Rock Star

I once read an interview with the owner of Australia's best known cake shop, in which the owner said her favourite part of being in the cake world was the “rockstar moment.” She is someone who does a lot of society weddings and it's not unusual for her to be an invited guest at the event where her company's cake is a feature. She attends the events and gets to revel in the rockstar status of being the one who made the cake. All night when people comment about the (fabulous of course) cake, she gets to bask in the glory of being the person responsible for it. Never mind that she probably didn't have much to do with the actual creation of it, the fact is she gets to share the spotlight with it and for her, that's the important bit. The attention. The short lived fame.

We were talking about this at work a while back, and all my lovely employees agreed that they, too love the rockstar moment of being an invited guest at an event which features one of their creations Me? I can think of nothing worse. Not only do I not want to be the rockstar, I don't want to be at the event at all if I can help it, and if I can't help it – I want to be the one in the corner who doesn't own up to the fact that she was involved in the cake. This has nothing at all to do with confidence or pride in my skill, and everything to do with the longevity of my rock and roll cake career.

I am not, by nature, an attention seeker in that way – and while it's true that I am loud, extroverted, and can talk the paint off the walls – I don't much enjoy being in the spotlight per se. When it comes to cake, the whole reason I do it is because I love that it makes people happy and brings them joy at THEIR event. When you are in a room full of people and they are fawning over both the cake maker and (not just) the birthday girl – well, I can't help but be a bit embarrassed by that. I don't want the rockstar moment at the event, because the event is not about me. It's the person celebrating who deserves to have the screaming fans and the undies thrown on stage (which of course only happens at the best parties.)

I want my rockstar moment well after the guests have gone, the balloons have floated gracefully to the floor, and the wine stains have come out of the tablecloths. Then, when the client has time to reflect on their event, I want the phone call or email to tell me that I am, in fact, a rock star. I want them to tell me they appreciated my effort and skill, took loads of photos of the creation, and feel that the cake truly was an important part of the success of their event and that they got joy out of it.

If the phone call never comes, or the email never gets sent – I'm content knowing that I'm a rock star nonetheless – because I will have given them the best I could give, which is a little part of my heart and my skill sitting right there front and centre at their event.

Rock stars' faces might sag, their voices might become gravelly, their hair thin, guitars go out of tune, but the memories you have of their concerts stay with you for a long time after the event. That's MY kind of rock star moment.

Laundry Love

As I type this, I'm sitting in the corner of our local laundromat waiting for my eight (yes, eight) loads of washing to get through their cycles. It's a laundromat which comes straight out of the movies. The flourescent lights on the paint-peeling ceiling have a distinctly yellowish cast to them, the "Sears Kenmore” washing machines are all lined up against the wall and are in various colours of sea foam green. On the wall there is a functional but rusting machine which, for 50c, will dispense exactly one broken plastic cup's worth of cheap, clumpy detergent. The musak piped in is scratchy and features music from the 50's and 60's (the song currently playing is sung by Doris Day). There are boxes of lost socks and discoloured abandoned shirts which look so forlorn I am almost inclined to just bundle them all up and take them to the nearest op shop for looking after.

There are tables for folding which have magazines from the 1980's (and they're the newer ones), spindly metal-legged chairs whose upholstery is either poking out or non-existent, and some Christmas tinsel which some hopeful sort strung across the place long enough ago that there are clumps of dust precariously balanced across the tinsel.

In short, it feels much much like I walked into a stitch in time – if not for the presence of the very modern laptop I'm working on, I'm pretty sure there is no difference between how this place looks now and how it did when it opened, with the possibly exception of the tinsel. There is something so totally wonderful about that, isn't there? That some places on earth just seem to be suspended in time but still function exactly as they are meant to. I've been in this laundromat a number of times over the last several weeks, thanks to my broken washing machine and my inability to find the time to ring the repair guy. Every time I have come in, the place is humming with the noise of people banging down metal washing machine lids and the reassuring clicking sound of the 1970's era dryers going around and around. And, yes, there is something rather wonderful about the dryers having see-through windows. Circling laundry is somehow very compelling viewing.

I have fallen a little bit in love with this place, for all of it's form and function, for it's retro-look (not at all deliberate) and for it's wonderful clean-laundry-and-ancient-machinery smell. Even with that, I have decided that tomorrow morning I'm going to finally call the repair guy. It's getting expensive and time consuming to keep coming here, and we really need our home washing machine back – but you know, I'm going to miss it here, I really am. It is – even with the slightly creepy guys who hang out here, and the vaguely dodgy nature of the place – just a lovely slice of domestic, communal living of which I get to be a very small part. I imagine if these machines could talk, they would probably have quite a bit to say.

I've got to go help DH fold all that laundry now, and so I'll need to end this love letter to Soapy, my local laundromat (and even the name of the place makes me smile with unbridled retro joy)… but I do so content in the knowledge that, even if I am away for a very long time, it will still be here, dusty tinsel and all.

Oh The Possibilities...

Remember my first Word Play post?
 
Check it out. If she were not totally brilliant, I might hate her just a wee* bit for coming up with this before I did. (*You saw what I did there, didn't you?)

This woman is totally my hero, and I might just have to make some of her cakes to support my job application for Creator of Inappropriate Baking Tools job.

Which is totally "the business after the business", isn't it?

The Ironic Pet Shop

I've written before about my son and I going for twice-weekly walks, and about how entertaining our conversations can be on those walks. Some days we don't really say much at all, while on other days we solve all of the world's problems inside of half an hour.  Sometimes we start a conversation and it develops a whole life of it's own, eventually ending up as part of our family folklore. This past Thursday morning we had my favourite sort of conversational topic - the one which I know will keep going long after the walk has ended.

In a relaxed, conversational, no-big-deal-but-somehow-serious tone of voice, my son says to me, "Mum, I've worked out what I want to be when I grow up," "Really?" "Yeah. I totally want to own an ironic pet shop." "An ironic pet shop? What's an ironic pet shop?"

"You know, a pet shop were we have things like...elephants named Tiny. A mouse named Roar. A snake named Fluffy McFluffikins. You know, stuff like that."

You can see where the rest of this conversation went, can't you? If there is something I absolutely adore, it's word play games - especially word play games which make you think and make you laugh and the ironic pet shop fits the bill perfectly. (I hereby permit you all to take this game and make it your own.)

We spent the rest of the walk home populating my son's ironic pet shop. There was:

• A giraffe named Short Stuff
• A dog named Meow
• A hippo named Speedy
• A hermit crab named Chatty
• A porcupine named Softy
• A fluffy kitten named Fierce
• A worm named Cheetah
• A snake named Fluffy
• An ant named Huge-o

 My son and I spent the entire walk trying to out-ironic one another with the various pets and their often hilarious names. Some were very obviously ironic and some of them a bit more clever but either way we had a great time that morning. In thinking of these various names, I was reminded that DH and I did in fact own three ironic pets once upon a time. Back in the day before we had kids, we decided we needed to take on some (infinitesimal) amount of responsibility so we bought a single Beta fish. We named him...Fish.

Fish died. *sad face* I can't remember why but suffice to say we failed at our first attempt at parenthood. Our second attempt at parenthood saw us owning yet another fish, and this one we named Sushi. Sadly, Sushi also died not too long after we got him. At this point we probably should have given up, but we're not easily deterred, and so we ventured into parenthood once again with the purchase of Fish #3. Fish #3 has what remains to this day my favourite fish name: Fresh.

Fresh did not live up to his name. A few weeks after we got him, we went away for the weekend. On our return, I wandered into the loungeroom to see how he was doing. I noticed a dried leaf on the carpet, and I bent down to pick it up and throw it away.

It did not occur to me to wonder why a dried leaf would be INDOORS, where there are no trees from which it might have fallen.

Fresh wasn't so much fresh as he was shriveled and crunchy and rather dried leaf-ish.

After that we pretty much decided that if we could not keep single Beta fish alive, clearly the only thing to do was to have a go at raising children...because, you know, that's clearly so much easier. 

Suffice to say we seem to have done better with the real children than with the ironic pets.

Guest Blog

At last!  The power to say what *I* think!

Oh the heady joy ...

You see dear reader, Emzeegee is not infallible after all and as she drifted off into the arms of Morpheous (i.e. sleep) cried out, "I forgot to blog today!".

Today has been a very full and even stressful day for Emzee, and the discipline of blogging just slipped through the cracks. That left it all up to me, her faithful companion Tonto to jump into the saddle and dash to the deadline.

I'm still not entirely sure what this will be about, but I'm tap-tapping away with one eye on the telly and one on the time; got to get this in before midnight you know!

This weekend is going to be very busy for all at Emzeegee Manor; DD1 is off to a Guides camp, DS has his regular basketball match, DD2 has dance, and the two of us have a 60th birthday lunch that will take us out of town whilst all of the above are occurring. This requires some logistical planning and mobilising the beloved Uncle taxi company. On top of this Emzeegee is short handed in the shop and has a large order book for this weekend.

It's no wonder that she just forgot her sacred mission to blog every day this month.

So here I am, DH, making sure that she does not fail. Ah, I see that time is running out and I must post this or miss that damned deadline and  I still haven't let you know what I really think ...

Bugger.

Word Play #2: Rather Bookish

The words in red are those which were suggested as part of my Word Play game. Thanks to my niece (a fellow bookworm) for suggesting this group of words.  

___
As a family we are all rather bookish. DH and I have always been this way, and our mutual love of books is one of the many things which brought us together in the first place.  I can remember many a date when we wandered through a town, happened to find ourselves in a bookshop, and then emerged blinking into the bright light an hour or two later and a hundred or so dollars poorer. Our mutual love of the printed word means that when we've sat down and played the, "If we won a billion dollars and got to build our dream home" game, one of the very first items on the list is a library with shelves reaching so high you need one of those ladders on wheels in order to reach the shelves above your head. One of the other items is a toilet which is not always cold, but that's a story for another day.

So....books. I love them with the same ferocity I reserve for my children. I am however both cheap and rather space-conscious, so many years ago I got into libraries in a pretty big way. Actually my first real foray into libraries was when I was pregnant with the kids. I'd gone on maternity leave a few weeks earlier than most, and I found myself able bodied and bored out of my mind. My solution to this was to go to the local library, gather up armfuls of books (always in an even number, I'm a little OCD like that) and drag them home. I say "drag" because it was never clear which was heavier - the bag of books, or my heavily pregnant-with-triplets belly. Since then I've been very pro-library and the rest of my family is, too - we've 'maxed out' our collective library cards on more than one occasion (and one card = 25 books.)

Sometimes, it's not just about the books themselves, it's about the entire experience. So once I bring the books home, I have an entire procedure for working out the order in which I'm going to read them, a bit like the MnM's sorting procedure I do. I get engrossed in my little procedure and next thing you know, I've glanced down at my watch and realised a half hour has gone by. I can get entirely lost in my world of books - so much so I'd hardly notice if there was an Apocalypse or a whole V-formation of flying squirrels passed by the window. It's entirely indulgent...and I love it unashamedly.

I'll let you in on a few secrets, though: I rarely read anything heavily emotional or intellectual, instead preferring to read those things which require nearly no thought at all. The only time I ever read anything with any real 'grunt' to it is when it's been recommended by someone (often, my niece, who lives oceans away) or when a book has gotten enough press that I need to see what all the fuss is about. For me, reading is all about escapism. To use a cliche, reading is my happy place. It's the thing I do when I really want to just turn my brain off and stop all the infernal thinking that I do. I can be totally immersed in a book, get to the end of it, and be totally unable to tell you what the book was about. If there are more than a half dozen characters, I won't be able to keep them straight in my head. So I'm reading, but because I'm really only in a vaguely conscience state to begin with, I'm not really absorbing much of it at all.  I suppose in that way it's my own form of meditation (without the palaver of the oom's and the burning candles and whatnot.)

Is there something YOU do which is your happy place? Sew? Knit? Cook? Garden? Where do you get lost? What is the one activity which totally immerses you in it, to the exclusion of all else? (Immerses you enough that you wouldn't notice a flock of owls that landed on your window sill and ask you directions to Hogwart's...)

Hospitality

Something I'm grateful for this week: hospitality. We recently welcomed a family into our home who are considering moving from Perth to Melbourne.  We had the parents to dinner a few months ago, when DH got asked if we could host them for dinner. They came on a fact finding mission to decide if this was where they wanted to move to - and now having made the choice, they brought their daughter with them to look at schools and properties. We had them to dinner again so their DD could meet ours (they are only 8 days apart!). We had a lovely evening and the entire family was really very grateful that we welcomed them.

The Mum in particular thanked me effusively, saying that we were really wonderful for welcoming virtual strangers into our home and that she was impressed that our kids were so willing to include a child they did not know. She asked if this was something we actively taught them, or if it's just their nature. The answer is that it's probably a bit of both, but it's also very much a case of the old "do unto others as you would have done unto you," concept. DH and I have been extremely fortunate to have travelled all over the world, and everywhere we have gone we've managed to be welcomed into someone's home. The hospitality extended to us from places near (Sydney) and far (the US, Europe and so on) has been really wonderful and it's a great joy of ours to extend that same hospitality to people in our own home. That these people were basically strangers to us makes no difference at all - we welcomed them with open arms.

Over the years I've hosted and been hosted by all sorts of people, from all sorts of meeting points. I've met readers of this blog on two continents - and in one case met their kids, partners, and spent time in their homes. I've met friends from online parenting groups in 3 different countries. I've had dinner with the partners and children of business colleagues. I recently got invited to spend a week in Canada with a work colleague I've only ever spoken to on the phone. In short, lots of people have welcomed me and so I've welcomed lots of people. It is part of our religious culture as a whole to do so, but it's something that we as a family have embraced wholeheartedly. Someone recently asked me if it's expensive, feeding extra people every week - because of course we've got to account for more mouths to fill. The truth of it is that I don't even notice the extra expense, I really don't. I would much rather spend my money on an extra steak or some nice post-dinner nibbles than I would on almost anything else. Sharing food with friends or strangers might cost more financially but spiritually it's a damn good return on investment.

Extending hospitality isn't always about a once-in-a-while experience. I've got a friend who for the past 2 years has had dinner at our house once a week. The kids have negotiated with her to bring dessert each week, and it's now become a tradition which none of us like to miss. We welcome her into our home every week (even without the dessert!) and it's as much a part of the fabric of our week as going to work or going to school. It's just "what we do." Both DH and I (but especially DH) grew up in families who entertained quite a lot - the sharing of love, time, food and good company have been a part of our lives for as long as either of us can remember. It's no wonder then that we create that same welcome environment in our own home. My kids will often ask me, "Who is coming to dinner this week?" and will almost be a little disappointed if I say that it's just the five of us. I'm hoping that's because they too like to share and not because DH and I are boring to hang out with! :)

Have you welcomed anyone into your home recently? An old friend, a new friend, a total stranger? Oh, and are you free on Friday night?

Word Play #1: Diff'rent Strokes for Diff'rent Folks

I'd forgotten that last time I did NaBloPoMo, I asked people to give me a list of seemingly random words which I would then use to craft an entirely real and readable blog post with. One of my faithful readers reminded me of this little game and I'm always happy to use a good writing prompt. The words in red are the ones given to me (with thanks to my IBFF for these, I'm pretty sure this post will generate a heap of spam so thanks for the love. Not.)



I recently went with a girlfriend of mine to a sex shop. Actually a sex superstore.

Now there's an interesting beginning to a story, isn't there? Oh, and *waves to in-laws* - yep, I realise I'm potentially exposing (ha!) myself a little more than I like but it's all in the name of good writing practice, yes? To clarify (and avoid further embarassment) I meant "girlfriend" as in friend-who-is-female, not "girlfriend" as in my bit on the side (that's another post.) (I'm kidding.) (Really.)

Anyway, she asked me to accompany her to...ummm.. oh hell. *red cheeks* She asked me to accompany her to purchase some toys. The type of toys which, when you turn them on and hold them in your hand, cause vibration. I'm always one for new adventures so I went along as moral support and we checked out the selection there. I have got to say that I was astounded at the amount of - stuff - they had there. Literally everything from plain old pornography of the magazine sort, to videos which feature everything from The Pope to bananas to Octomom (and I SO wish I was kidding about that Octomom thing. I'm not.) The video section alone had me wandering in there, mouth agape, at the sorts of things which people seem to find titilating. There was an entire section of parody videos - literally, people dressed up as (for example) The Simpsons - acting out whole episodes but with a sexual twist. Then there were the sci-fi and horror sections, featuring aliens and strange creatures and ghosts which go bump in the night (quite literally as it happens.) 

I've got to say the entire experience was eye opening quite literally - frankly, there was a bunch of stuff which required me to read the instructions just to work out what you might DO with one of those things. My question is, who sits around and thinks about making these things?! And can I have their job? Because I'm thinking spending all day coming up with an entire BAKING SECTION of stuff of a naughty nature has GOT to be a fabulous job. Did someone sit around and think, "I know! I've always wanted to make a pavlova in the shape of a penis! Let's manufacture a penis-shaped cake tin!"  Apparently, they did. There were cake toppers. Candles. Cake servers. Aprons. Funny chef's hats. Cookie cutters. Literally all the tools of the trade in the shape of...tools. An entire cookery AISLE of stuff, should you ever feel yourself in need of, say, boobie-shaped ice cubes. I have no shame in admitting that I wanted to buy that cake tin. I really did. I'm not sure why I didn't buy it, other than I'm not entirely clear on what use I might have for it, and explaining it's purchase to anyone (or it's existance in my business's collection of cake tins) might be a tad...hard..to do. (You saw what I did just there, didn't you?) Besides it was a crappy quality, made in China sort of affair and I prefer my penises to be hard wearing. 

Oh. 

I just typed that out loud, didn't it?

Ah well, in for a penny...

I'm pretty sure the instructions required that it be hand washed - and can you just imagine the jokes that would go on at work about that?! It's the only baking tin in the world which gets harder the more you wash it.

*boom tish*

Before formally ending this post (and the humiliation therein), I'd just like to remind you all that there are only 7 shopping weeks until my birthday, and I quite like novelty pavlovas. 

*exits, stage left*

Swetheart Darling Sweetie Lovey

The other day I realised that when I talk to clients on the phone, I almost always finish a sentence with a smile and a generic affectionate name. "Great, so that's 500 cupcakes for the 21st of November. See you then. Thanks lovey!" or "Yes, of course we can create that, no worries at all darling," or, "Oh you're most welcome sweetheart, my pleasure!"

OMG, just reading those makes me feel like I speak in the manner of a 1950's housewife trying to please her husband with her meat loaf and polished silver.

It's worse than I thought, isn't it?

I'm not sure why but I suddenly became aware of how much I do it (more than once in most conversations) and I realised that maybe it's just not the done thing. Nobody has ever pulled me up on it, but maybe they're afraid to. Or maybe it's just become such a thing that it's too embarassing to bring up. Besides, how does one frame that conversation? "Uummm, emzee? I'm not your darling, babe, honey, or sweetie. Stop that girly bullshit, okay?" I will admit to being somewhat annoyed when strangers do that to ME, and here I am doing it with gay abandon several dozen times a day.

I decided I needed to fix this habit of mine - and it's exactly that, a habit... so easily made and easily broken. I tried. I really, really tried. I ended up sounding (to my ear anyway) like a robot. I just seem to be lacking in a business phone voice that lies between something out of Dr Who and June Cleaver. I'm either robotic and formal sounding, or I want to give you slippers and a cup of tea when you come home, sweetheart. This attempt at sounding more professional went on for a few days until I finally gave up. For the record, I can do a professional, not loving or robotic voice at all - but generally that's in a situation where you have pissed me off so damn much I'm trying not to reach through the phone and throttle you. I decided in the end that I needed a second opinion, so I got one of my work colleagues to listen in on several phone conversations and then asked her what she thought.

"Is it wierd that I call everyone lovey, or sweetheart, or darling? Give it to me straight, does it make me sound like a people-pleasing housewife? Do you think I'm annoying people by doing it, given that I have no real idea if they are sweet or loving or darling-like? Do I need to mentally kick myself every time I do it, until the Pavlovian response kicks in and I start sounding like a normal person?"

Her reply surprised me - she said, "No, it's not wierd at all - because you sound like you really mean it, and I know you DO mean it. You are really good at making people feel really good about themselves for ordering with you, and you calling them an affectionate name just proves that you care and you're emotionally invested in their order. Since that's the truth of it, I don't see it as a problem. Yeah, okay, if you were a creepy dude in a shop somewhere, it would be wierd. But on you it just sounds like...you."

Well.

Shit.

Phew. I can just go back to being me. The same me who, frankly, even all these years later, is really damn grateful that you trust me enough with your order, that you pay me to do what I love, and that you care enough to come back and do it several times over again.

Fair to say I think that resolves it, sweetheart.

Facebook Not Friends

Here's a lesson that Biz Guy taught me a long time ago: if doing something or someone makes you feel like crap, just don't do it anymore or don't see them anymore. I'm pretty sure he said it in a far more business-like and spiritual sort of way, but that's the gist of it. How often do we find ourselves engaging in an activity or investing energy in someone - which not only is not worth it, but also makes us feel kinda crappy? I don't know about you, but I used to do this a heck of a lot.  I kept people in my life who (for myriad reasons) just didn't really belong there. Maybe I kept them there because of shared history, maybe I met them once and liked them and so they stuck around, maybe someone else introduced us and we hit it off, but sometime later I decided they did not really 'do it' for me. It's not just people, sometimes I'll engage in activities which make me feel kinda sucky. A good example of this is the personal trainer I hired for 8 weeks (more on that in another post.) Somewhere aroundn the 5 week mark I realised it wasn't for me. I didn't do anything about it, I just kept going along - which is ridiculous, really, because isn't PT meant to boost you up, not bring you down? I literally kept trying to find reasons to miss my appointments.

Biz Guy's lesson is a really good one - because it reminds me that it's ME who is in control of what I do and who I engage with, ME who makes the decisions, and ME who can make a choice each time. I forget that sometimes, I really do. So how does this relate to my current life?

I used to have a very, very firm rule that (as much as it was reasonably possible to do), my personal life and my business life were to remain separate. You know, what my Dad would have called the, "Don't shit where you sleep," rule. Let's face it, I'm an open (loud mouthed) book and sometimes not a very nice book at all - and I don't think my work colleagues need to know that, do they? It's also not really their business what I do in my spare time - because that's exactly what it is, MY spare time. Unfortunately I kinda forgot that rule for a while, and so I became facebook friends with (very few) work colleagues - people who I thought I would get on with outside of work, people who just made me laugh, people who pushed my buttons in all the right ways. I'll even admit that it was ME who sent some friend requests.

And then - more than one of those people set about treating me in what I would consider a disrespectful manner. They didn't treat me with the same honesty and integrity I treated them with. I tolerated it for a while, I really did - too long of a while, if I'm honest. Then several posts and photos came and went which made me feel - you guessed it - pretty crappy. It really, really began to get under my skin, in a way only an ill-timed or not-thought-out facebook post can. You know, you start to read between the lines. You start to wonder who is telling you the truth, or even if anyone is. You start to wonder if it's YOU who is the moron here and the rest are laughing at how you got sucked in so easily. You start to wonder if...it's really worth your time being 'friends' with these people at all.

Guess what? It's not - because if doing something or someone makes you feel like crap, just don't do it anymore or don't see them anymore.

I spent a small part of my day yesterday unfriending a heap of people, the vast majority of which are business associates. I took the power back. I took my privacy (on facebook anyway) back. Yes, I'm fairly certain some of them read this blog - but that's okay, because I can't police this environment and in this space, I accept that it's open slather. On facebook, though - where I'm even less cautious than I am here - I don't want them in my happy space. I really don't. I can't even really explain just how much better I feel knowing those people are now out of that corner of my life. It feels....freeing.

So - I'm giving you Biz Guy's advice for free. Go get rid of something - or someone - that/who makes you feel like crap. Believe me when I say you'll find yourself wondering why you didn't do it much sooner.

Meditation Missteps

My efforts at becoming a devotee of meditation have been, shall we say, lacking. I really, really wanted to be one of those people who gets up an extra 30 minutes early and devotes that time to the practice of mediation. Instead I became one of those people who gets up several hours early and then looks irritatedly at the alarm clock until it becomes time to actually wake up and face the day. The irony that I am struggling to sleep very well because of stress and worry - and it's meditation which would help -  is not lost on me. The irony that I am lying in bed awake ANYWAY and should therefore use that time to meditate is also something I'm aware of.

What can I say, I have yet to master the art of actually doing the bleedingly obvious right thing to do.

I decided that it was easier for me to get to bed earlier than it was to wake up earlier, and that the solution here was nighttime meditation. I then decided to go all 21st century and download a sleep meditation app. I don't own a CD player (and my car still has a tape deck!) and so the app was the best way to go.

App #1 was actually a sleep hypnosis app. I listened to it - in full - for 3 nights. Every night I got to the end of the talking and thought to myself, "Wait, aren't I meant to have been hypontised into glorious sleep by now? I wonder if that guy talking is hot. He sounds kinda hot...but kinda old and a little creepy. Can you be hot yet creepy and old...?" and so on, ad naseum, until I realised I once again was not getting any sleep.

App #2 was a little better, except that it was a "Learn to Meditate" app and specifically tells you not to do it at night or lying down. I ignored that bit and did it at night, lying down. His voice was quite pleasant, and I did manage to fall asleep once or twice, but he kept banging on about focussing on a candle...and I was shit at the focussing so I'd fall asleep trying desperatly to imagine up a flickering candle. I think if you follow the official instructions you're meant to actually light a candle, but I'm pretty sure doing that while lying down half asleep is a bad idea.

App #3 was actually a Sleep Meditation App. Ahh, now we are getting somewhere! Only problem is that the delightful Shazzie, a) has a ridiculous name, and b) is English so has a delicious sounding accent but talks so slowly you desperately want to tell her to hurry the fuck up. Plus the first thing she says in her calm and very slow voice is, "Do not listen to this sleep meditation while driving a vehicle or operating heavy machinery. Do not listen to this sleep meditation if you intend to drive a vehicle or operate heavy machinery immediately after listening to it." Is it just me? First, what moron gets into his tractor, pushes his IPod ear buds, and listens to a sleep mediation? Second, if she's doing her job, I won't be doing anything AFTER this mediation other than SLEEPING, not driving a fecking tractor!

OMG I just Googled Shazzie. She's like an entire enterprise.

Anyway - I quite enjoyed the lovely Shazzie and in truth, I've never made it to the end of her recording because I've always fallen asleep mid-way (and therefore I never get to drive the damn tractor! Argh!) I'm not entirely loving it though, as I find I fall asleep while waiting for her to finish a sentence, and I'm pretty sure that's not the point...or maybe it is?

My voyage to sleep has actually made me realise that the issue is not falling asleep, the issue is staying asleep andn having a full restful night.

I hear that apparently meditation can help with that.

The Most Writing-est Time Of The Year

Yep, it's that time of year again - National Blog Posting Month - NaBloPoMo - which happens every November. Bloggers with too much free time, oodles to say, and enough masochism to last the distance  pledge to blog every single day throughout the entire month of November. Since I quite proudly fit into all those categories, I'll be joining in this madness for the FIFTH year in a row - here's hoping I make it through the month without too many filler posts, with my sanity mostly intact, and having gained something other than more kilos from the experience.

Today I'm going to share a story about my run in with the SSOTH Parent's Committee. For those relatively new to this blog, SSOTH stands for Shmancy School On The Hill, which is the horrendously expensive private school that DH and I sweat actual blood and tears to afford to send our kids to. Why we choose to send them there is a whole 'nother story, but suffice it to say someday these kids had better put me in a five star retirement home.

The PA sent out a request for volunteers for an upcoming Sports Day. Sports Day, so you know, is held on a public holiday and it's considered a compulsory school day. I'm not sure how they get away with that, but the end result is a bunch of bored parents (except those annoying ones yelling from the sidelines looking like they give a shit) and a bunch of sweaty kids all covered in cheap, nasty face paint which stains all their (expensive) uniforms and gives most of them a face rash.

I digress. Me being a volunteering sort, I replied that I'd be happy to help. If nothing else it alleviates the boredome if I get to look like I'm being helpful, when in fact I'm standing there making snide, unfair judgements about the well manicured, eyelash-curled, bling-wearing, high-heel wearing parents who are yelling from the sidelines.

I got no response to my email for several days, and then an email went out which said,

"Thank you very much for volunteering to help out at this year’s Parents’ Association Sports Day BBQ. Before I prepare a roster I would like to know if any of your husbands or partners are available to actually BBQ the sausages. I know all you women are more than capable but traditionally the men toast the snags! (it’s also nice male bonding time :))."

By no stretch of the imagination would I call myself a feminist, but this has to be one of the most ridiculous emails I've seen in a long while. Yes, she was kidding - but it was a pretty ill conceived joke, and she really belaboured the point, didn't she?. I wanted to fire off a really long missive ...but instead I slept on it for a day, and then came up with this reply - which I think you will agree gets my point across nicely:

"I asked my husband if he wanted to help and he said he'd prefer I was pregnant, barefoot, and tied to the kitchen sink - which apparently is what women "do traditionally" and where we bond with one another.

I actually find this email incredibly offensive. Given that the parent's association asked for volunteers, and you now have a list of people who are willing to help, I would think it's more important to make sure the job is getting done than worry about what is men's work and what is women's work."

HER reply to that was suitably pissed off and feather-ruffled. She (wrongly) pointed out that her husband was currently the ONLY volunteer for the job (how that's possible when she emailed a whole group of volunteers is beyond me) and that last year, the poor baby had to BBQ the sausages with two helpers for 4 hours and he found this very, very hard to do.

Let's think about this. 3 adult males found turning sausages for 4 hours really, really hard and therefore we need to make sure we only recruit big, strong men to help them this year.

Excuse me while I guffaw and then throw up.

Needless to say I don't think my nomination for Parents' Association President is going to be forthcoming anytime soon... 

I Can Totally Do That

I came to my career almost by accident, and while I really do love what I do, every once in a while I entertain the idea of doing something entirely different. Radically different. It's like I have ADD when it comes to jobs. I often hear of people doing various jobs and I think to myself, "Hey, I could totally do that. But how does one actually BECOME an embryologist/therapist/personal assistant/visual merchandiser/test kitchen recipe tester?" My immediate next thought is, "Who on earth grows up thinking, I know! I really want to be an embryologist/therapist/personal assistant/visual merchandiser/test kitchen recipe tester!" The thought after that is, "I wonder if those people all fell into those jobs, too. Hmmm..." and then I start to think about what that job might actually involve and if I'd like it or not. Chances are the jobs I get excited about have a 'dirty' side, the side which isn't seen by the people who think those jobs seem awesome.  Certainly that's true of my own profession - as a chef it's true we get access to amazing food, experiences, and people - but we work stupid hours for very little money and we work in a war zone of sharp things, hot things and seriously crazy people.

Even knowing that, I will still find myself thinking about changing careers and the myriad jobs I might like to have. In recent weeks I've found myself wanting to be an online columnist (oh wait a minute...), a retail worker in a kitchenware shop, manager of a high-end confectionary store, executive assistant to someone awesome, event manager, customer service call centre person...you get the idea. I just hear or see something which seems interesting and BOOM, I'm off in job fantasy land. Book seller, owner of a Bed and Breakfast, beauty therapist, book reviewer...you name it, I've probably considered it.

I also have a tendency to meet people who have had a number of careers - or just a number of jobs - which have taken them all sorts of interesting places (literally and figuratively.) I find those people really interesting and I tend to equate that with the work lives they've led. Of course, I've had a number of interesting jobs myself (someday I'll blog about being "the girl in the hole,"...) but almost all of them have been in two industries (either admin or hospitality.) So quite often my job fantasies have nothing at all to do with either of those industries.

Since I have a life plan which includes "the business after the business," I really enjoy this little bit of mental gymnastics - it's quite fun, really, to wonder about what it is I might do next. While I've got a brain bursting at the seams with business ideas (the quality of some which is probably questionable), NONE of my fantasy jobs involve being a business owner. Perhaps that's interesting in and of itself - that the fantasy land is one with no responsibilty or risk, but the reality land is one which is filled with responsibility and risk. I wonder if my dreaming about those jobs is just a case of, "the grass is always greener," and it's actually ridiculous to think that I'd be happy as I am if I were, say, a lawyer (well, I'd certainly be richer...).

Lawyer.

Hmmm.

Now there's an idea....

Love and Birthdays

I recently did something which was out of character for me. I let a very good friend's birthday go by without doing anything about it other than a phone call. Didn't send a card, buy a gift, organise for cupcakes to be delivered - nothing at all. This is unusual because I am a huge fan of birthdays, no matter what age you are - birthdays are "the festival of YOU" and therefore are worthy of marking in some way.  I'm also a fan of creative gift giving, in so much as I love to spend ages finding the exact right thing for someone. Something not necessarily expensive, but something which serves as a reminder to them that they are loved, that I thought about them, and something unexpected which makes them smile on the inside as well as the outside. To not have done any of that for him was well outside of my normal behaviour.  I ended up spending quite a while mentally beating myself up about the fact that I didn't do anything about this birthday (in retrospect, my time would have been better spent finding a good present...).

I ended up chatting to a different friend about my angst over this - and she too admitted that she used to be a gift giver, a festival of you celebrator, and just one of those friends who makes you feel fabulously awesome when it's your big day. Notice I say, "used to be," because she also admitted that she no longer engages in any of that because the lack of return began to get too painful for her.

We started to talk about the nature of giving - about how it really is meant to be about the giving and not the receiving, how it feels good to give, about how much joy we get out of the process of giving..you get the idea. I would really like to believe that I'm one of those people who is happy just to give and never expects to get in return, and in some ways I *am* like that, but not in the case of birthdays. If the person is unable (for whatever reason) to give in return - then yes, I love the giving and I'm happy to give with no return expected. But if the person IS able to give in return, well, I can't help but think that they should be doing the returning, too.  I should define "giving" not necessarily as a gift in return. I suppose I mean they should 'give' either in terms of effort made, acknowledgement of my effort, or even plain old heartfelt gratitude for what they got. In short, make a big deal over the fact that I made a big deal for you.

In thinking about this, I started to question why I care if they give back to me or not. Surely it shouldn't matter, should it? Here's the conclusion I came to - the giving, for me anyway, is about the giving but it's also very much about the unsaid message which comes with the giving. When there is nothing returned, I interpret that as an indication of their level of care, and so if it doesn't match mine (again, not monetarily) it ends up feeling like a rejection of sorts.

In other words, if I'm making an effort to find the right card, send you the cupcakes, find the right gift, write you a heartfelt note - what I'm really doing is telling you that you are loved, and that I care about you enough to make all this effort and I damn well hope you feel the same. It's not about the gift or the card or the organising per se, it's about the emotion and love behind those things. Long term readers of this blog will be familiar with a good example of this - the birthday cake fiascoes of the last few years. To me, DH's epic birthday cake fails were like he was saying, "I don't give enough of a shit about you to get this done properly." Anyone who knows DH and I in real life knows that we are (still) madly in love and made for each other and he loves me heaps - so it's a little ridiculous to get that interpretation from a shitty birthday cake. Yes, the giving in itself is wonderful and I enjoy it...but I also expect some sort of validation of those emotions that came along with the gift.

There are of course a few very big flaws in this sort of thinking, namely the assumptions that the other person a) attaches the same values to birthdays in general, b) attaches the same emotions to the birthday celebrating effort, and c) actually understands the enormity of the unspoken message in the gift/effort they got in the first place. The fact is, DH shows me every single day that he loves me more than I probably deserve to be loved...and yet, I still take it to heart when I make a big deal over him, but he doesn't make a big deal over me (note: I've since gotten him better trained...). 

This brings me back to the question of why I let a friend's birthday pass without making a big deal of it (and no, I've not fully forgiven myself for it. I'm slow, what can I say?). The simple answer is just self preservation. At the moment I'm feeling less than stellar - emotionally speaking- and frankly I could not take what I thought might be rejection. If his reaction was anything other than hugely grateful, if he did not appreciate the effort, if he didn't go out of his way to tell me how fabulous I was and how much he loved it (whatever "it" might have been) ... I'd have been a mess. I would have beat myself up about the effort being wasted, that I should have known better, that the relationship is unbalanced, and so on. In other words a heap of self talk which would serve no purpose other than making me feel even crappier than I already do about this situation. I just couldn't do it. My friend ended up with just a (loving and enthusiastic) birthday phone call, and I ended up feeling shit about my lack of effort. I'm not even sure he noticed my lack of effort in the first place, because after all birthdays are MY thing, not his - but that's neither here nor there as it's me who is left with 10 rounds of mental boxing.

As I invest more in learning about myself, I'm learning just how many interesting ... quirks... I've got. Not least of which is the capacity to love hugely, but also the need to BE loved in the same huge way, and the need to see/hear/feel evidence of that love. I'm yet to work out if the latter is a blessing or a curse, but at least I know this year I should end up with a reasonable birthday cake... because DH loves me enough to know not to piss me off with another shitty one (or possibly, he loves himself enough to not tolerate my carrying on about it!).

Love and birthdays. Who knew they were so fraught?