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.