Havagdwkend

Happy weekend Lovelies! I hope this post finds you well and excited for the weekend...I know I am!

Teach and I have organised a babysitter for a few hours on Saturday to see a movie. It's the first time we've been to the cinema for as long as I can remember. Mmmmm, I can taste the choctop icecream already!!

We're going to watch Wish You Were Here a new Australian film about four friends who spend a week in Cambodia however only three return home. I simply can't wait as it features my very talented cousin Felicity Price, Joel Edgerton, Teresea Palmer and Anthony Starr. The film was directed by Felicity's husband Kieran Darcy-Smith and is the product of their mutual writing talents. Go Flick!!!

For screening details in a location near you see here.

Until next time.
x

My Winter Survival Guide

Brrrrrr...baby, it's cold outside!

Literally overnight we've gone from enjoying a splendid 28 degree day to waking up to a frosty 12 degree morning here in Brisbane and I, for one, was caught completely off guard. Now it's time to pull out my winter woolies from under the bed, dust off my trusty hot water bottle and prepare for the chilly season ahead.

Get ready with me and check out my soul-warming Winter Survival Guide.

Pfft...Who needs sleep?!

'What if I learn to live without sleep?' I asked Teach this morning. 'Apparently Richard Branson survives on less than five hours sleep most nights. Maybe I'm the one who should change?'

'Five hours would be great, if you could get it,' Teach replied knowing full well I would kill the Pope for that much uninterrupted sleep in one night instead of existing on the sproadic 30 minute sleeps cycles E was currently in favour of.

I knew the idea was ridiculous, but I was clutching at straws in a bid to accept E's diabolical sleep pattern because yet again, dear reader, I find myself staring down the barrel of another day fuelled by strong coffee, grilled cheese sandwiches (the only thing I can manage on days like today) and toothpicks proping my eyes open after one of the worst nights we've ever had.

I've attempted control crying. I've attempted soothing him back to sleep with lullabys and calm pats on the back, but at 3am in the morning when my 'adorable' child refuses to sleep, my lullabys are about as soothing as long nails down a blackboard. I'm pretty sure last night was the first time E screamed louder just to shut me up!

Now in the light of day, I surrender. I'm sitting on the couch, waving a white tea towel to the heavens in sheer exhaustion and praying for answers. There must be a better way! Right?

Have you been in this situation before? What did you do? Did your child grow out of it (like everyone tells me E will) or did you take action? I don't believe in control crying and desperately need to get our lives back on track with a good nights sleep. Any ideas?

Parisian Dreamin'

 

The air in Brisbane today is fresh, cool and slightly damp. The rain has been falling on and off for a day and a half with several days of intermittent weather remaining. 

It is on mornings such as this, when I'm obliged to stay indoors and drink copious amounts of Earl Grey Tea, my mind becomes preoccupied with memories of living in Paris. 

The romantic streetscapes, the red wine, the cheese, the coffee, the constant sound of sirens, the walks by the River Seine and along the Champs-Elysees, the mind-blowing history on every corner, the delectable mouth-watering fresh bread topped with bolders of brie....Oh, did I mention the red wine? Paradis! 

 

My trip down memory lane is bathed in divine sunshine because, if I am honest, living there was very difficult. I don't speak the language - despite signing up for an adult education class in French six months before I left - I was alone and only had a mobile that only worked occassionally and limited funds for day-to-day expenses (you know...the essentials: red wine, coffee, cheese and bread). But somehow I made it work, I found my way and I returned to tell the tale.

This is a little life lesson I remind myself of today as I get stuck in the revolving door of house cleaning, washing clothes, cooking E's food and generally playing Mum.

Take a look around. This is life. There are aspects that are foriegn to you, that are intimidating, scaring and down-right boring but you will find a way. Just put one foot in front of the other, one day at a time and I promise you will look back on these moments as ones bathed in divine sunshine because you made it your own.

My hair is more Roadkill than Revlon

After talking to a friend about my lacklustre hair recently she revealed that a simple trim of her fringe can buy her another month before she must head back to the hairdresser for a complete cut and colour. Apparently the small touch up extends the life of her bigger, more expensive do from eight weeks to 12 thus increasing her mane's value for money.

I was very intrigued to hear more from my knowledgeable friend since my head hasn't seen the inside of a hairdresser for longer than I care to admit. Let's just put it this way, the closest my hair has come to a pair of scissors, foil and a spine-tingling head massage is when E smears soggy wheatbix across the top of my head to create what I like to call my Cute Cereal Comb-Over. Va va puke!

We discussed colour, cut, length, to fringe or not to fringe, preferred brands for shampoo and conditioning, and how regrowth can be the most ghastly, terrifying experience known to womankind the world over except, however, when others try to convince you they can't see it.  

She made me laugh because it was true. Women feel compelled to lie to other women about regrowth. More specifically, that it (somehow?!) suits them.

You know those moments when you complain to girlfriends about not being to the hairdresser for donkies and your hair has reached that out-of-control, only-wear-it-in-a-ponytail stage? Despite presenting all your best evidence, your girlfriends somehow manage to win the argument with a well executed rebuttal along the lines of, 'No! Where? I can't see anything! You can't even notice it. Honestly, it looks very natural.' When really what they wanted to say was, 'Yes you have regrowth and you do need to see the hairdresser immediately, preferably sooner, but it's not so bad that I won't be seen with you...yet.'

When my mates tell me they can't see the four inches of dark brown hair taking over my blonde head faster than a cruel dictator, every inch of my being knows they are telling a white lie. They know I know they are lying, but I'm happy to accept their position because it allows me to wrangle several more weeks out of visiting my overpriced hairdresser, where - when finally there - I will be so guilt ridden I hadn't booked in earlier, I will be obligated to blame being a busy Mum instead of telling her the truth which is that I just couldn't be bothered getting off the couch and missing an episode of The Circle.

I digress. My point is, regrowth is work of the devil designed to have me utter blasphemies against colour itself. It's like a fungus taking over that which only very expensive remedies can fix. Remedies I can no longer justify to my partner when my son needs new winter clothes and the car needs a service.

Imagine if regrowth was a contagious disease. Women on public transport would run faster than Usain Bolt, trying to get to the next train carriage to escape the wrath that is disgusting, ugly-fying regrowth. I can hear it now, ‘OMG! Move. She has regrowth and I can’t catch that. I’ll die! GET OUT OF MY WAY’, the gorgeous well-groomed girl would scream as she ran knocking over elderly men and women in her wake to avoid the fatal toxic poison that is non-coloured hair. 

Despite the hatred I have towards regrowth (my own that is, on others it is perfectly acceptable because you can hardly see it anyway) it seems two-tone hair is the colour de jour.

From Drew Barrymore to Erin Wasson and many others, a half-brown, half-blonde head is in. Not just in like cute ballet flats or Zooey Deschanel, but a highly desirable style! And while this expensive grungy look has been around for many a month, even year, I still can't manage to utter the words, 'I'm growing it out like SJP' from fear that what I'll actually end up with will look more Roadkill Slick than Revlon Colorsilk.

Sadly my friend and I didn't get a chance to discuss blow-drying techniques, designer hair straighteners or celebrity styles, but one day I'm sure we'll look back and laugh at the memories of the hair we use to have on the way to get our purple rinses. Three months late of course.  

Image of Erin Wasson from here.