Glamour Girl v Grubby Mummy

Sometimes I wish I was a Glamour Girl, not a Grubby Mummy. I usually wish this when I only have 20 minutes to shower, shampoo, blow-dry, dress and slurp instant coffee between mouthfuls of cold toast before running to catch the bus to work in the mornings. A Glamour Girl rarely arrives late to work because she had to find (and iron!) another clean shirt after the first one was smeared with peanut butter, yoghurt and bread crumbs by her delightful one year old. 

Actually, Glamour Girl is most unlikely to have breakfast at all and just pick up a double shot decaf, skim soy latte on her way to the office.

I love the total Glamour Girl look. The polished nude pumps, a well-shaped, non-chipped pale pink mani/pedi, a perfectly pressed crisp white shirt tucked into a black tailored pencil skirt with diamond stud earrings completed by an elegantly pinned chignon at the nape of her neck. 

I would wear a pair of this season’s Mimco open toe ankle boots, the delightful florescent orange harem pants by sass & bide, a flowing blouse and a statement necklace if I were a Glamour Girl. 

And I must meet a Glamour Girl’s make-up artist. The never-coming-off dewy complexion she achieves is always the perfect blend with her natural skin tone, while her cheeks are glistening with a sun-kissed rouge that puts even Gisele to shame.  

I’d have every OPI pastel nail colour at my Tiffany & Co adorned finger tips so I'm never caught out in a nail emergency, plus I'd pop my Yves Saint Laurent Touche Eclat and a Lancome Juicy Tube in to the inner pouch of my Chanel quilted leather clutch for subtle touch ups during the day.

On weekends I’d slip into my comfy 7 For All Mankind jeans, throw on my Stella McCartney cotton top and Chloe ballet flats before driving off in my Mini Cooper convertible for a light lunch with the girls. Afterwards I'd pick up my new Marc Jacobs (fed-exed from New York) dress for cocktails and dancing in the evening.

If I were a Glamour Girl I’d look good 24/7, even in bed, because it is a never ending production to be her.

But today, and tomorrow, I will be Grubby Mummy. I live in 12 year old brown Birkenstocks, a beige (colour formerly known as white) Espirit singlet and faded blue Witchery linen shorts with a stretched waistband. I have three-inch regrowth in my long blonde, unwashed hair and dirty, torn nails from playing in the garden with my son.

If I were a Glamour Girl I would be envious of Grubby Mummy and want her no-fuss, affordable life and amazing family. I would want to be me.

Roma Street Parklands: A Calming Oasis in the City

Brisbane tends to show off a little in autumn. The weather is an ideal temperature, the air is fresh and cool with a hint of a breeze, the sky is crystal clear and one isn't scared to go outside for longer than five minutes in fear of frying.

Over the weekend, Teach and I wanted to embrace the gorgeous weather we were having after being stuck inside for several weeks suffering through awful coughs, colds, head aches, belly aches and the rest (I'll save you on the gory details!). E needed to explore new territory too - let's face it there are only so many times you can play trucks in the one spot before you start going a little trucky yourself!

We headed down to Roma Street Parklands located on Roma Street, funnily enough. It's a fantastic, well-maintained retreat in the middle of the city where you can relax, enjoy a coffee, have a BBQ, wander through the rainforest and pretty flowers or cast a line in the lake for a spot of Catch & Release Fishing.

I'm not sure why we haven't been down there before, but we loved every minute of this calming oasis we've vowed to return before long. Here are a few snapshots from our afternoon...

Enjoy a guided tour of the parklands on board the train for $3pp

E is very happy with himself for grabbing Dad's sunnies

Catch and Release Fishing in the main lake. Not permitted at any other time.

Just one of the MANY lizards who live in the park.

Teach shows E a fern tree in the rainforest

The view back to Roma Street

For more information go here.

Career Crossroads: Comfort or Security?

When I was a wee young thing my Dad said to me, ‘If you want to be a good writer you have to read everything.’ At the time I didn’t really want to hear his advice (sorry Dad) and knowing me, I probably walked away thinking, 'Pfft! Ok Dad. Whatevs!' as only a delightful pre-pubescent daughter does to her Dad and turned up the volume on Mariah Carey's Music Box album (it was the 90's!) and stuck my head under my pillows hoping to disappear. 

Today, in a slightly older age bracket, Dad's advice creeps back in to my ear as I sit at my laptop urging the words on the page to, ‘Hurry up and make sense!’

Pieces of my debut novel are lying before me waiting for guidance. One particular scene is flaccid, uninteresting and down right amateur. It's been restructured so many times it finally appears in what could only be described as gobble-dee-gook, making me come to terms with the sad reality that my attempt to 'harness my creativity' (Thank you Oprah) will be a long and painstakingly slow process.

Now I am escaping. I've switched from Word to Wifi to forget all about my pathetic crying leadying lady and her life changes...boring! Instead I'm going to kill time flipping through the delectable pages of ASOS.com daydreaming of all the clothes I'd like to buy.

But it sits there waiting for me. That dreaded blinking curser knows I will return and magically morph in to an evil clown face and laugh at me hysterically, 'You're back for mooooore? Whoa, ah, ahhhhhh!' Lovely!

I never grew up thinking, 'I'm going to be a writer,' but I always loved the sound of the 'click, click, click' of the keys on a typewriter. It seemed very romantic to me, like an old black and white film. Romantic and important. If you were a writer, I thought, you were important and SOMEBODY. Who would want to waste their time reading when they could be a writer?

Looking back I can see now that the desire to write has always been tucked away in a pretty box (a gorgeous Tiffany & Co blue box with a white bow of course) behind my heart. It didn't reach my brain until I was so mind-numbingly bored one day playing Mum I started a blog just for the hell of it. 

Sitting down at my PC to write what had happened that day or what I wanted to happen, was the only creative outlet I felt somewhat good at and sincerely enjoyed doing for myself while on maternity leave. And let's face it, no matter how much I'd love a cute pink scarf, I'm more likely to use the kneedles in E's play drum kit than I am to sew.

As the months went by and I was drawn into the world of blogging more and more, my Dad's advice got louder, 'To be a good writer you have to read everything.' Without hesitation I went straight to the bookshelf to rediscover the many novels I’d stashed there over the past ten years and started to read.

I hadn't read for a long time because it was such a large part of my nine to five. Reading was the last thing I wanted to do after an intense day at the office, besides it took me away from decent drinking time!

Week after week I read another book reminding myself why I loved it in the first place. The adventure. The romance. The frivolity. The connection with my playful-inner-girlie-self. I couldn't get enough. The more I read, and subsequently wrote for This Beautiful Life, the more I found myself saying, ‘This is what I want to do. You can do this.’

So here I am standing at a career crossroads listening to the arguments between the left and right sides of my brain trying to decide if I should follow the path of least resistance or follow the path of financial security. 

Comfort or security? Comfort or security? Comfort or security?

The battle is tougher than a Men's Wimbledon Final. We're sitting on Deuce in the fifth and final set about to start a Tie Break.  Here’s a brief replay of the match so far:

HEART: ‘You really enjoy writing. People comment on it all the time. It could be something you develop further and potentially end up doing full-time. Imagine getting paid to write! I would love to work for myself and be a published writer. Let’s give it a crack.’

HEAD: ‘Don’t be ridiculous you have a family and responsibilities. You have no experience in writing and besides you've got to compete for space against many other better writers who actually know how to write. Go back to your old job, earn a decent salary and cement a secure future.’

HEART: ‘But how will I know if I never try? I might be good at it and actually find happiness in my career.’

HEAD: ‘Ha. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard this year. You've got experience in PR and that's what you should do. Now have another Tim Tam.’

HEART: 'But I wanna...Poo. Bum. Wee.'
 

And ‘round and ‘round we go until the packet of Tim Tams is slowly but surely demolished and my head is about to explode.

While I may have brought myself to this fork in the road (or bloody huge roundabout that doesn’t appear to have any exits) I acknowledge that many others, unfortunately, don’t have the privilege of choosing their path.  I should be grateful to have the choice. And I am...which makes this whole process much harder to swallow.

Do I return to the PR world, to an industry that has provided me an amazing life with many opportunities and memorable experiences – not to mention an excellent income and a wardrobe full of killer heels – for the road never travelled (by me), which I'm not even sure I will be good at or make a living from?

The thought of returning to a manic PR agency, dealing with clients, dealing with media, working 12 hour days and never getting a peaceful nights rest again because of stress - let alone E who still doesn't sleep through - makes my stomach back flip more than a performing dolphin at Seaworld only not as enjoyable to watch. However, it is a career I know. It is one I’m relatively good at and one that can afford my family the lifestyle to which we’d like to become accustom.

Here it comes...

BUT what if I try my hand at writing a few things and have someone far more intelligent than I read it? I know a few people in the industry, maybe they could be a credible sounding board before I dive in? 

BUT what if said person happens to like what they read and, oh my golly gosh, shows other people or worse still it gets published one day? What if it doesn't? Can my ego survive the fall? Can I return to my bedroom, turn up the stereo with Mariah Carey playing and hide under the pillow circa 1991?

Whichever road fate wants me to follow, there’s one thing I know for sure, Dad will be there at the starting line saying, ‘High beam kid!’ as he always has at the beginning of new phases in my life. 

Puppy Love

As a relative newcomer to the blogosphere I'm still discovering many fabulous sites. I can waste several hours sitting at my computer jumping from blog to blog, learning more and gaining inspiration from other people's passions. 

I came across the delightful blog Maddie On Things last week when a colleague - who is obsessed with dogs - emailed it to me as a giggle. I fell in love with Maddie on first sight and find myself visiting her for several days afterwards wondering where she'd turn up next.  

Discovering Maddie on sign posts, light boxes, above swimming holes, in a truck or on a motobike has become my latest thing and I miss her smiling (or is it a look of concern?) face if I don't visit her one day. Ridiculous aren't I? But trust me, following Maddie is addictive.

If you also happen to fall in love with Mads (the two above are my personal faves so far) you can purchase the images from the blog site.

Check it out and let me know where would you like to see Maddie next?

Images republished from here.

Shop. Bop. Drop

A Canadian friend of mine – who I met on a Contiki tour several years ago – emailed recently to let me know she was visiting the land down under and asked for my help in deciding whether to spend a few days in Brisbane or Perth on the way home.

Without a second thought I compiled this short and sweet low-down on Brisbane. I enjoyed writing it so much and seeing my town from someone else's point of view I thought I would share it with you too. Why not print it out and keep it handy for your friends and rellies in case they drop in one day.  Actually, if that does happen - eek! - you might just want this handy coffee listing too!

 

Shop

Many people (especially those who live outside Brisbane) will tell you to shop in Sydney or Melbourne because Queensland fashion is bare and boring. This might have been the case 10 years ago but Brissie has certainly come of age – not to mention fashion cred – in recent years. 

Brisbane’s Queen Street Mall is the best place to head if you’re short on time but want to shop hard and fast. The must-visits (in no particular order) are Queens Plaza for Tiffany & Co, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Saba, Alannah Hill, Mimco, Zimmerman, David Lawrence, David Jones etc... Walk a block to Edward Street and you’ll find Ralph Lauren, Oroton and Hermes. If you’re not in the mood for high-end you can’t miss the many boutiques spilling out across Fortitude Valley.

James Street could be considered a much shorter, less "showy" little sister to Melbourne's Chapel Street...and I love it! You’ll find excellent Aussie labels Sass & Bide, Scanlon & Theodore, Camilla, Gary Castles Sydney, ksubi and Easton Pearson to name a few. James Lane is a quaint section of the same street just one block away from the main 'hub' and is the place for many smaller, but no less, amazing designers. Keep your eyes peeled for Australia’s only retail space for online shopping mecca Frockshop. Over the road are several high street staples including French Connection, Witchery and Mimco. You’ll spy treasures created by Chelsea de Luca if you stroll east towards New Farm Park, plus Stone & Metal and Ivy + Bird.. Here you can pick up a statement jewellery piece or three – choosing just one is torture!

Bop

I know how much you love a tipple so wet your whistle at any of these decadent cocktail bars: The Laneway (Mary Street Brisbane City), The Bowery (Anne Street), La Ruche (also Anne Street, however beware of how many drinks you’ve had before going to this one otherwise you’ll swear you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole), and my personal fave Canvas in Woolloongabba. It’s over the bridge from the city but you could start the night here followed by dinner at either Pearl Cafe, Bristrot Bristro or The Crosstown Eating House. 

Depending on the type of night you’re after - dancing, casual drinks, both? - I’d stay on the south-side and mix it up with the locals in West End (a less try-hard version of the Valley which is now a slave to the cashed up uni-crowd) with drinks at Sling, Archive Beer Bar or The Rumpus Room. Be sure to drop in at The Boundary, one of the suburb’s last remaining ‘old-man’ pubs and lock stocked full of character. The free live music on Friday and Saturday nights is second to none and a real hoot! Your hubby will love it too. 

Drop

Check in at either Emporium Hotel (Brisbane’s most awarded boutique hotel with a delectable cocktail bar and rooftop pool) or The LimesHotel for it’s designer appeal and outdoor cinema. Both are in great proximity to the city so you can easily drop off your shopping bags and keep going. If you’re after something a little grander, with views of the water and our sparkling Story Bridge, the Stamford Plaza Hotel is one of the best (it should be, HRH Betty II stayed here as well as most visiting celebs including Kylie Minogue, Taylor Swift, Gwen Stefani and Pink). On-site you’ve got several restaurants and cafes to recharge your batteries, but I'd have dinner by the water at EagleStreet Pier which boasts some of the city’s best restaurants including Sake, Aria and Jellyfish. I'm drooling just thinking about it.

P.S. Unfortunately my mate went with Perth because it was easier to fly back to Canada from WA than QLD. Oh well. Maybe next time.

Daydreaming

They say 'what goes around comes around' and never have truer words been said as I look at these pictures and imagine my Mum. I can see her in these dresses attending parties, having fun with her sisters and spending a week's pay cheque on a fabulous new dress. I can see me wearing it all too.

These pieces from American fashion label Emerson Fry are at the top of my Autumn lust-have list. Despite being available for the northern summer, I think they'd work well for our climate too. 

The simplicity, style, elegance and understated 'O' factor - as in Jackie - make these pieces spectacular. And...ahem, do I need to point out the divine Champagne glasses? I want it all!

I am so taken by these pieces (the white mod dress is my favourite) I'm even considering a dramatic change of hair colour. Stay tuned...

Have a good weekend. 

x

I'm singin' the Sick Baby Blues

I miss my baby boy's laugh. He has been sick for several days with the standard daycare ailments all kids suffer when they start at a new child care centre. 

I was desperately hoping E would somehow manage to flash his toothy grin and fend off another round of the one-year-old flu ickies because I'm still recouperating from the last lot less than two weeks ago. Sorry, Mumma. Think again.

With his new day care seems to come a new strain of super bug that has knocked him for six. His cough is harsher (and no it's not croupe, but thanks for asking), his snot is greener and his rear has dropped more bombs in the past 48 hours than the IRA did in their hey-day. Our darling boy is so exhausted from being sick he's started to lose his voice and makes little whistling noises when he cries. It would be adorable if it wasn't so sad.

Apart from the tried and true medicinal remedies of water, baby panadol and lashings of hugs and kisses from Mum and Dad, we are simply waiting it out. Not the best option for a Gen X and Gen Y power couple. We want fast, simple and easy results now - if not sooner.

What do you do when your babies are ill? I'd like to hear your remedies to cure a baby's flu or things you've found works wonders to take their (and your own) mind off it for a short time.

Under My Umbrella

While the rain causes havoc to thousands across NSW, VIC and south-east Qld, it's also causing me serious anxiety travelling to and from work because I don't have an umbrella.

Correction. I did have one, but after several years of getting squashed in my handbag, wedged into my suitcase and left under dirty socks and Cherry Ripe packets in the car, my brolly has had enough of the torture and gone bye-bye.

I should've known the end was nigh when two of its silver-pointy-bits ripped through the material a few months ago. You could've poked someone's eye out with the broken prongs if you walked close enough to me and I gave it a good jab - and let me tell you I was tempted to do just that once or twice in peak hour sidewalk traffic but I let my Queen-supreme-self reign, or I'd just had a coffee so didn't feeling like killing anyone that morning. I can't remember.

Anyway, my sad little brolly finally met its maker yesterday. There I was standing in the lobby of one of Brisbane's busiest office buildings wrestling my stubborn umbrella into its closed position.

No matter how hard I tried, the stupid thing kept popping open, spraying water everwhere and narrowly missing passers-by. Because one way wouldn't work, I tried another way. Then another. It wouldn't shut.

How many bloody ways are there to collapse an umbrella? Apparently when you're desperate and holding up people trying to get in to their building, you'll think of a thousand ways to make the ridiculous invention submissive.

As reasoning with it didn't work, nor swearing at it loudly, I tempted to stand on it and push it down with my right foot. "Get in for f^#* sake!" I said through gritted teeth but just loud enough for others to know I wasn't some sort of schmuck about to lead a flash mob in a nifty performance with umbrellas. Nope, I was just an idiot who couldn't get her brolly to do one of two simple tasks it was created to do in its miserable life.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally got my umbrella to behave, stepped over the puddle of water starting to pool under my feet and ditched it.

To celebrate my freedom - and the extra space in my handbag - I've found a number of super stylish umbrellas for you to help me choose which one I should wrangle with next. Which one do you think would look great in an office lobby throw down?

Reminds me of a birdcage, but super cute.

A bloomin' eye catcher

Faux Burberry perhaps?

Practically Poppin-esque

Maybe I should keep this one on the yacht?

Tres chic

This frills me!

Go ahead, change my nappy!

My week has been shit. Literally. 

It all started on Monday morning when E decided to crawl away mid nappy change. Waving his a adorable tooshie in my face, he darted off to explore the land of the open fridge. I let him go because I like to give him time without a nappy on so he can 'get some air'.

The fridge and it's wide open door is a new frontier for E and he often loves spending time sitting in front of it, pulling everything out and generally chillin'. Anyway, on the way to the fridge he stopped mid-crawl to study the carpet. Only I assumed he was studying the carpet because he often picks up the previous days left overs that he finds squashed in the floor. 

Not that morning. His studying face was actually one of concentration. A strong, serious, hard thought was running through his mind and (unfortunately) out of his bum! In a matter of seconds my inquisitive boy was covered in poo. 

The penny didn't drop (I might have been momentarily distracted by morning show hosts crossing to the Oscars on TV) until I saw a dirty little hand make its way to an open mouth and an intrigued tongue. 

'NO!' I yelled and shocked E into dropping his hand instantly. My poor little man got such a fright from my over reaction he started to cry. So I did what (I assume) most Mums would do in that instant - picked him up and put him in the kitchen sink for an emergency bath and avoid all unnecessary contact with the child at the same time. 

'Oooh, this is fun,' I consoled. 'La la la la. We're playing in the sink. La la la la'.  My improv song skills leave a lot to be desired at the best of times but I couldn't concentrate on writing a smash hit that very second because not only was there poo all over E, there was poo on the carpet and all over my clean sink. 

'La la la la...I think I might vomit,' I sang to no-one as I cleaned last night's dinner off E's arms, legs, feet, chin and fingers... at least I think that's what it was.

After a few minutes I got over myself, cleaned the rest of the mess up with very hot water, disinfectant and elbow grease, then lit one of my favourite vanilla scented candles to mask the smell. Done.

The next morning, mother's intuition warned me to prepare for another shitty battle. I sat E down with his favourite toy trains, several building blocks and ABC 4 Kids on tele to distract him from our impending encounter.

'Ok, Cowboy. Draw.' I whipped off E's nappy faster than he could say 'Brrrrrrrroom'. With wet wipes in one hand and a clean nappy in the other, E's cute butt was changed in less than 5 seconds.

'Boom! Now that's a nappy change. Off ya go,' I said letting E roll away after Thomas the Tank Engine. I went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

In what felt like no more than 15 seconds later I looked over the benchtop to see E standing up straight, holding onto the TV cabinet, naked. His little bum was free and his nappy was still lying where I had changed him. In my haste to change his nappy in record speed and safe myself from another morning of you know what, I didn't fasten the tabs on the disposalable nappy very well and it came off during E's tumble turn.

Yep, you know what's coming!!

'What are you playing with Bub?' I asked him as he bent over, swirled his hand over the carpet and started patting the nearby lamp stand. 

'E! Not again. Teach. Help!' I called out to Teach who was getting out of the shower as I launched like a missile straight towards our weapon of mass destruction (or should that be weapon of mass poo-dumption?).

This time, E thought it was hilarious and laughed all the way to the sink where he continued to splash around and squelch his smelly poo between his fingers. 

'I can't deal with this two days in a row,' I said to Teach with my t-shirt covering my mouth in a sorry attempt to stifle the smell. 'Your turn.'

I disappeared upstairs to the calming oasis of our bathroom and let Teach clean up the mess (nice, aren't I?) and only emerged once I knew the carnage was clear.

After those two acts of bottom warfare I can safely say I'll never challenge my tot's bum to a change-off again unless armed with a super-soaker and uber-powerful nappies that require a sledge hammer to remove.

E 2. Mum 0. Game Over.