Squash, Stitches, and a Scared Doctor

That one time I got into the squash championships, almost lost an eye and threatened my doctor.

Not only was I a big old nerd when I was in high school, but I was also a bit of a tomboy. And growing up in the ‘80’s, living in a small dustbowl of a town in the middle of the Australian desert, you need to make your own fun lest you go insane, turn to drink, or think it’s a great idea to build a house out of recycled tin cans. That, and my hyperactive constitution, my parents forced me into as many activities as they could because I’d probably burn down the house experimenting with my Chemistry Set. (Though I did burn down the neighbour’s car once – but that’s another story.)

So I was signed up for T-ball and swimming as a kid, but then graduated to horse riding and squash. The latter I got pretty good at, and while vying for the Town’s Junior Squash Championship, at a tied match point… I know this is the tense stuff of cinematic legend, and I am not embellishing… my partner was about to miss the ball and I’d become the victor! But as luck would have it, he decided to run backwards and leap into the air to spike the little black ball. However, in his back swing he managed to collect my eye.

My eye! Argh, I was scarred for life and probably blind. That effer! I’m meant to win this game. And you’re not meant to hit girls! Squash is a non-contact sport!

That’s exactly what ran through my head the seconds before the world went black and white noise filled my ears.

When the world came rushing back, my eyes wouldn’t open, but I could feel lots of warm stickiness running through my fingers. It’s still a bit fuzzy, even to this day about what happened. A lot of people were talking at me. Guiding me. A cold wet cloth pushed to my face. I was in the car one moment. And the next at the doctor’s surgery. Sometime in the car my face muscles had unclenched and I was able to open the unaffected eye.

There was a lot of blood. A hell of a lot of blood. I panicked, thinking I must be holding my eyeball in my skull. My skin must have been half ripped from my face. This is not a good place to be. I guess it looked bad enough to get to see a doctor immediately, which turned out to be a tiny, soft spoken Asian man. I’m no wilting flower, tall, fit, and vocal. This medical professional only came up to my armpit, but Mum assured me he was the best doctor to help. I was terrified. I mean, my eye!

The worst part was the Doctor told I’d need stitches. And I am more needle-phobic than the regular person. But practically crushing Mum’s fingers in a death grip, I had to suck it up and suffer through the procedure. Only, at the worst possible moment I opened my eye to see a giant needle coming straight toward my eye. Having it so close, it looked like a nuclear missile with a metal pike about to slam into my head. And I don’t care how okay you are with needles, wave something in front of your vision, and anyone would flinch. My reaction was to push the doctor across the room screaming “Touch me with that thing and I’ll deck you.” I was such the well-bred young lady.

I don’t know how she did it – maybe some Mamma Bear determination – but Mum calmed and encouraged the skittish doctor, and despite being half my size, splayed her body over me and pinned me to the operating chair, directing the doctor to “Just do it.” A completely different take on the Nike catch phrase.

I survived. My eye hadn’t fallen out. But I did lose the squash game. Junior Champ Runner-up. And a lovely scar that took seven stitches to mend. Nearly invisible in the crease of my eye. A gnarly black eye, that when I returned to school caused my partner to get harassed no end. *grins evilly*

When the eye completely healed I’m not sure if I was relieved at how invisible the scar was, or disappointed that physical proof of my ordeal was so miniscule. The guy who won the Junior Championship never spoke to me again. In fact, he avoided me like the plague. And after that my parents stopped trying to force me into activities. I returned to my nerdy ways and avoided needles with even more vehemence.

I don’t know what happened to the kind Asian Doctor, maybe I rattled him so much he quit the Practice and moved to a place where young girls didn’t threaten to bash him into a bloody pulp. Or my photo is on the wall behind the receptionist’s desk with the words ‘Banned For Life’ in big red letters. I never got to thank him. I waited a week longer than necessary to get the stitches removed – because you know – terrified. But in the end a portly nurse in a pale blue uniform removed them by distracting me in conversation, saying she was just cleaning the area before starting… and the next moment – all done.

And that’s the story of how this geek-jock lost the Alice Springs Junior Squash Championships sometime in the ‘80’s and managed to get a doctor cowering in a corner.

© Casey Carlisle 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

…the one where my girlfriend was peeing in the bushes and the cops showed up.

Some memories of high school still make me roar with laughter.

Picture this: Alice Springs, a small outback town in the middle of the desert, nineteen eighty something.

When there isn’t a lot to do in a dust bowl of a town like the one we were fortunate to grow up in, you make your own fun. And this night it happened to be in the form of ‘cruising around.’ Where hapless teenagers would drive from the Truck Stop to the Golf Course, to the Speedway or Drive-In on an endless loop, hooting and hollering at other kids from the same school indulging in the same activity. Aimlessly wandering the streets in a car said that we were free! To have a car was a massive status symbol… and my Mum’s Mercedes Benz was the biggest statement of all – especially filled with a four-pack of gussied-up teenage girls.

We call it cruising around because not only did we partake in the automobile activity, but it was usually accompanied by Vodka Cruisers, Goon-bags of wine, or in our case, West Coast Coolers. But before you get your fingers out to waggle at me, I was the designated driver, so no alcohol for me. If my parents had gotten a sniff of trouble, or I so much as sullied the shine of the Merc, my car privileges would be revoked until I was a hundred years old. That meant no freedom, no flaunting for boys, and nights filled with lame video marathons and grumpy parental chaperones.

As it sometimes happens when you’re driving about with a car full of four buzzed pubescent girls, someone needed to pee. Real bad. And we were ages away from the nearest facilities. Being Alice Springs, it’s just a case of pulling over on the side of the road and you can sneak into the bush to do your business – So that’s what we did.

I had to angle the cars lights off the road so my friend could see where she was walking, and while she ventured into the scrub we turned up the radio and proceeded to dance in the headlights – as you do when you’re feeling the chemical rush of half a West Coast Cooler in the middle of nowhere.

Just as we bust a move, hear the trickle of pee splash from behind a shrub, a cop car pulls up. Great!

One of my friends freaks out, dives into the car and is desperately shoving our coolers under the seats – yes, we were drinking under the legal age. She’s a bit of a goody-two-shoes, so to say it looked like she was in the throws of a heart attack is an understatement.

I’m a little shocked and dumbfounded to see the men in blue show up in the most deserted place in Australia, one friend gyrating in the headlights, another hyperventilating inside the car, as another stumbles out of the bush yanking up her jeans. What must they think?

They do what cops back then did – posture a little, have us line up and invade our space… no doubt trying to detect a waft of booze on our breaths. Luckily we all managed to pull it together long enough for the boys in blue to believe our story that we only pulled over for an emergency toilet stop. I didn’t know it at the time, but they had actually suspected that we’d stolen the car and were out joyriding (another activity of the local youth in this armpit of a town.)

Just as they were about to leave, headquarters radioed them back, a check on the licence plate number had yielded a result, and wouldn’t you know – my parents hadn’t paid the latest registration fee.

Needless to say the night ended with my father coming to collect us, screaming at the cops because they wouldn’t let him drive an unregistered car. But like hell he was going to leave a luxury car sitting on the side of the road waiting to be stolen. My friends were dumped home, and, like ninjas, my parents collected the car in the shadow of night while I kept a lookout for the police as we sneaked the car home.

I don’t know when they found the bottles of booze under the seat, the next time I checked, they were gone. But I didn’t get into trouble, or have my car driving privileges revoked… thankfully they were too embarrassed at having my friends and I hassled by the police for driving an unregistered car.

That’s what I call a lucky break! And that’s how we roll in country towns 😉

© Casey Carlisle 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Book Review – ‘Untouchable’ by S.A. Starcevic

Cute story, great writing, but too short.

Genre: Y/A, Fantasy, GLBT

No. of pages: 39

From Goodreads:

Unlike most people, Ethan Elliot never wanted to be a superhero. Nevertheless, when his powers flare up to save his life—and the lives of innocents—he has no choice in the matter. Plunged into a world of capes, costumes and derring-do, he’ll do what it takes to succeed. Even if that means casting away his old life to become someone else. Maybe even someone better…  

Fun, campy, everything you’d expect from a superhero tale.

But ‘Untouchable’ was a little too short. There was little world building and hardly any time to give the characters’ back story or motivation. It just jumped straight into the action. The narrative has a comedic dry wit that is pleasing, and I wish this had been longer, more developed because Starcevic’s writing style is brilliant.

I staggered a little catching up with the lingo as well. Without the landscape being step up and time taken to explain the slang I was left re-reading parts to make sense of it all.

In the same vein, the relationship between Ethan (our protagonist) and Greyson didn’t have time to build, and felt rushed – forced even. I love the concept of gay teen superheroes, but we need more “story” for this coupling to truly shine.

Additionally, because of the plot being rushed along, some of the character’s reactions felt fake/forced. Would have loved this story to progress organically. It would have been brilliant. There is so much potential here, I was really hoping this could have been developed into a full length novel. With the campy, witty writing style I got to sample, it would become a fast favourite.

We get introduced to some interesting characters and superheroes. Their powers are fun (even if a little derivative,) but the tone of the novella is set early and you get a lot of punch for such a brief short.

Looking forward to the next installment, ‘Unmasked’ but given the authors publisher has gone belly-up, it’s uncertain when Starcevic’s work will be available for purchase again. I emailed the author directly to get an e-copy for this review. I’m keeping my eye on this one – great things could happen 🙂

Overall feeling: Brief, but brilliant.

© Casey Carlisle 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Outback sleepovers (it’s called camping people)

In a world where glamping is the ‘in’ thing today, back in the ‘80’s, growing up in the desert, one of the things we did for fun (and to get away from the parents) was good old fashioned camping.

You only had to travel five minutes out of town to find a spot if you wanted to – there’s not much as far as facilities outside of Alice Springs. Smack bang in the centre of Australia, surrounded by bush and desert. So, as teens if we didn’t go ten-pin bowling, attend a Birthday Party, have a video night, hang out at the Truck Stop, or visit the Speedway on a Saturday Night (alternatively, there was the Drive-Inn… yep there were no cinemas in those days – the fun was seeing how many people you could fit into your car, admission was $10 per car. After we parked up, it was like a circus automobile with dozens of teens exiting and heading to the cafeteria before the matinee started) In a small town everyone knew everyone else, so if you wanted to get up to no good – you needed to go bush!

Our idea of debauchery was gossiping and telling ghost story’s around the campfire… and maybe partaking in whatever booze we could get our hands on. Which usually consisted of bag wine, West Coast Coolers, or Port. Oh how times have changed, I’d sooner stick my arm up a Yeti’s bum than partake in any of those beverages these days. But what can I say, we were teen rebels! Sometimes we’d also play Spotlight. Which is a form of tag, or touch-chasey in the dark, where the person who is “in” has a handheld torch and it’s everyone else who hides and tries to get close enough to touch the torch bearer (and hopefully scare the pants of them as well) without being “spotted” by a beam of light.

I’m undecided if these nocturnal activities sound lame or not. I think I’d still prefer such idiotic fun over scrolling through social media feeds on a phone for hours. The only thing that could entice me away was a good book. But hey, I am a huge nerd. #nerdpride

Taking anywhere between one and four cars, packed to the top of the windows with food, bedding, water and contraband, we’d randomly head off in a direction away from the prying eyes of our parents. Little brother’s in tow (usually the payoff for some bribe to keep his mouth shut from witnessing a previous indiscretion.) And we were free!

Usually our campsites were pitched in or around the numerous dry riverbeds that meandered the landscape. Our outback sleepovers were always eventful. It meant flirting with your crush (however ineptly in my case), and we could make as much noise as we wanted – no adults to tell us to keep quiet. Yay!

But the outback is fraught with perils: poisonous snakes and spiders, large goanna’s, and other four-legged wildlife. We were survival savvy though, and nothing nasty ever interrupted our partying. The only notable incursions took the form of a dingo, riffling through our belongings as we slept, and took particular favour to my leather camera case… there were bits and pieces scattered everywhere when we woke the next morning. And the canine perpetrator sitting beside the car patiently waiting for another morsel when we cooked our (usually inedible) breakfast. Of course I had to wail “A dingo took my camera case” for a few laughs (if you don’t get that joke google Lindy Chamberlain.) Another encounter, and one that could have been dangerous in hindsight, was when we woke to find ourselves surrounded by cows. Close to a hundred of them. I opened my eyes to find a bovine staring back, stupidly chewing its cud, threatening to drop a huge gob of saliva on my forehead. We literally had to push the ambivalent things away, careful not to spook the herd and avoid getting trampled. Thank goodness no-one was stepped on overnight.

It was all in a night’s fun for this outback girl, until we discovered how to get fake ID’s and hung out at the only club that would permit us entry… but that’s another story.

I miss my friends, and our (mostly innocent) fun, and look forward to a reunion of the old gang later in the year – maybe I’ll dredge up some more humorous anecdotes to share… watch this space!

© Casey Carlisle 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Dad’s car is a death trap!

A stroll down memory lane to the time when I had a brand new driver’s licence I happened to borrow my dad’s ute to take a girlfriend home… and well, the trip didn’t go as planned.

First of all – no jokes about female drivers please. I know sometimes we can be overcautious (as I can be) but gender has no weight on someone’s driving skill. I should know, my Mum was a rally car driver.

Picture this – Sicily 1949… sorry, I just caught an episode of ‘Golden Girls’ and couldn’t resist. Anyhow, the year was in the late 80’s. I had big hair, cut-off acid wash jeans, legwarmers and a hypercolour t-shirt. And I looked narly! At that time I lived in Alice Springs, a small desert town smack bang in the middle of Australia. In other words: Satan’s armpit.

My best friend and I were 16 going on 23; and after spending most of the day inside watching movies (the type you had to hire from a video store and watch on a VCR) due to an unseasonal summer shower, it was time to end our girlie hang out and get her home. I’d not long had my driver’s license and yet to buy my own car, but my parents usually let me borrow the family car. But this time it was unavailable, and the only thing free was my dad’s ute. A small maroon V8 flatbed truck. I really didn’t want to be seen driving it at that age – it was ugly.

But hey – it was a set of wheels – which meant freedom… and beggars can’t be choosers.

This thing gurgled and grumbled like a vintage airplane. We prayed no-one we knew would spot us in this bogan muscle car. So, off we ventured on the wet roads to the other side of town, taking the back streets with Bananarama blearing out of the tape deck. Yay! ‘Venus!’

It was pretty uneventful for half of the trip. I was freaking out a little, because the auto was bigger than I was used to, and smelled like stale boy and cigarette smoke. But at least it was an automatic, no embarrassing struggles trying to change gears. Given this was a column shift, the shift lever stuck out of the steering wheel column. Gah! End me now!

The only issue was that the accelerator pedal was a touch sensitive.

And a touch is all it took to send us rocketing down the street, pushing our bodies into the back of the bench seat. As if we were about to leave the atmosphere on a quick jaunt to the International Space Station.

And that’s exactly what happened after I pulled to a stop sign, seeing the roads clear, went to turn a corner… and we suddenly found ourselves in a world of blurred landscapes, teenage screams and screeching tyres.

A wet road and a monster of a truck aren’t a good mix…

What happened next was a collage of permed hair and hooped earrings flapping in the breeze as the car skidded across the road, turning one and a half times, jolting to a stop on the other side of the road facing the wrong way. And off to the side of the road a large dirt storm gutter decorated with metal star pickets.

Thank goodness for deserted small towns. And that the car stopped at the curb. Unscratched, still rumbling like a leopard with a cold.

I swear my girlfriend needed to buy a new pair of nickers. I just about soiled myself. This whole event cemented the hatred we had for supped-up muscled cars even more. They were a death trap waiting to happen.

The weird thing was, when the car hurtled from the place I’d stopped at the intersection, we squealed. And after a momentary shriek we fell silent, mesmerised by the suburb sliding across the windshield. We stared at each other with pale faces and a look that said everything – ‘what the frig was that?’

Driving lessons from my Mum had kicked in, I’d lifted my feet from the pedals and turned into the spin without thinking… Love you Mum!!

It could have been so much worse. We could have crashed and died. I think my handling of heavy machinery is also the reason that my partner never lets my mow the lawns, or pick up an axe… it will inevitably end in some weird mishap. Like the time I was digging a hole and broke a window; or the time I was using a belt sander and knocked down the neighbour’s fence. I have a knack for setting off a chain of events to disastrous results.

Consequently, 16 year old me never told my parents of my driving incident for fear of getting my driving privileges revoked. Because at that age, driving is EVERYTHING. It elevates your status and makes you cool. And in the 80’s wasn’t everything cool?

Today – I’m a much better driver. Really. I am. Though the atrociously permed hair is gone, my bestie and I still catch up and reminisce over our teen adventures in an outback town. Oh, remind me to tell you the one about how we were pulled on the side of the road so our friend could pee in the bushes and the cops showed up… that was fun.

Till the next trip down memory lane, Happy reading and get to writing that next best seller 🙂

© Casey Carlisle 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

It’s just a jump to the left…

I thought I’d do a little time travelling today – would my self of yesteryear even recognise me today?

I was a much different person back then. In the grand scheme of the universe five years isn’t such a big stretch, but I was amazed at just how much things have changed… I still had all my family members, was working in an office full time and just coming out of a seven year long battle against cancer (thankfully triumphant). But notably, I don’t think I had embraced being a writer yet.

So where was I five years ago?

I had recently joined Facebook for the first time… my maiden venture into all things social media and online possibilities. I was a late bloomer. So I guess this my fifth birthday of sorts.

One of my first profile pics…

Visiting my Mum in Townsville to help her with her business, and catching up with some old friends I hadnt seen in years – not to mention meeting a couple of cute guys – I had little stress and begun to branch out and enjoy what life had to offer. My weekends were spent socialising and going out (not writing). Gone were days spent resting from Chemo, or simply feeling too weak and tired (or motivated) to do anything. It was a time of possibilities.

Realising I was also at the arse-end of fighting off cancer with two major final surgeries sheduled in the following months. That thought was terrifying!

It’s weird – that was such a turning point in my life. I beat cancer. Got my life back and decided I wanted to write (with the encouragement of many friends and family). But at the time all I could think about was I hope my eyebrows grow back.

Although I took another three temporary office jobs before I taking the plunge and devoting all my time to my passion, I guess fate had been steering me in that direction. Only because I was actually quite happy in those admin roles; one company went bust, another was sold and my position made redundant, and the thrid was a short temporary contract. I loved my work collegues and the daily tasks, so I think if I hadn’t been forced out of the roles, I’d still be there today, dreams of writing on the back burner. Gee girl – can’t you take a hint?

The key thing you need in realisling your aspirations is that you need to set yourself a due date… otherwise you will keep on procrastinating.

It was also the year I got back into contact with old high school frineds I hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years, one of which lived 20mins away! It was like a mini reunion. And I have to say I’m so glad we reconnected – they are all so near and dear to my heart, and their mere presence gave me strength through the major operations, and losing my mother, aunt, and grandmother in close succesion. It really felt like I was some cosmic joke at the time – see how many times you can kick Casey in the teeth before she snaps.

Don’t give into the darkness. You are special. You are worth more than all the precious stones in the world to someone.

And when you come out the other side, stronger, you can go on to acomplish amazing things.

This all takes me back even further – to high school; and envisiging what I thought my life was going to be like. Dreams of woking with whales or puppy dogs, editing a national magazine or writing my own books. I also wanted to run my own accounting firm or have a role within my parents company… (ahh, to be young and clueless again)…I pretty much attempted all those things and more. But am happy for settling into a life of writing novels. And if I could give my teen self any advice – don’t get your hair cut short, you’ll regret it and it will take three years to grow it back. Oh, and oversized  t-shirts with shoulder pads, hightop sneakers and legwarmers don’t look great together… on anyone… especially in neon green!

So, my hair is lighter, my backside wider and I don’t wear as much make up. While it has been a difficult couple of years I’m still smiling. Greatful for all the people I have met, those same people who gave me the courage to keep going, to reach for passionate endeavours. These few battle scars have made me a more interesting person… and I hope a provocative writer… there is still more of my story to come!

© Casey Carlisle 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

When is a lemon not a lemon?

My childhood home had a multitude of citrus trees around our pool, oranges, lemons, grapefruit, and mandarins. It’s no wonder we were always outside swimming in the Centralian heat, desert temperatures perfect for aquatic adventures and food within arm’s reach. The neighbourhood kids would come over and we’d all be bombing into the water and playing Marco Polo. Quite often some of the fruit would make its way into the pool, and, as you do when you are a child, you’d throw it out of the water… usually directed at someone standing along its edge.

And so was born the Great Age of the Lemon Wars!

Before my parents came home from work, we’d chuck all evidence over the back fence. I was sure to get any play privileges revoked with the back yard littered with yellow bombs. Though, as luck would have it, our neighbours took unkindly to our dumping of copious fruit over the fence and proceeded to toss them back over – and whola! It’s raining lemons.

Lemon Wars on Steroids!

I’m positive it was not our neighbour’s intention for us to enjoy the barrage of flying citrus. We danced and giggled dodging projectiles and pitching them back over to continue the game. It goes without saying we were not popular with those who dwelled over the back fence. But nonetheless they provided us with hours of entertainment in the summer months.

I don’t think ever met these tumultuous neighbours in the ten years I lived there, or even bothered to learn their names. They were just ‘the enemy.’ It’s funny how childhood perception is so limited… It never occurred to us that what we were doing was wrong, that is could land my parents into trouble. We lived in a fantasy world of exploding mortars and mermaids and sharks, living off the land on an alien planet.

I must thank those unnamed people who dwelled over my back fence, you fed my imagination, kept me entertained and were a constant companion through gangly limbs, braces and sunny weekends. (Who knows maybe you actually enjoyed throwing lemons backward and forward?)

But as in all wars, there are causalities… It’s all fun and games until someone gets pelted in the face with a lemon – and leaves in tears. Which happened to be my best friend. She had reached that age when you start to discover boys – and instead of standing guard, was ogling the boy from down the street diving into the pool and did not see the incoming projectile. It was of the slightly over-ripe variety. A little mushy. So when it connected with her cheek it exploded in magnanimous glory, covering her entire head in sticky goo. We thought it was awesome, my friend not so much. She was totally humiliated in front of the boy she liked and stormed out in a trail of language to put a truck driver to shame.

And that caused a cease-fire. At least until the next weekend…

Make love not lemon wars… or at least, if you have to, make lemonade.

© Casey Carlisle 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Casey’s First Book

My first journey into publishing at the age of 4.

I was obsessed with ‘Little Golden Books’ and ‘Mr Men’ books as a child. I had to have every release in my collection, and would sit in front of the bookcase reading each book over and over. Mum would always find me sitting behind the lounge (behind which was our book shelves) methodically working my way along the shelf, either reading aloud to the dog or my baby brother… or an imaginary audience of my own making.

And then it occurred to me – I could make my own Little Golden Book!

So I dragged out every pen, texter and pencil I owned, scrounged up some blank paper and insisted Mum help me write my first book. Now!

And apparently I was also obsessed with dogs…

Even at a young age I understood typography – notice the picturesque ‘O’ beginning the story – I strongly suspect I had a book I was copying from. I’m quite proud of the neat writing and colouring in the lines – I was a little OCD as a child. If I wasn’t writing this book I’d probably be tormenting my mother by singing at the top of my lungs while banging her cooking pots with a wooden spoon as my make-shift drum set.

I was a firm believer of gender equality at this age too – and hygiene!

Did I mention I loved dogs? Apparently they didn’t smell as bad as boys… and we had the magical ability to fly! (What ever happened to that? I have needed to skip the morning traffic and road rage many times since). I’m a little disturbed that I was flying around the globe with dogs – naked…

Not only did I love dogs – but I would make everyone love them too.

And the boys were still smelly.

Who wants to play with dolls – dogs are so much better! (Side note: I was terrified of dolls as a child – my cousin used to chase me around the back yard to try and play with Barbies and I would bolt away screaming. I had walked in on my father watching a horror movie where dolls came to life and eat people – that, and we visited Longreach one time where they have animatronic dummies that come to life to tell a story. Freaky! So no dolls, puppets, mannequins, ventriloquist dolls for me. I was scared at a young age). I’m glad I knew how to spell ‘would’ but it seems ‘because’ and ‘different’ were big girl words…

Oh – but I really loved dogs!

Dogs mean world peace!

I can remember how proud I was upon seeing my book in the shelf next to all the others, but when we went to the shops and the library was most upset not to see it gracing their shelves. I think that fact discouraged me from making any more editions for quite a while. Instead I settled for playing with my dogs… and banging pots!

© Casey Carlisle 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

I don’t do impressions anymore.

I was the class clown growing up.

Many of my friends can attest to how I was frequently flailing, pulling faces and mimicking actors or cartoon characters. So many tipsy nights with mates, rolling about on the couch after my Scooby-Doo impression or a re-enactment, (when you’re built like a stick figure any movement invariably looks awkward and funny). But now, a serious adult, I’ve had to stop childish ways to be a role model for teaching, and to be taken seriously for my writing.

Well… who am I kidding? I still laugh at fart jokes, am frequently in hysterics over my uncoordinated puppies, and have the occasional juvenile prankster moment.

I know my flatmate is relieved I don’t get up to my old tricks. I can still remember deciding it would be a fantastic idea to scare my Grandmother when I was twelve years old. She was sitting at the dining room table, quietly sipping on a cup of tea and playing Patience like any respectable English woman.

I’d tied my hair up in rubber bands so it spiked out from my scalp in many different angles, practiced my crazy face in the mirror, and was currently crawling along the floor, marveling at my plan. It has going to be hilarious. Grandma would get a fright and then proclaim I was the funniest child in all the land!

Just as I got behind the kitchen bench with my target enjoying her afternoon respite, ready to pounce forth and roar “Surprise” my plan fell to pieces.

I hadn’t accounted for the family cat.

Said feline sat upon the kitchen bench, watching my approach. Now I don’t know what I had done to offend poor pus, but just as I had reached my hiding spot she began to hiss and arch her back.

Grandma, seeing the feline’s distress, hopped up to calm its nerves… and found me hunched behind the counter, giggling silently to myself, with hair like a space alien.

“SURprriisseee….”  I stood up, the wind taken from my sails in response to a polite ‘Oh’ at my discovery.

Foiled again! Dastardly cat!

After that episode, jumping out to scare people didn’t feel quiet as much fun, and I transitioned to more sophisticated jokes, like whoopee cushions and prank phone calls.

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