Only bespoke will enter my home

I love shopping, but as a baby step in my six-year journey to tiny house living, I was on the verge of stopping! I had made a decision (only today!) to stop buying things. Not all things, mind you, just things I didn't need. 

Need can be rubbery. Yes, I definitely needed the chunky heel pumps I bought the other day, second-hand but barely worn, in a shade a paint colourist might call cloudy eucalypt, but I probably don't need yet another pair of black trousers, even if I find a pair on sale, as I frequently do. Unless it's to go up a size! (Or maybe down? That would be nice).

But that changed tonight when I watched Bespoke. (I love that word. One must say it just so, like  Kevin McCloud, on Grand Designs). But it was that other knit-wearing influencer, Marcus Westbury, Newy's original and accidental hipster, who sealed the deal. Tonight, he took us on the first part of his tour around the country to celebrate the resurgence of makers and artisans who put their love into what they produce. Our local folk featured well - how spoilt we are in the Hunter Street Mall - but Tassie's blacksmiths stole the show. Fire and fury is sexy as hell. (Blacksmiths and butchers - salt of the earth - men you'd marry.)

In any case, I declare, rather than stopping shopping altogether, I will just try to shop closer to home, and closer to homemade. I'm hardly Robinson Crusoe here - but if I say it out loud, I'm more likely to do it. So, no more shopping for things I don't *need*, and only bespoke will enter my home.

Is this an excuse to keep shopping? Probably.

Is this a bad thing? Probably not. 

A tiny house is not made overnight (nor a tiny house person), particularly one that is bespoke.

Living large in a tiny house

Forgive me for I have sinned. It's been three years and three months since I last blogged.
And when a friend - yes, you, Nathalie Craig - suggested I reboot my inner blogger in order to share my tiny house journey, I thought, why not?
There are plenty of reasons why not: I have two jobs, a uni course, and a tiny house to build. Plus, I like watching television and trolling Facebook for tiny house, cute cat, and pimple popping posts. And I've joined the School of Hard Knockers, the fabulous choir that is set to go on a world tour of the Greater Hunter next year! (Watch this space)
But reasons why I should include 1) it is fun 2) it is easier than keeping a diary 3) one day I might monetise and be independently wealthy and 4) I don't want to start my uni assignment.
What is the point of a tiny house, my friend Kirsten Mulley asks?
In a nutshell, it is to live simply but comfortably, and spend my time and money on other things.
I want to live large in my tiny house.
So, welcome to the beginning of the first leg of the tiny house journey.
It's a six-year project (don't panic, you don't have to stick around that long), that will include a total downsize and rethink of the way I live, work and play. I think/hope? my partner Gregory Howley is with me all the way. He certainly is in step one.
Which is 1) build prototype tiny house in existing gazebo in backyard to be mancave/office/music studio/guest quarters (see Kirsten, you can come stay!)/granny flat and maybe eventual home.
We have engaged the engaging Paul Webber to put our ideas on paper and help us through council.
So, after 10 years of dreaming, and 12 months of planning, we have synergy and are moving forward. (I love Utopia, I'm channelling my inner-Rhonda in my new role!).
Anyhoo, the kettle is boiled, and the washing is done.
But I'll be back.

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.