Sunday, January 15, 2012

The Truth on Moving Day

After much needed inspiration from an honest and open blogger, who writes about her life in a raw and unabating way, I've decided to do the same, no matter who the audience may be. Thank you Kelley, for giving me the courage to delve into the belly of the beast.

When my family decide to have a serious chat, it's never in a formal setting. In fact, I would say that they wait for the formal sitting to be over, and then catch you when you're doing something completely personal, like bathing.

I quite like my grandfather's approach. He doesn't speak many words at all, and he is always very clear & eloquent. "You still go to work?" he asked, to which I nod. "You want some dollars?". "No Bapi, it's fine, I don't need dollars". For the words that he doesn't speak, my mother does.

When my mother told me she was going to be dating someone else, two weeks after my father had left, I was 11 "and a half", just home from school, and lathering up my hair in the shower. Now, that fateful wash will remain in my memory forever, along with the knowledge that there is a lock on the bathroom door for a reason.

Soon after, I packed all of my belongings and moved... to the bedroom downstairs. It was spacious and amazing, and, though I obviously didn't see the appeal back then, it comes in handy ten years later to be the closest to the front door when you get home drunk at 4:30am smelling like club-love while my mum and sister sleep soundly & blissfully ignorant, upstairs. Sometimes, however, I am still privy to the famous robe-clad, one eyed, Appearance of the Sleepy Mother when I get home, who always insists on telling me exactly what time it is. Like I care. 
I couldn't have consumed my drunk mcdonalds faster if it were served in a powers-shake & I pulled a muscle air-guitaring to the live band. I will probably wake up with my make up perfectly imprinted on my pillow tomorrow morning. Let future MissCoordinate deal with what time she got home the night/morning before!

Three weeks ago, I broke up with my boyfriend. It is a complicated bigfatmess in my brain. It also means that my double bed only has a single imprint in it these days.

Two weeks ago, my sister decides that as she is getting married in 6 months, it makes sense to order a bed now, and ensure that it is far too large to fit into her shoebox room upstairs.

Consequently, after dinner, I get a visitor to my bathroom. I don't know what it is about the closed door, running water and loud pipes that doesn't give the whole "Showering now" thing away, but low and behold, it was apparently Serious Conversation time again.

"Miss C, do your feet still smell?"


"Remember, your feet used to smell really badly? I haven't smelt them lately."

"Mum... I'm SHOWERING!!! Just because you made this body, doesn't mean you can oggle at it any time you want!"

"Anyway, you have to move upstairs. The Lovable Dragon Lady (which I have just decided is your E-Name, sister) and her husband can't sleep upstairs next to me in that little room now can they?
Also, this is happening next week. So doyouwanttokeepthebedyouhaveorarewethrowingitout? I have organised a council pick up next week so you have to getyourselforganisedandgetanewbed... orusethesinglebedupstairs... Ok goodnight".

I stand there alone & naked as the day I moved out of the womb, except now with less people around to gawk at me, with the same scrunched up winky face that comes from having womb-debris (or in my current situation, soap), in the eye. And I cry.

When you're newly single, your brain morphs into this sado-masochist of a self-hater, where everything is definitely an attack on your failed relationship. So as I lathered up, I got really lathered up.
I go to bed cranky, to have my light turned back on and my front and back spooned by the Lovable Dragon Lady and Mother Goose, because it's the perfect time for a serious discussion.
There were three in the bed and the little one said,"OHHH, MISS C IS SINGLE NOW, SHE DOESN'T NEED THE BIG ROOM AND THE DOUBLE BED. LET'S GET HER TO MOVE HER SHIT OUT IN A WEEK, BECAUSE THERE'S ONLY ONE OF HER and she doesn't MATTER!". Of course, I yell this in my best 'it's-all-about-me, you've-messed-with-the-wrong-jilted-blogger' voice. "What's next? Santa is skipping our house and God has LOST MY COORDINATES? HMM?"

After my little tirade, I saw logic, and moving day is here. It's 11:14am, and I do not want to step into my room. I do not want to face moving day, OR the fact that I am alone.

Marking this box FRAGILE,

<3 Miss Coordinate


  1. You are so welcome, and thank you for linking my blogpage here. Ive always been a writer and performer, but normally I perform and write comedy. Then I lost my husband in the blink of an eye, and my FIRST instinct was to start writing. I didnt find any grief books or anything that I related to. Nothing was honest enough, or raw enough. So I thought -I guess Ill just have to tell my own story and hope it helps me and others through this grief, and helps others get to know my wonderful husband. I figure ..why write it at all if youre not going to be brutally honest? Thank you for reading and sharing. I followed your blog as well.

  2. I think you're incredibly brave & so so inspiring.
    You're a wonderful writer! I can see the hints of comedy though, and it makes it even better, & even more emotional. I can't remember the last time anything made me cry in under three minutes!!!
    Thank you for following :) I can't wait to sit and read each one from start to finish! x

  3. "I do not want to face moving day, OR the fact that I am alone."

    Please know that you have those around you, whether they are friends, family (albeit, family who spoon you after forcing you to change rooms), or the people who read this blog.
    I believe Michael Jackson said it best when he sang, "You are not alone."

    You are never alone.