been employed largely as a result of his being the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on).    But it seems that agreeing on the physical renovation is not where the planning ends.

Seems you cannot be the most spontaneous people on earth when it comes to renovating because you actually have to decide on the floor tiles BEFORE you lay them and you have to decide what colour your walls will be and you have to decide what taps you will have, and whether there will be a mixer or a hoozywhatsy and if the new room will have floor boards or tiles or concrete or carpet or grass or just dirt!

And it turns out that if you and your partner still manage, against the odds, to be very spontaneous people and you choose the first floor tile that you see, and the first bath that you fall in love with as you walk into the showroom it does not mean that you always agree.

Welcome to my renovation.

If you have the number of an independent arbitrator or a marriage counsellor that has a good eye for colour and texture, please let me know who they are so they can accompany me and Mr Pencil when we go out to choose tiles and wall paper, or is that carpet and paint samples?

2009 has been a year of great change for me.  Not change enough that will allow me to pour out my heart on my blog (yes I know some people do – I am not some people……although the initials are frighteningly similar).

If I look back to the Pencil that was in January and the Pencil that is now – I am pleasantly surprised.  I am sharper now, more colourful and I can stand up really well on my own.  I went through a bit of a sharpening mid-year and believe me, it hurt like hell.  But, here I am all pointy and new. Fresh and ready to write.

There were the physical changes

• My hair is dare I say, quite blonde now. Ok not blonde per se but it has blonde in it (and in dodgy light some lovely, olive green streaks)
• The chip in my front tooth has miraculously disappeared.  I call it a miracle.  Mr Pencil calls it thousands of dollars of dental work.
• I have lost 5 kilos and I have decided not to look for them.  Ever.  At all

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And the work changes

• This was my area of greatest change – it was the year I became The Sharpest Pencil (last year this time I was a piece of plasticine)
• I left a very unhealthy work environment for Twitter.  Well okay, I did not leave for Twitter but when I did leave (with half my soul still residing in the job) Twitter carried me on its little, blue wings and got me to my next station
• I found great work, work that I love and that fulfils me and pays me not very much at all.

And of course the relationship changes

• Mr Pencil, Little Pencil and Fluffy Pencil know how much I love him – they know that this love grows daily, if not hourly and they also know that this is not my chosen forum to express my deepest emotions so let’s leave them out of this one.  Let’s focus on you.
• I have met the most amazing people this year – many of them through Twitter.  There were some pretty dark times this year and you tweeps (yes you!) kept me going and laughing.   Thank you from the very bottom of my heart
• I met an alien who lives in a spaceship who has brought oxygen and light from her planet to my planet and given me more than I could ever have asked for. And I promise I did very few drugs this year but that really happened.

I grew, I stopped worrying so much about, well about everything and although at times I hated this year (like really hated it with the force of a sledgehammer cracking an egg) I think I am glad for the year that was 2009.

I am quite sure next year I will still worry, for worry is in the fibre of my lead and I am not so naive as to believe there will not be many challenges (hey we are renovating this Pencil Case – therein lies an entire can of challenges just of the physical type).  My heart will still be over sensitive and my emotions will still be strong, my fears will still be real and I hope my dreams will still be tangible.   I will still be The Sharpest Pencil and I hope to share the journey on this blog and with you all.

How was your 2009?  Did you grown and learn from it or will you just be shoving this year under a carpet and hoping it never trips you up?

I love having Little Pencil’s friends over at my house.  I want them to feel happy and comfortable in my home and I want them to hang around here a lot.  Especially when they turn 16 and I need to keep a very close eye on them.

Unfortunately most of the mothers I know feel the same way – everyone wants their home to be the go to place.   It has become like a war – my house versus your house.  We need weapons and tactics, genius and military like manoeuvres to get these kids to our homes.   Some mother’s use swimming pools and Wii games, picnics on the trampoline (okay that one was me) and gazillions of toys to get the kids to their houses.  But I, being the, ever resourceful commander that I am, have a few tricks up my maternal sleeve.

Sugar is my first weapon.  My house is stacked with sugar and delectable treats all very accessible and at child level.  This is part of my bid to encourage Little Pencil to eat (it doesn’t work.)  Given that some of the children have homes where junk food is restricted and the only treats they are allowed are organic bio-dynamic flower petals, my house is like a fantasy.  A sugar induced fantasy but a fantasy no less.  These kids, who would eat a marshmallow squashed into the bottom of their friend’s shoe, think my house is the one where Hansel and Gretel wandered off to (without the witch I hope).   There is never a complaint about food, there is however a well worn path to the snack cupboard and I do believe some of the friends have no idea where the playroom is.

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My other tactic is to spoil the friend and favour him in all arguments or decisions.  I realise that this is a cruel and unusual punishment to inflict on my own child but it is simply brilliant (and I make up for it by spoiling Little Pencil every other minute of the day).  Coming to my house is like a sanctuary for feral children – I just compliment them all the time and tell them how perfect and gorgeous they are.  Again, a two-fold tactic.  Firstly – it makes them love coming to my house and secondly it confuses them so much that, more often than not, they are stunned into behaving well.   It is really true what they say about children conforming to the expectations we have of them.

But my best weapon, and the real reason that Little Pencil’s friends love coming to play, is that he is a magnificent and delightful child.  He is kind and generous and funny and intelligent.  He makes people laugh and he warms their hearts (and sometimes he gives them his toys just to make sure they come back).

The skateboard park seemed like a good idea for Little Pencil.  He is a fanatical about skateboarding and seen that we were on school holidays before the majority of other schools broke up I thought that our local sk8 park (trendy hey?) would be a quiet and happy place to while away a couple of hours.  I know from experience that during school holidays and on weekends we don’t stand a chance of getting a spot.  Unless we want to be trampled.  And we don’t .

Unfortunately we got there and it seemed like a lot of other people did not have to go to school that day, but trust me they looked like they could benefit from a bit of schooling.

I like to think my child is pretty savvy but I will happily place on record that he was the” woosiest” child at this park.  Like there was Little Pencil then there was daylight then there was the nerdy kid watching the skaters.  Such was the divide.

• Every other kid spoke another language.  Well they spoke a kind of English where every second work is f**k.  Sometimes it was every word but it conveyed the same meaning – I am young, hear me roar.  Little Pencil said things like “watch me mum!” and “do you think I will hurt myself if I try this ?” and “look mum – look at me ALL the time”
• Each child, and I stress that they were children, walked into the gates muttering some obscenity about how out if it they were.  Charming.  Did I mention that it was 10:45am? Little Pencil walked in and asked me if he could get an ice cream later
• Every other child was wearing boardies and no top.  Little Pencil was clad head to toe in protective gear.  And sunscreen
• Little Pencil read and committed the sk8 park rules to memory.  Some of the other children had crossed them out and rewritten them, most did not know they exist.
• I was the only mother at the park.

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I tell you it made me feel very old.  Very old and rather judgemental, much like one of those old women that sit at a skateboard park with a laptop and tweets about the decline of the world and the youth of today.  Hey wait a moment, is that a mirror ?

But I guess this is the culture of the skateboard park, the culture of the whole area in fact, because behind me there were two “muscle men” clad in hideous shorts.  They had transformed one of the table spots into their own little gym.  A perfect place to show off their not yet magnificent bodies.  Seriously these men brought so much equipment with them that they must have gotten up at 5am – and arrived with a ute.

Every time that they spotted a potential mate they suddenly flexed and preened and lifted thousand kilo weights and made terrible sounds like they were on the toilet.  But, when no one was around they stopped and giggled.  Yes these macho men that were swinging medicine balls above their heads like yoyos,  giggled.  And I know that I am really old and hag like because when I looked over to try to get a better view (for blogging purposes only) – they giggled not preened.