Don't Give Me Pause

I am talker. Actually, it's fair to say that I don't so much breathe as I talk. Not incessantly (I do occassionally need to draw breath in order to talk more) but I talk a hell of a lot, and I rarely pause (except for dramatic effect, as in "Ta....DAH!") This week I've discovered that other people are NOT talkers, they are pausers, and they are either in the wrong profession to be pause-ers, or they're doing it in entirely the wrong conversation.

The dermatologist called me and left me a voice mail, which sent something like this, "Hi emzee, it's Dr. S here. PAUSE. Can you please give me a call? PAUSE. I've got some news for you. PAUSE. Thanks." Then she hung up.

The lady who shaved bits off your body and sent them to a lab has NEWS FOR YOU, and she bloody well PAUSES afterwards, without telling you the sort of news it is.  You know, the same pause which might come before the phrase, "...and the lab results show positive for the big C word."

She called me shortly thereafter on my work number, and this time she reached me, and AGAIN she said, "Hi emzee, it's Dr. S here. PAUSE. I'm calling because I have some news for you. PAUSE."

In that second pause, I had a heart attack and died. She did not notice, she was too busy pausing.

"It's GOOD news, all the tests came back clear, you're all good. Nothing to worry about at all."

For fuck's sake woman! Can you not just remove the pause and say all in one breath, "Hi emzee, the results came back all good you will live a long  and fruitful life and I shall never pause dramatically again thanks see you in a year." PAUSE. 

No. Instead she had to leave me hanging, or rather, dying.

I think there should be a law which says doctor's are not allowed to pause when delivering news of any kind. Even bad news. Just rip the damn bandaid off as quickly as possible, thanks.

The same is true for my clients. This morning I died another small death when a client called.

"emzee? PAUSE. This is client. PAUSE. I just got a delivery of cupcakes. PAUSE."

At this point, I'm thinking - I'm going to KILL my delivery guy if he fucked this up. He KNOWS to check the box right before delivery. Seriously. (Sidebar - in this case delivery guy is also husband guy, so you know I was going to go ape-shit on him.) I'm also thinking - what if we got the flavour wrong? The colour wrong? The quantity? What is she calling to complain about? What did we screw up? The fact that I work on the assumption that she is calling to complain is not just a matter of me being a Negative Nelly, it's based on years and years of experience which tells me that most clients, even the ecstatically happy ones, won't ever bother to contact you (until their next order.) The unreasonable and unhappy pains in the arse, however, will call you before the delivery guy has even handed over the box. Hence my trepidation when this client called not 5 minutes after I got the "delivery done, you can start breathing again," text message from DH. (Boy does he know me well...)

This client had the gall to PAUSE dramatically once she told me she just got her delivery, and her tone of voice gave nothing away.

"They look AMAZING, so much better than I imagined, OMG OMG OMG *insert happy customer squealing* You are the BEST ever, I'm just calling to say thank you SO much and to ask you how to store them so they remain perfect for the party tonight."

I'd have answered her, but in the midst of her pause my heart stopped beating and I slid slowly and soundlessly to the floor. She too didn't notice. Too busy pausing.

The conversational pause is going to be the death of me. (*snort*)

I hereby decree that certain professions (among those doctors or health professionals, people who tell you you've won the lottery or other prizes, teachers or anyone looking after my kids) and certain people in my life (I'm talking to you, clients) are NOT ALLOWED TO PAUSE.

My poor heart can't take it .....

anymore.

Cocoa Pop Giggle Laugh Chortle

Today I went to the dermatologist.

Now there's an exciting way to start a blog post...I never claimed to be entertaining all the time, did I?

Apparently I am an over-achiever in all aspects of my life, including in the growing and harbouring of moles (and does that not sound delicious?) Once a year I pretend I am a good little Australian (where skin cancers are no laughing matter) and I have a very nice woman with very cold hands inspect every inch of my skin to make sure none of my tiny little round friends have decided to become either not tiny or not round.

I'm no big fan of doctors per se, but doctors who tell you to strip off and then inspect around your cha-cha are especially not my favourites, so I was feeling a little giggly and nervous about it (which is ridiculous, but there you go.)  First point of discussion was a small chocolate brown mole which lives right in the middle of my right clavicle. It's irritated me for a long time because it's marring what is otherwise an entirely perfect and sexy part of my body (of which I only have just the one, so I'm a little protective of it.) The kids call this mole my "cocoa pop" because that's what it looks like. As though a tiny little chocolate rice bubble has just jumped up and landed in the middle of my clavicle.

While I am there listing my various skin ailments to nice derma-doctor, I start to giggle like an idiot as I open my mouth and say, "And yeah, so, I'd like to get rid of my cocoa pop." "Your what?" "My cocoa pop." (I temporarily forgot that nobody but my immediate family has even heard this expression.) "Ok, where is this...cocoa pop?" So I show her, and she looks at it, and says, "Hmm. You know what? It really looks like a cocoa pop," and for the rest of the appointment it was all, "Okay, so you'll feel a little sting right next to your cocoa pop," and "I'll just send this cocoa pop off to the lab now," and "I'm going to put a bandage where your cocoa pop was."

Dear patient after me: sorry. She's a good doctor, really. I promise.

The first part of my appointment I spent laughing about a stray bit of cereal on my clavicle. The next bit I spent laughing because once she had inspected my front she told me to "lay on my stomach with arms up as though you are sun baking."

Sun baking? Was she serious? This is Australia, home of the slip-slop-slap-seek-slide! The place where they tell you the ozone hole is RIGHT on top of. The place where sadly skin cancer is an epidemic.  And the SKIN doctor is telling me to assume the sun baking position? I'll admit it, I totally lost the plot here and dissolved into giggles again, which only made HER laugh, and she explained that everyone knows what she means when she tells them to do that. She the admitted she did feel the slightest microscopic twinge of guilt when she used that expression. It seems somehow disloyal to her profession and all.

$350, an hour, minus one dodgy mole and minus one cocoa pop later, and I had the most entertaining afternoon I've had in a long while.

Clearly, I'm easily amused.

The Great Sugar Shake Up

I am one of those irritating people who loves to both challenge herself and take part in social-research type things. I answer polls, I fill in questionnaires, I stop when those people in shopping malls want your opinions on stuff, I road-test products for various organisations, and so on. Recently an opportunity came up to live "sugar free" for eight days for the purposes of a magazine article. Four people are doing this little experiment but the others are living without TV, mobile phone, and alcohol. I'm living without sugar, and the only guidelines were "no sugar at all and no fruit except limes, lemons, and oranges."

Yes, because apparently everyone loves to eat a lime right after a work out.

I took this experiment on because for me, sugar is less about a diet and more like a lifestyle choice. I'm probably like those McDonald's buns which can live in a jar and not look any different after a year of just sitting there. I think someday I will die and hundreds of years later they'll bring me back up and there I will be, perfectly preserved. Some days I think there is just far too my blood in my sugar stream.

So given all of that, I have to admit, living a sugar free life does not exactly appeal to me. Firstly, I kinda need to eat sugar as part of my job. It's not just a convenient excuse - we really do road test things (e.g. is there enough lemon rind in this lemon cake batter?).  Secondly, I rely on sugar to play the role of therapist in my life and I make no secret of the mood enhancing and hysteria calming qualities of Slurpees, chocolate buttons, and ice cream. Still, I love pushing myself and this seemed like a good a challenge as any - what is 8 days in a lifetime of sugar addiction, really?

A freaking long time, that's what.

However.

I'm now onto Day 4 and I can say with some confidence that I am getting through it a lot easier than I thought I would be. By far the most annoying thing is how much I need to kick my food planning up a notch - and this is annoying because I already food plan (a whole hell of a lot. You do not lose 70 kilos by just looking like you care but not doing anything tangible about it.) All my usual "grab and go" meals, the ones I know are okay because they are reasonably good for me and fill the "rather eat this than grab something horrible" rules are pretty much out of the question now. Actually almost anything that comes in any sort of packaging is out of the question. From a food technology point of view, sugar is in fact a preservative - which is why almost all things which come in a package last so long. It's also a clever way around food which claim to be "low fat", where the 'moreish' quality which normally comes from fat is replaced with sugar.

I nearly sat down and cried when I noticed that the gorgeous veggie and protein filled sandwich I'd just made was suddenly a 'no go' because the mayo I'd used listed sugar as an ingredient. Then the salad my son made (blanched green beans, fresh baby spinach, toasted sunflower seeds, and a really nice soy dressing) was out because it had honey in it. Then the salad I made for dinner was out because the balsamic glaze had brown sugar in it. You get the idea. The grilled salmon with a teriyaki marinade? Also out. The chunks of sweet summer watermelon I'd lovingly chilled? Nope. I am not a fan (ok, I hate with an all-consuming passion) food or eating plans which tell you to restrict or limit things. I don't think it's the right way forward for long term success and I think it's a guaranteed way to ensure you're going to put back on every one of those kilos and then some.

However, I'm all about trying new things and social experiments, so I'm being a good sport and living by the (very vague) rules on this one. So far I see and feel no appreciable difference. I know it's only been 4 days (which seems like a woefully small amount of time) but still, no great exciting a-ha moments have emerged.  I definitely miss my morning bananas, but even that's not a big deal. Maybe the only thing of note is that I'm not really craving the chocolate buttons as much as I thought I would. I just have lost all interest in them entirely. I do miss the feeling of comfort and calm they give me, but I don't miss them for the sake of them. I'm also wandering around fairly anxious and overwhelmed, but there are plenty of non-sugary reasons for that so I can't say it's related.

Either way - even at the half way mark I can already say that it's been an interesting experience, and not one I wish to repeat anytime soon. It was 33 degrees today in the shade and let me tell you, a Slurpee would have gone down VERY well indeed (instead, 1.5 litres of water went down.) Healthier for me, sure, but so damn boring!

I might not be doing sugar for eight days, but I sure as hell don't ever plan on doing boring. Sugar (maybe just not quite as much) is back on the menu as of Tuesday.

Non Negotiables

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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....

...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....

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...

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!