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? 

Say The Right Thing

I took my pre-teen daughters shopping today. We had to stock up on summer clothes for them, so it was a shopping expedition they were really looking forward to. Funnily enough we haven't had to do this very often in their lives, because when they were small (and even in recent times) they've had the good fortune of inheriting a heap of stuff from their older cousins. Since older girl cousins are of course the MOST awesome people on the whole planet, their taste in clothes is also apparently awesome, and their hand me downs are something to fight over rather than scorn. Heaps of hand me downs coupled with trips to the US where I buy out half of Old Navy means we've not really had very many shopping adventures together thus far.

Today, armed with some money (always a good idea), a list of what we needed, and a determination that I was NOT going to get rail roaded into buying cheap crap, we headed off for the local shopping monolith. One of the chores on the list was to buy jeans for DD2, who (other than when she was a toddler, and even then I can't really recall it happening) has never owned or worn jeans. She decided it was time to buy a pair and so that was really our biggest challenge, particularly since she is of the "if it's not yoga pants, it's not comfortable" style of fashionista.

I decided that if I left her to it, we'd never get anywhere - so I left her in a cubicle with a bunch of stuff she'd picked, and then I ran around the store picking out jeans and flinging them over the door at her, with a mumbled, "All jeans are cut different, just try these ones!" She eventually found a pair which she really liked - and she walked out of the dressing room to get a second (and third) opinion from me and her sister. They looked really good, or at least DD1 and I thought so. DD2 then made a comment which made me rapidly suck in my breath. "I like them too! They're totally comfortable and I like that they are a little stretchy so they make my thighs look smaller."

My DD's are 11 years old. 11 years old is a ridiculous age to be thinking about buying pants which make your thighs look smaller. In that singular moment, I felt a little piece of my heart break for my beautiful daughter, that she would even need to consider something like that when looking in a mirror.

However, let's face facts here, shall we? She is the child of two overweight parents. She is very tall for her age, and she definitely has a softer body type - genetically speaking, I'm pretty sure there are no lithe bodies anywhere in our collective family trees, so it's really not a big surprise that she is who she is. She is also the child of someone who has had a very public, very obvious battle with weight, and she needs look no further than photos of her childhood to see evidence of that, where her Mum looks like the great shrinking - and then the great growing, then shrinking again - woman. She is also a product of the modern age, and of social media - where body types, commentary on bodies, and a general pre-occupation with weight, size, appearance and diet are part of the social norm. On the one hand, her comment totally threw me for a loop. On the other, it really wasn't surprising at all and if I'm honest with myself, what is surprising is that it's taken this long for something like this to be said.

They don't give you a mothering handbook for these moments - and even if they did, who says you would have it on you right when they make a comment like that? In those few seconds I really had to have an internal debate with myself about what my next comment might be. I could take the "Oh Mum, of COURSE you would say that!" route of, "What are you talking about, you're beautiful!" I could take the ignore-it-completely route, the sarcasm route, the brutal honesty route. I knew that whatever came out of my mouth next had the twin abilities to either hurt or help and I was going to make damn sure I said the right thing.

Let's be even more honest here - I've endured a lifetime of poor self-worth, poor body image, and a Mum who very lovingly told me in the same breath that I was beautiful, but that I would look so much prettier "if only I lost a little weight" so people could see my face better. So to say I am a bit sensitive about this topic would be the understatement of the year. 

I've got no idea if I said the right thing at all, I really don't. I just did the best I could with the resources I had at the time, and a fierce desire to not make this into a big thing.  I was cognizant of the fact that making it into a big deal would in fact make it INTO a big deal, and I didn't want that to happen but nor did I want to ignore it totally.

So here's what I said - "Firstly, those jeans are totally cute and I think they really suit your body shape. Not all styles of jeans look good on everyone's shape, but those ones look really good on you. You look totes adorbs!* Secondly, it's not like you have anything other than the right size thighs to begin with. So, are we buying them?"

(I wouldn't normally use a pre-teen expression like "totes adorbs" but I was trying to relate here, okay?)

I went the route of acknowledging it, but making no big thing of it. This afternoon I've found myself really debating if I should sit her (and her sister) down to have a big ol' talk about body image. I don't think I'll bother, actually. What pre-teen listens to her mother anyway? So I'm just going to keep doing what I am doing - which is acknowledge her comments, remind her that she is loved, that she has so much to be proud of, and that the world is full of people in all shapes and sizes. I'll continue to encourage her to get exercise, feed her good quality food, and be supportive when she finds clothes which are flattering (and honest when she finds clothes which are not.) She tried on some stuff today which didn't suit her at all, to which my comment was, "I don't think it suits you as well as (the blue one did) (the more structured one did) (that last one did). I think your body type looks better in...." The advantage of having a sibling the exact age but an entirely different body type also helps - because now DD2 might pick up something and say, "This is super cute but I know that this kind of thing doesn't suit me (or "just isn't my thing"), maybe DD1 might like it." 

Frankly, as a female, half the battle is finding the structure, fabric and style of clothes which suit you in the first place.  In my case, my height and proportions mean I always look ridiculous in layered, flowing clothes, in anything too orange or yellow, and wrap-around anything is no friend of mine. I also give anything with a band right below the boobs a big miss, because I prefer to avoid looking like I am wearing a circus tent. A big lesson today really was about working out what suits as much as working out what feels good. 

We ended up having a glorious, giggly, fun afternoon together. We wandered in and out of various shops, bought plenty of necessary stuff but a few 'treat' items as well - and just had a really great time together. Neither my daughters nor I will ever be the supermodels on the runways of Paris or Milan ... but I'm pretty sure none of us wish to be, either. For now, I'm still celebrating the big win of getting my girl into a pair of (flattering, comfortable, affordable) jeans - and you know what? Her butt looks GREAT in them (and yes, she asked ...and yes, both DD1 and told her the truth about it.)

Just Be Awesome

How much time do you spend working ON yourself? I'm talking about the time you spend devoting to any activity which nurtures yourself, which helps you get through the trials and tribulations of life, which feeds your soul (creative or otherwise). This could be anything at all - going to the gym, attending a Reiki seminar, going to a therapist, meditating, eating expensive cheese...whatever.

In thinking about the time you spend working on yourself, would you say that the time you're devoting is a LUXURY or an ESSENTIAL BASIC NEED? Something you make the time for just because it's important to you, or something you make the time for because you believe it is linked to your very survival (emotional or otherwise)?

For a long time I believed (and still do to some degree believe) that working on onself was an activity reserved for those who could afford the time and money to spend on this sort of stuff. I mean, how awesome that you can go to seminars and howl at the moon while the rest of us real people are working because we need the money and wiping our kid's nose for 15 hours a day. I'm pretty sure homeless people do not spend time meditating, that people in third world countries who are starving do not attend workshops about healing the mind through massage, that people suffering in chronic pain might not make it to the personal trainer twice a week, that even your average every day man going to work to provide for his family probably doesn't spend a heap of time visualising and reading The Secret. I might be wrong, maybe all these people do these things - but overall, I used to think that spending time on spirituality (in whatever form), self discovery, and dealing with your own "stuff" was an entirely indulgent past time. I mean - honestly - why the hell are you sitting inside listening to someone tell you about manifesting your goals instead of getting your ass into motion and actually MAKING STUFF HAPPEN through sheer effort and hard work?

Why are you meditating on your goals when you could be actually out there making your goals happen? Why are you at the gym when you could be out walking for free? Why are you attending silent retreats instead of just feeling like shit and then moving on? I just never really understood how people found the time and the money for this sort of stuff. Just get ON with it, people. Enough with the talking and the seminars and the bloody self-help books!

But then, of course - life happened to me. In various ways, not all of them good and certainly not all of them rainbows and jelly beans and sunshine. Sometimes, people die. And business gets tough. And your kids irritate you. And you have friends dealing with sad things which make you sad. And your brother goes from being a brother to being an asshole. And you start to feel a little overwhelmed by all the stuff you have happening, not all of it bad. You know - LIFE... just happens sometimes. And so - I discovered that going to the gym was my one-way ticket out of the looney bin - as long as I was 'indulging' in getting exercise, my mood was much better. I suddenly learned that the LESS time one spends on feeding their soul, the MORE one starts to feel as though they have fallen into a black hole. I learned that at least some part of working on oneself is in fact an essential basic need. I believe life is much more about thriving than it is just about mere surviving, and in order to do that I need to "indulge" in a bit of self-care once in a while. Maybe even more often than just once in a while. And maybe it's just a wee bit judgemental of me to think that all the seminars and the books and the meditating is a waste of time.

So ... I've tempered my opinion on this somewhat. I still think that there are too many people out there searching for the spritual holy grail, people who are hoping the next seminar or course or guru will leave them happy, more fulfilled, more relaxed, more accepting of the lot they've been given in life. I still think that it's very, very easy to spend time and money in searching for the root cause of your misery, your lack of success, your...whatever it is you are unhappy with. I also think it's very easy to use that search as an excuse for not getting out there and just getting stuff DONE. It's well and good to blame almost anything - your childhood, your parents, your lack of self control, your messed up psyche, your ex-boyfriends, your fifth grade teacher, your humiliating haircut the night before prom - for your unhappiness. It's MUCH harder to look within, step out of your head and then actually DO the hard yards of healing and the hard yards of WORK which might lead to success and happiness. I recently re-read the book,"Eat, Pray, Love" and in reading it the second time, what really struck me was this: she travelled the world looking for solace, sprituality, and balance. All the travelling, eating, connecting with gurus, meditating, and having wild sex in Bali didn't actually do it for her. She had to experience the pain, live with the pain, hate herself a bit, be royally pissed off a bit...and just keep putting one foot in front of the other until eventually her life got better.

Her year of living abroad, looking for all this stuff? Indulgent luxury of the highest order. But even that didn't really solve a damn thing, did it? She just had to WORK on it.

These days I'm willing to concede that nurturing ourselves, even to a small degree, is an essential part of thriving (which let me assure you is WAY more fun than simply surviving.) At the same time, it's a little too easy to get lost in the nurturing, a little too easy to get caught up in the searching, and a little too easy to play the blame game. Looking after ourselves isn't just a luxury, but nor is it a good excuse for not just living our lives out loud, unapologetically and with great joy and hard work.

By all means, look after yourself. Just don't make it the reason why you're not out there actually being awesome.

Underwear Is Essential

This week another cake company attempted to irritate me, and they ended up regretting it. The short version is, we had an agreement about the use of some equipment - and in the 10th hour (not quite the 11th but close enough), they changed the rules of the agreement. If there's something I really hate, it's when you have an understanding of something and then the other party decides to changes the rules. You know, just because they think they can mess with you - they mistakenly believe they hold all the power in the relationship. Call me crazy but I thought 'mutual agreement' means both parties are getting something out of it, not that one is getting the goods and the other is getting a lifetime of debt (unless of course this IS the agreement you've come to, in which case I think it's time you thought about getting out of business entirely.) 

This other company's rule changing left me in a really uncomfortable position - and if there's yet another thing I hate, it's that feeling of being beholden. Potentially I could have been left with my ass hanging out in the wind and that, my friends, is not how I do business (I much prefer my ass be covered.) I took some swift and decisive actions, and then politely but firmly told the other company to go fuck themselves. Oh, wait. I think I actually said, "Thanks so much for your kind and generous offer, but we've secured the services of another company." Which, for those who know me well, is equal to, "Kiss my arse, you morons. You attempt at messing with me just blew up in your face spectacularly."

The end result was a good one for me, a bad one for them (which  is pretty much how I prefer things overall...) but the interesting thing is how it's cemented for me a basic business idea - that I don't want to associate with, provide services to, align myself with, or otherwise get anywhere near companies which behave in unethical or unscrupulous ways. Maybe this is a failing of mine, where other businesss owners might say, "Screw them, play the game and make the money." Nope. Uh-uh. Not me. Not going to do it. It just irritates me to no end. Of course, my version of business probably has it's pitfalls as well. I'm honest to a fault, I overly communicate, and I basically put it all out there. I'm practically incapable of lying about anything, and I nearly always offer more information than is strictly required. There is just none of this game playing bullshit with me, and even if I tried I'd probably suck at it (a bit like networking, isn't it? I'm no good at the bullshitting stuff.)

That being said, as a very wise Biz Guy once told me, "It's YOUR business. You run it YOUR way," and my way means there is none of this messing about business. Not in the 10th hour, the 11th hour, or in ANY hour.

If it means I'm potentially losing business because I won't 'play with the big boys,' ...well, so be it. I'd rather have my ass covered by a pair of cheap Target underwear than not covered at all.

The 40 Challenge

At my 30th birthday party, I asked the guests to write down on an index card the things they thought I should achieve by the time I turned 40. You can see the whole list here. Not surprisingly a number of the goals are repeats and almost all of them speak to the skills others see in me, namely: baking, writing and talking. I had (and maybe still have) every intention of completing all those tasks, although some are far less challenging than others.

Challenging: "Become better friends," with a woman I have not seen since about, oh, six months after that party. More challenging: Wear high heels for a month. Less challenging: Go blond for a month. Even less challenging than that: Watch the movie 'Citizen Kane.' (I've already seen it.) I keep meaning to drag that pile of cards out and attempt at least some of them, the ones which I see as a true challenge or the ones which amuse and motivate me to get out of my comfort zone. Some of them I see no point in, mostly because they just don't hold any interest - one of the suggestions was to ride in the Great Victorian Bike Ride. I suspect the person was trying to motivate me to lose weight (thanks FIL...) but a) I'm not a fan of bike riding, and b) If I get a week off to myself, you can bet your ass I'm not going to spend it getting a bruised hoo-hah and sweating my way up a bunch of hills. Just not my thing, especially as I engage in plenty of exercise these days and so it would not be so much a challenge as it would be a form of self-mutilation.


As you will see on that list, one of the items was to perform a stand-up routine.

There is a part of me which adores the very idea of this - because it would be, beyond measure, one of the greatest challenges I'd ever undertaken. It would test my skills of writing, of performing, of being authentic, of bravery - just in writing about this, I can feel my shphincter tighten and my stomach turn over with fear. In short, if I pulled it off it would be nothing short of awesome. That being said, I knew it was something I'd probably never achieve, mostly because it requires me not only to do the gig, it requires me to find the gig in the first place - and that's perhaps a step too much for me. That goal, like most of them, has pretty much just sat in a drawer waiting for me to get to 40 and think, "Damn, I forgot about those!"

However, this week, the same friend who came up with that idea sent me an email which said, "I believe performing a stand-up routine was one of your turning forty goals, right?" and attached a link to the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, which is currently taking sign-ups for acts, even those which are one-offs.

*sharp intake of breath*

It just *might* be time.

___

For the purpose of historical accuracy, here's the list updated. In order for it to be really accurate, I've got to go and find out who said what, but this update is a good start at least:

Without further ado, here are the things I'll do by the time I am 40 (red is done, green is in progress.):

• Watch these movies: Citizen Kane, Hamlet (Kenneth Branaugh's version), Death Trap (with Christopher Reeve and Michael Caine.) Watch all 12 episodes of "Fawlty Towers", and learn a song and sing it in front of a crowd. A small group is okay, but YOU must sing it.
• See your name up in lights
• Become an Australian Citizen (I've recently changed my mind on this..)
• Design a cake that looks like me (Jess), finish your course with flying colours, make up a song and sing it in front of 10 people, swim with sharks.
• Repeat your [9 weeks in Europe backpacking] honeymoon trip, but with with triplets
• You and DH should spend 50 hours a week together in the same bed for the next ten years.
• Write a series of children's books that will be as interesting and as successful as the series of books I just read [she had just finished the No 1 Ladies Detective Agency series.]
• Have such success in your business that you can come visit me three times a year.
• Graduate at the top of your class, or at least in joint first place with me.
• Take a week off without DH and the triplets. (In progress forever more I think. The trip with my BFF did not happen, her health is too precarious.)
• Join a weekend circus school, become a life coach or motivator, take singing lessons, learn to play the tuba, be under-ambitious at some point.
• Learn pole dancing, shave your head and do a mohawk, get a Brazilian wax if you haven't already, learn to tango with DH, go trick-or-treating, in costume, as a family, enter a serious karaoke competition without laughing, learn a musical instrument like a triangle or a kazoo, play naked twister with DH only, learn to scuba.
• Write a cookbook that is suitable for people with nut/egg/coeliac allergies
• Achieve a weekly column in a prestige publication covering topics which make a difference, become proficient in dialectic [I don't even know what that word means], acquire patience with "what if" discussions around the dinner table and "happily" participate, never lose your ability to laugh at all the silly things life throws up, keep your talent for embracing life without steamrolling the people who love you.
• Swim with the dolphins, go to the top of Mt Kosciusko, invite me to your 40th birthday party, give me the cake that looks like Jess, encourage the kids to remember to call me "Uncle", dance at my wedding, and put a king sized bed in my bungalow [this is my BIL, who I want to live in a cool house in our backyard].
• Climb Ayer's Rock to the summit, you will never forget it. [I refuse to do this, on principle. I've been to Uluru, I chose not to climb to the top. I wouldn't want someone scrambling on my sacred site, either. I will, however, amend this goal to be walking around the base of Uluru.]
• Bake a cake for royalty, run a marathon, own your own cake shop and hire me.
• Say NO to teachers who prey on you because of your culinary ability at least twice this year.
• Go blonde for a month, wear high heels every day for a month (with the weekends and gym sessions off), write a book that at minimum is published for friends and family.
• Write a regular column for a magazine or newspaper, set up a franchise (baking or otherwise), bungee jump in New Zealand
• Get to know each other better (this woman disappeared from my life shortly thereafter, so this one is moot.)
• Swim the "Pier to Pub" in the same year that I do, go for a 40km ride down to Sandringham and back with me and anyone else you choose, turn Three Sweeties into a national franchise to rival Mrs Fields.
• Do at least one stand up comedy gig, do the Great Victorian Bike Ride, write a novella/short story and endeavor to have it published somewhere (your local multiple birth newsletter doesn't count).
• You need more adrenaline, so sky dive, preferably with parachute and instructor
• Survive three bar/bat mitzvahs, enter the Great Victorian Bike Ride, win a prize at the Royal Melbourne Show for "Cake of the Year"
• Scuba dive in the Great Barrier Reef and the Dead Sea [I don't think you can scuba in the Dead Sea, and given that it's dead, what would there be to see?], or if you feel daring, a nice left nipple piercing wouldn't go astray, to match your nose ring (well, the one that's going to be revamped.)
• Take me dancing again, because we are such a good couple, find a way to balance food, work, sleep and family. 

Deserving

I got a phone call today from SSOTH, asking me if it was okay if they nominated our family to receive a grant to help with the kids' school fees.

I (temporarily) said no. Yup. I said NO to help with my kids' school fees.

Stupid, right? Let me explain my logic here.

Mind you, they were not offering anything other than the nomination - the foundation itself makes the final decision - so there was no guarantee of anything.  At first I was a little befuddled - "you're asking me for permission to help me pay the fees? Are you serious?" My next question was, "But why US? What makes us so special? Why are we so deserving?"

"Well," she said, "You've got the three of them all at once!"

To which I replied, "Well, if that's the basis of your decision, I think I'd rather you gave the opportunity to a family who really needs the help much more than we do." I think at this point she thought I'd lost every one of my marbles, and maybe I had - but there were reasons for saying what I did. Firstly, we are surely not the only family there with three kids enrolled who are struggling to pay fees. Second, if that was her ONLY reason - meaning the triplet thing somehow makes us more deserving or more needy - well, frankly, that's ridiculous. Having triplets does not mean you are any more deserving or needy than any other family with three kids. Yes, the 'sameness' of them means that we don't have many hand me downs, our initial expenses for things are often astronomical, and we work harder to navigate the logistics of their lives because they have similar needs at similar times. Even with all that, there are so many families out there working as hard if not harder to achieve the same thing, who deal with much harder circumstances. We are not special in that regard (that we are an awesome family was never in doubt of course... *wink*) I don't need to look any further than the special needs and single parent household kids sitting right next to my kids in class. Sure, things are sometimes tough - but no tougher than anyone else has it.

There was a bit of a stunned silence on her end, until she gathered her wits and said, "Let me assure you that there being three of them was not the only reason. We go through this process with a fine toothed comb and there are many more reasons why we thought we would like to nominate your family."

"Oh," said I, feeling like a doofus now, "In which case, sure, nominate us." I didn't ask what the other reasons were, beause after all SSOTH is a million-dollar organisation, and I'm guessing they don't make decisions like this on a whim. I was just satisfied to learn that there were in fact other reasons here other than "the triplet thing." It also comforted me to know that we were not the only family nominated, that there were others who were being given this opportunity as well.

I've been thinking about that conversation ever since - and about how finance lady must really think I was crazy to say no initially, about why my reaction was so immediate, and about why I didn't think we were deserving. The fact remains, this school costs a small fortune which we can't really afford - but we made the choice that sending the kids there is important to us so we make it work. We're in an ocean of debt, which we're paying off slower than we otherwise would be, because we need to funnel funds to our school account. I hate debt. Of any kind. Surely that fact alone should have made me jump at the chance to relive the burden? Well...no.

In recent years (and specifically in the last 12 months or so), I've changed my entire attitude towards life. Basically, when I wake up in the morning - if I am healthy and well, my husband and kids are healthy and well, and we can afford to eat and have a roof over our heads...well, that's a damn good day. The rest is just a bonus. Sure - I really wish we didn't have this debt hanging over us, that I was 10 kilos thinner, that business would be booming much more, that DH had a job he was really loving, that the kids did not leave as much of a mess as they do, that we could afford a few more little luxuries, that my family lived a little closer, that life in general was easier and frankly, a little cushier than it currently is. And yet, all that is just details. The fact is, we are SO fortunate. Not only for our good health and access to food and shelter - but because we have the freedom to make the choices we do. So we find a way to afford SSOTH, we find a way to enjoy a myriad of life experiences and we just somehow find a way to muddle through.  Could things be better, nicer, easier, less stressful? Sure. Of course they could - but from where I sit, life is pretty grand and I'm so grateful for all we already have that the idea that someone could be offering me more than that...well, that took a minute or so for my brain to engage and to accept the opportunity she was offering.

I suppose when it comes right down to it, sending the kids to SSOTH is an enormous luxury. It really is. They would survive public school, we'd find a way to get them a religious education, and they would thrive because we do the best job we can when it comes to parenting them.  When you look at it that way, is *anybody* at a private school more needy than anyone else? I mean "needy" and "private school" don't really belong in the same sentence, do they? The irony is, we'd probably all be a little less needy if we didn't have those fees to pay.

I have no idea if we'll get that grant or not - but from where I sit right now, I'm grateful just for the opportunity given to us, deserving or not. 

The Flower Seller

Today is Jewish New Year.

Yeah, I wasn't all that ready for it, either. In DH's family there is a tradition of having lunch on the first full day of the holiday. Other than baking the ubiquitous honey cake for my MIL, I don't have to do any preparation for this as she takes on the task (thanks MIL... :) ) Usually I like to bring along something extra for my MIL, as a token of thanks and just because I think it's a nice thing to do. This time, however, I was woefully disorganised and so I found myself having to pop into the florist on the way from temple to lunch.

The parking gods were smiling on me, so I swung into a spot directly across the road and sprinted to the flower seller. It took me about 0.54 seconds to pick what I wanted (freesias - she likes them and I do, too, and they are in season right now) and I asked the man to wrap up two bunches for me.

"Would you like them arranged together?"
"No, thanks, just nicely wrapped will do."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure, thanks." (I'm not being cheap here, MIL is known for arranging her own flowers, and I don't think she is a fan of overly fussy things.)
 "I think the white will look really nice nestled within the yellow,"
"I do too. Just wrapped will be lovely, thanks."

He ignored me. The decision to arrange them had apparently already been made. So he ever-so-carefully slipped them out of their sleeves, snipped off the rubber bands holding them together, and proceeded to arrange the two bunches together.

I say "arrange them", but what I really mean is drive me up a wall, one stinking flower at a time (literally, because fressias are smelly, in a nice way.)

Stem - by - freaking - stem, he's putting one in his hand, looking at it, putting a second one in his hand, thinking about it for a bit...putting another stem in his hand, holding it at arm's length and considering it for a bit... then shaking his head and putting it all down to start again.

And then there were the other customers who came in - so he would stop arranging to help them and then would need to start the whole stem-by-stem process all over again because once he'd put  it down, it lost all it's flower mojo.

By now I am getting a wee bit concerned about the time (others were waiting back at the lunch...) and frankly, I'm getting a little antsy. I try rushing this guy a bit, but to no avail - have you ever seen the scene in the move 'Love Actually' where Rowan Atkinson is wrapping the gift? It was a bit like that. (You can watch it here...comedy gold.)

To keep my mind occupied, I composed a blog post in my head. All about how I was so impatient, and annoyed, and really wanting this guy to get a move on...but that I'd learned the lesson of "good things come to those who wait," learned that there is no point in rushing beauty, learned how I'd found time to actually smell the roses, revelled in how on that busy street there was still an oasis of calm and beauty and...

FUCK THAT. I'm running late, I need these damn flowers, and for the love of god, would you PLEASE just nicely put them together and wrap some paper around them so I can get the heck out of here?

This man was in no rush, and was clearly enjoying the creative process, no matter how one-bloody-stem-at-a-time it was happening - and he just didn't notice my having practically having a "I REALLY need to GGGOOOOO!" seizure right there in his shop. A good 20 minutes later and I finally had my artfully arranged, sticky tape placed *just* so bunches of flowers, and I bolted out of that shop like my butt was on fire.

So while I'd love to tell you I learned a whole bunch of peace, patience, love, flowers, hearts and unicorns lessons from this, I can't.

I just learned to use a different florist next time I'm in a rush.

Sometimes the lessons we learn are not so profound.

When You Know, You Know

Last night I had dinner out with a good friend who is in the beautiful, heady days of a new relationship. She is positively glowing from the inside out, and it's really wonderful to see just how sparkly she is. The way she spoke about her new partner was I'm sure the same way I spoke about to DH when I met him; with an almost incredulous aire that there could be someone who just fits so well. So she said things like..from their first date, it felt like they had been friends forever. Things like..although she has lived alone for a long time now, after having him over only a few times, the place suddenly felt very empty when he wasn't there. Things like...when he's hurting, she feels it, too. She then looked at me and said, "You know, what they say about these things is totally true. When you know, you know."

I could only smile at that one, especially since it's a line I've used many times before and she's always fobbed me off by retorting, "that's something only you 'smug marrieds' say!"

After she said it I started to think about how often in life that statement is true - there are so many things about which we know the answer, it just takes a while for us to acknowledge it. Or for us to come to terms with the fact that the answer is clear, we just might not like the answer! It occurs to me that it can apply to so many areas in our lives but also to those things which are positive and those which are not so positive. You might "know" that a relationship is ending long before it actually does - and that could apply personally as well as professionally. You might "know" that someone you've entrusted to do a job for you isn't doing the best they could or should be, but you'll hang onto them for a while. You might "know" that an opportunity seems to good to be true, but pursue it anyway. You might "know" that the seemingly inconsequential lump on your arm is something more sinister. You might just "know" that while everyone is fawning over the new girl, something you can't quite put your finger on is warning you that she's not quite what she seems. You might "know" that the house you just looked at is exactly the right one to buy.

When you know, you know. Intuition is such a wonderful gift, and yet how often we ignore it! Sometimes we listen to it, only to be influenced by other people - the ones who have enough influence to convince you to ignore that little inner voice. Sometimes we're unduly influenced by the strength of our intution - only to later on show that our intution was in fact dead wrong (rare, but it happens.) For my part, things happen to me all the time that cause me to then think, "You know, I KNEW this would be the outcome. I really shouldn't be surprised."  I suppose it's human nature which makes us carry on a course of action even though the little voice in our head is telling us not to. I'm pretty sure that's what made me pursue the business- I totally ignored the voice in my head telling me I was just a tiny bit insane to be attempting it.

Maybe the key is to work out when the little voice is inuition, and when the little voice is self-doubt - because I imagine there are times when they sound exactly the same, and times when either would send you into a course of action which then later turns out to be a bad idea.

I've clearly got a lot more thinking to do on this topic - but for now let me just say that hearing my friend use that expression strengthened my faith in intuition just that tiny bit...because, when it comes to matters of the heart, I totally believe that when you know, you know.

On Spirituality

I've recently returned from a trip to LA, and while there I took a short jaunt to my Dad's house in Mexico. I call it "my Dad's house" because it really was HIS - although owned by my Mom, too. He just adored that house, and could spend weeks and weeks tinkering with things both inside and out. In as much as it's possible to do so my Dad carried on one hell of a love affair with that house; none of her needs were too small or great, and by the time Thursdays would roll around he would hear her calling to him like the siren's song. Money was no object when it came to her demands, and he'd shower her with all sorts of gifts whether she needed them or not. The gift she gave him in return was singular - peace and quiet. He often said that in Mexico (as a whole) and in that house (in specific) it's the only place he ever felt totally relaxed.

My Dad's life was relatively high-stress - he owned his own business, and worked insane hours. In Mexico there was the opportunity to just let all of that stress go. He loved nothing more than sitting outside on the beach recliner, gazing out to sea - or even just laying in bed, doing the same thing. He called it being "bitten by the Baja bug," in so far as you might get there all wound up, but within an hour you suddenly found your bones had turned to mush and whole days could disappear without you really noticing. He'd also spend HOURS tinkering with things, as beach houses are constantly fighting the war against rust and deterioration thanks to all that (beautiful but destructive) salt air. It was, in short, his haven - and he even named it Casa de Mis Suenos (House of my Dreams).

Usually, I don't like going to his house when I am back in the States. I just find it all too painful and horribly claustrophobic. Every square inch of that house is teeming with memories, and they have a habit of creeping up on you when you least expect it. You might find a half-empty bottle of his cologne in the back of a cupboard, or a piece of paper with his writing on it, or come across an ornament I remember buying with him. There are times in that house where I literally feel like I cannot breathe because he is looking over my shoulder. In short, spending time in that house is like living with a ghost and I find it very hard to be there.While I, too, get taken in by the beauty of the sea and time becomes rather fluid, I also find it terribly unsettling and therefore not at all peaceful to spend time there.

The concept of inner peace, or the broader idea of spirituality, is not one I grew up with AT ALL. The most spiritual we got was the feeling of euphoria when you ripped into a giant block of Toblerone. We were also not a religious family, although we were mired in the culture of our religion. God was just not a topic of conversation. Whether you believed or didn't believe was never an issue because frankly, nobody really gave a shit what your thoughts were. We were just practising the culture of our religion, and going through all the motions, because that's what we did. I can't ever recall having a single conversation - even as an adult- about religion or spirituality or faith or...well, anything one might describe as 'woo woo.' My family experience was that we were all about the importance of the tachlis - or the 'brass tacks' - of life. We had neither interest nor time to discover anything outside of that realm. That being said, I probably still count as the most liberal of my family members in so far as I've always thought that there could be more to life than just, well, life. I just never really bothered to find out much about life beyond the tachlis of it.

It is only in fairly recent time that I've started to educate myself in the more spiritual realms, by dipping my toe in a few different waters like meditation, and learning about the idea of "the Universe" and so on. I suppose the older I've gotten (and the different people I've come across), I've started to wonder more about my own purpose and meaning in life, think about concepts beyond the everyday, and consider that there is a lot more to a person and their experiences than just the tachlis.  In many ways just thinking about things which are 'woo woo' makes me uncomfortable because it forces me to acknowledge that could be other forces at work here. I've got to let go of my belief that I am the ONLY person in control here, and I've got to totally suspend my belief that the only things worth my attention are things which are tangible. I'd say at this point in my life I've not necessarily accepted or taken on board all the things I've either learned or been taught, but I am certainly willing to learn and be taught - and that's saying quite a bit. It is, as the cliche goes,  a voyage of discovery.

So that's how I found myself in Mexico, laying in a beach lounger, staring out at the ocean and thinking to myself, "Dad's energy is just ALL OVER this place, it's like he's practically breathing down my neck," and then thinking to myself, "Dad's ENERGY? Seriously? If he heard me say that he's laugh his ass off and call it "energy, shmenergy bullshit!" and then shake his head at me."

I stared out at the ocean some more. I thought about my Dad some more. I started to feel that crispy-at-the-edges feeling you get when you just know that your European white girl skin is slowly but surely burning. I just kept staring at that ocean, letting my mind wander and my muscles relax in the sunshine...and all of sudden, I got it. I understood. My Dad's version of spirituality was right there, in Mexico - he would just never in a million years call it spirituality, or meditation, or finding God, or having inner peace. He would just call it "getting some peace and quiet," or being "bitten by the Baja bug," or "the only place in the world where I feel relaxed."

So that's how I found myself in Mexico, laying on a beach lounger, staring out at the ocean and thinking to myself something entirely different, which was, "Dad, I get it. I really do. We all find our peace somewhere, and this is where you found yours. In your own way, you were a spiritual person, too, you just called it something different."

Suddenly that house did not seem as claustrophobic anymore. I was right in thinking that my Dad's energy resides there, and that he is looking over my shoulder while I spend time there. I like to think of my Dad's spirit being there because that's the only place his physical body ever felt peace, so it's fitting that his spiritual self found peace there, too. I suppose it's not surprising then that having accepted that, it gives ME peace, too - and that, too, is a gift given to me by a house in Mexico.

GingerBears be Gone

A couple of months ago a new cafe opened up a few doors down from my shop. There are no cafes on this side of the local shopping strip, so all of us were really excited to see something new 'come to town.' Frankly, there is only so much Subway and Indian food one can take, so I think we were all hoping for something really yummy to add to our lunchtime repertoire.

I popped my head into the new cafe a couple of days before they opened, just to be neighbourly, and do some local snooping. The owner was a big, burly guy - who among other things was WAY too overbearing, spoke so loud I felt like asking if he thought I was deaf, and basically was one of those people who I find irritating on sight. No matter, I don't need to marry him, right? He asked if we can produce products for the cafe, and while it's not something we normally do, it's seemed like a good opportunity. He gets great product, we get a way to show the locals what we do, without them needing to buy an entire cake.

On their opening day, I took some themed (themed to the name of the cafe) cupcakes and a variety of cookies over there, as a welcome gesture but also as a way of hopefully convincing them to place a regular order with us.

Ever after, every single time Overbearing Cafe Owner saw me in the area, he'd shout at me. "I'm gonna come in and order, emzee, I really AM!" he would boom at me. "I'm coming in RIGHT NOW to order up big, emzee!" "I'll be 'round any minute now, emzee!" and so on - but of course he never showed. Frankly, it got embarrassing and intensely irritating enough that I'd actually cross the street if I saw him coming and I started to fervently pray that he would not make good on his promise to drop in.

A few weeks back he did in fact come in to the shop to order some gingerbread cookies (in bear shapes, hence the title of the blog.) He was totally unable to tell me how many he wanted, how much he had budgeted for the creation of these, how often he might order, how many the cafe might use in a day or week, what decoration he wanted, if the biscuits he currently offers sell well, or what storage space he had available to keep stock on hand.

I'm not saying I'm an expert at running a cafe - but surely after several months in business, you know if you are selling biscuits in the first place, right? You should know that you're selling on average 10 a day, versus, say 100. Enough to be able to make an estimate as to how many you should order, surely? He literally had NO idea. None. "Um, I don't know, just give me lots." Couldn't even tell me what he wanted to spend on these, "Oh, you know that better than I would, emzee!" He got very tired of my questions (which, hey, I'm thinking are kinda important if you're trying to set up a supply chain, but what do I know about being in a food business? ;) ). He got SO tired in fact that, mid-question, he stood up and shouted, "Look, you know what you're doing here. I've got an appointment for a massage. Just go and fill up the jars. Bye!" and literally ran out my door.

So that's how I found myself wandering down the road to grab empty (dirty!) biscuit jars, so that *I* could work out how many, how often, what size, what decoration was needed. Because, you know, I know all about running this man's cafe.

I ended up making a stack of gingerbreads (enough to fill the jars plus a few for top-ups) and charged an entirely appropriate price considering his total lack of information plus his making me go rescue the damn jars.

I got a phone call from Overbearing (and now Irate) Cafe Owner about ten minutes after we delivered them. "Listen emzee, we have a problem."

Yes. The problem would be that you have NO CLUE how to operate a money making cafe. Or ANY cafe at all really - but carry on. Problem?

"The problem," it seems, is that I charged him too much. Note, I ASKED what he wanted to pay and he left it up to me. We provided him with an ocean load of cookies to sell, and the grand total of his invoice was $100. "Emzee!" yells the soon-to-be-bankrupt cafe owner, "That's a RIDICULOUS amount of money to pay for some biscuits!" and then he shouted at me all the reasons why my prices were insane:

• $100 at $20 an hour means it took me 5 hours to make those biscuits and it most certainly did NOT take me five hours so HOW can I justify that? (the logic on this is so fucked, I won't even begin to explain it.)
• He currently charges $4 for a Texas-sized savoury muffin with cheese and nuts in it, how on earth can he charge $4 for a biscuit as well? (because you're losing money on that muffin, moron. Try learning how to cost out muffins before you worry about my biscuits.)
• He didn't want to pay more than $1 per biscuit, and even that is ridiculous but he thought he would be nice and generous by paying that (and that would be why I asked you what price you could pay...because had you said $1, I'd have laughed in your face.)
• He really wants to support me and help me out by giving me his order and he thought HE was doing ME a favour (remind me again why my well established business needs a moron like you to do it a favour...)
• ...and so on. He carried on for quite a while. I'll spare you. I eventually hung up. 

Word among the local traders is that he never charges the same thing twice, there does not appear to be an actual menu of sorts which they adhere to, he gives stuff away fairly often - because all of those are great ways to run a business, yes? There are quite a few fairly miserable online reviews of this cafe, most of which talk about how overbearing and annoying this man is (I checked. Of course I did.) 

For my part, I'm bloody grateful that I never need to supply this man's business ever again, and grateful that he is so clueless the chances are he will be out of business within a few months.

That being said, I've suddenly reaffirmed my fondness for Subway and Indian take aways (because after all, you can't order lunch from a cafe which does not have an actual menu, can you?)  My reliable sources tell me the gingerbreads sold really well and were well received by the locals.

Final tally in the Gingerbears Fight:

emzee: 1
Overbearing cafe owner: -1 (because he's losing money. To score him at 0 would imply he's breaking even.)

YOLO

I recently spent some time with the only kids who compete with my own for title of, "Kids I Tolerate Best," - namely my sister's three. The two older ones are fabulously well-adjusted teenagers and they are very good at educating me in the ways of the teenage world. It's because of them that I have an entirely crap-tastic hold of the English language but can now ROFLMAO with the best of them. This recent visit, my nephew taught me a new acronym - YOLO. It stands for "You Only Live Once," and apparently it's origins lie in some sort of rap song. So you can smoke them bongs, screw them bitches, ride in your low rider, and get all up in some ho's face and none of it will matter because, you know, YOLO.

I'm sure you all have figured out just how much this expression is RIGHT up my alley. Word on the teenage street is that this expression has now made it into daily (okay, facebook) usage but it's often used to explain away doing totally stupid things. Like... "I just failed my fourth math test, but YOLO." "I'm thirteen and pregnant with the child of my married history teacher, but hey, YOLO!"

Ever since I've learned this expression, the number of times I've either thought (or said out loud), "YOLO!" is ..well, probably too many for a self-respecting adult such as myself. The beauty of this expression is of course that it instantly makes any problem in the world seem very, very small and turns even the worst situation into something worth celebrating.

Untrue but funny as hell examples of how this works:

We can't pay the mortgage this month, but the bank will totally understand, because YOLO!
The children have run off to join the circus (eg the Church of Scientology). Good on them. YOLO!
Husband's penis has grown 6 inches and is now answering back when I talk to it, that's so awesome, YOLO!

You get the idea.

YOLO is the noughties version of "What- EVAH" but it's way, way WAY more fun to use. Try it.

1) Complain about something. Anything at all.
2) Either yell YOLO out loud or in your head. I'm not sure why it requires yelling but it does. Either use the expression with enthusiasm or don't bother.
3) Enjoy the instant happiness.

Bonus points to ANYONE brave enough to post a sentence (real or fake) which is somehow improved simply by adding a good ol' YOLO to the end of it.

A Wiggle and A Giggle

A couple of weeks ago I was feeling really, really miserable - it was yet another freezing Melbourne day where I felt I'd never get that ice water feeling out of my bones, I had a horrendous back ache, and things at work were conspiring to irritate the shit out of me. I can't say for sure, but chances are that the kids were being irritating and for good measure DH was, too. (It's possible they were angels the whole lot of them, but I'm trying to set a scene here, okay?)

Feeling miserable, I tried to come up with a plan for mood improvement which did not involve chocolate and/or drugs of any kind (and I am of course referring to anti-inflammatories. Of course. *wink*). I then had the most brilliant idea EVER. Quite close to home a brand new whizz-bang aquatic centre has opened, and this facility has an ENORMOUS spa in it. When I say "enormous" I mean that you, me, AND the local footy team would all fit in there together. (More on WHY I know a footy team would fit in there in a moment.) My brilliant idea was to abandon my family for a few precious hours and go and sit in said enormous spa. This brilliant idea seemed to solve ALL my problems in one go. First, I'd be WARM. Really warm. Second, I'd be relieving some of my back ache, and third I'd be far away from any humans who would want to talk to me - so I could effectively sit in warm, muscle relaxing comfort without having to even pretend like I enjoy the company of other humans.

I figured a good hour long soak in a quiet hot tub was EXACTLY what Dr Google would order, had I asked him.

Brilliant plan, no?

Brilliant until I realised that the local aqua-plex does not in fact ban other humans from going there. I get to the spa only to discover that it was in fact full of the members of the local footy team. Apparently they relax after an aquatic training session by hanging out and acting like morons in my peaceful bath of tranquility, thus rendering it not tranquil at all. Sure, it improved the view (well, helllllooo there, hot boys!)...but...meh. Then this aquatic and fitness centre has the audacity to run aqua aerobics classes in the hydrotherapy pool located right next to the spa. Yes, because what my moment of serenity really needed was a bunch of old women with bat wing arms enthusiastically swishing about to the beat of Paula Abdul songs reverberating off the tiles.

By now I was absolutely determined to make this whole calm/peace/quiet thing work, regardless of the footy team and the old ladies and even Paula Abdul...until, of course, the straw arrived by sidling up to me in the warm water. The straw being of course an ancient guy who was overly friendly and felt the need to start a conversation. I don't need to tell you that the spa was pretty crowded, and so there was not much opportunity to move away from him  (but of course I tried! I really did.) We'll call him Con, shall we? Con the overly-friendly Greek geriatric who decided I was worth chatting up. So there I sit, in my warm cocoon of loveliness...learning all about Con's life story and feeling utterly trapped. Con's entire life story tumbled right out of his mouth, with nary a stop to take a breath (retired butcher, 3 kids, lives across the road, does not approve of tattoos or piercings, comes to the spa three times a week, his wife drives him mad, he is just working out this whole internet thing.)

*sigh*

By now I'd pretty much given up all hope of achieving my dream of an hour of warm, peaceful, muscle relaxing enjoyment. I certainly was warm, but probably more from the collective pee in there rather than what the thermostat was set to. Yes, I just went there. I was miserable, okay? I found myself FAR more grumpy on the way OUT of the spa than on the way in - thus defeating the entire purpose of my trip there.

I was NOT happy.

Except...this story needs a happy ending, doesn't it?

A couple minutes before I gave up and finally decided to completely blow this over-crowded and noisy taco stand, old Con decided to make his exit, too. He bid me adieu and floated his way across to the other side. I should explain that you can exit the spa either via the stairs, or simply by climbing out over the short wall at the other side. Con was of the one-leg-over exit strategy...which afforded me a full frontal view of his wrinkled dingle-dangly bits, because old Con was sporting fully transparent white bathing shorts. Con, being the overly friendly sort, stopped mid-clamber to face me fully and wave goodbye enthusiastically, which of course made little Con wave enthusiastically, too.

My bad mood? Gone in a wiggle..and a giggle.

Temper Tantrum Par Excellence

This past Monday morning I had the mother of all temper tantrums. In Australian slang terms, I lost the plot spectacularly. I'm not talking the type of tantrum where you stamp your foot and yell until you get what you want. I'm talking about the kind of tantrum where you call your husband in big fat gulping hysterical tears and you tell him things like, "I've completely fucked this entire thing up, I've ruined people's lives, and I just don't know what to DDDDOOOOOOOO!!" and then you start saying a whole lot of the-world-is-ending stuff. While I'm a hugely emotive person (when I love you, you REALLY know it, and when I hate you, it's best to move out of the country entirely) but I am not one for tantrums of this sort. I'm much more of the "Houston, we have a problem!" pronouncement followed by a whole lot of PLANS and ACTION to make stuff happen. None of this resting on my laurels business, nope. Not for me, the 'sit and complain and do nothing' concept.

I'm not going to talk about what brought on the tantrum. Instead I'm going to talk about how stupid it was to have a tantrum in the first place - but how utterly necessary it was, too. Stupid to have it because even in the throes of it, I realised it was pointless, indulgent, and frankly a waste of my time. Stupid because I KNOW I'm a 'fixer,' and I knew I'd be able to figure it all out eventually - and if I couldn't, I certainly know a lot of clever people who might be able to help. Stupid because I'm not an attractive crier - and that day I was wearing an entirely cute outfit which would be utterly ruined by puffy eyes.  Sure, the ONE day I'm not wearing jeans and a t-shirt and THAT is the day I decide to look like shit, all runny nose and red eyes? Not a good look.

So if having this tantrum was stupid - why was it so necessary, and why am I in fact GLAD I had it in the first place? It was necessary because it reminded me - and I think sometimes I forget - that I am in fact, human. I make stupid decisions. I miscalculate things. I forget to plan, or plan poorly. While I would not say that I'm someone who thinks she is "all that AND a cupcake"...I certainly like to think I have it together, for the most part. I like to think that I do in fact have my business, my triplets and my wasitline under control all at the same time. To be reminded that maybe, just maybe it isn't always wine and roses - well, that was a useful (albeit painful) thing. It was uncomfortable. It was unpleasant. I really DID believe (and somewhere in the back of my mind lives the niggling bit of self-doubt, doesn't it?) that I'd royally messed things up and that all that I hold dear was coming crashing down. The idea of failure for me is ... almost unthinkable...and so to even be entertaining the thought, well, let me tell you. I really wished in that moment that I was a drinker.

That same day I'd planned to have lunch with a friend of mine, who in addition to being a friend is a fantastic mentor who does not allow pity parties or wallowing. She'll love you to death, hug you, pat you on the back - but she'll never say, "It will all be okay," because the fact is, she has NO idea if it will be and she's not inclined to bullshit you. When I finally finished crying to DH, he told me to pull myself together, wash my face, and go to lunch - and in the absence of any other plan, that's exactly what I did.

When she came to the door, she didn't look her usual self - she looked well and healthy, but something was off.  Turns out she'd recently heard about the unexpected passing of a good friend's husband - and as I'd rung the doorbell, she was on the phone to her friend.

I'm pretty sure that was the Universe smacking me in the head and saying, "Stop your crying. NOW." It seems like every time I want to wallow in self-pity, flagellate myself for doing something dumb, or in general engage in a bunch of "woe is me" thinking...it smacks me and reminds me that I'm not the centre of the Universe, and whatever it is I'm dealing with isn't a patch on what everyone else has going on. This does not mean my problems are any less important or any less real than they were an hour ago - they did not get magically erased, I don't magically feel any better about them, and I've still got to face the music in coming up with a way to turn the situation around. It just serves as a reminder to re-evaluate my own situation.

Lunch with my friend, while tinged with a bit of sadness, was the BEST possible antidote to the mother of all tantrums. I left her home feeling a hell of a lot better, filled with a resolve to deal with things rather than cry over things, and in fact a feeling of gratitude that I'd had my tantrum in the first place. Tantrums, I've decided, are nature's way of telling us to take stock. Nature's way of telling us we're just human, and that sometimes we will screw up and then feel like shit about it. Tantrums are also nature's way of giving us a means to let go of the bad stuff and make room for the good stuff - and while I'm sincerely hoping my next one is very, very far away (or maybe won't happen at all), I'm quite grateful for the one I had this week.

Besides which, I've discovered that a cute pink outfit and pink eyes do, in fact, look kinda okay together.