The price we pay for beauty.

It's 2011 and as you may be aware, I've decided that this year will be AWESOME!!

In that light, I've decided to overhaul a number of things in my life and top of the list is dropping a few excess kilos. Well, ok.  Fine.  Maybe more than just a few.

Anyway.  There are a number of things going on in the peripherals of my life, none more important than the fact that my youngest child starts school this year.  Like. O.M.G.

Now.  I have battled weight issues all my life.  I do have some legitimate reasons for finding it hard to shift the weight, but at one brief, glorious point of my life, I was kinda hot.  Actually, I was really hot.  Ok. Fine. Really hot may be overstating the issue a bit.  Hot to luke warm. A man once walked into a street sign because he was checking me out.  I have witnesses who can, if required, provided a notarised statutory declaration to back up my claims. Seriously.

But that's not important right now.  What is important is that I've decided to reclaim my hotness, or rather, my luke warmness and get my yummy mummy on.  The thought of my child being ridiculed because mummy's ass is generous fills me with dread.  Plus I want to feel good again.

So, where to begin?  Well friends, this is the course of action I took.  I was in a pharmacy earlier in the month and noticed that they were having a sale on one of the millions of differently branded shakes that essentially are the same thing.  Buy one box and get one free.  Really???  Cool, sign me up.  See, it was all carefully researched and well thought out. Errrrr, ok maybe not so much, but hello???  Buy one GET ONE FREE!!  

I'm now in my third week of the shakes and I'm seeing some results.  You have to look really hard but I think I'm starting to see the outline of some cheekbones and the scales are advising that I have dropped some kilos. And I'm pretty sure my pants are a little loose.  Ahhhh  woooooooooo  hoooooooooooooooooooooo!

The only thing is...  and trust me, it's a wee little thing that doesn't really impact my life unless I cannot get access to a disabled toilet within very quick walking distance, there is one side effect.  Now I know.  Those toilets are there for disabled people.  Trust me when I say...  I need it. Besides, it's not like I'm parking in a disabled spot.  Now that warrants indignation.

Has anyone heard of sorbitol?  For those of you that have answered in the negative, allow me to enlighten you.  It's the stuff they put in artificial sweeteners so it's sweet without the sugar content.  And do you know what this stuff does to the human body?  It produces anal leakage.

ANAL LEAKAGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Have you ever heard of a prettier way to describe an involuntary bowel movement?  I know I haven't!

Judging from the amount of times I've had to excuse myself of late, it's doing it's job. Not that I'm complaining.  I bought like eight boxes of the stuff and with 20 sachets per box I have at least another month or two of a very brisk walk to the disabled loo very far from my office.

Here's the thing though.  I'm actually enjoying not having to think about lunch.  Plus I'm saving some $$ by not having to buy and over priced and over cooked pasta or foccacia.  I'm starting to understand the science of the shakes and the effects it has on me so I can now almost time the mad dash to fit in around my appointments.

Sure, the shakes are a bit, oh I don't know, blah.  But since I'm at work and that's a much bigger blah, who cares? I'm starting to feel better about things (although my bottom doesn't quite share the enthusiam) and I'm actually contemplating going bike riding with the kids. So it's all good.

One thing I can advise with authority.  Consider what you put into your mouth on the days that you do the shakes.  Trust me.  That falafel roll with tabouli, tahini sauce and salad may make a nice break from a liquid lunch.  But coming out...  Different story. 

And unless you want to get a written warning from management and be reported to the Department of Environment for toxic gas emissions, please, I beg you.  Use the disabled toilets.  It's the lesser of two evils.

Playlists... and the forward button.

I like to think of myself as modern and with it (laugh if you will but I've been surfing the net way longer than the new generation!) but I must confess playlists on the iPod/iPhone confuse the hell out of me.


I am a child of cassette tapes.  I have many a fond memory of loading my ghetto blaster (my sweet 16th birthday pressie) with a brand new TDK cassette; 90 minutes thank you very much; and listening with FBI secret agent intensity to the radio to record the top 40 hits.  You'd wait with baited breath, finger poised above the record button, ready to start recording the nano-second your song started.  Then you'd sit, alert and waiting, ready to hit pause or stop before the DJ could ruin your mixed tape with crap.


Ahhhhhh.  Good times.


These days, it's all about downloads on iTunes and other programs I have no clue about.  Unless of course, you're into piracy and find you tunes on some naughty programs.  I believe there's one called Lemon String ;-) or words to that effect.


Me?  I prefer to download the proper songs, not so much for karma and not wanting to rip anyone off, although that is a factor.  My main reason is that I want the pretty album art while my song is playing.  Shallow?  You betcha.  But I hate that big treble clef that you get on your iPod when the song in play has no art work.  Stupid I know, but I still cannot work out how to import art into my iTunes account and quite frankly I cannot be bothered learning. So I get my tunes from iTunes.  But don't tell my husband.


I have amassed 1400 songs to date on my iPhone that I have personally selected.  There are over 4000 on my computer. Somehow, there are playlists I've not created myself with the exact same songs that are in other playlists.  How did this happen?  I'm too scared to delete them, just in case someone is watching and plans to haul me before a magistrate.


With so much to choose from, you'd think there'd be nothing to complain about.  Fear not friends.  Too much is never enough.  With such a large selection, there's never anything to listen too.  I mean 1400 songs FFS!!! And for some reason I spend most of my drive skipping songs until I find one I want to sing too.  WHY??????????


I have spent hours in front of my laptop, scrolling through my playlist and not being able to delete songs I haven't listened to for over a year.  What is it that compels us to keep stuff 'just in case'?  


Some songs I repeat.  Over and over again.  Others?  NEXT!!


Anyway.  That's my whinge for today.  I kinda pissed myself off tonight on the drive home.  It's like men and the bloody tv remote.  But that's fodder for another post.

Babies... a fiery and controversial issue.

Really?  Apparently so.

Nothing creates a bitch fight, or storm in a tea cup quite like babies.  As in making them, giving birth to them, raising them, feeding them, dressing them.  Shall I go on?

This past week, in a flurry of satin, organza, lace, lip gloss, hair pieces and glory, Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban announced they had welcomed a second child into the world via a 'gestational carrier'.  Weird term, it means surrogate, but whatever.  At the end of the day, they wanted another child and went down the road of surrogacy in order to fulfill this dream.

The level of vitriol directed at this couple has left me somewhat shocked.  Some of the comments posted on facebook were vile.  I mean really people, you should be ashamed of yourselves.  

Even the press got in on the action, with accusations of designer babies and other nonsense.  Miranda Devine wrote this little article:

Buying a baby - not a pair of shoes

While she writes beautifully, I have to say I vehemently disagree with everything she's putting forth in her argument.

As a woman who has had issues with fertility, I can understand the lengths that some people go to fulfill their dreams of parenthood.  Some are luckier than others and can afford the option of surrogacy, while those of us that can't go down that road exhaust every other option available to us.  

No one has the right to pass judgement on anyone's journey to parenthood, unless of course you have first hand knowledge on the fertility issues of the parents in question.  Which I suspect Ms Devine does not have, re; Nicole Kidman.

The term designer babies is used too easily these days.  My idea of a designer baby is one that is custom made.  That is, eye colour, hair colour and perfect genetics predetermined and chosen before conception.  Not a couple's egg and sperm fertilised and then placed into a surrogate to carry.  What's designer about that?

People whinge and moan and carry on about a loving family wanting to have another child when out there, there are 'natural' parents who don't understand the concept of being a parent.  How many children are there in our society who live in fear and danger at the hands of parents?  I'm betting a lot.  Isn't it a better idea to focus on this issue?

Carrying a baby doesn't make you a parent.  Raising one does.

Congratulations Nicole, Keith and Sunday.  I hope your darling daughter and sister brings you all a lifetime of joy.

A new beginning??

So, I think it's fair to say that the last year, aka 2010, was brutal.  I mean, really fucking brutal.  On a scale of 1 - 10, with 10 being the worst, I'd rate it as a 25+.  You follow?

In fact, those poor souls who had to be in close proximity to me at the end of last year heard a large amount of C bombs, F bombs and not to blow my own horn here, I think I may have invented some new foul language that would make some truckies and bikkies blush.

Without rehashing all of the drama, I had a car accident (my fault), dramas at work (NOT my fault), meetings, threats of intimidation and finally a court summons.  What can I say...  December 2010 was freaking awesome duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude.

Needless to say, New Years eve we were all in bed sleeping.  Now I know that the change of a calendar does not a better year make...  but here's hoping.

To aide the recovery and to hearld in better times for me and my kinsmen, I've decided to feng shui my life, see a spiritual healer and run a smudge stick through my house to release the negativity.  I reckon one of these has gotta stick!

So here I sit, crushing dreams and creating a world of pain for myself and my colleagues in the line of duty. I'm living the dream.

Here's to a better 2011 people.  We can only hope!!

The good ole days.

Can anyone explain why the fuck we are in such a hurry to grow up when we are young? I mean, who hasn't yearned to be older when they were younger.


As a kid, time seems to drag on for an eternity, and the end of the year, Christmas and the summer holidays seem light years away.  When it finally arrives, it flies by so quickly that it's over when we've just settled into the groove.


These days, blink and you miss the first half of the year.  There are never enough hours in the day to do the things that need doing and you feel like life has hit fast forward and you can't keep up.


I now look back on the early days with the kind of longing that only comes with hindsight and experience.  I wish I had embraced every opportunity that came my way instead of running away from it.  I wish I had relished every weekend when all I had was the luxury of time.  I wish I had read more books when I'd had the chance, and slept for days.


Still, despite the craziness, life is relatively sweet.  I'd be lying if I said life was grand and perfect.  it's far from that.  Thankfully I have 2 little ones who still need a hug from Mummy to make everything ok again.


Seriously kiddies...  enjoy being free of adult responsibilites.  I won't lie, it can be fun being an adult and doing what you want to do.  But every ying has it's yang.  So for every great thing about being grown up (driving, drinking, partying, staying out all weekend and doing what ever you want), there will always be the negative (work, financial burden, heartbreak, disappointment) and the realisation that most of us grown ups don't have a fucking clue what we're doing 99% of the time.


Some people say it's the journey that's important.  I don't know if I subscribe to that theory. Sometimes knowing where you want to end up will help you chose the path or journey.  Whatever the case, don't be in a hurry to grow up, because once you've made the transition to adulthood, there's no going back.

Getting the hint.

This past week has been nightmarish to say the least.  I have to confess I am left mute at the blatant stupidity of people who have reached a certain station in life.


The circumstance aren't really important.  Suffice to say it's very messy, there are legal implications and I feel like I've been well and truly screwed by someone who should have known better.


The thing is, if this particular person and others of the upper echelons had bothered to say, "Whoops, our bad.  Sorry!" I think I could have swallowed the bitter pill far easier.  Instead, I've been made to feel like I'm over reacting to a paper cut, when in actual fact, I feel like someone has rammed a rusty knife into my solar plexus.


I wonder sometimes, what happens when you reach a certain place in life where you don't really need to worry so much about the people looking over your shoulder?  I'm nowhere near being this fortunate.  Most of my moves are closely monitored and scrutinised and slightest digression from the 'path' is commented on.  When you reach loftier heights, the line between right and wrong becomes very blurred and the line will invariably move to whatever side gets the person other than yourself the best outcome.


Thankfully, in the ashes of a fucked up week, I've seen first hand the real meaning of friendship.


One from someone relatively new in my life, but non the less important.  This person, who I fondly call the Dragon Lady has more balls and gumption in her tiny little pinky than about 20 of her peers combined.  You rock and it's been an absolute honour to work beside you.  I hope you know how much you've inspired me.


My BFF, the one person who thinks nothing of sitting quietly on the phone while I sob, cry and hyperventilate about my woes, who makes sense of the craziness spewing forth from my scattered brain.  And then offers an amazing gift to ease my burden.  Love you lots.


To my family, my kids, who were so worried when Mummy came home in a state of panic last week, who didn't even see the Happy meals they so adore and threw themselves into my arms to comfort me.  My Mr Nobody...  You are the reason I'm taking a stand.


Mrs Nobody is sick of taking people's shit.  No one should have to take it.  They failed to see my point of view.  I'm done being docile and accepting other people's views of what is best for me.


Listen up dick head.  I'm coming for you.

Delicate geniuses and the real meaning of intelligence.

I’ve had a very brutal last few weeks at work.  I’m made of sturdy stuff so generally I can cope with any shit people want to fling my way.  My telephone handset at work suffers a bit, however I do know when to bite my tongue and roll my eyes inwardly.

The one thing that really pisses me off however, is when people who believe they are above you in some way because they are learned and ‘educated’ treat you like shit and expect you to jump through hoops at their say so.  I call these people delicate geniuses.  Not that for one second do I believe they are geniuses, but it prevents me from dropping the C bomb and smashing things around me.

I’m going to say right here and right now that I do not, for one second, accept that anyone who’s tertiary educated is intelligent.  It’s been my experience that a great deal of people waving an undergraduate degree couldn’t tie their own shoes on a good day nor can they function as a contributing member of society on a bad day.

I’m going to go even further and say that those who’ve gone onto further studies and have earned some acronyms along the way (Dr, Prof. whatever) should get off their high horses when dealing with plebs and minimum wage employees like myself because I personally don’t care what your title is, if you cannot integrate across all levels of society and make people feel comfortable, then I’m sorry but you’re the idiot who should know better and clearly you are socially deficient and somewhat socially retarded.

Now friends, I don’t want to tar all over achievers with the same brush.  I have a number of fucking AWESOME friends, associates, colleagues and acquaintances who don’t wave their credentials around to make people feel like shit.  I just don’t get why some people feel the need to draw the line in the sand and state, I’m better than you.  I mean, is that really necessary?

I don’t know.  Is it silly to believe that we all are somehow linked and that we need to work together to make things happen?

I mean, what is real intelligence anyway?  Is it being about to discuss far flung ideals of a life no one will ever live?  Is it being able to understand, empathise and support someone you feel kinship for even if they are only a high school graduate? Would you prefer to find a partner who can debate politics and current affairs or would you prefer to find a partner who’s going to love you, care for you and give you an orgasm when you really need it?  Anyone can memorise facts.  You just have to want it bad enough.

My definition of real intelligence is this; Being able to interact at a multitude of levels with people from all walks of life.  As a person who is blessed with smarts, you should be able to go up and down some levels and be able to make people comfortable in your company.  Those of us who aren’t blessed with smarts don’t want to feel stupid.  It’s not a nice feeling having shit kicked in your face because you’re not genetically predisposed to be ‘intelligent’.  Being smart is one thing.  Being a smart arse is completely another.  Real education stems from developing empathy towards others.

Don’t get me wrong.  Sometimes people need a smack across the chops or a well timed eye roll: But not all the time. That’s just misplaced arrogance and probably means you need a root or a stiff drink...  Or both.