Month: April 2012

Who doesn’t love a bandwagon?

I bought a new vase recently for no reason other than it was adorable, went to buy flowers, and to my disappointment, found none in the shops I liked. This brought me back to the time I bought a silk bouquet for my wedding, and was met with my families collective horror. What?! Fake?! You can’t have fake flowers at a wedding!! They must be fresh! From a florist! A good florist!

Thinking I must have killed the Queen of England to attract such ire, I meekly went along and got a bouquet which were peonies, out of season and odd looking, and felt a bit disappointed. Fresh flowers didn’t live up to the hype. Luckily they photographed well. I kept my silk bunch which have been in a pretty vase ever since attracting favourable comments.

And now that my wedding is over and I no longer have to suffer under the weight of Highly Informed Opinions, I went straight back to the silk flower shop today and bought these beauties.

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The irony of the vase’s wording isn’t lost on me! I’ll have to spray them with perfume. I adore them. Status anxiety does not exist at my house, and after seeing Faux Fuchsia’s forchids, I knew that good style knows when to cross the boundaries!

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Knocked Up

Yesterday I visited my GP with some questions. Specific questions. Like, I’m thinking about having children questions. After some vitamin advice and a bunch of blood tests and a couple of pointed comments about my age (bloody hell, I’m not that far past 30!), I was sent on my way with my head spinning.

I then made the mistake of Googling the topic. Ladies, don’t google. Just don’t. The vitamin advice and raft of blood tests was plenty. Sure if you’re a smoker/heavy drinker/recreational drug user/overweight/red bull junkie then you might need a bit more information, but good lord, if any topic proved that opinions are like assholes….

I’m not that person. I’m not that belly hugging air sniffing Mommy. The term ‘yummy mummy’ makes my skin crawl. I’m a person first and a woman second. It took me this long to even decide that kids are what I want because I finally feel like I have some wisdom to pass on. And every time I make dubious food choices or sit on the couch instead of exercising or lose my temper, I think, how on earth can I teach my kids (should I even be lucky enough to survive all the things that stand in the way of conception) not to do these things if I can’t lead by example?

Then I had a dream about the world being flooded by the ocean, which is the dream I always have when I’m feeling overwhelmed. And do not even get me started about the Sea of Opinion. There is nothing like motherhood to give everyone else a seemingly free license to police you, your body, and your child. Suddenly your breasts and what you choose to do with them become a topic of judgment. You get death stares like you’re a baby murderer if you use a dummy. Or don’t use a dummy.

I did admit some of this to the GP, and in spite of her judgment of my old age, she had a couple of pearls for me. One was that we’ve been doing this for millions of years. I’ll manage. The second was not to get too overwhelmed by all the information, because it’s mostly instinctive.

At the end of the day, instinct and a strong evidence base wins. I don’t care about a random busybody on the street’s disturbing opinion about the choices I make with my boobs or whether or if I’m a baby-killer because I’m drinking a black tea or eating salt. I’ll stick to my GP and a good journal review search engine.

And by god if someone polices me on the street I am going to ask them what their evidence is, what journal it was published in, the number of study participants, and the p-value of the results!

(P.S I’m not actually knocked up. Just thinking bout it. Maybe too much. )

I love my couch.

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This is my couch. It’s nearly ten years old and I bought it as a student after I moved out of home for the sole fact the whole thing was easily re-coverable with many Ikea options. They promptly discontinued it after I bought it and I was left with it’s original brown cover. The problem is that I love this couch. It is stupidly comfortable. Addictively comfortable. The cover had seen its day a couple of years after purchase but I just couldn’t. In a fit of decluttering spirit I decided one day to buy a new couch. Armed with savings and dedication, I looked everywhere. Expensive leather couches, every damn couch place in the state. I now know more than I need to about couches. But none matched up. I need butt-sink ing cushion filled soft goodness and it just wasn’t there.

Then I discovered there are businesses dedicated to recovering Ikea couches in custom fabrics. Who knew? In Australia that’s Comfort Works – my brown cover evaporated into a thatched grey arrangement for $350 with change left over for cushions. Aah. Decluttering be damned.

It’s the little things

This rotation I’m working 11 hour shifts. On your feet, no holds barred workworkwork 11 hour shifts. The boss cracks the whip, tells us to go faster, get people through, I swear some days I wonder if the apocalypse is here – it might as well be a scene from Outbreak out there.

It doesn’t leave much room for anything. Not much reading time, I don’t want to even contemplate exercise – just enough time to eat some food and collapse on the couch or bed, whatever’s closest. No one gives a crap about how healthy or unhealthy their doctor is. They just want to get fixed and go the hell home. Me too!

So you find small, stupid ways to live a life around it. You buy a gift box of chocolates and eat the whole box and it’s GREAT and you do so with no guilt because you’ve worked your ass off all day. And not at a computer, literally not sat all day, constantly moved around for 12. hours. Your feet feel like crazy angry people who scream at you and your back is like a prison.

Hot baths. A chocolate bar at lunch time. A roll of eyes shared between residents. The nurses finding a chair without you even asking and commanding you sit down or you’ll stuff up your back like they did theirs. You feel like a cross between a mechanic and a waitress. More chocolate. The boss saying good job. The Internet, bless the Internet which provides hours of immovable entertainment. The people on the Internet. Your blogs.

You stop sweating the small stuff. Daily slap becomes a bit of powder and a brow pencil. If you’re more awake maybe some gloss. Eating shit because the smallest of scrubs hide ALL sins. You stop worrying about being fat/thin/pretty/ugly/smart/stupid/too much/too little. It doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t really matter when a crazy guy has just shit in the waiting room or someone has a cardiac arrest in the way back from the toilet. It really really doesn’t matter. You just want to eat the chocolate, read the Internet and hope you’re not too tired for a run on the weekend, you cross your fingers that you’re moving enough to counter the bad food behaviour. You don’t care about getting fat, you fear glycemic toxicity, cardiovascular disease, impaired immunity.

But mostly you appreciate the little things. Most people blur into one. The nice ones stick out. You forget about the rest. You love chocolate and baths and chairs and the Internet and a kind word. Your family, scented anything, acts of kindness from yourself or otherwise.

The rest just does not matter.

I hate ironing…

I hate ironing. I dont have the words to describe how much I hate ironing. Not quite as much as vacuuming but it’s my second most hated domestic chore. I think clothes should iron themselves. I am not domestically inclined in the slightest and struggle on a daily basis with clutter. Today our old iron gave in to scale and grot, and we bought a new one. It helped that Myer was on sale.

Wow. Dear lord. I still hate ironing but the difference now is that my clothes areironed instead of sitting in my cupboard waiting to be covered up with a cardigan or hurriedly shaken out with fingers crossed that no one will noticed. My clothes look pressed. I have discovered the magic that is continuous steam. Dear lord. Pants in a minute.

It wasnt the cheapest in the world at $199 but it’s already paid for itself in my eyes. Full price it’s $399 so in my eyes that’s practically free.

Mrs Macquarie’s Point – A Photojourney

A couple of weeks back I went out for a birthday lunch and we entered up walking around to Mrs Macquarie’s point which offers some of the best views of Sydney you can find.

Garden Island

I can’t tell you what that important looking thing is, but there were tonnes of navy boats, which makes sense, Garden Island is a military base.

This has to be one of the most relaxing walks in history.

Woolloomooloo Bay

And from here you have fantastic and uncrowded views of the bridge.  Far, far better than Circular Quay, if only for the escape from all the tourist crap!

Sydney Harbour Bridge #1

Only Sydney!  Water over water – Boy Charlton pool is one of my new favourite places in the whole world.

Andrew Boy Charlton Pool

Just one more, because you can never get enough of it.

Sydney Harbour Bridge #2

I think I’m going to get that one printed.  Straight to the pool room it will go!

Authenticity, shame, power, and vulnerability.

Or in a longer sentence, ‘two videos you should watch right now in the following order.

The first is a video about vulnerability that went viral a couple of years ago.  I’m now reading her books, and I think she’s amazing.

The Power of Vulnerability

Link for iPad users.

The second is one she followed up with about shame, and links into my previous post about learning how that you are enough in a world that tells you that you’re not.

Listening to Shame


Link for iPad users.

I may be just a little addicted to ted.com.  These two are the ones I am loving right now, I cannot explain enough just how important her messages are.