NAOMI HART

DON'T SPIT ON THE WALLS.

2012-01-31T14:35:00.000-08:00

This is the sign we wereconfronted with on a recent walk around the river in Melbourne.

No shit Sherlock. Thanks forthe tip.

But it got me thinking.Sometimes life really is as straightforward as that, and if only we paid moreattention to these little signs maybe life would be just that little biteasier.

Things like:

NO PARKING and TOWAWAY signs.Parking attendants don’t have senses of humour people. And this is trueanywhere in the world. Trust me, I’ve done the research.

DON’T SPIT ON THE WALLS. Thisis the sign that was hanging in the social security office in NYC which Istared at for 3 hours while I waited to be served. Sound advice don’t youthink?

PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL OF OTHERPEOPLE’S CEREMONIES

This was posted in City Hallwhere Gregory and I went to get our marriage licence in NYC. We did consider gettinghitched in their chapel, complete with salmon coloured walls and fake flowersadorning a plastic archway, but we decided the forty people who’d travelledfrom Australia might not appreciate that.

Again though, it’s handyinformation. And could be just as valuable in an edited version:

PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL OF OTHERPEOPLE.

My favourite though was thisone, which I passed while out running in the Golden Gate park in San Francisco.

Unfortunately for the Japanesea few years ago, it was actually something they could have done with, and I certainly don't mean to make light of their terrible circumstance, but whenI came across this sign, that disastrous event hadn’t occurred yet.

I saw it at a stage whenGregory and I were about to move back to Australia, a country I hadn’t lived infor 8 years, a country he had never lived in, a country I had no professionalperforming career in, a country he had no career in whatsoever. Hoping to bothget jobs in our chosen fields, to make a baby (never having tried to make ababy before), to grow a healthy one, once we conceived it, to be able to affordrent in Sydney, to make new friends and reconnect with old.

Suddenly I realised miniTsunamis hit your whole life long.

Sometimes yes, you’ll need anevacuation route, other times you just need an excellent survival plan.

The true test is knowing whento run, when to hide and when to stay the course.

It seems that opening arestaurant is indeed like facing a mini-Tsunami. But with proper planning andpreparation and a big set of balls, I reckon we’ll be able to stay the course.

Happy Wednesday people, nice day for ducks huh?

RANTY PANTS OR NO PANTS. TAKE YOUR PICK.

2012-01-30T14:22:00.000-08:00

It is 9am and I am already backfrom the playground because a 1 bedroom apartment gets boring for a 14 monthold after an hour or so, so diversionary tactics must be implemented.

So, off we went to the park,Dad and mum with homemade coffees in hand (saving ourselves $7 a day people)and unsurprisingly we were the only people there.

Or were we?

Q headed straight for somethingfar above her skill level and as I followed her to avoid a trip to the hospitalI noticed a little girl a couple of years older than Q sitting quietly on thepark bench while her mother sat next to her.

With her headphones in.

Talking on the phone.

And texting.

While her daughter sat stilland silent beside her.

(I am reasonably assured it washer mother and not her nanny by their interaction and the big arse diamond ringI could see glinting in the early sunlight).

So, seeing us, this little girl hopped offthe bench and wandered over to Q and I because - I suspect - she was bored.

This forced the mother off thebench to retrieve said daughter, take her promptly to the swings, strap herin and proceed to push her with one hand while continuing to text and talk withthe other.

Now, dear reader, you may arguethat clearly it was I not payingattention to my daughter because I was so consumed by somebody else’s, andyou’d be right, so I left my daughter with her father and came home, full ofrighteous indignation, itching to write this blog.

I had planned to write aboutsomething else entirely.

I had planned to tell you thestory of a dear friend of mine, who was explaining the finer points of the taleThe Emperor’s Pyjamas.

Remember the one? He getstricked into thinking he’s wearing clothes but is actually walking around naked instead.

‘It would be like if I walkeddown the street in my underpants,’ says my friend to her young daughter. ‘Whatdo you think people would do if they saw that?’

‘They would cry,’ her daughterreplies earnestly, and all I can think is, that other little girl’s motherwould never hear such a witty response because she’d be on the phone.

Hear endeth the rant.

HOW HUMBLE IS YOUR PIE?

2012-01-23T22:05:00.000-08:00

When people discover you’re planning to open arestaurant, most of them aren’t quick enough to hide the look that says theythink you bought a first class ticket on the crazy train.

Then, when they discover that you’re not funding theproject entirely yourselves, they realise you can’t afford a ticket on the crazy train, and that look turns tosympathy at best, thinly veiled pity at worst.

But then there are the believers.

And of them, we are fortunate to have many.

Which is fortunate, because those looks of pity arekillers. I think there is a proverb about pity. It goes something like this:

Looks ofpity poke holes in a person’s dream, so think twice before their dream getspoked away.

But there’s also probably another proverb aboutbelievers.

Believersare the sticky tape to non-believer’s hole poking.

The believers are all sorts of people. They're people who’ve offered their support through interest,just by listening to your plans. Others their advice, a good book to read, awebsite to search. Others still, their skilled labour for a fraction or none ofthe price their worth.

All of them believing and showing that belief howeverit is they can.

And some of them are showing that belief by funding this little dream of ours.

‘We think you’re so brave Naomi, we’d love to help makeit happen.’

(This coming from a friend who’s in the Army).

Brave?

Compared to what?

I’m not going to face a bullet every time I turn up towork.

It’s humbling, quite honestly, to have people believein you enough to loan you their hard earned dollars.

Humbling now, but the pridewill come later when we pay them back with the full return promised.

Today a bird pooed on my head, which I know issupposed to be good luck.

But we don’t need good luck, we’ve got believers.

ANXIETY, PIRATES & FORTUNE COOKIES

2012-01-22T13:11:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we went to a four year-old’s pirate birthdayparty.

It was a bit hectic getting there, what with thebridge being closed, me getting muddled on directions, and G urging me to go tothe gym for 20 minutes before we should have left in order to get there on time, because I was rather anxious about this restaurant we’re planning toopen…without having all the money we need yet to open it.

Details.

Who needs them?

So, after I’d thrown a few weights about the gym, donea couple of squats and managed to suppress my anxiety to a socially acceptable level at least,we were on our way, Q dressed in her party best. (A very groovy second-hand dress givento us by the owners of said 4 year-old).

My friend opened the door and when she did I wondered why she waswearing a gypsy skirt and a bandana, and then it occurred to me that she was apirate of sorts and I felt bad because I hadn’t interpreted the invite asa dress-up too.

Lame.

So, in we went, late and un-costumed. The losers onthe invite list.

I find kid’s parties exhausting.

Come on, admit it, don’t you?

Typically you haven’t had an adequate enough breakfastto see you through the experience, and unless you’re willing to overdose onfairy bread and cupcakes, (thereby giving yourself a massive sugar high andequally massive headache) that is unlikely to change.

And so you spend the hours having fracturedconversations with the adults while you run after your small human as they headstraight for the edge of the deck, the climbing frame or the fairy bread.

If there’s one thing Q doesn’t need, it’s more energy.

No sugar for her.

Two hours later, after you've refereed countless fightsbetween two 14 month olds who don’t understand or care for the word ‘share’,you’re on your way, stuffing the banana in your mouth that you stole from thehosts’ fruit bowl, telling them it was for Q.

1 year-old birthday parties typically don’t include alolly bag, because their most favoured treat is their mother’s milk and thatwould just be weird, but 4 year-old parties do.

By then our hunger was starting to win out, so before we were even out of the drive, G and I were at our pirate best, greedily devouring Q’s collection of freckles, milk bottlesand fortune cookies.

Every pirate party has fortune cookies.

Everyone knows that.

What’s funny is that mine said ‘resist the urge to change your plans.’

Sometimes you find providence in the oddest of places.

Happy Monday everyone, have a fabulous week.

PUTTING YOUR C*#K ON THE BLOCK. METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING OF COURSE.

2012-01-19T16:46:00.000-08:00

My ghetto bandage, because at $140,
he didn't even offer me a bandaid.

I am typing with a slightly gammy thumb, because Ijust had an injection in it because I have trigger thumb.

From all the pistols I shoot.

That is honestly what the doctor called it.

Apparently a lot of new mums get it from picking uptheir children 9000 times a day.

Why wouldn’t you call it new-mum thumb then?

In unrelated news, it’s a day of angsty nerves,worrying and decision tossing here at team Llewellyn/Hart.

We walk through the restaurant space again today with the builder and planningconsultant, which is exciting and making it seem real, but we’re alsocontinually trying to shave costs from our friendly little opening budget andthat is not exciting but still making it seem real.

Let’s face it.

Starting a small business is always going to be a risk.

At some point the trigger thumb doctor opened his ownpractice. (Still, at $140 every 15 minutes I’d say he’s doing ok).

The architect we’re planning to use, she’s in smallbusiness too.

So is the wine dude, the builder, the coffee supplier,the plumber, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker.

They all made the decision to go out on their own.

And thus far, they’ve all survived to tell the tale.

So what’s got us all nervy?

All this talk of a second GFC that’s what.

Will it hit?

Will it miss?

Will Australia cruise through like last time or willpeople stop their discretionary spending and eat bread and dripping instead?

I dunno, but at some point, as one brother says, you’ve just got to put your cock on theblock.

(He’s known around town for his rhetoric andgrandiloquence).

So, metaphorically speaking, am I ready for possiblecastration?

Or will the public embrace my metaphoric manhood withjoy, fervour and an extra round of after dinner drinks?

Only time - and a few other key factors - will tell.

Happy Friday folks, have a fabulous weekend.

RED BACK SPIDERS CAN KILL YOU, YOU KNOW.

2012-01-18T15:32:00.000-08:00

Last week my friend got bitten by a red-back spider.

Yeah you know the one, the one that can kill you.

When I asked her why she hadn’t mentioned her neardeath experience, she reminded me that it wasn’t about us anymore, it was aboutthe humans we had made, and that while a near death experience would ordinarilyhave been considered a newsworthy topic, it now faded into insignificance whencompared with more weighty issues such as teething, nap boycotts and vegetablerefusals.

My friend could have died of her spider bite and Iwould never have known because I was too busy making stuffed cannelloni,reading the same book for the ninety-six thousandth time and working my bicepsat the slippery dip in the park.

Such is the life I lead.

Other newsworthy items that have gone un-newsed are asfollows;

· We have made anoffer on a restaurant and it has been accepted.

Is there really any need for me to write anythingelse?

Oh sorry, gotta go. Q needs her nappy changed.

Kids.

They have the darndest way of putting things inperspective.

WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET A MASSAGE

2012-01-16T17:02:00.000-08:00

Do you ever put things off, things that by doing themyou know would make life easier, but you can’t be bothered to exert the energyrequired, and so instead, you expend unnecessary energy each time you performthe task/use the object that is not functioning correctly, the sum total ofwasted energy far exceeding the energy it would take to rectify the problem inthe first place, and yet still you can’t be arsed?

I do.

Things like not mounting the dryer to the wall, and sohaving it sit on the bathroom floor, taking up valuable floor space, making itimpossible to clean and even more impossible to use because the vibrating onthe tiled floor causes the person living below to start to hate you. (Not that I use the dryer because I am a tree-hugging energy saver and the dryer is for that criminal Martha Stewart decoration purposes only).

Or mending the hems on four pairs of pants and so youjust don’t wear them, which means you have to wash continually becauseyour child destroys at least 2 of your outfits a day and you just don’t ownthat many pairs of comfy jeans.

Or staring at the running pram you were given that issecurely locked to the front pillar, unable to be stolen and unable to be usedat all because your husband lost the only key to the padlock and is refusing tobuy a set of bolt cutters. Which means I use the other buggy, which doesn’thandle as well and costs me 35 bucks each time I blow a tire.

I could go on…

Dentist appointments

Wedding book

The tear in the leather couch we were given

The Tupperware drawer

Cleaning the oven

My hair..

As my husband always tells me ‘when the pain getsgreat enough you’ll do something about it.’

And the pain is great people, the pain is very great.

So this morning I booked in for a spa treatment with avoucher I won in my gym’s Christmas hamper. (I suspect it was rigged, as ourfamily has given them a dozen members, but I don’t care. That voucher is mine,damn it, all mine).

The burning of the proverbial candle has only justbegun, of that I am well aware, but if I can soothe my singed soul every nowand again with a bit of sheer decadence I reckon I just might make it through.

Happy Tuesday people, may it be full of unexpected indulgence.

$9 A PHOTOCOPY. HIGHWAY ROBBERY ME THINKS.

2012-01-11T18:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had to pay a $42 administration fee to thecouncil for them to open a drawer and pull out a plan.

Then they charged me $9 to photocopy it.

This is not me. I wish.

When we left, (quickly, lest they charge us a wear andtear fee for standing in the queue) we took Q to a free council provided water park,which entertained her for quite some time. Perhaps our $42 administration fee helped pay for one of the sprinklers.

The biggest thing I am discovering about opening asmall business is that there are fees and costs, lodging payments and bureaucraticcharges wherever you turn.

If it weren’t for a very dear friend of mine being one, I’d bedeveloping a fairly extreme aversion to Town Planners.

But I’ve reframed my thought processes. Actually I shouldkiss their feet, because it’s not a job I could do.

I start to read the forms and immediately my eyesglaze, my mind softens and before I know it, I’m making a cup of decaf tea andlooking up the page entitled ‘fines for not filing correct documentation.’

Or writing a blog…

Better get back to it.

LEARNING FROM A BABY - IF THEY CAN DO IT, WHY CAN'T I?

2012-01-10T15:10:00.000-08:00

There are lots of things Q can do that I can’t.

· Go from a sittingposition, to an open-hipped squat, to standing, in one fluid motion withoutgrunting, dislocating her hips or having to rock back and forth to get enoughmomentum to execute the move in the first place.

· Cover herself inplum so that she looks like she’s been punched in the face and carry on as ifnothing is awry.

· Whinge incessantly ifthings aren’t going her way. G may argue that she inherited this trait from hermother, but I don't think so. I prefer to yell.

· Find my nipples ina nuclear blackout. This trait she most definitely inherited from her father.

· Freakishly manageto double the mass of food she inhaled by the time it comes out the other end. Particularlycorn.

· Say countless wordsincluding bath, baby, bye-bye, apple, banana, several animal noises and Dada,but still not Mamma to any degree of understanding.

· Limitless determinationto try, try and try again until she can do it.

It is this surety of her own invincibility that I amtrying to emulate as we go forward with this opening your own restaurant gig.

When do humans learn – or concede - that they mightnot be able to do everything?

When do we stop trying new things?

What makes us doubt our own abilities?

Q doesn’t. If there’s something she wants, someone sheneeds, she works, works, works until that thing or person is hers.

To be fair, some of her success is due to thecapitulation of her parents, but for the most part she works towards her goaluntil she’s got it in her firm baby grasp.

It’s admirable.

And daunting.

And time for her mother to stop pussyfooting aroundand set her a good example.

Excuse me please, I have a business to run.

SMALL BUSINESS OWNERS HAVE BIG BALLS

2012-01-09T16:57:00.000-08:00

Small business owners have big balls.

Metaphorically speaking.

Anatomically speaking too I suppose, but that’s not aresearch project I’m interested in pursuing at the moment.

This startling revelation is one of many I’ve madethis year, and it’s only January 10^th.

I don’t know what animal it is in Chinese tradition,but for me it is year of the owl. By year’s end I shall be wise beyond my quicklyadvancing years.

Small business owners have big balls metaphoricallyspeaking because…well, because, quite frankly, they have a lot of shit to do.

G and I are eyeball deep in opening budgets and 12month projection plans and all I keep wanting to project is a long holiday onthe beach.

And we haven’t even opened yet.

There is a lot to consider.

And a lot you don’t want to consider but you have tobecause it’s the law.

And still more that you do want to consider but you can’t because your budget has beeneaten up considering things because they are the law.

It is a very tricky business this small business gig.

And people thought being a performer was hard.

Let's be honest, I got paid to pretend to be someone else. I wanderedabout a stage, every now and then I sang a song about my imaginarycircumstances and just to round the whole thing off, I might have done a bit ofa tap dance usually dressed in sequins and somebody else’s hair.

Comparatively speaking, that was as easy as akick-ball-change.

Further revelations as they have come to me this yearinclude but are not limited to:

· People in businessdealings pretend to be nice but really they just want what they want and buggerthe rest of you.

· It is very obviousto these people that I am naïve and destructively honest.

· Restaurants arevery expensive things to set up.

· It is much easierto spend money than it is to make it.

· Outsource what youdon’t know and pay the professionals to deal with it. This is particularlyvaluable regarding legal matters where you did a dud photocopy and are missingkey pages.

· Chefs are creators.Living with one is like living with Picasso, but hopefully you’re his onlywife.

· Butcher’s paper andto-do lists will save you. They will always save you.

· Ask your friends ifthey know people in the fields you need. You’d be surprised how many KevinBacons you actually know.

For these tips on small business and many more, staytuned.

I may not have one yet, but that is a meretechnicality.

As Jonathon Swift said, ‘vision is the art of seeingwhat is invisible to others’.

Welcome to 2012 people. As Sydney City Council told us on New Year's Eve,

DARE TO DREAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I HAVE A PROBLEM.

2011-12-22T14:49:00.000-08:00

I have a problem.

Lots of them probably, but I’ll only deal with oneright now.

My husband has taken Q to the garden at my parent’splace so she can eat snails and chicken manure, giving me much needed time topack for tomorrow’s beach holiday.

(Hear that Mother Nature – BEACH HOLIDAY. Because itis SUMMER. And that’s what people do in the summer. They go to the beach for aswim because it is HOT. Summer is one of the reasons I live in Sydney. I amreally mad at you, Mother Nature, also because you duped us with a fewscorchers in October and I bought a pair of shorts that I haven’t worn since.You owe me 24 bucks).

Anyway Q isn’t here and the apartment is quiet andonly in a state of semi-destruction because she wasn’t here long enough thismorning to make it complete.

She and I hang out a lot. Pretty much 24 hours a dayfor over a year. She’s kind of like another appendage except that she doesn’tobey my commands.

And now, without her here, (even though it means I canwrap the one gift we got her - a book cos I’m so bored of the ones we’ve got -and G’s gifts - won’t write it here on the off chance he reads this post - andcan actually pack without the great unpacker around to ruin all my hard work) Imiss her.

I miss her.

I miss her little mischievous, toothy smile, herannoying back-of-the-throat groan she does when she wants to be picked up, theway she pulls out all the books and throws them all over the room, the way shegets up on all fours and crawls about, always carrying some treasure in hermouth. I miss her unpacking my wallet and the food she throws about while she’seating.

Actually, I really don’t miss those last two things.My glasses are not that rose tinted.

And now I’ve wasted precious packing and wrapping timeand must stop this separation nonsense.

I doubt she’ll learn Russian while we’re apart. Orstart to hop. Or read. And I’m pretty sure she’ll still know who I am when wesee each other again.

The cloth nappies do nothing
for her derriere.

I am a loser.

Start packing Hart.

You deserve one big eye roll.

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING IN TOWN. DEATH TO A MARRIAGE.

2011-12-21T20:30:00.000-08:00

Here in the land of Q we’re a bit late getting intothe spirit of Christmas. Not because we’re Grinches, but because we’ve beenrather consumed of late and because the weather BLOWS.

If it’s going to be acold Christmas I expect it is because I am in the northern hemisphere drinkingeggnog and wearing enough layers to hide the eggnog that has stuck to my waistand thighs. I do not expect Christmas in a semi-hot, mostly cool, perpetuallydamp environment where no one can decide if they want to drink a margarita or arum toddy.

So as the agenda was rather free today, we decided tojump a bus into town and join the festivities. Really get amongst it. Throwourselves in the elfish deep end as it were.

This is how things went:

· Q woke up reallyearly, meaning that she wants to take her 1 nap at about 9am, which is notideal because it is then a long, slow, agonising ride until bedtime that night.If you choose to try to delay sleep – as we did – you pay for it with thewhinge. It just depends if you want that whinge from 9-12 or from 11-8. Iprefer the former for obvious reasons.

· We left half anhour later than planned and G heads for the bus stop that is only local stops,so we watch 3 express buses sail past before heading to the other bus stopwhere I realise…

· G hadn’t broughtthe gift he needed to return because he’d bought the wrong thing, with him.

· G returns to house.

· Without keys.

· G returns to thebus stop and we realise he doesn’t have enough rides left on his travel ten.

· I go to thenewsagency to get another pass while G returns to the house with my keys to getthe gift.

· We leave Q at thebus stop.

· Just kidding.

· We get on a buswhose breaks screech and whose tires skid every time the driver slows down. Webegin to doubt our survival until Christmas in the first place.

· Every man and hisdog, aunt, cousin, spouse and CHILD is in town and as you walk past people allyou can hear is;

· ‘why didn’t youtell me that in the first place?’

· ‘what took you solong?’

· ‘christmas is notjust about you, you know.’

· G goes to get uscoffees while Q and I block traffic outside the diamond store in the StrandArcade.

· I should add thatit is raining.

· We do not haveumbrellas.

· We gather a fewgifts interspersed with countless phone calls to our family to make sure we getthe right thing. People can be very vague with their gift list.

· Myself included. Iasked for new bras because none of my non-breastfeeding ones fit, a terrible,horrible disaster that I don’t care to dwell on in this blog. I do not know mynew size.

· G tries not toswear as person after person does something stupid in front of him as he pushesQ through the throng.

· Q has reached herlimit, we head for the bus stop.

· G realises he haslost his Amex card.

· Is not successfulin stopping his swearing in front of his child.

· This annoys me and Ihead for the bus stop while G heads back to the shops to buy my gift.

· With what card I donot know.

· Q and I get home, (shehas meanwhile yelled her disgust at still being in the pram the whole bus ridehome) to discover that G still has my keys and so we can’t get in the frontdoor.

· Send G an urgenttext since he’s not answering his phone. Odd since that thing is stuck to hisear most of the day. Q crawls on the wet, muddy ground and gets filthy.

· G returns home.

· I make a cup oftea.

· And now I’m goingto get my toes painted because I want to be decadent and spend money unnecessarily.

· This has been the Christmasstory Llewellyn/Hart style.

· The end.

EASTER...CHRISTMAS...WHERE ARE WE UP TO JESUS?

2011-12-19T15:24:00.000-08:00

At the end of November when we decided to investigateopening a restaurant we didn’t presume anything much would happen for 6 monthsat least.

In barely a month of research, we have found a venue,taken a builder through, met with accountants, lawyers, brokers, designers andpurveyors, written and rewritten a business plan and tried to locate the fundsnecessary to open the thing in the first place.

In between this I’ve had a couple of gigs, Q turned 1,we celebrated US thanksgiving, had a quick work trip to Melbourne andapparently it is Christmas this weekend.

Who knew?

Yesterday I wished someone a happy Easter.

Gregory turned to me the other day and said; ‘do youthink things are moving a bit fast?’

And I replied ‘what? Like how we met and decided toget married within months, then flipped a coin and decided to leave NYC andmove to LA, then road tripped across the US and ended up in Australia, thendiscussed the possibility of falling pregnant and discovered we’d be parents 9months later. And now that human is one and we've decided to open a restaurant? Fast like the last few years have been? I don’t know what you’re talkingabout.’

My saving grace is that Australians are inherentlylazy and even thought it has been a total shite summer as far as weather isconcerned, every person we’re dealing with from the landlord to the lawyer has loudlydeclared they won’t be doing much between now and say, oh, the middle of January.

Fine by me.

Happy Easter everyone.

See you on the flip side.

CONSPIRACY THEORIES, CRAWLING & OPENING RESTAURANTS

2011-12-14T14:17:00.000-08:00

Today we are taking our builder through the restaurantspace we are considering taking over which is all sorts of exciting and grownup and serious and small-business-like, but we are also taking Q with us which is allsorts of stupid.

I’ve mentioned before my child’s unwillingness to sitplacidly in her chariot and be pushed around while all her favourite peoplewalk free around her.

Why can’t Iexplore and follow my whimsy? Must I be subjected to following yours instead?

You can’t walk yet Q, which means that some surfaces –like restaurant kitchen floors – are not ideal for you to go crawling about on.

But mother,I don’t put my knees down, there is no danger I’ll wear out my clothes.

True daughter dear, but I’m not sure it’s all thatclean.

If you don’tlet me out, I’ll kick and flail and scream and yell my frustration untilyou do. And it should be well established by now that my stamina and thresholdare far greater than yours.

Also true my darling child, I shall of course grantyour request.

I know this is what will happen today, and this should alsoexplain to well-meaning friends why cafes and restaurants are no-go zones for Quntil she’s approximately ten.

The upside to this excursion is that we’re taking aposse with us.

One brother who finds himself at loose ends today istagging along, and another brother and his girl and her brother are going tohave a snoop too. (She’s heading OS today, so my brother has used it as anexcuse to make a few well timed phone calls, answer a couple of key emails butactually take the entire day off work).

Work smarternot harder sis, he’s always telling me when heknocks off at 1pm.

The builder is a mate of our dad’s and we’ve grown upwith him renovating our laundry and roping you into holding the hammer so you’rea captive audience to his many conspiracy theories.

Seriously, he should be on talk-back radio. Although,giving his ideas a public forum could be very dangerous indeed.

So off go Gregory and I, about to undertake thebiggest professional decision of our lives (I consider packing my bags andmoving to NYC to perform, a mere dip of the toe into the pool of big decisionsin comparison to opening our own restaurant) with two brothers, one pseudosister-in-law, one pseudo sister-in-law’s brother, one non-compliant child, onemad builder and an unfailing sense of optimism.

What could possibly go wrong?

NO SHOWER NO SEX NO DEBATE.

2011-12-12T15:38:00.000-08:00

I am a night-time shower-er. My whole family is. Wefeel quite strongly about it.

Shower in the morning as well if you wish, but don’teven think about putting your sweaty, smelly day-old arse between my sheetswithout cleaning it first.

It is gross and nasty and as for the chance of a dirtydoodle and a nasty ny-ny ever meeting in the dark…you will find yourself morecelibate than a nun.

It’s a tough stance, but some things are just not upfor compromise.

It’s been known to nearly end a few relationships,until the offender sees the error of their ways and comes around to the Hartway of thinking.

Recently however, this evening showering business iswreaking havoc on my beauty regime.

My beauty regime goes like this;

· Wash body in soapof the non-allergic variety. Use it on face too, even though that is widelyrecognised as a cardinal sin in the beauty world.

· Shampoo andcondition hair with whatever product was on sale when last I shopped.

· Towel off and coverbody in sorbolene. (The tight-arse/allergic kid’s attempt at preventing wrinklyskin).

· Scrunch somede-frizzing product into hair

· Put on pj’s and goto bed, drying your hair on your pillowcase. The benefit of curls being thatsleeping on them doesn’t make them any better or worse. In the morning, youjust add a bit of spritz (or just wet your hands and scrunch with water) andyou’re done.

Voila.

Not much to it, the real beauty (ha ha) lying in itsability to be appropriated to any environment anywhere in the world.

Wherever you go, your beauty regime follows. Even if you're camping.

It’s always been enough to get me by. There was neverany danger of me being a supermodel, I’ve had wrinkles since I was 12 and Ihave reactions to most of the expensive smelly stuff anyway.

It’s been enough up until now.

Up until when I became a mother and breastfeeding almost literally suckedthe life out of me, causing my nails to stop growing, my arse to diminish, myhair to lose its curl and fall out entirely and my skin to become as desiccated the Murray-Darlingriverbed.

My face looked like a Cruskit.

I rang the BreastfeedingAssociation for advice, but in their typical, propaganda fashion, they justtold me there must be something wrong with my diet and to eat more nuts.

Really people? Exclusive breastfeeding for over a year and that’s what you tell me?

Add to the monumental weight of mother’s guilt whydon’t you? Thanks very much.

So just when I was about to ween Q cold turkey, shedecided the independence of drinking milk from a cup quite suited her independentnature and I was saved. My boobs are now only used morning and night.

During the days, they are mine, all mine.

I cut my nails for the first time in over a year, mylips stopped cracking allowing them to return to their former shape and size,and my hair began to grow, sprouting new shoots like a nervous young plant.

New shoots that now frame my face in little wispytufts, too fine to curl, too short to blend into the rest of my hair.

Made all the worse by my nighttime shower.

Come morning, my hair having dried overnight, I looklike a pubescent lion.

There are not enough bobby pins to save me.

Suddenly I’m finding more than a scrunch and go isrequired and frankly, I just can’t be bothered.

Of course if I skipped this nighttime shower, theproblem may be solved.

But I couldn’t do it. I can’t do it. I’ll never do it.

Bad hair be dammed.

I look like this, only better.

At least I know my sheets are clean.

DO YOU KNOW WHICH WAY YOUR PARTNER LIKES THEIR TOILET PAPER?

2011-12-08T17:56:00.001-08:00

I married an American. Which meant that after 6 yearsof living in the US and not being able to audition for Broadway because Ididn’t have a Green card I was finally able to do so.

The night before our Green card interview Gregory hadrun around the house checking things out. “Spare razor, second drawer in the hall. Undies top left. Favourite colour purple. Toothbrush is purple. Mother’s maiden name is Thompson. Wife puts toilet roll in so it rolls out on top.”

“I do?” I ask.

“You do now,” says Gregory. “And you also have a purple toothbrush. That is going to be my defaultanswer. Purple. Whatever it is, it’s purple. If we get separated remember that.”

“We’re not going to be separated,” I say rolling myeyes.

We had heard horror stories – people being told topull out their keys to prove they matched and therefore lived together. When they didn't they deported the woman on the spot.

On the big day, we allow plenty of time for trafficissues, park easily, join the line for security, exit on the top floor and come face to face with two women barely intheir twenties, shuffling along in shackles, their hands cuffed behind theirbacks.

Then we check in with the guardon duty, and calmly sip on our drinks while listening to a woman beg for herhusband. “Please,” she cried,“they’ve taken him. Here’s hispassport. Please.”

I finished my coffee and headed to the bathroom, fixing my hair in themirror trying to see if any particular style made me look more married. Deciding ‘out’ made me look relaxed andin love, I left the bathroom and wandered back down the hall.

“Quick!” Gregory’s voice echoed off thewalls, “they called us already. The lady is waiting!”

I sprint towards Gregory and our carry-bag of legitimate love. It was a huge binder stuffed withinformation, but part of me wondered if it was overkill and made it look likewe were trying to manufacture a relationship that wasn’t really there.

I had dressed with caution in anelegant black dress and my grandmother’s pearls hanging aroundmy neck. Pearls gave you a look oflegitimacy. I hoped. They’re always handed down fromsomeone, which I thought could indicate I was a good ‘family person’ and woulddisguise the fact that my dress came from the second hand store around thecorner.

He and I have more in common
than just a big nose.

Six minutes later, not a single question about where I keep my socks,who last cleaned the shower and what type of face cream I use, our interviewer gives us theofficial paperwork - a dodgy photocopied letter congratulating me on my changeof status, my name written in with her bright red pen.

And that, my friends, was that. No one was mean, the questions were not invasive, I wasn’t threatenedwith deportation, or subjected to a strip search. It was really all rather anti-climactic.

And then we moved to Australia.

Which meant I never got to audition for Broadway, we’dwasted three thousand US dollars at a time when the US dollar actually meant something,and then had to go through the whole process again with the Australian embassy.

And now I’m going through it for the second time, because Australiaonly gives you provisional residency until you can prove 2 years later that you’re still married to the same Aussie you got in with.

So last night while Gregory went to the pub with amate, I sat down in front of the tv to fold Mount Washmore and fill out forms.

Yes, upon typing I realise there is something wrongwith this scenario.

But all shall be remedied tonight when I embark on ababy and husband free girls’ night.

I don’t know who comes up with the questions for this residency, but Isure wouldn’t mind being the person paid to read through the answers.

Seriously, they make you answer:

· how you share andseparate your financial commitments (easy. I don't earn anything so Gregory pays for them all).

· how you split thehousework (G is a gun in the bathroom, I cover other areas and we both hate the oven).

· who does what forthe kids (I'm her primary carer and G is our financial backer. It's a perfect relationship).

· explain the socialaspects of your relationship (does takeaway thai with your brothers count?)

And my favourite one…

· describe the natureof your commitment to one another (like you're going to tell them you're just kidding and only got hitched 'cause you want to live at Bondi)

I diligently filled them all out, wondering as I went what they’ll think of the fact that theentire form, whether they be Gregory’s questions or mine, is written in my handwriting.

Would that be grounds for deportation or confirmationthat we operate like most other hetero couples I know, where the woman is incharge of the papers and the man takes out the recycling?

MY FACIAL READ MY MIND

2011-12-04T17:21:00.001-08:00

On Saturday a friend and I had a facial.

Because that’s people who don’t have any money comingin do.

It’s not as bad as a woman I met yesterday who saidthat when her restaurant went belly-up, (her partner was determined to do itwithout the benefit of a chef in the kitchen) she got herself an AmericanExpress card and took two of her children to Fiji for 8 days, staying in fancyplaces and buying them whatever they wished. She’s been diligently paying itoff since then, not realising all she’d been paying off was the interest, so thather $17 000 bill had now become $25 000.

I am not as bad as that.

The facial was at a fancy place where they offer you achoice of rosehip or lavender tea as you sit on a couch and answer a form withquestions like:

What areyour sleeping habits? (I would like tohave a habit. At the moment it is a hobby).

Rate yournutrition level from 1 to 10 (Depends on theday. I am still holding to the fact that breastfeeding takes 500 calories aday. Probably not if you’re only doing it twice a day now like I am, but letsnot wax semantics).

And

What is yourbeauty regime? (Sorbolene and soap and I don’twant to talk about it).

Then my friend and I were escorted to separate roomsby our individual therapists and I don’t know what happened to her after that.

I was told to sit in a chair, close my eyes and inhaleas my therapist rubbed his thumb up the bridge of my nose while passinga smell underneath it.

‘Your body will pick which one is right for you,’ hesaid calmly.

I chose the second and he said ‘ah’ andnodded his head, like he had expected that all along.

‘Your body chose clarity,’ he said with a meaningfulgaze and I tried to work out just why that would be.

Turns out the other two were purity and perspective.My friend’s body chose purity, and given that she’d been eyeing off my brotherand his army mates at our recent Thanksgiving when they took of their shirtsfor a swim, I’d say there could be something in that.

I return from the facial and shortly thereafter Gregoryreturns from work and announces that due to (probably what should have beenforeseen) circumstances, he would be finishing up work 3 weeks early.

I doubt I looked this good

Happy Christmas Q. Lucky you think the recycling boxis exciting.

Clarity. A little late body.

If only I’d had the massage a week earlier. I wouldhave seen it coming.

WHY I AM OVERWHELMED

2011-12-01T14:34:00.001-08:00

I am overwhelmed.

Not because I gave up coffee on Tuesday – well all butone, and that happens when I’m still in a coma at 5.30am because I’ve alreadybeen awake for half an hour.

Not because I have a 1 year old.

Or because I don’t have a job.

Or because we are rapidly outgrowing our very smallone bedroom apartment.

Nor am I overwhelmed because Christmas is coming andwe are not organised. At all.

Or because my ‘to-do’ list still has things on it fromlast year. Boring things, like deal with my green card and last year's tax so they’llprobably still be on there next year too.

I am not overwhelmed because we lost a cheque for $200.

Or because my baby is in the whinging faze and Ireally hope it ends fast.

No, none of those things overwhelm me as much as thefact that come Christmas Eve my husband will not have a job.

Which makes two of us, because I don’t have a jobeither.

My husband will not have a job because he gave notice.

He gave notice because we are going to open our ownrestaurant.

That’s right, you read correctly. We are going to open our own restaurant.

And that is why I am overwhelmed.

This is definitely me while baking.

It helps to make me less overwhelmed because he is, infact, a fully trained professional chef, which is handy if you want good food.(Not that I don’t think my veggie muffins deserve a place on the menu, butGregory seems to think they’re a bit common, if you will).

So I am overwhelmed by brokers and investors andaccountants and designers and business plans and grease traps and council requirementsand handicapped toilets and leases and late night licenses and square metresand goodwill and landlords and lawyers and architects.

All on one coffee a day.

Let the adventure begin…

HOT BEVERAGE WHORE.

2011-11-28T13:56:00.001-08:00

I do not sleep very well.

It takes me ages to winddown and then shortly after I finally manage to slip into the land of nod, mywee babe wakes ready to start her day.

But it’s not really her fault.

I can go to bed at 11pm and still be awake at 1 oreven 2am.

The problem is my mind.

I think I might be crazy.

I do my usual routine – brush teeth, put on face creamthat doesn’t work, climb into bed, read a bit of the Good Weekend, lightsout…and then goes my mind.

And it goes and goes and goes and goes.

Goes in directions such as this…

We are goingto the park tomorrow. What if I think Gregory has Q and he thinks I have Q andneither of us have Q and someone steals her?

Or reading something about that poor kid in Bali, theone being held on drug charges, right before we flew to the US and this…

What if Iget mistakenly accused of being a drug smuggler and they separate me from G andQ and they won’t even let me breastfeed her so she starves because she bottlerefuses and has never tried formula anyway.

It is really hard to fall asleep with this sort ofstuff running through your mind.

Last night a brother identified another possible cause…caffeine.He seems to think that 3 cups of coffee a day is too much.

And his flatmate (who is a nurse so I assume she knowswhat she’s talking about) tends to agree.

I am a hot beverage whore. I like having something hot to drink. I alternate between coffee and water all day long until the sun is over the yardarm and then I alternate between wine and water, before heading back to hot beverages for a final tea before bed.

And so as my chronic fatigue is reaching well, chronic proportions, I have decided to address my addiction and have limited myself to one coffee a day. I’ve had today’s –at 5.30 this morning. A delicious large skim latte. I savoured every sip.

The rest of the day will be filled with decaf tea.

Woo hoo. Party at my house.

I took some Panadolas a preemptive strike and don’t feel much different so far.

I’m no less tired, Q has no less energy and thelaundry has not managed to perform a self-clean.

Does this mean I can eat more cake?

STARBUCKS ANNOYS ME, BUT HAPPY THANKSGIVING ANYWAY.

2011-11-27T15:45:00.001-08:00

Yesterday we celebrated Thanksgiving, my very favourite of the American holidays.

We held the occasion at my youngest brother’sapartment, very nicely situated on the ground floor of a building that backsonto the harbour, with a salt water pool and evidently full of really boringtenants as not a single other person ventured out on such a magnificent day.

Lets also remember that we’ve just had a week oftorrential rain and back-in-your-winter-woollies weather, which had Q (andtherefore her mother) losing her mind.

What’s wrong with people? You couldn’t have dragged usinside even if you’d bribed us with food.

Speaking of...we celebrated Thanksgiving by showing solidarity with the 50-odd million illegalimmigrants to the US and had Mexican.

Photography by our friend Blair.

All homemade by my chef husband, and followed with anumber one cake that was made with love, if not expertise by Q’s doting mother.Moi.

Blair did not take this picture. I did.
I tried people, really I did.

I don’t have to do another number ‘one’ for another 9years.

I love Thanksgiving,it’s such a great holiday. No gifts, no pressure, just a great meal with yourfavourite people.

Although people did bring gifts, because it alsocoincided with Q’s first birthday and she got spoilt rotten. I’m going to hidea bunch of them and stagger their introduction, claiming credit for them as wego.

She also got given oodles of second-hand clothes.

In 12 months I have bought her two things – a dress towear to her uncle’s wedding and a swimming nappy.

When people first gave me clothes, I meticulouslyre-washed and folded them all. Now? Bugger it.

What kind of friend would give you dirty clothes?

If the Yanks do one thing well, it’s holidays. Theyreally throw their backs into it. We were in the states just recently in timefor Halloween and I really wished Qhad been old enough to want to dress up as a Munchkin from The Wizard of OZ,and make her father dress up as a lion and me a wicked witch, and parade fromhouse to house seeking treats in the chilly dark air, passing ghosts andsupermen and fairies and stopping at places lit with candles, jack-o-lanternsand spooky looking ghouls.

Back in 2002 when I’d moved to the states, it had beenabout the same time of year, and I remember watching in delight as peoplestrung Christmas lights out theirNew York apartments, dragged Christmastrees down snowy streets and up 3 flights of stairs and the incessant ringingof the Salvation Army Bell on every street corner, calling for donations.

I remember pumpkin spiced lattes at Starbucks, which just sound outrightdisgusting to me.

Hot pumpkin flavoured coffee mixed with milk?

Gross.

I don’t care forStarbucks as a rule, their coffee is notoriously terrible. But they’re openlate, don’t care how long you sit at their tables, and are guaranteed to have apublic toilet. Many a time I’ve ducked into one on my way from dance class towork, desperately ripping leotard and tights aside to avoid a totalcatastrophe.

So thank you Starbucksfor your latrines, but please stop calling your cups tall, grande and venti.

You are not Italian.

And neither are your customers.

The terms small, medium and large will do just nicelythank you very much.

You can almost redeem a cup of bad Starbucks coffee with another greatAmerican invention – half and half. The half cream-half milk you can buy to tryto overcome the acidic taste of burnt percolated coffee, made at 5am and stillfestering on the hot plate at 10pm that night.

Wheat thins are another gem we Aussies are missing out on. Delicious wheaty, saltygoodness. They’re a mid-priced cracker, but as all food in the US is a 9^thof the price we’re charged down under, you can actually afford to buy them.

The Duggars are another American favourite. Or theyused to be. At first I thought they were funny and weird.

Now, with their 20^th child on the way, Ithink they’re just weird.

All their children play a musical instrument.

20 kids.

That’s an orchestra people.

But there’s never a show of artistic histrionics intheir family, they’re all always so calm.

I imagine they avoid caffeine. Even seasonallyinspired pumpkin spiced lattes.

It seems they avoid Halloween too, though for religious, not glucose relatedhyperactivity purposes.

Shopping in general (while still a detested activity)is a lot more bearable in the US when you go to the outlet malls near my in-lawshouse and buy up a year’s supply of running shoes for the same amount as onepair here.

It is how my husband justifies his collection ofChucks sneakers. Every colour but maroon.

America has a lot to offer (if you can look past thejeans and white sneakers) and thanksgivingis one of the best.

So while we swapped green bean casserole for homemadeguacamole, overcrowded buses at Port Authority for strolls in the burning sun,and snowball fights for cool swims in sparkling water, it was still a fabulouscelebration.

Thank you America, for giving me thanksgiving, in an I-married-an-Americankind of way, and welcome to the holidays people, let the festivities begin.

NURSERY RHYMES, DESPOTS & VILE KYLE SANDILANDS

2011-11-24T15:38:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I looked after a friend’s son who is 5 weeksolder than Q. I’ve done it a few times of late and it has pretty much cured meof my dream for twins.

I take my hat off to anyone who owns such a phenomena.You must be really, really tired.

Anyway, like all good babysitters, I read the kids astory, several in fact, and sang them a bunch of nursery rhymes from abook he’d been given for his birthday.

Some I remembered, some I did not, but they don’tknow them anyway, so I just made up the tune.

Others I just recited in that ‘adult reading a kid'sbook to a kid’ voice, but I’m not sure I'll ever read some of them again. Remember the old woman who lived in a shoe?

There was anold woman who lived in a shoe

She had somany children she didn’t know what to do

She gavethem some broth without any bread

And whippedthem all soundly and sent them to bed.

Jeez. It's not their fault they're hungry.

How about Rock abye baby, now that one is just evil.

I now know that the Ring a ring a rosie was about the bubonic plague. When I was alittle girl we just thought it was a silly game where the last one to fall wasout.

What about the poor old maid in Sing a song of sixpence who had her nose pecked off by a blackbird.

Jack and Jill are really King Louis XVI and MarieAntoinette who were both beheaded, so I suppose saying they tumbled down a hillis nicer than saying they had their heads cut off in the town square whilepeople watched and cheered.

Some of them really bothered me, and it made me realise that if I’mgoing to sing these ditties to Q, I may as well sing them about people relevantto her time period.

The choices for modern day despots, disasters anddictators are unfortunately in no short supply.

For the men we have…

Osama Bin Laden for starters.

Saddam Hussein, another top bloke.

Some would argue George W. Bush.

Perhaps I could do a rhyme that combined all three.

Closer to home we’ve got

Alan Joyce or the Unions depending on yourperspective.

And KyleSandilands although I’m loath to give that man any more attention than hisappalling behaviour has already managed to acquire.

Representing the women we’ve got…

Most of Los Angeles for making it seem normal forwomen to be anorexic and artificially constructed.

Sarah Palin for destroying the environment with her excessive use of hairspray.

And Jackie Ofor condoning her sidekick’s language by her own inaction and silence.

We’ve got natural disasters aplenty to choose from – Hurricane Katrina and her sister Irene.

Cyclones and floods destroying Australian homes, livesand banana plantations.

Tsunamis wiping out half of Japan.

Bushfires, famines, droughts and plagues.

Ugh. Not much has changed has it?

On second thought, I think I’ll write my stories aboutnice things that have happened.

Like the power of the people – think Facebook, blogging and how Twitter-ersconvinced the advertisers to dump that foul-mouthed Sandilands.

I can see that one as an upbeat, honky-tonk tune.

Something like this…

He’s foul,foul,

the peoplegrowled in 140 characters or less,

Dump him now,make him poor,

Let him sitin his own mean mess.

I think I may be onto something people…

BAD PARENTING - WOULD YOU ADMIT TO IT?

2011-11-22T15:45:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was Q’s first birthday and she celebrated bytaking a dive off the bed and giving herself a lovely bruised cheekbone.

We’re not bad parents I promise.

Gregory is.

I wasn’t even here.

Although I should admit that this morning I had tostop her from swallowing a necklace piece I had left lying around that was apotential choking hazard.

Have you called DOCS on us yet?

The thing is, this parenting gig is fraught withpotential disaster. There are near-death experiences awaiting your every move.

Only yesterday my friend pinched her son’s skin intothe seatbelt harness when she was putting him in the car.

Not surprisingly he squealed in pain.

The day before that another friend was carrying herbaby and walked her clean into a door. Even worse, all her friends werewatching.

Then there was the time Q came out in a dreadful heatrash because I had done exactly what they tell you to do and put her in onemore layer than I was wearing and just about cooked her.

Note to self – my babe runs hot like her father.

Or when I was too scared to give her Baby Panadol for thefirst time, so she cut her first tooth pain-reliever free.

That would have really sucked.

My brother has squashed her hand against a wall whenhe was walking her in the pram. ‘I told you to keep your hands inside thevehicle at all times Q,’ he said rather unsympathetically.

Anyone that changes her has to perform a UFC move bytrapping her arms with their head, her legs with one arm and dodging a pooeynappy with the other. ‘It’s like trying to put a cat in a heshen sack,’ saysanother brother.

Then there are the amateur mistakes like baths too hotor too cold. Ditto food. Getting stuck in the rain without any protection andbeing forced to walk home while breastfeeding, the water beating down on theback of your child’s head. Anyone remember the trouble Jackie O got into forwalking while bottle-feeding? Lucky nobody knows me.

Forgetting to give Baby Panadol before your child’s firstvaccines.

Leaving your child with 2 doting uncles and a bottleof expressed milk, which she refused and decided to scream for 2 hours instead.

Or packing all parts for the bottle except the onethat joins the nipple to the vessel thereby rendering the entire thing useless and forcing your husband to try to drip milk off his finger into your starvingchild’s mouth.

Yep, we’ve pretty much covered all areas of badparenting, and due to upcoming changes in our family income, it looks like Imay have to venture out into the workforce, so it seems only sensible to dowhat I am naturally gifted to do…

Babysit.

20 bucks an hour, cash seems fair don’t you think?

30 if they’re not asleep and I actually have to dosomething.

No doubt I’ll fill up pretty fast, so be sure to bookin immediately.

CONTRACTIONS, 1OK WALKS & GROOVY NEW HUMANS

2011-11-21T14:36:00.001-08:00

365 days ago I issued an eviction notice to the humanwithin.

It had been getting increasingly tight in there, andthe month of pre-labour lead me to believe it would be happier out than in.

I left the house, hips dislocating with every step,and began my 10k walk.

Yes, yes, that particular behaviour has been calledfoolhardy, but at least I didn’t ride my bike to the hospital like one woman I heardabout.

At about the 7k mark, I decided to give the human ahelping hand and started to jog. The definition of such being that both feetmust be off the ground at the same time. It wasn’t pretty but I managed.

Still it didn’t budge.

So I went to acupuncture, lying to the lady andtelling her I was already overdue.

I hate needles, so perhaps this is an indication ofhow dearly I longed for things to change.

Sometime after that, I realised that even if this wasjust more pre-labour it was rather uncomfortable and I’d rather not go throughit alone thank you very much. So I rang my husband who was gardening at myparents, and politely requested he return home. Fast.

He and the midwife had a discussion and decided I shouldcome on in to the hospital.

But I’d listened in the baby class when they’dinsisted you stay at home for the first 8 hours at least.

‘Nooooooo,’ I moaned in between contractions comingfar quicker than I realised, ‘they told us we had to stay at home.’

Gregory overruled me, which was wise because had henot, Q would have arrived on a cool, polished floorboard, and we got to thehospital with just an hour to spare.

A more detailed account (written last year) including banana-flavouredcondoms and borscht soup can be read here.

And now, here we are 365 days in, and not much of thegloss has worn off. We still think she’s the coolest human out there.

Happy first Miss Q, you rock our world.

THE MEANING OF LIFE LA STYLE

2011-11-20T14:23:00.001-08:00

I’ve beenrunning for approximately twenty-six years. Not continually, but regularly and wherever I seem to findmyself. Along the foreshores ofSydney, on the dried crusted sands of outback Australia, through a grey, dankpark south of London, along the frozen Hudson River in New York. Wherever I’ve lived I’ve run. It’s very cathartic for me. Without it I’d likely be medicated foranxiety. At the very least I’d berather difficult to live with. It also fits my budget…it’s free. All I do is throw on a pair of oldrunners, fall out the back door and go for a trot.

That’s the easypart. It’s getting back again thatI find difficult, for I perpetuate the feminine stereotype of having utterlyappalling navigational skills. Absolutely no sense of direction and a complete inability to readmaps. It shames my brothers, butif forced to use a map, I flip it to match any turns I make and thereforeembraced that navigational masterpiece, the GPS, with more joy than I did myhusband on our wedding night. Thepoints on a compass mean nothing to me and unless I waited until the sun set, Iwould never know where west is. I’m a navigational black hole. Any relevant information enters mybrain and if it comes out at all it’s warped. Left seems right, up is down, and as for roundabouts,circling them until you’re dizzy is better than getting on a freeway you can’tescape and traveling for miles suspecting, correctly, that you’re going in thewrong direction.

I think myfather thought he could fix the problem by enrolling the four of us in anorienteering course when we were young. We were put in pairs, given a compass and a map, and a series of targetsto find somewhere in the bush. Thefirst team back won. I was alwaysput with a family friend who (if he’d been so inclined) could likely haverepresented Australia in the middle distance running events. Off he would dash, disappearing amongstthe gum trees and buggar following the map, my sole objective was to keep upwith him and not spend the day lost in the wilderness.

New York spoiledme; its convenient grid meant that even when I was lost, I was still only oneblock in the wrong direction. I’dforgotten how much that hid my disability when I was briefly back in Australiaand working in Darwin, Northern Territory. On my first night there, I stayed with my new boss and herhusband and headed out for a jog. Two and a half hours later, heels bleeding, mouth as dry as a popcornfart, they found me pounding the pavement clear on the other side of town.

In those days Iwas a fashion workout puritan; old t-shirts with no labels, my midriff securelycovered, shorts from my soccer days and definitely no music device. I’ve graduated now - audibly anyway -and strap an ipod to my arm. Anexcellent device that detracts those pesky talky-trotters from striking up aconversation with me when I cross their path. It is an instrument I wish I’d had as a little girl when myfather would drag me from bed for an early morning run. In my entire running career I’ve nevermet a runner like Phil. He doesn’tseem to find breathing a necessity thereby allowing him to run and talk at thesame time. “So Nome,” he’ll say,half way up a hill, “what do you think is the meaning of life?”

These days Isprint along the edge of the Pacific, the Santa Monica Pier in the distance,dodging seagulls, my feet pounding in time to the rhythm of the Venice drumcircle, the theme from Chariots of Fire runningthrough my head. Usually I amaccompanied by a pod of dolphins playing in the waves where the lifeguards areperforming one of their many surf rescues. I’m not sure why there are so many, though it may havesomething to do with the large number of people swimming fully clothed, whichcan’t help too much with their buoyancy.

Sometimes I skipthe beach, bike ride to a steep set of stairs and run up and down them until mylegs shake so badly I can barely ride home again. It may seem like an odd thing to do, but I am never alone. The stairs are always crowded with hundredsof sweating, panting, puffing Santa Monicans all working for the perfectbody.

Up and down thesteps I pound, head down and eyes on the stairs, which is great for avoiding anembarrassing trip, but gives me no time to prepare for coming face to face – orface to bum as the case may be – with the person in front.

Usually it’s awoman in Lycra pants and matching sports bra because here, a display of midriffis compulsory, regardless of its state. The owner of said midriff may have just given birth to octuplets orplaced first in a hamburger eating competition, but still their jigglingabdomens are revealed, shuddering like bacon on a factory convey belt.

And if it’s notthe jigglers I run into, it’s the man with the weights, always dressed in a blackfleece tracksuit and covered in a weight jacket. The pungent odour of man-sweat trapped between metal and asynthetic fibre wafts behind him like a skunk under threat. Though I do occasionally wonder if I’mnot much better. My typicalmorning involves getting dressed into the pajamas I didn’t wear to bed, (I findthem restrictive for sleeping, but perfect for writing) writing for a fewhours, then getting out in the sunshine for a bit of exercise. Rationalising that there’s no pointshowering before a workout, or putting deodorant on either since I’ll onlysweat it off so I may as well save the money, I head for the stairs as naturalas nature intended. The saying‘ladies don’t sweat, they perspire’ does not apply to me and it has occurred tome that my natural pheromones may, in fact, be offensive to others.

Now, while thestairs are being pounded by those with the extra pounds, they’re more likely tobe lightly tapped by rawboned women, their glossy manes bouncing around theirdoctor-designed faces, their chopstick legs desperately balancing the weight oftheir surgically enhanced chests so they don’t topple forwards and land at thebottom of the stairs in a tiny bundle of plastic, collagen and spandex.

LA is the kindof town where if you didn’t have an eating disorder when you got here, you’llquickly acquire one. They’reobligatory. Like a valley accent,or air pollution, or a passive-aggressive attitude. Here, pre-schoolers do yoga and ladies carry their complexesin their designer handbag. Recently I overheard a woman ask her friend how she stayed sothin. “I haven’t eaten anythingthat tastes good in years,” the friend replied.

I’ve only beenhere eight months and already I’ve developed the disturbing habit of reachingunder my shirt and feeling my belly pooch every time I take a sip of tea withsugar in it or - heaven forbid - eat the bread my sandwich comes with. Sometimes when I’m running the stairs Igrab at it, as if I might be able to feel the fat dissolve with every step Iclimb.

So here we are,the fatties, the clones and me, all vying for space on the wooden stairs. And just like I can sniff the weightman, I can also sniff the clones’ disdain when they glance at my outfit, mybaseball cap hiding my unbrushed hair, the sun cream running milkily down myarms.

“What’s thetime?” Clone One asks Clone Two, pointedly ignoring the watch on my wrist. After taking her earphone out of oneear and telling the person on her iPhone to “hang on a minute,” Clone Two looksat Clone One and says; “twelve thirty.” (No self respecting Hollywood-wannabe exercises before noon. Probably because their waitressingshift didn’t finish until three and they also need the morning to blow drytheir freshly washed hair). Butit’s not really the time Clone One cares about. What she’s really saying is; “how did you convince yoursurgeon to do your breasts so big? I tried, but mine refused. I knew I should have spent the extra money for the surgeon on thatreality show, all my friends did and he did exactly as they asked.”

One of mygreatest runs was back in New York on the night of ‘blackout 2003’ (as thecommemorative t-shirts said). Atfirst New Yorkers panicked (it seemed a little too much like that fatefulSeptember date) but after it was ascertained – and blamed on Canada – that itwas just a huge power failure, it was a very pleasant evening indeed. Spontaneous street parties erupted,stores gave away melting ice creams and candles were shared as people gatheredtogether on the brownstone steps. At dusk, not a single light but the fireflies in the trees and the sunsetting over the west side apartments, I strode around the Jackie OnassisResevoir and thought of Phil.

What was the meaning of life? Was it this? A mad-paced city forced to stop and smell the dog peeevaporating from its sidewalks? Torecognise that for all their differences, the inhabitants could still be unitedby a single blown fuse. Or did theclones have it right? Was themeaning of life competitive uniformity? Should we abandon individuality and strive instead for homogenousperfection?

I decided to askClone Number Two…if only I could work out which one she was.

PLASTIC SURGERY VICTIMS AND HOMELESS MEN DANCING WITH ANTLERS. WHERE AM I?

2011-11-20T14:21:00.001-08:00

I lived in the US for 8 years, six and a half of themin my little NYC, and eighteen months in LA, which I never had any interest inmoving to, but did so because my husband got a great job offer there and sinceour next move was to my land on the other side of the world, I figured I owedhim at least that.

LA is a funny town. Owing to Gregory’s insane workhours (chefs do not understand work-life balance - an executive chef isn’taware the concept even exists, and kitchens operate rather similarly to themilitary – ‘yes sir, no sir,’ and there is no time for discussion because yourlavender infused béchamel sauce is about to boil over) we lived near where heworked, which meant we shacked up in a tiny seaside cottage in the touristhotspot, Santa Monica.

It wasn’t a bad life. I took a break from performingso I could write (and be near my new husband) swam in the beach every morning,rode my bike to work in a nearby fancy restaurant, and earned a quid doing whatI do unfortunately well – seating the people.

Gregory and I would meet at the end of the evening andwine and dine the night away with our other hospitality friends.

It wasn’t a bad life because it is very easy to lovethat sort of life - you know someone at every joint you enter, there is a lotof fresh seafood and a stupid amount of gin.

It is fair to say I started to resemble a juniper berry.

I drank so much of the stuff over those 18 months thatI haven’t touched it since.

I would argue this excessive intake was necessarybecause while the friends we made in LA were fabulous and are some of ourdearest, the pervading culture of that town is more toxic than the plasticfilling the chests of most women.

Almost everyone who lives there is waiting to becomesomeone. And if they’re not, it’s because they already think are someone, whichcomes with it a sense of entitlement so outrageous and misplaced, I was forcedto fight fire with fire and between the hours of 6 and 11 in the evening Ibecame a hostessing vigilante, informing people with just a look and a wellraised eyebrow that they are, in fact, one of the most wretched people in theworld, that it is just dinner they’re waiting for and that conventional mannerssuggest that if someone is in front of you, they will be addressed first.

Still, I missed it when we left. The excellentweather, (I am sorry to say that it is superior even to Sydney’s) the Santa Monica farmers markets, wellattended by locals, celebrities and the ever-following paparazzi, and theodd-bods who make the sands of Venice beach their home.

Apparentlyif you are released from re-hab and have nowhere to go, you are issued aone-way bus ticket to Santa Monica and Venice.

It’s very kind of them really. If I was going to behomeless I’d much rather do so under a palm tree than above a subway grate inNYC. Particularly in winter.

These delightful characters can be found sitting in acircle beating drums as the sun sets, chilling quietly on a grassy knoll, or(as I witnessed this time round) performing a bizarre sand-dance witharabesques and pirouettes, dressed in ragged shorts and bike helmets withantlers sticking out.

You don’t get that sort of entertainment at Bondi.

I ran a lot in LA. So I saw a lot while I was there.

And it inspired this piece about plastic surgery, Hollywood wannabes and the meaning of life.

I hope you enjoy it.

33 TODAY. WHAT A DECADE IT'S BEEN INDEED!

2011-11-17T16:14:00.001-08:00

This time a decade ago I was sitting in a café on theupper west side of NYC, supping on coffee and cake with my new Americanfriends, the adrenalin and excitement at having moved to the Big Apple keepingme warm in a city that was to become my home for the next 7 years andcelebrating my 23^rd birthday.

A decade ago.

Comparatively, this morning began at 3am with mynearly one-year-old daughter practicing her break-dance moves, which saw meleave the marital bed for the second time that week and move to the couch whereI watched the dawn creep slowly in.

Where once I was taking 8 dance classes a week, buying‘standing room only’ tickets to Broadway shows, drinking cheap wine at latenight bars on the lower east side and living on Ketchup soup, I now get incidentalexercise walking my daughter to the park, see a play at the STC and stress thewhole time about my bottle-boycotting daughter, get drunk on a sniff ofchampagne and am never without food in my mouth.

Time can be a fickle fiend. But she can also beconsiderate and accommodating.

Life is long my friends.

And life is good.

Very good.

Here’s to another fabulous decade.

STEVE JOBS & I - WHAT WE HAVE IN COMMON.

2011-11-16T15:09:00.001-08:00

The other night when it was so hot I was sweating likea homo eating a hotdog, I decided to bake.

Figuring that our non-air-conditioned apartment (withthe only fan given to our child in the vain hope that it would help her sleep)couldn’t get any hotter, it seemed like the ideal occasion to make delicious,nutritious made-with-love treats for my girl.

I had mother’s guilt (again) after our trip to the US.Dragging an 11 month-old about hotels and airports for three weeks means shewas on a steady diet of boob and those weird squeezy vegetable things.

Who eats pureed pear, broccoli and organic rutabaga anyway?

So I began with cookies.

Batches and batches of apricot wheatgerm cookies.

Or more accurately apricot non-wheat germ cookiesbecause I didn’t have any wheat germ so I used wheat flakes, desiccated coconut and oats instead.

This ambivalence towards a recipe really bothersGregory.

‘Baking is a science,’ he tells me, once againconfirming that my girlhood aspirations to be a doctor were way off base.

‘Oh yeah,take a pill or two and have a lie down. No, no, one glass of wine shouldn’t bea problem.’

Then I moved onto muffins. Vegetable muffins Ithought, since she didn’t seem to mind a weird combination of pureed vegetableswhile we were away.

So I got out the bag of emergency frozen veg, pureedthem, wacked ‘em in a bowl with some flour and an egg, grated some cheese andin a moment of inspiration threw in some sultanas.

There’s a cooking show in the US called Chopped wherethe contestants have to make a meal out of whatever goodies they’re given in abasket. I reckon I’d be awesome at it.

Wasabi, cous cous and caramel? No probs.

However, It would seem that mixing wet and dry ingredients (or leavenersand raisers as Gregory calls them) requires some sort of accuracy.

Lacking that entirely meant my muffins took a verylong time to cook, in fact never really did to be honest.

And so at the point where the apartment had reachedthe temperature of the inside of a volcano, I finally took them out of the oven, assured by now the egg was at least rid of whatever it is you're meant to be wary of in raw egg, and spooned them onto a plate tocool.

That’s correct, they didn’t come out of the muffin tinwith a gentle tap and I don’t own a wire rack to do things properly.

Then for my final trick I made choc-chip cookies topacify my sweating husband. Choc-chip cookies with wholemeal flour.

Such a healthy move immediately counteracted by 6 ofthem being joined in pairs by large scoops of ice cream and inhaled in a matterof seconds.

A desperate attempt to lower his core temperature heclaimed.

I shut down the oven, poured myself a litre of waterand sat down on the couch…just as the southerly blew through.

Mother Nature, you can be a real wench sometimes.

The next day dawned and Q began her day with a few ofmy weird non-muffin muffins.

Three of them downed in a matter of seconds.

Success people, utter success.

I am the SteveJobs of children’s cooking. I laugh in the face of convention.

May my disregard inspire you to go forth and inventwith nary a care for protocol.

Steve never asked us if we wanted the iPad. He justknew we would.

Same as Q.

I just knew she’d want those muffins.

Knew it.

HOMESCHOOLING, BAD PARENTING & WHY AIRPLANES ARE THE PERFECT LOCATION FOR SQUEEZING ZITS!

2011-11-14T15:08:00.001-08:00

I don’t mind flying. It’s like shopping – a necessaryevil. The best part of both beingthe overhead fluorescent lights found in airplane toilets and dressing roomcubicles - perfect lighting for blackhead squeezing.

I have passed many a shopping hour digging out thosehard-to-see-under-ordinary-household-lighting-chin-heads. I may not have a dress to wear to thewedding I was meant to be shopping for, but at least I know I’ll be going withclear skin.

It’s a fabulous by-product of an otherwise expensive andrather boring activity, though you do cop a few stares from irritatedpassengers when you finally come out of the airplane toilet.

Obviously, due to your time behind the locked door, theythink you’ve been getting rid of some seriously hazardous material and theyknow they’ve got no choice but to head on in there and suffer the scent.

But I don’t think anyone actually poos on an airplane onaccount of the bread rolls they serve. It is like eating a block of mildly flavoured sandstone, guaranteed towedge in your colon and halt the passing of any solid waste.

I think it’s a deliberate ploy on the part of theairlines.

I don’t care which celebrity chef does your airline’s food,every meal contains the sandstone roll to prevent in-flight toilet blockages,overly long queues and potential diarrhea.

I have contemplated telling my fellow passengers what I’vereally been up to in there, but somehow I’m not sure they would consider mymini-facial worth the fifteen minutes I made them wait.

Thistime round however, I arrived in LA with the same clogged skin I had attake-off on account of my child only sleeping 3 out of 14 hours, and spendingthe other 11 hooning up and down the aisles, finding the long legs of onlygood-looking, single men to help her stand up when she wanted to.

Shetook a particular liking to a gent in 47A.

Seriously,it looked like a stitch-up. Like I’d deliberately sent her his way.

Luckilyshe didn’t stay put long enough for me to have to engage in embarrassing smalltalk. Although I must say, my girl has excellent taste.

What’sthat phrase? An old bird like me can look at the menu, I just can’t order.

Andso we landed in LA, my skin none the better for it, and the first leg of ourjourney to the Big Apple over.

Ithad been our thinking to give Q a chance to stretch her legs by breaking thetrip in LA, but since she stretched them the whole way there, she was thenready for a little shut eye, and literally fell face forward into my lap on thecab ride to the hotel, where we were shortly meeting friends, thereby making itimpossible for me to nap and leading to a 36 hour stretch of wakedness whichseriously blew.

Wakednessis not a word as far as I can tell. Which should indicate to you just how tiredI really was. Am.

Thereis a reason the Army uses sleep deprivation as a means of torture andpunishment.

Twodays later we boarded an AmericanAirlines flight bound for my favourite town, NYC.

Typically,I am not a fan of AA, but I was a fan this time because I had used my pointsthrough Qantas to gain free flightsand free makes me a fan of anything.

Butit wasn’t just that. Someone in the marketing team, or perhaps is was customerrelations, maybe HR, I don’t know, but someone had alerted the flightattendants to the notion that it is in fact their job to serve people, that apleasant attitude is pretty much mandatory and that ironing your uniform hasthe dual purpose of making it look like you care a bit even if you don’t, andreassuring a nervous flyer that there is some sort of attention to detailwithin a company responsible for flying you through the air from one locationto another.

Welldone American Airlines. I will stopbesmirching your name.

Inan effort to tire Q out, we let her crawl madly about LAX (the most boringairport in the universe, which meant Q was interesting to all and forced meinto more banal conversations about my daughter, parenting and whether or notwe’ll try to manipulate the sex of our second child) until boarding time.

Theflight wasn’t full, but bulkhead seats are the popular ones, so we had anotherfamily across the aisle with a daughter who looked to be about four, and awoman next to us who we immediately apologised to on Q’s behalf.

‘Ohdon’t worry,’ she says, ‘I’ve flown with my sister’s two children, Iunderstand. Do you breastfeed? My sister did. Does. Her children are four. She’sstill breastfeeding. Oh no, I think it’s weird too, don’t worry. She’s intoattachment parenting do you know what that is?’

Gregorywas still looking horrified at the four comment, so I shook my head on ourbehalf.

‘It’swhen you never say no to your children, you just give them other suggestionsinstead.’

‘Excuse me please Quinn, before you gocrawling off that veranda there, might I suggest you read a book instead.’

Yeahright.

Afterwe’d overcome our shock, we got ourselves comfortable and it occurred to me asI watched the woman with the daughter wipe down every surface with a sterilewipe, that Q was currently munching on snacks from hands I’d forgotten to wipeclean after crawling on the airport floor.

Thefact that I forgot to wipe her hands makes me a bad parent.

Thefact that she was eating organic kale puffs with dirty hands makes me a goodparent.

Theycancel each other out.

‘Youhave a little baby girl,’ says the woman’s daughter, immediately identifyingherself as a genius for not thinking Q was a boy.

Andso we begin to chat, I ask her about the toys she brought along, the biblecolouring-in book she’s working on and her favourite thing to do at school.

‘Circletime,’ she says to me proudly.

‘What’sthat?’ I ask, adding that I thought it was probably something likepass-the-parcel and that that sounded like fun to me.

‘Ohno,’ says the mother, ‘it’s word and picture recognition time. She loves it.She’s homeschooled.’

Andthen she gave me an ‘I feel sorry for you because it is clear you’re not goingto offer your daughter the same opportunities smile’ and stopped talking to me.

Yeah?

WellI made Q a book of the alphabet and numbers.

If that’s not word and picturerecognition I don’t know what is.

Clearly this is a zig-zag & zucchini for the letter Z,
I know, I should be an artist.

QANTAS TRAVEL LEGEND. PS, SHE'S A GIRL.

2011-11-10T14:59:00.001-08:00

We’re back.

And we survived.

And so did Qantas.

And so did all thepassengers around us because Q was a TOTAL TRAVEL LEGEND.

Seriously. I had very lowexpectations for this trip.

For the eternal optimist,even I was perilously close to being pessimistic.

I had visions of Q yellingthe entire time she had to sit in my lap with the seatbelt on because shedoesn’t like to sit still ever and most definitely doesn’t like to sit stillwhen someone else tells her to.

She’s a punk.

I know I’ll admire thatindividuality and spirit when she’s 30, but not when stuck in a floating tincan with no escape from the few hundred strangers who look at you withundisguised anguish the second you enter your seat.

Instead, she sat quietlyand read the distraction book I made her, then the second the seatbelt lightwent off, she was down, bear crawling up and down the aisles, hooning about thegalley and introducing herself to the rest of the plane.

The only drawback beingthat her mother had to engage in banal conversations with complete strangers:

‘No, she’s a girl. I thought the pink striped pants might give it away.’

‘Yes, she is an activething.’

‘You’re right, it is aunique crawling style, but I’m sure she’ll manage to walk when she’s ready.Thank you for showing your concern though, despite a complete lack of knowledge on the subject.'

for eleven out of fourteenhours.

That’s right, she onlyslept for 3.

But she didn’t yell, sowhile I was so tired it physically hurt to keep my eyelids open, inside I wascheering because my child had exceeded expectations I hadn’t even dared toimagine.

Travelling with a small,mobile human is not an activity I’d recommend for your health or sanity, butmiraculously I managed to keep the slim grip on both that I already had.

New York adventures tofollow, right now my insatiable appetite needs to be addressed. Again.

Q tendsto go for the familiar when we travel and that would be the two boobs she’s hada love affair with since the second she turned up.

I AM STARVING. I have togo. There is not enough food in the house.

Qs' crawl. Knees don't touch the ground. Life in the fast lane, just the way she likes it.

NEW YORK SNOWSTORM, SHUTTERS ON THE BEACH AND TEETHING. (Travel with a baby ain't for the faint of heart).

2011-10-30T18:26:00.000-07:00

We flew into California and were greeted by this...

Then flew into New York and got involved in this...

Add jet lag, a few time differences, no sleeping on the plane, (and for the few days after) molars coming in, 9 cousins, 5 uncles, 4 aunts, 2 grandparents - all in the one house, several snotty noses and one freak snowstorm and Little Miss Q is rolling with it like a champ.

Roll on week two...

ANNOYING FOODS, SHAKESPEARE AND BECOMING THE ONION.

2011-10-19T16:53:00.000-07:00

Whenever Gregory cutsonions he stops himself from crying by becoming the onion. I don’t know exactlywhat it is that he does, but somehow he becomes one with the onion.

He is the onion.

I am definitely not onewith the onion. I am not even two with the onion.

In fact, I am very far fromfinding any affinity with the onion and cutting one is painful in the extreme.

I have sensitive, allergiceyes at the best of times, and the common domestic task being performed dailythroughout suburbia almost does me in.

And so, (on the groundsthat Gregory is a trained professional chef and I am not) I am herebyabdicating all onion-cutting responsibility to him.

Onions are not the onlyfood to annoy me.

Glace cherries are right upthere too. What is a glace cherry? Is there any actual cherry in them? And ifthere is, what was the inventor thinking? Cherries are expensive. What braniaccame up with a way to ruin an expensive, short-seasoned delight?

Glace cherries are apotent, chewy, unnatural Christmas pudding destroyer and it is perfectlyacceptable to pick them out of said pudding and add them to landfill.Unfortunately, I doubt they will ever decompose.

Actually while we’re on thetopic, I love most dried fruit, but take serious issue with the drying andsugar coating of tropical fruits. Pineapple, papaya and the like.

There’s no better way toruin a morning than to take a mouthful of your morning cereal, only to have itsabotaged by a piece of nasty, teeth-sticking dehydrated paw-paw.

Even Q doesn’t likeit. (I tried to fob it off onto her, by mixing it in with her puffed rice, butshe spotted that sucker faster than a Sydney red-light camera).

Artichokes are tasty, butfar too labour intensive for my liking. Seriously, who (apart from a home cookwho fancies themselves on a season of MasterChef)actually prepares artichokes?

Chokos. Does anybody stilleat them? Tolerable when drowned in cheese sauce. But then, everything istolerable when smothered in cheese sauce.

Risotto. Love to eat it,but the continuous stirring annoys me. I get bored.

Ice Magic. You know thatchocolate sauce that sets hard on ice cream. It was big in the 80’s. It’s runnytopping all the way people. No debate.

Jelly. Read my rant in the Herald for further edification. It is total rubbish. The inventor should beashamed.

Vegetables that requirepeeling. I can’t peel. I blame being left-handed and my parents neversupporting my uniqueness by providing me with a left-handed peeler. Peeling apotato is such an exercise in frustration that I eat frozen beans instead.

Jubes. Contentious I know,but I’m a Jelly Bean girl. Jubes are like thick jelly.

Gross man, gross.

Mint in desserts. Andchocolate and mint together in particular. Unfortunately this is a favouritecombination for Gregory. Our house is generally hiding several packets of MintSlice, so come 2pm in the afternoon, (sugar-hit o’clock) I can easily pretendthey’re Kingstons instead.

Instant coffee.Particularly when it’s milky and lukewarm. It reminds me of Church as a kid.Each week we’d be dragged along by our parents, attend the Sunday school whereno one spoke to you unless your parents were one of the teachers (which oursweren’t) and the only redeeming feature of the whole experience was the seriouslydiluted cordial, the crap coffee and the one Nice biscuit we were allowed.

This post is inspired bythe instant coffee I’m drinking because the delicious real one I purchased fromthe café made it all the way home and up the stairs (along with several otherpackages, a water bottle and one wriggling baby) then suicided out of my handand all over the floor.

Ask Shakespeare, this isthe definition of tragedy.

OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE GRAPE EATING

2011-10-18T21:02:00.000-07:00

When I eat grapes, I haveto grab a handful in an even number.

When I eat m and m’s (whichis a fairly regular event) I have to eat them in lots of four and all thecolours have to be different. So if I grab a handful that doesn’t result in thelast four fulfilling such requirements, I have to grab another handful. And onit goes until there are none left.

When I’m sitting still Iplay combinations on my fingers and toes that have to be repeated and reversedand I cannot stop until the cycle is complete.

When I grocery shop, Icannot buy the first item on the shelf because in my head that is the one thateveryone touches. I have to get the second, or preferably third one.

When I walk with someone, Ihave to be on his or her left-hand side. This is not because I’m partially deafin my left ear, but because it feels wrong walking on people’s right.

Also, I can’t walk in astraight line. I list to the left. So it’s better for everyone if I start therein the first place.

I have a special way oftying the shoelaces on my running shoes. There has to be just the right tensionaround the ankle otherwise I have to undo them and start again.

Phew. Do I feel better nowthat’s out in the open.

The very open, given thatI’ve just published it on a blog that can be accessed by anyone anywhere inthe entire world.

Doesn’t matter.

Acknowledging is the firststep to accepting.

It appears that for methings have to be even and fair. What happens one way must also happen inreverse.

(Except for theshoelace thing. That’s just a peculiarity).

Psychologists would have afield day with that assumption wouldn’t they?

This post was inspired bythe grapes I was eating just before I sat down to write.

The eight grapes I waseating to be exact.

And as I counted twice tomake sure the number of grapes was, in fact, an even number, it made me wonderjust how many obsessive-compulsive habits I actually have.

Quite a few as it turnsout.

But come on people, ‘fessup. I know I’m not alone.

I’m off to eat peanutbutter and honey on an even two vita wheats.

I’ll check back in later tosee if any of you have let me in on the weird things that make you, you.

Embrace 'em people, they're what makes us unique!