Write About Now

RFS doesn't live here anymore...

2010-12-14T05:45:00.000-08:00

http://rockafellaskank.wordpress.com/

And see the last post.

Argh!

2010-12-14T05:32:00.000-08:00

Early this year I started putting my name to some of the stuff I was writing... needless to say, that didn't include some of the introspective navel-gazing posts I had included on this site.

However, for most of the year I have doubled up on the new style of blogs I have been posting - fairly innocuous rants about whatever takes my fancy, rather than more personal accounts of my life and my feelings, to which you have been privy. This has meant that I have been double-blogging (akin to double dipping I suspect). As a result, recent inane blogs appear afresh on a parallel website sans the earlier and more angst-y work).

Having said all of that, I have to admit I have been WAY less diligent than I expected, in terms of my posting over this past year. One of the issues for me has been keeping up both this and my wordpress blog. Frankly I am tired of the constant cutting and pasting!

So, not exactly sure why, but because many suggested it earlier this year, I am going to stick with the other one....

Recent and future blogs can be obtained from: http://rockafellaskank.wordpress.com/

Same name, same time... just a different place I guess.

Cheers for now

Thomas and Jessica

2010-10-03T23:28:00.000-07:00

I am home sick today. A terrible headache and aching neck and shoulders kept me in bed for most of the morning. When I woke at lunchtime I was pretty sure I could happily sleep away the afternoon, but decided I should get up lest I be completely unable to sleep tonight and am rendered inactive tomorrow as well.

After checking and dealing with work emails I settled myself in my comfortable armchair and flicked through television channels looking for something on daytime TV to keep me from my bed. Staving off head-spins I caught the end of a Judy Garland movie I can’t recall ever having seen before (I grew up in regional Queensland on a diet of Sunday afternoon Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Fred Astaire and Doris Day movies.)

Feeling too light-headed to do much else after the movie finished I channel-surfed again before coming across Magnum PI. I can’t recall being a huge Thomas Magnum or Tom Selleck fan when the show actually aired back in the 1980s but, as I have always consumed large amounts of television and suffered through a deficiency of options in my home town, I have watched my share of the Hawaiian-based detective.

Watching it a decade and a half later remains a treat. Episodes were replayed on a Sunday morning (on and off) last year and I circled it in my TV Guide in an attempt to remember to watch (or tape) it. Despite the occasionally-wooden acting and (now) very-dated stunts and special effects I was surprised to see a number of familiar faces – including a young Ted Danson, Sharon Stone, Ernest Borgnine and Carol Burnett.

Today’s episode (shown on one of our new free-to-air digital television stations, 7mate) featured a young Miguel Ferrer. Again I was reminded how much I like and miss shows like this. I must also confess to be a Murder She Wrote fan. When the show was replayed on daytime television earlier this year, I set my video to tape it and watch at my leisure.

I think people either love or hate Angela Lansbury’s Jessica Fletcher. I personally think she morphed into a less-patronising and annoying character over the show’s life. Although I cringed at the sets’ and decor (I think I had blocked macrame hanging pot plant holders from my mind), I liked the lack of complexity in the storylines when comparing them to the murder/mysteries on our screens today.

I can think of few current shows which can offer the G-rated viewing of the likes of Murder She Wrote, Magnum PI (and their contemporaries, Hart to Hart, Moonlighting, Remington Steele, Jake and the Fatman etc…). Although I enjoy shows like Dexter, Law & Order (et al), The Mentalist etc, they are all far more macabre and not exactly easy-viewing. Hardly fun.

It makes me wonder where we are heading though. If in another 10 or 15 years the grisly corpses in Bones; serial killers of Criminal Minds; and mind-benders of Fringe will be passe? Perhaps I will be giggling at the special effects in Caprica. I guess only time will tell. Until then I will work out how to record my digital television channels and – when time permits – settle down with Magnum and giggle at the short shorts. And the hair. Not to mention the moustaches!

Deadwood - d'oh

2010-09-10T20:03:00.000-07:00

As my holidays draw to a close, so too does my obsessive viewing of TV shows on DVD. So far, I have knocked off all three series of BBC's Robin Hood, two series of The Big Bang Theory, two series of Friday Night Lights and now I have just finished watching the third and final series of Deadwood.

I had to Google the latter today after watching the final episode in the wee hours of the morning. I thought perhaps I missed something as I felt somewhat dissatisfied at the way the show wrapped up. I didn't expect an out-of-place montage tying up loose ends a-la Pushing Daisies, but I thought there would be some sense of closure for us viewers.

However, it wasn't until this morning’s googling that I discovered two things. Firstly, a fourth season was initially expected, which I decided could account for the anti-climactic ending…. But more importantly I was confronted with my own ignorance (at least in terms of American folklore), upon learning that the entire show was significantly based on fact!!! D’oh!

While watching I had been surprised at some of the liberties taken, through the introduction of 'Calamity' Jane and 'Wild' Bill Hickok, not realising until today that most of the other characters and many of the events of the show were actually also based on - as quoted by Wikipedia - 'historical truths' with a few embellishments added for the purposes of entertainment.

This knowledge would have informed my viewing and – more importantly - my expectations considerably had it been conferred on me previously. Had I realised that there was some need to adhere to factual accounts; it would have lessened the aforementioned disappointment that the storyline didn’t reflect the kind of TV-land ending that allows viewers to sleep contentedly at night.

A friend had tried to convince me to watch Deadwood for years but I had refrained, having little interest in the 'western' as a genre. However, as it happened I discovered it in the same way I discovered some recent passions, Big Bang Theory and Entourage - through re-runs on television.

Although I sped through the three seasons of the show and often refused to delay gratification, watching episode after episode, I didn't LOVE love it, ie. It isn't something I would watch again and again - my definition of a show I love.

There is no doubting, however, that the show was made by clever people and that is something I appreciate (hence my love of West Wing, Pushing Daisies, Buffy etc). The scripts and dialogue were amazing and it wasn't until the second or third season that I became conscious that each line from a character's mouth was akin to Shakespearean prose (albeit slightly more colourful!), with the quality of the vernacular and use of soliloquies and monologues growing each episode.

I have to admit to being a bit gobsmacked while watching the first episode. No one had warned me about the language. Don't get me wrong, I swear like a trooper, dropping the F-bomb far too much and I must admit that the c-word doesn't even worry me much nowadays.... but I wasn't prepared for it on my free-to-air-TV viewing. Wikipedia quotes that 'fuck' was used 43 times during the first hour of the show, setting the tone for the rest of the seasons, with the word used 1.56 times every minute of footage. I expect the word 'cocksucker' featured as a pronoun almost as much. Of course once inured to the language you realise that being called a (language alert!!!) loopy fuckin' c_nt is in fact a term of endearment. At least in the characters' eyes.

However, watching all three seasons in such quick succession allowed me to ponder a bit on my perceptions and my own reactions to them. The first episodes introduce us to the two main characters, Seth Bullock (former Montana Sheriff and wannabe Hardware store owner in the lawless Deadwood) and Al Swearengen, owner of the local pub and whorehouse. As I had seen half a dozen episodes on TV before borrowing the DVDs, I felt I already had a sense of the two protagonists: Bullock was a controlled and 'just' man with a sense of right and wrong; while Swearengen ruthlessly murders (by this own hand and others) for his own gain, treating all of those around him (liked and disliked) with disdain.

So... it didn't really occur to me sometime until late in the second season that - in some respects - their roles (on the TV show at least) had reversed. Swearengen had become the smarter 'player' weighing up the politics of the situations before him and demonstrating acts of kindness; and Bullock, faced with personal problems and complications was prone to 'flying off the handle' and acting irrationally. Bullock was now the wildcard, his rage simmering just beneath the surface. Those (like me) prone to online trawling for information would know there are entire Forums devoted to the ‘evolution’ of Swearengen throughout the show.

Of course, I realise that my early viewing was coloured by a lack of character development and the more dimensions to which we are privy, the more the characters change. But it was a useful lesson to me. I made my mind up too quickly. I jumped in and judged who the baddies and goodies were without much thought. And then I found it hard to change my allegiances. Bullock was the hero for God’s sake! As the seasons progressed, I found myself becoming more and more disappointed in him; as if he was letting me (personally) down through his increasingly-uncontrolled actions.

I gather (again, via Wikipedia) that the real-life Swearengen didn't demonstrate the same human touches as his screen character, and similarly, Bullock seems to have done well for himself in politics and in business - his real-life perhaps not fraught with the same complications as his Deadwood character.

When Season 4 didn’t progress, creator David Milch was to have wrapped the show up via a series of TV movies, but four years later these have not eventuated. A shame really, because while I can learn what happened to their real-life namesakes... I would kinda like to have known what would have happened to the Deadwood characters I'd known on-screen.

The X Factor

2010-09-01T19:11:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was about to pull the plug on my anti-climactic Saturday night TV viewing when I came across a TV documentary about East Timorese leader, and current Prime Minister, Xanana Gusmão.

I was in East Timor between 1999 and 2001 and met Xanana a few times. I saw him speak, often in Tetum the local language, but although my comprehension was minimal I didn’t need to understand the words to know that he could certainly command a room.

At that time, he had the respect and admiration of a whole generation of East Timorese. His oratory skills and impassioned performances were amazing and he had the ability to quell angry masses frustrated with everything from the world’s inaction to the United Nation’s plodding progress in his country.

He had something that many others do not. Charisma. Presence… a certain something.

But it got me thinking about that X Factor. That ‘something’ which separates Australian Prime Minister Bob Hawke, from John Howard or Kevin Rudd; and Bill Clinton from others who came before and after.

I remember when I was at school watching a young Sigrid Thornton in the TV mini-series All the Rivers Run and movie Man from Snowy River. In the late 1970s and early 1980s she was Australia’s sweetheart, eventually departing for the USA where she scored the lead in a (fairly-ordinary) TV western which ran for a couple of years. I recall reading a quote about her in a magazine at that time where someone described her allure, saying that the camera loved her; that it ‘ate her up’. And it did. We saw it years later when she graced Australian small screens again in the late 1990s in Sea Change. She had a ‘certain something’ that she continues to bring to our screens, even today.

I was reminded of this notion of charisma as I breezed through BBC’s Robin Hood recently. I have already confessed my lust for Richard Armitage’s Sir Guy of Gisbourne, but what surprised me was how engaging I found Robin himself. Slim and (I suspect) not-universally-attractive, Jonas Armstrong brought something to the screen which surprised me. In trying to describe him (in the role) to someone, I said he ‘twinkled’. An unlikely candidate for the X Factor, Armstrong gave us a cheeky loveable larrikin who drew us in and before long (for me, anyway) he embodied Robin Hood.

I’m not always as enamoured with TV characters and wonder if it is all about the X Factor. I watch the TV show Castle for example, because I am a Nathan Fillion fan (from way back). But I cannot - I repeat - I CANNOT, stand Stana Katic’s smug Kate Beckett. She is certainly pretty and Hollywood-skinny so I find it hard to articulate why I haven’t ‘taken’ to her character, other than a certain coldness or lack of depth? I suspect it is an issue of charisma. And when a character is uninspiring, unsurprisingly I can’t engage with them or the show. It is the reason, I suspect, that I used to love Law & Order – Criminal Intent, but never watched the original Law & Order; and perhaps the same reason I skip Law & Order – SVU if Mariska Hargitay isn’t featuring.

It isn’t just about acting, although it does help. I will watch almost anything with Aussie TV actor, Claudia Karvan in it because she just brings ‘something’ to the screen every time. Similarly I am enjoying our new television offering, Offspring, starring Asher Keddie who is remarkably engaging as the self-deprecating Nina.

It’s why we want the good guys to win. Or the bad guys to prosper. It’s why we forgive Bill Clinton’s indiscretions or ignore Bob Hawke’s oafishness. It’s why certain actors or shows appeal to us and others don’t. It’s how some people can command a room or a show, and others can’t… the X Factor which has nothing to do with singing and dancing.

Bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

2010-07-25T00:04:00.000-07:00

Let me start by prefacing this post with the statement that I do not, in real life, have a thing for ‘bad boys’. As a natural cynic I have never aspired to find someone I can save, or change, or mould in any way. This is because the man of my dreams will (of course) be a perfect specimen, not requiring any tweaking or shaping. Hmmm… on further consideration this may well be why I am single!

On screen however, it seems that my taste is far more seditious.

I have just commenced a long holiday and after two laps of my local video store, I settled on the TV show Robin Hood (2006-2009). I hadn’t ever watched it but recalled it being moderately popular and decided I was desperate enough to check it out for myself. Given that there were only three Seasons made and all available, I also figured it would give me enough to do for a few days while not requiring me to wait (im)patiently for a new season to be released.

As I am not a fan of the ‘action’ genre, I expected that I might watch a few episodes before returning Season 1 mostly-unwatched. However, to my surprise I literally inhaled two Seasons in less than three days and would have watched the final Season if some other pesky customer hadn’t kept it from me.

Although Jonas Armstrong is surprisingly bewitching as Robin Hood, hero of the masses, it is the enigmatic and (frankly) bloody sexy Richard Armitage, who played Sir Guy of Gisborne who captured my heart. Delivering on the Sheriff of Nottingham’s carnage does nothing to stymie my bad-boy adoration and (well, let’s face it)… lust. Dark, brooding, sexy and sardonic, he is night to Robin’s day. He is my Mr Darcy, leaving Mr Bingham in his scathing wake.

It has made me wonder how much of the on-screen bad boy thing is expert casting rather than girl’s natural instinct to ‘turn-around’ a man who surely wants to be saved even though they may not actually know it. In Robin Hood, Armstrong as its namesake is young and lanky and portrayed as a bit of a larrikin, whereas (be-still-my-beating-heart) Armitage is buff, stubbled and clad in black leather. And in the first two Seasons (at least) we are privy to glimpses of humanity, leading us to believe he is not completely beyond redemption (and therefore worthy of our lust).

Although it dates me, I recall similarly finding Luke Perry’s Dylan far more attractive than Jason Priestley’s Brandon on (the original) Beverly Hills 90210. I preferred Chris Noth’s Big to John Corbett’s Aidan in Sex and the City. And for a more timely pop culture reference I have to admit to a slight lustful interest in Glee’s Puck as opposed to, well…whatever the other guy’s name is… you know, the tall lanky blander-than-white-bread guy.

Ever since James Dean graced the screens in the 1950s and studio bosses recognized our lust for the bad boy, casting directors have given us a choice. Squeaky clean and cute, or sexy and broody.

And in the parallel universe of film and television, I know which I am buying….

Far Eastern Odysseys and Emergency Sex

2010-05-14T20:37:00.001-07:00

A few things have transpired in the last few weeks which have me thinking. Thinking and pondering.

I have been quite unhappy at work for some time. This isn’t necessarily a new thing as I get bored very easily and tend to change jobs with regularity. At the moment however, although I contemplate alternatives, I find myself at a loss to identify what my options might be. This had led me to reconsider a former career in aid and development - a previous life in which I worked and managed projects in developing countries.

Then, a couple of Tuesdays ago, I was channel surfing free-to-air TV and came across Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey. It was the first show in the series and featured Cambodia.

I lived in Cambodia (aka Kampuchea; aka Cambodge) as a volunteer for about 7 months (until a coup d’etat) in 1997. I returned for a month or so the following year as an election observer - part of a 20-person Australian / New Zealand contingent.

Generally I cannot watch shows or read about places I have lived or worked. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I feel the shows do not do the places and people justice, or that they objectify or patronise them. Perhaps I have figuratively washed my hands of the places and people, moved on (literally) and don’t want to be reminded of them. Or perhaps it is just the opposite and I find it painful to be reminded of previous lives and past regrets. I don’t know.

But as it happened, I enjoyed watching Rick and his guides eating and cooking their way across Cambodia. And, though over a decade since I was there, I felt a sense of familiarity and déjà vu.

Then….only a few days later I had a conversation with a fellow commuter, the way one does when they see the same strangers day after day. Our smiles had become hellos and our hellos had become conversations.

This day – without knowing any of my history - she (for I still don’t know her name and keep meaning to ask!) told me how she would like to work in a developing country one day. In the course of our conversation she talked about a book called, Emergency Sex and Other Desperate Measures: A True Story of Hell on Earth and offered to lend it to me. And surprisingly she - my nameless fellow-commuter - appeared the following day with the book.

I, however, wasn’t sure I would want to read the book for the same reason I don’t watch stuff about places I have lived and worked. So before receiving the book I was coming up with plausible platitudes which could fool her into thinking I had read the damned thing so as not to offend her generous gesture.

Surprisingly, although not particularly enamoured with two of the three authors (and protagonists), I demolished the book in two late-night reading sessions.

The book itself was written by three United Nations (UN) workers: Andrew, a NZ doctor, started out working for the Red Cross in Cambodia before the UN arrived en-masse to secure peace and democracy; Heidi, a disenfranchised recently divorced and broke social worker snared the UN gig to make some money; and Ken, a law graduate with an interest in human rights and no interest in actually practicing law. The three cross paths in Cambodia in 1993 and continue to do so until the end of that decade and the book tracks them through the UN hotspots of Cambodia, Haiti, Somalia, Rwanda, Liberia and Bosnia.

I met some of these characters in my overseas exploits, particularly while living in Mozambique, Cambodia and East Timor. Adrenaline junkies who move from emergency to emergency; UN Mission to UN Mission, many with little regard or thought for the people whose homeland they are inhabiting (albeit briefly). Some good work is done but the motivations of many can be disheartening.

But even as I read this book and grimaced at some of the characters and happenings, I found myself feeling the familiar tinge of adrenaline and reminding myself of the good, rather than the bad.

Emergency Sex returned to its commuter-owner, I am left pondering. After my last overseas gig a decade ago: two years in East Timor then some time in the private sector involving a lot of travel in the Pacific, I yearned for normalcy. I left the industry for what-I-hoped-would-be a more settled existence. Indeed I have had absolutely no interest in traveling (anywhere or at all) since my return. So why now am I surfing the internet for development jobs? Am I like Heidi in Emergency Sex (who I quite disliked) - disenfranchised and looking for something new? Or is my current lack of fulfillment because I have no sense that what I am (currently) doing makes a difference. To anyone.

I tried to explain my lack of fulfillment to a boss a few years ago. While living in developing countries the conditions are difficult. You may not have access to regular electricity or running water. Security may be an issue and you may be quite socially isolated. So everyday life is hard. A challenge. As a result it doesn’t matter if work is maniacally busy or less-than-fulfilling because you don’t have the luxury of considering self-actualisation or pausing to ponder the meaning of life. But in a world (here) where life is (mostly) easy, I find myself expecting more from my work. More from people around me. Often neither measure up. And this isn’t always their fault.

So, if I am honest, my desire to return to my previous life is as much about my dissatisfaction with the rest of my life as it is about work even though I realise my previous escapades did little to stave off the disenfranchisement. So, I wonder why I think this time would be any different….

The test of time

2010-04-23T18:12:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I had the pleasure of spending some time with my niece, EMC. She was working on an English assignment – a school play (Children of the Black Skirt) in which her character becomes lost in the woods, only to be found (presumably) dead, 5 days later. Underlying themes aside, I found myself wondering what happened during those 5 days. It reminded me, I told my niece, of the novel and (1975) film Picnic at Hanging Rock, which I saw before I read. As I described the plot to her, I was reminded of how frustrated I was as the film and book ended; leaving us wondering what happened to the missing schoolgirls. Even the release of an additional chapter after the author’s death did little to elucidate the mystery for me.

Somehow our conversation then drifted to another Australian movie of my youth, Gallipoli – coincidentally also directed by Peter Weir. The story of two young men and featuring a young Mel Gibson (before Mad Max really took off and shot him to stardom; and before his life went awry). A tragic tale on so many levels and I have to admit to teariness even as I relayed the story (and its ending) to EMC.

I recall seeing these movies on sale a few years ago and contemplated buying them for EMC, thinking they would go someway to educating her in the history of Australian film and popular culture. But, I had learnt my lesson a few years before when, instead of buying Disney movies on her Christmas list, I took her Captain Jack Sparrow fetish one step further and bought Edward Scissorhands, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and Benny and Joon. All three remain in their plastic wrapping, though I suspect one day she will pull them out and watch them as – though only 13 – she is a smart little chickie and has sophisticated but quirky tastes.

The other thing that prevented me forking out my hard-earned cash was that I had discovered (the hard way) that some things do not stand the test of time.

One of my favourite bloggers is The Scrivener’s Fancy’s Avril Rolfe. We have surprisingly similar taste (she used to love Thirtysomething) and must be of a similar age as I find myself nodding at her pop culture references. Her latest blog references the 1982 Australian film, Starstruck (www.thescrivenersfancy.com). Like many other teenagers across the country I loved the film. I also had the soundtrack (on cassette of course) which I came across about 10 years ago. Surprisingly it still worked and listening to my old favourites (Body and Soul and Monkey in Me) motivated me to track down the movie, which I found at a nearby video rental store. What I saw shocked and horrified me. It was terrible. Beyond terrible. A cliché. Surely even at 14 years of age I recognised that? Surely I looked past the quirkiness and cringed at the unlikelihood of the plot and uncomfortable acting? Obviously not.

Similarly, about 5 years ago, before we remembered its name and Fame became famous to a whole new generation, I was flipping through a catalogue and discovered that the TV series was being released on DVD. I possibly squealed with excitement. Possibly. I loved that show. Though the (original) movie shocked my 12yr old sensibilities, I was in my mid-teens by the time the TV series graced our Australian screens and I was mesmerised by the lives of the high school students which were far-removed from my own existence in a small regional Queensland town.

The sale-bins were bare by the time I reached the department store so my always-devoted mother (who still lives in that small regional town) tracked down the TV series for me and I wrenched it from her to insert into my DVD player. I don’t think I got through one episode. Actress Lori Singer - who I liked on the show, but hated cos she ‘got’ Kevin Bacon in Footloose - and her cohorts were unwatchable to my 40ish year old eyes. I don’t think I made it to episode two, so perhaps it improved because after all, it did air for five years….

But, I learned my lesson. Technology changes. Tastes change. Evolve. Our expectations change. Some movies and television shows can stand the test of time. They may be ‘dated’ but the quality seeps through. The Godfather movies, Grease, Taxi Driver, Platoon and even When Harry Met Sally, are examples.

So – I haven’t sent my niece in search of Gallipoli or Picnic at Hanging Rock and I haven’t revisited them myself. Although… it is almost Anzac day here in Australia, so perhaps Gallipoli deserves another visit.

Easter eggs and rabbit ears

2010-04-04T23:28:00.000-07:00

Easter is again upon us and it is supposed to mean more than chocolate bunnies and public holidays. But rather than contemplate what was purported to have happened nearly 2000 years ago, I find myself relishing glimpses of life just 30 years ago.

For my family, Christmases were spent either in far-western Queensland or on Fraser Island. Both of which presented my parents with logistical nightmares in the 1970s: long car trips on dusty dirt roads; or weeks without access to electricity or shops.

Easters, on the other hand, were spent closer to home. My Poppie and step-nanna (Gwen) lived just 30kms away at the (then, and mostly now) sleepy seaside town of Hervey Bay. Although we often visited on weekends, Easters provided my family with day after day of beachside living as Gwen and Poppie lived right on the Esplanade. We only had to cross the road and we were on the beach. Our beach.

In those days it was idyllic. Waves crashed onto the shore and my brother and I would sit on the rocks or nearby cement steps letting the water crash over us. On really high tides we could jump off the steps into the frothy surf. Not fishermen ourselves, we would occasionally accompany Poppie or Gwen across the road to try their luck, or trudge after them through the low mudflats as they used something that looked like a bicycle pump to dredge up yabbies for bait. Back then the Urangan pier was long and in desperate need of repair, but a landmark nevertheless. The walk out along the rotting timber beams seemed endless and it was often deserted bar a few wrinkled and roasted fisherman camped out for the day.

We stayed under Gwen and Poppie’s house; an old 1960s timber two-storey home. A more retro and less elegant version of a Queenslander. Now in my middle-classed middle-age I would rather be prodded with a hot poker than sleep under there, but at the time it was part of the adventure. The cement floors were adorned by straw mats and linoleum cast-offs from renovating relatives. The uncovered walls and ceiling tastefully festooned by cobwebs and other unmentionables; and old dusty smelly (possibly never-washed) curtains separating the beds. There were also two old lounge chairs and we would lug our old black and white television with us which required constant adjusting of the rabbit ears to get any reception at all. A cooktop rested on a bench in the laundry alongside the big concrete tubs and washing machine. I suspect my mother desperately missed her automatic and iconic whirlpool during those visits when she was forced to use the hand-operated wringer. Or possibly she just made us wear the same clothes for four days and avoided the contraption completely.

Easter was my favourite of the ‘holidays’. My birthday received little attention coming just three days after Christmas, and Christmas itself held little allure for me. Though always happy to unwrap whatever gifts lay under our tree, I didn’t like turkey, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies. So for me, Christmas lunch was just another nice roast dinner.

But Easter was the culmination of my favourite things: chocolate; and the freedom to eat it all day, for any meal, without repercussion or chastisement. And eat it all day I did. Easter after Easter. Year after year.

My brother was always more temperate than I (and far less prone to obsessions and gluttony), so while I would have finished my goodies by the time we headed back home on Easter Monday, he would eke his out for another week or two. Purely to torture me, I am sure.

My favourite Easter offering was the Red Tulip bunny. Elegant Rabbits I think they are called today. They remain my favourite. In those days everything was Red Tulip. No Lindt bunnies, or Mars Bar eggs or other hand-made goodies emerging out of a deli rather than Coles or Woolies.

As a child in the 1970s my Easter haul always included the aforementioned RT bunny, a carton of medium sized (RT) eggs packaged in a clear plastic egg carton (which seemed inspired back then). Then my mother would split a packet of RT caramello (my favourites) and solid eggs and give my brother and I half each, and finally we would always get the infamous RT Humpty Dumpty. So ingenious we thought… the way those smarties got inside! Actually more often than not we also got one of those candy eggs, with the little messages inside. I hated them but my mother kept buying them year after year. I don’t recall ever trying to trade mine for chocolate with my brother, though I suspect he would have refused just because… well just because that’s what older brothers do to torture their little sisters.

After I consumed each of my Easter eggs, the next of my beachside rituals would start. Having carefully removed the foil from my eggs (my brother was – obviously – a far better and more patient paper-removerer than I!) I would put the wrapper through the hand-operated wringer of the washing machine. Again and again until it was completely flat.

The result was a masterpiece. The flattened former bunny or humpty dumpty face looked more like something Picasso would offer up than its previous incarnation. I used to feel such a sense of accomplishment though I have no recollection of what I did with the wrappers after flattening them. I suspect it was the ceremony of the whole thing that I loved. Once they were done I probably just threw them away.

Anyway… that’s what I remember about my Easters-past; back when Gwen and Poppie were still alive; back when waves still crashed on the foreshore and before the sand dunes started eroding. My flattened Easter egg wrappers. Temperamental rabbit ears. Our old linoleum lining cement floors. And washing machine wringers.

It’s funny the things you remember.

In Death...

2010-03-13T16:46:00.000-08:00

I have many guilty pleasures. Some just naughty – champagne, chocolate, red wine and so forth. Some a little weird – an early years’ fetish for Dr Spock (the one with the pointy ears, not the child-rearing guru). And some that are mostly embarrassing. Like the ridiculous pleasure I get from the TV show, ‘Murder She Wrote’ and from a series of novels by romance writer, Nora Roberts, under the pseudonym JD Robb.

I am a prolific reader and constantly running out of reading fodder. So nothing excites me more than finding a new author, whose work I find digestible, and who already has a realm of books under their belt. I am as happy as the proverbial pig in mud. No painful searches of the rarely-changing library shelves of my local library; or being driven to fork out hard-earned cash for mediocre books.

I regularly admit to a fairly prosaic taste in literature. Though I find myself balking at some crime fiction (I cannot believe I used to read Patricia Cornwell for example), I don’t mind the likes of PD James, Martha Grimes and Robert B Parker.

So… admissions and self-flagellation completed, a few years ago I borrowed a book by JD Robb. Though (obviously) by no means a literary snob, I might have bypassed the book had I realised it was written by an author better known for romance than murder and mayhem. But realise I did not. I don’t remember what that book actually was, but it was undoubtedly one from somewhere in the middle of the series, given the discovery took place in 2008 and Roberts kicked off her ‘In Death’ novels (as an experiment) in 1995.

I was entranced and literally ploughed through all existing ‘In Death’ novels over subsequent months. I tried to do so in order – given that an underlying story unfolds as a backdrop to the murderous mysteries unraveling front-stage.

I have read them all now (bar a few short stories appearing in other collections). And I have even re-read some. The series has taken its place along with some other staples (TV series’ ‘Buffy’, ‘Pushing Daisies’, ‘Entourage’ and ‘West Wing’; and Robert B Parker’s Spenser or Sunny Randall novels) which I can watch or read again and again and are a source of great comfort.

So, I wonder, what is it about these novels that endear them to me?

Though I am not a Sci Fi or fantasy genre fan, these novels are set in the future, the first kicking off in the late 2050s. In a brave new world following the ‘Urban Wars’ of the 2020s. In this world we meet New York Homicide cop, Lieutenant Eve Dallas. A strong, independent woman, (stereotypically) scarred by childhood trauma. In the first novel, ‘Naked in Death’ Eve crosses paths with the enigmatic (and if that word was coined with a character in mind, it was this one) Roarke, mega-rich and a law unto himself.

Their relationship makes the novels and (in my point of view) sometimes almost breaks them. Roberts just avoids Eve falling into some caricature of a former-victim-now-turned-saviour still tortured by her dysfunctional childhood. As a romantic (at heart) I love Roarke’s devotion to his cop/wife but there is sometimes a fine line between devotion and paternalism; and his compulsion to ‘take care’ of Eve often has me shuddering with discomfort. I mean, what is it with these people (you read about) who ‘forget to eat’ and who work to exhaustion and have to be carried off to bed by concerned loved ones? Finally, although not faint-hearted I do occasionally find the sex scenes a bit much to get through and have to skim-read the gory stuff.

But Roberts has a support cast guaranteed to complement the two leads and many of them are as familiar and dear to her readers as Eve and Roarke themselves. In fact, in many ways Eve’s sidekick - the delightful smartarse, Peabody - keeps me turning the pages as much as the two mainstays.

One of the things that sets the novels apart from the usual murder / mysteries is the futuristic themes. Technology is more advanced, certainly, and e-cops, computers and virtual reality play a key role in many of the murders. Guns have disappeared after the Urban Wars and (other than in Eve’s world) murders are few and far between.

I find myself intrigued about how Roberts interprets the future. She names her technological advances simply. Watches are ‘wrist units’. Some form of escalators that take travelers significant distances are ‘glides’. Telephones are nicknamed ‘links’ and they, along with mobile phones (‘communicators’) offer vision. Cars (and other forms of transport – which can move vertically) are ‘transpos’. All forms of makeup and beauty products are known as ‘enhancements’. ‘Droids’ are prevalent – though mostly working as maids and doormen. In this world people live well into their 100s and plastic surgery is the norm. And, in Roberts’ vision, we have settled on other planets by the middle of the 21st century.

The futuristic world and its gadgets however, do not distract the readers from the plot itself and I find most of Roberts’ ‘In Death’ series less predictable than most other crime fiction or mystery novels I read. The plots are always robust and the characters strong and multi-dimensional. Roberts has recently released her 30th ‘In Death’ novel but given how prolifically she has been churning them out over recent years, I suspect there will be many more to come. And – for now anyway – that suits me fine.

http://www.jdrobb.com

Counting down

2010-02-20T20:13:00.000-08:00

A dozen or so years ago my favourite times of the week were Saturday and Sunday mornings (and not just because they involved not-working). I had stopped partying on Friday / Saturday nights so no longer spent the following morning in a darkened room moaning ‘never again’ and gagging on stomach-settling Stemetil. Instead, up bright and early (well, ish) I would sprawl about on my lounge room floor….leftover reheated Chinese to my right; diet coke to my left; newspapers strewn about in front; and music videos playing on the television.

Though progressing way-too-rapidly through my early 30s at the time, I liked to watch the Top 20, or 10 (or something in between) countdowns. I occasionally heard a song I wanted to hear again, and smugly liked the fact that I was ‘down’ with what the youngsters were listening to. (Of course the fact that I was watching ‘Video Hits’ or [old] ‘Rage’, rather than listening to ‘Triple J’ said something about how un-hip I actually was, but still there I was – ‘gettin jiggy wit it’).

Sadly I find I can no longer partake in this frivolous pastime and not just because I have hard timber floors in my lounge room – making it difficult and uncomfortable to sprawl on my 40+year old bones…. The bigger problem is that it is all-but-impossible to find any music ‘countdowns’ on Australian free-to-air television stations anymore.

I tend to gravitate to ABC’s ‘Rage’ which offers a mish-mash of popular, edgy and retro music, rather than Channel 10’s ‘Video Hits’ which seems to feature (generally non-charting obscure) artists from whatever music festival happens to be on at the time. I know my lack of appreciation for these artists and the myriad of outdoor music festivals says something about my age and taste, but frankly I need more. I mean, how on earth am I supposed to know what songs to like if I can’t find out what everyone else likes?

So, I wonder, why is there no interest in countdowns from free-to-air television stations? Why no new-release video clips, no highlighting of new music? Such shows exist on pay television (Foxtel etc) and even our radio stations still offer regular countdowns and feature new-releases. In fact it seems that The Buggles were wrong in 1979 and ‘video did not kill the radio star’ after all. But instead perhaps the video shows – as I knew them – are dead. Killed by the World Wide Web.

We no longer have to wait on tenterhooks for Molly (Meldrum) to unveil this week’s number one song on ‘Countdown’. We can just log on to the internet and we have the world at our fingertips. YouTube, iTunes and the like. We don’t need to wait for Saturday morning to roll around to see what new songs are being released. A few flicks of the fingers across a keyboard or keypad and we can find almost any video clip we want to watch, buy and download. Just like that.

It isn’t that I don’t appreciate technology - downloading something from iTunes sure beats holding the cassette player with in-built microphone in front of the TV screen and telling everyone to shush. But, I still miss the anticipation of the countdown; the inane babble of the VJs imparting often-useless tidbits; and being exposed to songs that I wouldn’t normally listen to but, because they happen to fall between No.8 and No.6, enjoy. But most of all I miss those comforting weekend hours spent sprawled in front of a noisy, flickering box!

So you think you wanna dance?

2010-01-30T16:34:00.000-08:00

I am no aficionado of dance. By a long stretch. Or by any stretch. I don’t really know what krumping is and though (I think) I know what a pirouette looks like, I have no idea what an arabesque is.

I possibly offended my sister-in-law and niece years ago when I finally admitted that I didn’t enjoy accompanying them to classical ballets. For me the night was akin to a slow-moving book or movie – where I just wanted those on stage to get on with it. I admit to a frustration with plodding (though beautiful) prose. Ballet presented me with the same problem. Though I could guess at the vague degree of difficulty, it seemed a monotonous and a long-winded way of getting to the point.

Having said that, I suspect a night of endless hip hop or contemporary dance would be as tedious to me. Though I accompany my niece to some of her eisteddfods (and I can happily watch my niece dance until the cows come home) where a myriad of styles are often show, my favourite shows are the end-of-year concerts where there is more variety.

The art of dance itself has garnered more attention and support recently with the advent of TV shows, Dancing with the Stars (which I don’t watch) and So You Think You Can Dance (which I do watch). Note here I refrained from adding Dance Your Ass Off, as I don’t think it lasted long enough on our screens to count as having any impact on its 17 nation-wide viewers!

SYTYCD restarts on our TV screens tonight which I discovered yesterday as I watched an old MC Hammer film clip and marveled at the ability of the African-American chicks (in the video) to shake their booties. This (of course) led to some sort of pondering on genetics and nurture versus nature (I obviously have WAY too much time on my hands!!).

There is no question, for example, that some cultures include music and dance as part of their everyday lives, and not solely for the purpose of eventually ‘performing’ for an audience as many of we Aussies do.

In the mid 1990s I went to work in Mozambique (in south-eastern Africa) as a volunteer with a women’s non-government organization. I recall walking to the shops in my first or second week in the country and being enchanted as I was passed by a convoy of trucks carrying groups of men and women all singing and dancing. They were in the throes of a wedding – always a huge (and loud) celebration in Mozambique. I wanted to ring home and share my excitement at what I had been privy to.

I worked in the head office in Maputo but about a week into my time there, my counterpart and I traveled to the outskirts of town to visit one of the groups we supported. We were greeted by the group at Boane with song and dance. I was delighted. It really was the stereotypical Africa that you saw on television. And, of course I was also eventually dragged up to join the women (after being draped in a capulana – piece of fabric / sarong).

As my time in Mozambique wore on I became more accustomed to the role that singing and dancing played in their culture and lives. Some of the issues we promoted (family planning, safe sex etc) were translated into songs. I sat in a church where a priest-of-sorts and his hen (or perhaps it was a rooster? I couldn’t focus as I was worried it was to be a sacrifice* and wasn’t sure how NOT to react) preached to the masses before one of our Activistas (facilitators) presented a session on AIDs – complete with demonstrating how to put a condom on a fake penis – before we broke into song and dance.

In a place called Xai Xai, I remember some young boys getting up to join the dancing women. And it took me a while to realise that they weren’t taking the piss out of their elders for doing something that they found ‘uncool’. They just wanted to join in.

Of course as time went on, I became more inured to what-once-thrilled me (or horrified-me in the case of many Mozambicans with missing limbs as a result of land mines and homeless children sleeping on the footpaths in rags). I have to admit to occasionally getting frustrated on our visits across the countryside. I wanted to see other aspects of our work in action. Did, I wonder, the singing and dancing ensue when I wasn’t there, or was it all for my benefit? Something in between I suspect. But there was no question about the fact that music and dance brought such joy to these people facing difficulties once unimaginable to me. Something I should remind myself of (as I settle down tonight to watch SYTYCD) now that 15 years have passed since I lived amidst such passion and was fortunate enough to share in it for a while.

*Note. The hen / rooster made it safely through the service though it did run amok at one point. We (the official party) were however served a meal of chicken and rice after the service, so unless there was something special about it, I was not really sure how long the hen/rooster would last in the overall scheme of things!

Coincidentally...

2010-01-22T15:13:00.000-08:00

I finally saw the much-lauded Avatar last weekend. I was blown-away by how far technology has come since I suffered through queasiness and blue and red tinted lens’ for Jaws 3D in 1983.

I have been entertained by the media reports comparing Avatar’s plot to that of Pocahontas as well as the web postings which do a ‘Find / Replace’ from an excerpt of Pocahontas - replacing John Smith with Jake Sully. Though patting him on the back for his ingenuity, bloggers everywhere are describing Avatar as Pocahontas in Space and wondering if James Cameron merely ‘lifted’ the plot (based on real events anyway!) and added some colour and special effects.

I recently touched on this idea of ‘everything old is new again’ in a blog I wrote about sampling or remixing old songs into new ones, which gave me a chance to revisit with old faves.

But this is different. We see our share of remakes. Some good – Ocean’s Eleven and The Ring come to mind. And some not-so-good – think Psycho and Planet of the Apes. But what I wonder, in a world of remakes and trashy reality television about the world’s worst car-crashes is, are we lazy and purposely stealing ideas or have we just run out of new ones?

I am currently watching two separate television shows, both of which initially had me indignant about the fact that they had seemingly pilfered their storyline from feature films. I couldn’t believe the audacity and wondered why I hadn’t read about copyright breaches. But it appears that all is not as it seems….

My first exhibit is the TV show, The Sopranos, which I am watching half-a-dozen years after the rest of the world. The show has never really appealed to me, but I was in need of something to keep me entertained during the summer off-season here – other than tennis or cricket – so figured 6 seasons of approximately 13 episodes a season would give me 70 hours (give or take) of TV viewing to stave off the boredom.

I vaguely knew what the show was about (mobsters), but it wasn’t until I watched the first season that I realized how closely it resembled the movie, Analyze This. Both centre around a mob boss seeking assistance from a psychiatrist and the consequences (good and bad) of this action. (Of course latter seasons of The Sopranos focus less on this angle, but it plays a pivotal role in the first season.)

I was shocked at the blatant ‘rip-off’ unless of course the show was meant to be a spin off of the movie. It wasn’t. Meant to be a spin off that is. And, more interestingly, it was not a rip-off. Though the series appeared on TV screens in 1999 – the same year the movie was realized - the TV show pilot was actually filmed in 1997. So, just coincidence apparently. Two separate individuals had the same idea. At around the same time.

Then there is a current summer season offering on our TV screens, which I find myself watching though it is a tad trite and obvious. Accidentally on Purpose sees an older career woman become (accidentally – as if that can happen in this day and age?!) pregnant to a 20-something guy who lives with his always-stoned buddy. Sound familiar? If you saw the movie Knocked Up in which Katherine Heigl found herself in a similar state thanks to a drunken one night stand with Seth Rogen, then the plot is WAY too familiar. And yet, wait for it... Apparently the TV show has not pilfered the idea from the movie. Bizarrely the TV show is actually based on a memoir (of the same name).

Thanks to Jenna Elfman and the dry accented wit of Ugly Betty’s Ashley Jensen the show is watchable. Even if full of clichés.

And, speaking of Ugly Betty, though seemingly a product of the success of the feature film, The Devil Wears Prada, the concept was in fact developed in Colombia as Yo soy Betty, la fea (I am Betty, the ugly) in 1999. Again – apparently just a similar idea manifesting itself in the written word and celluloid in different countries. Perhaps that explains the spate of vampire movies, TV shows and novels raining down upon us?

So, it seems, we are not stealing ideas from others. Nor are we lazy. But, have we run out of new ideas? Are there, I wonder, a finite number of ideas floating about in the ether, and have we plucked them all out?

Hopefully not. Occasionally, amid the sea of formulaic offerings about cops, lawyers and doctors, there are glimpses of creative brilliance. Current fodder such as the serial-killing Dexter, raunchy 30 Rock and Entourage and polygamist world of Big Love offer a glimmer of originality amidst the Battlestar Gallactica and Stargate remakes and lazy low-cost reality television shows.

I am (admittedly) a fan of the quirky, such as Joss Whedon and Bryan Fuller and their shows: Firefly, Buffy, Pushing Daisies and Dead Like Me to name a few. However, many of these shows which have piqued my interest did not garner sufficient interest to fend off axe-weilding TV Execs, which makes me all-the-more passionate about supporting new and unusual offerings.

So, as I settle down to Season 4 of The Sopranos and await new seasons of Dexter and Entourage I will continue to hold out some hope for what the year ahead may have to offer.

Morning Pages & Basketball Shots

2009-12-31T22:35:00.001-08:00

My friend, KC, is the most optimistic and motivated person I know. We met a few years ago at a beginners’ writing course. While I have remained a beginner (and am actually going to repeat the course this year!), KC has gone from strength to strength. She has had many-a-feature published in magazines and is awaiting the release of her first children’s book (http://www.karencollum.com.au/).

Though KC is (obviously) very talented and dedicated, she once told me about a book which helped release her inner creativity and set her onto a more confident path.

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and Mark Bryan offers a 12-week step-by-step guide to becoming more creative and productive – in whatever it is that you want to do. In true ‘me’ style however, I floundered somewhere midway through the book, having not done my homework or followed through on some exercises. I found the book under my bed recently and dusted it off (not sure if it says something about me or my cleaners?!) and put it aside to potentially revisit. I have never been into self-help books and rarely resort to non-fiction of any sort. However, happening upon this book again got me thinking about the usefulness of taking bits and pieces (or what you need) from others’ offerings.

A couple of the key tools in The Artist’s Way are the Artist’s Dates and Morning Pages. I have to admit I never really took to the Artist’s Dates. I live alone and already spend much time pondering my life and doing whatever it is that I want to do. But the Morning Pages I found quite useful. Eventually. That is, when I stopped thinking about whether what I was doing was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.

The idea behind the Morning Pages is that you are supposed to write three pages first thing each morning. Long-hand. A brain-dump as such. To refresh the mind and find whatever is lurking in there, says Cameron.

Initially I worried that the Morning Pages were akin to a diary for me. I worried that what I was spewing onto the page was a self-absorbed diatribe rather than insightful and poetic revelations.

But I soon came to learn the difference. When keeping a diary, we write what we need to, or want to, and then we stop. With the Morning Pages you have to keep going until you have filled three pages. Having to stretch my mind to think of things to write about meant that my morning blither ended up becoming admissions of things I wouldn’t normally include in a diary entry.

So, while I managed the Morning Pages, some of the other exercises led to my downfall. One of the (many) tenets in the book was that to be more creative, you have to enjoy life and have more fun. I failed miserably in trying to identify things I do now which I would describe to be ‘fun’. I did however, manage to identify a number of things I did as a child. Even at this lofty age, I could remember fun times and how the smallest of things could incite hours of entertainment and interest.

Though formal practice and training became a chore, I identified the ‘act’ of going and having basketball shots something that I found peaceful and cathartic as a teenager. The nearby basketball courts were a place I could be alone with my own thoughts as I threw a big round ball (more often than not) into a slightly bigger, but still round, hoop.

So, the homework exercise should have been easy. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognise that the mere act of ‘having shots’ (as I refer to it) could assist in getting me in touch with my inner child, unleashing stifled creativity and lead to a whole new me. Or something.

Day after day, then week after week passed, with me not having bought a basketball or done anything about this piece of homework. Eventually The Artist’s Way (and all it offered) was foisted out of eyeshot under my bed and I retreated back into my uncreative world.

But... Perhaps it is not too late. A month ago (and just over one year later) I found myself in a large discount store staring at basketballs for $20. I tested them all to find one sufficiently pumped (after all I don’t have a pump and if I had to pump the damned thing up, another year may have passed).

Another few weeks passed. But, 5 days ago, feeling unsettled and thwarted-in-every-possible-way (and lolling in bed sulking - about what exactly I don’t know), I jumped in my car and found myself at a nearby half-court. Though I once played and practised a lot, my initial offerings to the God-of-Basketball were somewhat pitiful. I had no ball control. My shooting action felt ugly. But… no one else was around to see. I had music blaring in my ears compliments of my iPod and I was free. Free to play.

I have been twice since. My ball control still sucks. I am incredibly unfit and grapple with the guilt of ‘having shots’ rather than doing some real cardiovascular exercise like trudging up and down hills. But… Today I almost made it ‘around the world’ (shooting from each point of the keyway [key]) without missing.

I hope to continue going. Once or twice a week would be fine. Soon I will feel more confident. I will move further from the keyway; then to the 3 point line. But it won’t be about ‘how well’ I do. It will just be about ‘doing’. About ‘being’.

And, I am going to dust off The Artist’s Way again. Work through it. Do what I like. Skip over what I don’t. Who knows what will come next?

Borrowed time

2009-12-09T20:43:00.000-08:00

Nine years ago someone died. I don't know how or why. I don't even know who. But I do know that their death benefited my family in a way that we will never forget and in a way that we can never repay.

My father has had heart problems for as long as I can remember. I vaguely recall his hurried trips to Brisbane from regional Queensland when I was a youngster. Not to mention the regular check ups which, to my mind, always seemed tokenistic and the rotating array of interns, fairly disinterested.

He was an unlikely candidate for early-onset heart problems as a non-smoker and non-drinker. As a child and young man, he was an athlete - reportedly excelling at most sports he played, before settling into rugby league. And in those days he was as close to 'professional' as you could get.

So, he was a fit and healthy bugger. But, his heart wasn't. For most of my life I had known that - at some point - my dad would need surgery to make it all better. The doctors just needed to wait until it was bad enough to do something about it. I was overseas in 1996 when they finally discovered that the problem was worse than they initially thought. The wall of the pumping chamber of his heart was damaged. It seemed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child was more brutal than anyone realized and it meant that the valve replacement they had always planned wouldn't make any difference. Then came the news patients and their families dread… The only option available to him was a heart transplant.

Devastating as the news was for my family, we took solace in the fact that we still had time. He was only 57 years old and still quite healthy. The life or death wait for an organ donor and transplant surgery seemed a long way off.

His only grandchild was born later that same year. Always good with kids he was a devoted grandfather and 'Tinkers' seemed to revel in the attention. But as 60 approached his health worsened. I was overseas (again) and insulated from the stress when his pacemaker failed and he had a cardiac arrest. He was in hospital at the time and easily resuscitated, but my mother was jarred. But defibrillator installed he was again sent home. To wait. Not for a donor, but to be sick enough to even make it onto the waiting list.

Only months later, in December 2000, he was again admitted to intensive care. My mother's correspondence had become filled with increasing stories of his deterioration. A man, who had very recently played an excellent game of tennis now had difficulties walking around the yard. Worse still, there were comments from others. My once-upbeat mother sounded worried. I was wracked with guilt at being so far away - with my father so ill and my mother obviously needing support.

After being in hospital for a week and undergoing a barrage of tests there was little else the doctors could do to improve his condition. My father was officially added to the organ donor register. It was Saturday. The transplant team delivered a sad message for others, but a good one for us: that it was a time of year when more lives are lost and more donations (inadvertently) made.

I arrived home from overseas late the following day and was surprised to see my recently-active and healthy 61 year old father looking old. He had always looked so young for his age. That night, on Sunday the 10th of December, my father called from hospital to say he had been told they had a donor heart for him.

We raced up to the hospital. It was 9pm. The next 12 hours were surreal. Though the donor heart was a match, we would not know until about 3am if it was undamaged. My mother and I waited overnight with my father as he was prepared for surgery. It was an emotional night, but what I remember most now, was how resolute he was that he HAD to have the transplant. He didn’t seem to consider the alternative. His only fear was that the transfer wouldn’t take place. Never once did he speak of possible repercussions of having the surgery – death – either during the operation or shortly after. So then, it was only joy that greeted the witching-hour news that the heart was good and the operation would go ahead.

We walked him to the theatre at 5am before leaving him in the hands of green robe-clad surgeons. As the rest of the world awoke, we started making calls to tell friends and relatives. And then waited.
Four hours later dad was out of surgery. He woke later that day. There were a few early hiccups, but these related more to the enormity of what had happened and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanied it. The concoction of drugs he is on prevents his own body rejecting the interloping heart. As yet it hasn’t.

He was as good as new. Still is. Almost. My father used to be larger than life. He loved, played, worked, stressed and obsessed with passion. Whether it was battling illness for years before the surgery, the surgery itself, or the concept of living on borrowed time, he is changed. He isn’t the same. I suspect that there are some emotional scars that could only be understood whose heart was stopped, removed and replaced by a stranger’s. His confidence has diminished. He often talks about feeling unworthy. Undeserving. But I think, ‘If not him, then who?’ But despite this, there are still glimpses of the old dad and we treasure them.

Nine years have passed since the stranger’s death. My father has seen his only grandchild grow from a toddler to a beautiful teenager. He has (to date) had nine extra years to wander this earth, spending time with his family and friends. And those of us who love him (and there are many) have been blessed to have him for almost a decade more (so far) than we otherwise might…

The night before the operation, as we stalked the corridors of the hospital, another family was echoing our actions. A 21yr old man was to receive the lungs from the same donor. His wife and parents were there. At the hospital. My mother and father saw them often during regular transplant checkups. Never responding as well as dad, the young man died one year after the transplant. I often wondered if his parents resented the fact that my then 62 year old father was still going strong. But, they did get an extra year with their son and in a lifetime of 22 years, 12 months is a hell of a long time.

Do-over

2009-12-02T17:15:00.001-08:00

I used to think it was very strange that my brother had an uncle younger than himself. Even stranger, the fact that my grandmother had her last child (at 40 years of age), after her eldest child – my mother – gave birth to her first child (at 20 years of age).

Now that I have reached the meteoric heights of my 40s, it seems less strange. Well, not the 20 year gap between my grandmother’s first and last child, or the notion of becoming a grandmother at 40, but having a child at 40 doesn’t seem strange at all.

What IS strange to me, is the concept of people still having kids in their early 20s, which means that by the time they reach my age, they could well be a grandparent. When I see shows like Australian Idol or the like, I am shocked that the performers’ parents look my age. I wonder how someone my age could possibly have almost-grown children when I, myself, am still contemplating (only now) embarking on the parenthood journey.

Today I received the quarterly magazine from the college I lived at while I attended University. Each time I one arrives, I scour the pages, considering the photos of current college residents. Unlike the broader and more diverse University population, they are usually fresh out of school and in their late teens or possibly their early 20s.

I try to remember my own face at 18 years of age and wonder how I compared to the bright-eyed enthusiasm beaming back at me from the Alumni magazine. Putting aside the fact that the college did not print a newsletter when I attended, I cannot reconcile the fact that 24 years have passed since I first entered the musty and unwelcoming corridors of what-was-to-be-my-home for a couple of years.

Even as I typed that line, I thought that surely it must only be 14 years. Surely my subtraction has gone awry somewhere? It means I have to wonder what the hell I have been doing for the past 24 years! It means I look at the current shiny batch of collegians with envy, and – worse still – regret.

Why can’t that be me, I wonder, wishing more than anything that I could live the past 20 years again. Differently.

I want a do-over. I want to hit the “Undo (Typing)” button and be 18 years old with my whole life ahead of me.

I cannot begin to even think of the number of things I would do differently. And that’s sad. There are so few things I would do the same. And that’s even sadder.

I remember my brother surprising us with a visit home from university when I was in my final year of high school and sitting exams. He picked me up from school and though I wasn’t one to stress about exams in those days, I was probably complaining about what was expected of us. I still remember him telling me to make the most of that time. High School. He said that everything gets harder after that. University. Work. Life. He was right.

My niece cringes when I try to offer her ‘life lessons’. Usually about important issues – don’t start shaving your legs unless you really have to; don’t over-pluck your eyebrows; white heels are never a good look etc. But, there are some lessons I wish I had paid more attention to when I was younger.

I recall being at basketball training one day, at a time when I was only 15 or 16 but playing in a senior women’s representative team. A teammate, who seemed old at the time but was possibly only about 30, told me how much she envied me; how much she wished she were me. To her, I had all of this potential and my life ahead of me. To me then, in the throes of a battle with anorexia and life seemingly bleak, she made no sense. And yet, I have remembered the incident. The conversation.

I feel the same when I see a group of young women – fit, healthy and alive. Before life’s pressures start to wear one down. Before bits start to sag. Before exercise becomes a chore to fit into a busy day. Before you suddenly realise you are in your mid 30s and single and wonder where the hell life has gone.

My life is (I hope) far from over. But there are so many things I should have done, that I didn’t. Decisions which should have been different. Rules obeyed and dreams deferred. There is some saying about how you should regret only what you have done. Not what you haven’t. I would like to think I could live by this tenet in future, so that I am not sitting here in another 20+ years, writing of my regret.

So then – if they would listen - I would be saying (to these collegians staring back at me as I turn the magazine’s pages) to make the most of what you have. You only get one chance and life is shorter than you think.

Everything old...

2009-11-20T18:23:00.000-08:00

I discovered something about myself this morning…. I am a sucker for a sample, as in the type that is mixed into another song. Perhaps I am living in the rose-coloured-glassy past (like my father who believes that footballers today don’t measure up to footballers of yesteryear!). Or perhaps it is just some longing for the familiar; but (either-way) it occurred to me that I have spent many an hour searching out an original song which has been mixed into something new.

Last weekend I was at my niece’s ballet concert and there was an up-tempo dance set to a mix of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. As it started I was reminded of how much I liked the song “When I Get You Alone”, by Robin Thicke, when it came out in the early 2000s and featured a sample of the mix (yes, I have truly pathetic taste in music!). Similarly, I love love lurved Alicia Keys’ 2005 release, “Karma” which sampled Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and was reminded of this today as I was watching RAGE and an old clip of Stevie appeared before my eyes. I recalled (after hearing “Karma” and its addictive beat) going online to buy and download the original 30 years after its release.

A year or so ago I remember being entranced by Craig David (and not just cos he suddenly looked less like a boy band member and very sex and buff!) sampling David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” in a song-that-went-nowhere-but-was-very-boppy, “Hot Stuff”. And, though I am no huge fan of rap, I have found myself appreciating everything from Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” mixed with “Under Pressure”; to 2Pac’s “Ghetto Gospel” and “Changes”; to Nas – a huge fan of the why-reinvent-the-wheel, mixing “Carmina Burana” and Beethoven into his music. And finally, cos I am a sucker for the clichéd and love the original, another favourite of mine is Coolio’s “I’ll C U When U Get There”, featuring Pachelbel’s Canon.

Everything old is new again, it seems.

The Rules of Patience

2009-11-07T16:31:00.000-08:00

I am not a patient person. And, I know there are sometimes when I operate at the other extreme. Irrationally so. I hate that I do everything at break-neck speed, from eating and speaking, to reading and writing. I just find it hard to pace myself. To plod. I occasionally find it very difficult not to finish people’s sentences, or ask if there is any point to their long-winded diatribe, but can generally force myself to demonstrate some restraint, allowing me to function in polite society. I realise too however, that some people are just dawdlers - with no inbuilt concept of time, or so laid back that they don’t worry about it anyway.

That said, there are some occasions on which I feel justified in my impatience. And, as my new resolution is to write less self-deprecating blogs, this is (instead) a rant about those occasions.

As Exhibit A, I offer you… the supermarket. As a single woman who shops only with hand-baskets (never a trolley), I sometimes pity the women traipsing around, toddler on one side moving in slow motion, grabbing at everything and a howling baby ensconced in the trolley. At this point in time, this is not a challenge I face. I am in and out. Fifteen minutes max. Eight minutes is my recent record. I rarely have lists and avoid unnecessary aisles. I am generally on a mission. I know what I want and where to get it. So, my pet peeve does not just involve those who get in the Express Checkouts and have basket loads of things, as this is sometimes unavoidable if the other checkouts are laden with fully-loaded trolleys and their hapless owners. The actual scanning of items doesn’t usually take that long. Instead, my biggest frustration comes from those who feel compelled to use the Express checkouts (aptly named for those in a hurry) and then (seemingly at the last minute) decide to pay with a credit or debit card.

Until recently I never used plastic in the Express lanes. I thought it was rude and offered an unnecessary delay to those behind me. I would go to the Autobank machine before going into the supermarket, even though it sometimes meant paying an additional fee. Though, not-amazingly, others didn’t show me the same consideration.

I do sometimes use plastic now, as you can mostly skim your card as soon as the person on the checkout starts scanning your groceries. This means (and, people – listen clearly) YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THEY HAVE FINISHED RINGING UP ITEMS before you leisurely reach into your bag to locate your purse, to then dig out your credit or debit card and then skim it through the card reader. It means you can actually skim it through WHILE the items are being scanned, thereby saving time – not to mention the sanity - of the growing queue behind you. In my less rational moments, as the dawdler in front of me is staggering away, I always find myself compelled to (loudly) comment how much I hate people who do not make an effort to skim their card early. HELLO PEOPLE, THESE ARE EXPRESS CHECKOUTS. If we had all day to dilly-dally, we would queue up behind those who like to fill their trolleys to toppling-over point.

Another cause of angst for the less-patient of us are those who dawdle along busy inner-city footpaths at peak times (before work, lunch time and after work). Most of us are rushing to catch a bus, get to work or grab some food and get back to the office, so there is nothing more frustrating than those who walk 3, 4, 5, 10 abreast at a snail’s pace and essentially blocking the entire footpath. The rest of us – in a hurry - find ourselves ducking one way, then another, as we try to work our how to overtake the offenders without actually ramming into the outermost dawdler, or barging through the middle.

Of course, as school holidays are almost upon us, I am trying to prepare myself for the most annoying of footpath-hoggers. Visiting tourists and leisurely shoppers, out for a day in the big city. Pottering along the footpaths, occasionally stopping dead in their tracks to work out where they actually are, causing unsuspecting workers to ram into mum, dad and the kids, clad in their big-city-clothes. I do realise (of course) that this makes me sound terribly patronizing – but time for some of us is at a premium. I rarely leave my office during the day anyway, but as a rule I never venture out during school holidays.

Finally (for the moment anyway!) my final annoyance is one which will soon be a thing of the past. I have written before about the tedious bus journey to and from my workplace in the city each day. This in itself is a source of angst. I live only 4kms from the city but peak hour traffic means my journey (via express bus) each way is anything from 40 – 60 minutes. Most travelers are regulars. Soberly (and somberly) going through the daily ritual and as impatient as I am for the journey to end. But… then there are the others. Amateurs, bus-catching ingénues or perhaps just selfish, ignorant SOBs. They amble on board then pull out their wallets. They then discover they only have a $50 note to pay the $2.90 fare. Causing the driver to dig around for sufficient change or count it out in $1 coins! Fortunately these serial pests have annoyed enough people that most express buses are becoming prepaid-only buses. Interestingly, the public outcry didn’t last long. I am obviously not the only one frustrated by the delays caused by the disorganized or the selfish.

I have a friend who is a dawdler. She is sometimes stunned at my impatience and surprised that I worry about things that might only amount to a few minutes’ delay. And it is true. A minute or two is not (often) life or death. While I know I am overly anxious about time – always have been and always will be – this is not solely the source of my frustration. Much of my anger arises from people’s lack of regard for others. We do not exist in isolation. Instead we subsist in a bustling world of people bouncing off one another. Where we are all busy, frantic with too much to do in too little a time. We shouldn’t be making it harder for each other. We should be trying to help each other out. Making it a bit easier for the drone next to us to make it through the day.

The Grand Gesture

2009-10-10T21:32:00.000-07:00

Starved of anything better to do on a recent Monday night, I found myself watching the romantic comedy, Must Love Dogs. A movie I vaguely recalled seeing previously and, while I wasn't glued to the screen, it kept me entertained in between channel surfing for something better.

I mostly enjoyed the movie as I am a huge Diane Lane fan, but found myself cringing at the end of the movie. Having decided that she really did 'want' John Cusack's character (Jake), Diane Lane's character (Sarah) goes to find him and discovers him to be out on his boat. Not content to merely wait on the dock for his return, she is apparently so desperate to see him that she hails a passing rowing crew to take her into the middle of the river to find him. Then, rather than paddling up to him, she leaps from the boat (along with the aforementioned and obligatory dog) and swims over to him. I could barely watch the scene as it was SO cheesy and (frankly) embarrassing to all concerned.

As I lay in bed later I found myself wondering why Directors or Writers feel compelled to include such scenes in an otherwise watchable movie, often destroying any credibility the film had engendered. As I pondered on this some other examples came to mind.

In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (a very ordinary movie made bearable only by the eye candy care of Matthew McConaughey), the guy (on his motorbike) goes chasing after the girl (in a taxi) amidst traffic on some bridge somewhere. Accompanied, I am sure, by appropriately poignant music. Again, a scene which (to me, anyway) was so over-the-top I could only bear to watch through squinted eyes.

In Pretty Woman, Richard Gere braved the dodgy part of town – and the height of the fire escape - to declare his undying love for his hooker. In Sweet Home Alabama, Reece Witherspoon tracks down (the again very gorgeous) Josh Lucas amidst a storm and lightning conductors. Hugh Grant bumbles through a race-across-town and braves public humiliation to declare his love to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. And who can forget Bridget Jones, clad in only a coat and her underwear, chasing after her man in the snow; Meg Ryan rushing to the top of the Empire State Building in Sleepless in Seattle; or her cohort Billy Crystal racing through busy streets to seek her out in When Harry Met Sally.

I sense a theme. So, I ask, what is it about the grand gesture and romantic comedies? Is the grand gesture a pre-requisite for any ‘romcom’ or chick-flick? Does it guarantee a box office hit? These questions and more were enough to occupy my busy little mind for a spell and I found myself mulling over the genre and what it has to offer.

The basic plot of a romantic comedy, or indeed, even a straight romance generally involves our two protagonists (usually a man and a woman in mainstream cinema) meeting, then separating (due to a fight or problem of some kind) before ultimately reuniting. That is it in a nutshell. Romantic comedy 101. Of course there are a few laughs or weepy moments along the way. And, as evidenced by my top-of-the-head list, the reunion is often preceded by some spectacular show of affection. A grand gesture of sorts. It seems to be rare that happily-ever-after comes without the grand gesture, but it is my opinion that the conclusion is often more palatable when the film remains gesture-less. The recent Sex and the City movie didn’t involve anyone racing through the streets, but rather the (other oft-used) accidental meeting of the former lovers. Interestingly they were still able to declare their undying love and we were able to believe it – even without the fireworks and near-misses. An old favourite of mine, About Last Night, comes to mind as well, the protagonists meeting at the end and deciding to start anew. To me, simple and believable. Completely believable.

Perhaps I lead a sheltered life but – to the best of my knowledge – none of my friends or their acquaintances has had to embark on a car chase or throw themselves out of a boat to declare their love for another.

I realise we are living in an age where we demand more escapist themes from our films and literature. But while I am happy to watch and read about wizards and vampires, I want the stories that are supposed to be believable, to actually BE believable and not sufficiently cringe-worthy to make me regret the previous two hours. Is that too much to ask?

Playing with the big boys

2009-10-02T17:52:00.000-07:00

I realise I usually write about the important stuff: television, movies and dieting, but sadly I find myself compelled to stoop to writing about politics. And this is because I have to admit to being a bit embarrassed. And though I am easily embarrassed, it is usually because of something I have said. Or done. Or worn.

This time it is not even really my fault. I am just tainted by association.

Having all-but-ignored news and current affairs for a few weeks (not sure why other than waning care factor) I have just had my parents visiting and so have been subjected to a barrage of television and radio news.

So this exposure, on top of my weekend newspaper ritual has highlighted a recent theme, which has resulted in my current state of embarrassment. I find myself wondering how on earth 'it' has come to this. And I ask, "When did we suddenly become so uncool?" And by 'we' I mean 'us'. Australia and Australians.

Okay, in all honesty we were probably never really considered (by anyone other than ourselves) to be that cool - having recently been led by Mr Magoo for what-seemed-like a millennium and by a few dodgy characters before that. But, at least we (in true Australian-style) showed a healthy disdain for what others thought of us. In that way we were too cool to be cool. Or something.

So, what has me currently shivering with distaste is how desperate we seem to have become. Like little puppies with tails wagging madly, waiting for someone to pat them; or like 50 year old women dressed like 20 year olds hanging out at a bar. We reek of desperation. To be liked. Or more specifically - we want to be liked by the right people. We wanna hang with the cool kids and play with the big boys. And by we, I mean our media and our politicians. I find myself shocked at how excited 'we' are to be seemingly moving from the kids table and invited to sit with the grown ups.

As I understand it, our Prime Minister (aka Kevvie), through his witty climate change and economic sustainability repartee has seemingly given us something to crow about on the world stage other than some acting A-listers, the occasional sporting hero and our pristine beaches. Well, so says our media. And, even the most avid of Kevvie-haters seem impressed at his recent performances which have catapulted us from southern-hemisphere-obscurity to centre stage.

But, when did we become such 'try-hards'? Such wannabes? As I pour through the weekend papers, I cannot tell if the media is truly excited that our first lady got to lunch with Michelle Obama or if the reports are indeed some tongue-in-cheek reference to our desperation to join the cool kids' table.

Sure I think Barack and Michelle Obama are pretty groovy and I suspect my mouth would drop to the floor at the sight of them, but surely other world leaders who are (on paper anyway) their equivalents should not be quite as awestruck by their presence. Shouldn't they be treating the US President as just another world leader rather than a superstar with whom they clamber to be photographed?

What does it say about us that - as a nation - we are thrilled at reports that Barack Obama seems to like our Kevvie? Assuming that we are now seen by those-that-matter as one of the big boys (when, in fact, we may fade into oblivion as the fickle international political agenda moves on). We are like a desperate singleton at home after a first date, planning the perfect wedding to the guy she has just met! I cringe when I think of how smug some of those gun-toting, homophobic, puritanical (sorry I am generalising) Americans can be, when leaders such as ours, salivate just to be in the same room as theirs.

I don't know if I blame Kevvie. After all, he doesn't seem quite as desperate as Prime Minister Magoo was with his (then) counterpart, and quite frankly Barack Obama is way cooler than President Bush (# 1 or 2) - not to mention, a million times more legitimate. Who can forget that period in Australian politics when George Jnr took Mr Magoo to his private ranch and declared him his deputy sheriff in the Asia/Pacific region? And surely the (then) government's manouvering during that time - including our role in Dubya's "War on Terror" to thwart the Axis of Evil - will remain one of our less stellar achievements.

But, this desperation to be 'accepted' still plays on my mind. "Aren't we better than that?" I ask hopefully. On one hand I feel that Kevvie is doing us proud in his own smug 'I am the smartest kid in school' Mandarin-speaking way; earning brownie points through legitimate intelligence and good policy, rather than brown-nosing and joining ill-advised wars for the hell of it.

On the other hand, Kevvie and our media are coming across as WAY too happy with our G20 performance which is why I actually find myself cringing with shame - not at our efforts to join the big boys; but at our desperation to do so. Aren't we cooler than that. Whatever happened to Aussie ambivalence? To not giving a damn what others thought of us?

Aspirations are fine and a legitimate voice in international politics is worth chasing, but I think we are walking a fine line. Hanging with the cool kids is a worthy goal, but we need to be careful that - as we have done in the past - we don't have to sell our souls to get there. If we do, perhaps we should think about focussing on our own backyard. Sometimes there's nothing wrong with being a big fish in a small pond.

Reading Jane

2009-09-13T01:53:00.000-07:00

Locked away for a period of a month recently I realized I wouldn’t be able to read in my normal manner – in which I can easily read a book a night. With my luggage space and weight limited I decided, therefore, to take with me a book I was given about 10 years ago but had been afforded no more than a quick glance in that time.

The Complete Novels of Jane Austen, as the title suggests, comprises (all) seven of Jane’s completed novels. Four of these (Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park and Emma) were published during her lifetime and two after her death (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.). The seventh novel in the tome includes an early composition titled Lady Susan.

Dare I admit that this is the first time I have read Jane Austen? I have seen many of the books translated onto celluloid, both on the big and small screen. Like hordes of others, the BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice is a favourite of mine (and not just for the Colin Firth-coming-out-of-the-water-in-his-wet-shirt factor). Though Firth’s Mr Darcy is everything Mr Darcy should be. Handsome, but cold and brooding and Firth does it beautifully. I am unable to watch subsequent versions as I don’t think any other Mr Darcys could compare. Nor do I want them to.

But on paper, Austen’s writing is not what I imagined. She was surely a fan of the why-say-something-in-10 words-if-you-can-say-it-in-100 school of writing. Of course I realise that her turns of phrase must reflect the era in which she lived, where the conversations and commentaries were incredibly polite, and where passive voice was appreciated (unlike my computer’s grammar-checks!).

What I hadn’t imagined was that so much of her narrative would be buried in lengthy and meandering paragraphs. The challenge this provides me is of my own making and uncovers a terrible (terrible) habit. I skim-read. I commonly scan a page quickly until I find what I need, which I suspect is how I can read so quickly and prolifically. As someone who enjoys writing (note that I would not describe myself as a writer) I understand that this is an affront to writers and authors who painstakingly piece together words and lyrical prose to entertain readers. This unfortunate habit of mine, means that some authors, such as Tim Winton (whose inspired prose is, indeed, beautiful) are wasted on me. I wonder if this habit is because I am an auditory thinker. I hear words and storylines rather than visualize them. I similarly fast-forward DVDs and taped-TV for the same reason - just to get to the ‘action’. (Note here that I am not implying I am a fan of action-movies, as I am most certainly not. I mean the next phase of the plot.)

I am aware that Austen has been analysed and critiqued to death, so I am not intending to do so here. Merely just voicing my own thoughts as I find my interest piqued by her work. Nor am I going to dissect her characters, either for my own pleasure; or to get an idea of what Jane herself, a lifelong ‘spinster’ (like myself) was like.

Certainly she was able to write about love and romance, about loss and heartbreak. Many of her female characters were strong and independent women, her men seemingly either pleasant and outgoing or strong and silent. But she did not pull punches in developing some flighty, vacuous or socially and financially-ambitious characters – both male and female. Though I said I wouldn’t extrapolate to Austen’s own personality, I have to say it is clear that, as a woman and as a writer, she did not suffer fools gladly.

Though I know little (and haven’t done the research – for that was not the point of reading her work, or writing this blog) of her life, it seems that she based much of her writing on her own experiences and on those around her. She is reputed to have fallen in love once or twice. Firstly to Tom Lefroy – the more public of her dalliances, but her sister wrote of a subsequent relationship (when Jane was 30) where the man in question died suddenly. Apparently she later accepted a proposal from a wealthy landowner but rescinded her acceptance the next morning and was devastated by the whole episode.

Jane’s wit and sarcastic prose are evidence of her intelligent and observant life, but I wonder about her level of cynicism. It seems she would have been comfortable around men and gotten to know them well – with 7 brothers and male boarders at the family rectory. Indeed, as I described earlier she often pulled no punches when developing her male / female characters.

I found it mildly disturbing when she switched from third person to a first person narrative style. As an example, near the end of Mansfield Park, and the tale of Fanny Price, Austen writes, “My Fanny indeed at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything….” As if there has been a narrator present between the pages all along.

Similarly, once we past the crisis in the storyline, she wraps the novel up quickly – rather than allow us to bask in the ‘happily-ever-after’ ending. As if she became bored with the story – and Mr Darcy again asks Elizabeth to marry him, she says yes, blah blah and they live happily ever after. This style coupled with her occasional popping in as the narrator makes it seem as if she is relaying a true account and feels obliged to fit a lot of detail in the final pages to be true to the subject at hand.

Perhaps it is her lack of ‘happily-ever-after’ that caused her to gloss over that bit in her novels. Perhaps she just got bored with her characters. Who knows? What surprised me was what page-turners the novels were (with the exception of Lady Susan – written as a series of letters and when Jane was only 20yrs old - so I will forgive her that one).

The novels have reignited my interest in Jane and I have since re-watched some TV/movie adaptations of her work. Indeed, the tome will also become one of my many novels which I will read over and over again.

I suspect I thought of Jane Austen as some sort of Barbara Cartland of her era. Instead I am struck by how clever she was and how insightful her social commentary was given the role she was afforded in a society in which her name could not even appear on her published manuscripts.

Jane was 41 years old when she died in 1817. My age. And that makes me sad. For her and for me. Her life and potential snuffed out prematurely. And the question going begging…. what do I have to show for my 41 years?

Addiction

2009-09-13T00:25:00.000-07:00

I am, as it happens, obsessive by nature. My addictions come and go and range from the unhealthy – champagne, red wine, caramel filling, chocolate, to the healthier – watching episode upon episode of my latest favourite TV show, or reading book after book.

There are some things of which I cannot get enough. For a while (on the healthy side of the scale) I read incessantly. I inhaled novel after novel. Some good, some not-so-good and some pretty crappy. (I do however have SOME standards, so there were a few returned to the library unread!)

The Twilight series I found bizarrely addictive; the simplistic style of writing inviting me in so I needed to know more. Needed to know what happened next. I also have a habit of reading and re-reading my ‘comfort’ novels and I use them in the same way I use ‘comfort’ movies or TV shows, or ‘comfort’ food.

So, for I while I was reading between 7 and 10 novels a week. And working fulltime. I ignored favourite TV shows, scorned movies and DVDs or outings in general. It was all about reading.

But more recently it has been TV that has taken my fancy. Or more specifically, TV on DVD. That way I don’t have to worry about pesky advertisements AND like all good addicts, instant gratification is mine as I don’t have to wait a week for the next installment.

I have been working through TV series on DVD for some time. Some out of boredom while others have become an addiction and I cannot get enough of them.

I have recently discovered Dexter; Mad Men; True Blood, Firefly; Dead Like Me; and Pushing Daisies this way.

Even more fulfilling to someone like me is when I discover something years after it actually commenced, which was the case when I stumbled across Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 2000. Five seasons into its filming. With (mostly) 22 episodes each season, I had hours of ready-made viewing at my beck and call and had to work out in advance how many hours I could possibly watch in a night; or over a weekend.

Of course this addiction – like so many others – does carry some risks. Too many episodes without a break and you find yourself in West Wing dreams. Or when you find yourself conversing in Buffy-speak (and people don’t know what you mean when you say you déjà-ed that vu!) you know that you have been ridiculously entrenched in the celluloid world of your own choosing.

My latest discovery is Entourage. Though I had heard of it and its success, I hadn’t been tempted until I stumbled across the pilot episode on SBS (TV in Australia) recently.

Though I actively pursued Dexter Season 3 and will watch Mad Men Season 2 when it returns to my video store, I cannot get enough of Entourage. Like Buffy or West Wing, I cannot wait for my next hit. I have watched three seasons of the show in one week. I would have watched more but some pesky customer has borrowed Season 4 and I am waitlisted.

I already know I have to buy it. And I am – despite all accounts – fussy about the TV series in which I invest, having only procured Buffy; Sex and the City; West Wing; and Firefly to date.
Some shows I love – Dexter and Mad Men – but I know I won’t watch them again. And again. Entourage I will. I already know this. Though the storyline interests me, knowing what is coming won’t prevent me from re-watching. Like Buffy and West Wing, it is the characters and the dialogue which draw me in and spit me back out. Sated but ready and willing to take more.

Meanwhile, as I wait for Season 4 of Entourage to find its way back to the video store, I realise I need to start pacing myself. Season 5 has only just been released and Season 6 is currently screening in the USA. Soon I am going to have to wait. Delay gratification. Or just find my next drug of choice…..

PDAs: How far is too far?

2009-09-04T17:09:00.000-07:00

I have recently had cause to ponder the concept of PDAs. More specifically, my contemplation has focused on that point at which a PDA is no longer cute or nice, but is in fact cringe-worthy or distasteful; something that you need to draw your eyes from but can’t - akin to a train wreck.

I recall having conversations with friends about PDAs, or (as known by the less-erudite) public displays of affection, and we thought we may, in fact, have been jealous. At that time, my friends and I were all single and so wondered if our disdain of open displays was some sort of defense mechanism. Easier to scoff at, than admit that we wanted to be the ones smooching in public.

I must, however, admit to my own prejudice against PDAs. In fact, what I remember most about my first love (well, first boyfriend – as defined at 16 years of age!) was becoming aware of my antipathy to PDAs. The boy lived in a nearby town and we met through sport. He was very sweet and our relationship very innocent (I was a very naïve 16 yr old). While I was the one who pursued him relentlessly but once snagged, he was the one who wanted to put our relationship on display. Though a great deal of organisation went into our holiday and weekend meetings, I recall balking at his eagerness to walk around my hometown holding hands. Needless to say, after succumbing to my wiles, his public enthusiasm for me meant that he didn’t last long (much to my later regret!).

My neuroses aside, I must admit that PDAs can sometimes be quite charming. An elderly couple wandering along the beach holding hands; a peck on the cheek from one partner to another as they separate at a busy street corner in the city. All very sweet.

So then I wonder, at what point exactly does a cute PDA become something that causes one to shudder distastefully?

We have all seen them. From my own very extensive research (aka everyday life), they usually seem to involve either: a) teenagers; or b) very drunk people in a pub at the end of the night. Though both can make me gag, I find I can usually forgive these transgressors.

But it is those others that make me cringe – and judge. I have been stuck on a bus with them. Behind them. Near them. Constant kissing; with lots of noise. While some allowances can be made for the smitten few in a new relationship, there must be a limit to what the rest of us should be subjected to.

The PDA issues has been on my mind because once a week I catch a late bus into work and more often than not there is a young woman also waiting at the bus stop. She is usually there with her partner / boyfriend / male-friend of some sort. He doesn’t actually catch the bus himself. It appears as if he merely walks the 20 metres there with her and then returns home after we have left.

They stand or sit tightly wrapped around each other. There is much smooching. Much cuddling. Much adoration. They straddle each other on the bus shelter seat, or entwine their legs. It is impossible to join them on the seat at the bus shelter without feeling like some sort of voyeur. I find myself scowling as I try to look anywhere-but-at-them; and in true me-fashion, I analyse these feelings of scorn. Assessing if I am jealous that I don’t have someone coming to wave me off to work for the day, or even wistful at the idea that someone could care enough about my comings or goings. But, no. Condescension wins out. Sweet, I wonder? No weird, I decide!

If she was going off to war it would be one thing; if the journey into the city was perilous rather than bloody long and tedious, that would be another thing.

So, given the unlikelihood of either of these scenarios I wonder then, why this guy feels compelled to accompany his partner the short distance to the bus stop and make out with her in front of an unsuspecting public, before releasing her for the day. And why does she feel the need to cling to this guy before stepping onto the bus.

The suspicious and cynical side of me wonders if he is in fact emotionally and physically controlling and the farewell is his way of marking his territory, akin to a dog peeing around his neighbourhood. If so, it is kinda wasted cos neither myself nor Joanie (the 65yr old tea lady who also catches that bus) weren’t really looking to make a move on his honey…though perhaps I shouldn’t speak for Joanie?!

Or maybe they are so madly in love they cannot bear to be apart one more moment than necessary. (Pause here for obligatory dry-retching!) Whatever the reason, there is surely no justification for the extent of the farewell. I cannot help but think it is immature and extremely inconsiderate to those around who find anything more than a quick peck and cuddle to be over the top. And I think there are many who do. Surely one of the things about an intimate relationship is just that. Intimacy. You share it with each other. Not everyone else!

Never enough

2009-08-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

Today I threw away my popcorn maker. For it has been the source of my latest in a long-line of unhealthy obsessions.

I am not someone to do things by halves. I do not enter into things lightly. No. I am not someone who feels guilt because they have consumed a Mars Bar or a row of chocolate. No. Instead I am racked with guilt after consuming 4 x 250g blocks of chocolate. Hamstrung by my weakness. Until the next day when I do it again.

I am someone who goes shopping deciding to buy only two blocks of chocolate (after all, even I know that each has over 1200 calories). But then I get home and the worry starts. I only have two blocks of chocolate (never mind that it is enough to provide a treat to an entire classroom of children). The panic sets in. It isn’t going to be enough. What if I run out?

Those-who-know-me have lived through my crazes. My fads. For a while I ate nothing but those pink lolly Big Boss cigars. Then there was a jaffa phase. M&Ms have featured a few times. The peanut ones AND the crunchy ones. Coco-pops, milo and 100s & 1000s (sans milk) was another favourite. Often I will eat nothing else but my latest sweetheart. For weeks I mainlined chocolate icing on biscuits. For breakfast, lunch, dinner and whatever else came between.

Sometimes there is a reason. After I have been on no- or low-carb diets I end up eating nothing but carbs for weeks. To hell with protein, vegetables and fruit!

My latest love has been popcorn. I started just after fat camp. I air-popped it in my popcorn-maker so that part is healthy. But then I smothered it in melted butter and this soup mix flavouring. I like tasty. The spicier or sweeter the better. My taste evolved over the 6 weeks I have fought (or enjoyed) my popcorn addiction. Recently I have had to make two bowls at once. Big bowls. One savoury and one sweet (butter with icing sugar generously sprinkled – strewn – over the top). Initially a ‘treat’, it became a staple. I replaced my evening meals with popcorn. As I was on a non-drinking thing I decided I needed something to occupy my time at night, so popcorn it was. Without alcohol or other evils, my daily intake of calories (despite the butter and additives) wasn’t too bad.

But like all good addictions, my need grew along with my tolerance. The bowls became bigger and more flavoursome. I tried to ‘quit’. To eat real meals and use popcorn as an ‘after’. To try and get some protein and vegetables into my diet (I am not – after all – a teenager, so I should know better). But alas, my level of popcorn consumption remained. I was consuming double the calories from my two ‘meals’. So, I went back to the meal-replacement scenario, forsaking dinner.

I kept telling myself that this bowl will be the last. I stopped buying it. No popping corn. No butter. No icing sugar. Then I craved it. So I bought it. But, as with the chocolate fetish (and others before it), the panic set in. I found myself at home with half a bag of popping corn. Again – enough to feed a small country, but I become obsessed that it wouldn’t be enough. That I would run out. So I had to go and buy more. Before I even started eating the rest of it. I didn’t often need it as 1/3 bag of popping corn gives me two very large bowls. But I panicked.

Even as a non-practicing holder of undergraduate degree in psychology, I realise that this fear isn’t about popcorn. Or chocolate, or alcohol. I could make some guesses about what it means or where it stems from. But hell, that would rob me of years of therapy. Or my next fetish. So, instead stay tuned.

Lollipop-heads and trout-pouts

2009-07-25T17:36:00.000-07:00

Half a dozen or so years ago, the term lollipop-head was coined to describe the actresses and the A, B (and D) listers who became so thin that their heads looked disproportionately large compared to their bodies. It described the then-fashionable wafer-thin Sarah Michelle Geller, Olsen twin and Nicole Richie, amongst others.

Despite the continuing swarm of chupa-chup starlets (the chicks from the new Beverly Hills 90210 and The Hills whose names I refuse to learn; and the likes of yo-yoing Lindsay Lohan) we don’t hear the term as much. But as I watch a rather-thin Miley Cyrus gyrating around on television, I can’t help wondering how their scrawny necks cope with the mountain of hair they carry upon their seemingly-large chupa-chup heads.

The thinness thing is not new, nor does it seem that it will ever get ‘old’. Weight (loss and gain) remains the fodder of women’s magazines which guilelessly feature articles on excessive thinness and eating disorders beside those on how to lose 20kgs in a week.

Given my recent predilection for TV on DVD and the ability to watch months of television productions over a weekend, I am finding myself intrigued with those actresses who become thinner as the show progresses. I suspect the change is more evident when – like me – you watch the series in one fell-swoop, rather than from week to week where the difference is more subtle.

You read about the ‘peer pressure’ on set when everyone else is thin. But the phenomenon that also interests me is the change between the ‘pilot’ and the rest of the season. Presumably Directors and Producers select actors who impress them – for whatever reason (talent, looks etc). So it is interesting that the timelapse – however long – between the filming of a pilot and the rest of the first season can bring about dramatic changes and I wonder why the actresses feel this need to ‘streamline’.

I have just finished watching the first series of the 2003 show, Dead Like Me. Foisted upon me by the helpful assistant at my local Blockbuster video store, I find myself entranced by the show centred around a bunch of grim-reapers.

The actress playing the lead role, Ellen Muth, isn’t your typical starlet. Not stereotypically beautiful, Muth playing misfit George (who is killed by a falling toilet from a Russian Space Station) is perfectly cast as the apathetic 18-year old and delivers her deadpan lines in her own alluring way.

I noticed nothing unusual about her as the series commenced, but she became noticeably thinner as the season progressed. I wondered then, when she had started to change and if her twig-like body had previously been hidden because of its vanishing girth. With a naturally round face, the lollipop-head phrase could have been coined with Muth in mind. Mid season she bares her arms and I could ‘barely’ look. Her forearms were actually larger than her biceps and so thin that an ever-present large vein looked like a tattooed racing stripe on her upper arm. I cringed every time I looked.

But, as I was loving the show, I squinted through the remainder of episodes. In fact I liked the show so much I went online after I had finished watching Season 1, to get information about the second (and final) Season. I am not sure why it is I keep discovering shows on DVD which were axed years before – Firefly, Pushing Daisies, now Dead Like Me. If I was more self-obsessed I would think there was some cause and effect thing happening and it was all about me….?!

My extensive research (hurrah for Google) also uncovered a made-for-DVD movie of the show, filmed only this year. Interested, I clicked on the link to take me to the movie’s website and that was my moment of disappointment. The website featured an interview with star of the show and (new) movie, Ellen Muth. Now 5-6 years since the Season 1, Muth (who purportedly is a member of Mensa, so should not be unduly influenced by inane Hollywood fads) has done the unthinkable. She has (hmm….how to put it politely….?) “had some work done”. In fact, it almost certainly appeared that she now has the apt-phrased ‘trout-pout’. Already blessed with full lips, Muth’s mouth is now over-inflated and ridiculously caricature-like on her face.

I don’t understand it. I am not generally opposed to plastic surgery (as long as one admits to it – cos otherwise it is basically lying. I often fantasise about botox but know I would feel obliged to admit it to anyone who asked. Or even anyone who didn’t! And, my upper lip is a tad thin, so sure a bit of inflation would be great – but I wouldn’t dare go there as we have oft-seen the disastrous results).

I – like most of those on this orb-we-call-earth – was a huge Meg Ryan fan. Until the plastic surgery debacle that resulted in her cute impish beauty becoming the inscrutable mask, which has seen most of her recent movies tank in a big way. I recall the release of Kate & Leopold (possibly the beginning of the end), and everyone’s horror at what she had done to herself – and her career. I can’t help wonder if Nicole Kidman’s current fascination for smooth skin will also see the demise of her career.

While the plastic surgery horror-stories are many, what intrigues me are those who don’t seem to realise how ridiculous they look. When it first aired, I was a fan of TV show, Cold Case. I recall much of Australia was smitten with Kathryn Morris – she of the barely-pinned-up hair, fragile features and porcelain skin. I wasn’t actually smitten, but I could see why people thought she was attractive. And then, somewhere along the line something happened. I cannot pinpoint exactly when, but when a new season of Cold Case started I innocently tuned in, only to be horrified by the TV-cop who was once a favourite. She was all lips. I couldn’t focus on anything else. Kathryn Morris’s face barely moved – there were no expressions, just these swollen things in the middle of her head pouting and slapping together. I haven’t been able to watch the show since.

Perhaps there is some scientific basis to it all. I wonder if the whole inflated-lips thing helps the lollipop-heads’ balance, or reduces the pressure on their tiny necks? Akin to a helium balloon on a piece of string? Hmmm…. something to ponder.

But for now, I am flummoxed. Having recently discovered Dead Like Me, I can’t help wondering when Hollywood’s obsession with homogenization resulted in the lead actor, Ellen Muth’s decision to go-the-way-of-others-before-her and adopt the trout-pout. I hope I can at least get through Season 2 before I am distracted by her oversized choppers! From all accounts the movie is a bit of a dud anyway!

Felicidades – parte dois*

2009-07-18T19:00:00.000-07:00

When I first returned (from living in Mozambique in Africa in 1996) I attempted to retain what little Portuguese language I had learned. At the time there was a Brazilian soap opera on one of our TV stations. It was called Felicidades – essentially meaning happiness in Portuguese. While the show itself was typically soap opera-like, I fell in love with the word (rarely used in its plural form).

And I wonder now about the concept. Of happiness. I have just written about two women’s searches for happiness, in Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Eat, Pray, Love (EPL) and the movie (based on a book and featuring one of my favourite actresses, Dianne Lane), Under the Tuscan Sun (http://rockafellaskank.blogspot.com/2009/07/felicita-parte-uno.html).

I defended both as not being self-indulgent, superficial quests for ‘happiness’ or ‘meaning’ but rather attempts to regain some of the lives the two women had lost when they unwittingly lost themselves in failed marriages.

I have never been a big believer in the concept of happiness. I talk to my mother often of my ultimate quest for a sense of ‘contentment’ rather than happiness. To me happiness is fleeting – something experienced when you are presented with a nice meal or buy a new item or clothing. Contentment (to me) is less transient. It is more about our sense of ourselves, than derived from external sources.

Having said that, I do believe that unhappiness is less transient and more pervasive. I also believe it is possible to talk ourselves into unhappiness. One minute we are going along okay and then we look across the road and see someone else who has more, or better, and then we feel like we are missing out.

I am a walking-cliché. Constantly feeling discontented with my life, I constantly change things around me (usually jobs) searching for a possibly-unattainable state. I often describe my emotional state as bereft or melancholy rather than ‘unhappy’ which I think sounds as if someone has made me so. Sure, a lot of my discontentment is superficial or materialistic. I wish I had a bigger tv (as I am still living with the large black box instead of a flat-screen LCD or plasma tv), a new lounge suite, or fabulous rug. But, much of my malaise results from my lack of contentment with – well, me and what I have (or have not) achieved, what I do (and don’t do) with my time – essentially, how I live my life.

In EPL and Under the Tuscan Sun, both Elizabeth and Frances lost themselves in their marriages and it was only the end of that institution which led them to sit up and wonder where the hell ‘they’ were. I don’t have that excuse. Only in a work-sense have I had to compromise who I am and who I want to be. While I hate that I have always been single, I am fiercely independent so haven’t spend my life waiting for a partner. I have gotten on with things. But like Elizabeth and Frances, I find myself often wondering if there is anything ‘else’. I can’t help but wonder, “Is this it? Is this all there is?”

In the ‘war of generations’, we talk about Generation Y being even more self-absorbed than Gen X. I watched something recently where a ‘Baby Boomer’ – the generation who led the fight for rights which we now take for granted – called Gen X & Y the ‘I want it all’ generations.

I agree that we are becoming more and more demanding. Not just of others and of service and technology, but also of ourselves. We expect to be happy. Here in 2009, in some time-warped anomaly, we want the material possessions of the greed-is-good culture of the 1980s and we expect the fulfillment of the navel-gazing 1960s.

Once we scoffed at those who stopped and pondered on the point of it all. They were the hippy-wannabes or those who dropped out of life to live on the poverty line as potters or poets. We judged them and suspected that – clad in tie-died kaftans – they weren’t really happy, just constantly too stoned to know any better.

But in the dawn of the new millennium we are taking stock of our lives. In a post-September 11-world which has become more and more demanding (we are always at the other end of electronic media and constantly available), it isn’t only the disenfranchised and the recent divorcees who are poised at the precipice for change.

Some of us are ‘down-sizing’ or taking a sea- or tree-change to improve the quality of our existence. We realise that it isn’t all about money. And we are making selfless choices to improve our environment and the lives of future generations.

Although I continue to work in jobs that (by their very nature) require me to constantly be ‘available’ I have been considering cutting back my hours. And no, I don’t mean just to start only doing 8-9hr days, but rather working a 4 day week. I have done the sums and I cannot really afford this. But I am getting closer and closer to approaching my boss about it.

I have mulled over the idea for years. But, as a single woman, it is hard to justify. I don’t have the standard excuses – study or children. But I want to make a statement - that my life is not entirely about work. I want to give myself time to do other things like exercise, writing, catching up with friends and just doing chores at home.

Unlike Elizabeth or Frances, it hasn’t really taken a crisis to bring me to this point, but a number of things, including my decision this year to try to have a child; and my (particularly confronting ) time at the fat camp recently.

So, love it or hate it, more and more of us are contemplating our lives. I can almost pinpoint those in my social-circle who will ask ‘why’ I would contemplate a 4-day week. It is easy to make fun of those who are searching for ‘meaning’, happiness or contentment, or even just trying to rediscover our lost selves. It is easy to roll your eyes at those who stop to ask themselves if they are happy.

But I think that asking if you are happy is akin to asking yourself if you are in love. If you have to ask, then you probably aren’t!

* Portuguese (hopefully)

Felicita – parte uno*

2009-07-18T17:50:00.000-07:00

Why is it that (in novels and films) people have to ‘leave’ to find themselves? Perhaps that is the only reason the novel exists. If, for example, Mary Smith discovered a sense of her real self between making the kids lunches and vacuuming, she wouldn’t probably bother to document the journey. But, had she traveled purposefully across the country or the world to stave off her inner discontentedness, well… then she might have a bestseller on her hands.

Coincidentally I came across two of these journeys in a weekend recently.

I read the book Eat, Pray, Love (EPL) for the first time and I watched a rerun of the movie (from book of same name) Under the Tuscan Sun.

The same morning that I discovered EPL at my local library I came across an article – scathing in its disdain about society’s current search for happiness. Berating our expectation of happiness along with the myriad of self-help type books, the journalist quotes EPL as being a favourite of some Hollywood-types for whom the book is akin to an existential ‘how-to’ guide. It seems fateful then that I venture across the book later that day and borrow it to see what the fuss is about.

I tend to dislike non-fiction. Well, I actually hate it, and usually don’t go anywhere near it unless forced. When I scanned the book along with my library card, I had no idea that EPL was in fact non-fiction, until I read the cover on arrival home. Nevertheless, I decided I could battle on and see how far I could get before suffering disdain equal to that of the journalist or just giving up out of boredom.

I read it in one sitting. And I loved it. I don’t believe it to be a search of happiness – as blithely condemned by the aforementioned journalist. This implies a glib, superficial self-indulgent search for utopia, or something equally clichéd (Edina’s constantly-changing religions in Absolutely Fabulous comes to mind).

Perhaps if someone told me of the book’s premise, I would laugh. OMG…. A middle-aged well-educated woman suffering from an existential crisis goes to an Ashram in India. True, Elizabeth sounds like walking cliché of a divorcee going through a mid-life crisis.

But, to me, her search through the world’s ‘eyes’ – Italy, India and Indonesia, is actually more about her actually discovering her (lost) self rather than a superficial search for happiness or even some self-actualised meaning of life – despite some of her sources of intellectual and spiritual nourishment!

I read an interview with the author of EPL, Elizabeth Gilbert. She was asked if taking a year off to travel around the world to ‘find herself’ was selfish? I wonder about this question. The notion of selfishness implies that our acts negatively impinge on others. As a single thirty-something year old woman, with the finances to fund her journey I find it bizarre that anyone would question her motivations. We don’t question the selfishness of 20 year olds who want to backpack around the world. Why are the expectations of a 30 year old professional female so different?

Similarly, Under the Tuscan Sun, features Frances, a bitter divorcee (do I sense a theme?!) who takes off and buys into a new life rather than returning to her old one.

Again it is about a woman trying to find her feet. Trying to find the person she may once have been, but no longer is.

In both the film and book, it takes a crisis for the two women to ‘act’. What does this mean for the rest of us? For those of us not really expecting a life of joy and happiness, but aware of the chunks missing from the jigsaw that is our existence.

Do we need to wait for a crisis? Or is the crisis itself the only reason we venture on such a journey? If there is no crisis, is there no rainbow?

And (crisis or not), is it possible to complete this search as we go about our everyday lives? In between our work, domestic and family commitments? Does this give us the time, energy and opportunity we need to take stock, or do we need to follow Frances’ and Elizabeth’s ‘selfish’ leads and take time out from our everyday lives.

Both of our heroines Elizabeth and Frances, ultimately live happily ever after, having successfully navigated their searches and peeled back the layers of their former lives to rediscover their selves. But, as is so often the case, it isn’t actually the rainbow at the end of the quest that provides them with the answers they seek. It is the journey through which they travel to get there. Frances’ eventual contentment in Tuscany is not arrived at despite the highs and lows during the restoration of her Italian villa, but because of them.

So, in addition to wondering if success is as sweet if there is no preceding bitterness, I wonder now if what we seek comes easily, would it be as fulfilling? Like a math problem, if we are given the answer without actually working out how to solve it, we are perhaps no better off than before...

* Italian (hopefully!)

Consideration

2009-07-10T15:26:00.000-07:00

I don’t think of myself as a particularly considerate person. In fact, I tend to think of myself as somewhat self-absorbed and am sure I have written here about the fact that my world revolves around, well… me.

I recently felt nothing but relief when I quit a volunteer gig I had been involved in for 2 ½ years. Though it involved only 2-3 hours out of my (uneventful) week, I felt put-upon as Wednesday night rolled around each week.

So, it comes as a surprise when I find myself the most helpful person in the room.

Some recent instances have compounded oft-thought feelings about the world we live in today, where people pay little attention to those around them.

I catch express buses to and from my workplace each day which stop only at the beginning and end of the journey. Over the past two weeks – school holidays – there have been two occasions when an unsuspecting traveler gets on, presses the bell to get off and then wonders why the bus doesn’t stop for them. On neither occasion did anyone on the bus provide any insight to the novel commuters. I waited to see if anyone intervened, but eventually on both occasions I had to… wandering down the aisle past my indifferent ‘regulars’ to the hapless newcomers . The first time – on a trip into the city – the young woman looked embarrassed and thanked me and shrank down into her seat. The second time we had only just commenced when a woman pressed the bell. After I informed her it was an express bus and we didn’t stop for quite some time she looked crestfallen. I suggested she go up to the driver who might be sufficiently sympathetic to stop and let her off. Fortunately for her, the driver was, and did. I was already thinking of commitments I had on arriving home and whether I had time to drive this woman back to where she needed to go in the event the driver didn’t stop for her.

On another trip home this week, the bus I was traveling on temporarily broke down. Despite the wet miserable weather, a number of people alighted early rather than wait for the bus to restart. Those of us remaining noticed that a guy left his bag on board. Everyone sat around shrugging, leaving it to me to venture out into the wet night and run after the passenger to give him his bag.

My role at work requires me to coordinate work on behalf of a large group within a government department. One afternoon this week we received an urgent request for a range of briefing papers for our Minister who was traveling the next day. I knew that the regional office involved had already struggled to prepare briefs and were short-staffed. I knew that this last-minute request with a short turnaround time would stress them out tremendously. So before I forwarded it onto them I offered to do part of the work for them – despite knowing nothing about the actual content of the briefing notes. This wasn’t a big deal for me, as I enjoy writing and I had other documentation on the same issue from which I could cut and paste. We were easily able to turn the request around within the two-hour period we were given.

But the appreciation I received from our regional office was astounding. Today one of the officers was (here) in town and said to me that it was the first time that anyone (in head office I assume she meant) had offered to pitch in and do some of the work for them. This surprised me. My lack of content knowledge about our business prevents me from being as helpful as I would like (and I AM supposed to be helpful in my current job). I tend to think of this as a failing, so was surprised again to think that I was the first person to try to make their life easier!

I write this now because, just an hour or so ago I traveled home from work. The bus was late – but this was nothing new. As we boarded the driver chirpily told us it was his first day and asked us to bear with him. I groaned inwardly, knowing what this would mean. The impatient-control-freak-with-ridiculously-high expectations in me knew that this would mean a slower-than-usual trip home – the last thing I wanted at the end of the week.

No sooner had we started when he was in trouble. He pulled up at almost every stop in the city, not sure where the bus was to officially stop. I watched as he pulled out his itinerary and tried to look at the numbers on the bus stops – almost impossible to see in the dark evening. I was near the back of the bus and waited for someone to volunteer to help the driver. No one did. So I moved towards the front and initially offered some advice to gauge whether he would be offended. He wasn’t. I made sure I joked that we commuters do the trip every day so should be expected to know it like the back of our hands, but that he didn’t have that same advantage. So I become his own personal GPS and was able to tell him where we stopped next, which lane to be in and when we had to turn.

I had planned to zone out listening to the latest music I downloaded (this week’s faves are Rob Thomas’ Her Diamonds and Beyonce’s Sweet Dreams) but obviously I had to return my music to my bag to assist the driver. In true self-absorbed-over-analysing-me-style I questioned myself to see if I felt any resentment at missing out on my usual transition ritual between work and home. I didn’t. And in fact I felt guilty when I got off the bus as the driver would be ‘on his own’ for the final part of the trip.

I realise that I am overly sensitive to others. This is a good and bad thing. While I may be more perceptive to others’ feelings, it also means I am a people-pleaser (http://rockafellaskank.blogspot.com/2009/05/deadly-sins-envy-and-people-pleasing.html) with my own behaviour reflecting others’ responses rather than (sometimes) being true to myself.

But this latest incident got me thinking about people’s lack of consideration for their fellow world-passengers. Despite my sensitivity to others, I suspect I am a fairly selfish person, which is why it worries me that I have been finding myself the most considerate person ‘in the room’. What does that say about everyone else?

(Not) just a pretty face?

2009-06-27T23:38:00.000-07:00

I recently wrote (tongue in cheek) about my evolving taste in men. But I am afraid I have to admit that, while I am still primarily drawn to a man’s wit and intelligence, I still can’t go past a pretty face. Or more specifically, a handsome or sexy one.

I was confronted with my own hypocrisy a week after writing the other blog (http://rockafellaskank.blogspot.com/2009/04/fine-print.html). I flipped open a magazine from a weekly newspaper and there he was. Rupert Penry-Jones. Hmmmm, even the name is sexy (in a stuffy British way).

Beyond cute. And sexy. He’s both. And intelligent. Well, maybe not really, but he is in the TV Show, Spooks, where he plays Adam Carter, a MI5 Agent. I must admit at this point that I haven’t been watching the award-winning show. I watched the first two series and then when Penry-Jones’ predecessor (the popular Matthew Macfadyen) left I was disappointed. That was allayed when I laid eyes on the new star, Penry-Jones. But the excitement was short-lived when a wife appeared on the scene. A sharp-featured thin woman, I disliked her immediately and, with the loss of other characters I lost interest in the show. Having said that, Penry-Jones remains ridiculously sexy. (Of course, I discovered later that his on-screen wife was killed off. Damn! I missed out on hours of viewing pleasure...)

But it is nice to know I can still be flummoxed by a pretty face. I have to admit that, while I love Simon Baker’s quirky character in The Mentalist, I also watch the show because he is beautiful beyond belief. I don’t care that he is happily married and apparently sweet. He is stunning.

Similarly lovely is Gabriel Macht, who I discovered in the very-ordinary (but visually pleasing) Because I Said So, and appearing more recently in The Spirit. I find myself unable to decide whether he is cute or sexy, but then again – who cares?!

I should also admit at this point to a bit of a soft spot for Jeffrey Dean Morgan (who played the dying Denny in Grey’s Anatomy and the father in TV’s Supernatural). I was still watching Grey’s Anatomy when he appeared and, well… died. Single girlfriends and I complained bitterly after viewing the fairly-ordinary weepie, PS I Love You, in which Hilary Swank is not only widowed by the gorgeous Gerard Butler, but happens to stumble across Jeffrey as she tries to cope with her hubby’s death. I mean, how many gorgeous guys is one girl granted?!

While I’m at it, I have to confess to almost crying over Brad Pitt’s beauty as Benjamin Button. I mean, how can someone be so beautiful? (As the young Benjamin obviously, not the old one!)

Then of course there is George. While the oft-cited car-boot (car-trunk to non-Aussies) scene between Mr Clooney and Jennifer Lopez (in Out of Sight) caused some hot flushes, it was the hotel bar and ensuing bedroom scene that made me rethink the sexiness of a name like George.

Now, I know beauty is in the eye of the beholder - after all, while Blair Underwood can make me swoon; I still think Leonardo DiCaprio looks like a 15 year old; that Robert Pattison has a flat nose; and as for those boys from Gossip Girl….well, I just don’t get it.

But, after stumbling across Penry-Jones’ picture and giving the (what-attracts-me) matter more consideration, it was nice to be reminded that I am still a sucker for a pretty face.

So, while I no longer have pictures of Tom Cruise on my walls – as I did in the 1980s (and, I blame hair-perming chemicals for that lapse in judgment!) and I am not going to stalk Penry-Jones, Brad Pitt or George Clooney on Twitter, it’s kinda nice really – being this superficial. I was starting to worry I was a bit past all that.

TV or not TV

2009-06-20T20:47:00.000-07:00

The facts are these…… I am fickle. This I will admit. When I was a young girl Charlie’s Angels, Bionic Woman, Starsky and Hutch had my heart – and my TV viewing hours.

My tastes have changed over the years. Matured - hopefully. Evolved - hopefully. Until today I find myself attracted with TV with intelligent scripts and witty dialogue. And a bit of an edge.

First there was Buffy, West Wing and Sex in the City. Then we were blessed with Weeds, Dexter and Mad Men. Original and quirky.

Well, quirky has a new name. And face. Having read about the show, last weekend I stumbled across Pushing Daisies at my local video store.

Commentated by voiceover with a dry, droll wit, Daisies features Ned, who learns at a young age, that he has the ability to bring the dead back to life. But like all good things (red wine and chocolate) there are negative consequences.

We first meet Ned as a child, where upon bringing his mother back to life, he inadvertently causes the death of his childhood sweetheart’s father; and upon a second touch, relegates his mother again to the afterlife.

We next meet the present-day Ned (aka the Pie-Maker) and his equally-quirky band of sidekicks at The Pie Hole.

Emmerson Cod, who most recently played the antagonistic and arrogant Edward Vogler on House, is a PI who, having discovered Ned’s secret exploits it for profit. By bringing the dead back to life (albeit briefly – having learnt his lesson from the double death of his mother) Ned and Emmerson can ask about the crime that led to the victim’s death, tell the cops and collect the reward. Well, sort of…

Daisies is well-served by its supporting cast of Anna Friel (as Ned’s grown-up childhood sweetheart, Chuck) and torch-carrying employee, Olive Snook (played with kooky charisma by West Wing’s Kristin Chenoweth).

The set and visual design of the show reflect its ‘larger-than-life’ theme. Like a big storybook, everything from the Pie Hole itself, to Olive and Chuck’s wardrobe is bright, colourful and almost cartoon-like.

Like many other underappreciated shows (Dexter and Mad Men), our doyens of taste (TV Executives) decided against rushing Pushing Daisies onto our screens. Instead, Channel Nine, having purchased the rights to the show, on-sold it to pay television after one year, where it screened for the first time in Australia in April this year.

I have previously complained about the fickle nature of TV Executives (which, unlike my own fickle taste, is highly unacceptable!): http://rockafellaskank.blogspot.com/2009/02/benching-b-team-eli-army-wives-gossip.html

Unfortunately, despite its early success (the show was nominated for 22 Emmy Awards in 2008); it has since been axed, going the way of many-a-good-but-slightly-weird TV show.

However, all is not lost. The first season is now available on DVD and I have the second season to look forward to. I also have faith that more original and innovative boffins in TV- and movie-land will come up with my next viewing pleasure.

Fat camp - coming home

2009-06-07T19:11:00.000-07:00

Now that I am safely home, having survived four weeks at fat camp, I decided I should reflect on what I learned and achieved while there.

I have to admit that the time passed incredibly quickly. During the first week I was confronted by my own foibles – the extent of my ‘unfitness’ particularly compared to other campers; my perceptions of myself and others; as well as the extent to which I control all aspects of my life and am uncomfortable being dictated to by others.

Things improved after that, but there were still times that I battled with some of my demons. Heading to fat camp, I hoped that my 25yr battle with food, exercise and dieting might be resolved. It hasn’t been and realistically I realise that four weeks at a health retreat cannot erase years of obsession. I have long-known that eating and drinking are, for me, symptoms of other issues. What they are I don’t exactly know. I suspect that they stem from my need for ‘control’. The fact that (as an adult) I tightly control all aspects of my life – other than what I eat and my lack of exercise – is telling.

Experts say that girls / women / people become anorexic because they feel they have no control over their lives. They reduce their food intake because that is the one thing they can control. Twenty-five years ago my parents battled me over the dinner table as I starved myself to 45kgs. They despaired as I spent my nights in my bedroom dancing around to burn extra calories, having already exercised much of the day. Other than tie me down or hospitalize me, there was nothing they could do. It was the one thing I could control. And I was… in control.

Not any longer. Food and exercise are now the only things in my life I cannot control.

I wonder now if the underlying issues to my eating disorders (anorexia, bulimia and over-eating) will ever be unearthed. Perhaps I don’t need to know ‘why’. Perhaps now it is solely about self-control. Perhaps I need to stop relying on food to fill the gaping hole inside of me. I need to find other things to sate the emptiness.

So, though I survived four weeks at fat camp, I haven’t discovered the magic elixir that will solve all of my problems. I have, however, been confronted with, well…. me. My weaknesses and my strengths. My beliefs and my perceptions.

I have written about them in this blog, discussed them with my fellow campers and pondered them during the little time we had to ourselves there. Some of the things I have learned are things about me. Others are not.

I now know that 1 kilogram = 7700 calories, so to lose 1kg, you need to ‘expend’ 7700 more calories than you consume (over a period of time). As someone who relies on logic, this equation makes complete sense to me and came as somewhat of a surprise – that I hadn’t know it earlier.

I learned (the hard way I think) that sharing your anxiety with others doesn’t help ease it. Constantly and publicly obsessing about something (hills and steps) doesn’t make it go away and just annoys those around you.

Very importantly I learned that hills are not insurmountable. They can be hard and painful, but can be climbed. Slowly and steadily. It doesn’t matter if you are first or last to the top, as long as you know you have tried and given it your best.

I already knew, but confirmed, that I am a control freak and do need to know what is ahead of me. While I am comfortable with change and actually enjoy it, I need to know where we are going and that there is a logic to it.

Finally and surprising to me was the extent to which Victorians are ridiculously obsessed with Australian Rules Football and discuss players as if they are intimate friends. The obsession pervades all aspects of the State’s culture and is akin to some form of mass hysteria(!!).

So, almost 14kgs lighter, with lessons learned and many kilometers of hills under my belt, I farewelled our trainers and the other campers and headed home. The feeling was (and is) almost impossible to describe. I am reminded of prisoners leaving jail; of addicts leaving rehab. I wandered around Melbourne airport, bereft. While our classes at camp discussed ‘the outside world’ and its temptations and prepared us for ‘after’, I felt at a loss. I roamed from café to café, looking for something suitable for a coeliac AND a no-carbohydrate diet. I ended up with a diet coke. On the plane, I was offered cake, or biscuits – or an apple. I could have none of them. Eventually they found me a small packet of almonds which I ate, even though they were salted.

In my apartment, I opened my refrigerator and looked inside. After a month away it was bare. Dinner time and my options were limited. Even my ‘healthy’ frozen veges including peas and corn (a no-no on a no-carbohydrate diet) were now out of the question.

It wasn’t just the food. While at the airport and on the plane, I found myself teary and unsure. Even now, everything feels different. I don’t fit. After four weeks there, the camp had become my ‘comfort zone’. The outside world is now unfamiliar to me. It is a new challenge which I wasn’t expecting. I thought I was prepared. I wasn’t. I’m not. Perhaps it is different for those who leave and return to family. Perhaps I feel lost because I didn’t come home to anyone. Just an empty apartment. An empty life.

Adro and the camp manager, Dante, talked to us about going home. Not just about what we will eat and how we will exercise, but about other aspects of our lives that have led to our overeating or our destructive behaviours.

I vowed a better work-life balance. Not just in hours, but in also quality. I can no longer live a life where the only enjoyable thing I do each day is drink and eat to excess. There must be something more and my next task is to find it.

Deadly Sins - envy and people-pleasing

2009-05-30T18:10:00.000-07:00

I was talking to my mother recently about one of my (many) faults. Envy. I explained to her that I generally feel happy about my little ‘lot’ in life – my apartment, my job, my pay, my life – until I look around me. Then I see friends / people who – earn more, have better places, cushier jobs, partners with whom they share expenses, mortgages and their lives – and I feel discontented. “It’s not fair,” I think. “Poor me,” I think.

I forget about those millions who are homeless and living in poverty or violence. It is all about me and I feel envy. I feel injustice and I feel (and act) like a ‘victim’.

I hate these feelings of envy and injustice and talk about myself as being self-absorbed. Self-obsessed.

But, when I do psychological tests, or other personality quizzes the results rarely indicate this. In fact it is the opposite: I am ‘socially intelligent’, knowing how to act with people in different situations; I feel a sense of responsibility to others and care about their feelings and welfare… blah, blah blah.

This is kinda true. I know that. In some ways this is a good thing. I am overly cautious about others’ feelings, in group situations I ensure that everyone gets a say, I encourage the quieter members. But I am also overly sensitive to others’ pain and hurt. I feel the need to make things better. I explain away others’ insensitivity; I intervene to soften someone’s tone without trying to offend either party. It can be hard work. I continually monitor peoples’ reactions as I speak to them - which means I give them what they want to hear.

Essentially, I am a people-pleaser and it can be exhausting. It can also mean that ‘I’ am lost along the way. What I really want to say and who I really am is cast aside as I become who others need me to be. And what I am realizing more and more is that, I can only see myself through the eyes of others.

For a long time I have known that I worry too much about what others think of me. How I am perceived. I can only see myself reflected in the eyes of others. When asked why I want to lose weight, my responses are about how others perceive me: so men will find me more attractive; so people won’t judge me in a certain way…. My reasons are never about me.

Here at the fat camp, these issues are becoming more evident. I struggled through my first two weeks here (http://rockafellaskank.blogspot.com/2009/05/fat-camp-one-week-down.html) and was horrified, not at how unfit I was, but that I was more unfit than others. I hated that I lagged behind. I hated that any athleticism I once had, was gone, leaving me wallowing in others’ perception that I never had any.

Partway through the second fortnight, my attitude is different. The fitter bunch has gone; the newcomers are less fit. Less athletic. I am no longer the least fit. In fact, I have to be positive, strong and encouraging for their benefit. I can’t whinge and complain as I know they are doing it harder than I am. Once again I am able to be strong and supportive.

Those that were here during my first week keep commenting on the change in me. I have tried to explain, but am not sure I have succeeded. They do know about this weakness though. They keep picking me up on anything I say that is about how I am perceived. Here at the camp we are told that we need to focus on ourselves. Here it is supposed to be ‘all about me’. Not the ‘me’ that others want or need us to be, but the ‘me’ that remains when everything else is gone.

For me, I am not yet sure I know who that is. But my search will continue and I hope to find her.

Fat camp - one week down.....

2009-05-20T23:21:00.000-07:00

One week down and 3 to go (http://rockafellaskank.blogspot.com/2009/05/fat-camp-beginning.html). The thought still depresses me. I guess I know I am not ready to go home. I would still be tempted by tinned caramel and meringues. By chocolate and hot chips. Here we learn that ‘food is fuel’. Full stop. That we are not meant to savour it; to enjoy it. Or to crave it. I don’t know that I want to live by that mantra. We also learn that we should be ‘living in the moment’. This is a biggie for me – a constant worrier about what is to come. Nonetheless, I want to ask how, if we are living in the moment, we don’t enjoy the food (that we are eating in that same moment).

Many diets and dieticians tell you to focus on what you are eating. Savour it. Enjoy it. They tell you not to eat distractedly in front of tv or shovel food in while reading, but to savour every morsel.

Either way, I like to think that one day I will be able to think of food without having a lot of baggage attached to it. I know I need to break the nexus of food and tv, food and reading, food and sitting, well…. food and everything really. I need to live a life where I have things other than food to fill it. Whether that mindset will be broken here, I do not know.

I survived the 1000 steps, though what I wasn’t told was that the walk TO the steps was as bad as the steps themselves. Another camper walked with me and encouraged me the whole way. Her distraction tactics didn’t entirely work and I whinged the entire time, but I did make it. Only 46 minutes of agony.

Unable to ‘live in the now’ I started obsessing about having to do the same climb in a fortnight. Plus a hike up a long incline (mountain type thing) next week. As I have said before, I know that worrying doesn’t help, but as yet I am unable to prevent myself from doing so. My first goal, is to allow myself to worry but then tell myself that there is nothing I can do about it and that it doesn’t matter if I struggle.

What I am slowly coming to terms with is that I am unfit. Overweight and unfit. I did know this, but suspect I have been in denial about the extent of my problem. Though I am the least fit I have perhaps ever been in my 41years, as I have a fairly athletic history, I expected to be able to perform better than many people here. That has not been the case. In fact I am ranked in the bottom two of all twelve. Having said that – that ranking mostly relates to activities that involve us doing inclines and hills – at which (you now know well) I under-perform on.

My biggest fear coming in was that my injured ankle would hold me back. In all honesty, it is only my fitness that is holding me back. The trainers have not been sympathetic to my injury, rarely offering me an alternative to running and games in the sand (the latter jarring my foot quite a bit).

After one week, I am unable to detect any improvement in my fitness. Logic, however, tells me that I can only be getting fitter. Perhaps the heavy, aching limbs prevent me from feeling lively and energetic.

On a more positive note, I am trying. When told to run, I try. I cannot run far and yearn for the days – even a year or so ago – when I was able to build up to 20mins on the treadmill. But those that know me, know I do complain when given a challenge, but then go ahead and do it anyway. My pilates instructor will attest to the fact that she will tell me I have to do 15 repetitions of an exercise. I start complaining halfway through, but usually determinedly do 20. Failure is not an option. Giving up is not an option, but for the first time (and if honest), I suspect I have to realise that mediocrity is what I am fated to achieve here and all I can strive for.

Meanwhile, I head into week 2. I can only hope that before I know it, I am back here, reviewing that week. In retrospect week 1 has flown past. With tightly-programmed days and essentially no free time until after dinner, the day is taken away from us. We move from one activity to the next. While a couple of people who have been here for sometime, skip activities, the rest of us do not dare. And, most of the classes (complementing the exercise) are enjoyable.

Adro Sarnelli (winner of Biggest Loser here in Australia and who owns the camp), himself, is affable and charismatic. He is genuinely committed to this place and to us. To our journey. Passionate about his cause – weight loss – he is happy to share his successes and failures with us. He also answers obscure questions about his time on “The Biggest Loser” with good humour and patience.

Other than the manager, Dante, we are entertained by a group of trainers and support staff. The guests themselves reflect mish-mash of society. Younger than I imagined and slimmer than I imagined, I am the third oldest guest and third biggest person here. We have mostly bonded as a group, though obviously some getting along better than others.

Here we are laid bare. Much of our bravado and the barriers we have built around us are broken down so our raw selves are on display. Sometimes it isn’t pretty. But it is real and I guess that’s all that matters.

Written on 16th May 2009. Subsequently posted.

Fat Camp - the beginning

2009-05-20T23:02:00.000-07:00

Day 3 at the fat camp (http://rockafellaskank.blogspot.com/2009/05/fat-camp.html) and the last day and a half have been amazingly confronting. I can only hope that this experience – challenging as it currently is (mentally as well as physically) - helps me grow as a person.

Physically the camp has been hard, from the fitness test the morning after our arrival (day one) and the subsequent ‘outdoor’ training which meant running up and down hills. I have long-hated hills since an episode in Zimbabwe, when I found it really hard and got incredibly sick, climbing the stairs out of the ravine after whitewater rafting at Victoria Falls.

I came with an injury and the trainers have been spectacularly unsympathetic. Instead I feel like a hypochondriac of sorts when I remind them that I am not supposed to be actually running (or fast walking) this week. In fact I ran on my first day here and have continued to do so, hampered more by my fitness than my foot.

Existing on 800 calories or less a day is easier than I thought, particularly when your day is filled with exercise, classes and cooking. And, when you retire to your bedroom at 7pm with only sleep on your mind.

To date, we have essentially had three training sessions a day. Unfortunately many of them involve hills.

Yesterday, Day 2, I started to miss the things we go without. (Absolutely no carbohydrates or sugar – including fruit, some veges, and milk-based products). As someone who had been binging on hot chips and tins of caramel with meringues and lemon crème yoghurt (don’t cringe, I assure you that the combination is lovely), I suspect I will feel the loss. Of the 12 campers here sharing my pain, 8 are in their second fortnight. They tell us the detox is horrid and they all suffered to varying extents.

So far, my symptoms have manifested in grumpiness. Yesterday the manager here told me I HAD to try the stuffed mushrooms at lunch. I refrained from telling him that I was 41years old and, ‘didn’t he think I had tried mushrooms before’. I was very good the night before and tried the cauliflower mash (it was promised to be like potato mash – it wasn’t). In the end I ate the mushroom toppings for a 42 calorie lunch. And I was like a petulant child. More than ever I wanted to go home and the idea of living like this for almost 4 more weeks felt like more than I could bear.

And when confronted with a post-dinner stretch and meditation session at 7.30pm I wanted to revolt. I just wanted to go to bed, I didn’t want more – even if it wasn’t exercise. Again, I was petulant.

I heard last night that this morning’s pre-breakfast exercise involved driving to some mountain, so I obsessed about what would be before us. It wasn’t a huge climb, but up and down and around the mountain, with some pauses to run up hills and stairs on the way. Towards the end (of the hour or so) I wanted to throw the towel in. I rarely give up. If ever. Today I came close. I wanted to just fall over in a heap and have someone else take care of me (like my fantasy of being hospitalized and being taken care of!!!). Instead I had to keep going and eventually staggered to the end of the hill as we completed the training session. I wanted to swear and scream. I wanted to vomit and almost did on the crowded bus trip back to camp.

Having recovered from the early morning training session and had breakfast, we were to embark on another training session. On the schedule it read ‘interval’ training. This I understood to be in the gym and, like yesterday’s aerobics session, more in my comfort zone.

Instead the trainer gave everyone a choice and all bar two of us voted for outdoors. Obviously in the absence of equipment, I knew the training would involve that which I feared most – more hills. I was furious with my fellow guests. I was furious with my lack of choice. As I walked near the back of the group (down the first hills) I was livid and I was upset. Again I was the petulant child who didn’t want to play.

The trainer instructed us that we had to run up and back down this hill a number of times. Instead I walked at the back – not fast and not caring – with an injured member of the group. The trainer seemed to have forgotten that I had an injury anyway. I suspect he just thought I was fat and lazy. While I did the work, I wasn’t happy and in the comfort of my fellow guest, I burst into tears. In her third week, and the heaviest girl in the house (I am next) she was sympathetic.

I know myself well. It isn’t exactly the detox that is throwing me. The experience has been emotionally confronting. I am a control freak. I live alone, I am responsible only for me. I organize my own work program and that of others. I usually have complete control of all aspects of my life. Suddenly I am here and I am in control of nothing. I cannot decide what I want to eat. What I want to do. Instead we have a menu we adhere to. We have a 9.30pm curfew – which isn’t required as we are in bed by then anyway. We are told when to be where and where to be when.

In addition, obsessive by nature, I have tried to live without numbers for some time. Recalling my devastation each time I stepped on the scales I stopped weighing myself. At one point my doctor had me on a ‘healthy eating plan’ which didn’t allow me to count calories, or points, or fats, or any other kind of number. I was nervous about the seeming lack of parameters or controls, but it worked. For a while.

Here, it is all about the numbers. We wear a heart rate monitor all day. It is programmed with our height and weight and so it counts our calories as we burn them off. I easily burned off over 5000 on my first full day – and consumed less than 700 (though not all days have I burned off this many). We religiously write down our calories as we consume them and our calories burned after we expend them.

Day 4 has seen an improvement in my state of mind. Despite four training sessions today I feel much better, though some of this could be because those sessions involved no hills and no queasiness. It meant that I could engage more with my fellow campers and I attempted to be less negative about the whole experience. I really struggled on the previous two days. I hate to think how the others have perceived me. I am hoping that my stay here and my mindset are starting to turn themselves around.

We have a session tomorrow that involves climbing 1000 steps. Everything I hate in one fell swoop. I have obsessed about it since learning of it but realize there is nothing I can do in advance. Worrying won’t help me at all and in fact, it means my dread grows. My certainty that I am not capable of doing them needs to be challenged – I realize this. I can’t even imagine how hard it is going to be. Am I resilient enough? I never give up but I wonder if pushed hard enough, will I? I can only hope not.

Written on day 4 (14th May 2009). Subsequently posted.

Fat Camp

2009-05-03T22:27:00.000-07:00

I have this song in my head. It’s one from Play School that I used to sing to my niece when she was little, “We’re going on a bear hunt…”. Instead the words in my head are, “I’m going on a fat camp….”.

I tend to blame almost everything on my weight. (Although not global warming or the international economic crisis, ‘cos that would be just plain silly!)

But stuff that is wrong with my life I believe can usually be traced back to my weight problems. When they started back in 1983 the issue was a different one to that I have now. I became very thin. At that point, a relationship was established between my mind, my body and food that I have been unable to overcome.

Fast forward to 26 years later and the problem is the opposite. Over the intervening years I have lost and gained 10, 20 and 30 kgs a number of times but I keep going back. There is no middle ground for me. It is all or nothing. Eating badly isn’t just a chocolate bar. It is family block after family block. It is hours, days and weeks of binging.

While my weight is the (sole) biggest issue in my life, it is the impact that it has had on my life that devastates me.

I have always been single, never loved or in love. I blame this on my weight and how I am perceived, not only by others, but also myself.

Confidence that I lack in the workplace and while with friends is generally because I feel fat, unattractive and unworthy. A failure. It plays on my mind and undermines other aspects of my life.

And, even though I know that guilt and self-loathing will follow, I can’t stop myself. Overeating and drinking is usually the only thing that provides any comfort. The irony is not lost on me – that if I ate and drank less, I might have a man or a family beside me providing that comfort. Instead I fill the abyss with calories.

The spiral is ugly. The fatter I feel, the less I exercise. For someone who was once athletic, I know this is a waste.

I fear I am now perceived as a frumpy middle-aged woman. And more than self-loathing; I now feel extreme regret. That I have lost 26years of my life that I can never regain.

While I feel stymied – unable to act, I am forcing myself into a lifestyle change that I hope is not too late.

I am going to a fat camp. For one month. I wish it were longer. I wish I could emerge like a swan from the prison that has been my body and my life for 20 years. Instead, I have one month and I can only hope and pray for change. Physical and mental.

I realize of course that I shouldn’t call it the fat camp. It is, in fact, called The New Me Retreat (www.thenewme.com.au). Run by the winner of the first series of The Biggest Loser (in Australia), Adro Sarnelli, it is based on the series’ premise. A house of people and lots of exercise. You have to be 20kgs overweight to go. You can only go for a minimum of 2 weeks.

I’m not sure what to expect. (When I was wealthier and lived overseas) I visited a health retreat in Queensland – a couple of times. While the experience was amazing and made me reconsider the direction of my life, the focus was more on recharging one’s batteries. Though health and fitness was on the menu, the experience was luxurious and featured pampering treatments and meditations.

I am expecting the fat camp to be different. Hard. Challenging. While excited, I am also approaching the month with dread and nervousness. I can already imagine the burning in my lungs as I struggle with a hill or sprints. And, my expectations are high. I am expecting a change. In me. “A New Me”. Someone who, at the end of this experience (which includes the weeks and months after), looks like they should and is motivated to keep it that way. Someone who loves life. And themselves.

Twilight - the series

2009-05-02T00:26:00.000-07:00

When I started this it was about my oft-used coping mechanism of watching and re-watching certain comfort movies.

I went off track sometime during the draft, however, as I talked about my latest crutch and it seems that this has turned into a review or analysis of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series. So, I will have to get back to the coping mechanisms later as I ponder the success of the novels: Twilight; New Moon; Eclipse; and Breaking Dawn. (Known from here in as 1, 2, 3, and 4 out of laziness). After all, it is rare that something can incite anticipation and passion in teenagers and adults alike. So why, I wonder, is the series so popular?

I have one friend who has read them for the vampire factor. Not a goth, but an intelligent and articulate mother, she loves all things other-worldly.

I don’t. If there was a reason I initially rebelled against reading the novels, it was for that exact reason. I don’t like the Sci-Fi or the Fantasy genre. Sure, I want to escape from the mundane-ness of my life, but not quite that much. Also putting me off was the fact that the novels targeted young adults – an audience I deviate from. Significantly.

I started inadvertently about six months ago. Almost by accidence or circumstance. My local library has new novels on weekly loans. And there it was, sitting there one day and so it was borrowed. In desperation (of reading fodder) more than design.

Immediately I was addicted. I remember my early thoughts. There, one Saturday afternoon in the bath. It was an easy read. Simple and welcoming. I read it in one sitting – in a couple of hours. And I was desperate for more.

What was it then; that drew me (and others) in? After recently re-reading the series, a number of things strike me.

It is the ultimate fairytale. Good girl falling for the bad guy. Not just a bad guy, but a superhero bad guy. Interspersed with hints of Jane Austen’s Mr Darcy, our hero, Edward Cullen is wealthy, dark, brooding, intense and enigmatic. He is fiercely protective of young Bella Swan and her honour. He is every girl’s (whether we admit it or not) ultimate fantasy.
Bella on the other hand, is described as nothing special. Attractive, but not beautiful. Awkward and shy. Though a novelty for the small town of Forks, she is pretty normal. Spectacularly unspecial, in contrast to Edward’s beauty and prowess.

Theirs becomes the ultimate love story.

Book 1 drew me in. Book 2 I hated. Fortunately for author Meyer, I had read the excerpt online of what was to be (and may still be) Book 5 (Midnight Sun) - Book 1 from Edward’s perspective. This novel provided much context and made me realize (retrospectively) that much was missing from Book 1. What surprised me the most, was – even though I knew what happens – I loved the draft Book 5 and wanted more. I wanted her to finish it. I wanted more of Bella and Edward.

After the disappointment of Book 2, I continued reading. I realized in retrospect that Book 2 provided context for later storylines, but it lacked everything Book 1 offered – Edward and Bella – the love story. I had heard from a friend that Book 2 was a let-down so I stuck around for 3 and 4, which I devoured with relish.

Having said that, I am unashamedly critical of parts of the novels. Meyer skips periods of time and then goes into detail about others and I felt as it was missing huge chunks of the storyline. I read on her website, that after Twilight, she wrote Forever Dawn, which further explored the Bella-Edward love story. She said it was around this time she got the publishing deal for Twilight and learned it was being marketed as Young Adult (YA) Fiction. She says that Forever Dawn wasn’t suitable for the YA market, so she shelved it and set about writing New Moon. She was therefore writing Book 2 as Book 1 was being edited. When she found that Jacob Black took over Book 2, she had to go back and weave him more into the storyline of Book 1. I wonder if that’s why Book 2 suffers. Perhaps she set out writing with no direction, other than to defer the Edward-Bella love story until she could work out how to weave it into the YA genre.

In some ways I can understand young girls’ adoration of the novels. In some ways they are a tad self-indulgent. Every fantasy comes true. Everything is a tad too perfect. Bella gets to remain the centre of attention, adored by some, hated (seemingly irrationally) by others who go to any end to see her destruction. Some of this is too contrived and, though it didn’t interfere with my reading, I consciously eye-rolled at the storyline from time to time.

Throughout the series I managed to ignore the lack of realism. I mean, the likelihood of our heroine coming across a vampire and werewolf in middle America? It was only the level of self-indulgence that Meyer allowed herself that irked me.

I agree though, with those critics who have commented on the extremity of Bella’s weakness and a perception that the ‘damsel in distress is rescued by the strong hero’. Meyer rebuts this, saying that in later novels, Bella in fact saves Edward. True, but only when she becomes a superhero herself. She explains that Bella seems weak in comparison to the Cullens and the werewolves. I am sure this is the case, but the constant references to Bella falling asleep and having to be carried around and her constant exhaustion offered me pictures of a pale, weak girl. Not a potential role model for young women.

My rant over, I must admit I can only recommend the novels to a potential audience.
I am not sure if author, Stephenie Meyer is a literary genius, but she has got a way with a storyline and she presses all of the right buttons, to draw us in and make us want more.

Dealing with disappointment

2009-04-26T18:02:00.000-07:00

I decided to write this before the sobbing subsides. I am naturally (or as a result of my upbringing) a pessimist. Or a cynic. Or both. So I went into this month assuming that I would not be pregnant after the artificial insemination 2 weeks ago.

But, while I talked the talk, I obviously let a glimmer of hope in, as since my period arrived at 6am this morning I haven’t been able to stop crying. I felt like it might come yesterday and had contingencies in place - I would go out and buy litres of red wine to scoff to console myself… after having gone without for a few weeks.

Instead I lay there in bed last night. Wondering and waiting before eventually sleeping. Then, like clockwork, there it was up bright and early. With the birds.

Work has been busy and I had to leave a bit early Friday for other commitments so I felt I could not take the day off. After all, there may be a few of ‘these’ days of disappointment if I keep trying. So, I lay in the bath, listened to loud music over headphones and drank diet coke. Not having to worry about my caffeine intake or eating a healthy breakfast, I lay there, cried before getting dressed and to my bus stop.

What I endured then, was the bus trip from hell. I was greeted at the stop by a regular (and neighbour) who I don’t particularly like. The first thing she asked me was, what’s wrong. I must have looked that bad. So then it started. I attempted polite conversation with her but from the moment I got on the bus the sobbing started. And it didn’t stop. As the bus was full, I was not only at the front, but sitting side-on, in profile view of all of the other 7am commuters. Initially I tried to subtly poke at my eyes and turn my head to the front and wipe away tears before they fell. However, the 4.5km ride ended up taking 90 minutes. Every time I thought I had myself under control I lost it again. I blew my nose on my headband and kept wiping my tears away with my shirt. Every so often I faked a cough in the hope that my fellow passengers thought I was fighting a cold not bawling my eyes out, in front of 50 semi-strangers.

I thought that the busy-ness of work would keep me focused. It didn’t. I lasted for an hour and a half – constantly crying through the emailing and calls. Fortunately I face a wall. Unfortunately people need to come and ask me stuff. All of the time. I felt unprofessional. I felt devastated.

So, I packed up and skulked off. I can - and will - work from home, but I feel bad – that it has come to this. Me sobbing inconsolably. A friend offered to call. I said not to cos I can’t talk. I am used to dealing with things alone. I do want to talk to my mother though. She won’t mind if I cry down the phone to her. She hasn’t been supportive of this but she will be sad for me.

I had contingencies in place. I have felt so bad about myself recently that I decided that only a fat camp would whip me into shape. And I don’t mean a health retreat, where pampering treatments feature on the pricey menu – but a non-stop no frills boot camp type thing. After some investigating I discovered a former “Biggest Loser” competitor has one near Melbourne. At about half the cost of the pricey health retreats, it is akin to that competition. Big house, own room but shared facilities. Teams and training. You have to be 20kgs overweight and can only go in two week blocks. I can go from 10 May.

My contingency plan has been that I have this month (May) off the fertility drug / baby-making exercise and do this. Now I am thinking I might need to go for a month. I need something earth-shattering to wake me up and bring me back to life. I hate that my life has come to this. How could I ever love anyone else (anyway) when I hate myself so much?

So, perhaps I have that to look forward to. In the meantime I need to find some short-term coping mechanisms. It is 10.30 in the morning so red wine probably isn’t a good idea and champagne seems entirely inappropriate. Instead I will wait to talk to my mum, drink diet coke, do some work and keep crying.

Appreciating Joss

2009-04-25T18:58:00.000-07:00

I check out other blogs from time to time and one caught my eye recently. Sufficiently impassioned, I felt obliged to respond to the author. In a positive way.

Kaye Dacus (http://kayedacus.com/) recently wrote about her favourite (new) shows which are currently airing in the USA. One of these was the new Joss Whedon show, Dollhouse.

I suspect it won’t be here (in Australia) for a while. Some of my recent favourite TV series (Mad Men, Dexter) are actually here on DVD before they appear on our Free to Air television.

Nonetheless, I will look forward to the show – whenever it arrives.

For those not-in-the-know, Joss Whedon is a director, come writer (etc) who created Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly and now Dollhouse. I was thrilled to see that blogger and writer Kaye (a sane, intelligent woman and not a sci-fi freak, as you so often see with Joss’s fans) appreciated his work. And, as a result, I felt obliged to add my glowing recommendation (in response to her and in my own blog).

I became a Joss fan during the Buffy years. Not the early years, as a show about a vampire slayer wasn’t something I would have even considered watching. As it happened, in 2000 I was living in Asia and – in desperation – I succumbed to cable tv and one night (for something to do) watched an episode of Buffy. I was intrigued so went back for more. I then bought the DVDs to see all of the earlier episodes and waited for new episodes with a surprising impatience.

I am aware a lot of Buffy-viewers were ‘goth-like’ characters themselves and loved ‘all-things-vampire’. I must admit to fast-forwarding through some of the fight scenes, and cringing at some of the other-worldly characters as what I loved most about Buffy was the dialogue. The witty-repartee, the Buffy ‘catch-phrases’ were what stuck in my mind.

It would be easy to write off the show as trite, light-viewing, featuring some teenage-superhero-wannabe.

I was well into the series before I realized how incredibly talented Joss Whedon and his crew were. Through interviews accompanying the DVD series’, I learned that Buffy’s mother (Joyce) knew that she was to be killed off years before she was (and the episode of her death is one of the most poignant things I have ever seen on tv). The obscure references to her sister Dawn’s arrival a year or two before she appeared intrigued me as well. I guess I had thought the writers sat around informally and randomly came up with ideas and scripts. I hadn’t expected that much rigour, talent and intelligence around the process.

I read later that Joss is known for mapping out his shows in advance, but the commitment and adherence to detail that must go with that level of focus is amazing.

I can only imagine then, how devastating it was when his (post Buffy & Angel) TV series Firefly was cancelled after one season. He must have decided long before what would happen to these new characters he created. The movie, Serenity which came out later, I suspect was an attempt to get some closure. And not only for the fans.

Interestingly Joss has a habit of re-using actors he favours in his shows. Eliza Dushku appeared as the rogue slayer, Faith, in Buffy and now stars in Dollhouse. Nathan Fillion went from creepy bad guy in Buffy to sexy lead in Firefly.

He creates strong female characters: from the slayers and witches in Buffy; to River (the brain-washed and reluctant superhero in Firefly); to the ‘dolls’ being programmed in Dollhouse. In an era when so few female role models exist on our screens, and women still so-often play the sidekick to the lead detective, it is refreshing to see quirky and (slightly) flawed female leads.

So, I have missed Joss from our screens – he has an eccentricity that is rare and tries things others wouldn’t dare. He seems prone to some self-indulgence (writing his own theme songs, appearing in some episodes) and I gather he is a tad ‘precious’ – wanting things HIS way, which I suspect is usually the right way. Who else would think to write an entire episode of a show (Buffy) where no words are spoken, or another where all dialogue is sung.

But, it seems I can now look forward to Dollhouse, though gossip is that its network is considering axing it - already. Perhaps like Buffy it takes some time to whet viewers’ appetites and incite their addiction. In the interim, I will await its arrival here with anticipation.

Family SATC-style

2009-04-25T17:27:00.000-07:00

I rely on my parents, a lot. Even though they don’t live nearby, my mother is often the first person I go to when things are going wrong. I have close friends, but sometimes there are things I can only tell my mother. When things aren’t going well and when I feel like a failure. I know my parents will love me – no matter what. (After all, that is their job.)

I am sure I rely on them too much, though I suspect this would be different if I had a partner. I suspect those with lovers or husbands or partners arrive home and whinge to them about their day; seek a hug when they are stressed or fraught with despair; or share their tears when they don’t get a job they expected to.

I have some very close friends who know almost everything about my life, but sometimes I don’t go to them. They are mostly there for me, but I am not their priority and sometimes it is too hard to admit failure to those who don’t HAVE to love you.

I have a number of single and married friends in their 30s, 40s and 50s. Some have kids, some don’t. For most of these friends, their families continue to play a major part in their lives. Parents and siblings feature often in our discussions - in both positive and negative ways.

Like me, for some of my closest friends, their parents (mostly mothers and grandmother in one instance) remain confidants, offering constant and unwavering support and comfort.

As well as the emotional support family provides, there is also the practical assistance that comes from being a member of a family. You babysit, even when it is inconvenient and you help out when someone becomes sick. You attend family get-togethers; from celebrations to annoying family requirements. You make an effort even when you don’t want to. After all, when everything else goes to hell in a handbasket, family is all we might have left.

So, this is what I don’t get. They don’t really appear in Sex and the City. Relatives that is. In my recent spate of viewing random episodes on Pay Television, I watched Charlotte marry Trey. She faltered just before walking down the aisle and grabbed Carrie to seek reassurance. Concerns allayed, Carrie disappeared and an older man emerged from the wings and took Charlotte’s arm to walk to her down the aisle. I can only assume this man was her father, or step-father, or equivalent. But there he was – nameless and almost faceless. Was there a mother I wondered? While planning the perfect wedding, I don’t recall Charlotte ever mentioning a father or mother.

I know the show focused on the friendships, but it also focused on the girls’ lives – and I feel like there was a big chunk missing. In some ways the show was a ‘manual’ for living (albeit in a more luxurious, fun-filled, exciting and extreme world). So, while we learned lessons about men, relationships and friendships we were left in idle ignorance when it comes to dealing with our own families.

We meet Trey’s interfering mother and Steve’s annoying mother. I even have a vague recollection of someone’s mother (Miranda perhaps) dying during the series. But even from that episode, what I remember most is the support she gets from the girls, rather than the loss of a mother.

So, where are they the rest of the time? I mean, did Carrie even have parents? I don’t recall them offering support when she had been dumped by “Big” (again and again), or Aidan. Or any consideration of aging parents in her decision to move to Paris? What about the man who walked Charlotte down the aisle? Where was he during her stressful efforts to conceive a child and through her divorce?

So, I am intrigued. Where were their families? Carrie’s, Charlotte’s, Miranda’s or Samantha’s? We had the horror mother-in-laws, so what about the small-town mothers and fathers or siblings, not fitting into the girls’ NYC lives? A few embarrassing relatives wouldn’t have gone astray - but they are largely absent. Why I wonder? Is family not sexy enough for the city?

Did the four girls really emerge from their childhoods unscathed? What about some residual baggage? Sibling rivalries? Or even some backstories to fill in some of the blanks? After all, where did Samantha’s aversion to ‘love’ come from; and why was Charlotte such so desperate for Park Avenue and the perfect family?

Perhaps a prequel is called for?!

SATC - The early years

2009-04-20T03:47:00.000-07:00

There are a number of good things about this house-sitting gig. Not just being away from the building site-that-is-my-home; the larder full of cooking stuff (like choc bits, which I will have to replace before I leave); the excuse that I am out of my routine and can’t exercise; but also having access to Pay TV.

My brother doesn’t have the movies’ or sports’ channels. The focus here is predominantly on all-things-Disney, for my niece (who has a bit of a thing for Avatar, Hannah Montana and some show about two boys who live in a hotel with their mother). So I am spending most of my waking (and tv-watching) hours in front of ARENA and reveling in repeats of Sex and the City, which appears to be on constantly and usually in no logical order. The other evening, for example, there were two episodes in a row. The first one was the actual pilot episode (circa 1998). The next was from Season Four.

Why I am glued to them I have no idea. I actually have all of the DVDs at my place. All six Seasons. I could go and pick them up. Or wait until I get home and watch them. But instead, I am strangely transfixed to the randomness with which they appear on ARENA. I have to admit, I had forgotten how many men Carrie and the girls went through over the years. Samantha aside, the other three constantly dated with a never-ending stream of men through their lives.

Is this why we liked it I wonder? Not just for the clothes and fashions – and to see what strange combination Carrie would next don (and even more amazingly, pull off). Or did we just envy their seemingly glamourous lives and the fact that they seemed to be constantly in demand by the men of New York.

Critics railed at the realism of the show and the fact that – in the real world – similar women would be hard pressed to afford their apartments, let alone the lifestyle they portrayed; their clothes, their Jimmy Choos and constant stream of visits to the ‘happening’ restaurants and bars of NYC.

But did we care? Hell no! Who cares if, in the real world, one pair of Manolo Blahnik’s would set Carrie back a year’s salary. Instead we all envied their fabulous lives. We all wanted to be them. And, we’ve all done the Facebook quiz, wondering which of the four girls we really are. I suspect we probably all wanted to be Carrie (around whom the SATC world revolves) and I think the Facebook doyenne believed me to be so, but I always felt more like Charlotte with a bit of Miranda thrown in. Sweet but cynical.

So, having been exposed to a veritable kaleidoscope of episodes in the past week, not only am I surprised at how little the women changed over the six seasons (yay for botox!), I am reminded of a few favourite moments (and seasons) and amazed at the things I had forgotten.

Very importantly, I had forgotten that in the first episodes (and perhaps a few to follow – I will have to check later) Carrie speaks to the camera and the show featured mock interviews, with little captions. So, it started as a faux-documentary. Watching it now, I cringe. I resolve to watch the first season to see when this changes - when the producers realized they needed to go with engaging storylines, supported by narration, rather than a thought piece with a one-dimensional supporting cast.

I had also forgotten that ‘Big’ appears in the first episode.

I have also seen the final two episodes in the last few days. I remember – like hordes of others – being disappointed at the final episode. Unhappy that, for a show about how it is okay to be single and alone, the four girls all ended up partnered off.

I recall that when it first came out in 1998, the show was a celebration of independence and of strong single women. So, while I sympathise with the producers’ desire for a happily-ever-after ending, it fell like a sell-out. Carrie’s move to Paris was very much about her fear of being the ‘last-one-standing’ and being alone, rather than following her heart, or even her head. Bringing in ‘Big’ at the last minute, seemed too contrived, with the producers obviously in a rush to wrap six-years up neatly, tie the bow and present it expectantly to adoring fans.

This aside, when I think of the show, I think of it being about relationships and most importantly, about friendships. The scene I most remember from the movie, for example, is Charlotte’s anger (in the street) at ‘Big’ after he failed to show at the wedding ceremony. Her distress for her friend felt real and devastated me more than Carrie being left at the altar. It made me wonder about selfless relationships where true love, loyalty and devotion are fundamental.

The episode I watched (The Agony and the Ex-tacy) after the pilot was about the girls attending an engagement party for a guy they had knew (and several slept with).

The episode was about finding your soulmate. I hadn’t remembered that the show had really articulated the level of desperation evidenced in that episode. Miranda faking happiness at her singleness and Carrie’s despair (after everyone missing her birthday celebration) at perhaps never finding her soulmate. It ended with the girls deciding they were each others’ soulmates and the guys that came along were just a bonus. A lovely sentiment – but in my self-styled Miranda-cynicism I wonder if they were saying the same thing several years later when they were all paired off.

I have another week of house-sitting so who knows what morsels are before me. Either way, it has given me a taste of a favourite-but-forgotten treat. My appetite whetted, I will have to pull out the DVDs when I get home.

Finally, another perplexing question. Whatever happened to Skipper?

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0159206/

Singleton envy

2009-04-18T20:52:00.000-07:00

One of my close friends recently did the unthinkable. Despite having been single for most of her adult life, she broke the code. It isn’t uncommon. It happens all of the time, but nonetheless, I was surprised when someone-who-knew-better did it.

Other people do it all of the time. My pilates instructor goes on about how lucky I am to have so much time to myself. She constantly tells me how much she envies my long baths and my reading. She warns me that having a child will mean I can’t do any of those things. Particularly if I become a single mother. She tells me that she wishes that she could sit and watch television or spend time reading. But she is too busy. Because she is a mother (and a partner). I just smile, but what I want to do is confront her with the fact that she is essentially saying she regrets having her son. I know she doesn’t as she is devoted to him. So I know if I did say something, she would respond that, of course she doesn’t resent him and tell me that he is the most important thing in her life. I know that she is just lashing out. Envious that I am my own boss and that my time is my own. I don’t get annoyed at her as she knows no better. She is someone who has always been in relationships. To her, being single for a year after her divorce (though she did have her son) was a long time. She doesn’t know any better.

I know that some of it comes down to ‘the grass is greener’ saga. As singletons, we dream of being in a relationship: being part of a couple; having someone who cares about you; who wants to hear about your day; and who is there for you, through good and bad, sickness and health etc etc.

Most of us spend our lives searching for someone to share it with. Despite what we say. When we are young we go to parties and pubs. We hope to get asked for a dance, our phone number, or to even share a taxi home. As we get older, we bemoan the lack of single men (or women) in our workplace, our office buildings, our suburb or even the city. We give up on bars and clubs, filled with women ten years our junior and for the men (our age) they attract. We try internet dating, speed dating, we even go on blind dates. We run out of friends to go out with. Everyone else becomes half of a couple. Not needing, or wanting to go out.

So, we lower our standards, tell ourselves that looks aren’t everything. We look less for Prince Charming and more for Prince Charles. In summary, we would go to almost any extreme to find ‘someone’. Not necessary ‘the one’, but ‘someone’ with whom to spend our lives. So we are no longer single; so we no longer have to keep looking.

So what exactly did this friend say, you may ask. How did she break the code? Simply put, she did one of those things that those-who-should-know-better, don’t do.

She wasn’t someone who settled down at 20 and no idea what it was like for the rest of us. She didn’t spend her 20s and 30s with a partner, smugly peering at the world outside.

Not at all. This friend was single until her mid 30s. Five years ago she suddenly fell for someone, got pregnant and married, then pregnant again; and again. She hasn’t wasted any time in bedding down her family. Before that, she went speed dating, went to pubs and despaired of ever meeting the ‘one’. She worried about getting older and not having had kids. Like many of my friends, she became (subtly and in a way that most won’t admit) more desperate to meet someone.

And I am happy for her. While (inevitably) I don’t see her much anymore, she has remained one of my best friends. We have a long history. Which was why I was surprised when she broke the code. After all, she knew better.

We were talking about my Friday night. I had gotten home from work, opened a bottle of wine and taken it to the bath, along with chocolate and a book and remained ensconced there for the night. My friend said, ‘You lucky thing. I envy you. I wish I could do that, but with hubby and the kids I would never be able to do it.’

I was shocked. She should know better. I expect those sort of comments only from those who haven’t experienced long-term singledom. I shuddered to think that a long-term singleton could become a ‘smug-married’ (to quote Bridget Jones!).

In an unusual move for me (though I find I am speaking my mind more and more nowadays) I said to her that she should know better. I said that if I had a choice, I would prefer to be cooking dinner for a lazy husband and screaming kids than spending Friday night alone. Instead, I was left to read my 5th book for the week, binge on chocolate and get pissed in the bath, because my friends are all in relationships and busy and there is absolutely nothing on television. I reminded her that she (having spent many nights and weekends alone) should remember what that was like.

I may never be in a relationship or have a family. But, if by some miracle I have those things, I can only pray I am not one of those people who turns to single friends and tells them how fortunate they are that they aren’t responsible to, or for, anyone else. Or how I envy them and their self-indulgent lives. I hope I can remember how alone it can be when you have had a bad day and have no one to talk to; to cry to, or with; no one to tell you that it is okay and that you are okay. I hope I remember that single people ultimately only have themselves: their own coping mechanisms; and their own tenacity. I hope I envy them that, not the long baths.

Reinventing Justin

2009-04-16T16:21:00.000-07:00

People reinvent themselves all of the time, but some do it better than others. In my (humble) opinion, one of those who has achieved the great rebirth, is Justin Timberlake.

This came to me while ensconced in front of channel V last night (damn school holidays and the TV repeats they bring! What, do TV executives think people don’t watch television while on holidays?!)

But, back to Justin….The fact that he is even now (mostly) known at JT is a big change from the boy who started his career in the Mickey Mouse Club with the girl who was to become his high-profile ‘other half’. In fact, what I remember most about JT’s earlier life, was the relationship with Britney Spears. More than his successful career with boy-band ‘NSYNC’ and all of the teenage adulation (and hit songs) that came with that.

Sure, it appeared that he could sing and dance, well as much as you expect of a boy band member. But it was pretty much cookie-cutter stuff. Nothing new, nothing amazing. And then came the 2002 Justin-Britney bust up. The childhood sweethearts were over. Rumours flew, but they kept quiet about the why.

But, rather than fade into oblivion, JT moved on to Cameron Diaz and a seemingly ‘grown-up’ relationship and, with his boy-band behind him, he struck out on his own.

I am not an huge music fan, but revel in Saturday and Sunday mornings with the papers spread before me, diet coke a-plenty, left over Chinese (if I am lucky) and music videos on tv.

So, I was surprised when JT first emerged post-Britney and post NSYNC with Like I Love You. There he was with some rappers, dancing and singing and looking kinda cool. With them. Not a boy-band pirouette/twirly-thing in sight. The curls were gone and cropped hair hidden under a skull cap. I wondered how the collaboration came about. I was shocked: that legitimate ‘cool guys’ would actually deign to be seen with JT, let alone record with him; and even more so, that it seemed to be a good fit. For him.

And then they kept on coming. The songs - as a solo artist and the collaborations – with very hip and legit producers and artists.

He has had a stack of hits since he started his solo career in 2002, from Like I Love You, Senorita, My Love, Rock Your Body to the more melodic Cry Me a River and What Goes Around…Comes Around.

But what I find interesting is that he has continued the collaborations with popular and obscure artists alike, from Beyonce to 50 Cent. As well as a long-standing relationship with the way-cool Timbaland (Sexy Back, Give it to me), he has recently worked with Madonna (4 Minutes), Rihanna (Rehab) and TI (the current, Dead and Gone). It interests me that, in some of these songs – Rehab, Give it to me – JT barely features. In fact, on some occasions I am shocked to even discover he was involved. I find myself admiring him. A guy who doesn’t need the credit, or the adulation. A guy happy to just get on with it, in the background. Just doing the thing he loves doing.

I remember hearing feedback from a tour he did here a few years ago. The die-hard (been-there-since-NSYNC) fans were disappointed. The musos out there weren’t. I gather that JT loves nothing better than just ‘jamming’ with his band, which is what he did on stage. So, in my eyes his reinvention was complete. He has pulled off what so many of his boy-band contemporaries have been unable to do. While still able to ‘bring’ the moves, he seems content to focus on the music. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against boy bands, or performers (hey, I like the Pussy Cat Dolls for God’s sake), but I find myself bowing to this guy who has gone from clichéd boy-band member to cool and legit muso in a few short years.

15-minutes pregnant?

2009-04-12T17:08:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me, driving back to my cat-sitting residence at 7.30am on Easter Saturday, that I could be 15-minutes pregnant. But then I wondered, if that’s how it works or if something else had to happen. I searched the recesses of my mind for what I knew about fertilization and conception and realized it was very minimal. “Sperm enters, fertilizes egg. Nine months later, baby.” That was about the extent of my knowledge.

The obstetrician had inserted the donor sperm into my uterus. “Did that bypass some steps?” I wondered. Perhaps it gave the sperm a break from some of the usual swimming they had to do. Who knows. I have always been happily ignorant about physiological stuff. One of my friends is always talking about her internal workings and knows where everything is. “Should I be able to do this?” I wonder? Frankly, I feel I have better things to do. Best not to obsess and let it work itself out.

So, back to 15-minute old pregnancy. I am, of course, being facetious as I am working on the assumption that I am indeed NOT pregnant so that I will not be disappointed in a few weeks when I discover that to be the case. Nonetheless…. It makes you wonder. I have cramps, but that is nothing new, as I have had cramps on both sides of my lower stomach (perhaps my abdomen – who knows how specific one needs to be?!) for weeks. I have assumed it is part of the usual “I have eaten too much and feel fat” guilt-ridden angst which is a constant state of being for me. On the other hand, it could be something to do with the fertility drugs I took a week or two ago. I am sure they should have some effect other than feeling more teary than usual.

The insemination took place 2 days ago now. I did have some strange sensations that day. Almost akin to period pain. Then again, I did eat chocolate Easter eggs, a tin of caramel stuff with meringues and yoghurt as well as rice cakes with roasted capsicum dip, so it could just be my stomach (and whatever falls below that) rebelling.

I thought I would suddenly want to be healthy. On the off-chance that there was someone inside. But alas, that hasn’t been the case. While I have forced some fruit down, I have pretty much binged my way through the Easter long weekend. I went for a brief walk yesterday but found my stomach felt particularly heavy. Again, not the makings-of-a-baby, but possibly the concoction of food that I called breakfast - again involving chocolate, rice cakes, sour cream and diet coke. ( Note to readers who may not know me so well. These combinations are not pregnancy-related cravings. I have always eaten like this. My favourite breakfast is left-over Chinese, washed down with chocolate and vanilla diet coke. I can basically eat anything at anytime.)

On the other hand, I did slow my walk down a little, I have cut back on my diet coke consumption and am not having any alcohol. So, I am taking SOME precautions. The latter has been surprisingly hard as while cat-sitting I have access to Pay Television and have been privy to ‘Gilmore Girls’ and ‘Sex and the City’ marathons. As I have sat there, constant tears streaming down my face, all I can think has been how the experience would be so much better with some champagne to console me. I think the marathons continue today. Fortunately in the absence of champagne, I have procured more caramel, meringues and tissues. Am all set!

The Fine Print

2009-04-11T15:43:00.000-07:00

I have to admit to falling in love with people that I have never met. Well, not all of the people that I haven't met cos, well, that would plain silly. But a few of them.

I actually like to think that it is a sign of my maturity and sophistication that I am no longer drawn to men solely on the basis of cuteness. (Or a nice smile. Or nice arms. Or...)

In recent years I have found myself attracted to men based on their wit and repartee. Not in person or in conversations, but through their writing.

I first realised this when I came across a porn magazine while visiting a health retreat a few years back. The room's previous resident must have stashed it in a cupboard under blankets - presumably to hide it from the prying eyes of the cleaners - and forgotten it was there. Or something. Nevertheless, they forgot to take it with them and was left for my viewing pleasure.

While I have nothing against a sensible level of porn (the non-violent, not-involving-animals-or-other-weird-things-kind) I hadn't seen a magazine since discovering a stash at a relative's place 20 years before! It wasn't a well-known one and wasn't at all offensive. In fact, it was hilarious! Very tongue-in-cheek, rude but very witty. Mostly I ignored the pictures as the magazine gave a whole new meaning to 'buying it for the articles'.

The entire thing was obviously written by the one person. I suspect that, given the focus on the actual pictures, the article and caption-writing weren't overly arduous, so one person probably could have put it together in a month. But, there were enough words for me to completely become smitten with the author. I recall, at the time, pouring through the editorial info wondering who this author was. There was even a tone of irreverance for the target audience. I (very briefly) thought about writing to them to confess my undying love, but decided that would be, well... weird.

A year or two later (and magazine left for next health retreat resident) I discovered the next object of my desire. Reading a free inner-city weekly magazine I came across a weekly column spoofing political events (state and national). It was hilarious. The writer sarcastic and witty. Again, very tongue-in-cheek and obviously intelligently written. With no name on the column I scoured the editorial pages and the fine print wondering who authored it. I didn't go so far as to contact the paper to find out, but I did secretly hope the author was actually male. The fantasy wasn't as attractive otherwise. Each week I grabbed the paper, wanting my next fix until - suddenly there was a note to say the column was finishing. I thought of contacting the paper then to ask why, but again.... weird!

My latest fetish is for a cartoon called Vimrod (see link in my Favourites list). I know the authors are actually a couple, but my enamourment of the cartoon and the wit of its authors reminded me of my evolving taste when it comes to men.

I haven't 'fallen' for anyone for yonks. Once upon a time, all it took was a cute face, nice smile and nice set of biceps. From my discussions with friends, it seems common that - as we get older - we look for something different. My own 'wish list' has changed drastically over the past 20 years.

Intelligence, wit and sense of humour are at the top of that list (as well as a devotion to me, obviously!). I wondered once if it was just that (as we aged and the men-market dried up) we were becoming more desperate and were prepared to 'settle' for the less-attractive, but nicer guys. But it seems obvious that as marriages falter, the sizzle fades, the friendships become more important.

Last year I had the exact conversation with one of my best friends. As we bemoaned the state of our lovelives, I said that the most important thing for me now, in looking for a man, was that we had to have that 'banter'. I needed someone smart, witty and quick-minded, rather than just pretty to look at, or even just 'nice'. My friend said that she had accepted the fact that she wouldn't get that 'stimulation' from a man. It didn't matter if he wasn't her intellectual equal or able to 'chew the fat' on certain matters. She said that she could rely on her friends for that and no longer expected that in a potential partner.

The same friend has diligently dated over the enusing 12 months. Three months ago she had her first date with a guy she met over the internet. I met her the next day for a debrief. She liked him. Her only concern was that he was too much like her. He was her intellectual equal. She wasn't sure if that was what she wanted.

But, she perservered and they are still together. She sounds happy. I am yet to meet him, but am looking forward to it. My friend has always been a 'saver' and I love the fact that this time around, someone is there to meet her half-way. It is no more than she deserves.

So, what of this new revised wish list and my love of the witty writers.....? I have hung up my saddle on the relationship front for the time being. Not given up entirely, but am tired of 'looking'. Tired of not-finding and feeling rejected and alone.

In the interim, my love of the written word will continue and I will remain smitten about these men I come across, but don't come across (if you know what I mean).

And on the 13th day....

2009-04-10T02:55:00.000-07:00

I got the call this morning and all I can think is, eek! What it means though, is that the next stage of the journey has started. The foreplay is over and we are at the ‘pointy end of the season’.

Last time I wrote about the ‘the journey’ it was with a sense of hopelessness.

When I first starting considering going down the donor insemination route, I wasn’t exactly sure when I would start. “When things were right,” I thought, which essentially translated to when I had lost weight. Other than a sense of nerves, my weight was the only thing holding me back. You constantly hear how being too overweight can diminish your chances of falling pregnant, so my original plan was to wait a few months and try and lose weight before doing anything.

Then I started the appointments. I was dieting and losing weight at the time and highly motivated to do so.

I was also highly motivated in the baby-stakes. More than I imagined. Apathy has dogged me over recent years and it takes a lot of ‘steps’ for me to do what I need to. So, my fast-tracking of this process has surprised even me. I went very quickly from ‘sending off an innocuous query email’ to appointments, to procuring donor sperm. Despite this, in late February I was still, however, shocked to hear that doctors expected I would progress this in coming months. In my mind, June or later was ideal. I had excuses other than the weight: I didn’t want to have a December baby (who would suffer as I did from lack-of-presents or joint-presents around Christmas and be younger than school friends); and I didn’t want to be heavily pregnant in summer. The reasons were (vaguely) logical. To me, anyway.

But then something happened. I don’t know what, but I decided (a la Nike) I would ‘just do it’. I was ready and raring to go. It was March. Then the roadblocks started – not just sending me on a brief detour, but briefly into a downward spiral I found hard to escape. I had to wait a month to settle my blood pressure down. This was exacerbated by the fact that obstetrician was having holidays in April. I despaired over another month’s delay. May seemed forever away and I worried about (probability) statistics dropping as the months ticked by.

Strangely, March passed. When I revisited my GP at the end of that month, the medication had worked and my BP was almost normal. I was free to continue the journey.

The next steps of were the important ones. Actually ‘trying to get pregnant’ meant taking a fertility drug called chlomid in the first few days of my cycle. Then, on day 12, I have a blood test to see if my hormones are where they should be (heightened I gather). If they are, then I am ready for the insemination.

Having said that, I don’t entirely know what the actual insemination entails, other than assuming it to be some cold and clinical process. What I do know is that the ampoule which I purchased, is with the obstetrician and ready for inseminating.

But, having been given the green light, instead of being excited I was torn. I had faltered badly during the month. March had seen me throw away my diet and put on the weight I had lost. The hard work had been lost. How could I go ahead now? I had to re-lose the weight! How could I say that I was determined to have a child when I couldn’t even ‘stay the path’ on my diet? Perhaps it was for the best that my obstetrician was away in April after all. It would give me time to get back on track.

April arrives, as does my period. Earlier than usual. I think this is more of a problem in terms of my obstetrician’s holidays. I tell myself it is karma or kismet or some other k word that means it is meant to be. But, I call the clinic anyway, just to check.

I am more-than-shocked when the nurse tells me that I can go ahead. I have to start taking the drug the next day (days 2 – 6 of cycle) and then have a blood test on day 12. Incidentally, day 12 is Good Friday. That would mean insemination over the Easter weekend. It seems that the clinic’s blood testing facility is open (briefly) each day over Easter. It seems that my doctor will be back from leave and is on call over Easter. It seems that it will be April after all.

Instead of relief, I am hamstrung. ‘But, I haven’t lost weight yet,’ I think. There are so many problems with April. I am cat-sitting for two weeks and pregnant women aren’t supposed to be around cats, and I can’t back out as I have promised my niece.

Then I realise. It is unlikely to ‘happen’ this month. I remind myself that I can’t allow myself to believe that I will be pregnant this month. It may not happen for many months. Or ever. It may also happen, but not last. So I start to plan for treats, for things to cheer me up when I am not pregnant. ‘Perhaps a two-week stay at a weight loss retreat would console me – and be of benefit,’ I think (before remembering that I will need to spend that money on more ampoules).

So I go ahead. I take the chlomid. I break the first one and worry I haven’t consumed every morsel. I have diarrhoea after the second one and worry I haven’t absorbed it. I wonder when I need to completely stop drinking alcohol and caffeine.

Today is Good Friday. It is day 12. I started cat-sitting today. I had my blood test at 7.30am.

At 10.30am I had a call from my obstetrician. It is all systems go. My hormones are where they should be. Despite the crumbling tablet and the upset stomach. I forgot to mention the cats, but will tell her that tomorrow. Pre-coital banter. (Or something.)

It feels strange. I think eek. It feels big. I wonder how women cope with this for months. The expectation; the trying; the waiting; and the disappointment. For me it has only just begun.

Yes, I Can Can Can

2009-04-09T18:47:00.000-07:00

I signed on before I really knew what I was getting into. So, it could have been disastrous. In fact, it has actually been quite fun.

At an end-of-year gathering late last year, one of my friends told me about some classes she had been attending. Always one to ferret out the unusual and obscure but very-interesting, KK had just finished a Hula Hoop course. Her enthusiasm for the 10-week program was effusive.

I had been thinking about signing up for something to do during the week. Another of my new year’s resolutions (like this blog) was to do more fun things during the week – so the week is less about work and… well, work.

So, a very-informal dance class seemed the perfect option and I asked KK for the dance school details. The options were overwhelming: as well as hula hooping, the school offered several versions of Hip Hop and Funk; Bellydancing; Bollywood; Tahitian and Polynesian Hula; Tribal Bellydance Fusion; and Burlesque.

As someone who doesn’t much like their body, I decided I should do something to help me feel more sensual and 'in tune' with my body. I recalled doing a one-off belly dancing class years before and the buxom instructor did make us all feel like sexually attractive and desirable women (I must admit,though, that this was at a health retreat and we were alcohol, sugar, caffeine deprived!).

I did however, want something a bit more energetic than bellydancing and when I described to KK what I wanted “something kinda like lap dancing, but without the laps,” she suggested that burlesque was the way to go.

The school’s website described burlesque as “Kylie's Showgirl tour fused with some Moulin Rouge sassy!”

My mind started to boggle as I imagined it: fishnets and garters, can-canning across the stage, or perhaps Nicole Kidman Moulin Rouge style – a sequined me on a swing – floating above the masses. Or perhaps it would more akin to PCD (or, for those not in the know – or, you know, over 20 – the Pussy Cat Dolls) and we would be gyrating in leather!

Despite all of this, I sent off my money and enrolled in the 10-week course before sanity or apathy could prevail.

I arrived late and stressed to the first lesson, having left work late and gotten lost en-route, only to be confronted by a swarm of 20yr-old skinny, bizarrely dressed women.

I was clad for exercise – leggings and big Nike t-shirt (and with sturdy sports bra for the high impact exercise ahead) so I stood out amongst the leopard print skimpy tops, tule skirts and ‘shorts-over-ripped-stockings’ look. I was also only one or two present unaddorned with tattoos. I almost felt bare. I was already regretting my decision. Amidst this group of sex-kittens (a-la Dita Von Teese), I felt positively frumpy and middle-aged. Of the 15 others, there was another woman older and frumpier (though normal-sized) than myself. Needless to say, we were a strange group and I often wondered what others visiting the dance studio, thought of us when they saw us en-masse.

Our instructor, Violet (a burlesque dancer herself and I suspect, not her real name…) had a seam tattoed down the back of her legs and a large wide tatto just under her neck, across her shoulder bones. She also had a long black ponytail falling from high on her head, perfect for flicking about when the need dictated.

Violet started the first lesson with the good news – that we would be learning a routine to (…wait for it), perform at the end of term concert. (Be still my beating heart, I thought and decided that I will be ‘sick’ or indisposed in some way.)

Nevertheless, we eventually kick off. The first lesson set the scene for those following. We began and finished with lengthy stretching sessions – though less for preventing injury and more for, well I am actually not sure, but increasing flexibility I guess. Many of the stretches were the kind that went out of fashion in the 80s, or maybe even the 70s – lots of helicopter arms swivelling to touch our toes. We were also required to do the splits – or as close to them as possible. I should have been sensible like the older woman, who did her own alternative stretches rather than Violet's as I often found myself aching in the days following our class, from overstretching as much as anything. (It may, however, interest my myriad of dedicated followers – ahem, I mean, readers – to know that I can actually do the splits frontways but not sideways… just for future reference!)

We did however, manage to fit in about 15-20mins of our routine each week. At this point I should point out that Violet was, and is, actually more of a performer than a teacher. We students and burlesque-novices regularly found ourselves looking at each other in confusion over which foot to start steps on, as the guileless Violet changed her mind each time.

Nonetheless, she was brimming with enthusiasm and poise (if not coordination) as she put us through our ‘burlesque paces’.

The movements of burlesque are fairly simple. Lots of hip flicks and circles, shimmies and body roles, with a few supposedly-sexy walks thrown in. (On that note and for future reference – again - unlike one’s normal walk, a ‘stripper’ or ‘burlesque’ walk involves planting the toe first and crossing the legs as you walk.)

In no way however, was my sports bra tested throughout the course. Our energy was focussed on swivells and shakes, not jumping around energetically. Even our can-can involved low, slow kicks.

Any self-consciousness I felt disappeared as we disparate souls giggled and strutted our way through the routine we learnt over the ten-week course.

Only 7 or 8 regulars attended most of the lessons and I would often find myself looking around, wondering what each was expecting to get out of the class. Not there for exercise I suspect, but more for something different, and perhaps because (I read that) burlesque is becoming the activity or exercise du jour!

Term 1 has now finished and we ‘graduates’ can now move to level 2. I think I might give it a miss though and try something different.

I don’t think I have come away from the course feeling more sensual, but I certainly have the moves if ever the opportunity arrives.

Happily ever after.....

2009-03-22T02:37:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t a binding contract. But it was close. More than an assumption. A promise perhaps? And now that the promise is unfulfilled, is there anyone to sue? Anyone to blame? Myself perhaps in some ways for under-achieving, but that doesn’t do anything about the promise itself. That doesn’t stop generations to come from being sucked in. From living their life with the expectation that one day, they too will live happily ever after.

I can’t remember being a huge sucker for fairytales. I was more into stories of adventure. I think I bypassed the Disney Princesses (of today) and launched straight into Pippi Longstocking and Enid Blyton’s world of naughty girls, and of famous and secret sleuths.

I did, however, imbibe in my fair share of teenage romance novels and I did become a day-dreamer. There were even a few Mills and Boon novels thrown in, devoured while staying with grandparents. Was it the effect of these, or was it the long-standing promise I wonder. Either way, I developed expectations. And hopes and dreams.

The promise remains. We live our lives by it. That one day, we will find love. And that it will find us. We will have a family and live happily ever after. Even in today’s more temperate society it is expected. Gay couples – though not able to walk down the proverbial aisle – can have children and it is more and more usual to see blended families and those of various shapes and sizes in our communities.

What then of we singles? Generally through no choice of our own. There are times when we are discriminated against. Paying more for ‘one’ of things; not reaping some of the tax deductions which we have contributed to; assumptions made of our selfishness – having disregarded love and family to live frivolous and indulgent lives!

But the most painful thing for me is the broken promise. And even more so (I must admit), others perpetuating that promise in front of me. Sometimes it is akin to flaunting accidental pregnancies in front of someone who is infertile; basking in the glow of new love when a friend has had their heart broken; or cooking up a storm in front of a dieter. A slap in the face. Not on purpose, but a strike nonetheless.

Recent occasions stick in my mind. At Christmas my niece was talking about an old toy that she should give away, having grown ‘out’ of it. Her mother said that she needed to keep it so she could give it to her daughter. A dear friend recently wrote that she dreams of her son’s future wife.

Small things. Throwaway comments. These aren’t things said or done with any malice. They are said based on the assumption. That promise again.

I cried (in private) after the former incident. Similar things would have been said to me when I was young. It was always assumed that I too would have a child. Several probably. I definitely thought it would happen. But it hasn’t. For many reasons – some I am conscious of, and others I am not.

As a child, when I imagined my life, I was married to some wonderful man and I had a family. I didn’t think too much about my career. About divorce or infidelity. That wasn’t part of the fairytale. The fairytale ended where they walked off into the sunset.

Nevertheless – even with our changing society, our more flexible definition of families - we still aspire to the fairytale. We still assume the ultimate prize is to grow up (healthy and happy) to be in love (and loved) and to make a family.

It is important to have hopes and dreams for a future; something to look forward to. Would I have even wanted to grow up, had I known that ‘this’ existence would be my life? I am not sure. Perhaps I needed the fairytale, perhaps we all do. But maybe it shouldn’t be a promise; or an assumption. Perhaps the stories we tell our children shouldn’t hint at a utopia. Perhaps we should ensure they know that reality isn’t always as perfect as the fairytale. Whether the reality is influenced by fate, luck, or our own behaviour requires further exploration.

But in the interim, be careful of how you sell the promise; how you perpetuate the fairytale. It doesn’t always happen. And, if you have always believed the promise, the realization can be devastating.

Roadworks

2009-03-14T16:46:00.000-07:00

I seem to have run out of steam. Last month I was ready and raring to go. After some discussion and consultation with friends, I had selected the donor and was ready to ‘procure’ the ampoule (ie. vial), take the necessary drugs and see what happened.

By no means was I feeling confident. I wasn’t expecting that ‘anything’ would have the first time. Or maybe even the second or third, or …….

But I was ready. I had stopped drinking alcohol and started my pregnancy multi-vitamins. I was forcing down vegetables and yoghurt, thinking for once, of someone other than myself and my own gratification when it came to food.

I had been on my ‘shake’ diet for over a month – with some results according to colleagues who noticed the difference. I was waning though. My parents had visited (always a chance to run amok), but I had the motivation to get back on track and to continue. I had already decided I try to lose weight over coming months – in the event I did become pregnant.

I have been very conscious that I am 41 years old. And overweight. Perhaps very much so. If I have a child, I will need to be fitter and healthier. Surely this was now enough motivation to continue.

Then I had a follow up appointment with my doctor. I have been on thyroid medication for years, and my last check was 12 months prior. I gather that the thyroid functioning can have some big (and bad) impacts on your pregnancy and a child. So, I went back for the results of my test (as well as my vitamin D and rubella levels).

My GP was interested to hear how things were going and happy and chatty as usual (which is possibly why she is always late and why I am charged for a ‘long’ visit each time I see her). I told her that I was about to start the fertility drugs and would be attempting to get pregnant ‘this’ cycle.

We agreed to change my thyroid medication. Then, the crunch – she wanted to take my blood pressure again. After the dismal reading the previous visit, I knew little would have changed. Again, after 6 reads we still didn’t get it to under 148/100. This was not good she said. So, she gave me a prescription for medication. And, she said she wanted me to see an obstetric physician. This person, she said, would look after me. Something which isn’t really the focus of the actual obstetrician.

I suspect this is all semantics and my GP wants to cover her butt. But, she said that she once had a woman who lost a baby at 36 weeks for no reason other than that the mother’s blood pressure became too high.

She said that, given I am paying so much money (and am not a spring chicken), we need to maximize my chances. I acknowledge this, but …..

So, I left with my prescriptions and referral. I wondered about the referral. What it would achieve. I also made an appointment to go back to get my blood pressure checked.

The next day, I called the obstetrician to advise that I wouldn’t be visiting them this month. The nurse reminded me that next month is Easter and so blood bank closures may mean it isn’t possible then either.

It feels worse than that though. I feels as if everything has lost momentum. I no longer think that this is actually happening (despite the fact I have paid for the donor sperm which is sitting somewhere waiting for me). The diet has gone out of the window, along with any sense of caring about my body.

It shouldn’t be this way. I should continue to be on the verge of the biggest thing that has ever happened in my life. But, instead I am despondent and uncertain. Not of my decision, that is one thing that I am sure about. That I want to have a child. I want to be a mother. That dream, however, just seems further and further out of my reach.

Untouched

2009-03-10T17:39:00.000-07:00

It isn’t uncommon for me to feel tired and emotional as I head home from work at the end of the day. The trip home yesterday (however), was worse than usual. I didn’t feel well. I’d had a long day, had a headache and was tired, and… had a pilates class to go to before I could eat, sleep or just loll around feeling sorry for myself.

The bus was busy and I noticed the rather cute young man as he got on, before he came and sat next to me.

Normally I feel self-conscious when it comes to bus seating arrangements. I am not petite by any means, so I worry about whether I leave enough room on the seat for my neighbour as I cram myself against the side of the bus like a demented contortionist.

It was a slow trip. My neighbour pulled out a book. I lamented that I’d left my headphones at home and had nothing to read. But I was so tired, I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes.

About 15 minutes and barely any distance travelled, I looked down. Despite his ‘slacks’, I could tell he had nice legs.

They were long with his thighs reaching the seat in front. They weren’t narrow and they looked strong. Even encased in dark slacks.

I noticed his hands. That was when I almost lost it.

They weren’t amazing hands. But they were male hands.

I was completely overcome with a sense of loss. A loss for something I do not have and, in many ways, have never experienced. The sense of touch, of affection and of love.

For the next short while, I ached. Not for him specifically, but I yearned to reach out and touch his hand. Or for him to hold mine. The sensation, the desire was almost palpable. That sense of touch, of intimacy.

I wanted to cry. The tears hovered, but remained unshed, instead blurring my vision. In that moment I felt devastated. Completely alone and perhaps always to be so. I had only seen my niece the day before and we had hugged. Two weeks before I had seen my parents and I know we hugged.

But there, on that bus, and in that moment, I felt bereft of human contact, or more importantly, of love and affection. I longed to grab his hand, to feel his touch. To feel that contact.

A massage therapist once told me that it isn’t uncommon for female clients (those who are widowed or divorced in most cases) to cry when she massages them. The feeling of being ‘touched’ is more than a physical one. It also touches their heart and their soul.

In my darker moments I worry that I go through life untouched. An emotional wreck at times, but with a cold, unyielding, untrusting and unforgiving heart, set up to protect itself from others.

In the meantime, the bus trip continued and I sat there with my eyes glued to the hand next to me - tempting and teasing me at the same time. I tried to imagine the happiness, the pleasure, joy and comfort that a hand (in mine) could hold. But instead I was confronted with the solitude, isolation and lonlieness before me.

The Journey begins....

2009-03-06T15:34:00.001-08:00

So, the journey (to quote Australian Idol, So You Think You Can Dance and Biggest Loser contestants) has started.

I won’t go into boring details, but the past two – three weeks have seen a bit of a flurry of activity on the ‘trying-to-have-a-baby’ front. No actual ‘action’ yet, but decisions made. For now, anyway.

It has been daunting. Following my last entry, I spent some time questioning my own motivation. “Is this really selfish?” (To want to have a child.) But, no one asks partnered-women that question. You don’t hear, “Oh my god, you are pregnant – you and your husband are such selfish beings!” So, I decided – for a change – not to worry about what anyone else is thinking. My support has come from surprising places.

I have now sat through appointments with my own GP and obstetrician, before joining the sperm donor register (as a recipient obviously?!). Joining this register involved a hefty fee and appointments with a nurse, psychologist and then – the one we have all been waiting for – the holder of the donor profiles …. the Register Coordinator. The latter happens to be a very lovely young woman who appreciated my sense of humour (and who wouldn’t you may ask) and was supportive and laid-back in her manner, oh, and (it seems) a font of information.

I had wondered about the difference between American and Australian donors, and probably should have asked sometime sooner. Apparently the sperm held on the former are far more…. ummm… virile. Hmph, I wonder if that dispels a number of myths about Aussie men?! But no, the reason is that American men can be paid to donate sperm, so there is more ‘in it’ for them. Obviously the clinics there can also then afford to send “only the best” (hopefully) over here. It is illegal to buy sperm in Australia, so Aussie men aren’t paid for their donations. Most would do it solely out of the goodness of their heart. While I gather things are slowly changing, it means that the donors on-hand aren’t quite as potent as their American counterparts. There are less to choose from and the clinics can’t afford to be fussy. The Coordinator tells me though, that this is changing as society changes.

For recipients it means that the costs vary significantly as you have to meet the costs involved. Obviously bringing the frozen vials from the US racks up a few dollars. Hence the (almost) $1000 cost. Whereas, you are only responsible for storage fees if you are buying the Australian vials. (Note I am saying vials, as there is only so many times I can bring myself to use the word – sperm – in one sitting!)

So, I left my appointments with a wad of donor information – including some photographs. The level of detail included on the American donor forms is amazing – from their stats (height, weight, facial features, high school GPA, SAT scores) to their interests, favourite authors to their motivation for donating. But, of particular interest is their essay to a future / potential child.

For me, it meant that the next step was to sit down, start sifting and ‘rating’. My criteria was simple. The donor needed to look like me (so a potential child will); and they needed to be someone that (had I been more fortunate) I would have been attracted to and interested in. Finally, because I have the ability to do an objective paper-based cull, I also discounted those who had a history of illness (cancer, heart disease) in their family.

I selected two with two maybes. I talked to some friends about my decision: the fair-haired doctor (what a walking cliché I am?!); a roman-nosed (!!) student with musical tendencies and lovely essay; a very tall outdoors-y type; or a guy who says he looks like Tom Cruise (although in his photo he has a very round head… but that could be a result of a very-tragic bowl haircut).

So, the decision (for attempt no.1) is made. I suspect it will take many attempts and may not ever happen. But, at least I am trying and that’s all I can do.

Motherhood

2009-02-13T22:29:00.000-08:00

I don’t think I would be a bad mother. I mean, I worry about being too self-obsessed, having high standards and about (unsuspectingly and unconsciously) transferring my own neuroses onto a child. But, I wouldn’t hit them, I wouldn’t berate them, I wouldn’t begrudge their existence. I would love them. I expect I would anyway. It is rare to meet someone who regrets having their children. Sure, I realize there are times when parents wish they could lie in on a weekend. Could watch television without interruption, or have a night out occasionally with friends. But, when I look around I mostly only see love. I only see parents who would give everything they have, including their own lives, for their children. I am sure I would be like that.

So why is it that some people don’t want me to be a mother? I don’t think they imagine I would be a bad mother. So, is it fair that I am unable to be a mother because I have no man to love me, to share my dream of parenthood and to impregnate me?

When I imagined my life it wasn’t like this. I wasn’t a single mid-level public servant spending her nights with books and television, paying off a mortgage single-handedly. I was married (or at least partnered, though most likely married in my young fantasies). I had an adoring husband and I had children. I probably also had a fulfilling career – of sorts. Though as a youngster I was never ambitious career-wise, other than teenage dreams of modeling, acting or writing.

But here I am. Forty-one years old and single. Forever single. After a lot of travel (and self-loathing), in my mid-thirties I decided to make a conscious effort to meet someone. A man out there also (even if unconsciously) looking for me. I went out to the pub only to find a few drunken win-ons (well two actually!). I went speed dating. I went to a couple of singles’ functions. I tried online dating. And yet. Here I am. Forty-one years old and single. In my darker moments I despair that I am unloved and unwanted. That I will always be. That I will never experience being in love, and being loved. I will forever yearn for intimacy – not just the physical type, but the more important type. The kind you get from someone who loves you and knows you. The real you. Again I want to ask if that is fair. It isn’t, but I am a contributor to that. I cannot feel rejected, because I have not met someone who I thought I could love, who I wanted to love.

But here I am. I have been waiting for love to find me. I have proactively sought it out. But now I am tired of looking and thinking about it.

But there was more to my dream than that. There was a family. I have never imagined that I would not have children. I have always loved children. I have waited, patiently, for the rest of my dream, so that children may come too. Of course, I realize it isn’t always that easy. For many women and families, children may never come – no matter how much they are desired.

I may sound like a petulant child. But, I don’t think it is fair that I cannot be a mother, that I cannot have a child, just because I have no husband. No partner. I have contemplated this for many years. I didn’t think it would come to this. But I have to make a decision. I am 41-years old. It may already be too late.

I have contemplated the financial implications. A single woman, working to pay off her mortgage. Can I afford to have a child? Can I even afford to get impregnated? What it keeps coming back to for me is…. cannot I afford not to try? Can I afford to reach 50, 60, 70 years of age and live constantly in regret of lost love. Love that was never experienced, but was there to give.

I cry as I write this. But the decision is no longer an emotional one. I have thought about this constantly. I have stressed over taking a 3-month old child to daycare at 7am; working all day. Picking them up at 6pm, tired and exhausted. Only to have the child cry through the night. Perhaps it would not be like this. But I expect the worst. My niece did not sleep through the night until she was 2-years old, so I suffer no delusions about a 2-month old child sleeping through the night. Perhaps I can take 6 months off work. I can downgrade my home. I can budget accordingly. After all, people with far less than I, make it happen.

So, despite everything, I have started the process. I now need to make some final decisions. How far am I prepared to go? Emotionally and financially, to make my dream a reality?

I am saddened by the lack of support from those who are supposed to provide it unconditionally. I have doting parents. My only valentine’s day card is from my mother who writes, “I am sure (and hope) that you know how very special you are to us. May your year be a special one and may you find joy and much satisfaction in all parts of your life.”

But, my mother has been unfailingly negative about this since I first raised it several years ago. I know she will come around. It isn’t ‘how’ I am doing it. But that I am doing it at all that worries her. Last night she told me that she hoped I realized that I would get no support from my brother and sister-in-law, and that my brother in fact asked her at Christmas to talk some sense into me on this issue. I am not sure whether their concerns relate to me being able to manage financially, or is about the burden of being a single parent. I cannot believe they would think that I have not considered these things in making my decision.

I had already decided not to tell my brother and sister-in-law anything until there is no going back. I am occasionally surprised by their support, but unlike my parents, they are rarely there for me on an emotional level. I never tend to count on them for that type of support. And, my brother is perhaps the one person in my life who I can love and hate with equal passion.

My friends, however, are unfalteringly there for me. They were surprised that I went through with the research and even made appointments. I am typically apathetic. But, this is different. This is important. This is my life.

The next step is the key one. It is the one where I take that leap. I don’t know what will happen after that. Perhaps nothing but disappointment and devastation. There will be no going back. But, at least there will be no regrets.

Benching the B-team: Eli, Army Wives & Gossip Girl

2009-02-07T20:52:00.000-08:00

It happens all of the time in sport. The star players get injured, or have representative duties and it is up to the ‘second string/ to suit up and keep the momentum going. They often do a great job and give some of the stars a run for their money. But, inevitably, the star players come back and the b-team are benched – often with little recognition for having carried the load for a while.

It just isn’t fair. The bench-warmers have kept everything chugging along; have earned their stripes; have given their hearts and souls; but like the bridesmaids – it isn’t about them – they should know their place. They are there to keep the seats warm. Like I said, it isn’t fair.

I am similarly aggrieved at the disdainful treatment of off-season television shows.

Always concerned at what TV Executives might foist upon us unsuspecting viewers during summer (here in Australia), I await the non-ratings viewing offerings with skepticism. Of course, sometimes I am surprised. Last summer, for example, we were treated to the quite watchable Women’s Murder Club. This summer, along with the inevitable re-runs of the tried and true favourites and a myriad of reality shows about police, customs officers, surf lifesavers and doctors, we were offered Eli Stone, Gossip Girl, Army Wives and (very briefly) the Ex-Files –to name but a few.

Like previous years, we were inundated with promotions for these shows and sucked in to their storylines as they appeared, slotted in between cricket, tennis and golf. Like previous years, we came to care about these shows, the characters and then they were unceremoniously ripped from our lives as TV Execs return from their overseas holidays and as critics and pollsters wipe the sleep from their eyes and stretch, awakened from hibernation. Summer has ended. The ratings season has begun.

But what about us? What about Eli and his tumour, the Army Wives and the Gossip Girl? We are left hanging. Sure, we have the old favourites back. And, I do say “Yay!” for new episodes of House, Law & Order SVU etc, but… what about the B-team? What about those the bench-warmers who comforted us through those (stinking hot) summer nights only to disappear when the first string returned?

Those of us who study the TV Guide closely each week (ie. who have no lives) are able to track down some of these shows. Eli Stone (promoted obscenely over summer) now features at 10.30pm on a Tuesday. Women’s Murder Club can be found on a Friday night at 10.30pm. As for Army Wives, it is now on twice a week at the witching hour (favoured only by insomniacs and University students) of 12.30am.

So I say, “What about a duty of care Mr TV Executives (assuming they are – in the majority – all male… after all, how else do they justify the number of motor racing events we are subjected to on weekends)?”

Are they sadists? They dole out the opiate, addict us, and then cut us off cold-turkey without any consideration to the angst it can cause.

I mean, does (the chick whose name I don’t remember) track down the ex-lover who is her true love, as foretold by the clairvoyant in the Ex-Files? Whatever happened to Geena Davis’ Commander and Chief? And, if I couldn’t ‘google’, how would I know if Gossip Girl's Serena and Blair ever become besties again? I mean, does this torture know no bounds?

Sadly I suspect I have no sway with TV Execs or those who decide what we watch on television and when. I am but one voice, in a sea of others (who apparently watch cricket, A Current Affair and morning television). Instead I will remain comforted by the return of House and Dexter, but I refuse to be sucked in again. Next summer I will boycott television completely. No way am I going to be tempted by TV-offerings of some yet-to-be-made show, only to be forced into mourning its demise two months later.

Breaking up…

2009-02-02T21:26:00.000-08:00

Is hard to do – or so the song goes. But what if you aren’t breaking up with a lover? What if you have to break up with someone else. Someone for whom you feel some sort of commitment or loyalty. Is that any different? Or is it any easier?

These are questions I am pondering, because I need to break up with someone. My hairdresser.

I feel quite a lot of angst about this because my hairdresser, Susan*, has been with me for a while now.

Don’t get me wrong though… I am no stranger to playing the field. I am no lilly-livered innocent. I have strayed before.

Several years ago, Susan and her husband moved away, and I loyally remained at the salon for a while before tiring of the constant turnover of staff. Fortunately for me at the time, her absence meant I didn’t feel traitorous when I moved to a handier trendy inner-city salon. Priced similarly to the old place, it came with a lot of bonuses – fabulous robes, great food, alcohol and a few minor celebrities. However, it was almost impossible to get into – even weeks in advance – and I have to admit, I didn’t feel sufficiently important enough to be remembered from visit to visit and often felt like I was supposed to be grateful to be allowed to even set foot in the door.

So, I decided I would find somewhere closer to my home and less expensive. There were a few hits and misses before I found a great place nearby that cost about half that of the earlier hairdressers.

I went there for almost two years. It was fairly small, but I appreciated the price and proximity. I ended up pretty much sticking to one hairdresser, who was good, though every time I left the salon he styled my hair in some frumpy middle-aged type bob. Despite my pleading each time, he kept doing it. Finally, on what became my last visit, I sat there and realised that he was pretty much just humouring me – feigning interest in my life. I know that for him it was just a job but I realised that he was actually the sort of guy who wasn’t terribly interested in what anyone else wanted or thought.

In the meantime I had received a letter and text message from my original hairdresser that my much-beloved Susan had returned. So, I decided that I would as well.

It was wonderful. As I opened the door bright and early that Saturday morning, she greeted me like a long-lost friend. Each time I visit she recalls what I said the previous visit and remembers aspects of my life – as I do hers. Now I am pretty sure she is like that with everyone (and I have in fact seen her in action), but it makes me feel ‘welcomed’ and comfortable with her. With her there, I belong. So what is my dilemma, you may ask?

For more than one year now, my hair has been very short. This means I have to visit the salon every 4-6 weeks and frankly – the hundreds of dollars it costs can sometimes be a bit of a strain and is a bit hard to justify as others tighten their belts. So, despite my feelings of loyalty and devotion to Susan, I need to break up with her. I need to go somewhere else!

I know the options seems obvious. I can: 1) let her know that I am going elsewhere and why (and I am sure she would understand; or 2) just go elsewhere and hope I don’t run into her at some point in the future (and live with the guilt!).

Easy really – cos obviously I would take option 2. But – and herein lies my problem – I don’t actually want to leave her.

The guy I disliked from the nearby (cheaper) place has since gone. I know I someone else there could probably to do as good a job as Susan. But, will I find someone who makes me feel as welcome, as appreciated and as loved.

So, this is what it all boils down to. While there is some loyalty and guilt at stake, I am dazzled by Susan’s effusive greetings and seemingly caring and attentive manner. The big question is – will I choose that sense of belonging, that attention, over my hip-pocket?

* Name changed to protect the innocent

Demonising mothers

2009-01-28T19:46:00.000-08:00

I only buy the newspapers on weekends and don’t often get to watch the television news, so I rely on internet sites to keep me up-to-date. I check the ABC / Australian / Courier Mail website a few times a day for breaking news. The Courier Mail website allows readers to comment on / respond to stories – some newsworthy, some not and some sensationalised (welcome to the media!).

I am gobsmacked, however, over three separate responses over the past two weeks.

The first incident, which was widely reported, involved a mother leaving her baby in a vehicle in the driveway of a business, while she stepped away briefly (into an office to pay a bill). I gather she left the keys in the ignition in order to leave the air-conditioning running in the car.

I agree that it was a silly thing to do, but few women could claim they have never left a sleeping child in a car in (what they assume to be) a safe place. Of course this whole thing came to the attention of the public when the car (with the child in) was stolen. Fortunately, once the unsuspecting thief realised he / she was kidnapping, they left the vehicle. The child was safe and all was well. You would think that everyone would be relieved that it ended well, acknowledge that the mother did something she regretted, but learned her lesson.

No – of course not. Via radio stations and websites the poor mother was crucified, written off as a bad mother who should be arrested. Akin, people said, to the parent who leaves a child outside of a casino all day while they gamble. I was shocked, and fortunately others agreed and added their voice to those who could not believe how ready people were to criticise.

The second incident – reported yesterday, but occurred the night before somewhere in the Northern Territory (note my aim here is not accuracy of the incident but rather the reactions, so fact-checking hasn’t been a priority). A mother, who had a commitment preventing her from picking her child up from the child care centre, requested a relative do so. The relative forgot (or something). The mother arrived home, realised what had happened so returned to the child care centre. No one was there and the place was locked. She somehow (heard or saw) her child still there. Alone. So she broke a window to retrieve her child.

Again, rather than commiserate with the poor mother who would have been worried about her child and wonder how centre staff could have overlooked the child, the web lynch-mob crucified the mother. Amongst the bloggers who were horrified at the centre’s error were a number who vilified the mother for using day care (at all) and for leaving the child in there all day. Some comments indicated that ‘it basically served the mother right for using child care, rather than caring for the child herself’. Of course it set off a debate (again) about working Vs stay-at-home mothers. A debate which will never be resolved.

Finally, today’s media about a pregnant woman, who a bottle-shop attendant suspected of stealing, was asked to show her stomach to prove that she was in fact pregnant, rather than hoarding bottles under the shirt! The woman did so, but later reported the incident.

The comments again have been flying. “How dare the shop assistant ask?” “How stupid for the woman to comply” etc etc.

But, what took the cake was the number of people who commented on the fact that a pregnant woman SHOULDN’T be in the bottle shop or drinking in the first place.

Whoa! Where on earth does that come from. Others equally horrified at such judgement suggested the woman was shopping for a lazy partner or husband; or perhaps had guests coming for dinner; or (as indicated in the article) buying a gift for someone.

I know nothing of any of these people. Perhaps they are / will be bad mothers. Perhaps the pregnant woman is a shop lifter.

My anger and disbelief isn’t because of the car thief, or the child care centre staff, or the shop attendant. It, and the shame I feel, comes from those so ready to judge. Whatever happened to compassion for our fellow man (or women, in this case)?

Sweet Dreams....

2009-01-27T00:48:00.000-08:00

Despite my love of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the recent Twilight books, I have never been a fan of other-worldly phenomenon or the supernatural. Or the occult. Or anything intangible. (Sorry mum and KC!). I need proof. I am the sort of gal who needs some tangible, irrefutable evidence in order to believe.

Having said all of that, I have become increasing conscious, over the past few years, of my dreams. Before I moved into my current place (3 ½ years ago) I never remembered my dreams. I dreamt, I know that, but I rarely remembered what I dreamt. Occasionally I would get a flash the following day or as my head hit the pillow the next night.

I now live in a place more exposed to light and sound, so can only blame those factors for the increasing rate of dream activity. My dreams are now are so vivid and so regular that I bought one of those books. You know the kind. “Dream Analysis 101”. Or “Dream Analysis for Dummies!” Or similar! And, I have also been forced to Google some of my dream topics, such is my desperation.

One of the dreams I have had FOREVER is actually a common one. My teeth fall out. In some way or manner. It can be one or several – but never all of them, mostly just the one. I am always relieved in my dream to discover that it is a side tooth and that people will barely notice it. Of course on waking I am even more relieved to discover that I still have a mouth full of teeth.

Fortunately for me – and myriads of others apparently – this is one of those common dreams. There are a few others: being naked; being chased; flying; and falling.

But, back to me! Apparently, losing your teeth in a dream can indicate that you are feeling child-like. Or that you are sensing a loss of power, a feeling of being out of control or disempowered. Or, they can relate to our anxiety about how we are perceived by others, our attractiveness, or ageing. Sadly I suspect both analyses would fit me. I don’t have it regularly and my response to this is to consider, next time I have it, what is happening in my life or on my mind.

Another dream which I have now had over a decade or two, has related to contact lenses. I know, it seems ridiculous. But, it was worse (and more regular) when I was playing sport. In my dream, I would be dressing, ready to go and play in some important competition and my lenses would be ripped, or even more often – they would be huge. I would then be left in front of a mirror trying to insert these MASSIVE lenses into my eye.

Interestingly – or not – the contact lens thing isn’t listed amongst the common dreams, so I am yet to understand that that might be telling me. It seems (from my extensive research!!) that dreams about eye glasses being cracked can refer to ‘not seeing things clearly’. Hmmm…

However (and back to my original point), nowadays I have two common dreams and the issue is on my mind, because I had one of them last night. (Again!) From my reading, the reason you have recurring dreams is that your subconscious is trying to tell you something. I guess the reasoning is that – once you resolve the issue at hand – the dreams stop.

Recurring Dream Number One, involves me missing a bus. Just. I am rushing to a bus stop or a bus station, or I go to the wrong stop first and I just miss the bus. Of course in real life I would be frustrated and wait for the next one, or just get a taxi!

I guess, the dream started about a year ago. At first I thought it was linked to the fact that my usual bus stop in the city did actually change. So the first time it seemed like I could actually translate that literally – that I was worried I would forget about the change. But it has continued.

The obviously analogy would relate to me ‘missing the boat’ (or bus in my instance). I am 41years old. Single, alone. The lesson would not be lost on me. But can it really be that obvious? That literal? Surely the psychic ‘powers that be’ would have a couple of plot twists!!?

Recurring Dream Number Two, varies but always involves a plane. Sometimes I travel to a location and then have difficulties finding my passport or completing arrival forms. Sometimes the plane breaks down. On occasions it crashes – though not in a manner that causes me any injuries. The dream itself isn’t specific enough for me to do much research. Apparently the traveling part can relate to taking a ‘journey in life’ or the ‘transition to something new’. Being on a plane can be about ‘getting a better view’. Of course the crash scenario can indicate that one is ‘setting overly ambitious goals’ (obviously ‘the crash and burn’ scenario).

This was the dream I dreamt last night. I was with my father (also possibly my mother, though she wasn’t the focus) and we arrived in a place which I think was Germany (having never been – or wanted to go – I am not sure). My father, unaccustomed to travel was unaware of the need to submit travel papers and became stressed on arrival. I recall trying to help him and the fact that we needed to step out of the queue and take some time to complete the paperwork. But that’s it. As much as I remember. I am an impatient traveller, so I can imagine the delay would frustrate me. However, as is usually the case, I woke (or stopped dreaming) before anything else happened. I never tend to actually arrive properly at my destination - I become thwarted in my attempts (perhaps that is the lesson in itself - something to do with achieving my goals? Or not!)

So… despite my (admitted) uncertainty about the psychic world, it makes sense to me that my mind takes me to a place where it wants me to be when I don’t have control of it. It points me in a direction for a reason. So, until I work these ones out and move onto something else, I will keep dreaming and wait for the lessons to begin!

Diet, schmiet!

2009-01-24T18:07:00.000-08:00

To stave off my apathy I decided I should write about something close to my heart. Dieting! The fact that I am; my need to; how much I hate it etc. As I opened my laptop I suddenly remembered that this brainwave had come to me on a previous occasion. So, I will share with you, an excerpt from a year or so ago!

Diary entry – sometime early in 2008 – could be anytime (given the number of times I ‘started’ a diet!)

I thought I would document diet attempt no. 1,765,907 (at least!). Okay, so I am not actually starting today. It is day 0, or maybe -1. This is the day that I cram as much crap as possible into my body before I start ‘dieting’ tomorrow.

Okay, okay…. Now I have dieted enough (!) to know that one shouldn’t ‘diet’, it should be a way of life etc etc. Blah blah. I am (if I do say so myself) very ‘evolved’ in the world of dieting, health and fitness – as are many women. Ask us about the inner workings of a car engine and we draw a blank, but anything to do with calories, carbohydrates, GI, Atkins, Zone, South Beach – and so on – and we are literally walking encyclopedias!

I am pretty sure I started dieting in high school (not primary school, though that was when my brother started teasing me about my weight). Of course, I started with the tried and true methods – the liquid diet (where one only drinks liquid all day). It only goes for a day so is really quite sustainable – highly underestimated as a scientifically-proven, balanced eating plan?!! However, naturally the kilo or two you lose that day reappears the next day. Which is probably why I moved onto the far more responsible and effective diet, the Israeli Army Diet. I think that was what it was called anyway. You eat apples for two days, cheese for two days. Or something. Not sure I got past one day – possibly my dislike of apples was a problem.

Anyway, just before I turned 15 I became more serious about my chosen sport (basketball). I had an encouraging coach who boosted my self-esteem and had faith in my abilities. Even so, I can’t recall now how or when I started “The Diet” (ie. aka, the diet to end all diets!). But, I exercised more – lots of sprints to prepare for our training sessions and started cutting back on food.

Again this was before I had any idea about food (and before I bought my first pocket-sized Calorie Counter), and I think I survived on corn chips (CCs had just come out – circa 1983) and orange mineral water. Over the month of December 1983 I lost about 1 ½ stone. My parents started to get worried. I had gone from 10 ½ stone to 9 stone. (See, given that I am 177cm tall, I wasn’t actually overweight to begin with). They took me to a doctor (who helpfully told me that if I wanted to be a model – obviously ALL girls of that age aspired to be models – I could be, because, he encouraging told me, ‘there were plus sized models’). Despite his extraordinary help (NOT!), I became more obsessive about it all, lost another 1 ½ more stone which started the spiral that has been my life since then.

I won’t bore you with details but, I eventually got to about 47kgs – skipped parts of school to go and sprint around basketball courts. Baked obsessively, ate stuff, exercised for hours after etc etc. For the next couple of years, as I finished high school and went to Uni, my life was all about food. I eventually learned how to vomit, and becoming bulimic was (of course) handy as I started to eat more. Not so handy, however, in that I started binge eating for the first time in my life (having always had a good appetite, but not obsessively so) which lasted on and off for years and still haunts me today sometimes when I don’t feel in control.

Of course, having hit 47kgs, I have managed to also hit 120kgs over more recent years. I recall the day that my life became less about food and dieting – remembering that I hadn’t counted calories that day and what an achievement that was! Of course, the binge eating has lasted and it depresses the hell out of me to realise now that I have hit 40 and it is 2008, that I have spent 25 years dieting and ‘not dieting’. Imagine what else I could have occupied my mind and my life with had it not been about that.

I have lost and gained at least 20kgs so many times over the past 15 years I don’t care to even think about it. I have done Weight Watchers – successfully a number of times…. Only to regain – either quickly or slowly. I know all of the answers – lifestyle choices, sustainable habits, food, exercise – cardio, weight-bearing etc and yet I can’t seem to act on my knowledge. I often joke that I am motivated – HELLO, I am 40, single, childless and have never been in a relationship - of course I am bloody motivated. But I don’t seem to have the level of commitment I once had as a 15 year old – to stick to anything (including normality).

My most recent diet was some vague version of one of those low-carb diets. It worked. I lost some weight and felt better. Then came Christmas, I suspect the weight is all back on. I don’t really know because you see, for the past 5 or so years, I don’t want to know. I am tired of numbers – calories, kilos etc. Tired of my life being ruled by the scales and what they say. I remember my last successful stint at WW – despite having lost 21kgs I was desolate when I hit a plateau and each week I would weigh in to no avail and I would spend the rest of the day in a state of depression.

Sunday, 25 January 2009

Back to the future. So, here I am, possibly a year later and in the same predicament. I consider options like lap-banding, in times of desperation. I was told that you can lose about half of the weight you need to through the operation. For me that could be 20kgs. A great loss, but I have done that before through dieting and think I would prefer that option rather than the more severe notion of surgery!

So, this time I am doing the meal replacement thing – shakes twice a day. I am almost 2 weeks in and am already waivering. I have never been a believer of meal replacements. My problem isn’t really my meals (though possibly the size of them is an issue!). It is the other eating – chocolate for television. Comfort food. Food for when I am sad, lonely, depressed, happy, or just because I deserve it. However, I have decided that I need a kick up the backside and so I will do this for a while. Still no weighing of course, so I will wait until I feel a difference in my clothes and then consider something a bit less severe.

I am doing pilates twice a week (once with a small group and one private lesson). My lessons involve a lot of strength work as well as ‘core’ strength, so it is really my cardio exercise I need to focus on. I am aiming for three times a week. At the moment I am hoping to keep up a program of interval training – alternating walking with very slow running. I am only doing 20-30 minutes, but if I can keep that, I can increase the time and amount of time running.

Am I sufficiently motivated to continue? I am not sure, but I really hope so. I suspect my BMI is over 35. I am now 41 years old. Time is literally disappearing. One of my new year’s resolutions was to actually STOP focusing on trying to meet a man. “The One”. I have decided though, that I am not ready to accept a life alone. Without a family. Without having had a child. So, another resolution involved looking into sperm donor programs and the possibility of having a child by myself.

So, surely that should give me the motivation I need. I am certainly hoping so and will keep you up to date with my progress.

About me

2009-01-13T04:27:00.000-08:00

Hey there. My name is Rockafella Skank (well, it isn’t really, or my parents would have a lot to answer for!) and I am a self-confessed, self-absorbed, over-thinker.

A long time ago I decided that I should deal with this problem by inflicting on others, my thoughts and (obviously insightful) analyses.

I also love writing.

Combining the two has enabled me to regale my friends and family with everything from daily diatribes highlighting the excitement of my working-day, to sagas of my speed dating experiences, to my thoughts on achieving peace in the Middle East. Well, okay, maybe not that last one…!

Family, friends, colleagues as well as those who avoid me will also, however, attest to the fact that I tend to be a tad long-winded in regaling these said-tales. I am easily distracted. Before I know it, I am off on some tangent and it isn’t uncommon for me to not actually finish my original story. (Which possibly says something about its importance in the first place!!!)

During a recent holiday I watched “The View”, an American talk show featuring up to five women (including Barbara Walters and Whoopi Goldberg) sitting around a table chatting – and occasionally talking to guests. I was entranced. As someone took up a point (it was about sex, so I was obviously riveted), another jumped in and then someone else. All of us ended up someplace completely different to that from which we started.

That same night in bed, with sleep being the plan (sadly!), my mind raced all over the place – as it usually does. Leaping from one thought to another. I realized then that my mind is, in fact, like The View. I start contemplating some (very important issue), or perhaps trying to daydream about some gorgeous man enraptured with me (or something – and there could be sex?!) but then I am off to the next thing and I am distracted by some other far-less-fulfilling-but-worthy-of-obsessive-thoughts issue. I haven’t yet decided if this is a sign that I am, in fact suffering from ADD, or some sort of multiple personality disorder?!

So, what I am going to attempt to do here, is put my thoughts on paper (keyboard / screen) and in doing so, spare my long-suffering friends and family from my rants – though I am pretty sure they enjoy knowing why people should not dawdle along footpaths in the city at lunchtime when some of us are in a hurry!

In my conversations I am easily sidetracked. By putting my thoughts onto the screen however, it is hard to get too sidetracked and, besides, my fingers can’t keep up with my mind!

While I love writing, I hate the idea of being critiqued. While at university (many many moons ago!) I refused to go to tutorials where I would actually ‘meet’ the people scoring my essays.

Nowadays and a whole degree or two later, I spend my work life writing bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo but have finally become accustomed to others scrawling in red pen over my words. But, they are not really ‘my’ words – but someone else’s. I am just reporting them.

Having said all of that, however, a New Year’s resolution requires me to do some writing. To actually write. For me, however, there needs to be a point. However (and sadly for anyone reading), in the absence of an actual ‘point’, I decided I should just ‘write’. So, this is it. I don’t care if these words remain ‘unread’. I am putting my thoughts to paper and for me, that is a challenge enough in itself.

Listless

2009-01-10T19:52:00.000-08:00

I am - if I do say so myself - a really good list-maker. They tell you to do that in the magazines; and in the questionnaires they ask, "Do you make lists?” If you don’t, they tell you to start, as it is a sign that you are ‘organised’.

I make lists. I am a maker of lists. Lots of them and for all sorts of things. What to pack when going away, a timetable for the next day, shopping, and my all-time-favourite. The ‘to-do’ list.

The process seems to fall over for me however, between the making of a list and the doing of the things actually ON the list.

Maybe I am mentally organised, but not physically.

I do the right things – the things they tell you to in magazines; I aim for small goals, achievable steps. As an example: Day 1: Find Yellow Pages; Day 2: Open Yellow Pages; Day 3: Look up Electricians; Day 4: Decide which to call…. You get the point.

Impossible to break these down any more. I think I employ this strategy so I can over-achieve. “Oh my god! I got the Yellow Pages out, looked up AND called the electrician on day 1. I am days ahead of schedule. And I’m fabulous!”

Sometimes I force myself NOT to make a list. That way when I don’t actually do something I wasn’t supposed to, I don’t feel too guilty about it.

I used this strategy on my last holidays. I had two weeks off. While I knew the sense of accomplishment I would feel from (tidying my desk and thereby ticking it off my list) I know that I would stress about HAVING to do it from the moment midnight ticked over to start my holidays. So, there was no list. I did some of the stuff I meant to, but not others. “Clean the Fridge” remains on a list from 6 months ago.

Each weekend the task looms before me. Just like exercise - also constantly on my lists – but remains a bit hit and miss.

Today I decided, would be the day I would clean the fridge. Of course the schedule I developed last night (ie. 7.30 – 8.00am walk; 8.30 – 9.30 finish typing work stuff; 9.30 – 10.00am clean fridge) didn't exactly come to fruition, though I have done the work stuff. And I have clipped some pictures from magazines and sent some emails (incidentally neither were on my list!!!)

Making lists can fool me into thinking that everything is under control. I don’t have to worry about stuff if I can list it down on paper. It means I am doing something. Even if I am not! Interestingly, most of my lists are made at night, in bed, when I can't sleep and things are playing on my mind.

Of course, sometimes the lists themselves can be a challenge. I am currently working on the big-mamma of lists.... my New Year's Resolutions (or goals) for 2009. But more on that at a later date.

Hmmm… it is now midday, so I will do the fridge before 5pm. That gives me some flexibility as I may need a little rejuvenating nanna nap, bit of TV first……

Postscript: I cleaned the fridge between 5.15 – 5.45pm. Having woken from longer-than-expected nanna nap, I was supposed to go for a walk for that half hour, but interestingly, even the fridge was more appealing. Of course once I finished I realized that I hadn’t factored the freezer in. Hmmm… will leave that for a later date. Don’t want to get TOO keen.

2009-01-09T21:18:00.000-08:00

Bruce Beresford definitely wants to do this….

It was the first time I had paid to go and see someone who was kinda famous. Actually, I must admit that I didn’t even pay. I possibly wouldn’t even have gone if more effort was required, but that says more about me than the event itself.

The stars and planets aligned as I received an email from the Queensland Writers’ Centre in which my local bookshop, Riverbend Books (Bulimba), offered free tickets to hear Bruce Beresford speak at the launch of his new book, Josh Hartnett definitely wants to do this... As it was early, I was the first caller and easily secured the tickets. I never win competitions or get freebies, so I decided it was all fate and revelled in the idea that I would become some highly-evolved erudite attending only the most cutting-edge of events on the Brisbane cultural calendar.

As I queued for my book to be signed after Bruce’s formal presentation I wondered if I should feel at all pathetic or groupie-like. Should I have been embarrassed by lining up to have someone scrawl their name on my (just-purchased) $40 book - even if he was the author (and kinda famous)?

My lack of guile wasn’t because I was above groupie-like behaviour. In my youth I had a thing about athletes. Though, there was an ill-advised crush on Tom Cruise during his “Top Gun” (pre-sofa-jumping) era. In my own defence, I was a teenager who didn’t know better. I blame rampant hormones and general ignorance and, there shall be no further reference to that part of my life!

Besides, there were far more embarrassing fetishes. Cricketers, Hansie Cronje and Kim Hughes (who, I hear anyone under 35 ask!). Boris Becker (yes, the boom-boom jokes were indeed funny in 1986!); and god I think there were even a time when Pat Cash was of some interest. I was still in a teenager at that stage so the insanity plea (above) still stands.

Alas, I have digressed. But I did wonder what to say to Bruce Beresford. I didn’t want to sound like some star-crazed madwoman. I wanted to come across as some woman-of-the-world, much accustomed to meeting the intellectual elite. However, being a book-signing virgin I hadn’t realised I would not even get the chance to tell Bruce himself what I wanted in my book, but some harried helper alongside the queue, who took our words - and our dreams - and scribbled them on a little square yellow post-it note. Being the literary genius that I am, I had gone with, “To RFS, from Bruce”. So, when I reached the man himself, he simply copied my poetic prose onto my book. “Um, thanks,” I fearlessly mumbled as I moved on as quickly as possible.

So much for me explaining that my interest in his book related to how he turned diary entries into a book! I want to do something similar with letters. I think I had envisaged us ‘connecting’ on some intellectual plane; compare notes and eschew the meaning of life, and well, the universe. Okay, so I didn’t really think that, but I did think I might say something vaguely intelligible which would capture his interest. My lack of verbal capacity obviously wasn’t because he is a great idol of mine. He wasn’t (and isn’t). I guess it is still the ‘them’ and ‘us’ which comes from meeting those who have some iota of fame, while the rest of us wallow in obscure mediocrity.

What I enjoyed about Bruce’s presentation was that it didn’t appear to come easily to him. I guess I thought of him as someone fairly famous who was accustomed to the spotlight and so I expected something smooth and sanitary. He spoke for approximately 30 minutes and it seemed as if he struggled to find things to speak about as he jumped from topic to topic. I wondered if he had planned what to say. It didn’t appear so though he did occasionally refer to some scraps of paper before giving up on them entirely. I imagined a wife or manager behind the scenes, nagging him all day to prepare his speech. He seemed the sort to rebel against any such goading. He was, however, far more comfortable during the Question & Answer session. There was a good crowd at the event, and I suspect most were there to see Bruce the Director, rather than Bruce the Writer as all questions related to his film work.

I have since read Bruce’s book. I enjoyed the anecdotes and he is obviously an intelligent man who thinks and writes with much élan. The book however, is pretty much a collection of experiences over a two year period. It features references to friends, such as Barry Humphries and acting luminaries, Russell Crowe, Cate Blanchet and, of course, Josh Hartnett. And, it isn’t for the faint hearted or those not up for some salacious gossip! During his pre-signing presentation he quipped that lawyers had spent a significant amount of time pouring over his words.

Of most interest was how the whole film and television industry works. An industry of much uncertainty. Survival of the fittest in a world where money reigns supreme and those perceived to be money-makers (the ‘name’ actors) can be in possession of minimal intelligence but much power.

I read an interview in which Bruce commented that his daughters and wife remarked on the amount of time he spends (in the book) referring to women he came across. I think I would have (indeed) been somewhat chagrined about the reflections if he was my father. While not lecherous, he spends an inordinate amount of space contemplating the women he met, many of whom he was compelled to describe in enthusiastic detail!

I found the book easy reading. I didn’t, however, find it hard to put down – which in my world equates to a good book. Though there was a need to remember who-was-who in Bruce’s life, I was able to read it in chunks over a week as my bus crawled to and from the city each day. I happily pulled the book from my work satchel each time I boarded the bus. It interested me enough that the travel time passed without me being overcome with bus-rage which is quite an achievement.

Through Josh Hartnett definitely wants to do this…, I had a glimpse into Bruce’s world. A world I don’t think I ever wanted and now, one I don’t envy, despite the strange fetishes and bus-rage threatening mine!

Josh Hartnett definitely wants to do this… true stories from a life in the screen trade.
Bruce Beresford. HarperCollins Publishers. 2007

I attended the Book Launch, hosted by Riverbend books, at Customs House in Brisbane on 9 August 2007.