Morning Pages & Basketball Shots

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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*

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*

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

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?

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

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

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.