It’s over…Oprah Day is sadly behind us, Oprah has left our Country & most of us have forgotten the original pronunciation of The Oprah House. She loved us sick & we loved her sick back. And despite a minor hiccup-the near fatality of our national treasure: Hugh Jackers, all appeared to go splendidly; Sydney turned it on like a charm; Gail & O seemed to be having the time of.
God, I would have loved to have met up with those two & just chewed the fat (mull over things; swap stories) over a few bevs (beverages of an alcoholic nature) & just hung (be). Gail looks fuun (really fun) & if we can’t get her hooked up here; where can we? I ask you? I mean she’s a bloody catch & half plus Oprah’s best friend to boot. Hell, I think I want to be Gail...who doesn’t.
Having grown up with Oprah; I’ve laughed with her, cried with her, yo-yo dieted with her; learnt how people live in other parts of the world, I've been transported by life stories of incredible endurance & heart; she has made me want to contribute (I now have a Congolese sister) & reminds me by example to really appreciate what I have …I mean it was not unusual for me to start a sentence with …” You know I was watching the Oprah Show the other day &...” So I gotta tell you; I was absolutely devo (devastated) to not be part of the 12,000 stoked (elated) fans that walked on air with their pink wristbands towards the Oprah House on Tuesday. Devo!!
I only had myself to blame, I lamented as I wistfully watched the teeve while Oprah took to the stage with mass vitality, exclaiming her love for “Osstralia” to a screaming throng of thousands; the love was palpable…
If I had have been living my best life, maybe I would have registered on time & had a chance or if I was just being my authentic self (actually I think I was being my authentic self) I would have entered my 50 word competition entry to 7pm Project as to why I deserved O tickets, before the closing date (it was so in the bag: had already visualized my win & how I would surprise Mum…it would have been the best day of our life).
So, what would Oprah do in a situation like this? Would she mope around, calling at regular intervals her other depressed friend: “I told you…we should have registered…” Or would she learn from this missed opportunity? I think we know the answer to that one peeps…
I’ve got to stop procrastinating, stop be a scaredy pants (living in fear) & take life by the horns; dive in the deep end. I can’t forever be the bystander thinking, “If only…” And more importantly, I need love the fact that I’ve have already won the lottery of life: I live & was born in “Osstralia!” Damn straight!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Noosa:Revisited
So here we are again, back at the scene of the crime- Noo-oosa. It was just over a year ago that we were sitting in a spa together (hub & I) where we kind of sealed the deal on the whole kids thing. A tentative date had been set to get the ball in motion (last Christmas we were supposed to “try”) but here we are right back at square one, no trying, not much practicing & no baby on the horizon. Instead this little vacance is to celebrate the momentous occasion of hub finishing his 4-year diploma in Building Studies. Four years of studying 3-4 nights a week, juggling full time work, mountains of homework & the stress of exams: over!! And so nearly was our marriage...yep, no postings for the last couple of months as the whole baby thing was pushed waay into the background and who wants to read about someone pissing & moaning about their marriage? But for the record: I have learnt that marriage is a rocky terrain fraught with many perils, much like a road trip with albeit some incredible scenery; but with also heaps of underwhelming pit stops & near on road disasters, which no one tells you about until you’ve signed up for the whole frigging trip. Some holiday…
A year ago, hub was on another road trip that could only best be described as the fast lane to Fatsville. He was stacking it on & had been going down the slippery slope to obesity at an alarming pace. Who am I to point the finger, you may ask? Sure, hardly a slip of a girl, always a bit more to love but I was still hanging in there - hadn’t dropped the ball completely & lets face it: I’m a girl with curves but when your husband becomes curvy; that’s a whole different story.
Men do not wear weight well. There- I said it. Biologically speaking, they actually produce more estrogen when they chub out so in actual fact my husband was turning into a woman & anyone who has ever met me can firmly attest: I like guys. So juggling with this sensitive topic of a husband who was now voluptuous & no longer fitting into his clothes, was for me, unchartered territory. I mean, what’s the protocol here, when your husband asks if he looks fat in a shirt that now barely does up?
“No sweetie…you look just big, like muscly big…yea that’s why everything is too tight; its just muscle?” So went his self-esteem. Weight gain makes you feel like shit. Guy or girl: you feel fat, frumpy & totally unsexy & of course like most vices it’s a vicious cycle. I just felt like telling him: “Girlfriend, you listen to me now, you ha got to stop that comfort eatin coz le me tell you somethin, that kinda eatin ain’t bringing you no comfort...for real.” But instead I made him an appointment at the beginning of this year with an attractive dietician – Joanna McMillan whose Scottish lilt would hopefully lull him into obedience. And, hello, it did: one visit- just a one hour consultation with a few meal plans scrawled on two pieces of paper including some exercise instructions & he was done. A changed man. He no longer snacked on bag full’s of fun-sized Bounty bars, slabs of beer didn’t fill our fridge, cheese wasn’t grated on all & sundry, toast was reserved for Sunday morning only & steamed vegetables with tuna became his staple. He even went to the gym (a membership that had been dormant for well over a year) four times a week! Before long he was totally hooked; shedding the soft outer layers, his rounded face that had the jolliness of someone settled in their 50’s was now defined; I could see his features, blue eyes, pouty lips, my God-he was getting his looks back; he was returning to his manhood…I liked it & apparently, so did he. He was born again & it didn’t take long for him to start telling whoever would listen just what a changed man he had become.
Shortly after his sister had become a new mum, we had the fam over for dinner & like most new mums she was dealing with the aftermath on her body & grappling with the reality she barely had time to shower; “I weigh more than when I was pregnant” she lamented, “I’m so busy with Violet that I just tend to eat biscuits or chocolate to give me energy…”
Cue: probably not the best time to gloat shamelessly on victorious weight loss. Not one to miss an opportunity though, hub launches into: “That was the old me (did you just give birth) but I cant even remember the last time I had chocolate. Don’t miss it though. Now that I’m fit, I’m now totally hooked on the gym & eating light. I just feel great. Don’t even think I could eat that shit now I mean my body just wouldn’t handle it. I just love my steam veggies & tuna… lost another kilo this week…down to 75 now…just really working on building muscle. Got nothing to wear though. I mean everything in the wardrobe is just too big. My pants are falling off me…”
And the regurgitated compliments? They were coming in thick & fast: “Laura just couldn’t believe how much weight I’ve lost… she nearly didn’t recognise me & she just kept on saying ‘my God you’ve lost sooo much weight…you look great…I mean how much have you lost?’ And then I said…” Hmm hmmm. He was loving himself sick & it was becoming gratuitous
So, we arrived at Shez (Sheraton) Noosa a week ago. Shortly after checking into our room in all it’s early 90’s gold hued glory, hub stands on the balcony, wistfully looking out over the pool towards the flecks of ocean beyond & says: “Last time we were here… I was 13kilos heavier…can’t believe I was so fat…I just feel so good now…so lean…I mean my boardies are practically falling off me…there is a gym here, right? Might get down there later...”
Yep, give me some more of that talk.
So… people, be careful of what you wish for because if it doesn’t rain…it pours…Amen.
A year ago, hub was on another road trip that could only best be described as the fast lane to Fatsville. He was stacking it on & had been going down the slippery slope to obesity at an alarming pace. Who am I to point the finger, you may ask? Sure, hardly a slip of a girl, always a bit more to love but I was still hanging in there - hadn’t dropped the ball completely & lets face it: I’m a girl with curves but when your husband becomes curvy; that’s a whole different story.
Men do not wear weight well. There- I said it. Biologically speaking, they actually produce more estrogen when they chub out so in actual fact my husband was turning into a woman & anyone who has ever met me can firmly attest: I like guys. So juggling with this sensitive topic of a husband who was now voluptuous & no longer fitting into his clothes, was for me, unchartered territory. I mean, what’s the protocol here, when your husband asks if he looks fat in a shirt that now barely does up?
“No sweetie…you look just big, like muscly big…yea that’s why everything is too tight; its just muscle?” So went his self-esteem. Weight gain makes you feel like shit. Guy or girl: you feel fat, frumpy & totally unsexy & of course like most vices it’s a vicious cycle. I just felt like telling him: “Girlfriend, you listen to me now, you ha got to stop that comfort eatin coz le me tell you somethin, that kinda eatin ain’t bringing you no comfort...for real.” But instead I made him an appointment at the beginning of this year with an attractive dietician – Joanna McMillan whose Scottish lilt would hopefully lull him into obedience. And, hello, it did: one visit- just a one hour consultation with a few meal plans scrawled on two pieces of paper including some exercise instructions & he was done. A changed man. He no longer snacked on bag full’s of fun-sized Bounty bars, slabs of beer didn’t fill our fridge, cheese wasn’t grated on all & sundry, toast was reserved for Sunday morning only & steamed vegetables with tuna became his staple. He even went to the gym (a membership that had been dormant for well over a year) four times a week! Before long he was totally hooked; shedding the soft outer layers, his rounded face that had the jolliness of someone settled in their 50’s was now defined; I could see his features, blue eyes, pouty lips, my God-he was getting his looks back; he was returning to his manhood…I liked it & apparently, so did he. He was born again & it didn’t take long for him to start telling whoever would listen just what a changed man he had become.
Shortly after his sister had become a new mum, we had the fam over for dinner & like most new mums she was dealing with the aftermath on her body & grappling with the reality she barely had time to shower; “I weigh more than when I was pregnant” she lamented, “I’m so busy with Violet that I just tend to eat biscuits or chocolate to give me energy…”
Cue: probably not the best time to gloat shamelessly on victorious weight loss. Not one to miss an opportunity though, hub launches into: “That was the old me (did you just give birth) but I cant even remember the last time I had chocolate. Don’t miss it though. Now that I’m fit, I’m now totally hooked on the gym & eating light. I just feel great. Don’t even think I could eat that shit now I mean my body just wouldn’t handle it. I just love my steam veggies & tuna… lost another kilo this week…down to 75 now…just really working on building muscle. Got nothing to wear though. I mean everything in the wardrobe is just too big. My pants are falling off me…”
And the regurgitated compliments? They were coming in thick & fast: “Laura just couldn’t believe how much weight I’ve lost… she nearly didn’t recognise me & she just kept on saying ‘my God you’ve lost sooo much weight…you look great…I mean how much have you lost?’ And then I said…” Hmm hmmm. He was loving himself sick & it was becoming gratuitous
So, we arrived at Shez (Sheraton) Noosa a week ago. Shortly after checking into our room in all it’s early 90’s gold hued glory, hub stands on the balcony, wistfully looking out over the pool towards the flecks of ocean beyond & says: “Last time we were here… I was 13kilos heavier…can’t believe I was so fat…I just feel so good now…so lean…I mean my boardies are practically falling off me…there is a gym here, right? Might get down there later...”
Yep, give me some more of that talk.
So… people, be careful of what you wish for because if it doesn’t rain…it pours…Amen.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Am I Too Old For This Gig?
Perched on my stool at Tokyo in Paddington last Thursday evening for a spot of solo dining (where better than a highly over priced sushi train) I looked around me at all the spritely 20 something’s in their deconstructed fashion and their devil may care vibe and thought, holy hell…that was me at this very locale 10 years ago.
It was indeed 10 years ago that I started working at M.A.C in Paddington and damn I was cute. Pity I didn’t know it. Shit, maybe I’m cute now & will look back with regret when I’m 47 wishing that I appreciated my cuteness. Point is that 10 years have whooshed by. It was like yesterday that I would saunter into M.A.C in various states but reliably late, haphazardly applying my makeup in the backroom before arrival of customers, my head always full of plans & schemes to numb the reality of pushing lipstick all day. And in all that time between then and now, I still haven’t gotten around to producing an heir to the throne. While everyone else around me is forming family clans, what the hell have I been doing with this last decade? Sure, I managed to snag a husband before I became totally unmanageable but that was so 7yrs ago. What else? Pre hub there was partying, the arranging of partying (I arranged some showstoppers), the outfits to wear whilst partying, interviewing potential husbands, my wedding, moving, travelling Europe, some fabulous weekenders, wining, dining, drinking $18 cocktails at pretentious bars, buying clothes & hiding them from hub (“don’t be ridiculous; I’ve had this for ages”), acquiring the two fluffy children and making their life incredible…busy, busy.
Have I left my run too late? I mean the way I’m going I’ll be 50 with an unruly tween on my hands. And probably not Madonna 50. The thought of going through the sweaty, hot flushes of menopause while trying to reason with a crazy, hormone fuelled teenager at the peak of puberty left me unable to finish my sashimi. What the hell has happened to all this time? One minute I’m with my friends, swinging my switch around on a dance floor in the Horden and in a blink of an eye, I will be 40. And not Jennifer Anniston 40. Maybe I just should have bitten the bullet & squeezed one out years ago instead of partying, drinking champagne by the galleon, buying dresses and arranging getaways. But what about if I want to do that till I’m 80? The familiar feeling of baby related panic rises… I’m not ready…stop the clock!
It was indeed 10 years ago that I started working at M.A.C in Paddington and damn I was cute. Pity I didn’t know it. Shit, maybe I’m cute now & will look back with regret when I’m 47 wishing that I appreciated my cuteness. Point is that 10 years have whooshed by. It was like yesterday that I would saunter into M.A.C in various states but reliably late, haphazardly applying my makeup in the backroom before arrival of customers, my head always full of plans & schemes to numb the reality of pushing lipstick all day. And in all that time between then and now, I still haven’t gotten around to producing an heir to the throne. While everyone else around me is forming family clans, what the hell have I been doing with this last decade? Sure, I managed to snag a husband before I became totally unmanageable but that was so 7yrs ago. What else? Pre hub there was partying, the arranging of partying (I arranged some showstoppers), the outfits to wear whilst partying, interviewing potential husbands, my wedding, moving, travelling Europe, some fabulous weekenders, wining, dining, drinking $18 cocktails at pretentious bars, buying clothes & hiding them from hub (“don’t be ridiculous; I’ve had this for ages”), acquiring the two fluffy children and making their life incredible…busy, busy.
Have I left my run too late? I mean the way I’m going I’ll be 50 with an unruly tween on my hands. And probably not Madonna 50. The thought of going through the sweaty, hot flushes of menopause while trying to reason with a crazy, hormone fuelled teenager at the peak of puberty left me unable to finish my sashimi. What the hell has happened to all this time? One minute I’m with my friends, swinging my switch around on a dance floor in the Horden and in a blink of an eye, I will be 40. And not Jennifer Anniston 40. Maybe I just should have bitten the bullet & squeezed one out years ago instead of partying, drinking champagne by the galleon, buying dresses and arranging getaways. But what about if I want to do that till I’m 80? The familiar feeling of baby related panic rises… I’m not ready…stop the clock!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Family
OK so nowhere near baby making. Not even in the ballpark. Becoming more turned off the idea as the days are getting long & talking about long, my mother-in-law has just left after a 19 day stay at ours including one week cameo visits from my young sister-in-law & father-in-law. That’s right people, 19 days in our lounge room sharing our one bathroom. Welcome to Sydney. No East Wing for the guests to retreat here. Just a blow up bed & a clothes rack in a lounge room. But hey, that’s family love for you. And the more time I spend with either my highly dysfunctional family or hub’s family, the one question that comes to mind is –Why? Why go there? Can I not live entirely happily with a succession of incredible dogs? Not that any canine or human baby for that matter could ever come close to Mishka & Coco, the two most amazing, beautiful dogs on the planet (why they have not yet been discovered to be the face of a gourmet dog food, I’ll never know). So why go though all the frigging grief to get to this point? The point where you suffer the years of marriage and child rearing to just watch your own child go through the exact horror. Am I missing something here?
Several weeks ago I spent what I thought was going to be three restful days at Kiama in a cabin on the beach that Dad had booked for my sister, nephew & I to share. The weather was incredible & the beach was a stone’s throw away from our door but what I learnt very quickly was that there is no relaxing with a 2 and half year old. Relaxing: over. All those carefree moments you enjoyed blissfully flicking through a Madison mag as the sun warmed your naked back is way in the distance once the arrival of baby. And another thing I noticed about my adorable little nephew is that not only is he a full time job but he also had this incredible knack of giving us the false pretence of enjoying a moment sans baby drama. Like when we took him in the ocean and despite being dunked by a wave & eating a sand sandwich he recovered & was appearing to be very workable, happy even, allowing Bex & I a bit of ocean time. But as soon as we returned to our towels & were just about to settle in & open a magazine, a pungent odour punctuated the air. Zeke had done a pooh. Not just a pooh but a monumental faecal disaster was now waiting in his wet nappy. Bex at best was absolutely exhausted 100 percent of the time. Her hair & face dishevelled and drained of colour, she dragged one foot in front of the other, repeatedly chastising Zeke in an exhausted monotone: “Zeke…put that down! No Zeke! What did I tell you…?” It was relentless and with another bun in the oven I was left wondering how was she to cope. It looked so unglamorous. So bloody hard. So not me.
Sarah my sister-in-law gave birth to Violet last month. She is completely over the moon. But God help me if I hear this one more time -“How does it make you feel??” asked my mother-in-law, smiling, proudly displaying the very young & perfectly formed Violet. “How does what make me feel?” bored with having to articulate for the millionth time; I don’t do clucky. I have no personal recollection of what it actually is
“Feeling clucky?”
“Is clucky that feeling you get when you see a baby and think ‘thank God it’s them & not me?’ If so, then yes I am clucky.”
Several weeks ago I spent what I thought was going to be three restful days at Kiama in a cabin on the beach that Dad had booked for my sister, nephew & I to share. The weather was incredible & the beach was a stone’s throw away from our door but what I learnt very quickly was that there is no relaxing with a 2 and half year old. Relaxing: over. All those carefree moments you enjoyed blissfully flicking through a Madison mag as the sun warmed your naked back is way in the distance once the arrival of baby. And another thing I noticed about my adorable little nephew is that not only is he a full time job but he also had this incredible knack of giving us the false pretence of enjoying a moment sans baby drama. Like when we took him in the ocean and despite being dunked by a wave & eating a sand sandwich he recovered & was appearing to be very workable, happy even, allowing Bex & I a bit of ocean time. But as soon as we returned to our towels & were just about to settle in & open a magazine, a pungent odour punctuated the air. Zeke had done a pooh. Not just a pooh but a monumental faecal disaster was now waiting in his wet nappy. Bex at best was absolutely exhausted 100 percent of the time. Her hair & face dishevelled and drained of colour, she dragged one foot in front of the other, repeatedly chastising Zeke in an exhausted monotone: “Zeke…put that down! No Zeke! What did I tell you…?” It was relentless and with another bun in the oven I was left wondering how was she to cope. It looked so unglamorous. So bloody hard. So not me.
Sarah my sister-in-law gave birth to Violet last month. She is completely over the moon. But God help me if I hear this one more time -“How does it make you feel??” asked my mother-in-law, smiling, proudly displaying the very young & perfectly formed Violet. “How does what make me feel?” bored with having to articulate for the millionth time; I don’t do clucky. I have no personal recollection of what it actually is
“Feeling clucky?”
“Is clucky that feeling you get when you see a baby and think ‘thank God it’s them & not me?’ If so, then yes I am clucky.”
Monday, February 15, 2010
Perfect Ovaries
“Beautiful…perfect ovaries…just perfect..”
“What do you mean perfect?” I ask suspiciously
“Perfect. They’re perfect. No lesions, no fibroids..’
“What about cysts?”
“No…no cysts….”
“Well my Doctor thinks I probably have Endometriosis …”
“No sign of that. I would be able to see blisters on your ovaries but yours’ are perfect. Absolutely perfect,” says she, happily waving around a very invasive little instrument that is internally taking happy snaps of my secret women’s business.
Who would have guessed that I have perfect ovaries? Not just good or well formed but perfect. Bloody perfect! But what of this suspicious pain on my side? I was nearly sure I would be rushed off to hospital for some emergency procedure. Could it be something more sinister?
“There’s nothing there. Your fine,” says Dr Quah Smith my acupuncturist as she hastily holds my ultra sound image to the light.
“But what about this pain in my side? Could it be something more… serious…” my voice trails off as I encounter a 60min flashback: an interview with a woman in her final stages of chemo, only tuffs of hair remaining on her head, a pallid shade of yellow -”I had no symptoms except for a nagging pain in my..”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dr Quah snaps as she jabs needles into my flesh.“Not with this weight,” she says gesturing a hand carelessly over my semi naked torso. “I mean people with cancer are thin and you’re…well it has to be hormonal or it’s just in your head because you don’t want to have a baby.”
The nerve! One minute she attacks my full figuredness out on show in my new lacy underwear set that I had just acquired from Myers and the next moment I’m a mad hypochondriac inventing mystery aches and pains to avoid having a baby for a while longer. Outrageous!
Admittedly, I have developed procrastination into an art form. It is one of the things I do best and as for procrastinating about having a baby…if only I could make a career out of it. My fears are certainly not assuaged by those wily Mums and the deluge of mixed messages I receive.
I was in the make-up room the other day, a breeding ground in it’s own right (how I haven’t fallen pregnant yet by just drinking the water is the real breaking news) when I was privy to a conversation between two of the Mums: one with babies, the other with tweens and teens.
“I can’t remember life without children,” says newish Mum.” I wish I knew then what I do now. I wish I enjoyed all that time I had. Wish I had travelled more. And the money! I wish someone had told me how expensive having children is…”
“Tell me about it,” says veteran Mum.” You know, I love my kids but if I had my time over I don’t think I’d have them. It’s just as soon as you give birth, on that day forward you are constantly worried about someone else…I’d be just the fabulous aunt…”
The fabulous aunt? That sounds glamorous. A lot more appealing than sleepless nights and teenagers giving you the finger. The eccentric aunt who never had kids and spent the rest of her days travelling the world in designer clothes, having plastic surgery and breeding Chihuahuas whilst being the ultimate of confidantes' to all the angsty nephews and nieces. I am loving the sound of that.
So the confusion is to someone like me who is abundantly confused-is having children the most incredible experience of your life or is it in fact just a case of when misery wants company? It’s mostly hard to tell when you constantly get: “think your tired now, wait till you have a baby”, "think your busy now, wait till you have a baby”, “think it’s hard to get out of the door now wait till you have to take a baby.” This all sounds like shit guys, do you mind if I pass?
Yet they still ask,” Are you trying yet? How old are you again? You don’t want to miss out! You are going to love it!” And then the next sentence, it surfaces they haven’t showered for three days because they haven’t had the time.
“You won’t know yourself when you have a baby!”
Of course I won’t know myself. The person I know showers daily, goes out when inclined, buys herself new dresses just because and likes to lie on the leather lounge in the middle of the day with the two cutest dogs in the world, read the paper and channel surf.
That’s the person I know…the one with the perfect ovaries.
.
“What do you mean perfect?” I ask suspiciously
“Perfect. They’re perfect. No lesions, no fibroids..’
“What about cysts?”
“No…no cysts….”
“Well my Doctor thinks I probably have Endometriosis …”
“No sign of that. I would be able to see blisters on your ovaries but yours’ are perfect. Absolutely perfect,” says she, happily waving around a very invasive little instrument that is internally taking happy snaps of my secret women’s business.
Who would have guessed that I have perfect ovaries? Not just good or well formed but perfect. Bloody perfect! But what of this suspicious pain on my side? I was nearly sure I would be rushed off to hospital for some emergency procedure. Could it be something more sinister?
“There’s nothing there. Your fine,” says Dr Quah Smith my acupuncturist as she hastily holds my ultra sound image to the light.
“But what about this pain in my side? Could it be something more… serious…” my voice trails off as I encounter a 60min flashback: an interview with a woman in her final stages of chemo, only tuffs of hair remaining on her head, a pallid shade of yellow -”I had no symptoms except for a nagging pain in my..”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dr Quah snaps as she jabs needles into my flesh.“Not with this weight,” she says gesturing a hand carelessly over my semi naked torso. “I mean people with cancer are thin and you’re…well it has to be hormonal or it’s just in your head because you don’t want to have a baby.”
The nerve! One minute she attacks my full figuredness out on show in my new lacy underwear set that I had just acquired from Myers and the next moment I’m a mad hypochondriac inventing mystery aches and pains to avoid having a baby for a while longer. Outrageous!
Admittedly, I have developed procrastination into an art form. It is one of the things I do best and as for procrastinating about having a baby…if only I could make a career out of it. My fears are certainly not assuaged by those wily Mums and the deluge of mixed messages I receive.
I was in the make-up room the other day, a breeding ground in it’s own right (how I haven’t fallen pregnant yet by just drinking the water is the real breaking news) when I was privy to a conversation between two of the Mums: one with babies, the other with tweens and teens.
“I can’t remember life without children,” says newish Mum.” I wish I knew then what I do now. I wish I enjoyed all that time I had. Wish I had travelled more. And the money! I wish someone had told me how expensive having children is…”
“Tell me about it,” says veteran Mum.” You know, I love my kids but if I had my time over I don’t think I’d have them. It’s just as soon as you give birth, on that day forward you are constantly worried about someone else…I’d be just the fabulous aunt…”
The fabulous aunt? That sounds glamorous. A lot more appealing than sleepless nights and teenagers giving you the finger. The eccentric aunt who never had kids and spent the rest of her days travelling the world in designer clothes, having plastic surgery and breeding Chihuahuas whilst being the ultimate of confidantes' to all the angsty nephews and nieces. I am loving the sound of that.
So the confusion is to someone like me who is abundantly confused-is having children the most incredible experience of your life or is it in fact just a case of when misery wants company? It’s mostly hard to tell when you constantly get: “think your tired now, wait till you have a baby”, "think your busy now, wait till you have a baby”, “think it’s hard to get out of the door now wait till you have to take a baby.” This all sounds like shit guys, do you mind if I pass?
Yet they still ask,” Are you trying yet? How old are you again? You don’t want to miss out! You are going to love it!” And then the next sentence, it surfaces they haven’t showered for three days because they haven’t had the time.
“You won’t know yourself when you have a baby!”
Of course I won’t know myself. The person I know showers daily, goes out when inclined, buys herself new dresses just because and likes to lie on the leather lounge in the middle of the day with the two cutest dogs in the world, read the paper and channel surf.
That’s the person I know…the one with the perfect ovaries.
.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Another Frigging New Year's Eve...
It’s upon us again. New-Year’s Eve. A time to reflect, regret or look with blind optimism on all the things you are going to so much better the year ahead. While last year may have been a near waste of time, marked by unfulfilled goals, broken promises, unrealised dreams, must do’s that didn’t even get a look in and general disappointment, this New Year will be entirely different. I always get this delusional feeling around now as I sip my first glass of Champagne that the next year is going to be brimming with pro-activity. It’s going to be go, go, go. And while some of the previous years have had a certain residual feeling of discontentment, this next year however, is going to be an absolute corker of one personal success story after another. Of course I will be losing tonnes of weight (despite possibly falling pregnant), a lottery winner (not the $12 kind if you know what I mean) and be successful in my brand new career which presently is a secret even to myself. But the universe provides doesn’t it? I mean I watched the Secret too, ask and you will receive. So yes, I am at the precipice of an incredible journey that will be 2010. And let me quote something from my mentor Tony Robbins-“The past does not equal the present…”
So, it is obviously after Christmas and we are at that precarious time when hub and I were supposed to be “trying” for a baby but alas a visit with my beautiful friend and doctor has bought me three extra months. Three pro- active, successful months that is.
My darling friend Penelope, upon hearing about my current condition (few girly issues) and the fact that I haven’t been for the dreaded pap smear for eons, insisted accompanying me to Doc appointment ensuring of course that I didn’t cancel for say something more fun like checking out the sales in Chattie Chase (went there today, 5 million people pushing, shoving, being vile and nearly maimed down by an Asian Camry driver talking on his Iphone doing 70 in the car park –having cervix scraped was far more pleasant).
So arrived with Pen in tow who looked as always effortlessly chic. Her honey blonde hair sitting rather non deliberately perfect, slim fitting designer jeans and brand new Kate Spade gum boots (some summer we are having!) and after pleasantries Marina says “O.k, get up on the scales, I am going to weigh you.”
“What? Do you have to? Why?”
“Because I need to record your weight and height.”
Note to self: do not go to doctor with size 6 friend. My mind flashed back to the day before where my best friend Daniel had declared it a day of movies and eating. Healthy stuff like fig and chocolate panettone, an incredible antipasto platter we had acquired from Five Dock with a rich assortment of cheeses, cold meats dips and just stuff immersed in Olive oil, slabs of homemade mushroom lasagne courtesy of our Italian friend Stefano (get him in a kitchen; magic happens) and my rocky road ice cream sundae with chopped up double dipped Cherry Ripes All washed down with either champagne or wine. So, yes we let our heads go. I am not going to lie.
“Its just that yesterday I ate a lot and same with the day before that …just don’t say it out loud or tell me…I’m not emotionally ready..”
So got on the scales, holding my breath which I am sure saved a few kilos right there. Breathing weighs heaps!
“You know,” Marina says delicately, ‘even if you could lose just 5 kilos you wouldn’t be so overweight …have you tried cutting down on white bread, potatoes, pasta and sugar after 7:30pm?“
“Or just saying no to some things,” suggested Pen sitting there in her size 6 body, “You know, maybe not having desserts every day or just cutting down on the amount of butter you have on toast… not having creamy sauces with your pasta.”.
“Or,” pipes up Marina who would be a size 8 if she put on a few kilos, “try walking every day.”
What fab ideas! Cutting down on all starches and refined sugars before bedtime. Why hadn’t anyone ever told me? Why hadn’t I heard of such pearls of wisdom? I mean I customarily find myself face down in a bowl of Fettuccine Cabonara come 7:30pm. Followed by possibly a piece of chocolate mud cake smotherd in icecream. So that’s why I’m am fat! Well this is going to revolutionise my entire diet. Thank you my skinny friends.
What I adore about people who are naturally slim with their idea of a fat day perhaps the suggestion of a muffin top over their size 8 jeans post 6 week holiday in Europe is the notion that the chubby one doesn’t know what to eat or is quite clueless on the idea of exercise. And if I did eat in such a devil may care, Kerry Packeresque type of way I would be the size of Ruby. But what many of the tiny lovelies don’t know is the horrendous journey of failed diets that has brought you to this size 14-16 moment of obesity. And mine certainly has been colourful
One of my earliest dieting memories and still a firm favourite was the Herbal Life experience. You’ve gotta love a selection of “herbal” tablets to eat for lunch and dinner. Mmmm…that weight is so going to stay off; not. Duramine in my 20’s…. that was awesome for my nervous system especially downed with my body weight in vodka. Quite a few nights out on the town with that concoction. Jenny Craig and her packets of, at the time, of re constituted foulness. But the faux choccie chip cookies… what’s not to love? Weight Watchers seemed promising (they all do in that first fortnight) but the points system ( I’m no mathematician),all the little books and the team leaders who would talk using diagrams and pie charts…it was a relationship deemed to fail. The Fit for Life diet with it’s tricky food combination. Rules, rules, rules! Or what about the Raw Food Diet? That was a huge laugh!”Your not going to join us for dinner Aleesa ?”
“No I just want to stay home and eat my brussel sprout salad. I just love raw food.” Happy days. The slimming tea I bought over the net with it’s interesting aftermath of a dry mouth and insomnia. Reductil is good if you want your breath to smell like the inside of a carcass (especially handy being a makeup artist). Joshi Detox was quite doable. Felt fantastic on it even if it did mean quite a bit of preparation (you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail). “I am going to eat like this forever” I declared to anyone who would listen,” Alcohol, coffee and sugar? Don’t miss it. Don’t miss it at all.” And then an event would surely follow and I‘d spend the night indeed the week re-toxing like a champion. Lemon detox. Another goody because depriving yourself completely of solids and drinking a watery, lemony, syrupy drink sprinkled with Cayenne Pepper for breakfast, lunch and dinner is a sure fire way of long term weight loss. Get real Tania Zaetta! CSIRO diet. Fine if you like your meat and three veg. It was like stepping into a time machine and returning to my childhood. The lets be a vegan tangent thanks to The Skinny Bitch girls (freaks!) had a lifespan of 5 days. And the interesting little “naturopath” in Fairfield and his “herbs” that funny enough do make you completely forget about eating. But at $80 per week so they bloody well should. And not forgetting the getting a little hard -core days of The 12 Week Body Challenge. Yes in 12 weeks I looked hot but recoiled at the thought of another egg white omelette, can of tuna in springwater or Myolplex protein shake. And working out to muscle fatigue? Cardio till you vomit? Does the diet come with a sports psychologist? No I didn’t think so.
So here we are. My doctor has told me I really should lose weight before trying for child. Plus have to get an ultra sound, see gyno, wait for results of blood tests and start on the folic acid. So I have an extra 3 months up my sleeve!
“And I think this preparation will really help with your mindset at the moment…”
Thanks Marina. I think so too! I am going to be so taut, slim, healthy, successful, rich, happy and spiritual. I am going to read books, sponsor a Congolese woman, spend more time with my family, learn French, Italian and dance plus finally visit Malta and Sicily….I am going to be rocking…bring on 2010!!!
So, it is obviously after Christmas and we are at that precarious time when hub and I were supposed to be “trying” for a baby but alas a visit with my beautiful friend and doctor has bought me three extra months. Three pro- active, successful months that is.
My darling friend Penelope, upon hearing about my current condition (few girly issues) and the fact that I haven’t been for the dreaded pap smear for eons, insisted accompanying me to Doc appointment ensuring of course that I didn’t cancel for say something more fun like checking out the sales in Chattie Chase (went there today, 5 million people pushing, shoving, being vile and nearly maimed down by an Asian Camry driver talking on his Iphone doing 70 in the car park –having cervix scraped was far more pleasant).
So arrived with Pen in tow who looked as always effortlessly chic. Her honey blonde hair sitting rather non deliberately perfect, slim fitting designer jeans and brand new Kate Spade gum boots (some summer we are having!) and after pleasantries Marina says “O.k, get up on the scales, I am going to weigh you.”
“What? Do you have to? Why?”
“Because I need to record your weight and height.”
Note to self: do not go to doctor with size 6 friend. My mind flashed back to the day before where my best friend Daniel had declared it a day of movies and eating. Healthy stuff like fig and chocolate panettone, an incredible antipasto platter we had acquired from Five Dock with a rich assortment of cheeses, cold meats dips and just stuff immersed in Olive oil, slabs of homemade mushroom lasagne courtesy of our Italian friend Stefano (get him in a kitchen; magic happens) and my rocky road ice cream sundae with chopped up double dipped Cherry Ripes All washed down with either champagne or wine. So, yes we let our heads go. I am not going to lie.
“Its just that yesterday I ate a lot and same with the day before that …just don’t say it out loud or tell me…I’m not emotionally ready..”
So got on the scales, holding my breath which I am sure saved a few kilos right there. Breathing weighs heaps!
“You know,” Marina says delicately, ‘even if you could lose just 5 kilos you wouldn’t be so overweight …have you tried cutting down on white bread, potatoes, pasta and sugar after 7:30pm?“
“Or just saying no to some things,” suggested Pen sitting there in her size 6 body, “You know, maybe not having desserts every day or just cutting down on the amount of butter you have on toast… not having creamy sauces with your pasta.”.
“Or,” pipes up Marina who would be a size 8 if she put on a few kilos, “try walking every day.”
What fab ideas! Cutting down on all starches and refined sugars before bedtime. Why hadn’t anyone ever told me? Why hadn’t I heard of such pearls of wisdom? I mean I customarily find myself face down in a bowl of Fettuccine Cabonara come 7:30pm. Followed by possibly a piece of chocolate mud cake smotherd in icecream. So that’s why I’m am fat! Well this is going to revolutionise my entire diet. Thank you my skinny friends.
What I adore about people who are naturally slim with their idea of a fat day perhaps the suggestion of a muffin top over their size 8 jeans post 6 week holiday in Europe is the notion that the chubby one doesn’t know what to eat or is quite clueless on the idea of exercise. And if I did eat in such a devil may care, Kerry Packeresque type of way I would be the size of Ruby. But what many of the tiny lovelies don’t know is the horrendous journey of failed diets that has brought you to this size 14-16 moment of obesity. And mine certainly has been colourful
One of my earliest dieting memories and still a firm favourite was the Herbal Life experience. You’ve gotta love a selection of “herbal” tablets to eat for lunch and dinner. Mmmm…that weight is so going to stay off; not. Duramine in my 20’s…. that was awesome for my nervous system especially downed with my body weight in vodka. Quite a few nights out on the town with that concoction. Jenny Craig and her packets of, at the time, of re constituted foulness. But the faux choccie chip cookies… what’s not to love? Weight Watchers seemed promising (they all do in that first fortnight) but the points system ( I’m no mathematician),all the little books and the team leaders who would talk using diagrams and pie charts…it was a relationship deemed to fail. The Fit for Life diet with it’s tricky food combination. Rules, rules, rules! Or what about the Raw Food Diet? That was a huge laugh!”Your not going to join us for dinner Aleesa ?”
“No I just want to stay home and eat my brussel sprout salad. I just love raw food.” Happy days. The slimming tea I bought over the net with it’s interesting aftermath of a dry mouth and insomnia. Reductil is good if you want your breath to smell like the inside of a carcass (especially handy being a makeup artist). Joshi Detox was quite doable. Felt fantastic on it even if it did mean quite a bit of preparation (you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail). “I am going to eat like this forever” I declared to anyone who would listen,” Alcohol, coffee and sugar? Don’t miss it. Don’t miss it at all.” And then an event would surely follow and I‘d spend the night indeed the week re-toxing like a champion. Lemon detox. Another goody because depriving yourself completely of solids and drinking a watery, lemony, syrupy drink sprinkled with Cayenne Pepper for breakfast, lunch and dinner is a sure fire way of long term weight loss. Get real Tania Zaetta! CSIRO diet. Fine if you like your meat and three veg. It was like stepping into a time machine and returning to my childhood. The lets be a vegan tangent thanks to The Skinny Bitch girls (freaks!) had a lifespan of 5 days. And the interesting little “naturopath” in Fairfield and his “herbs” that funny enough do make you completely forget about eating. But at $80 per week so they bloody well should. And not forgetting the getting a little hard -core days of The 12 Week Body Challenge. Yes in 12 weeks I looked hot but recoiled at the thought of another egg white omelette, can of tuna in springwater or Myolplex protein shake. And working out to muscle fatigue? Cardio till you vomit? Does the diet come with a sports psychologist? No I didn’t think so.
So here we are. My doctor has told me I really should lose weight before trying for child. Plus have to get an ultra sound, see gyno, wait for results of blood tests and start on the folic acid. So I have an extra 3 months up my sleeve!
“And I think this preparation will really help with your mindset at the moment…”
Thanks Marina. I think so too! I am going to be so taut, slim, healthy, successful, rich, happy and spiritual. I am going to read books, sponsor a Congolese woman, spend more time with my family, learn French, Italian and dance plus finally visit Malta and Sicily….I am going to be rocking…bring on 2010!!!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Another Frigging Christmas...
One minute I’m devouring a Cadbury cream egg in April and within a blink of an eye everything is all green, red and tinselly and you can’t get a park in Westfield for the love of all things pagan. This Christmas especially has a more ominous quality.
Not celebrating my 37th birthday in Noosa, we were in the spa on the balcony, gorgeous sea breeze, the blissful sound of the ocean gently lapping on the shore when I piped up to hub who is admittedly a smidgen younger than me (not as young as I’d like to be perfectly honest) and asked the golden question, “so do you still want to have a baby?”
“Yes,” he answered immediately.
“I don’t mind if you’re not sure…I mean I’m fine if you don’t want one…”
“I want one.”
I sighed at the inevitable “So when do you want to start trying”?
“Mmm…how about after Christmas at the end of the year.”
How about after Christmas at the end of the year? Can we keep this thing at arm’s length any longer? Apparently not. So there we have it! A confirmation. Looks like we can’t keep ducking and weaving forever. And quite frankly, I didn’t want him to turn around, say if we were in a spa not celebrating my 40th and exclaim “let’s have a baby!”
God knows my husband has no concept of time. Like recently when I illustrated how he has attended the gym twice the whole year and doing the math…that’s approximately $564 per visit. . “Rubbish,” he said. “It’s just these last few months. I went heaps at the beginning of the year when you were in London.” Newsflash! Last time I visited London was May 2008. Yep! No concept of time. Which brings me to the reality of this moment. Christmas is a mere breath away and I, oddly enough, am not prepared in the slightest for the pregnancy I have been delaying for 3 years. Did we perhaps lose that pesky 10 now 12kgs? Nope. Detox our putrid body so it’s all lovely and fresh for foetus? Hardly. Located our pelvic floor? Where the hell is that? No idea. Have we delved into the plethora of supplements one in her late 30’s takes when she is trying for child? You know the ones that the New Mums rattle off deliriously. “Are you taking folic acid? Oh my God you have got to start that now! And what about The Blackmores Conceive Well formula? That is a must! Have you been tested if you are immune to small pox, chicken pox, measles, whooping cough, rubella, mumps and…?" What ever happened to the good old days when women would just fall pregnant, drink alcohol on only every second night and eat soft cheese whenever the craving hit? Now you have to make a bloody career out of it. Falling pregnant has become a full time job! And the trying…I could put a hefty deposit on a four bedroom house in Clovelly if I got a dollar for every time someone asked me if I was trying. It’s now totally acceptable whoever you are to ask whoever you want if they are having sex with their partner enough and at the appropriate time to warrant a pregnancy. Actually when it comes to the business of having a child nothing seems to be off limits with these crazy New Mums. Nothing! Well meaning New Mums… why do they go on and on? And as always it’s they who make this ordeal so frightening. If the prospect of hanging out in mother’s groups isn’t terrifying enough, it’s the thought that maybe I will upon birth of child become one of them. Note to all friends who have babies-love you! However, temporary insanity amongst you is rife. And part of my terror in having a child is not only pushing out something the size of watermelon out of something the size of a pea (oh who am I kidding!) but it’s the likelihood of also losing my marbles.
This reminds me when I used it work at the M.A.C counter. Excruciating at the best of times. It felt like these women left the house and headed to Myer with the direct intention of torturing some poor girl at a make-up counter. On several of these occasions when I would be helplessly trapped on the cosmetics floor, the air laden with 2000 different fragrances, wearing some garish MAC look I would normally never be caught dead in and being punished mercilessly by a 30 something year old neurotic who had spent half an hour of my life deciding between three shades of pinky, brown lipstick, she would, after asking me repeatedly which one was right for her, which pinky brown shade would make her look younger, fresher, less tired (being a new mum is very tiring..), crouch down to be at face height with child in stroller gurgling on a dummy and pointing to her mouth ask, “does this one look good on Mummy…?”
Will this be my fate?
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