About a Dog

There's a little head resting on my ankle as I type. I get so used to the furry weight that I forget she is there. But she is. Always. She is simply there.

When I go to bed at night she tucks herself up behind my legs. When I nightmare she tucks herself in closer. If I wake to grainy images still running though my head and a dark, too-quiet world, she is there. When I wake in the mornings, twisted in my sheets, she is there. When I drag my limbs from the tangles and wonder how on earth to put my feet on the floor and begin my day, she is there. When I creep into my morning with  a sodden heart from a night of crying, she is there. As my boys bang and fuss and race about in my morning chaos, she is there. If I take five minutes to sit with a cup of tea and gather my head, she is there.

Some days ebb and flow better than others. She ebbs and flows with me. Some days find their rhythm without my forcing the hours along. Together we barely notice how time moves around us.

Some days are bent only on crashing me on the rocks of all alone. My arms dangle by themselves until a little wet nose pushes into my hand.  She is simply there.

She has no answers. She asks no questions. I don't have to tell her how I am feeling, but if I want to she'll sit for as along as I sit, and listen. She watches me yell at the walls when no one else is home. She knows I cry in the shower. She also knows I laugh at lady bugs and dance when it rains. And we love cupcakes. Both of us. Even though we know we shouldn't eat them, we do.

And we write. Since she was a tiny handful we have written together. She was there for all the midnight hours of my first draft. And for the stolen daytime hours of my second and third drafts. She was there during the chaotic hours, both day and nigh,t of my fourth draft. And she is with me now, as I attempt the fifth draft of my memoir. If I am at my computer I know where she will be- with me.

This I know: Dog is not Woman's best friend because Woman is such good company. Dog is Woman's best friend because Dog is there. Always. She is simply there.

What about you? Do you do the long hours with someone who is 'simply there'?

(photo: Me and my chihuahua "Lion." Yes, you read that right. Her name is Lion :)

The Vision Behind My Eyes

What would I know about myself if I was only one and not one of many?
Would I know simple things still? My height. My hair color. My skin. all the same. Nothing changes.

But what about character?
Would I understand the length and breadth of myself if other people didn't provide someone to rise above or someone to strive towards?

What about the degree of my own ability or depravity?
Would I understand the depth of my capacity for both light and darkness, to both illuminate and drown out, if there were no other voices to be heard? Would I ever be all I could be?
Would such a question even matter, you may ask?
They matter. Because there are others, those questions matter.

I am not who I am only in relationship to myself, yet I need to find me in the silence of skillful listening to the One who created me and the true whispers of self.

No one writes on the pages of life in a tunnel of isolation. Those around me constantly shape my words.  It matters what I know about me when I am with you. And it matters what I know about me when you are gone. How well I understand the depth and length, the day and night of my very being becomes my life's song. The steps I will take. The words I will write. And ultimately the me I will birth.
It matters that I see me through clear eyes. That is why a writer is never anything without a reader. A musician never heard without an audience. A soul never unwrapped outside intimacy with another and a life never lived unless you hold plenty of hands along the way.

My writing began as a way to share myself with myself. To get to know the woman trapped within. But is has become more. I want it to become more. That is why I don't post about the mechanics of writing very often or share what I am learning about plot, pacing or structure. The words I share here are me. It is another way for me to hold more hands in life and be blessed by those who join with me. It is my way to clear my vision in regards to my writing ability and my personal growth. What you read here is who I am. Never less. But often more.

Through My Eyes is a place for me to be seen, but more importantly, it is a place for me to see. It is a blog to share the vision behind my eyes, enriched by what is reflected back.  Through My Eyes is memoir of whatever moves me on a daily basis. Inspiration in the big and the little. Life, in all its glorious mess. I dream that you might take something of what you find here and write your own big bold words of HOPE and INSPIRATION across your own life. I pray you do. :)

I passed 200 followers a little while back.
Thank you. For taking the journey with me. And for sharing whatever you do of your own. We are not the only one. And yet, we are not simply one of many. :)

~

PS- Click the facebook badge or twitter fed on this blog if you care to connect with me there too http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1258498368
 http://twitter.com/tabithabird

Branded with a Butterfly

"Just when the caterpillar thought her world had ended she turned into a butterfly."

Are you branded?

Twelve years ago, without words to express why I was drawn to them, I had a butterfly tattooed on my right ankle.

Blue, vigorous and enduring.

The foreverness of tattoos coupled with the image of fragile wings whispered everything my heart couldn't speak about my life.

I was broken and I was strong. And I was about to be married.

Two years ago, with a vague understanding of the landscape inside me, I drew the designs for two more butterflies. The entwining creatures were tattooed on my left shoulder blade. The names of my sons sit underneath their wings. The foreverness of tattoos coupled with the fleeting nature of boyhood. Flight and children. A perfect partnership?

I was broken and I was strong. And I was searching for a way to hold them eternally.

Almost a year ago I started sharing my writing here. Blogger demanded an image. A tag. A brand.

This time I was halfway to a memoir and halfway to healing. I came across this proverb.

"Just when the caterpillar thought her world had ended she turned into a butterfly."

And I knew.

I was already branded.

Around the blogosphere you'll see my wings. The blue butterfly that tags my comments.

I am broken and I am strong. And daily I birth the woman inside me.

What about you? Are you branded?

Did I mention I was hot. tired and packing up house? Oh. I did.

Okay okay! I have been tagged three times by three different blogging mates. I am now officially IT. Okay? So  here are my answers to the 993845019345 questions that some merry little elf thought up while everyone else was busy present buying, present wrapping, present worrying... or is that just me? And did I mention I am hot, tired and packing up house? No? Yes?  A few times, shut up now Tab?We move on the 23rd of DEC. Where did I put my Valium? 

 No, seriously, I don't mind answering these questions. Though I have to warn you, I couldn't manage to answer all the questions all that seriously. After all, 'tis the season for madness, Valium, relatives, more Valium.... and crazy running around stores with children in tow explaining for the thousandth time why they cannot have anymore candy and why you are not going to buy them that toy just before Christmas and...

Did I mention I was hot, tired and packing up house? :)

Okay, so here goes.

1. What's the last thing you wrote? What's the first thing you wrote that you still have?
The last thing I wrote was 12000 words on my next book. And yes, I am bragging. I woke up with words in my head and, like I said... 12 000 words later... And I am packing house... and present buying/wrapping/worrying... I know. I am your hero.

First thing  I wrote... a play. I was six. Something I still have? I bet I have that play somewhere... I think it was good too. It was about Garfield the dancing cat and... You want to read it, don't you. You know you do.


2. Write poetry?
Yes. Yep. Lots of it. 

3. Angsty poetry?
Uh-huh. It is how stupid people manage to walk past me without getting hit.

4. Favorite genre of writing?
Hmmm... I don't know. Not historical. Not romance. Not anything with blood sucking aliens in it or ... well, I guess it depends what the blood sucking aliens do later on in the story... I mean, that could be interesting... it beats the dancing cat.

5. Most annoying character you've ever created?
Me. I am pretty annoying to begin with in my memoir. I am being pretty annoying right now too. Even I can admit that.

6. Best Plot you've ever created?
The novel I am working on. But that is not a fair question. The word 'BEST' suggests you have other choices. If I  wrote 'The Time Traveler's Wife' then that would be my favorite. Can we pretend I did? Yes? Oh... you said no. Well then. I am passing on this question. I need some chocolate. Is this only question 6?

7. Coolest Plot twist you've ever created?
See above. Still need chocolate. Got any?

8. How often do you get writer's block?
Well, I have it now. I cannot think what to write for this question. Chocolate would help. And wine. Ooh, and a bubble bath with... never mind.

9. Write fan fiction?
What the heck is fan fiction? Are there blood sucking aliens in it? Can you drink wine in the bath while you read it? Then maybe I will write it.

10. Do you type or write by hand?
Both. When are the iEverything people going to invent a computer that will scan hand written work and convert it to typed text? Hmm! Where is THAT iPod application? Hey? Smart brainy Apple Mac kind of people!

11. Do you save everything you write?
No. Shopping lists are really only interesting to me.

12. Do you ever go back to an idea after you've abandoned it?
Those poor abandoned ideas. Where do they go? Who will love them after I leave them? ... because I do leave them people...I leave them all the time. And I leave them for very good reasons. Like having no blood sucking aliens in them... or a dancing cat.

13. What's your favorite thing you've ever written?
The shopping list I wrote today was pretty fantastic. Seriously. Who doesn't love writing out the Christmas grocery list? All. That. Food. 

Sorry, I don't know. I love all my babies, so far...

14. What's everyone else's favorite story that you've written?
Hardly anyone gets to read my stuff.  There is something delicious about being the only one with access to your words... and I am a HUGE gutless chicken sometimes. Really. Gutless. And a chicken. Uh huh. 

I have lost you now, haven't I. Now you need chocolate.

15. Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?
And not turned it into a comedy? Ah. No. 

And romance? Definitely no.

16. What's your favorite setting for your characters?
It was a dark and stormy night... oh, I don't know!
Man... there are a whole lot of questions hey.

17. How many writing projects are you working on right now?
Three.

18. Have you ever won an award for your writing?
A small poetry award. Does that count? I feel like that should count. So, yes. I have. :)

19. What are your five favorite words?
“Name your price." Oh, sorry that was three words. "How much do you want for that book?" Ah, no. That was eight. 

Ummm... "Cheese, wine, chocolate, Best Seller." That do?

20. What character have you created that is most like yourself?
Me. In my memoir I am very like me.

21. Where do you get ideas for your characters?
My head. Oh. More information? Other people. I read this thing once that said, "Watch out or you will be in my next book." I love that. Watch out people.

22. Do you ever write based on your dreams?
Yes. And No. Well... at the moment I am dreaming that we already moved house I a woke up and someone else has already unpacked everything and then my fairy godmother says... 

I think I am tired.

23. Do you favor happy endings?
What? Endings where the blood sucking aliens actually kiss and make up and marry their soul mates? 

 Where is the fun in that?

24. Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Shure!!! I care about speling a whol lott.

25. Does music help you write?
Music puts me in the mood and inspires me. But what it puts me in the mood for is either a glass of wine and some good friends or a glass of wine and... you get the idea. No. Music does not help me. My head it already full of words that I am trying to manipulate and coerce into magic making sentences. I don't need any more words floating around doing their own thing.

26. Quote something you've written. Whatever pops into your head.

Nothing popped in. Really. I tried. Did I mention I have packed all day? And that we are moving house on the 23rd? Yeah. Of THIS  month!  

Oh wow.

THE. END. 

That was a lot of questions.

I am not tagging anyone. You all just breathed a sigh of relief didn't you. Now we can all go eat chocolate. 

Hope your Christmas preparations are going well.:)

My last post will be on Tuesday. Then I will see you all in the new year. :)

When a Tiara Falls

The tiara fell from the head of a little princess who was rocked by hands that bruised and never told her she was beautiful.

Thirty years later I found it.

Mashing around in the crud of my past my fingers brushed against the edges of words that I wanted to caress me, but never heard in childhood and had little idea how to wrap around me now.

Yet there underneath my faded sense of worth lay the tiara, lost among all the diamond tears I have cried. Stained with rusted and dented, but still it was mine.

Today I put it on...

What about you? What have you lost? What have you found?

The Smile Bearer

"What is it?"

"A Clown."

"No. I can see it is a clown. I mean..." I searched my brain, what did I mean? He took me by surprise, this seventeen year old boy. Who gives their girlfriend a miniature clown? Roses, now I knew what to do with roses. But clowns?

"Don't you like it?"

"Oh, well... yeah, it's cute... Why are you giving me a clown?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "It made me smile. I guess I thought you could use a smile."

Perfect. The clown was perfect.

That was the first of many smiles that boy found to give me.

One Christmas he bought me a Chihuahua. He hated Chihuahuas. But my first fury was very sick and he wanted me to have another little friend with soft ears to cry on when she passed away.

The pup was perfect.

One birthday he bought me a thesaurus and wrote in it, " I hope this helps your words to be seen by the world one day." He'd seen me pace and cry over words. I guess he'd also noticed me stroking dictionaries and the like in bookstores. More importantly, he knew I had a dream. I hadn't even admitted that to myself.

The thesaurus was perfect.

Then one May he bought me a ring.

Eleven years later two little boys ask to look at that pretty rock. My eldest wants to hear the stories. "Tell me about the clown again Mommy."

I have a few smile bearers now.

But he was the first.

I will forever be grateful.

~

What about you? Who or what brings you a smile?

[image]

Well Loved Things

Before I was a writer I knew about Well Loved Things...

Well Loved Things have small ears, big ears, no ears at all, or perhaps floppy ears that once stood straight. They have some fur or patchy fur or fur coats that need patching or sticky patches of fur where ice-cream fingers hold them tight.

Well Loved Things have long tails or missing tails or tails that need sewing and seams that need stitching. Well Loved Things are missing that new smell, that 'just opened smell' and now, they just smell. Well Loved Things are torn, pulled, fought over, squashed, folded and threadbare. They are missing one button eye, both button eyes, two whiskers, the hat they came with, an arm and the velvet off the once black nose. But Well Loved Things don't care. Their flaws are completely undetected.

They are never missing their child... unless of course...

...they fall from shelves or bedposts or back packs on the first day of school. Well Loved Things fall from cribs and car seats and highchairs and prams and often from sleeping children's hands onto the bedroom floor. Well Loved Things fall from bicycle baskets and buckets and boxes and all sorts of hidy holes. They fall from adventures in doll houses, car garages and the tops of castles and cubby house landings.

Yes, Well Loved Things fall a lot, such is the life of a Well Loved Thing.

But Well Loved Things don't care.

Well Loved Things are too busy taking weekly, sometimes daily, trips around and around in the washing machine or important trips to the dentist or doctors office clasped in the arms of their child. They take trips to the beach, the park, Great Aunt Martha's house and maybe even to church on Sunday morning. Well Loved Things are busy being tucked up under blankets and suffocated beneath little arms, only to resurface at the bottom of bedsheets the following morning.

And Well Loved Things wouldn't have it any other way.

Well Loved Things are lost under cuddles when the thunder shakes the skies above, or lost beneath tears when nothing about the day went right. They are lost in cinemas, in grocery carts, in Mommy's bag, in the car or sometimes even over night at Nan and Pops. Well Loved Things spread sunshine when they are found and sighs of relief from worried parents who know they can never replace a Well Loved Thing.

And Well Loved Things wouldn't have it any other way.

Well Loved Things are quiet, when listening is needed and loud, when silence is scary. They are friends in darkness and solitude in crowds of faces. Well Loved Things keep secretes and tell no tales. They are the friends that never grow old, even when their seams burst, stuffing breaks forth and their child out grows them. Well Loved Things never leave, at least not on purpose, and they never forget. They remain, they are still, they are fixed in time and waiting... because

Well Loved Things are the important stuff of childhood.

And Well Loved Things wouldn't have it any other way.

My Well Loved Thing had a name. Mingy. A mangy teddy mouse with a scrappy tail. And even now I long to find him. In a box, somewhere, he still lives. Mingy isn't really lost, as Well Loved Things never are, because somewhere a child remembers. Even if they are now an adult.

In a box in my mind I have him safe.

A well loved thing that I loved well.

And now I am a writer I use my knowing of Well Loved Things to craft that same feeling in the words I write. I want my books to be the kinds of friends that never leave and never forget. The kind you can revisit. The kind that always have arms wide opened.

What about you? What Well Loved Thing do you have boxed in your mind? And what do you dream of crafting in your books?

The Entrance to Dripping Wet.

[* In a life before children, my husband and I lived in Hong Kong for two years. Thought I'd share a bit about the people and places that have added to who I am as a writer. Now I just battle sticky words and humid sentences... we love it anyway. Right?]

A huddled throng of frustrated humanity takes cover just inside the concrete block entrance to Hong Kong’s MTR (Mass Transit Railway) station. Pouring rain is not an unexpected phenomenon, but the milling sea of domestic helpers, round bellied executives, school children and bent over ladies with toddlers strapped to their backs seem to have left home today quite unprepared. Though perhaps with good reason.

Millions of humid, sticky people go about life hemmed in by high-rise and hampered by two feet of walkway. This coupled with low hanging signage and the taxi invested roads make umbrellas a useless burden. So we stand waiting for… what? The skies to close? Hong Kong to float to the Bahamas?

Shoving, slipping and general unhappiness results. Dripping concrete cracks above form puddles beneath our feet. Moss grows on our toes. Desperate souls push to the front and thrust folded newspapers or Gucci purses above their heads. The pouring wall of wet mocks futile attempts at dryness and, eventually, we accept our fates. The sticky line of people push through the blockage and cross the road. A line of humanity snakes up and down the stairs behind wealthy Tai Tai’s wielding umbrellas, but still, for some reason know only to the Chinese, seeking shelter at the entrance. People enter. People leave. Others wait. A workable mayhem ensues, and summer living in Hong Kong continues.

~

What about you? What people or places have added to you as a writer? Tell me, where have ya been? Let those travel tails/tales hang out.

All in a Row

I don’t stand in rows, unless I have to. Unless that would be considered good manners. And patience. Then I Row Stand with the best of them.

But otherwise…I don’t understand rows. All that clustered sameness. All that fitting into other people’s boxes and shoes. All that waiting… waiting…waiting.

When you make your own line. You’re first. There’s no one to follow.

The first time I made my own row, I trembled and shook.What would the Line Makers say? Whose footprints would walk down the beach before mine? Where would I go now that I wasn’t waiting for the person in front of me to move?

Freedom. Ahhh… the sweet skies above. Limited only by myself.

So I re-wrote my book. Saying all the things I wanted to breathe and forgetting that it was for other people. In those moments, the writing was for me. And it felt good.

Then I bought that dress. The one I passed by because it was too… beautiful.

I asked Matt to hold me. Because I felt like it. I wanted his arms. And I let myself be held.

And I shaved my head. Yes, really. I have always wanted to do it. I thought it would be pixie like. I left just enough hair to have hair and wispy bits beside my face. But I wasn’t sure when I met my new reflection. She was pretty. Not like me. Not at all. I wished I were her. I wondered what it might be like. I am looking forward to finding out. Because now she doesn’t look like someone who waits behind.

What about you? Where do you stand on the issue of rows? A time to line up and a time to start your own line? No need to head shave… unless you have always wanted to. Then perhaps you should :)

PS- I take no responsibility for shaved heads as a result of this post.

PSS-No snails were harmed during the taking of this photo.

[image courtesy]

Blog Award #2

A huge thanks to Liberty from 'Word Wanderings' for my second blog award. I post a bit about me on this blog, but I haven't really posted much about my first book. Some of you might have read the post I wrote on how that memoir came to be. But I have many other concerns about the delicate art of writing what could be termed a 'misery memoir'. So here are ten honest thoughts, questions and worries about my life in the process of writing my memoir.

1. Does it matter? I mean does it really matter to anyone other than me that I have written a memoir about my abusive childhood and coming to terms with that pain? I constantly battle with the thought that maybe memoirs are only relevant to their authors. Deep down I don't believe that, but still... the thoughts are there.
2. My memoir is non-conventional. I created a metaphorical character that I named Beast who I used to confront and deal with the pain. The book an interwoven story between the struggles of the inner world of these 'characters' and my life in the 'real world' above. I sometimes worry that my work doesn't fit 'type' well. How non-conventional can a memoir be and still have a chance at publication?
3. Obviously the work is non-fiction. I worry about not being believed. I worry that my parents might try to sue me. I worry about my father's reactions. I worry about libel and vetting the manuscript and well, I just worry...
4. I am brave enough to stand behind my words, but I feel for my mother who may not be. Even though at the moment she is in full support of my writing.
5. It is not a pretty read. Is there room enough in this world for another 'heavy' read? Will it shed light or just lift the lid on more shadows? I am hoping for 'shedding light' but there may also be a place for 'shadow shifting.'
6. Is there a publisher out there with the 'balls' to publish it? Is there an agent who would champion such raw and intense writing? There are strong Christian themes and not always favourable view points about God and the Church. The book has the potential to ruffle feathers. Actually, I rather enjoy feather ruffling...
7. How do you even go about querying a memoir? My understanding is that you query it like a novel. Yet it is nothing like a novel in many ways. And in other ways it is exactly like one. This is a HUGE learning curve for me.
   
8. Do I write a synopsis or a book proposal or both? Memoirs seem to fall into the large crack between novels and self-help books. It's not a book of facts and figures and I don't offer any ten step plans. Just the chance to see how someone else travelled the road out from hell and hurting. Really, it's a story. It just happens to be a true one.
9. My memoir is currently in a massive competition. And frankly, I think it would be an act of God if it even came close to being short-listed. I think the work may have gone out too unrefined and a bit early. But it's out there. I have a couple of big fans of my writing. My editor and my counsellor, but I am interested to see how it fairs in the world beyond them.
10. I am anything but precious about my writing. My counsellor has a copy of the manuscript and has (with my permission) shared the work with others. I find their heart felt praise hard to accept. I deal better with criticism. I know, I know!

I am passing this award along and challenge the following amazing blog authors to share their own honest insights about whatever the heck they feel insightful about :)

Wendy from 'On Words and Upwards' (here's to reaching 'upwards.')

Melody from 'Newly Minted Mrs.' (remember being 'newly minted'?!)

Gary Corby from 'A Dead Man fell from the Sky' (very cool title)

Sherrinda from 'A Wanna Be Writer.' (I wanna be too)

T. Anne from 'White Platonic Dreams.' (wish my dreams were white)

There are so many other amazing authors and inspiring writers I follow, but you all have this award!

I look forward to hearing the honesty others have to share. And if you happen to be a writer who has written your own memoir or know of someone who has, I'd love to hear from you.

That's it for me and 'list posts' for a while. Sorry, I know I have been flogging them a bit lately.
Check back for an upcoming author interview. I will post details tomorrow.

Before I was a writer...

Before I was a writer I never pretended to eat the dog. Um...... maybe I did. Writing can't be blamed for all my craziness. Can it?! Here's a random list of other things that may or may not have happened before I was a writer.

Before I was a writer....

1. I burnt dinner for all sorts of reasons. But never because there was an amazing scene in my head just begging to be typed.
2. notebooks were for writing shopping listings and reminders. We had one. Two at the most and they lived on the kitchen bench. Now we have... oh, a million. And they are hiding in every nook and cranny.
3. Feelings welled up inside me and had nowhere to productive the vent. Journalling is great, but creating a whole world of characters that are held captive in my head and are forced to deal with whatever crap I want to throw at them is pure bliss.
4. I had a job that paid.
5. Something gnawed at the back of my mind. Like there was something I had forgotten to do or someone I forgot I wanted to be.
6. I thought punctuation and grammar were for the weak. Now I appreicate my weakness with punctuation and grammar AND I try my level best to get it right. I'm still trying... I have an editor now. God knows I need one! Thank you, my wonderful sister-in-law.
7. There was a waste land in my life begging to be filled with words. I breathed, but it was very shallow.
8. My family were never sure where to find me. Now it's a sure bet that I'll be in front of the computer.
9. We didn't run out of coffee cups because they were languishing on every possible surface in my office.
10. My abusive childhood had no way to be seen. My pain had no words and my memories no safe place to express themselves.

Was there life before writing? Hmmm....

Lost in English Translation

I don't know... I can't think straight today. I got in at some ungodly hour of the morning, actually it was only 1 am and I do remember, not that long ago, that 1 am was the start of many a great night out. I went to PINK's concert last night. UNREAL! UNREAL! UNREAL! I will come down from Planet Unreal at some point today, but seriously, what an amazing show. You just gotta admire a girl that can swing sixty odd feet in the air, hanging by one leg, and still manage to belt out her songs!

Okay, all that has absolutely nothing to do with today's post. Except that hearing Pink's accent last night did start me wishing that we were back in the USA. I sometimes find myself watching American sitcoms just to hear that accent. How is it possible to love two countries with equal passion? My eldest son was born there, so the USA will always have a special place in my heart. We lived in Denver for almost three years, working and traveling around, and I am blessed to have some amazing friends living there.

But, and here's what I wanted to post on today, I learnt that English is not always English. At the time we had just moved from Hong Kong, where we had more than a few communication frustrations, and I was breathing a sigh of relief upon arriving in the US. I wouldn't have to request an English speaker when going shopping or use sign language to direct a taxi driver. And I wouldn't have to barter in my broken Cantonese at the wet markets. I am Australian, they are American, but we all speak English... right?

But I was wrong. Often, very wrong. Okay, not about the wet markets, but I quickly learnt that our car had a trunk and not a boot, a hood and not a bonnet. A lovely Mexican working in KFC taught me that a biscuit is not a sweet food, but a dough like thing that went well with chicken. The word I was looking for was cookie. A lady in the LAX airport introduced me to the phrase, "Sit your fanny down!" while screaming at her runaway kids. The word 'fanny' has quite a different meaning over here. Let's just say that you wouldn't yell for your kids to sit down on it.

And my own mother (who came to visit) reinforced the concept that Australians and Americans are referring to very different items of clothing when they say the word 'thong'. I never could return to footwear department of Target after my mother yelled across the store, 'Gosh Tab, aren't these thongs just adorable!" "Flip flops, Mum. They are flip flops!"

And some of this vocabulary made it's way back to Australia with me when I returned. I still go searching all over the house yelling, um, asking, "Where's my damn cell phone?" when the term we use here is mobile. I still pack a diaper bag for my son, even though my mother loves to correct me. "It's a nappy bag, Tabitha! A N-A-P-P-Y B-A-G!"

Yeah, yeah.

I'm just grateful my son never had a pacifier. I would never hear the end of that one.

"A D-U-M-M-Y, Tabitha. It's a dummy!"

So, some words can not be escaped from, even though my accent has now washed and I can once again say 'G'day mate' without raising an eyebrow from my fellow Aussies. Actually, no one here says G'day mate, do they? Nor do we chuck another 'sanga' on the barbie. Although we definitely have BBQ's and heaps of sausages... now I'm hungry.

My point to all this? Nothing really. Just missin' the USA and wishing I could hitch a lift back to my other home with PINK.

So here's to PINK and all the Americans I love. You know who you are! :)

Oh, and I promise to get back to writing about books, bubs and... writing first thing next post. Promise!

What's Behind the Writer?

Okay, I've had this blog for about a month and a half now and initially I wasn't sure I'd get any readers, but it seems I have a few. So, I thought I'd tell ya a bit more about the woman behind this blog.

Ten things about Tab.

1. I adore Chihuahua's. Really. I know, they are squeaky dogs as opposed to real ones that bark, but I like them. Especially mine. Oh, and I named her Lion. Perfect. Don't ya think?
2. I lived in Hong Kong for two years and taught at an international school there. They were my first two years as a teacher. I am not sure what I was thinking, or why the school hired me. But they did! I made sure I had all the fun that was to be had.
3. I call Australia home. For now. Some days my feet still the itch to move... we'll see.
4. I write. Non-fiction mostly. My first book, a memoir, is in the editing stage. I also write for magazines. Again, mostly non-fiction.
5. At this moment I am telling my son to stop eating the pens. He is my youngest. My other science experiment is at school. Joking! I love my boys.
6. I know my husband loves me. Important. Very important. The world can be very cold sometimes.
7. I am obsessed with butterflies. I think they stand for hope, freedom and new beginnings. I have three tattoos. All of them are of butterflies. I got the first one ten years ago when I married my husband. It is a small blue one on my ankle with his name underneath. The other two are in honor of my boys with their names underneath.
8. I have spent two weeks in the Maldives. I hope to get back there at least once more in this life time.
9. I am going to Pink's concert tonight. Her music is another of my little obsessions.
10. I box. Yeah, the real deal, in the ring with gloves on type stuff. I love it. I also love to run. Probably a good combination :)
11. Okay, I know I said ten things about Tab, but this one can't be left off the list. I am a Christian. God and I know each other. We have been through some tough stuff together and He has proved Himself to be exactly who He says He is. A VERY big God with massive shoulders that can carry me and all my mess. I love Him. But I know He loved me first.

What about you? What would other's say about you?

Writing Buddy.

Husband 'Thrilled' about Dog in his Back Pocket.

Just thought I'd introduce my tiny, but long suffering writing buddy. When I was really hacking through some tough stuff last year I bought this little bag of bones that I comically refer to as 'Lion'. See how happy Matt is about my dog in his back pocket! We all know she is far from a dog let alone a lion, but I wanted the first laugh. Yes, I know she is the dog you have when you are not having a dog, but I adore her. She sits patiently curled up at my feet or wedged behind my back as I write. We have seen more than one dawn together, quiet a few midnights and she never complains about my incessant need to play with her ears.

She has no tail, no idea that other dogs are not scared of her and no sense of the fact that my husband refuses to admit that he loves her. The best part about Lion is that she's all mine. I love that 'tiny furry' at my feet. She makes the hours I spend writing seem a lot less lonely. And, yeah, sometimes writing can be lonely.

Of course she's not just a writing buddy. She also holds her own as a 'sleep-in' buddy and a 'feed-me- your cake' mate. Every night my husband drags her out from beneath our blankets to put her in her own little bed. Every night she looks forlornly in my direction.

She has been known to tear up innocent socks and beat up unsuspecting toys. The toilet roll is not safe either. But she is very skilled at licking away tears and knows just when to stay close by me. I wonder what I ever did without her!

So, there you have it. My writing buddy and companion, Lion.

The dog that wasn't!