emzeegee and the hungry three

Non Negotiables

2012-02-02T08:45:00.002+11:00

Last night DH and I were watching an episode of Millionaire Matchmaker, where the owner of the dating agency for millionaires put herself forward as a client. Apparently even those who matchmake for a living occasionally need a helping hand in these sorts of things. One of the first steps in her process is a 'one on one' where she asks the client a number of personal questions about the sort of person they are looking for. Most common is the question, "What are your five non negotiable traits for a partner?"

This of course had me thinking, didn't it? I've mentioned before how I enjoy having male friends, and in recent weeks I've connected and re-connected with a couple more. I've been amused to find that ALL of these men share very similar interests - it's almost as though someone built a mould and just stamped all these people out of it before dropping them into my life. So when a male friend says to me, "I really love Dr Who," I just smile and nod and say, "Of course you do. OF COURSE." (Because so do all the others. And by the way, are you into sport, either cricket or Aussie Rules? Do you work with or like playing with technology? And do you like Monty Python? And are you a foodie who likes to cook? And, and, and...) It's clear that I've got a "type" when it comes to men, which brings me back to the "5 non negotiables" exercise. No, I'm not in the market for anyone - this is really just a bit of silliness on my part.

If I were on the Millionaire Matchmaker show, these would be my 5 non-negotiables for a partner:
(Friends is different. I don't have any non-negotiables for those.)

1. Has to be tall. 6 feet tall at minimum, but I'd really prefer 6'1" or above. I don't much care about other body traits, but this one is a definite non-negotiable. I'm not confident enough to be with anyone shorter than I am.

2. Has to have a job, career, purpose, or frankly just something he does during the day which keeps him busy (other than another girl of course.) I'm not interested in struggling actors, waiters, slackers, surfies, or anybody who lacks purpose and drive. If you're independently wealthy and don't NEED to work, that's fine, but for the love of god please do not hang out at home all day getting in my way.

3. Has to be Jewish. It shouldn't really matter, but we're talking life partner here, not just a friend - and that, for me, is less about religion and more about understanding the culture and shared values of education, family, and home. Plus someone who will indulge my obsession with expensive Israeli hummus without batting an eyelid is a bonus.

4. Stupid people need not apply. Please. It helps if you are definitely a geek or nerd, but not one who is socially inept. So a geek or nerd that I can take out in public preferably.

5. You've got to like watching Dr. Who. I don't know what the attraction of this show is (I've never managed to get through even a single episode) but clearly, there is something about this show and the people who watch it who are attractive to me. I have yet to meet a Dr Who fan who I did not like, ergo, if Dr Who fans = people I like, you've got to be someone who likes Dr Who. Plus this means you will immediately have something in common with every other person in my life.

So there you go. Gentlemen, feel free to start an orderly queue. Oh wait, I'm not looking, am I? I've already got someone who meets all those criteria (plus the ones which are negotiable, but he ticks those boxes too.) Phew! Glad I've got that sorted. :)

Partnered or not, do you have any non-negotiables?

Not Prepared for This AT ALL

2012-02-01T21:28:00.000+11:00

This week my kids start fifth grade. Last week, we got a letter from our synagogue welcoming us to the Bnei Mitzvah program - meaning my kids are now 2 years away from standing in front of a jillion people and entering into their religious adulthood.

Those two things combined meant I almost had a nervous breakdown.

Sure, I'd love to write this blog post all about how I didn't think time would go by this quickly, how I can hardly remember them being toddlers, how all those parents were right about cherishing the moments of their childhood, how next thing you know I will blink and they will be graduating college, and blah blah blah blah.

Instead I'm going to talk about how I am really not prepared for this stage of their lives. I can remember - with vivid clarity - when it was ME starting 5th grade. I actually have very few memories of my childhood at all. I can remember a few moments from 4th grade, but it's only back to 5th grade that I can remember much at all. From others I've spoken to, apparently this is sorta strange - you're meant to remember the time before then. I don't - and so maybe this is why I feel so ill-prepared to be mothering these pre-teens. By the end of this year, I'm surely going to find myself buying a bra for at least one of my girls. How very...odd. I can remember buying MY first bra (probably the only one I've owned which did not require extreme feats of engineering.) I just find it quite remarkable that I'm experiencing my kids going through stages of life which I'm sure were only yesterday for me. Every time we pass another milestone from here on in, it won't take much effort for me to cast my mind backwards to a time when I too was dealing with the same thing.

Considering I often look at my life and think, "How on earth did I get to be this age?!" ... I don't think I'm going to cope all that well. I fully expect to have far more emotional reactions to things than my kids will. It will be ME crying about their first periods, ME carrying on like a idiot when they start to like people of the opposite or same sex, ME who loses it entirely when they come home drunk from a party. Not because I can't imagine them growing up, not because I will mourn the end of their childhood (although there is that, too) but because I'll finally have to face the fact that I, too, have grown up.

Damn. I knew it had to happen, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

Overwhelmed Today

2012-01-31T21:16:00.000+11:00

I am not the first woman to own a small business and have three kids at home. I'm also not the first woman to own a business, have three kids at home, cook home made meals most nights of the week, be in control of paying our bills, run our household, attempt to keep everyone's lives organised (probably the hardest part of all), and still find time to haul my ass to get exercise several times a week.

There's nothing special about any of that. Plenty of other women do it too. I'm proud of it, I'm glad I do it, but occasionally "doing it all" leads to a feeling of extreme overwhelm. Thanks to some good coaching (Hi Biz Guy), some amazing support (Hi BIL, IL's and DH), and being of the planning-and-organising personality type, I manage to keep most of these things ticking along pretty nicely. Life, as it were, continues apace and things mostly get done, and some don't, and life just carries on. The past couple of weeks have been a little tough, though, as I attempt to balance the business needing my attention and the kids needing my attention. I've managed to muddle through, but it's been frustrating. Every time I get the chance to catch my breath, something will happen which reminds me I'm really only *just* managing to breathe in the first place. I'll pop into work at night to catch up on a few hours of emails, empty the inbox, and finally leave for the night with a contented sigh. Before I've walked out the door of the place, my phone beeps with emails at such a rapid pace I'm sure the damn thing is going to lie down and have a seizure right then and there. Or, I'll return a stack of voicemails, hang up the phone and then read the SMS which says, "You have 8 new voicemails."

Don't get me wrong. I am SO DAMN GRATEFUL that the phone is ringing and the email is pinging, I almost want to sit down and cry bit fat tears of joy. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed to happen in order to get my life to the place I want it to be. It really *is* happening, the hard work is paying off, the Universe is delivering all the rewards I can handle (and then some.)

But, geez, it's overwhelming. Sometimes that overwhelm can lead to a mini meltdown of sorts, which for me translates as a few too many 'taste tests' of the chocolate buttons, a few too many hours wasted on facebook, a few too few hours spend hanging with my husband and kids because I really just need some doonah therapy, and several nights where I'm not sleeping all that well and so tiredness makes me grumpy as well. Needless to say, I'm not all that happy with myself and the situation, because I am overwhelmed by competing priorities, feeling like I'll never get ahead of the endless 'to do' list, and generally pissed off at how chaotic things have become (even though I know it's temporary.)

Today, an acquaintance of mine in his mid-30's (friend of some good friends) passed away from cancer, leaving behind two young kids and a wife. Today, I got an email telling me that the family mess I mentioned a few posts ago is moving full steam ahead. Today, I took my DD to the doctor because she has not been feeling herself lately and we need to get to the bottom of it.

Today, I remembered that being overwhelmed with all the good stuff - emails and phone calls that generate business, kids who want to spend time with me, a husband able to work two jobs to support us, having ready access to chocolate - are *exactly* the sorts of things I want to be overwhelmed with. The rest of it? The messy house, the untidy work desk, the clients who are pissed off that I did not reply to them the very second they called...well, fuck them all. I'm too busy being overwhelmed with blessings to worry about being overwhelmed by mere details.

Things I Just Don't Get: Massages

2012-01-24T20:42:00.000+11:00

Maybe this is a fat chick thing, but to me the idea of hell is getting naked or semi-naked in a room with a stranger, and then allowing that stranger to massage your fat bits around. Or even your not-so-fat bits. Either way, massages are just about the single worst idea ever invented, and the best part is this experience is meant to be relaxing.

And - and !! - they tend to involve tinkly music, various devices which reek of stinky stuff (eg oil burners, incense, or just the oil they use in the first place) and we all know how much I HATE stinky stuff and especially when paired with tinkly music. Either one of those on their own is bad enough, but paired they become totally unbearable.

Maybe this is a chef thing, whereby I think the ONLY things which should be massaged with oil are large joints of meat. Maybe it's because I think humans, while technically speaking are also large joints of meat, were never meant to be massaged in oil. Because the whole 'massaging in oil' thing is all about making meat taste better. This is a family blog. I'm NOT going there (but oh yeah, of course I did *think* about it, didn't I?).

I'm willing to concede that there are people (very odd people) out there who find massages relaxing. I'm even willing to give babies (who don't know better) and dogs (who also don't know better) a pass on this one, because we can't blame them for thinking it's a good idea. Hell, babies and dogs just love to be touched and they don't much care if there is tinkly music or not.

Seriously. I'm as touchy-feely as the next gal, but no way do I want to be pummelled and squished and prodded all around while laying face-first in a terry towel which heaps of other people have laid down on. And those tables just LOOK shonky, you know? Like as if I'm going to haul myself up there, maybe start to get into this whole thing and then a table leg will slowly give way. And of course I'll be slippery and whatnot, so I'll slowly and smoothly slide down to the ground in one of those "I saw it happening in slow motion but was powerless to do anything about it," moments. So then I'll find myself naked, going insane from the tinkly music, covered in sticky smelly oil, probably having lost my modesty towel somewhere on the descent, and humiliated because I need a hand up to get off the floor.

Thank you, but no. Massages are not for me.

Tiny Rant: Pepper Grinders

2012-01-23T20:13:00.002+11:00

Number 6 trillion 100 hundred million four hundred thousand and eighty one on the list of things I don't understand: those enormous pepper grinders which restaurants offer you within three seconds of putting your plate down in front of you.

Firstly, and kinda unrelated to why I hate them, why on earth are they so large? Is this some sort of penis thing? As in, the owner feels the need to brag about their size by having the biggest pepper grinder on the block? Personally I do not love having this enormous phallic thing shoved in my face at the best of times, and certainly not when I'm about to tuck into a gorgeous meal. Any woman will tell you that of all the sexy appendages men have (and oh yes, there are many!) a penis is not one of them. They're plain ol' ugly. Fun to play with, but ugly as sin. And a penis which shoots black dust out of it...well, let me assure you, sooo not sexy.

So. Nevermind that I find the actual device itself somewhat offensive, I also don't quite get why that practise exists in the first place.

Let me let you in on a little secret. It's the chef's JOB to season your food properly. What does this mean, "to season"..:? It means to add enough salt and pepper so that it tastes at least a thousand times better than it would if you made that same dish at home. Definition of "to season", the truth version, is : Add WAY MORE salt and pepper than you would at home, AND to every component to the dish, which is why you can't replicate it at home even if you really want to, because home cooks are WUSSES when it comes to seasoning. This is why chefs get paid the crappy salaries. To season stuff better than you can. So if you sit down at a restaurant and they shove a pepper grinder in your face, it's like the restaurant saying, "Not sure where we got this crappy inexperienced 11 year old chef from, but he doesn't know how to season things, so we're doing it for you. Right here. Right now." In other words, just by offering to grind some dust on your plate, they're saying we have no faith that our chef did his job properly.

Which makes you wonder why they hired him in the first place.

However.

I'm willing to believe you are one of those people whose taste buds are totally out of whack. You're one of those people who thinks tomato sauce on everything is a good idea, who thinks meat should always be cooked to within an inch of it's life (and therefore it loses all flavour entirely), who thinks cheap vanilla ice cream is some sort of treat, who thinks sandwiches need butter AND mayonnaise, who has smoked a shit load in their misspent youth. Suppose you're one of those people. I don't like you, but I understand you exist and so I tolerate you. You too lack faith in this chef and it's entirely possible that you WANT more pepper on your dish. Okay. Fair enough. The customer IS always right after all.

Here's what I want to know - in addition to crap taste buds, do you also have food ESP? As in, you know before you taste something that it's going to be under-seasoned? Because those jerks with the white apron and the huge phallic grinder are offering you their wares BEFORE you've even taken a bite, and you, dear eater, accept their ridiculous request. By accepting their offer, you too are saying, I have no faith that your chef did his job properly. Or, I have no tastebuds left (all that smoking you know) and therefore I need shit loads of pepper just to remind myself there is actual food on my plate.

Of course, should you taste your food and determine that in fact the chef was no good at their job (entirely possible, there are plenty of crappy chefs out there) - then by all means, self-season your food. That's why there is salt and pepper on the table in the first place (well, that and just because they look kinda cute.)

But please, please, don't shove a ~~penis~~ pepper grinder in my face seconds after you've placed the meal down in front of me. At least give the chef the benefit of the doubt.

Why Love Matters

2012-01-17T23:03:00.003+11:00

For about a year now I've been dealing with a family situation which, to put it mildly, upsets me, angers me, frustrates me, and saddens me. I can't give you the specific details nor do I want to sullen this blog with that kind of negative energy. Instead, I'm going to explain (maybe for you, but mostly for me) what is just so hard to bear about this.

Actually, the "what's had to bear" part is easy to work out: I just don't understand it. My emotions about this stem from a simple concept - I cannot, no matter how hard I try, see a reason or an explanation for the situation. Not a logical one in any case.

I just don't get it. And for me, a clever thinking person, NOT getting something is not easy.

I don't understand how people with similar upbringing can have such different core values. I don't understand how a single, unfair act of God (or whoever) can end up causing way more grief than is justified by that single act. I don't understand people who cannot accept that sometimes, bad things happen FOR NO REAL REASON. I don't understand what they are hoping to achieve by their actions. I don't understand why, to them, what they are doing has more value than preserving the lessons and values they were raised by. I don't understand the deliberate causing of pain.

I don't understand not being able to see - or at least have a decent guess at - that the consequences of one's actions will be far, far longer lasting and way more damaging than whatever victory they think they will get. And that the victory, when and if it comes, will be hollow.

Most of all I don't understand how others don't see this simple truth: no amount of hoping, wishing, begging, behaving well or behaving poorly, making bargains with god, or looking for some sort of concrete answer as to why these things happen will bring people back.

One they're gone, they're gone.

As much as that SUCKS.
As much as you wish it was different.
As much as you would give anything - not even almost anything, just anything at all - to turn back time and make the outcome different.
As long as you search for an answer (and if you find one or if you don't), this basic thing will never change: once they're gone, they're gone.

But here is what I DO understand: that grief can change people. That grief can be the cause of mental illness. That those with a mental illness are not acting in their normal capacity. That the disease they are dealing with is bigger than they are, does not define who they are, and that they are not at fault for being ill.

Once you're sick, you're sick - and that's as unfair and random as the thing which made that happen in the first place. Maybe more so because, in the long run, it hurts way more people and has much further-reaching consequences.

That I happen to have to watch this - destruction of a human and of a family - take place is something I don't understand, either. So while I DO technically speaking have a reason for it - that reason being mental illness - I'm struggling to accept that, especially weighed against all the other things I don't understand.

Maybe I need to stop trying to understand, and instead concentrate on my skills of strength, healing, love and patience.

So with that in mind - do your worst, Voldemort. Because even Draco learned that that the only thing which survives in times of great darkness - is love.

Summer Daze

2012-01-16T22:16:00.000+11:00

We've been home for a week, I've worked plenty of hours, we've done plenty of housey things...and yet in some ways it still feels like we are on vacation. I've blogged before about how much I love Australia in the summertime - which is funny in a way because I'm not a great fan of hot weather. The Australian summer is just glorious. The light just takes on an entirely different quality. People around you, even those doing mundane tasks like supermarket shopping and queuing up for buying school shoes, just somehow look happier than they usually would. The entire place is just imbued with this gorgeous, happy, sunshiney joie de vivre. That somehow manages to be true even when Melbourne is at it's weather-fickle best and I'm dragging out a polar fleece vest to wear smack in the middle of summer.

Today was a great example of a Australian summer day - DD1 is away at camp, so I found myself with 2 kids and a long, hot day stretching out ahead of me. In the morning I had to go to work, which suited them down to the ground since apparently episodes of Phineas & Ferb run all morning long. By lunchtime, as promised, I came home (with that lengthy 45 second commute) and hopped into my bathers (almost literally.) Within 20 minutes of being home (enough time to slap on sunscreen and slap together a sandwich), the 3 of us were on our way to the local pool.

Because it was so hot, the place was packed with people - wall to wall with toddlers, mothers, fathers, snotty teenagers, bored looking lifeguards, and all manner of poor clothing choices well worth the people-watching. We spent several hours in the sunshine, dividing our time between splashes in the pool, snacks in the sunshine, and even just a bit of quiet time for me. I must admit I am LOVING this age - the kids are over 10 and therefore no longer require parental supervision at the pool, and this means I'm not forced to be in that pool any longer than my sensory self can handle. So I can sit on the end of the pool, or chat to a friend, or..whatever...but I'm not IN the pool the entire time, being driven mad by my velcro children who seem to think drowning me and choking me are fun and interesting things to do.

By the end of the day my son had gone home with a friend we caught up with at the pool, and it was just DD2 and I left to our own devices. Some showers, clean clothes and snacks later, and she and I were bombed out on the bestest couch in the free world together. Air conditioning blowing cool air over us, coke-flavour icy poles in hand, inane TV on the box...and just...the summertime peace which comes over you when you've had a busy afternoon of sun and swimming.

I love summer in Australia, I really do. For how the sun feels on my skin, how it feels to be WARM and not cold all the time, for the delicious summer stone fruit dripping juice down my arms, for the sticky sweetness of sun cream, for the delicious 'snap' your bathers make when you pull them off, for that nipple-puckering moment when you step into a cold pool or a hot shower after a swim, for the any-excuse-will-do ice creams...for the joy and happiness and warm glow of a late summer eve when it's 9pm and still light enough for the kids to read just one more chapter.

Summer.

I'll be sad when it's gone.

Sing it, Sister

2012-01-10T20:55:00.002+11:00

I came across this article several weeks ago and I've been debating publishing it - not because I don't agree with it (oh heavens above but I DO) and not because it's not well written (yay) but because I hesitate to make this blog about weight issues.

And then I thought - fuck it. She's so right on so many levels and that, my friends, requires sharing.

This article is PURE GOLD.

3103 kms later....

2012-01-10T20:53:00.000+11:00

...and we are home, well (mostly), safe...and ready to get back into the car and do it all over again. The joy and benefits of this trip are far too numerous to mention (although I had a pretty good go at it in earlier blogs) but suffice it to say we had a brilliant time, and I intend on bragging about it for a while.

As a family, we're awesome. RIDICULOUSLY awesome. And we're not perfect, but we're fun and that's good enough.

..and now back to your regular programming.

2450 km later....

2012-01-05T21:24:00.003+11:00

Well, best laid plans and all that.... meaning that in order to get up and do the cliff walk we needed to be up and about well before the heat of the day had set in. On that Monday morning, a bleary eyed me rolled over to DH and said, "What time is it?" to which he groggily replied, "10:30...or something. I don't know. Go back to sleep." Ever the obedient wife (when it suits me of course), I did exactly that - which meant that any plans for enthusiastic cliff scrambling were well and truly buggered by the time we actually got out of bed some hours later. It was hot, damn hot - so DH wandered down to the local mall with the kids for lunch and a movie while I went to meet a friend for a long meander (for which I was rewarded with a fantastic back of the neck sunburn, but it was still worth it for the good catch-up.) (And probably if I *wore* my hat rather than held it in my hand, I'd have avoided said sunburn...but...you know, that would have been easy and not interesting to blog about at all.) We spent our afternoon as a family in Manly - one last wander onto the sand, one last Slurpee shared in the dying sun. The evening found us returning to Manly to have dinner with some Melbourne family members who happened to find themselves in Sydney at the same time. The joy of that dinner - other than the company and good food - was listening to my kids share their adventures with other adults. I was hugely proud of their ability to tell a good story, to convey their enthusiasm for all we had seen and done, and in general the way they carry themselves when in the company of adults other than their parents. Kiddos: I'm hugely proud of you, and it's a great source of pride to me that you are growing up to be such engaging, interesting people.

A wander down the Corso (for yet one more last-last-last ice cream on the beach) and we were suckered into letting the kids try "Zorbing" (no idea why it's called that, but apparently all the cool kids know these things.) Zorbing is getting into a giant (as in human sized) hamster ball which is pumped full of fresh air, then the inflated ball is put onto a giant pool of water. The idea of course is to then imitate said hamster by standing up in the ball and running to make the ball turn in the water. Sounds easy, until of course you remember that hamsters do not achieve this on water, nor with many other balls rolling around them and making waves, nor with people standing outside the barrier and laughing their asses off at them. The kids, not surprisingly, had an absolute ball (pun intended- which is good, because the next day was less than happy!

On our last morning in Sydney I was woken at 6:30am by the plaintive cry of, "MUM! I'm vomiting!" which is just about the worst wake up call a parent can get (second only to your twelve year old waking you with, "Mum! I'm pregnant!") My poor DD2 was feeling a bit under the weather - to say the least - and the poor thing still had to sit through a 6.5 hour drive. With nothing for it, we bundled her and a bunch of plastic bags and paper towels into the car and headed for all points south.

I'll spare you the details (because they're not pretty) but suffice to say that by the time we reached Pambula on the Sapphire Coast of NSW (a full *9* hours later!), 2 girls were down for the count, and a third girl (that would be me) was not far behind. By midnight, DH had succumbed as well - meaning that 4/5 of us were less than healthy, with a hale and hearty DS feeling totally fine, the lucky bugger. Oh but we were a pile of misery, weren't we? Wednesday was a health-enforced pyjama day, mostly because DD2 was feeling better, DD1 was kinda okay-ish, I was tettering between feeling okay and feeling shit, and DH was...well, I've seen him look better (grey as a complexion colour does not suit him.) The two healthiest kids did manage a good long swim in the motel pool - hooray for country motels with pools! Happily enough for the emzee travellers, by this morning (Thursday) all of us were fighting fit and ready again for adventure. In a way I'm not sorry we got sick (but healthy would always be better if I had a choice) because it makes for a good story, and in a way we all needed a good day of sleep just to catch up after two weeks of craziness. This morning we headed off to Magic Mountain in Meriumbula, and to prove our good health, we managed to spend close to 6 hours with the kids going mad on the rollercoaster, go-karts, toboggan run, water slides and bouncy castle. We gave the mini golf a miss (thank god. I hate being beaten at anything. :) ). We spent a lovely evening enjoying dinner at the local bowls club - all in all a really nice finish to a really nice day.

Tomorrow is our last day in Pambula and we have no specific plans, which is in many ways a pleasure and in some ways a worry as I feel as though we need to squeeze every moment we can out of this glorious time together before it comes to an end. Saturday we've got a long drive punctuated by a long lunch with some friends at the half-way point to home, followed by another long drive as we roll back to Melbourne sometime in the early evening.

I have a lot of thoughts about this trip - some funny ones about the experiences we had along the way, some observations about who we met, what we did, and some funny Australian "culturalisms" I've noticed - but I'll share those in posts in the coming weeks. For now, while my writings chronicalling this trip have mostly been fairly dry in tone, that's because one purpose of this blog is as a legacy to my children, not just as a collection of amusing anecdotes. Someday I'd like them to read this and remember not only the highlights (of which there were many) but also the lowlites (of which there were few, but damn they were funny.)

My next entry is likely to be once we have returned home - but in the meantime the emzee band of merry travellers is exactly that - merry - and that's exactly how I like it.

1800 kilometres later...

2012-01-01T23:14:00.003+11:00

When this blog last left our intrepid family travellers, we had just arrived in Sydney and were looking forward to several jam-packed days. The Harry Potter exhibition was as good as a Muggle like me might expect - in other words, pretty damn fabulous and well worth planning a 2 week driving holiday around! The Powerhouse Museum provided several hours of fun and discovery once we exited HP Land - I was surprised at how much joy we all got from the rest of the museum itself. At one point I lost track of everyone - the kids and DH had all scattered to see various bits of the museum and I was alone in a hall with a penny farthing bike on one side of me and a warplane above me but no family to be found.

Eventually (thank you, mobile phones), I discovered DH and DD1, and together we eventually found the other two - only to all get scattered and lost again as everyone found the bits which interested them the most. It was really several hours of fabulous discovery, and best of all is how engaged the kids were. We eventually walked from the Museum to Darling Harbour to visit the Chinese Garden of Frienship, which sounds completely dorky and all - but in reality is a stunning oasis right in the middle of Sydney. We traipsed around there for quite a while - around each corner there is something more beautiful to admire, or another pagoda to get some shade in. The weather throughout this trip has been stunning - but after so many hours on our feet in the blazing sun, we had all reached the point of no return and decided to head home. (Although we did entertain the idea of a few more tourist spots, DS had 'hit the wall' as it were and it was well time to head back. Poor kid fell asleep on the ferry ride home.)

A train ride, a ferry ride, a bus ride and we were home again - a quick dinner and a early-ish night in for all (although I must confess, that DVD player did see the light of day..but only so DH and I could watch a movie that night!). The next day we were out and about and ready to adventure once again, so we headed into Manly. A trip to the local aquarium (Oceanworld) and then a good long day at South Steyne Beach and a wander down the Corso - the beach was great fun for all of us, especially DS who loved laughing his ass off at his mother gettting repeatedly knocked over by the huge waves. I'd stand up, get pummeled by a wave, stand up, and start all over again. I never got the hang of wave jumping, but then it was more fun to watch him piss himself laughing than it was to wave jump anyway. The required lunch of fish and chips, more wave riding (okay, wave pummelling) and off we went back home to change and get ready for a night out. We headed out for dinner with friends - friends who conveniently have a pool - so more swimming, heaps of eating (a deliciously grand BBQ dinner) and several hours later the exhausted, happy emzee family headed back into the night once again.

New Year's Eve Day dawned bright and early, but by now the emzee family had pretty much reached the end of their tether. We've planned SO many adventures, but have hardly taken the time to draw breath - so while we had an entire day of city touring planned, we didn't quite make it before our energy reserves ran dry! We ended up wandering around The Rocks, then climbing stairs (which are rapidly becoming a theme on this trip, with DS sighing and saying in a sarcastic tone, "Oh look! MORE stairs!") to get to the Pylon Lookout - which is almost like climbing the bridge except minus the grey suit and the $1000 price tag. Plenty of stairs, sun, and lots to see from up there - including the thousands of people lining up all along the Harbour in anticipation of the NYE fireworks! Lunch at a nice cafe in the Rocks, and it was time to head back to home and prepare for dinner. Dinner this time was at the home of some friends who again spoiled us with far too much food and good company - and while we *tried* to keep the kids awake, there was not a snowball's chance in hell they would last the distance to midnight. We staggered in the door of the flat, turned on the TV, and with 21 seconds on the Harbour Bridge countdown clock, watched the fireworks through eyes with lids at half-mast.

This morning - no rest for the wicked - we were up and about and headed for Taronga Zoo, where we met up with a third set of friends. With some of the most spectaculr views across the Harbour, and with some beautiful enclosures and interesting animals to look at, we had a truly brilliant day. New friends, new experiencies, heaps of sunshine - I'm pretty sure it does not get much better than that..but then this is OUR holiday so of course it does. We had a short space of free time, so we wandered into Bondi to get a ice cream - which is notable because there was no actual SAND at Bondi, only bodies to be seen...and also because it was the second shittiest ice cream I've had in Sydney. Possibly in my life. Seriously, is there no good ice cream in this town?! Dinner was again with friends - and the kids had the chance to mess about with kids their own age, something I think they really needed at this point in the trip.

We have been truly spoiled by the Sydney portion of this trip - by the sunshine which has made every day more glorious than the last, by the many friends who have welcomed us into their homes with open arms, and by the myriad adventures which have been exactly enough to make us exhausted and ecstatic in equal measures.

Tomorrow - our last full day here - has us attempting the Bondi to Cogee Cliff Top Walk in 30 degree weather, and the afternoon is currently free so we will see what adventures it might bring. It just might be time to relax in the cool of a movie theatre, or do some packing up, or...who knows. It's the one day we have not planned to the n-th degree. Tuesday morning we are headed off for Pambula - for 3.5 days of rest, relaxation, and recovery from all the endless running about we've been doing. We have loved every moment of the madness but a few days of recovery will be welcome.

We are all happy, healthy, well...and utterly unwilling to believe we're nearly needing to head home soon. With so much still to see and do, I'm pretty sure the kids will be planning our next road trip before you know it!

1600 kilometres later...

2011-12-28T22:35:00.002+11:00

...and we're still not only having the time of our lives, we have yet to kill one another. I can say with some certainty that all five members of my family are still alive and well. I can't comment on the dog because he is holidaying with my IL's, but I trust he too is still with us. (IL's, feel free to leave a comment and let us know.)

When I last blogged we had been in Canberra two nights. The next day we spent not nearly enough time at the War Memorial - somewhere I was going along to mostly to humour DH (who, in addition to being as Aussie as they come) loves all things military related. I honestly expected the kids (and me, let's be frank here) to be whining about being bored about five minutes into it. Instead the kids AND I were all quite disappointed to have to leave - we did a 90 minute tour and all of us felt we really only scratched the surface. There is SO much more to see there that we have already planned a trip back. From there we went onto Parliament (where I had a slightly heart-rate raising moment when we went through the explosives check and I got pulled aside). Parliament, too, is another place we could have spent more time. The last stop on our "Geek's Tour of Australian Government Icons" was the Royal Mint - disappointing only because it was not a working day for them and so we did not get to see all the machinery in action, but otherwise fascinating in many respects.

Our last day in Canberra dawned a bit overcast, but we pressed on with our plans to visit Cockington Green - a minature town of replica buildings. Bitty bitty people in bitty bitty buildings doing things like playing bitty bitty cricket games. For me this was our most disappointing stop, because not only was it a bit expensive, but I don't remember it being as ...meh...as it was. The kids enjoyed it, especially the ridiculous kiddy train ride (so small each of us took up an entire bench in a carriage) and it was fun but I don't think I'd go again. From there we went on to the CSIRO Discovery Centre, which, as the name suggests, is a place for older kids to discover a lot about the work CSIRO does (did you know they invented WiFi?). We were the only ones there, which was a good thing as it means the kids (okay, DH and I) could run around madly pressing buttons on stuff and not have to pretend like it wasn't us who made the little solar powered lolly machine continually give out lollies.

From there we pressed onto Wallerawang - not the bustling metropolis you might imagine with a name like that, but a small town in the coalmine area of NSW. En route we stopped in Goulburn, supposedly to have lunch and get petrol but really to take pictures in front of the giant Merino. Not giant as in "Wow, what a big sheep" but giant as in "Let's climb up into it's body and look out of it's eyes onto the road below." Onwards (and a few wrong turns along the way) we ended up in Wallerawang. It turned out to be a lovely town, with a lovely hotel in a former school - the owner of the hotel was actually a student of the school for most of his life, which is such an "only in Australia" sort of thing, isn't it? Dinner at the local Chinese (delicious, shame about the horrible waitress, but then with no competition to speak of I can't imagine anyone is too worried about things like customer service!). Morning saw us up and about and heading for Jenolan Caves - and to give you some time perspective, that was this morning I'm talking about.

Jenolan Caves is one of those places which cannot really be described with words - and apologies about the lack of pictures, but uploading from our various phones and cameras is a bit more fiddly than I feel like dealing with, so I'll do some photo posts on our return. We spent our entire day on a couple of tour caves (translation: in awe of the caves, in awe of the sheer number of stairs, in awe of the number of photos it's possible to take), walks around the blue lake (more @&*@# stairs!) and eventually a very happy but weary emzee family made it back to the car (guess what? stairs to the carpark, too). Unequivocally it was one of our most adventurous days yet - and we worked out that by the end of it we had climbed or come down over 1,600 steps. Goodness knows how we will feel tomorrow!

Afternoon had us heading into Sydney and to our accommodation for the next week - sadly a disappointing 'granny flat' place under a home in Allambie Heights (just outside of Manly.) While it's mostly clean, it's clear that the owners are not experienced at having people stay - no dishes, no cutlery, no real bin (!) to speak of, and so on. I'm pretty certain the fridge was stolen from a few grotty fraternity boys - and in terms of cooking 'equipment' the best we have is an electric frying pan...so suffice to say our emergency Coles run had items like tea towels, big bags, spatulas, toilet paper and so on make their way into the trolley. I'm pretty disappointed but as usual the kids don't give a shit and are rolling with it - they were just thrilled to see a Scrabble board in the cupboard!

I have to say the real heroes of this trip have been the children - they have soaked up every moment of it, revelled in the adventures, taken more photos than I will ever know what to do with, and just LIVED in each moment of every day. To be sure we have asked a fair bit of them, but they've taken it all in their stride and have proven themselves far more flexible than I ever anticipated. The electronic sanity device has yet to get out of the box, even though they discovered it's existence early on in the piece. They are laughing, smiling, engaged kids - and while they have tried to get on one another's nerves now and again, generally speaking I throw a handful of Werther's lollies back there and all is right with the world. They have even tolerated us playing endless Beatles CD's (thanks DH for the music selection) but in turn we've sat through hours and hours of their books on tape (DS picked audio books which a) go on for HOURS and b) require a lot of active listening. Bless him.) They have already decided that "road trips rock!" and that the ONLY solution to this problem of not seeing all we want to see is just to repeat this exact trip next year, but go to the places we just did not have time for.

We've all been having so much fun that we've forgotten both the date and the day of the week - today DS asked me what the date was and I literally had no idea. I'm pretty sure that's what this vacation was for, just to forget about life for a while. In which case - objective achieved.

Tomorrow it's the pinaccle of this trip (although in hindsight, maybe not..) - the Harry Potter exhibit at the Powerhouse Museum. I'm going to sign off now because DH and I have some planning to do for the rest of our days in Sydney - and connecting to the 'net via my mobile phone is probably costing as much as ...well...a lot.

Sydney, I hope you're ready for us, because we've got big plans for you...! (Pylon lookout, Chinese garden, Manly Aquarium, clifftop walk from Bondi to Coogee...and so on!)

Older and Wiser

2011-12-25T20:41:00.000+11:00

For what it's worth, I don't intend to blog every day of our trip. I'm meant to be on vacation, not tied to a laptop. That said, having talking about this trip for so damn long, it would be remiss of me to not at least give you the occassional update of how we're doing.

My birthday today was glorious - filled with sunny skies, time spent with the people I love the most, plenty of delicious food (and gummy cherries. We've got snakes still but the cherries are my fave, so I opened the bag early...) and plenty of sight-seeing and being loved. I got a number of birthday wishes via text, phone calls, and facebook posts so I feel loved fron all corners of the globe. I am *much* happier at 36 than I was at 26 (the kids were not yet a year old, I'm pretty sure I slept through my birthday) and much happier again than I was at 16 (good lord, is any 16 year old happy?!). All in all, it's been a great day and tomorrow is our "History of Australia" geek day with tours of Parliament House, the War Memorial, and the Royal Mint. Today's geek activities - the highlight of which was the National Dinosaur Museum - were all suitably geeky and a good time was had by all.

In between all the love and joy I've thought a bit about my word of the year - and the one word which keeps coming back to me is "value." Value works for me on two levels - one, as a reminder to me to value all that I already have and all that I have achieved, and two, to do things which I value or which bring value to my life. Less stressing, more enjoying - less 'busy work', more putting time into those things and people which I value.

I did for a while consider "treasure" and "blossom" and some other ones...but I think VALUE is the one it's going to be. To just stop for a second and ask myself, "What value am I getting out of this?" (and not be referring to monetary value) sounds like a great way to consider all that has come before, and all that is yet to come. I'm going to try this word on for a bit and see how it fits. We'll see.

Other than that bit of thinking, I'm spending my days revelling in the love and affection of my madcap children and my adoring husband, as hurl-worthy as that sounds. This is *exactly* the right way to end 2011, and a fabulous way to start of 2012.

Sending love, humour, sweetness and of course a healthy dose of sarcasm to you and yours on this merriest of Christmases.

M xx

Very Much Still Alive

2011-12-24T22:07:00.002+11:00

I'm writing this from our hotel apartment in Queanbeyan- which is in New South Wales, a short hop from Canberra, the capital of Australia. Canberra is in the Australian Capital Territory, an independant patch of land in the middle of NSW but somehow NOT NSW (a bit like Washington DC in that respect.) Suffice to say we're not exactly in Party Central, Australia - but it's a gorgeous city and there is nowhere I would rather be right this very moment.

The good news is that there is no bad news - today was one of our longest driving days (8 hours or thereabouts) and we've all had a glorious day. With every passing kilometre I could literally feel the stress, worry and hysteria of the past few months just seeping out of my pores - in between eating too many gummy snakes and changing the CDs over for the kids I managed to have a think about a few things, catch a nap (or two or three) and just really relax as the Victorian, New South Wales, and ACT landscape just passed on by.

It was a glorious, blue sky sort of day - the kind where it looks like the perfect white fluffy clouds have been painted into the sky, where even the sheep and cows on the side of the road appear to have been Photoshopped onto the hillsides. We spent our day visiting various gourmet spots (and as a result now have a car boot filled with indulgences), walking around country towns, and in general loving every minute of our adventure. The kids did not ask for nor need any sort of electronic stimulation (not a single kid asked to play on my phone, which is pretty miraculous when you consider they often ask on the drive from their bus stop to home - which is about 3 minutes long.)

All in all, today was a really great start to our Geeks Tour of Southern Australia - the only real "excitement" of the day was when DH looked at the fuel thingie which said we had "1 kilometre to empty" and the nearest gas station was 14 kilometres away. HE managed to be in a flap about it, I viewed it as an opportunity to teach the kids a lesson about packing too much shit in the car. Pushing the car that far would have surely made my point abundantly clear, no?

Tomorrow the Geek Tour begins properly, as we fit in views from the tops of various mountains, a birthday* picnic at Causarina Sands (thanks Kazari for the idea) and then an afternoon at...yes, the National Dinosaur Museum. Chat to you tomorrow, but for now this is a very tired but very happy and relaxed emzee, signing off.

*Post about this to follow, but DH totally ACED my birthday cake and I've got the pictures to prove it. We had to enjoy it earlier than my real birthday, but suffice to say he didn't stuff up a single part of it (okay, he did. But it was *my* fault and so that does not really count.)

Lean On Me

2011-12-22T23:02:00.001+11:00

Tonight the family and I were at an event which required us all to sit on the grass and hang out for a bit - and within a few minutes of sitting down, DH had a child sitting on his lap, I was leaning towards him, I had a child laying with their head on my thigh, and child number three was sitting in my lap, leaning back on me.

The young girl sitting next to us commented to me, "Geez, you guys are a family that really like to lean on one another."

She doesn't know how right she is.

Just Back Yourself

2011-12-20T23:40:00.001+11:00

A couple of posts ago, I wrote about my amazing friend (who I have yet to come up with a blog moniker for) - and how I find her strength inspiring. She responded to me personally and said that when she tells her other friends about me she describes me as the woman "willing to back herself." Today I met another woman who - in quite possibly the most brave way I've ever heard of - also chose to 'back herself' and take charge of her life. To live the way SHE wanted to live. To seek new horizons (literally), to experience things differently, to just "back herself" in such a way as to turn her life around completely.

I think we all need to remember to do this once in a while. Just - BACK ourselves. Believe. Do something completely crazy and insane which - because you backed yourself - will lead to great things. Or maybe not, but surely it's worth trying?

In talking to this woman today (hello, woman! You too need a blog moniker)...I told her about the crazy story of how I ended up going to culinary school. The story of how I backed myself because "life, the Universe and everything" basically forced me to do so. The short version is, I had reached the point in my working life where every single day was breaking a chunk off my soul. SOMETHING had to change. The long version is this:

I'd been working in a large University for a long time. Universities are wonderful places because the benefits of being an employee are fabulous as long as you never want anything actually DONE. So you get crazy good entitlements, but your brain atrophies as you realise that another year has gone by and you have achieved SFA (shit fuck all). People in Universities are AWESOME at meetings - having them, attending them, planning them, fighting in them, planning more of them and so on - but not a damn meeting RESOLVES anything. Ever.

It's very annoying.

Anyway - I needed to stay at said job (hello, benefits, and hello, husband who kept losing jobs, and hello, toddler triplets) but I hated it. The "I hate this so much I cry almost every day" sort of hating it. So I went through a (too long to talk about) very long process to get a secondment to another area of the University, in the hopes this would keep me from the daily wanting to pull out my eyelashes and make a bonfire at my desk. I got the secondment and on the first day my new boss calls me into her office to tell me that my job was non-existent. They invented the role and the project as a way of retaining their funding from one year to the next, but the role and the project were pure works of fiction.

I left a job I hated, in the hopes of making my life more bearable - to walk into a job which did not exist.

Really.

This meant I had 9 months in which to do even less than nothing, because even I could not call meetings together for non-existant projects. I'm good at bullshitting, but I'm not THAT good. My official work instructions were to, "show up late, take long lunches, and leave early. Look busy while you're here." This is in the days before smartphones and facebook...so options for how to look busy were limited. PLUS, I would have much rather been home with my trio (at least parenting is productive) - but we really needed that money.

That same year, I applied - and got rejected from - culinary school due to there being (ironically) no funding for local students. Later that year (with my brain now in complete melt down) I got a call telling me they had last minute funding for some spots. I had 30 minutes to tell them if I wanted the spot - and I had one day and one weekend before the course started. Long story short, I took them up on the offer and then went to tell my boss that I was quitting her ghost project.

She wouldn't let me quit. They *needed* me to remain employed until the project was complete, so that they could retain their funding. If I left, the jig was up, and they were screwed, financially speaking. I tried to argue that it was ridiculous - a government funded university was going to PAY for an employee to train in another area at another school, and literally produce NOTHING in exchange. Ridiculous on SO many levels. In the end, I just threw my hands up and gave in (I suspect she would have paid me if I showed up or not). So - several days a week, I'd start the day in my corporate gear, go to "work" to piss fart around for a few hours, then at lunchtime drive to culinary school, change into chef whites, and be the person I so desperately wanted to be.

I led this insane life for a couple of months (just till the end of the 'project') and then went on to culinary school and a real chef job and so on - and life got a whole hell of a lot better.

Kitchens rarely have meetings, and when they do, it's generally fuelled by the promise of creating fabulous food, enjoying the buzz of teamwork, the adrenaline of service and, you know, actually ACHIEVING something.

So.

This is why you need to back yourself once in a while.

Because sometimes there is just no other choice.

This Morning

2011-12-20T22:54:00.002+11:00

I HULA HOOPED!!!

For longer than one rotation (actually I think I got up to about 30 seconds worth)...and while I'm no expert yet I need WAY more practice yet)...I did it. I actually hula hooped. For real.

Yiippeeee! Roll on 2012! (literally. skating is next.)

I Shall Wear Midnight*

2011-12-18T12:12:00.002+11:00

Next week I'm turning 36. This means I'm on the other side of halfway in terms of getting to forty, and I know I said I wasn't going to use that expression any more...but..damn, I'm getting up there in years. I'm none too happy about this whole getting older thing, mostly because in my mind I'm still somewhere in my 20's. It can of course be argued that my 30's are WAY better than my 20's - if for nothing else than I've done heaps more living and experiencing, and I'm slimmer, fitter, smarter and cuter now (not to mention I can do WAY cooler stuff like blog and bake like a rock star)...but, still, I'm none too thrilled about it.

I can see the benefits of ageing (namely improving one's rock star skills), but...meh. Heading on to forty just seems so....forty, you know? Of course the irony here is that I have a number of friends who are forty and beyond and who totally rock that age. You know, the ones who wear kick-ass sparkly runners, the ones who spend more money on concert tickets in a month than I spend in a lifetime, the ones running marathons, the ones who own several pairs of Docs (with lots of eyelets) and so on. So it's not like 40 is the new dead or anything...it's just that I've still got that ridiculous teenage notion that anyone above, say, 30, is pretty much ancient. It's a bullshit notion, but then I never claimed to be clever all the time, did I?

Anyway so now that I'm on 'this side' of my thirties, I'm thinking I need to do something to somehow stop the ravages of time. I've decided that on my 2012 'to do' list, I'm going to put in a bunch of ridiculous (mostly physical) things which I never achieved in my childhood or young adulthood that I'd like to learn how to do now. I've got the added bonus of being more physically able, having my back in good condition (for now...ask me again once I've done this list) and also wanting to push myself physically a bit this year (because I clearly have nothing else to fill my time).

So far my list includes learning how to:

Hula Hoop
Inline skate
Roller skate
Ice skate
Ride a scooter

I've rejected learning how to:

do a cartwheel (small matter of boobs, and inability to go upside-down)
go across monkey bars (too tall now)
ride a unicycle (yeah. no.)
wear a boob tube (I'm laughing as I type this. NOBODY over an A cup should attempt this at any time.)
Do a flip on a trampoline (no trampoline, ours died.)
Instigate a first date kiss or ask a boy out (I'm pretty sure DH might have something to say about that.)

So while I still have no word of the year (but I'm getting closer), I do have a bunch of ridiculous silly things I'd like to do to prove to myself that age is a number and NOT a state of mind or a barrier to silliness.

Suggestions welcome.

*Five bucks to anyone who can work out the reference.

A Giant Leap Forward

2011-12-12T20:44:00.003+11:00

This afternoon the mobile phone on my desk rang, scaring the living shit out of me.

Given how wedded I am to my phone (I made a 5 tier cake for the commitment ceremony), you would think this occurrence would not be all that unusual. Except, of course, it wasn't MY phone which rang, it was the BUSINESS phone which rang.

It was a MONUMENTAL moment for me. Seriously - HUGE.

I know you all still don't get what the big deal is - so allow me to explain. When the business became a business in the "now I don't do this in my home kitchen anymore" sort of way, I put my mobile phone number on all my business cards. That meant that every work-related phone call I ever got came to me personally. At odd hours, on odd days, and all the damn time - but, you know, I didn't mind so much. Calls meant business and business meant success, so it was okay. People started to assume that the business was still home based (and thus a bargain type company), and as part of my non-existant marketing strategy I decided to make the address of the company sound more official (Kitchen 4, XX Acme Street, as opposed to XX Acme Street.) Then I decided to get a 1300 number (free from any phone in Australia) rather than publish my mobile number. The 1300 number needed a 'landing' number though ...which of course was just my mobile phone because I had no other option. So although I suddenly LOOKED a bit less small time, I was pretty much still small time.

And then came the day when I was not so small time anymore. I had an honest-to-goodness shop, and facebook followers, and crazy stuff like business plans and social media strategies and....most painful but useful of all....a budget and a cash flow chart thingie-whatsit. You know, I could no longer pretend that having the money in the bank to pay the rent was just sheer good luck.

In all this time, the business number has always 'landed' at my personal number. Which means I spend my time sneaking out of movies to answer queries about cake, I half-assed watch my son play basketball because I'm answering queries about cake, and I sit on the toilet and answer queries about cake.

Yes, I really do. Get over it.

Anyway - as part of my overall plans for myself personally and the business, AND as part of that whole slowing down thing, I finally decided it was time to separate the siamese twins which are my personal phone number and my work phone number. The surgery was long and painful (bloody Dr Optus!) and it took several days of rest and recovery as I waited for it all to take effect...but this afternoon, the BUSINESS phone rang. NOT *my* phone. I even picked it up and very tentatively said, "Um, helll-ooo?" because I was convinced it was some wierd prank. Nope. She had, you guessed it, a query about cake.

I finished up talking to her and called DH to squeal to him about the success of the surgery and I asked him to call me back on the 1300 number to check it worked. He TRIED to call back several times...but the damn thing kept ringing and ringing and so I missed his calls. Too busy answering queries about cake - which is how it should be. Sheesh. He's my husband. He should know to only call me on my personal phone! ;)

Then of course I changed my personal voicemail to make it, you know, PERSONAL. I then got DH to call me again to make sure THAT worked and it really did work! Because apparently among other things, DH is a phone line and voicemail tester of the highest calibre.

This does not mean that I won't be the person resposible for answering the business phone a vast majority of the time. I will. It's just that now, if I don't WANT to take the phone into the toilet with me, I don't HAVE to. I can sit on the toilet and facebook on my personal phone instead, which I am told is exactly what freedom feels like.

Still Me

2011-12-11T21:15:00.001+11:00

I was thinking about this blog the other day - thinking about how much it has changed over the years. I seem to recall that at one point I was pretty funny. At many points I was sarcastic, some points I was earnest (oh you all need to go and bake for other people right this very second!) and at all points I was honest.

The me who has been writing this blog over the last ....2 years?....isn't the me who started it. A whole lot of things have happened since then. When I started this blog, I was still in pastry school, was morbidly obese and the trio were only toddlers. Now I'm the Boss Lady of a cake company, am living with 3 pre-teens and a dog, am minus a parent, minus some weight, and basically a whole different person (visually AND mentally. But I still have insane, will-not-sit-still hair.) In thinking about this blog, I realised that I kinda miss the blogger of old - who talked shit about Helicopter Mum, who wrote funny posts about things like Australian food, and who didn't take life nearly as serious as I have been in recent time.

I fear I have become boring.

Boring is just about the most offensive adjective one can use to describe me, so my thinking that I am boring is in and of itself something akin to a crisis.

I'm pretty sure the very essence of me has not changed - I'm still acid-tongued, still saracastic, still surprised by stupidity, still curse exactly enough, still am funny on occassion, and still think other people's kids suck. It is remarkable to me that I can be all of those things and yet still be blogging like a grown up - and all these posts of late have positively reeked with eau de grownup.

I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this. Evolution as a person and therefore as a blogger is exactly what I expected would happen...but somehow the lighter moments in this blog have disappeared as a result. I have no idea why this is. Other irritating people still inhabit the earth. My children are still as imperfect as they need to be to seem normal. My ass is still too big. In some ways not much has changed.

I have no witty ending to this post as it's really just a verbal diarrhea of my thoughts on the page...but if you are a blogger, has YOUR blog changed? For the better? Worse? Not at all? Share with me.

Yes, It Gets Worse

2011-12-11T19:59:00.000+11:00

If you are reading this without reading the post below on "How to End Your Marriage" - stop right now. You NEED to read the first part before reading this part. Trust me.

So when we last left the stupidest husband on earth, he was totally fucking over his wife's birthday party. Determined to rescue something of this event, I pressed on with the cake planning. Not surprisingly, this did not go well. He had grand ideas for all sorts of stuff ... but when I pointed out the limitations (you cannot put a 3D grand piano on top of a cupcake tower unless it's a very small piano) he got a little irriated with me. "You're not working with me, emzee!" - never mind the sheets and sheets of design options I've got there, it's just because I can't make what he wants (small matter of gravity, my friend) that he's not all that impressed. I can deal with this - part of my job is telling people what IS possible.

Yeah. That assumes clients with SOME concept of reality. We were not getting very far and believe me, I was really trying to rescue this thing. (Woman to woman, she NEEDED me to make at least one thing decent.)

Finally I say, well, you said she likes matching stuff - so maybe next week when the invite comes out, email it to me and I'll come up with some design options which coordinate. "No, I really just think we should go with what I like."

Wait. Tell me again whose party this is you are ruining?

Anyway we eventually agree (and by agree, I mean I gently force him into the one idea which is not ugly, impossible, or going to cost him thousands) on a design. Then he decides he wants a figurine of her on the cake - so I need details, right? Hard to make a figurine look like someone unless you have some idea as to their appearance.

He tells me she has brown hair, kinda wavy, and sorta long-ish.

He tells me she has no favourite clothes or colours, and spends all her days in track suit pants and moccossins so we should put her in those (remember? The baby. I forgive her, but not him. I am NOT making a figurine with track suit and moccossins. It's her birthday for cripes sake.)

He tells me that he does not care what the figurine looks like, because ANYWAY it's HER birthday and people will know it's meant to be her.

At this point, I decide this woman needs SOME shred of dignity left in her party-that-wasn't so I ask to see a picture of her for reference purposes.

I'm very glad I did that.

She's BLOND. With straight hair. And a bob which goes just to her chin.

I saw more than one photo so I know it wasn't a one-off.

I EVEN saw a photo of her holding said baby as a newborn, and let me tell you, she is as blond and straight haired as it is possible to be. She's also wearing nice clothes, has jewellery on, and basically looks like somoene who does not deserve to be married to Moron Of The Year.

*sigh*

Eventually - and at this point, I've aged rather a few years - we get to the end of the consult, and I tell him the price. It's something like $380 (or an odd number in any case.)

"Well," he says, "I like it, but I'd like it MUCH more if there was just a zero next to that 3."

"Well," I say, "I like you, but I'd like you MUCH more if you were not as dumb as two short planks, but we do not always get what we want, do we?"

(Okay. I didn't say it. I wanted to, but I didn't. I just explained that we charge what we do because we are worth it.)

He then proceeds to make the cupcake tower smaller by more than 20% because, "It's not like anyone will notice if not everyone gets one, right? I mean nobody eats cupcakes, do they? No big deal if there are like 20 people who don't have one, whatever, they'll miss out." Me, I'm thinking 20 out of 50 people not getting a bit of the only dessert...will look bad, but hey, what do I know of these things?

OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, am I *that* shit of a person that the Universe feels the need to send me clients like these?!

Oh wait. Without them, I wouldn't have two fabulously ridiculous blog posts!

Universe, bring on the stupids!

How To End Your Marriage

2011-12-10T19:38:00.001+11:00

This week I had a client whose marriage is not going to last very long. The entire story of this client actually falls into the, "If it did not happen to be I would not have believed it" category. The first part is so insane, I'm going to split this across two blog posts so I do not give anyone a heart attack.

This client came to an appointment with me to discuss his wife's surprise 30th birthday party cake. For the rest of this blog post, I'd like you to remember that he told me it's a surprise party, okay? So we sit down and I started to gather all the details about the event - number of guests, location of the party, if the cake is a stand-alone dessert, and so on. He knew the number of guests, and the date. He did not know the name or address of the venue, nor what the food would be, and he was even a little vague about the timing of it all.

The hairs on the back of my pastry chef neck are already standing on edge. How does one plan an entire surprise party but know so little about it? I mentally shrug (hey, who knows?) and carry on with the consultation.

We start talking about the design, and I ask all sorts of questions to get an idea about the sort of cake which might wow his wife - it IS a surprise after all, and he IS spending a bunch of money, so we might as well DO this thing, right? Apparently she has no hobbies, no interests, no favourite colours, food, or music but she does like everything to be very "matchy matchy." Well, I say, what does the invitation look like? Can we colour match the cake to the invite?

No, he says. She has not made the invitations yet.

Wait. WHAT?

(*mental backflips* He DID say SURPRISE party, right?)

I'm sorta thinking this is all a little...odd...but against my better judgement I carry on. It becomes clear (hell, he says as much) that she organised the entire thing. Booked the venue, picked the menu, decided on who her 50 guests would be, organised the room decoration, is making the invitations, and so on.

I can't help it. I HAVE to say something, right? So I casually say, "Sounds like it's going to be a great party but I thought you said it was a surprise? Is just the CAKE the surpise?" (Entirely within the realm of possibility, right?)

"Oh NO," says soon-to-be-divorced client, "It's a surprise PARTY." "So," I say, "If she organised it all, I don't quite understand what the surprise part is?" (as I try to maintain my you-are-a-fuckwit thoughts to myself.)

"Oh," he says..."The surprise is that I called the venue and I changed the time of the party, so instead of being at night, it's in the morning, at BREAKFAST time."

At this point, I did not even pretend. I just lifted my jaw right up off the floor.

He went on to explain, "Yeah, so she's sending out invites next week with the right location but the wrong time, and I've emailed everyone already to explain that it's a surprise breakfast, not dinner. It's great. She's booked it all and got it organised, which is why I don't know much about it."

And, Mr Stupid, how do you plan on getting her there on the morning?

"Oh, well, I'm going to tell her we need to drop something off there, like a CD or balloons or something, and when we get there, everyone will be there."

Divorce. For sure. Because I don't know this woman, but she IS female. So I'm guessing that on the day of her 30th Birthday Bash, she's planning on going to the hairdresser, has bought a damn hot outfit and heels, will get a spray tan, and in general willl spend her day preening so she feels and looks great in front of the fifty people coming to her party.

Instead she's going to walk in there, probably dressed in trackies and moccosins (more on why I know that later), looking like shit. Did I mention she has a 9 month old baby? We all know how fabulous mothers of new babies look in the morning, right?

I should offer him a 10% discount on divorce cakes, because no self respecting woman would stay with a man stupid enough to think this was a good idea.

Part Two: Yes, It Gets Worse.

The Other Side of Halfway

2011-12-08T17:56:00.001+11:00

Several times a week I go to the gym, and it's a circuit gym which means you do some cardio warm up, then two circuits of mixed cardio/weights, then some more cardio, then stretching. The two circuits are formed around a rectangular shape - meaning lots of stations along two long walls, then the shorter walls have only 1 station. In my warped mind, I think of the long walls as "half circuits" meaning that once I've done one end of one circuit, I consider myself 1/4 done. Then it's 1/2 done at the end of one full circle, then 3/4 done at the end of one circuit and a half, and so on. In my head I'm mentally working out how much further I've got to go - and it's not for the reasons you might think.

I've been a gym junkie most of my adult life, and as amazing as it might seem for a fat chick, I actually really enjoy exercising. I like that for that single hour of every day, nobody is demanding my attention. I can't hear my phone ring, I can't hear my email inbox ping, nobody wants me to do anything for them, and for that hour I think about NOTHING (except for counting circuits.) I'm not counting circuits because I hate exercise and can't wait for it to be over, I count circuits because I am totally a horizon person AND I'm the sort of person who gets a fabulous high off of achieving things. Meaning I am *always* looking forward to the next thing, or reaching the finish line, or ticking something off a list, or making another list. I'm forever looking at the sunset in front of me and almost never looking at the sunrise that was behind me.

I don't recommend this as a lifestyle choice, because it means that I never truly appreciate how far I've come, how much history there is behind things, and I'm spending so much time living in the tomorrow that I rarely if ever appreciate the journey it took to GET to right now.

Back to my gym sessions - so all the way through the first circuit, I'm thinking, "Woo hoo, I'm nearly at halfway!" and then, because I'm OCD like that, I'll count how many more stations there are until I get to halfway. Then once I've finished a whole circuit and started another one, I think to myself, "YEAH! I'm ON THE OTHER SIDE of halfway!" meaning that I am now on the downward slope to the finish line.

That expression - 'the other side of halfway' is one that I use A LOT (in my head). It applies to long drives, lists of cakes which need finishing, lists of anything at all, biscuits which need cutting out, emails which need replying to, counting sleeps waiting for something wonderful to happen, counting hours until meeting friends, whatever. I spend my entire life wanting to be on the other side of halfway, because once you are on the other side of halfway, NOTHING can stop you. You're on the downward slope to victory and that, my friends, is what it's all about for me. The horizon. The victory. The end point. FINISHING on the other side of halfway.

In short, it's not at all about the journey and ALL about the finish, and then it's about starting the next thing so you can finish that as well. Start, do, fnish, repeat.

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend I've not seen in a really long time. She is, by all accounts, one of the most wonderful people I have ever had the good fortune to be friends with. The thing about her is, she is living an ordinary life - in a totally EXTRAordinary way. She has faith, she has wisdom, she has knowledge, she has belief, she has temperance and she has patience. Like every other person, I am sure she has her moments when all of those traits abandon her entirely, but on the whole I've never meet anyone as centred as she is. I left that lunch feeling very thoughtful about the things she had to say and the experiences she shared with me. I truly believe that encounter will have a ripple effect on the rest of my life...and not surprisingly, it already has.

One of the comments she made was, "None of us truly understand how we are just mere moments away from random tragedy," to which I replied, "Yes, but we are also mere moments away from random joy," - because I am if nothing else an optimist. She agreed with me and told me that other people don't really understand just how MUCH joy she derives from a really lovely cup of tea, the sound of a kookaburra outside her window, finding the right fabric for a project, and so on.

Here is someone whose life has given her many challenges - and yet she still finds the time, and the mind space within, to do nothing but truly enjoy the little things. I'm guessing she has never used the expression "other side of halfway" because to her, it's now which is important. She has experienced how life can change unexpectedly and in a split second - and those experiences make her truly appreciate all she has and all she has done until now.

You all know that I have been struggling with this idea of not racing forward, not running constantly, and just BEING - I've been blogging about it rather a lot lately. Many of my friends (and now the neuro guy too) have been giving me the "slow down" message...and I've listened, but I'll be honest in saying I've not done a damn thing about it. I'd be lying if I said having lunch with my friend suddenly made me realise what I need to do in order to lead this calmer, slower life...but it is the absolute truth to say I believe that conversation was a turning point for me. So much of what she had to say -even in just the telling of her life stories - made me sit up and think...and think...and think.

This morning I went to the gym as per usual. I decided before I got there that I wasn't going to count the circuits, and I wasn't going to count the stations either - I'd just go along and let my mind wander as I made my way through the workout. I did catch myself doing it once or twice (Rome wasn't built in a day, blah blah)...but for the most part I took my own advice and just exercised. Nothing else.

I ended up staying at the gym 15 minutes longer than usual, worked far harder than usual, and then spent a couple of minutes in the car just feeling sweaty and rather pleased with myself. Not for a moment did I think about the day ahead, that I was probably now running late, or that there were calls to return and emails to write.

It's not much, it's really not. But it's a start...and the other side of halfway for this skill is probably a VERY long way off in the distance somewhere. I would tell you HOW far, but I don't know since right now all I am doing is looking at my feet and the road only one or two steps ahead. I've spent long enough looking at the horizon. Time to experience a different view.

Nerds on Vacation

2011-12-06T21:31:00.001+11:00

Way back in March I planted the seed in my family's head that we all needed to go on some sort of Australian driving adventure. At the time I assumed it would be some sort of epic trip - miles and miles and miles of dry desert wasteland passing by the windows as we all slowly went insane inside the car. As I mention in that post, while I was initially keen on the idea I very quickly decided the idea was truly bonkers and I secretly hoped they all might forget about it and instead surprise me with 7 nights at a luxury resort in Thailand.

But then I do suffer from foot-in-mouth disease, don't I?

When DH said he could take 2 weeks off of work this summer, I stupidly piped up with, "Oooh, maybe we should resurrect the road trip idea!" Moron. Why do I not read and remember these blog posts? Anyway as you can imagine DH took to this idea like white on rice, and in the past few weeks he has bombarded me with spreadsheets. Spreadsheets which track our costs, the dates we are going to be places, the various activities we might or might not do in our various stops, and so on. This holiday has been sponsored by Excel. (Actually. No. By Open Office Calc. We're an open source/Linux kind of family.)

Adventure travellers? Yes. Happy to play things by ear? Yes. Willing to push boundaries, get our of comfort zones, etc etc? Also yes. Big fat nerds who plan vacations via spreadsheets? OH HELL YES.

So this is how I find myself spending two weeks driving all the way through the states of Victoria and New South Wales over the Christmas period. Documented purpose of the trip? To see the Harry Potter Exhibition at the Powerhouse Museum in Sydney.

Did I mention we are an entire family of nerd travellers?

Did I mention the spreadsheet has stuff like Questacon, the Jenolan Caves, the Mint, Parliament House, and myriad other nerd-centric activities on it?

I have of course already planned the trip to Costco to stock up on various dry goods (and the world's largest bag of gummy snakes, which are necessary for long car rides). I've got my own spreadsheet for packing purposes. I've thought about which books on CD I want to get from the library, I've already worked out how to tether my mobile phone and laptop so I can literally blog from the open road, and I've also worked out the best way to recharge my phone batteries. I've even downloaded some travel and map apps. Oh, and I've also purchased the "I wish I did not need it but my sanity needs to not end up in tatters" emergency double screen, double headset portable DVD player and worked out how I'm going to connect a third headset to it (USB port.) Plus we've worked out what public transport in Sydney is going to cost, how long it will take to get from our flat to the Manly Ferry...you get the idea. The only thing I have yet to work out is how to afford this crazy idea - not so much food and lodging but all the fun stuff we want to do (it's almost $1000 for all of us to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge, but it's on my "MUST DO" list...so...Universe, work this one out for me please!).

In short, the emzee family are headed off on the road trip of a ...lifetime? Maybe not, but certainly we plan on making memories, which is the entire point of this exercise (that and the whole Harry Potter thing.) That the kids will fight, that I will crack it once in a while, that we will likely consume too many calories, spend too much money, and in general go a little mental on this trip? All likely. That we'll eat a lot of lolly snakes, laugh a lot, take loads of pictures, and finally, FINALLY get to spend some time as a family, away from the madness of our jobs, our home, school and our daily chaos? ABSOLUTELY. How do I know this? It's on line D45 of the Holiday Activities Spreadhseet.

This Won't Hurt A Bit

2011-12-01T20:05:00.001+11:00

I have a particularly thin skin, so when people say, "Don't take it personally," I cringe. To me, it's ALL personal, and it's never so true as it is in my business dealings (which ironically is where it should be the LEAST true.)

This week I called a client to chase up a late return on a cake stand - and in exchange got an earful of criticism.

Long story short - we made her a (really lovely) cupcake tower and top cake - which she specifically asked to be made in pastels and not bright colours. I even underlined 'pastel' on the order form twice, because our inherent style is much more skewer towards 'brighter is better.' At first her complaint was that the colours were not bright enough in the dark restaurant, "I said I did not want baby colours!" Then it was that the cake itself, while it tasted lovely and everyone loved it, was "boring." While I was on the phone with her, I took out the order form just to check - nope, we'd had done everything according to her instructions, down to what colours needed to be what shades and what it looked like.

Apparently the day went off without a hitch and "everything was perfect except for the cake", which she was "really disappointed in." We all thought it was lovely enough that we took more than the usual amount of photos of it, and commented quite a bit about how sweet and girly it looked...but she wasn't happy, and my job is to make her happy. So I sympathised and thanked her for her feedback. ALL feedback is useful to me so I was sincere in my appreciation.

She was not happy with my reaction, so decided to up her aggravation to ME. Personally. So all of a sudden I was "extremely rude" to her at the consultation, I walked back into the kitchen right in the middle of our consult, I didn't give her enough time to make her decision, I pressured her into making colour choices, I didn't ask for enough reference material on the colour she wanted, I had something against her because she brought a child with her. She thought if she owned a business, she would want to know if she was being rude to people so felt the need to tell me about it (and so on and so forth.)

Ultimately it doesn't matter that her comments are untrue - and I could spend this blog telling you all how I give my clients WAY MORE time than most cake makers do, that I watched her kid destroy my shop (and gave him a lollipop, and invited him to our kids' play area and so on). Blah blah, she was unhappy, for whatever reasons, most of which I am sure have nothing at all to do with me or her cake and cupcakes.

I could handle her hating her cake. I could not handle her telling me off for giving her good service, because I know in my very heart of hearts that the entire CRUX of my business is the service. My employees have been known to shake their heads and say, "Whoah, you gave that lady WAY more time than I would have, and you are WAY nicer than I would have been," and clients often comment about how I (and my employees) go ABOVE AND BEYOND where we need to in order to secure their happiness. So the comments about the service I gave her - those hurt like hell, because I knew they were undeserved and yet it made me miserable to think I had an unhappy client. I was grumpy about it for an entire day and a half.

It's utter BULLSHIT that I let her take control over that much time in my already full life.

It makes me think about how often we forget the good stuff and dwell on the crap stuff. I have kajillions of happy clients, but it's the ONE who is unhappy which sticks RIGHT in my craw. I've lost a billion kilos (at least) but it's the two I've gained in the last 6 weeks which irritate the shit out of me. My kids are all around awesome, but it's their one moment of losing it in public which makes me feel like a shit parent. I give as much as I can to friends but it's the one time I can't help them immediately which makes me believe I'm a shit friend. You get the idea. What a terrible character flaw us humans have, to dismiss lots and lots of positive achievements and attributes when faced with only a SINGLE painful comment or experience. We are so wrapped up in that single negative moment that all the positive ones before it pale into non-existance.

I've got to see that client again tomorrow, when she comes to return the stand. I'll smile and be polite and will sincerely think to myself, "I really hope that the WORST problem you ever have to face as a parent is that the pink in your christening cupcakes wasn't pink enough for you," and then I'll think, "Stupid bitch!"...and I'll feel better, and go back to making squillions of people happy. Because although the next client who is unhappy will also make comments which will hurt, all of it is lessons learned and a skin which will grow ever thicker, so that eventually, I'll be able to take on criticism and it won't hurt quite so much.

NaBloPoMo is No Mo'

2011-11-30T22:40:00.001+11:00

Today is the last day of NaBloPoMo, and again I find myself feeling enormously pleased with myself for having made it through the month without too many "cheater posts" (a cheater post being one where I said nothing interesting, or just posted a link or whatever). And as per the last several years I've done this, I finish with the intention of continuing on because I like the intellectual pressure of having to come up with something to say on a daily basis, I like the therapeutic nature of blogging, and frankly I find it all just a bit of fun (and an ego stroke that there are people who give a shit about what I have to say.) Each year I promise myself that this year, I'll keep blogging daily. This year, I'll set myself a 365 posts challenge. This year, I'll bring back the weekly activities I used to have (namely baking recipes you are meant to go and share with other people.) This year, I'll be a better blogger. This year, I'll edit every post (for grammar, spelling AND content) before hitting the publish button.

I'm not going to say ANY of that this year - because the year is about progress, and I've learned that sometimes progress is knowing when to say no, or knowing when to just say, "What I'm doing is good enough for now," or just plain old, "Fuck it." So in the spirit of progress, this year I'm going to say I'd *like* to blog a bit more often (and to a higher quality), but if I don't always get to it...well, that's okay too. I did not start this blog with the intention of being on the scale of the Mommy Bloggers who quit their day jobs to write full time. I never thought I'd have any readers beyond my husband and my in-laws, never thought I would use this as anything other than a chronicle of life as a wife, mother, lover of all things sugary and baked, and person for whom sarcasm is a way of life. Of course, it's been ALL of that - and far, far more - but there is some itty bitty teeny tiny part of me that wishes it was all that and then all that PLUS all that and then all that again. The only way to achieve ALL THAT would be to blog more often - because writing is a skill like any other, and it requires practice and perseverance in order to improve at it.

Not surprisingly, being insanely competitive with oneself does not only apply to exercise or business or weight loss. Like everything else in my life, blogging is something I expect to excel at - actually, I work DAMN HARD at excelling at. Good enough...isn't good enough. Ever.

However.

As I mentioned earlier, in the new year (word yet to be determined, although some of the suggestions have got my brain ticking over) I'd really like to be more about what I AM doing rather than the endless beating myself up over the "coulda shoulda woulda wanta needta. RIGHT NOW." So - let me leave you with only this promise: I'll do my best to write more often, and continue to be mostly witty and soul-baringly honest. Sometimes, I'll be boring. Sometimes there will be long gaps between posts. Sometimes I will fail and sometimes I will succeed ...but always I will be grateful to the 6 of you who keep reading, and I'll keep on writing for the six of you and the one of me because we all seem to enjoy it.

And that, as they say, is that.

Those Crazy Kids

2011-11-29T19:03:00.000+11:00

I found out about a project which pairs up local businesses with students doing their degrees in IT at about the same time I needed some IT work done. The basic idea is that the kids involved get some real life experience, and the business gets an inexpensive (eg free other than time) product which hopefully they can get some use out of. They are very careful at the start of the partnership to let you know that NOTHING may come of it at all, that these are after all students, and that it's not a matter of getting free labour as much as it is a potentially beneficial activity. There are no guarantees that you'll end up with anything at all but of course the hope is that you will.

On Monday morning I went to my group's final presentation of the system they designed for the business. They designed a cloud based customer database (or if we're fancy, CRM system- Customer Relationship Management system), which among other things can keep track of our clients and their orders and payments, produce a bunch of reports, auto-send a bunch of reminder emails (to various templates), generate invoices, track income, and a bunch of other pretty cool features. The final presentation was just fabulous - my band of merry nerds had gotten all dressed up (as had I), they gave a really great presentation and everyone was suitably impressed with them. So they should be, those kids worked incredibly hard and produced a great piece of work which I believe I'll be able to get a lot of use out of. It's not entirely done - it's about 90% there - but I've hired these same kids to finish the job for me, so I will get it working for us probably by the end of the year.

So here's the thing I found most amazing - literally every time I had a meeting with these kids and their supervisors, and today at the presentation, a bunch of people THANKED ME for being an outstanding client. It actually got kinda embarrassing there for a few minutes with all the gushing and photo taking and carrying on. Literally, the kids themselves, their teachers, a bunch of local Council representatives, and other academics kept telling me what an amazing client I am, how seriously I took it all, how much the kids appreciated my professionalism, and so on. So either I'm really that fabulous, or they've had pretty bad client experiences before, or maybe both of those...but the part which really bothers me is, SURELY these kids *deserved* to be treated with kindness, respect and professionalism. OF COURSE they did. OF COURSE. That anyone - and anyone in small business - would think or behave otherwise is just, to me, appalling.

From the minute I started this project, I basically treated it no differently to any other business relationship where I need a product or service and another company is providing it to me. That I was dealing with a group of pizza-eating, Coke-swilling, messy jeans and t-shirt wearing young men made NO difference to me at all. For their part, my group was professional, organised, pleasant ...and unless I knew I was dealing with 19 year olds, I'd have assumed I was dealing with adults working for a normal, professional consulting firm. In a word, they were totally awesome and worked damn hard for me (added bonus, they practically orgasmed every time I walked into a meeting with a box of cupcakes for them.)

That they needed to thank me so much for simply behaving like a grown up...well, that just proves that maturity clearly is not related to age or experience.

That Dance Show

2011-11-28T18:28:00.001+11:00

This past weekend was DD2's dance recital. I'd like to carry on about how horribly cruel it is to make parents sit through 3.5 hours of dancing, but The Neighbour's Wife took care of that one for me. Instead I'm going to ask the question: Is the 3.5 hours about what the kids want, or what the parents demand?

My daughter was in 8 different dance pieces - and there were *46* pieces all up in this one concert. Yes, she does 3 sorts of dance (ballet, jazz, tap)...but I've got to be honest with you, I would have been quite happy to have seen her in only 3 pieces and that's it. DD2 told me that some girls were in as many as 13 dances. Let's digest that for a second here - we're asking a 10 year old kid to perform in THIRTEEN dance pieces. Ridiculous! Who is it that wants to see so many, and who is it that is demanding so many in the first place? I adore my DD and I'm proud of her achievements, but for me her dancing is much more about fitness, confidence and fun than it is about some overblown performance at the end of the year. I simply don't understand the logic behind this - which again makes me ask, is this about the KID or is this about the PARENT? My own kid, who feels that dancing is a vital part of her very survival, was herself pretty stressed out about all those costume changes and how much she had to remember. She too was asking why she needed to do SO many of them, and unfortunately I had no (reasonable, without curse words) answer for her.

I imagine the owner of the dance school feels the pressure to give parents what they pay for, and at something like $1500 a year (I'm including shoes, etc in that), and ferrying your kid to class twice a week for weeks on end...you're going to want to have something to show for it. I understand that. I also understand that the owner is trying to keep stage mothers happy by showing off Little Ballerina A LOT...but 3.5 hours of ANYTHING involving children is just ridiculous. Yes, I want my child to perform, but NO I don't need it to be the dance equivalent of War & Peace.

At the end of the performance, the owner gave out some awards - and by some, I mean TOO DAMN MANY. Literally I think it was 40 of them (out of about 100 kids. You do the math,) and a bunch of them were for 'encouragement' and (my personal fave) 'enthusiasm.' I understand she wants to honour these kids and their achievements...but I'm not sure how honourable it is to say that, "this award is being given to the child who has not only been blessed with a dancer's body, but also has the enthusiasm and potential to go really far in her dance career." Fabulous, I think girls don't get enough negative body images, let's now give AWARDS for it as well. I also do not understand how valuable it is for either the parent or the child to realise that they're exactly as enthusiastic as the 30 other kids who got the same award. Aren't awards meant to be about exceptional achievement? How exceptional is it to be enthusiastic about doing something you really like anyway? She also managed to say pretty much the exact same spiel for each kid...so again, exactly WHAT is so special about these awards that so many of them were necessary?

If you're wondering if I am bitter about DD2 not winning anything, let me assure you I could give a shit if she won, just so long as she is getting the fitness, confidence, and fun which is all I ever really wanted for her in the first place.* Much more importantly, SHE could give a shit (actually, she said she was kinda glad she did not win, since winners have to do a solo and she doesn't want "yet another dance to remember!"). I don't understand the need to make these children perform so many pieces (for whose benefit?) and I don't understand why we need to give a 3 year old an enthusiasm award (again? for whose benefit?).

My Mom made an interesting observation- that the owner gave out the jillion awards and then immediately reminded everyone that 2012 re-enrolment forms are due. What parent still in post-award glow would deny their kid re-enrolment? I'm not nearly as cynical as she is...but she's got a point, doesn't she? When your kid runs up to you clutching their plastic gold statuette says and eyes all shining says, "Oh please Mum, can I come again? Can I? Can I? Can I?" I'll bet that re-enrolment form gets burned from the speed of the pen filling it out.

For what it's worth, I'll keep on keeping on - meaning as long as DD2 is happy dancing, I'm happy supporting her. I've just come to realise that dance concerts are a little like childbirth, in the months between giving birth and getting pregnant, we somehow forget the pain and suffering bit.

It's That Time of Year

2011-11-27T18:49:00.001+11:00

Last year I crapped on (sorry, 'waxed lyrical') about choosing my Word of the Year. I ended up choosing the word - progress - and swear on a stack of cupcakes, I actually USED my word of the year all year long. There were several weeks when I forgot about it entirely, but there were several weeks when I used it every day (mostly to motivate my ass to the gym or for a morning shufflin' session). Seeing as how I am - or more accurately, have become less of - a sceptic about all things woo-woo and "Universe" and "affirmation," it wasn't so easy to come to the WOTY party. But, I believe that when you play at someone else's house, you play by their rules so I ended up embracing this whole woo-woo Universe affirmation word thing really well (because over achievement does not only apply to tangible things). You know, it's been a pretty amazing, progress-fuelled sort of year for me and mine. A year ago, DH was not (yet) working, the whole lease on the shop thing had blown up in my face, my kids were utter pains in the proverbial, we were in hock about a squillion dollars, and everything was just...shitty.

This year, the year of progress - DH is working (and volunteering, and getting fitter, and looking hotter than ever before, which is pretty fantastic for a nerdy bespectacled love-handled engineer), the kids have loved their new school, the shop and the business have come along in leaps and bounds, and while we are still in hock a squillion dollars, on the whole me and my family are much happier, content people. We have ALL made an enormous amount of progress this year. I'm in no way saying that all this has come about just because I chose to make my focus "progress," I'm simply saying that the combined forces of intent, hard work, determination, perseverance, the restorative powers of sugar and doonah-therapy and the support and love of an entire crowd of people has made this one of the best years my family has ever had.

The coming year is STILL going to be about progress, as all the foundations laid this year will continue to reap further reward and benefit - but I need new word to reflect what I've got planned for the coming year. My plans for 2012 include (but in no way are limited to), a reasonable amount of travel for purely adventure purposes, some increased demands on my own fitness goals (I'm SO going to give that Zumba thing a try, and I'd like to learn to roller skate), increased success for the business which enables me to continue along my 5 year business plan, some goals for DH and I as a couple (just between you and me, I'd like to hang out with him NOT while in front of Top Gear or Dr Who), and some other things involving the children, our home, and some other bits-and-pieces stuff. With all that I intent to do, but being mindful of the words of the neuro guy (and all the friends who seem to agree with his advice), my word of the year needs to be something which reflects my desire to continue to move forward but perhaps not at such breakneck speed.

I'm struggling with this - is there any sort of word which means 'kick life's ass' and 'slow the fuck down' all in the one word?

I'm thinking maybe "gratification" - because one of my problems is that I FORGET to just stop and ENJOY all the things I work so hard for, but then that seems a little...selfish? Self satisfying? I've rejected: Gratitude (because I practice that every day anyway), Achievement (well, duh...), Serenity (too boring), Measured (again, boring!)...and a couple others but so far nothing is fitting right.

Suggestions welcome - and feel free to share if you 2011 word worked for you, and if you've thought about one for 2012. Come and join me on the woo-woo band wagon. It's fun here.

Slowing Down

2011-11-26T14:14:00.001+11:00

Stuff I did today, in no particular order:

Apply stage make up to DD2 for her ballet concert,
Watch DS play basketball (who knew my kid could hustle so well down that court?),
Clean up yet another flood at the shop, this time somewhere totally different to the other two floods I cleaned up this week,
Drove well over a hundred kilometres,
Made lunch for my family,
Apply DD2's stage make up again (for concert two),
Answered work emails,
Answered work calls,
Will sort out some sort of dinner for all and sundry (but I probably won't cook it),
Put on three loads of laundry,
Did several bits of washing up and putting away,
Sorted out some mail,
Delivered 4 orders,
Folded two loads of laundry,
...and probably some other stuff I have yet to do (it's only 2:30pm as I write this.)

Somehow I think this whole "slowing down" thing might be just *wee* bit harder to do than I thought.

This Time

2011-11-25T23:23:00.001+11:00

My words escape me only because I've had a really fabulous, happy day but one which left me no time for blogging. Rest assured my words will come back tomorrow, but in the meantime I leave you with my favourite kids' joke:

Two muffins are baking in an oven. One muffin says to the other, 'Geez, getting kinda hot in here, isn't it?" The second muffin screams, "ARGH! A talking muffin!"

Slow The Fuck Down, Would You?

2011-11-24T18:36:00.001+11:00

My life runs at double speed. Heck, sometimes triple speed - I always seem to be on the go, I have a million (at least!) things which need my attention, I've always got the phone ringing and the email pinging, and basically my life is completely insane. I love it (most of the time) - because I like being busy and needed, and I like having things to do and people to see and all that. The old adage of, "if you want something done, ask a busy person," totally applies to me. I fill as much stuff into my life as I can because I enjoy living each day to it's fullest, and lots of things are important to me. So I make the time for the gym, for work, for friends, for STUFF.

It sounds a little nuts, but I live my life as though my time will run out, as though I am in a race against a hourglass filled with sand. I not only LIKE to live my life as busy as I can, I also feel I NEED to. For reasons I can't exactly explain, I just feel like I need to GO GO GO all the damn time. If I don't succeed NOW, if I don't pay back the business debt NOW, if I don't do everything NOW....well, I don't even want to think about the consequences of that. Will anything happen if I don't achieve, do, be, go, have all those things right this very second? Probably not, but I don't plan on finding out, either.

Sometimes, living your life at maniacal pace gets (a lot) exhausting, and sometimes that exhaustion manifests itself in funny ways. For the last several months, I've been struggling with my words - I trip over them, mis-spell them, forget whole phrases, and in general feel as though the words in my brain do not match those which come out of my mouth. It's very disconcerting because I am such a word-oriented person. I read - no, I DEVOUR - several books a week. I read and write blogs, talk a lot, handwrite notes, and so on. I just adore words...so to be losing them is horrifying to me. Strangely, NONE of my family or friends have noticed this peculiar thing happening. It finally got irritating enough that I went to the GP, who although she felt it was just stress-induced, sent me along for a neuro consult anyway.

Today was the consult - and although things seem to have settled down a bit, I thought it was worth going along anyway. The doctor and I had a good long chat, and he did a whole bunch of tests, both physical and cognitive, and we had another long chat about what is going on. The good news is, there is not a damn thing wrong with me. There is no mysterious organic brain disease, I'm not suffering early dementia, no signs of anything at all untoward. He did take all of it very seriously, but smiled when he said most patients who present with brain troubles generally do NOT engage in witty banter between the testing questions, nor do they stop to tell him why the questions are flawed in the first place and suggest ways to make them better. He was particularly amused with my answers to one of the questions - which was - in 60 seconds, name as many words as you can which start with the letter 'p.' Apparently most people do not come out with words like 'polycystic' 'perpendicular' 'positively' 'prehensile' and so on - but being the professional that he is, he carried on with ALL the testing even though it became pretty obvious there was nothing wrong with me.(...and for the animals one...apparently 'tree frog' 'rhinoceros' 'wallaby' 'seahorse' and 'sulphur crested cockatoo' are not common answers either. Go figure.)

We got to the end of the consult and he looked me in the eye and said, "Okay, well, I think we've established there are no brain issues here, but there is no doubt that you are being driven a little crazy by what is happening with your words. So here's my suggestion: SLOW YOUR LIFE DOWN."

"That's it?"

"Yes. That's it. MAKE the time to have quiet time every single day. Learn to meditate if you need to, listen to relaxing music, swing in a hammock, whatever it takes to make you just STOP for an hour a day and just learn to BE."

"You make it sound simpler than it is."

"Actually, it IS simple. The human brain is only capable of making ONE decision at a time, no matter how much the current social norms would have you believe we are capable of more than that. It's yes or no, on or off, but it's only ever ONE of those at any given time. Remember that - you are only capable of making ONE decision at a time. ONE. I never, ever want to see you in my office again, so I'll say this again so you cannot ignore me: SLOW YOUR LIFE DOWN."

*sigh*

Bad News: I probably need to actually take his advice.
Good News: I'm the only patient he has ever had who managed to get more points on the damn test than it was actually worth.

Totally Shit Day

2011-11-23T20:21:00.001+11:00

I had an extremely crappy day today - filled with lots of sad and yucky things like funerals, floods, migraine headaches, broken equipment, late deliveries, and a bunch of other crap. So I am not much in the mood for blogging today - and I'm sure you'll forgive me, won't you - but I did want to say this:

Everything today was kinda shitty. But I'm still counting my blessings, and I'm still grateful for so many things...that tomorrow, when I wake up, I just know things will be okay. And even if some of them are not...well, it's what keeps life interesting, isn't it?

Best Gift Ever (from DH)

2011-11-22T17:34:00.000+11:00

I feel the need to rescue my poor DH's gift reputation by telling you all about the best gift he's given me - in terms of actual tangible gifts. The intangible ones are too numerous to blog about. (Awwww....)

I can't remember if I've blogged about this before, so forgive me if you've heard this story already.

Since I was old enough to do so, I've worn a gold chain around my neck. At various times it's had various things on it - but it always has a gold letter "M' which my Mom gave me, a small diamond and sapphire charm my Dad gave me, half of a 'best friend' heart my sister gave me (she has the other half), and at the moment there is a small opal DH gave me for my birthday several years ago, plus the item I'm going to tell you about in a minute. When I was pregnant, I hung my wedding rings on it because my fingers were so swollen, at times it's had charms from friends, and so on...it's a terribly useful piece of jewellery. I very rarely take this necklace off, and it's extremely important to me because it hangs right above my heart. I love that the people I love are symbolically close to my heart and so this chain pretty much is as much a part of me as my hair or my skin or anything else. Anybody who knows me in real life knows how much a part of me this necklace is.

The day the children were born, I lay in that hospital bed (feeling rather blech indeed) and DH handed me a tiny jewellery box. Inside of it was a small gold medal - basically a round disk. On one side it had engraved the words, "Citius, Altius, Fortius" and on the other, "17 May 2001."

Not surprisingly, I burst into tears, put it on my chain and it has not come off since.

Here's the backstory. DH and I went through the lovely process of IVF to have our children. It was not the most pleasant experience (although compared to some, really not too bad either.) I struggled with the whole experience emotionally - I felt like a failure, resented that we needed it at all, and so on. Believing that knowledge is power, I attacked this experience like a project which needed me to whip it into shape. I researched, I read, I took notes, I asked questions, I demanded answers, I challenged the status quo on almost everything, I made phone calls, joined online forums and so on. In short, I was the biggest pain in the arse patient my doctor(s) had ever encountered. I advocated not only for me and DH but also for the children we were yet to have, and I was determined as anything to be successful at this (but I did have a "no more treatment" cut off point in mind.) DH and I went through the main part of our treatment right in the middle of the Sydney Olympics, and pretty much that is all that was on TV, radio, news, etc. Olympic fever had taken over Australia in a big way. On one of my darker days, DH told me I needed to treat this experience like the Olympics - meaning that like an athlete, it may take us years and years and years of dedication, preparation, special treatments, etc...but in the end, making it to the Olympics (getting pregnant) and then maybe even winning (bringing home a child) would make the long haul to get there totally worth it.

The Olympic motto is "Citius, Altius, Fortius" - or "Faster, Higher, Stronger" and so we adopted this as our mantra. I'd whisper it to myself every time I had an injection, suck down a pill, or sniff something (nobody tells you about those nasty nasal sprays.) I'd repeat it in my head while going through yet another embarrassing and demoralising internal examination. I'd scribble it down while writing down the notes from the (endless) lectures we got from doctors. DH would squeeze my hand and whisper it in my ear when he saw I was going to (yet again) burst into tears. Basically I lived and breathed that expression and I hung onto it like a lifeline because if I just believed in it and stayed the course, we'd get through it, surely. Giving up was not an option for me. I'm no athlete but in this case, I was as prepared and organised for that race as any of them are.

Once we got pregnant, I hung onto the mantra still. Every time I had a pre-natal check up - because triplets are high risk, and we still needed all that strength to make it through the pregnancy we both wanted so much. We really NEEDED those kids to be faster, higher, and stronger than most triplets are - because more often than not, higher order multiples are born prematurely, need hospital stays, and are in general in need of more care than your average baby. So I swallowed enormous amounts of vitamins, drank oceans of water, litres of milk for calcium, ingested as many calories (of the good variety!) I could possibly, and basically again treated this pregnancy like I was in training for an Olympic event. These babies were going to come out happy and healthy and well because I was going to work damn hard to make it so.

On May 17, 2001 - the most amazing miracle babies were born. All of them a very healthy weight for triplets, none of them needing very much special care, all of them then meeting their developmental milestones either on time or even a scrap early. By the time they were 6 months old all three of them had not only grown enough to be on those stupid baby growth charts, but were the right size or a bit over what would be expected for full term singleton children. In short, all that preparation was well worth it.

The best tangible gift I ever got from the love of my life was the gold medal he gave me on the day our children were brought into this world. It's a gold medal we both earned, but I get to wear above my heart every single day to remind me that together, we can do anything - and that almost everything in life worth doing takes patience, time, and perseverance. The gift of the gold medal was in fact about much, much more than just a piece of gold.

The Art of Giving

2011-11-21T17:09:00.000+11:00

Thanks to Marie's lovely comment, I thought I'd write about me as a gift giver...because it can't always be about receiving, nor should it be.

I'm not a huge gift giver - meaning that more often than not I totally forget about needing to give gifts at all. Not that I'm selfish or inconsiderate, more that I'm a social retard who never seems to know who is meant to get gifts and when. Luckily I am friends with The Neighbour's Wife, who not only reminds me of gift-appropriate events but also shops for me! I actually am a far more prolific gift giver when it's NOT an event - so I'll see a cute card and send it to a friend for no reason, will cut articles out of newspapers that I think are of interest and will send them on, will go out to dinner with a friend and offer to pay just for the heck of it. Or I'll be out and about somewhere and will find something - a book, some foodstuff, whatever - which will remind me of someone I love and I'll give it to them for no reason at all. I'll send flowers, send cupcakes, write "I'm thinking about you" emails and texts. I'm far more about the smaller, more often gifts than I am about the big showy once-a-year gift. I want my friends to know I am thinking of them and love them even when it's NOT their birthday. Many times the gift I give is just one of time and love - so I'll give a friend biz advice if she asks, will take time out of my chaotic life to have a chat to a friend on the phone, will put 500% more effort into a cake they've ordered from me, will go for early morning walks (on a Sunday) and so on. Sometimes it's not really the gift of 'stuff,' it's just the gift of time and love which is important. In many ways my friends are my family, and I want to honour that by being a gift giver when no gift is really necessary.

That being said, when I *do* remember the big gift events, and I do take the time to think about it - I LOVE giving gifts and especially those which the recipient does not expect, and one which is totally tailored to them in every way I possibly can. Perfect example of this was our recent wedding anniversary - DH and I are anniversary nerds and so therefore follow the "first year is paper, second is wood" etc Hallmark rules. We do have a "creative interpretation" rule, though - so for 'tin' he got a 30-can box of Pepsi Max. Why? Because he is totally addicted to that stuff, in Australia cans are known as "tinnies" and they're made out of aluminium, which is the closest I could get to actual tin. For 'paper' he got a paper bark tree and a note about how we, like the tree, would weather many storms and still be standing. You get the idea. (Although god help me next year, which is crystal.)

This year was ivory - and since I'm not into harming elephants, I had to get creative. You can actually buy mammoth ivory (which is okay, environmentally speaking) but again, I wasn't all too happy with that option. So DH got an enormous (and I mean huge), sculpture of an elephant (wearing shoes) which was made out of white chocolate.

Let me dissect this gift for you. First, white chocolate is not white, it's ivory in colour. Second, elephants produce ivory. Third, for a very long time now we've had an inside joke about elephant shoes. If you see someone across a crowded room and mouth the words 'elephant shoes' to them, it looks as though you are saying....wait a sec. Go find a mirror and try it. You'll see why it's our inside joke. :) Lastly, my DH's favourite treat is white chocolate, and this was the expensive European couveture sort so I was being especially nice. So this gift was appropriate on a number of different yet very personal levels. Exactly the sort of gift I love to give.

If I'm going to get a gift for someone, it's going to be the end all and be all of gifts - not just the gift voucher you picked up at the department store (although they too have their place). I've given friends all sorts of crazy things - because to me, putting in the effort and love to make it truly personal is SO much more important than what you spent on it, or when they gave it to you. I absolutely ADORE giving someone something which they are not expecting, which comes at a time when they are not expecting, and which really and truly says, "I've been thinking about you, and you are a part of my heart."

As for gifts I've received which meant an enormous amount to me...well, there have been a lot of those. The earrings which belonged to my Mom, the ones I'd always admired - the ones which even now when I put them on I suddenly feel extremely grown up. The beautiful vase a friend brought into the shop right after I opened it - she knew it would look perfect, it was one of her own special collection and yet she chose to pass it onto me. The flowers my SIL brought me, also when I opened the shop. The paintings a friend gave DH and I for our wedding. The various people who have contributed small charms to the gold necklace I wear every day of my life. The personal time Biz Guy makes for me even though he is not one for friendships. The funny parcels which appear on my doorstep from The Good Doctor - parcels which he sends at random times with his family members so they look as though they have appeared out of thin air. The stuff my sister sends - the drawings her children have done, the pictures she has taken of them, the picture frames which she sends for me to put those pictures in. You get the idea. I suppose for me the giving of the small stuff is wonderful, and the things I get which I love are those which are sent with love.

Ultimately, gifts are wonderful to give and receive - we all like getting stuff, right? For me it's remembering that not all gifts are given wrapped with a bow that is the most important of all.

Nostradamus

2011-11-20T00:29:00.000+11:00

This week I received a package of new business stickers from my graphic designer. In the package was the stickers, a really nice note from her...and a laminated card with a photo of some creepy old guy on one side. The other side had this circle thing with a bunch of other circles inside of it, with numbers and the star signs and symbols and other stuff on it.

I have NO IDEA why that was in there. No idea who the creepy guy was either, so I asked my resident Catholics (just in case it was some bishop? Deacon? Religious dude not of my flavour?) on there. One person looked at it and said, "Yeah, no freakin' idea who that dude is," and the second person said, "I'm pretty sure that's Nostradamus and some sort of calendar on the back."

Now I'm not terribly religious, nor superstitious...but why on earth was there a laminated creepy old guy in amongst my stickers?

I should totally have emailed the graphic designer to ask, but exactly how does one say that delicately?! Ummm, excuse me but I think you may have misplaced some quasi-religious dude inside of my label bag?

Anyway I stuck Nostradamus (or the artist formerly known as him, since we did not have a positive ID on this guy yet) on the shelf and tried to forget about him. I couldn't forget, of course...those damn eyes kept following me around the room. He really creeped me out! I couldn't just throw it out, isn't that messing with my juju? Or karma? Or...something? I just couldn't chuck it out all willy-nilly like that! It seemed somehow sacreligious, or tempting fate, or...something to throw out this guy. For all I know we could have thrown him out and he comes to life, or...something. All I know is, I was not happy about him being in my kitchen, and I had no sage with which to smudge the place once we got rid of him.

Anyway after several days of me freaking out about ol' Nostry (if that's even who he was) Brave Employee got exasperated with me and chucked his ass right into the bin.

No points for guessing who has had crappy days at work since.

Update: OMG I just Googled it and she was right! Here's the picture we got...and OMG his full name is Michel de Nostredame. Coincidence?!

Worst Gift EVER

2011-11-19T00:05:00.001+11:00

Since it's "the most wonderful time of the year," the conversation on the radio (and subsequently at work) has been all about gift giving. In specific, the worst gift you've ever been given.

I've actually got two of these.

The first one was from my DH - who in addition to being the most fabulous man on earth, is also the worst gift giver on earth. He always radiates good intention but pretty much fails miserably. I'm not going to repeat the whole birthday cake saga, but suffice to say he is a shit gift giver (sorry my love. But this is not new news for you.) Anyway, the first year we were married, he gave me the strangest gift for my birthday - an enormous A3 sized Ahskenazi Haggadah. (Translation for anyone who wants one: broadsheet sized religious book.) To this day, I've got no idea why he bought it. Sure, it was nice..but a) I'm not terribly religious and in fact hate Passover most of all the Jewish holidays, b) I don't find sitting at a dinner table reading a broadsheet sized book all that comfortable, and c) are you for real, DH? What the hell were you thinking?

ANYWAY.

Second worst (actually the WORST but chronologically after the Jewish Book That Ate Manhattan) was from DH's Uncle and Aunt. For my 27th birthday (I think? In my 20's in any case) they made a big song and dance about my gift. How they put a lot of thought into it, thought I'd enjoy it, how they really thought it was appropriate for me, how much use I'd get out of it, and so on and so forth. They presented me with said gift at the dinner table and encouraged me to open it in front of everyone, so with some excitement (new car? mortgage paid off? clothes voucher? vacation?!) I opened the gift.

It was a personal blood pressure device.

I totally thought they were kidding and so I started to laugh. It took a minute or two before DH leaned over to me and said, "Seriously, it's not a joke gift," when he realised before I did that nobody else was laughing. The Uncle and Aunt in question then went on to say that they really thought someone of my size (eg FAT!) needed to be aware of these things, should look after themselves, and how important they felt it was that I use this thing. I basically got a "You are fat and will die early," lecture at my birthday dinner in front of my family.

I've never been so humiliated in my life, not even the time I fell down during the big "Beauty School Dropout" number in high school and popped all my balloons on my costume as the curtain rose on Act Two. I literally wanted the world to swallow me up right then and there.

I did try to see if there was some OTHER gift hiding somewhere - maybe in the card - but there wasn't. That was it. A blood pressure monitor and a lecture. I know they were coming from a place of love and good intention...but it was just plain horrible. My brothers in law saved me, though, because they immediately wanted to grab it and give it a go and play with it. We soon discovered the damn thing was crap, because the same person could do a reading 3 times in a row and never get the same answer - one minute it would be wildly high, the next very low. Not enough they gave me a horrible gift but the damn thing was crappy quality as well.

I'd love to tell you all that I'm over this gift, but I'm not. I totally appreciate their concern for my health, but are they so socially inept that they had NO idea just how horrible that might make me feel? Needless to say, I generally refuse to open gifts in front of other people now.

In case you are wondering, I came home and chucked it in the back of the cupboard for a while...and eventually threw it out. Not because it's not useful, not because it's not a nice thought - but because no medical device needs to make me feel so horrible about myself.

...and for the record, should you ever be in the market for a gift for me, please may they not:

- be smelly. No soaps, no perfumes, no creams, nothing of the "stinky stuff" variety. I really hate that crap and on the effort scale it's a minus five.
- require either ironing or dusting. "Dustables" irritate me, and ironing is against my religion.
- imply in any way that I am fat or thin or anything in between, the size of my ass should not be reflected in my gift in any way
- have the word "medical device" anywhere on the packaging unless we are talking about a vibrator (oh yes, I went there...)
- ugly handbags are also out of the question and for the love of god:

NOTHING CAKE OR CUPCAKE RELATED! :)

Consider yourselves warned. Less than 6 shopping weeks to my birthday.

Brain Malfunction

2011-11-18T22:17:00.001+11:00

I tried to write a blog post from my phone but the damn thing did not want to cooperate with me! It's now 11 minutes to midnight and I'm posting purely to make sure I don't miss a NaBloPoMo day...but I've got nothing to write about at this late hour.

Instead I'll post a quote I read today - you can't move on to the next chapter of your life if you're spending all of your time re-reading the last chapter. :)

Until tomorrow (where I will be more awake and infinitely more witty, I hope).

Friends of Friends

2011-11-17T21:28:00.001+11:00

So .... what happens when your friends (who you love and adore for so many reasons) have other close friends which you simply can't stand?

Do you...
- just be grateful you don't need to see those other friends much?
- say something? (not sure what the purpose of that might be....)
- suck it up and pretend to like your friend's friend? Even though you are very bad at pretending to like people, and they can probably see right through it?

....because here's what I'm wondering. I think the whole 'birds of a feather' thing is really true, in so far as we are attracted to certain personality traits and so all our friends have at least a few common threads. Assuming you like your friends for personality traits X,Y,Z...is it that you don't like their other friend(s) because those people are too much like you? Or do they like *different* personality traits in those people to the ones they like in you? Shouldn't it be a simple if you like them, you should probably also like their friends, because theoretically all of you share personality traits, which is what attracted the person in the middle to you and the person you don't like?

Enlighten me.

NSV

2011-11-16T18:17:00.001+11:00

Once in a while, you get a fabulous NSV (non-scale victory) come along which just reminds you WHY it was so worth 'waking up' a few years ago and deciding to get your act together (from a weight and fitness POV anyway!).

This week at work we've got 50 gingerbread houses to make. 50 might not sound like much to you, but we are talking about 550 separate pieces which need to be rolled, cut, baked, and then assembled. This is without making the dough itself, decorating the houses, wrapping them, etc. Physically, the dough making is pretty hard work but it's the rolling and cutting which is most demanding on one's body. It's heavy work, it's extremely demanding on your hands, arms, and chest muscles...and bloody hell, it's WAY more work than you think it is when you first embark on said experience. It's not just rolling, it's kneading all the bits back together again, lifting the trays back and forth all the time, and so in. In short, it's a pastry chef's idea of hell.

These houses are also fairly large, so there is the added bonus of only having 4 roof pieces fit on each tray, and if you're rolling the dough out - the MOST you can get out of one roll is 7 pieces (possibly only because I have long enough arms to roll it out that long...the average was more like 3-4 pieces per roll out.) We needed 100 roof pieces - which is one hell of a lot of kneading and rolling...and we're not using any machines for the rolling bit of it, so that's a HELL of a lot of physical labour right there. That's not counting front door, back door, side walls, tree pieces...

Anyway, it became clear early on that the person who was going to do a vast portion of this couldn't physically do it - she'd broken her wrist not that long ago, and she's not as tall as I am so bending over the bench and rolling that far was none too easy. Since I believe the buck stops with the boss, and I didn't want to place unreasonable physical demands on an employee like that, I took over the job and have spent something like 18 hours getting these pieces rolled and cut. By the end of the first day, I thought I would get home and my arms would ache, my chest would ache, my back would be throbbing, my feet, hips and legs would be in agony, and I'd be able to do nothing but lay on the bed and beg DH to end it all for me.

The NSV is that I'm now at the end of the rolling and baking...and NONE of that is true. My arms, chest, feet, etc all feel totally fine. I am tired (but it's mostly mentally) and my body can feel that it's had demands put on it...but basically, I'm fine. I don't feel like I am going to die. I don't feel like my arms and legs are made of lead. I don't feel shitty AT ALL. What...freedom (!) that is!

By the end of this week, when all the houses are done (and I've probably got RSI in my wrists from the damn piping!), and all the other orders are finished, and I've hosted dinner for 13 people on Friday night, and I've answered a bunch of work emails, and done a whole lot of Mum/Blogger/Business Owner stuff...I'll probably be pretty wiped out. But I will STILL BE STANDING and that, my readers, is the BIGGEST NSV of all.

68 kilos and 2-and-a-bit years ago, no way in hell would I have been even able to stand up after such a week...and no way in hell would I have been able to even contemplate taking over the rolling job in the first place. I would have given it a red hot go, but no way would I have been able to do it, in the time I've done it, without suffering a whole lot of physical and emotional consequences.

Please may I hang onto this feeling of victory for a good long time. NOT being exhausted feels pretty damn fantastic.

Things I Can't Do

2011-11-15T20:10:00.001+11:00

rollerblade
roller skate
ride a scooter
jump rope
hula hoop
skip without looking like a complete idiot
go across monkey bars (not even when I was small.)
ski (have tried many times.)
knit (have tried many times.)
eat just one cashew nut
eat just one Pringle chip
suck up the last slurp of a Slurpee with a straw, I have to hold the cup up and knock the last bit out into my mouth.
not give my opinion on something
drink tea without sugar or fake sugar of some sort
go a day without myriad hugs and kisses - I'm a touchy feely person
tolerate people who are stupid, or slow at doing stuff, or both
wear sporty-style socks which are anything but white
put my shoes on while standing up (I fall over)
put my undies on while standing up (I fall over)
cook without salt (no salt, no flavour - true for sweets as well)
run in any graceful or even vaguely natural looking sort of way
sing in tune, although I so sing with gusto and enthusiasm
give up sugar for longer than...about ten minutes
keep my mouth shut even when I know I should
wear yellow, it makes me look ill
drink alcohol (it makes me itch)
smoke cigarettes (it makes me throw up)
enjoy vanilla ice cream unless it's in an iced coffee, in which case it's only just bearable
cut a straight line with a knife. I blame this failing on having boobs which get in the way
use an umbrella. What is it with those things? I am literally incapable of using one and staying either dry or looking coordinated. Why is the damn stick in the middle and not to one side?

What are you incapable of doing?

Boyfriends

2011-11-14T18:22:00.001+11:00

My whole life I've had close male friends - not a single one of which ever veered off into anything more (although of course I did think about it, and of course I may or may not have harboured a not-so-tiny crush on one or another of them.) Boy friends - or friends who are boys - have always just been a part of my life and I don't think it's a big deal at all. I've always had a bit of a tomboyish thing going on, I'm a giraffe (and so other girls find me intimidating by sheer height alone), and I'm sarcastic and loud and can tend to be a bit...overly honest. As one of my female friends pointed out, I've always worked in very male-dominated industries (tertiary education, the food industry, etc) so it stands to reason that I'm fairly comfortable among males. In short if it were not for the boobs, I can almost (in personality anyway) pass for "one of the guys" anyway. Therefore it makes perfect sense that I've always had one if not more close male friends in my life - but this is something none of my current cohort of female friends have much experience of, so they struggle a bit to understand it.

What does having a close male friend entail at my age? Well, emails on various topics. Texts...and some of which are not entirely academic in nature. Maybe the occasional one-on-one dinner or lunch out (especially true if we do not live in the same city or country). I've even gone to the movies with them, gone shopping with them, exercised with them, Skyped with them, had lengthy phone chats to them...and that's about it. Really not any different to my female friends (except possibly the flirting bit). Most other women find this odd for a couple of reasons - 1) why would you want to hang out with guys, and 2) what does your husband have to say about it?

Here's the answer:

1) Men are fascinating creatures. Most of the ones I hang out with are funny as hell, uncomfortable when I ask them pointed questions but answer anyway, are intelligent, fun to flirt with, and basically all around fabulous people. Plus I can rib them about being male and they could care less. Guys, in short, are FUN and because we're friends and not lovers, they're HONEST. And they're direct. None of this game playing bullshit us girls have going on. So my male friends are just as good if not better than the women I know. And not one of them would hesitate to tell me my ass looked big in something (but they'd qualify it with a, "but I love you anyway!" and then try not to look sheepish. God bless them but they try.)

and

2) My husband has known me long enough to know this is who I am and he could care less who I hang out with. Hell, he's met all of my male mates, and most of the time, while he likes them, he has no interest in being friends with them himself. He trusts me and loves me enough to know I have no plans to do anything stupid with any of them - and more than that he knows that if I DID, the first person I'd come home squealing about how awesome it was would be to HIM. (I'm all about the over share, as you well know by now.) To him, my having male friends - with whom I actively flirt, text, and communicate with - is a NON issue altogether. I must admit I'm grateful, because I'm not sure I could cope with a jealous husband. That he has no female friends makes no difference - but if he did, I don't think I'd care too much, for the same reasons he doesn't care.

In short, having boyfriends is one of the great joys in my life. To the men in my life who I am neither married to nor related to - you're fabulous. Not only for being great men, but for being smart enough to take on a woman like me, and live to tell the tale.

The Zumba Lady

2011-11-13T21:18:00.001+11:00

We went to a party this afternoon and I met a woman who I'm affectionately going to refer to here on in as The Zumba Lady (TZL). TZL is someone who I've seen around the traps over the years, because apparently our children used to go to school together (not the foggiest idea who her kid is, of course...) and now our sons play basketball together.

She came over to talk to me - sat herself down, introduced herself, and started to chat ten to the dozen about various things. I was even willing to forgive her wearing a gym top to this nice afternoon event because I am the last person who should be judgemental about clothing choices. She seemed pretty nice, and friendly enough certainly - not nearly as stuck up as I'd assumed her to be all these years when she steadfastly ignored my existence. Things were going kinda okay in so far as I didn't immediately feel the need to race home and blog about her.

That you are reading a blog about her right this very second would seem to indicate that the conversation did not continue to go well.

It was somewhere between, "I'm a complete Zumba snob, I'm a member of (exclusive-sounding gym) which gives me the reciprocal rights to (list of other shmancy gyms) and I go around testing the teachers all out, I hate the lazy teachers who are not real dancers..." (insert 10 minute dissertation on her Zumba whoring) and her inviting me to be part of a 35-and-over female basketball team, "You're so tall and it can't hurt, you know." (insert looking me up and down in a less than complimentary fashion) that I pretty much decided she and I were not destined to be best mates and she was destined for blogging immortality.

The final nail in her friendship coffin was when she managed to make the words "bake cake" into dirty four letter words. "Oh, sorry, what? You do what? Oh, CAKE? You bake cake? As in you bake it YOURSELF? Just...as in...cake?"

I'm thinking I'm going to go along to her next over 35's basketball game just so I can sit on the sidelines in my non-approved Zumba outfit and stuff my face with...cake.

How Does She Do It?

2011-11-12T16:46:00.001+11:00

The age old question of how the superwomen of the world do it can be answered very simply: they are all ducks. On the surface of the water - gliding serenely past, with hardly a ripple to mar the beautiful reflective surface. Underneath the water - paddling like hell just to keep moving forward.

Women lie - sometimes by omission, sometimes not - about almost everything when they are talking to other women. Childbirth was a breeze (hell, getting pregnant was easy as anything), recovering from a c-section is no big deal, losing that last 10 kilos wasn't so hard, we're having sex every damn day and it's always inventive and exciting and thrilling, the kids are never grumpy, the siblings never fight, you will feel a sudden rush of undying love for the wrinkly bloody package which comes out of your hoo-hah the minute you hold it, all husbands help with the dishes, your tits are as perky as they ever were, you're totally fulfilled by your job, you love going to playgroup because the mothers there are so nice...and so on and so forth.

The woman who has it all DOES NOT have it all, she just lies about it because she thinks that's what other women want to hear, or she thinks that's what they expect to hear from her.

Here's the thing, women - there are life experiences which for some woman are truly great, and for others truly shithouse. Which one of those experiences you're going to have will depend on a) the circumstances, b) how good you are at dealing with things, and c) the luck of the draw, because shit happens and it happens to YOU and your friends.

In my work kitchen, when things get a little hairy (and boy-howdy do they get hairy sometimes), we have an expression - "Less talking, more working!" or more accurately, "Less bitching, more piping!" I think the same expression can apply to women's lives. If we spent less time lying to other women about stuff, and more time supporting one another and just being honest about it...I think we'd find that the 'superwoman' myth would die a rather quick (and hopefully extremely painful) death.

It's about time we let that bitch die.

That Cake Show

2011-11-11T21:17:00.000+11:00

Recently a cake show premièred on Australian television, chronicling several weeks in the life of a well-known (perhaps Australia's best known) cake company. Some disclaimers: 1) Only two episodes have screened, 2) It's television, so it's hard to know what's real and what's 'made for TV,' 3) I used to admire said cake company.

I was a little torn about this show. On the one hand, I think its GREAT that there is finally a local show to rival the endless American and UK import shows we get here. I also think this company has raised the profile and quality of the cake industry across Australia as a whole, so it's a good thing that the non-cake world will get a taste of it too. Often people have no real concept of the time, effort, skill and artistic talent which goes into a cake - so to show that to millions of people can only be a good thing. For all those people who wonder why bespoke cakes are so expensive - well, now they get to see behind the scenes and find out. My negative feelings about it were probably because I'd heard some not-so-complimentary things about the owner of said business - and that, too, has the potential to affect the industry if people are watching what I'd been told was, shall we say, less than ladylike behaviour. Plus, let's face it, I'd like to be on TV someday, too.

After two episodes, I'm still torn about what this show may or may not be worth to the industry. But one thing I'm not torn about is the amount of confidence it's given me in my Big Boss Lady skills. Let's face it, I'm watching a company which is - in a small way - my competition. They're hugely successful (although it's been many years in the making). Their company name is said among cake decorators with some reverence, and for a long time they were the end-all-and-be-all of cake companies. Let's just say what it is - I used to be envious of their success, and in awe of their owner.

I'm not anymore.

Even given the above disclaimers, I've now watched two episodes which show an owner who speaks poorly of her clients, discounts at the merest whim, leads by intimidation, does not believe in her staff's skill, believes the only way to "be the best" is to "poach the best,", who gives her off-sider design authority and then totally ignores said authority, who blames her staff for decisions she was clearly a part of and so on.

I'm a fan of Duff (annoying laugh and all) and Buddy (comic accent and all) NOT because they are crazy talented cake decorators and pastry chefs - but because they lead their staff with love, with education, with strength and by example of their own behaviour. I've never heard any of them speak ill of their clients - although I'm sure they've done it behind closed doors, they're not doing it on camera. I've also never heard them discuss price either on camera or with staff, as compared to, "Does this LOOK like a two thousand dollar cake to you? Because it doesn't to me!" In short, at best this Australian show is showing off what an incredibly talented and resilient group of people the staff of that company are, and at worst, it's showing the owner off in a pretty unflattering light.

Today one of my staff members (who reads this blog - so I can't even varnish the truth if I want to) came to work and said, "You know, after watching that episode last night, all I could think was, THANK GOD I work for you and not for her!" I'm pretty certain that's just about one of the nicest compliments I've ever gotten. (Thanks, K. *smile*)

I don't run the biggest cake company in Australia. Not the best one, either. Not the most amazingly special, not the most expensive, not the most "I want to be them when I grow up," and not the most well known or revered, either.

I DO, however, run a damn fabulous cake company. A cake company that creates cakes with personality and love for both the people we are and the people we serve. We create cakes which are about WAY MORE than just the cake - and they are more than cake not only for the customer but also for those of us hiding behind the buckets of icing. I treat my employees with love and respect and most of all I TRUST them to use the skills they have, learn the ones I (and others) can teach them, and to make decisions on their own. I'm not the bestest boss ever (let's face it, nobody is), but I do my best and that's about all I've got to offer. Every single day, I'm proud of the products we produce, but I'm also enormously proud of what we are achieving on a personal level. We are growing and learning, together, in SO MANY WAYS.

TV show or not - judicious editing or not - I don't think it's EVER okay to throw your employees under a bus, which I've now seen happen on that show more times than I care to count (and I've only see two episodes.) So I'm no longer envious of that cake company, not one teeny tiny iota. They might be able to command a lot more dollars per cake, they might have a huge, gorgeous cake studio, they might make cakes for famous people, they might [insert brag-worthy achievement here] - but they've got NOTHING on my company. Nothing at all.

Because what I've got - and what I'm nurturing every single day - is quite literally priceless.

Practical Parenting 101

2011-11-10T19:23:00.002+11:00

This afternoon DD2 asked me if she could help make dinner. This is not an unusual request, most of the time she (or one of her sibs) asks if they can help with the cooking. Most of the time I nicely tell them they can go play or read instead, because frankly I lack the patience for my apprentices. By the time I get to the end of the day I just want to cook and serve in record time so I can get on with the business of falling into a heap. They are adorable and helpful, but slow and tend to make more mess than I otherwise would. The point I'm making is, DH and I feel very strongly about children learning to be helpful members of their community - from the smallest (their family) to the largest (their school, religious group, sports team, etc.) Although we know we get this message across to them, sometimes it's really nice to have that message affirmed.

So, tonight I let her help, and while she was cooking she was telling me about her day. They are currently learning about the water cycle in school, and today's discussion was about how they use water in their daily lives (in ways other than the obvious, e.g. showering.) Apparently DD2's answer was that she uses water every time she does her chores - eg making her lunch (washes the utensils), putting a load of washing on (clothes washer), walking the dog (and filling his water bowl afterwards) and so on.

The rest of the conversation went like this:

DD2: So anyway Mum, I said my list of activities which use water, and everyone except maybe 2 people looked at me and said, "WHAT THE...?" because hardly anybody in my class has chores of any kind.

Me: (in a very joking manner) - Oh, so you're saying Dad and I are the mean and nasty parents, then! We always wanted to be the mean parents! YAY! I'm totally going to give you like a million more chores now, Cinderella.

DD2: Nice one Mum, but no, what I'm saying is that you are the AWESOME parents, and the other ones are the CRAP parents! They're all busy raising a bunch of spoiled brats who have no idea how to be useful!

Yes, indeed. My work here is done.

Why I Love My Job

2011-11-09T17:53:00.005+11:00

We already know I love my job, but here are some lesser-known reasons why:

No other job needs you to Google pictures of Gerard Butler, and then decide which photos are 'not hot enough,' thus forcing you to keep looking for more of them until you find the one which makes all the girls go, "pphhhwwwooooaaaarrrr!! Yes! Pick that one!"
Free chocolate all damn day. (Yes, Biz Guy, I know it's not technically free, but it's FREE, okay?")
There is a 7-11 literally around the corner, and I own the only business I know of which has an official "Is it Slurpee O'Clock?" afternoon break most days of the week.
People nearly never come to me for sad occasions, and this suits my Tigger-esque nature. Cakes for funerals and divorces are purchased at el cheapo cake shops. Thank god for that, I'm not sure I could handle people coming to me for depressing reasons. I think even Eeyore would be happier if he stuffed his face with ganache once in a while.
My left brain and right brain are equally at home in my work kitchen. Every day I'm forced to be creative and yet logical - often while working on a single order, and often simultaneously!
Everyone else thinks I have the coolest job ever. They're right, I do.
There is a dishwasher which can wash dishes faster, cheaper, and better than any human I know, AND it's even as environmentally friendly as it's possible for one of these things to be. I think someday I shall marry it, although I have already expressed my undying love to it.
I get to buy all sorts of crazy cool stuff - funky ribbons, baubles (*swoon*, I said baubles!), blingy buckles, figurines, feathers, interesting stationary, sparkly stuff, things which light up...the shopping aspect of this job is AWESOME.
Did I mention the free chocolate?
I don't need an excuse to watch all those cake shows on TV. It's research, people, research.

The Picture Project

2011-11-08T09:43:00.001+11:00

Shortly after I went on my big shopping spree (you know, the one which is years overdue, the one I'll probably not do again for a looonnngggg while), I both sent a text to a friend and posted a status update which said, "I look so fucking cute today, I almost want to marry myself."

Modesty is just so becoming, isn't it?

On facebook this started a riot of people wanting to see pictures (and bizarrely some matchmaking, but anyway...) and the friend texted back, "Picture?" Taking pictures of myself is really not something I'm into, and surely not full-body pictures which would show off what I'm wearing. It's just not my thing, but then I think you would be hard pressed to find a fat female for whom full body pictures IS her thing.

But...you know, this year, it's all about progress, remember? And frankly, I'm feeling chuffed that I not only OWN a cute outfit, but I can totally ROCK that cute outfit, AND I'm feeling brave enough to announce it to the people I hold near and dear. So I took a picture. Yes, one of those annoying 'in a mirror' pics where you are holding your phone up at about waist height and trying to remember to look ahead and not look at the camera (which results in a photo of you looking kinda skew-eyed.) I even then sent the picture off...and the next day, I did it again. The day after that, I did it again. In part it was to prove to myself that I can get through a week not wearing jeans and t-shirts, in part because it just kinda became entertaining...but it's now about 10 days later and I've got 10 days worth of pictures of me. Full figured. In a mirror. (Holding up a phone.)

What started as a total lark has actually become a really useful, fascinating exercise. How often do we look at full body photos of ourselves? How often do we make an extra effort to look nice (okay for some people, every day - for me, nearly never)? How often do we just really LOOK at ourselves, truly LOOK? It was like my own personal Trinny and Susannah moment...and I've got to say, it's made a MAJOR difference to the way I see myself, and it's made me aware of so many things I think I just never really thought about before.

Firstly, I'm a goddamn giraffe. Seriously. I know that I'm a hair shy of 6'0"...but in these pics, I've got really, really long legs. Lily white legs which desperately need to see some sun, but still a decent set of pins. I've also got a pretty decent waist line - in the right clothes, my body actually does 'nip in at the waist' to give me a reasonable shape. I've got killer clavicles - which again, in the right clothes are shown to their advantage. I can get away with horizontal stripes. Pale colours don't suit me all that well, they wash me out. The bras I'm wearing are decent ones, and that's actually more important than we realise. You get the idea - I've suddenly come to realise that there is a body in that mirror which, while FAR from perfect - is a body worth looking at.

For so long my body was the excuse I had for not doing things, for being afraid of things, for not pushing myself, for...hiding from life a bit. Now that I've got (to some degree) a body which I can't hide behind - just IMAGINE how far I've come and how far I've yet to go.

I'm standing taller (that's another thing I've learned, my posture sucks), I'm bothering to accessorise (at least a bit!), I'm learning which bits I'd like to work a little harder on, I'm realising how much going to a circuit gym has made a difference in terms of muscle tone. In short, I'm actually *liking* what I see in that mirror.

I've spent the last 30+ years of my life hating every part of my body - with the possible exception of my eyes...and I've spent the last 10 days discovering the very same body isn't so terrible, is worth showing off, and is something to be pretty damn proud of. I LIKE this emzee, and I'm going to continue to work damn hard in order to keep her. I'd like "the new normal" to also be about having not a single qualm about taking a full-body photo.

Not sure how brave - or not - you're feeling about yourself at the moment, but I'd encourage you to try this exercise, even if only for a few days. You don't even need to send the photo to anyone - just take it, and really LOOK at it, and see what you learn. Maybe you won't like what you see and it will motivate you. Maybe you'll love what you see and will affirm to yourself that you're worth loving. Maybe it won't have any impact on you at all, and you'll look at it and think, "Meh, I don't get what she's on about," ... but I'd still encourage you to do it. What have you got to lose? (except possibly the ten pounds which sits RIGHT on your hips in the most unflattering way...which you only know about because you took a photo of it, and photos do not lie.)

Stuff I Love

2011-11-07T18:57:00.000+11:00

A small random list of small random things which I adore, in no particular order:

When a Slurpee explodes out of the top of it's lid, leaving a little mushroom shaped cone of sugary sweet coloured artificial goodness which you can then slurp off without looking ridiculous. You're just trying to keep it from spilling over and making a mess, right? Not trying to suck extra out of the top so you can top it up (you would never do that...).
Using a whole lot of adjectives in one string, like 'sugary sweet coloured artificial goodness.'
Cookies. Especially the broken ones, because all the calories fall out of those.
All the European junk food sold at Aldi which I don't allow myself to buy but I just love that they have it in stock in the first place - Haribo gummy bears, Toffifee chocolates, and cookies with vowel-heavy names like Spekulaas and Pfefferneuse. Just saying the word "Pfefferneuse" is a joy.
Food in small packages - sushi, dumplings (!!), cake pops, steamed buns, almost anything encased in pastry, party pies, sliders, shot glasses of chocolate mousse, finger sandwiches, goujons, baby muffins and tiny lemon tartlets. If it's small and edible, I love it and I want to look at it admiringly before I pop it into my mouth. As a chef I can also appreciate the amount of effort which goes into tiny food. Some poor chef has been VERY industrious.
The satisfying tightness of new underwear.
The awesome sound of silence in those few minutes when the kids and husband have gone to work/school, the dog is out for the day, and the only noise is my breathing and whatever noise I make getting ready to go to work.
The swisha-swoom swisha-swoom swisha-swoom sound of my bedside fan, indicating it must be (nearly) summer in Australia. I adore summer in Australia. Flies, mosquitoes and all.
The cuddly softness of the really good quality thick white socks DH selfishly only buys for himself, and so I teach him a lesson in sharing by stealing them all from him.
The smell of my kids' hair right after they have showered.
Bringing home a pile of books from the library and taking a few minutes to re-read all the flap blurbs and then ordering them, so the one I want to read the most is either last or somewhere in the middle. The anticipation of knowing I'm nearly at THAT book is just awesome.
The clink-clink-clink of seashells in my pocket, seashells I've collected during an entirely indulgent, totally solitary beach walk in the middle of the day (which I've told nobody about.)
The way our crappy mattress sags and therefore wakes me up *just* enough to let me know that DH has gotten into bed beside me. It's almost worth never replacing it because I love that nightly 'announcement.'
Making lists and feeling zero guilt about putting an item or two on there which I've already completed, thus earning me the right to cross stuff off said list and feel infinitely superior before I've even begun my day.
People watching and developing milli-second crushes on people as they walk past.
The way your breath catches just for a second when you get into a pool for the first time, even if the water is warm.
The way a long, hot shower can solve almost all of life's problems.
Rubbing the top of my son's head with shameless glee after he's gotten a buzz cut. I don't care that he is embarrassed, I'm pretty sure I had kids especially for moments like those.
The way your hair feels weightless after you've had it professionally done.
The way two eggs cracked into a frypan kinda look like eyeballs, so for a few minutes there, your frying pan is staring back at you.

Leisurely Pursuits

2011-11-06T18:27:00.001+11:00

Last night I had dinner with me coven of bestest female friends - and one of them was talking about her shopping habit. Suffice to say it's a reasonably...umm...robust (ooh, good word!) ...habit. While the rest of them were oohing and aahhing over the dollar amounts and the sheer volume of purchases, all I wanted to know was how on earth she had the TIME for all this shopping.

Me being me, I asked her. "Good God, when the hell does one have the TIME to do all that shopping?"

The answer to this is two fold - one, shopping is in some sense a hobby, so she makes time for it with quick trips to the mall in the very same way I will sneak in a quick chapter or two of a book. Two, she will shop for herself on trips to the mall whose main purpose is to buy stuff for her kids - as in, "I'll just swing past KMart, Target, the kids' shoe store.....and Fossill/Tiffany & Co/Nine West." Admittedly, I hate shopping - of any kind - and so it would never occur to me to just 'swing by' the mall in the first place. Having to faff about with parking, then wandering past and into a bunch of shops which contain things I cannot afford nor wish to store, then buying something or not, then dragging it home, then getting home through traffic...oh it just all seems like so much damn trouble, how on earth would someone want to do this at times when they don't have to?

Honestly, I didn't really understand it...but then it occured to me that she probably looks at my life and thinks, who on earth has time for... baking bread from scratch, going to the gym a million times a week, reading 3 novels a week, blogging, facebooking...and so on. Fact is we all spend time (or more accurately, CHOOSE to spend time) on our various pursuits, and to each person the pursuit is different. My friend Claire is an amazing sewer (seamstress? quilter? what's the right word here?) and she creates stunning quilts, toys, clothes, aprons...she's amazing. I have no idea how to find the time for that - but I'd like to. Biz Guy and DH are both into mindless TV (yet another thing I don't understand how people have time for! Especially Dr Who, but that's another post altogether). Other friends spend their time food photographing and blogging, going to endless concerts, engaging in hours of online/phone sex (nope, not kidding), buying wine, collecting stuff via Ebay, cooking...whatever. We each have our own way of winding down, of tuning out, of making the everyday noise and madness of our lives just hush up for a while.

Funnily enough, prior to thinking about this whole shopping thing, I probably would have said my life has very little room for inherently selfish pursuits. I would have told you I spend all my time working, sleeping, or thinking about either working or sleeping. In writing this post, though, I've come to realise that I actually do spend some time in leisure activities (as listed above, and that's not even all of them).

I blogged a little while ago about a quote I read which said, "If it's important to you, you'll make time. If it's not, you'll make excuses." So I guess to my friend, shopping is important - just like to me (being the card carrying member of the nerd squad that I am), reading a ridiculous amount of mostly poorly written chick-lit books is important enough for me to make the time for.

What are you making time for these days?

The General Public

2011-11-05T18:45:00.000+11:00

Dealing with the general public every day, I am astounded at the kinds of insane requests I get. I realise that to the person calling, the request is probably pretty normal - but to me, it's often amusing if not a little...insane. I realise that I purposely set myself up for this madness - after all, I run a company that prides itself on taking on the requests nobody else will touch, making the customer as happy as I can by giving them exactly what they want, and in general bending over backwards to ensure I've got a loyal clientèle. At the same time I've got to wonder, are these people for real?

Here are some recent requests or comments I got from clients:

At 4pm on a Thursday night - "Can you make me a wedding cake for tomorrow morning around 8am?" "Sorry, no, we can't turn it around that quickly." "Oh but I only need to feed 8 people!"
At 5pm on a Friday afternoon - "Can you make me a 3 tier birthday cake for Sunday morning?" "Sorry, no, we can't turn it around that quickly." "Okay then, how about a 5 tier?"
"I need to organise a stunning wedding cake for 100 people and I've got a budget of $75. What can you do for that?"
"I need to organise a wedding cake for my daughter/friend/sister/mother/cousin. She doesn't care what is looks like as long as it's chocolate, round, 5 tiers, covered in white icing, with pink roses but not too big, a purple bow on the side, a love heart on top in silver, with draping and quilting and some bling. She's not fussy AT ALL."
"I need a cake for my daughter's birthday. She's 2 and is demanding a dinosaur cake, but I want a garden theme. What can you do with that? Can you do a French Provincial dinosaur of some kind?" (Actually yes I can and guess what? I did!)
"I need a cake for a 50th birthday for 80 people. He loves anything Art Deco, giraffes, dolphins and his favourite colours are colours red, orange, and green. Oh, and it's for this weekend. As in tomorrow."
"We've got 400 people coming for a function in two days and I've got a budget of $200 to give them all morning tea. What can you do for me?"
"If I bake the cupcakes, can you decorate them for me?" "Yes, sure." The cupcakes then arrived BURNED - and I don't mean toasty, I mean charcoal. I begged her not to tell anyone it was us who decorated them for her. (Seriously!)
"Every cake we've ever had has been dry and horrible and nasty. Are your cakes like that?" (What would they have done if I said, "yes"..?)
"Which flavour would you eat if you had to? I mean which is a NICE one?"
"The peach in the peach ribbon was too orange-y, we wanted it more pink-y. And also the ivory was not white enough. My guests had 3rd and 4th serves, totally loved it and said it was the best cake ever, but the ribbon situation was very disappointing."
"I know this is probably a hard ask, but any chances of getting a penis cake for tomorrow morning? I've been left in the lurch by my other guy."
"I'm supposed to make this cake for a friend of mine, but I'm no good at it. What will it cost me for you to make it, but don't make it perfect so she thinks I did it?"
"I need a cake for this weekend - and I know it's Friday at 5pm- but what can you do for me?" "Well, we happen to have a spare 9" chocolate cake but that's about it, so if that's okay, we're happy to decorate it as you would like it.""Okay, well, what if I want it two tiers, in vanilla?...and can you go any better on the price?"
"Can you make me a wedding cake for this afternoon?"

And then there are the clients which I take on even though I know they're painful, and I just shake my head at their funny ways - The "something simple" client whose design brief goes for 3-4 pages, the people who urgently need a cake for 9am but don't pick it up until the DAY AFTER (or in one case, TWO days later), the people who ask me for a price then ask if it's the best I can do, and when I say no they tell me they can do it cheaper themselves, or the people who request a quote and then say "But XYZ cake shop quoted me much less for the exact same cake!" (great, go and order from them- PLEASE!)

...and my most recent favourite client, who asked for a quote on a metre high, totally perfectly correct (eg lots of reference photos) 3D Eiffel Tower to feed a couple hundred people. I sent through the quote, to which she literally replied, " O.M.G. That's like $300 more than all the other cake shops I asked for quotes from. That's a CRAZY price. I just thought you might like to know that your price is INSANE, there is NO WAY I'd pay that, and you really need to know how far you are pricing yourself out of the market! I just HAD to let you know, that price is totally ridiculous and I'm not sure what makes you so much better than all the others, that's completely ridiculous." (The tone of her email was friendly enough, but she basically told me off.)

To which I replied, "Thanks for the feedback, wishing you the best of luck, hope your function is fabulous! Regards, emzee"

To which SHE replied, "What flavours do you offer? Can I book a time to come in and make an appointment with you to discuss my cake?"

Ahhh, the general public. Gotta love 'em.
(I did not give her an appointment. My time is worth more than she can pay anyway.)

Imposter No More

2011-11-04T08:46:00.000+11:00

In the last couple of months I have acquired some mentees - people who are looking to me for advice and support as they begin (or continue along) their journey to small business ownership. At first it was just answering the odd question - like recipe queries, passing on recommendations for printing companies, etc. As time has gone on, the questions - and the interactions - have become a lot more involved. These wonderful, capable people all want my advice on maintaining stock levels, marketing, making financial investments, achieving that mysterious work/life balance...and all sorts of bigger questions that small business owners deal with every day.

I answer these people in the best way I know how, which is with brutal honesty, with love, and with the very big disclaimer that I do not know everything and do not claim to know everything, and that most of what I've learned thus far was via trial and lots of errors. Fact is, I think that until Biz Guy walked into my life (or more correctly, magically appeared into my email inbox), I'm not entirely sure I would have considered myself a business owner. Not REALLY, anyway. I was a cake maker...or if we're feeling very fancy, a pastry chef. A damn clever cake maker, but a cake maker nonetheless. It's really taken my relationship with him to feel like I'm not just an imposter in the world of business ownership. For a very, very long time I just kinda felt like I was muddling along, making decisions based on gut feel and kinda just hoping it would all work out. Truth is, I WAS doing all of that - and no way would I go back and do it differently - but it took another person observing for me to realise that there was actual value in all that muddling.

Isn't it interesting that I needed SOMEONE ELSE to validate my skills, my experience, my knowledge? It's almost as though I didn't really believe in myself until someone else came along and said, "You know what? You really ARE damn clever and you've really achieved a lot." On the one hand this makes me a little sad - to think that I didn't have enough self-belief to think that. On the other hand, it makes me grateful to Biz Guy - and grateful to ME for even hiring Biz Guy at all - because now that I'm learning to believe, the business (and most certainly it's owner) are growing enormously.

I no longer feel like I'm an imposter in this whole business game, and nowhere is that more true than in my band of merry mentees, who are looking to me for advice, comfort and support and getting it in spades. By far one of the best side effects of having Biz Guy in my life is that our work together is very much like the stone thrown into the pond in so far as I have learned to believe in me, and I'm helping others to believe in themselves - and who knows who they too will influence into the future. Theoretically this passing on of faith in oneself has no end point.

I may not know it all (and I hope I never do, how boring!) - every single day I'm learning heaps more about what it means to run a business. I'm just a person who is still muddling along, but these days in a far more organised fashion - and I suppose that makes me worthy of being a mentor. I no longer feel like I'm faking it, and I think that shows...otherwise there is no way the people I'm helping would be attracted to me in the first place.

That there are people out there who trust my opinion, want my support and love, and who think I somehow have the answers to their problems...well, that in itself proves that I'm an imposter no more.

That perhaps I was not an imposter to begin with is besides the point entirely.

Assume The Worst

2011-11-03T08:26:00.000+11:00

The other day I got a phone call from the kids' school. Like most of these calls, the first question out of my mouth is, "Are my kids still alive?" - at the same time as the caller is saying, "Don't worry, the children are fine!"

This phone call was actually to tell me that DS had won an award for excellence in mathematics - which of course proves two things: 1) That he and I are not genetically related, and 2) That even those who are a pain in the proverbial arse can shine, when placed in the right environment.

The sad thing is, when I get theses sorts of phone calls, I assume the worst. Not that all three of my kids had fallen off the monkey bars simultaneously and we had 6 broken arms to deal with, but that the caller was going to tell me my kid(s) was in some sort of behavioral trouble. I guess all that trouble we had last year made a lasting impression on me - because I find myself mentally cringing a bit when they call, and then exhaling when I find out the reason for the call is not at all bad.

All year I've had phone calls from school (for as much money as we pay SSOTH, it works out to like $2450 per call or thereabouts) - and except for maybe one, all of them have been for great reasons. DS is doing well in math, DD1 is doing well in science, DD2 is progressing well with Hebrew, or whatever - mostly the calls have been for good - no, great - things. I've had lots and lots of great phone calls and only one which gave me pause (DS had a minor hiccup which has since been swiftly and lovingly resolved, which is how most issues with kids should be resolved, IMHO).

At some point, I'm sure I'll get over it. Fact is, I KNOW I'm raising kids who are not only capable and independent, but also kids who are brimming with personality - personalities which will on some occasion get them into trouble (the personality gene also comes with the big mouth gene) but will mostly serve them well as they grow into young adulthood. I should believe in them more, I really should.

Or maybe....I should just encourage them to spend more time on the monkey bars.

Body Versus Brain

2011-11-02T08:13:00.000+11:00

A couple of days ago I went clothes shopping for myself, in the company of a friend of mine. This was a momentous occasion because I hate shopping, and I definitely hate shopping in the company of other people. Mostly because I am not all that happy about my body, but also because I don't want someone else making me try on things I do not want to try on. I want to go to the mall with a bunch of money, and come out of it with yet more jeans and t-shirts and a big sigh that there was NOTHING there which was suitable. However as we all know, the word of the year is PROGRESS - and so this had to apply to my wardrobe as well. Thanks to my tendency to throw things out, for the past several weeks I've had a closet which contained the following:

Two pairs of jeans
Two pyjamas
Two long sleeved black t-shirts
Some long sleeved shirts which don't fit and/or are stained
A couple of polar fleecy items for warmth
Two dresses
Undies which are too big

That's about it. Literally the situation got so desperate, I'd wake up in the morning and raid DH's closet for a clean t-shirt. I finally succumbed to peer pressure and went shopping for some summer clothes. It was actually...kinda fun. I enjoyed it more than I care to admit. However I was reminded on that excursion of the most difficult part of weight loss - the mental effort required.

It takes mental effort to: NOT eat 'just one more' square of chocolate, to get your ass to the gym in the morning, to control your emotions, to let go of the mental protection which being fat gives you, to not be hurt by well meaning comments, to accept compliments, to eat mindfully, to celebrate the losses and not be laid incapacitated by the gains...in short, losing weight and keeping it off IS ALMOST TOTALLY A MENTAL EXERCISE.

Let me tell you, I didn't recognise that woman in the mirror today. Not at all. Physically she looked kinda like me, but mentally she was really struggling to accept what she was doing there - she felt a bit like an imposter. I spent my day walking into a dozen or more NORMAL people stores. I walked in there and tried on things I never thought I'd be caught dead in (hello, horizontal striped dress!). I was in normal stores and I was being asked if I needed a MEDIUM. I was being told to put down that XL top, because "you'll be swimming in it!" and so on and so forth. WHOAH there, this is not what I'm used to. The whole experience (while overall wonderful) was uncomfortable. Scary. Strange. CONFRONTING.

I'd be lying if I said I did not want to come home from the shopping and stuff my face full of crap which is bad for me because of all the emotions that shopping brought up. I really, really wanted to. I DIDN'T, but I wanted to. Losing weight - regardless of the method you choose - is an incredibly difficult thing to do but it's not at all about the food or the exercise. It's about the triumph of mind over matter and it DOES NOT STOP just because you have reached your goal weight. I pass by my reflection every day in shop windows and I do a double take. I have no idea what stores I should or could walk into. I don't really know if something will fit me just by looking at it. I still assume I will not fit into chairs with arms on them. I am amazed when I'm not tired after a short walk. People say nice things to me and I think I don't deserve to hear them. I think that in normal stores they will look at me and say, "Sorry, we don't carry your size." I assume that things won't fit before I've even taken them off the hanger. In my head I'm still fat and I may always be. Don't let ANYONE tell you that weight loss is about eating right and exercise. Sure, those things are a big part of it - but by far the hardest part of all is the mental strength it takes to get through each day, to accept the major changes you and your body are going through, and to just maintain that mental strength for the REST of your life.

So - I bought the horizontal striped dress. It's super cute, will work well for the summer, and I'll feel just a wee bit saucy wearing it...but every time I put it on, I'll have that self doubt (does this look okay? REALLY?) and I'll probably be mentally waiting for someone to tell me it's not flattering. It will take diet and exercise to keep me the right size to fit into that dress, but it will take mental exercise to get me to not only want to wear it, but to feel like a million bucks in it.

Speaking from experience, I can tell you which one of those tasks will be harder than it seems - and it's not the hour I'll spend at this gym today.

Hoarders

2011-11-01T07:54:00.000+11:00

Welcome to Day 1 of National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo). Here's hoping I make it through the month - although this being my third year, it shouldn't be that hard, right?

__

I used to consider myself a sentimental person...until I discovered the insane joy one gets from throwing stuff out. Throwing stuff out is amazingly liberating - and your house actually gets cleaner as a result. There has been the odd time I've thrown stuff out that I wasn't meant to (including but not limited to 10 movie vouchers...) but most of the time, I throw stuff out with reckless abandon and I love every minute of it. Unfortunately for me, I not only married a hoarder, but I seem to have acquired a whole bunch of friends who are hoarders, and at least one of my children seems to have inherited the hoarder gene.

I love nothing more than attacking a part of my house and throwing crap out - but it's a two stage process. I fling all the items for potential chucking into one area, then sort into a "chuck now" pile and a "keep" pile. Once I've done that, I think about it for a few seconds, and I then chuck out BOTH piles. Sure, one or two things might escape my frenzy but not very many things. This is a totally different method to DH, who will sort things into the 'keep' pile, the 'keep forever' pile, the 'never throw away' pile and the 'think about it for so long it will grow into it's own pile' pile. He doesn't believe in throwing stuff out until his wife threatens to literally take a match to whole rooms of his stuff (and by now he knows not to test if I am just kidding or not.) (I don't 'do' kidding.)

Over the past several weeks I've introduced him to the emzee method of crap clearing, and he's dons a surprisingly good job of it. So much so that even HE had the balls to admit, "Finding stuff I've not filed since 2006 probably means I should file stuff more often." Gee. Ya think?

I am a very 'live in the moment' person in general - I'm not great at taking photos, I suck at journalling (present blog excepted) and I'm too busy living my life to record very much of it. It makes perfect sense, then, that I throw things out all the time to make room for other stuff, or just to keep from being suffocated by old stuff. The good news is, I mostly throw out stuff which belongs to me. (Okay that was a lie. I chuck out my kids' and husband's stuff out too, but they have so much crap they never notice.) (Kids who are reading this into the future: I'm not sorry about it, I've saved you from being suffocated under all that crap. DH reading this right now: I'm not sorry, you have enough crap for both of us. But I love you anyway.)

Enter the TV show "Hoarders" - have any of you guys seen this show? It makes my family and friends look like total neat freaks. It actually makes me terribly sad to watch that show, because there is a real emotional basis for that behaviour - and to think that these people derive some sort of comfort from keeping stuff like cat faeces and rotten food...well, it just boggles the mind. Mind you, I'm sure someone out there can find an emotional basis for me chucking stuff out like a madwoman, too...maybe (like most things in life) it's all about balance.

So - what have you chucked out lately? Or, what have you KEPT lately that you feel no guilt about? (And DH, your answer I already know - the gallstones.) (Everyone else: I am married to a man who keeps his gallstone in a jar on our bookshelf. I know, I know, I KNOW.)

The Most Bloggyful Time Of The Year

2011-10-25T08:34:00.000+11:00

It's almost November, which means that for the third (??) year in a row I will be participating in National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) - which is probably a good thing as my creative juices could use a bit of waking up!

Topic suggestions or questions you want answered most welcome. I'm clever, but I don't think I'm thirty days worth of clever!

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree

2011-10-23T22:23:00.001+11:00

Things I have in common with Jesus:

1. I'm Jewish.
2. I was born on December 25th.
3. I've been to Israel.
4. I quite like wearing Birkenstocks, even in cold weather.
5. I don't get my hair cut quite as often as I should.
6. I've got a mate named Mary who is a mother.
7. I've slept in a barn. On hay.
8. I know at least 3 wise men.
9. I don't mind a bit of sugar and spice and frankinsense and myrrh.
10. I enjoy wearing clothes which do not require ironing.

I've always wanted to celebrate Christmas. I love all those beautiful decorations, and the whole 'matchy matchy every year a new colour scheme' thing, and the handmade decorations kids make out of macaroni and string, and the carolling, and all the other commercialised shiny crap which comes along with modern Christmas. In short, many times in my life I really, really wanted to be able to buy trees and tinsel and baubles. Hell, I even love the WORD 'baubles.' I love how it kind of rolls off the tongue like that: bbbaawwwwbbbuuuhhlllssss. I love ALL the cheesy fibre optic, moving, singing, bell ringing, hip swaying, tinny-voiced decorations. If I was a Christmas celebrator, oh hell yes I'd have the fake snow. Even in Australia, where Christmas is a summer holiday. I would have CANS AND CANS AND CANS of that fake snow crap.

And can you imagine me with the lights?? I'd totally have one of those houses people drive by to see and need to wear sunglasses in order to not be blinded.

This week, I got my chance. The shop needs a Christmas display (one small table's worth), and I need to go and get a bunch of gorgeously Christmasssy stuff to put on the display. I wandered into ONE store today, just to gather some info on what the options were and what I might need to spend and what colour scheme I might like to go with.

OH. HOLY. NIGHT.

There is literally TONS of stuff out there for the taking. TONS. And I love it all and I want it all and the business can actually afford it...(not) all, but most of it.

The 2 metre fibre optic reindeer whose head moves from side to side.
The Santa figurine who sways his hips and rings his bell. He comes in 3 sizes!
The colour changing light box thingie which shows different Xmas themed images.
The bells. OHHHHHH the bells.
Did I mention the baubles? There are a LOT of baubles out there. Lots.
Tiny baubles the size of marbles.
Basketball sized baubles (seriously. Who knew??)
Stockings. Even stockings for DOGS.
A really really big inflatable snow globe which actually blows fake snow around.
(that's the one I liked the best. It blows snow around. FOR REAL.)

I'm pretty certain that when Biz Guy and I went through all the financials and budgets and projections and cash flows, there was no line item for "giant inflatable snow globe." (But I might double check that, just to be sure.)

Of course he *tried* to be all Biz Guy about it and ask me what the ROI was for all this crapola I wanted to buy, but I kindly ignored him. This is one of those rare times when Biz Guy can take his logical, practical advice and shove it right where Santa does not dare to go. I was fully prepared to blow a sleigh load of money in that store today and feel not one skerrick of either Jewish or Catholic guilt about it.

BAUBLES. There were *thousands* of baubles.

So.

I walked out of there with a bottle of water and a small bag of chocolate covered banana lollies...and not even one string of tinsel.

Not even the cute little Santa figurine which bobbed back and forth if you pushed it over with your finger.

Not even the itty bitty cutest baubles in the entire WORLD which were stripey. In different coloured stripes.

Not even the - SO DAMN CUTE I WILL DIE RIGHT NOW IF I DO NOT BUY IT - sparkly little table top Christmas tree which changed colours and SANG SONGS and other cool stuff.

I know, right? I wait 35 years to be let loose in the Christmas aisle...and I totally choke. Not sure what happened there, but at a guess I just got totally overwhelmed by sparkly glittery awesomeness, and my brain could not handle the adorable overload.

The Christmas display needs to be done this week. I've got 3 days to get this stuff sorted out.

Maybe I need to go the Jesus route and find me some disciples to help out.

Leave Me ALONE

2011-10-23T22:02:00.002+11:00

I love being a mother, wife, friend, sister, business owner etc etc etc etc - but as much as I love being all of those things, I also love just plain BEING ALONE. My world is a noisy one. My kids talk to me endlessly, my husband talks to me (although I of course complain he does not talk enough to me, but there's another post altogether), and my gorgeous friends call or text me often. My clients call a lot (thank god. I have school fees to pay), my email beeps on my phone endlessly (thank god. I have a mortgage to pay) and in general my world is nearly never a quiet one. Even when there is no other living soul around (either virtually or physically), my brain is often going at a million miles an hour and that means that quiet - blessed, calm, sweet silence - is something I rarely ever get.

I do not know the experience of quiet contemplation, navel gazing, meditation, daydreaming, chilling out or doing nothing at all. The few times I've tried it, I've lasted all of 3.4 seconds before I get bored or my mind wanders to the shopping list or the dinner menu. My version of "quiet time" is the 20 minutes I allow myself most mornings to eat breakfast, read the paper (or check email), or read a book between the kids/gym/crazy morning routine and the time I head out the door to work in the morning. 20 minutes. That's it. I don't get it most days - but I get it a couple of times a week and that's enough for me. I used to consider my gym time as quiet time, but now there are all these annoying ladies who know me and want to TALK to me while I am there, and I have yet to master the "shut the fuck up, would you?" look in my eye as I lift the hand weights.

Various things have conspired in my life in recent weeks so that my beloved quiet time (well, the emzee version of quiet) is disrupted - and I didn't realise quite how much this is annoying me until this afternoon. Through some clever planning on my part, this afternoon I had about 25 minutes on my own in a shopping mall, and then went to see a girly movie all by myself (kids and DH were at boy/kid movies). Rather than enjoy it, I spent most of the time feeling as crumpled as an origami crane. I struggled to really just enjoy myself. Ridiculous, right? I finally get some peace and quiet, and I didn't enjoy it much at all. I'm not entirely sure why that is - after craving my alone time, I finally get it, so I should be happy, right?

The funny thing is, I was always one of those people who believed you could rest - and be alone - when you're dead. So now, while you are still taking breath, is when you should be hanging out with people and doing stuff and being busy. I think I still feel that way, but in recent weeks I've suddenly understood the value and joy in just being alone.I have no desire to go back to being single and childfree and anti-social. I love my life and consider myself extremely blessed to have all the noise I have...it's just that sometimes, I'd just like to be left alone.

And this, my friends, is currently my biggest guilty pleasure - that for a small block of time, a couple of times a week, I answer to NOBODY. That 20 minutes feels ridiculously decadent. I sometimes feel guilty about it, or selfish about it, or somehow even a bit wicked for coveting it as much as I do....but I'm just going to keep on trying to fit it in.

What's your guilty pleasure?

Never Ever Ever Give Up

2011-10-17T20:03:00.000+11:00

This is a story about a pastry chef on a mission. I'm sure there is a lesson here somewhere if you look hard enough.

Some months ago I had a sudden inexplicable urge for torrone - which is Italian nougat made (usually) with some very simple ingredients: honey, glucose, egg whites, and nuts of some kind (often almonds or pistachios.) I've got no idea WHY I wanted some, but I did. I do adore meringue (and that's pretty much all it is), so it's possible I was after a non-meringuey yet meringue-ish fix.

Torrone is temperamental as hell to make, but I decided to give it a go anyway - because I'm just painful and determined like that. It definitely falls into the category of things to which my sister would say, "I don't get it. You can walk into a store and BUY some perfectly good ones. Why on earth would you MAKE it yourself?" She has at various times said this to me about bread, jam, conserves, pickles, biscuits, cordials and all sorts of other stuff readily available in shops. It never stops me though - because I adore the challenge of it.

Without further ado, emzee makes Torrone in 5 Acts:

Attempt #1 - Pistachio - I was lacking almost everything one needs (sugar thermometer, rice paper, the patience of a saint) but gave it a go anyway with a dodgy recipe from a dodgy cookbook. Result: Tastes fab, but was so sticky it removed most dentures and you needed a tiny little crow bar to get it off the plate. But you know, you really *wanted* that crow bar because it tasted amazing.

Attempt #2 - Almond - Still no rice paper, no thermometer, but a brilliant fool proof recipe from my friend The Sicilian, who is basically the grand poo-bah of torrone making. It's practically what she uses as mortar for her house. She also said a thermometer was a useless item for this exercise. Result: Tasted good, but never set so it was a runny sticky mass which was impossible to remove from the tin at all unless you froze it. So we did - freeze it I mean - then chopped it into small pieces and mixed it into vanilla ice cream. OMG. YUM. But sadly not exactly what I wanted.

Attempt #3 - Almond - Back to recipe #1 but this time with almonds and doubling the recipe and WITH said sugar thermometer. Result: Disaster and a half. So hard it would break the dentures you replaced from the last effort. Pretty sure I'm still picking it out of my back molars.

Attempt #4 - Pistachio and Cranberry - Downloaded a recipe from the internet with a bunch of good reviews and even a video on how to do it. Epic fail. Pretty sure this one just landed in the bin altogether - after lots of judicious tasting though. (Can't let ten bucks of ingredients go to waste, can we?!)

....and then I gave up for a while, but not before buying two giant packets of rice paper and shoving them down the back of the pantry. "Meh," I figured, "I'll do it eventually." This exercise was getting *very* expensive - what with all the nuts and glucose and whatnot. That was about 8 weeks ago. Last week I was in a doctor's waiting room, reading a copy of Gourmet Traveller. I flicked to a page which had a recipe for Pistachio nougat...and I thought, "Hey, this recipe kinda looks familiar!" I flicked to the front of the magazine and realised it was over 10 years old (it's a doctor's office, what do you expect?). I also realised I HAD this recipe in my giant binder of "someday I will make all of these" recipes which I've copied, begged, borrowed, stolen and written onto the backs of envelopes.

With renewed interest in torrone making, I went back to it - using my photocopied recipe, with the sugar thermometer AND the rice paper. I attempted a vanilla and almond version (yes, I know, not what the recipe called for, but it's all I had on hand.

It was perfect. Absolutely, gloriously, deliciously, delectably, amazingly PERFECT.

Tasted brilliant, texture was brilliant, and it was just DIVINE. I am fairly certain the heavens opened up and the angels sang as I took my first bite of it.

The only minor complication was that I failed to grease the sides of the torrone tin, so it did require some blood, sweat and tears to get the slab out of the tin around the edges...but once I did, it was SO worth it. Seriously, ridiculously awesomely awesome torrone.

Problem? Now that I've achieved it, I'm bereft without a decent culinary challenge. I've made my own sourdough (and lots of other breads, including one which had a 3 WEEK long starter), various jams/chutneys/preserved/pickled goods, nut mixes and muesli and granolas, hell, I've even made fortune cookies from scratch. In short, I love making all the kinds of things one can buy at a shop but it's way more fun to do at home.

Suggestions for something new to drive me crazy are most welcome - and if you'd like some torrone...well, sorry. Ate it. ALL.

The Balebuste Gene

2011-10-16T22:00:00.004+11:00

Balebuste (Bah-leh-boos-teh) - Yiddish word which loosely translated means "hostess with the mostess."

DH and I are the kind of people who quite enjoy hosting family and friends over for various affairs of the 'eat drink and be merry' variety. Sometimes it's a regular gig, where it's just a friend coming over to watch a regular TV show with us and enjoy a family meal. Sometimes it's a more formal but regular gig, like a Friday night meal of several courses and with several family members, and sometimes it's a "all in for a BBQ" sort of thing. In any case we entertain fairly often and I really like it. I've noticed, though, that other people are not like this...and it amuses me no end when we go to someone's house and they seem to be totally lacking the Balebuste gene. I know they mean well, but...really...when they're serving a Hawaiian themed meal and you're anaphylactic to pineapple, there is no hiding who among us has the Balebuste gene and who does not. While I would not say that I am the world's best hostess, I like to think I've worked out some of the 'rules' involved in having people over.

Mind you, the rules are flexible based on who the guest is and what sort of meal it is, but generally speaking, if you're going to be a Balebuste, you really should not:

1) Yell at your kid in front of guests, unless said kid has burned the house down, or just walked away with a fistful of matches, some lighter fluid and an evil glint in their eye. Really, yelling at your kid is embarassing for them, embarassing for the guest, and surely something which can wait until later. Really. It is.

2) Tell your guests off for not using the right cutlery at the right time and then refusing to get them the correct piece, which means they then need to eat their mousse with a knife as a result. Ummm..yeah. You're meant to go get me another spoon even if it means YOU are left eating your mousse with a ginsu knife.

3) Wait to serve your guests still the end. Serve your guests first no matter how whingy your kid is. If you serve the guest last and there is not enough to go around...it's just awkward. You as hostess are kinda required to have the small mangy bits left at the end. Suffer. It's what a Balebuste does.

4) And speaking of - there needs to be more than one potato per person. Especially if they are small ones and even if they are not.

5) Find out ahead of time that your guest is deathly allergic to or really really hates (insert ingredient here) and then DO NOT put (ingredient) anywhere in anything you serve that night. I do not give a shit if your signature dish is pineapple flambe. Learn to flambe some other fruit. Or whatever.

6) Do not at any time say, "Right, well, you've eaten me out of house and home, now, time to go!" and shoo your guests out the door within 5 seconds of their last bite passing their lips. Being a decent hostess does actually involve more than feeding people (although that's the main bit.)

7) Leave the toilet bereft of paper or soap. Just...gross. Toilet paper and soap need to be bountiful. Always.

8) Actually *be prepared* that you've got guests coming over. This means the table is set, the food is cooking or on it's way to be cooked, you've got clean dishes organised, you are not in your pyjamas eating a take away. It will save you opening the door and trying to look like you did not forget people were coming (hint: the pj's and noodles were a dead giveaway.)

9) Fail to eat at the table. Oh, I hate this one. I don't understand hosting people and then spending the entire night in the kitchen or doing dishes. You actually need to BE THERE to be a host. You've got to keep the conversation going (not abandon everyone to their own devices), keep the drinks flowing, make sure everyone is well looked after, and the dog is not throwing up in the corner. You can't do ANY of that if you're hiding out in the kitchen. See #8, and get your shit together so you can eat with your guests.

and lastly,

10) Never, ever let them see you sweat. Key to this whole Balebuste thing is making it all look effortless. Eighteen course meal? EASY! Tidy house? No worries. Groomed kids? Naturally. That your bedroom closet is groaning with the crap you flung in there 10 minutes before they arrived, and that the outside trash is brimming with take away containers which held the dinner you will claim is home made? Not their damn business, that's what.

...and if you're a guest rather than the host, here are your rules:

1) Regardless of what you've been fed or not fed, how wierd their kid is, that the dog did not stop humping your leg under the table, that the cutlery had encrusted god-knows-what on it, that the meat was one step short of being suitable for shoe leather, that you were afraid to sit down anywhere because the place was so dirty....just smile and be complimentary. Learn to lie. Skillfully. It's your job as guest to pretend like everything is fine and Armageddon (eg their little angel darling) did not creep you out when her head began to spin on it's axis a la Poltergeist. Repeat after me, "It was really lovely, thank you SO much!" and then RUN LIKE HELL back to your car and pray nobody follows you.

2) Offer to help, and DO help if they take you up on it. Nobody likes a lazy guest.

and

3) On the way home swing my McD's and grab something decent to eat, make a mental note to offer to GO OUT next time these people invite you.

and
(edited to add)

4) Do not show up empty handed, it's not really that hard to buy a box of chocolate or some flowers on the way there. Showing up with nothing as a token of your thanks is just plain rude.

...and of course by writing this post, I'm fully opening myself up to the possibility of nobody wanting to come over ever again (because they know I'm hiding shit in my closet) or never inviting us over again (because I'm going to count those damn potatoes.) C'est la vie. There's always McDonald's.

** FYI none of these things have happened in recent months, so if you're reading this and thinking, "Oh shit, I'm guilt of most of that!" when we were over your place last, rest assured you were *not* the impetus for this post.

Shufflin'

2011-10-06T12:07:00.001+11:00

Several months back, DS and DH and I embarked on the Couch to 5K Running Program. I've done this before but wanted to tackle it again, so I recruited my son and husband to suffer right along with me. I was actually quite surprised at their enthusiasm to join me - for either of them, athletic pursuits are not exactly high on the priority list. So we got all enthusiastic, set a start date, invested in a stop watch, bought new runners, and christened ourselves "Team Shufflin'" (as in the shufflin' in the song Party Rock Anthem). We were determined to set the running world on fire.

Most amazing of all was my son's transformation over this time period - in the first few weeks he whinged about it, grumbled about it, and made as much of a half-assed effort as one can make. He would quite literally drag his heels along the pavement, in what was meant to be running but was a bit closer to galumphing. I'll admit it, I caved in and told him he could quit if he wanted to - no guilt, no giving him a hard time, he could just throw in the towel and I wouldn't be fussed.

If I'm honest, it was ME who wanted to throw in the towel. Firstly because I did not morph into a natural runner between the last time I did this program and now (can't seem to fall into that rhythm that real runners talk about) and secondly because Melbourne at 6am is dark and really damn cold. God love this kid, though, he refused to give in. Never mind that he hated it, that he would literally cry almost every morning before leaving the house, that it made him tired for the rest of the day, and that he would rather be anywhere in the world other than in that cold carpark. He just doggedly went about it, and eventually the tears stopped and he'd be the one bouncing down the stairs in the morning.

Then DH started to limp a bit, and then his run (faster than either me or our son) slowed a bit, and then he'd cringe with every step...and then it was all over. He'd done something or other to his foot, and the GP and podiatrist told him his running career was effectively over.

I wasn't too sad. I was cold. It was dark. I hated every second of it. Running ceased being fun about 5 seconds after the first session of it was over. While I wish my darling husband no pain, frankly, I was kinda glad he was down for the count.

My son, however, was not willing to give up on this for even one second. "It's okay, Mum," he said, "You and I can just keep shufflin'." He decided that it was unfair to leave Dad in the dust, so we'd stop the C25K but keep on walking together, and then when DH was capable again, we'd take up the running again. Oh. Damn. Really?

I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry - laugh because my boy was showing all the qualities I'd like him to have, and cry because I'd much rather have slept in those cold, dark mornings. He was very insistent, my boy. Very. As in he would set his alarm early enough to bound down the steps, wake my lazy ass up, and then go lace up his shoes, clip the lead on the dog, and wait for me to be ready.

It's been several months now that my son and I have a standing date for 'shufflin' twice a week - sometimes 3 times if my work schedule allows. The night before we go, when I tuck him in he always says in a sing song voice, "Mum - Tomorrow we are shufflin'..." and smiles about it. The seasons are changing, and it's not nearly as cold and dark in the mornings as it used to be - and both of us are quite enjoying the time alone together (but I'm no better at enjoying the morning wake up time.)

I've got no idea how long this little quiet routine of ours will go on - and I have no expectations of it going on forever, but for now, it's really a nice thing we've got going. Some mornings he talks ten to the dozen (gee, I wonder who he gets that from?) and some mornings neither of us say much at all. Some mornings we really set a cracking pace, other mornings we just sort of slowly meander along. This morning I asked him why he is so keen to go shufflin' with me...and in true boy style he looked at me as though that was quite possibly the stupidest question on earth. He shrugged and said, "Well, I guess just because I like shufflin'. And I like being with my Mum."

So I guess tomorrow we'll go shufflin'....

On Nerd's Honour

2011-10-02T21:19:00.001+11:00

Two of my three kids are involved in the Scouting movement - and this makes for some very entertaining moments. Now I don't know about you, but as long as I've known it existed, Scouts has had one of those "love to hate it, hate to need it," reputations. Scouts are the kids we all think of as being the big ol' nerdy burgers wearing ridiculous outfits who we poke fun at...but then we get lost in the woods with no mobile phone and it's damn certain it's going to be those nerdy Scouts who will save your ass from certain death. And it's going to be their little kerchief thing which makes the tourniquet which keeps you from getting blood poisoning from the bear bite which you got because you ignored the Scout's advice to not eat a drippy meaty Big Mac right on top of a bear house.

So we love to hate them, but god help us if we are in the woods without one at our side. Me, I let my kids join up purely because I knew at some point in my life I would need to build a fire using only a hat and a scrap of paper.

Two of my kids are Scouts - or more accurately, I've got one Cub and one Brownie at my house. Recently I decided to get more involved in the kids' lives, so I joined the parent committee of the Boy Scouts. Oh, Lord. There was an entire *discussion* about this whole "Scouts are nerds" thing, because apparently most of these parents (themselves ex-Scouts) had NO idea that this reputation was around. Those who did know about it thought that they had somehow 'outgrown' this reputation - and it took the females of the group to remind them that, no, sorry boys, but you've always been nerds and probably always will be. There was an entire discussion about recruiting more kids to Scouts, and how some of the (very active) current Scouts themselves don't want to recruit because it makes them seem UNCOOL to their friends (but secretly they're loving that whole knot tying thing.)

There were parents who were somehow surprised by this. Oh you poor, poor delusional souls.

Today, we dropped off my DD1 at Girl Guide camp - an experience which she loves, adores, begs to go to and will not stop talking about for weeks before and weeks after said camp. The girls who are running the camp are themselves Rovers - older Girl Guides - and never have you met a nicer, sweeter group of young ladies. Sorry to say, though - every last one of them is a complete and utter nerd, of the extreme variety. Moustaches, poor skin and all (oh how I only wish I was kidding about that moustache thing...) I jokingly said to DH on the way out, "What? Do you HAVE to be a member of the nerd squad to be a Guide, or what?" to which he just laughed self consciously (he would. He's an ex-Scout himself.)

Don't get me wrong, here - I'm not deriding either these organisations OR these amazing kids. I wouldn't let either of my kids have joined if I did not think they would enjoy it, learn a lot of life skills, and basically have the time of their lives. And as a self-confessed card-carrying nerd myself, I totally think it's AWESOME that there is an entire WORLD ORGANISATION dedicated to the world of nerding. It's freakin' AWESOME. I truly think that it's not the meek who shall inherit the earth, it's the nerds.

I think an ad agency needs to take on the mantle of improving the reputation of Scouting across the globe - but in such a way as to keep the cool kids out. Because once Scouting becomes cool, it's going to lose it's inherent fabulous nature. Scouts relies on being filled entirely with nerds because who on Earth is going to save the world when the cool kids fuck it up totally?

I'm seeing a tag line something like this:

"Cool Kids. They're what's for dinner."
(When there are no Scouts around to stop the bears.)

So You Want To Be Famous?

2011-09-30T17:43:00.002+10:00

The business is growing, and along with that business is coming an interesting array of dilemmas I never thought I'd need to worry about. One of these is the prickly-sticky-landmine world of public relations. In specific, if the business as a whole - and me as an individual - should engage the (very expensive) services of a (very capable superstar) PR company.

On the one hand, having worked so damn hard for so damn long, it seems like some sort of crime to not be shouting from the rooftops that the company exists. It's not like our name is not gaining recognition, it's not like our reputation is not a great one, it's not like we are not acquiring plenty of 'friends' (of the real and facebook variety.) A lot of the growth is happening, but if we were to go the PR route, it would happen a LOT faster and in a lot BIGGER way.

Every PR company I've spoken to believes that it's *me* who needs to be the selling point of this company. On the surface of it, I agree with that. I know I'm a good story, shit, I know I'm a GREAT story - and that the triplet angle helps, the story about the whole school/work thing helps, and I've got heaps of sound byte material just in my mad crazy everyday life. I get that part of it, and I have no objection to it, either. Actually, I'm kinda embracing that idea - more than I ever thought I would, actually.

I recently had a (very) brief chat with Biz Guy about this very topic because on occasion, Biz Guy seems to know me better than I know myself (which is a story for another day) and I knew he'd have an opinion. He's been on the receiving end of texts which say things like, "I would rather shove jalapeno-tipped red hot pokers in my eyes than go to this networking event," and "If I need to spend another minute making small talk and drinking watered down Diet Coke I shall start to internally combust and it won't be pretty," and "Please? Please don't make me to go this event! I'll shine your shoes for like, an eternity, or something. PLEASE?!" and "Me? Give a speech to other entrepreneurs? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND?" So suffice it to say he harbours a few ... concerns... about this whole PR thing, more specifically how she-who-hates-networking would cope with all the attention it has the potential to bring.

He has a point there, he really does (and this is why we pay him the not-so-big money)...but in this case, I disagree with him. I *love* this idea of getting out there and talking about the business - because it forces me to go out there and do *exactly* the very thing I want to do - which is to inspire people. I want other women to know that you can have a career you love, a family which is loving, and a life which is your own. I want people to know that EVERYTHING is possible, even those things which seem so far away and so out of reach. I want people to dream big and think big and just ACT big until they ARE big.

I need my life to be about more than just making cake. Yes, in a way, it's already about more than that, because every day of my (working) life I make people happy - and that in itself is a blessing beyond all measure.

But, you know, it's really not enough.

There is much, much more for me to do here. My life, my story, needs to be the proverbial stone thrown into the pond.

Maybe that's selfish of me, to want more out of this life than just a life. I want to influence. Encourage. Help. Mentor. Inspire. Cheer up. I want to colour other people's lives. I want others to do amazing things because they just needed someone to tell them they could. I want others to do amazing things just because they saw that *I* did it, and "if she can, I can."

And yes, I know PR is about generating sales and making a million dollars and having people hate you as much as they love you. But if having to accept the not-so-happy side of PR means I can potentially spread the "you can do it!" message far and wide...well, I'm willing to accept all of that. Ultimately, I'm a businesswoman who needs to make a living so her family can eat. And that comes first, of course it does. But if along the way I can somehow convince others of their own strength...well, you know, that's just about the biggest silver lining EVER.

The only itty bitty teeny tiny fly in the ointment here is that along with PR comes things like media training, and make-up and whatever not...and that freaks me out just the tiniest, tiniest bit. Let's face it, the frizzy haired, curse-word-loving, jeans-and-t-shirt wearing, rough-around-the-edges tomboy hasn't done too badly for herself. If along the way I had to lose her in order to get the bigger message across...and I suddenly had smooth hair and perfect speech and clothes which require actual ironing and I looked - gasp! - polished...well, I'm not sure the message would be the same.

I'm not entirely sure 'polished' is a word I'd like associated with me. Perhaps 'iced' works better?

This all requires more thinking.

Miracles Great and Small

2011-09-30T17:00:00.004+10:00

Eleven years ago, I had to leave temple in the middle of Rosh Hashana services so the doctor could implant my three "perfect quality" embryos. Religiously speaking, I am on the spectrum of enjoying a healthy dose of scepticism mixed with tradition. I'm not all that convinced about the efficacy of the praying business but then I firmly fall into the "well, it can't hurt!" camp as well. That morning I sat in temple and prayed my not-so-little ass off that the Big Man Upstairs would look after me and my embies which I was about to go and pick up.

Jews are jews, though, so somewhere in those prayers was a, "And listen, I'm *really* sorry but I've got to duck out of this whole praying thing a little early so I make it to my appointment on time. I know, I know, the sermon is the boring bit anyway, but you know, the poor rabbi only gets a decent audience once a year and then I'm going to go and kinda heckle him by leaving right before he starts yammering..." So I asked for peace, and for protection, and for life for my children, and for forgiveness from the rabbi since I was leaving right before his big speaking gig.

The non-religious part of me believes that the embies were good quality and all the scientific bits lined up all like they needed to in order to result in a pregnancy and live birth...and the religious one in me believes that on that morning, my embryos were written into the Book of Life just like I asked them to be. After all, it's the first day of the Jewish New Year that it is meant to be decided who shall live, and who shall die...and blah blah etc etc etc, very long paragaph about the haves and the have nots. "Ask and ye shall receive," has never been more true for me than on that fateful Rosh Hashana morning.

As a result, every year on Rosh Hashana, I am reminded that my kids are living, breathing proof that miracles do actually happen.

If that's not a good enough reason to believe that there are forces at work in our lives beyond what we can see and touch and hear and feel...well, I don't know what is.

Baking, A Love Story

2011-09-25T22:36:00.000+10:00

It's nearly 10pm on a Sunday night, and I am at work baking a cake full of love - my husband's birthday cake. I'm using a recipe I've never tried before, in a kitchen I've not baked in for a long while (because these days, I am fortunate enough to have a baker who does this for me, commercially speaking), surrounded by a bunch of beautiful equipment which is wonderful when one needs to bake 20 cakes at a time...but is useless if all you are making is one cake for a loved one.

I won't sugar coat this (pun very much intended) - I was a little scared when I started my little project tonight. I'm in an unfamiliar setting, using an unfamiliar recipe, and really wanting it to turn out perfectly for the person I love more than anyone else on the planet. But baking...baking is in my very bones. I relied entirely on instinct to begin. I rolled up my sleeves. I read the recipe all the way through, and the dance began. I turned on the oven, then gathered up the various bowls and measuring cups I would need to complete this cake (which by the way is a layered buttermilk and white chocolate cake filled and covered with a white chocolate and passionfruit icing).

I had my tools, started to measure out the ingredients, and while I was working, I found my heart rate slowed considerably, my breathing became much more even, my shoulders relaxed down, and I found myself singing along to the radio which was quietly playing in the background. I thought to myself, "I really LOVE baking. Really LOVE it," and let out a happy sigh and thought about all the reasons why I love to bake.

Most cooks and chefs I know (both amateurs and professionals) either love to bake or hate it. There is no real grey area - the cooking world is split into bakers and non-bakers, those who love it and those who are a little afraid of it. I believe bakers are born, not made- so in your nature is either a baking soul or there isn't. I know some brilliant chefs who need only look at a sponge recipe in order for it to fail. Similarly I know plenty of bakers who cannot manage to season a plain pasta dish. Sure, there are exceptions - but even those who are capable in both arenas find themselves inexplicably drawn very much to one area or another. "Real" chefs look down on pastry chefs, and pastry chefs just laugh because they know the 'real' chefs are just totally intimidated by the magic the pastry chefs can create.

So the world has bakers, and non-bakers.

Me, I'm a baker - and here's why:

I love that baking is firmly a scientific pursuit, and yet there are so many baking recipes out there which totally defy all logic and common sense. I love sense of comfort and peace I get from the careful measuring, the weighing, the considering, the mathematics, the formulaic nature of baking. I love that if you mess something up, either you'll end up with a complete disaster or an entirely new invention which is probably better than the one you were trying to achieve. I love the slippery, slidey greasiness of butter, the bright orangey yellow wetness of egg yolks, the powdery grainy yet smooth softness of flour, the chink-chink-chink noise that chocolate buttons make as they fall into a metal bowl from a great height. In my heart of hearts I just know when a baking recipe will work or not - and I love that every time I think, "this will never work," what results is one of the nicest, most delicious, gorgeously soft and moist delicious cakes ever made by my own hands. I love that baking recipes force you to rely on some sort of magic happening in that oven when you're not looking. I love the euphoria of sliding a hot, heaven-scented cake pan out of the oven just as much as I love the soul destroying, crushing realisation that your cake is burned or looks like it was sat upon by a very large elephant. I love that baking is based on formulas and certainty and measurement and exactness - and yet you really don't have any idea if it's worked until you lift the fork to your mouth. I love that, in baking, a synonym for 'total disaster' is 'complete genius.' I love that you can try a recipe which seems ridiculous (like the whole wheat zucchini chocolate chip bread I baked this week) and suddenly find your thoughts turning to creating an entire upside down meal whereby the vegetables are in the dessert and the sugar and chocolate is in the main course.

I love that baking radiates good intention.

I love that there are dozens of kinds of sugar and each of them act in entirely different ways in a recipe, and each have their own colour, texture, smell, and sweetness - and yet they all come from the same fields of sugar cane. I love the wrinkly squishy pointy vanilla pod - which has the power to entice lovers, affect global trade, and be a thing of great wonder and joy once you split it open. I love the muscle fatigue I feel in my arms after I've kneaded a dough for a while, or creamed some butter and sugar by hand to create a bowl full of white, fluffy, deliciously sweet peaks. I love meringue for it's fickle nature and its ability to make me laugh, cry and beg for mercy. I even love the tools of baking - the satisfying 'thunk!' of an ice cream scoop spring releasing every time you fill a cupcake paper, the sssccrrraaapppeee of the metal dough scraper as you gather up the bits of shaggy dough off the bench, the swoop of the spatula as it gathers the last scraps of ganache in the bowl, the whomp-whomp-whomp of the dough hook as it slaps your brioche dough against the sides of the bowl.

Baking is a beautiful art which engages ALL of the senses and forces you to use most of them at once. When a cake slides out of the oven, you need to use your eyes, nose and sense of touch to work out if it's cooked or not. Your sense of taste tells you if the effort was worth it, the sound of the collective "mmmm" of your friends is music to your ears when you've achieved something truly amazing. I love that baking might be scientific, but it's also inherently intuitive - it's not just about reading the recipe and following it exactly. When something I've made comes out of the oven. I love that I can just know when it's done, or could benefit from another minute or two or ten. I love that baking is a complete bastard; when I've touched it, tested it, checked it, look at it..and declared it done, only to turn it out and have the middle still be molten cake batter. I love that moment when the shaggy mess of dough in front of you suddenly, right before your very eyes, in a blink-and-you-missed-it moment turns into a bouncy, silken, smooth dough which carries in it's very core hundreds of possibilities.

I love that baking something for someone can express an entire lifetime of emotions. I love you. I'm sorry. Things will get better. Or maybe things won't get better, but right here in this very moment, you are loved. He's a lying, cheating bastard. She didn't deserve you anyway. Forgive me? I've been thinking about you. I respect your opinion. I think you need some cheering up. I need your help. You are important to me. I didn't mean it. I meant every word of it. I'll try harder next time. I listen when you talk. We will be okay.

Baking.

I love you.

Inadequate

2011-09-20T12:26:00.002+10:00

This past week I took an order from a client who asked me how I came up with the name for my business. I told her, and she let out a huge dramatic sigh and said, "Great. Now I feel *really* inadequate." I just laughed it off and told her that not everyone needs to have as many screws loose as I do. She then went on to tell me she has only one child, and does not own a business...and cannot for the life of her understand how one might fit in kids and a business and just, you know, life.

So - when you've got kids (regardless of quantity) AND you're an entrepreneur, how on earth do you manage it all?

The truth is, you don't. Or rather, you DO, but to a level of chaos you are comfortable with. You make different choices, make compromises, learn to prioritise, learn to multi-task, rely on the kindness of family, friends, and sometimes strangers...and you just muddle along like the rest of the world does.

The biggest struggle for parents in business seems to be devoting enough quality time to their business AND enough quality time to their kids. It's hard to feel as though you are giving either of those things 100% when you are so tired you can barely muster the energy to brush your teeth. It's hard to feel like you are a good parent when you are only half-listening to your little darlings prattle on while you're checking your email on your smartphone. It's hard to feel like you are a good business owner when your energy bill has a hastily-scribbled supermarket list on the back of it...and that bill was due two weeks ago. Make no mistake, there is NOTHING which is easy or simple about being a business owner and a parent. I'd even say that you are in many ways running TWO businesses - each with their own financial and emotional demands, each with challenges, daily changes which need managing, and each which need more time than you actually have to give.

I really struggled with this whole work/life thing for a very long time and I've chronicled it here many, many times. I've written about various ways I've found to cope, but I've also read myriad articles and blog posts about 'how to have it all,' 'how to be supermom,' 'why the supermom is a myth,' 'how to outsource your life and be a better parent' and so on and so forth. There is no 'one size fits all' answer to this dilemma because each family dynamic is different, each business is different, and each person has their own internal list of things which are important to them.

For me the solution to the age old question of the family/work life balance is a two step process. Depending on your personality, one or the other of these will be damn hard to do. Actually, if you're like me, they are BOTH a lot of hard work.

Step 1) Accept that you'll never be all things to all people. The sooner you accept this, the easier the balance will be. You're going to lose some clients because you are not available 24/7, you're going to upset your kids if you can't sit through all 4 hours of their recital, you're going to annoy your partner by not being a vixen in bed every night, you're going to have a messy house, you're going to probably still need to lose those 10 kilos you've been carrying around. Shit happens. Best to realise that now.

Step 2) Make a decision about what things are not negotiable, and live to that decision. In EVERYTHING you do as it relates to your family and your business. So if for you the 'not negotiable' item is being able to pick up your kids at school every day, then your business hours officially end at 3pm, Mon-Fri. Not negotiable. Maybe it's getting to the gym 3 mornings a week - so your business hours on those days don't start till 9am. Messy house not an option? Either build time into your diary specifically for cleaning, or hire a cleaner. Homemade dinner on the table every night? Learn to cook and freeze. Making millions by the time you're 25? The kids' recitals will just have to be recorded. There is NO shame in choosing you or your business time over time with your kids - but OWN that decision, and live to it. This step requires an enormous amount of discipline, but since in Step One you already know you're going to screw it up sometimes, well...maybe that's not so daunting any more. Decide on the important stuff and then make that important stuff actually HAPPEN.

Of course nothing at all in life is as black and white as the above paragraph would have you believe. All I am really saying is - if you spend a bit of time to decide what's *really* important to you, and then take steps to make sure that at minimum those things are taken care of - well, anything above and beyond that is just a bonus. If you're going to spend all your time worrying about the little stuff, and getting everything only half done...well, all you're going to end up is frustrated, guilt ridden and burnt out. Decide on what's truly essential to your happiness, make those things actually HAPPEN, and suddenly you'll find yourself just that little bit calmer. Have you ever heard that expression, "If you want something done, ask a busy person"? That pretty much encapsulates my philosophy of the work/life balance. We ask the busy people to do things because it's the busy people who have things organised in such a way as to make MOST of what they want to achieve happen. The busy people have time - or can carve out time - because they know their time is precious and limited and therefore needs to be managed well in order for them to succeed at it.

I know you're thinking this all sounds terribly simplistic, right?

(insert wry grin and sarcastic laugh)

Let me share with you a little bit about my life. Mondays in particular.

Monday - first I have to get out of bed (I hate that bit.) Usually one or more kids has begged me one or more times to get up before I actually DO get up. In the morning I do my usual morning stuff (teeth, whatever) - I'll also do DD2's hair, try to make sure my kids have all done their morning ablutions and have all their stuff sorted out, get them out the door and eventually I get to the gym. I come home from the gym, and on my way to the shower will throw in a load of laundry, put away dishes, etc. I then make my way to work and do work-stuff for most of the day (you know, all that romantic entrepreneurial stuff.) I'm also highly likely to pay household bills, make some household related phone calls, try not to eat too much chocolate, and berate myself a bit for not getting more done (because I still struggle with this.) Come 4:20pm, I look up in shock and horror that it's that time already, so I quickly shove all my crap into my bag, and fly out the door to the bus stop to get the kids. Between 4:20-5:19, I make 3 lunches, clean up the kitchen, put the wet laundry into the dryer, make a decent start on dinner, remind the kids to do their chores, help with homework, and whizz around like a crazy lady. At 5:20 I take DS and DD1 out - DD1 gets dropped at Girl Scouts, then I drive DS to basketball. He and I shoot hoops for about 5-10 mins, then I sit and watch him practice. I have to leave practice 10 minutes before it ends to drive back and get DD1. She and I then drive back to basketball to pick up DS. We then all make it home, where we finish the dinner making, greet my friend who comes over for dinner every Monday, and try to get ourselves organised for the evening. So that means sorting out the rest of homework help if needed, finishing any unfinished jobs, starting a new load of laundry, washing dishes which need washing, getting the dog fed and so on and so forth. We all have a nice night together, sort out any crises of the "I have no clean uniforms" variety, and eventually the kids go to bed and my friend leaves. At which point I'll answer work emails, talk to DH a bit, facebook a bit, or clean up some more (post dinner dishes, random crap strewn about the place, etc.) At some point I will decide I need to get to bed and will get there around 11-ish - where I pretend to read (but really I'm asleep with my eyes open) and fall asleep with my bedside lamp on and my book falling out of my hand - only to wake up (or be nudged to wake up) about 7 hours later.

I'm exhausted just writing all that, and I'm sure I've forgotten some bits - but it's all done with a very helpful and supportive DH and kids who actually help out around the house a fair bit. If you think that the other days of the week are any different, let me assure you that they're not - with the notable exception that Mondays are generally the quietest day of the week for me You might also be reading that and thinking, "I don't get it. That kinda looks like she *is* doing it all. Which bits has she prioritised there? Which bits are non-negotiable?"

For me, there is only ONE bit which is not negotiable - and that's the quality of my life. As soon as doing any or all of the things I do mean that my general happiness and satisfaction with my life are compromised - ALL of them would fly right out the window. The ONLY not negotiable thing for me - as selfish as it might sound - is my happiness, and by extension, the happiness of my family. Once I figured that out, I worked out the actual day-to-day things which make me happy, and those include my health (eg the gym going), my kids' enjoyment (eg the activities I take them to), food (eg a home cooked meal every single night) and so on.

It's chaotic, it's busy, and sometimes it's exhausting - but I'm grateful every single day for the happiness my life brings me, and for now anyway it seems to be working for me. Basically, if Mama's not happy, NOBODY is happy.

If you got this far and you're still not sure what I'm trying to say, here is the Cliff Notes version: You can absolutely "have it all" - as long as you're willing to take the time to figure out what undeniably essential things are required to make your life work for you.

Independence Day

2011-09-18T22:04:00.001+10:00

I have a love/hate relationship with my children's growing independence. On the one hand, it makes my life much easier that the 3 of them can walk home from the bus stop, let themselves into the house, and get themselves showered and fed and organised (mostly) before I get home from work. On the other hand, that they can do all of this without me is bittersweet, and there are times when I find myself wishing they were not quite as independent as they are. As a result of my internal struggle with this, I find myself doing all sorts of strange things on either side of the independence coin. So - for example - today at the mall, I went and did the supermarket shopping while the four of them (my kids plus an older friend) went and had a look round at the shops which attract pre-teens (eg those which stock stationary and/or really crappy costume jewellery.) It's the first time I've let them be on their own in the mall - and it was in a group, they were phone-contactable, the entire elapsed time was about 45 minutes, and they got a whole lecture about sticking together - but still. Off they went, happy as clams - and I got an earful of whining when it was time to leave because they were having a grand old time. I was so proud of them (and a little bit scared for them) for having their very first 'on their own in a shopping megalith' experience.

And yet - I am certain that I will sit and cry bucket loads of tears the day DD2 does NOT burst into my room of a morning, complaining bitterly that I am not up yet to help her do her hair for her (she has yet to learn to self-braid her hair, and she wears braids nearly every day.) I love that my not-so-little girl still wants her Mum to do her hair. I love that she HAS such long hair to play with in the first place (something my own Mom never allowed) and I love that it's something we do together every single day. I'm secretly hoping that when she's 21 she will still let me braid her hair for her once in a while (and then as now she will complain that I'm pulling too hard, that it's too lumpy or uneven, and that I didn't get up in time.)

Interestingly for me, as time goes on I am reminded that DH and I are actually quite liberal in our thoughts about independence. I have often used the expression, "We give our children two gifts in life - we give them roots, and we give them wings," to explain our parenting philosophy as it comes to independence - but I've recently come across examples of how other parents do things which reminds me that we do not necessarily have it either right or wrong.

I'm in no way saying our way is better or worse, I'm not sitting in judgement here - I'm just saying that it's interesting to see how others do things. To whit:

We recently had dinner with friends at their home- and their 17 year old son insisted that his Mum serve him his vegetables because he "didn't know how much to take." The boy got increasingly insistent about it - pretty much wheedled and whined at her - and god bless her, but his Mum stood up from her spot, went over to him, and served him his vegetables. Me being me, I had to open my big fat mouth and ask WHY he needed his Mum's help. Was it because he could not gauge his own hunger? Because he was not sure what the polite thing to do was? Because...?? His answer was that he "...just never knows how much to serve himself and she does." I have to say, that one left me kinda speechless.

This child is one lucky kid to be as loved as he is - because if I'd pulled that stunt on my parents, I never would have survived my childhood.. As for my own kids - I would understand it if my kids asked (as they often do), "How much may I have? Is there enough for me to have 2 or 3 bits?" but to need to be served like a baby? ....at 17, not knowing how much to serve oneself seems a tad ridiculous. I truly think this boy is blessed to be as well looked after as he is - and there is something to be said for a Mum who will go so far for her kids. I found it quite amazing.

Then I met another couple - who live out in country Victoria, 3 1/2 hours outside of Melbourne - who for the last 4 days have let their 15 year old son and 13 year old daughter look after themselves entirely while their parents were working in the city. These kids had to get themselves to/from school, out to social events, cook for themselves, etc - on Saturday night they went to a footy game which was 80km away from home, on Friday the son had to get himself home via two trains and a bus, etc. Now admittedly, we are talking about country kids - where independence is a much more common thing from a much younger age and in a small town where everyone knows everyone (and therefore the kids were being looked after even if they were not being "looked after").

I spoke to the Mum about this at length - and she simply said, "Well, they need to learn how to look after themselves. I've got a phone, they've got a phone, they know what to do in an emergency, they can always resort to cereal for dinner if need be, and that's pretty much it." She was so nonchalant about it all - I asked he if she ever felt sad that they were so capable and independent. "Not really," she said, "Because I grew up like that, too. If I made it home for dinner in time, nobody asked any questions about where I had been or what I'd been doing...and if I was up to no good, my Mum would hear about it eventually from one of the neighbours, so there was no point in getting up to no good!"

Fascinating, fascinating stuff in BOTH of those situations. City kids versus country kids, coddling versus setting free, cultural differences, generational differences, socially acceptable 'rules' and so on - so MANY factors go into our parenting decisions. The old 'different strokes for different folks' saying is so true in the parenting arena. We each just do what we are comfortable with, and ultimately hope our kids grow up into decent and responsible human beings.

For my money, though, I want my kids to be able to serve themselves but need Mum to do their braids every morning until the day they die. Surely that's not being unrealistic?

Longest Overnight Ever

2011-08-22T23:01:00.002+10:00

This week I had a really nice chat to my Mom. We haven't spoken much in a few weeks, so it was really great to catch up with her. She gets the business newsletter, so she knows about all the comings and goings in the biz, including that I've recently hired my 4th employee (and I am one of those 4.) In the conversation she told me over and over how proud of me she is, and what a great job I'm doing. It was really nice to hear - I suspect no matter how old one gets, one always seeks approval from their parents - so it was really, really nice to hear it.

My gorgeous Mom then said, "OMG! It's amazing! You're a total overnight success story!"

This gave me pause for a second or two (or three.) Overnight success story? So I said, "Overnight? Hardly, Mom, I've been working my ass off for YEARS." To which she said, "No, but it's like, all of a sudden, you're doing amazingly well."

I just had to laugh at that one. There is nothing about the business - or my life in general - which was either all of a sudden, or overnight. Heck, I even don't agree with her about the success part, either! Are things going well? Yes, knock wood, they are. Have opportunities come around which I've taken and run with to turn into big wins? Yes, of course. Do I foresee a great future for the business? Of course I do (otherwise why on earth would I bother?)

But if she - or anyone else - thinks for a minute that any of this has not been in the making for 10 years or more...they would be wrong. I've been planning this, in some small, back-of-my-mind sort of way, for YEARS. Maybe even longer than 10 years, because after all I started cake decorating when I was about 15, which was *cough**splutter**cough* 20 years ago and I knew even then that I loved it and would like to do it "for real" someday.

I mentioned this conversation to someone, and that person (forgive me, mystery person, I can't remember who you are) said, "The average time span for an overnight success is something like ten years."

Overnight successes only appear so on the surface of it - underneath the surface that business owner is sporting some massively toned calves from running like hell for the past ten years.

Am I hugely proud of what I've achieved? Ehhh.. mostly. Because I don't think I've reached (and may never reach) the point at which I can sit back and think, "Ahh! Now I've done it!" I've got a fair few years of running left to go before I'll even consider that I've achieved much at all.

In the meantime, though, I'm happy to be an overnight success in my Mom's eyes - because frankly, if she had ANY idea of the real madness of my life, the real day to day sacrifices I make, the stupid things I do and the crazy risks I take...she might not be as impressed with me. For now, I'm happy just to bask in her affection and pride and take them to heart.

Ultimately, it doesn't really matter how long it took me to get there. That I AM getting there is important enough.

But, damn, it's been one very long night.

Fix it and Stop Your Whining

2011-08-21T21:33:00.004+10:00

I expect a fair amount from my kids - they've got chores to do which they do not get paid for, I expect them to keep track of their homework, they are expected to help around the house with non-chore jobs, and in general DH and I expect them to be responsible members of their community and their family. Sometimes I think we are a bit too demanding of them - not strict (we are anything but strict) - but we do imbue them with a feeling of responsibility for a lot of things. Sometimes a situation comes along which reinforces this concept. Allow me to share a story of how my work life and my home life collide - literally.

This past Friday was a bit of a hairy one for me, and so the kids walked to the shop to meet me (rather than head home.) I asked DS to help me carry a large (150 pax) cake out the door - we had tons of other stuff to carry, the car was parked around the corner, and a slightly dodgy back meant the crate was just that bit too heavy for me. It's not an unusual request to make, my kids have been helping (in an age appropriate sort of way) with the business for most of their lives.

So as we are walking to the car (me and DS at either end of the crate), he stumbles on a bit of uneven ground, falls down and drops his end of the crate, which causes me to drop my end of the crate. As he went down, the cake went down as well - and slid right off it's board and smashed into the side of the crate. You can just imagine the look of horror on ALL of our faces. Quicker than quick, I grabbed the crate and headed full pelt back to the shop with the kiddos chasing behind.

Good news is, the cake itself was unharmed. Bad news, the icing and decoration was totally stuffed, and had to be fixed ASAP because the cake was to be delivered very early the next day.

DS, understandably, felt horrible about it. Kept telling me he was sorry, cried, did that thing kids do when they talk to themselves under their breath about how dumb they are and how sorry they feel, and basically looked for all the world like his world was crumbling.

I let him have a few minutes of pity - because sometimes, you just NEED to feel the self pity - and then I got him to fix the cake with me. He had to stand there, looking at the mess of icing and bench full of now-unusable fondant, and smooth the new icing on, help me put the ribbon back, check the positioning of the text, clean up the cake board and so on. He didn't want to, but I MADE HIM do it. Maybe some people think this is mean - but there was a huge lesson to be learned here. You screw it up, you need to then FIX IT, because standing around feeling sorry for yourself and crying is not going to improve the situation one iota.

Of course, I did give him a massive hug (several, actually) and explain that accidents happen, that I've dropped cakes in my time (and figurines, and sugar flowers, and cupcakes, and and and and...) and that he was not at fault. Poor kid just stumbled and it could have happened to anyone, and it was not preventable. After he got the love and affection, he then got the - ON WITH IT, BOY - because there is no time for sitting around and moping. NONE. The cake *had* to be fixed. It *had* to be delivered. Life had to go on, and we had to fix something we had royally screwed up.

I think these days so many people screw stuff up, feel shit about it, but then somehow don't ever understand that unless you pick yourself up and get on with the job of fixing it, nothing will improve. So many in my generation whine endlessly about their dead end jobs, their shit partners, their horrible financial situations, their 20 kilos they can't shift, their broken cars or houses or relationships...but then don't ever do anything to fix the situations they are in. By all means, have a good ol' whinge or cry about it - I certainly do - but then GET ON WITH THE FIXING.

In the middle of the cake fixing, my boy started to smile again. His tears dried up. He even seemed to be having a good time (of course....cake is crazy good fun,) and realised that, hey, this situation is fixable. He could DO something about his feelings of sadness and guilt and upset rather than stand around and beat himself up about it.

Was I a bit stressed, a bit shitty, a bit annoyed, a bit irritated? Oh hell yes I was - but again, none of those emotions were going to get that cake sorted out. So I felt all those things, but I got on with the job of repair. No other choice. I wish my peers would realise that the same is true of the things in their lives which are broken. Feel shit, by all means...but then get on with it.

Half an hour after that cake decided to try out the effects of gravity, it was looking brand new again. My son had learned a lesson about taking responsibility for things (even those beyond your control), and that most things in life are fixable - even the cake Mummy worked so hard on. He also learned that I wasn't ever going to be angry or mad at him in this sort of situation - that instead we would work together to make the best of it. That $225 dollar cake was worth so much more than that - because it taught my son a whole lot of lessons about life, about how to repair a cake, and about the kind of support he can expect to receive from his Mum when he buggers stuff up (which he will. He's human after all.)

I think most of my generation needs to, metaphorically speaking, learn to drop a cake and then fix a cake and stop all their endless crying about it.

And ...if you think he didn't learn even MORE lessons than those I've mentioned above, let me tell you that when the cake was all done (again) and it came time to take it out to the car, I asked for his help. To which he said, "Actually, Mum, why don't I take your bag and purse, which leaves YOU free to take the cake to the car."

Clever, clever boy.

A win for cake, and a win for my kid.

Can't ask for much more than that.

iFriend

2011-08-16T21:51:00.004+10:00

One of the 'features' of the kids' school is that they have one hell of a long bus ride both there and back. The bus is actually considered one of the integral experiences of SSOTH, because the bus is where romances start, business deals are made, allegiances are formed, and candy is sold for a ridiculous sum of money well above market value. The SSOTH is in the middle of nowhere-ville, and as such a vast majority of students take said bus to and from school every day. As these kids grow up, let me tell you, the microcosmic culture which is the SSOTH bus becomes as much a part of their education as anything else. There are plenty of lessons to be learned on the bus - and probably some I wish they didn't learn (hello sex, drugs, and rock n' roll).

My kids were lucky enough to end up on a bus full of what can only be described as PAINS IN THE ASS BULLIES. So all bloody year I've had to hear stories about what transpires on the bus ride - none of it good and all of it slightly disturbing. I'm not that shit of a mother that I didn't intervene when necessary. Now my kids bus lives are basically trouble free, and the stories have now become observations on what happens to the other kids as opposed to stories about the injustices heaped on MY kids.

Recently the discussion around the dinner table was all about how most of the kids on the bus spent their time plugged into various i-devices. Ipads, Iphones, Itunes, Idon'twantotalktoyou, Iwanttobeleftalone, Ineedashower, Iamantisocial, Iamincapableofconversationwithfellowhumans and so on. The kids were commenting about how they don't understand why people who own all these I-items are so anti-social - like when my son was watching someone play on their Nintendo DS, that kid lost the plot about being watched while playing and demanded that my son find a spot somewhere else.

The kids were a little perplexed by the reaction of the DS-playing kid, and wanted to know why these kids don't realise that bus time is for hanging out with your friends, talking about your day, finishing the homework you forgot you had, and so on. They just don't 'get' why their friends are basically tuning out at a time when they should be tuning IN to what is going on around them.

DH and I are not anti-games or anti I-devices, but we both feel pretty strongly that there is a time and a place for them, and that time is not ALL the time, nor is that place EVERY place. We have made a conscious choice not to give our kids all those things - and as much as he and I are married to our smartphones, even then we try to turn them off at night, not use them during family time, and so on. Both he and I (and now the trio to a degree) just think that we've gotten ourselves into such a connected world, we somehow have forgotten to interact with actual humans.

I find it quite sad that you can get onto the kids' bus and be amazed at just how quiet it is because the vast majority of kids' eyes are glued to an itty-bitty screen (except when all the bullies decide to fight with each other, and everyone looks up to watch.) What happened to all the stuff which is supposed to happen on the school bus? Where are the notes being passed, the lollies trading hands, the snogging in the back row? How sad that even on a 20 minute ride to school, these kids all feel they need to be entertained by something other than the people around them.

If you ask me, I think it's high time we need to teach our kids to get off their iPad, iTouch and iPhone and learn how to make some iFriends - because last I checked, no iPad will teach you the lesson that if get you a Chupa Chup on the bus for five bucks, it's a good deal.

The Cat Is Away

2011-08-11T21:02:00.002+10:00

DH left today on a trip which will take him half a globe and something like 15 hours out of my timezone. He's going to be away for almost three weeks, which at this end of his trip seems like a bloody lifetime away. It took about ten seconds for me to go from the glee of the "hooray, hooray, now the doonah is mine, all mine!" to the crash down to earth of, "oh shit, now I have to cook AND clean. Bugger."

The truth of it is, DH is the ying to my yang, the jelly to my peanut butter, the cookies in my cookies and cream - and I don't much like being without him. I actually forget just how co-dependant we are on one another until we are separated, and then I begin to panic just a wee bit and then suffer from phantom husband syndrome.

Still, he really wanted to go on this trip, and god knows I flit off to hither and yon often enough that it's high time he had a turn, too...but...geez, I miss the old bugger already and it's only been 9 hours.

It's going to be a long 3 weeks.

At least I've got the doona for company (Pro: warm and cozy. Con: Does not do dishes.)

The New Normal

2011-08-09T21:51:00.003+10:00

Today I read a quote on a weight loss blog which said, "If it's important to you, you'll find a way. If it's not, you'll find an excuse." Of late, I've been feeling a little...bored...when it comes to this whole weight loss thing and so this quote really spoke to me. I must admit, I wondered if I am making excuses (and therefore doing idiotic things) because I lack a goal. I have no specific numeric goal in mind, no magic number I want to reach. This is FAR different to my previous efforts, actually, where I believed that unless I has a goal - a whole series of goals, actually - I'd never succeed at this.

Then I remembered something I had told myself a long time ago - which is that the goal is just to have being at a healthy weight become normal.

You know that whole thing about setting small goals and giving yourself rewards at each step along the way? I totally used to do that. But then what happens when you reach the LAST goal? I'll tell you exactly what happens. You celebrate reaching goal by eating out at a fabulous restaurant and eating the whole bread basket before your starter has arrived. And then you flail around like the proverbial beached whale because you are now lacking in purpose. You're lacking in a goal - an end point - a "almost there, nearly there, going to get there, GOT THERE!" experience - and so you are lacking in a way to keep yourself mentally busy and committed to lettuce leaf sandwiches and 40 minutes on the treadmill. So, you fall off the wagon spectacularly. I mean SPECTACULARLY. Because - doing it for no reward? Why bother?

Frankly, I'll be honest with you. Being devoted to exercise and weight loss is very, very time consuming. It eats up (pun intended) a whole LOT of your real time, and a whole lot of your brain time. It's like having a second full time job. It quite literally consumes you.

This is not to say I am not a believer in goals, because I am nothing if not an over-achiever, and the best way to do that is to set a goal and then smash the shit out of it. This time, though, this time is different. Because there is no goal. No end point. No nothing except living a happy, healthy life to the best of my ability. I just want being this weight to be the status quo.

And you know...normal...is kinda boring.

Because ...this means that I will miss a few gym sessions. Or maybe go to the gym, but once in a while NOT put in 110% effort. Or, like today, eat a shit load of lollies (OMG have you *tried* choc covered milk bottles? Because those damn things need their own religion, or something.) Or...just eat whatever the hell I feel like for a couple of days in a row. BUT this also means that I *know* that the "goal" (such as it were) is just to 'keep on keeping on'...and so I'll be back at the gym tomorrow. I'll buy something horrid to eat, relish that first bite, and throw the rest out (yes, I really do this. Often. And often because the item never lives up to how good it is in my head, and calories for things which are not worth it? Not my scene any more.) Or I might not buy anything horrid at all for weeks and weeks on end. I might be so perfect as to need a halo.

I'll have my good days, my bad days, my GREAT days, my HORRID days...but what I've come to realise is, THIS IS THE NEW NORMAL. The new normal goes to the gym like she said she would. The new normal walks to work sometimes, just for fun - and who knew, but for the new normal, walking IS fun. The new normal gets up off her ass to do stuff she would previously have gotten other people to do. The new normal voluntarily exercises on the weekend with her family. The new normal eats too many lollies once in a while, but it's not really a big deal. The new normal is just that...normal. Easy. Simple.

I may never be entirely happy with my dress size or the numbers which flash on the scale...but you know what? I don't really care any more. Because it's important to me, and so every single day of my life, I am finding a way. Some days, I'm still making excuses. Hell, some HOURS I am still making excuses. But you know, living a life without a food or exercise or weight loss goal...is exceptionally liberating. To not be held hostage to the constant thinking about it is just...so wonderfully CALM.

And, honestly, the most difficult part of weight loss? The mental shift in realising that you don't need goals to do this. At all. And realising that there is no end point (for me anyway), because I don't really need one.

The new normal does not need to think about food and weight and gym all the time...because it's important to her. And ultimately, it being important - is the most important goal of all.

To Thine Own Self Be True

2011-07-31T20:38:00.002+10:00

Thanks, Cam, for the title to this post - because it pretty much says what I've been thinking all along about this whole issue of readers I wish were not readers.

Two different quotes were presented to me this week, both of which I think define why I won't stop blogging. I may need (or choose) to censor just a bit more, but ultimately I cannot really bear the thought of ending this. I've spent, what? - 4 years? 5? chronicalling my life, my children's lives, my successes, my failures, my "what the...?" moments and my "other mothers are bitches" moments, and I'll be damned if I am going to stop now. In my real life, I am as honest and open as the day is long - irritatingly so, actually, since I lack a filter I often piss people off or hurt people's feelings and don't seem to notice. (Good thing I'm so damn lovable that most people forgive me.)

So, to somehow not be true to myself, to not wear my heart on my sleeve because I am worried about who is reading..well... fuck that. Not going to do it. Which brings me back to my two relevant quotes.

One was - "What other people think of you is none of your business."

Digest that for a second, will you? We all care *so much* about what other people think of us, but really, it has very little to do with us at all, because it's filtered through their own issues and dramas and life view. Ergo, not our bloody business.

The second one was from Judith Lucy, an Australian comedienne best known for ... *drum roll*... putting it ALL out there. She is all about the no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners, brutal honesty school of comedy. She regularly documents her life - and especially the ugly bits - in her shows.

She said, "Whenever I hear that someone's a very private person, I honestly wonder why. Aren't we all in this shit sandwich together? Everyone makes mistakes, everyone's family's nuts, we've all done things we wish we hadn't."

So there you go. I'm going to keep on blogging, because I'm unique...just like everybody else.

Bugger, bugger, damn and bugger!

2011-07-28T21:02:00.004+10:00

I found out today that there are a couple of people who read this blog which I do not want to read this blog.

*cringes and waves to people who do not know I do not want them here*

I know, I know, the very nature of blogging is that you can't control who is reading what you write, and the nature of ME is that I'm no good at controlling what I blog about.

But - this makes me really very uncomfortable. Mostly because I had no idea that this blog was even known to said people. Of course it's not like this blog is a secret or anything, but...

Bugger, bugger, damn and bugger. This actually will dramatically change what I think I can and cannot say on this blog, and as we all know, censorship here is so NOT what I am about..but... ARGH.

Now what?

A) Get over it, I put shit out there for so long, what does it matter now?
B) Stop blogging. Yeah, right.
C) Start a new blog which is password protected and therefore only readable by the cool kids
D) Keep blogging, but censor or at least try to, or
E) ???

Votes welcome in the comments below. I'm really quite feeling all ruffled feathers by this.

Bugger, bugger, damn and bugger. I hate it when the mean kids take my toys away.

All I Need Is A Broom

2011-07-27T20:37:00.003+10:00

When my Mom visits me, invariably after a couple of days of watching my normal life unfold, she shakes her head and me and says, "Emzee? All you really need is a broom!" The comment refers to a Hebrew saying that all a busy person needs (to make their life even more crazy of course), is a broom shoved up their bum to complete things. Not an expression I've ever really understood, but there you go.

These days, I'm feeling like I need a broom. Life is hurtling along at warp speed, and I am in constant motion from the minute I wake up (or more realistically, get shaken awake by DD2 saying, "Mum. Seriously. You need to get up now!") to the minute I realise that the words on the page of my book are literally doing the backstroke. I quite literally cannot find the time to pee.

Enter poor Biz Guy, who in the midst of a normal conversation today suggested that I needed to add in a few admin tasks to a process I was already doing, or at least trying to do.

*cue emzee going ape-shit at Biz Guy*

*cue Biz Guy wondering what the hell he did to deserve it, and then telling me I was just being resistant to his idea (big mistake, that.)*

*cue me resisting the urge to hurl a grenade through the phone*

Later on, when I started to breathe again, and had the chance to review why exactly I went mental at the poor man (and admittedly felt the teeny-tiniest bit of remorse)..the saying about the broom occurred to me. The problem with running and running and running all day and all night is that you already feel so damn busy, the very idea of MORE things to make you even busier makes you feel somewhat homicidal. In my case especially, I am finding myself looking at the lives of other people and thinking, "How the HELL do they do it?" And then, of course, I am reminded of all the posts on this blog which say, "Hey, mothers and business owners, you DON'T have to do it all! Really, it's okay."

And then I am left wondering why the hell I don't take my own advice.

I suppose it's the old "shoemaker's children" and all that.

I think I now know why the expression is all about busy people needing a broom. You use it to hit the people over the head who tell you that you need to do more things.

Of course.

Why didn't I think of that before?

Must've been too busy.

Blind Faith and Belief

2011-07-23T21:23:00.002+10:00

Recently I had the opportunity to tell two different groups of people the story of how I started the business, in specific how I did it with nearly no money. The short version is, I used up all of our savings (which was 20K exactly) to move into proper commercial premises and set up everything. Before that I'd been doing everything from my home kitchen, with no real money spent and no real money earned. I launched my hare-brained scheme by starting at the beginning of the process - eg, working out how much money I thought I would need.

I sat down and wrote out what I thought was an exhaustive list. I even have "broom" listed on there, and things like "rubbish bin" and all sorts of other itty bitty things I thought I would need. Literally I thought about EVERYTHING down to the wooden spoons and a box of tissues. Once I had the final number - gulp! - I added in enough money for 6 months worth of rent and utilities, then added a few more thousand on just for good measure, and came up with something like 17K. We had 20K available, so I took that whole amount (bit of 'play money' never hurt, right?), deposited the lot into a brand-spanking-new business banking account, and got to work.

In took about 30 seconds in my new kitchen for me to realise I needed an oven which was more suitable for cake making...and that wasn't on my list. So I was down $6,600 for an oven. Then I realised my little Kitchen Aid wasn't going to cut it, so another $1,320 went out the window for an industrial mixer. Then I realised I needed other stuff. You know, like maybe some packaging, and possibly some stickers, and what ho!- a decent website, too.

Within a week of taking on the lease of the kitchen, I was flat broke. I didn't have enough money to pay the rent for that month, let alone enough money for 6 months of rent, for that broom or that rubbish bin, and certainly not for playing of any kind. I remember sitting down with DH and saying to him, "OH SHIT. I really screwed these numbers up. Now what?!" He didn't have a terribly good answer at the time, but by the next day we happened to get our tax return refund.

Talk about being saved by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin.

The refund which we were meant to use for other stuff paid my rent that month, plus some bills. I don't know how, but I then earned enough to pay the next lot of rent, and then things just kinda kept going. By about 15 months later, I had repaid the 24K to us in full.

After telling this story, I got the reaction of, "Wow, you must have had a hell of a lot of blind faith!" and "You really believe in yourself, didn't you?"

Truth?

The answer to both of those is NO. Well, not in any conscious way. I can't remember a time when I thought, "I'll do this or die trying," or "I can't fail at this because I believe so much in it." I rented that kitchen in the first place because I felt it was the right time to move forward with it, and because I made that (subsequently ridiculous) list which TOLD ME, in black and white, that I could do it. Then when I couldn't pay the rent, inertia and a sense of obligation to repay that money propelled me forward to the next step, and the next one, and the next one.

And now here I am, moving forward in a way I never thought possible, having not only taken an entire SERIES of giant leaps forward, but also still basically making business decisions in the same way. Most of the time, I figure out the black-and-white part of it first - I make lists, take educated guesses, wear out the numbers on the calculator, ask a bunch of people for their professional opinions - and then I make a decision and move forward. The black and white is really only 50% of the decision - the other 50% I make on the basis of gut feel. If it feels right, I do it. The first year (and many, many times since) I made decisions which, on paper, looked kinda okay - because we all know how good I am at making paper lists, right? (Ahem, most bakers need a OVEN, how did that get left off the first list?) but then I took the leap. I burnt the boat. I just did what I thought needed to get done and hoped like hell (and worried a lot) about it all turning out okay.

If you asked me today, did I get this far with blind faith? Oh, hell NO. Nothing "blind" about it. I have endless...literally endless...bits of paper where I have worked stuff out and taken notes and made observations and copied sentences out of books and tried to sort out in my head what was probably hiding in my heart. Only THEN did I feel confident enough to make some sort of decision about it. And if you ask me today, did I get this far because I believed in myself? Well, that one is harder to answer, because no, I don't feel like I believe in myself that much. I am motivated much more by a feeling of obligation to my family than I am motivated by a belief that I am somehow fabulously capable of things.

It's not that I believe I CAN do it. It's that I believe I HAVE to do it.

These days, I make much more informed decisions about business matters. In part because you don't get to this point without learning at least something about how to run a business, in part because now I have even more support (thanks, Biz Guy), in part because I've gotten older, and in part because as the business has grown, I've grown. But even with ALL of that, there is still some portion of me which makes the, "Well, seems like a good idea!" sort of decisions on a whim - and while not always, it's often that those ones turn out to be the ones which pay me back in spades.

Again, do I make those "good idea' decisions because I believe in me making them work? Nope. I make those decisions because I believe I HAVE TO in order to move forward.

This week the business managed to stage a major coup in the Australian baking world. I won't go into details and bore you all, but suffice to say that suddenly, my itty bitty cake business got thrust into the spotlight, in a pretty big way. What amazes me, of course, is that it was yet another decision I made using scribbles on the back of an envelope and just a certain bit of "what the hell" chutzpah. And maybe what I call "what the hell chutzpah" really is just blind faith in another name. Either way, while I'm not convinced I necessarily have the traits people seem to think I do (namely the ones of self-belief)...well, you know, this time it turned out okay. Better than okay.

Maybe the lesson here is that the best business decisions are those made both on the backs of envelopes and WITH faith, not entirely with just ONE of those. If you're just relying on the black and white, how many things would you NOT go forward with, and then miss the opportunity of? And if you rely entirely on faith, is the fail rate higher than if you'd taken the time to work out the mechanics of it?

Either way, this week, I was filled with an enormous sense of excitement, pride, and maybe just an itty, bitty, tiny bit of belief.

Hmm. I could get used to this whole belief business.

Fourteen

2011-07-18T14:20:00.000+10:00

This week (on Wednesday to be precise) is my fourteenth wedding anniversary with DH.

I think (but am too lazy to check) that in previous years, I blogged a whole lot of lovey dovey shmoopy stuff about my DH, which brought a tear to his eye and further cemented my reputation as "most awesome wife ever." (Although admittedly, my other, ahem, "skills" might have done that for me.) (Minds out of the gutter, people, I'm talking about my cooking skills, of course.)(No I'm not.)(But you knew that.)(Oh shit my in-laws read this blog. Hi MIL AND FIL!)(*embarrassed chuckle*)

ANYWAY.

So. I thought about writing yet another "ode to the most tolerant man ever" but instead I'm going to write a list of stuff my DH does which makes me love him a little bit more every day. This in turn is going to prove that thing about women being far more attracted to the things guys do which are NOT sexy which make a good marriage last.

DH, I really love and appreciate you. But I especially love these things about you:

1. When you get out of bed (or leave the house) in the freezing cold to do yet one more irritating small job which I am too lazy and comfortable to do. Turn off the heater, pick up some milk, put on a load of laundry, put the dog out, whatever. Thank you for enduring my demands in the middle of the cold, cold night.

2. That you bring me The Epicure (foodie section of our newspaper) every single Tuesday without fail, and if perchance you DO fail, you look a little sheepish about it.

3. That you do my cake deliveries and ingredient pick ups all over town, at inconvenient times, on inconvenient days, and you don't complain about it. Actually, you've even admitted you enjoy it, which pretty much makes your halo impermeable to denting or rusting.

4. You insist on a massive hug and a kiss every single time you walk in the door - and when I look all grumpy and say, "Seriously! can I just please finish what I am doing for once?" - you stand there and patiently wait, but won't do anything else until you get your due.

5. That after 14 years of marriage, we are as sickeningly lovey dovey touchy feely shmoopy as ever. Maybe more so. And you see nothing wrong with a quick grope in the middle of a supermarket. It makes me feel loved and beautiful, and I'm grateful (much as I protest with a "in the supermarket? Really?!").

6. You tell me I'm beautiful and you MEAN it, it's not just words. That you say it when I have bad hair, bad breath, and am wearing saggy unflattering clothes and still mean it...well, see above comment about halos.

7. You give an honest (but diplomatic) opinion about things, even when you think I'm wrong (which never happens, naturally) or when you really think my ass does look big in something.

8. You're helpful with everything from the kids to the dishes to the business to satisfying my craving for popcorn at midnight. And you rarely complain about it - although if internally you were cursing me, I'd totally think that was justified. Sometimes, I'm just a seriously demanding pain in the ass.

9. That you're a far better listener than you are a fighter, so we are incapable of having an actual argument about anything. So I stand there and wail like a banshee over whatever is currently pissing me off about you, and you stand there and look kinda sad and hangdog (which pisses me off even more, of course) and the more I talk, the more you listen. So eventually all our one-sided fights end up with me crying and saying, "but it's because I really, really love you!!" (wail, wail, wail) or both of us giggling like morons through our (often shared) tears and then kissing a lot to make up for the fight we didn't really just have.

10. That you don't have a nickname for me other than just "love"....and that it sticks even when we are irritated. Everything we say, from, "Love, can you take my pants to the drycleaners?" to "Seriously, love, how freaking hard is it to finish the dishes in one go?" and lots more in between - I am reminded of how much I am loved just by you talking to me. Simple and yet apt and way better than "Cuddlyumpkins Sweetie Bear Honey Pie."

and

11. That all those people who said we were meant to be together were totally right - and that you were brave enough to believe that I really would stay with you as I promised. At the time I found it very odd that not a single person objected to our being together - never mind the age gap thing, the distance thing, the whole too-young-to-get-married thing - NOT ONE person I know (not even my parents, eventually) thought us getting married was a bad idea. I love that every single day, we affirm not only to ourselves but also to those who see us - that sometimes the most unlikely matches are the best matched of all.

Happy Anniversary my love. Now go make me some popcorn. And don't burn it. I hate it when you burn it!

I Suck At Play Dates

2011-07-17T13:50:00.002+10:00

I make no secret of the fact that, generally speaking, I have a very low tolerance for OPK*. This was ever so apparent today when I found myself literally hiding behind my bedroom door, then peering through the crack to see the OPK, then tip-toeing into my ensuite and closing the door. Just to make it even more embarrassing (hey, what are blogs for?), I then sat on the toilet fully clothed and read the Sunday paper, so when said OPK wanted to talk to me, I was far too "busy" to talk to her.

You all need to digest that for a minute. I hid from a 10 year old child. In my toilet. If it weren't so pathetic it might even be funny. Actually, it's funny as hell.

Contrast this with the fact that my daughters went to separate play dates yesterday. When I picked up DD1, she came out smiling with a whole bunch of clay figurines and other art projects they had made. When I went to pick up DD2, not only were they in the middle of a feast of a lunch (no lie), the other daughter of the house had HER friend over, too...and one set of girls had made home made play dough while my DD and her friend made cookies from scratch.

Excuse me while I throw up.

I spent my play date today hiding from the kid we invited over, secretly wishing they would not ask the dreaded, "What should we do NOW? We're bored!" and then fed them all 2 minute noodles (for which I was soundly praised.)

The funny thing is, I always wanted to be one of those mothers that had a million kids in the house always coming in and out, always raiding the fridge, and in general ruling the "cool house" where all the kids wanted to hang out. In reality, with a couple of exceptions, I don't want OPK here at all. It's not that they are not nice kids or anything. It's more that, by the time I get to the weekend, all I really want to do is sloth around and relax. I don't want to have to get up early. I don't want to have to get dressed, serve anyone any meals (although I choose to, it's a choice. I'm pretty sure if I didn't bother to feed an OPK that would kinda destroy my already precarious reputation with the mothers of the SSOTH*). I also don't want to act all gracious and hostess-ish and nicey nicey June Cleaver like that, and you can bet your ass I don't want to be doing craft projects of ANY kind. Plus some kids come over and seem to require actual entertainment all the time, and look to ME to provide that entertainment.

I'm perfectly honest here, it's not all that easy for my kids (when all 3 of them are home) to break their unspoken bond and allow another kid into the fold. They are all so used to either entertaining one another, or entertaining themselves, that it's not so easy for them to incorporate another person. So if the OPK cracks it about something, or just isn't a happy camper for some reason, my kids will tend to shrug their shoulders and go back to doing whatever they were doing. It kinda doesn't occur to them that they should come out of their comfort zone and do what THAT kid wants to do (and I'm not THAT shit of a parent that we have not talked about this. We have. It's just that old habits die hard.) So it's not all that unusual to get a, "emzee? DD1 and DD2 are not including me in their game!" complaint, or "emzee? DS and DD1 aren't speaking to me!" and then I need to go and run interference.

I'm shit at running interference, too - because what I really want that OPK to do is either suck it up or just leave so I can go back to being a sloth.

Call me crazy but I'm pretty sure not liking OPK, wishing they would all just shut up and go away, and in general feeling quite anti-social most weekends means I'm never going to be the "House of Cool" Mum that I imagined myself to be.

Damn.

Yet another parenting plan gone to hell in a handbasket when faced with grim reality. Well, at least it'll be quiet in here when all my kids go to the house with the Cool Mum living in it. Wonder how long it will be before she (she being mythical Cool Mum), is hiding in her toilet, calling me on her mobile phone and whispering, "Can you smuggle me in some Valium through the window?"

On second thoughts, I think I quite like being Sucky-At-Play-Dates Mum.

* OPK= Other People's Kids
*SSOTH = Shmancy School On The Hill

First Time Mum

2011-07-16T11:09:00.003+10:00

Biz Guy and I had a really interesting conversation the other night, and in that conversation he described me as, "still a first time Mum." At first it made me pause but then it made perfect sense, because although I have three kids, I've only ever had the experience of pregnancy, babyhood, toddler hood and so on - the one time. He commented that (in his ever-so-humble opinion), still being a first time Mum has effectively coloured how I behave within my family and of course (being Biz Guy) within my business as well.

The comment came after I mentioned that, while very excited for them and encouraging, I found it all a little bit strange to not have all of my kids at home over school holidays (two of them had been away at camp.) I mentioned how their growing up and be independant is starting to really get to me - not in a bad way, but more a realisation of time passing by too quickly. Wrapped up in that conversation was also a discussion about how I relate to time - how I often feel like I wasted my 20's on pointless pursuits, do not feel like success has come quickly enough, and how I feel I am not moving fast enough to get things done, and so on. I live with an irrational feeling of time passing at a rate I am not comfortable with - meaning that for me there are never enough hours in the day and there is always more I can be doing, and doing it faster, better, and so on.

Biz Guy's comment was that part of all this oh-shit-time-is-marching-on thing is actually related to the whole triplet thing. For me every time a child reaches a milestone - walking, talking, dressing themselves, walking alone to the bus stop, and so on - that milestone is over, and that chapter of my life is over. I don't have another child a year or two or three years behind to experience that with again. Once it's done, it's done. I'm not saying this is a sad or bad thing, but it certainly does affect how I think about time and getting things done. I always feel like things need to be done NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW ... I'm not one for slow, considered decisions. I'm pretty sure resting on my laurels is against my religion, and I want things to happen in the immediate short term. It's not just impatience on my part - it's a real deep seated feeling that if it doesn't happen RIGHT NOW it might never happen, and that is an opportunity wasted. What if I blink and I miss something?

He then went further to say (he's not shy, ol' Biz Guy) that he thinks it's not just the kid thing, it's the husband thing which makes my internal clock tick so loudly. DH is several years older than I am, and so there to is an issue of time moving forward and me feeling like I need to be successful and get things done "in time" to enjoy my life with DH as well.

Damn it, but I hate it when Biz Guy is right. Inherent to my personality is impatience, and excitement, and a need to constantly be on the go doing things and experiencing things and just living every single second of life to it's fullest. Pair that with kids who pass each life milestone at warp speed, and a husband who has (no matter how hard I try to catch up) had 16 more years of living on this earth than I have...and, well, is it any wonder that I feel as though I will never get ahead? Of course the strange thing here is that I'm only 35 years old. A ridiculous age to feel as though I'm somehow running out of time or that I don't have enough time to get done all the things I want to get done. Relatively speaking, I'm quite young. I have nothing but time in which to reinvent myself a few more times, achieve a whole hell of a lot, and in general kick ass in these years called middle age - not to mention keep on raising amazing kids, love all over my DH, and of course talk Biz Guy's ear off several thousand more times. I've got the time in which to do all of this, so why do I always feel like I somehow don't?

I really need to learn to placate my planner-type personality, but to live in this moment and stop worrying about what comes next, what doesn't come next, and what I may or may not have the time for. Ultimately it's not me who makes the decision about how much time I've got left, so it's probably in my best interest to just s..l..o..w.. down the pace a bit.

Who am I kidding? I've got WAY too much to do to slow down. People! Why are you sitting here reading this when you could be out there DOING stuff? Have I taught you nothing? Come on now, on with it! Go, go, go!

Like Pulling Out Fingernails

2011-07-10T21:23:00.002+10:00

Shopping. Of ANY kind.

I hate it.

With a passion normally reserved for Republicans, eggplants, raw tomatoes, and Helicopter Mums.

However.

At 35 and a bit years old, I think it's probably time I retired the lovable but not terribly grown up fashion trifecta of jeans/hoodies/runners. While that combo is totally okay for my age group some of the time (like weekend jaunts to the supermarket), it's probably not okay as a general overall "style" such as it were. Right before I went to the US this last time, my daughter and I cleaned out my closet of all the items which were ripped, torn, in need of repair, or several sizes too big. As a result, the stock take of my closet now includes undergarments of various types, 2 pairs of jeans, 2 shirts, a hoodie, some scarves, some way too big pyjamas and a few random bits of formal clothing. No, I'm not exaggerating. Last week, when I realised I could take my jeans out of the clothes dryer, do them up, and put them on (only to need to hike them up again), I replaced two pairs of jeans with two new smaller pairs. Ditto for two tops. I've got a one in-one out policy with everything I wear, so my itty bit of shopping did not actually improve the empty closet situation.

Did I mention it's winter, and really cold? And that I do not own a coat, a warm jumper, or anything even remotely like winter clothing?

This is not a tenable situation, and it's especially not a tenable situation for someone whose word of the year is "progress" and someone who is in the midst of world domination via cake. So it's time to get some clothes of a grown up variety, and also time to figure out how to dress this figure of mine...because, really, I'm not really sure how to do anything other than loose, comfy, figure-hiding and shleppy. But, you know, I'm sitting here typing this in the smallest jeans I have ever owned, and it's probably time I showed that off to someone other than my husband.

Since the font of knowledge is facebook, I asked my friends there if anyone knew of a stylist who could help with this kind of thing. Hell, if you don't know what you're doing, pay someone who does. My closest girlfriends promptly volunteered to be my personal Trinny and Susannahs.

OH.

FUCK.

This is bad. *Very* bad. Because I know they love and adore me, and I know they have my best interests at heart...but I hate shopping in the extreme, and what's more I hate shopping with people who KNOW me. Mind, this does not stop either my Mom or Mom in Law from asking - nay, begging - to go shopping with me. None of my family members (especially my Mom) understands why on earth, when someone offers to BUY you stuff, you would say a resounding NO BLOODY WAY ON EARTH. It's not the free stuff which is the issue, it's the needing to go and do it with other people there. Having other people there means you can't stand in the dressing room, pooch your stomach WAY out, and sigh loudly. You can't CRY in the dressing room, either. You can't shop for an hour, decide there is nothing out there, and take yourself out to lunch instead. You can't buy one thing, feel very pleased with yourself, and then take yourself out to lunch as a reward. You can't try on shoes as a distraction method. You can't buy pretty stationary as a distraction method. You can't stop for a coffee before you have started. You can't see what's on at the movies and then browse the bookstore and then take yourself out to lunch because you are exhausted from all that shopping.

When shopping with other people, who themselves are either thin or short or rich or all of the above - you're stuck with THEIR ideas of what will fit you (you mean you won't fit into a size 8?? really?? But a size 8 is HUGE!), or what is affordable (Darling, handbags cost $200. They really do,), or what appeals to their own sense of style, or what they think you should wear, not what you might actually wear. They know what they would LIKE to see you in, not what you would be comfortable wearing, not what you WANT to wear, and not what will work with what you've already got in your cupboard (which for me is 4 pieces of nothjing, but anyway.)

In short, shopping with people you know just SUCKS - which is exactly why I went looking for a stylist who does this sort of thing. Someone who does not know me or my life or my prejudices against certain styles or certain fabrics or certain stores. Someone who will push me right the hell out of my comfort zone, who I then do not need to see face-to-face almost every week of my life from here to eternity.

But publicly announcing that I was finally ready to acquire a style of my own? Yep, I pretty much walked right into this situation.

That being said, my friends who love me really want to do this for me, precisely *because* they love me and want to see me morph from the frumpy middle aged yet teenaged ugly duckling into the cake domination business owner swan. AND as is well documented here, my thirties are all about doing things I would not normally do, agreeing to things which make me uncomfortable, and making progress.

Shit. I'm stuck, aren't I? This is one of those times in life I really, really, really wish I was not allergic to alcohol. Because I'm thinking that a whole day shopping with my closest friends is going to require one - or perhaps several - strong shots of tequila in order to make it bearable.

Hmm. I wonder if, after an hour spent shopping with she who hates shopping, it might be THEM who need the tequila shots, not me.

Wait a sec. This could actually be FUN.

Hmmm.

BRING IT ON.

Little Miss Grumpy Pants

2011-07-07T20:44:00.003+10:00

I've had a grumpy couple of weeks, and while I thought things were getting a little bit better, I had an exceedingly grumpy night last night followed by a day full of small grumps.

Here is am embarassing example of something which grumped me to no end. Before I start, this embarassing story has a happy ending, and I've since 'let it go.' Bear with me as I share it, though, because eventually, in a round about sort of way, it ends up being important.

So! The shop has one big fat display window at the front, and this display window has an enormous work table (a nice one of course) which runs along the entire length of it. The plan is that every month we're going to change the items on the table - new cakes, new cupcakes, new toppers, new everything. And me being me, of course these displays are themed (generally by colour.) For whatever reason, I've chosen to make my displays change on or around the 15th of each month, which means we were not due to do this for another week or so. Last night I happened to be working late and I noticed two girls pointing and laughing at the window. The very same window which I LOVE, which features those jars, which is my pride and joy, and which literally makes my heart sing every time I pass the window.

That they would point and laugh - when normally the window is full of mouth-agape admirers - made me realise something was not quite right. So when I left last night, I looked very carefully at the area they were pointing. And I discovered that one of the cupcakes in the jars had gotten a bit...fuzzy. And sadly, not in a "warm fuzzy" sort of way but in a "gee it's hot and moist in this lovely lidded jar, I think I shall grow a beard for protection" sort of way. Not good.

Not good - because I have spent a lifetime laughing and pointing at cake shops too lazy or lacking in an eye for detail to notice that the cakes in their window look like crap, and wondering what shit business owners they must be if they are letting their ADVERTISING (and make no mistake, that's what a window display is) go dusty and mouldy.

You can imagine how much I beat myself up about this. A LOT.

Idiot me thought, "I'm tired, I'll deal with this in the morning," and went home. And then promptly felt grumpy and did not sleep well and debated twenty million times about returning to the shop and getting rid of the offensive cupcake.

Idiot. I SO should have done it. But by then I was tired and sore and just over it all so I stayed home and moped about it instead. Totally useless strategy, that.

This morning I ran to the shop and had a tantrum of the "I'm going to throw out every single item on the display and scrub like a madwoman," sort. I then had a day full of minor irritations. Like the client who stiffed me on a $680 order (which thank god I'd only baked for but nothing else was done, and good cake will always find a home) - you know, that sort of day filled with small things whose sole purpose is just to piss you off.

And then I remembered something. Cooking - or rather, just making beautiful things with my hands - is therapeautic for me. So I spent my entire day creating a nice, new, clean and gorgeous display (and the jars are filled but not with cupcakes). I love it - because this morning I started the day with a pile of naked styrofoam cakes, random scraps of ribbon and bits which I had no idea what to do with - and at the end of the day I had a whole lot of gorgeous cakes to put out for the world to see.

Tonight the last thing I did at work was was stand on the sidewalk with my daughter and survey the display and make sure it had not a single cachou out of place.

Tonight I remembered that I might be a little irrated and grumpy, but the things I have to be grateful for FAR outnumber those which seek to piss me off. I even found a place in my heart to feel sorry for the client who stiffed me, because now her son won't have the beautiful cake and cupcakes at his birthday party which she ordered for him, AND she and all her guests will miss out on the wonder which is a serving of ridiculously chocolatey yumminess which is a 3S cake. Between you and me, I think that means she's the one who got stiffed.

As DD2 and I walked away from the shop to head home, I just smiled to myself about how even a crappy day can end on a high note if you reach far enough into your soul and a bucket of icing. And then we got to the car and I found the can of Pringles I'd forgotten I had in there, and she and I drove home in a haze of salt and crunch.

And, really, is there anyone out there whose grump cannot be cured with cake and crisps? I think not.

Shared Knowledge

2011-06-30T21:19:00.002+10:00

Biz Guy recently told me he thinks I am a (insert fancy business lingo here which I can't recall) - it basically means I am the sort of person who has a lot of networks, and who not only uses that network to gather information but is also a network SHARER of information. Meaning I tell people (loudly) what I like and don't like, do and don't do, and all that - and in turn they tell me, too, and I grow my network. It was all very flattering, but all I really get out of this is that I am lazy (rather ask than figure it out myself) - and overly talkative (excuse me while I over-share)- in the extreme.

Of course it sounds like I am being negative about this - when in fact it's exactly the opposite. Now more than ever I am understanding the great value to be had in being an extreme sharer AND an extreme listener, and the value to be found in the people you know.

The kids have been learning all about different cultures, and they had a project where they had to create something related to their assigned culture. A part of this project was the gathering of source material from books, fiction, the web, whatever. DD2 was telling me about her assigned culture (India) and asked if she could Skype a friend of mine whose cultural heritage is Indian - so they had a good chat and not only was my friend flattered, but DD2 probably got a lot more out of her chat than she would out of a book. DD1 lamented that we didn't know anyone from her culture that she could chat to (Hawaii) until I reminded her that last year, we went and saw my college room mate, who was born and bred in Hawaii. So off went the email. Lastly was DS - who didn't (strangely) ask me if I knew someone from his culture. When I asked him why, he said, "Because we won't know anybody from that far away, surely!" His country? South Africa. Lineage of the Mother of one of his best mates? South African.

Then take tonight's "it's a small world" experience. I've been decidedly crumpled this week, and since for me therapy=cooking, I've been doing a lot of it. I decided to try and tackle pistachio nougat (again.) I had this whacko recipe which made NO sense but I decided to try it anyway (against my better pastry chef judgement.) So I made it..and along the way I'm thinking, "Hmmm...this doesn't look right..." and then PING! went the light bulb over my head. It occurred to me to ring The Ninja, who among other things is a kick-ass chef/pastry chef and also Italian and therefore genetically enhanced to know how to cook torrone. Wouldn't you know it? I was right, the recipe was crazy...but she gave me a recipe for one which she promises is both easier and will actually work. I'm going to try that one next week, by which time I will be thoroughly sick of all things sweet and nutty (except for my kids, of course, who also fit that description.)

I love this aspect of me, and I love this aspect of my life. That I surround myself with people from interesting places, with interesting skills, who themselves have what to listen to and what to share...well, that's just totally fabulous. My world manages to defy the bounds of time and space and somehow manages to get smaller and bigger all at the same time (a bit like my torrone!)

Really Wanna but Canna

2011-06-29T20:53:00.002+10:00

I have not been avoiding this blog, I promise. I've actually been spending the last week or so percolating on a number of possible blogging topics, and none of them have made me happy enough to even give them a go.

Kinda sad, that.

So while I'd love to say I came here to blog about something fabulous and funny and eye-opening and just altogether freakin' brilliant, I can't. Because I've got nothing at all.

Here's hoping inspiration strikes soon, otherwise I'll lose my two readers!

Parenting Home Truths

2011-06-23T17:35:00.004+10:00

A common complaint I hear from my peers is that their parents had it much easier than they did. This is because "back in the day" parents did not have to deal with the minefield which is the internet, did not over schedule their kids as much as we seem to (much as we pretend to try to avoid it), didn't have the financial pressures we are all collapsing under (hello suffocating mortgage). Life was somehow simpler than it is now, and so we all wander around (and by 'we all' I mean my generation of 30-something parents) and bitch and whine about how hard we've all got it. We're tired. We're stressed. We're broke. We don't know why our kids are fat. Everything is just all so hard, you know? And so on and so forth.

Well, my whining and bitching friends, here's a newsflash for you.

Parenting now is no more or less difficult than it was for our parents. The pressures are different, yes - but the basic idea that parenting became somehow harder or easier over time is a load of crap.

Sure - in their generation, women did not always work and so the pressure of childcare was not as immediate as it is for most of us. But those who did not work in a paid capacity worked a hell of a lot harder in an unpaid capacity. And sure - in their generation, houses were less expensive than they are now - but then salaries were a lot less than they were now, too. Honestly, I think my life is truly insane sometimes. I look at my life and I think, "Geez, I'm exhausted!" - from running a business, and a family, and looking after my health and well being, and in general I think my life is harder because I am trying to achieve way more than my Mom ever did at my age.

Except that...wait a second. At my age, my Mom had three kids, one of whom was my toddler brother. She was working full time in my Dad's law firm (so they were small business owners, too). She was running a household, looking after her own health (which was pretty precarious at the time) and I'm willing to bet she had her own concerns about money and lack of time and being exhausted all the time, too.

Hmmm.

Not so different then, is it? Now granted my siblings and I did not have mobile phones, computers, or fifty thousand activities to be shunted to which would have complicated her life. We also did not have food with more chemicals than actual food, did not have a world at war both within it's geographical bounds and within it's celestial bounds. Many, many things about life were simpler then - but parenting, and money, and becoming a grown up - those things have not changed at all. They are as hard or as easy as they ever were, it's just that my generation is a bunch of self-centred brats who think it's all so much harder for them than it was for others. I'm willing to grant that some things might be harder now, especially the rise of the cost of living versus the salaries we get- but I think some things were harder then, too. Consider that same woman who at that time chose to work - like my Mom. How easy was access to childcare for her? Probably not easy at all, and probably expensive proportional to her earning ability. Wait a sec. Same problem AGAIN.

Parenting is hard work no matter what generation you are in. Kids are kids are kids, with their differing personalities, needs, wants, demands, and overall care required being basically the same for generations and generations. Mortgages are mortgages, weight loss still sucks up a lot of time and energy, households still need to be cleaned, dinners need to be cooked, and so on.

Whoever told you that parenting was easy for our parents lied, and whoever told you that we have it harder than they did lied as well. Parenting is, plain and simple, damn hard work. The sooner you accept that, the sooner drinking vodka at noon won't seem so unreasonable.

Change Your Flight

2011-06-16T21:18:00.000+10:00

It's entirely possible that I watch far too many rom-coms and I read way too much crappy chick-lit, because every time I fly somewhere I am convinced I will be seated next to someone who will change my life. I've been fortunate enough to travel quite a bit, but just my luck, I always seem to end up seated next to people who have...issues. Or *I* have issues. Me and flights just have a very strange relationship.

For example:

- I once sat on a flight next to a kid whose arms were covered in bleeding, puss-filled open wounds. He was in the middle seat and I had the window. I was fatter then, so I spilled over the armrest, which meant that basically he could not help but be touching me the entire time. I spent the whole flight trying not to hurl and causing myself great discomfort by tucking my elbows into my ribs and pushing myself further into the little window hole. To this day I do not know why I did not just ask to move seats.

- I recently sat on a flight that when I woke up after dozing for a few hours, found our row was surrounded by paramedics and doctors. The kid of the parents next to me was apparently suffering from some sort of swine flu or something. He looked like shit (and clearly felt like it too) and I was just left wondering how on earth I slept through the commotion. They eventually moved him to First Class. Good thing, too, because the rich people can afford to get swine flu and take a day off work. Me, not so much.

- I was on a flight once sitting next to this young lady who told me she could afford Business Class (I couldn't, I got put there through dumb luck) because her boyfriend invented some sort of app for facebook which was going to make them jillionaires in the near future. I've never heard of the app since then and I suspect she's crying over her Visa bill as we speak. Business class doesn't come cheap.

- On a flight to Sydney I was sitting next to Frank Costa - and I had no idea who he was but we had a lovely conversation about food businesses, family, football, and life in general. It was only once I got off the plane and Googled him that I realised I'd been sitting next to a legend.

- I once sat on a flight next to my husband. It was an Air France flight and he insisted on the bulkhead seats (which I HATE with an extreme passion). The seats there were much narrower (because the tray table is in the armrest) and my hips were much wider then. I literally could not fit in the seat unless I angle-wedged myself in there, and then the pressure (and thus pain) on my hips literally made me cry. I only WISH I was kidding about this. I spent almost the entire flight either standing up at the back, or sitting on the stewardess's seat. I have yet to forgive him for this, because he had no sympathy at all and was a shmuck about it. NB: He was no skinney minney either and was none too comfortable himself but won't admit it.

So even with all these crazy flight experiences, I still love to travel and love to fly...and I still think I'll meet someone in that plane who will change my life. Of course, being the stuff of fantasy land, I always assume that person will change my life for the better. Isn't that weird? I also find that when I travel, I walk taller and with more purpose. This is especially true when I travel by myself - it's like I turn into this smarter, fitter, more self confident version of myself who strides down long walkways (never take the people mover belt) and generally looks so damn self-assured it's as though I was born to hang out in airports. Of course I am missing the casually draped pashmina, smart looking leather briefcase, and swarm of papparazzi - but it's as though all those things are there anyway.

You know what? I think that *I* am the person I need to meet in an airport who will change my life. Or rather, the version of me I behave like in airports and on planes is the person I need to meet who will change my life. I've got to learn to BE that confident, long-strides person ALL THE TIME, not just in transit. And, bonus, she won't take up the armrest or have scabs.

Success

2011-06-15T10:11:00.003+10:00

As part of a project she is working on, a blogger I admire recently asked me to answer some questions about my career change. One of the questions was, "How do you measure success in your new profession?" I wish I could find my emailed reply but it has disappeared into the abyss. I'm fairly certain that it said a bunch of things about success for me being measured not only by money (although let's face it, paying the bills is fairly essential) but also about being a part of the milestones in my client's lives, making people happy, and being a good example to my children of a capable, happy working mother and wife.

Since I answered the question, I've had it rattling around in the back of my brain - because while all of those things are true, I'm not entirely convinced I gave her the whole answer. I started thinking about the people who I consider successful - the ones who I look to for inspiration and motivation. Where this gets a little hairy is in the reason WHY I think they are successful - meaning I admire some for being successful mothers, some for being successful business owners, some for being just generally clever and capable, and so on. Since the question asked about measuring success in my profession, I really had to focus my thinking on those who I admire for being successful in food and/or business and what I think makes them (and therefore might make me) successful.

Not surprisingly for a thinker like me, I eventually had a whole long (mental) list of things which I think define success for business owners. Money - of course. Profile. Having time time and means to be socially responsibe both as a person and as a business. Remaining in business through difficult economic times. Retaining and valuing staff...and so on and so forth. At the moment I have a few of those things already going for me, and I'm working on most of them every day. But does not having the big stuff exactly right mean that I'm not successful yet? Of course not. Or rather, HELL NO! Until I've got the "big stuff," I've come to realise that it's the ridiculously small things which are defining success for me at the moment.

Success is all about the ridiculously small things like....

- unlocking the door each morning and pausing for a second just to breathe in the shop smell, which for now is mixture of fresh paint and fresh baking.
- Being able to afford new uniforms for me, my staff, and my students ...and it's all got my corporate colours and logo all over the place. Logo and colours which I chose.
- Being able to type this at work while wearing my new coat, and looking down and seeing that it's got my name embroidered on it as well, and everyone knows it's only the most important people who get their name on their coat. :)
- Standing in my beautiful commercial kitchen and thinking, "Good lord. I DID THIS." and being just that little, tiny bit in total awe every single time I am in there.
- Smiling every time I look at the magnetic knife rack which is in the kitchen, because having one of those on the wall was always on my "someday, when I have a kitchen, it's going to have a ... in it" list.

...and on and on. Today, as every day, I am absolutely revelling in all the little things which mean that I am slowly but surely on the road to creating something which is much bigger than me. Of course, I have yet to pay back the loans, get a decent salary, or really test the nettle of this new premises...but for now, I'm calling it a success - if for no reason other than I'm sitting here in what is quite possibly the cutest chef coat you ever did see.

And as everyone knows, it's only the most successful people who get to wear cute chef coats. With pink buttons and all.

Falsely Accused

2011-05-29T20:48:00.000+10:00

DS plays basketball - which is a good thing, too, because he comes from a long line of Amazonian people, NONE of whom played it and ALL of whom grew up being asked if they play basketball. At least he will be spared that experience.

He has practice one night a week and a game on a Saturday. I can't make it to the Saturday games, so I go to the practices to watch him. I am in fact the ONLY parent who goes to practice, all the others drop and run. The first few weeks, DS instigated the "no reading work stuff" rule. Apparently I go there to actually WATCH him. Then he instigated the "no playing on your phone" rule, and then the "no texting, no messing about in your handbag looking for non-existant stuff" rule...because apparently...I am actually there to WATCH him. Problem is, with all these rules, DS is totally ruining my reputation.

Sitting in the corner of the stadium, being the ONLY parent there, with my kid's eyes boring into mine virtually yelling through those baby blues, "WATCH ME MUM I SAID WATCH ME!!!" ... I look *exactly like* a Helicopter Mum. You know the ones we talk about right here on this lovely blog - Mums who hover over their kids and are in their face all the time. The mothers I find extremely irritating, the mothers I think are ruining their kids' lives, the mothers I run a mile from.

The other day I was sitting in the corner (dutifully watching, I'll have you know) and the Coach approached me and said, "emzee, don't you want to go get a coffee...or...something? You don't have to...stay here, you know."

Shit. He totally thinks I'm a Helicopter Mum.

"Um, well, yes, I guess I'd *like* to get a coffee, but the deal is, I can't make it to Saturday games and so Boy asks me to watch him at practice."

"Oh. Okay then," says the Coach (snickering to himself at how son-whipped I am), and he walks away.

It took an incredible amount of will power not to race across that stadium, grab the Coach by the arm and spill out really fast: but you don't UNDERSTAND, Boy is a triplet, and one-on-one attention from a parent is HARD to get, and I'm just trying to be a GOOD mother and watch him a little bit, and it's the ONE time of the week he and I get to just hang out together, and I SWEAR I am not a Helicopter Mum like all those bitches who hang out on the sidelines during Saturday games and yell and clap like recently escapees from the asylum. REALLY. I'm just a normal Mum, OKAY, and there is nothing WRONG with me sitting and watching a bit of (admittedly boring) basketball practice.

I didn't do that. Instead I sat there and thought, "Well, Boy is happy and I am happy and if there is the faintest sound of thwacka-thwacka, well, I shall just put my fingers in my ears and sing LA-LA-LA!"

So there.

The Days After The Nights Before

2011-05-28T19:02:00.002+10:00

The good news is, we survived the slumber parties au deux. The bad news is, I now know what all those parents mean when they say that parenting girls is MUCH harder than parenting boys. The battle of the sexes is not one I've ever really experienced - because we were so focussed on day to day survival, we never really stopped to think about which sex is easier to parent. I would even go so far as to say I thought the whole "boys are easier" thing was a load of crap, along with other parental gems like "sleep when your babies sleep" "stretch marks go away if you rub them with cream every day" and "co-sleeping is a great idea!"

One night spent in the company of all boys, followed by one night spent in the company of all girls will change your mind on this one. Immediately.

The boys were predictably loud and boisterous, and pretty much ignored our efforts to corral them. However once DH used his Mean Engineer Voice (tm), they settled down and were absolute angels. They ate when we told them, helped themselves to drinks, used their manners, and basically had a whale of a time. As long as they were all fed and watered, and given something to focus on (a game, a movie, whatever), they were really great. Hardly a peep out of them. Of course there were two extremely irritating kids...but then those were the two who were far too precious to sleep over, so we booted them out the door before the real fun began. Actually, it's amazing how much getting rid of those two changed the whole energy of the party. It went from frantic and insane to calm and fun. So the boys were boys - they threw a bit of popcorn around the joint, ate far too much of everything, and watched something like 5 movies over the course of the event. In the morning they ate, hung out, and just...chilled out all over our lounge room for hours on end and had to almost be crow-barred right out of there by their parents, several hours after the party ended.

The girls, however....ohhhh, the girls! The girls whined, complained, and nudged their way through the whole thing. Not enough chips, not enough games, stupid music, she touched me, she also touched me, her blanket is near me, I can't sleep in a room with 4 walls, my blanket is too wrinkled, my hair is too neat, aren't there any other flavours of chip? and so on and so forth. If they needed anything, it started with a whiny voiced, "mmmiiiicccchhheeeeellllleeee, I *need* a glass of water!" and then Princess would wait for me to fetch it for her. Ridiculous. I peeked in on them during the movie to find some watching, some dozing, some playing, and some reading comic books (and it was 7 girls, you do the math). It was as though they were not all at the same party. It was a long night for DH, who had to get up loads of times for crying, whinging, attention seeking needy females (which might describe me sometimes, but certainly not in the middle of the night.)

In the morning, the whole lot of them were up, dressed, packed up and ready to go at PRECISELY the time the party was meant to end. Early, even!

It really struck me how the boys were incredibly self-sufficient and self-entertaining while the girls looked to others (namely, DH and I) to get their needs met and their entertainment organised. If the boys were not happy (which didn't really happen) they would just move onto something else and be done with it. The girls needed to tell the world about it for several minutes, eventually be re-directed, and then whine about that, too. Fascinating stuff. Of course, it was the GIRLS who instigated a burping contest over dessert (which DH won, of course, for being able to burp the alphabet to a crowd of girls shouting at him to "do it! do it! do it!").

Girls, boys, whatever - I've learned my lesson on having two slumber parties. Probably a good idea, just don't expect your sanity - or your carpet - to recover anytime soon.

Ten...Already

2011-05-17T22:36:00.000+10:00

From left to right: Claire, Julian, Alexis

Writing the annual birthday post is my favourite blogging tradition (possibly my ONLY tradition) because it really forces me to stop and think about the year just past - and in particular it forces me to stop and think about these three humans I am lucky to be the caretaker of. In a life crammed with pick ups and drop offs, school uniforms which need washing, lunches which need packing, dinners which need cooking, and endless forms which need signing, it's never very easy to find a spare moment to just reflect on our lives together.

This year my children are turning ten years old. I've had them in my life for a decade, which seems like a really long period of time, except that it's really just a very fast blink. Safe to say it's been a decade of change not only for me but for the world at large. For almost all of my childrens' lives, the United States has been at war. They do not know of a world without the internet. A mobile phone whose only function is to make calls is, to them, not really a mobile phone at all. A library with only books and no computers in it is not a library. They don't know what video tapes, cassettes or typewriters are. In their short lifetime, they have witnessed acts of terrorism, extremes of weather, 'rare' events like tsunamis and devastating earthquakes and it does not seem at all strange to them to be able to video call their family overseas. The NEXT ten years of their lives will probably find facebook and twitter obsolete, mobile phones able to cook them dinner, and possibly the Melbourne Demons might finally win a Premiership again (okay, maybe not. But all things are possible, right?). These children were fortunate enough to be born into a world which is constantly changing...and that's a pretty good description of their lives thus far. These three kids are constantly in motion - at their age it's not just about the basketball games they run in, the ballet classes they spin in, and the gymnastics team they bend in. It's about the changes to their bodies, their minds, their spirits which subtlety happen every moment of every day as they hurl towards teenage-hood and eventually adulthood. I can't help but feel a little melancholic about the idea that my babies are not really 'babies' any longer...although they will of course be MY babies for all eternity.

When they were little, I used to read the Triplet Connection newsletter and see pictures of trios in their teens and think...good god, how does one get that far?! I never thought we would make it through their first year with our sanity intact, let alone do well enough to now have the time and peace of mind to write this as we embark on their tenth year. Just goes to show that what looks impossible in the moment..becomes totally possible when you just take it one day at a time. People who ask how I cope with raising triplets always get the same answer - which is - I feed them and I love them, and I maintain a sense of humour. Simple as that.

I'm going back to individual paragraphs this year - because if nothing else, it's their individuality which has shone through this past year and I think it's best to honour that in this post.

My lovely, gorgeous, smiley free spirit Lola (Alexis): You, dear heart, are by far the easiest child to parent (but I suspect both your siblings will someday read this and argue this point mightily.) You are easy to parent because nothing - well, almost nothing - riles you, except of course if Dad and I are far away or you are feeling a little unsure about what might happen next. You have grown HUGE amounts this year - not only have you got the longest legs ever, but you've started to spread your wings and test out the joy of independence. I am pretty sure that it's only the very lucky people in the world who get to feel your love - because to be loved by you is a feeling like no other. You love with every single fibre of your being and you show that love in hundreds of different ways. I've got drawers full of drawings you made "just for me," I've got bruises on my arms from your bone crushing hugs, and I've got the sound of your laughter in my ears from all those times you found something I've said uproariously funny (even when it wasn't.) This year you've found your place in the world - enjoying every minute of Girl Guides, continuing to excel at gymnastics, making friends at your new school and of course being the inventor of the "love cam." Every time Dad and I stop to have a cuddle (which is pretty often, we're saps like that), over our shoulder can almost always be found a giggling little girl whose hands are shaped into a heart, peering through the heart-shaped hole and singing, "OOOhhhh, Mummy and Daddy are in lluuurrvveee!" You, Alexis, are what the world needs LOTS more of and then some - love, joy, and free spirit.

My precious, sensitive little girl - my eldest by thirty seconds - please spend the NEXT ten years of your life being as loving, artistic, and unique as you've grown to be thus far. Continue to not let anyone dictate how you will do things, continue to march to your own tune, continue to make your own choices and be your own person in everything from fashion to food to music. You may be the quiet one, the sensitive one, the one who we ALL underestimate ... but in your quiet thinking moments, your keen observations about human nature, your thoughtfulness, your care and consideration of others - you actually make the most noise of all. Please continue to fill our lives up to the brim with joy and wonder, and remind us of the importance of the simpler things in life.

Boy - who puts up with the most unoriginal nickname of all - came back to me this year. Last year, I lost him, and I'm ashamed to admit that at the time I didn't even know it, because it happened gradually. Boy - or Julz as most people refer to him - disappeared into a world of anger, frustration and irritation. It has been a tough road back for my son, but this year we finally seem to have found the right school for him, and the change has been dramatic. My laughing, smiley, cheeky son has found his place in the universe again - a place with so many friends and activities and excitement that it is occasionally a little overwhelming for the both of us! Julz, you are exactly like your Dad in so many ways - smart as a whip, a true gentleman at heart, a fan of a good feed, and in constant need of a cuddles and love. Lucky will be the woman who captures your heart - for you, my son, are all about heart. The same boy who finds smelly socks funny, who crawls around in the dirt at Cub Scout events, and who tears up a basketball court...has also been known to cry at sad parts in animated films, bawl at the end of a good book, and yell at the TV when you think the judges got it wrong on Project Runway. Oh, my boychick, our lives would be so terribly boring without you in it. You question everything, you push the boundaries, you fight for what you believe in (even when we all know you're wrong), you take charge of things when nobody else will, you're helpful and you're funny and you are...just exactly the kind of boy I always hoped to be able to mother. Recently a friend told me he went to buy you a book for your birthday, and he knew he'd get it right as long as he found something either factual, or funny, or both. I think that pretty much sums you up - the big boy with the big heart and the even bigger laugh.

My sensitive, loving, crazy smart boy - for the next ten years, just keep being who you are, except maybe occassionally break a rule or two. Getting out of your comfort zone once in a while is a good thing. I promise. And as I often remind you, I've NEVER made a promise I could not keep and I am not about to start now (or else you will remind me of this moment forever more.) Continue to learn and grow, continue to question and remind, continue to help and be helped...and continue to love and be loved. It's true that "knowledge is power", but love makes you more powerful by far.

Kiki - ahem, that's Miss Claire The Most Amazing Girl In The World if you please - I'm pretty certain that you were born right under a spotlight. Some children are born under a silver star, some with a silver spoon in their mouths...but not you. You were born standing on a stage, under a spotlight, with an enormous disco ball rotating overhead, and a catchy pop girl power song playing through the speakers. Goes without saying, you were also born wearing some sort of ultra-sparkly, ultra-purple, ultra-FABULOUS outfit..with matching earrings...and nail polish. Even with all of that, you're somehow also the girl who lives in shleppy yoga pants, with a mis-matched t-shirt and who loves to snuggle up in the warmth of sixty five thousand blankets. You are a person of contrasts - the same girl who complains bitterly when I haven't got her fake eyelashes on precisely straight enough for dance competitions is the very same one who will noisily slurp chicken soup, make a mess everywhere she goes and insist on not washing her favourite hoodie for weeks on end. Oh, my Clairis Bo Bearis, so much of parenting you is like looking right into a mirror. We're both stubborn, and loud, bossy, smart, funny, love being right, and always want things our way or no way..and goes without saying, we're awesome. You've got me beat on several levels though - you are far more brave, far more mature, far more confident, and far more in control than I've ever been - and you are only ten years old. You are also one of the funniest people I know - not in so far as your comedic timing (although you've got that, too) - but because you are truly witty, quick and sometimes just downright hilarious with the things you come out with. You are a born performer in every sense of the word.

Missy Claire - as you round the bend onto ten years old - here's what I want for you for the next ten years. Continue to make the world sit up and notice you, and continue to believe in yourself as much as you do. Continue to enter every room with fanfare and a musical introduction and continue to be your own worst critic and biggest fan because both those traits will serve you well to achieve bigger and better things. If I were to ask one favour though..it would be for you to learn tolerance. Not everyone can be in the spotlight, and not everyone wants to be - but sometimes, it's the people who are not the star of the show who play the most important roles. Don't forget that even the shiniest of stars need a sky of other stars around them in which to hang. Your Dad, siblings and I will always, ALWAYS be in the audience cheering you on, showering you with calls for encores and filling your dressing rooms with flowers - just don't forget that even divas need their entourage.

So, my Lola, Julz and Kiki - Happy 10th Birthday. This past year has been a fantastic journey together - in some ways literally as we once again travelled our way around the globe together, and in some ways emotionally as we navigated the highs and lows of the first signs of puberty. For our part, Dad and I have continued to raise you the only way we know how - which is of course with patience, with wonder, with gratitude, with adventure....and of course, with love.

You are about as loved as three children can possibly be...and then a little bit more besides.

Thursday Dinner

2011-05-12T22:11:00.001+10:00

The money is in the bank thank goodness - but the time to get groceries didn't happen so tonight was (and of course, you are all dying to know about my eating habits, right?) another case of hunting around empty shelves to make dinner. I'm beginning to see this as less of a burden and more of a challenge.

I made this Israeli thing I grew up eating, but for the life of me of course now I can't remember the name of it (it's Shakshouka, thanks Shaina!). In any case I fried up an onion in some olive oil, chucked in a tin of canned tomatoes, reduced it down, then threw in a dozen eggs whisked with salt and pepper. Just for fun I also threw in the decidedly dodgy bit of kabana we had around the place. Cooked it until yummy and served it over toasted English muffins. Gourmet? Totally not. Yummy, filling, and just right for a make-in-minutes Autumnal dinner for hungry three and me? Too damn right.

...and then, just to prove my genius here, I managed to make egg salad for tomorrow's dinner, cook some potatoes (also as part of tomorrow's dinner), and then make an apple and walnut cake (for which I had all the ingredients except sugar, but I managed to overcome that by raiding the guests' sugar and creamer set at the back of the sideboard.) I managed all of that without going to the supermarket (although to be fair, we get milk and eggs delivered so that's a bit of a cheat.)

You know, I think I'm just going to give up on the whole supermarket shopping thing. At this rate I'll be making dinner out of nothing for weeks! (and hell, it'll help with the weight loss, right?)

Something Comes From Nothing

2011-05-11T17:45:00.002+10:00

For a whole bunch of reasons, we meal plan for our family three weeks in advance - something I've mentioned here before, and something which makes most of my IRL friends smirk at me (secretly, they teem with jealousy over my awesome-ness). The basic premise is that we have a laminated menu sheet on our fridge, and we fill it out once every three weeks (in theory as a family but in reality me and whichever kid is interested in helping). Then once a week, we go shopping for the items we need for the upcoming menu.

This past Sunday, I looked in our totally barren pantry and told DH that we needed to head for the supermarket...to which DH replied, "Umm, let me just check that we CAN go to the supermarket," and through the magic of internet banking, determined that we were in fact flat broke.

As in, there was $5 (almost exactly) in our bank account, and it was 4 days until payday, and we had a whole lot of not much food in the house. Which meant no grocery shopping for us, sadly.

Heston, we have a problem. (NB: Foodie reference, and a hilarious pun. Bonus points if you get it.)

The pantry was SO bare we didn't even have things like tinned corn. Or pasta shapes. Or jam. Or really any of the basics of life (and I'm not talking about luxury items. I'm talking actual FOOD.) The fridge was so bare that I looked at the empty glass shelves and thought, "Hmm, must really clean those. Bit grotty!"This is of course because I could SEE the shelves clearly because there was no items in there blocking the view.

Before I go any further - Dear Mom and IL's who are reading this: Your grandchildren were not going to starve. I promise. I know you are reading this and shaking your heads at me and my insistence on extreme independence (extreme stupidity?!) but we are okay. REALLY. I promise I would tell you if we were not okay. The lack of funds is not a usual thing for us. Okay, it is, but not in that extreme way - that was just the money planets being misaligned.

Anyway - so here is what this week's menu was meant to be:

Monday - Osso Bucco served with wet polenta, green bean salad a la DS
Tuesday - Lemon chicken with roasted baby beetroot
Wednesday - Pumpkin risotto with garlic bread
Thursday - Devilled sausages, mashed potato, and "interesting veg" (clearly we were not too inspired when we wrote this menu.)
Friday - Sabbath meal with all the usual trimmings

For the record, that's a normal menu week for us. We eat well, we eat healthy, we eat interesting - and yes, my kids will happily eat all of those items. Week before had things like chicken & leek pot pie, lamb kebabs, thai chicken cakes, grilled fish and so on. Yes, we're awesome like that.

ANYWAY, I had absolutely no way of affording a single item on that list. And here, kids, is the important message of this post - if you keep your fridge and freezer well stocked in the first place, you will never starve. I even wrote about the importance of this here.

But, I know you're thinking...I just told you that my fridge, freezer and pantry were bare. I knew that, which is why I called DH on Monday and said, "So, sweetheart, tell me. How does one cook dinner when one has no idea what to cook with NO ingredients *and* one has no money with which to acquire ingredients?"(yes, I really talk like that..) to which the smart arse replied, "You're a chef. Use those skills and figure it out! Oh, and I think a kilo of mince is hiding down the back of the freezer."

OMG! We had mince? MIRACLE!

Well, with a kilo of mince I can make almost anything...and so, armed with my coveted scrap of protein, I made dinner. Monday was lasagna. Possible because I had pasta sheets, canned tomatoes, the mince, minced garlic, milk, butter, flour, a half a sad wedge of parmesan, and a whole cupboard of dried herbs. Easy. In fact I made a MASSIVE tray of lasagna (admittedly, a bit lean on the meat sauce part) and then DH and I had lunches for several days as well.

Tuesday - there was no miracle mince to be had, and also no money magicked into my account so I was still screwed, culinarily speaking. I went freezer diving, and found a massive container of chicken soup left from Passover. I also found a mostly stale multi-grain baguette, and in the cupboard we had half a box of couscous. The fridge had butter and minced garlic. Voila, dinner for Tuesday, solved. Chicken soup with couscous in it, served with garlic bread baguette.

Today is Wednesday, and I must tell you that I am feeling pretty bereft here. What little pantry stock I have is dwindling, there is no protein anywhere to be had (not even a tin of tuna, another staple which had been decimated for kids' sandwiches purposes.) I pretty much decided we were eating lasagna for dinner again (leftovers)...when I thought I'd give the pantry one more try. Tucked up the back I found two ancient packets of falafel mix. Then in the potato box I found 5 red potatoes that had sprouted. In the fridge I found a heart of cos lettuce (note, it has great keeping qualities which is why I like it) and a small block of feta left over from a late week menu item. So tonight's dinner - falafel, herb roasted potato wedges, and salad of cos and feta with a balsamic dressing.

The point of all this is just to show you - in a very real life sort of way - that you can actually feed your family on next to nothing. If you are prepared with a reasonably stocked fridge, freezer and pantry - or even only halfway prepared as I was this week - you can actually make something out of nothing. Admittedly, for tomorrow's dinner I am down to a can of cannelloni beans, a can of apricot nectar, a couple of apples and some breadcrumbs and I have no earthly idea what the hell culinary creation I can pull out of my arse this time (although I don't think there will be any takers for arse-flavoured dinner anyway.) We might not be eating like kings this week, but I'd argue that we are eating pretty well. In fact, if I were to write a menu right now, I'd happily put ANY of the items from this week on it and be happy about it.

So, while this week has been (for me at least) just that tiny bit depressing, it's also shown me that a bit of kitchen nous, a few 'in stock' items, and a bit of mental effort can result in some pretty fabulous family meals. The added bonus? My fridge shelves are sparkly clean.
(But thank god pay day is tomorrow.)

Perspective

2011-05-04T10:00:00.002+10:00

In the car the other day with me, DH and the trio...DD1 is looking out the window at the shops we're passing and says, "Mum? What's a Brazilian?"

I hedged a bit, and then finally said, "Ummm... you know how some women get their legs waxed? So a Brazilian is when women get their cha-cha waxed." (and then tried to curl myself into a little embarrassed ball while trying not to giggle like a 4 year old)

To which DS replied, "No it's not! It's someone who comes from Brazil! DUH!"

Smart ass.

Out Of The Box

2011-05-03T20:59:00.002+10:00

A couple of years ago I was working as a chef part-time in a food business/homewares store. I totally hated that job. The work was okay (food is food, after all) - but the owners were total shmucks and I couldn't stand them. They had no problem with the HUGE amounts of food that got thrown out every day, would re-sell food which was truly past it's use-by, and basically ignored any and all of the suggestions of the chefs for how to sell more and waste less. It was both professionally and personally speaking a total soul destroyer.

Sidebar: The story about the chocolate is an example of how soul-destroying this job was. They had some (disgusting) European chocolate bars which did not sell, and not only tasted like shit, but were several months out of date and the chocolate had bloomed (this is when it gets affected by temperature/time and it turns white). They made us cut the bars in half, cut the ends off, and dust liberally with icing sugar..and then label them "chocolate bites" and the staff had to imply that us chefs had personally made them. They also charged $2.50 for them. Seriously.

If I'm to be honest, I also hated that yet AGAIN I was working a second job because the business was not making enough, I was worried about money, and DH also had his share of job issues. It was a very fraught time for me. The door to the kitchen area was hidden around the corner of the shop, and on the display shelf nearest the door were a heap of these antique-style lolly jars. I adored those jars, and every time I walked in or out of the kitchen door I'd see them and covet them. They were the sort of totally frivolous item one uses to display bits - not exactly useful in any real way (unless you really and truly have a sweet tooth, I suppose.) They were *exactly* the kind of thing I'd thought I would put in my pipe dream fantasy cake shop.

Several months into the job, on a whim I bought five of those jars. I just loved them so much, and anyway I got an employee discount - so I figured, what the hell, even though we were pretty broke at the time. I thought I'd buy them just in case I ever did realise my dream of the cake shop which had been living in my head all these years. I brought the jars home, then took them to work - where they promptly got shoved under my desk and sat there gathering dust. I never even took them out of the boxes and bag they came in. Just shoved them there and then every once in a while I'd steal a little look under the desk just to remind myself that someday, they would make it out of there. Of course, all this time I also secretly harboured thoughts that they'd NEVER make it out of there - but then small business is often about the swings and roundabouts.

This afternoon I unpacked all the boxes for the new shop - and of course, those lolly jar boxes were there, waiting to be unpacked as well. They will form part of our big front window display* - and probably be filled with a cupcake, or maybe some colourful lollies - but the point is that they will be front and centre in the "pipe dream fantasy cake shop"...which ACTUALLY EXISTS.

Sometimes, dreams come true. Apparently, you've just got to shove them under a desk for a while first.

*(and I'll post a picture of the whole display once it's done, I promise.)

Surprise Yourself

2011-04-29T22:35:00.003+10:00

So we all know that emzee over here is a big fat sap. As in, I'm emotional about everything and not at all afraid to show it (even when nobody wants to see it). This week, twice I was emotional in ways I did not expect.

It started a couple of days ago, when I had to start packing up my tiny grotty kitchen in preparation for moving to the new big shiny kitchen. Sidenote, how strange is it that you can pack and pack and pack and pack and pack and have a whole pile of boxes....and yet the space looks exactly the same, as though you've not packed anything? Very infuriating. Anyway, so I was packing and packing..and realising that I actually felt a little sad about it all. This was a very odd feeling to have - because after all I'm moving onwards and upwards and yadda yadda positive happy shiny people stuff. Sad was not at all what I expected.

I spent a couple days feeling just the wee bit crumply about this strange melancholy which had settled over me - where was the crazy happy bouncy joy? The excitement? The anticipation at ripping off tons of plastic to reveal sparkly stainless steel? Turns out it was there, hiding under the sadness over the end of an era - which, when I think about it, is how I felt when we moved out of our teeny tiny rental house and moved into our big mortgaged family home. I was then (as I am now) thrilled to be moving...but, you know, I brought my babies home to that rental house. The kitchen is no different. I can clearly remember buying my very first 25 kilo bag of flour, staring at this giant sack and wondering how on EARTH I was going to get through that much. I can even remember FINISHING that bag of flour (ages and ages later) and thinking, "YIPPEE! I'm managing to stay in business long enough to both justify and afford a SECOND 25kilo bag of flour!"

I guess sometimes it's the little things, right?

For the record, I now buy 25 kilo bags of flour about 6 at a time, and it takes me about a month to get through ALL of them. So more than one bag a WEEK..and sugar is more than that again. Fair to say the business is still in business for a reason, no?

In a manner of speaking, the four years spent in that small kitchen has actually been my business's childhood. The business is now well and truly a pre-teen. Not surprisingly, this is happening at exactly at the same time as my human children are...and so comes all the fabulous highs and head-scratching lows of parenting a pre-teen, of both the human and the business variety.

You can understand why it was that I was packing up my kitchen and feeling a bit sad and blue. Not what I expected to feel but totally predictable given the circumstances. When I turned the light off there today (for the last time), I thanked that kitchen for looking after me and my baby. It served it's purpose well, but it was well and truly time to move on.

Then came moving day (today) and I thought I'd be feeling overwhelmed, scared (okay, terrified. Holy crap that's a LOT of money I need to pay back, and a LOT of kitchen space to make use of!), worried, nervous...and (insert negative emotion here). Funnily enough, I felt NONE of those. I actually felt...hope. Excitement. Thrill. In actual fact I bounced around filled with sheer JOY as I watched all those boxes (and that box, and that stool, and that oven, that mixer, that other box, all those ribbons, and yet more boxes) get loaded onto the truck. I sang my heart out in the car on the way to the kitchen - nobody was watching, right? And then, you know, I couldn't take the massive smile off my face as I watched that box and that box and THAT box come off the back of the truck and make their way into my new kitchen.

Twice this week I felt emotions totally opposite to the ones I was expecting...and twice I was glad I did - because in the end it was quite okay to farewell the start of the story so you could look forward to the middle bit. Apparently the middle bit is where all the good stuff happens (or so says Business Guy, and we pay him to know this kind of stuff.)

Go on, do a little bounce for me. I don't expect you to - which is exactly why you should.