Chick flicks and football: Never shall the two meet

It is my belief that a woman should be left to watch chick flicks in private. Define chick flick? Any movie that I would love to be in; part of; or daydream about is categorised as a chick flick in my head.

Think: Legally Blonde; Sex And The City; Bridget Jones' Diary; The Notebook; or just about ANYTHING with Ryan Gosling in it. See where I'm going with this?

Nothing dampens the spirit and essential essence of a chick flick more than having a man provide a running commentary on your chosen movie, always pointing out how ridiculous the storyline is. Worse still is when a man feels the need to explain why it is such a terrible movie by listing specific examples of actions taken by the paperweight characters or the agonisingly predictable dialogue.

Note to men the world over: WE ALREADY KNOW!

Please give us some credit. Yes, we know the frumpy and slightly awkward drunk woman will win the heart of her handsome, intelligent man in the end. Yes, we understand the likelihood of a ditzy bouncing blonde with an unhealthy obsession to the colour pink speaking in front of US Congress to let her gay dog get marrried is a little far-fetched, and even that a woman would be hardpressed to choose between Ryan Gosling and, oops...sorry, I mean 'Noah' and 'Lan' is ridiculous, but here's another tip: WE DON'T CARE!  

Seriously, I know it's all crap but I love nothing more than escaping to another room and watching a chick flick in private in order to immerse myself in the romanticism and adventure unfolding before me. After looking after a 17 month old toddler all day, I think the least I deserve is 90 minutes of fabulous hollywood dross. Wouldn't you agree?

Let's be honest, even if you're lucky enough to have a man who sits through chick flicks with you in...gasp!...silence, more often than not his silence is so loud! The heavy breathing (and not in a good way), the long sighs of bewilderment, and always moving on the couch to get comfortable is very off-putting. While he's there you can't sniff, wipe away tears or really get caught-up in the moment as much as you'd like to because you are constantly reminded of his presence.

Well, I say poop to that. Gimme a block of chocolate, a glass of red wine, a big blanket and a box of tissues to enjoy my cinematic feast of fluff and I'll be the happiest woman alive. Honestly, Teach would be happy with that arrangement too - as long as he was at the pub watching soccer.

Luckily Teach and I came to an understanding very early on in our relationship (funnily enough without an actual conversation ever taking place about this subject) that I would not ask him to watch a chick flick with me, if he never asks me to watch a football game with him. Deal!

After several years and a thousand movies later, I am very pleased to say that our agreement is still in perfect working order with no review in sight. Perhaps that's why we work? He understands my need for trash and I understand his need to trash talk to the TV, in private, without fear of being judged or harassed for crying during the closing credits. And that's just Teach! Don't get me started on what I do at the end of a sob-fest movie!


Image: The Notebook from here

10 Ways to Beat Stress

Do you suffer from stress? If not, it is highly likely that you know someone who does. I recently read a magazine article that revealed 21 per cent of Australian women aged between 16 and 44 years suffered from an anxiety disorder. Surprisingly, I wasn't shocked by this statistic as I have previously struggled with anxiety.

Five years ago I was working as a PR Account Manager and had recently ended a long-term relationship. At the time, I thought my nailbiting, oversensitivity and severe acne were merely signs of trying to cope with work demands and very long hours in the office (and perhaps one to many glasses of red wine in the evenings) but thanks to several open and honest conversations with a few close girlfriends, a little research and soul searching, I realised I was living with anxiety.

My lightbulb moment came one friday afternoon when I couldn't get involved in a conversation with colleagues during after-work drinks, for fear of being judged, scrutinised and generally convinced that everyone hated me. The panic swept through my body at a rate of knots and I immediately made excuses of having a headache and jumped in the first cab home before I broke down in tears. I was so shocked by my actions and response to the situation, I knew instantly I needed to find out what was going on in my head.

Now, other than my closest friends and Teach, I have never spoken about my experience because I thought confiding in someone that I suffered anxiety would generate the same type of response as when you tell them you have a fear of spiders, the dark or black cats walking under ladders - they'd look at you in confusion and try to convince you otherwise. Besides, I didn't want to be judged (a double-edged sword for someone with anxiety!).

Honestly, I don't know why I have decided to reveal this to you now, but after reading the story on anxiety I felt compelled to share with you my 10 tips for beating stress and turning anxiety on its head because it is more common than we realise, and it can be resolved.

10 WAYS TO BEAT STRESS

1. MEDITATION
Relaxation is very important to allow your mind to breathe and reboot. Simple, slow breathing can work wonders to hep you feel grounded, at ease and re-energise your soul. If you're not one with meditation, try reading, a massage or having a bath. Any activity that eliminates noise and gives you 20 peaceful minutes to yourself.

2. DO THINGS YOU VALUE
Do you say 'Yes' to everyone and never yourself? Try taking on less or re-evaluate the duties you've been assigned and do the ones you find value in. Don't spread yourself too thin.

3. FAMILY AND FRIENDS
If you start feeling the signs of an anxiety attack coming on or your in a stressful situation, call your friends and family or pop over for a cup of tea. A good social support network can remind you that you are 'allowed' to be yourself, have fun and be comfortable.

4. RE-EVALUATE THE MOMENT
Picture yourself looking in to the scenario and try to view it from an outsider's perspective. Is it as bad as you think it is? Would someone else think, act or feel the same way in that situation? Sometimes by dis-engaging you can view it objectively and remove emotion. Afterwards, return to the moment and focus on the here and now, not the past or 'what if' of the future.

5. USE HUMOUR
Got a friend who always makes you laugh? Well, get chatting and have a side-tickling time. Finding the funny side of a situation can help reduce fear. Other simple ways to get laughing could include watching a funny DVD or spending time with kids - children can come up with the best one-liners!

6. A HEALTHY LIFESTYLE
Alcohol is not the answer. Trust me! Eating nutrious food, getting adequate sleep and regular excerise all help to fight daily stresses. Personally, I found exercise gave me one hour to myself each day to think (see Point 1) and recharge the batteries.

7. POSITIVE THINKING
Thanks to the number one best seller 'The Secret', the power of positive thinking got a bad wrap, but it worked for me. By turning the negative thoughts I was having about myself into positive affirmations I started feeling better about myself. The simplicity of: "I am an intelligent and valuable person" is very powerful. Find one that suits you and write it down. Read it as often as you need to.

8. LEARN TO SAY NO
Similar to Point 2, learning to say No is crucial to develop boundaries. You don't need to do everything to win other's approval, so be honest to yourself and to others from the beginning. If they don't like it, they aren't worth having around.

9. PRIORITISE YOURSELF
If you are stressed, exhausted and anxious to the point of burnout you will have trouble being of any use to yourself, let alone someone else. Value You!

10. SELF COMPASSION
Remember the Ben Lee song, "We are all in this together". You are not alone and we all feel stressed at some time. Take comfort in the knowledge that you are meant to be here and you are loved.


These tips are a combination of my own thoughts and points sourced from Madison Magazine. 

When Underwear Is Overdone

‘What size are you?’ the helpful sales assistant asked me. 

‘Um, 12 something,’ I said in reply hoping the woman could read my mind and know instinctively what I meant by ‘something’ so I didn't have to admit my small boob size out loud. To a stranger.  

‘You look like a B, but you could be an C,’ she said staring directly at my breasts as if her eyes could weigh and measure them in one scan. 

Ha! I laughed heartily on the inside. C. I wish! And with that, Roxy signalled for me to raise my arms so she could measure the circumference of my chest and back including Thelma and Louise – which, after 15 months of breastfeeding, look like two droopy, pitiful dog ears. 

‘Yes. 12B it is,’ she declared triumphantly with herself.

There I was, in a self-imposed hell, with my new friend Roxy at David Jones attempting to purchase a bra. I didn't care which bra, just as long as it wasn't covered in mould from breast milk stains and sagging at the nipples. 

You see, it has been close to two years since my last bra purchase as I have lived every day in the same three maternity bras. One black, one white and one flesh-coloured, all bought on the same day when I was approximately 5 months pregnant with E and growing at a speed of knots. 

I was so desperate to buy anything that fit and wouldn’t make me scream in pain with each body movement, so I selected three of the ugliest bras you could find and have worn them everyday since. Their mission: Satisfactorily accomplished. Now it's time for the bin.

Gee, I feel like a young child kneeling before you in a confessional, but it’s true. Two years! I can’t remember the last time I felt the silky touch of a La Perla undergarment between my fingertips as I daydreamed I could afford such an item on the way to the Bonds section. 

And why stop there, while down here helplessly in front of you, dear reader, I may as well admit it’s also been close to three years since I bought a pair of knickers. GASP!! Please don't tell anyone. 

But I wonder, is an admission of that magnitude as bad as revealing that I don’t brush my teeth before bed or I use the last of the toilet paper and don’t replace the roll? Apparently so.

A few of my girlfriends think not buying new underwear – bra, knickers or the like – every month or two should be punishable by law. And here’s why:

Friend A: ‘Eeeew! How do you respect yourself if you don’t buy new underwear every so often? Just buy a new pair with your weekly shop at Woolworths.’ 

Friend B (after she composed herself from the shock): ‘Are you serious? Doesn’t new underwear help you feel special for those moments?’  

Friend C (my personal favourite): ‘Do they offer any support or suck you in like they should?’ 

My response to all of them was the same, “I haven’t bothered to think about it while I’ve been playing Mum. It never crossed my mind that I should buy new underwear.” Obviously, that is, until now. 

One morning as I was getting dressed for work, I looked at my underwear draw with new eyes – or should that be with my Mummy eyes removed – and suddenly everything I owned seemed old, out-dated and plain daggy. 

Now E is down to one breastfeed a day and I’m planning to return to a routine that semi-resembles a life I once knew, and for some reason, underwear has become my clothing du jour to celebrate said transition.  

 

Now, while I’m not the kinda girl who spends $50 on one pair of briefs only to hand wash them and lay them on a towel in the shade to dry (who could be bothered?!), I will purchase several bras and pants of the same style and colour if I find they not only fit well, but will potentially last forever. I’ve even been known (to myself) to purchase designer underwear on sale if the tag reads: Machine Wash With Like Colours. Jackpot! 

But that was another life. This past year and a half I have been quite content sitting around the house in my granny undies. And who seriously cares if I do? Side note: perhaps this is another reason why I haven’t headed back to the lingerie section for some time? That and I’ve felt like Brittany Spears on hiatus of late (i.e. all junk food and no exercise or personal grooming of any kind). 

But that day, before work, a wave of embarrassment came over me and I headed to DJs on my lunch break.

“Try these on, and this and... this,” Roxy said handing me 4 different bras, French panties and a lacy camisole. 

I told Roxy I had run out of time and promised I’d be back the following day to buy the items she selected for me. I smiled, handed back the garments and left. 

I hated lying to my new friend, especially one who had supported me so nicely for those past few minutes, but she knew without saying a word, that all I wanted was a t-shirt bra and some comfy knickers to keep me going. She smiled back at me, knowing only too well I was headed for Target.   

She was right! Now I am the proud owner of more new underwear than I could have hoped for in DJs and I won’t need to go back until E’s at school. That’s 4 years away. Score! 

Image: Model Eva Herzigova in that Wonderbra Ad

Tattoos

Do you have a tattoo? It seems so many people have at least one these days I think I'm starting a trend NOT having one.

Tattoos have never concerned me. You have one? Great. You don't? Whatever. I truly believe it's each to their own if you decide to ink up or not. Despite not having one myself, I've always admired them.

They can be tasteful, artistic, sweet (see image above) and very creative. I know one certain gentleman (knickname sounds like Beach) who has two. One on his left shoulder blade and one on his upper right arm. Both of them are very symbolic to him and tell a story from a time in his life. I admire his conviction and genuine desire to communicate that way, but a tattoo one me? I'm not sure.

From footballers wearing sleeves of them, to celebrities inking their necks, shoulders, feet, back and (insert body part here), you can't swing an iPhone without it hitting someone with a tattoo. Therefore I wonder, do tattoos have the same edge and rebellion associated to them as they once did?

As my 30th birthday approached...*cough*... a few years ago, I considered offering my wrist to a tattoo artist to symbolise the start of a new era. I also asked Teach if I should get a tattoo to mark the birth of our son 12 months later. His response was simple yet effective; "If you really wanted one you would have one by now. Don't get one because you think you should. It has to be for the right reason and suit your life. You can't wash it off."

So true. So I didn't.

Have you got a tattoo?

Image: Pinterest

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

E learns to play the drums

Entertaining our sick little monkey

E has been suffering from a cough and cold for the past week or two. If his nose isn't pouring like a tap, he barks up a cough loud enough to scare our neighbour's dog. Either way, there has been a never ending cycle of snot and saliva running from our little monkey at some stage during the day...and night for some time.

Despite his flu like symptoms I know in my heart of hearts that he isn't sick enough to warrant a visit to the doctor but he's too sick to risk picking up more bugs from the park or daycare, so Teach and I have been coming up with ways to keep him (and ourselves) entertained in the house.

The other day we decided to teach him how to play the drums. Homemade drums to be precise. His new instrument consisted of three stainless steel mixing bowls from the kitchen cupboard, a wooden spoon, a whisk, a saucepan lid for a symbol and a tupperware container full of rice for extra sound effects.

He had a ball discovering the many different sounds he could create. He found out which items make loud noises, which ones make really loud noises and the unbearable noise Mum makes when they are all dropped on the kitchen tiles at the same time....I'd compare the latter to a cat screaming as she gives birth to a cow. Neither pleasant nor pretty.

Following our success with the drums (and after a cup of tea to calm my nerves), Teach and I decided to slow down on the toy buying bonanza for his first birthday (just around the corner) and create a new instrument from kitchen utensils each week. I'm not sure if this decision was made more for E's enjoyment or ours, but it beats the singing the flu blues!

What have you created for your little ones to play with at home?

Real Estate Heaven

The time has come for Teach, E and I to pick up sticks and set up a new home in a family-friendly house.

We've resided in our current unit for close to two years, which isn't long at all, but I feel like we've done our time here. Then again, I do have a knack of getting itchy feet every 18 months to change postcodes and this time is no different.

Actually, it is slightly different. Now we have a child to consider. A crawling, almost walking, toddler who wants to be in everything, discover everything and chew everything. E needs space, comfort and security - major factors in our search for a new home.  Let's be honest, he's not the only one.

So yesterday I started the mind-numbing task of hunting for our new abode. The number of tired, old, slightly leaning to the left, decrepit houses available to rent in our price range was terrifying. The more I looked the more I remembered how much I detest searching for real estate (especially rentals). The level of crud you have to wade through before hopefully finding something suitable is ridiculous. And hey, if you don't need a tetnus shot before you move in all the better!

Don't misunderstand me, I'm all for shabby-chic and getting my hands dirty to fix 'er up and make 'er feel like home, but the guff I came across yesterday would be better off making a date with a blow torch, or better yet, a bulldozer.

After more than three cups of tea, a packet of chocolate cookies and two hours of searching rental websites, I logged off feeling sick to the stomach (both physcially and emotionally), deflated and a touch devastated. I realised my search for real estate heaven is going to be mammoth! 

I don't think I have high expectations. Surely somewhere in this town I can find a clean, french colonial, four bedroom, two bathroom, air-conditioned house located on luscious grounds with manicured gardens, a pool, study, library, home cinema, wide verandahs, views to the city (but not a deal breaker), plus space for E to play all for the same price as our current rental? 

What! No?

Ok, Ok! I know I'm dreaming. Dreaming of the home I will most likely never own. Dreaming of a real estate heaven only ever experienced by those with celebrity pay cheques or inside trading links to Wall Street.

Yes, I understand it's for my own health that I need to search for something more realistic. Sheesh, you're such a kill-joy! But before I trudge back to reality can I please spend a little more time in la la land and imagine myself cooking a delicious family meal here...

and teaching E to swim here...

 or relaxing with Teach here...

and hosting friends here...

 or maybe curling up with a good book here?

Well, if it's good enough for Bridget Jones, it's good enough for me.




{Images originally from here}

Life Lessons

I've said it before and I'll say it again; I believe that I've learnt more about life watching E grow than I ever would have without him. During our trip to NZ he taught me another valuable life lesson. It's pure, simple, uncomplicated and true:

Never stop learning and experimenting

As E continues to develop and discover the world around him, I too am rediscovering my world. What have I learnt so far? Don't be afraid to wrip open the vegemite packet and smear it all over the place, if that's what you want to do. Just eat it and enjoy it! Who cares about the mess, the inevitable scrubbing of the clothes to remove stains and the looks you get from people? When you follow your heart happiness generally follows and the world is a better place. 

I've printed out the above photos of E devouring his vegemite and pinned them to the board above my desk to remind me everyday to collect experiences, not posessions. After all, that is what I'll remember about my life and be thankful for at the end of the day, isn't it?

An Open Letter to 2011

Dearest 2011,

Please let me take this opportunity to express my heart-felt thanks and gratitude for coming into my life. I had a feeling we would meet one day - perhaps we met sooner than anticipated - but in the end I'm so glad we had our time together.

Well, Hark the Herald Angels! What a Week...

This week has been one of many firsts for our little family. From shopping for E's first Christmas Tree, to swims at South Bank and playing in the sprinkler, to crawling from one end of the house to the other (yes, all of us at some stage), this week has been one of great significance in our young family's life.

It started off like many others - very early and filled with endless cups of coffee from the cafe recently opened in our neighbourhood.

We decided to use this time before Christmas to do all the chores I didn't manage to get done while Teach was at work (read: forgot because lazybones here watched to many re-runs of Grey's Anatomy).

First stop: Christmas Tree! I really wanted to get into the spirit of our family Christmas, which to me means, a fabulous tree (if budget allows for it) and decorations to deck the halls.

Teach always had a real tree growing up and wanted to continue the same tradition for E, so we made our way to Hawkins to select one of their finest. Ok, maybe it wasn't their finest (how do you say 'Ka-Ching' in Tree?) but it's fine enough for our place. 

It's not the size but what you do with it that matters.

The decorations are sadly lacking, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it?

You might have noticed summer really stepped up to the plate after several days of faux winter weather this week. To celebrate (and escape our hot box) we packed the beach bag and took E to South Bank for a splash in Streets Beach. It's one of my favourite spots in Brisbane because it's close to the city, shops, cafes, galleries and other attractions, but most importantly, it's free.

E had a ball! It was one big bath tub to him. Splashing, kicking and playing. He would've stayed there for hours if the rain clouds didn't loom large and threaten to destroy our lovely afternoon.

Loving the water at Streets Beach

Inspired by his obvious love of the water, we decided to set up a sprinkler in the back garden and play under the hose like we did as kids. E was a bit shocked at this cold wet stuff splashing him in the face at first, but loved it eventually. The blow-up ball Teach was given as a Secret Santa gift came in very handy for our "pool party."

A boy always needs a ball.

Then yesterday, our little man, who has been trying to crawl for several weeks finally took off on all fours. Slowly but surely, he let one knee follow the other and crawled from Teach to me along the hallway (maybe 2m long) without looking back. It was the proudest moment of our lives!

Not wanting to finish there, a few hours later with a belly full of Mum's brilliant super-charged Boob Juice, he attempted the stairs. With Teach behind him, he went from one step to the next and climbed all the way to the top. We cheered and cheered. Once at the top, his little eyes smiled at me as if to say, 'Ta Dah! Look at me Mum,'. We couldn't stop laughing and applauding his little adventure. That reminds me, I really must buy child-proof gates for the stairs.


It's moments like these when you realise that for all the late nights, crying tantrums and pooy bums (mine and E's), you wouldn't change being a parent for anything in the world.


Merry Christmas to all.
x Sian

Blonde Ambitions

I'd prefer not to compare myself to Li-Lo, but in this instance, I have to.

I must apologise for not writing this week. I was all prepared to submit witty stories each day thanks to Teach being on leave and sharing the caring load, but on Tuesday my world turned upside down. I experienced a personal tradegy like no other emotional turmoil I've ever been through.

Ok, so it wasn't really a personal tradegy and I shouldn't compare this incident to one, but it certainly feels like it. Hear me out.

My hair - which has taken me a little more than 3 years to get where I wanted it - was died blonde. I'm not referring to a light blonde rinse that freshened up my old colour. I'm talking trashy, white/yellow blonde from root to tip. Think Lindsay-Lohan-Skank-Blonde and you're .01% close to I look right now!

I don't know what came over me. Getting my hair done once every 3 to 4 months is a highlight of my year (pun intended). Several hours to myself to have someone fuss over me with free lattes and the latest selection of womens magazine in easy reach while they work their magic and make me somewhat human - who wouldn't love that?

But for some, gold-only-knows reason, I didn't just get 'the usual' this time around. Instead, I told my delightful Hairdresser Kim* to give me an all over blonde colour like Reese Witherspoon or Gwyneth Paltrow.

I wanted a little more pizzazz for Summer and thought an overall colour could be just what I needed. I was so excited to swan home to my two favourite men, in manner of Grace Kelly, and have them 'Wowed' off their feet.

Well, off their feet they were...in laughter at my ridiculous yellow hair that makes me look like I'd got my finger stuck in a light socket and my hair changed in shock.

Even as I write this I am mortified by the memory of the whole experience, because what I haven't admitted to you, is that all of this is my fault. I wish I could pass the buck and rant and rave about my hairdresser not listening to me. But no. I went back to have it fixed....and made it worse!

Here is the whole truthful story...so help me God.

I sat down with Kim and asked for an all over colour. This part you know. However instead of just getting a full head of foils (like I should've) I said, 'What if we just went blonde all over? Would that be OK?' Kim was quick to tell me it would look great because of my skin tone. 'I wouldn't tell you to do it if I didn't think it would look bad,' she comforted. You'd think the warning bells would've gone off then, but alas, I let her go.

Some time later, Kim washed my hair and sat me back down in the chair in front of the mirror. I swear my roots could have played the Yellow Brick Road in Wizard of Oz. I freaked out and the look on my face said it all. Kim was on to me immediately.

'Why don't we put a polish over it and calm it down a little, so it's not soooo blonde?' she suggested. 'Ok, that would be great.'

As the polish was applied I physically felt my stomach retract from my throat to its intended position. I was calming down and felt confident Kim knew what she was doing.

My hair ended up being a slightly dirty colour with blonde roots. Think dirty dish water with the lemon soap suds left. Overall it was a nothing colour. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good. Definitley not a colour I wanted for Summer, but I went home and reviewed the damage in the mirror - like every woman does after a visit to the hairdresser.

That gut wrenching feeling of disbelief and anxiety returned.  I had to do something to remedy this distaster. I felt sick. The next day I rang Kim and explained my disappointment. Bless her, she got me back in straight away to fix the problem.

I said, "It's just not what I had in mind. I'm happy with blonde hair, but I feel like this is closer to light brown. Maybe we could just bring it up a little?'

Kim suggested putting half a head of foils all over my head with the blonde colour she normally uses on my hair. 'I wont add any lowlights because it's already in there. I'll just add in the blondest one of your two blondes.'

'Sure' I replied. Then there was a little knock on the door in my mind. Little Sian opened the door and whispered in my ear, 'Won't that be too blonde? Don't you just want a few little highlights scattered across the front half?'

"It'll be fine. She knows what she's doing,' I replied, pushing her back out the door and slamming it behind her.

A little over two hours later, as Kim was blasting my hair dry, I could feel the tears starting to fill my eyes. 'Do not cry. Just get home,' I consoled myself.

I knew instantly I'd done the wrong thing and should not have returned to the hair dresser emotional, anxious and upset. Why didn't I listen to Teach and wait a week or two until I got use to the new colour and then decide if I wanted to have it changed back? I might have been in a better position to explain what I needed or was looking for instead of just assuming Kim and Little Sian were communicating on the same wave length.

But no! I'm now lost. Lost in a haze of confusion, emotional hell and self-loathing. Oh, and let's not forget bright YELLOW hair! Aaaaargh!!!

Instead of telling tales about how much fun Teach, E and I had shopping for our first family Christmas Tree on Monday, I've spent the last two days trying to find a way to reverse time and get my old hair back, avoiding mirrors and swearing at myself.

Photos around the house are not helping me come to terms with my new hair either. All I'm doing is mourning the loss of something so young and beautiful that ended before it's time.'Why God, WHY?'

I've since put a call out on Facebook to ask if anyone can recommend a colourist to fix my hair, plus a friend has dropped over her bottle of Silver Saver (aka purple shampoo) to help me in the interim, but it's not immediate enough. You'd think I'd learn my lesson and not rush into any more decisions or colours, but I can't help it. I must fix it now! 


Can anyone help me?

* Name changed

How To Be A Domestic God-Awful-Mess

What do Nigella Lawson, a White Chocolate, Coconut & Raspberry slice and I have in common? Other than we were all in my kitchen at the one time (one of Nigella's books that is, not the fabulous woman herself), absolutely nothing!

This mind-blowing discovery dawned on me last week when I was elbow deep in melted butter, white chocolate and descicated coconut, holding E in one hand while trying to pour the mixture into a slice pan with the other. As I attempted to spread it evenly across the pan, backwards and almost upside down, the mixture dripped down my arm and across the stylish pages of Nigella's classic cookbook How to be a Domestic Goddess.

'Sorry love.' I kept saying to her as more and more mixture fell on the book instead of the pan. 'It's all I can manage I'm afraid.'

I was working hard to create the tasty treat for our weekly Mother's Group get together, but I should have known when moths flew out of the open (and very old) Self-Raising Flour bag that my attempt to emulate Ms Lawson and wow all the other Yummy Mummy's with my home made decadent slice would not be a success.

It started a few hours earlier when I'd finally decided I'd attempt to make something. The slice seemed like the easiest option because I had most of the ingredients in the cupboard, sans white chocolate, but I knew I could duck into Coles quickly on the way home from taking Teach to school and have it ready for the 11.30am catch up. Easy.


After waking E from his comfy car slumber to race in and buy said chocolate, then wrestling him back in the car seat - all while singing 'Doin' It' by the lovely Justine Clarke so he'd grin along with me and forget I was pulling him from pillar to post - we arrived home with just enough time to get the ingredients mixed, in the pan, baked, then out the door again. Ok...Go!

I don't know what came over me or why I was so determined to make something. Anything. I wanted it to be interesting, a little different, yet completely delicious and satisfying. If the ladies uttered the words 'Bloody Marvellous' I wouldn't have been disappointed. But baking only makes me crumble under the pressure.

My last two attempts at baking desserts were miserable. I left the kitchen leaving a trail of nutt-meggy baking powder fluff in my wake. One cake sunk so much in the middle it could have passed as my Year Nine Geography Volcano Experiment.

This time though, I read the recipe several times before I started. I had everything pre-measured, weighed and ready on the kitchen counter, E was happily playing with his new truck in the living room and Nigella by my side.

'You can do this.' I said to myself. Hang on. What page number was it on again? D'oh!

After what felt like an eternity looking for the recipe (which was starting to induce a skin-of-the-teeth panic in me), my preparation went out the window when E decided he must sit between my legs, play with my toes and whinge if I moved my feet. The butter had melted so much in the microwave it was now boiling and the white chocolate had formed into a hard sludge in the pan. Bugger. Poo. Wee. 

Why can't I ever bake anything? 

I picked E up off the floor and was determined to start again. 11.30am start time be damned. I was NOT going to let a five step recipe beat me.

COME ON!

I managed to scrape all the ingredients together again, get it in the pan and bake it before we had to haul ourselves across town. The thought of showering and dressing up for the occassion had me spinning too, but we got there in the end.

E and I arrived dazzling, fresh faced, smiling and slice in hand. Eventually.

'Hi Sian. Hi E. Wow, did you bake that?' Our host asked. 'It looks lovely.'

'Thank you, yes.' I replied and looked down to see the gladwrap had started to melt over the still-warm slice. 

Not thinking, I had just picked up the original baking pan, wrapped it up and ran to the car. I didn't even put the slice on a serving plate. SHIT!

I asked our host for a dish to serve up the slice and walked away from the kitchen thinking, 'That'll do Donkey. That'll do.'

Our little Crawler

He's up on all fours then crash! He'll get up on his knees then fall forward on to his face. Splat! He'll use his arms to push himself around in circles and backwards across the floor.

But yesterday, E put it together and moved his little knee forward under his belly as if to move forward then... Boom! Belly dive straight into the carpet. Yes our little man is learning how to crawl and we're very excited. (Though I'm somewhat nervous because our house is a jungle gym waiting to be explored.)

E is nine months old today, so Happy (sort of) Birthday to our beautiful boy.

Have Prize Will Travel

Three days ago I started drafting a post about the importance of 'Being Optimistic' but found the words were MIA.

I was hoping the post would inspire me to stop dragging my heels on a personal business venture, but no matter how hard I tried or how many times I'd make a cuppa to spark inspiration, the delightful, witty and insightful post did not magically appear. Optimistic, I was not. 

Today, however, is slightly different because optimism found me in the most unlikely situation.

It all started when my mobile rang at 7.30am. The phone number wasn't blocked and I recognised it as a Brisbane number, but who would call me at this hour?

It couldn't be my bank. They appear as BLOCKED. Actually, my brain registers any blocked number as a warning signal that screams DO NOT ANSWER.  

It couldn't be Optus. I remembered to pay my overdue phone bill two days ago, plus they're based in Sydney so the area code doesn't match.

Surely it's not Greenpeace asking for another donation. I'm almost broke people. You should donate cash to me to put an end to this hungry mammal feeding her family on cans of tuna. You know, two birds, one stone. Now bugger off!

It's definitely not Mum because I haven't telepathically asked her to call me yet. I was planning on thinking about her tomorrow night after we both watch Neighbours and before I put E to bed.  She never fails to call within an hour of me thinking 'I haven't spoken to Mum this week.'

Maybe it's the Lotto people? Hang on, I don't play lotto. Oh well, best answer it.

'Hello, Sian speaking.' I said excitedly.

'Hi Sian, It's Bianca here from Peekaboo Magazine.' The cogs in my brain go into overdrive. Bianca from Peekaboo? Nope, nothing.

'You entered a competition for a trip to Fiji,' she started slowly. Did I? Oh, that must of happened the day I spent five hours on the Internet looking for a way to escape a teething, screaming child that never wanted to be put down.

'Yes, I sure did...' I was waiting with breathe that was bated.

'Congratulations. You won!'

I couldn't believe it. 'Really? Wow, thank you so much.'

After several weeks of waiting for the world to open up and swallow me whole, I suddenly felt it's weight lift. My self-imposed gloomy outlook changed instantly.


Teach, E and I have won a five-night holiday at the five-star Outrigger on the Lagoon in Fiji. Prize includes return airport transfers, breakfast each day, two one-hour spa treatments and child care. Fan-bloody-tastic! 

Not only did optimism find me thanks to a very welcomed phone call, but it carried me through the rest of the day and allowed me to get so much else done.

I got to thinking, if something this magical can happen when I least expect it, what else can life bless me with if I am open enough to let it?

My simple change in mindset impacted the rest of my day, week and maybe my month. The more positive energy I put into my day the more finally happened that I'd been waiting for. Talk about a great chain reaction.

So finally, I must say a very big thank you to Peekaboo Magazine and Outrigger on the Lagoon for a wonderful prize. We are greatly appreciative and can't wait to take full advantage of it in 2012.

Yippee!