Don't shove me out of the nest!

"I'm 26 years old and I still live with my parent."

Saying that out loud sounds kind of dirty & shameful, doesn't it? When you think of people who live with their parents, the stereotype is typically an unemployed virgin with no friends. And they eventually become serial killers. If I look around at most other 26 year olds, they live in shared units with friends, in awesome apartments with their partners or they even own a house. But I'm not them. Well I have been pretty much all of those people at some time or another in my life (Wait! Except the unemployed virgin with no friends!) I moved out of home when I was 17 and four months old. And I moved 4 hours away by myself! I lived in a share house with five strangers but I quickly I moved in with a new boyfriend and stopped going back to my real home. That didn't go well and I moved back home with Dad after 18 months.

I was with my Big Bad ex for years while living at home and after a while it occurred to me that he lived with me. It was never really discussed or anything, but less of his stuff was going home and eventually he stopped going home too. After a while we decided to save up and buy our own house. So we did just that in May 2007.

Some people may be shocked to learn (or to remember) that I used to be a home owner. Yep. I used to buy Better Homes & Gardens magazines. Don't get me confused with someone else, I never cooked, I hated cleaning and I had a room that was just for unfolded laundry because the wardrobes sucked! But I had my own home and had even wondered if maybe the spare bedrooms might not be spare forever. Well they weren't because eventually we realised that while we could afford to stay in our house, we weren't going forward and we put the house up for rent. Big Bad Ex & I moved back in with Dad. In case you're wondering how a relationship fares when you move back in with parents, the answer is badly. It sucked as a couple. I like it because I'm happy at home but as a couple, not so much. I wouldn't say living with Dad was a contributing factor to why I broke up with him but it helped make me unhappy enough to realise I was wrong, he didn't really get me & I didn't want to be with him forever.

As I said, I was happy living with Dad but so was Big Bad Ex. He just... didn't... leave. So I did. I moved in with my cousin. It was the best year of my life to date. We had so much fun. We would go on late night coffee runs, hosted amazing parties, had the best set up of our stuff & had friends coming & going all the time. I learned a lot about who I am as a person while living in the unit. I became so much less angry (yes, I used to have a vicious and acerbic temper.) I learned to self soothe - a skill I never had until then. Like I said, best year of my life.

But like all good things, eventually it came to an end & in an effort to save money again, I moved back in with Dad (Big Bad Ex has finally moved on, though is still in regular contact with my dad). I've been here for eight months now. I'm happy here. It's just Dad & I. We share the cooking & cleaning - even though that mainly consists of heating canned soup & somebody doing the dishes. We play football together on Monday nights & he's my football coach. He plays on Wednesday nights so I get the house to myself. My friends are always welcome & they come around quite often.

Now I live rent free while I save up money for England. But I pay a big portion of the bills including the phone, internet, electricity and rates. Ok, maybe I pay most of the bills. But I don't pay rent & I definitely don't do my fair share of work around the house so I guess it all evens out in the end.

I don't see why society should look down on me for living at home. Is it the fact that I'm single that is the problem? Should I have settled for boyfriends that didn't make me as happy as I deserve to be and force myself to live with them? Should I waste my chance at a savings account so that I can live with strangers in a unit? Should I sacrifice my chance to live in England for a few months so I can instead do the exact same things I do in Australia but in a house that my dad doesn't live in? It all seems so pointless and I haven't heard any argument that makes me feel like I'm not making the best decision. So you know what? I don't care.

"I'm 26 years old and I still live with my parent."

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• What do you think of people in their 20s & 30s who live with their parents?
• When did you move out of home and why?
• Have you ever moved back home and & how did it work out?

Getting under my skin

Tattoos are not to be entered into lightly. They are one of those things that requires careful consideration and a clear decision making process - like buying a car, picking a career and choosing a Twitter handle. You can't rush into any of these things!

I have one tattoo. It is a green four leaf clover on my right hip. Jess, my best friend in the whole word has the exact mirror image on her left hip. This is because I am right handed and she is left handed. It's a beautiful perfect design that symbolizes different things to each of us - for me, it's my Irish heritage and the sacrifices my Protestant grandmother made to be with my Catholic grandfather.

I have thought of many tattoo designs I would love to get over time. Designs inspired by Alice in Wonderland, dinosaurs and The Nightmare Before Christmas and quotes from Edgar Allan Poe, Red Hot Chili Peppers and other songs that have spoken to me deeply.

The only two I ever thought about enough to really consider getting permanently inked into my flesh are the words 'Mi temor no soy yo' just below my left breast. This is Spanish for 'My fear is not me' - as in Yes, I have a fear (of death) but it does not define me. If I was partial to more ink coverage, I would get 'Es el alma temerosa de morir que nunca aprendío a vivir' or Spanish for 'It's the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live.' I have been teaching myself to speak Spanish for years now & those words are very special to me.

The other tattoo is 'You'll never walk alone'. This is the Liverpool FC motto and was the song sang at my Grandfather's funeral. The lyrics inspire me and feel like they were written especially for my fear.

I had previously been debating fonts to use, wondering if I should stick true to the all caps design on the Shankly Gates or choose a favourite script. Tonight, I finally settled on a design. Dad wrote the words out in his own handwriting. They look simply beautiful and I can't wait to have them etched permanently onto me.

I am going to England (what? You hadn't heard?) in around three months and plan to get my tattoo done in Liverpool - birthplace of my grandfather and my father and home to my favourite football club. I've found a tattoo parlour and emailed them.

But this brings me to a problem in my process. I had always wanted my tattoo on the outside of my right foot (see pic) because this is my kicking foot (for football) and because... well because walk, foot, walk? See what I did there? But I've read this can either fade or smudge. Since my tattoo is 9cm long x 1 cm tall & the thickness of a ballpoint pen, the fine detail needs to remain.

Yes, others have similar tattoos. I don't care.

My design. It's in my dad's handwriting and in
lower case font (AKA: Santa's handwriting)

The other issue I have is a tattoo needs to remain uncovered for 2-3 weeks minimum and up to three months to truly preserve the artistry. I can't do that while traveling around England! I had planned to make a quick pitstop with my traveling companions on our UK toad trip (of which I am the sole driver). Perhaps I could trek out to Liverpool just before I return to Australia and let the healing happen here? I'm not sure.

I've emailed the tattooist asking for an opinion on all this. If it comes back in the negative (and I'm afraid it might) where else could I get this tattoo? I AM getting it and I AM getting this exact design. It is in an envelope labelled 'my tattoo' and is in my suitcase already (along with my Oyster card & its union jack holder). So, 9cm long x 1cm tall handwritten tattoo. Any ideas for placement if I can't get my foot?

Miss SAMawdsley xx

What would you sacrifice to do something you love?

I am accident prone. This is no secret. I have blogged about this in my post, "And try not to hurt yourself".

Since then, my relationship broke up and my football season started up again. The football part is great news for me because I love my football - both playing and watching. It's terrible news for my boss because since the season started, I've limped into work almost every Monday morning. He's told me that if I was in the army, I would have been sanctioned for self-inflicting these wounds.

Now, to clarify, my boss is also my uncle. So he's kidding. Same as when he tells me I'm not the accident waiting to happen, I'm the accident that keeps on happening. He loves me dearly, I know that. And he only wants what is best for me - both personally and professionally. As my uncle he has, on numerous occasions, urged me to give up football. My aunty has insisted I do girl things. She wrote it on my whiteboard at work. "Sammy is a girl and must only do girlie things!" And upon hearing last week that both my knees were injured (strained ACL on my left and a bruise on my right) Mum's exact words were "You have to give up the football, kiddo." Where are these sentiments coming from?

Well today I didn't limp into the office. No, no. My dad drove me to work & carried my laptop in while I hobbled in on crutches. My team was 1-0 with only a few minutes to go in our game on Saturday. Desperate to not concede a goal, I went in for a challenge and while I did dispossess the attacker, I came off second best. I have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow and I imagine I will be sent for an X-Ray &/or an MRI.

For months my uncle has insisted I will regret my decision to continue playing football. Now you can't be a Mawdsley without being passionate about football, so you must understand he has had a long involvement with the game - he and my dad were even foundation members of a local club, Rochedale Rovers. He played with my dad for many, many years. He was goalkeeper and he hurt his knee and back on numerous occasions. He continued to play. He regrets it now. He believes I will too.

My uncle has a lot of constant and very severe back and knee pain. It robs him of sleep, physical mobility, the ability to do much of the work he is capable of doing around his house and being able to play all rough and tumble with his granddaughter - the light of his life.

On the other hand, there is my dad. Now granted, he is a couple of years younger than my uncle, but only a couple. He plays football on Monday nights with a big group of men (& I play with him). On Wednesday nights he plays in a huge 35+ comp. I'm not old enough to play there. On Thursdays, he trains my team. Now when I say train, I don't mean stands around and yells instructions, I means gets in there and does everything we do. He plays in the game at the end of training and has been brought down in tackles on numerous occasions. He has had surgery on both knees, two shattered wrists, a broken ankle, a shattered cheek, numerous broken toes, memory loss and more strains, sprains and muscle tears than he could possibly count. But he still plays, he still loves it and he regrets absolutely nothing. He loves football - the light of his life.

So what do I do? I love football. I am still on a high from our 1-0 win on Saturday. In a way, I wear my knee bandage as a badge of honour. The only reason I got hurt is because I went in for a hard tackle to stop a goal. The only reason I cared so much about the result is because I love my football team. And the only reason I love my football team so much is because I have never met a group of 16 girls who are as accepting, fun-loving and supportive as my team.

Samantha, football star.

I played football when I was about six but I hated getting up early (see 'Ambition > Talent') so I gave it up for gymnastics which was on a weekday afternoon. I started up again when I was 12 and played on the boys team with three other girls. Those girls were all friends and were horrible to me. Absolutely horrible. At the end of the season, QSF told me I couldn't play with the boys anymore and would have to join a women's team. With those three bitches. So I quit again. In high school I wouldn't join the football teams because none of my friends would. I finally sucked it up and joined by myself in grade 11 and 12. I enjoyed it but the girls weren't that nice to me. Dad came to every single game when no other parent showed up to even a single one. That's just what football means to my family. At this time, I also played on a men's commercial league team with my dad. Each Friday night I would lace up my boots and march out there to play - the only girl - small for my age & inevitably with blonde pigtails. My team sent me out as captain. The general consensus was you had to be 17 and a male to play. I was 15 and a girl. But when someone finally challenged this, no definitive rule could be found & I was allowed to continue playing. I've played on men's six-a-side comps, men's indoor football comps and in other tournaments.

Last year, my cousin mentioned she was signing up for another season with her football team. She asked me why I didn't play with her. I told her I categorically refused to play with girls after my recent experiences. I was hesitant but she insisted they were absolutely lovely. Finally, I caved. Dad - ever the football fan - came to my first training session. By the end of the hour he'd been asked to be assistant coach. My cousin was right. The group of girls was amazing. Breathtaking. Lovely. Funny. Warm. There aren't enough adjectives. I love those girls - every one of them. As someone who has been judged, treated poorly and deemed 'weird' her whole life, I feel accepted. I've made friends. And I get to play football every week with my friends. And my dad. He's now our coach.

I think I just answered my own question, didn't I? I love my football team too much to quit. I love the time I spend each Monday night with my dad. I don't see me ever giving up the sport I love so much. Even if it means I won't be able to walk in 25 years time.

I have a football team.

I have friends.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• What do you love most in the world?
• What would you sacrifice to do that thing?

To heart, or not to heart, Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is tomorrow. Seriously, is there any worse faux-holiday? It causes me such anxiety whether I am single or not (which I am). But I love it all the same…

When I was a little girl, Dad used to get me a mini version of whatever he got Mum. Mum would normally get a bunch of flowers, a big heart shaped chocolate and a diamante encrusted heart shaped pin with her name engraved on it. I would get a little flower, a small heart shaped chocolate (or heart shaped lollipop) and a plain heart shaped pin with my name engraved on it. As much as I loved it, I felt I was intruding on their Valentine's Day.

When I was a little bit older, Mum left Dad. In the first week of February. Valentine's Day just made me so sad. Dad kept my brother and I. Just days after Mum left, Dad took us to a florist. He ordered a huge bunch of beautiful red roses to be delivered to Mum at her mother’s place. The florist asked my dad what he would like written in the card. He proceeded to recite one of the most beautiful poems I’ve ever heard. I asked where he got it. He told me he wrote it in his head a few nights prior and memorised it. I am certain that, collectively, all three of us held our breaths to see if this gesture, this last chance to be a family again, would work. It did not.

Years later I found the card she received from “the other man” that same Valentine's Day. It went with a bear that once replaced Puppy that time I forgot to bring him with me to Mum’s house. I threw that horrid bear out of my room and refused to let him ever come back in. No one ever asked why and I never found the card my dad sent her.

When I got to high school, there was a shame-inducing tradition of selling flowers to be delivered throughout the school. $2.50 got you a dying carnation with a small badly cut up tag tied on with cheap ribbon and your chosen sentiment hand-scrawled by a grade 12 girl who couldn’t care less. My first year there, my friend and I panicked at the horror of being the only girls not receiving flowers come Valentine's Day. Luckily we both received ‘From your secret admirer’ flowers. Turns out $2.50 can also buy insurance against being one of those girls who didn’t receive a flower.

I didn’t receive another flower until grade 12. That year I received one from a dear friend telling me “blonde becomes me” and another was one of the sweetest gestures I’ve ever received. My best guy friend (and technically ex-boyfriend) had a rose delivered to me asking me to be his date for the formal. Everyone in the grade knew I was getting this flower and when I looked up from reading it, every girl in the class was looking at me before one brave girl (funnily enough, the ex-friend who was in on the secret admirer scam from years prior) blurted out “Well, what are you going to say?” For the girl who was picked on mercilessly, the fact that I was the only girl to be asked to the formal through a flower and the first of all the girls (save the ones with boyfriends, I expect) to be asked to the formal meant the world to me. I had been dreading the formal for years, fully believing no one would ask me, purely thanks to the social stigma of being “the milk girl” (I worked on a milk run after school) but instead, I was the first girl to be snapped up!

That special moment was only a counter-balance for the fact that I had no way of stopping the crappy carnation that was winging its way to my ex-boyfriend who’d broken up with me on the 12th. That was just awkward for all involved. But my dad made it better by having big ugly plastic roses in the car for me ad my best friend when he picked us up that afternoon to drop us into the Brisbane Motor Show.

I had a boyfriend most Valentine's Days since then. But my heart still always breaks for my dad. I know that every Valentines Day he just remembers the last one he tried to share with my mum. He thinks of that poem, those roses and that desperate clinging to the family we once had before it slipped away forever. I always try to do something special for my dad. Ex-boyfriends of the past know that my dad is my main Valentine. Two years ago I bought him a black rose with a note that said “For the only one who can see the bright side of my dark side”. I don’t remember what I got my boyfriend at the time.

Last year I tried to kill myself just days before Valentine's Day. I say that bluntly, but a fact is a fact. It wasn't anything to do with Valentine's Day. My dad took me to a movie about life-after-life. I just cried and told him I wanted to die. This year, I need to make it up to Dad.

The boyfriends that I’ve had usually spoilt me. I have photos, teddies, cards, jewellery and fake flowers from many years and boys gone by.

This year is the first Valentine's Day I remember for a long time that I will be single (last year was a blur of suicide watch and therapy). I don’t know what to make of it. Obviously Dad will be my main Valentine again. But as a girl, its nice to know someone is thinking of me - thinking that I’m special, thinking that I’m beautiful, thinking that I’m worth something, anything, on Valentine's Day.

I know its a Hallmark holiday that isn’t even worth the cheap paper that all those cheesy, sappy, soon-to-be-thrown-out cards are printed on, but I still want to be part of it. Everyone says it’s just a gimmick and a poor excuse to make couples spend money and that’s totally true. But no one wants to be excluded. I could shout from the rooftops and use my blog as a stand and say “No to Valentine's Day” but I don’t want to. I like the sentiment. I like the feeling of being special, in some way, to somebody. Whatever reason that may be. I don’t want to just feel like the girl who is in the way, the girl who’s future with a live-in mother hangs on a poem, the girl who sends herself a “secret admirer” flower, the girl who feels the shame of giving an unwanted Valentine's day gift, the girl who spends Valentine's Day making sure her dad is ok… but I don’t need to be the girl who received an $80 dozen roses, the girl who wakes up to a serenade outside her window, the girl who sees a proposal hanging on the overpass on the way to work, the girl who is whisked away for a romantic dinner for two… I just want to be the girl who knows she is special… to somebody…

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• Do you celebrate Valentine's Day?
• What does the holiday mean to you?

I'd like to wish a very happy Valentine's Day to some wonderful people who may be reading this.

Lori - who deserves all the love in the world

My best friend - who has been there for me every day for 21 years
Adam's mummy - who is spending her first Valentine's Day in 10 years as a fabulous single girl

Player - who sent me love purely for the sake of love

Simon - who is the best guy a girl could ever ask for

Someone - who has taken a tiny piece of my heart to a far off world. You damn well better bring it back one day! "I like you!" xx