Wax on, wax off.

It’s been a while. Not since the last ill-fated winter escape to Fiji, had I professionally denuded the pasty pins. As we hoisted ourselves from the winter couch and crawled back towards the prospective light of sunnier days, I got a bee in my bonnet about maintenance.

For no discernible reason other than feeling a bit bleurgh, I became fixated on a lady garden tidy-up and leg wax.  There was no immediate call to swim with dolphins or model lingerie, and my next pap smear was at least a year away, but the hankering for depilation persisted.

My appointment with a local beautician made, I sent spouse a text message flagging both the impending withdrawal of an unknown sum from our account and the reason for said purchase. He fired back with the optimistically clueless,


The salon owner, Grace, came highly recommended and was considered a veritable institution in the area. Much like my new thoroughly dull local dentist, I was reassured by her experience and professionalism.

So what are we doing today? 

Just after some leg waxing and a bit of a bikini line tidy up, thanks.  A short back and sides?

Double X, Triple X or Brazilian? 

My blank expression seemed to confirm her worst suspicions;  the all too evident hallmarks of a sporadic groomer.   Snapping into action she commanded the removal of all lower half garments and ordered me onto the operating table for an examination.

Gloved up, Grace began a forensic assessment of the offending area. Nodding and murmuring to herself she eventually settled on a game plan and began to execute it, quickly and aggressively redressing my blatant offence to the sisterhood of hairlessness.

In between the conversation cheerfully delivered through clenched teeth, there was wincing. So much wincing. From me too. She finished with the obligatory slapping application of tea-tree oil lotion and told me to get dressed.


Nether regions ablaze, I hobbled out, paid the exorbitant bill and found myself making another appointment four weeks hence.

Can’t let things get out of control like this again, can we? 

Um, No?

My excuse for not attending a gym class the next day was the very real issue of being unable to wear pants. I may never live that down.

Spouse remained necessarily ignorant to the precise nature of my personal housekeeping for some time, due in large part to the blisters, welts, and generally angry appearance of a previously benign body part.

As I loofah away like a woman possessed, fixated on avoiding in-grown’s, while simultaneously exacerbating the raw skin, I ponder the great offence of hair. Down there hair.

Belonging to that small generation that slips between the bombastic Boomers and put-upon Gen X’ers, I can recall an era of celebratory hirsuteness.  A gentler, Nair free time, when a quick slash of the pits with a razor and bit of judicious bleaching were all that was expected.


Butterick’s Bikini Bottom of Discretion

Then suddenly the latch-key generation came along, presumably got a little bored after school and started the rapid descent to porn star. Decades on and I’m wavering in the middle, poised between a fully feminist embrace of the natural pubis and the aero-dynamism of the fully shorn. I console myself with the ‘it’s my body and I can do what I damn well please’ mantra, but I remain confused.

Fortunately the next holiday will be in the midst of a European winter where I’ll be swathed entirely. Except for the week of Lappish sauna’s, but then the Nordic are infinitely more relaxed about these things than we are, aren’t they?

A Sauna in Munich

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Let’s chat, you don’t have to say a word.

I may have become that woman. She’s been waiting for me and now I’m here.


I love freelancing, I get to wander into cafes with my laptop, order a coffee and settle in for a couple of hours of free wifi. It’s the best. My favourite local haunt has teeny tables for one with barely enough room for my phone and a coffee cup, let alone my Macbook Air (gratuitous Apple plug) , notepad (I’m a digital immigrant, I note ideas on parchment. With a quill), glasses case, Kikki K diary (I know, alright… it’s up there with the abacus, shut up) and bottle of water.

Having learnt the hard way (subtle reinforcement of blog) I now make a beeline for the large communal table where folk scramble to occupy the head spot. I feel like the CEO of some multi-national organisation whenever I nab it, garbed in my magisterial looking jumper and attempt at edgy ripped jeans, spreading out the various accoutrements of my happy trade, and waving an imperious hand for more Guatemalan filter.  Good times.

I’m also an introverted extrovert, who, while requiring the energy of others to effectively function, nevertheless finds that interactions generally need to be kept to a minimum. Because people. What a bunch of bastards.


For instance,  there was the man having an animated conversation with a client on loud speaker in the cafe toilet,  who flushed, strode out into the unisex space where I was waiting to go, and walked out still talking.


Either of them.


Back at the communal table I sit opposite a young woman reading a book. An actual book made of paper. A paperback, if you will. This, amongst all the swiping and double tapping,  warms my curmudgeonly heart. I notice she sports an enamelled pin on the floppy collar of her designer op-shop blouse. It’s the head of Frida Kahlo.


Bangin’ brows

I must know from whence it came. Waiting until my burning, and possibly uncomfortable,  stare causes her to lift her eyes from the book, I say,

Nice pin. Where it’s from?

Thanks. It’s Frida Kahlo (yes, it is) it’s a Georgia Perry pin. She does a heap of celebrities, Kanye, Kim, Rihanna, Oprah…she does a great Iris Apfel one too.

Ah , yes, Iris. I’d rather like to head down that path, but I fear any attempts to pull off masses of eclectic costume jewellery at this late stage may come across as inauthentic.

Pin wearing girl smiles thinly and resumes reading. I continue musing aloud.

Of course, I could increase the diameter of my glasses over the next couple of decades until I end up with frisbee sized lenses and vermillion frames, couldn’t I?


She nods (did she sigh?)  I’m on a roll now,

Such a fraught thing, isn’t it? Being a woman and navigating the whole ageing gracefully palaver – not that you have anything to worry about, you’re young and fabulous, and surely the Ponds Institute will have discovered some genuinely miraculous skin preserving lotion by the time you develop a crows foot?

She casts her eyes about the room now, clearly searching for some kind of intervention.

I saw the documentary, ‘Embrace’, a while back. It was all about the importance of accepting your body and not continually beating yourself up over the odd bit of extraneous belly flab or untoned triceps.

Pin girl looked interested again.

Oh, my god, that is some important shit, I fucking hate being judged…and by other women too! I blame the patriarchy…and advertising….and men….and Tinder…

I’d rattled a cage here. Best get back to me.

So, ok, I’m still high on the idea of embracing the loveliness that IS me, and ignoring decades of insecurity and poor body image, when I tune into a discussion about Invisible Woman Syndrome. The idea that we morph into ghost-like creatures, invisible to the hipster barista eye, unable to order a proscecco without bellowing at the barman, forgotten by tattooed sales assistant’s as we stand shivering in a change room waiting for the right sized pair of jeans…(*snort, like there’s ever a right sized pair of jeans) Anyway, the point is, now I’m a bit confused about what I should be focussing on – should I continue to work towards personal body acceptance or just accept that as an Invisible Woman, no one is freaking looking anyway? Does one cancel the other out?

Pin girl has closed her book and is putting on her coat. I’m not finished.

So I guess this may explain Iris Apfel.  She epitomises the woman of a certain age who has declined the invitation to slump quietly into the Jason Recliner to binge watch Miss Marple. She is the standard bearer for those women who have decided to thwart the system. Who are actively subverting the less is more rule by wearing virulently hued clothing and implausible hair colours. Who are activating entire muscle groups by hauling masses of resin jewellery about their person. Who employ a pashmina to dramatically swathe about themselves, heralding both arrival and leave taking. It all makes sense to me now. Where once I pointed in derision, I vociferously applaud. Well done to you dazzling vintage woman. Long may you reign!

She’s gone. I am absolutely talking to myself.

Now, If I could just catch the waiter’s eye….


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Dog Day Afternoon

We really do have the very best of intentions. Flattering ourselves we are ‘giving back’,  our disconcertingly small act of altruism comes in the form of weekend respite care for guide dogs in training. That’s right, we selflessly agree to play with a labrador for 2.5 days a week.

And yes, I can feel the collective admiration.

So, from what I can gather, the dog-in-training spends Monday to Friday in a type of canine military camp. They engage in endless training drills all day, eat spartan amounts of highly concentrated kibble at regimented intervals and sleep in caged barracks overnight.

We arrive mid afternoon most Friday’s to collect our allocated dog for its weekend furlough. Along with bedding, a sleeping crate and a plastic container of dried food rations, we are handed the leash of a wildly excited animal. The working beast, while delirious with exhaustion, is nonetheless mad for interesting new humans and spends the next few minutes leaping about like a gazelle or running around in circles until it can be coerced into the car. Once in the passenger footwell, the dog completely loses interest in us and falls asleep.

Upon arrival at its temporary pied a terre, each new dog has forensically investigated the kitchen, hoovered up anything the mop has missed and done a nervous wee on the floor – usually the carpeted bit. Often twice.

Along with a staff directive to enjoy puppy playtime, each dog comes with an explicit list of Do’s and Don’ts – Ok, Don’ts.


Every dog has intuitively known we are basically at their will. Eyeing us speculatively on the couch (a couch, I should add, that begs to be replaced, but as getting something up to our living room requires the engineering capability of an Incan constructing the Saksaywaman wall, we’re in no rush), in no time they are happily insinuating their plush coats between us and snoring like a horse.



Clearly the trainers do not spend time having brunch with the dogs. Can anyone, faced with the tilted head and pleading brown eyes of a labrador, deny it bacon? I didn’t think so.

lab head on side

What? You’re going to eat ALL of that yourself?

Enough said.



So, this is to prevent you, the hapless non-Cesar Millan from reinforcing poor walking form – as in ‘crab walking’. This would be decidedly easier to abide by were we to live in a place with a garden…or a courtyard…or even a nature strip, but , for purely ‘toileting’ purposes, our closest grassy knoll is a block away and unless we piggyback all 35 kilos of Labrador they are compelled to walk. If in their haste to evacuate, they choose to tread in the manner of a decapod crustacean, who am I to judge?

FAIL. (not my fault)


Yeah, right. When a dog has your favourite cashmere sock in its gob, you’re playing tug-of-war, whether you want to or not. The sock always loses.

lab with sock

Nope. Haven’t seen it.



Who would do that? They shed hair everywhere, they smell, they do that running man thing after a pee and get clods of dirt on their paws…I mean, what kind of blithe idiots would be happy with that?  On their bed for heavens sake?

Our current regular dog is being trained to work with sufferers of Young Onset Alzheimer’s. Trained to follow the afflicted about the house, I note with mild consternation, his particular adherence to me. He is never far away; his perfectly cold wet snout pressed up against the sliding door of the bathroom waiting for me to emerge or his head in the crisper as I fossick for broccoli.

Eschewing the crate in favour of piled up blankets in the corner of our bedroom, he creeps ninja quiet around the perimeter of the marital bed before leaping into the narrow chasm between us and then resting his head and paws on my head. My guess is he’s checking to make sure I’m actually there and not wandering the streets in my pyjamas.

Or he could just prefer the pillow top mattress to the floor. He’s not an idiot.


What? But I blend right in.


The staff and trainers ask us to report any incidences or concerns after each weekend, which I initially took very seriously. It was shortly after the entire un-lidded contents of a tupperware container full of banana muffins, paper baking cases and all,  was inhaled not once but on two separate dog minding occasions , that my reports diminished in detail. Now they simply read “All good, See you next Friday”.

Eventually they’ll put together the unaccountable canine weight gain and cavalier approach to furniture and we’ll be exposed as the shamefully lax temporary carers we actually are.

In the meantime, its cold and I’ve got a beautiful 18 month old golden Labrador to lie across my feet while I binge watch OITNB. Volunteering feels good.


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Let them eat cake…please…

I am a stress baker. The greater the emotional torment, the more prolific my carb heavy offerings become. Cakes, muffins, slices and cookies, all whipped, creamed, beaten and blended into golden brown and risen submission.

In a form of dietary self flagellation, I will then eat the cake whilst simultaneously cursing my lack of calorific restraint. So. Much. Butter.

In my early days of fledgling motherhood, I’d assembled quite the compendium of loaf recipes and could, depending on the behavioural vagaries of my infant daughter, churn out several in a day. In what was to become a barometer for exactly how bad things had been, the freezer was quickly lined with row upon row of cling film wrapped cake bricks.

It’s been a three loaf day, I’m afraid. Would you like butter on that?

I daresay there was some low grade PND going on, but in the absence of anyone noticing or a “Ten Signs You Might Have PND” internet article, an oversupply of cake and occasional oven burn proved an effective distraction.

Several weeks ago our landlords announced they’d be doing a property inspection for the first time in the four years we’ve been living in their inner-city Superannuation Townhouse. Other than the “Great Leaks and Moulding Ensuite of 2011”,  any minor issues with taps or shower heads have been attended to by spouse. Handy AND clever.

Wandering through a miasma of Glen 20 and Pine-O-Clean disinfectant, we quietly pointed out some of the property’s more obvious failings to our increasingly dismayed landlords:

  • The non-functioning security entrance or rather, unrestricted access for the general populace
  • A bathtub tap plastered into a void and hanging on by a corroded nut
  • An en-suite ceiling fan that channels shower steam into a roof cavity where it re-liquefies and seeps back creating a topographic map of mould
  • Rooftop decking laid in the wrong direction and directly onto beams causing a swamp above the family room ceiling.

All these rental issues paled into insignificance beside the most vexing of all grievances however, which was that the oven was a dodgy piece of shite with a thermostat that fluctuated between barely tepid and Dante’s inferno.

Raw or cremated, your choice.

Recognising the wild eyed countenances of people wondering whether they’ll ever experience an evenly browned sponge again, our landlords purchased and had installed a new oven. A shiny stainless steel Smeg.

I spent the first few days poring over the instruction manual and warily circling this Italian marvel much as I imagine Medieval man must have done around some of Da Vinci’s whackier inventions. Robotic Knight?! Pffffft! Un pazzo!

Leonardo's Robots - Book Mario Taddei -_Page_189

It looked ruthlessly efficient, which was not, if I’m being totally honest, a quality I’d previously  associated with your Italian anything; Stylish? Si! Efficient? Non cosi tanto…

Eventually I bit the bullet and dragged out Nigella for some Domestic Goddess baking action. The well used book flipped open to a recipe for baby bundt cakes and thus, the inaugural offering to the culinary gods was decided. They emerged, some 35 minutes later perfectly risen and palely golden. A triumph.

Flushed with this success and mad with appreciation for the Smeg, I continued to bake my way through some family favourites over the next week.  A lemon syrup cake, a tray of coffee nut tea-cake, banana muffins, a lemon and almond cake and a batch of brownies – I was a one-woman cake stall.

Recognising that this amount of cake was too much for our current household of three, l began to farm off the excess to our next door neighbours, handing plastic containers over the fence between our two balcony’s. Given the fence obscured our faces, these exchanges had an amusingly Tim and Wilson Home Improvement quality about them.

home improvement

They seemed to appreciate it at first, thanking me profusely and telling me how much their friends had enjoyed the cakes.  After day five, however, the handover had begun to take on a certain strained quality.

“OH-KAY… More cake? Wow. I don’t know what to say. Look, we’re really trying to cut back on, well, sugar and stuff…so, you know….if you could just….”

They were silently screaming STOP, of course, but I was oblivious, caught up in the euphoria of evenly burnished cake tops. Having thoroughly road tested the Smeg for baking purposes, my only excuse for continuing to cream butter and sugar, was stress or distraction.

Fortunately one of my best friends has become quite the dumpling aficionado and has offered to show me the wonders of the wonton. This seems like a much healthier obsession and may go some way to repairing the diabetic havoc I’ve potentially wreaked on my lovely neighbours.

I certainly hope so.

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My Left Foot

I am at war with my foot. Unlike Christy Brown, my left foot, for no discernible reason, is betraying me. I haven’t fallen (well, not since last years infamous Fijian spa episode), landed heavily on an irregular shaped object or run a marathon (LOL), I just woke up in pain four days ago.

According to the podiatrist what we have here is a plantar fascia failing. Some microscopic tear that may have resulted from the prolonged wearing of flatter than flat shoes. Damn those alluringly high arches of mine.

I wonder what your Paleolithic woman did about her high arches? It’s not like she could lace up a prehistoric pair of Yeezy’s to support her feet while she hunted and gathered, is it?

I think about this stuff.

So i’m strapped up and favouring the right foot which makes me walk like Mi from National Velvet. I’m also committed to wearing trainers for the next six weeks so there’s the whole 90’s Jerry Seinfeld fashion aesthetic to deal with too.

Jerry Seinfeld

I’m not happy about it.

I decided to use this period of enforced inactivity to sort through some ancient artefacts from my childhood and found a prescient poem written in late primary school:

The foot, as you know, is really quite useful

you use it at work and at play.

You use it for running and jumping and skipping,

quite versatile in its own way.

So when it get hurt, you know, twisted or broken,

with a rip and wrench and crack, 

the darn thing no longer is useful,

it’s a jolly great handicap!

I was extremely proud of this poem and after it was published in the school magazine, increasingly certain of my literary destiny. My rhyming super powers ensured I was going to be Australia’s answer to Pam Ayers. Pam Ayres

I might even get on the Mike Walsh Show. My dreams were big.

Reading over some other equally laudable childhood pieces, it is evident my early influences were heavily based on English boarding school novels. Not many other twelve year olds in 1970’s Australia were calling people ‘Jolly good sports’.

Althea’s Term at Winterton, Monica Turns Up Trumps and Elizabeth’s Green Way introduced me to a world of kind hearted Head girls called Daphne who hosted tea in the common room and remembered to include Bessie, even though she was a tubby lass who got into the most terrible scrapes.

vintage school girl

Kitty’s cream bun prank had backfired,  she was sure to cop a sound thrashing.

I remember being severely punished over my use of the word ‘ejaculated’ when describing a friends sudden and hilarious outburst in class. I’d read the word over and over in these variously dated novels and, like so many other words, had managed to glean its meaning from the context.

Harold Robbins and Jackie Collins scattered amongst the Readers Digest sets in the good room weren’t helping my linguistic case. Fortunately my stepmother was able to stop frothing at the mouth long enough for me to produce an appropriate definition in the ever reliable Pocket Oxford Dictionary.

Despite stinging from both the humiliating parental tirade and accompanying facial backhander, I revelled in the superiority of my vocabulary. My parents were dolts, I consoled myself.

I could go back to my bedroom and write “Dear Diary, mater gave me such a thrashing tonight, which was jolly unfair and I am most vexed. I think I may be truly in love with David Soul. His ‘Hutch’ deeply touches my soul. Deborah says that Starsky is better looking, but no one agrees with her. She’s such a ninny!”

For a time my diaries were full of ‘references to ‘frightful old bores’ and ‘fast chums’ until it was evident I was becoming the ‘weird’ one and would never seduce Craig Barnsley in 1B.

I packed away Fanny’s Final Term at Brompton and borrowed a copy of Dolly magazine.

Dolly magazine

Armed with a recipe for rolled oat face masks and “Ten Ways To Nab Your Guy Before Christmas”, Craig didn’t stand a chance.

Well he did, but I’ve moved on now…

…on my good leg.

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Working at being grown up

Perhaps it’s the time of year? Steeped as we are, in the sometime sobriety of FebFast, having cannonballed past the dread festive season with its Auld Lang bloody Syne’s and  associated reflection and resolution, talk turns to job satisfaction or lack thereof. A dear friend who inhabits a stressful EA role in high end recruitment, is planning her exit strategy.

My exit strategy involves a lottery win.

Then we reflected on the various parenting pep talks we’ve delivered to our respective off-spring on the subject of working lives. They involved motivational bullshit hype about being the best version of yourself and finding something you love so it won’t feel like working.


I’m guessing every hipster who began businesses with names like ‘The Misty Catfish’  or ‘The Whistle and Sprocket” grew up listening to a similar Oprah-esque refrain. Thanks to their passion for butter churning, hemp dog coats or jewellery repurposed from old coat hangers, these crazy kids aren’t working at all.

They’re living the dream!

panda cuddler


Back when I was a mere slip of a gel, a ‘dream job’ just meant you didn’t cry each morning at the thought of it and you weren’t plotting the demise of your boss.



80’s instructional video

You got a job because your parents had decided you were big enough and ugly enough to function on your own. Your mum had gone into serious Knitwit production and was churning out straight legged pants faster than a Bangladeshi sweatshop. She and your dad were arguing over who needed your room more. His home brew kit was relegated to the shed.

All the while you scoured ‘house mates wanted’ ads pinned to the community notice boards of the local Safeway and ended up in some ramshackle Victorian with rusted lacework in Richmond. One of your house mates was a cross dresser who looked better in heels than you, one was waiting to be discovered by Hector Crawford, but got a bit of work modelling for the ‘Venture’ catalogue and the other one spent days at a time grafted onto a bean bag and attached to a bong.

Then your parents decided to leave the home-brew (bhlop blohp blohpping in a plastic rubbish bin) and the over worked overlocker, to hook the Millard pop-top to the HQ Kingswood and travel the length of this wide brown land.

Could you pop by and water the hanging pots from time to time, dear? I don’t want to lose another lobelia.

Work Life balance began when you skived off from the office and headed to the pub on a Friday afternoon. You could, emboldened by a second strong Kahlua and milk, impersonate the miserable cow in HR for the amusement of the sales team. Nothing said work/life like kvetching about co-workers with co-workers in a beer garden.

There’s so much pressure to work in a job you LOVE with co-workers who you’d like totally choose as BFF’s anyway! I have kept in contact with precisely one ex-co-worker from days of yore. We barely remember what we did there, but the memory of our mutual antipathy for a colleague, dubbed the Poison Pixie, remains indelibly etched in our memories.

“What a bitch!”

“Yeah, absolute moll.”

“She was some piece of work”


“So exactly what was it that we hated about her again?”

“Dunno. But she was a dead set cow.”


Some thirty years later and the Poison Pixie often laps me on a Saturday morning as I power amble around Albert Park Lake, and I still want want to punch her in the back of the head every time she passes.

I know, really mature.

I spent much of the first quarter of last year trying to launch D1 into the stratosphere. And when I say launch, I mean boot her out into the mean streets for life as a fully functioning adult. In one head spinning week, the child had donned the cap and gown for graduation, landed an entry level marketing position and moved into a share house.

Job done. Parenting win. *dusts hands

It had, admittedly, taken much of the remainder of the year to convince her that clothes washing is possible in a machine other than mine or that food preparation can be done by herself in her own kitchen. But, you know, baby steps.

At the end of the month D2 crashes back from another snow bound stint in the Massacheusetts backwoods with her girlfriend and their rescue dog. She is girding her loins for a return to Uni.

And I’m girding my loins for a return to chaos.

I couldn’t love D2 anymore if I tried, but dear god in heaven, the child is like pig pen from Charlie Brown.

pig pen

Her bedroom resembles an archeological dig. It took me weeks to make it a habitable spare room in her absence and I’m still finding coffee cups, odd socks, lip balm and hair ties. I swear they roll out of hiding when the coast is clear.

Her tactics for delaying the onset of complete adult autonomy currently rely on the necessity to save for a semester at a Swedish university later this year. She’s going to need a whole lot of Krona’s if she’s to live on more than lingonberries. Apparently Frozen elk costs a bomb.

Divine as D2 is, and truly, she makes my heart smile, there just comes a time when adult women need to be alpha’s of their own domain. Top dogs, if you will.


Top dog? Bitch, do you see this? I just went all Brutus on his arse. Well may you beware the Ides of March.  

For now, we will defer to the labrador and wait another year. It will be messy but never dull.

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All I want for Christmas is…

I had a bit of a ‘Falling Down’ moment this week. Fortunately for all concerned, our restrictive gun licensing laws prevented my fossicking around for the pink 5 Round 38 Special Smith & Wesson in my hand bag.

falling down

The weeks leading up to our annual festival of rampant consumerism had been, if I’m honest, unaccountably quiet. Despite the outer suburban fringe shopping centres, who festoon from late August as if for the final ever Christmas –

More incongruous skating penguins! Another forest of LED lit palm trees! A bigger grotto/sleigh/Jason Recliner for Santa Claus!

xmas decos

Christmas projectile vomited here

– it mostly just looked like people were kind of easing their way in a calm and orderly manner  toward the 25th of December.

Then BOOM! Suddenly everyone noticed that their Advent Calendar windows were pretty much all open and there were only four compound chocolates left to devour.

I understood the general air of panic with its frenzied snatch and grab shopping. I tolerated the body bumps and queue jumping and forgave the impatient service of retail staff who still had their own shopping to do. I even managed to smile indulgently at the lines of hysterical toddlers refusing to sit anywhere near the strange man sporting the unconvincing disguise.

santa kid with hat

I dunno what’s worse, your beard or this stupid hat

What tipped me over into William Foster territory, were the car parks. Battle grounds where the only clear winners were 4WD’s and Smartcars. Peak frustration was reached at Doncaster Shopping Hell Town. I’d managed to find the last spot within the radius of the actual suburb and was feeling pretty damn chipper about it. Having met my employment obligations, I returned, ready to benevolently bequeath my spot to the least obnoxious incoming shopper.

Yes, harried mother of three in your Suzuki Vitara, though unimpressed with your choice of vehicle, I choose you to occupy this space , for it is Christmas and I am nothing if not giving. 

Humming along to a commercial mash up of Christmas songs, I waited in a queue almost the length of the centre to get out of the car park. Twenty minutes and an avowal to avoid commercial mash ups of Christmas songs later, it was my turn at the boom gate of freedom.

The boom gate had blithely released all the BMW’s, Land Cruisers, Jeeps (suckers!) and ‘P’ Plated Suzuki Swifts ahead of me, but for reasons unknown decided that I was to remain on site a little longer.

There were no instructions on the screen beside me to suggest I owed a nominal parking charge, so I pressed the help button and waited.

I waited, along with a dozen or so cars lined up behind me. I waited as a woman in the lane beside me with a similarly recalcitrant boom gate, pressed her help button and was immediately released back into the wild.  I waited as my fellow fed-up shoppers began to honk their horns and shout things out of their windows – things that did not seem to reflect the Christian sentiment supposedly abounding at this most holy of times.

I may have invoked the lord Jesus myself as it became apparent that Oz, or whoever it was occupying the car parking control room, was ignoring me.

And this is where shit got real.

falling-down gun

Open the damn boom gate

With the help number still ringing, I ran across to the other lane and pressed that one too. I stood in the middle of the two lanes, swearing like a trooper and stamping my feet. Eventually a voice answered –

“yes? What seems to be the problem?”

Not knowing which speaker the voice was coming from, I stood facing a vehicular conga line of seriously pissed off drivers and yelled at the top of my lungs,


“What does it say on the screen?”


“Are you sure?”


A situation. I said that. I was channeling every American TV cop I’d ever seen.

He opened the gate.

A driver in the next lane, oblivious to the drama beside her or misreading the glint of madness in my eyes, attempted to cut in front of me.


Again, be very glad, I was not packing heat, ‘cause she’d have gone down.

So there was that. But all things considered, it’s been a reasonably stress free lead up to the festive apocalypse. I’ve decreed that spouse and offspring should desist from buying me STUFF.

D2 did suggest posting me a homemade beanie or infinity scarf, knitted with love in the cold climes of Massachusetts, but agreed that in the height of an Australian summer, this may not be ideal. Dutiful D1 required some pointed threats about disinheritance should she succumb to the lure of a Dusk candle gift pack or Lavender hand cream, but seems to have the message now.

I have enough STUFF. Really I do, please don’t add to it.

Bio-mum will once more harness her innate ability to purchase exactly what I would never want and then fail to read the look of Really? This again?  on my face.

To date: a bottle of Britney Spears perfume, a lilliputian cheese serving set, an equally microscopic set of rice bowls, several oversized madras check tea-towells, an ovoid serving platter with a chip in it, cheese knives – I’m unsure where her obsession with cheese originates – a duo of post use-by date flavoured olive oil, chocolate covered macadamia’s and a packet of pfeffenusse cookies.

Truthfully, I preferred the good old days when she gave me nothing but the vague hope of her eventual return.

Be careful what you wish for, right?

So, to my two never dull, occasionally vexing, always loving daughters, I say this; write me a hilarious letter in a home made card. Hang out with me over a coffee or, better yet, a glass of cold climate chardonnay at our local bar. Continue to make me laugh like  a drain, entertain me like so few can and please, validate my years of shambolic parenting by not being an arsehole.

Merry Christmas! Now, I’m gonna give you to the count of 10, to get your ugly, yella, no-good keister off my property, before I pump your guts full of lead…


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Sick of Fit

Another Monday morning of rueful stomach roll contemplation. This is followed by an avowal to abstain from imbibing all forms of alcohol and a commitment to better dietary choices.

Let’s see how far into the week we get this time.

Nothing tastes as good as healthy feels, right?

Yeah, nah.

I’m currently eating a fibre snacks bar that attempts to mimic a Snickers. Given the list of ingredients, I’d wager it’s efficacy in weight management has more to do with revulsion at consuming cabbage powder, partially defatted peanut flour…which, just quietly, is the perfect personal descriptor for me – Behold! I am partially defatted – and astragalus root powder.


For the super disciplined, all these protein shakes, supplements and cleansing powders work a treat. Truly and honestly, I shed 5-6 kilos in a joyless, interminable month. I felt AH.MAY.ZING at the end of it and enjoyed being reunited with several pairs of jeans. I have all the tools to continue this journey of wellness (say, what?), and, poised permanently as I seem to be on the cusp of menopause, it makes sense to pursue the ideal health scenario before I turn into my mother.

Unfortunately, along with excellent skin tone and a self deprecating sense of humour, I appear to have inherited both my parents deep and abiding love of the fermented grape and equally abiding antipathy to exercise.

mmmm, fruit

mmmm, fruit

Bio-mum has never exercised. Actually I lie, she had a brief stint with a seniors movement class several years ago where she managed to dislocate a hip rolling off a fit ball. So let’s throw a serious lack of coordination into the mix as well.

My father used to go on manic, but mercifully brief, fitness kicks. He’d spend an hour peddling away on a stationery bike like a lunatic, sweat pouring off him and legs so shaky afterwards that he couldn’t stand. Then he’d whip out the Bullworker and spend another forty minutes or so trying to look like Charles Atlas. Nothing says ripped quite like a torn rotator cuff.

The polar opposite of my father

The polar opposite of my father. *note the intact  musculature.

I’m insanely envious of people whose very existences are defined by their commitment to fitness and super healthy diets.

Don’t even talk to me before my 9km run and green smoothie. 

I had three quinoa and goji berry cookies, looks like I’m hitting the Bikram studio as well as Pilates today!

You know the best cure for a hangover? A boxing class!

Shut up. It’s a can of coke and a burger. Everyone knows that.

Three quarters of the way through ‘Febfast’ I managed to fall off the wagon on four separate occasions. ‘Dry July ‘was merely a passing thought and ‘Sober October’ IS JUST NOT POSSIBLE.

I seem to be surrounded by a host of friends currently in training for some gruelling long form exercise event in the name of charity. Quite aside from highlighting my sloth-like tendencies, these Facebook, email and text message implorations to support the marathon bike ride, run, walk, swim, river dance etc…are costing me a bomb.

So much fun

So much fun

All right, all right, you’re all bloody legends. Now go carb load and pipe the hell down!

Spouse regularly works fifteen hour days AND manages to hit the gym. He also regularly face plants the computer keyboard afterwards but hey, he’s got abs of steel even if he is in a coma.

Aware my sybarite attitude to life was at odds with my beloved’s spartan sensibility and, more tellingly, that the inevitability of summer clothing loomed ahead, I have reconnected with my personal trainer.

Yay for me.

Given the choice I would not be up at dawns crack, dragging lycra over atrophied calf muscles and lumpy thighs. And without the smilingly sadistic ministrations of my perpetually upbeat trainer I would not be lifting, dragging, swinging off and pummelling a range of weighty, tubular, ropey, and padded objects.

No siree Bob,  I’d be in bed researching me a range of summer kaftans.

But apparently, Hindu beliefs notwithstanding, we just get one shot at this, and even if I am reincarnated, it would inevitably be as a tortoise or a slater bug, so I may as well get my healthy on now before I need to work on my next life’s exoskeleton.

...and stretch, and flex

…and stretch, and flex

Pass the protein shake.

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Smooth criminal

To be honest, I thought I had it all going on. The top and pant combo, comfy yet funky trainers, tousled locks settling into semi-obedient waves and I was rocking a red lip. Yep, looking good, lady, looking good.

This self assessment was reinforced by the grumpiest sales person in Melbourne. Sylvia possesses all the people skills of an Australian Border Force officer. She is notorious for her efforts with people of non-English backgrounds, repeating herself at top volume to be better understood and openly rolling her eyes. Generally she looks annoyed when I pop by, grudgingly handing me a key to merchandise stock and ignoring my questions about sales performance. Today however, buoyed by the prospect of a public holiday, she was sweetness itself.

“Cute outfit,” she rasped.

Sylvia is a chain smoker with the deeply etched lip grooves and yellowed index finger of long standing habit. She sounds like Bea Arthur.

“That looks really nice. I wish we could wear something like that.”

The pale grey uniform top was, despite colour matching her complexion, a depressing choice indeed. As were the charcoal pants and black orthopaedic shoes.

Anyway, factoring in Sylvia’s many failings as a sales assistant and, her fifty shades of personal grey, today she recognised and noted aloud my sartorial efforts, which I appreciated. I will take my compliments wherever I find them, don’t you worry about that.

Though it turns out that all I had going on was a loitering with intent vibe.  The shifty look  of a light-fingered ne’er do well.  I’ll admit that the black and white horizontal striped top had a touch of your cartoon robber about it, but without the accompanying cap or a big sack with SWAG emblazoned on it, the evidence, M’lud, was tenuous.



Before hitting my next stop, I wandered into one of those budget women’s fashion stores forever trying to escape their daggy heritage. They have the tricky task of bridging the consumer gap between long standing customers and a younger demographic. There are older women who remain loyal to the pull on pant and handkerchief hemmed tunic top. Their go-to pieces are being slowly subsumed or replaced by off the shoulder maxi dresses and fitted denim jackets. Then there are the women who don’t want to dress for bingo, but equally, are aware that Topshop and Forever New are not chasing the peri-menopausal market.

So there I am, neatly self categorised in this latter category, perusing racks of maxi dresses and denim jackets. A cursory glance here, a brush of the fabric there, quick lap of the SALE section and I was gone. Nothing today, maybe next time.

Barrelling along to the next account I was stopped by a little blonde balkan looking woman rushing breathlessly up behind me.

“Please can I hef my pents back?” she huffed.

“Sorry? Your pants?”

I was waiting for her to add something along the lines of, I love your outfit, you look so cute – but once again she insisted I return her pants, only this time she was loudly aggressive.She pointed vaguely at the ones currently covering my lower half and then at the black bag I was carrying.

“Gif them bek. The pents. I saw you in my shop, you hef them!” her accented voice was rising sharply.

We had quite the audience at this point and my face was flaming. I shook the bag at her and hotly declared that I did not have her or anyone’s else’s pants. She refused to look in the bag and eventually, clicking in disgust at my all too apparent larceny, turned on her heel and stomped off.

I stood there staring after her angry retreating form feeling a mixture of embarrassment and outrage. Looking around to explain this clear misunderstanding, I noticed the gathering throng were avoiding eye contact and clicking their collective tongues.

After I finished my next call, the manager asked where I was off to next and, still stung with the injustice of a false accusation, I replied, “I’m off to get an apology!”

Now, despite hours of fighting words variously delivered to mirrors or imaginary crowds, I am essentially a gutless wonder who does not handle confrontation at all well, so this was challenging.

Stalking into the store the blonde  (I think I’ll go with Bulgarian) sales woman looked up at me from behind the counter and quickly looked back down again.

“Hey! Why would you accuse me of shoplifting?’

She stared back at me with a vaguely mutinous expression and remained silent; I could feel my face reddening in fury again.

“You have really upset me! I’m not a thief, I’ve never stolen anything! **Why would you consider it appropriate to accuse me of stealing from you and then refuse to look in my bag when I offered it? And what pants did I actually steal? These ones? The ones I’m wearing? Did you see me in the change room?”

On it went. I reenacted my entire store visit for her, moving about the space employing exaggerated pantomime arm gestures to the amusement of other shoppers.

“I’m sorry I was wrong,” she eventually mumbled.

“What? Hang on a minute, you’re sorry, or you’re sorry you were wrong?”

“I come bek to store and girls say it wasn’t you. You hef not taken the pents”

“So you’re sorry?”

“I em sorry…I was wrong”

This was clearly the most penitent she would be. I needed to graciously accept this quasi-apology and move on, but I really needed to know what exactly it was about me that had made her so suspicious.

“I see you in the shop. You look, you touch and then you leave, but at the door you look back at us with a shifty face.”

**This is not strictly true. I did pocket a stapler from a brief but scarring stint with a Government department. I feel bad pretty about it. 

Photo on 1-10-2015 at 3.53 pm

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Paradise Lost…again.

It’s entirely possible that I’m allergic to paradise.


As anyone who has read some of my earlier blogs will attest, I have quite the track record for holiday disasters But fresh from a disconcertingly eventless mini break in Bali last year, I was feeling like the curse was broken and booked a week in Fiji for some romance time with spouse.

The prep work required in the lead up to holidaying in sunnier climes is labour intensive and frankly, absorbs nearly as many hours as the actual holiday itself.

Step one: A toned physique; the result of regular PT sessions and abstinence from sugar, alcohol and refined carbohydrates for at least three months beforehand. Mark the departure date in the diary and get moving!

Yeah, nah. Didn’t happen. As each week slipped by in a haze of sugar, alcohol and sour dough, I kept reassuring myself that a solid three week…alright, two week…ok, five day detox would do the trick.

Step two: New swimsuit to replace old faithful with the perishing leg elastic.

I’ll go out on a limb here and suggest that there is little more demoralising than the hunt for new swimwear. It is a soul destroying exercise that only the search for mythically perfect jeans can possibly rival.

I decided that one of the larger speciality warehouse places was my best option for convenience and choice, but had overlooked the special torture of MIRRORS. A veritable hall of huge fluorescent lit MIRRORS. MIRRORS configured to reflect every dimpled, pasty, goose bumped centimetre of pre-waxed exposed flesh.

Who can forget the special despair that only hoicking a $250 scrap of lycra with industrial strength tummy controlling panelling over hygiene preserving underwear (thus creating further lumpy flesh extrusions) can evoke?

Apparently me.

I struggled into nineteen different swimsuits with their swing tagged promises of flattery which were lies, damn dirty lies. Resigning myself to the fact that no matter how much control panelling was involved, I was not going to rock an Elle McPherson beach bod, I settled on a bright turquoise pair with splashes of gold – by now I was just going for distraction.

Step three: Hair in all its manifestations needed to be variously coloured, tinted, shaped and depilated. A herculean undertaking requiring many hours and many dollars.

Beyond the obvious regrowth of colour on my part-line is the necessary coverage of grey. BECAUSE NOT AGEING GRACEFULLY.  Then the eyelash and brow tint so I can emerge from the South Pacific Ocean with all the glamour of Ursula Andress In ‘Dr No’. And finally the removal of every strand of hair that has the temerity to to exist outside my stupid new swimsuit.

Step Four: The faux tan. This is very important. Especially if you have chosen to eschew step one. My skin was pale enough to be visible from the moon. I could camouflage myself on the beach like a sand crab. So, first things first, exfoliation. Employing a scrub as effective as sugar soap, I sanded away several layers of epidermis. Smooth as. Then, armed with a couple of tanning mitts, I smeared the foul smelling goop all over, missing all the bits I couldn’t reach and wondering aloud if a professional spray tan might have avoided the alopecia look?

Step five: Packing. After pushing aside the winter coats, jumpers, pants and scarves, I eventually found the frocks. Floaty lightweight summery frocks. The ones I promised myself I’d lose weight to get back into for next summer. Back to step one.

Eventually I am organised and ready to roll. Spouse has literally thrown some clothes into a bag and had a shave. I hate him.

Airport, overnight flight, coach to Denarua marina, launch to Tokoriki island, tooth achingly sweet welcome fruit punch and a traditional Fijian song about how we are all family now.


Day 1:

We settled into our beachfront bure where spouse slipped into the expected coma of exhaustion and I read the resort facilities compendium from cover to cover. It was here I discovered the Island day spa had a three day unlimited treatment package. Noting the crumpled form of my loudly snoring husband, I figured this could only be a welcome addition to our holiday.

The prefect place for romance...ok, sleep

The perfect place for romance sleep

Day 2:

First day of unlimited spa treatment package. I had booked the Fijian Bobo massage for two. Generally I prefer my own room when I have a massage as spouse is legendary for his snoring and overly relaxed buttocks – which tends to kill my zen – but I had no choice here.

The Bobo is a particularly vigorous massage which employs the muscular forearms and occasionally an elbow, of your Fijian masseuse. No knot is left behind. It hurts, but in a therapeutic way.

When it was over, we were left to collect ourselves, dress and book the next session. Now, what follows is a result of my having ignored the three basic tenets of spa treatments. I know the rules. I broke the rules. I only have myself to blame.

Rule 1: Blood sugar level. I did NOT eat breakfast. My blood sugar level was LOW.

Rule 2: Post vigorous massage hydration. I did NOT drink any water before or immediately after.

Rule 3: Removing excess oil from the soles of my feet. Didn’t happen. Didn’t say anything. Paid the ultimate price.

So, there I am light headed (and not in a euphoric way), thirsty and I have greasy feet. I think we can all see where this is going. Following spouse down the rough hewn stone stairs of the tropical day spa in my Haviana’s, I have gone over on one ankle, temporarily righted myself and then gone over on the other, to tumble like an incompetent rodeo clown to the bottom. I looked up to see half a dozen wide eyed Fijian women staring at me in horror.

Spouse caught my arm and hung onto me awkwardly while I assessed the damage. It hurt so much I felt nauseated and dizzy and then I fainted. This was probably not a brilliant advertisement for the couple waiting for their turn.

Eventually I revived to the Fijian therapists fanning me frantically and clearly willing me gone. Shuffling back to our bure I was stopped by one of the many gardeners employed to de-nut the coconut palms lest an errant guest be brained.


I managed a wan returning ‘bula’, and then he noticed the trail of blood I was haemorrhaging.

“Your feet! You’re bleeding! What happened?”

Spouse offered a brief explanation. The gardener, lopping  the top off  a coconut, offered me warm milk.  I drank, gagged and offered it back up.

Days three, four, five and six saw the emergence of bruising, swelling and an inability to wear any footwear other than the Haviana’s of death. I had attained celebrity status by virtue of my pratfall, stopped by every staff member on the island who wanted to hug me better.

“Who IS she? Why are they all hugging her?”

Fortunately the ability to consume my body weight in gin remained intact and we had a lovely, if largely inactive, break.

Paradise? Not quite.

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