A woman in sensible shoes

I'm contemplating the end of the high heel. Actually, contemplating is not the right word, I'm working towards accepting the end of the high heel.
I know (hope?) my shattered ankle will mend, and that I will eventually put weight on it and walk again, and maybe even walk without a limp, but forcing that delicately reconstructed and metal-pinned joint into an unnatural position for the sake of vanity? I think that's asking too much.
My surgeon hasn't said as much, but he probably thinks any right-minded person would realise it! I'll ask him on Tuesday, just to be certain, and then I'll plan the rest of my life.
I love ridiculous heels. I always have, but they've got increasingly ridiculous in recent years. I'm not talking about great towering platform stilhettos that the youngsters teeter around in, I'm too old for that, but I still like a heel to be noticed. And to visibly change the way I walk/strut/sway.
I love a power heel. My kick-arse black pointy-toe patents have stood me in good stead in many an  office stoush. They send a clear single. Don't mess with me today, or this toe will be up your arse quicker than you can say, my, what lovely shoes you are wearing.
I've got a pair of red peeptoes (wooden heel) that have a similar effect on me, if not on other unsuspecting colleagues.
I loved my mustard slingbacks more than life itself, but they've now gone to god. And my faves of the moment are my black dance pumps with red flower on top. But there are so many lovely silly sandals (especially the red and pink pair I picked up for $10 in Melbourne once, and the browny-gold beaded ones that never really did fit - but comfort is rarely a consideration).
There are boots too. High kicking catwoman ones, and more sensible chunky heels that still pack a solid punch. Black ones, red ones, brown ones. Not high-high, but still high.
But, those days are over. Having lived in one ugg boot for five weeks (yes, I do plan to throw it out in spring) I've started to think about reinventing my footwear. But shoes say so much.
Although they look lovely on ballerinas and skinny girls in skinny jeans, ballet flats are not for me. I  could never take myself seriously in them. The loafer is just too ... Merewether. The sandal, well yes, there might be some summer options available from the likes of Sandler. The court shoe? Without a heel it looks matronly. There's the sensible shoe Rivers option, and although I have a friend who teams them very well with quirky skirts, it's not for me. I couldn't even really do the clacky mule (having a Kath and Kim moment) as I think it's not just the height of the heel, but the stability, that will matter.
The Mary-Jane is a good look, if it's patent enough and delicate enough, and probably a solid heel (wedge?) of 2cm would be okay. But I'd have to be careful of where the strap went (I may end up with no visible ankle at all!)
Mmm. I'll start browsing catalogues (seeing I can't go shopping in person - the pain, the pain!). Any suggestions anyone?

These are a few of my favourite things

Since mother's day I've been wrapped in a purple wool wrap, a gift from my kids, and it's become one of my favourite things. It's cardie, coat and dressing gown rolled into one. It's knee rug, head scarf, or just, in fact, scarf. Its purple is tending towards plum rather than an aubergine and it's soft enough to wrap a baby. It smelt like Tree of Life for a bit, but now it smells like eau de Rocky (my dog), so I really must wash it soon, but I just can't do without it for the few hours it would take to dry ( I sleep with it too, you see).
It is my favourite thing of the moment. But I do have others. My black shoes with red flowers on top - never fail to make me feel good and draw a comment from others. My red dress. A skirt and top I bought at markets in Sydney (black and white with red flowers), my red handbag (in fact any red handbag) my garnet drop earrings (the ones that were so symbolically lost and found), a painting on my wall I picked up in Greece, an open doorway in a flaking painted stone wall; blues and browns, age and beauty, promise and surprise. I love a silver ring that I bought at a party at my friend Jenny's house, and the pendant she gave me as a gift. I love the Country Road salad bowl, white with blue rim, a friend Cath gave me for a wedding present. I love my cracked Mexican champagne flutes I bought when I left home, along with my caramel stone dinner set (only a few pieces left now).
I love the painting over my bed, a nude, Rubanesque, that I gave to my husband for his 40th birthday but will never part with. I love a painting in the kitchen of terrace houses in early Sydney, rich autumn tones and reds.
I love my grandmother clock, made for us by my dad as a wedding gift, and the two little timepiece paintings that hang nearby, bought from Ann Von Bertouch's collectors choice.
I love a book called Small Houses, with a Japanese home I plan to build one day.
I love tea and chocolate and crispy roast potatoes with rosemary. I love the smell and taste of mandarins. I love the movie Throw Mamma From the Train, with Danny De Vito and Billy Christal.
I love Pina Coladas, but not getting caught in the rain.
And of course I love the Sound of Music and all of its raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

When the black dog creeps

Today in the Newcastle Herald my colleague and friend Jeff Corbett writes about his first sight of the black dog. http://www.theherald.com.au/blogs/jeff-corbett/a-sobering-experience/2602429.aspx
Says Corbett: "While I am depressed occasionally, I don’t suffer from depression. I might have a mild despondency about my particular circumstances for a day or so but it is always a temporary dip." He writes of two friends who suffer from depression, and one of them is me. "I asked one of those friends how she felt when she was in the grip of depression ... and she talked of non-stop tears, desperation, hopelessness and self-loathing, as she put it, all the fun stuff!" Now's he's had a glimpse of that dark place.
But, fortunately, I am not in that dark place, and have not been for some years. Now, I can spot the warning signs and act in time. For me, the first warning is the sense of being overwhelmed (with daily deadlines, that's a worry) of not being able to remember the detail I need to: what date is that story running, when is the orthodontist's appointment, what time is hockey, what will we have for dinner. These are things that go around in every busy mother's brain, but when the dog comes a creeping, there's acceleration and anxiety. There's just not enough space. Eventually, if unacted upon, the brain can't cope with all the data it has to process and shuts down.
Now, when I first feel that acceleration, that anxiety, I am kinder to myself. I put into practice all the skills in my arsenal, gleaned from books, friends, family, counsellors and from within, to head it off.
I'm kind to myself. I forgive myself my failings. I cut myself some slack. I delegate. I say no. I rest. I eat well. I definitely don't drink alcohol. I sleep. I meditate. I remember to breathe. I treat myself. And my newest and most important skill: I practice gratitude, and random acts of kindness. I smile at strangers. I praise the kindness of others. I phone a friend. I visit people I neglect. I demonstrably love my children, and hold them close. I write down what I am grateful for (mostly my sister Chrissy who taught me this skill, but often just the sunshine). And, as I said to Corbett yesterday, the love comes right back at you. The sunshine warms your face, and the friends and family and strangers warm your soul. The children snuggle close and all is good with the world.

No, I won't shop online

It's a big call, I know, but I'm holding out until I've run out of options before I will willingly shop online. It's part politics, part pragmatism, not a bit bloody-mindedness.
You see, I like shops, and I like shopping, even for groceries, and I haven't been able to have a bar of it for just over a month now, laid up as I am with my dodgy ankle.
Oh, I've had a quick wheel around the supermarket for emergency supplies with an impatient ex, but not the kind of shopping I like, which is slow and steady, fulfilling and fruitful.
It would make a great deal of sense to start online shopping, especially as I'm having to rely on others for my groceries, but try as I will (and I have twice) I just find the online shopping business soul destroying.
I want to smell the fruit, feel the meat, dig out the specials. (Just like I want to try on the shoes, flick through the books, feel the fabric.) All that bloody clicking from lists is tedious, overwhelming and sad. And what's to become of the checkout chicks? Is the self-serve checkout not demeaning enough?
So I'll have to keep prevailing on the kindness of family and friends until I am brave enough to get behind the wheel of the car (borrowed automatic, no manual for me for some time) or brave enough to instruct while my brand new L-plater drives. (She's only been out with her father so far, and mostly to industrial estates, but they're going okay.) And then I just need to work out how to push a trolley while in a wheelchair or on crutches (I have newfound respect for the disabled), but I suppose if I have the learner driver with me she or her brother can push the trolley, a task they fought over as littlies. So bugger you Coles and Woolies online. We'll eat from the pantry until the cupboard's bare.
In the meantime, can anyone who visits me just please bring milk?

How I met my ex's new squeeze

I met the ex's new partner last night, and I quite liked her.
You can see how far I have come in recent days.1) I'm able to say ex, not husband any more, even though technically he is my husband and not my ex. 2) I was able to agree to meet the new woman in his life, suggest it actually, and behave gracefully. (Well I was in a wheelchair in a small art gallery, so I'm not sure gracefully is accurate, but I didn't disgrace myself.)
There was considerable anticipation; what outfit to wear, what shoes to wear (shoe, singular, and I don't have any stylish flats, let me tell you) whether to try the crutches or stick with the wheelchair ( I certainly made an entrance), whether to have one endone or three.
But I had my support crew (thanks Jenny and Chrissy) and enjoyed the schmoozing.
The evening started badly when my drivers couldn't fold up the wheelchair to put in the car (one phone call to ex - see I can say ex - solved that) and when we collected a cyclist in front of the gallery. Or rather he collected us, riding on the footpath as he was, when he tried to avoid another pedestrian and ended up in my wheelchair. Forntunately, I was still hopping from the car. And no one was harmed. More distressing was the fact that he had a toddler on the back of the bike (not in an approved device) and he appeared pissed, but off they went into the night, and into the gallery we went. (Should I have done more about that little boy? Probably.)
And so I met the ex and his new squeeze and we talked about things we already knew about, our husbands (hers is a right prick, and she did remind me how lucky I am, and that luck extends to you now, I thought later but not unkindly), our children, our dogs, my dodgy ankle.
But she was kind, and put me at ease. I tried to do the same.
And so, on we go with the next chapter of our lives.
I came home to my children and dog. And he went home to hers.

What ifs? I've had a few

Just watched The Family Man, an intriguing film with Nicholas Cage and Tea Leoni about the prospect of being able to glimpse one's life if a difference path is followed.
Jack and Kate are madly in love, but he chooses a career on Wall Street over a life with her.
Fastforward 13 years, and an incident in a corner store introduces a god-like character, who allows Jack a "glimpse" of what his life would have been like if he'd chosen Kate.
So suddenly, on Christmas Day, he wakes up in an unfamiliar house in New Jersey with two kids and a dog, and soon discovers he works at his father in law's tyre store and has no money for the finer things in life.
It's a far cry from the fine dining and tailored suits of his other world, but eventually (what kind of movie would we have otherwise) he comes to realise the value of the home and the family they have made together.
Return god-like figure, signalling reluctant return to no longer fulfilling Wall Street life.
Of course, the alternative life was not "real" as he discovers when his path does again cross with Kate, a high-flying single lawyer off to head up a firm in Paris, offering him "closure" by returning a box of his long-forgotten things.
It gets one thinking about the what ifs.
What if I had studied medicine?
What if I hadn't become a journalist?
What if I hadn't met Stefan?
What if I had got the job at Cleo I applied for early on in our relationship?
What if I hadn't stopped looking for jobs in Sydney?
What if I had practised law?
What if we'd had a third child?
Not simple regrets, but decisions that become definitive moments in our lives. Imagine being able to see the other path before deciding. Would we decide differently? Would it make the decision easier?
If only I could see the paths ahead now. What if I don't sell my house? What if I do leave the Herald? What if I never wear high heels again?
No crystal ball. Only faith and hope. And wild imagination.

How lucky am I

Today, I am grateful for a great many things.
The sunshine.
A husband who is still willing to help me, even though he is moving on with his life.
Children who are still willing to help me, even though they are teenagers.
My dog, who is fiercely protective of me, and won't let strangers near "our" bed.
My cat, who I can pretend is being kind to me even when she's being kind to herself (ie snuggling under the doona).
My chooks, for laying, despite the wind and rain and chilly nights.
My mum and dad, who phone ever day and would do more if they could.
My family, friends, and colleagues, who continue to send me best wishes, and offer me practical help and support.
I wonder if people are born kind, of if they learn that behaviour from the kindness of others?
That is my new 28-day challenge. To be kinder.

They're my kids and I'll shout if I want to

On learning the other day I would be laid up with an ankle in plaster for 28 more days, I announced I was seeking a project. Find me a job in Vancouver, asked one friend, organise my CDs and DVDs, asked another. Update your CV. Write a novel. Good ideas, but they didn't grab me.
But there it was in today's paper, a ready-made 28-day challenge that parents throughout Australia were being invited to sign up for by the Essential Kids website. Try not to shout at your kids. For 28 whole days.
Now, I am not someone who needs to shout to get the message across. But I do like to shout. Perhaps it's a small woman thing.
I admire people who don't shout at their kids, or shout at anyone. Sometimes. At other times I just want to shout at them. Shouting is good. At least for the shouter. But clearly the shoutee might not enjoy the experience. Hence the Essential Kids website call for quiet.
Not shouting at kids seems a bit like negotiating with them. And that always ends in tears.You just need to tell kids what to do. They mightn't like it, but one day they'll grow up and shout at kids of their own.
My favourite shouter was a former neighbour Mrs Yates, who smoked Winnie reds and lived in her chenile dressing gown. She'd stand at the top of the stairs and holler: "If youse bloody kids don't bloody shut up I'll get my bloody thong off to ya". At least she was talking about footwear.
Another neighbour (I lived in a shouting neighbourhood) would simply run through the list of family members names at the top of her voice from her front verandah at dinner time. Lenny! Paul! Gary! Julie! Lisa! Donna! Paul! And it always set our dog off, so my brother got to shout at him."Shuddup ya mongrel. Get round the back!"
My parents didn't do much shouting. Dad employed the swish of a green tree switch, mum the silent treatment.  I probably did all the shouting, even back then.
But for 28 days, I'm not shouting at the kids. If only the deal extended to them not shouting at each other. Perhaps we can negotiate.

I'm taking up tapestry

In this moment of need (need to do something, anything, that doesnt involve walking) I've picked up a book my colleague and friend Joanne Crawford gave me recently, titled Simple Abundance.
She gave it to me with an air of knowing: she understood where I was in my life, and had been there herself a few years before. And she came out okay.
She said she just wandered into a bookshop and found it, or maybe it found her, and now it has found me.
Read it, write in it, return it if you wish, it is yours now, she said, as if the world recognised the book should be with me.
Subtitled A Daybook of Comfort and Joy, the best-seller in its day of Sarah Ban Breathnach "is a book borne out of a deep personal need, written for women who wish to live by their own lights".
I've only just begun, the book and the journey, but I like what I have found.
The author identifies six principles that act as guides on the journey.
Gratitude. Simplicity. Order. Harmony. Beauty. Joy.
"These are the six threads of abundant living which, when woven together, product a tapestry of contentment that wraps us in inner peace, wellbeing, happiness and a sense of security."
Pick up the needle with me, she says, and make the first stitch on the canvas of your life.
I've neven been a sewer (that is so-er!) but I'm willing to give this tapestry a go.

I need a break, but a broken ankle?

Not quite sure a broken ankle was the break I was after, but being laid up in bed has give me pause to think. Especially as my employer, Faifax, considers whether mine and 40 other subs jobs at the Newcastle Herald are better filled by people in New Zealand.
First things first. How did I break my ankle? At netball, not taking a flying intercept (my playing days are long over) but standing on the sideline coaching my daughter's team. Just a weird fall. Too many crunches and twists. Dislocated, two bones broken, and a load of metal holding it all together. Some permanent, some temporary, but that's it for the details - they make me giddy.
No weight on it for eight weeks, bedrest for at least several.
So here I am, with too much time on my hands, and too much pain relief at my fingertips (seriously, Im stopping the endone today, I love it!!)
Is the universe trying to tell me something? End of marriage, end of job? end of ability to wear high heels? And should I heed the warning?
I've never contemplated redundancy. The thought of rejection is too horrific. I've worked at the Newcastle Herald for 27 years; a fact of which Im neither boastful nor ashamed, it's just with marriage to someone else in the building and kids, that's how it worked out.
Now, as a section head, I probably have skills the Herald could deploy elsewhere, but what kind of landscape would I be working in? Not the one I know and love. I fully understand the media needs to radically innovate, but tear out the heart of a community? Of a paper that has served its community for longer than any of us have been alive, times some? There is an alternative proposal on the table, now, that will save some jobs and keep production local, and I'm hoping it gets over the line. Meantime, tea, toast and pause to think. (Maybe one more endone)

What subs in NZ won't do

A document headed "Further information about proposed editorial production arrangements" sent to already devastated Fairfax staff yesterday included two points that scream ignorance about the role and value of subs in large newsrooms such as ours at the Newcastle Herald, and underline why this proposal is even worse that the outsourcing of subbing of metro copy (SMH, Age) to Pagemasters.
* Editorial production means page design, page layout and copy subediting (not so bad in itself, but hold that thought, is that all editorial production involves?).
* The tasks that are proposed to be done by Faifax Editorial Services employees in New Zealand relate to the processing and presentation of content. This includes checking completed stories for sense and spelling, writing headlines and designing pages.
In Sydney and Melbourne, I believe, page editors (there are still some subs there) control the look of their pages, and proof them at the end, before print. In between, they send emails to Pagemasters staff to correct the errors they find in subbed stories.
In Newcastle, subs (well, there won't be any, so let's call them editors) will hand over all of that responsibility to Kiwis.
I can understand why Allan Browne thinks the "processing and presentation of content" is the core job of a sub, but I don't believe Greg Hywood can share those views. He has worked in large newsrooms; he knows ours well, and has praised it on many occasions.
This is what it seems subs will not do under the proposed scheme to outsource jobs to NZ:
* Check facts.
* Check names.
* Raise and follow up legal concerns with reporters/editors/lawyers.
* Rewrite for style and rhythm.
* Employ local knowledge about ongoing stories and personalities that require nuanced handling.
* Write a headline different to yesterday's, the day before's and last week's on an ongoing story.
* Rewrite stories to change emphasis, update, combine stories from writers and wires.
* Identify a story that has already run elsewhere.
* Taste wires for latest developments.
* Change pages quickly to accommodate late-breaking local news.
* Work with writers as mentors to improve their copy.
* Work as a team of subs to improve processes and systems to ensure errors are not repeated.
* Sit in on editorial meetings (especially in features), offer ideas, contacts, and write stories.
* Fill in for writers when they are ill or on leave.
* Liaise with writers on finished pages, sections and magazines to ensure accuracy, authenticity and integrity in publishing.
* Come up with new ideas for sections/magazines.
* Keep eyes and ears open for stories for the paper, provide leads, contacts, maybe even write them.
* Offer alternative points of view on the selection and placement of photos and stories to ensure valuable debate occurs and decisions are tested prior to print.
* Work with artists (yes remember artists?) to achieve the best design possible given the resources available.
* Develop skills in decision-making and big-picture thinking that will enable them to become section heads, deputies and editors.
I'm sure there are more. Please feel free to add them.
To Allan Browne I say: subbing is not like screwing tops on bottles before they are put in boxes for delivery.
To Greg Hywood I say: you already know that.

Why subs matter

Fairfax journos are striking over plans by management to outsource 66 subbing jobs from the regional group (41 from the Newcastle Herald alone) to a sub hub in New Zealand.
There are so many things offensive about this plan, it's hard to know where to start: maybe with some myths that management seems to have about journalists, and subs in particular.
myth 1) subs are cranky shits that get crankier as they get older, and can easily be replaced by 12-year-old graduates on clerical wages.
yes, subs are cranky shits who get crankier as they get older, just like everyone else charged with the responsibility of making sure things are correct, able to be understood by even the thickest readers, and legally unactionable by even the meanest litigants. Subs are like mothers telling teenagers to clean their rooms. Eventually they might clean their rooms. or not. But you can't stop nagging and you keep cleaning  the room anyway. And eventually you become an editor and hire a cleaner (sub) to do it for you.
myth 2) journalists are precious and up themselves
Some journalists are precious and up themselves, just like anyone else with the power to affect change through the written or spoken word. Mostly, the law (and the subs) keep their egos in check. Mostly, they use their powers for good.
myth 3) journalists are resistant to change.
Some journalists are resistant to change, especially when it has no basis in logic or commonsense. However, most journalists operate in an environment of constant change. That's what their stories are about. Change, how communities win or lose, how they cope or don't. Journalists have shown they are willing to learn new tasks, often without enough training, and work harder and faster than they ever have. Journalists everywhere are doing more, with less. And loving it (mostly).
myth 4) Journalists have no idea of the media's dire straits.
Dire Straits was a band around when we did our cadetships, wasn't it?
myth 5) Consultation means telling people what to do, five minutes before they need to do it.
Consultation actually means asking people what they ought to do, with a little bit of lead time.
Fairfax journalists know the state we're in; that's why we're all working faster and harder, and coming up with inventive ways to do more with less. In the Newcastle Herald newsroom, journalists have just been involved in a six-month process to create a New Newsroom, a fully-integrated multi-platform strategy that looks like something a consultant might have dreamed up.
Outsourcing subbing was never on the agenda. So yesterday. So done. So failed.
Maybe you'll hear more about our plan, see it in action even, reap the benefits and rewards of our foresight. Or maybe you'll just get your editing from across the Tasman. Dire strait indeed.

My broken-hearted girl

There's a boy out there who has broken my daughter's heart. I don't personally want to break his legs, but I can't vouch for the actions of her father. Haven't seen her cry so much since our cat died when she was five. This is life, I know, and they need to live it. But it hurts. And there's not much beyond strawberries and ice-cream, and hugs and kisses, that I can do.

Will the Fat Ladies sing?

Had been going okay on my all new and improved non-crap-eating routine, until this evening when I inadvertently ate two chocolate freddos while watching the mullets flying in the breeze on Brothers In Arms The Bikie Wars. Bloody netball fund-raisers (the chocolates, not the bikie wars, although netball ladies can be brutal). Fat-raisers, they should be called.
But, as they say at the Fat Ladies (aka Weight Watchers) "tomorrow, ladies, is another day". They also say "nothing tastes as good as being slim feels" but that is bollocks.
A friend (who does not need to go at all!) suggested I join her when she signs up to the Fat Ladies this week (I can pretend she is seeking moral support, when in actual fact she is telling me I am a lazy lard arse, but that's ok, because I am).
I do have fond memories of the Fat Ladies, and I may just take her up on the offer.
I have been three times (that is for three lengths of time), after each baby and then again a few years ago when my weight crept back up. I found it much harder to shift this last time (being over 40 and all) and imagine it will be nigh on impossible this time without some form of exercise (and I'd rather chew my arm off, quite frankly - good protein there). Singing is my exercise, and running up and down the stairs to the laundry.
Am I ready to do it again? Not sure. There's no point going before the commitment is there 100%, it's just too soul destroying to go and not see results.
Maybe I'll leave it another week. But, back on the straight and narrow tomorrow. No more chocolate. No more party food. Oh, but it's Wednesday, hump tea day. If there's Portugese tarts, I'm a gonner. And I'll only eat the sugar-free sausage rolls. Pure protein.

Do I stay or do I go now?

Difficult decision time. My bank told me my house was worth $600,000. I assumed this was undervalued, as that's what banks do. The valuation was thorough (not just a book one) so I placed faith in it. I'm not cross with the bank, just the stupid real estate market. I bought out my husband, taking out a mortgage to give him $300,000. Now, buyers are telling me my house is only worth $570,000. Maybe. If they are feeling generous. And my agent wants $15,000 of that.
So, if I sell for $570,000, and pay my agent $15,000, then I will get $555,000.
My share of the house then drops to $255,000. His stays at $300,000. I am $45,000 out of pocket (theoretically).
I'm not sure I can cop that. Or is that being bloody-minded? Maybe he'll give me $22,500 back? (kind husband, are you reading? xx)
Should I just cut my losses and move on? (Can I face moving anyway?)
I can buy a house down the road for $391,000. With stamp duty of $13,500, the cost of the house is $404,500.
So, I get $555,000 for mine and pay out $405,000 say. I clear $150,000. If I give all that to the bank, my mortgage (now at $310,000, borrowed extra for legals etc) drops to $160,000. But I need to spend about $20,000 on the new house, relevelling, fixing garage, repainting, maybe getting new kitchen in aubergine So, if I give the bank $130,000 (instead of $150,000), my mortgage drops to $180,000.
Repayments drop by $200 a week (over 30 years, mind! How can I have a mortgage at 75? what bank in their right mind lent me this money?) Still, that sounds very appealing, repayments at 20% of income rather than 33%. Especially given Fairfax job security considerations.
But wait, there's more. My second 30-day term (I signed a contract to buy new house conditional on the sale of my old house, no penalty) runs out on May 28. I have one buyer a little bit interested, but they need to sell too. I really just want a quiet life. Would someone please buy my lovely house.
As you can see, I'm not afraid to share my financials. I'd appreciate anyone willing to share advice. Someone might even check the maths :)
Or do I just say f*** it, I'm staying put. Get myself a pool boy and a gardener, send the children down the saltmines and the pets to do TV commercials? Take in ironing. Give up my shoe fetish. Buy home brand. Shop at Aldi. And continue to enjoy the thrill of mortgage stress like everyone else?

A white towel moment

Day one of being Drew Barrymore and there's a Drew Barrymore movie on telly! Music and Lyrics, with Hugh Grant. Love him too!
So, resisted the urge to devour chocolate in solid form today, opting instead for a skinny hot chocolate with an early lunch. I think this is asseptable on day one.
Otherwise my only treats were dates, and I had three.
Lovely noodle dish for dinner (although its preparation did involve what henceforth will be known as a Lap Chong moment). I had to buy the Chinese sausage for the noodles, and on finding it in the Asian isle at Coles, did an impression of my husband's impression of a cleaver-wielding Asian chef, shouting Lap Chong! Lap Chong! Of course, I had a meltdown (henceforth, as aforementioned, to be known as a Lap Chong moment) where a flood of memories involving the sweet and fatty pork sausage overwhelmed me. "Mum, you can't cry in Coles!" said Fairy Mary, but not in the tone of voice that might have said "Jesus, mum, like get it together, we are like in public!"
Her voice was tender, her hug enveloping and her sentiment was genuine.
Lap Chong moment passed.
On a cheerier note, I'm having at the moment what a dear friend has coined a "white towel moment", the kind of moment you can have because there are no men, children or animals within cooee and it would be safe to bathe with a white towel. (not entirely true, there is a cat on the bad, but she is on her best behaviour)
I am tucked up in my bed, fresh clean purple sheets smelling like the sunshine; gardenia and sandlewood candle burning, and no one to tell me to turn out the light.
I don't even trust myself with white towels, but this moment captures the sentiment.

Being Drew Barrymore

I had a dream that I went to the hairdresser's and came out Drew Barrymore.
And I think the hairdresser might have been Gok Wan, who isn't even a hairdresser, but does take scissors to unsightly baggy clothes.
I wonder if I want to be Drew Barrymore. Wild child redeemed? (I'm hoping my wildest years are still ahead of me). The ability to wear red lipstick (yes, I would like that).
Maybe I just need a makeover (hence the appearance of style queen the Fairy Gok Mother?)
Yes, coupled with the fact that my size 14 jeans are tight, and I stopped at the servo to get a Crunchie on the way home last night, the dream is sending me a clear message.
Get off your lard arse.
Ok, Fairy Gok Mother/Drew Barrymore apparition, I hear you, and will obey.

Cut me and I will bleed

This separation thing is a tricky business. The what-if thoughts are never far away.
Yesterday, in the middle of the mall, I decided I did not want to be separated any more; that I wanted to be with my estranged husband. That's it and that's all. So I rang him. Stupid. But fortunately, rather than saying: That's it, please come back, I really want to try again, I managed to say, um, I've bought Fairy Mary a birthday card and I'll write your name on it too.
I had a little cry, a little sit in the sun, and went about my day.
I know I didn't mean it, well, I thought I knew I didn't mean it. It's just that the dryer's busted and the heat lamp in the ensuite is busted and our firstborn is 16 and it's cold at night.
And I'm a touch pathetic.
But, tonight, actually having him to dinner with his family for the birthday celebrations, helped me get back on the straight and narrow. I don't want to be married to him anymore. I don't want to live with him anymore. I love him, and always will. But it's the idea of our marriage that holds the appeal, not the actual marriage.
The dagger through the heart was my complimenting him on his choice of up to the minute jewellery for his daughter. How did you know it was so cool, I asked, knowing instantly I didn't want to hear the answer. He couldn't take credit for the selection, he said. He'd had help. Of course he had. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But cut me and I will bleed.

My little girl is 16

My firstborn, Lydia, is 16 tomorrow, and, as usual, I'm having my birthday eve reminiscences.
The second child is not nearly as lifechanging as the first, although the arrival of little Gabe three and a half years later would certainly shake things up a bit.
But when you have your firstborn, you go from single (even if you are married, I think) to family.
The shared act of going through labour, birth, and the early days in hospital, and then bringing home a newborn are indelibly printed on my brain. Such a special time. Cocooned as you are against the outside world, your sole focus this new family unit and the love (and challenges) it brings.
This tiny baby, so amazingly beautiful (even though she was wonky and lopsided, we thought she was divine).
We brought her home to Wickham, where we would also later bring Gabe, to our home that used to be a maternity hospital, run by Nurse Bundoch. There was a ghost, a friendly ghost, mother or midwife, who would walk up the hall and check on the baby from the doorway. Chills me still, but not in a bad way. I don't think Lydi could see her (neither could I, only sense her) but Gabe definitely could. He would crane his neck to see around me from his change table to look to the door where she would appear. He wasn't afraid, just curious.
And now Lydi is 16, or will be when she wakes. And the darling little brother she so cared for and protected is 12. How lovely and smart and beautiful she is. How thoughtful and kind (and quite the opposite some times!) We've got her a bundle of purple goodies she'll open first thing, then head off to school, where no doubt there will be balloons and lollies and well wishes galore, then we'll go to get her learner's permit (good grief) and come home to enjoy one of her favourite dinners, lamb roast with rosemary potatoes, with the family.
I'm so proud of my big girl, who will always be my little girl. And so full of love for both my babies.

My mother's day

What a lovely mother's day! Lovely gifts, lovely food, lovely company. Can't remember enjoying a mother's day more. Plenty of food for thought, though. Had dinner with two lovely friends, one of whom I hadn't seen for 15 years, last night. They are about my age (give or take), neither is married, neither has children, although one is contemplating both,  she's not sure in what order. The other wonders if it has all passed her by. She said she woke up on a birthday recently with the dawning revelation: how did she not get married and have children?
It certainly wasn't a deliberate decision. It was not a matter of choosing career or travel or adventure over marriage and children, and there had been relationships. Just not the right one.
She asked me, as I droned on about the adventure that is being a parent of teens, whether I had actually enjoyed motherhood along the way (she remembers me being quite ambivalent to both marriage and children in the early days). I had to stop and think. Had I enjoyed motherhood?
I said once to another friend (who managed to write it down despite the amount of wine we had consumed) who also is unmarried and without children, again because of circumstance rather than choice, that children open your eyes and break your heart. It is a wild ride. But I can't imagine an alternative. My children are 12 and 16, and what amazing young people they are. Spirited, smart, gorgeous, independent, yet still very much my babies. As if scripted, Lydia found some old photos this morning of a time when we lived at a previous house (when I was thin and blond - there are bikini shots!) when they had wide smiles filled with baby teeth. There were beach holidays with cousins, Lydi's first day of school, with great big hat and great big bag and great big smile. Gabe in his Bob the Builder overalls with his collection of tools. He wore his safety goggles for days on end, his little ears turning over under the straps. We had lunch with my mum, and afternoon tea with Stefan's mum. Plus our extended families. It was a lovely day, when the really important things take priority. On some mother's days I've almost begrudged having to traipse around after others, wishing instead I could stay home and spend my mother's day I pleased. But pleased I was today, travelling to see the people that are nearest and dearest. I quote my friend, the one contemplating marriage and babies. (Her partner is keener on the second than the first). So why does he want a baby? I asked her. After the slightest pause, she said: Because that's what life is about.

Has Offspring jumped the shark?

I needed to wait a day before making the claim, because I was in a pretty bad mood last night, but I do believe Offspring has jumped the shark.
The neurotic Nina and her dysfunctional crew have been faves since the word go, but this week, I think the writers overdid it.
Nina seemed to totally unravel, but not in the way we know and love. And the hyper-anxious Gary McDonald just gave me the jitters.
Billie was just too bumbling, Mick just too maudlin, and I'm over the sulking Darcy and what's her name. Jimmy was just too stupid, Tara just too much of a bitch, and that other midwife giving the antenatal lecture just plain boring in her boredom.
And I almost forgot the pathetic Patrick. Lordy, being back the gorgeous Havel.
I don't even know if I can give it one more episode.
I think if I hear Nina's phone again (although it did drown at the Chinese restaurant) I will hurl myself off the deck.
Phew. And goodnight.

we've all gone soft

I think it's a measure of how old we three are that I have a cat and a dog on my bed.
Me, showing my age, because I swore I would not even let the dog in the house, let alone on the pillow where he is now!
Him, because until very recently (when his pancreatitis and arthritis took hold) he would have chased, harrassed and bitten the cat until I came to her rescue.
Her, because until very recently (when she learned to stand up for herself and rake him on the nose) she would have dropped a lung and run for her life.
But here they are, both snoring their muffled little snores, on my bed.
Normally, she would stay in and he would go out. Cat in, dog out, like the kids book.
But tonight, I might just let him stay where he is.
All hell could break loose if he hears a burglar/possum/pin drop in the house next door.
But, baby, it's cold outside.
We've all gone soft.

ink stink: young travellers regret tatts

And from the NO SHIT SHERLOCK files: The Press Association reports from London that two-thirds of young tourists who get tattoos on holidays regret them when they get home.
The startling finding is based on 1800 respondents aged 18 to 25 to a sunshine.co.uk survey, 19% of whom got a tattoo on holiday. Of those 65% were women. Popular designs were stars, a motto or phrase, and a heart. But those who regretted it most were the folks who thought they were getting a Chinese symbol for "warrior" on their arse that actually read "wanker". (Okay, the last sentence is not true).

will men follow dinosaurs

Isn't this a lovely story?  A new study (by David Wilkinson of Liverpool John Moores University in England, published in Current Biology) suggests dinosaur flatulence and belching 200 million years ago may have helped overheat the earth.
Imagine farting yourself out of existence. I wonder if men will do the same.

By popular demand: an earring lost and found

 I have readers! I may not have too many followers, but thank you to the lovely folk who email and FB message and tweet in response to what I write. I love you both ;)
A few folk have asked me what became of that lost earring that sent me into meltdown at the hockey, and although I did post a comment to my piece, it deserves a proper postscript.
It was found!
When it wasn't in my car, or bag, or underclothes, I had given up hope by the time I got to work the next morning that the delicate rose gold and garnet drop, given to me by my husband before he was my husband, would ever be seen again.
I put a message on our  intranet and asked the GM's PA to send out an all points, in the hope someone had found it.
And behold, before she even saw the message, the lovely Eve Nesmith discovered the earring in the ladies loo! Saying to herself "this looks like Aly" she returned it to me, and had no idea why I sobbed and squeezed the life out of her until she got back to her desk and read the intranet message and my  blog.
Just as the loss of the earring was symbolic of the loss of my marriage, so its recovery by Eve was symbolic of our friendship. Frequently coming to each other's rescue, we share a special bond forged over pub lunches and strolls in the mall. We take it in turns to be soothing sage and cackling mad woman. We laugh and cry and bitch and moan and eat gozleme and buy flowers. I'm lucky to have her.
And a postscript to the postscript: the poor girl who got whacked in the mouth at hockey (thereby diverting attention from the sobbing woman on the benchseat clutching her empty earlobe) is fine, but has had two teeth dislodged and will require a retrofit of her braces. Still, she's beautiful and nearly 16, like my own lovely, and has made it through another hockey game intact. She copped a ball in the neck, but I don't think her nervous mother saw.

agent for orange

I love it that orange is making a comeback this season.
I bought three new tops today, and at least two should come with a volume control.
The brighter the better, come winter, I say.
I've always loved orange.
As a little girl I had orange curtains in my room (although they were not of my choosing) and the material made swooshy noises when you rubbed it between your fingers. It was most glamorous.
My first car was orange, a 1979 Escort, and I rue the day I sold it to an ungrateful acquaintance who quickly traded it in. He didn't love it nearly enough.
My favourite lipstick was orange, and tasted and smelled as good as it looked.
It was a Nutrimetics product, now long gone. Jasmine, I think it was called.
My favourite scarf is orange, a hippy thing with some tie-dyed pink and yellow was well.
And my new tops, well, of course they, along with my new tribal earrings in guess what colour, are already faves.
Sorry, colleagues and acquaintances, if it burns your retinas.
I need a little (alright, a lot) of colour in my life.

My melting moments

I'm quite proud of how I've tidied up my act a bit since I've been in "open house" mode.
Dishes don't get left on the sink overnight, nor clothes and towels on the floor, nor dog poo on the ground. Everything in its place. I've even taken to cleaning. Windex is my middle name. The ironing basket is empty (except for six odd socks). The kitty litter is fresh.
I'll never become one of those perplexing people who irons sheets and undies, but I am pleased that I've overcome my slovenly ways, or at least overcome the slovenly ways of the people I live/d with.
The keeping up appearances has even extended to my own self (most days), when I've taken a bit more care with accessories and lippy. My eyebrows have definition. I've stopped biting my nails. I have a swagger.
But I let the team down tonight. And had to eat four Melting Moments as a result.
My own personal melting moment happened at Coles (which I still call B-Lo) at Elermore Vale. Out-of-towners can get a mental image based on its proximity to, and shared patronaged with, the Shaft Tavern. All class.
 I'd come home from netball, had a cuppa, and needed to restock the larder. Feeling the chill in the air, I swapped my free-flowing leopard print overshirt for a purple tracky top, and my caramel wedges for caramel uggs. The jeans were the same, but didn't look it. My hair was a bit on the tired side, and I had panda eyes. But, it's only Bi-Lo, right?
Well, I pulled up, and began my saunter in (its hard to saunter in uggs) when next to me appeared a vision in black and white.
Tall, slender, sunnies a la alex perry, she wore a white woolen trench, cinched ever so at the waist (she had a waist!), black skinny jeans (the stylish kind, jodhpurs almost) and black riding boots. She carried a white leather bag, just right for ducking to the shops, and an iPhone in a zebra striped case. There was the right amount of bling, the right amount of blush, and a hint of gloss to the pout.
She was not young, but she was beautiful.
She turned heads.
I did not.
I dragged my uggs through the isles, bought the Melting Moments, forgot the teabags, and fled for home. The first three Moments didn't hit the sides. The fourth made me feel sick.
Note to self: tomorrow, try harder.

Farewell Margaret Goumas

Have just heard the sad news that Newcastle cinema doyenne Margaret Goumas has passed away.
So many in Newcastle, and in the wider cinema community, will be shocked and saddened today.
My thoughts go out to Theo, who despite being called "a difficult man" on more than one occasion by Margaret, loved and needed his wife.
Who can forget Margaret holding court at the Showcase, dog Carmella as support act. Welcoming, knowledgable, opinionated, the height of a style and fashion all her own.
The battle, ultimately lost, to keep her valuable and vibrant city cinema open. And then her presence, often, at the Greater Union, where so many sought her out for her conversation and her movie critique.
Who can forget her time in local government, the objection to those uneven pavers in the mall (they ruined your heels) and her objection to breastfeeding in the cinema foyer.
The tumultous time that she and Theo split and the AVOs that made the front page.
And the reunion; living together again in a city apartment, seeing movies, going to dinner, walking along the waterfront.
The last time I saw Margaret was at Margin Call. Gorgeous as ever. I told her I had separated from my husband (she knew him well too) and she patted my arm and said "Look at you, you're strong and beautiful, you will be fine.We'll both be fine."
I was talking about her yesterday, suggesting we do a profile on her for a new women's website that is being launched, and recounting her response when I asked her to be the subject of a profile for Weekender last year.
"Oh, yes, there are stories, Alysson," she said, smiling. And without a hint of malice: "But many will have to wait until Theo is dead."
And now Margaret is. Farewell.

Going commando, and other underwear choices

My post on Facebook tonight that I love Commando, and subsequent discussion, got me thinking about underwear.
The Commando I was referring to was the gorgeous tank, inked creature on The Biggest Loser, who started out as the pseudo-military trainer from hell, hidden behind dark glasses, but is now, with baby blues revealed, the losers' best friend. And he's a delectable yet calorie-controlled treat of eye candy for the viewing public to boot.
But one Facebooker assumed the commando I was referring to was the practice of, how did she put it, wearing one's shorts without undies. Also known by the male part of my household as freeballing.
Now, I'm as liberal as the next tertiary-educated, recently separated, feminist, middle-aged working mother, but I do like my undies. And, sad to say, the bigger the better.
Not quite Bridget Jones mummy pants, but, when there are acres to cover, you won't do it with anal floss.
I have been known to "go commando" on occasions; skirt-wearing occasions where a visible panty line would be too horrific, or some serious action was anticipated (and I can hardly remember those days!! perhaps I'm making them up?) but mostly I do keep my knickers on.
And it would be unseemly to freeball wearing anything with a seam, surely?
Even the G-string is surely a contraption of torture.
I suspect it, and not merciless hunger, is the reason for the misery exhibited by Posh, and her supermodel ilk.
They really need to hoik out their undies, but someone's always watching.
To live life with a wedgie, truly perverse.

Number one in sex ed

We had a meltdown of the scholastic kind in the year 7 camp tonight, prompted by deadlines looming and past. Past is the deadline for returning the accelerometer that only got worn during war games on Playstation.
Looming are the speech on road safety (that almost got eaten by the dishwasher), the performance in a group of four of the original 64-bar drum composition (that may as well be performed by the dishwasher) and the graphic presentation of rules in the textile room (do not stick pins in your arms, or in other students arms etc).
Plus there are decimals coming out our decimals.
But there is one subject I'm not behind in, says Gabe, grinning. PE theory. Which in the old days was called sex education.
Ohh (nervous laughter from mother).
Today we talked about periods, and the girls were nervous so Dale and I read the whole section out.
Ohh (more nervous laughter from mother).
When I first tried to put a tampon in it only got halfway and got stuck, so I ...
Ohh (nervous interjection from mother) It must be because you have older sisters that you and Dale are so knowledgeable.
Yes, and we had to list the points for and against pads and tampons, and the girls only got three and Dale and I got 17.
Ohh (slighter braver mother, never show you're afraid). And what were some of them?
You know, you can't see them and you can go swimming and stuff.
And (before mother can even blush), we had to write these definitions and for "genitals" Dale wrote "smelly nut sacks" and (mother gagging now) there was this crossword and the only word we spelt wrong was masterbate (sic) (mother giggling now), and we didn't get 20 across which was "noctural emission". (mother puzzled now). Derrr, it was wet dream. And then the girls read out this passage: "I woke up and my sheets were all sticky...:
Mother, near faint, sighs with relief. If there's a gap in the knowledge, it probably means the experience is not yet first hand.
Why don't we watch some telly, little one.

Why I don't change banks

On the day the Reserve Bank delivers good news to home owners, my bank delivers quite the opposite.
My mortgage will increase from May 30, albeit only $3 a week.
I wonder if by the time that increase takes effect, I'll have another letter saying a decrease is about to take effect. I live in hope.
So why don't I change banks, I hear you ask?
Well, it's not that it's too difficult to change banks (well, it is a bit, but not impossible and easier than it used to be), it's just that it's too easy not to.
Inertia is a powerful force. So is kindness.
I had the same bank manager for 25 years, who I could call or email 24/7. Rod used to share a house with a friend of a friend and married another friend of that friend. And he is a nice guy, and now a lovely family man. Recently, because he was on leave and I needed help immediately, he pointed me in the direction of Brenda, who is equally obliging, and, in fact, going through a similar seismic shift in life circumstance to me. I fell in love.
Financial adviser, counsellor and member of the sisterhood rolled into one. We'd become besties, but that would be unprofessional.
Try as they will, call centre workers interracting with you as a customer reference number can't come close to that.

Our house

Finally, after three days of deliberating, the vendors of my desired purchase have given me 30 more days to sell my house (and therefore buy theirs).
This is a very good thing, because I have looked at about 50 houses since, and do not want to buy any of them.
This is also a very bad thing, as I need to keep mine clean and tidy for another month.
And, really, after my initial flush of exhuberance with the Windex, I'm over it. In fact, I've been deliberately leaving flicks of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror just to make a statement. (What the statement is, though, I'm not sure: you want my house, you get my toothpaste? or: I don't really want to sell my house at all, so there).
Enough of that, with a mortgage again (I was mortgage-free for three years, how blissful that was) I need to stay focused on the main game. Getting the mortgage down to an amount that would be paid off by my life insurance should I go under a bus. Pleasant thoughts one has, late at night.
Although interest rates are predicted to be cut, mine is the bank that enjoys putting them up faster and more often than any other, so I won't wait with a brick on foot for a reprieve.
Mind you, when I first borrowed for a house in the late 1980s, the interest rate I paid was 18%, so I'm not too perturbed when it hovers around 7%, despite the bleatings on affordability. Luxuries!
What a gamble that was, that first house. Bought at auction for $62,000, it was even more frightening that a renovator's delight. A former maternity hospital in Wickham, with a bona fide ghost (friendly, just a mother checking on my babies), it had its hat way below its ears.
The bank manager came to inspect (as they did in those days) to see if the young couple were barking mad buying on the wrong side of the tracks a ramshackle old joint that was most certainly haunted. He fell through the front verandah, and may have had misgivings were it not for the lovely heritage brigade from nearby Tighes Hill urging him to give the young couple a go.
He did, and we did, and it's a beautiful house to this day.
We had two babies there, and many parties.
Our neighbours were nothing if not interesting.
We had a brothel across the road at one stage and many an hour I spent peering out the venetians at the street action it attracted. The things I saw on a table top truck one dark and seedy night made my knees tremble!
But we moved on, to leafier suburbs with better schools and not so many brothels.
I still yearn for Wickham, and will probably move back there once the kids are out on their own.
There's something about the ships, the tugs, the trawlers and the folks who trawl the streets that enliven. It's a bit unsafe, and a bit unsavoury. I like it.

Men's underpants in my laundry

Not nearly as exciting as it sounds, but it still had my heart aflutter when I found a pair of navy jocks in the laundry the other day.
It''s been six months since I did any laundry for a male over the age of 12, and it's certainly not something I plan to do again in a hurry.
It was no mystery, no wild tryst, just the remnants of doing a friend, also recently separated, a favour by letting him use my waching machine while his is bung. (No need to read anything into the word *friend* or pronounce it with a raised eyebrow as my mother might, he really is just a friend.)
But, still, I found myself looking over my shoulder to see if anyone else (who else? the children, cat, dog or chooks? I can hear them know going begeeeerk as chooks do when they look sideways at you) might have witnessed the blush.
What should I do? Should I acknowledge the jocks loudly to make sure I wasn't covering anything up?
Should I sweep them under the washing machine with the dust bunnies for the removalists to find should we ever move house?
Should I phone the owner and laugh, casually, about the discovery and invite him over for tea and slip them into a shopping bag with a dozen fresh eggs and some blueberry muffins?
Or should I just toss them with tongs in the wash with my darks? (At this stage I had not checked cleanliness of said underpants and did not plan to!)
I chose the last option, tossed them in and thought of England.
But alas, the cycle ended, it always does, and I had to deal with the drying phase.
Sunny day, so they should go on the line, but what if the neighbours see? What if the husband pops in?
Can't use dryer, electricity bills to think of, so will hang discreetly on inside airer between hockey skirt and socks still on line from red wash. Near a navy school jumper. Looks quite deliberable. Phew.
Now, to the folding!
Where am I going to put them? I can't leave them on laundry bench? I can't put them in the kitchen by the phone to remind me to contact the owner for collection? Perhaps I'll just toss them back in the wash? Without tongs this time. I know they are clean.
Saved by a text.
Owner of underpants sent message to say his son did not need a lift to school in the morning as is our custom. Fine, I said, and by the way, I have your underpants. I found them in the laundry.
I've started leaving bras around the house to make me look good, he says.
Not funny, I'll deliver them in a brown paper bag if I can work up the courage.
Can't wait. I'll buy you coffee.
Lucky I don't drink coffee.
Perhaps, if enough time passes, he'll just forget the navy jocks, and they'll go the place of odd socks.
He's bound to have at least one other pair.

Saved by Jesus at an open house

No open house for me today, but I took the opportunity, between the hairdresser's and the netty, to drop into a few potential purchases.
The first one had a steep dodgy drive, so I didn't get past the gate. Note to vendor: I live in steep dodgy heels, and am not taking my life in my hands/heels to check out your house.
The second one had a queue of folks lining up to take off their shoes. Note to vendor: If I have to take off shoes to check out your house, there's no way I'll be buying it.
The third one was a renovator's delight, and I was delighted with the goss session I had with the real estate agent about a former bully boss who is also in my acquaintance. Note to vendor: even in a renovator's delight, do not hold your combustion fire flue together with gaff tape.
The final house was a beauty, if somewhat unfortunatley situated between a main road and a drain. Note to vendor: please ask your tenants to head out for coffee during open house. This lot stayed in, and took the opportunity to spread the word of the lord. Now, I must say, the preacher man was a lovely fellow, as was his wife and child, and I am glad that he was saved by Jesus nine years ago when he realised he was a sinner. He seems truly happy, and I told him so. But, I'm shopping for real estate, not religion.Yes, I want to see the light, but only if it's from a northerly aspect. And I don't want  to be rude, but will you get out of the way so I can peer in the corner cupboards and turn on the taps for water pressure.
I guess when you're in the business of religion, like real estate, everyone's a customer. But no sale today. I took the agent's brochure, and the preacher's brochure "Why did Jesus Christ have to suffer and die on the Cross?" and continued on my journey.

What cats know

Does my cat know that I need a bit of TLC tonight? Or is it just that its chilly and she's taking advantage of my undivided attention? (no kids, no dog)
I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume her climbing onto my lap at every opportunity and nudging my chin for a pat is her knowing that I'm a bit sick and pathetic. Only a cold, but maybe it's a man-cold and therefore much worse (can women get man-colds? I think so).
We've all heard the stories about cats knowing when someone is about to die (I'm not about to die, let's not overthink this), you know, when they go to the bed of the dying patient in the nursing home.
And they certainly can detect mood swings. (not that they don't have enough of their own)
But my cats have always known when I need them close.
My mother used to shriek at me to get that cat out from under the doona, and I still prefer sleeping with a cat than anyone else! And in the dead of winter, I most certainly encourage Hermione to get under the doona. Otherwise she camps at my feet (or sometimes on the floor by my bed).
She went through a stage when she was younger of sleeping on my pillow, wrapping herself around my head, and subjecting me to grooming at any time of her choosing. Having a cat lick your hair may fill some of you with horror, but I took it as a great compliment.
Often there would be biting, but only if I moved mid-groom.
My other long-term feline companion, the dearly departed Bo, used to sleep on my pillow too, but only when I wasn't there. If I was off at uni, or wherever I roamed in those days, she would sleep on my pillow next to Stefan to keep it warm and him company.
She, and every other cat I have ever known, would most certainly get in a suitcase if anyone was packing to go anywhere. Many moons ago, when I was preparing for a solo trip overseas, Bo camped for a fortnight on my backpack. We all had furballs by the end of it.
The day before I left, she caught one of our carp from the sunken bathtub pond in the backyard and brought it in and left it on the backpack for me. It was still flapping when I discovered it, shrieked like a big girl and phoned Stefan. I didn't have the sense to put it back on the pond! I just chased her with the broom. Anyway, I appreciated her gesture, even if the fish did not.
When she died, or rather had to be put down because of cancer, we had her cremated.
Lydi, who was probably in kindy at the time, felt it important to tell visitors that our cat had just died and she was on mum's dressing table. Her ashes, I was quick to point out.
And they're still there.

(matt) newton's third law of motion

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. When you hit someone, lovely, the police will be called. Especially now you're Australia's answer to Charlie Sheen.
Matt, pet, should the court let you off, get off the booze, get on the meds and get home to Australia. There's bound to be another Underbelly. Or you could be Nina's half-brother twice removed in Offspring.
Patti, get off the soapbox, get on a plane and go bring your boy home. There's bound to be another incident. He needs his mum.
As for ol Moonface: just smile and wave, Bert, smile and wave.

what the head knows the heart may not feel

If only what the head knows, the heart would feel.
I'm a thinker and a doer, not so much a feeler, or so my management profile tells me.
Task-oriented, not people-oriented.
No time for feelings. They get in the way of actions.
That's overstating, oversimplifying, of course. I'm a mother, too.
But once you resolve to work on your feelings, your people skills, you open the floodgates and there's no turning back the tide. Having determined to be nicer to people, I wonder now if I've just gone soft.
Like camembert left out too long. I'd much rather be a sturdy cheddar, a stinky blue vein even.
And so, I find myself smiling at people who annoy me, and helping those who dither.
And not even so I can whinge later.
Pathetic, really.
And, I find myself feeling glad that my children seem at home with my husband's new partner. Or rather, telling myself I should feel glad. When what I really feel is sad.
Don't get me wrong. There was no betrayal on his part. He has just moved on.
My head knows this is good. My heart, it's pierced with a dagger.

wo needs an aitc anyway?

My laptop seems to ave carked it and te callenge wit tis communal family one is tat it as no key between g and j, Im sure you can guess wic one it is by now!
migt be time for an ipad, after all. maybe as a blogger it is tax deductable?
altoug not sure i can get used to typing on dodgy pretend keyboard.
still, if I can get used to not aving an ? key...

Lost: garnet earring. Dropped: my bundle.

So, there I was at the hockey tonight, sitting with my son and husband eating McDonalds and watching our daughter's game, when I fiddled with my right earlobe and discovered my garnet earring gone.
That delicate rose gold drop was bought for me (as half of a pair, naturally) at an antique fair at City Hall about 22 years ago, by my husband who wasn't yet my husband.
And, weighed down with the symbolism of the moment, I dropped my bundle.
Anxious strangers were enlisted to look for the earring, but with no success.
I'm hoping it had been missing for hours and will show up on my desk at work tomorrow. Or in the car. Or in my undergarments.
My son, the love, cuddled me and assured me it would show up.
My husband, ever kind and gentle, reinforced the point.
My daughter, later, suggested if it didn't show up that I have the other earring (still in my left earlobe) made into a pendant or ring, so all is not lost.
Fortunately (though not for the player involved, poor darling) one of my daughter's teammates took a whack to the mouth, splitting a lip and dislodging some expensive dental work. At least she stole the spotlight from the sobbing woman on the benchseat clutching her earlobe.
And play resumed.

What does your car colour say about you

Contemplated buying a new car the other day. Thought, if I can't have a new house, I'll have a new car.
Went to see Bob at the dealership, and he lived up to expectations.
Test drove a new Yaris, with my sister and my son, and it was bland but satisfactory and within budget.
In answer to Bob's question about how soon I might be in the market, I said I was waiting to see what happened on Thursday (the deadline day for house sale), but he, somewhat quaintly, assumed I was waiting for my "settlement". That made me smile. I suppose the world does need stereotypes to keep it ticking over, to keep the natural order of things. There was a time when such an assumption would have ruffled my feathers, but maybe I've moulted one too many times since then.
Anyway, with the issues of hatch/sedan, three doors or five, and optional airbags and cruise control decided, colour remains the pressing concern.
After a burnt orange start (I loved that '79 Escort), I've owned two white cars, and driven an assortment of husband's cars in mostly steel grey (with a moment of madness in a brilliant blue, and a second hand chocolate brown pie van).
The caryard brings some of the colour chart options to life; a steel grey (called graphite), a pearly blue (called glacier), a brighter blue (called Caribbean blue, now you're talking) and a bedazzling pinky-red (called Cosmpolitan, oh yeh!!).
I'm drawn like a moth to the flaming pink, but wonder if it sends the wrong message (what message am I sending??) Does it look like I work for Mary Kay? My sister suggests kindly, with a pat on the arm, it's a car you might give your daughter for her 18th birthday. Mmm, mutton is not the message. But it is vibrant! Am I sufficiently vibrant to carry it off?
My son is drawn to the glacier, but I feel it might be a nanna car.
My sister is drawn to Caribbean, but I feel it might be a try-hard car.
The cherry red is also on display, but good lord, a red car? I don't know what that says, but I don't want to say it.
There's a sort of teal green (called celestial blue) which my daughter, later, says she likes a lot, but my niece says would require frangipani stickers.
So we're left with white (not again), silver pearl (shoot me now) green potion (which sounds exciting but is actually a washed-out grey-green insipid looking thing), or ink (black, just too hot).
So, if I haven't got the bottle for Cosmopolitan (and let's face it, I might feel mighty silly after a little bit), I'm probably back at graphite.
I like the word graphite. It's solid, and reliable, resourceful. But is that because it reminds me of my husband?
Graphite is certainly not as safe and sensible as white or one of the pale pearls. And it's not likely to become embarrassing in the years/months/days to come. Plus, the children will be less likely to want to borrow it when the time comes.
Graphite it is. What a shame they don't make aubergine.

Seven days to sell my house

A late nanna nap and too many cups of tea have me up late and bright-eyed. So I'm sorting out my diary. And realising I have seven days to sell my house. It's not dire! We shan't be tossed out onto the street, but I have signed a contract to buy a house I would like, conditional on the sale of mine within 30 days. And that 30 days is up next Thursday.
Why am I not in a state of panic?
Not sure, really, maybe it has to do with not wanting to sell at all.
I think I do, really I do, but then, it's so much effort to pack and move and resettle. And I'm not sure the new house has somewhere for the chooks.
And I dreamed up a delightful alternative this afternoon.
There's a block of land not far away, cheap, sloping as all get out, clearly no one wants it, but cheap, did I say cheap. I think I'd like to build a pole home. Just a simple three-bedder, timber and Colorbond with a big deck and a big bathtub. And an aubergine kitchen, of course, maybe in mini-orb. I'd probably need a combustion fire, and a loft. And definitely no garages, pools or lawns. I might need to sneak in air conditioning, but will try valiantly to stick to ceiling fans. It's a long walk from the bus stop for the kids, but hey, they're lucky they have shoes.
Of course, there's the slight issue of where we would live during the build. I have a friend with a caravan on her front lawn, but I suspect she won't want our menagerie. Maybe we can house sit? Friendly family with pets seeks home to occupy/care for lovingly during maniacal building phase. Can be trusted to feed animals and clean pools, but not water gardens. But it rains a lot now. And chooks will take care of snails and slugs. Volunteer your home on blog below.

My new friends at the call centre

I took a call from a telemarketer yesterday and, flushed with my desire to be kinder to people and the warm glow of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, I did not hang up.
He was from the subcontinent (not racism, fact) and reminded me so delightfully of the character from the Marigold that all I could do was smile as he went into his spiel.
He had a great deal for me, as a business owner, to cut my phone line rental.
But I'm not a business owner.
Oh, you are not Steven Moore Photographic?
No, Stefan Moore is my husband, but he doesns't live here anymore.
I see, so you used to be a business owner.
No, that was my husband.
Never mind, today, we can offer you a great deal as a former business owner. Please, do you have a pen to write it down. We can offer you today a line rental of $34.95, with local calls of only 17 cents, that is one-seven-cents, and STD calls of only 25 centres, that is two-five-cents a minute.
But I'm not a former business owner.
Never mind, today, all you need is an active ABN, and we can offer you this deal.
But, I don't have an active ABN.
Never mind, you will now speak to my supervisor, Paul.
Hello Paul.
(Paul replays Chris's spiel about the special offer.) And today we are offering this special deal to former business owners who used to have ABN numbers.
But I'm not a former business owner and I didn't ever have an ABN number.
Never mind, because you have a residential number that used to be a business number that ends in 336, we can offer you this deal today.
Fabulous, what do I need to do?
Nothing, you need to do nothing at all. But we can offer you an even greater discount if you can pay your account through direct debit. We can offer you a line rental of $28.95, that is a whole six dollars, that is six dollars, less.
But I don't want to pay by direct debit. I like going to the post office. I'll just take the first deal.
Oh yes, but there are so many benefits of direct debit. We can send you an account at the start of the month, and you have a fortnight, two whole weeks, to review it, and if you do not find any problems and do not contact us, then we will direct debit the amount from the account which you nominate.
But I don't want to pay by direct debit. I like going to the post office. I'll just take the first deal.
Hold on a moment please, you will speak to my supervisor, Tim.
Hello, Tim.
(Tim replays spiel of Chris and Paul, asks my name.)
Oh well, Alysson, I am sure you have been delighted with the service provided by my colleagues, and now I would like to ask which account you would like to nominate for your direct debit.
But, I really don't want a direct debit. I like going to the post office. Can I just have the first deal?
Oh, the offer today is only open to customers who elect to use direct debit as a method of payment. What is your objection to direct debit please?
Well, I like going to the post office.
Oh, what is it about the post office you like? (dangerous territory, well off-script).
Well, it gets me out of the office, and nothing much else does, except the Turkish gozleme man on Thursdays and Fridays when I also buy flowers. And I need a break sometimes, you know?
And I like that the post office sells lots of interesting things, like travel pillows, and CDs, and books and sewing machines. I like standing in line and looking at them. I did most of my Christmas shopping there. But mostly I like the really sunny woman with the crazy hair who has worked there as long as I can remember, even when the post office used to be in the lovely old building where the pigeons live now and she had even crazier hair. I always hope to be served by her, just to see what whacky thing she might say today.
OK, Alysson, thank you for your time today. (call ends)

There's a kind of hush

There's a kind of hush that comes over the house at this time of night, when everyone is tucked up in their own beds, and the cat's at the foot of mine, curled up, tail tucked, snuggly.
I love this time of night, especially now that I have a bedroom to myself, and purple linen, and can read and write and do as  I please till the wee small hours without interrupting anyone.
And, there is no snoring, and much less farting.
Small pleasures.

What readers want

Just got around to reading Judy Prisk's column in today's SMH while waiting for the (very) slow cooker to do its thing.
http://www.smh.com.au/national/when-owners-feel-locked-out-20120417-1x5jl.html
It's a lovely read, about the readers' sense of ownership of their paper (it's much the same at every paper, I suspect) and their outrage when their online comments and letters to the editor are not published, or savaged by heartless subs (my words, not theirs).
Readers are equally outraged if they are not invited to comment on a story they think they should be, and some allege political and even gender bias.
But Judy rightly explains most of the glitches as having their origins in either technology, or staffing.
The bloody computer system eats things, we all know that, and there are a lot of frantic legs working away under the water to keep those ducks bobbing away on the surface.  I'm not sure readers grasp that at all. It would be lovely to invite comment of every word printed in the paper, but who would moderate those comments? We don't have online fairies, only hardworking journos who often also have other jobs to do. Put on more staff, you say. Sure thing, with shrinking circulation and print advertising revenue?
Readers have become a bit bolshy, if you ask me!
But it's best you don't. I sit in close proximity to the letters editor, and a kinder man you would not meet. But I would never dare answer his phone. I'm an online moderator too, but only occasionally these days. But I still  sometimes bear the brunt of a disgruntled online commenter on the phone who can't find his way to the online editor's extension. Trainspotters, the lot! They want the world, these readers.
And we do try to deliver it. Really, we do. Letters editors and online moderators are people too. Just trying to get through the day. So please don't call us names when we edit your comments in keeping with our guidelines, or choose not to publish comments that are flagrantly abusive and defamatory. It's for your own good, really it is.

Do we train too many journalists?

Do we train too many journalists?
Yes, if we expect them all to get jobs as journalists. No, if we think a communications degree might be something more/other than vocational training for a job as a journalist.
 There's a story in The Oz today by Nic Christensen that explores whether journalism schools churn out too many graduates, as less than one in three get jobs as journalists.
 I'm surprised it's actually that many, and even more surprised that others might expect a higher strike rate.
Whenever I talk to comms students (as a tutor, guest speaker and work experience supervisor) I try to scare them off, or at least strongly suggest that they do a double degree. If they insist on straight comms, I tell them to multiskill like there is no tomorrow (because there is no tomorrow for the journalist as writer alone). How quaint that we used to think it right that others took pictures and video and audio, and others again put it all together. And I tell them to be prepared to go anywhere and do anything. And to get writing. Show me what they can do.
And the stars among them do get jobs. But I suspect they would have anyway, without their comms degrees, if such a thing were allowed. (Although  we are seeing a bit of a rethink there, a return to the bad old days when journalists were chosen from the ranks of the non-tertiary educated. Social media nous is the new sought-after skill.)
That's not to say that a comms degree isn't worth the paper it's written on, or that journalism educators are wasting their time. Some of the nicest people I know are journalism educators. Why, I used to be one myself.
They are up against it, and they do need to be honest with their students. I suspect many are.
But what are they to do in age of the university as corporation? Turn away paying customers?
I would hope that they, as I do, expect a comms degree might do more than provide vocational training as a journalist.  You can learn shorthand at TAFE. Studying comms is not like studying medicine, or teaching, where you learn the skills and (hopefully, almost always) get a job. Comms, like arts and law, asks its students to look beyond the doing to the thinking.
 I don't have a comms degree (even though I have taught in the degree) but I do have a law degree. Gained externally over eight years while working as a journalist and starting a family. I've never practised law. And I don't mind a bit.
What that degree taught me was how to think. How to reason. How to interpret behaviour, and meaning. How to see both sides. How to present both sides. What it means to insist on fairness and justice. How the world doesn't always deliver those things. What it means to have integrity.
Not unlike a comms degree.
Many comms students will end up working in PR, or advertising or other dark arts. I'm not talking about them.Or to them.
But those who want to be journalists need to be realistic, and as teachers and journalists we do them no favours by pretending otherwise. Multiskill. Pack your bags. Lower  your expectations and your standards. And have a back-up degree in your back pocket.

I love Californication

It's back on tonight! And isn't Hank Moody the best bad boy on the small screen.
Loathesome, lacivious, lustful. Oh yes, Im in the mood for ... alliteration.
Dream of Californication ...

My little boy

How do I help my little boy, who is not so little any more, but seems to be in such pain.
I don't know how much of it is having his parents separate just before his 12th birthday, and how much of it is just being 12.
There's not much good I can remember about being 12, starting high school, feeling lost and frightened, drowning.
But I don't know the feeling of having my parents separate.
My counsellor says his behaviour sounds like he's just being 12; pushing boundaries, asserting his independence, seeking to establish his place in the family and the world.
But sometimes, I worry it is more.
I love him to bits and I try to show it, and much of the time we have a lovely relationship.
But when the switch is flicked, he feels alone, deserted, lonely, desolate.
And he strikes out. And says things I know he doesn't mean. And that he will regret later.
There have to be rules, teeth have to be brushed, surely. Even at such times?
I want just to flick a switch and have my happy little boy back.
I know he's hiding in there, just maybe afraid to come out?

Welcome!

Welcome to my blog! I'm probably writing this for myself, really, but it would be lovely if you would join me from time to time, and share your thoughts.
My thoughts are many and scattered. My views are sometimes ill-considered. But I can often be persuaded to see another point of view. Sometimes, even, admit I was wrong. But I rarely am.
I'm starting this blog because I'm 45 and recently separated from my husband of 20 years, about whom I shall say nothing bad, because there is nothing bad to say.
Marriages just end. Even good ones, I think.
To expect that you will stay married to someone your whole life is a lovely idea, but not a practical reality. Not if people change and grow. It must be amazing if two people continue to change and grow at the same pace and in the same direction. But I'm yet to see it. What I see mostly is compromise. Not that there's anything wrong with that for some people. But there is for me.
I'm not sure what I'm going to write about on this blog. You need to give me time to find my stride.
But I imagine I'll write about everything from raising teens to raising chooks, my newfound sisterhood and sobriety, what's in the news, what should be in the news, and just how I'm feeling today.
Please, do drop in.